Chapter Text
A tapestry of obscenities wove its way past Beau’s lips as he stomped up creaking, rickety old stairs.
“Fucking fuckfaced small-brained tiny-dicked spineless slimy son of a-”
Boom!
Acrid black smoke poured out from between the wooden slats of the cellar doors as an explosion reverberated throughout the small cottage Beau called home.
“ Shit!”
Foregoing the front entrance in favor of confirming his papa wasn’t dead, Beau slammed open the smoking doors and stumbled down the stone steps, tripping over his feet.
“Shit, shit! Oh god, please don’t be dead, I cannot handle you being dead-”
“I’m not dead, boy!” A voice called out between hacks and sputters.
“What happened?” Beau rasped, coughing and desperately trying to waft the foul-smelling smog away from his face. A concerning amount was going up his nose, making his eyes water and his sinuses burn.
“I’m about ready to give up on this blasted contraption is what’s happened!” Beau’s father snapped, kicking the…furnace? What was that for–of his now-singed invention and cursing when he realized that furnaces are in fact made out of metal and fast-moving contact with one hurt.
Beau studied the ‘blasted contraption’. It looked less like an actual machine than someone’s hackneyed mechanical art project. Clanking gears, rotating spigots, and was that a teapot on top? No way that actually did anything. Try as he might, Beau could not for the life of him figure out what his papa’s invention was. Three days ago, papa had wandered into the living room with a blank look on his face and muttered “wood chopper”. He’d then proceeded to dismantle their grandfather clock with a pair of pliers he’d seemed to produce from thin air and returned to his workshop(lair) with an apron pocket full of cogs and a psychopathic grin that’d make a serial killer shit himself. So Beau supposed the strange device was meant to be some sort of automatic wood chopper? Although he wasn’t sure how useful it would be considering it took up half the room. Gaston had a point. His papa’s ideas were sort of crackpot. They made absolutely no sense. Most of the time there was no reason for them to exist.
And Beau adored him for it.
“Papa, you never give up.”
It was true. Papa’s inventions failed over and over and over again. His ideas were big and his ambition was bigger. Nine times out of ten, he simply didn’t have the resources for his creations. But he never, ever quit. Sure, he’d try new things. He’d leave a project for a while only to start something larger and grander, but he’d always come back to it eventually. And occasionally, after months of tinkering, he’d bring the odd project to fruition. And those were Beau’s favorite moments. Hearing his father’s mad cackle as a device whirred to life, knowing that that was his papa . That his father had developed something great.
“Well,” papa started, rubbing his gloves together in an attempt to get all the soot off of them and only succeeding in fusing it with the grease that splotched the fabric.
“This’ll be the first and last time then! I’m putting down my tools! I’m packing up shop! I’ll never build again, and it’s all because of this hunk of junk -damn!” Papa cursed as he kicked the machine again and once again realized that metal plus foot equals pain. Beau couldn’t help but laugh.
“You think this is funny, boy?” Papa groused.
“I’m struggling here!” He pouted. Pouted . Arms crossed over his chest, bottom lip jutting out, big blue eyes watering. It was adorable. It also only succeeded in making Beau laugh harder.
“Ok, ok!” He gasped, clutching his stomach. His father’s theatrics broke down slightly at seeing his son’s amusement, a smile cracking across his face. Beau took a deep breath, straightening up.
“Papa,” he said, a serious expression overtaking his features. “You are going to finish your machine. And it is going to be kickass. And the other inventors are going to see how cool and badass you are, and you’re going to win first prize at the fair tomorrow. And then you’re going to become the most famous inventor in the world, and get mountains of francs in research grants and royalties, and you’re never going to have to dismantle poor innocent grandfather clocks for parts ever again.”
Beau’s father scrutinized him closely.
“You really believe that, don’t you?”
Beau smiled fondly and wrapped his arms around his father’s shoulders in a loose hug.
“Always.”
“Well…you can’t become a famous inventor without scorching a few walls, right? Alright then,” Papa grinned, pulling the goggles that rested atop his head down over his eyes with a loud snap!
“Hand me that dog-legged clencher over there!” He said, pointing at a strange device in his toolbox. Beau was glad he had pointed it out because he had no clue what a dog headed clencher was supposed to be. He was 90 percent sure it was a made-up term and that this wasn’t a real tool, judging by the strange spring at the top and the weird pinchers at the bottom. But his father grabbed it with certainty from underneath the machine, where he had seemingly teleported to in the five seconds Beau’s back was turned. Clanking noises rang through the small space as Beau’s papa yanked, pulled, and twisted the various bits and pieces that made up his invention. Beau took a seat on a small, wooden stool by the device.
“Papa…” Beau began. “Do you think this town is odd?”
“Is this about the singing?” Beau’s father asked, his voice muffled. “Because Beau, I’ve never heard them sing.”
“They do!” Beau insisted. “I swear, I wouldn’t lie about this-”
“Beau.” Papa said sharply. “I know moving to this town has been an adjustment for you. And I recognize that it’s not ideal. But you don’t need to make up stories in order to get us to leave.”
“But I’m not-!” Beau sighed, setting his hands on his knees and burying his face in his chin. “Fine. Yes, I’m just…being ridiculous.” And if Beau felt a bitterness in his throat that his own papa didn’t believe him, he chose not to mention it. He paused for a moment, chewing on his lip, considering his next words carefully.
“Papa…do you think I’m odd?”
The response was instantaneous.
“Yes.”
“Gee, thanks.” Beau muttered, hurt coloring the edges of his voice.
“You’re mouthy, and sarcastic, and far too opinionated – ”
“You really don’t have to keep going.”
“ – And better for it,” Papa finished.
Beau blinked in surprise.
“...What?”
“So what if you’re not like everyone else? It just means you’re not another cookie cutter character in a one-dimensional mold, and thank god for that. You’re my clever, beautiful boy. And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
And oh,how Beau ached. To tell his papa how different, how wrong, how alone he felt. How the townsfolk fixated on him, how they magnified every single one of his insecurities. How everyday he suffocated a bit more, how every moment felt like drowning .
“I’m just…” he sighed. “I just don’t know how well I belong here, is all. It’d be nice to have a friend, I think.”
Beau’s father slid out from under the machine, regarding him. His goggles made his eyes look bug-like and strange.
“What about that Gaston? He’s about your age, isn’t he?”
Beau felt his previous rage coming back ten fold.
“That- that goddamn son of a whore- ”
“ Beau! ” Papa scolded. “What on earth has gotten into you?”
“Sorry papa,” Beau sighed, taking a deep breath. “Sorry just…trust me, Gaston is not friend material.”
His papa studied him, looking like he wanted to say something.
“Well…”
He fixed a smile on his face.
“Well, when I become a ‘badass inventor’ and we leave this town behind us, we’ll start a new life. We’ll move somewhere better, Paris maybe. And we’ll have piles of money, and I’ll get you a library. And you’ll have all the friends you could possibly want. Does that sound nice?”
And despite the lingering combination of anger and hollowness in his chest, Beau smiled back.
“Yeah, papa. That sounds perfect.”
“Alright, I think…yes, I think it’s done!” Papa grinned, slapping the side of the machine and leaving a greasy handprint behind.
“That fast?” Beau asked, surprised.
“Never underestimate your old man!”
Papa paused, hand on the lever of the device.
“Although, I’d say there’s a…small chance it explodes again…” the doubt in Papa’s voice made it clear he thought it was more than just small..
“You can’t become a famous inventor without scorching a few walls, right?” Beau said, parrotting his words back at him.
“I mean it Beau, you may want to leave – ”
“Papa, I’d love to explode with you.”
Beau walked over to the lever and placed his hands atop his father’s.
“On three?”
A warm smile broke through papa’s worried expression. He nodded.
“On three.”
Together, they began to count.
“One…Two…Three!”
On three, they pulled down the lever with a loud ca-chunk! Gears whirred, dials spun, steam rose out of the teapot. The machine let out a high-pitched squeal, and Beau and his father both took several steps back, bracing for impact. Then the axe at the end of the machine arced up and down and the wood placed in front of it split in two with a loud thunk.
“It works!” Beau cried out in surprise. “Holy shit it works!” He whooped, grabbing onto his papa and hugging him tight.
“It…it does.” Papa blinked disbelievingly. “By god, it does!” He hollered, hugging Beau back with surprising ferocity for an old man.
“I knew you could do it!” Beau grinned proudly.
Papa pulled away, crowing triumphantly.
“Hitch up Phillippe, boy! I’m going to blow all those doddering fools out of the water at the fair!”
“Hell yeah!” Beau cheered, then paused. “Just one question,” Beau said, regarding the still chopping machine, the logs flying away from the momentum of the swings and somehow landing perfectly in a pile a few feet away-Beau wasn’t sure how his father could’ve calculated all that, but it was only adding to his pride.
However…
“How are we getting this thing onto the cart?”
~~~
Bless Beau for putting up with his ol’ papa. It had taken the better part of the afternoon and two sets of feet consistently run over by squeaking wheels, but Beau and Maurice had managed to load Maurice’s wood chopper(name and patent pending, he’d think of it on the way to the fair–Maurice’s Marvelous Machine,he was thinking) onto the cart. And thank god, Philippe was handling its weight just fine. As Beau had pointed out after they’d gotten Maurice’s Marvelous Machine onto the cart,
“Maurice’s Marvelous Machine–are we sure about the name? Okay, okay, you’re clearly attached to it–Maurice’s Marvelous Machine is probably around .3 tons, and the average horse can only carry 20% of its body weight which is .2 and-”
Maurice had reassured Beau that Phillippe was a very strong horse, and he’d be just fine , and yes he would give him plenty of treats as compensation. But he had to admit, Beau had worried him. Maurice smiled to himself. His son really was outspoken, oftentimes overly so.
Beau’s brain didn’t work like everyone else’s. Maurice knew this because his didn’t either. There was something different about them, something that made them process and observe the world in a different way from “normal” folks. There was no known term for it, not in vaguely 18th-century France anyways, but Maurice recognized it in himself and his son and he knew other people noticed it as well. He’d explained this to Beau when he was younger, wanting him to be prepared. The way they functioned was unique, but not wrong. Never wrong. Maurice had been sure to instill that in Beau. That he was special. That he was perfect .
Which is why Beau’s behavior earlier had been so concerning.
“Papa…do you think I’m odd?”
He’d sounded so unsure of himself. So insecure, so scared . It wasn’t like the Beau he’d known before they’d moved. Before…
Before Beau’s mother had passed.
They never talked about it. About her getting sick, about the way they tried so desperately to care for her, throwing all of their money at doctors who’d all said the same thing. That she was a lost cause. That she had months, weeks, days. They didn’t talk about the despair Maurice had fallen into after she was gone. How he’d been unable to eat, unable to sleep, and most importantly unable to create . Unable to make the toys and clocks and oddities that had supported them in their modest but comfortable lifestyle. How Beau had had to watch one parent die and the other parent fade with her. And how by the time Maurice had finally begun to pull himself back together, they were losing the only home Beau had ever known and moving to a town without the resources either of them needed.
And the town was clearly messing with Beau. Something was going on. Something Beau wasn’t telling him. Maybe he was being bullied. Probably by that Gaston fellow, if Beau’s reaction to Maurice bringing him up earlier was anything to go by. Maurice would punch the lad, if he condoned violence. And if his arms weren’t too short. And what was with Beau claiming the town was some sort of strange singing cult? Something was very wrong. But whatever it was, Maurice couldn’t fix it. Not when they couldn’t get away from this town and its inhabitants. Not when Beau wouldn’t tell him what was wrong.
His invention needed to win first prize. Not so that he could be famous. So that Beau could live .
Maurice was busy worrying about Beau when he finally looked up from his hands clutching the reins and realized he had completely missed at least one turn and he had no idea where he was. Beau had always told him that he had a terrible sense of direction. He’d even given him a map that they’d painstakingly marked out to be certain Maurice wouldn’t get lost. And Maurice had forgotten about it within the first half mile of his journey. He stared at the signpost in front of him, trying to decipher the faded painted letters on the various branches pointing in all different directions. Beau had also always told him he needed glasses.
“Alright…let’s see…” Maurice muttered, pulling out the map.
“If I’m here, and the main road is…” It was no good. Maurice couldn’t for the life of him figure out where he was. Well, what was that old saying? Fake it ‘til you make it? One of the two paths in front of him had to be the right one. If he just traveled long enough, he was sure to find out. It was an adventure, like in one of Beau’s books. And if he was in one of Beau’s books, he’d choose…
Philippe reared his head back as Maurice jerked the reins to the right. The path before them was less an actual road than a narrow tunnel of dark trees, the path barely visible beneath the shadows they cast. He looked to the path on the left. Wide and well-trod. Ignoring his rider’s commands, Phillipe began to trot towards the obviously correct path. Maurice pulled him towards the right again.
“Come now Phillippe, it’s perfectly safe!”
Phillippe snorted, “Safe my ass.” and began to move left again. Maurice kicked his sides. Hard.
“Phillippe!”
Phillippe neighed indignantly. “You stupid son of a-”
Unfortunately, Maurice didn’t speak horse. With a loud sigh and another, more resigned neigh, “We’re both going to die because of you.”
Phillippe slowly trudged to the right.
Wisps of fog began to roll in as branches snapped underfoot. Dead leaves swirled overhead, caught in a sudden and harsh wind.
“Phillippe, why would you have us go this way?” Maurice said, voice shaking slightly.
Phillippe huffed. “Sure, gaslight the horse, this was definitely my idea-what the fuck was that!?”
Maurice had been growing old for a while. His eyes were going, and his senses were dulled. But Phillippe was a horse, and his senses were keen and sharp. Which meant he immediately noticed the shadow sprinting between the trees while Maurice was cowering.
“Oh absolutely not.”
With a small buck, Phillippe began backing up, praying Maurice would get the hint and turn them the fuck around. Unfortunately, there was an around .3 ton(which was absolutely too heavy for Phillippe, every step was burning pain in his back and legs and he would expect compensation in the form of sugar cubes and carrots) unwieldy machine on top of a large wooden cart attached to Phillippe’s hind quarters, blocking off his usual 360 degree horse vision and biting him in the ass as he ended up backing them directly into a tree with a thump that reverberated through Maurice’s bones and caused him to cry out and jump in the saddle.
Which only served to further aggravate the family of bats that apparently lived in the tree’s hollow.
Chittering filled Maurice and Phillippe’s ears as a dozen angry bats swarmed and scratched at them. His eyes filled with fluttering, leathery wings and snarling, spitting little critter faces. Phillippe blindly took off, trying to gallop away from the bats who just would not quit . Not only could he not fully see behind him, but now his front facing vision was almost completely blocked off as well. Which was really rather disconcerting to an animal with a typically near panoramic view of everything around him. So really, no one could blame Phillippe for not noticing the cliff that randomly appeared out of nowhere until the last possible second, hooves skidding against the sudden stone so hard they formed sparks.
“Oh god, oh god, back up!” Maurice panicked, which was not helping, Phillippe screamed-neighed at him.
As carefully as he could considering his own anxiety, Phillippe backed away from the cliff, trying not to look down at what Maurice roughly estimated was a 130 foot drop onto jagged looking rocks.
“Good boy, good horse!” Maurice chanted as the two made it back to relative safety, patting Phillipe’s flank as Phillipe neighed various horse slurs at Maurice and cursed the fact that Maurice couldn’t understand him. Maurice let out a sigh of relief, followed by the high pitched, crazed laugh of someone who’d just had a near-death experience and had no clue how to handle it.
“Well-well, this’ll certainly make a good story for Beau when I get back!” He laughed again, trying to repress the fact that just a minute ago he’d been questioning if he’d even make it back.
“Alright,” He muttered, taking a deep breath.
“I suppose going off the beaten path wasn’t one of my brightest ideas. Let’s turn back, Philippe.”
Maurice tugged the reins, turning Phillippe and the cart around.
Five sets of glowing yellow eyes peered at them from the darkness.
If Beau was here, he would’ve told Maurice that wolves were not naturally aggressive creatures. That they were more likely to flee or to stay away altogether than to attack. And Maurice would’ve told Beau that he didn’t know what he was talking about, because these wolves were snarling and prowling towards the cart and they were most definitely aggressive. Beau also would’ve told Maurice to stay calm, and to try to keep Phillippe calm as well.
Maurice screamed. Phillippe screamed.
Phillippe reared back, causing Maurice to tumble off his back and land roughly on the ground, landing on his wrist with a sickening crack . Then Phillippe bolted , because his loyalty only went so far and he was not going to die today.
“ Fuck!” Maurice cried out, scrambling upright and clutching his wrist to his chest, watching in horror as his horse and his invention disappeared away from him into the rapidly approaching night and the fog that was beginning to roll heavier on the path. Two wolves chased after Phillippe, and Maurice felt a stab of fear for his horse that was quickly overridden by fear for himself as he realized the remaining three wolves were stalking towards him and he was sitting on his ass letting it happen.
“Shit, shit !”
Maurice bolted to his feet, crying out again as the sudden movement jostled his injured wrist. His eyes darted about wildly, looking for a way to escape. Seeing no easy way out, he bolted for the trees, nearly slamming face first into one of their trunks as he hurtled between them. The wolves nipped at his heels, their howls and pants ringing in his ears as he sprinted with no direction or end goal in sight. He shouted as he felt one of them bite at his leg, somehow managing to run fast enough that it only grabbed a scrap of his pants. He could feel the wolf’s hot breath on his skin as its fangs grazed against him.
Maurice felt his feet give out beneath him as he reached a sudden steep decline, unable to stop his momentum as he fell and rolled down the small hill, landing on his back. He looked up, seeing the wolves approaching and clearly planning to slide down after him with much more grace and ease than he’d had.
He crawled back on his hands, hissing as his injury flared up, eyes desperately rolling around in his head as he tried to find anything, anything in his vicinity that could help him. They caught on the blurry tips of what looked like metal spikes in his periphery, and he twisted and craned his neck to look at them fully. Five feet away from him was a massive, wrought iron gate, so covered in climbing ivy and thick vines that it was almost invisible. But swirling curlicues ending in jagged points rose above the foliage, reaching up towards the now night sky and dimly reflecting the moonlight.
Forcing his aching legs to work just a little bit longer, Maurice clambered to his feet and rushed over to the gate, desperately shaking it with his good hand. It pushed open with a loud groan, and Maurice stumbled from the sudden swing, falling to his knees on the other side. Quickly getting up and turning around, Maurice slammed the gate shut in the faces of the rapidly approaching wolves. They yipped and growled, even going so far as to slam themselves against the gate, causing it to rattle as they pounced at Maurice. He took a few shaking steps back, clutching at his heart and willing it to stop practically vibrating in his ribcage.
Suddenly, one of the wolves looked up. Whimpered. Crouched down, ears pinning back against its head and tail drooping. The others followed suit, all three beginning to howl forlornly as they slowly turned and slunk back into the woods. Maurice turned to see what had them so frightened and gasped, eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets.
A castle towered forebodingly over him, its spires disappearing into sudden storm clouds that loomed heavily overhead. Its stone archways were chipped and cracking, the snarling lion heads that decorated them crumbling, the jaws missing on several. What must have once been grand golden awnings were tarnished and dull. The courtyard was in a state of disarray, all barren trees and dead rose bushes and a dried up fountain covered in thorny brambles. Gargoyles manned columns along the cobblestone walkway to the front door, their faces twisted into hissing, spitting countenances. Maurice swore he heard the ominous minor chords of an organ playing from somewhere within.
For a brief moment, Maurice thought about turning around and literally throwing himself to the wolves. Everything about this place felt wrong . Forbidden . There was a tightness in his chest, a trembling in his bones, and he knew that wherever he was, he didn’t belong .
The overwhelming sense of badwrong pervading Maurice’s senses was interrupted by the splatter of rain on his cheeks. Sudden cold and wet poured over him as thunder roared and lightning flashed across the sky. The storm seemed to have started out of nowhere, almost climactic in nature. Within seconds, Maurice was shivering and soaked to the bone. He glanced up at the castle again, weighing the potential warmth and safety of the castle against the pit in his stomach.
Mustering up his courage and stepping up to the great wooden door, the gargoyles seeming to judge him as he walked by, Maurice said a silent prayer that whatever horrors may be lurking inside were kind.