Hey guys! I'm sorry that I've been away for so long. I haven't been very well, but I'm back on board now (I think : ) I just wanna thank you all for all your support. Each day that I open up my email, and see a new follower, or a new favourite, or – even better – a new review, just makes me want to write the next chapter all the more. You guys are all amazing, and I just think... argh, think you are all WONDERFUL! Davy Tex, Mary Austin, IconofSelfIndulgence, , Saya White, Lyledebeast... you guys rock beyond words!
Also, I feel as though I should take this moment to pay tribute to one of the most amazing FanFiction stories I have ever read... velvetoscar's 'The Diary Of Jimmy Kent', which ended today (sad face!) For all you who love Downton FanFics... READ IT!
Now, to the story...
Sparki: I own nothing!
The alley was quiet.
Not like the last time Thomas had been there. When he'd stood at the beginning of the dark, winding street, so many long years ago, the dirty corners had been awash with life. Everywhere the boy turned, a gaunt, poverty-stricken face had stared back at him. The bright eyes that had fixed themselves upon him were ravaged by hunger.
Now, no haunted eyes lit the shadows. No empty faces turned to him from the dirt. Only the empty darkness, and the dank reek of decay came to welcome him home.
Thomas smirked mirthlessly.
Had he fallen so far, that Sanders Way was home? He lowered his weary gaze, fixing it upon his mud spattered shoes. His case felt suddenly lightened in his grasp, reminding the man once again of how little he now had to call his own.
As Thomas gazed down at the trampled ground, he wondered if the Red Room remained red. Were those four, looming walls still stained with the blood-like wash? Or has the passing years torn that ominous room and its ruby walls apart, leaving nothing but a dull, faded memory of what it had once been? Glancing up, Thomas realised he was afraid to find out.
This place had been his home. Once, he'd walked this way, his worn trousers rolled up against the slop the lay in waves upon the reeking cobblestones. He'd jeered at the scowling men as they waited, crouched in the muck, or leaning against the battered door frames, listening for the passing jingle of coins. He, like all the others, had turned his face away, as a babe, pale and brittle with hunger, screamed mournfully from its mother's trembling arms.
"Paradise," Lewis had once told him. "This is paradise, Barrow, me boy!"
Thomas' smirk darkened. When he had stumbled, lost and broken, down Sanders Way, he'd been a blank canvas; pale and empty. Lewis Carleton had given Thomas his scowl, and his smirk, and his scoff. He'd taught Thomas to smoke, and to lie, and to cheat, and to hate, and to run as fast as he possibly could when the Fates turned their harsh and merciless gazes upon him. He'd stepped into the world, only to be ravaged by the cruellest artist to grace London's streets.
Thomas had not thought of his life before Downton in so very long; the details, he realized, seemed somehow shifting, and faded. But as he stood, gazing unflinchingly down Sanders Way, Thomas knew that he could never go back. He could never be what he had been before.
He would make certain of that.
Through the darkness, Thomas could see the red. The walls, despite the countless years that had passed them by, remained stained crimson. Although cracks had begun to appear, here and there, the room appeared almost as he'd left it. This, more than anything, curdled Thomas' blood. It seemed as though the Red Room had become frozen in time, with the world spinning on around it.
Perhaps one room can only hold so many horrors before it becomes scarred. Perhaps the years of grief and fear and death and blood had finally turned the room into something unearthly; something unnatural. He could almost imagine Lewis, sitting alone upon his throne, cackling as some soul blubbered before him on the floor, cold blade to their throat.
And who, I wonder, was the soul holding the blade?
Thomas shuddered.
"What do you mean, 'caught'?"
The lad stared up at Lewis with huge, terrified eyes.
"The ... the be-beak," he squeaked. "He... he caught me, and-,"
"The beak caught you?" Matthias cut in, his eyes nigh to popping from his head. "What the bloody 'ell were you-," Lewis raised a hand, and Matthias fell silent. The crook peered down at the boy, as one might study a mouse they'd discovered beneath their pillow, or a roach they'd found swimming in their soup; with disgust, and a morbid gleam of horrified curiosity.
"Barrow." Lewis spoke very slowly. "Come 'ere, if you will."
I stepped forward, my eyes cold and steadfast. The trembling boy followed my footsteps, as I made my way to Lewis' side. As always, I remained silent. I felt Lewis' hand, long and bony, fall upon my shoulder.
"You got that blade, eh?" he asked. I nodded. Lewis gave a satisfied chuckle.
Thomas could still see the knife, glinting through the darkness. It protruded from the reddened wall; the moonlight, seeping through the cracked window, caught in its now rusted blade. He smirked mirthlessly.
"Nothing changes around here, eh?" he murmured, stepping quietly towards his knife.
"No, it don't." Gasping, Thomas spun around. The voice, strained and broken, clawed through the darkness, and was so sickeningly familiar, that he felt his blood beginning to freeze. Slowly, he brought a trembling hand to his chest.
"L-Lewis?" he uttered. The young man stepped from the shadows, and fixed Thomas with a cold, unflinching gaze. "Who are you?" he hissed. "'Ow do you know me name?" Thomas took a deep breath, and moved slowly away from the knife.
"I'm no one," he replied smoothly. "I'm sorry if I disturbed your evenin-,"
"Barrow?" Thomas froze. At the man's pained expression, Lewis twisted his mouth into a cruel smirk. "So, it is you, me lad." He gave a cackle, and Thomas, despite himself, scowled.
"I'm not your lad, Lewis," he snarled, stepping towards the man. Lewis simply laughed harder. "You were once, Barrow," he reminded Thomas. Turning away, Thomas shook his head viciously.
"No," he hissed, pushing past Lewis, reaching for the doorway. "You were simply...,"
"Simply what, Barrow?" Thomas smirked darkly.
"Nothing. You are nothing."
And Lewis was gone. Just as Thomas knew he would be.
"Never thought I'd see you 'ere," Branson rasped, an odd smile lighting his pale face. In his chair, Thomas shifted uncomfortably. "Yes, well," he muttered, studying his hands. "Neither did I." Branson nodded, and continued to watch Thomas with warm, accepting eyes. Awkwardly, Thomas cleared his throat.
"How are you?" he ventured, and Branson gave a chesty chuckle. "Now there's a question," he sighed. Thomas winced at the man's words. They were rough, uneven – as though someone had brushed them with a razor. He shuddered inwardly at the thought.
"I'm not sure, to be perfectly honest." Thomas glanced up, and found Branson staring up at the white washed ceiling. "I'd like to say 'better'," he added, "but I fear I'd be lying." Despite himself, Thomas gave the man a wan smirk.
"Couldn't hurt," he murmured. At Branson's questioning look, Thomas continued. "Lying, that is. To yourself." He shrugged. "It might make you feel better." Branson laughed again. This time, however, the weak, amused chuckle dissolved into a fit of violent coughs, that twisted Thomas' cut, and curdled his blood.
"Don't mind me," the man gasped, as the horrendous barking finally began to subside. "I'll... I'll be alright." Shakily, he reached for the jug that sat upon the small beside table. His trembling fingers brushed the handle, but in his state, he seemed unable to find a grip. Wincing, Thomas rose from his chair. "Here," he murmured softly. As Branson watched, Thomas poured the cool water into the waiting glass. He handed it quietly to the bed-ridden Irishman. Branson nodded his thanks, before taking a long gulp. Thomas noticed his jaw slowly unclench as the soothing water ran down his throat.
"So," he uttered, holding the glass to his heaving chest, "how is Sybbie?"
The question – so blatantly posed, so certain of an answer – surprised Thomas. He studied Branson, lifting his dark brows. Inside, he struggled for the right words. However, the only answer that came to his mind, was the truth. Thomas sighed, and lowered his gaze.
"She's sad," he admitted. "She... she misses you." Slowly, he met Branson's pained eyes. "Very, very much." Closing his heavy lids, Branson looked away, chastened.
"Thank you."
"What?"
Branson gave the older man a small, almost timid smile. "For caring for her," he replied. Thomas blinked, and Branson's smile grew. "You're all she talks about," he explained. "When she's here. She always mentions you in her letters." He took another sip of water, as Thomas sat in stunned silence.
"Thank you, Thomas," Branson sighed, leaning his head back, into the pillow. "Tell her, that I'll be home soon."
Thomas nodded. Gently, he reached out, and pulled the glass from the man's cold hands.
The snow had finally begun to fall, but Jimmy didn't care. He hoisted his bag higher, and he hurried on. The snowflakes landed upon the brim of his old, tattered cap. They brushed against his nose, making his shiver.
Inside, Jimmy felt cold. Thomas had been gone for almost a week. For almost a week, Jimmy had sat alone in their room, feeling empty with loneliness, and sick with grief-ridden guilt. As he trudged through the snow, the gnawing ache in his stomach only grew stronger, as the realization of his fault dawned heavily upon his sleep-numbed mind. In the snow, his boots slipped, and he stumbled.
"Jimmy!" Frantic footfalls landed upon the cold ground, rapidly approaching. Jimmy turned, and saw Alfred, racing through the snow towards him. "Wait, Jimmy!" Jimmy groaned.
"Where are you going?" Alfred huffed, as he reached his friend. The fair-haired footman gave a shake of his head, and walked on.
"You can't stop me, Alfred," he told the taller man. "You can't! I'm going!" He felt a hand upon his shoulder.
"But where are you going?" Alfred pressed. "And why in the middle of the night?" Jimmy didn't reply. He dragged his feet through the maiden fall, his eyes fixed upon the white ground. But Alfred's hand didn't leave his shoulder. Finally, Jimmy slowed to halt.
"Because... I didn't want them to see," he whispered. He raised a hand to his throbbing temples. "I... I didn't want them to see... see the selfish fool that I am." Jimmy gulped back a mouthful of bitter tears. "I couldn't bear it."
Alfred's grip on his shoulder softened; no longer a restraint, but simply a gentle reminder. Jimmy heard his friend chuckle. It was a low, amused sound, that filled his chest with an odd bubble of joy.
"I already know what a fool you are, Jimmy Kent," Alfred muttered. Slowly, Jimmy turned around. Alfred smiled down at him. "So why don't you tell me?"
For countless minutes, Jimmy studied Alfred's earnest eyes. They bore into him, searching for the threads of truth that must have been hiding somewhere within his own lying, blue orbs. Slowly, Jimmy let his chin fall to his chest. His bag slipped from his shoulder, and landed softly in the snow. Without a word, Alfred leant down, and lifted it from the damp ground. He held it in his long arms, pressing it carefully against his stomach, as he waited for Jimmy to speak.
"I'm going to London," Jimmy managed to whisper. Alfred raised his brows.
"Why?" Jimmy gave a mirthless chuckle.
"I'm searching for Thomas," he admitted, finally meeting Alfred's warm gaze. He smiled sadly. "He didn't have to leave. He left because of me." Quietly, Jimmy glanced over his shoulder, down the long, cold road. He could almost imagine Thomas, standing alone in the falling snow. The man looked like an angel, as the flakes landed upon his raven hair. His beaming face was a white as the ground beneath his feet. As Jimmy stared, Thomas raised a hand in greeting. Despite himself, Jimmy almost waved back.
"I have to find him, Alfred," he sighed, and the road, once again, was deserted. In defeat, he held out his hands. "I don't have a choice." As he watched, Alfred shook his head. His grip on Jimmy's bag tightened.
"Well, I ain't letting you go," the footman muttered. Jimmy groaned. "Alfred-,"
"Not on your lonesome." With a grin, Alfred shouldered the bag, as Jimmy watched in bewilderment. Alfred shrugged nonchalantly.
"They can't dismiss the both of us, after all." He pulled a face. "Can you imagine it? Carson without his footman?"
Despite himself, Jimmy laughed out loud.
Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading! I would REALLY love some reviews!