Chapter Text
“Your name is Orpheus.” The creature tilts its head at you, “You are a novelist and self-proclaimed detective.” You are not sure about the last part, “ Orpheus .” Repeating his name this time slower. The creature says nothing but lowers his body to rest his head on your lap.
There are few places in the manor where both hunter and survivor can meet, but not many use them as most have no need to meet one another.
Until now.
You call this place your Elysium, much like the garden where the lady who studies bugs (Melly?) and Emma the gardener often attend, this place seems to be in sort of the middle of the manor connecting the manor the survivors are in (reality) and the other manor for the hunters (a different reality).
The fundamentals of this are something you right now cannot explain nor can truly comprehend. Exciting , you think. Either way, this is your little place of peace and quiet away from others.
Note: you do like them but if Naib tries to read what you are writing over your shoulder, you are going to fight him (you aren’t).
It has been a few weeks, slowly you created a sort of ‘nest’ for yourself at this spot with a large tree in the center of the garden. There is a cute stone path that leads here and the sunshine angles just right here. Ideal spot! One you did not know you were sharing until a few days ago. By chance, this meeting happened when crossing paths with the bird-like creature who was once Orpheus the Novelist.
As an aspiring writer, well an amateur trying to break into the field, you had hoped to speak to the man. Curious and wishing to pick his brain, his books— Especially the Call of The Abyss series— Seem so in-depth . Each word holds a heavy weight to them, you experience the book rather than read it.
But… He is not as open as you might have hoped.
Before you discovered the truth about this manor and the games all are forced to participate in (well most are willing), you tried talking to him but he seemed distant . His mind is here but likely analyzing you and your reasons for being here .
Honestly, you aren't sure why you came… Life is hard and being a writer of no name is challenging, to say the least. The letter said to offer patronage and inspiration, and you were living in a boarding house; you answered the invitation.
Now here you are basking in the warmth of the autumn sun with this bird creature version of Orpheus. Stroking his exposed feathers that drape like hair on his head. He lays there facing away, breathing steady, your hands petting the soft and oddly unkempt feathers of hair.
“Orpheus.” You say it again, “Do you remember where it is from? It is Greek, and his story is sad.” Mumbling to yourself, “He attempts to save his wife Eurydice from the Underworld. Hades told him not to look back until they both were out of the Underworld.”
Nightmare shifts when you touch a sensitive spot, a pleasant sort of feeling.
“He nearly makes it but—”
“Doubt begins to whisper in his mind. It festers. They were so close to the entrance but Orpheus lost faith and turned around.” A masculine voice comes from across from you, a white suit stands out from color in the semi-outdoor garden. The creature resting on your lap is suddenly up and alert, it makes a sound of a warning.
“ Easy .” Out of the shadows of the bushes appears a man in a pristine white suit, “It was not my intention to interfere with your moment , Nightmare.” Adjusting his monocle as his eyes go to you, who is still sitting on the ground looking surprised to see him here, “Your voice drew me here.” Informing you, “You would not happen to have seen the Photographer by chance.”
A deep gravelly voice stops you from replying, “No.” Forced out as if it is uncomfortable to speak. Nightmare spoke.
“Hm, very well.” His eyes drift from you to his counterpart then back to you, “A pleasant afternoon to you both.”
The Novelist walks away and you stand up once the shock wears off.
Nightmare turns to see you beaming at him, “You spoke!” Eyes lit up like lanterns in the dark. “Can you speak again?”
“Painful.” Slower this time, “Hurts.” He kneels then grabs his throat hidden by the mask at this angle, head lowered.
You touch the side of his mask, rubbing the parts you feel are exposed, he lets out a shaky groan of comfort— Well, you hope this is comforting. “I had no idea.” All this time you have been teaching him words not knowing he could speak but cannot. He points to the notebook you carry with you at all times, it lies on the ground open to a page full of words.
You follow his pointer finger with the quill nip attached, your eyes falling to the notebook. The cheerful gasp that left you makes his head turn to the side as the joy you express so easily, then again you are the first survivor (outside of his counterpart) to speak with him.
“Here!” Sitting down and gesturing to him to join you, “You can write as much as you want!”
And he does.
The whole day is spent like this talking, he enjoys the way you smile or giggle. He reads over your stories before giving a few critiques but always follows up with praise and pointing at the parts he enjoys.
You… You don't want him to leave as it grows dark. There is a match he is part of, Nightmare promises to see you in this same spot tomorrow afternoon after lunch.
“Be safe! I mean… Win? I don't know!” Unsure how to say goodbye to your new friend.
Every day you write in your notebook, you have brought over quite the collection! The one you give to Nightmare the next time you see him is a notebook you made to look like the one Orpheus uses in his match.
“You are him deep inside.” You do not see a monster… You see Orpheus the Novelist, the man you admire.
The creature swears his cold heart skipped a beat. The passage of time is chipping at his heart with each time you see him.
It becomes a daily activity for you to go into the second garden in the manor, the tree there is your meeting spot. As winter approaches, the tree no longer provides shade. But you still like sitting under it with the birdman keeping you warm.
“See! And this one is called…” You ramble to him the characters you recently made up in your head while being chaired in your last match.
He stares as you use your hands while you talk, he remembers what it was like to get lost in one's imagination. The world you created in a matter of minutes unfolding a tale one cannot wait to put to paper.
“What do you think?” You say after explaining an elaborate plot and the characters you thought of.
Nightmare writes that you need to write your idea before you forget, again .
You laugh as cheerful as ever.
When you leave early to prepare for a special event match he leaves after a period of time. He sits there thinking; recalling your voice, your face, your personality. Details as one such as he would notice and plays them over and over.