Chapter Text
“You can go anywhere in the house. Anywhere except for the east wing. Those are my quarters.”
Elena’s life had taken a sharp turn a few months ago, when she had met Elijah.
At least, she thought it had been a few months. The days had begun to blur into one repeating loop after the first week, made hazy by the compulsion that had erased most of the details of her life leading up to that point.
Everything in her life could be focused into the Haze Before and the Haze After, punctuated by her only crystal clear memory: Elijah’s gaze settling on her for the first time. His eyes had widened, still dark, but shining in the dampened light illuminating the farmhouse, and then he had been suddenly in front of her, his face just inches from hers as he bent towards her.
She couldn’t remember the name of the street that she had lived on her whole life, but she could still feel the warmth of his breath as he whispered “Impossible” against her cheek. She could still see, in her mind’s eye, that little twitch of his mouth into a smile as he had taken in the sight of her, and she could still feel, when she focused, the firm grip of his fingers like an iron shackle as he held her, speeding them both into the sunlight and leaving the farmhouse empty save the two bodies of the people that had dared lay a finger on her. She had been afraid until Elijah explained that there was nothing to worry about.
When she focused very hard, Elena could remember that her captors had been explaining something important, something about her. The harder she thought about it, though, the more her mind rebelled. It couldn’t matter that much, if she couldn’t remember it, surely.
Elijah hadn’t explained much to her, but he had told her everything that mattered. She hadn’t been safe in her old life, so it was best that she just forget all that. He would keep her safe, his home a fortress against all the things that would do her harm.
He gave her his word.
There was a time when she had many questions, but within a few days the need to ask questions had faded, and she had settled herself happily into a new rhythm.
Mornings began at dawn; she would rise early, walk a loop around the gardens, and then return to the house for breakfast. If the weight of several eyes was always on her when she ventured into the grounds, she didn’t let it bother her; Elijah had explained, after all, that he had people to make sure she stayed safe.
At breakfast, he would sit at the opposite end of the dining table, watching intently as she ate every last bite of whatever was served that morning. His plate always remained empty, and where there should have been curiosity in her mind was only a muffled indifference to the fact.
After that, she would wander the house, finding a new window to sit in with one of the books from the library he had offered her. There were hundreds of options, most of them several times her age, and she knew that the prospect of her own library should excite her. Some buried part of her mind wanted to dive into every plotline, but her heart wasn’t in it, and she often found herself gazing out the window instead, watching the wind making the roses sway where their vines grew across the stained glass panes.
She never dared venture into the East Wing, her mind ringing warning bells every time she came close to stepping even a toe over its threshold. Elijah wouldn’t hurt her, of course, she was here so that he could keep her safe. But there was a danger to him that her mind warned her of, and she preferred not to take the risk of losing his protection for such a simple sin. He always seemed to be aware of her presence in the house, and she had no doubt that he would know the moment she disobeyed his only order.
After lunch, Elijah watching her eat from behind his own empty plate as usual, she would take another turn around the gardens, sometimes stopping to sit in the overgrown grass with a book now that the weather was warmer. Or maybe the weather had been warm when she got here, and it hadn’t been very long at all. It was hard to tell.
Words blurred on pages, and chapters became meaningless until sunset approached, and the movement in an upper floor window would tell her that she was being watched, which meant it was time for her to return inside for supper.
The same routine –Elijah’s empty plate at the head of the table, hers laden with food at the foot, and Elijah carefully watching every bite– repeated, meal after meal, day after day, the only difference being the dishes placed before her and their flavours.
The food was another blur; the dishes that the faceless people brought her were never unpleasant, but she just didn’t care to notice what she was being served. Her lack of concern for her surroundings slowly morphed into an apathy that bled into every part of her day.
A small voice in her mind told her to notice, but that was easy enough to ignore.
It wasn’t until one morning that she looked up and found that she was eating alone that she finally took pause to listen, to care. She looked up at one of the faceless people, almost startling when she noticed that they did have a face after all, and she had just never looked before.
“Where is Elijah?” she asked, and the woman frowned for a moment.
“Mister Smith is away on business until the weekend,” she informed Elena, before hurrying off and avoiding further eye contact.
Elena didn’t know what day it was –she didn’t even know what month it was, really– but she knew she had at least today to wander the house without the unseen presence of her protector looming over her. She was grateful to him for the provision of safety, of course, but there was something else about him that ate away at her, doubt gnawing on the edges of her consciousness.
That day, she only made it to the door that led to the East Wing before turning away, her stomach turning at the thought of disobeying the one rule she had promised him that she would uphold.
The next day, he was still absent. She asked the faceless-woman-with-a-face again, and received the same answer; Elijah would be away until the weekend, which must mean that it was not yet the weekend.
Her legs felt resistant as she forced herself towards the East Wing, her fingers settling on the door handle for long, heavy seconds as her mind warred with itself.
The door itself swung open easily, revealing a corridor much like all the others in the house. She took a deep breath before stepping forwards, and the air felt thinner and cooler as she wandered down the corridor, running her fingers lightly over the wooden panelling on every closed door. Emboldened, she tried every handle. Each one was locked, until she reached the very end of the hallway, where a large brass key sat temptingly in its place.
It took only the slightest turn before the door was opening before her, revealing the hints of an unlit room around her. She stepped inside, startling as the door swung shut heavily behind her. There was no light until she pulled aside a heavy curtain, and rays of sunshine burst across the ground, glinting off the edges of the gilt frames hanging on the walls.
Her stomach sank as she looked at the frames’ contents.
There were three frames; on the left and right, paintings, and in the centre stood a full length mirror. The two paintings, at first glance, were a pair of matching oils, similar in style and composition. Each displayed the standing figure of a girl, dressed traditionally in old fashioned clothing: one medieval, the other a few centuries older still. It was only on closer inspection that Elena felt her pulse really begin to race, as she noticed the similarities in the girls’ faces. They weren’t only similar to one another, but also strikingly similar to her own features. The same brown hair, although differently styled, hung around her face. The same brown eyes, the same round of her cheekbones, the same curve of her lips and slight of her chin.
The real difference between her image in the mirror and the girls in the paintings was that her image was alive, while the two paintings stared back with dead eyes. The medieval girl’s neck was oddly angled, her face pale and eyes unseeing, while the other girl had a distant look of pain etched into her features, presumably due to the vicious wound at her neck, where blood stained her dress readily as it flowed.
Elena felt unwell as she tried to avoid looking at the paintings any longer; it was hard to avoid the unseeing gaze of either girl, and she startled as her eyes caught on a hint of movement that turned out to just be her own reflection between them.
She hurried to leave the room, vowing to herself that she would pretend that this day had never happened, and that she had never seen something so horrifying.
It wasn’t until she was back in her bedroom, at the other end of the house, that she realised that the door was still unlocked, and the key still in her pocket.