Brienderich mansion (Eng)

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The moon shone brightly in the sky. A magnificent blood moon was stamped upon the darkness of a starless night.

The clouds had conspired to obscure any glow not caused by the red moon.Taciturn footsteps echoed through the halls of the grand cliffside mansion.

The young man wore a white blindfold covering his chocolate-colored eyelids. No matter how dark the night, he moved blindly through the rooms, traversing the long corridors leading from the kitchen to the winter salon.Hands scarred with burns held a plate of tasteless soup. He wasn't a very good cook, but he had been the chef since he could remember, staying alive thanks to a blindfold he had to wear whenever he left his home, the kitchen. He slept and ate there.

As he approached the winter salon at these hours, the sound of his bare feet began to turn into splashes. Liquid warmed his feet.Bodies lay drenched along the path used by the young man, forming piles and piles of agonizing, gasping, dripping figures, some crying out for more or for mercy, others with a drowned, lost voice.

Souls conversing in the dead of night. But the cook knew the way so well that despite not having the freedom to see, he never stumbled.

—Thomas! Come here, darling.

A blonde woman with hair full of curls and exceptional beauty sat upon the bodies, completely naked except for a precious necklace holding a gem the color of the tides. The man opposite her, dressed like a gentleman, sketched the scene.

Husband and wife, but with an undeniable resemblance. Both he and she, as pale as flour, blond, with the same mole on the back of the right hand. Stained with blood. A lot of blood.The cook approached the woman, halting his steps as soon as long nails tore at his chin, which began to bleed.

— Thomas, darling  the woman repeated. —Sing that song I love so much. Sing 'Greensleeves'.

— Yes, my esteemed lady —the cook replied, while the soup trembled.

The crows cawed outside, a sudden gust of wind struck the windows. A guest had just entered the mansion through the upstairs window. Unaware of it all, the cook stepped back and continued his path with blood dripping from his chin.

— Wings, my love, you do me wrong, to cast me off discourteously,— he began to sing the song.

— Antoine, I'm dying of hunger, my love — the woman's voice rang out again.

— For I have loved you well and long, delighting in your company.

— Oh, my beloved. Perhaps the women hidden behind the curtains would like to offer themselves to be part of the feast —the man replied, holding the brush.

— Greensleeves was all my joy.

— Antoine, bring them to me, my dear Antoine.

— Greensleeves was my heart of gold.

— Why don't we eat the young singer?

— Because I like how he sings Greensleeves— the woman replied.

— And who but my lady greensleeves —the cook continued, listening to the conversation as he approached the door leading to the basement.

The young man grasped the handle and descended the stairs carefully. Step by step, the red footprints stained the rough, cold stone.

— Your vows you've broken, like my heart.He raised both hands holding the bowl of soup until it collided with the bars of the door. The cook stopped singing.

— Thomas... — A soft, not quite adult voice sounded behind the door.

— Good evening, my good sir.

— Thomas, I don't feel well.

— Here is your soup, master. I hope it improves your health.

The sound of nails digging into the wall squeaked in the room, then, pure silence. Until a gentle touch was placed on the cook's lower back.

— I'll take care of feeding him. You can go back to your duties.

— Yes, my good sir— the young man repeated, this time referring to the man touching his back, the guest.Thomas hadn't noticed when he had arrived.

— Well?— the woman asked as soon as Thomas passed by her barefoot, without the plate in his hands. However, the question was directed at the man with copper hair who had just appeared through the door.

The guest was a distinguished-looking man, with an elegance reminiscent of nobility. His skin was as pale as the couple's, but his eyes, darker than the night, gleamed with captivating mystery.

He bowed gracefully, and in a gentle gesture, took the wrist of one of the women resting on the ground, lifting it delicately before taking a sip of her last life essence.
The lifeless body fell gently onto the pool of blood at his feet, splashing onto the naked body of the beautiful blonde woman.

— You have all our attention now, Gilbert —laughed the man, Antoine, as he rested the brush in the water glass.

— My son, have you visited him? — the blonde lady asked before the guest parted his lips.

— As an emissary of death, I, Gilbert Brenderich, am pleased to announce that your son is beginning to suffer the worst of agonies. He is dying.

— At last — Antoine replied.

— Should we prepare a feast, my love?

— Of course, my little one.

Gilbert showed a sly smile, leaning against the doorframe.

— I would like to take him for a while, when he dies —Gilbert said with his marked French accent.

— Mr. Gilbert, it would be an honor. We don't need him for anything — the mother replied.

The blonde man focused again on the painting.

— I also agree. For some reason, you haven't stopped visiting the boy lately. I hope it's not sodomy. He's such a stupidly weak boy that I feel a certain pity for him — Antoine concluded, portraying his wife's nipple with great care.

— Of course not — Gilbert laughed melodically. —Well, if that's settled, I bid you farewell. I'll be back in a few days, when he passes away.

And as if he had never been there, Gilbert disappeared in a blink.

— Darling, oh darling, I'm starving again!