"Oz!" He hears her shout, and he grimaces with a distasteful sigh. "Oz, you need to finish unpacking!"
He meets her yells with silence.
"Perhaps we need to address the house rules, Oz! Come here!"
He can't stand her, really, that witch of a woman. There are many things Oz Vessalius hates. He hates rainy days, and empty promises, and wishes on candles and dandelion fluff that never came true. And he hates her. He doesn't know her at all, actually. But he's seen too much, heard too much, felt too much—he knows that this lie, this foolish attempt at filling the whole in his chest, will crumble. Nothing is permanent, and keeping the tears from falling is all he can do.
"Coming, Ms. Kate!" Oz calls cheerfully, anyway. What else can he do?
He half walks, half stumbles ungracefully down the creaky, spiraling staircase, coming to a stop at the bottom, where Ms. Kate, his new adoptive guardian is, looking as though someone stuck something foul under her ugly nose. She stands with her hands on her bony hips, graying hair tied up in a strict, no-nonsense bun. Her thin, square-rimmed glasses sit at the end of her witch-like nose, giving her an old, gnarled appearance. She smacks her thin fish lips, preparing for a spittle-ridden speech about promptness and the proper way to unpack. Her long, darkly colored dress sweeps at the dusty floor, and her large, clunky cargo boots makes the floorboards groan as she steps back slightly.
"Now Oz," She begins with an air of superiority, "As I am your new guardian, I expect respect, civility, and the utmost punctuality from you. Do you understand?"
He nods numbly, false smile dimming a little.
"Good. Supper shall be served at precisely 6 o'clock in the evening, and if you are late, you will receive little to none." She glares at him over the rims of her spectacles. "Also, because school does not start for another four months, you should tend to the garden or study in the library to occupy yourself."
Another slow nod.
"And one more thing," She says smartly, brushing out invisible creases in her dress. "This house is old and needs refurbishing. Do watch where you step. Your room is temporarily the attic. That is all. Make sure to unpack."
With that, she turns and walks away briskly, leaving him standing at the bottom of the stairwell with a solemn look upon his face. Sighing disappointedly, he decides to explore outside, and fully take in the view of the house for the first time.
It's a large, long home with outside walls of pale brick, and steep, sloping roofs that are the color of ripe mulberries. Long tendrils of dark, leafy ivy creep up the sides, caressing the bricks almost lovingly. The nestled, well-worn feel of the property gave him the impression of a fairy tale cottage, snug in a forest of wonder and magic.
The windows are all grand, ornate, and irregularly shaped, some with stained glass images of flowers and intricate patterns. Only one window looks supremely shabby, the one on the upper floor to the side. The attic. It is boarded shut sloppily, almost as if no one really cared. A small box of wilting flowers sits somberly outside on the window ledge. That's his room.
The house in itself is breathtaking, but it can't hold a candle to the gardens. Huge bushes of blooming roses and lilacs and sweet forget-me-nots, and brilliant clumps of lilies, daffodils, and rhododendrons are scattered perfectly along the small stone path and fountain. It is a scene from a dream, the vibrancy and sheer beauty of it all nearly stops his heart.
A colossal weeping willow tree stood to the side; it's gnarled, twisting roots peeking out of the ground. There, attached to a swooping, out-lying branch was a little makeshift swing, lonely and unused, as though forgotten.
He turns away, feeling bitterness sting his eyes.
Unpacking is torture for him. It always has been. He's given up hope of a permanent settlement, and fails to see any point in unpacking his few belongings when in a few weeks, he will be gone yet again. He makes his way up the small steps to the attic, and finds himself face to face with a musty room full of old cardboard boxes. He is mildly curious, and digs through them for a while, finding nothing of real interest. Pieces of fine jewelry, an old board game, a stuffed rabbit… It is not until he searches the last box that he finds two things that catch his eye.
The first is a lovely musical pocket watch, which gleams preciously as he holds it up closer to look. The tune that emerges from it is…. Heavy, he decides. Despite the light, feathery sound of the notes, the sound resounds like a stone dropped in water. There is an agelessness to it that is burdened by the feel of longing, of loneliness. He closes it with a sharp snap.
He looks to the second item.
It is a small, leather photo album, with the words 'Pandora Hearts' scratched messily onto the cover. He flips it open, and the first picture is of a beautiful young woman with long, flowing dark hair and eyes the color of wine. She smiles coyly into the camera, but her eyes are soft with years of melancholy. Wordlessly, he flips the page.
He spends the next few hours poring over the pictures, though most of them are faded or torn. He flips the last page, and a stray photograph falls out. He bends down slowly and picks it up. The last rays of sunlight stream in from the cracks in the boards covering the window, giving him enough light to make out the picture.
It is a girl, young, with a face as fresh as first snow. She resembles the first woman greatly, though her eyes are not ruby, but a striking shade of violet. She grins happily in the photograph, her thin arms wrapped around a stuffed rabbit (which he recognizes to be the one he found earlier) as she sits, perched daintily, atop that swing under the willow. There are two other people, next to her: a boy with black hair and golden eyes, and one with blonde hair and one red eye. Oz pays them no mind, only searching the girl's face hungrily. Even in the photograph, she radiates an air of happiness, and it is something he craves.
He decides that one day, he will meet this girl.
Author's Note: My first Pandora Hearts piece! Woo! I may continue this, I might not. This started as a prompt to get my creative writing juices flowing, but this plot bunny keeps running around in my head. Well, whatever. Thanks for reading!