Author's Note: Well, I don't quite know what to say. My fandoms just keep growing; I'm not sure what I can do to control my many obsessions. I think being a nerd is inherent in my genes. :)
This is my first published Kuroshitsuji oneshot, and, if any of my other readers try this one out, their reaction will probably be: "You could have been updating 'The Lightning Bud' or 'In Memory'...and instead you wasted time on this?" I should explain a little bit, I guess, but the best I can say is that I'm trying out my rather new style of writing, and I'm trying to get a good grasp on it. I might remove this story later, but for now it will suffice.
Well, Enjoy!
Song: Twa Corbies by Damh the Bard watch?v=M77zcwXJXcI&feature=related (creepiest folk song ever)
That Boy, Throwing Stones
When he was very young, Charles Linley learned not to throw stones at crows.
He happened upon this new life rule the day after his eighth birthday, as he was wandering in a park on the outskirts of London. He had always been told that a single crow, all alone in your line of sight, was a bad omen, and so he had thought nothing of picking up a stone now and then and throwing it at any black bird that was perched nearby. He did so on this day, the first day of summer.
He had been thrilled to find warm air and sunshine when he looked outside his window, and he had begged to be let out for a stroll in the park. His guardian had agreed, somewhat reluctantly; Brenton was not overly fond of sun, or the outside, or morning strolls, but he did have a habit of allowing his young charge to indulge in childish whims. Charles had chattered all the way to the park, wearing out his guardian's ears, and had immediately run off to follow a path near his favorite statue of a distinguished knight on his horse.
Charles had passed by the statue without much thought, but he paused when he heard a hoarse croak emit from the knight's head. Turning back, the boy looked up at the stone man. There, resting atop the mighty knight's helmet, sat a large, black crow. The dark creature ruffled its feathers, and Charles noticed that they were blacker than coal. He wondered if they were blacker than midnight, by the way they seemed to trap the sunlight in their plumage.
The crow let out another grating cah-caw. Charles had the strange urge to look away as it wrenched its neck around to stare down at him, its claws shifting on the worn stone helmet. "R-rack!" The bird cried, and blinked its dark red eye.
"Well, the same to you," Charles said, stooping to work loose a cracked piece of pavement. Having spent many an hour skipping stones on a pond, the boy could judge the weight and impact of an object fairly well; he knew the piece of brick in his hand was the perfect size to scare off a creepy old crow. "Take this, you bad omen!" Charles said, and pulled back his arm to deliver a solid fling.
"Master Charles!"
Charles froze automatically at his guardian's harsh tone, and as he did, the crow flew off with a final shout. From its tone, Charles could have sworn the bird was laughing. However, he knew he had bigger problems than a pesky crow. He had angered his guardian, once again.
Brenton had found him, and he did not look pleased. "Please, explain to me why you thought you needed to run away from me for the seventeenth time this week, Young Master Charles?"
"I didn't run away," Charles protested. "I was just taking a walk, and you're too slow to keep up."
"Indeed," Brenton said dryly, placing a hand on his hip. "I would not be so slow if you did not exercise my legs so much in chasing you all over London, Young Master."
"You ought to keep up, you know," Charles said, with a skeptical frown. "You're only a few years older than me, Brenton. You should try to take the air more often."
Brenton did not answer right away. Instead, he put his other hand to his head and slid his fingers through his hair. Charles had always been fascinated by Brenton's hair; it was a startling, ashy gray color. When Brenton had first come to the Linley mansion, Charles had been only five years old. He had asked to touch the new servant's hair, and Charles's father had forbidden his son to do anything of the sort.
Now, three years later, Charles watched his guardian pat the silvery strands into place with the same curiosity, but he ignored it in favor of a more pressing issue. "Why did you speak so harshly to me, Brenton?" he asked, bewildered. "I wasn't doing anything wrong, was I?"
Brenton cast a glance at the statue of the knight and made an odd, scoffing noise. "Yes, Young Master, you were. It is heartily wrong for little boys such a yourself to throw stones at crows."
"But, why?"
"Because crows are beautiful things, in their own way, Young Master," Brenton said. "You have to learn to admire them. Besides, throwing stones is offensive to anyone, and, if you ruffle their feathers enough, they can be terribly cruel."
"Cruel? A bird can be cruel, Brenton?"
"Oh, yes." Brenton tilted his face back to part his hair, exposing his most startling accessory: a black silk patch over his right eye. Charles gave a slight shudder at the sight. Despite his age and gender, he had never been eager to touch that part of his caretaker. To him, the patch was too private, too shameful; such an article of clothing could only come from an accident, and he knew he would upset Brenton terribly if he ever asked about its presence on the young man's face. Yet, now, Brenton seemed at ease with the morbid item.
"I would hate for a bird such as that to peck out one of your eyes, too, Young Master," Brenton said, and tapped the patch for emphasis. Yet, as he said it, he brought the edges of his lips into a thin smile.
"Blimey," said Charles, quite at a loss for what else to say.
"Do not be so vulgar, Master Charles," Brenton said.
Charles ignored the reprimand and stared up at the sky, hoping to catch the flash of black feathers from a lone crow. "You know, Brenton," he said, "I almost think that crow's feathers are blacker than your uniform."
"Indeed?" Brenton asked, tugging at the sleeves of his ebony suit. "I should think that his shade and mine are two different sides to the same color, Young Master," the servant said, and pulled out his pair of white gloves. "Now, come; I believe that Lady Linley is awaiting your presence at lunch."
"Lunch is always so boring," Charlies sighed, but took the gloved hand and walked away, leaving the stone knight alone. The young man known as Brenton Ashwood led his young charge away, while high above him, a winged, black shadow crossed the bowed head of little Charles Linley.