Clemency for One
A/N: Hi. I have a really good vibe going with this story. I'm kinda not sure where it's going to go yet, so just bear with me. If you hate it, tough cookies- don't read it. Please review.
Prologue: Nostalgia
A tall figure swaddled in black robes sat stood in the empty streets of Stratford-upon-Avon. The black hood disguised his identity, in case anyone noticed him. He knew it was very strange to see a man standing in front of a house in the middle of the night, so he decided not to linger long.
The man read the golden numbers on the side of the house – 421. 421 Heathrow Lane in the Shakespearean town of Stratford-upon-Avon was so familiar. The man could smell the infamous roses that no doubt still snaked up the fence in the garden. The roses in the front yard were as large as his hand. They brought back so many memories.
With a flick of his wand, the door opened without complaint. The house was dark and three years worth of dust covered the white sheets that concealed the furniture. The man moved past these ghosts and found the simple staircase.
Although he was very fit, the man found it very hard to climb up these steps. His breath became short and he felt slightly dizzy. However, he knew it wasn't because of the climb. It was the task that he had come to perform.
Two doors down to the left- get in, get out. The man entered the second room and memories assaulted his mind. With a wave of his wand, he lit the old-fashioned gas lamps and the room was flooded with light.
It was a rather plain room- a bed, dresser/vanity and a well-used and well-loved desk. Books overflowed from drawers and shelves. The armoire held novels and biographies instead of clothes. The man couldn't help but smile at this- that was before he saw it.
A book rested on the desktop. It was about the size of a normal diary and covered with a jacket of black leather. A quill and inkpot were draped in cobwebs nearby. Peculiarly, the book looked untouched by dust.
The man picked up the book and brought it back downstairs, leaving the memories behind in the room. He put out the lamps and lit the ones downstairs very softly. He didn't want to attract suspicion. The man dusted off the old armchair and sat in it with the book in his hands.
His long white fingers looked even paler settled on the black cover. The man opened the book and read the script that was written on the cover page:
The Diary of Rebecca Collins:
Poetic Witch and Raving Lunatic
He couldn't help but smile at the self-description. It's just like her, he thought. He opened the book to the page last marked. Eerily, it was marked on September 1st of Rebecca Collins's sixth year. That was the year that they had first met- the year when their paths had a mix up with Fate, who was dangling their futures by two fingers.
With a deep breath, he settled into the chair more comfortably and began to read…
A/N: well, that's all for now. I hope you like it. Remember, please be patient with me- I have no idea where this is going to go right now. Just trust my instincts, por favor. Till next time.