A Far, Far Better Thing

Chapter One: Deliriums

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness. Of course, for Alfred F. Jones, every age was that of foolishness. His older brother, Arthur, was constantly telling him that he had never truly grown up, and he would know, having had taken care of him since he was only a child. But Alfred took on a different perspective. He liked to think that heroism had no age limit, and with a new batch of trouble on the way, he was sure to need all the hero he could get his hands on.

On a dark and dismal Friday night, a carriage delivered Jones and a couple other suspicious figures from London to Dover. He was on the way to Dover for business, to meet with an anonymous woman whom had only revealed her location and that her business was urgent. Being the hero that he was, Alfred had immediately hopped onto a mail coach and set off to free the young lady of her burdens. However, as he sat in the interior of the carriage, he started to have second thoughts and soon became paranoid. Was that a handprint in the foggy coating on the window? Was that a gunshot, muffled by the thunder? He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, wishing that the treacherous ride would be over.

Abruptly, the coach rattled to a stop. "Thank heavens," the flustered American man muffled under his breath. His glasses were all fogged up. He stepped out of the carriage behind a tall man who was wearing so many layers that nothing of him was visible except for a pair of hideously gorgeous violet eyes. Nevertheless, he soon came to see that they had hardly arrived in Dover. In fact, they sat at the peak of a very large hill, accompanied by the familiar clattering of horses' hooves on the dirt stretch behind them.

"A message for Alfred F. Jones, sir!" a young-sounding voice cried, and a horse and rider emerged out of the distance. While the jockey bore striking resemblance to Alfred himself, and seemed very familiar, Alfred couldn't put a finger on just who he was. "A message- for-" The boy halted his horse in its tracks and stared down at Alfred. "You are Mr. Jones?"

Alfred coughed. "Yes… I'm sorry, have we met before?"

"I'm your brother," the man mumbled. "Matthew, remember?"

The American's jaw dropped. "I have a brother?"

Matthew sighed, murmuring something quietly to himself before replying to his clueless sibling. "Yes," he said. "But you're always forgetting who I am."

"Is that so?" Alfred said thoughtfully. "Anyways, you said you had a message for me?" Matthew nodded in a businesslike fashion, and protruded from his cloak a letter wrapped tightly in ribbons. After receiving a generous tip from the American businessman, the messenger thanked him and rode off, retreating just as quickly as he had come, and seeming to fade away into the mist.

The weary travelers piled back into the carriage, and Alfred settled down. Scrawled on the letter which his brother had kindly delivered were three words: "recalled to life". While Alfred knew exactly what this code meant, it was still hard to imagine what the message could be interpreted as. He drifted in and out of an intoxicated sleep, in which dreams came to him as from out of the foggy night. Suddenly, he was no longer in the carriage; instead, his spirit was found digging a grave in a roadside cemetery. He promptly removed the headstone from the resting place and dug until he found what he was looking for: a pair of bright eyes shining from a clawed hole in an exquisite coffin. "You wish to be recalled to life?" Alfred asked kindly to the eyes.

"Yes," the man answered humbly. His voice was low and gruff and rather old. His brown eyes blinked at Alfred, batting their lashed. A chill went down the digger's spine.

Alfred chuckled softly to himself. "I hope you care to live?" he asked, making polite conversation while busying himself with the task of hoisting the heavy coffin from the ground. Once freed, a tall man stepped haughtily out of his eternal bed and rubbed his hands together. His white mask shielded most of his face, but his soft brown eyes continued to flirt with Alfred's own, playfully showing and hiding themselves whenever they pleased.

At that, the dreaming American would reappear in the carriage to the concerned looks of all the other passengers.