Hi everyone! I hope you like my fanfiction! Thank you so much for all taking the time to read this! I hope you all enjoy it! Warning: Story contains boyxboy, violence, murder, death, mentions of abuse and ratings may be turned up at a later time.
"And when we fall, we fall so slow, and when we rise, we stand alone. For we the men will call our cry, for watch us all, die tonight-" The chorus of voices grows louder and more steady carrying out onto the cobblestone street outside where a horse and carriage slowly pulls up along side an awaiting pair of guards.
It was like an onyx and black star dropped into the cold and harsh light of the pouring rain. The great stallion at the front stands solitary and quiet, only it's great inhaling of breath giving sign that it was still as wild as the day it had been brought up.
The carriage door slid open with but barely that of the noise like a pin drop, gliding swiftly on it's hinges to reveal a figure cloaked in black. The silk of their outfit was wrapped around them, sparing any form, feature or detail that may have risen to the naked eye, but only revealing the hardened and dark black stare of two cold orbs in the dark of the night. A pearly grin spreads slowly across their face with the glistening white of their teeth, the figure steps from their carriage, sweeping into the black night and across towards the warmly lit doorway in front of them. Still a dark shadow as harsh and cold as anything in the night.
They pause for a minute however in the doorway, slowly turning eyes back along the row of great buildings in their dim light of the evening. The sky above a blanket of fractures clouds with a multitude and row of scars revealing the stars and their shinning beauty behind that great cold cover. The air was harsh, bellowing towards the figure's hood as they stood there staring across London laid before them.
The greatest known city in England, known so much for it's great trade, it's power, the main power centre of the great country of England. Here it was at the height of it's power in front of the figure.
Friday December 14th 1889.
London town recently hit by such a drastic event that even had drawn the cloaked figure's attention.
It was the start of a very steep and sloping path that could have led off in any and all direction. The entertainment value completely priceless! Still this developing town had come across it's greatest fight that it would see for the next sixteen years. This would turn out to be the most delicious meal! This would be something that the next decade wouldn't be able to forget! For all that fast paced transformation that would come, this would last. This would be talked about for over the next hundred years!
The figure grinned even colder. This would be paradise.
Adults always tell their children that there are no such thing as monsters: There's no such thing as the darkness that is under the bed, there's none of the shadows that lurk in the corners of rooms or that pass by your window. The thing banging against your window in the zenith of a storm in the pale of the harsh moonlight is only a tree branch.
Parents are such good liars. They lie so well that eventually even they come to believe their own truths.
It is quite powerful how self belief can fuel someone. Belief that they are not in a world where they are the most powerful. A world where they are ants beneath people's feet. Humans... they are the smallest of creations. The think that they are supreme? Well there's just one problem with that.
There are creatures. Creatures that walk the surface of this world. Belonging not to the light as humans do, but to the darkness. These people are often made into legends or myths. As humans moved on with modernising civilisation they forgot the old ways. They forgot that monster was but simply a two syllable word that described a person who did not fit into the expectations or norms of society.
'Humans' forgot that those 'monsters' are why they crawled into shelter from the darkness.
The singing of drunken chorus voice's bursts out into laughter as they power and joy hammered men laughed with each other, forgetting all that had built them in each other's company. The figure smirked slightly taking their place inside the doorway and making their way to where they had been summoned to.
"Another poor lass bites the dust! Oh where now will we find someone to open their legs!" One chuckles, with a grin, stumbling over as his friends laughed. "Oh I know! On the next street corner!" They roar with laughter while staggering past and into the building.
A group of men, as wild as the day in their youths when they had realised the supreme power of their country was theirs to own and wield as they wished to.
They filed into the building and up the corridors, through the winding walls of expensive and lavish taste. The great golden painted walls with their deep oak and wooden borders. Oh to see the great cabinet of the parliament that sat in the heart of London! The true seat of power next to that of the throne! Great tapestries of crimson draped with incredible azure's! The soft material as rich and fine as money could buy!
Paintings of great bloody battles, of heroes of wars and of men standing victory were placed with almost reverence around the walls. Great painting of patron heroes! Men who had gone out and killed, yet because they were killing others it wasn't as bad because it was all in servitude to the country. But really, what made one murderer truly different from another?
But here they sat in their small room as more gathered along the great length of the mahogany table which stretched the length. Each took their seats with their voices coming to a more controlled and hushed tone.
Each of them dressed up in immaculate uniform of red and gold shoulder bristles. Looking like gods among men when really they were all but the tiniest that the world had to offer. Nothing more than men made up of expensive cloth, money and blood that was spilled over their hands. All well groomed with swept back hair and carefully hardened eyes.
"Gentlemen." The last man to enter the room had a face as though it was cut from stone. Hardened and more stronger than diamond. His eyes were a muddy brown, looking like the ditches he had spent so many time fighting and defending himself in. Not a speck stood out on his uniform, not a single crease showed. His black trousers were ironed and gleamed a midnight black. His awards glistened in the light with a pinned pride to his chest. The gold trim around his torso for his coat shined as though the very precious metal itself had been put into thread.
In the warm light of the room his pale skin stood out distinctly amongst his men. His facial hair neatly tripped along the sharp of his chin while carrying the fresh smell of a pampered shave. His black hair was neatly combed back under his hat that he kept to his side, under his arm. His ears pointed out slightly while his eyes and shoulders were set so tensely that it was easy to show the heavy burden which seemed to be set on the pale man's shoulders.
"Captain Jones!" One man stood so suddenly he nearly knocked his pistol free of it's holster at his waist.
All men there were still secured with their swords, with the recent events and revealed current events of the town, it was not possible that all of them, even here at Ten Downing street, did the men feel at ease. If anything, from being ordered here a few strokes of the hours before dawn so suddenly, in the middle of the night, each of them called to be a representatives as the highest ranking soldier to her majesty's kingdom and as the core strength of the country.
"At ease." The captain sighed, slowly taking hold of the large silver cylinder that had been placed into his palm upon entering the great house of power in London. His eyes looking tired and ancient on the face of the middle aged man. Even now he sat regal and perfect in his posture and pose, more disciplined and trained, not allowing himself a moment's ease like his men did.
Especially not now.
His fingers trembled with an invisible faintness as he slid the lid free of the cylinder and slowly pulled the scrolled contents of paper free from the metal casing, reaching to his pocket for a minute to glance through his glasses, his eyes taking in the words with a slow and dedicated awareness. Reading the same sentence over and over in each line to make sure that all contents were clear in their tone and intent. His face was solemn and his gaze careful, the words were not the first time that he had spoken them, but all the same he had never thought he would have to speak of them on home soil. "Gentlemen, we are at war."
Immediately every man slid any gesture of divided attention free from their faces as they all turned to stare at Captain Jones while he slowly plucked his glasses free of his face.
All of the eight or so men that had gathered in there set there jaws tight, their eyes locked onto their leader, the man who had fought a war almost single handedly. The man who they had all been taught to respect and understand for his extent of power, was now grim faced and set slightly pale as he tapped his fingers across the desk for a minute. His eyes gazing back over the sight of the worn and damaged piece of parchment.
Clearing his clearing his deep voice spoke out with a mighty and demanding authoritative presence. "Ten minutes ago it was reported that a body was found in the Thames. The victim, who is yet to be identified, was found murdered on banks." Captain Jones glanced down at pile of papers, sketches and reports that had been handed to him, he now drummed his fingers against the leather of the placing in front of him as he took in the sight of the sketch then slowly handed it around the table. "I must warn you gentlemen, this is not a sight that many of you have seen before." He warned, as he watched the first man take hold of the sheet of paper.
The artist's rendition was always incredibly detailed, after all, it wasn't that often that these men joined in conference at such an urgent time. But now each of them paused for a second in turn as they took the piece of paper, staring in horror at the artist's recording of the image on the paper, but not quite understanding exactly what it was that made this a calling of war.
The woman on the paper was as bare as the day that god had seen it fit to bring her into this world, her hair captured in a moment of tangled mess, threaded with details of it's caught clumps. Her face contorted in a mid scream, her left eye hidden behind a long flown lock of hair, but the one that was open was the definition of fear struck.
The moment was there, frozen as though each man who gazed at the sheet of paper, felt as though they was stood there over the woman. The intricate and caught detail spread across varying sheets of paper, some which captured more close up caught parts of the image.
Her throat; slit from ear to ear, blood poured from the great gap while the detail of captures bone nearly sheered through the skin itself. The detail was absolute, caught and having to be perfect. Exaggeration was not permitted as subtlety wasn't. For this meeting, every detail had to be perfect from what had been caught out there.
But what truly made each man sick to their stomach was as each were forced to take their turn to gaze upon the woman's torso. Slit from abdomen to chest and stretched open. The details of jagged flesh and bone were clear and as sickening to see as the detail of captured pooling organs was. Notes were jotted into the side of each image, but no man in that room paid attention to it. They all just stared at these horrible captures of a woman who looked as though she had been butchered no better than a pig or a cow.
Captain Jones took a minute to reach out for his glass on the table, now filled with a small shot of whiskey from a nearby cannister. A mild tremble filled up and down his spine as he found himself unable to keep one eye off of the sickening images. "The woman's was a prostitute."
"What, did she spread her legs a little to wide, or was it just too much for her to handle." One soldier joked, earning a couple of small chuckles from some of the others before the Captain slammed his hand down on the table, like a Judge's gavel, bringing his men into silence.
"You would speak ill of the dead?" The captain asked in a monotone voice, shaking his head.
The soldier cleared his throat awkwardly at being called out by his captain, but the stronger man just stared down at his soldier shaking his head slowly. "It is reported she was found by two men, you will each find a copy of constable Neil's report." The Captain took a slow and burning taste from his drink, the fire coursing through him as he looked down at images, report and letter which had been left to him.
"Permission to speak sir?" A young blond soldier requested, getting his permission granted as the Captain gave a slightly raise of his palm and a nod of his head. "I don't understand-" The blond man looked over the reviewing details, looking pale and sick at the disgusting and unfortunate exact detail which was being pressed into his mind by both written word and images of this woman with half her torso cut open, butchered and mutilate and her throat slit. "How does this count as a call to war?"
"Good question, son." The captain stated, easing up a bit on his formality as he addressed with his deep and owning voice, though the hint of exhaustion and disgust inside of it was impossible to avoid. "This is not the first of the murders that we have come across like this, but unfortunately it seems that this one has reached public ear before we could clean up."
Each man became suddenly far more alert had that even been more possible.
"Clean up sir?"
"Two other bodies were found earlier this year, but it seems that the... brutality of this one has caused it to spread like wild fire. We have separated ourselves from the police to leave them to their own investigation while ours has seemed to begun. The stories are already being printed with every detail. This mess has just been planted at my feet and I want it cleaned up and sorted." The Captain sighed as he placed the paper down onto the table, lacing his fingers and resting his chin onto his hands. "Especially before I get another one of these." The man stated coldly, throwing out the last piece of paper across the table.
Each man paused, glancing at each other, more than openly hesitant after having already witness such as they had. None of them wanted to see what could have unnerved their captain to such an extent as it seemed to have.
But eventually, the young blond soldier took up the piece of paper and found he had to stop himself as he stared at the still wet parchment in it's crimson font. The script careful and elegant but the words themselves stank of metal which free'd itself like the teasing perfume aura of a lover into the air.
The message written inside was simple, scripted in beautiful black hand curved ink and to the point of what it truly meant.
I'll make sure to save you the last dance.
See you soon.
"Her Majesty..." Captain Jones said a little bitterly, but wasn't completely or entirely surprised. "Has seen it only fit to bring in... her guard dog." He looked around at each and all of the men in the room. "But until it is ascertained that the crown is safe from this unknown threat, I will not have any man, woman, or child in the street without me knowing. I want all your men out on duty..." The captain glared down at the floor for a long moment. "I won't have it going down in history that the little pup was the one to have this case."
But the story would never unfold the way that the Captain thought, or for the reasons he thought.
The true story began just over a year before on a stormy night.
The storm had been one of the harshest the year had seen. Rain lashed down so violently that those in the warm security of their houses thought that glass windows would smash apart from the ferocity of the onslaught.
The great steeds pulling a black carriage through the cobblestone streets of London as they neared the border of the city, didn't even stir at the thunder roaring above them. The animals unlike any other of their kind as the ink dark steeds stormed through the streets with a quiet rage, hauling the light but onyx black of a carriage behind them that sang out to the beat of the stones beneath it's wheels.
Inside the bored figured of a platinum blond and cold blue eyed boy lounged forward, his fist pressed against his porcelain cheek as he gazed out onto the various alleys. His hair fell in array of cold spikes either side of his face, one length the tiniest of a fraction longer than the other around his eyes, but it's harshly cold colour was something usual to see, but oh so brilliantly went with the winter like harsh and yet summer blue like sky of his eyes. He was dressed in a large purple frock coat which fell down his slim and skinny waist figure. The dim light of a lantern inside the carriage was more than enough to send a small flicker of gaze over him, while his radiant hair itself sent the rest of the shine across the horse carriage.
The boy wore a green waist jacket over his pristine white button up shirt. A pair of black stockings that reached up to his calf and some black shorts which wished they'd even make it that far down his legs, but the boy just tapped his heeled boots on the floor impatiently, glancing down occasionally to the purple and black large ribbons that hung from the pair and then the large black one which was perfectly placed centre around his neck.
"Claude, you tediously made me come along to this dull visit, now we're late getting back!" He murmured under his breath, normally having a snappy come back, but only glancing out the corner of his eye over to the only figure who sat in carriage with him, quiet, solitary as as little touched by the candle of the lamp fire light as possible.
The tall dark man sat in the shadow of the corner of the carriage only reached into his pocket to clean his spectacles before opening his harshly caramel like eyes. His hair was blacker than black and a little wild, but still arrange in a neat web of locks. His clothes were only customary for a man... if he could even really be called that, of his position. His black tail coat was without a single crease. His spectacles caught the light reflecting across the glass lens.
"Do not worry, your highness... The storm shall pass."
"The darkness always seems to swallow everything whole." The blond muttered staring out into the street as something caught his gaze. The heavens above were lit by light for a moment just giving him the smallest bit of a view. But it was absolutely more than enough.
Claude's head snapped up immediately as the sight of his Master's fingers slammed against the window and convulsed violently out across the cold pane.
"No... that just can't be."
Lightning lit the streets as the lamps seemed to all but fade when a fresh breeze ripped through the streets.
The cold air was enough to set the chills in anyone's bones. The winter felt like it had exploded back with a vengeance at that moment. Like the seasons had all of a sudden rebelled, but that wasn't enough. If it was winter, then it was almost the worst they had seen it in such a long while.
Any person with some place to go, was snuggled up warm inside their homes, under a warm blanket, resting peacefully and waiting out this storm. After all, with this cold, it was only a short while till this detestable stabbing rain would become an unbearable ice, cold dagger.
It was sad how even those who were homeless and burdened without lives were still in a lot more safety and warmth, cuddled up against each other in the dark sewers: hiding bellow ground, they still had more than the figure had been but a short time was stumbling down the dim lit road and path of flickering lamps.
Blue orbs watched out the window and screamed the order nearly at the top of his throat for the carriage to stop. The young earl now staring out, unable to comprehend what he had just saw. Pale and suddenly tense. "Your Highness are you okay... you look like you've just seen a ghost." The silky voice whispered softly.
So much went on under the cover of darkness and this was no difference.
A city of darkness and deep misery.
A place where pain is known so well.
As the figure stumbled, their hand reached out and grasped onto the fractured brick wall next to them. Their clothing was plastered down to their shoulders with a the colour of their shirt lost to the darkness of the night as it stuck to their form.
Their movements were sluggish at best as the thin figure struggled the simplest task of even walking. Their hair was hair was a complete and utter mess, cut unevenly at the sides, made a mess of for more than certainly on deliberate purpose. The thugs who had attacked had thought they had simply been embarrassing the body, not doing it to a still breathing boy.
The figure clutched their torso painfully as they stumbled forward; their vision swarming into a multitude of darkness and pain. Their eyes were lost without the light to identify them. Their fingers were numb as was the rest of their body... well not entirely. The figure kept one arm close to their chest as they seemed to limp and drag the right half of their body as they struggled but pressed on further.
After all... sometimes instincts of survival are stronger than what we give them credit for.
As the figure dragged them self forward, they didn't notice the imprint that they had left on the wall behind them, where they had lent.
A imprint of a crimson hand which still dripped down onto the floor.
How long had they been walking now? An hour? Two? A minute? Had they run long enough? Had they finally broken out of sight and away from them? Were they still around?!
He whimpered slightly, flinching at that thought.
The moment a new explosion of lightning broke out along the sky, they ducked within an alley way and crouched in the shadows. oblivious to the eyes of the young blond Earl who was watching all the more.
Now though, something seemed to break out across the blond's face, somewhere between horror and absolutely disbelief, only resorting into a near breaking outcry as he watched the shadow covered figure in the alleyway, stagger it's way towards his carriage.
The light momentarily flashed over the figure again with another roar of thunder and clap of lightning, it came clear to see that the figure was only a boy. But even so, their face was coated and soaked in a river of blood from the various cuts and slices left across them. It was impossible to distinguish much if anything about them especially while being so well held in the shadows.
Imagine that though: coated in a river of your own blood and running away from a life you should never have been put in. Running away from those who had tried to capture him and rip him apart and kill him. But what were his options now? Could he run? If they came back could he get away?
He tried to push himself into a small jog but cried out in agony holding his chest tighter but feeling a scream rip into his throat as his hand moved to his back. His clothes were left into shreds, sliced violently, now coated in thick crimson and mud from the ground. He could feel his own life source streaming down his leg, the feeling in the nerves around it screamed out, begging him to stop. To just collapse and die on the cold ground! But he couldn't. He just let out a huff of breath, staggering on further and further.
At one point left with no other use than when his slick hand slipped on the wall and for ten minutes, he had to drag himself through the crap of the alley way. People looking in and hearing his moans of agony but not seeing him, thinking he was just some other junkie homeless person, groaning out now that they were out of their dependency.
What would be the use even if they did stop to help him?
He was as good as dead now anyway.
He stared up towards the storm and down pour of rain, letting the sick metallic taste mingle with the bitter salty taste of his tears which streamed down his cheeks, before he hauled himself to his feet.
This is what he got.
Staggering down a street, feeling his breath slip away as every drop of freezing rain brought him one step closer to passing out.
Or at least he wish it would.
It would mean this expanding pain in his torso would finally give up and he could be free of the agony.
Eventually, his body did give in and his legs collapsed, him falling back against the wall, feeling the cold bricks tear more into whatever damage it was that had been done to him.
As carriages passed by, the boy tried to get out of his crouch but paused as he no longer could take the pain.
The young thirteen year old Earl threw open the door to the carriage wide, throwing himself into the doorway as he stared out, trying to distinguish more of the boy. Trying to make sure, to be certain. "Is it you?! Is it you! Open your eyes!" He ordered out into the darkness.
He watched as slowly the boy began to slump forward and fell into a puddle of ice cold water.
"Hey!" The figure became clear as the in the light he seemed like just another kid. About eleven, maybe twelve with a thick warm brown mess of hair, so warm actually in fact that it looked to be a pale red, like the heart of a hearth or the fading of embers. As the rain pelted the slightly smaller boy, the young Earl could do nothing but just watch, taking in the sight and details with as much as he could, trying to make sense.
The boy slumped and covered in blood had traced of warm very lightly bronzed skin, with peachy and ever so slightly pale tones to it. Of course the blond couldn't get a complete understanding of this. The blond would never normally care. He wasn't someone to give a care about the gutter rats killing one another off out here. This place was of no importance to him, it never would be!
But the look of the boy in the lightning, covered in blood. With eyes dark that held tones so warm in contrast to their owner's hair, like an explosion in the depths of their gaze.
It was just like-
It was just like-
"What's wrong-" He called out from the doorway, shaking his head finally as he couldn't take it any more. No! It couldn't be possible! It couldn't be... but staring out in front of him right now? It was like something sick was playing with his mind. Like someone had taken the memories from his mind and woven them into a disgusting joke in front of him! "Claude!" The young master snarled viciously through his gritted pearly teeth, throwing himself to the side as his butler dove out into the rain.
The blond spared no time as he crouched next to the boy upon his retrieval and saw the pool of water beginning to become tainted crimson. "Jesus Christ." He whispered. "Open your eyes. Now!" He screamed, looking at the boy's soaked locks of warm brown hair that was mixed with his blood. The soft way the boy drew his breaths, albeit mixed with the difficulty and struggling pain that was now there.
The taller boy leaned down and looked into the collar of the boy's cloths but there was none.
He grabbed the boy's pocket searching for anything that he could use to identify this boy. Two pockets, both were completely doused in blood and unusable.
He looked over to see where the blood was coming from and saw the crimson, staining the sleeve. He quickly rolled it up to reveal, deep slices with razors still partially sticking out. Then at the boy's back, but at the sight in that moment the young Earl knew he didn't have that long to make a choice. Was this really who he thought it could be? A boy from his past? Was it the boy who had called him his big brother?
"Your highness." Claude said as smoothly and impassively as ever. "What do you want done with him."
"Luca..." The blond whispered, but as a response only earned the now more noticeably laboured breathing that was ripping itself from him. "Luca? Is it you?!" He growled, trying in urgency
The young Earl slowly raised his gaze, keeping it locked onto that face even as he gritted his teeth and curled his fists. Reason sought to tell him that it was impossible, that there was absolutely no way that this could ever be the small boy he had known ever so long ago, but reason played no part in it. Not even into the blond's soul. There was but only that moment as history and fate beckoned to him.
The future and it's path set in the palm of his hand.
But he gave his order, barely evening beginning to realise just exactly what path he had set himself down.