Prologue: An Era of Peace, an Era of War
London is a peaceful place.
The cobblestone walkways are never empty - always bustling with life and filled with polite conversation. Women stroll along the passages, searching the stalls lined against buildings for food. Their boots click softly, following the same tuts of their tongues, and they smile softly at the children clinging to their ringed fingers. The men run horse-drawn wagons home in anticipation of seeing their families and food soon to fill their bellies. The horses hooves click along the stones of London, and the men call to each other, accents rising above the soft chatter of the children. The children walk home in unique groups, books in their arms and quiet voices barely a whisper above the other activity of the city.
But soon, night will fall, and the city will grow quiet and secluded. The busy streets will soon be empty - occasionally filled with the soft i click-clack /i of small, booted feet on the pavement, or the loud cursing of men late to get home, preparing themselves to face the wrath of their wives.
The bells toll as the sky begins to be dotted with stars, and night begins to fall, caressing the city into gentle sleep. But while the children curl their hands in prayer, and the women finish hanging the laundry on the clotheslines, and the men untie their boots and stretch their weary bodies onto their beds, keep in mind - with night, comes darkness, and with darkness, evil.
Even the most peaceful of places has its evils. While London, certainly magical in the day, is beautiful, full of activity and polite chatter - at night, it is cruel and unforgiving.
A small boy cries as he hears the pleads of his mother, soft sobs drifting into the air so that many can hear - but nobody does anything. They all turn the other way, pretending they don't know the boy's pain.
He curls his small, dirty hands into balls, knowing he is next. He has not lived very long - only nine years of age - but his father will soon find him, and he will soon drag him to the guillotine blade, and soon, his head will be in a basket and his body in a ditch.
He grips his tattered, blood-stained pants as he hears the feet approach, and his weeping decreases to soft sniffles. The shadow of his father falls down the alley way, peering at him, and he almost sees the wicked grin light his face, despite how far away he is.
A soft drizzle falls over them, and they do nothing but stare at each other for a while. Then, the father takes a step forward, and the boy closes his eyes, tilting his head back against the wall.
i I am going to die. /i He knows it. He knows that, despite how young he is, the men who took his mother soon will take him, too - and he has accepted death. He will welcome it, if it means escaping his father to be with his mother once more.
He opens his eyes, glancing at his father. He has not moved, one foot still positioned in front of the other, and his eyes are still fixed on the boy.
"You came for me, father - do not drawl. I am ready - come and take me to the guillotine." His voice is soft and confident in the night, stretching over the soft droplets of rain to reach the mans ears.
The man does not move. Not a single muscle - he does not blink, he does not dash, and he does not speak.
The boy rises, his fists clutched at his side. "Why do you stand and stare at me, father? Do you taunt me? Come - take my life into your hands."
The man still does nothing, and a ghost of doubt passes the boy's face. "Are you my father?" he asks, tilting his head and shifting his bare, dirty feet on the cold cobblestones.
The man straightens so that the moon reflects off his irises, and the boy realizes that the man is wearing a suit - the kind that one would wear to a nobles party. He tips his hat. "I am not," he answers, taking a few steps forward.
The boy does not flinch. "Who are you, then?" His eyes trace the dark hair cascading down the golden mask tied to the man's whole face - and he sees that the wicked smile he'd seen was simply the mask the man wore.
The man does not answer. "The more appropriate question, child, is - who are you?"
The boy folds his arms. "I have no name, sir. I am only a beggar on the street."
The man tilts his head, mirroring the way the boy had done it moments ago. "You spoke of being taken to death." He tilts his head the other way, and the boy shifts uncomfortably under his scrutinizing gaze. "You speak lightly of it. Why does your father drag you to death, boy?"
"He drags me to my death because of my mother," the boy responds, digging his dirt-covered nails into his arm furiously. "Because she was a whore," he says, seeing the man tilt his head again. The boy turns away, tilting his face so that the drizzle of water sprinkles it. "Didn't matter. She was the kindest women I ever knew..." His eyes drift to the moon, and memories of his mother's warm hand around his flick across his brain. He flinches, and then the tears threaten to come, but they quickly disappears when the man speaks next.
"You speak with intelligence. Have you been on the street long, boy?"
The boy turns his head to face him. "Yes. I live on the street. But that does not mean I do not have schooling, sir."
"I can take you," the man replies. "I can take you to my home. The hours are long, and the payment scarce - but it is warm and you will be treated well there."
"What do you speak of, sir? You surely cannot be speaking of a whorehouse. I will not go," the boy replies stubbornly, and the man comes up behind him, placing a white-gloved hand on the boy's shoulder.
"I do not speak of a whorehouse, boy. I speak of a home of servants. It is not what you think - you will make friends and be fed well. There's a boy there... one of my servants. He is around your age, if a little younger. His name is Deidara."
The boy looks up at him, eyes the size of the moon. "I know him... he went to my school."
The man nods. "Come with me, boy, and I will allow you to escape the hands of your father. You will be safe with me."
The boy looks away from him, tilting his head and pondering his options. His eyes scan the buildings around the small alleyway in which they stand, tracing the cement between the red bricks. The drift back to the sky, then fall down - and land right on the guillotine, standing in the center of the town. The moonlight reflects on the blade as it is raised up once more, blood slick on its surface. His mother's blood.
He winces and turns away as the tears flood - and his sobs return, forcing him to double over. The entire time, the man keeps his hand on the boy's shoulder, staring down at him and waiting for his decision.
Seeing that the boy will not answer, he kneels down so the water soaks through the knee of his black dress pants, and whispers softly, "Will you join me?"
There is a long moment with no answer - only the sound of the boy's sobs, curling into the night and disappearing into the distance. But, just as the man is preparing to get up and leave the boy to his fate, a small hand clasps his, and he turns back. "Yes," the boy answers. "Yes, sir, I will join you."
The man nods and says nothing else, and without bothering to shake the boy's hand off, leads him out of the alleyway.
A man, dressed in the cloak of the executioner, mask placed on his face, steps forward as they pass beneath an arc. "He belongs to us," the executioner snaps.
The man feels the boy dig his nails into his hand, as if pleading, and the noble shakes his head. "No, sir, he is not. See, I am in need of another slave, and seeing that you are going to kill him, I will take him from you. Please, get out of my way."
"We are under orders! Noble or not-"
"I do not think you understand. I am the slavemaster of London. What I say, goes. I have just as much authority around here as the princes - and if you fight me to take this child, you will soon have your head on a pike. Understand, scum?"
The executioner hisses, but he jabs his men out of the way with a dagger. As the slavemaster passes him, he can feel the burning glare of the man on his back.
"He is my nephew," the executioner says as the noble is near his carriage. The noble does not stop; instead, he opens the door to the carriage and pushes the boy inside, then turns to the executioner, one foot on the floor of the carriage.
"Really?" But it is more of a blunt, uninterested statement.
"Remember my name," the man barks as he turns to enter the Bloody Tower's gates. "Madara." Then the gate is closing, and the executioner and his group disappear from view, the night and rain obscuring them.
"Madara..." the slavemaster breathes as he slides into the wagon beside the boy. "I will remember." He smirks under his mask, then shouts for the carriage man to move the horses.
Their hooves sound, and the man turns to the boy, eyes narrowing through the slits of the mask made for his eyes.
He is filthy. His clothing is tattered, and there is blood on his pants. Dirt and grime are on his face, obscuring much of his true appearance. His hair color is undecipherable - soaked through with rain and mud. But one thing catches the man's attention - the boy turns his eyes to slavemaster's and a jolt runs down his spine. The eyes are beautiful, now that they are visible - dark purple, like the color of the sky just on the edge of twilight.
"What is your name, boy?" the man asks again, knowing he will get the same answer.
"I have no name, I told you," the boy says. His tone holds no malice - only fatigue.
"Your parents gave you no name?"
"No."
"Then I shall give you a name." The man looks away. "Until then, sleep, now. When we get to your new home, I shall arrange to bathe you and find you a decent bed."
The boy obeys, curling up on the seat of the carriage, and moments later, he is asleep. He falls in his sleep, coming to rest against the slavemaster, but the noble makes no move to adjust the shivering boy and simply lets him lie there.
He has a name for the boy. He repeats it in his mind so that it will never be lost - so that he will never forget the small person curled against his side. Soon, the carriage stops, and the carriage man comes to open the door.
"Sir," the carriage man says, peering up at the slavemaster through the rain. "Go get yourself inside, sir, and I will bring i that-" /i he sneers as he says this- "-inside."
"No," the slavemaster says. "I will take him. Chain the horses in the stables and take the carriage to the garage."
"But sir-"
The slavemaster pushes past him, stepping into the rain and turning to lift the boy in his arms. He leans over him, as if to block the rain from hitting the small frame, and begins to walk towards the light of the house glowing faintly in the distance, the sound of his boots i click-clacking /i on the pavement.
He reaches the house soon, and pushes the door open, stepping inside.
The house is one of the biggest in London - made of brick and niter on the outside to protect the wood inside. The wood is polished everywhere, gleaming under the artificial lights, and carved into the walls are intricate designs of flowers unfolding themselves. There is a staircase leading to the upper levels, and next to it is a giant corridor, lined with bookshelves and dotted with tables for the slaves to eat. The kitchen door repeatedly swings open and closed as slaves rush in and out of it - as does the door to the slaves barracks.
Instead of taking the boy to the barracks and handing him off to a matron, he goes up to the stairs to the upper levels and to his own room. He takes the boy into his own bathroom, leaning him against the wall and starting the bath, then drifts out the door and goes back downstairs, entering the slaves barracks and searching for a familiar face. He finds the small boy not long after, and calls his name:
"Deidara."
The blonde looks at him, then tilts his head. "Yes, sir?"
"Bring me some of your clothes, child. An entire set."
"Yes, sir."
The energetic blonde disappears into the sea around the slavemaster, and returns not long after, dumping a small pile of clothes into the slavemasters arms. "There, sir," he says.
The slavemaster frees a hand from the bundle and ruffles the blondes hair affectionately. "Go play, now," he says, then drifts back up the stairs and to the bathroom.
He shamelessly strips the boy and slides him into the water, shocking him. The violet eyes open and lock on his, and the slavemaster takes off his gloves and rolls up his sleeves, revealing a twin set of what appears to be black tattoos circling his wrists. He finds a towel and begins to scrub at the boy, and not ten minutes later, the small body is clean.
He pulls the boy from the water, then wraps a towel around his shivering shoulders, and speaks for the first time in what seems like hours. "Dry yourself off and change into your new clothes."
Then the man walks off, softly closing the bathroom door behind him and pawing through his closet for something softer and more casual to wear.
He pulls out a simple robe and loose-fitting pants and quickly changes, then goes to his dresser and lifts a mask from the top. He exchanges the golden masquerade mask for the thin black fabric of the other and knots the strings around each other so that the mask dangles from his nose, stretching to his chin.
The bathroom door opens, and he turns to face the boy. He is standing awkwardly in the doorway, and the slavemaster is pleased to find that the clothes of Deidara fit the boy perfectly.
"You can sleep in here for tonight," the slavemaster says. "It will save me the trouble of finding you a bed."
The boy frowns, tilting his head.
The slavemaster pats the huge bed, a canvas of dark velvet hanging over it. "Come." He peels the sheets from the bed, and the boy crawls inside them. The slavemaster lies the blankets over the thin frame, whispering, "Sleep now."
He reaches down and ruffles the hair of the boy - he's not sure why he feels such a connection to a simple slave. Perhaps it was the beauty of the boy, or perhaps how pathetic he looked, or perhaps he simply wished to fix the sadness in those violet eyes - but he hopes it will pass by morning.
He now ventures to his desk, staring down at the quill and scroll lying there, wondering if he'll need it. He decides he will not, as he has repeated the name a thousand times over in his head.
He makes the journey back to the bed and slides himself beneath the covers as well, then reaches over and blows out the candle. He rolls over to face the boy, staring at the slumbering face a moment. Before he closes his eyes, he whispers, "Sleep well, my Hidan."