The life of Richard Campbell Gansey the Third was a charmed one. Born into a family of significant wealth and status, he was afforded every luxury he could ever want. Hobbies, whimsies, loves and vices... there was little that escaped him. Any other man would have been content with living it up with a beautiful woman on each arm, drinking wine while throwing money at whatever thing crossed his interest, fucking famous sopranos and smoking cigars with their managers.
Such things, however, had never held his attention.
Despite his golden pedigree and easy charm, excess of wealth and the attention of even princesses on his ring finger, Richard Campbell Gansey the Third was not satisfied. To the dismay of his parents he spent a great deal of time running about their favorite opera house, looking for the supernatural. Their son swore that, more than once, he'd seen an angel. A ghost. A walking skeleton lingering just outside his field of vision, making his skin crawl and his heart race like nothing else had ever before.
They begged him to date. Begged him to flirt with the dancers, get into a scandal, even mess around with stagehands if it would distract him from nosing about the theater. Stubbornly, he had refused, insisting on adventuring below the stage when he wasn't laughing and charming the actors and actresses on it. He had a natural singing voice, they swore, with how velvety and smooth it was. But Gansey's fascination belonged to his ghost. His ghost, as he'd gotten into the habit of calling it, though the others referred to it as the Opera Ghost.
Figuring out the puzzles he found thrilled him. Some were easy, some were difficult, yet he somehow managed to puzzle out all that he ended up crossing. Even if it took hours, he worked nimble fingers and held rapt focus until he'd gently coaxed open another door, like soothing a shy lover.
It had not occurred to him that he might find something dangerous.
At first it seemed innocent. A room with mirrors. That notion, however, was quickly dispersed when it began to grow hot, and then stifling. Clever enough to puzzle the answer out, it was much more difficult to think when it felt like his skin might very well boil right off his bones. It seemed that his charmed life, his luck, had run out. And, startlingly, he'd accepted his inevitable death with calm and dignity. Like the handsome stone Adonis, he'd stood steady and still, knowing that to touch the mirrors would burn something fierce, green eyes clear and upward glancing.
Then, it was over. Darkness overwhelmed but he could see nothing; too dazed from the brightness of the mirrors before, all he could see was spots, blue and red and yellow, clouding over his vision. Panting, he bowed his head, feeling shaken and burned, yet relieved that he was alive. But why? How?
His heart threw itself into his throat when the door opened. Looking up, his pupils dilated and his gaze focused on—a man. Attention first drawn to the golden glint of his mask, he knew, somehow, that this was his ghost, even though that was not the carved face he'd seen in the rafters or in the shadows.
For a good moment he simply stared, still coming to his senses. When he did, he forced himself to straighten up and walk with heavy steps toward the door and his ghost. What else was he to do? He had zero desire to stay in the mirror room, lest it fire up again and roast him like a spring chicken.
When he was close enough he stopped, hand resting on the frame of the door as he glanced past the ghost for but a moment, wondering what on earth he'd dropped into. It was a quick look, however—quickly, his attention was back on the ghost.
"Who are you?" His voice was soft and rough from how parched he was, and very curious. Was this man his savior, or his demise?
no subject
Such things, however, had never held his attention.
Despite his golden pedigree and easy charm, excess of wealth and the attention of even princesses on his ring finger, Richard Campbell Gansey the Third was not satisfied. To the dismay of his parents he spent a great deal of time running about their favorite opera house, looking for the supernatural. Their son swore that, more than once, he'd seen an angel. A ghost. A walking skeleton lingering just outside his field of vision, making his skin crawl and his heart race like nothing else had ever before.
They begged him to date. Begged him to flirt with the dancers, get into a scandal, even mess around with stagehands if it would distract him from nosing about the theater. Stubbornly, he had refused, insisting on adventuring below the stage when he wasn't laughing and charming the actors and actresses on it. He had a natural singing voice, they swore, with how velvety and smooth it was. But Gansey's fascination belonged to his ghost. His ghost, as he'd gotten into the habit of calling it, though the others referred to it as the Opera Ghost.
Figuring out the puzzles he found thrilled him. Some were easy, some were difficult, yet he somehow managed to puzzle out all that he ended up crossing. Even if it took hours, he worked nimble fingers and held rapt focus until he'd gently coaxed open another door, like soothing a shy lover.
It had not occurred to him that he might find something dangerous.
At first it seemed innocent. A room with mirrors. That notion, however, was quickly dispersed when it began to grow hot, and then stifling. Clever enough to puzzle the answer out, it was much more difficult to think when it felt like his skin might very well boil right off his bones. It seemed that his charmed life, his luck, had run out. And, startlingly, he'd accepted his inevitable death with calm and dignity. Like the handsome stone Adonis, he'd stood steady and still, knowing that to touch the mirrors would burn something fierce, green eyes clear and upward glancing.
Then, it was over. Darkness overwhelmed but he could see nothing; too dazed from the brightness of the mirrors before, all he could see was spots, blue and red and yellow, clouding over his vision. Panting, he bowed his head, feeling shaken and burned, yet relieved that he was alive. But why? How?
His heart threw itself into his throat when the door opened. Looking up, his pupils dilated and his gaze focused on—a man. Attention first drawn to the golden glint of his mask, he knew, somehow, that this was his ghost, even though that was not the carved face he'd seen in the rafters or in the shadows.
For a good moment he simply stared, still coming to his senses. When he did, he forced himself to straighten up and walk with heavy steps toward the door and his ghost. What else was he to do? He had zero desire to stay in the mirror room, lest it fire up again and roast him like a spring chicken.
When he was close enough he stopped, hand resting on the frame of the door as he glanced past the ghost for but a moment, wondering what on earth he'd dropped into. It was a quick look, however—quickly, his attention was back on the ghost.
"Who are you?" His voice was soft and rough from how parched he was, and very curious. Was this man his savior, or his demise?