Disclaimer: This story is not intended to evoke any religious beliefs, follow any distinct religion, or be religiously suggestive/offensive in any way. The characters and plot are fictional and belong to creator Hidekaz Himaruya.
London, England 1839
Arthur huffed, blowing several strands of hair out of his face as he trudged through the accumulating snow surrounding him. Carrying a stack of papers and journals in his arms, Arthur Kirkland was walking down the sidewalk from his daily job to his house across the city.
All he wanted to do was get out of the cold.
And this was just the beginning of it! Winter hadn't come yet; the piles of snow were only going to get bigger from here and that meant that carriage-less Arthur was definitely going to complain more about the weather as the days passed on (the majority of the complaints would, of course, come from having to march through the cold).
He had tried to convince himself that the weather was (really) not that bad, and maybe in a way he was right (because it could have been hailing,) but the snow outside his window wasn't very reassuring. At all. And it just kept coming...
Arthur's face twisted into disgust as he passed said pile of ungodly snow to reach the doorway of his small, two-story house. He loved the cute place, even though it didn't look nearly as cute on the inside. It was small and dwarfed by the other houses, but was actually one of the youngest and came with every amenity available, although Arthur supposed that decorating the place in dusty furniture and books didn't make it very appealing.
The Brit unlocked the door and slid into the suddenly warmer atmosphere, kicking the door closed behind him as he rushed to place his heavy journals on the currently empty coffee table in the middle of the living room.
Arthur almost stumbled over a pile of books on the floor as he paced the room to the fireplace in the corner, eager to get a fire going. He rubbed his hands together then reached for a match from the top of the fireplace. He lit it against the mantle and then tossed the match into the kindling, sighing with relief as he placed his hands in front of the growing fire.
Once he could move his fingers again, Arthur relaxed slightly. His hands, being as important as they were to his job as a journalist, had to be maintained and kept safe from freezing. After all, Arthur certainly didn't want to lose his job over something silly like accidentally losing his fingers to frostbite.
He rose from his crouched spot by the fire, gently pushing some books out of the way, to walk to the kitchen and brew himself some tea. He had to prepare properly for the long evening ahead of sitting on the couch, reading journal after journal as he tried to decipher what it would take to write an amazing enough story for a promotion at the local newspaper. The competition for the promotion was becoming harsh, but Arthur Kirkland practically lived off competition, non-fretting in the eye of rivals and silly, cock-sure journalists who thought that they were better suited for the job when they weren't.
Arthur filled a container with water, placing it in the hearth to heat. He lit the match and waited, doling out some of the time by going back to the living room to read his journals. Once it was done boiling, he prepared to pour the hot water into the teapot to brew when he heard a distinctive knocking on the door and froze in the middle of his small, cold kitchen.
What do you want? Arthur wanted to grumble instinctively, without even seeing a face.
Figuring the water was hot enough, Arthur extinguished the flame from the hearth in the kitchen, remembering the last time he had forgotten to do so, before exiting the room to open the door (even though he really didn't want to,) to see who was knocking.
Skillfully passing by piles of books on his way to the door, Arthur finally reached it, hesitantly curling his hands away from the doorknob—mostly because he didn't want to see who was knocking—but turning it nonetheless to meet the person on the other side.
The olive eyes and chocolate-haired man that stood on Arthur's doorstep was immediately recognizable to him as his co-worker—in fact, one of those that was challenging Arthur for his promotion at the newspaper.
With a characteristic smile, the coworker waved at Arthur saying, "Hello Arthur!" In a charming voice.
Arthur shifted closer to the door, hand curling around the doorknob. This man was not his friend- far from it.
Arthur preferred to write about crimes and political issues, whereas the other was a devout propaganda writer who liked to publish little things such as spouts between the sexes and small 'celebrities' in London.
He was an obnoxiously excitable man who voiced his opinions a little too loudly and even worse did not care what others thought of said opinions. It was common to read complaints from this author in the newspaper—he even dared to write absurd things about Queen Victoria. It was all rubbish to Arthur, who didn't care about anything that the bloke had to say.
"What do you want?' Arthur asked, the pent up words finally leaving his mouth, all the irritation still intact.
Of course, to Arthur's infortune, his Spanish colleague just continued talking. "Come quickly! I want to show you something," and then, before Arthur could argue, added, "it's good story material."
Now that caught Arthur's attention and the other probably knew it, too. In all honesty, he was naturally curious about this story- especially if it was a good one- and that was enough to get a slight eyebrow raise out of Arthur, although not much else.
Even if it was a story, was it worth Arthur's time? Moreover, his dislike of snow and even larger dislike of his colleague were obstacles that he was not sure he wanted to bother to overcome.
Those were the majority of the reasons behind Arthur's refusal from budging as he spoke. "I would love to go," he replied falsely, "but I have some reading to catch up on."
He could see from the other's unfaltering expression that he wasn't bothered by Arthur's obvious aversion to his offer.
Much to Arthur's disbelief, he actually leaned forward, eyes shimmering persistently. "It won't take that long to show you, I promise. I haven't even told anyone else yet, because I know that you really want that promotion."
The words rang resolutely in his head, urging him to accept.
Forget about the Spaniard, all that matters is the story, Arthur thought as his eyes rested on the man, eyebrows drawn down on his eyes.
"Won't take that long, eh?" He asked, which was responded to with a nod. "Well, I suppose I could go... for half an hour, at least. But no longer," Arthur snapped, half-turned back to the warmth of his house as he spoke the words, turning again to accentuate the threat.
He made a vague gesture with his hand to wait as he left the door cracked to retrieve a thicker coat, some gloves, writing materials...
Arthur was in the kitchen, glancing sadly at his useless teapot, with the water that was now going to be left to cool as he stuffed a notepad and pencil into his wool coat, buttoning it and, to top it all off, slinging a scarf around his neck to complete the outfit.
His colleague was in the living room waiting, sitting on his couch with an innocent look on his face, which really threw Arthur off. With a wave, Arthur banished him from his couch and back into the cold, where he followed shortly after, to lock his door and drop the key back into his pocket.
The two walked in silence for the majority of the trip, Arthur in his own little world, contemplating all the things he could be doing rather than following this idiot around, whilst his companion was probably silently mocking Arthur for stupidly deciding to follow him through the snow.
"It's by the Thames River," Arthur companion suddenly interjected as they walked, Arthur's expression befuddled but mostly confused.
"What are you bloody talking about?" He retorted, casting the man a sideways glance.
"The story!" He exclaimed back, then nodding towards the path ahead. "We'd better look from the Waterloo Bridge first," he suggested.
Arthur's face had chosen to fix itself into the same grim expression until they got there, squeezing the end of his pencil meditatively, pondering once again if this had really been worth his time.
Horse-drawn carriages clattered alongside, some of the maned beasts whinnying as they trotted past the men and down the Waterloo Bridge. Arthur easily followed the other onto the bridge, casting wary glances at the thick brown water of the Thames.
The horizon of the river was as sickly brown as the rest of it, making Arthur grimace unabashedly. Did people actually fish in this monstrosity of a river?
'What happened here, exactly, that compelled you to bring me?" Arthur confronted as they continued to walk down the bridge, hand trailing against the railing of the bridge.
The other stopped so abruptly that Arthur almost clattered right into his back. He extended a hand and pointed to the horizon, where a single boat was currently floating along the river.
Arthur couldn't feel compelled to care about the tiny shit on the horizon and if this was what the other was so focused on, it was a bloody waste of time.
"And what does this have to do with anything?" Arthur seethed, scowling reproachfully at this man for wasting his time.
If he just hadn't listened to this idiot, then maybe he wouldn't have waste a perfect cup of tea and some time!
"Don't you see the name on that vessel?" He inquired, Arthur's interest already too miniscule to listen completely to what he was saying.
"I don't see it and I really don't care-" Arthur began impatiently, but the other journalist was already trying to decipher the name for himself.
Rolling his eyes and crossing his arms, Arthur stayed put. That was, until those olive eyes were turned back onto him, imploring him to come see! And because Arthur had already wasted so much time walking through this shitty weather just to come here he figured he might as well just get this over with so he could go back home.
Placing his hands on the railing, Arthur grumpily glared at the boat, the starboard facing them but no words facing back.
Frustrated, Arthur prepared to leave when he felt a hand tug at the collar of his shirt, sparking a fuse. He whipped around, mouth agape, as the other tugged him back over the railing until he was leaning uncomfortably over it.
"You better let go!" Arthur exclaimed, turning around to club the man, who dodged his hit.
He was crouching on the ground and grabbed Arthur by the ankles—eliciting a gruff shout from him—and then pushed Arthur up and over the railing of the Waterloo Bridge.
Only seconds lasted between Arthur and the water of the Thames.
During those short moments when Arthur was falling, his mind raced a mile a minute. He asked himself why he was no longer standing and why he had been stupid enough to follow the idiot to the Bridge. He scorned the Spaniard for tossing him over the railing.
However, Arthur ultimately felt a suffocating desperation to stay alive, to live, even in the face of his own watery reflection.
The Thames swallowed Arthur like a depthless pit of fear.
Ever since Arthur was a child, he had been intimidated by water. The stuff felt strange to touch and although it was translucent, he didn't like to sink his legs into it. Water had a strange gravity to it, too- there was no way to describe the strange weight Arthur's body underwent when he entered water of any kind, let alone how these qualities would change when in a river.
Arthur plunged into the water, the current pulling at his clothing.
Kicking and screaming, water seeping into Arthur's lungs, the Brit panicked, flailing his limbs in an attempt to stay afloat. The water made everything more difficult: moving, breathing, shouting.
It was so cold that Arthur became almost paralyzed, his vision blurring as he began to lose oxygen—not that there was much to look at anyways. All he could see by the time he began to lose consciousness were foggy swirls of brown and grey.
In reality, Arthur didn't struggle for very long.
The Thames was pulling him down quickly, water sloshing over Arthur's head until there was no air left to breathe and his lungs burned every time he cried out for oxygen. Arthur's body couldn't keep up with his mind's alarmed pleads or his heart's pounding thuds against his ribcage.
Arthur's arms and legs slackened and with another roll of murky water, his eyes lost sight of the blurry sky forever.
Arthur awoke to a faint buzzing noise, a sound he was sure he had heard before but was not sure from where.
As the noise grew louder and more pronounced, something inexplicable happened.
The resonance growing in intensity, a harsh light followed, somehow swarming through Arthur was a wonderful feeling of warmth, breathing life back into him.
He felt overpowered by emotions, remembering everything that had happened to bring him here, to what appeared to be a strange void of darkness. The strange sound was gone and it was very, oddly quiet now.
Disoriented, Arthur raised his hands to his face to inspect them and maybe a little sillier, to see if they were still there. Oddly, his fingertips were trembling, proving that he was (at least) seeing something.
It wasn't until Arthur reached over to curl his fingers together that he realized he couldn't feel them at all. He didn't feel the muscles moving, even when he bent the fingers back, knowing he should be feeling pain.
What the bloody-
Arthur cut off his thoughts, scowling (at least he thought so) when he realized that he was here because he had died. And not very pleasantly, either. Needless to say, he felt a bit like a dolt for allowing that idiot to persuade him out of his house in his first place.
And now? Well, Arthur could put the blame on his fellow journalist for his current situation, but that wasn't going to help him get out of here!
Angrily, Arthur clutched his hands together, his thoughts simmering in his mind. He wanted to feel his pain, maybe toss something in his fury for this stupid mistake.
But there wasn't anything to toss or break or feel and that made things tougher. Arthur frustratedly ran a hand through his hair and then across his face, but he couldn't feel the roughness of his fingers through his hair or his hands on his face, naturally.
Arthur drew his fingers back to see that they were stained with tears, the salty liquid glistening on his index finger.
This was ridiculous; he couldn't feel the tears, so how could he even know, at this point, who made them? Maybe it hadn't been him after all.
Arthur cast a glance over his body, catching sight of a slim, naked frame suspended in darkness, the limbs pale and foreign to him. His hands fell past his bent legs as he attempted to stady himself, making him nauseous.
Of course, Arthur thought, of course I'm floating. It's not like I don't already have problems feeling or anything.
Arthur's head was suddenly assaulted with a strange, heavy mass that caused him to topple backwards, body splayed against the darkness. His heart beat uncontrollably in his ribcage, an uneven and frightened rhythm.
Casting his thoughts aside, Arthur closed his eyes as the force took him over.
A/N: The first chapter is updated! I give thanks to Mint-Chocolate-Leaves for Beta Reading and InTheMix for looking over an older version of this chapter. Want to keep up with new chapters? Follow! Also, if you have any comments you'd like to make, please don't be shy! I don't bite.
