Unmaking Percy

Part II - II, continued 2 (The Hushing Manor)

He left the room and set himself adrift along the hallways. They were strewn with trails of gold and the mist-foam of gaslight, subdued behind globes of opaque glass. It was impossible to tell which way led to the kitchens; it was impossible to tell if the house had ways, or if it simply spread its endless rooms and halls with a complete indifference to sense.

But then a current guided his drifting. The sound of an instrument came to him in waves and drew him in. He could not quite tell what it was: he thought it sounded rather like a shy pipe organ. He reached a small study and stood by its open doors. Armand was there, wearing a richly-embroidered red robe, and sitting at a small bizarre-looking organ that was embellished with motifs of blazing autumn leaves. He brushed at its keyboard with the half-hearted reluctance of someone attempting polite conversation. It was dispiriting to watch. Percy almost felt compelled to apologize, if only to distract Armand from such despondency. He kept himself moored to the doors, remembering the beast's earlier display of rage.

"Well... I suspect it's not worth much, but for what it's worth, I'm sorry."

Armand's mane of dark hair loomed like a mountain as he faced Percy. Percy could see the first spurs of anger crackle in his features and twitch at his whiskers. But then, to Percy's surprise, Armand took a deep breath, deep as the cave of his voice, and bowed his head once in a regal, solemn nod.

"It's alright. I know you don't understand."

Percy suspected it had taken a considerable amount of effort on the beast's part to not fly into a rage again, and he supposed such an effort should be commended. He also wondered if the fur on Armand's face would soften the impact on his fist were he to punch him. He joined his hands behind his back and dug his nails into the skin of his wrist to forget his anger; he was finally learning how to use hands. Here was a perfect opportunity to gather more information on Armand and his curse. Percy knew, from personal experience, that while the relief of being understood was at times enough to make someone talk, nothing compared to the pleasure of feeling superior by speaking of oneself to another and not being understood.

"What do I not understand?" he asked.

Armand sighed. It could not rightly be called a sigh: it was desert wind blowing over old sand and shaping lonely dunes.

"I have a gift, you see. But my gift is also a curse."

Percy decided it would be best to not roll his eyes just yet. Instead, he kept quiet, and trusted that Armand, as other men who fancied themselves great, would see in that silence nothing more than a gap for his words to fill.

"Only a chosen few have this gift. For those of us who do, we have the opportunity to make something of ourselves, to achieve a greatness that will sear our names in history. Now that that gift has been taken away from me, how am I to fulfil my destiny?"

Percy felt the enticing pull of a familiar story. I have a gift. I have a destiny. I was chosen. He knew well how to shape those words in his mouth, and he was resentful he could no longer taste them. He did not even have a talent he could mourn the loss of – unlike Evans, who would require a battalion of testy fae before he could be stripped of his every quality. Percy stifled a grunt. He could smell the acrid smoke of his own envy rising from within. He had perhaps not acknowledged it enough – that every day he had spent riding with Evans had been a day of putting out his own fires. He had managed to quell them into embers, but not quite into ash, and words like "destiny" were tinder.

"Am I boring you?" Armand sniffed. His whiskers perked up like brush wires as he scrunched up his nose in annoyance.

"Not in the least. Please, go on."