AN: I would like to first apologize to all my other readers as to how I could have the audacity to write/post another story when I have so many unfinished works. Good news for my Hetalia readers, An End's ending is coming along and will hopefully be finished come next week. As for my Fairy Tail readers, I beg that you refrain from tar and feathering me. I will work on both Ophie and WYDKM soon. I'm trying to find inspiration after such a long hiatus. However, I promise something, whether incredibly short or long, will be updated on both stories come Dec. 24. Seriously though, it could be really short, like one sentence short. I hope it won't be that short but yeah. Keep dogging me and I promise you I'll stick with it (even if I feel as if the writing has gone completely down hill since the first chapter T.T)
Onto this story though, it is INSPIRED by Les Mis, not a word for word retelling. Characters will occasionally switch roles, develop their own roles, and just behave differently from their novel, play, and soon to be movie (I'M SO EXCITED!) counterparts. Now without further adieu, enjoy the first installment detailing the life of the miserable.
Rachat
The Miserable
Our tale finds its start at an inconspicuous beginning as do most. These modest origins and humble geneses are caused by the shortsightedness of humanity. A simple act of kindness, generosity, or respect can forever change the life of one and in turn this person can then forever change the world. It is like a ripple seen in a pond. The point at which the disturbance originates is small but the effect is far reaching.
But should nothing refresh the pool, no interruption in its flow, the water grows stagnant and thus churns in its own filth until it is poisonous to touch and tongue. It is within this brackish abandon, known as London of 1750 -the turning of the century-, we find a hapless orphan.
A mop of dirty blonde hair scattered about the filth ridden streets of London's unwanted; the wretched of the Earth. His bare and brown feet fell upon the cobblestone at a frantic and frenzied pace. His thin linens, littered with holes as bare as they were, grew painfully wet at each new puddle he ran through. He did his best to avoid the gaps between the cobblestones but given credit to the cities dismal reputation, the rain that had fallen just that morning prevented him from avoiding the biting pools. Had he been allowed to slow down, perhaps he might have kept dry but he couldn't stop and doubted he ever could. The constable and his men were behind him at last glance and he dared not look back to see if he was safe or not.
'Damn Allistor! Damn him to hell!' the child cursed, fighting back the tears that threatened to overtake his emerald eyes. Despite his youth, he had learned to stop crying at four. It was a useless action and profited a man nothing. The boy was six now and as such, he shan't weep like an infant. Allistor always teased him, calling him as such and the boy would be damned to prove him right.
He shook his head to the side, successfully freeing himself of his weak sentiments. His timing was serendipitous as he glanced up just in time to avoid a collision with a carriage. The near impact earning him an angry shout from the operator and frightened whinnies from the steeds. Scared and tired, he looked for a rescue, anything he could use as cover until the coast was clear. His emerald eyes alit as he found his refuge in the form of a tight, back alleyway nestled between two flats. The opening was just large enough for him to fit into ensuring no one would come chasing after him. He clambered over to the opening, tearing off bits of fabric on the rough faces of the bricks as he desperately fought to get farther and deeper into the pit, away from prying arms lest any reach in after him.
Finally, he stopped. His feet could no longer carry him forward and he stood shock still between the two buildings experiencing a short lived moment of pure peace. But the adrenaline was quickly exuded out of his body letting fatigue set in. He had run clear cross town, trying to get as far away from his pursuers as fast as possible. They had been relentless today for whatever reason. The vagabond believed that the cause could stem from the newest addition to the London authority, a Snowback with stern features and ice blue eyes that reflected the frigid depths of his soul. However, the reason behind the unremitting chase was the least of the child's concern. The question 'why' was of little value in his life. Why did they pursue him till the men were ravenous beasts and not officers of the law? Why did his parents abandon him to the cold and unforgiving London streets? Why had God forsaken him, a mere child? Rather, 'what' was a far better query. What would he eat that day? What lodgings would he procure for the night? What would happen to him if he was ever apprehended? The latter prose terrified him greatly, remembering the horrors of imprisonment Allistor had regaled him with. The bureaucrats would take him away from them, his only family-although they were more akin to a ragtag group of urchins then a family-, and force him into manual labor; they might even kill him if they had no room for such a small and scrawny child. The gallows were the only unbiased lodging in the city, taking home men, women, and children. But the youth was not ready to return to the sky, presuming heaven would even open its gates to a pathetic scourge such as his self, just yet.
The urchin grunted as he fell onto his hands and knees, his skin scratching against the grimy stone path. His body wretched and contorted as he heaved gulps of rotting air into his lungs. The child's heaves began to slow in time until he found a regular pattern once more. The breaths later grew deeper with each passing hour and his eye lids began to droop. Soon sleep took him away, away to a world of magic and fairies, a world in which he could smile.
The years would ebb on and the child between the walls disappeared. For a week, the boy used the space as his shelter, his home, but then the rats began to take note. At first it was only one but then more came to the space between the walls. They would nip at his toes when he fell asleep, sharp and jagged teeth tearing into the sensitive flesh of his soles. He'd wake up with a start and fight the buggers off but each night they came back and with more in tow. The boy grew frightened that one night, he'd be consumed in his sleep. This thought scared him not solely because it implied his death but because he knew no one here would miss the little boy between the walls. No one would care if he died a vermin's death and thus vowed never to return. He refused to die like a blaggard, alone and unwanted.
Instead, he tried to go back to his brothers and sisters, to see if they had escaped but he could find neither hide nor hair of them when we ventured back to their makeshift home in the abandoned attic of an isolated flat. It was the perfect hideout from the coppers and the like, as well as an ideal location for a murder. A few times the vagabond had heard the final cry of a man, sometimes a woman, but paid it no heed. After all, what was he to do about it? A scrawny child like himself? Why, not a soul would miss him thus ensuring he would share the same fate as the poor sap calling for help outside if he ever tried anything.
The boy spent about a month there before opting for another home. It seemed clear to him the others weren't coming back and he had no way to find where they had went so why stay? He never liked that particular abode anyway. The urchin found his new home by the sea port, a far more reasonable location he figured. There were many good pockets to pick and wealthy donors giving alms to the poor at the port. He took refuge on docked ships occasionally but preferred to stay in various lodgings afforded through his extracurricular activities. The shopkeeps most likely knew he was a crooked young thing but as times were hard and paying customers hard to come by, the meager earnings he'd pay them for just a night's sleep sated them enough.
He managed to scrape by a living like this for two years until he was 8. He didn't know his actual birth date so kept track of his age by celebrating his birthday on that of the Lord and Savior's, Jesus Christ. Some nights, he liked to pretend the masses of people praying were all just for him. It was fun to watch nobles and the elites kneel down and imagine they were bowing to him.
And so, it was upon this eighth year, local urchin and Arthur Kirkland, found his life would be forever changed.
I hope you enjoyed the prologue. I've already finished the first chapter and am working on the second one. I expect the chapters for this story to be short and with any luck their brevity will propagate frequent or at least regular updates.
So just tell me what you think and remember that the more reviews I get the more inspired I am to churn out another chapter! :)