The Price

Prologue

It was a pity he never fully understood the power of sin. Wandering life as a penniless fool would have left him in a more desirable state. Sin was a fine wine to his companion; tart on the tongue and warm in the stomach.

Sin was a craving that only fools did not lick their lips at. Sin was his temptress, his companion was his master, and to both he had succumbed despite the solid belief that he would prevail.

Ignorance would have been preferable.

Arthur Kirkland was a noble name for a poor wretch. His grubby fingers poked through the holes in his gloves and he stuffed his hands in the pockets of his tattered coat to hide them. He walked down the crowded streets with a dignity that his attire did not provide him.

He was Arthur Kirkland. It was an old name from an old noble house; a ruined house. Many decades ago the Kirklands were held in high prestige, their lineage carrying the blood of several kings and queens of Spades. But after the terrible reign of King Catherine Kirkland, the marks of royalty stopped appearing on his family's skin.

Spades was named thus for the shape of the strange tattoo-like markings that blemished its Kings and Queens. At first it would seem to be nothing more than a birth mark upon an infant, blotched and dark. But when their time came to reign (and it had been found that everyone with the strange birthmark did not come into the throne) the mark would spread into intricate patterns on the skin, ultimately depicting a spade nestled within knotted designs.

Arthur had one such mark on the dip of his shoulder. Before their untimely deaths, his parents had coveted him for it – a glimmering hope that their bloodline wasn't as lost to nobility as previously thought.

But the mark meant nothing. Daughters of fruit vendors, beggars in the dirtiest streets, mothers of villains – they were as likely to receive such a mark. Arthur knew that if he were to claim his rightful position on the throne then his mark would have to become a tattoo that scrawled across the pale skin of his arm and neck.

Until then, if such a miracle were to ever happen, he was Arthur Kirkland, poor, filthy, broken Arthur Kirkland of a ruined house.

He trudged through the more modest parts of town, following the road as it turned from dirt to gravel and then to tightly packed cobblestone. As much as he detested the richer societies, he more envious of them than anything – this could have been where he was raised, taught, lived even now. If only things had been different.

If only his great, great, great grandmother Catherine hadn't been such a devious bitch.

Arthur's walk brought him in front of a decrepit mansion. His steps slowed to a stop and he stared at the graying building, the chips of whitewash that still clung to the crevasses of stone, the weeded lawn and overgrown peach trees. This could have been his home – vast property, wealth, dignity – all his. Arthur looked away from the Kirkland Estate with distaste. He had an appointment to keep.

There was a tavern in the center plaza, the closest thing to low-class civilization in the richer district. It couldn't be denied that even the rich like to drink themselves into stupors. However they preferred veal with their mead instead of game. Paltry differences.

In the shadow of the tavern, under a set of impressive antlers rumored to be from a beast that the late King Rufus had felled and gifted the tavern owner with, stood a woman. She stood in a way that spoke of the many years she spent walking about with heavy texts on her head and her hands were folded neatly in her ruffled skirts that had been hiked up slightly for the convenience of walking. "Hello," she said and set her folded parasol onto her shoulder. "You honestly must be more punctual. I don't know why you think that I will stand here all day waiting."

"You're still here, are you not?" Arthur retorted. He tried to stand straighter, keep his nose high and jaw set. How irritating that she was taller than him. "I take it that you have what I requested?"

The woman tapped the end of her parasol against the wall of the tavern. "My, my young Kirkland, you exude nobility as if you were born into it." She giggled. "I've no doubt you wish to hear more on your sad position in life – such is fate as we all know well. I am quite happy that fortune has been so kind to me, why, you should see my mark, although it's in such a risqué place."

"Do you or don't you have what I have asked after?" Arthur's tone was flat and his thick, dark brows dropped over his bright eyes to give his dirty face a sharp expression.

She tusked. "I know these games you play. But since I have no wish to remain here much longer I regretfully inform you that no, my family does not possess the heirloom you are looking for."

Arthur opened his mouth to protest his outrage, but stopped with a long breath. "Such a shame, really," he bit out and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

"Truly it is, but as a favor I did find something that may help you." From the folds of her skirts, the woman retrieved a bawdy key. "I was told that this is the cellar key to the Kirkland Estate. Not everything was taken from that shoddy, ah, well not everything was taken."

He snatched the key from the woman's hands and tucked it away. "Thank you," he said primly. "I must take my leave now."

"Yes, yes of course you must," the woman drawls. "So many important places for a person of your stature to be, I'm sure."

Arthur ignored her and hurried away. Back to the poorer districts, back towards the old mansion he loathed. There might be something yet and so he held his hand against where the key jostled in his breast pocket.

He thought that maybe running straight to the manor might make him seem greedy, perhaps like a fool if the key was phony. But he was a poor wretch and ultimately decided that he cared not what others thought and dashed through the overgrown courtyard of the Kirkland Estate. Tall, spiny plants tugged and tore at his threadbare trousers, loosening a few stiches to flour-sack patches and pricking his skin underneath.

The entrance to the cellar was around the back, hidden under a thicket that had grown into the once polished wood. His already devastated gloves ripped further as he pulled the plant, stem by thorny stem, from the lock and doors. Once the door was free and his palms bloodied, Arthur glanced around to make sure no one was in the immediate vicinity and pulled out the key from his pocket.

It was made of heavy iron with the Kirkland family seal of a rearing lion engraved onto the head. There was an indentation where a sapphire or an emerald might have been between the lions gaping jaws, but it had long since been lost. He cradled the key to his chest, swearing to every god that may or may not be in existence, and jammed it into the lock.

"Please," he mumbled and bit his lower lip. He turned the key and it stuck. Panicking, Arthur jimmied the key in the lock, turning it back and forth in desperation until there was the sound of rusty tumblers moving and a faint click. His heart stopped a beat and his grimy fingers wrapped around the sturdy handle of the left door.

With a grunt Arthur yanked it open, the hinges protesting with a loud screech. The stairs led down into the earth, consumed in a darkness so thick he couldn't tell just how far down they went. Glancing back at the sun over his shoulder, Arthur decided he had enough daylight to explore. As he descended he ran his knuckles against the stone walls, hoping to come across an old oil lamp hanging from a hook. Towards the end of the staircase, he found just that and murmured a prayer of thanks that there was still oil inside (albeit old oil) as well as an old fashioned flint lighter.

Unfortunately the stairs didn't end, and in the dim light of the lamp he saw that they continued and twisted downwards for quite a ways yet. Arthur looked back to the entrance, the late afternoon sun still visible. What did he have to lose?

Arthur continued down the staircase, his fingers tracing along cracks in the foundation as he went. There was the scuffling noise of rats, a strange echo that only came from the most open and empty of places, and the musty smell of rotting wood, earth, and vermin. For Arthur it wasn't anything entirely new.

The cellar was riddled with cobwebs, ancient insects dangled from the dirty nooks and crannies. Everything around him was barren, the bricks of the floor were loose and some even upturned and scattered. The light of the lamp didn't travel far and he spent many minutes fruitlessly searching the large room. "Bloody hell," he grumbled when he was sure he'd scoured the entire room.

He turned around to look for the exit, but his oil lamp flickered out. Darkness quickly swallowed him and Arthur froze. A small noise that he hadn't heard before played in his ear. It was like the wind in an airless space, a crude whisper even, hashed out at odd intervals just behind his shoulder. Arthur gulped as the hairs on the back of his neck stood.

To his right he heard something like a laugh. It was choked, strained under the empty room and inky darkness, but Arthur did what any rational man in his position would have done. He followed the noise. His hands roved in front of him as he walked, each step was a careful calculation as to not trip. Finally his fingers brushed against something sturdy and he traced it blindly, exploring the shape and material.

"Bookshelf," he said and his voice echoed off the sparse walls. Curious, he ran his hands along the shelves, only finding a sphere shaped object and a heavy book.

Arthur tucked the book tightly against his chest, his pulse racing in excitement. This could be the heirloom he had been searching for – King Catherine Kirkland's tome of dark magic, however cleverly titled: Religious Proofs. But without a light he wouldn't know if this book was indeed what he was searching for all these years. Licking his chapped lips, he set the sphere back down and used his free hand to search the walls for a new lamp or even the exit.

Not far from the bookshelf there was a hook similar to the one he found on the stairs. This lamp seemed to be in better shape and Arthur was pleased to see that it had more oil to spare than the last. He returned to the shelf and set the lamp down next to the sphere he had found earlier which now proved to be made of unblemished crystal. Arthur frowned at it but left it alone.

He turned his attention to the book cradled against his chest and he inspected it with a critical eye. The lettering was a tarnished color that was once vibrant and elegant, but the indentations in the cover were clear as to what the words said: Religious Proofs.

The grin that spread across Arthur's face was sharp and his grip on the tome tightened possessively. "Finally," he said in a giddy voice. "Finally it's mine! Oh dear, ancient grandmother Catherine, you filthy wench, I'll learn every last one of your secrets." Arthur chuckled. "And unlike you, I'll use it correctly. You'll see."

Arthur looked around the cellar and was unable to immediately find the exit, so he returned to the treasure in his hands. "There is no time like the present," he said, running his dirty hands over the dusty book. He felt called by the book.

Don't put me down, it told him. Let me share my knowledge, share my secrets, share my power. Open me.

Arthur shuddered in anticipation. He set the book by the lamp and let it fall onto whichever page it pleased, his bright green eyes eagerly drinking in the page the book wished to show him.

The Kirkland house was broken by the ill use of black magic all those decades before. His family's ashes fertilized the weeds of the estate where King Catherine had made her last stand. A young man, set to usurp the throne, had met a very gruesome death, and if Arthur were to remember the stories correctly, he had been gutted while still alive by a savage beast that was always in Catherine's shadow. Unfortunately for her, civil revolt rarely ends with the death of one person and mere days later she and half the Kirkland family had been burned on stakes in the courtyard of their home.

There were days when people still hissed, "Burn the witches," at him.

I will return, the book whispered to him. Through you I will return.

Arthur gave the tome a dubious look. The page in front of him was a very detailed spell on communicating and calling forth the dead. It was very obvious what the tome wanted him to do and he ignored it, instead he turned the pages until he came across something that interested him.

Catherine had taken very analytical notes in swirling, straight-edged handwriting. Lists of materials for some spells were listed in order of need, spells and incantations were separated and written phonetically as to not confuse. The time and dedication to such a task was impressive, considering how short Catherine's life had been cut.

He flipped through the pages until one of them caught his interest.

Demonic Summoning it was titled. All demons require a price for their aid. There is no such thing as a benevolent demon, prepare to lose something valuable to you, however there are great rewards to be reaped from a demon transaction.

The instructions were tantalizingly simple. A mere drop of blood from a self-inflicted wound smeared onto a surface and to recite a long, stringing incantation. It was very appealing. To come into a contract with a demon could be invaluable, if not costly. Arthur, however, being the lonely rogue he was, had very few things to lose – and many that he did not care to lose. The darkness around Arthur grew denser as he considered it. There was little else in the tome he had seen so far that would help his current goal – surely many of them would be useful in the future and he would study the entire tome extensively when he had proper light.

Was he ready to make such a hefty decision? Arthur pulled the flint lighter from his pocket and fiddled with it until he managed to break off a piece of the casing.

All of his life he had been preparing to pick up where King Catherine left off. He would restore the slandered name of Kirkland, he would reform Spades – he would make it prosper, its armies would devour, its name would quake through the other lands spoken in either envy or terror. Arthur spent his life in squalor. He was ready to claim the title and riches that were rightfully his since birth.

Arthur took off his glove and stabbed his palm scratched with the jagged edge of the lighter. He hissed as the wound stung and blood welled up. He wiped his hand on the wall, leaving a smeared line of red. He took up the tome and read over the phonetic spell a few times before reading it out loud in as strong a voice he could muster without it being swallowed in the emptiness around him.

A full body chill wracked its way down his spine as he read and his hands trembled. He felt powerful, unstoppable, and yet miniscule. Never had he experienced a feeling so consuming and intoxicating as this.

The lamp went out just as the last syllable left his mouth and he was swathed in darkness so black that he could not see the nose on his face. A scratching noise that could not be attributed to rats filled the room. It was eerie and Arthur shook in anticipation as his hearing intensified – focusing solely on the small noises around him. When he expected something to finally happen, the scratching stopped.

Arthur frowned. He reached out for the oil lamp when something clamped down on his shoulders.

"Tell me what you desire."

- End Prologue -

Unimportant Notes: Hello, hello, uhm welcome to my new AU (another one, oh gosh). This idea came up while plotting with Owyn, who, if you have a tumblr, should follow (owyn-sama . tumblr .com) if you're not already. Also big fat thank yous to liberteabel (follow her at liberteabel . tumblr . com!) for encouraging moi and Sparce who drew pronz ALREADY OMG (follow her TOO sparceinspace . tumblr . com). THESE ARE WONDERFUL PEOPLE. :)

And a massive thank you to Jordan (sanguinehero . tumblr .com – follow my gurlfran ok) for being the best beta in the universe. :D

Hopefully I will never have an A/N this long ever again. /dies