"Thanks, dad," the boy smiled, "I had fun today." "Well, it's my son's birthday, after all," The blonde man replied, his emerald eyes shone bright with kindness. "Of course it's my duty to make you happy, especially today." A wide grin decorated his handsome face.
Not another minute later, they both heard the voices of many men downstairs, shouting. Feeling alarmed, the father leapt off the bed, ran to the window and looked down. His face immediately changed into that of shock and anger. "Bonnefoy," he hissed through gritted teeth. He ran back to his son and grabbed his hand, "let's go, son," he said, his eyes alert and vicious. "Why? Is Uncle Francis here? Are we meeting him?" the boy asked, oblivious to the changes in his father's composure. His father said nothing, but instead yanked the boy's hand and they were off running towards the staircase. They almost reached the back door when a familiar figure stopped them in their path.
"Hello, Arthur," the man said, pointing the barrel of his gun towards the father and child. "RUN!" Arthur yelled, and pushed his son towards the opposite direction. A deafening bang was heard and the boy stared wide eyed as Arthur stumbled forward, fresh blood gushing out of his left shoulder. The same bullet scratched the boy's right forearm, enough to draw blood and leave a scar. Just before he hit the floor Arthur got back on both feet and turned to another corridor. The second bullet just barely missed him.
They both ran until they reached a hidden door at the side of the mansion. "Go, run to the city and don't stop." Arthur said while panting, right hand pressed on his wound, trying fruitlessly to stop the flow of blood. "No, come with me, dad. You can do it," the boy had started crying, and his small fingers won't let go of his father's sleeve. "You'll be fine, son. Even if I go with you, I won't be able to protect you. It is me that they want. If I stay at least I'll save your life," he said with the best smile he can make. The boy didn't say anything, just sobbing and hiccupping through his tears.
Taking his right hand off his wound and wiped it lightly on his shirt, Arthur gave his son one last hug, and whispered to his ears, "Alfred. Alfred Kirkland. Do not forget your name. You are my one and only beloved son." He pulled out of the embrace, and cupped the boy's face in both hands. "I love you. Now go. Run until you reach the city and don't stop." Alfred nodded, and turned to run with all his might.
After the boy was out of sight, Arthur leaned on the wall and let his body fall down to the floor. "I suppose I must congratulate you eh, Bonnefoy," he sneered with a smirk, his spirit from his delinquent youth returning to him, "for finally taking down the family of Arthur Kirkland. I reckon the rest of the men and women in my house are lying all over the place, dead by your men." He turned back his head, and eyed the figure his son recognized as Uncle Francis. "You won," he said grimly with a chuckle, "after all these years of playing tag." "It seems so," Francis replied darkly.
Arthur let out a sigh. "Well, what are you waiting for, you twat?" he said, as if mocking the other man, "Get on with it, will you. Taking so long just to take a dying man's life, just what I expected of you, bloody frog."
Alfred heard another gun shot. Despite his father's orders, he stopped and looked back, just to find his beloved home engulfed in flames. He clasped both hands over his mouth to stop the scream that was about to come out. Gritting his teeth, he clenched his fist and ran to the city, only stopping when he ran out of strength and collapsed at the side of the road.
.
It was a wonderful morning, and the young couple decided to take a walk around the neighborhood when they saw a small body limped against a tree on the roadside. "Oh dear!" The wife exclaimed and ran to it, her husband following after. She scooted beside the body and examined the little boy. He appeared to be no older than 12 years old, his loose shirt heavily stained with blood, he was barefooted, and numerous scratches and dirt covered his limbs. "Are you alright, boy?" the husband called with concern and shook his shoulders. The boy's eyelids fluttered a bit before he opened his eyes, his gaze hazy and not focused. "Can you hear us?" the young woman held his hand. To their relief, the boy nodded. "What is your name, dear?" The boy's blue eyes landed a dreamy gaze on her. "Alfred," he mumbled, "I'm Alfred."