He'd broken another mirror.

Frey stared into the few shards left in the frame, his own scream still echoing in his ears, and his expression having gone from fury to shock as soon as it had shattered.

Why was he shocked? It had happened before. Never intentionally, but just a part of his life, like any other time his emotions had gotten the best of him.

He glanced towards the door. No one would bother to show up, asking what had happened and if he was alright. Not that he wanted them to.

He was at least fairly certain he didn't want them to.

His hands trembled as he looked down at the remains of a white, flowery vase that was no better off than the mirror it had collided with. Someone would have to show up eventually because of that. The floor was no place for sharp pieces of glass, which Frey was well aware of by now. Storming thoughts and muscle spasms didn't mix well with unsafe environments.

And those who cleaned it up would talk, just like he knew they did whenever these things happened.

Of course, a servant's whisper meant nothing to him. He held no regard for their opinions, so they could gossip all they wanted about the cleaning they had to do. They could gossip until they dropped for all he cared, but he had a nagging suspicion that it was spreading. For some reason, people from his social class still listened to their servants. They couldn't consider what they heard as facts, but with the same words thrown around again and again, it was hard to think nothing of it.

And sweet, charming Lord Clausson was not supposed to scream and break things in frustration and despair on a regular basis.

"Screw them," he whispered under his breath while wiping tears from his cheeks, hand instantly retracting as he brushed against the scar.

That archon forsaken scar.

His mind was thrown into tumult again, and he clenched his fists hard to stop them from convulsing. He had to. It made him look bad. His father had told him so many times.

A whimper escaped him, and he sank down on the floor where he pressed his forehead against his knees.

"Stop it," he reminded himself, voice weak and pleading as he began swaying from side to side. "Calm down. It's just a vase. Just a mirror. Just— Just a... Scar."

Another whimper, and he slammed his open palm against the floor with a growl.

"Stop. Shaking!" He struck it down repeatedly, fully aware of the glass invading his skin, but he couldn't stop. "Nothing's happened! Nothing's new! It's healed! It's been there for a year! He— He's already been gone for a year!"

His voice cracked, and he broke down into sobs again just as the door was opened and a hand grabbed his wrist.

Silence ensued as his body tensed up, and remorse engulfed him when his thoughts fell into place.

"... I just...Don't like floral vases," he mumbled, turning his head to look away while Damien examined his hand.

"We'll find one with another pattern."

"Perhaps vases just aren't my thing, when I think about it."

"They're inconvenient projectiles, that's for certain." Damien carefully placed Frey's hand down and stood up from the floor. "I'll have someone come take a look at your hand."

He didn't leave immediately though and Frey could guess that he was staring at him, perhaps waiting for an explanation, or some kind of acknowledgement of what just happened, but Frey wouldn't have it. Instead he nodded to confirm that he'd heard him, and that was it.

Damien lingered a little longer still, but he knew Frey well enough to realise when he wouldn't get anywhere with him, so he finally left with a sigh.

Frey's limbs still twitched as he carefully made his way to a chair. He felt heavy, and tired. Having some doctor he barely knew come into his room and touch his hand was not what he needed. He just wanted to be alone.

Finally managing to inhale a deep breath, he looked down at his hand.

At least those wounds always healed, and faded. There was the occasional thin, white line here and there, but his pale complexion worked in his favour, and they were hardly noticeable. Not like the one on his cheek. Red, jagged and large, accompanied by a chunk of his ear missing, and unnoticed by no one.

He didn't say anything when the doctor arrived. He just held out his hand and turned his gaze away, avoiding eye contact but pretending to simply not care much for the company.

"For what it's worth, Lord Clausson, it's looked worse before," the doctor commented, as if that was something that would comfort Frey. "Just leave the bandage be and don't scratch it, as usual."

Frey's mouth twitched as his only response, and the doctor nodded, knowing it was the only hint of gratitude he would receive.

"If you'll excuse me then, Lord Clausson."

A couple of minutes were allowed to pass while Frey waited for the doctor to have left properly, then he got up to leave as well. He had no intention of staying in a room full of glass, nor was he in the mood for interacting with servants.

To anyone who saw him, he walked with purpose, but it was far from the truth. He had no idea what to do with himself. He was too shaken to go to the stables, especially with that uppity, new stable boy around. Frey would learn how to deal with him later, but not in the state he was in at the moment.

He paused by the doorway to the piano room. It had been a while, and playing helped to calm him down sometimes. The piano had even been positioned so Frey's back faced the wall, making him feel less vulnerable, and it had been decided beforehand that any time Frey was in the piano room, no one was to disturb him.

The room had still not been struck by daylight completely. Rays had found their way through the multiple windows in the corridor outside, but it was not enough to light up the room properly. Frey could still see, somewhat, and his muscle memory served him well when it concerned instruments, so he didn't mind. If anything, he preferred darker, quieter places most of the time.

Tracing his good hand along the keys, his mind eased up enough for him to smile softly, and he sat down. It didn't take long for the injury to make itself known, and Frey bit his lip as the small cuts burned on impact with the cold piano. No bandage could prevent that.

He could still play. He could adjust his technique to make it less painful, but it bothered him. It was unfair. He hadn't meant to hurt his hand like that. With few ideas of where to go though, Frey decided to stay. It required some additional practice of course, but he soon got used to the new approach to familiar melodies and closed his eyes to let the music embrace him completely. He'd played the songs countless times, so sight was not a necessity.

Then a sunbeam hit his eye, and he blinked in confusion. It had moved that far already? How long had he been there? How many songs had he played? While distracting his mind had indeed been his intention, he'd gotten completely lost in the music, and he looked up to find a clock. Only to find an unwelcome audience, and he involuntarily pressed the keys down hard as he jumped.

"Apologies," the stable boy, whose name Frey had already discarded from his memory, said from where he stood in the doorway. "I didn't mean to startle you, I just... Wanted to listen for a bit. You play beautifully. Also, were your eyes closed sometimes?"

Frey's wide eyes were overflowing with distress, not just because of the sudden presence but also because of the pain in his ears from the horrid sound the piano had emitted.

He couldn't show that kind of weakness though.

"I was under the impression outside servants were supposed to be outside."

"That's an understandable thought." The stable boy nodded with that frustrating grin and pointed to the basket he was holding. "I was just picking up overripe apples from the kitchen and then I heard you play, and then I ended up here."

"Well, I trust you can find your way out on your own." Frey stood up to fetch a piece of sheet music from the cabinet nearby, and the stable boy leaned to the side to get a better look at the piano.

"You played all that without looking at something?" His eyebrows shot up. "That's incredible! How do you do that?"

Frey spared him a reluctant glance as he sat down again. He rarely talked to the staff unless he had to, and he certainly didn't have to at the moment.

So why did he find the need to reply?

"Practice." He was determined to not be friendly, however. "I'm assuming you don't know how to play."

"I don't," the unfortunately charming man admitted. "But I reckon even if I did, I'd find your skills admirable."

Frey fixed his gaze on the sheet music and locked away his emotions before he could feel flattered.

"An odd thing to assume when you can't play at all."

"I suppose..." The stable boy shrugged, and then he paused. "... Wait, what happened to your hand?"

Frey tensed up, giving the man only a brief enough look to notice his wrinkled forehead.

"Nothing you need to concern yourself with."

"I just thought—"

"Marius!" A lady Frey recognized as one of the chambermaids appeared in the doorway as well only to shove the stable boy, whose name Frey now vaguely remembered, away. "Lord Clausson must not be disturbed, especially not in there!"

"Oh, I didn't know. My apolog—" Marius looked inside again with an apologetic smile but was shoved away again.

"Hurry now." The chambermaid pushed him forward, and Frey was finally left alone again.

It didn't sit right with him. Why had he humoured that man with small talk? He didn't like small talk. He only talked if it was beneficial in some way. The chambermaid had acted correctly. No one was supposed to disturb him. Certainly not people like them.

The stable boy would learn though. He'd hear the other servants' whispers, realising what kind of person Frey was, and in the end he'd just be another one of them. Whispers and all.

Frey didn't like that thought at all, but he wasn't sure why. He didn't care about what servants said about him, he had to remind himself. That went for all servants.

He shook his head, regretting his hospitality. He couldn't give the stable boy the idea that they could engage in friendly conversations. The sooner they both acknowledged that, the better.