II: The Englishman
"'You're not from around here, are you, Señor?' he had asked me in a heavily accented English. It was quite clear that he wasn't used to speaking the language, and to someone like me, it wasn't much of a surprise. He possessed an exotic appearance though, now that I think about it, he did not really appeal to me much. His skin was a deep tan as though he spent most of his life outdoors—unsurprisingly—but his head had donned a knit cap despite the sweltering weather. I did not see a trace of hair on his head through the cover, and I could also tell that he was lacking muscle mass. Chemotherapy, he would later tell me nearly a week or two after our first encounter, was the root cause. 'I recommend their limonada,' he had then said. 'It's quite delicious!'
"I had ordered a glass of iced lemon tea instead of his recommendation in Spanish after hearing him speak, preferring to speak the language native to the land rather than hear his sorry excuse for English, and once the waiter had arrived at my table. He didn't frown or anything—kept smiling that ridiculous grin of his. My Spanish was passable, fluent maybe, but I wouldn't say perfect—certainly better than his English though. It was still enough to impress him, and he had remarked, 'Maybe you don't need my help, after all! I thought you were a helpless tourist!'
"There was a strange glimmer in his eyes, a tinge of fear, perhaps, and I had commented on it. 'You know what I am,' I had stated firmly. His resolve had wavered for a moment. Then I had realised that the very notion was rather ridiculous; no mortal could possibly know who or what I was—am, actually. 'Or, rather,' I had then corrected myself after my moment of epiphany, 'what I am not. It is quite clear, however, that you are searching for something, so what do you wish from me? You ought to know that the price is not cheap.'
"He had laughed then and waved the waiter for a glass of lemonade. He had removed his knit cap then, revealing his bald head that was slightly dented here and there, and responded, 'It runs in my family—extrasensory perception—so I can see that you are not normal. What you've said is true though. I do not know what you are, but you, on the other hand, definitely know what I have. It doesn't take a genius to figure it out, huh?' His smile had faltered. Even though he had known that I knew what he was mentioning, he had continued to explain, maybe to clarify any vague details, 'I have cancer—lung cancer. It seems that exposure to second-hand smoke truly is dangerous. My friends like to smoke, see. They don't smoke any more though—not around me at least. I have good friends... What I don't have is time.'
"The waiter had returned with our drinks, and we each had thanked him before waiting until he had left again to resume our conversation. After taking a sip of my tea, I had asked of the Spaniard, 'Do you want me to lengthen your time then? It is not impossible for me to do such a thing, but I'd prefer not to do it. There are people who would all scold me—one way or another—especially if you cannot repay me. If you wish for such a thing, I will tell you now that, not only is the price is too great, but also that you cannot afford it. You will spend your death slaving away in Hell if you do take that risk.'
"He had cracked another silly grin. 'I haven't even spoke yet, cariño,' he had retorted playfully, attempting to keep himself cheery. 'I don't wish for time... You are practically telling me that it's close to impossible anyway. Simply... Accompany me for a little while.'
"I had almost pummelled him on the spot for the suggestion. 'What the bloody hell kind of person do you think I am?!' I had snapped. He had laughed and laughed and laughed, and I really would have ended his life there if he hadn't spoken so soon.
"'Just one date,' he had told me with a smile. 'Just grant a dying man this one wish.'
"'Why me?' Of course, I was sceptical. Presented with the possibility of having anything you could want in the world, the sleazy little wanker had chosen to go on a date with me—a man who had done nothing but belittle him. I could have easily found and arrange him a lovely little succubus—or an incubus, depending on his taste—if he had wanted me to do so, but he had requested me specifically.
"'There's something about you that's...different, and I am not talking about what you are or what you are not,' he had explained vaguely. 'Humour me.'
"Three months was all that he had. Three months of what was supposed to be my vacation was flushed down the toilet thanks to this insufferable git, and now he's gone and done it again with my vacation in Milan! Anyway, one day two months into our—our arrangement—when I was visiting him in his hospital room—as the cancer had progressed even more rapidly than he had thought, something about which he had teased me and jokingly blamed on my supernatural presence—I met your grandfather, Romano. Romulus Vargas, seven years ago, was a healthy man of a proud and enviable standing. I hadn't expected the Spanish pillock to be related to someone such as him—a powerful individual in the Surface World. It appeared that Romulus Vargas had hunted down his grandson after his disappearance to check on his health, and he was more than surprised to have seen me there.
"Romulus Vargas had pulled me aside and out of the hospital room. He had told me that he could see souls, and he had seen that I had none of my own. He wasn't wrong, but he did warn me to stay away from Antonio Fernandez Carriedo as though I was the bane of his health, the source of his cancer. I did smoke, and I do smoke occasionally. I never did around the prat though; it was like pouring salt on a slug or rubbing it into a wound. Antonio was already helpless. What cause did I have to worsen his health? ...well, other than possibly reaping his soul for my own benefit. Still, it wasn't like his soul in particular was anything special if we were to judge objectively; Carriedo's soul is still a blinding yellow. Of course, that wasn't what Romulus Vargas meant when he had said I was the bane of his health. He probably had known what I was, and if he did, then he was one of the only humans who knew.
"I hate to be accused, you see, without any slightest bit of evidence, so I had told him that Carriedo and I had an arrangement. It is common knowledge in the Otherside that demons are the only creatures that can truly restrict and restrain a soul—via contracts, of course. They're like collars, so wherever a human goes, the demon would know where he or she is as well. Because when you make a contract with a demon, you practically sell your soul and die an early, unnatural death due to the absorption of life energy that leads to the shortening of your lifespan. It is true that daemons in general thrive off life energy, and the Surface World is full of life—thus, the reason why daemons are attracted to it. The only daemons who really need to feed directly from humans are vampires, and, well, there is a means to do it though I will not explain to you so soon. You might be faint of heart.
"At any rate, Romulus Vargas was enraged, naturally, upon hearing what I had to say. In place of Antonio's soul, he had pleaded, knowing that he could not best the supernatural, to take a dying old man who has already sinned one too many times. Carriedo was still young, and he had a long life ahead of him—if I would save him. Now how could I refuse a man like Romulus Vargas? Despite his sins, his soul was beautiful—a beautiful, beautiful blue-white, not quite a pure azure but rare nonetheless—so I had accepted his deal. I would save Carriedo's life, increasing his lifespan by the years Carriedo himself could not afford, in exchange for obtaining Romulus Vargas' soul whenever the old man would die. I would not reap him, I had decided, and would allow him to live his life as it would be to settle ties with his grandsons. He returned to Rome, and two years later, Carriedo would follow him after recuperating in Barcelona. I did not expect Romulus Vargas to die so soon seven years later."
Arthur quieted, his lips no longer smiling but neither frowning nor scowling either.
"Y-You're a demon? O-Or a d-daemon or whatever?" Lovino spluttered with disbelief in his eyes. A part of him wanted to edge away from the blond, but fear kept him rooted in his spot on the bed. Another part of him wanted to observe the Briton a little longer.
"Did I say I was? I don't believe I did say I was a demon. I explained what a demon does, but did I say I was a demon? I could have been telling your grandfather a lie as well; for all you could know, I might be an angel—though I may be too sinister for that role. Still, I won't deny that I am a daemon." At this, he grinned wickedly, laughing bitterly, before standing up. Judging by the almost feral glint in his dangerously bright emeralds, Lovino decided against asking Arthur what the difference between a demon and a daemon was. That was a question for next time—if there was one. "Now you know the story between Carriedo and me and how I've met your grandfather," he mused. "What story do you have for me, Romano? What is it that you need from me? Your grandfather sent you here, did he not? I know naught beyond that; I cannot look into the hearts of man—only their souls."
Lovino pressed his lips into a grim line, uncertain of where or how to begin his story. "You know what kind of person Nonno is—was—then; he was an obnoxious bastard—always laughing, drinking, eating, and sleeping, sleeping around, I mean—but an okay bastard. He was a family man though, and he made sure that everyone was well, healthy, and, most importantly, alive—but... But..." Lovino scowled deeply, his fingers clenching into vengeful fists, deep rage and fury with which Arthur was familiar began filling his eyes, darkening the amber pools of his hazel eyes and the emerald slivers. "Those bastards betrayed him!" Irate tears flowed from his tears, but Lovino didn't seem to notice them. He spat bitterly, "They might as well have killed him with what they've done! After Nonno kicked the bucket, they held his precious Feliciano hostage to chase me out of the house and tried to kill me while they were at it—to make sure that there was no more heir. That tomato bastard helped me out of a tight spot, but I don't know what happened to my brother. I don't think they would kill him; even as their hostage, they love him too much since he's a cheerful idiot. Still, I need him to stay safe and alive first and foremost. I couldn't give less of a damn about that traitorous family." Lovino cracked a wry smile. "Feliciano is an idiot, after all, with little to no common sense. He's always been trusting of others, so he... He's probably really scared right now." Lovino turned to face Arthur. "Can you do that for me? Bring my brother here with your teleportation trick? You said that you could go anywhere in the world within that star-thing, right?"
Arthur exhaled sharply—not quite a resigned sigh but exasperated nonetheless—before directing a firm gaze to Lovino. "Are you familiar with equivalent exchange or, perhaps, the conservation of mass and energy? If you are, then you would know that you cannot create something from nothing, and you cannot destroy all traces of it either—unless you're God," the blond informed quietly. "In the same way, teleportation works as a matter of transporting particles from one area to another. Considering that I do not know what your brother looks like or his exact location, I cannot safely extract him from his hold and move him here with you. My international pentagram works in such a way that warp locations are made of another array and collection of pentacles meticulously located and situated for precision and accuracy. If we can transport him safely to one of these locations, then I can bring him here to you."
"In other words," Lovino deduced slowly, "you're telling me that we have to go back to Rome...?"
"If we are to fetch your brother," Arthur agreed, "then, yes, we have to return to Italy."
Lovino grimaced, knowing the consequences of such an action. "And have the whole entire Mafia on our damn tail?"
"They already are, dearest Romano," Arthur remarked. Lovino shuddered at the sound of the endearment spoken so casually without so much of an ounce of emotion. "They'd simply be closer. I don't plan on returning directly to Italy so soon, however. It would be dangerous at this rate since the Mafiosi would still be on high alert. Of course, knowing Carriedo, he would never allow anything to happen to you, but even both he and I know that it's impossible to protect you by himself. There is only so much two men can do, after all." A smirk crept onto his lips. "And then there were three. Of course, the ideal number is seven."
"Seven?" Lovino repeated dubiously. "Why seven? Having so many people would endanger the plan, wouldn't it? There's no guarantee that everyone would survive or keep the whole scheme a secret!"
"There are seven colours of the rainbow, seven seals of the apocalypse, seven wonders of the world, seven seas, seven sins, seven virtues, seven chakras, Seven Princes of the Underworld and Seven Archangels of the Heavens, and, most importantly, the ever-so-lucky triple seven," Arthur explained half-heartedly with a sheepish grin. "Isn't that good enough then? The number seven?"
Lovino narrowed his eyes at the Briton. "Are you basing this all on intuition? I really don't need us risking our asses because of your instincts," the Italian boy remarked dryly.
"Well," the ethereal being responded nonchalantly, "if wisdom comes with age, then I should hardly ever be wrong by now."
"Right... And where are we going to find four other bastards to help us?"
"Easy," Arthur answered brusquely, "the Otherside." He flashed Lovino a brief smile, and for a moment the younger man thought he saw a glimmer of concern in his electric eyes. "Get some rest; you'll need the strength to keep up. In the meanwhile, I have to get to work now that the two of you are here." The Englishman pushed himself off the bed and onto his feet. "If you need anything, call for me or one of the children. Make yourself at home, Romano Kirkland." Arthur derived great pleasure from the reddening of the boy's cheeks. "Don't get too carried away with exploring London; if you leave the manor, have one of the children escort you. I can't promise you absolute safety simply because you are currently outside of Italy."
"Don't treat me like a child," he grumbled.
"I can't help it," Arthur teased lightly. "I am at least 1581 years older than you. Everyone is a child in comparison to me." A bitter smile graced his lips as he left Lovino to his own devices.
Crimson eyes glinted underneath the light before the young man grimaced. For the past few hundred years, he had always been particularly sensitive to the sunlight no thanks to a certain curse that had been graciously bestowed upon him to restrict his actions during daytime. Yawning and stretching his limbs, revealing his sharp canines, the figure crept from the shadows dressed in a light jacket covering a black muscle shirt with the hood pulled over his head, a pair of ragged jeans and worn runners, both of which were stained with dirt and grass and caked with mud and blood, and a pair of shades covering his crimson eyes. He ran a pale hand through his silvery hair and barked to the other three lingering behind him, "Hey, let's get moving!" His nose crinkled upon picking up the scent yet again. Subsequently, the young man cracked a smirk and snapped, "It's the smell of tea, burnt scones, and spray paint! There's only one person that could possibly be!"
"Bruder, you have all the time in the world to meet with him again," reprimanded a taller blond. Had the blond not been inexperienced, the young man who had first spoken would have had no qualms relinquishing his title to his adopted little brother, of whom he was incredibly fond—fond enough to give the pup his own last name even though, admittedly, there was not much use for such a name any more. Honestly, he didn't want the responsibilities in the first place and would have rather spent the rest of his life chasing cute little birds and the scent of wurst; however, because he was the strongest of the pack, the duties as the Head of the Pack rested upon his shoulders. "We should stick to our patrol route and follow to the north."
"Honestly, Gilbert," chastised a young brunette who crossed her arms underneath her robust bosom, "you ought to act more like the Head Alpha and be like Ludwig for a change. There's nothing to see in Bromley but a few football clubs, and we don't have time to play!"
"Don't get your panties in a knot, Lizbet, because you couldn't beat me—not at football, not at being alpha," Gilbert retorted dryly. He quickly dodged one of her enraged strikes and slipped into the crowd. The others had mild difficulties attempting to follow him. "If Artie is out on the streets again instead of that cluttered manor of his, that can only mean that he's stirring up trouble." A toothy grin overwhelmed his lips, dominating all of his emotions, as he declared, "I want a piece of his action. It has to be something good!"
Behind him, a slender man sighed and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Really, this is ridiculous, Gilbert," he stated firmly as his onyx eyes flashed with irritation. "The Council would scold us for neglecting our responsibilities as the Gatekeepers."
"Then," Gilbert remarked, "don't follow me. Don't mind me. Just let me do what I want and go your own separate ways with the pack." Nobody responded to his provocations. After all, his suggestions were impossible; it had been ingrained within them over the centuries to follow the words of the Head Alpha. The only way they could disobey Gilbert was if someone came along to overthrow him from power—and then kill him to ensure their position as the new head. Even though this Head Alpha was boisterous and reckless, he was still clever and strong with his years of military experience. Nobody questioned his authority despite the latter's complaints of boredom in the longevity of their daemonic lives. At any rate, this was the system that hadn't even weathered in the slightest tiny bit throughout all of history. It was tradition, and everyone followed it wordlessly—without a doubt, without a second thought, without a moment's hesitation. "Of course, this is my bone to pick with that damn Arschloch. I would rather have you guys continue as usual; Lutz, you're in charge for the time being until I come back."
The tall blond blinked in confusion. "W-What are you saying?!"
"It's temporary leadership; it'll do you some awesome practice," Gilbert said dismissively. "If anyone so much questions you, then beat them up. Have at it! And if all fails, then rely on Elizaveta or Roderich for all I care! Just don't screw up!" Gilbert paused in his steps, smirk widening. He didn't turn to face his younger brother, whom he was certain could clearly hear the amusement in his voice, "By the time I return, you better have gotten stronger. Then we'll have a match and see who's the true Alpha." Because, really, Gilbert thought that he didn't deserve the position, it would have been better to leave the title to Ludwig. After all, Gilbert had been cursed to be a hybrid—an unclean and unsightly mutt—that could hardly represent his pack.
And he played favourites. He'd rather leave the pack to Ludwig's hands than Elizaveta's or Roderich's. After all, Gilbert had raised Ludwig himself from when he was a young pup, and there was no one he trusted more than his protégé—not even the Awesome Arthur Kirkland. That was why when he encountered the man with mousy blond hair and electric green eyes in a dark alley, tracing his hand over one of the latter's earliest artworks on the brick wall, he greeted him wearily, "Out of your cave, I see, Mein König." His address to the older daemon was sardonic and bitter, teasing and taunting almost, although there was a tinge of nostalgia and relief in his tone. "It's awesome to see that you're well."
Arthur Kirkland appeared a man of average stature with an ethereal appearance. His hair glimmered by capturing the rays of light that peaked through the darkness in the alley like the pale gold of the moon, and his expressive eyes churned with a storm unknown to Man in general. He was dressed, however, like the gentleman he claimed to be in this life. He donned a beige blazer made of light fabric with a dark brown waistcoat buttoned over a white shirt that had a collar fastened with a tie the colour of traditional red wine as well as a pair of slacks and leather Oxfords. The last time Gilbert had seen him, a few decades ago in the eighties or the seventies, Arthur was one of the youthful, rebellious street punks and anarchists littering the London streets. Then, previously in the forties, he was a pilot in the Royal Air Force, dressed much more raggedly than now, and the inexplicable euphoria of being able to fly freely without having to heed lurking eyes tarnished whatever misery and agony that haunted his being. Before that, he was a captain of a ship—known to most as a pirate—and before that he was an inventor and scientist. Before then, he was a witch doctor, though the blond had preferred the term "apothecary," and before then he was known to the world as a warlock—though he most adamantly was not a warlock—and had been attempted by the people to be burnt at stake. What laid before his long life as part of the Otherside was unknown to Gilbert, but the albino knew him for almost five hundred years—for almost Gilbert's entire life of longevity. Because of this, the Alpha considered him one of his greatest friends and allies despite the fact that such connections could mean fatality in their kind of existence. For Gilbert, depending on the blond's reaction, they could rekindle their friendship through this encounter. Otherwise, they would have to go their separate ways again—with Arthur disappearing under everyone's nose.
"Gilbert," Arthur addressed the albino with a subtle crinkle in his eyes. He didn't offer much of a smile, but the corners of his lips curved upwards by the slightest degree of an angle. "I assume that you are doing well yourself."
"You're looking spiffy," Gilbert commented dryly as he leaned against the wall. His crimson eyes fell upon the street art Arthur had done in the seventies—the image of a homeless, starving man stroking the muzzle of a white horse. Unseen to the human eye was the faint traces of a glowing pentagram inscribed within a circle upon which they stood. There were four other designs to accompany this one, another in the north-eastern part of London (Havering), in the south-western part of London (Kingston upon Thames), in the north-western part of London (Hillingdon), and in the northern part of London (Enfield). At the centre of these five points was Arthur's manor. "I never understood why you couldn't just mark where your magic circle was, but you had to spray paint all over it as well."
"This pentacle is over a thousand years old," Arthur remarked, tapping his feet against the aforementioned magic circle. "Humans have built over it and then destroyed on top of it—rinse and repeat a few times—before I had a chance to retouch it. I nearly gave up on the entire venture and almost forgot about its location—all of them, actually."
"But you did forget," Gilbert pointed out, "until the twenties and forties of the twentieth century came around."
"Shit happened that reminded me of how dangerous and disastrous humans could be," Arthur agreed. "I started looking for where I placed my old pentacles to make travelling more efficient after the first World War and retouched them. After the second World War, however, the German Blitzkrieg nearly decimated everything. I didn't get around to doing anything until everything began to calm. I finished everything in the seventies, but even then... Insinuating something like a Cold War or intervening in another country's civil war... Humans are quite foolish, aren't they?" Arthur cracked a smile. "Who needs a damn thing like blood ties and relations and connections? Everyone should just live independently."
"You keep those children around, don't you?" Gilbert remarked. "I don't think you have much of a place to judge when it comes to 'blood ties and relations and connections' then. Besides, if humans lived in a lawless state, then it would be like Hell, wouldn't it? Even the Underworld has a form of government—some sort of monarchy or aristocracy or whatever. I can't tell any more. Anyway, anarchy doesn't suit human civilisation; it would never work for them. They're social creatures."
"So are lycanthropes," Arthur retorted pointedly. "You hardly go anywhere without your pack; where are they now?"
"I sent them away," Gilbert responded nonchalantly with a wicked grin. "I wanted to talk to you; you should be honoured for being graced with my awesome presence."
Arthur rolled his eyes and countered, "It should be the other way around, bloody wanker." He crossed his arms and sighed. "Do you remember the human Antonio Fernandez Carriedo from seven years ago—in Madrid?"
"I visited you once and met a man with cancer, but then I never saw you again until now," Gilbert replied shortly. "Was that him?"
"That was—is, actually—him," Arthur answered tersely. The thought of Antonio soured his tongue as he recalled horrid memories of the suffocating wanker. "He ended up surviving." As though to explain why, the blond raised his left hand in front of him and held it to the sky. A sliver of light peered through the cracks his fingers formed, and Arthur could feel the faintest tickle as the energy seeped past his pale skin. "His grandfather negotiated with me—a life for a life—but it was quite unfair," the Briton mentioned. "The man who nullified Carriedo's deal had a single soul that was worth a thousand men's—Romulus Vargas." Gilbert was silent, holding the name in awe. Even among the daemons and the creatures of the shadows, that singular human was a sight to behold. Most stayed away from him with a sort of mild respect for the impressive human who had managed to accomplish so much in his lifetime, conquering cities and even countries within the shadows right under the governments' noses. "You might have heard about the entire ordeal. Everyone was buzzing about the palace like bees when I visited to speak with the Scribe." Yes, that was true. Gilbert had to return to the Underworld occasionally to give reports on his patrols, and the news spread across the entire realm like wildfire. "Incredible though his soul was and is, a man is but a man. He died not too long ago. Thus, his so-called family had an uprising regarding the succession to his legacy, and Antonio escorted the heir to my manor while I was enjoying my holidays in Milan."
"You're always on vacation," Gilbert remarked. The werewolf yawned and focused his eyes on the older daemon. "So? What does that have to do with why you're here with a bunch of your fancy magic—" or was it magical? "—chalk?"
"Part of Romulus Vargas' contract was that I took care of his grandsons, Antonio, Lovino, and Feliciano, in the case that something has happened to him or with the family," Arthur replied curtly as he shuffled through his briefcase to retrieve the aforementioned chalk. He rolled up the sleeves of his blazer and knelt on the ground, retracing the pattern of the pentagram, darkening the ring that circumscribed the five points, and muttering a few incantations, while Gilbert watched with vague interest. "I keep my word; I've always had."
"That's what makes you different from the others and much more awesome as well," Gilbert remarked with a grin. "You're pretty damn respected."
"I was," Arthur retorted. "After keeping away from the Underworld for so long and returning in only that one instance, I doubt any other daemon still respects me."
"There's still Franny."
Arthur snorted derisively. "That bloody frog respects me? He just chases after my bleeding arse—ever since that damn coronation as well! That's over a thousand years, you know?"
"He respects you more than you'll ever know, Art, because he loves you the most out of all of us," Gilbert teased light-heartedly. "There's also Mathias and Lukas, Vladimir, and Kiku."
"Mathias, Lukas, and Vladimir are friends like yourself," Arthur commented. Gilbert felt a surge of pride well in his chest; Arthur had always implied that he had no friends. In truth, there were many who admired the blond even though the beginning of his legacy and reign was rough and tough. "Kiku is my familiar and my servant. He doesn't count either; he has to respect me. It's in his job description. That also applies to Mathias and Francis since they are a part of the Council."
"They also do it out of their own will," Gilbert assured the blond the moment that he finished with the pentacle. "Do you want me to escort you to your next one? I'm sure we have plenty to discuss regarding your current predicament."
"If you want to tag along, then go ahead," Arthur responded dismissively as he packed his bag and stepped out of the alleyway. The older daemon cracked a smile and added teasingly, "As long as you'll join me for dinner."
"You're not cooking, are you?"
"Bugger off."
"Last time I tried your cooking, I almost died!"
"But you didn't, you inconceivable little git! You can't die either! Your existence would simply have been erased!"
"I have would have been erased if Kiku and the kids hadn't told you to heal me!"
"Shut it! Not another word from you! My cooking's not that bad!"
"No, but it is bad!"
Lovino climbed down the stairs and headed into the kitchen after his stomach had defied him and demanded to be fed with a thunderous growl. The moment he opened the fridge, however, he felt a cool metal press against his neck. If it hadn't been for the fact that his body had frozen out of instinct and terror, he would have gulped and grazed his skin against the thin blade.
A steely, emotionless voice asked of him flatly and brusquely, "Who are you?"
His first instinct was to reach for the nine-inch Italian stiletto he kept hidden in his jacket with which to defend himself, but it seemed that the newcomer had anticipated this and quickly snatched Lovino's wrist, pinning his arm behind his back. Lovino hissed as he was slammed against the flat surface of the wall, and the flat of the blade of the long sword pressed closer to his neck. Again, his assailant inquired of his identity, and Lovino hesitated in his response, "Lo—"
His answer was abruptly cut off as a childish voice whined, "Kiku! That's Artie's guest, Romano! Romano Kirkland!"
The blade was soon retracted from his throat, and there was a sound of the weapon being sheathed in its scabbard. Lovino was quickly released, collapsing to the ground, and took his chances to glare at his (former?) assailant. His hazel eyes were quick to widen with surprise upon falling onto the sight of a young Oriental man dressed in traditional garbs with neatly trimmed black hair and dark, almost soulless eyes. That was normal enough, he supposed, but what had caught him off-guard was the pair of white ears atop his head and the nine tails protruding from his backside.
"He appears to be older than the children that His Majesty normally adopts," replied the Japanese man, his English lightly accented. His dark eyes never left Lovino's form. Likewise, Lovino's eyes never left the sword strung against his hip. "He is still a human as well."
Alfred hummed lightly as he swung his legs back and forth on top of the kitchen counter. "I don't really get it either, but Romano is staying with us now!" the American boy chirruped. "Right, Mattie?" Lovino hadn't spotted the quieter brother until that moment, and he was surprised to have only noticed the boy right then, clinging onto the fabric of the Japanese's man's midnight blue hakama, staring desperately at the older man.
"His Majesty has not returned yet?" Kiku inquired of the two boys.
"Not yet," piped up Angelique from the kitchen entrance with a velvet bag in her hands, "but we're hungry, Kiku! Can we start eating without him?" Behind her was Jia Long and Neeraja leading Antonio into the kitchen.
"It is only three o'clock," Kiku responded politely. "We cannot wait until he returns, Alfred-sama?" His eyes fell upon the Spaniard, and he gave the latter a polite bow. "It has been a while, Carriedo-san."
"Kiku, I see that you've met my cousin, Lovino," Antonio greeted the Japanese man, standing awkwardly to the side. It was patent that the Spaniard didn't quite know how to interact with Kiku. "Where's Arturo?"
The children trekked to the round dining table with Angelique's bag and a map of London. Spilling a multitude of glass marbles onto the map from the velvet bag, the spheres began to roll about idly until the five children joined hands in a circle. Their eyes closed, and suddenly the marbles began to roll around in a line, forming a perfect circle, that strayed to the northern part of London. "Enfield," Angelique replied shortly with a smile, opening her honey coloured eyes. "He is in Enfield!"
"Is that so?" Antonio responded just as cheerily the moment the marbles' movements began to falter. Helping the children collect them into the bag, he added, "Thank you for your help!"
"If he is in Enfield," Kiku mentioned, "then he should be home by seven. Shall we dine then?"
"But waiting four hours takes forever!" Alfred whined with a pout on his lips.
"It is enough time to shop for groceries and cook," Lovino quickly added before the boy would burst with tears. It really appeared that—at the time—Alfred would start crying at any given moment. Lovino didn't fare well with tears; he could barely comfort his own brother when the latter cried. Of course, he didn't realise then that Alfred almost always pouted and threw a mild tantrum. Nevertheless, Alfred brightened some and even more so when Lovino suggested that they could help in the kitchen.
Rather, the boy immediately pulled Lovino along to the front door, mentioning that the markets closed at five and that it was better to hurry. Latching onto Lovino as well were Matthew, Angelique, Jia Long and Neeraja, all of whom had wide, bright eyes glittering with stars at the mention of the market. Kiku cracked a smile at the scene and saw them to the front door, where the children were talking about how it would rain and shrugging on their little raincoats and Wellingtons. When they saw that Lovino had no protective gear from the rain, they shoved an umbrella into his arms before escorting Lovino to the bus stop and all the way to the market south of the manor.
"How do you know if it is going to rain?" Lovino inquired in his accented English the moment they stepped off the bus. By now, he knew not to question their abilities and the existence of the supernatural or paranormal. Still, he was a sceptic. Glancing at the sky—still a clear blue—Lovino quickly mentioned, "It looks sunny to me."
"England has weird weather," Alfred explained, speaking at a rate of one million words a mile, perfectly oblivious to the fact that Lovino comprehended very little. He flailed his arms, gesticulating, as he rambled, "One minute we're playing outside when it's sunny and clear and then the next minute it's pouring cats and dogs! But Artie likes it like that, I guess, because he kinda just smiles when it rains."
Lovino managed to catch the gist of what the child had just spoken and responded tentatively, "Why does he smile when it rains? Does he like the rain?"
Angelique crinkled her nose. "He hates it," she replied shortly. "He always says that he hates it, but he still smiles. I think he actually really does like the rain though."
Arthur Kirkland, Lovino decided at that moment, is a strange creature.
"What shall we eat for dinner?" Lovino asked of the children as they began to roam the market. His eyes lingered over the fresh fruit and vegetable stalls.
"Hamburgers!"
"Pancakes!"
"Fish!"
"Peach buns!"
"Curry!"
Lovino regretted asking as they began to bicker among themselves. Head pounding violently with the beginnings of a migraine, the Italian snapped, "Chigi! We are going to eat fettuccine alla sugo d'umido or ragù di pollo, capito?" Feliciano has always liked pasta, so maybe these brats would, too.
They immediately quieted before Alfred asked of their new friend, "Oh, yeah! I just remembered! What's fettuccine Alfredo? It sounds like my name."
"You have never eaten fettuccine Alfredo?"
Alfred shook his head.
"Then we will have that for dinner, too."
The atmosphere gradually lightened again as the children helped Lovino scour the market for the necessary ingredients; however, by the time they finally found the first item Lovino needed, they encountered their first obstacle. Lovino only had euros. After everything that has happened, exchanging currency had been one of the last things on the Italian's mind, and the stall owner was not exactly pleased as Lovino shuffled through his wallet and only managed to pull out euro after euro. He couldn't write up a cheque or use his card either; he couldn't have the famiglia track him down in London streets.
"How much does he owe you?" a vaguely familiar voice inquired from behind the Italian boy. Lovino whipped his head back and found himself staring into polished jade orbs—polite and amiable. "I'm their guardian," he explained to the stall owner before pulling out his own wallet from the back pocket of his trousers. That was a sufficient answer for the clerk, and after naming his price, Arthur paid him in full. Of course, he left the bags for Lovino to carry. The two of them lingered behind the energetic children bouncing around the market after Arthur warned them not to wander too far from his sight and to hold hands so not to become separated. "I know that they're excited to be out of the manor since they don't get to wander far from the centre. I'm sorry if they were a handful."
"Eh, che cosa?" Lovino responded bewilderedly.
"You've probably noticed by now," Arthur clarified, "that they're not ordinary children. In fact, they're much older than you. Neeraja is the oldest at almost three centuries, Alfred and Matthew are almost two hundred years old, Jia Long is around eighty years, and Angelique is approximately seventy-six. Nevertheless, they've been stuck as a child for ages, and even as time passes, they'll always be stuck with the same mentality. They can't grow any more, so they can't mature either. These children are not quite what you call ghosts; it would be more accurate to call them guardian spirits." He sighed. "When I found them, they were bound to the place of their death. I had them extracted and bound to my magic until I could find a way for them to move onto their next lives. Naturally, that means they aren't able to wander so far from me or wherever my manor may be, and their presence today means that I wasn't successful in what I was trying to do for them." He gave Lovino a wry smile. "Being stuck with me is practically being damned in Hell."
"They like you though," Lovino remarked pointedly. He wasn't sure what made Arthur believe in his last statement, but the Italian knew at the very least that the children didn't resent or spite him. "They speak fondly of you."
"We've had ages to get to know each other," Arthur assured dismissively. "In return for their limited freedom, they do such things as to protect the manor from invaders and predict the weather or if I'll have any visitors for me and, well, keep me company. Oh, that reminds me—" Arthur took hold of the umbrella in Lovino's hand before opening it and promptly shielding them from the first drops of rain "—they're never wrong about the weather—unlike the bloody weathermen." He gestured to the bags Lovino was holding in his arms. "From your being here and your purchases, I'm assuming that you're cooking dinner?"
"Sì," the Italian answered stiffly, caught off-guard by the action. In order to prevent himself from getting wet, he had to inch closer to the blond. Instead of feeling a warm body, however, Arthur Kirkland was freezing cold.
"You don't have to do so, you know?" Arthur queried dubiously. "You're our guest. I could have had my familiar prepare dinner for us."
"You are already hiding me from la famiglia," Lovino insisted. "It is the least I can do to show my gratitude."
Arthur arched a sceptical eyebrow but did not press any further on the topic. If Lovino shared any characteristics with his grandfather, then he did not want to incite the stubbornness of the Vargas family here in public. Instead, the older blond gentleman accompanied Lovino with his grocery shopping, insisting that he ought to pay for the meal at the very least. On the way home, Arthur smiled fondly at his children as they jumped into puddles, giggling in the rain.
"Can they get sick?" Lovino asked softly.
"Not at all," Arthur responded just as quietly. "They are not alive—not any more. I found Neeraja as a street rat loitering about India during one of my expeditions. The next time I saw him, he was lingering about the area where a boy was rumoured to have crushed underneath debris of an old building. Alfred and Matthew were children who had been killed by vengeful natives in colonial America, and they were bound to a tree where they had often played. Jia Long was caught amidst an attack from the Japanese navy during World War II and had remained amongst the rubble and debris of Hong Kong in the aftermath. Angelique is the illegitimate daughter of a... an acquaintance of mine and had passed away in a house fire with her mother long ago."
"How terrible..."
Arthur gave him another bitter smile. "There's nothing we can do about it; I cannot turn back time for them and risk altering the fabric of space and time, paradoxes and all that," the Briton muttered. Before Lovino could prompt the older man about why he was telling him of their past, the blond justified himself, "If you are just as inquisitive as your grandfather, I might as well tell you and save myself from any possible badgering. I've nothing to lose, and neither do they. For them, at least, they have their friendship."
"And you?" Lovino questioned sceptically.
Arthur was quiet for a moment before announcing that they had arrived home. It was half past five, and Alfred made it known to the world that he was starving. The children bolted inside. Within mere seconds, Arthur took care to warn them not to track mud into the manor. Everyone but Alfred seemed to reply, the latter dashing into the kitchen past Kiku and Antonio. Upon noticing Arthur, Kiku bowed lowly and welcomed him home, and Arthur returned his actions with a smile. "We have a guest coming for dinner," he informed his familiar. "I hope you don't have an aversion to wolves."
Kiku gave a polite inclination of his head and replied stiffly, "It is to my knowledge that wolves can also kill foxes as their prey, Your Majesty, usually in disputes regarding food, but if it is Beilschmidt-sama of whom we are speaking, then I have no qualms with his presence. It is not as though I have a choice in the matter, do I?"
Arthur gave his familiar another one of his wry smiles.
"Gilbert is coming?" Antonio inquired of the blond with a smile.
Directing his attention to Lovino, Arthur remarked, "I hope you have enough to feed everyone."
"Bastard!" Lovino shrieked, and Arthur smirked at the fireworks display in front of him. "You could have told me that you had guests coming over!"
"It's just one guest I'm expecting, and, well, he's a carnivore anyway—not much of a picky eater." The blond chortled lowly, sending shivers down Lovino's spine. "You could set a fowl loose in the backyard, and he'll be happy to chase it down and kill it. After all, he is a predator. If you make anything that involves vegetation, he probably won't even touch so much of a morsel."
A/N:
"Did I say I was?" - It's not the first time that Arthur's said this sort of line in one of my stories, ha. Usually, it entails that he is hiding something, but, hmmm, I wonder what! (Well, I know, of course, by now...)
Alfred, Matthew, Angelique (Seychelles), Jia Long (Hong Kong), and Neeraja (India) are what I call "guardian spirits," which I've based off the Japanese zashiki-warashi. In Japanese folklore, a zashiki-warashi is a yokai that is something like a child. You care for it like one, at least, and it also plays little harmless pranks on house guests and cause mischief like a child as well. Too much attention drives a zashiki-warashi away, but when it stays, it can bring a residence great fortune. Once it leaves, however, well...
Kiku is Arthur's familiar, which is defined typically as a demon that "supposedly attends and obeys a witch, often said to take the form of an animal." I've altered the meaning somewhat to refer to a familiar as a humble servant. In my mind, familiars may assume the form of an animal, but they're like shapeshifters to me. Specifically, Kiku is a nine-tailed fox currently assuming a humanoid form in this chapter.
Sorry if it's a little slow here, but the story will gain some momentum after a few concepts get out of the way and after the main supporting characters are introduced. Gilbert is one of them! Arthur said there would be a focus on seven, remember? Just one or two more introductory chapters and everything will go by much faster!
To everyone who has reviewed, favourited, or followed in the last chapter and in the prologue, thank you very much!
