Hi, it's a bit early for a Christmas story, isn't it? But it's multi-chaptered, and I'll try my best to finish this around Christmas. This is inspired by Dicken's "A Christmas Carol", it was first a crack idea, intended to be some saucy porn with Scrooge!Arthur and Ghost!Alfred. But well, it turned out deeper ^^. There's still smut, though hahaha. Mmm~ supernatural smut.

Chapter 1 - And he was blind

"Lucy, how long do you intend to wear black? It's not proper for a young lady, betrothed to a respectable and famous figure of our time."

She was sitting in front of the fireplace with her mother, watching the tender flames dance and radiate the welcome heat. A novel lay abandoned on her lap. It was written by her fiancée. There was a snow storm outside as she looked out the window, the wind piped through every tiny gap. And she wondered. She wondered whether her fiancée was feeling cold. "Our love died and I mourn over the terrible loss," she said with a melancholic smile, earning an uncomprehending scowl from her mother.

Lucy opened the book to continue reading whilst trying to ignore her mother's complaints. Reading his story was the closest she could get to his soul, she therefore cherished every single word. Now, was he someone of childish nescience or simply a bad person? She thought that neither could quite explain her fiancée.

Arthur's steps sank deep into the thick layer of snow from last night's storm, though the young man barely noticed, never noticed the snow melt and wet his expensive shoes to prove the owner that they weren't worth half of the price he paid. Then again, why should Arthur care? Wandering around outside of his safe and beloved home spheres was forever a hated activity, but alas, he needed new paper and ink for his forever beloved pastime, and Arthur never trusted the unknowing fingers of his servants to buy them for him. He didn't like going out, because outside were people, many of them. And they were imperfect, not yet on a higher metaphysical level in mind, not yet shaped in character, not enough depth, not enough psychological twist, not heroic enough. So he decided to blend them out of the very world of his own creation.

There were playing children in worn out coats, passed on from father to the elder brother, then to the younger – a mocking symbolism of a trap called poverty, without possibility of escaping the cycle. There were young girls selling flowers that weren't in the least fresh and pretty; they were probably beautiful young women under the thick layer of dirt and what was stuck from hard work. There were thieves and they aimed for a gentleman's pocket, though most of the time their yield was merely a loaf of bread, if any. And their crime was their hunger. There were old women, crippled men begging for people's compassion. But Arthur Kirkland saw no futureless children, selling girls, thieves, or beggars. Before his eyes were dragons. Dragons and knights, fays and princesses, winged horses and majestic lions, exotic dancers and heroes in love.

"Arthur, Arthur - lost in thought as always," there he was again, the disturbance in his perfect magical world. Arthur rolled his eyes in annoyance and turned to glare at the 'intruder'. For some reason the brat was always able to break through his thick wall of fantasy.

"What do you want, Alfred?"

Alfred was tall and handsome with wavy hair that was golden under the afternoon sun, brilliant blue shone through his spectacles, and there was this bright smile that never seemed to leave his features. He was dressed rather fine, though he seemed to not care about wearing his attire in a neat, proper way. Arthur would be lying to say that the boy, who was definitely four or five years younger than him, was entirely annoying. There was something in him that reminded Arthur of the protagonists in his stories.

"You remember my name," Alfred said with a happy smile on his youthful face. He was by Arthur's side after one swift movement and slung his arm around the writer's shoulder, causing him to lose balance for a moment, because of his frailer physique. Of course Arthur knew his name, since he was practically shouting it the first time they had met. The first encounter with Alfred was truly an obscure happening, and really, there was no other word to describe a stranger stopping in front of you, looking at you in utter sadness and say "Why are you so lonely?"

"Get off me!"

"Aw come on, let's chat for a bit! Eh, how about we meet up tonight?"

Arthur didn't know how to react and it actually took him a moment of thinking to decide that he would rather not go. There was a better place awaiting him at home, a place exclusively for him and no other. "No." He was ready to walk away and it would have been easier without a heavy man clinging to him.

"Don't be like that, why not?"

"Because I don't know you. Besides you annoy me. Now kindly let go of me," Arthur demanded, his voice growing angry.

"You know nobody, not even your own family," the passionate retort caught Arthur off-guard, shocked him even and he found himself freeze to stare up at Alfred, wide eyed. That brat always said the most cryptic things at times most unexpected. And his words were ridiculous even, because he obviously knew his own family, it was sort of inevitable, giving that they were living under the same roof. However, in truth Arthur Kirkland had a vague idea of the meaning behind Alfred's words.

Arthur awkwardly adjusted his top hat. He was going to say something biting, but he figured that he wasn't Alfred's centre of attention anymore; instead his eyes were rested on a small girl, not much older than five years, desperately trying to at least sell one single bouquet of wild winter flowers. The writer watched Alfred approach the girl, how he knelt down in order to be at eye level with her. He smiled to the girl, bought the inartistic bouquet with a payment that magically made a smile appear on her face. Today she wouldn't need to work anymore.

"I want to show you London," said Alfred after he was back at Arthur's side, Arthur, who was looking at him in a puzzled way.

"I know London quite well myself, thank you very much." Arthur turned to walk off in angry steps - no way would he waste his time with that insolent boy - leaving Alfred behind. Blue irides watched him go with sadness.

The moment Arthur discarded his coat and top hat he was greeted by his mother, an energetic woman with strictness in her features, accentuated by the fine wrinkles on her forehead and under her eyes, the same eyes as Arthur. Her son sighed, he really wasn't in the mood for speaking with anybody (then again he never was) at the moment; he had his sheets of paper now and his finger were itching to write. There was only one thing planned for the rest of the day, which was barricading himself inside of his bedroom and write until he needed to buy new paper. In other words, it was his only plan for life. Though his mother wouldn't have any of it.

"Your future wife is here to visit you," she said with her raspy voice, which wasn't open for compromise.

Arthur glanced to catch a glimpse of the parlour where his fiancée was standing and she was looking at him directly. Lucy was wearing a bustle dress and a small roundish hat, probably the newest fashion, he wouldn't know, and it was black as usual. To his horror she was approaching him, hooked her arm to Arthur's and smiled to his mother. "Don't worry Mrs Kirkland, I'll keep him company in his room," she said politely, ignoring the fact that it wasn't the most proper act for fiancées to spend time in the same bedroom.

She closed the door, for she knew his habits. Arthur's bedroom hadn't changed since her last visit a month or so ago. His canopy bed with elaborate royal blue draping was neat as ever and she chuckled at the unicorn stuffed toy, earning a glare from Arthur. "Nothing is changing in your world," she gently said, without a single spark of nostalgia in her voice.

"Change is for unsatisfied people," was the only answer she received. Arthur was already at his desk, which was a hilly landscape of book and paper, and he was ready to work on his newest novel. She wrapped her arms around him from behind.

"I am one of them," she whispered and every word was full of grief. "And I wish you were too."

Arthur was silent and she too was silent in her crying; the tiny tear drops wet the fabric of his shoulder. She stayed with him for a long time while he was writing, she never let go of him, occasionally planting chaste kisses on his nape, hair or cheek. The rejected lover was clinging to him in fear of letting go, at the same time he wrote about a fair lady being courted by a passionate man. Such cruelty of irony, she thought.

After an hour or probably more, she finally withdrew herself and Arthur visibly relaxed. "Will you ask me out for Christmas?" She asked.

"Mother will demand it anyway," was his scarce answer and he remained indifferent.

"You break my heart, Arthur." She tried to say it with humour, but failed. "That's not the answer that your lady is waiting for."

"I apologise, Lucy," and she knew he didn't mean it.

The Kirklands' English garden was a miniature version of the larger one that belonged to their mansion outside London. It was covered in snow today. At that moment the garden wasn't entirely deserted. A blond young man stood beside the frozen pond, watched by the curious winter birds. He looked up, fixated his gaze on a window of the top floor. He could see Arthur at his desk and a woman behind him.

"We'll meet tonight." Alfred's whisper was carried away by the cold wind.