YAY!!! So this is a celebration of the end of midterms! I'm so happy about it!!! :D But now I have all these fencing matchs to go to... D= Oh me life! T-T Well, anyway, this story is about......Drum roll please, ......... VISCOUNT DRUITT!!!! OMG!!!! (Yeah, I know I'm crazy) By the way, Mirium is not her name, that's just how he says it (drunk or not) Her real name is Merriam.
"My life suths dith," Druitt slurred, getting another drink from the bartender. He'd been there for almost four hours and he was completely drunk. The bartender looked at the dead-drunk noble-man, shaking his head in pity. "Another!" Druitt demanded, downing his drink in one gulp.
"I think you've had enough, sir, you should go home," the bartender sighed, looking at the clock. "Besides, it's two in the mourning, your wife must be worried," he said, before realizing that one of the things the noble had complained about was not having a wife, or even a lady who liked him.
"Wife?! Whath wife?!" Druitt screamed, jumping up. "No woman in all of Eurothe will looth ath me now thath I've futhed up big thime! Even those sthupid poor bithes thath don'th even know whath ith's lithe to have a full belhy!" he screamed, grabbing the bartender by the collar. "Ever sinthe thath futhing parthy I've been thee laughing stalth of thee whole counthry!"
"Okay, buddy, I've had enough of you! Get out! Now!" the bartender yelled, wrenching out of the Viscount's grip. He grabbed the Viscount's arms and pushed him out the door and face-first into the hard, wet ground. Druitt swore, and picked himself up off the ground, wobbly walking down the London streets in pitch black.
Dwelling on all the things that had happened to him in the past month, he thought back to the day he met the cursed Robin. The little girl was so beautiful, graceful, just like the elegant bird he'd nick-named her after. Her long, coal-gray hair held in two elegant pig-tails that flowed below her shoulders, the pink dress that perfectly accentuated her still childish curves. Her mesmerizing eyes, entrancing him. If he thought about it long enough, he figured he would have wanted to keep her for himself rather than selling her off at an underground auction. He never did figure out what had happened to her, when he asked the police, they just looked at him like he was insane and said their was no girl. If he ever got the chance to meet with her, he wouldn't hesitate to defile her so terribly, she would have no where else to go.
When he'd come too, after the attack on the auction, he was in a prison cell, the Queen was there. She looked at him, disappointment written all over her pale features, Druitt almost wanted to kill himself. She'd excused him, but he knew that if he screwed up again, it would be his head on a platter. The Queen had tried to keep what happened under wraps, for fear of shame on the noble class, but it got out. Druitt was the last invited to parties, no woman would dance with him, and every party he threw, only a few people would show up to. He hated his life! He'd rather be dead!
As he stumbled and fell to this knees on the London street, plastered so hard he could barely see straight, he felt his stomach lurch, and didn't realize he'd thrown up until he tasted the sick still left in his mouth. "Futh ith all," he muttered, passing out in his own vomit.
"Druitt! Druitt! Are you okay?" the Viscount felt his body being shaken, and a terrible splitting headache jerked him awake. He opened his eyes to see that it was early mourning, the sun just peeking out from the horizon. He looked up into soft brown eyes, with long black lashes. Her skin was pale as ivory, brown hair falling in her face, and her lips were turned down in a disapproving frown. "Can you hear me, Druitt?" she asked, her brow furrowed with anxiety.
"Oh man, Mirium, your thee lash pershon I wanthed tho shee," Druitt slurred, as his headache worsened. Merriam smiled, relieved, and grabbed his arm.
"Come on, we've got to get you home you idiotic git," she pulled him up and supported him with her body, trying not to fall over. The Viscount smiled through his hang-over, realizing that Merriam had finally gotten over her horrid accent.
"I lovee you, Mirium, your thee beth," he said, planting a kiss on her cheek.
"Oh shut up, your still drunk," she said, looking the other way and blushing a brilliant pink. The Viscount smiled, life wasn't so bad if he had Merriam.