My apologies for the massive delay between chapters, I lost inspiration and kind of put this story on the back burner but after absorbing my thoughts into music and other sources of inspiration I finally finished this chapter! Please give me your input if you want more!

Chapter II

Keeping their voices low, Gerhardt was lead slowly back to the study from whence they came to see the extent of the damage Microux had done. The doctor brandished his arm in pain and his posture slumped feeling a great deal of discomfort in his back. Microux had struck the man so hard his arm bled and a very large bruise formed over the impacted area. Being a doctor, the man inspected the damage himself, he grunted from the pain as he received help in removing his coat and rolling up his sleeve, "I do not believe it is broken," he stated relieved with the family crowding about him.

"Thank heavens!" Gail Choixton declared, "Is there anything we can do to make up for this?" she begged.

The man shook his head though with a tender look in his eyes, "Please think little of it," he urged as the candlestick, Henrie Choixton brought warm bandages to his side and assisted him in wrapping the injury. "Tell me about Microux?" he asked suddenly, "I admit he has sparked my interest."

Henrie hesitated a bit, finding himself uneasy at the subject of the Choixton's past. He gave, desiring help for the boy more than protection of their history, "even before the fire, Microux was always a bit queer, he threw tantrums as a child and he was entirely unsocial. But now…" Henrie's voice faded in despair, "it seems he has lost all grasps on reality, he doesn't know the difference between people and objects, he even mistook snow for ashes this morning and threw himself on the floor in panic!"

With his uninjured arm, Gerhardt reached out and laid a hand on Henrie's arm, "don't worry," he assured softly, "I'm sure it was the fire years ago that did this to him. I see he has a very detailed photographic memory, and during the fire he must have seen something which he is unable to forget. I do not believe he is insane, but merely suffering from the traumatic memory of years ago. That kind of tragedy can scar any person for life."

With hope, Gail fastened the cloths around their guest's arm, "Do you think you can cure him?" she asked with mild excitement.

Having been patched up effectively for now, Gerhardt reclined in the sofa where he sat to rest his aching back from the blow Microux had struck against him, "something this deep set may require something more spiritual, or psychological than a 'cure'. Microux has always been different, oui?" he looked to the boy's uncle.

Henrie affirmed, scoffing the notion, "If by different you meant unintelligible at times, childlike in everything he does, and obsessive!" he burst, discouraged by everything. His wife stepped closer to him, running her fingers across his shoulders to soothe his worry, "I adopted that boy because I thought his damaged mind was salvageable, and he could come to live a normal life, but after fifteen years, we have not been able to coax him out of the house!"

The doctor sighed seeing how much more frustrated the boy's caretaker was than the young man himself, "Calm yourself," he urged gently, "you have given Microux all he could need until adulthood, I see hope for him yet. After all, he produced all these fantastic paintings!" Gerhardt gestured about the room at the canvases, "If he can duplicate an image from his amazing photographic memory, he could easily sell such art, with help in management."

None of this appeared to comfort Henrie Choixton, over the past several weeks, the boy's uncle and caretaker had been growing exceedingly discouraged by Microux's behavior, fearing there was nothing they could do to truly help him. Giving in, Henrie turned his eyes to the doctor and pleaded with every ounce of love he had for his late brother's son, "Please," his voice rang through the grand room, "will you do everything in your knowledge to help us free Microux of his torment?"

At this request, Gerhardt adopted a keen grin and nodded, "at the moment, however, I am in no condition to travel home as I came."

Gail affirmed with a nod and looked to her daughter as she spoke to the man, "I can send Christine to fetch a coach, or bring any family you might intend to help you on your way?" she finished in a questioning tone.

Gerhardt approved of such a suggestion, then reached into his breast pocket, producing a small card, "My daughter will know what to do, you may find her at this address," he instructed, handing it to Christine with his uninjured hand.

The Old Clock, Charles Choixton moved into the room slowly, as Christine left in a hurry for their guest's sake, "Meanwhile," the old man declared, "you can make yourself at home best you can in this old place, and tea will be about soon," he assured with a light smile.

At this, Henrie frowned adding to the statement, "I should probably go check on Microux, who knows what he's doing up there…" his voice trailed off as he left the room after Christine. As a whole, the household had gotten used to the cold, except for the candlestick and the few fireplaces Microux wanted lit, he insisted on keeping the house cold in his fear of the fire. Microux had a menagerie of strange obsessions, although he was afraid of fire, he insisted upon it, he required himself to pay his respects to his parents' portrait every morning as well as paint their demise, he subjected himself to living in this house even though he fell into dreadful panic attacks whenever he was reminded of what happened here. Even though he was afraid, this was all he knew, and the fear of unknown was greater than his past.

Henrie was unsure it was true that he was more afraid of the future than the past, because even when he invited Microux to leave the house, he only buried himself deeper into the memories he feared. Still, the candlestick pressed on, hoping that one day he could overcome his fears, and finally leave this place.

Henrie grasped the doorknob to Microux's room to find it locked, and he sighed heavily in despair so he knocked on the heavy mahogany, "Microux, unlock the door, please," he urged through the door.

After a few moments of silence, Henrie heard a clatter of metal from inside the room and Microux shouted back, "I'm changing, don't come in!"

With his brows furrowing in confusion, Henrie knocked on the door again, "Microux, it's the middle of the day, why do you need to change your clothes?" he demanded, reaching for the key he kept hidden in case Microux locked himself in his room, which he did often.

"Don't come in!" Microux urged again sounding a bit frantic in his voice.

Henrie inserted the iron key into the keyhole and turned slowly to not let Microux hear, "I know you're lying, Microux, what are you doing?" he yelled to know in urgency. Microux picked up the sound of the lock clicking the moment it happened and rushed for the door holding it shut. Henrie knew well the boy had very sensitive hearing but he didn't think with how Microux was rushing about in his room that he would hear such a faint noise. "Microux, let me in!" he commanded.

Microux held fast, being exceptionally stronger than he looked and of course his uncle was not as fit as he once was so Microux used his own key to quickly lock the door from the other side, "I don't need you, candlestick, there's plenty of light from the windows!" he insisted, walking away from the door once he thought it couldn't be opened from the other side.

Henrie quickly unlocked the door once more and threw it open, "Microux!" he demanded, trying to keep himself from raising his voice too loud but he was suddenly faced with the sight of standing in the center of a room he had destroyed. Henrie's eyes slowly followed the sight of the furniture and Microux's collections scattered and overturned, his bed sheets were on the floor and only the bare mattress remained on the bed. Microux had not changed his clothes, but had only removed his vest and boots, and he was currently pulling his left hand into his sleeve as if to hide something.

Microux didn't look at him, he only stared down, gripping his left arm very tightly. Henrie sighed, ever perturbed by the boy's behaviors, "have you been scratching?" he asked, concerned as he stepped closer, reaching out at Microux's arm.

Quickly, Microux drew himself away from his uncle, suddenly looking up and gazing directly into Henrie's eyes. The sight shook Henrie, Microux never looked anyone in the eyes for any reason, and whenever he did it triggered a fit. It was brief but with his eyes gazing deeply into Henrie's soul, Microux demanded in a calm, flat tone, "Get out!"

Henrie wanted to protest but seeing how firmly Microux wanted it, he resolved that most of the items in this room were already broken, and they belonged to Microux, so he could do with them what he desired, and everything be picked up and cleaned. Henrie heaved a soft sigh, "I'll be back in an hour with your afternoon tea…" he assured as he left.

Microux shook his head, "I'll come, don't come!" he insisted, "tea will be in the study."

Henrie looked back briefly, understanding Microux meant he would come down in an hour for tea in the study as usual, so he honored Microux's word and left, closing the door behind him. Microux waited a moment before locking the door, and now alone again, he rolled up his sleeve and winced. From his arm blossomed a deep red rosebud, its thorns burned his arm but it was so beautiful to him.

He sat down on his bed, reveling in the dark rouge, a kind of happiness coming over him as the pain pulsed in the back recesses of his mind. The blood on his arm reminded him of the drop of blood on the tile, which reminded him of a beautiful fading rose. He felt like these things, his memory, the horrid things he had seen, and the torment he suffered every day, could all fade away if he were to just be like that rose. To be beautiful, strong, and hopeful, and he let himself fade away with no regrets. That kind of outcome seemed most pleasing, and certainly comforting.

Letting it all end this way, healing his heart and spirit, whilst forfeiting his inward quest, seemed an easy route to take, so he took it. Reaching under a coarse blanket, he retrieved from where he had hidden it, a short silver knife, he had used in secret on previous occasions to cut his hair and shave. The Old Clock had stopped him a while back, teaching him how to properly shave, and how to comb his hair rather than suffer in the tangles, however he kept the blade.

Glancing over his shoulder, he brought the knife to his wrist which he normally scratched and pressed the dulled blade into his skin to produce the bright shining rose petal which he had seen on the tile. He tilted his wrist, letting the rose petal drift to the floor and disperse in tiny droplets as a frilling, fragrant flower on the floor. Fading out beautifully, the rose grew deep red and wide spreading out every petal it had, before they each faded away.

Not a sound escaped Microux's room for over an hour as very quietly he learned how to hurt himself in slowly ending his existence. It seemed like a good fate to him and the pain was a deep comfort to him. He would have kept himself locked up in his room, had he not heard the faint but distinct sound of the front door opening from across the house someone entering.

As far as he knew everyone was accounted for, so who was entering now? Curiously, he unlocked his door and peeked out, listening quietly for a few moments. He heard a new voice, one he had never heard before, faintly from the foyer and quickly, he took a red cravat and hurriedly tied it around his left wrist to stifle and hide the bleeding from the Old Clock and the candlestick. Once satisfied, he ran out of his room with even steps, trailing his fingers across the banister as he looked over and made out the candlestick and the Old Clock welcoming in what looked to him, like a girl.

Microux hesitated, leaning against the banister as he peered down at them, and almost the moment that he did, the girl looked back up at him, staring at him directly in the eyes. Microux lost eye contact with her and made out her simple blue dress, seeing from afar she kept her brown hair tied back neatly. He couldn't look at her face without faltering, but she stared up at him for a few moments until she turned her attention to the Old Clock.

"Bienvenu," the Old Clock declared, his blade like hands pointing to three and twenty, "You're just in time for tea." Microux wrinkled his nose, tea was supposed to be at three o'clock exactly, the Old Clock has held off the tea, knowing this visitor was coming. He watched the tea pot cross the hall to the study, followed closely by the candlestick, the doctor, and the girl.

"Microux," the Old Clock addressed gently. Microux made no apparent response, "Will you be coming down for tea?" he wondered in a careful calm tone. The girl looked up to him again hopefully, and Microux again met eyes with her for a brief moment, until he looked away and gave a slight undetectable nod. They did not look back to him as he descended the staircase to the foyer slowly, keeping his gaze on the girl in his house.

As the two visitors reclined about the study whilst Gail served their tea to them, Microux lurked behind them silently, staring at the girl intently. At one point the girl looked up to him with a gentle smile as she stated in kind consideration, "Bonjour, Monsieur Microux, I am Béatrice Dentelle." However, Microux only eyed her skeptically when she spoke and he continued circling the room, stopping at the tea tray, the fireplace, and Béatrice every so often.

The candlestick stared at him the whole time, "Microux? Won't you be polite?" he urged.

Microux shook his head, staring into the deep embers of the fireplace, "She knows my name, I know her name, why should I say more?"

Heaving a sigh, Henrie got up and stepped over to Microux, not touching him but guiding him over to Béatrice, "You should ask her how she is doing?" he suggested, admittedly trying to force Microux to learn certain manners, and it was Henrie's work to teach Microux such things which enabled him to speak, otherwise they assumed he would not have spoken at all.

Microux stared at her, seeing as the girl uneasily sat with her back straight and she was not drinking her tea, "She is too warm, the fire is making this room too hot," he remarked accurately and this startled the girl. Microux knew he was right, but this surprised everyone that he was able to tell just by looking at her. Beauty was not something Microux found in one's face, but in their essence, how they walked, their mood upon entering, and this girl sang to him by the very air she breathed.

She saw no difference in him when she first glanced up to him on the banister, she saw right through him, through the thick layers of his troubled heart and deeply into his green eyes. For just a moment, he could think of her thoughts, her feeling, possibly how she saw him now after a few moments of being around him and he wondered how she would see him if she stayed here longer.

While the Old Clock and the candlestick spoke meaningless things to the doctor, Microux suddenly came out and declared, "Might, Mademoiselle Dentelle enjoy a walk to the gardens?"

The household members stopped about their business and stared silently, the candlestick watched him with firm eyes, the tea set clattered softly, and the Old Clock questioned him, "Why do you suggest this, my boy?"

Microux's eyes drifted past the people he spoke to out the windows, "it is too warm in here, perhaps a walk through the fresh air would—"

"—that would be delightful," Béatrice declared happily, "I would enjoy that," she assured with her eyes deep set in Microux's allowing him to see they were a warm brown, like chocolate, and the shadows about the study.

Microux's eyes fell to the floor again, "the Old Clock will bring you your coat…" he muttered, instructing his grandfather to do so at the same time, "fetch mine as well,"

Charles and Henrie Choixton glared at each other silently for a moment watching Microux gesture Béatrice in a very gentleman-like manner, out of the study and they returned to the foyer. Now a gentleman, would have taken her hand, but Microux had an aversion to human contact which crippled him even now. Henrie grimaced the moment they left the room together, positively shocked, "When does, Microux ever go outsides 'for a walk'?" he shrieked at his father.

Charles sighed, and started after the two of them, all the family and their guest staring at him as he complied to Microux's every wish, "he only ever goes outside when he's crossing the courtyard to the wine cellar," he stated but didn't say more as he left to retrieve warmer garments for the two of them. The gardens at this time of year were not as fanciful as Charles imagined Microux saw them and it was only the cool air he offered to her.

Microux did not have much in the way of winter clothing for he never really left the house, but Charles was able to give Microux some of Henrie's things including a fine gray coat made of black wool. As they walked out of the foyer to the cold, Gerhardt glanced to the Old Clock in wonder, "why would Microux go to the wine cellar?" he puzzled.

Charles tried to keep a calm demeanor as he explained, "He has become attached to the place, that's where we found him fifteen years ago. He goes there often when he is very stressed, though in my opinion it does little to help him."

Gerhardt gathered his own coat, perplexed as he followed them out, "Do you find it likely he will take Béatrice there?" he ask admittedly concerned for his daughter.

"Oui Monsieur…" Henrie breathed frustrated as ever, as he hurriedly slid his arms through the sleeves of his coat to chase after Microux. He grumbled, sometimes wondering if on his good days Microux thought he was master of the household. The snow falling outside was crisp and powdery, Microux walked uncharacteristically slowly, but took time in the courtyard, in and around the dormant gardens to observe and dust off the snow which accumulated on the crumpled leaves and numerous twigs.

The woman at his side gazed down at him with a pleasant smile, tolerant of his incessant stops, yet moving fast enough to warrant distance between him and his lady follower, and the Old Clock and Candlestick which followed. On the far side of the courtyard, Microux gazed down at the iron bars, half hidden by the snow which provided air down in the wine cellar and he turned his eyes upwards at the spire where he slept now and remembered the sight of the fire which haunted him ever still. He brushed such thoughts aside and continued pleasantly, not allowing Béatrice to recognized his distress as he led her towards the entrance with a soft muttering of "this way…"

Gazing ahead at them, Henrie fretted like a child until Microux did something he didn't expect, the boy took Béatrice's hand just as they entered down into the wine cellar. Charles laid a hand on his son's shoulder seeing his jaw drop in disbelief, "there is hope for the boy yet, mon fils, just you wait and see."

At a comfortable pace the teapot her candlestick, the old clock and Gerhardt Dentelle entered down into the wine cellar after the odd pair at their leisure. However, there was an odd silence about the wine cellar, indeed normally when Microux was here he would be screaming and crying, anyone who entered after him risk their health and safety when Microux was in that kind of fit. This time, Microux had a strange gracefulness about him, slow, ghostlike movements, and human contact which was unheard of.

He stopped in front of a portion of the wine cellar, and inaccessible vault, built when the manor was first constructed and virtually indestructible because it was lined with stone. Memories flooded through Microux's thoughts, poisoning his intentions. Béatrice held his hand firmly and looked up into his deep green eyes as they stared into this portion of the cellar, "What's wrong, Monsieur?" They were met by open bars, empty shelves for the most expensive, aged wines, and that one vent, for a little air to reach down into the cellar.

A wide, crusted blood stain still tainted the stone, likewise for the ashes which had never been washed out, the ashes of his handmaiden. Microux's heart raced, his grip on the girl's hand tightening, and his panic driving him to madness. With his other hand, which was covered nearly to his palm with the red cravat, he reached out for the barred door to the vaulted area which had been left ajar. Béatrice winced slightly at his grip about her wrist, "Monsieur Microux, you are hurting me!" she warned in a soft warning.

He paid her no heed, looking over his shoulder, through the wine shelves and directly at his uncle, the fire from years ago, alit in his eyes. Henrie tensed, was the boy doing this out of spite against him? Was all this some kind of revenge? Did Microux hate the candlestick? "Microux!" Henrie shouted suddenly.

Microux snapped and in a second, his grip solidified as a vice and Béatrice cried out softly, now seeing the spite in his eyes. In one swift movement he swung his right arm around and threw the girl into the dungeon cage where he had watched his parents die, followed by his left arm which swung the heavy barred door shut and it latched closed, only to be opened by the key. This key, Microux never let go of under any circumstances.

Béatrice screamed for fear as Microux turned away from her and towards the candlestick who rushed at him, "Microux! What in the Hell are you doing!?" he cried out coming at Microux and trying to take hold of his arms but Microux threw him off, much stronger than he look and Henrie narrowly avoided falling into the rack of wines.

Gerhardt hurried closer but didn't dare get any nearer to Microux for his quick violence, "Microux…" he coaxed, "let her out of there!"

The girl panicked, getting up and grasping the bars, "Father!" she cried, tears forming in her eyes and streaming over her cheeks, "help me, please!"

Gerhardt glanced to his daughter lovingly, "I will, ma chérie, attend," he soothed her fears softly, the look in his eyes curiously, "Microux, please let her out," he asked calmly.

Microux's eyes grew darker, firm and powerful, "No!" he insisted with a growl in his voice.

Gerhardt remained calm even in this, "Why not?" He moved slowly around Microux but the young man blocked his path.

Microux refused to meet eyes with him but stood in front of the bars, panicking and unpredictable, "the voices are never quiet!" he cried out suddenly, "no one ever comes! Only demons come here!" he shrieked at them, "no one ever comes! No one will ever come for her! Not the candlestick, not the Old Clock, not even tea in morning, not for a whole week!" he gripped the bars behind him, "she came…" he whispered, his voice cracking as tears consumed his anger, "no one ever came… but she did." He ran his fingers along the cold iron, "she's no demon, no lie, no… invisible voice! She's here!"

He felt Béatrice touch his hand and he caressed her touch, "she has to know…" he whispered to the doctor, "someone has to know!" he sobbed now, "please, I need to show her…" he whispered ever so softly, not looking at anything but the floor, "let me… please! I won't…" he choked on the words, "hurt her! I want her to know."

Gerhardt's stance loosened and he stood up straight, trying ever so hard to meet eyes with Microux, "I understand," he whispered and looked to his daughter more assumingly, "Attend, ma chérie," he repeated, requesting gently, "can you stay in there a little longer?"

Her eyes grew desperate, but after a moment she nodded, and without a word, Gerhardt walked out slowly, followed by Henrie and Charles. Henrie stifled a shriek as he protested, "Are you mad?! You're going to leave her in there with him?!"

Gerhardt whirled at him with a contorted expression, "do you think I want to!?" he burst, "he locked up my daughter and I can't let him do that!" he raised his voice even though he knew Microux would hate it. Slowly he composed himself as they reached the surface, "however, I believe Microux is getting at something, he clearly doesn't see any of you as human, and he fears me, but he singled her out with his words. I believe he's reaching out to Béatrice. I believe he's going to talk to her, or show her what is truly in his heart. She might be the only way we have of getting through to him, do you see what I mean?"

Charles Choixton frowned deeply at this, "But do you think it is wise?" he muttered, "Microux has stayed down there as long as a week without coming up for warmth or proper sleep."

Henire's hands shook nervously, "We can't let Microux, keep her in there, who knows what he'll do to her!" he insisted.

Gerhardt growled softly in his throat, "I'll get her permission," he whispered, "We'll keep an eye on him, but I want to test this theory." He suggested all this very fearfully, "Maybe, just maybe, Béatrice may be able to heal Microux's fragile mind."

I'm really assuming my rudimentary French, like oui, monsieur, and mademoiselle isn't going to be a problem but just in case:

Bienvenu - Welcome

mon fils - my son

ma chérie - my darling

Attend - wait, hold on

That a couple days of taking French on DuoLingo for the heck of it, I'm pretty proud of it, and I wish I took French in highscool or something.