The Gilroy family is a storied branch of the Vitsceh clan, standing tall among Enoleh's noble echelons, their roots entwined with those of the Pahn'u'tarih families, the pioneering pillars of their society. This distinguished lineage was forged upon the bedrock of a strong religious ideology, profound philosophy, and the vital tenets of their refined culture. Members of the Gilroy family were renowned for their cunning nature, sharpened by persistent intellect and an insatiable thirst for knowledge, encompassing the vast expanse of human understanding.
Their scions, groomed in the hallowed halls of Kuhahmah institutions, some in the colonies and some in the land itself, honing their minds to perfection, solidifying their noble stature within the aristocracy. Though fate may have marginalized their influence to some extent, due to their controversial nature, the Gilroys remained a respected force, their prestige sustained through strategic marital alliances with a few of the aristocratic families, including the Erens. Thus, their exalted position in society remained dauntless.
Lady Amada gazed upon a Gilroy who's presence was centred amongst lifeless forms, Jonathan. The bodies brutalized beyond recognition, their faces distorted in silent screams—an elderly woman, and an elderly man—lie grotesquely mutilated. Their tongues severed from their mouths that seem to have been forcefully opened as their jaws appear to have been separated from the upper part of their heads, stretched out beyond its intended limit. Their eyes gouged into hollow sockets that squirted out blood, which went down their cold faces. And their ears brutally removed.
The victims' chests laid open, their rib cages ripped apart, exposing their internal organs, that seem to have been set aflame, and each had a dark, cavernous space where their heart once beat with life.
Lady Amada began to ascend towards Jonathan, the footfalls of her bare feet echoed through the hall, each step heavier than the last. Her entire body quaked, the knife in her hand in sync with her fear. Jonathan's gaze remained fixed on her, his focus unwavering. As she drew closer, her shadow morphed into the silhouette of an angel, and a hand slowly emerged ominously from this silhouette. As the hand emerged, it was followed by an arm, strong and sinewy, attached to a form of masculine beauty. His face, a tabula rasa, devoid of the windows of the soul, without lips to speak into the world, and a nose to breathe in the essence of life, and his back, an image of mutilation. As the silhouette of the angel stood behind the young man, it seemed as though the wings of the silhouette had sprouted from him. The wings' delicate curves and sweeping lines appeared to be an integral part of his being, as if their shadowy shape had been sowed into his being. He reached out, and from Lady Amada's back, he drew forth an astral version of her, a ghostly apparition that screamed in silence, its hand outstretched, desperately trying to grasp her physical form that seemed to be slipping away, moving in a trancelike motion towards Jonathan, who offered his hand in a chivalrous manner. The young man began to aggressively drag Lady Amada into the silhouette, as she watched her physical self take hold of Jonathan's hand, while she slowly sunk into the shadowy pool. She could feel the warmth and gentleness of his palm, the eyes of her physical self now mirroring his glowing green.
The man continued to drag Lady Amada's astral form into the silhouette. She screamed, wailed in terror, but no sound left her mouth. As she sank deeper into this abyss, Jonathan whispered an inaudible phrase to her physical self, and the shadows deepened, creating an aura of darkness that wrapped its suffocating embrace around Lady Amada's physical self. Jonathan's malignant whisper that seemed to seep into the marrow of her bones, echoing through the chambers of her mind, became clear in her last moments before she completely sunk into the silhouette, "You are free." Lady Amada's astral form finally sunk into the shadowy void, her fate sealed within the oppressive gloom.
Lady Amada sprang forth from her slumber, her lithe form ascending with extreme suddenness. She sat bolt upright, her emerald eyes bulging like two glittering jewels, their verdant depths flashing with the shock of awakening, and her breathing came in short and sharp gasps. She slid her legs out from beneath the warmth of the blankets, and her slim delicate feet settled upon the floorboards as if hesitant to make contact with the solid base of the room. The dark tresses of her hair, gave a dishevelled form to the shape of her face, a result of her recent surreal experience.
The dream's lingering embers ignited a slide show, each vivid frame showcasing a victim's slaughtered form, their faces contorted in a silent scream. Their voices wailed in unison, pleading with Lady Amada to cease her sudden darkness. The shower of cries and confusion from the victims swirled around her, a force of terror that threatened to consume her. Tears burst forth from the reservoir of her eyes, the droplets fell and shattered on the wooden floor.
"Lady Amada," a young servant girl called softly, her voice almost lost against the ancient oak door that stood between the room and the upstairs corridor.
Lady Amada arose from her bed, her tears swiftly banished by a determined hand. Yet, her body betrayed her, its coordination fleeting. She stumbled, her vision blurring, but with a desperate grasp, she steadied herself against the dressing table, which trembled as she laid the weight of her unstable body on it. The trio of mirrors reflected her struggle, a glassy pool of truth, revealing the chaos that brought weight onto her face. "Lady Amada, is everything alright?" the servant's voice pierced the storm, her concern a lifeline tossed to a drowning maiden.
"Yes, my love, everything...is quite all right. How can I be of help?" Lady Amada's voice, though gentle, trembled slightly as she steadied herself against the wall, her delicate frame descending with grace to the floor, her back pressed firmly against the cold surface. The relentless clash of an anxious mind and an uncooperative body—a dance of discordant forces—painted a vivid picture of human fragility.
"In the Erens' household, a tradition dictates that ladies rise before gentlemen," the young servant informed, "This rule, established by the father of the brothers, extends to both residents and guests."
"What a stupendous custom," Lady Amada murmured, the words slipping from her lips.
"Did you say something, my lady?" The servant asked, a note of concern in her voice.
"I'll be out shortly, my dear," Lady Amada replied, her voice now steady, masking the thoughts that had momentarily escaped.
"Domini Jonathan is already awake. When you are ready, do join him downstairs. And Domini Junior has received an invitation to a soirée and, methinks, he would greatly value your and Mr. Gilroy's company." the servant intoned before leaving Lady Amada. Lady Amada inhaled deeply, savouring the tranquillity. The morning sunlight, having artfully breached the heavy brocade curtains, blessed her face with a kiss.
"An opportunity presents itself, Jonathan" Lady Amada said to herself.
Beyond the clear field of grass, the morning sun also left a kiss upon the trampled earth, a mosaic of dew and soil reflecting the relentless press of countless feet. The barren expanse resonated with squelching and groaning, due to the unforgiving labour of uniformed men. Clad in tattered garments that barely clung to their sweat-slicked bodies, they toiled under the indifferent sky. Some pulled, some pushed, some dug, and some carried, while another cadre of men, similarly uniformed yet distinct in their attire, stood vigilant. These overseers, dressed in garments neither luxurious nor destitute but a modest balance, which epitomized their station. Their attire, a silent reminder of their rank beneath the aristocracy yet above the slaves they commanded, reinforced their authority. Mounted on sturdy horses, they wielded whips, guns, and/or swords, instruments of brutal enforcement.
Jonathan observed the dominance and subjugation, his fingers curled around a delicate tea cup. A few slaves working in front of him, tending to the small garden situated near the healthy tree he sat under. Their motions a mere blur against his rapt focus. He absorbed the harsh reality of punishment meted out to those who defied orders. The crack of whips and barked commands, drawing a smirk to Jonathan's lips as he sipped his tea, savouring the display of power and control.
"Indeed, a captivating representation of defiance." Jonathan murmured, and slurped his tea, then freed his soft lips from the brim of the cup.
"Master?" One of the young men asked, Jonathan's statement distracting him from his task.
"Look at that," Jonathan said, as he gestured the young man's gaze towards the scenery before him. The young men furtively stared at him, each other and the scene, contemplating with confusing.
"The overseers, with obstinacy and perversity, obstinately repudiate and disavow the unvarnished veracity, that, by some fortuitous circumstance, they possess a certain affinity with those miserable wretches whom they treat with such disdain and cruelty, as if they were mere beasts," Jonathan said, and slurped his tea, "They steadfastly refuse to acknowledge that they themselves are not exempt from the very same inherent frailties and vulnerabilities which they so readily impute to those they hold in subjugation."
"I...don' understand, master." The young man said.
"Indeed, you do not, merely because it is not their desire that you should. And I'm not your master," Jonathan said, slurping his tea till he finally finished it.
"What is your name?" Jonathan asked, banishing the presence of the hierarchy that separates him from the slave.
"Mighty." The young man cautiously responded.
"Is that indeed your genuine appellation? Appellation means name," Jonathan asked, and Mighty nodded, "Ok, Mighty, address me with the same familiarity as you would a cherished companion, and tell me what you perceive about the scene before you."
Mighty scanned the doubtful eyes of his companions, and then slowly refocused, his eyes, absorbing the scene in its entirety. A grim display of brutality, dominance, control, power, and oppression unfolded before him. The sharp cracks of the whips made him flinch, as if he felt the lashes himself. He observed the overseers, the slaves, the vast expanse of land, and how each element contributed to the scene.
"I don' know none 'bout philosophy, sir, but I see grown men gettin' they tails whipped by other grown men, bless they hearts," he murmured, and the other men added in unison, "mmhm."
"Bless their hearts?" Jonathan asked softly.
"Yes, sir, I think they doin' what they doin' 'cause they don't wanna be the one gettin' got. Ain't no philosophy there, it's just the way it is," Mighty replied.
"An' the slaves, well, they doin' what they doin' 'cause somebody's gotta do it," one of the young men remarked with a careless wave, eliciting a round of mirthful, but careful, laughter from his companions. The overseers, standing at a distance, cast disapproving glances their way, but their stern expressions softened when they noticed Jonathan among the group, his presence a silent endorsement of their idle jests. The overseers resumed their silent vigil, their authority momentarily suspended by Jonathan's approval.
"Jonathan, we must leave!" Nicholas's voice rang out, pulling the young men from their distraction. Reluctantly, they returned to their labour. Jonathan, his smile lingering from the echo of laughter, turned toward Nicholas. With a graceful ease, he rose, took up his cane and top hat, and made his way to the waiting carriage. Lady Amada, already ensconced within the carriage, cast a curious glance at Jonathan as he approached. Conspicuously absent was Junior, whose presence was demanded by a business guest expected at the Erens household. Furthermore, Junior's disdain for the frivolous entertainments and soirées that so captivated Nicholas was well known; thus, he had chosen to remain behind, wrapped in his own world of serious affairs. The carriage stood ready, its horses impatiently pawing the ground as if eager to gallop away from the day's mundane duties.
"Has the reason for our presence slipped your mind?" Lady Amada's voice, edged with quiet reproach, echoed softly within the confines of the carriage.
"Must I be denied the simple pleasure of conversation before the grand affair?" Jonathan replied, his tone a blend of irritation and bemusement as he adjusted his coat, the rich fabric whispering against the leather seat.
"No harm in it," Nicholas interjected, his voice a calm counterpoint.
The golden doorknob felt cold in Anais's palm as she clung to it, turning it gently to the side and granting herself access to the room—Junior's bedroom, now temporarily occupied by Jonathan during his visit. The revelation of the space felt daring, an intrusion into Jonathan's private sanctuary, his inner sanctum within the Erens household. Here, beyond his philosophical musings shared with the world, lay his unguarded thoughts and hidden reveries.
As Anais entered, she felt a reverent hesitation. The room bore Jonathan's unmistakable imprint—tidy and precise, a mirror to his meticulous nature. The only thing in disarray was the bed, a lone deviation from his otherwise ordered existence. With a sense of duty, she began making it, smoothing the sheets and fluffing the pillows.
In her careful movements, she accidentally knocked over a stack of yellowing papers neatly anchored by a pencil on the nightstand. "Bahgqah(idiot)," she muttered softly, berating herself as she knelt to retrieve the scattered pages. Her eyes widened as she noticed the intricate, disturbing drawings they bore.
The first page depicted a female figure being torn apart by two male figures—one of light, the other of darkness. The second showed the female being devoured by the dark figure while her other half was gently sheltered by the wings of the light figure. The next drawing was a shadowy portrait of the dark male, devoid of facial details except for his green eyes, within which the other half of the female figure resided. As Anais leafed through more pages, she found an image of the light figure, with his wings being brutally torn apart by the dark male, followed by the drawing of the two heads, bearing sewn eyes and mouths.
Lost in the imagery, she was startled by Junior's sudden appearance behind her. "I believe that's rude," he remarked icily.
"Sorry, Domini, I was just—" Anais stammered, panic rising in her voice.
"Your job is to clean, not wonder, so go clean," Junior commanded sternly, gesturing her out of the room.
Anais, after stacking the pages back onto the nightstand, and departed from the room.