~In which Ives gets soaked in rain, an invisible servant talks to him, and he finds out that the rumors about fae being gorgeous are–frustratingly–completely true~
Ives Deveraux could admit now–as he sat awkwardly at the end of an absurdly long table across from the almost uncomfortably beautiful owner of this manor–that he'd made a poor decision.
The poor decision in question?
He decided to try to get some fae blood.
You see, Ives Deveraux was a vampire. In fact, he was a High Vampire–a prince nonetheless–which meant he was both very powerful and very important. This power and self-importance had subsequently led to Ives chasing after the highest delicacy known to Vampire kind; the blood of a fae. And, like the evidently foolish prince he was, he had decided to go after a fae lord.
Specifically, the lord of Castle Mourning; a fae lord simply referred to as "the lord of mourning". A delightfully macabre name, one that had immediately piqued his interest. So, fueled by foolish desire and a ridiculous amount of self-assurance, he had decided he wanted to have a taste and had almost immediately launched into a journey to Castle Mourning.
It had been almost ridiculously easy to find it. It was a large castle that would have looked bright and almost dreamy, if not for the dark ambiance surrounding it. It wasn't imposingly tall or frighteningly sharp, as many might assume from a name such as "Castle Mourning". Instead, its name seemed to influence the atmosphere around it, instead of the actual structure of the castle. It looked as if someone had plucked a fairytale castle out of a storybook and placed it in a nightmare forest, with little to no regard as to how it would suit the gloomy environment.
Regardless, Ives couldn't help but feel slightly charmed at the manor. Ignoring the dark feel to it, it was a beautiful piece of architecture, and the landscape was gorgeous if you ignored how it felt like someone had died. He walked through the forest, noticing square-shaped patches that weren't dissimilar to flower gardens that seemed to lay just beside the crumbled ruins of a seemingly quaint village, each little garden connected to one ruined cottage. He smiled to himself, consciously smiling in the cocky way he knew infuriated his subordinates.
"Such beauty," he cooed to the flowers and the foggy midnight air. "Your master must love plants." As if they heard him, the flowers waved gently at him, beckoning him in the direction of the castle. "Ah," he hummed, a content smirk on his face. He turned to the flowers, which were glowing a soft array of colors ranging from gold to a deep, beautiful purple. "Thank you. Now, if you don't mind, I'm off to kill your master." He waved back to the flowers, his movements every bit as elegant and beautiful as befits a prince, and turned, walking towards the manor with fluid movements.
It then started to rain.
Hard.
Now, his initial reaction was irritation at the way his clothes were rapidly becoming drenched. Then his irritation was quickly overtaken by alarm as he remembered the human he'd met on his laughably brief travel here. The rain, apparently, could last for days or weeks, even occasionally lasting months. The humans weren't bothered, their crops weren't damaged, and nothing seemed to be wrong, just an excessively rainy area. If anything, she had informed him, the rain seemed to make their crops grow even better. And yet, the woman had pulled him aside, calloused hands feeling rough even through his sleeves as she spoke a warning.
"The rain 'ere ain't gentle to yer kind," she'd said. "It boils ya from the inside out."
As he'd learned upon an interesting couple of questions, she wasn't referring to vampires exclusively. Anything 'supernatural', as she'd put it, would in fact burn from the inside out. For the humans, the rainfall was nothing even remotely bad, many even felt the slight warmth of it was pleasant, but for anything 'other'…
"It's not pretty," she'd warned. "I've seen it a few times, and it's never once been good. We had a group of fae-folk travellin' through 'ere a few years ago, barely managed to save 'em."
Back then he had scoffed. Now he felt the blood in his face quickly turn to ice.
He started awkwardly half-running to the manor, part of him wanting to keep up his confident appearance and the other part anxiously pushing him forward quickly. He slowed when he was a few paces from the grand entrance, pausing to adjust himself and hopefully regain some of his regal air.
Considering he definitely looked like a drenched cat, it likely didn't work.
He stood on the doorstep, feeling genuine anxiety for the first time in years as he barely managed to avoid the rain thanks to the overhang. This hadn't been how Ives had expected his time here to go. He'd expected to charm his way into the manor, sweep the lord off his feet, and drink his fill before the next sunset. Now he stood drenched, shaking, scared, and uncomfortably warm from the rain. He barely managed to keep his pride, knocking politely on the door instead of doing as the back of his mind recommended and desperately bashing on the wood.
The door swung open, and for a moment he felt relief. Then frustration.
Because no one was there.
He groaned, looking around but not able to step even a toe inside. Damn it, he thought, realizing this castle must have its own invisible servants. He stood, anxious and frustrated and not able to do anything about it.
The door was open; he was able to look inside, but unfortunately being able to look didn't save him from the rain.
He'd just begun to resign himself to death on this doorstep when he heard the voice of what must have been the invisible servant.
It was a horrible sound; like bones being wrenched and crushed against one another, high and low and gravely and whispery smooth all at the same time in a wretched amalgamation of horror. Yet he couldn't bring himself to flinch away because that horrible voice spoke: "Come in."
He almost crashed inside, stumbling in a not-at-all-princely way in a desperate attempt to get out of the rain. Almost immediately after passing the threshold, the door closed behind him.
He stood in the foyer, drenched to his princely bones, for a few moments, before that wretched voice spoke again.
"Wait here," it said, and a door to his left opened.
A few more moments passed, and he was starting to debate taking off his clothes in order to distance himself from the rain, but right then the voice said "Here," and he was given another set of clothing. He looked up, then immediately felt foolish for doing so because there wasn't anything there. Or maybe there was. Who knows.
The clothes were nice, and surprisingly similar to his normal style.
"Um…" he started, not certain where he should get changed. A door to the side opened and he turned.
"Follow me," the invisible servant said. Another door opened, and Ives quickly realized that he would have to follow the doors opening instead of something physical, so he ran awkwardly to catch up to the opening doors.
After walking for several minutes, a door finally opened that led into what Ives could only think of as a guest room of sorts. It was perfectly clean but in the sense that it looked as if it hadn't been lived in at all. There was an ornate window with some stained glass panes as detailing on the wall opposite the door, and the wall was painted with a gorgeous mural depicting a beautiful fae (Lord Mourning no doubt) and a beautiful expanse of a garden. The colors were bright and warm; nothing like the gloomy forest outside.
The door closed behind him with a click and he turned sharply, slightly startled. Oh, right, he was supposed to get changed. Right.
"You are free to use the bath," the voice said. Ives jumped, he had thought the invisible servant was outside the room. Or did its voice just sound loud regardless? "My lord would not desire you to die on his grounds." Well, that didn't answer his question at all.
He sighed, then looked around. There was a door to the side, it wasn't the door he had come in through, and he walked over to it. Right as he held his hand out to open it, it swung open without his touch. He started again.
"Could you stop doing that?!" he hissed, directing the words at the invisible servant. "I can open my own doors thank you very much, I'm not incompetent."
A soft sound that sounded suspiciously like a laugh seemed to echo through the room. It was still a horrifying sound (seriously, he had half the mind to offer the invisible servant a glass of water), but he was at least getting used to it. Ives bristled, flushing slightly in embarrassment. Of course the invisible servant would be laughing at him, he had been incompetent enough to get caught in rain that would kill him.
Regardless, he brushed off his embarrassment and walked into the bathroom where a bath had already been drawn.
"… thank you," Ives said awkwardly. He hesitated to get undressed, which was kind of foolish considering he'd never had an issue with the idea of an invisible servant being present in the room while he bathed–considering how invisible servants, or at least the ones he'd interacted with before, seemed more so like a magic spell of sorts than anything sentient–but the fact that this one (ones?) spoke and laughed, well, it kind of had him off-kilter.
As if proving his point, he heard another one of those bone-on-metal laughs, but the sound faded away. Ives blinked at the now-closed door, feeling weirdly relieved the invisible servant seemed to have left.
The bath was pleasantly warm. Ives sighed contentedly as he sunk into the water until his nose was barely above the water. He smiled to himself for no particular reason.
His bath quickly devolved into a childish scene, with him using the various bottles and items around him as bath toys. He had half the mind to be embarrassed, but then again, there was no one here except for the invisible servant–and maybe the fae lord, though the fae had yet to show himself–so he ultimately decided to do what he wanted.
Was it childish? Absolutely. Was anyone watching? No. Had he not been able to do this since he was a pup? Yes. Therefore: playing in the bath.
The change of clothes was nice. They were soft–made from an incredibly expensive material no doubt–and fit him perfectly. Which, that was strange. Maybe the fae lord was his same size? Hmm…
Regardless, he admired his appearance in the full-length mirror on the wall. It had originally been opposite the bed, but Ives–weirdly superstitious considering he was a powerful vampire–had very quickly moved it into a corner. It was an ornate thing, the pristinely clean mirror framed with gold trimming in intricate patterns. He spun slightly to get a better look at himself. He loved the frilly collar, the billowing sleeves, the flowy build of the shirt, the high-waisted trousers that accentuated his waist. He gave himself a once-over, before nodding, satisfied, and turning from the mirror.
And… immediately deflated, utterly bored.
Maybe he should have been more concerned, he was in the castle of an enemy. An enemy he had only gone to the castle of to murder. Well, not necessarily murder, but the whole blood-sucking thing sort of implied it.
Regardless, he was dreadfully bored. As delightful as his room was, there wasn't much there to really do. He flopped down on the bed with the appropriate amount of dramatic flair, one hand draped over his forehead and the other splayed over the sheets. He let out a long sigh, feeling himself relax against the fabric. All he could think to do was to look around lazily.
His gaze–honed by years of being entertained by art and art alone–inevitably landed back on the mural on the wall. The golden-haired, near-angelic being in the middle was too beautiful to be human. There were fluttering golden butterfly wings sprouting from the sides of his face, looking almost like flower petals. Soft petals appeared to sprout from his body as if they were patches of scales, all the colors of the sunset paired including twilight blue. The man in the mural looked to be a mix between a flower, a butterfly, and a human. It was easy enough to realize that this majestic man was intended to be Lord Mourning. How accurate the picture was remained to be assessed, but Ives could certainly appreciate the artwork.
His gaze flicked from the centerpiece of the mural to the background, where a beautiful forest scene was displayed. Now this… this was something out of a fairytale. All gold and rose and soft, beautiful colors, trees and flowers and light… it was stunning. He briefly looked over to the window and out on the dreary landscape, and he frowned. He looked back to the mural, then back out the window, then to the mural again. Had this been what this area had looked like before? Before…
Before what?
What had happened to change the landscape so drastically? Not necessarily in contents, there were still trees and flowers–he had passed some on his way here, after all–but in general ambiance. It was so dark and gloomy, how on earth had that happened?
"Must have been one hell of a spell…" he muttered to himself.
There was a knock at the door, but before he was able to say "Come in" the door swung open. Nothing. Of course.
"The young master wishes for you to eat with him," the invisible servant said.
How he got here aside, Ives could certainly admit he'd been foolish. Not only could he not eat nor drink anything (despite how glorious the food seemed), the fae lord was being obnoxiously fae-like. Which… he should have expected. Of course, it wouldn't be as easy as he had assumed. Foolish, foolish, foolish. And now he was stuck in an unfamiliar place with someone who he could only assume wouldn't be too awfully pleasant to him for who knows how long.
The rain hadn't let up.
The–unfairly beautiful–fae lord sat across the absurdly long with the posture of a man getting his portrait painted and table smiled warmly at him. Or, it would have been warm, had it not been a few degrees too tight. Regardless, as Ives sat across from him, the reality of his situation sunk in.
Don't eat fae food or drink fae wine. A rule that everyone knew, but one that would get in the way if he wasn't able to find some food on his own. There was a possibility, him being a vampire, that he would be able to override that to some extent, but he didn't want to risk it until absolutely necessary. But if he could somehow get some of the fae's blood, then maybe…
No.
That was even more foolish than his initial plan!
Even if–IF–he managed to get some blood from the fae, at best he wouldn't be affected and at worst it would count as fae food which…
Well.
It wouldn't turn out great.
Unfortunately, this sudden lucidity didn't help Ives' current situation. In fact, if anything, it made it even more frustrating, because he could now think of a million ways he could have avoided this issue that he hadn't done for the sake of his own pride.
He smiled back at the fae, both hoping his fangs caught the light and desperately hoping they didn't for the sake of seeming polite. After all, an offended fae was even more dangerous than the most powerful vampire—as he'd come to remember—, and he'd made one too many mistakes thus far.
"You haven't eaten anything." The faes' voice completed the unfairly beautiful image; it was delectably soft and almost whispery, while still holding a strong feel to it and perhaps he heard a raspy undertone. Under different circumstances, maybe Ives could have basked in the whispery sound, but as he stood now he could only suppress an uncomfortable shiver. Ives only nodded, choosing to remain in polite silence than risk offending the fae. "Tell me why."
Shit.
Ives's brain immediately started going overdrive, trying to figure out how to be as polite as possible while still providing a good reason. Without lying. He looked at the food, desperately trying to figure out a reason.
There!
On the table lay a peach. Luckily for Ives (he'd never thought of it this way before), he was dreadfully allergic to peaches.
"I'm allergic," he said bluntly, stating it simply and without excessive apology. The fae raised a delicate eyebrow.
"Allergic? Now that just won't do." The fae's voice was poison honey, sweet and smooth and dangerous in a way that had Ives's spine tingling. The fae's hands folded underneath his chin and he watched Ives with eyes the color of the poison honey every aspect of the fae was dripping with. For a moment, Ives was convinced the fae would call him out on his blatant avoidance tactic; after all, he clearly wasn't cautious enough to avoid an entire table's worth of food due to 8 peaches on a plate in the center of the table. Much to his relief, he didn't say anything.
He was, eventually, dismissed without incident. The fae was clearly amused but hadn't forced him to eat, which was lucky. That said, he didn't know how long he could, you know, not eat.
That was when he discovered something that would save his life, or so he believed in his melodramatic mind.
The rain occasionally stopped. Not for long, maybe only 5 or ten minutes, but that gave him the chance to run out and grab some food that hadn't been touched by the fae. Was that a stupid idea? It sounded like a stupid idea. But it was an idea, which was something Ives was sorely lacking at the moment. He couldn't go without eating forever, even if he was a vampire.
It had been just over a month, and every single night Ives had been called down to have dinner with the fae. Never had he eaten a single bite, and never had he spoken without being spoken to. Unfortunately, the fae hadn't spoken either, which led to it being dreadfully awkward.
He, luckily, had found he could rush back to the village in the short increments of time every few days when the rain stopped if he really pushed himself. He had maybe half an hour every couple of days to rush to the village of Hwen–the village with the woman who had warned him of the rain and the only village within several miles of Castle Mourning–and grab as much food as he could carry before rushing back to Castle Mourning before the rain started back up. It wasn't too difficult, but unfortunately, the nearest village in the opposite direction of Castle Mourning was over two hours away, making it practically impossible for him to leave this place.
The unfortunate thing about Hwen was that, unlike larger towns in Edros, Hwen wasn't built to keep the rain out. The Ostain Region of Edros was run on a large level by Lord Mourning, and the fae had shut off trade centuries ago. It was a smart decision at the time, really. At the time, villages in Edros were being randomly attacked by religious groups masquerading as traders. The cause of this was the high presence of non-human magical creatures, which the church at the time–the Glory of the People–didn't like. Of course, since then the Glory of the People has been almost entirely left in history, with people realizing how damaging the puritanical teachings of the church were and leaving in droves. That said, however, the damage was done and Edros cut themselves off from the rest of the world for over three centuries. When Greater Edros decided to end their isolationist policies after several hundred years, they had unfortunately not anticipated how diseases had developed in their neighboring nations, and Greater Edros was quickly thrown into an epidemic as they attempted to re-enter the world of trade. Seeing this, Ostain–who had, by all accounts, been planning on opening back up–only further isolated itself.
Luckily, the Ostain Region had been able to keep itself afloat for these last two centuries, but that meant the glass trade was severely diminished. While in Greater Edros even the smallest villages were kept in glass structures not dissimilar to large, interconnected greenhouses that kept rain out of most of the village, Hwen and the rest of the Ostain Region didn't have access to the glass that Greater Edros had.
(For once, Ives was thankful for his lessons on world politics.)
The village was still beautiful, of course, just too small for Ives to stay there long-term. The ceilings of the catacombs–which was where most of the villagers lived, but almost none of them worked–were covered in hanging plants. Bouquets, dried herb bundles, fruit, and even live plants that could survive in the lantern light, and bioluminescent plants of variations Ives had never seen before thrived in the relative darkness. Above ground, there were vast fields on raised platforms and surrounded by trenches that kept the excessive water. The fields were covered by layer-by-layer platforms that, while they did little to keep the water out entirely, helped slow the drip so the crops didn't die completely.
Ives couldn't do anything fancy with the food he grabbed–he didn't have enough time to fully prepare a meal–but he was at least able to not starve to death. That said, the fae definitely knew what he was doing, what with Ives constantly going in and out of the manor, but as of yet hadn't said anything which Ives took as luck being on his side (for once in his life), and he wasn't about to stop his only source of non-fae food if the fae hadn't explicitly told him to.
He had a pretty good system going on if he could brag. His room had a fireplace, and while it wasn't customary for a prince to cook his own food he wasn't doing too terrible. Granted, the first several dishes had been almost inedible and he'd resorted to eating raw vegetables and slightly charred meats, but he was finally figuring this whole cooking thing out. The other day he'd made an actually half-decent stew of sorts, similar to the beef stew he'd had as a kid. It wasn't… perfect, but he was learning dammit!
He was also pretty lucky that the fae had a fair number of cooking-related books in his library, which Ives was allowed to access–at least he assumed so–and borrow from. Cookbooks, books telling him how the hell cooking worked in the first place, and a fair bit of books telling him what's edible at what temperatures and what food is a big no-no. All things considered, he was actually doing pretty well for himself.
Of course, that was until Lysander showed up.
Lysander, you see, was Ives servant. He'd been born human and had been raised for the moment when ultimately a vampire would choose and then turn him, and Ives had picked him just over 150 years ago. Of course, given how he was raised Lysander was fiercely loyal and rarely let Ives out of his sight. Ives wouldn't say he hated the man, moreso he thought of him almost as a brother; annoying and constantly in the way.
It really was only a matter of time before Lysander decided Ives had been taking too long on his solo journey and went to go find him. Despite Ives covering his tracks fairly well, Lysander was incredibly intelligent and ended up outside the manor, knocking politely on the door.
Ives, consequently, had been in the front room of the manor preparing to go out to Hwen, and so he had answered the door before the invisible servant–who he'd taken to calling Nemo–had gotten there. He sent a wicked smirk in the direction he could only assume that Nemo was in, and opened the door with no small amount of bravado.
"I'm deeply sorry but Lord Mourning isn't taking guests— Lysander?!"
There he stood, curly dark hair, tanned, freckled skin, and impeccably dressed as he always was though water was dripping from his clothing; Lysander Chapel. The man smiled brightly at Ives and bowed, and Ives resisted the urge to snarl.
"Young master has been missing for a month," he said warmly as he stepped inside and took off his outer coat. "So obviously I had to check in."
"Did you think I was on a vacation?" Ives hissed, though he didn't prevent Lysander from following him back to his room. "I can't leave, obviously." Lysander's eyes widened slightly as his eyebrows raised quizzically.
"Young master, it's just raining. Or did you already consume fae food?" he asked. Ives tsk'd.
"No, obviously not. The rain here is deadly to our kind," he explained. Lysander didn't lower his eyebrows, so Ives continued. "It melts us–non-human creatures, supernatural things, pick your poison–from the inside out." Lysander let out a small 'ah' sound.
"That does explain why I feel so warm." An irritated hiss left Ives's mouth, and he sharply pulled Lysander into his room and shoved him into the bathroom.
"Are you an idiot?! Take a bath then, I don't want you melting on my floor," he said, though his snarl held less bite than he wished it had. The small, almost knowing smile Lysander gave him had his blood boiling, so he slammed the door in his face, locking the man in his bathroom.
"I'll have Nemo bring you a set of clothing," he said sharply, ignoring the muffled "Nemo?" he heard from Lysander.
In his month in Castle Mourning, he'd grown accustomed to Nemo and had figured out how to have the–strangely sentient–invisible servant bring him what he needed. More often than not, however, the invisible servant knew what he needed before he ever asked, and such was the case with the change of clothes for Lysander.
A white button-up shirt with a ruffled collar, a soft brown vest with small yet intricate gold embroidery, comfortable beige pants, and tall black boots. It wasn't too dissimilar to Ives's own outfit, though his vest was much longer than Lysanders and the color palette of his clothing was red and black as opposed to white and brown.
A part of Ives had initially been fairly awkward about the clothes, but upon realizing they seemed to manifest out of thin air as opposed to being taken from the fae lord Ives had completely embraced it and had even requested specific styles he'd never been able to try out at home. He was now fairly confident that his closet here was even larger than his one back at his castle. He had styles from all eras, and imitations of clothing from other nations as well. He was still partial to clothing of a more gothic fashion, but he couldn't deny it was fun to try new styles.
He was sitting on the bed, staring gloomily outside at the rain that had picked up again, when the door to his bathroom opened and Lysander stepped into the room. He still had that infuriating smile on his face, and Ives wondered to himself what was with people recently, what with all the smiling and such. Lord Mourning hadn't stopped smiling once in the month he'd been here, Nemo always talked with what sounded like a smug sort of grin, and here was Lysander with his infuriating smile. It was exhausting.
Truthfully–though Lysander had never been his type–the man was fairly handsome in a boyish sort of way. He had deep, soulful eyes the color of midnight, and his bronze skin was a few shades darker than almost anyone where Ives grew up and covered in freckles. Lysander's family was from Sheaw Sca, a southern region by the coast, and along with being raised to be turned by one of the vampire lord's sons, he had also been raised working in a vineyard, leaving him well-built and attractive.
Lysander came over to him, still smiling infuriatingly.
"Young master, do you have a plan to escape?" he asked brightly.
"… Escape..?"
"Yes, young master, escape. That is your intention, correct?"
Hmm. In his whole time being here, beyond those first few days maybe, Ives could honestly say escape hadn't really been on his mind. He'd… fallen into a new sort of normal, and he'd actually come to kind of enjoy how simplistic his new life was. The fae lord still had something that drew Ives to him, and–strangely–enough, Castle Mourning had become more comfortable than his castle at home. The library was cozy, his room was homey, and he had grown to quite adore Hwen.
"It… hadn't crossed my mind." Lysander frowned, a rare negative expression on his otherwise cheery face.
"Is Lord Mourning keeping you here?" he asked carefully. "If so I can assure you I can contact Lord Martel—"
"No!" Ives barely registered his shout through the way his heart was pounding in his ears at the mention of Lord Martel, the scent of lavender flooding his senses. The vampire prince was ancient and far above him and more powerful than Ives's entire family combined, and he couldn't bother him with something as pathetic as this.
He attempted to calm himself and held his shaking hands together, holding them in his lap in an attempt to regain some semblance of control.
"No," he said again, forcing his voice not to shake and coating his mind in that soft glaze he always did when he was panicking and imagining the overpowering scent of cinnamon and clove washing out the lavender. It was surprisingly easy to fall back into his normal self, and he was able to keep his voice from shaking when he spoke: "No, we don't need to bother him. I can deal with this on my own." Lysander's gaze was colored with concern, and the look made something in Ives's stomach twist and squirm uncomfortably. "It's fine, honestly." When Lysander didn't change his expression, Ives's face darkened, and he stood up sharply.
"It's getting late," he said, his tone glossy-smooth and dismissive as if he could get Lysander to ignore his outbreak. "Lord Mourning likes eating dinner with me. I have food in the dresser, prepare some non-fae food for when I get back."
He completely ignored Lysander as he walked out of the door.
"You brought your servant into my home."
The faes voice wasn't… dangerous, per see, he didn't even sound mad in the slightest. But the fae saying anything was dangerous, and so Ives was immediately on edge. The two of them had been eating in complete silence for a month now, and Lord Mourning had never even brought up his fairly often escapades into Hwen. But Ives also knew it was dangerous to not respond when directly spoken to.
"Yes," he responded evenly. The fae nodded slowly, a few strands of his golden-blond hair falling over his face as he did so. He pushed his hair back behind one of his butterfly-shaped ears. Ives noticed his nails were long, well-kept, and shimmered rose gold. His fingers were covered in various rings and chains, all delicate and clearly expensive and well-made; Ives was almost jealous.
"Hmm…" The fae hummed lowly, his voice a soft timbre that rumbled pleasantly in a way Ives could feel in his chest. "I would have rather you inform me he was coming beforehand," he said. Ives gaped indignantly, and—a few moments before his common sense caught up with him—squawked:
"I didn't know he was coming!" Offense colored his tone, which may have been ridiculous considering his circumstances, but Ives had always been known for growing comfortable with situations and people very quickly. "He just- he just showed up!" The fae hummed again, and Ives wasn't sure if that was a good sign or not.
For some strange reason, the fae didn't seem to be feeling anything negative at all. He didn't seem displeased, or malevolent, or scheming, he just seemed… awkward. Like he was completely lacking in social skills and this whole 'stranger-who-initially-came-here-to-kill-me-is-now-stuck-in-my-home' thing was just as awkward for him as it was for Ives. He didn't really… show it, exactly, but the pauses in his speech, the noncommittal answers, and the questions-that-weren't-quite-questions seemed like the kind of thing someone who wasn't quite certain what to do with this situation.
Ives frowned at the non-answer but decided not to press it.
The rest of the dinner went just as quiet and awkward as it had gone previous nights, though this time the awkwardness was amplified by the way their brief conversation had gone. Ives pushed around food on his plate, not eating any of it, and eventually, the fae stood up and disappeared into the manor, though his motions seemed slightly forced. Ives took that as permission for him to leave.
Lord Mourning never looks exactly… healthy, Ives thought to himself as he walked back to his room, but tonight he seemed worse than normal. Lord Mourning had sunken cheeks and dark bags under his eyes, skin a few shades light to be healthy, and sharp features that seemed to be that way due to poor health. It didn't take away from his beauty—fae were, by nature, beautiful creatures—but it did make him slightly unsettling. That night, however, the fae had seemed labored. He'd paused often, seeming to take a break, breathing through his nose slightly heavier than he normally did, and when he'd stood up he had swayed slightly; something no one other than Ives—or someone else who had grown up analyzing the body language and movements of everyone around him—would have noticed. Did he have headaches often? Ives wondered. He seemed to have a system in place, Nemo had taken his wine—which the fae had responded to with a sour look—and replaced it with a tea of some sort that seemed to help; or, at least, it seemed to lessen the amount of times he took a break while eating.
He realized he'd been lost in thought only when he almost slammed into his door, stumbling slightly when Lysander opened the door before he walked into it and caught him off guard.
"Oh- um-" He cleared his throat briefly and nodded at Lysander, who had that infuriating smile back on. He walked inside, welcomed by the warm smell of spiced meatballs in a heavily seasoned soup. He had never been one for bland flavors, and he was pleased that Lysander had been able to use what little spices he'd been able to grab from Hwen—he had no idea what most spices were, so Ives had made wild guesses as to what would taste good—to make something that he knew Ives would like.
He took the food, flickers of awkwardness from how their last conversation had ended resulting in his movements being slightly stiff. He nodded his thanks and finally ate the food.
He'd never been necessarily… unused to being hungry. His father loved teaching him patience and elegance in all things, including in food, so a younger Ives had grown accustomed to going to bed without dinner to be rewarded in the morning with a breakfast big enough—and sweet enough—to make a small village die of overconsumption.
That said, since he'd found out how to get food from Hwen to Castle Mourning he hadn't had to go a night hungry. He normally grabbed enough for dinner and snacks throughout the day, so he was surprisingly less starving than he had expected.
He wondered if the fae lord had ignored his trips to Hwen on purpose.
Eventually, he dismissed Lysander—ignoring the glance he gave Ives, clearly asking the question of 'where am I to be dismissed to?', expecting Nemo to bring him to a room—and tucked himself into bed, his last waking gaze being on the beautiful mural of an equally beautiful man he'd moved his bed to fully uncover.