Chapter Text
“Ow!” Grian winces as he picks himself up from the ground. His cleaning supplies are scattered all over the floor, water from the bucket soaking the carpet and spilling onto the tiles.
It wasn’t his first mishap. He just never managed to get the hang of housekeeping, even when the other servant, Impulse, had personally coached him on how to manage most of the housework, from sweeping the floor, to wiping down the windows, and also setting the cutlery properly.
“Are you doing all right, Grian?”
Offering the poor servant his hand is none other than the witch himself—Scar Goodtime. He wears his usual easy smile, his eyes sparkling. Grian’s heart almost leaps out of his chest, a faint pink dusting his cheeks.
It was well known amongst the witch’s entourage—the eleven other servants—that the head of the house, Scar Goodtime, was a witch. He was able to perform the greatest of healing magics, create the most effective of salves, and perfected even the elixir of longevity.
As successful as he was, Scar wasn’t at all arrogant. He greeted his staff with the brightest smile on his face, walked with a skip in his step, and paid them handsomely. Perhaps that is why Grian found himself drawn to the manor, other than its mysterious air.
“U-Uh, I’m fine.” Grian picks himself up, without Scar’s help, and he dusts himself off, hoping Scar didn’t see his pertinent blush. “I’m sorry for making a mess.”
The other servants have been giving him the stink eye, the cold shoulder, whenever he messes up. Mainly because it means more work for them. Grian knows that that’s what they are thinking. He can sense their disdain, see the look in their eyes, hear the distasteful words they whisper behind his back when they think that he isn’t listening.
“That’s fine. We all make mistakes sometimes,” Scar says, his hands clasped behind his back. “Would you like help cleaning this up?”
Grian shakes his head, perhaps a little too quickly. To ask one of the greatest witches of all time to stoop so low would be an insult to Scar himself. “It’s my mess. I can clean it myself.”
Scar beams. “If you’re sure. Well, I’ll see you at dinnertime, then, Grian?”
Hearing his name rolling off Scar’s tongue sends a zing through Grian’s veins. It feels special, even though he knows that Scar calls everyone else by name. No-one has ever referred to him as anything other than a mangy dog before, and his parents called him things far worse.
Scar strides past him, headed for the library, leaving behind a scent of roses and lemon. He smells good, as he always does. Uses his own brand of perfume, he said. Learning a spot of alchemy to create the best scents, he said.
It’s only when Scar leaves that Grian decides that it’s time to get the carpet changed (even though Impulse just changed it last week), and that he needs to scoop everything up before the head butler starts chewing him out again. But he’s not doing it to not get scolded. He’s doing it for Scar, because he made a mess in this lovely man’s house, and it’s his job to erase the complication for him.
Because Grian would very much walk through fire and brimstone before he lets anything happen to a hair on his master’s head.
*
“You keep staring at him,” Impulse remarks one day in a whisper, as he and Grian sit at the dining table, joining Scar in dinner, along with the other ten servants.
Grian merely hums. No one can possibly understand the devotion that he holds towards this magnificent man. Who else would take in a mangy dog like himself and give him the luxury of working in this lavish mansion? Who else would treat him like a proper human being, instead of a feral beast, like everyone does?
The meal was had in mostly silence, with only the clinking of silverware to keep them company. The herbs in the salad are bitter, but easily covered by the tangy dressing. The chicken is tender, the skin crispy. The potatoes are sauteed and sprinkled with thyme, flakes of green dusting its golden flesh.
It’s rare for a member of aristocracy to invite their servants to sit with them and share their meal. For Scar to humble himself to this degree, it truly warms Grian’s heart. It tells him, irrevocably, that Scar is not like other aristocrats. He is one of a kind.
It has only been a week since Grian’s met him, but he has already decided that he would die for the man. He would give everything to him, bring him up like the great witch that he is, and protect him till his own life is snuffed out.
That, Grian promises himself.
*
It was the middle of the night when there was a knock on the door. Thunder clapped and the rain came down in sheets. Grian slept the nearest to the door, and so he was awakened first. Peeling himself off the bed, he made his way to the entrance and pulled open the heavy, hardwood door.
Water splashes in immediately, drenching the welcome mat. Standing out in the rain is a bearded man, his clothes soggy, droplets rolling down his face. On his back is a young boy, his frail body shivering and dressed in rags.
Immediately, Grian wants to turn them away, tell them to come back tomorrow in a more presentable fashion. They shouldn’t be sullying the halls and floor of the mansion where Scar lives.
Grian opens his mouth to speak, but he is interrupted by a booming voice behind him.
“What do we have here?” Descending the stairs is none other than Scar himself, still clad in his nightgown, a lantern dangling from his hand. The flame flickers in the dark, illuminating the main hall.
“P-Please,” the man sobs weakly. “It’s my son. He’s—”
“Bring him in, Grian. Show him to the guest room,” Scar says.
“But…” Grian starts, but he catches the sparkle in Scar’s stern eyes. He sighs, and he turns to the man, as Scar strides towards his room that is a trove of medicine. “Come with me.”
“Thank you so much,” the man chokes out. “Thank you!”
He should be kowtowing at Scar’s feet. Scar decided to take him in amidst the downpour, when the moon is high, when he should be getting his beauty sleep. All out of the goodness of his heart.
The man drips all over the floor, on the carpets and tiles, leaving muddy footprints where he steps. Grian, as per Scar’s instructions, lead him up to one of their many guest rooms, and the man lays the pale boy down on the bed. The boy’s breathing is ragged, and his foot is twisted in an odd angle. His skin is hot to the touch.
Scar joins them shortly with a vial containing a blue liquid. He approaches the boy, and he squints at the boy’s face.
“It seems that he’s suffering from a fever,” Scar concludes. “I have some medicine for that here to reduce the heat that his body is producing. Grian, could you pour a glass of water for the boy?”
Grian bows his head, and he utters a, “Yes, sir.” He scurries off out of the room, headed for the kitchen. He’s not quite keen on leaving Scar a lone with these strangers. They could be feigning their sick-child act to gain access to the mansion and hurt—
He almost trips on his way back and drops the glass of water, his worry for his master’s safety overwhelming his senses. When he finally returns to the room, he sees Scar with the boy’s foot in his hand, a whitish glow emanating from his fingers. The boy’s ankle twists back to its original angle, as though it was never sprained in the first place.
Some may consider it grotesque, the way the flesh squelched and the bones cracked, but Grian finds it beautiful. To be able to heal someone with a slight touch, and to render the body useful again… it truly is a thing of beauty. And the possessor of such a magic, even more so.
The boy remains asleep, as though he has not felt any pain at all. The man falls to his knees, and thanks and words of gratitude stream from his mouth, calling Scar a divine miracle. That puts a self-serving smirk on Grian’s face. Indeed, this is the sort of respect that plebians like themselves should show his master.
“I’m not done yet,” Scar says. “His physical body may have recovered, but internally, he’s still waging a war.” He holds a hand out to Grian, his gaze trained on the boy. “The water, please.”
Grian hands it to him, and Scar uncorks his vial. He pours the viscous liquid into the glass, the blue colouring the clear water, before feeding it to the boy ever so gently. Though unconscious, the boy swallows the medicine—at least, half the cup—before laying back down to rest.
“This should lower his body temperature and also ease the pain,” Scar says, turning to the man. “Bedrest is absolutely necessary for several days, and for a child, he would need to take this potion three times a day, till his condition improves.”
“I see.” The man nods. “Would I be able to… perhaps, purchase the potion—”
Scar smiles. “Purchase? It’s unbecoming of me if I were to ask for payment, my good sir. My payment is knowing that I can alleviate your suffering, even if it’s just a little.”
Of course, Scar would be so compassionate. He always has been, even to people far below him.
“Feel free to rest till the morning,” Scar says, before cupping his mouth and yawning. “It’s dangerous out there in the woods. Wouldn’t want to sprain your ankle again.” He turns to Grian. “Do bring out a spare mattress for Mr Cub, Grian.”
With that, Scar leaves the room. Wordlessly, Grian stalks over to the closet and opens it, scrunching his nose up at the musty smell. He drags out the thick mattress, before laying it down beside the guest bed. The man—Cub, apparently—merely watches from the side, fidgeting restlessly with his hands.
Grian then leaves the room, eyes widening in surprise when he sees Scar standing just outside. Heat rises in Grian’s cheeks as he meets Scar’s soft gaze.
“You look stressed,” Scar says. “Are you doing all right?”
Grian ducks his head and averts his gaze, hoping that Scar didn’t see it. “I’m doing fine. There’s no need to concern yourself with me.”
Scar chuckles. “I’d be naturally concerned. I care about you, after all.”
Grian blushes even more deeply, the red tinging the tips of his ears. He knows, deep down, that Scar cares for each one of his servants equally, but he still can’t help but hope. Hope that the words coming out of Scar’s mouth may one day be meant only for…
“I’m doing fine,” Grian says quietly. “I-I must go.”
With that, he scurries off. Once he’s back in his quarters, he slams the door, his back pressed up against the hard wood. Grian’s breaths are heavy, his head spinning, his heart beating out of his chest. Even as he flops into bed, his cheek squashed against his pillow, he still can’t stop thinking about their interaction. A personal, one-on-one interaction, that is.
When the sun rises after the storm, shining its light upon the world, Grian hardly got a wink of sleep all night.
*
“Be safe on your way out. The roads are less treacherous during the day, but you have to watch out for the odd root,” Scar says, as he stands by the door, seeing Cub and his son off. Cub bids him a hearty farewell, before he and his son head off into the woods.
Grian glares at their backs as they leave. Good riddance.
“What’s with that sour face?” Scar asks, peering over at him.
“They gave you nothing in return for your service,” Grian says. “You healed them with your magic, and they took it and left.”
Scar nods. “They were happy, and that’s all that matters. This is why I learned magic in the first place. It’s so that I can help people when they need it.”
Grian’s frowns. It may be a noble cause, but Scar could be taken advantage of so easily.
“Anyway, shall we take a walk by the shore to lift those spirits?” Scar says, already taking a step out of his mansion, and he offers Grian a hand.
“But I’m not done with my duties yet.”
“Tango can handle them,” Scar says, his arm still held out for Grian to take. “Think of this as an order, Grian.”
Grian bites his lip, still apprehensive of it, but one look at Scar’s bright smile, and he’s sold.
The shore is not far from the mansion, a short trek past an overgrown path. The beach is so secluded that it’s as good as private, with the waves rolling and washing quietly on the beach. Grian and Scar walk along the water, the former trailing behind the latter.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Scar says, as he gazes out to the horizon, where the sun is resting on the line between sky and sea. “Reminds me of the day when I found you.”
Grian nods. It was on a day like this, late in the evening, when Scar found him covered in bruises and gashes, beat up by the owner of a house whose trash he’s been going through in search of food. Scar healed him right up, and upon learning of his situation, offered Grian a place in his mansion.
Grian didn’t have it in him to refuse. Scar was a beautiful man, and his charisma overpowering. Grian found himself drawn to him, his mouth uttering words of acceptance even before his brain even caught up with what he’s doing.
“Shall we dance?” Scar says, his hands behind his back, as he turns to face Grian. “A simple waltz by the ocean?”
“On this sand?”
“Why not?”
Grian worries his bottom lip between his teeth. Why not, indeed?
He takes Scar’s hand, and they dance.
Scar guides him, his confidence enough for the both of them. It’s strange to dance without music, and Grian steps on his toes once or twice, but he finds himself laughing with joy at the end of it.
Never before has he felt so carefree, twirling and swaying by the beach, with the man he swore to devote his life to.
Scar’s smile never leaves his face, contentedness rolling off him in waves as he and Grian wrap up their dance. The sun sinks just below the horizon, its orange rays bathing them with a warm glow. With a snap of his fingers, Scar sends small fireworks into the sky, powder scattering around them, a magical sight in the dark of the night.
Grian stares up at the display in wonder. He’d never get bored of seeing it, the sheer number of things that magic can do. Perhaps that is why he was attracted to Scar in the first place.
But it is from this moment forth that he knows that he’d never leave the mansion. He’d never leave Scar.