Chapter Text
Gustave would be the first to call himself an idiot for this. In fact, he has called himself an idiot for this, twenty times over since he left Lumière. But he’s an idiot with a mission, and if he succeeds they’ll have all the information they need to mount a proper expedition to the old city.
The old city. Old Lumière. It’s been sixty-seven years since anyone living set foot there, or so his people believe. Sixty-seven years since the curse took hold and the city fell. The cause of the curse has long been lost to them, but the effects… the effects are getting worse with every passing year. Nevrons once were restricted to the fallen city, but each year they range further and further afield. And each year more citizens of Lumière fall to the curse, vanishing into a cloud of petals and blown away on the wind.
Nobody now living remembers what started the curse, or from where it originated. All they have are the old myths of a sorceress who threatened the city with famine and drought, and the failed attempt by the people to destroy her. The curse, the old myths say, is her retaliation. But Gustave doesn’t buy that. Why would a sorceress who had looked after the city for decades suddenly threaten and then curse it for no reason? It doesn’t make sense.
And so he is here, alone, hiking through the ruined city and looking for anything that might tell him what caused all of this. It had taken some doing to get Alan to give him permission to scout alone, but any group of people seems to attract nevrons almost immediately upon entering the city. Gustave’s theory is that they sense life. And a single individual might have a better chance of slipping by unnoticed where a group would attract attention. His goal is the center of the city. If the source of the curse isn’t there, he’ll scout further out until he finds it, or until he runs out of supplies.
He settles in to his lonely camp, and wonders how the others are doing. Maelle had begged to come with him, but he wouldn’t allow it. The risk is too great. Sciel and Lune agreed to look after her in his absence, while the Expedition prepares. If they haven’t heard from him in a month, they will depart with or without his information. Alan’s plan is to assault the city with a big enough force that they can wipe out all the nevrons, then with the danger gone they will have time to explore to find the cause of the curse.
A noise makes him look up. There, on the edge of his camp, just outside the light of his small lamp, is a girl. For a moment he thinks it’s Maelle, but no, this girl has pure white hair and a mask covering the lower half of her face. She stares at him for a long moment, before turning and darting away.
“Wait!” Gustave scrambles to his feet, knocking over his lantern, the flame going out and plunging him into darkness.
He can hear her footsteps running deeper into the city. He follows the sound as his eyes adjust to the dim moonlight. Deeper and deeper they go, through the center of the city. He catches sight of a few nevrons, but they pass them so quickly the creatures barely even react before they’re out of sight.
Eventually the ruined streets open up to a manicured lawn. A large manor looms above him, dark and imposing. The grounds are surrounded by a high stone wall, the only entry an ornate gate of polished metal. The girl disappears through the gate, running off into the dark grounds. Gustave follows.
He stumbles to a halt just inside the gate. Before him spreads the most beautiful garden he has ever seen. The girl momentarily forgotten, he stares in wonder at the sheer variety of plants surrounding him. Bushes cut into the foreboding shapes of nevrons are interspersed between large, ancient trees. Manicured flower beds line the paths, bright spots of color that seem almost out of place against the dark bulk of the manor house.
Halfway between the house and the gate he finds a bed of roses, the most immaculate flowers he’s ever seen. The petals seem to sparkle with dew, each one flawlessly formed. His thoughts turn to Maelle, his little sister. She loves flowers, spends hours with him in their little hanging garden on the rooftops of Lumière tending to their plants. She would love to see this.
Without thought, almost against his will, his hand reaches out and his fingers find the stem of a perfect rose. He hesitates for only a moment, a chill running up his spine. Something in him screams don’t. He picks the flower.
Behind him, the gate slams shut.
In front of him, the door to the house opens, and light spills out.
<Oh no. Oh you picked the flower. Verso’ s gonna be so upset.>
A little creature, what looks like a child made of wood with a mask for a face and a large brush of hair springing up from it’s head, appears next to him, tumbling out of the bushes and running around him with frenetic energy.
It’s a gestral, Gustave realizes with shock. He hadn’t thought they were real, but here one is, running around and mumbling in distress.
<You shouldn’t have done that. You’re stuck here now.>
“What?” The word barely leaves his mouth, before there’s another sound. An ominous echoing knock like the tapping of a cane, but louder, reverberating through the night.
Tap
The little gestral freezes at his side, arms held out as if to shield Gustave.
Tap
Gustave looks up as a shadow appears in the open door.
Tap
There’s a man in the doorway in a black suit.
Tap
A rough, dark scar bisects his right eye. His hair is grey, his face lined with age.
Tap
He stops on the top step, piercing blue eyes examining Gustave with an intensity that makes him want to shrink back and hide behind the gestral child.
“So.” The word is ominous, the man’s voice is cold. “We have a thief.”
Gustave’s throat closes up with dread, the excuses and explanations he wants to say jumbling together until nothing at all comes out.
“Noco.” The man looks to the little gestral. “Go get Monoco, and ask him to prepare a guest room, please.”
<Yessir>, the gestral, Noco, obediently runs off.
“I, um. Ah.” He can’t seem to come up with a proper sentence with those sharp eyes staring down at him like he’s less than a bug on the man’s shoe.
“Did you come to steal from us? Or are you simply a thief by opportunity?” The man leans on his cane, and Gustave has the distinct impression that he’s being evaluated and found wanting.
“Neither!” He finally finds his words. “I- I didn’t know the house was inhabited. I didn’t think anyone lived here.”
The old man scoffs. “You Lumièrans always want something. And none of you are willing to pay the price for the life you took.”
Gustave frowns at that. The words seem far too heavy to mean just the single plucked rose. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean any harm. I’ll gladly pay for the flower.”
“Hmph.” The man’s scowl deepens. “The flower is not the whole of your debt, mortal. Your kind owes us more than you know. I will accept your willingness to pay, however, seeing as I have little choice. You have bound yourself to our curse now.” He turns, leaving Gustave with that ominous message, and walks into the blinding light spilling from the mansion.
Gustave hesitates on the path, looking back to the now closed gates. He tries to tug one open. It doesn’t budge.
“It won’t work,” a new voice says behind him. He spins, and sees another gestral. This one is covered in thick white fur, its face mask tilted towards him like it’s looking him over.
“What?” Gustave winces, feeling stupid.
“The gate.” The gestral comes closer. “You picked the flower, you’re stuck here with the rest of us, now.” The voice is deep, masculine, and sad.
“I, uh. I don’t understand.” Gustave lets his hand fall from the gate, turning fully to face his companion.
“The flower.” The gestral nods to the rose still in Gustave’s hand. “It’s part of the curse. A human picks a flower, they get stuck here until they die or the curse takes them. If you try to leave, you’ll find yourself erased instead.”
“You mean…” His thought trails off and he falls silent, digesting the information. He’s trapped then. Yet another victim to the curse. Before he can start to panic, he remembers Alan and the rest of the expedition. They’ll be coming soon. If he can hold out until then, perhaps they can find a way to free him. Until then, he’ll have to see what else he can find out.
“Don’t worry, the Dessendres won’t harm you now that you’re here. I wouldn’t go out into the gardens at night however, Renoir keeps nevrons patrolling them for intruders.”
“Renoir? He’s the man I saw earlier?”
The gestral nods, ushering Gustave down the path towards the manor. “Renoir Dessendre, the patriarch of the family.”
The family. That means there are more than just the gestrals and the old man.
“How many people live here?” Gustave asks.
“A few,” is the cryptic reply.
He thinks of the girl from earlier.“What about a girl, with white hair? About this tall?” he gestures to just above his shoulder. “Wearing a mask?”
“Hmm.” The gestral nods. “Alicia. You’ve seen her.”
“She led me here.” Did she bring him on purpose, for some reason? To trick him into the curse?
“Ah.” The sound is sad, and tired. “She must like you then. It’s rare she brings people anymore.”
They’ve climbed the steps now, and the gestral gestures to the open door, indicating Gustave should go in. Inside, the manor is brightly lit. A grand staircase rises above them, splitting halfway up to branch off leading to two separate hallways.
“That’s the west wing,” the gestral points to the left set of stairs. “You are permitted anywhere in the manor, except there.”
“What’s there?” Gustave asks, curious.
“The family’s private quarters.” His companion nudges him to the other staircase. “Yours are this way.”
A portrait hanging above the stairs draws Gustave’s eye. It dominates the room, visible from every corner of the entryway. It contains a family. The man from before, his arm around a woman of similar age. A young woman with red hair. Another with brown hair. And between them a deep scar in the canvas, completely obscuring the fifth person in the portrait.
“Renoir and his wife Aline,” the gestral points at the older couple. “And their daughters, Clea and Alicia,” he points to the girls.
“Who’s between them and their parents?” Gustave asks.
The gestral just shakes his head and sighs. “Come. I’ve already prepared your room.”
“Wait, what’s your name?” Gustave realizes he hasn’t asked. Guilt sits unsteadily with all of the other emotions from the past few minutes.
His guide turns to him, surprised. “Monoco,” he says. “And you are…?”
“Oh!” Gustave blushes red at that, realizing just how badly he’d forgotten his manners. “Gustave.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Gustave.” Monoco’s words sound like he can’t quite decide if that’s the truth. He turns and leads them up the stairs and down the long hall. Paintings line the walls, in all sizes and styles. All unique, and all extremely well made. He almost wishes Monoco would slow down, allow him some time to examine them properly.
Monoco glances back at him when he pauses a bit too long staring at a painting of a dark cliff face above a turbulent sea. “If you require anything, come to Noco or I,” he says as Gustave hurries to catch up. “And we will be sure you receive it, within reason. You will have free access to the house and grounds of the estate, except, as I said, the west wing.”
“But I can’t leave,” Gustave confirms.
Monoco nods. “To do so would be fatal, unless the curse is lifted.”
“And… is that possible?” Gustave asks, probing for more information. He’s certain his team can free him, but the more he can learn before they arrive the better.
The gestral sighs heavily. “I used to believe it was.” His shoulders slump in defeat at his words, and Gustave almost feels guilty for asking.
“But you don’t think so anymore?”
“I think it would take someone remarkable to break this curse. I don’t know if that person exists.” He stops beside an open door. “Here. Your room. As it is quite late, I will leave you for now. Should you need something, ring the bell.” He points to a bell with a rope on the wall. “Someone will answer.” Before Gustave can say anything else, he’s gone, leaving him alone.
The room Gustave is given is enormous. Bigger than half his apartment back in Lumière. The bed itself would completely fill his own small room, and he’s fairly certain the furnishings in this one room alone cost more than a year’s salary. He flops down onto the massive mattress, and promptly sinks several inches into it. Then he lays there, staring up at the ceiling, trying to make sense of everything that just happened. When he checks the time, it’s barely been an hour since he was sitting at his lonely campfire, contemplating a night in a cold bedroll. Now he’s in a warm, plush bed. In a house that seems to be at the very center of the curse.
He’s too wound up to sleep. He gets up, pacing a square around the room. There’s a desk, fully equipped with all manner of writing materials. A mostly empty bookshelf sits beside it, a few books on painting on one shelf and, strangely, a set of fantasy novels on another. A set of towels rests at the foot of the bed, and he remembers passing a bathroom down the hall. If he’s to be here for long he’ll have to find a way to get back to grab his pack, or at least get some more clothes. He already feels too grubby and threadbare in this opulent building, and his uniform is barely a few weeks old. He opens the doors to the closet to hang up his jacket at least, and is surprised to find an array of mens clothing, all in his own size. Shirts, trousers, even underthings. Enough to go nearly a month without repeating a single piece.
The lights in the hallway click off. He checks the time. Nearly midnight now. He should sleep. Or at the very least attempt to rest. Or perhaps he could explore, look around the house while everyone is sleeping. He looks at the rose on the desk. Monoco had left him a small vase for it, already filled with water. Perhaps he should wait, at least until he understands things a little better. After all, picking a simple flower had landed him in this mess. Who knows what trouble he could get into if he blunders in without thinking again.
Worried thoughts spin through his head as he stretches out, questions and theories and a hundred different observations from the day racing through his mind. It’s a wonder he gets any sleep at all, but soon enough he drifts off. He doesn’t hear the movement out in the hall some hours before dawn. The quiet creak of the door doesn’t wake him, and he does not hear the deep, exhausted sigh as something closes it with a soft thump. He does hear the piano a little later, the heartbreaking melody filtering down the hall to invade his dreams.