Blackthorn Manor

Part 2

Leaning back in the chair, you slowly set the cap of your pen down. Each word written is true, which only makes it all the more depressing to read. It is good to catalogue though, good to write things down because sometimes your thoughts become tangled. They form a singular lump. A jumble of extraneous thinking, all jockeying to deter from the bigger picture. Writing down your day is as good a way as any to recognize the patterns.

Ever since you arrived, there has been this nagging feeling that you are missing something. As though you have forgotten your favorite book or song, but cannot remember the title to check. Lips pursed, you stretch in your chair. The mirror facing you is old, its surface cracked and spotted – surprise, you think dryly, standing up from the chair. Another antique. It is a good thing you do not scare easy, since the face looking back seems transformed. The lines are molted, wavy – you imagine someone more nervous might be startled by the reflection.

Not you, though. You merely survey your outfit, taking in your appearance because the clothes you wear now are warm, practical – much like Yoongi, in that regard. It was within the first week you learned that fashion here is not relevant. The manse is drafty, littered with pockets of cold which have no logical explanation. The only person who tries is Seokjin, and that is only because he does not live at the manse. Seokjin drives in every morning from town, returning each night to get his rest for the day.

It is just you and Yoongi who live here, up on the hill. Just the two of you, along with an occasional worker who drifts in and out like a ghost. For the most part you are alone though, something which is never more apparent than on mornings like this.

Stepping out of your bedroom, you find the manor to be a cold, silent place. At least Blackthorn Manor has electricity, although it always is set to a half-flickering setting which might as well not be present at all.

Walking down the front staircase, your hand drifts over the railing. The wood is worn, weathered – your fingers trace whorls as you travel to breakfast. The feeling of soothing, as though wildness has been tamed beneath your very palms. Each morning since you came here, you have eaten your meals by yourself. Alone, at the same table, which is why you are surprised to walk through the door of the dining room and find another chair occupied.

Yoongi does not look up, immersed in his newspaper. He must have heard you enter, though. The manse is too silent for him to have not, but he insists on pretending as though you are invisible. Deciding two can play at that game, you stride towards your chair, only making it halfway before your toe catches on the rug and you trip.

Yoongi smiles, still reading the paper. Cheeks heating, you realize he saw. Lowering yourself into a chair, you stare at the table for several long moments while contemplating death as a recourse. Then, you look up – and recoil with shock.

When you sat down, everything was normal. When you settled into your chair, everything appeared fine, but now Min Yoongi's face is completely concealed from view. He sits across the table from you, lithe frame wrapped entirely in shadows. Only the gold of his spectacles is visible, stark against the night whirling around him. The oddest thing – apart from, well, everything – is that the shadows seem alive.

They buzz and writhe, eating into his skin – until you blink, and the moment is gone. Everything appears as it was. The manse is silent, Yoongi's face is now visible and you sit frozen, attempting to understand what the hell you just saw. If you saw anything, that is. Yoongi's face is now normal, perhaps a tiny bit paler and when he notices you staring, he arches a brow.

"Are you going to sit there gaping all morning? Or will you eat?" Yoongi frowns. "It wouldn't be the weirdest thing you've done since coming here, I'll admit."

The moment he speaks, your expression sours. "Pass me the butter," you say, and Min Yoongi obliges. Your movements are rougher than you intend, banging the dish down on the table. "Ironic," you say, the word shaky and thin. "Ironic, for you to say I'm weird."

"Oh?" Yoongi pauses, chewing while he considers. "How so?"

Without deigning to respond, your gaze drops to the two forks he holds in one hand.

"Oh, this?" Yoongi resumes tearing into his eggs. "Knives are dangerous, Y/N. I would have thought you'd agree, given your tendency to trip over stationary carpets."

Typically, you would argue; typically, you would make some sort of rude gesture, or comment – but this is the first time Yoongi has spoken your name out loud. Usually it is only 'assistant,' or some form of pronoun – never your name, never anything to indicate familiarity and, watching him curiously, you wonder at the message he sends.

Then it happens again, and you forget everything else. You only blink, a lazy closing of eyes but when you open them, the fabric of reality has torn. The world bends, shadows slipping in to obscure your employer from view. Shooting backwards, your head hits the chair – and when you refocus, it is gone.

Everything is as before.

Everything but Yoongi, who stares as though you have gone completely mad. "Are you okay?" he asks, bread poised halfway to his mouth. "You look as though you've seen a ghost."

It is such a cliché, but his words send a chill down your spine. You cannot stop seeing it – whatever it was – which cloaked Min Yoongi in darkness.

"Did you..." Trailing off, you glance over his shoulder. "Did you see that?"

"See what?" Yoongi frowns, the very picture of annoyance. "Did I see you, smack your head against my antique furniture? Yes, I saw that – I imagine aliens in outer space saw that."

Feeling oddly thrown by this statement, you lower your gaze to the table. Unable to think of what to do next, you try an experiment. Closing first one eye, then the next, you glance rapidly to either side of the room but even in the corners, nothing appears. There are no shadows, the world does not tilt and after a long moment of nothing, you look up from the bowl.

Yoongi still stares. "You're not sick, are you? In the interview process, you stated you had no known diseases – communicable, or otherwise."

Rolling your eyes, the fear coursing through your veins lessens. Yoongi tends to have that effect on people; turning emotion into annoyance.

"I'm fine," you say. "Glad to see you're concerned, though."

"I am," Yoongi agrees. "I'm concerned about me and my fragile state of well-being. Let's face it, Y/N, I'm a hermit. Who knows what bacteria lurk on the outside? I've been shut up in here for so long, my resistance is probably wildly low, and –"

"Why are you here?" you say, unable to hold it in any longer.

Yoongi stops speaking, confused. "Well. I live here."

"Not that," you say. "I meant, what are you doing here? Here, at this breakfast table?"

"Uh." Yoongi resumes chewing, perplexed. "I bought this table, so..."

"Ack. Never mind," you say, looking down at your fork. It is clear Yoongi does not wish to explain. "It's just not what you typically do, that's all."

"True," Yoongi agrees, although he does not offer more.

The rest of the meal is eaten in silence, until you are finally done and stand up from the table.

"I'll be in my room," you say. "In case you need me for the rest of the morning."

Yoongi nods as you turn. You are halfway to the door when he speaks up from behind.

"Don't go outside."

Startled, you pause on the threshold. "What?" you say, turning around. Yoongi's gaze is on yours. "Why?"

Rather than immediately respond, Yoongi glances away. Following suit, you see purplish-dark clouds on the horizon – there is a storm brewing, the size of which you cannot imagine.

"Rain," Yoongi explains with a shrug. "There's a storm coming in from the west, which means the grounds will be slippery."

"Ah. Right," you say, turning around. You are not sure why you feel disappointed.