A/N: Oops I've started another multi-chapter fic, I don't have time for all of these. This one came about while I was doing research on gods in various cultures and working on a translation for the 'Apostles of God' DS game. I haven't planned out anything beforehand, so I have no idea where this is going or where it's going to end up (if I ever even finish it). I have a good feeling about this one, though, so hopefully it turns out alright in the end!
As for the pairing, I don't intend for it to be very Yullen-centric, but I feel like it needs to be tagged because a majority of this will be focusing on the platonic relationship between Allen and Kanda, which you can take however you like. Allen/Lavi will also be a strong theme in the future, but that will remain untagged for now, depending on how involved Lavi gets. Updates are bound to be slow and irregular, so please bear with me.
The grounds are still bustling when Allen leaves the ringmaster's tent, weaving between tents and people and stepping over various items strewn about, props and tack and washbasins and tools. The smell of smoke and something delicious wafts by him as he passes the mess hall, but he doesn't stop; he'd already eaten, and he has things he needs to do. He heads for his own tent, which sits on the very outskirts of the grounds, pausing only to hold brief conversation with the elephant tamer ("Wonderful job today, Allen!" he says in French, and Allen does his best to thank him) and grab his newly cleaned coat from one of the assistants who had kindly offered to wash it while he was busy with the performance.
He pulls aside the doorflap and is met with the common sight of bare space, a worn hammock strewn up to his left and his suitcase sitting atop the lone stool on the other side. He folds his coat and places it on the hammock before going over to his suitcase, rifling through it for his wallet and checking the amount inside. He should have enough, but he might have to do some extra work in town, which means he'll have to leave now, while the sun still burns the sky pink.
He hears the doorflap being drawn back behind him, and he starts, shoving his wallet back into the recesses of his suitcase and standing, turning to be met with someone he's never seen. The man is tall, barely older than Allen, neatly dressed in a long coat and travel-worn boots, his hair –much longer than Allen had ever seen on a man, smooth and dark like black silk– tied back at his nape. His eyes meet Allen's in a narrowed glare, dark cobalt set in sharp features. He notices the sheath of a sword hanging from the man's waist, and wonders if he is yet again in some sort of trouble.
"Thank God," he mutters, stepping forward and letting the fabric fall back to cover the entrance. "You're impossible to find, I was beginning to think you didn't exist. Pack your things, kid, you're coming with me."
Allen narrows his eyes, flexing his hand at his side. "I beg your pardon?" he says slowly, mentally assessing the man's build and how well he could fight in the enclosed space of the tent.
The other man bristles a little, his mouth pulling into a hard line. "You heard me."
"Yes, but I'm afraid I've no idea who you are, so I must decline the offer. What is it that you want from me?"
He looks up to the roof, muttering something under his breath before he looks back down at Allen. "There's a group of people in London that need your help," he explains, though rather begrudgingly, "And I'm the unlucky bastard who was sent to collect you."
London? He hasn't been to London in years; he left everything there behind when he left with his master, all that time ago. He can't think of anybody that would so much as remember him, let alone need his help. "I've no clue what you're talking about," he replies, cautious. "Who is this group you're talking about?"
"It's called the Order. We're fighters." That explains why the man carries a sword, Allen supposes. It's clear from his posture, his stance, the way he watches everything carefully, that this man knows how to fight. "And for some reason we need you, other than that you belong there anyway." His eyes cast down to Allen's left arm, the red flesh of his hand visible in the absence of his gloves, which he'd forgone while he'd been working around the grounds.
He tries not to show his confused disgust, wondering just what this man knows about him. "If you're fighters, then I'm afraid I have no idea why I'd be involved. I don't get in that many fights, I don't know what kind of help I'd be."
"You're cursed, aren't you?" he asks, and Allen stops. He'd been careful, he'd stayed hidden, so how did this guy know? "I'm sure you know how it works. You get chased by demons, which is probably why you've taken to doing something that travels for work, I guess. We can teach you how to fight them. Heck, it'll be your job to fight them, that's kind of what we need you for."
Allen has been avoiding the demons all his life, only confronting them when he needs to, and here he is expected to do it as a job? "I know how to fight them," he says, frowning distastefully at the thought. "I don't want to, though."
"Tough luck," the man barks, crossing his arms. "They're going to keep coming after you no matter what you do, and it's better for all of us if you just join us, much as I'm beginning to hate the thought having actually met you."
"You're quite rude, you know that?" Allen mutters, and he just shrugs. "Look, I can fight them just fine on my own, so I'd rather not go with you to lord only knows where to do it for a living. No thank you, try the house next door. I've heard the neighbours are quite fond of absolute codswallop."
Allen could swear the man actually growls at him. "Fucking smartass," he grumbles, one hand going to the hilt of the sword at his side. It looks more like habit than an actual plan to draw it, but Allen makes a note to watch his tongue more closely. "I don't think you understand the brevity of the situation, you selfish brat. You're not the only one who fights the demons, and the ones we deal with are much worse than the small fry that have caught your scent so far. We are fighting a war, and we need all the backup we can get. Luckily for you, you little brat, you've been chosen by the heavens to fulfil some crazy destiny or some shit. I don't know, I wasn't really listening. Long story short, you're coming with me whether you like it or not."
Allen blinks at him. Frowns, blinks again. "Alright, hang on," he says, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to wrap his head around it all. "You want me to fight in a war? I'm barely sixteen, I've lived in circuses my whole life, I make a fool of myself for a living, and you expect me to join a war out of nowhere because of some weird destiny? Excuse me, but are you quite sane?"
"Why did I have to be the messenger," he mutters, running a hand over his face. "Look, you're an Apostle, alright? You're an Apostle, I'm an Apostle, and I need you to come with me to meet all the other fuck-crazy Apostles I had to be stuck with to, I don't know, save the world or something. Capisce?"
"Um, no." The man groans in a long, drawn-out sigh. He looks like he's about to punch something, so Allen tries to remedy the situation. "Sorry, I just- I have no idea what you're on about. Honestly, you sound pretty barmy to me."
"We are standing in a circus, and you're calling me barmy? What does barmy even mean, who the hell says that, fuck you."
He tries to ignore the guy's apparent attitude problem and thinks it over, trying to make sense of anything that has come out of his mouth. "So, let me get this straight; I'm some kind of 'Apostle', of what I don't know, and you want me to go with you to a group of these Apostles and... save the world."
"Yes!" he exclaims, throwing his hands up. "Praise the fucking Lord, I was beginning to think you were retarded. Grab your things, let's get out before I catch rabies or something."
"I'd just like to get it on record that I am honestly very dubious about everything you've said since you walked in here. How do I know you're not just lying to my face and trying to trick me into something?"
The man looks at him, one eyebrow hitched and clearly unimpressed. He sighs, takes a step closer to Allen (which makes him very nervous, but he doesn't move), and then he flicks his hand, as though slapping him but missing by a good metre, yet Allen still feels an impact of... something, and then his face his wet, liquid dripping down his chin and down his shirt. "What the hell!" he barks, wiping the water from his eyes with his hands.
"Hey, look at that, I made water out of thin air, it's a fucking miracle. I must be magic, or, I don't know, some kind of Apostle. Can we go yet?"
Allen huffs, wiping off his face with his sleeves, pausing only to glare at the man. He thinks carefully about it, finding that this strange, sharp man does have a point, crude as he put it. He looks around the tent, the few belongings he has strewn around the small space, and he sighs, resigning himself to whatever mess he has on board. "Fine," he mutters eventually, "It's not like I'm trying to make a living here or anything. Can I at least pick up my paycheck before we leave, Mr. Fancy Magic Man?"
And he gets a crude middle finger before the man storms out.