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Elias has hated the Lukas Estate since long before he was Elias Bouchard. Despite its well-kept appearance, it always smelled vaguely of damp and cheap rose perfume. A terrible combination, truly. Peter hadn’t smelled anything like that. Peter smelled like earth after the rain. Like a well loved rocking chair. Like safety, Elias won’t let himself think.
Elias has been here many times over the decades, though thankfully not often. Mostly for stifling social functions Peter was required to attend, gods know why…and the occasional funeral. Like today. Elias had secretly hoped he would never have to arrive at the estate this way, even if the place was rather suited to them. Regardless of his desires, they were here one last time. The Archivist had made sure there was barely anything left of his husband to collect from the Lonely. Ashes you couldn’t tell apart from the grey sand of that Forsaken beach. Perhaps it was better that way. For Peter to finally become one with that which he craved. Alone at last, for eternity. But Elias could not return to the Lukas family empty-handed, so an urn full of sand it was. It was a delicate thing, the urn. Silver with intricate nautical patterns swirling around the sides. Chambered nautilus’ and octopus tentacles that crept around it like tendrils of fog. He’s sure Peter would have approved of it, were he still around to care.
Elias is led through the mansion to a large room with pew-like seating lining either side. A single white pedestal waits for him at the end of the aisle. He walks down the aisle and places him there. Soon enough Peter will join his previously deceased family members in the Lukas family crypt, and Elias will never see him again. It’s strange that Elias is still thinking of him this way. As a being inside that silver prison. As if he could simply look inside and see him curled up, snoring away softly like he had seen him do so many times in his favorite chair back home. The chair would have to go too, he supposes. If there was enough time for it to hurt him. He doesn’t want to think about why it is that it hurts him. Had this not been his goal? To win their final bet, reap the rewards of his centuries long plan, and claim his glorious crown? It was only now Elias realized he had hoped Peter would still be there at the end of it all, despite everything. Through all the jabs, all the empty threats, every divorce, every petty fight, he still imagined Peter would be there to be a thorn in his side even then. In the back of his mind, he had still hoped the Archivist wouldn’t quite have the strength to best Peter. A battle of wills between the two most stubborn men in history and his husband had lost. Imagine that. It was what he had wanted, he told himself. He had won. He tries to will these thoughts away, but a bitter, hollow feeling has made a home in his chest where triumph should be.
Elias spends an appropriate amount of time exchanging condolences with faceless grey shapes that wander in and out of his vision. He thinks he speaks to Peter’s mother, but he can’t be certain. There is no service, no music, simply a space to observe as if waiting for a lecture and a paltry selection of sustenance for those attending. Normal by Lukas funeral standards. Why would they change anything for their own son? No tears are shed by any in attendance. No sound but the creaking of floorboards unaccustomed to use. Elias doesn’t even have the energy to respond to the passive aggressive comments he overhears.
He isn’t sure when he started walking. Elias is finally shaken from his hazy thoughts by cold night air hitting his face. He must have started wandering through the mansion and ended up in the back garden. He is perhaps more familiar with this part of the estate than any other. How many times had Peter whisked them through the Lonely to this very place? A quiet escape from the suffocating confines of propriety.
Elias makes his way across the stone pathway to the old bench he knows is nestled beneath the largest tree in the yard. He has intimate knowledge of that bench and its surroundings. The way it creaked under strain, the way that sound echoed across the grass, the way everything looked through the Lonelys shroud. They had spent just as much time on this bench as they had in the mansion, possibly more given Peters tendencies. Looking at it now, he can almost believe Peter was there in the garden next to him. He can’t help the tired smile that crosses his face.
As Elias sits down he feels a crunching beneath his feet. In the moonlight he can make out spots of pastel color decimated by his shoes; yellows, pinks, and purples that seeped into the dirt and cracks of the cobbled stone. Colors Peter would have absolutely detested. It’s…wedding confetti. Not an unheard of event for the Lukas family, but certainly rare. He’s not entirely certain why this is the thing that finally breaks him. He’s almost surprised by the choking sob that escapes him finally. Tears flowing unbidden down his face. How could something so disgustingly happy have occurred in this place? This space that was supposed to be secret and theirs. How dare they allow this? Didn’t they understand how wrong it was? It was as if they had done it to spite them specifically. He can’t keep his blaring thoughts at bay any longer. It was all too much. His anchor was gone. The one person that might have understood him collateral damage in the long list of sacrifices made to reach his grand goal. Strong arms would never again embrace him. He would never again know the comforting scent of salt spray and rosemary. Never again taste lime-tinted breath that mingled with his own. There was so much left unsaid. He wonders, vaguely, if Barnabas had hurt this much. It’s been so long he doesn’t remember. Lifetimes have passed since then and now, when he closes his eyes, all he sees are pale blue ones that will never look back at him again. There had never seemed to be enough time, and now he sits alone in his wealth of it.
Once Elias is able to stop shaking he makes his way back through the mansion and outside to the car waiting for him. Once more the image of composure, as far as any remaining guests were concerned. The path forward is clear now. There was nothing holding him back. His ambitions laid out before him in bloodied footprints.
As the car begins to move, in the deepest, darkest part of himself, he hopes that the Lonely will finally take him before the end.