Chapter Text
I’d sooner be dead than doing this.
It was a common refrain for Bog, these days. From first hearing the news to sitting through negotiations, every step of the process thus far had been more terrible than the last, culminating in the moment he currently found himself trapped in.
Across from him in the carriage, his mother fussed over his hair and suit and posture and demeanor--all things that felt laughably irrelevant in the face of what was to come. No amount of primping could turn him into a charming gentleman and no amount of lecturing could make him want to get married.
Not that what he wanted mattered much, unfortunately.
Could he have fought harder against the arrangement? Certainly. But it was a matter of duty, of transaction; the marriage would secure land and a title for his family…and much needed money for the Springfields. Everybody wins, or so his mother seemed to believe.
Were it not for the practicality of the matter, Bog would’ve remained a bachelor forever. Love held little appeal for him in general, not that any woman in her right mind would willingly spend more than a second in his glowering presence. As if that wasn’t enough, he’d never even met Lord Springfield’s daughter, let alone learned what she thought of being packaged off like a piece of meat to an utter stranger. He doubted there would be time to learn anyways; the rehearsal was today and the ceremony tomorrow.
He tugged at his collar, deeply uncomfortable with... everything, but the carriage came to a rough, sudden halt, bringing his thoughts to a halt along with it.
As if eager to get the worst of things over with–or perhaps, just to escape his mother’s fussing–he fumbled the carriage door open and stepped outside, taking in the surroundings warily.
The estate was massive, dark beneath the cloudy sky, its trees bare and its gardens browning in the chilly, near-winter weather. The manor itself might've been beautiful once, but it certainly wasn't anymore. The tall, filigree windows looked dirty, the walls covered in dead vines and spots of the roof were in dire straits. The state of grim disrepair almost suited him, and that made the name Springfield feel a little more than ironic.
Bog took a deep, bracing breath of the bitingly-cold air. Then, he went back to help his mother as she scolded the driver.
“Brutus! You just about sent me through the back window, stopping like that!”
“Sorry, m’am,” the chauffer said. “Cough’s gettin’ worse.”
“That’s no excuse!”
Bog sighed, staring straight ahead at his unwelcome future and wishing the earth would swallow him whole.
The inside of the Springfield Manor proved to be just as dismal, if not more so, than the outside. The foyer was dusty and sparse, sheets spread over the few bits of furniture that remained out on the tiled floor. The butler who opened the door for them left as quickly as he came, leaving no sign of life behind save for Bog and his mother. Their footsteps echoed disquietingly, and for once, Griselda seemed to have nothing to say–though perhaps the judgemental squint of her eye said enough.
As if he wasn’t tense enough, the sound of a door creaking open had him jumping, unprepared to be addressed.
“Mrs. Kingsley. Young Mr. Kingsley. How good to see you.”
Bog couldn’t help but snort at being called young. His mother elbowed him none too gently.
Lord Springfield’s manor might have been in poor condition, but the man himself was as well put-together as a fine watch, every bit in its proper, near-mechanical place. He approached them both with a polite, if not unenthused air. His gaze was particularly reluctant as it settled on Bog, looking him over and likely unimpressed by what he saw, but what did it matter?
They exchanged proper greetings, then the aging man asked, “Mrs. Kingsley, I have some matters I’d like to discuss with you. Privately.”
“Of course!”
His mother’s loud enthusiasm felt like a scream in such a muted place, and Bog was all too happy to hang back, rolling his eyes when Griselda mouthed, “Behave!” at him before leaving with his future father-in-law. The very idea still sent a chill through him.
He stood there a moment, alone and suspended in silence, but his restlessness soon got the better of him. Wandering aimlessly, he moved towards the nearest cluster of ghost-like furniture, looking for a chair before he recognized one of the hidden pieces by its shape.
Casting the dust cover off, he found a piano, and a beautiful one at that. He brightened somewhat in spite of himself; looking around, he saw no one who would notice or care if he indulged in a bit of an old pastime. The ivory keys were cool and familiar beneath his fingers, the notes soft and sweet and reassuring. He found the bench, then sat down and began to play in earnest, losing himself in the fragments of songs he knew by heart.
“You play beautifully!”
Startled, Bog jerked away from the instrument, knocking the seat over in the process. With a barely-muffled swear, he righted it before looking up, embarrassed.
Immediately, the embarrassment gave way to realization, and then to dismay.
Dawn Springfield was a pretty young thing, but scarcely more than a child from where he stood. Her blonde hair and blue dress were elegant, the smile on her face warm and innocent, if not a bit unsure. Bog couldn't help but feel sorry for her already.
“Sorry,” she said, sweet as could be. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“No, no,” he coughed out, trying for some sense of composure. “I didn’t mean-- I shouldn’t’ve--”
“No one’s played this piano for a long time,” she said wistfully, forgiving in how she ignored his clumsiness. She ran a hand across its top, her smile momentarily twinging with sadness. “It’s nice to hear it again. I’m surprised it sounds as good as it does!”
He forced a chuckle, fussing with his jacket even more than his mother had.
“Yes, well…” He cleared his throat, the sound almost pained. “You must be Miss Springfield.”
She laughed, light and polite and proper. “Yes, though given our...circumstances, you can call me Dawn, if you’d like.”
Their circumstances. A delicate way of putting things, to be sure.
“Yes, yes, of course. Dawn.” He coughed again, wondering at the terrible dryness of his throat. “I’m Bearnard, but… Bog is fine. I-if you’d like.”
Her nose crinkled slightly--a look somewhere between confused and amused that mercifully eased the tension in the air. “Bog?”
“Ahah, it’s…just a silly nickname. Haven’t been called much else my whole life, though.”
“Interesting,” she said, a bit of a giggle to her tone. “There must be some story behind that…”
Before he could answer, the door burst open, an angry-looking Lord Springfield narrowing his eyes directly at Bog.
“...the rehearsal is about to begin. What are you two doing unsupervised?”
Though he addressed them both, it was clear who the disapproval was aimed at. Bog bristled under his glare, hands clenching as he tried to push away the urge to snap back. Much to his surprise, it was Dawn who bit back in retaliation.
“We were only talking-”
Another glare from her father silenced her, but her following sigh was indignant, unintimidated, and unapologetic. He could…respect that. Looking back at Bog, she tried for a reassuring, somewhat-pitying smile.
“Well… Shall we?”
The rehearsal was a disaster. More specifically, Bog attempting to take part in the rehearsal was a disaster.
Perhaps that shouldn’t’ve been surprising. He didn’t want to be there, was standing next to a strange girl two-thirds his age, and was practicing a ceremony that would bind them together until death. Truly, the stuff of nightmares.
It didn’t help that the vows his mother had given him to practice with--solemnly swearing, for better or worse, richer or poorer and whatnot--were not the right ones. The minister officiating the ceremony had a vein bulging from his forehead, his dark-rimmed eye twitching every time Bog bungled up one of the unfamiliar lines.
He could feel eyes burning on his back, his mother’s and Lord Springfield’s, different shades of judgement and anger that sent the same, flustered frustration through him. The more he flushed, the more sweat dripped down his collar, the more he stumbled and the closer he came to throwing down the rings and jumping out the nearest window.
Dawn, her presence gentle and well-meaning, did not bring him any comfort.
Eventually, the minister shut his book with a harsh snap, his voice even harsher as he said, “Do you even want to get married, boy?”
Bog bit his tongue til it bled.
The aging man sighed deeply and pinched his brow. “Let’s...take a break, shall we?”
A collective sigh--of relief or dismay or both-- whispered through the room.
“Mr. Kingsley,” the minister said, “Learn. Your. Vows.”
Before anyone could say anything else, before anyone could stop him, Bog turned and left the room.
He walked without knowing his destination, thinking only to get away from the flesh-crawling feeling that clung to him like a ball and chain. He was out the front door before he knew it, brushing past Brutus and starling the poor man enough to send him into a fit of coughing. Before Bog knew it, he was storming across the grounds and over a footbridge, stopping only when he found himself at the edge of the forest separating the estate from the nearby town. Lured by the promise of solitude, Bog continued walking until he was deep in the woods.
He was panting for breath by the time he stopped. Desperate, he looked up at the skeletal trees and, whatever he was hoping to see there, he did not find. He growled in frustration, a near animalistic sound that grew into an angry yell. Pacing about wildly, twigs snapping beneath his feet and birds scattering away from his fury, Bog tried desperately to make some sense of what was happening to him.
He couldn’t marry Dawn Springfield; he couldn’t. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right, it wasn’t what either of them wanted and that ought to be plain as day. If the finances and title mattered so bloody much, his widowed mother and the widower Lord Springfield could tie the knot their bloody selves.
But no. He sighed, dragging a hand through his dark hair and mussing it horribly.
Bog sank down onto the raised ground beneath a massive old oak, his anger cooling somewhat now that he’d vented some. He knew it was impossible; his mother had loved his father too deeply to allow for another marriage. Eight years had passed since the funeral and she had yet to give up wearing black, for heaven’s sake. Were it not for them, Bog might not have believed in love at all.
But he did, and–much as he tried to deny it–knowing that he would never feel such a thing left an aching, empty wound in his core.
He sighed. For a long moment, he had no thoughts or feelings to pour over other than that sigh.
Unless he wanted to leave behind what little life he had, leave his mother to fend for herself…he had no choice but to resign himself. The wedding would not last forever; he'd suffer through it, then find a way to make marriage livable. He could take care of Dawn without having to bed her, couldn't he?
It was the closest thing to a comfort he'd found since the piano. He held up the wedding ring, watching it glint in the rising moonlight before closing his fist around it in grim determination.
Whatever it took to get the bloody thing over with.
How did those vows go again?
"With this hand…" he scowled, trying his hardest to remember. "Ah! Sorrows. With this hand, I will lift your sorrows."
What utter rubbish. Rising to his feet and mimicking the steps of the ceremony, he spoke aloud, grateful that there was no one there to overhear him.
What next? Something about the chalice…
"Your cup… Your cup will never empty, for I will be your wine."
Unsurprisingly, it was much easier without an audience. Reluctant groom or not, Bog found himself growing more confident.
"With this candle…" He snapped off a nearby twig, using it to light another with an imaginary flame. "I will light your way in darkness. With this ring…"
He swallowed, sinking back down to the ground, unnerved by the last few words. "I ask you….to be mine."
The silence afterwards seemed to swallow up his conviction. With a sigh, he held up the ring again, idly slipping it onto a nearby branch that rather conveniently resembled a hand.
The twig twitched .
Bog blinked at it, sure he must've imagined it. He reached out to take his ring back, but then, the branch lashed out and grabbed at him.
With a cry of alarm, he jerked himself away, growing all the more terrified at just how strongly it resisted. Bog stumbled in his efforts, watching with eyes blown wide as the ground beneath the tree swelled and cracked, giving way for another limb to burst from the earth. He broke away just as it slammed back into the ground by his feet, sending him stumbling and tripping onto his ass.
That limb from the ground had a hand, fingers clawed into the dirt as it freed even more of itself. The other arm tore away from the tangle of the thicket, revealing itself to be not twigs, but bone . The vague shape of a head raised up from its grave, followed by a torso, all of it covered in gauzy, tattered cloth.
He was too terrified to think, let alone move.
Bog gaped at the figure before him, clumps of dirt and rotted wood still falling away as it rose to its full height, standing before him with a proud, rigid strength.
Of all things, it was the figure of a woman.
Her dress was greyed with filth and age, but still just white enough that the moonlight set her ablaze with a cold, ghostly glow. The tattered train fluttered in the wind, and he watched in horror as a bluish arm reached up and lifted the veil.
She was human--somehow, he'd expected far worse--but the rageful sneer on her pale face more than made up for the lack of rot.
She spoke, then, cutting and clear and promising his doom.
"I do."
Bog's limbs finally came back to their senses. He scrambled backwards, heedless of the mud and brambles, all such concerns gone in favor of simply surviving.
"Ohh no," the wraith said, low and dangerous, echoing through the night air in an unearthly whisper. "I won't let you get away again, my love..."
He ran.
It all had to be a nightmare-- The impending marriage must've disturbed him even more than he realized.
But it was difficult to ignore the pain of scratching branches, the very real thudding of his heart. The woods--he'd known these woods all his life-- seemed to be closing in around him, unfamiliar and disorienting.
He looked back to see her close behind, seeming to float across the uneven ground more than run. Heart stinging with urgency, he ran even faster.
"You can't escape me, darling." Her voice held a haunting, sing-song lilt, mocking and cold and delighting in his terror all at once.
At last, at long last, he caught sight of the woods' edge. Crashing through the brush, tearing his clothes in too many places to count, he finally stumbled into the open air and--hopefully--safety. Still, he didn't slow his pace until he'd reached the bridge, gasping for air to soothe his burning lungs.
Looking over his shoulder once more, he saw nothing at all to indicate that something was wrong. The estate grounds were silent, dark, the woods clustered close together at a comfortably long distance.
Bog gulped, still struggling to calm his breath. A hallucination, a dream, something like that--was he going mad? Turning, he looked down towards the water to stare in horror at his own reflection. He'd just seen a ghost and barreled his way through a forest, and he certainly looked the part. His mother was going to be furious.
The call of a crow startled him out of his stupor, making him jump like a frightened child. Shaking his head at himself, he pulled in a steadying breath and turned to go back to the manor.
Immediately, he lost that breath.
Standing right before him-- somehow -- still radiating in all her deathly terror was the corpse, regarding him with an empty look.
"Aren't you going to kiss the bride?"
She took a step closer, and he moved to run only to be startled back by an entire flock of crows, spiraling around the bridge as his doom closed in on him. With every step, with every angry call from around him, the edges of his vision blurred darker and darker, dizzier and dizzier still…
The demonic bride was close enough to touch his face, her bony hand frigid against his skin. She smirked, then tilted her head, leaned in closer…
And everything went black.