Title: His Excerpt
Rating: T
Characters/Pairings:
Summary: It would bow and he would turn dramatically. He would always get what he wanted. He was the king.
Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji. Nor the excerpts from the novel, Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë
For several subsequent days I saw little of Mr Rochester. In the mornings he seemed much engaged with business, and in the afternoon, gentlemen from Millcote or the neighbourhood called, and sometimes stayed to dine with him. When his sprain was well enough to admit of horse exercise, he rode out a good deal; probably to return these visits, as he generally did not come back till late at night.
His mother would always read to him at night.
It was her way to distract him from his questions. 'Where's papa?' 'Is papa here yet?' 'When will papa come home?'
And then his mother would always subtly counter his questions with her softly spoken ones, 'Do you want me to read you a story, mon roi?' 'Would you like another story?'
Eyes shining with excitement, he would climb up to his mother's lap. He would chatter inanely as to what story he would like to hear; a story that would be read with his mother's voice; a story from her in exchange of his father's arrival. Of course, he would prefer his father's presence. But his head would already be filled with different story titles begging to be read. Then he would pick his personal favorite.
'S'il vous plaît, mama?
His mother would smile indulgently – she had read that story a couple of times already. Gently lowering him down, his mother would stand up and pick the book from his own bookshelf. Then she would sit again and gesture him to sit on her lap. He would waste no time in obeying her because the sooner he would obey, the sooner he would be able to listen to her soothing voice.
And then, his eyes would droop and his breathing would even after a while.
Then, he would never be aware of the light brush of his mother's soft lips across his forehead and the dull sound of the book closing.
He would never notice another lips touching his forehead while he was tucked into the bed.
Just as he would be oblivious to his father's voice whispering, 'Goodnight, my son.'
'Ah! well; come forward: be seated here.' He drew a chair near his own. 'I am not fond of the prattle of children,' he continued; 'for, old bachelor as I am, I have no pleasant associations connected with their lisp. It would be intolerable to me to pass a whole evening tête-à-tête with a brat. Don't draw that chair further off, Miss Eyre; sit down exactly where I placed it—if you please, that is. Confound these civilities! I continually forget them. Nor do I particularly affect simple-minded old ladies. By-the-by, I must have in mine; it won't do to neglect her: she is a Fairfax, or wed to one; and blood is said to be thicker than water.'
He would be dragged into a room by someone dressed in a robe so white – so pure in contrast to the events that would proceed. His chains would rattle with a low rich sound. It's the start. Their start. His end.
He would beg like a proper child; a humbled child with no one and nowhere to go to. He would cling to the robe, kiss the hem and look up. His eyes would open big and he would try the charm that always worked with his – he would choke back the sobs that were trying to escape. 'Please,' he would say.
'Please no, I-' here he would falter, always, always, 'I beg you.'
Then his scream would echo all around the room. Echoing back to his own ears, he thought it was so loud. He hoped its loudness would carry to someone. 'Please, someone!'
Someone that could save him from his demons. His white demons, his mind supplied for him; while his vocals supplied another shriek.
The blow was expected. His already small body would curl to make it appear smaller.
And he would pray. He would imagine himself saying the words that would never pass through his lips. He was never religious, though. Yet, he would believe he was and there was a demon. 'White demon...'
'Fetente!' He would look up again at the sound of his name and his brand. 'Così va bene, mio sacrificio.'
A hand would lift him up through his hair and he would be forced to stare at that endless black underneath that robe. The other hand that he cannot see would stroke his sides and he would shudder in disgust. Then the room would spin and get colder. He would close his eyes and imagine himself falling; brought down not by gravity but by his will.
He would yearn for that bliss.
That black bliss, with her mother's soothing voice reading his favorite story. 'Again, petit roi?'
'No. No. No. No. KILL THEM!'
'Now I have performed the part of a good host,' pursued Mr Rochester; 'put my guests into the way of amusing each other, I ought to be at liberty to attend to my own pleasure. Miss Eyre, draw your chair still a little further forward: you are yet too far back; I cannot see you without disturbing my position in this comfortable chair, which I have no mind to do.'
He would get what he wanted.
That red dress that suited his aunt so fine, he threw. He would throw the bloodied dress over the mere corpse of his supposed-to-be killer. And then he would whisper, 'Madame Red.' It was as emotional as he would discuss the weather. But he never discussed the weather.
He would turn his back to the watchful eyes, unmindful of the stares that would bore down his back as he walked. He walked. And he walked. Out of their sight but not out of their lives. Not yet.
He would then utter the words that would condemn him yet alleviate his pain. 'You shall never betray me. You shall never leave my side. No matter what!'
Then it would smile. And red would contrast drastically against his blue; black would suit his blue artistically. Well, artistically as bruises and drastically as standing upright would be.
It would chuckle darkly. Softly. It was how it's supposed to be.
The words would float. It would be whispered in his ear. A phantom. ''Ah! By my word! there is something singular about you,' said he: 'you have the air of a little nonnette; quaint, quiet, grave, and simple, as you sit with your hands before you, and your eyes generally bent on the carpet (except, by-the-by, when they are directed piercingly to my face; as just now, for instance); and when one asks you a question, or makes a remark to which you are obliged to reply, you rap out a round rejoinder, which, if not blunt, is at least brusque. What do you mean by it?''
And he would pierce it with a glance as deadly as a blunt side of a knife; an adult expression fitting so perfectly at his childish face. He would remember his mother, burning her beautiful slit throat; his father, scorching his corpse. And that book. Then that book that his mother held for the last time would fall to the flaming carpet with an echoing thud.
'Yes, my Lord.'
It would bow and he would turn dramatically.
He would always get what he wanted.
He was the king.
The phrases are literally translated so I don't know if it actually works or is said that way.
French:
Mon roi – my king
S'il vous plait – please
Petit roi – little king
Italian:
Fetente – despicable person/trash
Così va bene, mio sacrificio – that's just beautiful, my sacrifice
Should I make this a two shot? Or you think this is enough? I would have wanted to at least make it to the circus arc but oh well.