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lifeofkaze · 1 year

Text

Where All Stories End

Warning: mortal injury, major character death

The wind was howling around the ancient walls of Fraser Hall. The storm that had been building over the Scottish Highlands had broken earlier in the evening, the leaden clouds looming so close to the ground that it looked as if the sky were caving in on itself.

The man in the library wasn’t aware of the clattering raindrops against the windows. He was pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace, as he had been for hours - back and forth, back and forth. His gaze was directed inwards, his fingers toying with the chain of the pocket watch adjusted to his waistcoat, quietly mumbling to himself as he went.

Presently, Henry Lovecraft stopped at the heavy oak desk the lady of the house had moved there for his convenience. Picking up the quill and dipping it into his inkwell, he set the feather to the paper. Before the tip could touch it, however, Henry paused. Frozen, he watched as the first jet-black drop formed on the quill’s end, growing bigger, heavier, laden with all the words of all the worlds. Eventually, it fell, landing on the pristine parchment with a quiet thud. It was a soft sound, nothing compared to the beating against the glass outside, but to Henry’s ears, the impact sounded deafening.

With a sigh heavier than the mountain on his heart, Henry dropped the quill again, turning away from the desk and the empty parchment staring at him. The whispers, which had been quiet for the time he’d stood at the desk, returned, begging him, luring him, asking him to tell their story - no, their story - no, their story.

Henry shut his eyes, too weary to keep the whisperings at bay. He didn’t know what was happening; as long as he could remember, the stories of the past had talked to him. They had always invited him, like friends, lovers, making the past his playground and the present his stage. It was his gift, his singular talent, the one thing that had set him apart from everybody else. Lately, however, his gift had turned into a curse. The stories wouldn’t stop haunting him, calling for him louder than ever before, but every time he tried to put them to paper, they would vanish like the ghosts time had made them. The words slipped through his fingers like fog, only to return and envelope him again as soon as he turned his back.

Henry let himself sink into the chequered armchair close to the fire, stretching out his long legs with the worn, slightly too big slippers Selene had given him on his feet. He took out his pocket watch and flipped it open, studying the familiar face of the token that had once belonged to his father. It had stopped working earlier in the evening, and Henry fiddled with the button on top, watching the hands of the clock turn at his will. He brought it to his heart, but, of course, there was no sound. The clockwork wasn’t ticking, as if the watch was stuck in an eternal moment in time.

A smile flickered across Henry’s face. A strangely comforting thought.

“Uncle Henry?”

The sound of a small voice made Henry break from his musings. Looking up, he saw that a little girl had slipped into the library. She was dressed in a nightgown, her dark hair held in place by a haphazard plait and the bow Henry had brought back from his latest trip to Greece.

“Caitlin,” Henry smiled. “Why are you up at this hour? It must be close to midnight. It’s far too late to wander, especially in a storm like this.”

“I know,” Caitlin Fraser sniffed and shuffled closer, “but I cannot sleep. The wind is howling so loudly. Will you keep me company?”

Henry hesitated. “I shall if you wish it so. But wouldn’t it be better if you found your mother?”

Caitlin made a dismissive noise that made her sound more grown up than a girl of five.

“Mother is in one of her moods tonight.” She lowered her voice in a conspiratorial manner. “She locked herself in her study again, and I swear I can hear her pacing. What is the matter with her, Uncle? Why must she always be like this?”

Henry suppressed a sigh. Storms had always made Selene feel restless, trapped inside without a means of escape. And it wasn’t only that; it had been almost six years now since…

“Come here, little Cat,” Henry said, closing his arms around Caitlin, who rested her head against his chest. “Leave your mother be. She has her own ghosts who haunt her.”

“There are no such things as ghosts,” Caitlin wrinkled her nose. “Everyone knows that, Uncle Henry.”

“I think Alan would like to disagree.”

Caitlin frowned, as if she hadn’t even considered her mother’s undead pet ferret up to this point.

“That’s different,” she declared eventually. “Alan was always like this.”

“Was he?” Henry had meant it as a joke, but somehow, the thought made him contemplative. “What do you think ghosts are, Caitlin?”

“I don’t know,” Caitlin said, looking at him quizzically. “Do tell, Uncle Henry.”

“Judging by the ghosts I’ve met,” Henry said, ignoring Caitlin’s doubtful look, “ghosts are a little like memories. They linger in our world because something’s keeping them. Something that’s too important for them to let go.”

“Like what?”

“It depends. Some have unfinished business to attend to. Some are too scared to move on. And some… some just don’t want to be forgotten.”

Caitlin hummed thoughtfully. “That sounds dreadfully sad, don’t you think? Why wouldn’t you want to go to Heaven when it’s your time?”

Because some people die before their time, Henry was about to say but held the words back; Caitlin was too young to learn this dire truth.

“I don’t think it’s sad at all,” he told her instead. “For some, maybe, but there’s something beautiful in getting to pass on your story, don’t you think?”

“But that’s what you are for, Uncle Henry. You and your books. It’s what you do.”

“It’s what I do,” Henry echoed, trying not to think about the empty parchment on his desk, “but a thousand lifetimes wouldn’t be enough to tell all the stories of this world, little Cat.”

Caitlin giggled, sheepishly covering her mouth with her hand. It was one of Henry’s favourite sights; it made the stern little girl look more like the child she actually was.

“You will need to become a ghost yourself, Uncle Henry. Then you’ll have all the time in the world. Oh, just imagine! The first proper ghost I would know. Apart from Alan, of course.”

Henry laughed quietly. “Of course. I do hope I shall be here for a while longer, though.”

“But one day, maybe.”

“One day, maybe.”

The two of them sat silently for a while, listening to the fire crackling and the wind beating against the window panes.

“I asked Mother about Father today,” Caitlin whispered presently.

Henry exhaled slowly. “What did she say?”

“Nothing, like always. She forbade me to ask about him again.” She raised her face away from where she had snuggled against Henry’s chest. “Sometimes, I wish you were my father.”

There was a dropping sensation to his stomach as Henry gently adjusted the bow on Caitlin’s hair. “Don’t say that.”

“But why? Why can’t you be?”

“I am your Uncle Henry, am I not?”

“I wish you were it, though,” Caitlin stubbornly insisted, her jaw set in the same way her mother always did. “I don’t even know my real father, and I bet Mother doesn’t know him either, or else she would have told me. How can you not know something like this?”

Henry shook his head. “The story of your father is not mine to tell.”

“How entirely unfair.”

“It might appear so, but there is nothing I can do about it, I’m afraid.” Taking Caitlin by the shoulders, he lifted her to the ground. “But there are other stories I could tell you. Do you wish for me to read them to you?”

Caitlin’s face lit up. “Will it be one of a princess in a castle and her handsome prince?”

“If you wish it so.”

“And you will stay to wait out the storm with me?”

“Of course, little princess.”

“Thank you.” Caitlin flung her arms around Henry’s waist. “You and your stories are the best.”

“There’ll always be a story for you with me,” Henry smiled, biting the insides of his cheeks as those big eyes, which reminded him so much of her mother, looked back up at him. “Hurry along now, Your Majesty. I’ll select a book and be right with you.”

Caitlin smiled and flitted away, her light footsteps drowned out by the thunder rolling outside. Henry stared after her for a moment before gathering thoughts and turning toward the bookshelves lining the walls. He knew exactly which book to get for Caitlin; he could already feel it calling to him. Its lure was oddly strong, much stronger than Henry knew it to be. He trusted the feeling to guide him deeper into the darkness of the room, not bothering to take a light. He knew where he was going.

An almost dreamlike smile on his face, Henry climbed the ladder to reach the top part of the bookcase he had been headed for. He thought of how Caitlin’s face always brightened at the part where the prince would rescue the princess; she would look exactly like her mother then, only that Selene had always preferred the dragon to the knight in shining armour.

Thinking of the two women he considered family, Henry extended his hand. A shudder ran through him as his fingers brushed the worn edge of the storybook. It felt strange, like a cold whisper breathing down the exposed skin of his neck.

Caught off guard by the sensation, Henry’s foot in the too-big slippers lost hold on the rack of the ladder, and suddenly, there was nothing beneath him but emptiness. Sudden panic struck him, making him cling to the first thing Henry could get hold of - the upper edge of the bookcase. His feet kicking against it, the ladder fell away, and for one horribly long moment, Henry Lovecraft hung there, his fingers slowly slipping off the polished wood. The thought of his father’s watch flashed in his mind, set for one moment in time, forever and all eternity.

Then, the bookcase began to topple, pulled forward by Henry’s weight. He screwed his eyes shut and let go as he rushed towards the ground, spinning around as books and whispering pages rained down around him. As the thunder rolled outside, the bookcase collided with the back of his head with a final-sounding crush.

Raising his eyes one final time, Henry saw the book he had wanted to bring Caitlin just beyond his fingertips. He reached for it, his vision already fading, fingers just so grazing the old spine. Another shiver.

Then, darkness.

#hphl #hogwarts legacy #henry lovecraft #caitlin fraser #kill you darlings they say #okay -^^-#you get a writer’s block #you kill a dude #works like a charm lol

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