owned_by_a_cat (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
owned_by_a_cat) wrote2015-02-05 05:29 pm
owned_by_a_cat) wrote2015-02-05 05:29 pm
Entry tags:
The Tower | Pt. 1 Talking to Ghosts
Title: The Tower
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: TBD
Genre: Suspense, AU, Angst, Romance, Fluff, Chaptered
Warning: none at present
Summary: Sometimes, being lonely is a journey to find the other half of your soul. An English lord with a mysterious, painful secret and the weight of the world on his shoulders and a grieving musician looking for a new beginning meet over a neglected crumbling ruin of a tower that is just begging to be turned into a home.
Author's Note: I've been wanting to write a story for Changmin for a while and one of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
be_ddelusionall's drabbles just gave me the idea. You just cannot put a line like "Ah, the Lord Changmin" in front of me and not have the fiction Muse salivating over the image.
I have no idea what this is going to turn into. Right now, it could go JaeMin, HoMin, YunJae + Min (not YunJaeMin!) and even MinOC. All I know is that Min has an elder sister called Lori, who keeps a trained monkey, that the tower has a bloody secret and that Min has a past he's trying to keep under wraps. Everything else, including the identity of the grieving house hunter, is up in the air. But I'm happy to listen to ideas if anyone's willing to share. :-)
He'd found the recess almost by accident, chasing a couple of escaped marbles, but he'd successfully squeezed into the gap and now he was waiting in the dark. Nothing moved and his heartbeat was so loud in his ears, it even drowned the sounds of the wind howling in the chimney. He saw the first raindrops hit the windows, saw the first flash of lightning bathe the sky in deep purple and white light, and tightly squeezed his lips together to make sure that not a single sound escaped him. His hands, deep in his trouser pockets, were curled in tight fists and he locked his knees and pressed his back against the wall as another crack of thunder shook the tower, and another flash of lightning turned the room ghostly pale.
If his grandfather found him here, he would get a beating. He had no doubt about that. And his grandfather always came to the tower during a thunderstorm. To talk to the ghosts, he said.
Well, this time Changmin was there before him.
He wanted to see the ghosts. More than he had ever wanted anything. Because the spirits said to haunt the old tower were his mother and father. And he had never met either of them.
Whoever said that house-hunting was fun can’t have done that much of it, I thought wistfully as another stack of estate agents’ envelopes flopped onto my doormat. Unless, of course, it’s the hunting they enjoy, and don’t care if they find a house or not. I, on the other hand, seem to want to enjoy the finding only.
I picked up the mail and made my way into the living room. The large dining table was covered in property particulars, neatly sorted into ‘absolutely not’, ‘no’ and ‘maybe’ stacks. An empty space, the space for the ‘yes’ pile of particulars, glared accusingly from the centre of the table.
Maybe the house I’m looking for does not exist. Or it exists only in my mind. A hiding place.
My hiding place.
Ever since that dreadful evening, when the police had come calling, I’d yearned for such a place. Somewhere I didn’t have to put on a brave face, somewhere nobody would offer me sympathy or good advice, somewhere I could grieve in private.
There was no such place, of course. Not for me. Papparazzi found me wherever I went. As did the fans, though—to my surprise—they were proving unexpectedly compassionate after that first insane outpouring of grief was over.
Many expressed the wish that I continued making the music they had loved us for, or start over with a new band. In time, the need to grieve in private had turned into a wish to rebuild my life, in a shape and form it had never had before. I’d dissolved my contract, sold my parent’s gardening business and had set about finding a house for myself.
My requirements had seemed fairly simple as I wrote them down: a house with a largish garden, in a remote location, maybe in need of renovation. Surely that wasn’t too difficult a brief for any self-respecting estate agent!
But, apparently, it was. In the last four months, I’d seen a score of houses. On the surface, they all fulfilled my simple requirements, but none of them had made me want to buy that particular property or to live there.
“And most likely, this lot won’t make a difference either,” I muttered, sitting down with the stack of letters in the large armchair under the window. But despite my misgivings, there was a tiny spark of… something…in the back of my mind. A promise that this time…this time..
One after the other, I opened the envelopes and scrutinised the contents.
One after the other, the sheets fluttered to the floor, until the last of the offered properties had me sit up in my chair and take notice. The particulars described the house as a 17th century fortified tower, with courtyard, stables, and gardens. But this wasn’t what had grabbed my attention. No. What had caused that strange spark in my mind was the house’s faintly desolate air, the sense that it seemed to be pleading for an injection of life.
Yes, I knew what could be done with a few photoshop skills. I also knew I was being fanciful. But full of hope for the first time in a long while, I rose and carefully placed the sheets in the empty space on my dining table.
Then I reached for the phone to call the agent.
I was miles from the next town, surrounded by rugged rocks and rolling hills. The empty spaces coaxed the muse out to play and lyrics circled through my mind as I drove, bright like pebbles flashing in and out of running water. I hadn't felt the urge to write lyrics in a very long time, but going back to doing what I loved felt familiar, and doing it now, on this journey, seemed right.
The agent had outdone herself this time. Out of the way, I had specified. And out of the way it certainly was. I don’t mind if it needs work, I had requested. In fact, it would be nice if it did. And it must have a garden or land with it. Judging by the miles of nothing surrounding me, space would not be a problem. As for the house itself…
As if in answer to my thoughts, the turning appeared amongst the trees. I flicked on the indicator, even though I couldn't see any need for it. After all, how likely was it that someone should be coming down this deserted stretch of lane, just as I was turning the corner? Still, rules were rules and sometimes, following them was fun.
The lane my instructions had told me to take seemed more of a long driveway, with grass growing between the tyre tracks and guarded by blackthorn bushes and scrub roses on each side. It went on for almost two miles, but when the track turned a corner, I finally got my first glimpse of the tower.
Adorned with crenulated battlements, it rose over ivy-clad walls, squat and dark and somehow very…there. I stopped the car and sat, simply gazing at it, soaking up impressions without judging or even classifying them.
I was closer now than the photographer had been when he took the shot that adorned the estate agent's particulars. And even up close, the tower still had that faint air of desolation. But that wasn't the sum of my impressions. Alongside the desolation, I felt a deep sense of calm and peace, like finally reaching home and being welcomed after being lost in the dark.
It was strange that a fortified building, with its connotations of war, should exude such a feeling of peace, but I didn't question it. I had learned over the years that some things just were. This was clearly one of them.
After a moment, I shook myself out of the reverie and reached for the gearshift. I followed the track around the wall and through the open gate into a cobbled and gravelled courtyard. The house stretched around three sides of the small space, the tower rising to my left in one corner of the building.
Nothing but birdsong surrounded me when I got out of the car, and the feeling of peace and rightness was even stronger here. A saddled bay horse was tethered to a large metal ring on the wall, contentedly plucking at the grass growing between the cobbles. The gravel had not seen a rake in years and through an archway I glimpsed an overgrown wilderness, with clematis and pink roses adding splashes of colour to the overwhelming green.
The whole scene was as surreal as a film set. I could imagine a dashing d’Artagnan duelling the Cardinal’s guards in the space between the stables and the house, could imagine the shirring of blade against blade, the grunts of exertion, scuff of boots on cobbles, and the hot, metallic tang of blood as it splashed the dry ground.
Fanciful may be, but it wasn't a mental image that turned me from the house. Far from it.
I crossed the courtyard and reached for the old, heavy knocker on the door, but my fingers had barely touched the tarnished metal, when the door opened and I took an involuntary step backward.
My fanciful ideas seemed a little less fanciful all of a sudden. More Mr. Darcy than d’Artagnan, perhaps, but still…
The man looked as if he had stepped out of a book and the first thing that struck me was his height. He towered over me, just as my band mates had done, but for once that thought didn't send me running for cover. Instead, my mind looked for differences, focussed on long, shapely legs, made to look even longer by breeches and riding boots, on wide shoulders draped by a soft white shirt and a sleeveless leather vest that skimmed slim hips. Shoulder-length, dark brown hair was tied at the nape of his neck and the whole package was so delicious I was positively salivating.
“Have you come to see the house?” he asked, his voice gruff and uninviting.
I took another step back so I wouldn't have to crane my neck, and gave him a slow, thorough once over. From the toes of his boots to the top of the dark hair - this time taking note of deep brown eyes over razor sharp cheekbones, and the most sinful mouth I'd ever come across - I didn't miss an inch. And every single inch was stunning. Even the less than welcoming expression on his face could not detract from that.
"Yes, I have," I said finally and held out the particulars the agent had sent me. I hadn't much felt like smiling since the night of the accident, but I felt my lips curve at the corners in response to the man's straight-backed stance and narrow-eyed glare. "Lord Changmin, I presume?"
"Yes, I'm Changmin," he agreed and held the door wide for me to enter. For just a moment, he sounded like an irritable teenager rather than the successful businessman and landowner he was reported to be, and my smile only grew wider.
A beautiful, neglected house that positively cried out for someone to lavish love and affection on it, and one stunning, intriguing neighbour… if I'd searched the world for a distraction from my grief, I couldn't have found anything more perfect.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: TBD
Genre: Suspense, AU, Angst, Romance, Fluff, Chaptered
Warning: none at present
Summary: Sometimes, being lonely is a journey to find the other half of your soul. An English lord with a mysterious, painful secret and the weight of the world on his shoulders and a grieving musician looking for a new beginning meet over a neglected crumbling ruin of a tower that is just begging to be turned into a home.
Author's Note: I've been wanting to write a story for Changmin for a while and one of
be_ddelusionall's drabbles just gave me the idea. You just cannot put a line like "Ah, the Lord Changmin" in front of me and not have the fiction Muse salivating over the image.I have no idea what this is going to turn into. Right now, it could go JaeMin, HoMin, YunJae + Min (not YunJaeMin!) and even MinOC. All I know is that Min has an elder sister called Lori, who keeps a trained monkey, that the tower has a bloody secret and that Min has a past he's trying to keep under wraps. Everything else, including the identity of the grieving house hunter, is up in the air. But I'm happy to listen to ideas if anyone's willing to share. :-)
Talking to Ghosts
Thunder rumbled in the distance, the coming storm still a little way off to the east. Lead grey storm clouds chased one another past the old tower, their colour darkening to an ominous purple the further they headed out into the night. The boy, too small to reach up to the circular windows, watched them gather from his hiding place. The light outside faded, the room became darker and Changmin all but disappeared into the small gap between the towering bookcase and the marble fireplace.He'd found the recess almost by accident, chasing a couple of escaped marbles, but he'd successfully squeezed into the gap and now he was waiting in the dark. Nothing moved and his heartbeat was so loud in his ears, it even drowned the sounds of the wind howling in the chimney. He saw the first raindrops hit the windows, saw the first flash of lightning bathe the sky in deep purple and white light, and tightly squeezed his lips together to make sure that not a single sound escaped him. His hands, deep in his trouser pockets, were curled in tight fists and he locked his knees and pressed his back against the wall as another crack of thunder shook the tower, and another flash of lightning turned the room ghostly pale.
If his grandfather found him here, he would get a beating. He had no doubt about that. And his grandfather always came to the tower during a thunderstorm. To talk to the ghosts, he said.
Well, this time Changmin was there before him.
He wanted to see the ghosts. More than he had ever wanted anything. Because the spirits said to haunt the old tower were his mother and father. And he had never met either of them.
***
Whoever said that house-hunting was fun can’t have done that much of it, I thought wistfully as another stack of estate agents’ envelopes flopped onto my doormat. Unless, of course, it’s the hunting they enjoy, and don’t care if they find a house or not. I, on the other hand, seem to want to enjoy the finding only.
I picked up the mail and made my way into the living room. The large dining table was covered in property particulars, neatly sorted into ‘absolutely not’, ‘no’ and ‘maybe’ stacks. An empty space, the space for the ‘yes’ pile of particulars, glared accusingly from the centre of the table.
Maybe the house I’m looking for does not exist. Or it exists only in my mind. A hiding place.
My hiding place.
Ever since that dreadful evening, when the police had come calling, I’d yearned for such a place. Somewhere I didn’t have to put on a brave face, somewhere nobody would offer me sympathy or good advice, somewhere I could grieve in private.
There was no such place, of course. Not for me. Papparazzi found me wherever I went. As did the fans, though—to my surprise—they were proving unexpectedly compassionate after that first insane outpouring of grief was over.
Many expressed the wish that I continued making the music they had loved us for, or start over with a new band. In time, the need to grieve in private had turned into a wish to rebuild my life, in a shape and form it had never had before. I’d dissolved my contract, sold my parent’s gardening business and had set about finding a house for myself.
My requirements had seemed fairly simple as I wrote them down: a house with a largish garden, in a remote location, maybe in need of renovation. Surely that wasn’t too difficult a brief for any self-respecting estate agent!
But, apparently, it was. In the last four months, I’d seen a score of houses. On the surface, they all fulfilled my simple requirements, but none of them had made me want to buy that particular property or to live there.
“And most likely, this lot won’t make a difference either,” I muttered, sitting down with the stack of letters in the large armchair under the window. But despite my misgivings, there was a tiny spark of… something…in the back of my mind. A promise that this time…this time..
One after the other, I opened the envelopes and scrutinised the contents.
One after the other, the sheets fluttered to the floor, until the last of the offered properties had me sit up in my chair and take notice. The particulars described the house as a 17th century fortified tower, with courtyard, stables, and gardens. But this wasn’t what had grabbed my attention. No. What had caused that strange spark in my mind was the house’s faintly desolate air, the sense that it seemed to be pleading for an injection of life.
Yes, I knew what could be done with a few photoshop skills. I also knew I was being fanciful. But full of hope for the first time in a long while, I rose and carefully placed the sheets in the empty space on my dining table.
Then I reached for the phone to call the agent.
***
The early morning held a taste of promise and the delectable smell of good things to come. Estate agent’s details pinned to the steering wheel, I bumped down the narrow lane, looking for the turning that the instructions said should be there.I was miles from the next town, surrounded by rugged rocks and rolling hills. The empty spaces coaxed the muse out to play and lyrics circled through my mind as I drove, bright like pebbles flashing in and out of running water. I hadn't felt the urge to write lyrics in a very long time, but going back to doing what I loved felt familiar, and doing it now, on this journey, seemed right.
The agent had outdone herself this time. Out of the way, I had specified. And out of the way it certainly was. I don’t mind if it needs work, I had requested. In fact, it would be nice if it did. And it must have a garden or land with it. Judging by the miles of nothing surrounding me, space would not be a problem. As for the house itself…
As if in answer to my thoughts, the turning appeared amongst the trees. I flicked on the indicator, even though I couldn't see any need for it. After all, how likely was it that someone should be coming down this deserted stretch of lane, just as I was turning the corner? Still, rules were rules and sometimes, following them was fun.
The lane my instructions had told me to take seemed more of a long driveway, with grass growing between the tyre tracks and guarded by blackthorn bushes and scrub roses on each side. It went on for almost two miles, but when the track turned a corner, I finally got my first glimpse of the tower.
Adorned with crenulated battlements, it rose over ivy-clad walls, squat and dark and somehow very…there. I stopped the car and sat, simply gazing at it, soaking up impressions without judging or even classifying them.
I was closer now than the photographer had been when he took the shot that adorned the estate agent's particulars. And even up close, the tower still had that faint air of desolation. But that wasn't the sum of my impressions. Alongside the desolation, I felt a deep sense of calm and peace, like finally reaching home and being welcomed after being lost in the dark.
It was strange that a fortified building, with its connotations of war, should exude such a feeling of peace, but I didn't question it. I had learned over the years that some things just were. This was clearly one of them.
After a moment, I shook myself out of the reverie and reached for the gearshift. I followed the track around the wall and through the open gate into a cobbled and gravelled courtyard. The house stretched around three sides of the small space, the tower rising to my left in one corner of the building.
Nothing but birdsong surrounded me when I got out of the car, and the feeling of peace and rightness was even stronger here. A saddled bay horse was tethered to a large metal ring on the wall, contentedly plucking at the grass growing between the cobbles. The gravel had not seen a rake in years and through an archway I glimpsed an overgrown wilderness, with clematis and pink roses adding splashes of colour to the overwhelming green.
The whole scene was as surreal as a film set. I could imagine a dashing d’Artagnan duelling the Cardinal’s guards in the space between the stables and the house, could imagine the shirring of blade against blade, the grunts of exertion, scuff of boots on cobbles, and the hot, metallic tang of blood as it splashed the dry ground.
Fanciful may be, but it wasn't a mental image that turned me from the house. Far from it.
I crossed the courtyard and reached for the old, heavy knocker on the door, but my fingers had barely touched the tarnished metal, when the door opened and I took an involuntary step backward.
My fanciful ideas seemed a little less fanciful all of a sudden. More Mr. Darcy than d’Artagnan, perhaps, but still…
The man looked as if he had stepped out of a book and the first thing that struck me was his height. He towered over me, just as my band mates had done, but for once that thought didn't send me running for cover. Instead, my mind looked for differences, focussed on long, shapely legs, made to look even longer by breeches and riding boots, on wide shoulders draped by a soft white shirt and a sleeveless leather vest that skimmed slim hips. Shoulder-length, dark brown hair was tied at the nape of his neck and the whole package was so delicious I was positively salivating.
“Have you come to see the house?” he asked, his voice gruff and uninviting.
I took another step back so I wouldn't have to crane my neck, and gave him a slow, thorough once over. From the toes of his boots to the top of the dark hair - this time taking note of deep brown eyes over razor sharp cheekbones, and the most sinful mouth I'd ever come across - I didn't miss an inch. And every single inch was stunning. Even the less than welcoming expression on his face could not detract from that.
"Yes, I have," I said finally and held out the particulars the agent had sent me. I hadn't much felt like smiling since the night of the accident, but I felt my lips curve at the corners in response to the man's straight-backed stance and narrow-eyed glare. "Lord Changmin, I presume?"
"Yes, I'm Changmin," he agreed and held the door wide for me to enter. For just a moment, he sounded like an irritable teenager rather than the successful businessman and landowner he was reported to be, and my smile only grew wider.
A beautiful, neglected house that positively cried out for someone to lavish love and affection on it, and one stunning, intriguing neighbour… if I'd searched the world for a distraction from my grief, I couldn't have found anything more perfect.
no subject
Even without a description, most people seem to see Jae househunting, so that gives me at least a direction to wander off in.