Fic: The Canterville Ghost (VM/SB, PG)
Oct. 29th, 2003 06:37 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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rugbytackleTitle: The Canterville Ghost
Author: Raederle
Pairing: VM/SB
Rating: PG
Summary: An American family with their artistic son move into a haunted house in England.
Feedback: Yes!
Disclaimer: Made up, I promise. Do not own the characters, not for profit.
Archive: Rugbytackling
Notes: This one is for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cinzia. It’s not precisely a fairytale, but it’s October and that means ghost stories. This one is based on the Oscar Wilde short story. I like to think he would have approved of the pairing. *g*
When a golden man can win
Prayer from out the lips of sin,
When the barren almond bears,
And an innocent gives away his tears,
Then shall all the house be still
And peace come to Canterville.
Canterville Chase was haunted and there was no question about it in anyone’s mind. The only issue was how long the Canterville heirs would tolerate the ghost. The family bore up well under the strain of the haunting for four hundred years, until the time of the present Lord of Canterville, who finally lost all patience with the Ghost when it caused the death of his Great-Aunt Margaret.
Great-Aunt Margaret had choked to death on a Brussel sprout when the Ghost had put a hand down her dress and tweaked her nipple. Lord Canterville sold his family’s historic estate to an American minister and his family mere weeks after the unfortunate incident. But as he remarked rather crossly to his wife, Great-Aunt Margaret had been quite a harridan and no man who wasn’t already dead would dare do such a thing to her. “Besides, that’s the only time I’ve ever seen her with a smile on her face. However, blood is blood and I cannot let this insult stand. The Chase must go.”
Out of a sense of honor, Lord Canterville of course made a full disclosure about the ghost to the American minister, but the man replied that he did not believe in ghosts and he would take the Chase, furniture, ghost and all. Lord Canterville and his wife packed quickly after the sale closed and waved goodbye to the ancient manor. Lord Canterville wondered how the Ghost would deal with the relentless practicality of the Americans, but not for long, because he was too excited at the prospect of a semi-detached house in the suburbs of Town.
The American minister had a wife and four children. The oldest was Viggo, who was a man of twenty-five and had a gentle, artistic nature. He was quite looking forward to living in a stately home and painting the rustic landscapes surrounding the manor. Next was Amelia, a sturdy young woman of twenty years of age, who had no imagination at all, but delighted at beating boys at their own games. Finally, there were the twins, James and John, who were going to be attending Eton, but had come down with the rest of the family to help them settle in. The twins were extremely mischievous and forever trying the patience of their normally placid mother.
The family drove up the drive to the impressive building and were greeted on the front steps by the housekeeper. She was a rather dour and unimaginative-looking personage, but she seemed friendly enough as she welcomed the new family to the Chase. She gave the minister and his family a brief tour of the downstairs rooms and then brought them to the library to take tea and other refreshments.
The family was enjoying their first real British tea when the minister’s wife noticed a dull red stain on the floor just by the fireplace, and not realizing its significance, remarked to the housekeeper, “I am afraid something has been spilt there.”
“Yes, madam,” the housekeeper replied in a mournful voice, “blood has been spilt on that spot.”
“How awful!” cried the minister’s wife. “I don’t care for bloodstains in a sitting room. It must be removed at once.”
The old woman sighed and answered in the same mournful voice, “It is the blood of Lady Eleanore de Canterville, who was driven mad by the shade of her husband, Sir Sean de Canterville. She slit her own throat over four hundred years ago. Sir Sean had disappeared some months previously, under very mysterious circumstances. His body has never been discovered, but the locals all have assumed that his wife had him killed and disposed of his body. He was quite a sinner and his guilty spirit still haunts the Chase. The bloodstain has been much admired by tourists and others and cannot be removed.”
“That is all nonsense,” exclaimed Amelia. “Pinkerton’s Champion Stain Remover and Paragon Detergent will clean it up in no time.” And before the terrified housekeeper could interfere, she had fallen upon her knees, and was rapidly scouring the floor with a small stick of what looked like a black cosmetic. In a few moments no trace of the bloodstain could be seen.
“I knew Pinkerton would do it,” she crowed triumphantly, as she looked round at her admiring family. But no sooner had she said these words than a terrible flash of lightning lit up the somber room, a fearful peal of thunder made them all start to their feet, and the housekeeper fainted.
“What a monstrous climate!” said the American minister calmly, as he lit a long cheroot. “Amelia, dear, leave the poor woman alone.” This last was directed at his daughter who was briskly slapping the housekeeper’s cheeks in an effort to revive her. The old woman had recovered quite soon after the procedure had started and was ineffectually trying to bat Amelia’s hands away. Viggo gallantly helped the startled woman to her feet and she offered to show them to their bedrooms.
The housekeeper led the way up a long curving staircase lined with portraits of long-deceased Cantervilles. She was pointing out some of the more noted family members when James piped up and asked to see Sir Sean’s picture.
“It is just here, on the landing,” she replied, as the family gathered around to see the image of the reputed ghost. “He was known in these parts as quite the rakehell,” she added, “but I’m not one to gossip about my betters.” The housekeeper then proceeded to give the family a detailed account of tales of drinking, wenching and general debauchery on the part of Sir Sean which had survived in the folk-memory of the local residents for more than four hundred years.
The portrait was a typical stiffly posed formal painting. The young man was dressed in rich clothes of the Tudor era and his head was surrounded by a nimbus of golden hair. The artist had done quite a good job on the face, for it stood out with clarity in its splendid setting. The face was sharp featured, with leaf-green eyes and thin yet mobile lips. The picture was oddly compelling with intriguing hints of the character of the man and Viggo found himself drawn to it. As Viggo stared at the face for some signs of his legendary sinning, he noticed that the green eyes seemed to have a shadow of unhappiness about them.
“How old was he?” Viggo asked. “I mean, when he disappeared.”
“He was a month shy of his twenty-fifth birthday,” the housekeeper answered solemnly.
Viggo felt a wave of sorrow pass over his heart and he stretched out his hand toward the young, unhappy face in front of him before he caught himself. The rest of the party had moved up the stairs when Viggo finally turned away from the picture. He followed the housekeeper to his room, all the while still puzzling over his strange identification with a man who had lived and died more than four hundred years before Viggo himself had been born.
The storm raged fiercely all that night, but nothing else occurred. The next morning, however, when they came down for breakfast, they found the terrible stain of blood on the floor once again.
“I don’t think it can be the fault of the Paragon Detergent,” said Amelia, “for I have tried it with everything. It must be the ghost.” She accordingly rubbed out the stain a second time, but the second morning it appeared again. The third morning it was there also, although the library had been locked up at night by the minister himself, and the key carried upstairs.
The whole family was beginning to be interested and the American minister was wondering if he had been right to deny the existence of ghosts. That night all doubts were removed. At eleven o’clock the family retired and by half-past all lights were out. The minister had just drifted into a light doze when a noise in the corridor outside his room brought him to full alertness. It sounded like the clank of metal and it seemed to be coming nearer every moment. Then he distinctly heard the sound of footsteps. The minister put on his slippers, walked quietly over to the door, and pressed his ear to it to listen for a moment. He heard nothing so he opened the door suddenly. In the wan moonlight he saw right in front of him an old man of terrible appearance. His eyes were as red as burning coals; long grey hair fell over his shoulders in matted coils; his garments, which were of an antique cut, were soiled and ragged, and from his wrists and ankles hung heavy manacles and rusty shackles.
“You really ought to oil those chains and not disturb the rest of honest souls,” the minister lectured the Ghost. At that moment, the door on the opposite side of the hall opened and the twins joined the fray, pummeling the shade with their pillows. The Ghost howled in rage and disappeared in a clap of thunder.
The next morning, when the family met for breakfast, they discussed the ghost at some length. The minister was disgruntled at the thought of having his rest disturbed because the Ghost refused to properly tend his equipment and the American proposed that they take the chains away from the Ghost if the noise continued.
However, they were not disturbed for the rest of the week. The only thing that excited any attention was the continual renewal of the bloodstain on the library floor. This could not be explained by any natural causes because the minister always carefully locked the door at night. The chameleon-like color of the stain also resulted in a great deal of comment. Some mornings it was a dull red, then it would be vermilion, then a rich purple, and once when they came down for family prayers they found it a bright emerald green. The family began taking bets on the next morning’s color each evening. The only person who was not amused by the rainbow of colors was Viggo. He was always angry at the sight of the bloodstain and the morning that it was emerald green he cursed and threw his prayer book across the room, getting himself into a great deal of trouble with his mother.
The twins were busily occupied during the week inventing ghost-traps and it was hardly possible to walk through the upstairs hall without tripping over one of their devices. Several nights later, the whole family was awakened by a fearsome crash and a roar of anger, but by the time they had raced out of their rooms and found the lights, there was nothing to be seen.
The next morning Amelia persuaded Viggo to abandon his painting for once and come riding with her. Their mother had purchased new riding coats for all of them upon their arrival in England, so Viggo put his on and followed his sister to the stables. Viggo was an excellent horseman and a fine athlete in general, but he was not used to taking jumps and on the second one he attempted, he lost his seat and landed in a creek. Amelia offered to go back to the house with him to change, but Viggo could see that she was eager to finish her ride and so he insisted that he could lead the horse back by himself. He dropped the horse off at the stables and then went to the house to find some dry clothes.
Viggo had raced up that back staircase, trying to avoid his mother who would surely wail over the state of his new coat, when he passed by the open doorway of the Tapestry Room. He stopped suddenly for he saw a skeletal figure in bedraggled Tudor finery pacing back and forth in front of the windows. It was the Canterville Ghost.
Viggo entered the room softly and heard the Ghost ranting about “bloody disrespectful Americans.” Viggo was walking so quietly and the Ghost was sunk so deeply into his melancholy that the spirit did not realize that the man was there until he spoke.
“My brothers are going back to Eton next week and you can have your peace back, if you behave yourself.”
The Ghost shrieked and whirled around in surprise at being so addressed by the American.
“It is absurd to ask me to behave myself,” he huffed after he had recovered his composure. “I must rattle my chains, and groan through keyholes, and walk about at night, if that is what you mean. It is my only reason for existing.”
“That’s a damn poor reason, if you ask me,” Viggo said.
“It was a perfectly good reason until your horrid, vulgar, dishonest family showed up!” the Ghost shouted.
“Stop it!” Viggo roared back. “You are the one who is dishonest! You know you stole the paints out of my box to try and fix up that ridiculous bloodstain in the library. First you took all my reds, including the vermilion, and I couldn’t do any more sunsets, then you took the emerald green and the chrome yellow. We should have laughed you out of the house right then, for who ever heard of emerald green blood?”
“Well, really,” said the Ghost meekly, “what was I supposed to do? It is a very difficult thing to get real blood nowadays, and as your sister began it all with her Paragon Detergent, I certainly saw no reason why I should not have your paints. As for color, if you claim to be an artist, you can surely use your imagination regarding the color of blood.”
Viggo was somewhat mollified by this, but he was curious. “Why do you bother? Why haunt this house at all?”
The Ghost sighed and his skeletal shoulders hunched in defeat. “I will show you, if you think you are brave enough.”
Viggo may have had an artistic nature, but he was as practical in some respects as the rest of his family. And he felt the Ghost was somehow challenging his manhood with the last remark so he readily agreed to see whatever the Ghost would show him.
The Ghost walked over to a section of wainscoting and pressed one of the carvings on the chair rail. The panel opened, revealing a narrow secret corridor. Viggo followed the Ghost through, his eyes gradually adjusting to the dimness. Finally, they came to a great oak door, studded with rusty nails. When Viggo touched it, it swung back on heavy hinges, and they found themselves in a little low room, with a rounded ceiling, and one tiny grated window. Imbedded in the wall was a huge iron ring, and chained to it was a gaunt skeleton, which was stretched out at full length on the stone floor. One bony hand seemed to be trying to grasp with its long flesh less fingers an old-fashioned trencher and ewer, which were placed just out of its reach. The jug had evidently once been filled with water, but after four hundred years, it was as dry as the skeleton. There was nothing on the trencher but a pile of dust.
Viggo knelt down beside the ancient bones and grief tightened a band across his chest, making it difficult to breathe. The secret of this terrible tragedy had at last been revealed to him and he mourned for the man whom he had never known. Viggo reached out tentatively and gently touched the graceful long-fingered hand. He noted abstractedly that the man would have been the same height as he was himself, had he been living.
Tears were closing up Viggo’s throat. “Did you make it to your twenty-fifth birthday?” he finally managed to ask, as if this was the most important thing in such a moment as this.
The Ghost shrugged and turned away. “I . . . I don’t know. Time, you know, time passes so oddly . . . when . . . when you are in such straits.”
Viggo struggled to contain his sorrow and to ask the questions that he knew he must. “The housekeeper told us the first day we arrived that you had disappeared and that your wife had gone mad and slit her own throat.”
“She found I had been unfaithful to her. And as she was a rather hot-tempered wench, she and her brothers chained me in this cell and let me starve to death. Although, I was surprised that she didn’t just knife me, and have done with it.”
“Killing you seems to be a bit extreme.”
“She was insulted by my choice of lovers.”
“Who was it?”
“One of the grooms from the stables.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Now I suppose you detest me.”
“Not at all.”
“That’s rather broad-minded of you.”
“Well, I’m an Episcopalian. Did she feel guilty and kill herself?”
“No, that was more my doing. I died with sins on my soul, so I couldn’t find rest. I tormented her until she bled herself to escape me. But that added to my sins and I was cursed by the Angel of Death to never find peace.”
Viggo’s gentle heart wept for the wretched Ghost. “Never?”
The Ghost sighed miserably, “So long as it makes no difference. You comfort me, though. It has been four hundred years since anyone has talked to me.”
“I will talk to you whenever you wish, but you must promise me something.”
“What is that?”
“You must stop stealing my paint. I have no objection to you trying to torment the twins, or my sister, but it is hard to get decent paints out here in the country.”
“And you will visit me every day?”
“Yes, I promise.”
“We have an agreement, then. Shall we shake?” The Ghost held out a bony hand that appeared to have small fragments of flesh still adhering to it.
Viggo swallowed, but took the proffered hand and they sealed their pact.
The minister finally prevailed upon his agent in the City to replace Viggo’s paints, and the young man spent his mornings at his easel and his afternoons deep in conversation with the Chase’s oldest resident. Viggo was fascinated by the Ghost’s tales of how his life had been in that long-ago era. The American found that his friend was full of odd knowledge and had a keen sense of the ridiculous. The Ghost particularly enjoyed hearing about Amelia’s exploits and all the British aristocrats who were falling over themselves to win her favor.
“That girl has courage enough to ride with,” the Ghost said, clattering his molars as he laughed. “She would have been quite the thing in my day.”
Viggo smiled quietly, glad he could lift Sir Sean from his melancholy. The young man was content with the arrangement, but his painting began to worry him. He tried to paint the beautiful English countryside that surrounded him, but he was drawn to paint one certain scene over and over. He was sure that he had never it actually seen the place but it would not leave his mind. The vision was of a little garden deep in the pine-woods. The grass was long and deep, and there were great white stars of the hemlock flower. The cold, crystal moon looked down upon a giant yew-tree with a nightingale perched on one of its branches. No matter what he originally had in his mind, Viggo found that his hand moved without his volition to the garden. He was becoming quite frustrated and ready to give up painting all-together.
Viggo was grumpy and out-of-sorts when he visited the Ghost that fateful day. They had started their usual pleasantries, when Viggo suddenly interrupted.
“Did you love him?”
“Who?” the Ghost asked.
“Your groom, the one your wife killed you for.”
The Ghost looked uncomfortable. “Ah, well, love . . . that is difficult. I don’t know that I have ever felt love. He was a diversion, nothing more.”
“What about me, am I just a diversion?” Viggo sneered.
“You know that you are not, you are the best friend I have ever had. I have learned many things in four hundred years and the one thing I know above all else is that I treasure you.” The Ghost placed a skeletal hand on the young man’s chin and lifted his face. “What ails you, my young friend?”
Viggo made a disgusted noise. “My painting is not going well. I have one image in my head and nothing else will come.”
“What image?”
Viggo began to describe the garden to the Ghost, but the specter stopped him and finished the description. “The nightingale sings all night long and the yew-tree spreads out its arms over the sleepers. You have been painting my dream.”
Viggo’s eyes grew dim with tears as he realized what the Ghost was telling him, “You dream about the Garden of Death?”
“Yes, Death. Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one’s head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace.” The Ghost sighed heavily.
“Is there no way for you to be released?” Viggo whispered, his bad mood dissipated as pity filled his heart for his friend.
The Ghost shuddered, “Have you ever read the old prophecy on the library window?”
“Many times,” Viggo replied. “I know it well. There are only six lines:
When a golden man can win
Prayer from out the lips of sin,
When the barren almond bears,
And an innocent gives away his tears,
Then shall all the house be still
And peace come to Canterville.”
The Ghost nodded as Viggo continued, “But I don’t know what they mean.”
Sir Sean stood up and paced to the window in agitation. “They mean that perhaps you can help me.”
“How can I do that?”
The Ghost walked over to Viggo and laced his skeletal fingers with Viggo’s warm ones. “If you have the courage, you can open for me the portals of Death’s house. I have come to know your heart these past weeks and it is full of love, for Love is always with you, and Love is stronger than Death is.”
Viggo did not flinch at the touch. “What must I do?”
“You must weep for me for my sins, because I have no tears, and pray with me for my soul, because I have no faith, and then, if your love is strong enough, the Angel of Death will have mercy on me.”
“That does not seem so hard,” Viggo said.
The Ghost bowed his head, “You will see fearful shapes in the darkness, and wicked voices will whisper in your ear, and the powers of Hell will assail you, but they will not harm you, because your soul is pure.”
Viggo trembled, a cold shudder ran through him, and for a few moments there was silence. He felt as if he was in a terrible dream.
As Viggo stood mute, the Ghost began to despair. Suddenly Viggo looked up, very pale, and with a strange light in his eyes.
“I am not afraid,” he said firmly, “and I will ask the Angel to have mercy on you.”
The Ghost uttered a faint cry of joy, and lifted one of their clasped hands to his lips with old-fashioned grace and kissed the back of Viggo’s hand. The wraith-like fingers were cold as ice, and his lips burned like fire. Viggo did not falter, as the Ghost led him across the dusky room toward the fireplace. Horrible animals with lizard tails and goggle eyes, blinked at him from the carven chimney-piece, but Viggo closed his eyes and allowed the Ghost to lead him more swiftly. When they reached the hearth, the shade stopped and muttered some words that Viggo could not understand. He opened his eyes, and saw the fireplace slowly fading away and a great black cavern in front of him. A bitter cold wind swept round them as the Ghost pulled them forward.
“Quick, quick,” cried the Ghost, “or it will be too late!” In a moment, the fireplace had closed behind them and the room was empty.
Viggo could barely feel the icy fingers entwined with his own because he was lost in a sea of blackness so absolute it was as if there had never been light. Suddenly, depraved voices were shrieking in Viggo’s ear and the light came back. Viggo then wished for the darkness again for he saw that snakes were coiling around his legs and the light came from the fires of Hell where sinners were being tortured. The Ghost continued to lead him forward as Viggo clung to his hand. They were walking toward a face with an enormous mouth full of sharp teeth that were gnashing rhythmically. Viggo closed his eyes as they entered the maw, but then they were on the other side.
Viggo winced for they appeared to be walking on a sea of eyeballs that were rolling around loose. The orbs made popping noises as they stepped on them. The voices were now howling like wild animals and Viggo was getting dizzy from the noise. His guide pushed on and Viggo noticed that his skeletal frame had more shreds of flesh on it than it usually did.
The young man thought about all the years of loneliness the Ghost had endured and now he had to go through all of this just to be allowed to die, and Viggo began to weep for pity for his friend. The Ghost heard the sobs and squeezed Viggo’s hand gently as he led them toward the wall.
On the other side of the wall they found a room full of flame. Viggo winced from the heat, but he closed his eyes and prayed out loud. “I call on you, Angel of Death. Have mercy on this man and grant him peace.” Viggo opened his eyes when he heard the Ghost add his own prayers. The Ghost had been gradually adding flesh to his frame as they walked and now looked almost human.
“This man has sinned, O Angel of Death, but he repents and begs for mercy,” Viggo continued to pray. He concentrated on his feelings of friendship and love for Sir Sean. They reached the wall on the far side of the room and entered another.
Viggo stumbled as they passed through. They appeared to be standing in the midst of nothingness, with stars in the space around them.
“Just look at me, not at your feet,” the Ghost instructed.
Viggo nodded, locking his eyes on his friend as his feet continued to move. The Ghost appeared fully human and greatly resembled his portrait in the gallery at Canterville Chase. He studied the face before him as they moved forward. Viggo saw the Ghost’s surprise as they came to a halt.
There in front of them was a being that could only be the Angel of Death. It was tall and clad in black. Its wings were black-feathered and spread wide. The Angel had a coldly inhuman face and Viggo could not tell from its androgynous beauty whether it was male or female. It held a huge sword crossed against its chest.
The Angel’s voice resounded in Viggo’s head, “You called, mortal. What do you require of Death?”
Viggo’s voice was shaking, “I pray for mercy on this poor soul, that he may be released from his torment.”
The Angel considered and then its voice was in Viggo’s head again, “Your heart is pure and your love is strong. You have fulfilled the prophecy and I will grant your prayer.”
The Angel lifted its sword, “Kneel, sinner, and I will sever your soul from your body and send you on to your eternal rest.”
The Ghost turned to Viggo, “Thank you for your courage, you have freed me.”
Viggo nodded, tears running down his face. “Is this goodbye?”
“Yes, my sweet friend, but you will remember me always.”
“Not good enough,” Viggo shook his head, holding tight to the cold hand clasped in his own. “I don’t want to let you go.”
The young American faced the cold Angel. “Release him completely, he was killed before his time for no good reason.”
Viggo winced as the Angel’s voice thundered inside his head, “You do not know what you ask, mortal!”
“Viggo, no!” the Ghost shouted.
“Yes, I do, I am asking you to let him live again,” Viggo responded.
“No, mortal, you are asking me to suspend the laws of Nature for this one pathetic sinner! What grounds have you to request such a thing?”
Viggo’s brain was beginning to ache from the screaming inside his head, but he stubbornly persevered. “The grounds of Love. Love is stronger than Death, is it not?”
The Angel of Death grew cold again, “You think your love is strong enough to overcome ME?”
Viggo turned to the frightened ghost beside him, “You do love me, don’t you?”
The Ghost nodded, “But I cannot let you risk yourself for me!”
Viggo smiled gently, “Do you want this? I will not pursue it if you want to die.”
The Ghost shuddered and a tear slipped down his cheek, “I may be damned forever, but I cannot deny that I want to be with you.”
Viggo turned back to the Angel, “My love is strong enough. Will you grant my request?”
The Angel gave a bitter laugh, “I require a test of this love. You say you don’t want to let him go. Very well, you must hold on to him until the trial is over. But hear this, mortal, your pure heart will not keep from pain and injury this time. If you let go of him for even an instant, I will claim you both. Do we have an agreement?”
“Yes,” Viggo said firmly, tightening his hold on the Ghost’s hand and wrapping his free arm around the Ghost’s waist.
“So be it,” the Angel said, slashing through the air with its sword.
Viggo pulled Sir Sean to him and smiled, but his smile faded as the man in his arms turned into a writhing hissing snake. Remembering the Angel’s admonition, Viggo pulled the animal closer to him, determined that he would never let go.
Viggo started as the snake turned into a clawing spitting wildcat. He nearly let go when the cat raked its claws down the side of his face, but the burning from his wounds was nothing compared to the burning in his heart at the thought of losing Sir Sean. Viggo held on tighter as the cat turned into a dragon which poured fire over his aching body. The dragon changed into a disgusting cockroach and then into a butterfly so beautiful that Viggo nearly released it for fear of damaging its lovely wings. But he held on as the butterfly turned into a handful of slime that threatened to drip through his fingers. Viggo managed to hold on to the slime, but it changed into knives that cut his hands dreadfully. Viggo closed his fingers around them, concentrating on his love and ignoring the pain as blood dripped down his wrists.
The Ghost changed into a series of shapes then, too fast for Viggo to keep track of. Some were beautiful, but most were horrible and some were so strange that Viggo had no name for them. His body was numb from the injuries inflicted upon it but his arms stayed locked around the forms the Ghost was taking.
Viggo lost all sense of time and place as he clung grimly to his love. He was so lost in his ordeal that he did not realize it when he was holding a human male once again, until a gentle hand reached out and lifted his face up and warm lips kissed the claw marks left by the wildcat.
Viggo raised his eyes that were dazed and blurry with tears, and he could vaguely make out a sharp-featured face with bright green eyes. Viggo realized that the body he was so desperately clutching was warm and breathing. “Is it over?” he whispered.
“Yes, love, you have saved us both,” Sir Sean said. And Viggo saw that the man was indeed Sir Sean and not the Ghost, that he was truly alive. Viggo tried to smile, but his lips were cracked and burned from the dragon’s fire and it was too painful.
They were in a barren, rock-walled room and Viggo despaired of ever finding his way home again. Sir Sean took his hand and led him toward one of the walls, but Viggo’s legs would not support him. Sir Sean picked him up and ran at the wall.
The two men tumbled through the barrier and arrived in the Tapestry Room at Canterville. They landed amidst Viggo’s family, some of the servants, and the local constable.
“Merciful heavens, Viggo,” his mother exclaimed. “Where have you been? You’ve been missing for three days! And what happened to your face? And who is this?”
“Mother, give the man a chance to get a word in, would you?” Amelia interjected.
Viggo smiled as the familiar babble of his family surrounded him. He realized that smiling did not hurt anymore and that all of his wounds had disappeared, except for the claw-marks on his cheek. He was still wrapped in Sir Sean’s arms and he decided that his family would just have to wait for any explanations as he leaned forward for his first kiss from the man he loved.
Author: Raederle
Pairing: VM/SB
Rating: PG
Summary: An American family with their artistic son move into a haunted house in England.
Feedback: Yes!
Disclaimer: Made up, I promise. Do not own the characters, not for profit.
Archive: Rugbytackling
Notes: This one is for
cinzia. It’s not precisely a fairytale, but it’s October and that means ghost stories. This one is based on the Oscar Wilde short story. I like to think he would have approved of the pairing. *g*When a golden man can win
Prayer from out the lips of sin,
When the barren almond bears,
And an innocent gives away his tears,
Then shall all the house be still
And peace come to Canterville.
Canterville Chase was haunted and there was no question about it in anyone’s mind. The only issue was how long the Canterville heirs would tolerate the ghost. The family bore up well under the strain of the haunting for four hundred years, until the time of the present Lord of Canterville, who finally lost all patience with the Ghost when it caused the death of his Great-Aunt Margaret.
Great-Aunt Margaret had choked to death on a Brussel sprout when the Ghost had put a hand down her dress and tweaked her nipple. Lord Canterville sold his family’s historic estate to an American minister and his family mere weeks after the unfortunate incident. But as he remarked rather crossly to his wife, Great-Aunt Margaret had been quite a harridan and no man who wasn’t already dead would dare do such a thing to her. “Besides, that’s the only time I’ve ever seen her with a smile on her face. However, blood is blood and I cannot let this insult stand. The Chase must go.”
Out of a sense of honor, Lord Canterville of course made a full disclosure about the ghost to the American minister, but the man replied that he did not believe in ghosts and he would take the Chase, furniture, ghost and all. Lord Canterville and his wife packed quickly after the sale closed and waved goodbye to the ancient manor. Lord Canterville wondered how the Ghost would deal with the relentless practicality of the Americans, but not for long, because he was too excited at the prospect of a semi-detached house in the suburbs of Town.
The American minister had a wife and four children. The oldest was Viggo, who was a man of twenty-five and had a gentle, artistic nature. He was quite looking forward to living in a stately home and painting the rustic landscapes surrounding the manor. Next was Amelia, a sturdy young woman of twenty years of age, who had no imagination at all, but delighted at beating boys at their own games. Finally, there were the twins, James and John, who were going to be attending Eton, but had come down with the rest of the family to help them settle in. The twins were extremely mischievous and forever trying the patience of their normally placid mother.
The family drove up the drive to the impressive building and were greeted on the front steps by the housekeeper. She was a rather dour and unimaginative-looking personage, but she seemed friendly enough as she welcomed the new family to the Chase. She gave the minister and his family a brief tour of the downstairs rooms and then brought them to the library to take tea and other refreshments.
The family was enjoying their first real British tea when the minister’s wife noticed a dull red stain on the floor just by the fireplace, and not realizing its significance, remarked to the housekeeper, “I am afraid something has been spilt there.”
“Yes, madam,” the housekeeper replied in a mournful voice, “blood has been spilt on that spot.”
“How awful!” cried the minister’s wife. “I don’t care for bloodstains in a sitting room. It must be removed at once.”
The old woman sighed and answered in the same mournful voice, “It is the blood of Lady Eleanore de Canterville, who was driven mad by the shade of her husband, Sir Sean de Canterville. She slit her own throat over four hundred years ago. Sir Sean had disappeared some months previously, under very mysterious circumstances. His body has never been discovered, but the locals all have assumed that his wife had him killed and disposed of his body. He was quite a sinner and his guilty spirit still haunts the Chase. The bloodstain has been much admired by tourists and others and cannot be removed.”
“That is all nonsense,” exclaimed Amelia. “Pinkerton’s Champion Stain Remover and Paragon Detergent will clean it up in no time.” And before the terrified housekeeper could interfere, she had fallen upon her knees, and was rapidly scouring the floor with a small stick of what looked like a black cosmetic. In a few moments no trace of the bloodstain could be seen.
“I knew Pinkerton would do it,” she crowed triumphantly, as she looked round at her admiring family. But no sooner had she said these words than a terrible flash of lightning lit up the somber room, a fearful peal of thunder made them all start to their feet, and the housekeeper fainted.
“What a monstrous climate!” said the American minister calmly, as he lit a long cheroot. “Amelia, dear, leave the poor woman alone.” This last was directed at his daughter who was briskly slapping the housekeeper’s cheeks in an effort to revive her. The old woman had recovered quite soon after the procedure had started and was ineffectually trying to bat Amelia’s hands away. Viggo gallantly helped the startled woman to her feet and she offered to show them to their bedrooms.
The housekeeper led the way up a long curving staircase lined with portraits of long-deceased Cantervilles. She was pointing out some of the more noted family members when James piped up and asked to see Sir Sean’s picture.
“It is just here, on the landing,” she replied, as the family gathered around to see the image of the reputed ghost. “He was known in these parts as quite the rakehell,” she added, “but I’m not one to gossip about my betters.” The housekeeper then proceeded to give the family a detailed account of tales of drinking, wenching and general debauchery on the part of Sir Sean which had survived in the folk-memory of the local residents for more than four hundred years.
The portrait was a typical stiffly posed formal painting. The young man was dressed in rich clothes of the Tudor era and his head was surrounded by a nimbus of golden hair. The artist had done quite a good job on the face, for it stood out with clarity in its splendid setting. The face was sharp featured, with leaf-green eyes and thin yet mobile lips. The picture was oddly compelling with intriguing hints of the character of the man and Viggo found himself drawn to it. As Viggo stared at the face for some signs of his legendary sinning, he noticed that the green eyes seemed to have a shadow of unhappiness about them.
“How old was he?” Viggo asked. “I mean, when he disappeared.”
“He was a month shy of his twenty-fifth birthday,” the housekeeper answered solemnly.
Viggo felt a wave of sorrow pass over his heart and he stretched out his hand toward the young, unhappy face in front of him before he caught himself. The rest of the party had moved up the stairs when Viggo finally turned away from the picture. He followed the housekeeper to his room, all the while still puzzling over his strange identification with a man who had lived and died more than four hundred years before Viggo himself had been born.
The storm raged fiercely all that night, but nothing else occurred. The next morning, however, when they came down for breakfast, they found the terrible stain of blood on the floor once again.
“I don’t think it can be the fault of the Paragon Detergent,” said Amelia, “for I have tried it with everything. It must be the ghost.” She accordingly rubbed out the stain a second time, but the second morning it appeared again. The third morning it was there also, although the library had been locked up at night by the minister himself, and the key carried upstairs.
The whole family was beginning to be interested and the American minister was wondering if he had been right to deny the existence of ghosts. That night all doubts were removed. At eleven o’clock the family retired and by half-past all lights were out. The minister had just drifted into a light doze when a noise in the corridor outside his room brought him to full alertness. It sounded like the clank of metal and it seemed to be coming nearer every moment. Then he distinctly heard the sound of footsteps. The minister put on his slippers, walked quietly over to the door, and pressed his ear to it to listen for a moment. He heard nothing so he opened the door suddenly. In the wan moonlight he saw right in front of him an old man of terrible appearance. His eyes were as red as burning coals; long grey hair fell over his shoulders in matted coils; his garments, which were of an antique cut, were soiled and ragged, and from his wrists and ankles hung heavy manacles and rusty shackles.
“You really ought to oil those chains and not disturb the rest of honest souls,” the minister lectured the Ghost. At that moment, the door on the opposite side of the hall opened and the twins joined the fray, pummeling the shade with their pillows. The Ghost howled in rage and disappeared in a clap of thunder.
The next morning, when the family met for breakfast, they discussed the ghost at some length. The minister was disgruntled at the thought of having his rest disturbed because the Ghost refused to properly tend his equipment and the American proposed that they take the chains away from the Ghost if the noise continued.
However, they were not disturbed for the rest of the week. The only thing that excited any attention was the continual renewal of the bloodstain on the library floor. This could not be explained by any natural causes because the minister always carefully locked the door at night. The chameleon-like color of the stain also resulted in a great deal of comment. Some mornings it was a dull red, then it would be vermilion, then a rich purple, and once when they came down for family prayers they found it a bright emerald green. The family began taking bets on the next morning’s color each evening. The only person who was not amused by the rainbow of colors was Viggo. He was always angry at the sight of the bloodstain and the morning that it was emerald green he cursed and threw his prayer book across the room, getting himself into a great deal of trouble with his mother.
The twins were busily occupied during the week inventing ghost-traps and it was hardly possible to walk through the upstairs hall without tripping over one of their devices. Several nights later, the whole family was awakened by a fearsome crash and a roar of anger, but by the time they had raced out of their rooms and found the lights, there was nothing to be seen.
The next morning Amelia persuaded Viggo to abandon his painting for once and come riding with her. Their mother had purchased new riding coats for all of them upon their arrival in England, so Viggo put his on and followed his sister to the stables. Viggo was an excellent horseman and a fine athlete in general, but he was not used to taking jumps and on the second one he attempted, he lost his seat and landed in a creek. Amelia offered to go back to the house with him to change, but Viggo could see that she was eager to finish her ride and so he insisted that he could lead the horse back by himself. He dropped the horse off at the stables and then went to the house to find some dry clothes.
Viggo had raced up that back staircase, trying to avoid his mother who would surely wail over the state of his new coat, when he passed by the open doorway of the Tapestry Room. He stopped suddenly for he saw a skeletal figure in bedraggled Tudor finery pacing back and forth in front of the windows. It was the Canterville Ghost.
Viggo entered the room softly and heard the Ghost ranting about “bloody disrespectful Americans.” Viggo was walking so quietly and the Ghost was sunk so deeply into his melancholy that the spirit did not realize that the man was there until he spoke.
“My brothers are going back to Eton next week and you can have your peace back, if you behave yourself.”
The Ghost shrieked and whirled around in surprise at being so addressed by the American.
“It is absurd to ask me to behave myself,” he huffed after he had recovered his composure. “I must rattle my chains, and groan through keyholes, and walk about at night, if that is what you mean. It is my only reason for existing.”
“That’s a damn poor reason, if you ask me,” Viggo said.
“It was a perfectly good reason until your horrid, vulgar, dishonest family showed up!” the Ghost shouted.
“Stop it!” Viggo roared back. “You are the one who is dishonest! You know you stole the paints out of my box to try and fix up that ridiculous bloodstain in the library. First you took all my reds, including the vermilion, and I couldn’t do any more sunsets, then you took the emerald green and the chrome yellow. We should have laughed you out of the house right then, for who ever heard of emerald green blood?”
“Well, really,” said the Ghost meekly, “what was I supposed to do? It is a very difficult thing to get real blood nowadays, and as your sister began it all with her Paragon Detergent, I certainly saw no reason why I should not have your paints. As for color, if you claim to be an artist, you can surely use your imagination regarding the color of blood.”
Viggo was somewhat mollified by this, but he was curious. “Why do you bother? Why haunt this house at all?”
The Ghost sighed and his skeletal shoulders hunched in defeat. “I will show you, if you think you are brave enough.”
Viggo may have had an artistic nature, but he was as practical in some respects as the rest of his family. And he felt the Ghost was somehow challenging his manhood with the last remark so he readily agreed to see whatever the Ghost would show him.
The Ghost walked over to a section of wainscoting and pressed one of the carvings on the chair rail. The panel opened, revealing a narrow secret corridor. Viggo followed the Ghost through, his eyes gradually adjusting to the dimness. Finally, they came to a great oak door, studded with rusty nails. When Viggo touched it, it swung back on heavy hinges, and they found themselves in a little low room, with a rounded ceiling, and one tiny grated window. Imbedded in the wall was a huge iron ring, and chained to it was a gaunt skeleton, which was stretched out at full length on the stone floor. One bony hand seemed to be trying to grasp with its long flesh less fingers an old-fashioned trencher and ewer, which were placed just out of its reach. The jug had evidently once been filled with water, but after four hundred years, it was as dry as the skeleton. There was nothing on the trencher but a pile of dust.
Viggo knelt down beside the ancient bones and grief tightened a band across his chest, making it difficult to breathe. The secret of this terrible tragedy had at last been revealed to him and he mourned for the man whom he had never known. Viggo reached out tentatively and gently touched the graceful long-fingered hand. He noted abstractedly that the man would have been the same height as he was himself, had he been living.
Tears were closing up Viggo’s throat. “Did you make it to your twenty-fifth birthday?” he finally managed to ask, as if this was the most important thing in such a moment as this.
The Ghost shrugged and turned away. “I . . . I don’t know. Time, you know, time passes so oddly . . . when . . . when you are in such straits.”
Viggo struggled to contain his sorrow and to ask the questions that he knew he must. “The housekeeper told us the first day we arrived that you had disappeared and that your wife had gone mad and slit her own throat.”
“She found I had been unfaithful to her. And as she was a rather hot-tempered wench, she and her brothers chained me in this cell and let me starve to death. Although, I was surprised that she didn’t just knife me, and have done with it.”
“Killing you seems to be a bit extreme.”
“She was insulted by my choice of lovers.”
“Who was it?”
“One of the grooms from the stables.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Now I suppose you detest me.”
“Not at all.”
“That’s rather broad-minded of you.”
“Well, I’m an Episcopalian. Did she feel guilty and kill herself?”
“No, that was more my doing. I died with sins on my soul, so I couldn’t find rest. I tormented her until she bled herself to escape me. But that added to my sins and I was cursed by the Angel of Death to never find peace.”
Viggo’s gentle heart wept for the wretched Ghost. “Never?”
The Ghost sighed miserably, “So long as it makes no difference. You comfort me, though. It has been four hundred years since anyone has talked to me.”
“I will talk to you whenever you wish, but you must promise me something.”
“What is that?”
“You must stop stealing my paint. I have no objection to you trying to torment the twins, or my sister, but it is hard to get decent paints out here in the country.”
“And you will visit me every day?”
“Yes, I promise.”
“We have an agreement, then. Shall we shake?” The Ghost held out a bony hand that appeared to have small fragments of flesh still adhering to it.
Viggo swallowed, but took the proffered hand and they sealed their pact.
The minister finally prevailed upon his agent in the City to replace Viggo’s paints, and the young man spent his mornings at his easel and his afternoons deep in conversation with the Chase’s oldest resident. Viggo was fascinated by the Ghost’s tales of how his life had been in that long-ago era. The American found that his friend was full of odd knowledge and had a keen sense of the ridiculous. The Ghost particularly enjoyed hearing about Amelia’s exploits and all the British aristocrats who were falling over themselves to win her favor.
“That girl has courage enough to ride with,” the Ghost said, clattering his molars as he laughed. “She would have been quite the thing in my day.”
Viggo smiled quietly, glad he could lift Sir Sean from his melancholy. The young man was content with the arrangement, but his painting began to worry him. He tried to paint the beautiful English countryside that surrounded him, but he was drawn to paint one certain scene over and over. He was sure that he had never it actually seen the place but it would not leave his mind. The vision was of a little garden deep in the pine-woods. The grass was long and deep, and there were great white stars of the hemlock flower. The cold, crystal moon looked down upon a giant yew-tree with a nightingale perched on one of its branches. No matter what he originally had in his mind, Viggo found that his hand moved without his volition to the garden. He was becoming quite frustrated and ready to give up painting all-together.
Viggo was grumpy and out-of-sorts when he visited the Ghost that fateful day. They had started their usual pleasantries, when Viggo suddenly interrupted.
“Did you love him?”
“Who?” the Ghost asked.
“Your groom, the one your wife killed you for.”
The Ghost looked uncomfortable. “Ah, well, love . . . that is difficult. I don’t know that I have ever felt love. He was a diversion, nothing more.”
“What about me, am I just a diversion?” Viggo sneered.
“You know that you are not, you are the best friend I have ever had. I have learned many things in four hundred years and the one thing I know above all else is that I treasure you.” The Ghost placed a skeletal hand on the young man’s chin and lifted his face. “What ails you, my young friend?”
Viggo made a disgusted noise. “My painting is not going well. I have one image in my head and nothing else will come.”
“What image?”
Viggo began to describe the garden to the Ghost, but the specter stopped him and finished the description. “The nightingale sings all night long and the yew-tree spreads out its arms over the sleepers. You have been painting my dream.”
Viggo’s eyes grew dim with tears as he realized what the Ghost was telling him, “You dream about the Garden of Death?”
“Yes, Death. Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one’s head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace.” The Ghost sighed heavily.
“Is there no way for you to be released?” Viggo whispered, his bad mood dissipated as pity filled his heart for his friend.
The Ghost shuddered, “Have you ever read the old prophecy on the library window?”
“Many times,” Viggo replied. “I know it well. There are only six lines:
When a golden man can win
Prayer from out the lips of sin,
When the barren almond bears,
And an innocent gives away his tears,
Then shall all the house be still
And peace come to Canterville.”
The Ghost nodded as Viggo continued, “But I don’t know what they mean.”
Sir Sean stood up and paced to the window in agitation. “They mean that perhaps you can help me.”
“How can I do that?”
The Ghost walked over to Viggo and laced his skeletal fingers with Viggo’s warm ones. “If you have the courage, you can open for me the portals of Death’s house. I have come to know your heart these past weeks and it is full of love, for Love is always with you, and Love is stronger than Death is.”
Viggo did not flinch at the touch. “What must I do?”
“You must weep for me for my sins, because I have no tears, and pray with me for my soul, because I have no faith, and then, if your love is strong enough, the Angel of Death will have mercy on me.”
“That does not seem so hard,” Viggo said.
The Ghost bowed his head, “You will see fearful shapes in the darkness, and wicked voices will whisper in your ear, and the powers of Hell will assail you, but they will not harm you, because your soul is pure.”
Viggo trembled, a cold shudder ran through him, and for a few moments there was silence. He felt as if he was in a terrible dream.
As Viggo stood mute, the Ghost began to despair. Suddenly Viggo looked up, very pale, and with a strange light in his eyes.
“I am not afraid,” he said firmly, “and I will ask the Angel to have mercy on you.”
The Ghost uttered a faint cry of joy, and lifted one of their clasped hands to his lips with old-fashioned grace and kissed the back of Viggo’s hand. The wraith-like fingers were cold as ice, and his lips burned like fire. Viggo did not falter, as the Ghost led him across the dusky room toward the fireplace. Horrible animals with lizard tails and goggle eyes, blinked at him from the carven chimney-piece, but Viggo closed his eyes and allowed the Ghost to lead him more swiftly. When they reached the hearth, the shade stopped and muttered some words that Viggo could not understand. He opened his eyes, and saw the fireplace slowly fading away and a great black cavern in front of him. A bitter cold wind swept round them as the Ghost pulled them forward.
“Quick, quick,” cried the Ghost, “or it will be too late!” In a moment, the fireplace had closed behind them and the room was empty.
Viggo could barely feel the icy fingers entwined with his own because he was lost in a sea of blackness so absolute it was as if there had never been light. Suddenly, depraved voices were shrieking in Viggo’s ear and the light came back. Viggo then wished for the darkness again for he saw that snakes were coiling around his legs and the light came from the fires of Hell where sinners were being tortured. The Ghost continued to lead him forward as Viggo clung to his hand. They were walking toward a face with an enormous mouth full of sharp teeth that were gnashing rhythmically. Viggo closed his eyes as they entered the maw, but then they were on the other side.
Viggo winced for they appeared to be walking on a sea of eyeballs that were rolling around loose. The orbs made popping noises as they stepped on them. The voices were now howling like wild animals and Viggo was getting dizzy from the noise. His guide pushed on and Viggo noticed that his skeletal frame had more shreds of flesh on it than it usually did.
The young man thought about all the years of loneliness the Ghost had endured and now he had to go through all of this just to be allowed to die, and Viggo began to weep for pity for his friend. The Ghost heard the sobs and squeezed Viggo’s hand gently as he led them toward the wall.
On the other side of the wall they found a room full of flame. Viggo winced from the heat, but he closed his eyes and prayed out loud. “I call on you, Angel of Death. Have mercy on this man and grant him peace.” Viggo opened his eyes when he heard the Ghost add his own prayers. The Ghost had been gradually adding flesh to his frame as they walked and now looked almost human.
“This man has sinned, O Angel of Death, but he repents and begs for mercy,” Viggo continued to pray. He concentrated on his feelings of friendship and love for Sir Sean. They reached the wall on the far side of the room and entered another.
Viggo stumbled as they passed through. They appeared to be standing in the midst of nothingness, with stars in the space around them.
“Just look at me, not at your feet,” the Ghost instructed.
Viggo nodded, locking his eyes on his friend as his feet continued to move. The Ghost appeared fully human and greatly resembled his portrait in the gallery at Canterville Chase. He studied the face before him as they moved forward. Viggo saw the Ghost’s surprise as they came to a halt.
There in front of them was a being that could only be the Angel of Death. It was tall and clad in black. Its wings were black-feathered and spread wide. The Angel had a coldly inhuman face and Viggo could not tell from its androgynous beauty whether it was male or female. It held a huge sword crossed against its chest.
The Angel’s voice resounded in Viggo’s head, “You called, mortal. What do you require of Death?”
Viggo’s voice was shaking, “I pray for mercy on this poor soul, that he may be released from his torment.”
The Angel considered and then its voice was in Viggo’s head again, “Your heart is pure and your love is strong. You have fulfilled the prophecy and I will grant your prayer.”
The Angel lifted its sword, “Kneel, sinner, and I will sever your soul from your body and send you on to your eternal rest.”
The Ghost turned to Viggo, “Thank you for your courage, you have freed me.”
Viggo nodded, tears running down his face. “Is this goodbye?”
“Yes, my sweet friend, but you will remember me always.”
“Not good enough,” Viggo shook his head, holding tight to the cold hand clasped in his own. “I don’t want to let you go.”
The young American faced the cold Angel. “Release him completely, he was killed before his time for no good reason.”
Viggo winced as the Angel’s voice thundered inside his head, “You do not know what you ask, mortal!”
“Viggo, no!” the Ghost shouted.
“Yes, I do, I am asking you to let him live again,” Viggo responded.
“No, mortal, you are asking me to suspend the laws of Nature for this one pathetic sinner! What grounds have you to request such a thing?”
Viggo’s brain was beginning to ache from the screaming inside his head, but he stubbornly persevered. “The grounds of Love. Love is stronger than Death, is it not?”
The Angel of Death grew cold again, “You think your love is strong enough to overcome ME?”
Viggo turned to the frightened ghost beside him, “You do love me, don’t you?”
The Ghost nodded, “But I cannot let you risk yourself for me!”
Viggo smiled gently, “Do you want this? I will not pursue it if you want to die.”
The Ghost shuddered and a tear slipped down his cheek, “I may be damned forever, but I cannot deny that I want to be with you.”
Viggo turned back to the Angel, “My love is strong enough. Will you grant my request?”
The Angel gave a bitter laugh, “I require a test of this love. You say you don’t want to let him go. Very well, you must hold on to him until the trial is over. But hear this, mortal, your pure heart will not keep from pain and injury this time. If you let go of him for even an instant, I will claim you both. Do we have an agreement?”
“Yes,” Viggo said firmly, tightening his hold on the Ghost’s hand and wrapping his free arm around the Ghost’s waist.
“So be it,” the Angel said, slashing through the air with its sword.
Viggo pulled Sir Sean to him and smiled, but his smile faded as the man in his arms turned into a writhing hissing snake. Remembering the Angel’s admonition, Viggo pulled the animal closer to him, determined that he would never let go.
Viggo started as the snake turned into a clawing spitting wildcat. He nearly let go when the cat raked its claws down the side of his face, but the burning from his wounds was nothing compared to the burning in his heart at the thought of losing Sir Sean. Viggo held on tighter as the cat turned into a dragon which poured fire over his aching body. The dragon changed into a disgusting cockroach and then into a butterfly so beautiful that Viggo nearly released it for fear of damaging its lovely wings. But he held on as the butterfly turned into a handful of slime that threatened to drip through his fingers. Viggo managed to hold on to the slime, but it changed into knives that cut his hands dreadfully. Viggo closed his fingers around them, concentrating on his love and ignoring the pain as blood dripped down his wrists.
The Ghost changed into a series of shapes then, too fast for Viggo to keep track of. Some were beautiful, but most were horrible and some were so strange that Viggo had no name for them. His body was numb from the injuries inflicted upon it but his arms stayed locked around the forms the Ghost was taking.
Viggo lost all sense of time and place as he clung grimly to his love. He was so lost in his ordeal that he did not realize it when he was holding a human male once again, until a gentle hand reached out and lifted his face up and warm lips kissed the claw marks left by the wildcat.
Viggo raised his eyes that were dazed and blurry with tears, and he could vaguely make out a sharp-featured face with bright green eyes. Viggo realized that the body he was so desperately clutching was warm and breathing. “Is it over?” he whispered.
“Yes, love, you have saved us both,” Sir Sean said. And Viggo saw that the man was indeed Sir Sean and not the Ghost, that he was truly alive. Viggo tried to smile, but his lips were cracked and burned from the dragon’s fire and it was too painful.
They were in a barren, rock-walled room and Viggo despaired of ever finding his way home again. Sir Sean took his hand and led him toward one of the walls, but Viggo’s legs would not support him. Sir Sean picked him up and ran at the wall.
The two men tumbled through the barrier and arrived in the Tapestry Room at Canterville. They landed amidst Viggo’s family, some of the servants, and the local constable.
“Merciful heavens, Viggo,” his mother exclaimed. “Where have you been? You’ve been missing for three days! And what happened to your face? And who is this?”
“Mother, give the man a chance to get a word in, would you?” Amelia interjected.
Viggo smiled as the familiar babble of his family surrounded him. He realized that smiling did not hurt anymore and that all of his wounds had disappeared, except for the claw-marks on his cheek. He was still wrapped in Sir Sean’s arms and he decided that his family would just have to wait for any explanations as he leaned forward for his first kiss from the man he loved.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2003-10-29 02:29 pm (UTC)“That’s rather broad-minded of you.”
“Well, I’m an Episcopalian.
*spews hot chocolate*
*hands you gold star*
no subject
Date: 2003-10-30 01:56 am (UTC)Woo Hoo! I got hot chocalate spewage!!! *Does happy dance!*
Since I'm Episcopalian myself, I figure I can say anything I want to.
no subject
Date: 2003-10-29 02:59 pm (UTC)I love your mix of folklore and myth here (but then I always do)--the scene with Sean changing in Viggo's arms is wonderful (echoes of Tam Lin, one of my absolute favorites).
And dammit if Lanna didn't already mention my favorite line... *grin* Love it. Write more!
*hugs you*
~Kris
no subject
Date: 2003-10-30 01:58 am (UTC)I really glad you liked it, since this whole series is pretty much your fault. You pushed me down this path! (Not that I'm complaining!)
*hugs you back*
no subject
Date: 2003-10-29 03:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-10-30 02:00 am (UTC)Thank you! Glad to see you!
no subject
Date: 2003-10-29 06:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-10-30 02:48 am (UTC)Thank you for the feedback.
Wonderful
Date: 2003-10-30 02:00 pm (UTC)Only now I feel like reading the original story again because you made me realise I haven't read anything by Oscar Wilde in ages. As if I didn't have enough to do already...
Thank you,
mormegil.
Re: Wonderful
Date: 2003-10-31 04:34 am (UTC)I'm not sure which comment I'm more flattered by: sublimely entertaining! or captured the spirit of Wilde's writings perfectly.
Thank you for both!
no subject
Date: 2003-11-01 07:39 am (UTC)I'm so glad I read this! I'm friending you, too...hope you don't mind!
no subject
Date: 2003-11-01 02:45 pm (UTC)I never mind having a new friend and I have friended you back.