Author's Note(s): Okay that was quite the delay there. Anyway, this is the last installment! Thanks to all that read this, and I can't think of anything else to say now. Just beware of the following, along with my Jezebel. -.-; He discouraged me, literally. Criticism? Uh huh, always in the need for it. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Hakushaku/Count Cain/Earl Cain does not belong to me, but to--*drumroll* Yuki Kaori-san!

Fateful Night

Part 3

Riff watched as the sudden gush of water splashed into the porcelain basin. Steam began to rise gently in to the air, wafting and then drifting off into the atmosphere. A strong scent pounded into his nostrils and crept stealthily down to the base of his throat. Of course it was from the antiseptic powder he had sprinkled haphazardly into the basin; the overwhelming aroma was enough to make anybody somewhat nauseated.

Yet it was all the more pleasant compared to the stench of blood that reeked throughout the household.

At first, Riff thought nothing of Cain's wounds until he had passed out into his arms. He thought it was from the lack of winter apparel, since it was blistering cold outside. However, once he had pulled Cain's lanky body away from his own, he saw the tiny cuts and scrapes that decorated his ivory toned face. It was as if an artist had grabbed a knife and lightly nipped at the canvas aimlessly. Blood trickled steadily down the left side of his face, and that was when Riff had also took note of the gash that was a mere fraction or so above his left eye.

Then his hand, which had been pressed against the young count's back, felt damp and somewhat sticky. Sliding it away, he raised his hand to his eye level and examined it crossly.

Blood.

Riff gently groped Cain's back again, assuming that it could only be in one spot. He checked that same hand again.

Haplessly, it was drenched in blood.

Hurriedly, he had gathered his master's nimble frame in his arms, headed for the stairs, and ascended them two at a time. Cain wasn't exactly feather light, but he was an appropriate weight to be tossed and carried if need be.

He reached over the sink, rotating the faucet knob until the rushing water came to a halt. He had already cleaned the gash that now sat near his brow with the first aid kit he toted into Cain's room. The tiny stray scars weren't anything to worry over, yet he had gently dabbed at them with a moist washcloth. Cain had remained in this stupor, devoid of his surroundings.

Riff lifted the basin by its handles, carefully slipping out of the opaque looking bathroom. The bathroom was, thankfully, adjacent to Cain's bedchamber, so the tedious act of trying not to spill water all over the place, wasn't exactly a frustrating one.

Once he entered Cain's room, he cautiously tottered over towards the bed. It was a priceless four post Victorian bed, made from the finest of mahogany. It looked so orderly with its pristine sheets and blankets still neatly tucked in to the mattress. The bed looked firm yet it was one of the most comforting within the household.

He set the bowl down on the nightstand, its beautifully grotesque woodwork identical to the bed's. Cain's body seemed so tiny and vulnerable on the queen sized bed, like an abandoned rag doll that had been tossed and wrangled about before being placed in such a careless position. The silken mass of darkness that usually complemented his child-like features perfectly, was now a disheveled, stringy mess. It was somewhat damp from the fallen snow that had melted in his hair, causing it to mat on his forehead. His skin was a ghostly white; almost completely drained of what little tone he did possess. The blood loss had been quite severe for it to suck the ivory pigment completely. Among the brown tendrils, the injuries upon his face, and the pale skin, there was a stark contrast that was quite disturbing as well as heart wrenching.

Riff sat down on the bed and leaned over the sleeping count, mechanically fingering the buttons of his shirt loose. The tiny brown discs slipped out of their custom slots easily, obeying the long agile fingers that raced upon them. Ghost ivory skin was revealed by the handful as he worked his way down the shirt, relieved that his chest and abdomen had not suffered from wounds of any kind. It was also smooth and hairless--just as it had always been.

A sharp hiss brought him back from the sudden realization he had so carelessly propelled himself into. He could feel his cheeks burning from the rage that welled up inside of him. How could his mind have slipped like that?

He looked up at Cain attentively, this time, witnessing the hiss of pain emit from the source. The master's eyes were half opened yet upon Riff's face, as if he were concentrating on him.

He blinked, perplexed. "Yes, Master Cain?"

A weary smile eased itself upon Cain's lips. It actually looked like it hurt him to even do something as remotely indifferent as smile.

"Brings back memories, doesn't it?"

A mixture of anguish as well as confusion entrapped Riff's expression at those very words. Those so called, "memories" weren't quite like nightmares, but they were morbid and laden with false security.

He tugged at the teenager's shirttail gently, as if warning him that he was going to remove it quite soon. "Not exactly sir, unless you're referring to something else?"

Cain groaned as he made a daring attempt to sit up. Riff, however, rested his palms against his bare chest and pressed the count back on his pillow. As if disappointed by this, Cain released a heavy sigh, shifting his eyes to the crème colored carpet uncomfortably.

"Forget it," he mumbled, more so to himself than his attendant.

Unfortunately, Riff did happen to hear it, but didn't press any further. He reached for the brunette's left wrist, unbuttoning the cuff distractedly.

He ceased his actions suddenly, spotting a hideously grotesque purple ring around Cain's wrist. It resembled a beaded bracelet, except this was his skin, severely discolored.

Riff's brows furrowed further, not only in deep contemplation, but in a severe anger as well. Whoever had injured Cain's back, had made it somewhat of a torture session.

He gently ran his thumb over the violet band, finding it still moist and tender.

"Riff?"

The pale haired valet detached his gaze from the circular wound, finding those saucers of cursed colors looking back at him, curiously.

Biting his lip, Riff produced the pestering question.

"Master Cain, who di--"

Cain shook his head from left to right slowly, causing his caretaker to silence himself. He knew exactly what the older man was going to ask, and he simply did not feel up to par with answering anything at the moment.

His eyes wandered over to the nightstand, eyeing the porcelain basin blankly. It was quite familiar. In fact, Riff had used it on a number of occasions.

Cain then reverted his attention back to the older man, stiffening a bit. "I take it that you want me to roll over, Riff?"

Riff, who had been absently, massaging the wrist wound continued to stare at his master with deep concern written over his face. There was a feeble twitch playing upon Cain's lips. Inevitably, they were sore. The corners festered with red blotches, and it looked as if it pained him to even move his lips.

Nodding, Riff reached over Cain's lean figure to repeat the same notion to his right sleeve cuff. Hesitantly, the master nudged his side to the right, his eyes squinting from the excruciating amount of pain that soared through his entire body since he had been rigid for some time. Riff could only watch helplessly, only able to take hold of Cain's left sleeve and slip it off. As he waited for him to complete his task, Riff finally caught sight of the wounds that had lathered his back with the copious blood.

The whelps that had been embedded in Cain's back since he was a young boy were now dulled by the fresh whiplashes that so intricately criss-crossed among the old, forming distorted X's. The whelps that had long ago formed the twenty-fourth letter of the alphabet, were now morbid stars; the scars toppled on top of one another messily. Most if not all of the whelps were dripping with blood. The running of crimson flowed into each other like a river, streaming down the younger man's back hurriedly.

All in all, Cain's back resembled a haphazard spider web of pure red.

Riff's light blue yes stretched open in raging fascination. He could feel his breath hitch in his throat as he swallowed hard, his Adam's apple dipping then emerging to its original position. The fingers that were latched upon the right sleeve tightened involuntarily like a small child that was afraid of the nothingness within the dark. Unlike the child's thoughts that fluttered through on who or what was in the pitch blackness, willing to snatch him or her up, Riff's mind was swarming with questions, as well as answers, following one after the other. Why did he allow Cain to venture out alone today? Oh, because Cain himself had suggested he should pamper Merryweather alone. Why hadn't he suspected anything out of the ordinary about Cain's behavior? His master could be quite sneaky whenever the opportunity presented itself.

He blinked, finding himself staring at the bloody traces. By just studying the scarred ivory surface, a crystal clear image of the man that was once responsible for the old set of whip marks began to appear into his view.

Would Sir Alexis Hargreaves have committed such a heinous vengeance? Resurfacing the so-called love that he had not so long ago deposited upon him?

A white hate began to bubble up inside his chest. It was a blinding rage that he had to contain within himself before it filmed over and scorched an innocent bystander.

"Riff?"

He turned around, acknowledging the new presence that meandered into the room cautiously. Riff had been in such a hurry to treat their master that when one of the servants offered their assistance, he merely rushed past them without a word. Amelia was quite convenient though. She had been loitering in the hall when she saw Riff duck into the bathroom across from Cain's bedchamber. Approaching the quaint room wordlessly, Riff stuck his head out, and politely demanded her to prepare something for the count to drink. Fully aware of what that something was, Amelia had nodded and raced down the stairs to do as she was told.

Riff offered a tiny gracious smile to the girl. She was making her best attempt to balance the tray that contained what he had beckoned for, as well as a few face cloths.

"Please place that on the nightstand, Miss Amelia."

The tiny girl scurried forward, placing the tray on the indicated table. Being that Cain's showcase of scars was open for viewing, her eyes casually made their way in that direction, completely taken aback by the sight.

Before she could croak out a gasp of shock and horror, Riff whirled his head to the side, eyeing her dangerously.

"That will be all Miss Amelia. You may go now."

Amelia, not having missed the tint of malice in his voice, shut her eyes as she backed out and hastened out of the room. The image of a horribly scarred Cain and an enraged Riff was enough to make anyone surprised as well as frightened. It was a rarity to see Riff angry, but with such disorder implanted upon Cain's back…

Riff stared at the pristine porcelain teacup with a hint of interest. Amelia hadn't bothered to bring the matching pitcher that she always prepared the concoction in, and he knew exactly why.

Cain, who had been gazing at his left wrist for some time, shifted his glance to the cup.

"What is that?"

As if inspecting the beverage for poison of some kind, Riff lifted the cup in mid air. "This is for you, Master Cain."

"Exactly. So what is it?"

Riff peered over at Cain, noticing the hint of amusement on his face.

"I would tell you Master, but you would have to drink it first."

The young count raised an eyebrow in mock suspicion.

"Riff, I'm afraid I'm too exhausted to say something such as unsettling as, "Make me," so here," Cain extended his left arm, which was trembling slightly, half expecting the fine dish to be placed in his hand. He wasn't going to drink it. In fact, right when he could grasp it, he was going to put it right back on the nightstand where it belonged. That is, if he didn't drop it first.

However, Riff leaned forward with the cup, pressing the brim of it between Cain's bottom and upper lip, gently.

"Sir, " he chided with a wistful smile, "maybe it's the fact that you're tired, but I saw through your plan clearly."

Cain just looked at his valet, completely dumbfounded at what had just occurred.

Riff continued, "Besides, this might be beneficial to your health, so I do believe it is for the best that you attempt to drink it all, Master."

Defeated, Cain dipped his head slowly, causing the cup to tilt forward with his steady motion. A warm sensation pushed through his lips, and smoothly brushed against his tongue. It contained a slightly bitter taste, yet it was swarming with sweetness at the same time.

So he liked it, but Riff didn't have to know that.

His valet had plastered his eyes upon the carpet, finding it a lot safer than full out staring at the teenager. Cain could unintentionally ravel himself into his former 12 year-old image. It amazed Riff how well he could actually pull it off.

In the end, Cain ended up prying Riff's fingers from the tea cup's handle, somehow managing to hold on to it while he folded his right arm under his chin, sipping at the contents leisurely. Riff obtained this opportunity to soak the face towel in the nearly forgotten bowl of antiseptic. The solution was still quite hot, but tolerable nonetheless. He was far more than well assured that Cain wouldn't react so tolerably to it, but that was where the cup of sweetened tea and wine came into play.

He pulled the miniature towel out of the water, twisted it meagerly, and wrung it out, watching it unravel like a small flag. He was careful not to squeeze it completely dry, but enough to where nothing would drip.

After Cain completed another swallow, Riff seized the moment to place the damp towel upon the small of his back. He heard a sharp slither of air emit from the younger man, a predictable and yet, an immediate reaction to the disinfectant. As long as Cain continued to sip the brew in his hands, the pain would lessen and soon seem dull to almost nonexistent.

The silence that sprouted between them was a traditional quiet that coursed through the beginning of every 'clean-up session', or so the two had delicately put it. It would linger between them, allowing their thoughts to marinate in the atmosphere. Riff noticed how quickly his rage had evaporated when Cain chose to inquire him about the drink. Cain on the other hand, could somehow feel the electrifying hate from Riff's usually soft eyes. The urge to massage such an unwanted emotion away from him had pushed its way into his body and soon, his faithful servant-man had returned to his pliant yet firm demeanor.

Cain tilted the brim to his mouth again, allowing the bittersweet liquid to crash onto his tongue. Once he swallowed it, he peered into the cup wearily, feeling a drowsy cloud closing in on him.

"What's in this?"

Riff released a sour chuckle. Focusing on the unforgivable damage that was engraved on Cain's back, and the boyishly coy voice, dwelling on mere innocence and curiosity, he wasn't quite sure how one could fake their pain. Riff knew even if that beverage dulled his senses, it could not replace the hurt forever. Physically, it would be temporarily, but mentally and emotionally?

"S'now, you said if I drunk some of it, you'd tell me."

His lips peeled back into a smile at the slight disparage of Cain's words. "I remember stating, "Drink all of it," Master."

Cain frowned into the teacup, realizing that he had one more sip to go.

The chilling heat of the cloth had disappeared, leaving behind a simmering sensation, both horrendous and needful. Cain couldn't exactly place why it was needful; then again, he couldn't exactly tell how he was feeling either.

Riff repeated the same ritual with the cloth, forcing himself to ignore the pinkish hue that the water had transformed into. Once he set the towel back on Cain's back, he carefully applied pressure to a certain wound near his shoulder blade. Expectantly, he looked up towards his young master.

Cain buried his face into his pillow.

"S'hurts," he muffled, still holding the cup.

Placidly, Riff presented his age-old question, busying himself with another scar.

"Who did this to you, Master?"

The question had acquired an immediate response, for Cain slowly raised his head, wearing a solemn expression opposed to the recreative one he had worn only moments ago. The question hadn't been expected so soon, but he knew when Riff was worried, he would voice his inquiries out of the blue.

"Isn't it obvious?"

Riff flicked his eyes upward. Cain's tone was one of unmistakable anguish. However, coarse laughter expelled itself in to the air as he continued.

"He played his part rather well, didn't he? If it weren't for our curious suspicions, we both probably would have been killed a long--"

"Don't speak like that," the butler intervened smoothly. The earl hadn't mentioned the incident since that day they had returned home from the country spa. Nevertheless, Cain chose another incident to analyze over.

"When I saw him in that alley, I thought, and even believed that this little game he concurred would finally end for sure." His eyes shifted over to the kerosene lamp that burned so brightly no less than a meter or so away from him. "One cannot understand the deep hatred another may have for them, but I…I am living proof of it. I now possess evidence from both men."

From both men, Riff knew he was referring to his father and the chaotic Jezebel Disraeli. All he could do for now was watch and listen to the count. A surge of guilt, anger, and sadness washed through him. What Cain was feeling was as unfathomable as a child's intentions to seek affection. For the second time, he could not figure out how to remedy the situation.

Sourly, Cain progressed further. "If my own father could beat me, lie to me, plot to murder me, and when all else failed, curse me, how on earth am I supposed to go on, knowing what my fate entails?" Cain's voice began to tremble, but whatever tears he had possessed were long since gone. "I know that the people most important to me will shatter in the palm of my hand if they continue to linger. I'm caught between wanting to free them and locking them away from this damn curse."

"Maybe it's best for you not to dwell upon a curse, Master," Riff stated a matter-of-factly, eyes staring off distantly, "basing your life on something that someone has sworn upon you, only means that you want those words to be true. You just have to fight back by living."

Cain pondered over Riff's heralds to himself. They made perfect sense of course, and it was probably the best exhortation ever offered to him. Deep down though, he still wanted to believe that his father had actually loved him, and that in the end, he had betrayed that man's feelings for him.

But that was the childish side of him. He knew his father despised him with an unnatural passion. He had placed the birth of Cain upon Cain himself, as well as the disgust and death of his beloved mistress and sister.

He chuckled dryly, finishing off the last bit of the brew. "Maybe I deserve it. Jezebel's hatred, my father's--"

"Master," Riff exhausted through a heavy sigh, laden with sorrow, "please stop this. You did not deserve any of this, so--"

His pale blue eyes wandered over to the porcelain teacup, realization kicking in. Hard.

The tea was the cause of Cain's brooding.

Cain suddenly shifted on his side, facing the watchful butler with a mischievous grin twitching along his lips.

"S'Riff, how about you? Would you betray me then vanish like everyone else?" His eyes twinkled with a malicious innocence, radiating under the kerosene lamp.

Riff, a bit put out with the questions, slid off the side of the bed, kneeling beside the head of it. He fixed his best glare upon Cain, more hurt than offended by the younger man's questioning. Even if he was drunk, the subconscious had a cruel way of sneaking itself out in to the open at times.

"Y-you know exactly what I would do to myself if you parted ways from me, but would you leave me anyway?"

"Master Cain, I'm going to tell you this for the very last time: I will not abandon you, and I most certainly will not betray you," he made sure the reassurance--no, the truth-- had an air of finality to it. Then he added, "You're the reason why my life is what it is today, so please. Please don't mention this anymore."

Cain lowered his gaze, biting the inside of his lip regrettably.

"And Master, please don't take offense to this, but you are quite drunk, and your thoughts are somewhat nonsensical at the moment."

The count lifted his head at this, then tilted it to the side. He then quirked a delicate brow skyward.

"I feel fine, sankyuu."

"Your speech is slurred, Sir."

"No, s'not."

Riff smiled. For the moment, Cain's tipsiness was a guiltless diversion for the both of them. His boyish features shone brilliantly as he eyed his valet accusingly, but Riff's smile only broadened as he emerged from his kneeling position. However, he felt a stern grasp clasp around his wrist, restraining him.

"Don't."

He blinked.

Cain placed the teacup back on the nightstand, then folded his hands under his chin. His eyes began to drift to a close, to the point where he had to strain himself to look Riff in his eyes.

"Just for tonight…stay…please?"

It was a simple yet meaningful plea for him to remain here with his master over the night. It was an understandable acquisition, and he himself was thankful for it.

He complied to the plea, "Yes, Master Cain. I'll remain here."

Raising to his feet, he finally returned his attention back to the injuries, tending to them with a graceful ease. He heard a few mutters and groans of pain slip from his patient every now and then, but the tea and wine had done its deed and was soundly lulling him to a sweet slumber. Riff could tell he was stubbornly resisting the comforter of sleep, but it was beginning to prove fatal.

After he completed the task of cleaning Cain's wounds, he produced several bandages out of his first aid kit. Since there was such a massive amount of scars, he chose to bandage the ones that were deep enough to resemble crevices. The others were either old or weren't even considered remotely threatening.

There was a light knock at the door, followed by a simple, "Hey." Riff didn't bother to look up though. He was well aware of who it was, and felt a quick pang of regret for what had occurred earlier. Truthfully, he thought Oscar had high-tailed it home after he had frightened him, but apparently, he was wrong.

Oscar strode into the room quietly. He wasn't exactly sure how Riff was fairing right now, but he also didn't want to question him for fear of the man continuing the living chamber scene.

Yet, when his eyes landed upon Cain's back, he then knew the reasons for the man's fury.

"Riff, I think you scared the servants into hiding," he joked playfully, hoisting a gray bag in to view, "one of the girls ran up to me with this and told me to give it to you."

Riff stiffened slightly. He would have to apologize to the household maidens later.

Sighing, he relieved the gray shopping bag from Oscar, finding it a bit heavy. His features infused in question as he finally looked up at the man.

Oscar shrugged. "The girl told me that she heard someone knocking on the door, and when she answered it, that's what she found."

Riff gave Cain a sidelong glance, now able to put a few pieces of their deranged puzzle together. "You said that Master Cain was in search of a bag?"

"Err…yeah."

"And this just so happens to be that bag, am I correct?"

"Yes," he confirmed firmly. Then Oscar began to ponder for a long minute. "You think his assailant would have been kind enough to drop this off?"

Riff restrained a glare and thought sharply, "Kind? More like cruel, considering that he's boasting the fact that he could have had his way with Master Cain."

He dropped his gaze upon Cain once more. The dark brown locks were stringy and messily hanging in his face, emphasizing that little boy that was still somewhere within him. Without thinking, he reached out, and began to comb his fingers through the younger man's hair affectionately.

Of course Oscar witnessed this abrupt display of affection. He had been taking note of their feelings for each other for quite some time now. Even though the simple gestures were rare and vague when he was around, he found that gazing into their eyes was one way to decipher what they were releasing into the atmosphere. He never mentioned his mental notes to them or anyone else for that matter.

He huffed sullenly, feeling a sudden urge to comfort the man. He wasn't big on reassurances, but when he gathered the courage to say them, they were earnest yet caring.

"Riff, everything's going to work out okay," he assured him with a quick nod, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his slacks. Confidently, he added, "maybe even for Cain."

The butler, whose hand was now smoothing the wet mass of locks, felt his lips stretch upward at this reassurance.

"I certainly hope so. More so for Cain than anyone else."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\ /\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

The view from his desk had always seemed rather toy like. The winter wonderland beyond his window was a plastic fabrication. Snow, so pristine, so majestic to a child's eyes, was actually death sentenced upon those that wandered aimlessly without proper protection from the tear stinging winds. Even the tiny snowflakes that fluttered towards the earth lifelessly, were complete and total lies--the snow would not stop unless the snowflakes ceased their drifting.

If only that little brother of his were a lie. An existence made up for someone to amuse and joke around with. Tamper with, was more like it. Yes, the boy's existence would be used to tamper with his amusement, and once he found it bland and annoying, the jokester could up and say with a hearty laugh, "I'm so sorry! I was just joshing with you!"

Then he would slit their throat for even mentioning such a damned lie.

Jezebel Disraeli lifted his scalpel into the air, eyeing it inquisitively. Fresh blood dripped from the small yet acute blade, and he could only watch victoriously. The man who had provided for him, taken such excellent care of him, had stunted his long awaited plans to gouge his enemy's precious eyes out. Those cursed jewels, why on earth would his father insist on the younger man remaining intact? It was almost sickening!

"He's always restraining me from getting what I want. What I deserve. I deserve those damn eyes of Cain's," he berated heavily, his victory now a seemingly total failure. He turned to his left slightly, giving his most treasured companions his most innocent look; the expression spoiled once he relinquished a haughty scoff. "I just want him dead, that's all. Is that too much to ask?"

But, in fact, it had been too much to ask. After beating Cain with the whip mercilessly, he was just about to snatch matters into his own hands, until Alexis Hargreaves showed up, and literally let him have it. He was in the rapture of punishing Cain, and then that pure and sweet ecstasy overpowered him and dulled his keen senses. Even if he had stopped in time, Alexis would've been suspicious about his own child's presence within the household. Even so, he would've been punished by his father's whip, and that would've been that.

Extending his arm to the two glass jars, he began to finger the glass, as if assuring the remains that there was nothing to fear. "My dear mother and sister, you do understand me, right? That I am not alone in yearning for Cain's death, because his life is the very intervention that pains me so badly? I only wish that I could make it go away."

He propped his chin with the palm of his hand, and looked at the two glass jars longingly. His attitude began to perk up. "Then again, I've already caused a raucous in that household, have I not?" Such a thought tingled his amusement greatly. After punishing Cain with his wrath, he had Cassian to return the bag to its owner, which was undoubtedly, Cain. So even for just this moment, he found this to be quite the highlight of shaking the young count up, aside from hitting him.

"Humph, father can only keep me away from you for so long little brother," a snarl appeared on his lips, resembling a deranged grin, "You may have won this time by default, but I'll have what I yearn for. Very, very soon."

The doctor shifted his glance once more, facing the white lies that tainted the outside view. It no longer bothered him, for the images toying around in his head would not allow such a trivial matter to plague him.

He could just see Cain's bright red blood staining the frosted prevarication outside of his window.

Jezebel chuckled deviously, recalling the delicate line he had voiced to Cain before mauling his back, "Il pleut, Il pleut, Il fait beau."

His diabolical laughter continued throughout the night.

Fin/Fateful Night

Author's Note: That French part, if you didn't get it this time, Jezebel was actually referring to his vengeance. It's like he's saying, "Though I am punished (It rains), though I cannot receive what I want (It rains), you now have something to remember me by (the weather is nice). Why did Cain repeat this in the last chapter? Why, I think you can figure that out on your own ne. ^.~ XD Eh thanks for reading! ^^