Memento Mori (MxM)

Chapter 1

Fate; the destined order of events outside of a person's control. The rush of life against the ever present tide of death. Some supernatural, earth quaking force that decides the final moments of heroes and the downfall of villains. 

By this definition, perhaps it wasn't fate that led our young artist to Artemus Moon. Perhaps fate does not care for such a mundane tragedy as that, nor does it bother to cultivate the kind of fondness that can form between two individuals who's happiness is planted solely in each other. 

Perhaps fate did not put the first paintbrush in Calael's little hand, nor give him his devastating affinity with candles, nor drive him to purchase Semper Place.

 It is a cynical view. But perhaps less cynical than to believe that there is no such thing as fate, and Calael's insignificant death was merely the product of his own self-ruin.  

The truth from the mouth of a cynic, is that fate deals in death. It is the force that pushes us through our lives towards that ultimate finality. And those events that tend to happen along the way, which we so aptly call 'life', are merely side effects of our spiral towards that ever-present end. Side effects that only we control.

Our story truly started not with a death, but with - like many tales of tragedy - a new beginning. A 'fresh start.' With the young artist, Calael Black, stepping out from his car and gazing in muted dismay at Semper Place.

The man had swallowed hard, and attempted desperately to conjure up a spark of optimism. His new property might have been rather opulent, long ago; but years of abandonment had seen it fall into disrepair. 

The lavish home was an early nineteenth century build, constructed from a kind of cream and grey limestone, yet carrying an unnerving essence of green now that time had descended upon it. The black tiled roof had been equally unloved and was coated in sheets of thick moss, sprouting with weeds wherever a space for life had become readily available. In fact, it could have been a garden in its own right, certainly more impressive than the dead, colourless demesne that surrounded the property. Calael thought that the grass could barely be described as grass at all; it more closely resembled straw, or a meadow that had faced the Arctic tundra, and it was curious therefore that such a scent of petrichor seemed to fill the air.  His gaze scrolled further up still to observe four large, dark chimneys and the long, looming windows; large enough to fit the length of a person gazing out.

Exhaling deeply, he forced himself not to be perturbed by the glaring issues with the property. It had been a complete steal at auction, and he hadn't traveled so far from everything he knew to live in first class conditions after all. The man wrapped a hand around the handle of his leather clothes case and began to power towards the door, the fuel of determination taking root once more. 

Calael swiftly produced the key given to him by the real estate agent and fitted it into a rather dubious looking bronze lock. Hearing it click, he pushed on the door and took a slow step inside, reminiscent of a soldier entering a mine field.

The first thing to hit the man was the stench of damp wood. Creaking floorboards were a macabre soundtrack to his slow, startled entrance to the hallway, wide eyes following the oaken staircase up to the first floor, then back down to the living room door directly opposite. It seemed that his new furniture and boxes of belongings had been situated wherever there was space for them to be squeezed in among the old, abandoned assets of the house. He couldn't help but think as he all but tiptoed into the room that it was eery to see his contemporary black velvet couch pushed in alongside a plush, red-leather recliner of the 1930s. The ground floor of the house was now reminiscent of one of the modern art displays he'd visit in London; a vast display of contrast and opposites.