A/N: I thought I might as well post the second chapter as well, despite the lack of reviews…or…any other kind of rating… So! This chapter will be about the Angelus family, as mentioned in the chapter before. This is a flashback of Michael's, not in real time. Almost all of my characters will be introduced with their memories/past. The next chapter, however, is where the actual story begins. So please R&R!
Black Butler III
Chapter 2: Past
The Angelus family – at first they were peasants, no more than mere commoners. However, in 1868, on the east coast of America, this insignificant little clan was suddenly rich and respected greatly. Jonathon Angelus, Michael's father, was simply looking for an adventure with his wife when he decided to spend the last of his small payment, from his job as a carriage driver, on two tickets to the exotic land of North America. He could simply have stowed away, but he was an honest, honorable man. They spent a few weeks living off what they could, wandering streets and waiting for any opportunity to come along for work. They weren't unhappy, though. No, his parents were thrilled to be exploring the land together, and it didn't matter to them how little they had or how cold they were at night.
"Good things always happen to good people", is what his father said, and he truly believed that. He eventually found work and began to experiment with architecture. He sketched on his breaks a lot and, sometimes, one or two people would take notice of the detailed pillars and engraved woodwork he would put so much effort in. The Americans were fascinated by the designs he drew, resembling buildings in England. He was immediately was hired to be an architect in New York. Michael's parents were extremely joyful, and gladly took the job. For years he drew, did math, and slowly his small amount of money cumulated greatly. Large building industries all around the country were practically begging him to work for them, but since he originally came to settle down and start a family, he kept his word and rejected every offer.
It wasn't a bad decision, for he still grew very wealthy anyways. He was famous in many areas of the world, including England. He was asked to return several times and live as a ranked baron, or even a viscount if he pleased, but by then his wife was already pregnant with their first baby. He couldn't possibly return when she was with a child, so he stayed put in New York. He did, however, accept to be addressed as a noble, and his status improved greatly.
They both spent most of their time at home, for Jonathon's work didn't require him to leave the manor often. He designed his mansion, and had it built straight away so that they could move in before their child was born. It wasn't excessively large or fancy, for they didn't think that kind of lifestyle was too fitting for them, considering they lived in a one-room shack for the majority of their too-short lives.
On August 4th, 1874, Michael was finally brought into the world, and the two of them couldn't be happier. His father wanted to cease his work, but Lillian, his wife, insisted that he kept his job. Servants were then hired, and every one of them was loyal to the family. The Angelus' never had any bodyguards or disguised gunmen, since an architect isn't exactly a career that makes one an easy target, so they were always a little vulnerable. They paid no mind to it, though. They were fairly close to town – close enough for their son to go to a high-end private school by the time he was old enough to be taught properly. Lillian considered private tutoring at their manor, but Jonathon was resolute on Michael going to a school, where he could meet other boys and socialize. He always thought social skills were a very important value to have, despite the fact that he had a somewhat limited vocabulary due to not getting a completely proper education.
After a few years, Lillian wanted another child, but unfortunately, she no longer was able to give birth. Although they were all greatly devastated, she stayed strong and continued to smile happily, even though the warm glow in her eyes was extinguished, leaving a hollow blue to chill anyone who looked into their depths. Michael was seven by the time she finally recovered from her depression, and all was well for several years after that. That is, until that one fateful day when Michael's whole life crumbled in the palm of destiny's hand.
It was just a few days after his fifteenth birthday, and the day started out as normally as any other – he woke up, readied himself, and went downstairs to have breakfast with his parents before he was driven to school by one of the butlers, who specifically served the child of his employers.
"Good morning, Mother, Father." Michael said formally, making sure to annunciate each word correctly in the American accent that he had picked up from school. The noble took his seat, promptly pulled out just enough for him to scoot in by the head butler Francis, and sat upright.
"Michael, darling, you don't have to use formality with your own parents. How many times do I have to tell you?" his mother sighed, raising the antique Rose Bone china to her lips. He shrugged lightly, not necessarily giving a direct answer.
"I'm simply using proper etiquette, Mother. I was born with the blood of a noble, and I must act as one if I am to represent the family name with honor and dignity." he recited masterfully, nodding evenly as Francis poured his tea.
"Oh, my. To think we raised such an apt boy." She showed her lovely grin as her gloved fingers laced under her chin.
"He's growin' into quite the man, eh?" his father haughtily said, patting Michael's shoulder roughly. He allowed the small tug of the corner of his lips and smiled gently at the two. He did not say anything, for a plate was placed in front each of them.
"Today, Ernest has prepared a lyonnaise with minced eggs and bread toasted to a golden brown and drizzled with honey. To accompany your meal, I have served an English Breakfast blend tea, imported strait from London itself, to give the young sir energy for the day." Francis listed rather monotonously, for he declaims the same line day after day. Michael gladly welcomed the food, reveling in his chef's excellent cooking skills.
Breakfast went by fairly quickly, just like it usually did. He finished off the last of his tea and stood, checking the grandfather clock to see how long He had to get to school. The young man typically was on time, and today would be no different. He would kiss his mother on the cheek, say goodbye to his father, and allow the head maid to adjust his uniform before the second butler, Lionel, drove him to school while Francis stayed to cater to his parents and chores. Michael would sit in the carriage while Lionel took the reigns in the box seat. On the way to school, they would pass over a small creek, drive by a local bakery, and turn exactly eight corners before they arrived, just as he always did.
At school, Michael would sit in the same seat he always did, listen to the same teacher explain things he already knew, and eat lunch under the same tall tree, all alone, just like every other day. He wouldn't speak much, other than answering questions and saying an occasional 'hello' to the rich young men passing by.
The boys his age were very immature – constantly laughing loudly and playing with balls and not focusing at all on their studies. Michael, however, had a future to plan for, and goofing off when there's still work to be done does not suit him in the least. His mother and father were unknown of, and it took time for them to get where they are now, and Michael fully intended to continue his father's work when he is no longer able to. The name 'Angelus' deserved to be thought more of, and a bad reputation is not what it needed.
When school is over, He would pack up his belongings and leave the campus, where Lionel would be waiting at exactly 2:23 p.m. The butler would drive him home, and Michael would give the cat in his garden his leftover lunch before entering the manor, where Lillian and her maid, Helen, would be waiting to greet him. His father would be in his study, and Michael would go to the library to do his homework and then read.
In the evening, he would be called from his studying of architecture for dinner, and would go down to the dining room where he sat on the far left of the large, rectangular table. They would eat, then retreat to the sitting room, where his mother would light a fire and write poems, as she loved to do so, and Jonathon would let her prop her head against his shoulder as she started falling asleep. Michael would be at the window seat, watching the stars. They had always fascinated him greatly; their tiny bodies in the sky so large light up the ground below. Trillions of them – just sitting there so splendidly on the pitch-black canvas behind them, creating endless shapes and slowly curving, always moving from east to west, just like the sun and moon do.
When it's time to retire, his father would wake up his mother and hug Michael goodnight as he left for his room. When there, Lionel would be waiting to tend to any of his needs as he bathed. He usually wouldn't require anything from him, so he could relax in the hot rosewater before he had to sleep. He no longer was bathed by a butler, for he was far too old to have another do for him what he needed to do on his own, so he was only ever needed to be of assistance when he poured fresh water for the noble to rinse with when he brushed his teeth with his bone-handled brush.
He would have a fire lit and his glasses set on the nightstand for the next morning as he climbed into his warm bed, covered with minimal layers of blankets for the summer months. He would read a poetry book by one of his favorite authors, for Lillian was very protective of hers, even though she was a very good writer.
When the moon finally rose enough so that it was no longer visible through the small crack in his curtains, Michael would put up the book and blow out the candles illuminating the room, and fall asleep to the crackling embers of the fire and have a dreamless night, free of any 'exciting images' that his mother would describe during breakfast the next morning. This is what he had planned to do that day, as well as every other, and continued to believe it would happen until he stepped off the campus and was surprised, something he dreads greatly.
"Where is Lionel?" Michael wondered to himself, craning his neck in both directions, watching to see if he'd come rushing down the street like he did once before. No sign of him showed, so he held his book bag at his side and waited – one minute, five minutes, ten minutes, passed and most of the student body had already fled home.
He still was not there when the traffic began to die down, and anger started boiling inside Michael, masking the slight panic he felt. "He's not coming? How am I supposed to get home?" he paced the cobblestone and grit his teeth, reaching into his pocket to check his watch. It had been twenty minutes and his butler had not appeared. He snapped it shut and calmly repositioned his glasses, deciding to rent a carriage with the money he had on him. A shop was nearby where he could pay someone to drive him home, or at least most of the way there, and it would not hurt to be on his feet just a little longer.
He stepped into a low-quality cart and sat after telling the driver the address. They bumpily drove on a different route than Lionel took him, and the sun was in a different position, hitting his eyes, making it almost intolerable to look out the window.
He nearly couldn't tell when he pulled up into the circular driveway, until they came to a slowing halt. He quickly observed the horse pen, where all three carriages were sitting. He furrowed his eyebrows, opening his door to look properly at the property. Everything was how it should have been, except for the extra carriage, as he discourteously handed the driver a few coins, anxious to find out why the schedule was broken. Michael, as always, first took a detour to the front garden to discover that the small black cat was not there that day. Its bed of old cloth was empty, and no indication of it having been there recently, showed. Disappointment and fear constricted his throat, but he swallowed it and serenely walked up the steps to his house.
The hallway appeared to be normal – the coat rack held three hats and two jackets, and the lights on the wall were all off, for the sunlight lit up the long room brightly. He hung up his coat and hat, retrieving his bag and striding towards the double doors that would lead into the foyer.
"Francis? Lionel? Why was there not a carriage to take me ho-" he shouted as he opened the door to a sight that made the breath catch in his throat and his heart stop. Red. Red covered everything – the floor, the chairs, the grand staircase, and splattered against the wall, growing thicker as his eyes followed the trail of it to its source.
Michael's eyes widened greatly and his bag fell to the floor. His hand flew to his mouth as he dropped to his knees, leaning over as he vomited at the horrific scene. He panted heavily, standing once again to face the bodies sprawled across the room. Next to the couch was the head maid, Helen, a hole through her dress and broken a broken tea set puncturing her skin as her arm lay in an unnatural position. On top of the stairs was Francis, also shot, his tailcoat ripped through as fresh blood still leaked from his body. The same was with the chef Ernest and another maid, both at the doorway to the dining room, their faces contorted with fear as they lay slumped over one another. Michael shook his head as his eyes passed over the room, seeing countless servants, including Lionel, fatally wounded and surrounded by a pool of their own blood. Tears welled up his eyes as he saw the worst sight of all.
No, he thought, tears now streaming uncontrollably down his face, this can't be happening. It isn't true. It isn't right.
There, at the grand piano, was his mother, drooping forward, lifeless. That dreadful color painted the keys as her hollow blue eyes peeked over her shoulder, the exact same shade as when she learned of her inability to reproduce anymore. In front of her, face-up, a bullet through his chest, as if he tried to shield his wife from an attack, was Jonathon, also dead. Michael panted heavily and grasped at his chest, denying the horror that lay before him countless times, only to be told by the scent and sight that it really did occur.
Fear, panic, shock, and grief all struck him at once, stabbing his heart with the excruciating pain of loss. His parents, who he cherished so dearly, were gone. He would never see his mother's loving smile, never hear her soft hum as she wrote, never feel her warm embrace, again. Michael would never have chess sessions with his father, never grimace at him and his mother kissing, never hear his profuse 'I love you's ever again. The goodbye he said this morning would be the last he ever gave them. They would never see him grow up, and he would never have anyone to comfort him when he's sad, kiss him when he's hurt, or support him when he's discouraged. He would never see them again; never tell them how much he loved them. They didn't deserve to die, they didn't. What had they ever done to deserve death?
Suddenly rage burned deeply and his knuckles turned white with the pressure of his clenching fists. Who would dare kill his household? Someone that low did deserve death, and Michael wanted so much to be the one who delivered it.
His head drooped and he took a shaky step forward, then another, passing by Helen and staining his shoes with blood. When he was at the center of the room, he no longer cried, too much in shock and fury to even bother.
"Why?" he whispered, barely reaching past his lips. "Why?" he said a bit louder, his hands shaking with rage. The silence ringed in his head, echoing the wretched loneliness that had engulfed his soul. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to find a second of serenity. When he opened them, mist was flowing around his ankles. He widened them entirely, pushing his glasses up properly onto his face, examining the layer of vapor that hid the pool of red. He raised his head fully, looking for the origin of it.
What he found, however, was even more unexpected, though it did not affect him in the slightest. An incredibly large snake slithered toward Michael, its split tongue darting out of its mouth several times. He didn't move, didn't react. The aching in his chest was too much itself to handle, so new emotions didn't distress him.
"Hello, young man. This is quite a situation, isn't it?" said a female voice, presumably coming from the snake. "Would you like out of it?" he recovered from his state of shock, his eyes clearing up as he watched it. Michael knitted his eyebrows and tried to concentrate on the question. Did he want out of it?
"I don't. I've already seen the horrible sights, already engraved this heartbreaking emotion deep into my soul. Now that I have, I want to make it right." he said plainly, clutching at his shirt.
"Hmmm… how would you make it right?" it hissed. He narrowed his eyes, the fires of anger burning in his stomach as he clenched his jaw in realization.
"Death." The word came off his tongue pleasurably, and Michael didn't mind the chilling ring his voice sounded. "Not my own, but of the ones who did this."
The voice chuckled menacingly, sending shivers down his spine. "How exciting! I haven't had a fully-constructed soul in quite a while." Its words eluded him, and so did patience.
"What do you mean?" he demanded, earning a sinister hiss from the snake.
"I can help you, if you want it that is." It said, slithering closer to Michael. He didn't retreat, but warily gazed at it as it made a circle around him.
"How will you help?" he asked, feeling it rub against his leg.
"I will do whatever you want to achieve your goal, make every wish of yours come true, be it eating a simple cake or ruling the world. Whatever you command me to do, it will happen. Just give me a command and I will see to it that it is fulfilled." It climbed up his body, winding its head around his neck so he was face-to-face with it. Michael stared into the glowing pink eyes; feeling the pain and misery of thousands mingle with his own. He considered its offer, with all the intellect he had in his despair, and decided.
"Here is your command: make my wish of destroying the one who destroyed my life come true." He said, looking directly into the eyes of desolation, finding a light of hope in them. A light chuckle escaped the snake's mouth as it lashed out in a millisecond, sinking its fangs into the palm of his right hand. He winced in pain, but did not move, for the physical discomfort didn't compare to the one he had inside.
As it moved away, it left a mark on his skin. In the center of his hand rested a circle with a pentagram in the middle, a flowery design bordering the deep black ring. He felt the weight lift off his body and glanced up, seeing no longer a snake, but a woman before him, clad in a jet-black dress with a white apron and ribbon clashing against it. Her long brown hair fell over her shoulders and her big eyes still glowed around the slit pupils.
"Yes, Sir." She kneeled before him, her knee disappearing in the retreating fog. Fatigue immediately swept over him as he collapsed on a clean step of the stairs. The image of his deceased loved ones and a snake-like woman haunted Michael's sleep, repeating the gruesome experience over and over, scarring his mind forever.
