Though Something Wicked is my constant melancholy victim, forever shunned to the back of my writing queue, with a week to go until Halloween (and, incidentally, Something Wicked's first "birthday", lololol), I decided to put in the effort and write a new chapter to celebrate the (upcoming) holiday in a spooky and special manner! I have something planned for Halloween itself, of course, so let's call this Part One of my Fearsome Fiction Feast (I was up all night with that one, you may be sure!).
This fic is surprisingly popular and I would just like to thank everyone who has said such kind things about it! I am so happy that everyone seems to like it so far and I hope that this chapter will not disappoint! I really do like this story and hope that you all will too (when I finally finish it...).
I'd like to do my individual thank yous but I can't get my reviews page to load. :C
Today's chapter title makes for a Macbeth Double (which sounds like a McDonald's meal deal, lawl): "The bell invites me" is spoken by Macbeth in a soliloquy as he contemplates on the decision to murder King Duncan.
Something Wicked This Way Comes
The Bell Invites Me
Alfred was pushed off Arthur's hips, dazed and half-naked and straight out of a kiss; he tumbled from the squeaking bed and landed in a heap on the floorboards, scowling up at Arthur.
"What the hell?" he demanded. "You said you were ready!"
"I am." Arthur turned on to his side, meeting Alfred's gaze lazily. His eyes were bright and mesmerizing. "We need lubricant."
Alfred frowned.
"Haven't you any?" he asked, kneeling up. "You usually carry... oils and the like—"
"Not tonight." Arthur yawned, his sharp white teeth flashing, and then he pointed lazily at the corpse of the Continent Army officer lying long-dead in the corner (or what was left of it, anyway). "Fetch some blood."
Alfred wrinkled his nose in disgust; Arthur caught him doing it and shot him an icy look before turning over.
"Fine," he sighed. "Go without. I am much too full to care."
"Why have you nothing on you?" Alfred whined. "It isn't like you, England! Are you sure you are not lying?"
Arthur gave a little laugh.
"Even if I am lying," he conceded, "I shall stick to the lie – and so desperate times may indeed call for desperate measures, hmm?"
"You are lying!" Alfred shook him. "You know I have been wanting this for weeks! You would not have neglected to be prepared!"
"If you are so desperate, the mechanics will not bother you. It is the blood of my meal or nothing at all – and by nothing I mean no intercourse whatsoever. It is an ultimatum and you must choose."
"It is disgusting," Alfred said crossly.
Arthur was silent for a moment.
"Do you really think that," he asked at length, his voice very quiet, curious, "or did you simply once think that, America?"
He still didn't turn over, the powerful muscles in his slender back standing out against the dirty white of his shirt. Alfred watched him, not daring to think too hard about the question, terrified that he would find unfurling within himself something that had changed, something that he was much happier not knowing.
"It is disgusting," he said again, rather forlornly. "You did this on purpose."
"Perhaps," Arthur agreed lightly, getting comfortable. "America, here is the question: Do you want me to fuck you or not?"
"Yes," Alfred said adamantly, "but—"
"Then get the blood. Otherwise..." Arthur sat up suddenly, his hair sticking up all over the place; he smoothed it down a little, grooming rather like a cat as he paused again. "Otherwise let us depart and hence home. My poor bones ache for my coffin."
"You promised!" Alfred burst out; and aware though he was that he was behaving akin to a spoilt child (...which he sort of was, honestly), he seized Arthur's arm regardless. "England, you promised!"
"America, the decision is entirely up to you," Arthur replied, plucking his wrist loose. "You have your options before you – but I will not make you do anything you are not ready for. However, I should make you aware that this will be the new procedure between you and I. It is blood or nothing at all. If the thought disgusts you, you must do your best to make peace with it or acquaint yourself with being celibate." He smirked. "I shouldn't think that either will last long. You are a hair's width away from awakening properly, I wouldn't wager."
"And then I too shall hunger for the flesh of prostitutes and the innards of soldiers," Alfred said flatly. "What joyous tidings."
"You offend me grievously," Arthur replied smugly, patting Alfred's cheek. "Now get the blood like a good lad. Chop chop."
Alfred pulled away from him irritably and rose, pulling his open shirt back around himself as he padded across the room towards the dead officer. He hadn't paid much heed to the body before, more interested in Arthur – but now, with only the corpse for company in the corner, he found himself assessing the horrendous damage done by the deadly little killing machine preening himself on the bed. Arthur had quite literally torn this man apart, one of his arms and his head practically severed, his chest and stomach ripped open with no semblance of neatness and the gleaming slimy spill of organs rearranged, tossed back after being half-eaten. The heart was missing completely, as were the lungs – Arthur never failed to eat those organs – and there was blood absolutely everywhere.
Alfred sank to his knees next to the carcass, not quite sure what to do next. His whole body was quivering. The smell of blood and butchery was overpowering, fragrant in the worst way – like decaying roses and burning copper and filthy side-streets with a lacing of chemicals thrown in and shaken well. He felt his stomach heave and took a deep breath to calm himself, closing his eyes for a moment.
"What shall I do?" he asked. "Just put the blood... on my hands...?"
"Yes, I think that would be best." Arthur sounded marginally more interested now – and Alfred heard him shifting on the bed again, perhaps leaning forward.
Still with his eyes clamped shut, Alfred reached out a shaking hand and blindly felt for the body, repressing a shudder at the warm, spongy feeling of congealing flesh. His fingers crawled sightlessly until they slipped into the crevices of wounds and then, as they grew suddenly slick with blood, red flowered behind his eyelids, bright and demanding and lush. He snatched his hand back with a gasp and held it out before himself, shaking all over – and could feel it tingling on the tips of his fingers, warm, sticky—
He didn't know why he did it but he suddenly thrust his fingers into his mouth, biting down hard on them as the bitter tang of old salt spritzed across his tongue. He gave a grunt around them, half-disgusted with himself, half merely in pain with his teeth still sunk into his own skin, and flashed his tongue against them, between them, licking them clean with an unbidden urgency. His heart-rate quickened at the taste of it – and though it wasn't entirely pleasant, it was... desirable.
He didn't hear Arthur approach him from behind but he felt his breath on the back of his neck. His eyes were still closed, his mouth still covetously wrapped around his own fingers, and he gave a shaky exhale at the realisation of Arthur's sudden and silent presence.
"Now this is interesting," Arthur sighed, wrapping his arms around Alfred's waist from behind. "I do not recall telling you to do anything of this nature, my love."
He kissed Alfred's neck once, twice, his teeth grazing on the third; and Alfred came completely back to his senses and pulled his dripping fingers out of his mouth, wiping them on his shirt.
"I... I was..." He cleared his throat, trembling in Arthur's grasp. "I didn't... I-I mean, I was—"
"Hush." Arthur smiled against his neck. "All is well."
"All is not well!" Alfred retorted shakily, squeezing his eyes tighter yet. "I just—I do not know why I—"
"America," Arthur sighed in his ear, "all is well. Do trust me." He unwound himself from Alfred's person and gave him a nudge. "Go back to the bed. I shall deal with this."
Alfred opened his eyes at long last, daring to look at Arthur (who, kneeling before the corpse, looked incredibly white and electric and pleased). Afraid of his smile, Alfred simply nodded and scrambled away, half-crawling to the bed before managing to lift himself to his feet and topple on. He lay back, his pounding head grateful for the lumpy, filthy pillow, and waited once again.
Arthur did not busy himself at the body long, scampering back over to Alfred with both hands dressed in gloves of gore and settling on the bed between his charge's long, naked legs. His mood seemed greatly improved for having witnessed Alfred's ghastly indulgence, his smile stretched widely across his pallid face, at long last truly interested in his promise.
"My hands are bloody," he said sweetly, holding them out, "so you'll have to do the undressing. Take down your underwear first – I can prepare you whilst you unclothe me as best you can."
Alfred sat up and took hold of his waistband, untying the cord to slip out of his white undershorts. He was already mostly undressed, the rest of his clothing tossed over the side of the bed and his glasses on the bedside, and the discarding of his undergarments left him in only his unbuttoned shirt, which he was quick to shrug off in succession. Arthur liked him to be naked – he liked to look at those thirteen precious roses etched onto his skin.
Arthur himself, conversely, often stayed in a reasonable state of dress, perhaps because he did not like Alfred to see the wounds all over his own body (and or perhaps because he did not like to look at them himself). With this in mind, Alfred wondered how far Arthur would actually let him undress him tonight.
"Up on your knees," Arthur commanded, flexing his grisly-garish fingers. "Come now, hurry along or the blood will congeal."
Alfred obeyed, kneeling up just enough that Arthur could slip his hand between his legs and beneath him; he reached for Arthur's belt and began to unbuckle it as the first of those scarlet-slicked fingers circled his entrance and then slid inside him with practice (at which he gave a little hiss and buckled forward against Arthur).
"Do not fight it," Arthur said soothingly. "Attend yourself to your task."
Alfred gave a nod and focused himself on getting Arthur's belt and trousers undone, doing his best to ignore the burn of the stretch; after all, it had been weeks since Arthur had last been within him and even two fingers was proving to be uncomfortable. He rested his chin on Arthur's shoulder, breathing as evenly as he could between sharp little hitches, his body bearing down hard upon Arthur's fingers as he was pulled open.
"Does it hurt?" Arthur's voice was gentle, concerned, as he nuzzled at Alfred's neck; and the kindness in him was so strange when his fingers were lubricated only by the spilled blood of one of his countless mortalities. He murdered with no mercy whatsoever, enjoying every edge of the deed, and yet seemed utterly incapable of bearing any real cruelty towards Alfred.
"Y-yes," Alfred breathed, spreading his knees a little more on the mattress, "but you must... pursue it. I will endure."
"Good lad." Arthur gave a sigh as Alfred fumbled with his underwear, loosening and pushing until his cock was free of it. "It is my fault, of course – you have not been taken care of in this manner for so long. You must forgive me. I have simply not been up to it, for at times my body aches so much with the hunger of war that I feel that I must not risk your safety, lest my appetite make a meal of you – and, at other times, my body has simply ached with pure exhaustion." He gave Alfred a weak, strangely vulnerable little smile. "I have neglected the soil of my grave for a bed with you. Ultimately it is not good for my person – I am weaker now than I ought to be, having fed."
"Would you prefer... for me to ride?" Alfred breathed.
"Mmm, I believe that would be for the best." Arthur was lazily slicking himself with his other hand, moving both up and down, up and down in the same rhythm, preparing both of their bodies for the deed. "My appetite is sated but my body is still siphoning from my meal..." He shook his head a little bit. "I apologise, America. I know it frustrates you but this war takes its toll on me so."
"I know." Alfred sighed it, leaving off slipping the gold buttons of Arthur's scarlet waistcoat undone to put his hands to the older man's white face instead. His mouth was still stained from his meal. "You have been too fond of me, I think, to have ignored your body's cries in favour of sharing a bed with me instead."
"I will make amends when we return home," Arthur replied; and, satisfied, he slipped his fingers out of Alfred's long, quivering body. "But for now, allow me to fulfil my promise as best I can."
He sank to the bed on his back, pushing down his lower garments a little more; and then took Alfred's hands and steadied him as he straddled and positioned himself. Alfred was shaking, nakedly cold in the draughty old room and oddly half-terrified, and clung to Arthur's sticky hands as he felt him nudge against his gory entrance. His eyes were squeezed shut and he took a deep breath as he felt Arthur pull his hands free to put them on his hips instead; and pressed his own palms flat against Arthur's ribcage to hold his balance.
"Are you ready?" Arthur asked lullingly, his voice eerily calm; his pulse thrummed against Alfred's hipbones.
"Yes," Alfred gasped out. "Yes, just... just—"
Arthur rolled his own hips upwards and Alfred rocked with him, not resisting gravity but instead settling on the drag of it, allowing Arthur to push inside him wholly with little resistance. His body clamped and shuddered around the invasion and his stomach bubbled and bounced at the sensation, his knees pressed tightly to the sides of Arthur's ribcage as he gasped shallowly around the cry caught in his throat. His fingers clenched into Arthur's shirt and they both fell still again.
"Too much?" Arthur asked. "I understand that it has been a while."
"Not... not too much," Alfred insisted breathlessly. "It... it is just that..."
He trailed off and exhaled, finally opening his eyes to look down at Arthur. The beast lay beneath him with his bloody hands still on Alfred's hips, looking up at him, his green eyes bright with detached interest and the halo of his hair wild on the dirty clubhouse pillow. Alfred was utterly full of him, feeling that he must be terribly tight around Arthur's cock – but that was barely the beginning of the sensation. The blood inside him, the thin liquid seal which completed their union like a wax stamp, fizzed and frothed, his body echoing with its war cry. He could feel it within him, seeping and spreading, caressing each of his nerve endings with a sick and silken touch, and when he closed his eyes he saw the delicious rush of red. It bayed in the cores of his bones and Arthur smiled, taking his hands once more.
"All is well," he promised again. "Come now – move."
Alfred gave a little whine but obeyed, clutching tightly at Arthur's grimy palms and trusting him to hold him steady as he began to move, lifting himself. The blood rusted and it hurt but Arthur moved with him, easing the burn; and, at length, the burn itself became buried beneath that sizzling sensation deep inside him, at the spilt blood of the man he had gleefully led to the slaughter to satisfy Arthur's dreadful hunger – as though it belonged there, rushing within the narrow canals of his being to aid the pleasure he felt from being fucked by this same monstrous creature.
Taking his hands from Arthur's, growing comfortable with the rhythm, Alfred reached again for Arthur's chest to finish unbuttoning his clothing; he watched his white face for the familiar flinch but Arthur's expression remained unchanged, his brow a little furrowed with concentration. A few spikes of his golden hair had fallen into his eyes and Alfred reached, briefly, to brush them aside, his fingers lingering then on Arthur's face, touching fondly at his cheek—
Arthur snapped at his fingers, the red stains at the corners of his teeth visible as he missed only by Alfred snatching his hand back. He gave a frustrated inhale and closed his eyes briefly, running his tongue over his bottom lip and then biting down on it.
"My apologies," he said, a little short of breath. "I am full to bursting and still not satisfied. I would advise you not to touch my face. I do not wish to be responsible for ripping one of your fingers off."
"Right," Alfred said faintly. He busied his hands back at Arthur's chest, fumbling with his buttons.
"I am sorry," Arthur said again. "Perhaps we should cease. I do not... desire to hurt you, America—"
"No." Their pace quickening, his body tightly corkscrewing around Arthur and clutching covetously at his cock, Alfred shook his head firmly. "All is well. I know that... this is not your fault, Arthur."
He slipped the last pearl button through its slot and parted Arthur's shirt, looking down at his pale chest. His wounds were still there, unhealed as always. They no longer bled – and had not done so for almost three hundred years – but lacked also the ability to mend, remaining open gashes in Arthur's slender torso. There were four, the marks of the sword that had killed him, and were held together by gold thread (which gleamed now under the narrow light with the swollen promise of great riches). One lay on his belly, just below his navel, another higher up beneath the archway of his ribcage, and the final two were punctures at the left side of his chest. Neither had hit his heart but it hadn't mattered – all four had gone straight through his body, the tears in his back stitched up in a samely manner. There was another gash, this one methodical and medical, along the length of his spine, also, but this had little to do with his murder and far more instead to do with the manner in which he now lived.
"It is not your fault," Alfred insisted again, looking at him.
Arthur had two bullet wounds from long after his death, one at his right shoulder and another just under his collarbone; these, too, would never heal and gaped narrowly, little passages into his stagnant skin. There were a few other nicks and cuts also, minor complaints which would have vanished without a trace if not upon him.
Ruthless and confident whilst clothed, reminded of what he was only by his appetite, Arthur would lower his eyes for no man and no thing; but now, laid bare, he could no longer hold Alfred's feverish gaze, closing his jade eyes so that his eyelashes twitched like nervous stage curtains against his fair cheeks.
It was not his mangled appearance which shamed him, Alfred knew; it was the fact that he had been killed at all.
Alfred reached down and took hold of Arthur underneath his armpits, lifting him upright into a sitting position; their angle shifted and Alfred's weight pushed harder and deeper into Arthur's lap, at which Arthur gave a little wheeze and opened his eyes again.
"Goodness, you're getting to be... rather a big lad, aren't you," he muttered breathlessly, wrapping his arms around Alfred's broad back, settling in the small of it. "This is of benefit?"
"It feels better," Alfred replied, encircling his arms about Arthur's neck. Their chests pressed flushed together, Arthur's golden stitches sparking against Alfred's slick and smooth skin.
"I warned you," Arthur said in a low voice, his mouth pressing to Alfred's collarbone. "You ought not... to be so close to me—"
"I want to be," Alfred interrupted, panting. He hung on tightly to Arthur, his body rising and crashing down again with the force of the tide. "I trust you."
"Y-you oughtn't."
"I want to be close to you, Engla—aah!" He winced at Arthur's sharp teeth scraping along the bone. "Cease biting me!"
"S-sorry." Arthur removed his teeth with visible effort and rested his chin firmly upon Alfred's shoulder instead. "I am cl-close."
"M-me too," Alfred breathed, clutching tighter still around his lover. "Do... you need something to bite?"
"Mm." Arthur stroked at Alfred's hair, his nails dragging over his scalp. "Get... get the pillow for me."
Alfred reached towards the head of the bed, fingers straining as he was jostled still by their swaying rhythm; but couldn't reach the pillow to grab it, his fingers only brushing the edges of it.
"England, I can't... can't quite—" Alfred cut himself off with a cry of surprise as the room suddenly spiralled and he was shoved onto his back by Arthur ramming his weight into him. "Wait, wait! The pillow, I have not—"
"Sorry," Arthur echoed again, bearing down on Alfred, voice right next to his ear; he sounded exhausted, hoarse, and he stroked Alfred's hair distractedly, fiercely, as he pounded into him. The pace was horribly off now, Arthur weak and using gravity to do most of other work for him; though his eyes were bright, his body didn't buzz beneath Alfred's hands as it did when he was at his strongest—
And he appeared to be losing control over his urges very quickly.
"I am so close," he sighed into Alfred's ear, "and I fear that I... am about to—"
Alfred sucked in a breath. He knew what was coming. Though it was a rare occurrence, this had happened before.
He snatched up a handful of the sheet but didn't force it into Arthur's mouth fast enough; and instead clutched at it in his fist as Arthur inevitably sank his sharp teeth into his shoulder, biting down and bringing blood bursting forth. It hurt horribly and Alfred gave a gasping cry, his back bucking off the bed as he twisted beneath Arthur—
But this was it for Arthur. Just as he did not bleed, he did not ejaculate, his body long past needing such a function; and instead, the height of his pleasure, the replacement for orgasm, was to bite. Their usual practice was to have the pillow to hand (or, sometimes, part of Arthur's latest meal) but it had happened before where he had bitten Alfred, who felt nothing from it other than extreme pain—
And yet not tonight. Though it hurt, the bladed edge of it was frilled with a bubbling pleasure – an echo, no doubt, of Arthur's high (in much the same manner as the shadows of Arthur's pleasure Alfred had been feeling lately). The thrill was cyclical, flowing back and forth between Alfred and Arthur like an electric current; and though Alfred kicked and writhed beneath him, hissing through his teeth at the pain, the coiled spring of pleasure at the knot of his own belly grew tighter and tighter even as he struggled and then, suddenly, he gave another gasp and a long shudder and fell still, panting.
Arthur's stomach was wet with Alfred's expense and he shifted, blinked, and finally unhinged his jaw from being locked into Alfred's shoulder.
Breathing heavily, Arthur sat back, looking down at Alfred in dismay. His mouth was stained completely crimson.
"America, I am sorry," he said wearily. He wiped his chin on the heel of his hand and licked it. "I am insatiable tonight." His absinthe eyes flickered over Alfred's wounded shoulder. "Truth be told, it is all I can do to stop myself from descending upon you again."
Alfred gave a shaky nod, putting his left hand to his right shoulder to cover up the bite in a bid to curb Arthur's appetite.
"It is not your fault," he said faintly.
Arthur closed his eyes for a moment and exhaled, pressing his fingertips to his forehead. For a long moment, Alfred thought he was going to begin apologising again – but, at length, he simply slipped off the mattress, righting his clothing at the bedside. He bent, picking up his own cravat, and tossed it towards Alfred's shivering, naked form.
"I told you not to trust me," he said flatly, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Clean yourself as best you can; I daren't touch you. If you will excuse me."
He crossed the filthy old floorboards to the remains of the soldier, sinking to his knees. Alfred looked away, half-disgusted, as Arthur began to feed again, apparently frantic to quell his need to eat Alfred instead. Pressing the cravat to his shoulder, he sucked in another breath. The pleasure had frittered away, leaving only the sting of torn flesh, and though he couldn't really see it too well, he knew that it was deep. It was worse than anything that Arthur had ever given him before.
He wrapped his shoulder in the cravat, pulling the knot with his teeth, and scrambled back into his clothes as best he could. By the time he was dressed again, Arthur had stopped eating, simply kneeling before his dismembered meal breathing very deeply. Alfred slipped his glasses back on and took up Arthur's jacket and cloak, bringing them to him – but standing a few paces off. He cleared his throat nervously, holding the garments out when Arthur looked over his shoulder at him.
He was hopelessly bloody and his complexion chalk-white beneath it; and Alfred saw now that the green light in his eyes was actually flickering, flaring brightly only to shudder and dull again.
"I will not hurt you now," he sighed. "I haven't the energy."
"I'll help you," Alfred replied; though he nonetheless approached with caution, his shoulder screaming every time the joint moved. He draped Arthur's jacket over his shoulders, observing that he did not so much as slip his arms into it, merely wilting beneath its slight weight.
"This fucking war," he said bitterly, his bloody fists clenching on his knees. "There is so much killing that I cannot keep up with it. I am so full that I cannot even button my trousers and yet remain so weak that I cannot so much as begin to rise. Am I to devour an entire battalion in order to regain my strength?"
"You need your coffin," Alfred said, looping his arm beneath Arthur's back. "Come on, let us return home."
He pulled on Arthur, dragging him to his feet, and buckled a bit as his weight pulled on his wounded shoulder; gritting it out, he took Arthur under his back and under his knees and lifted him.
"What of your shoulder?" Arthur asked, frowning worriedly.
"I will be alright," Alfred replied; though he felt it weeping through the silk cravat knotted about it, blushing red beneath the dead weight of its inflictor. "Come, we shall go through the window. I think you will attract us some unwanted attention in this state."
Arthur sighed, tipping his head back as Alfred carried him towards the window.
"Indeed," he agreed frostily. "I think it may be apparent to all but you that you carry a monster within your arms."
—
Arthur – who had slumped against Alfred in the back of the carriage, half-asleep, his breath rattling in his thin chest – stumbled towards his coffin the moment Alfred put him down, clawing at the lid of it.
"Wait, wait." Alfred pushed him aside and took the bottom of the coffin, dragging it out of the corner of the room and closer to the bed they had shared only that day; he lifted the lid off, the bitter smell of old wood rising from it. "There you are."
Arthur ignored him, dropping to his knees and shrugging out of his waistcoat before slithering into the coffin; it was lined with a simple sheet, as old as Arthur himself, with a ragged pillow propped at the head of it, making it a narrow and impromptu bed, neglected for several weeks now. Arthur wrapped himself up in the sheet, snuggling into with an exhausted exhale, and stilled, settling.
Alfred didn't know what else to do for him other than touch his forehead with his folded knuckles, feeling the thrum of his slow electric pulse against his porcelain skin, and then pull back and put the lid on the coffin, shutting him in.
Alfred rose and went to the bed, collapsing onto it on his back; wincing with a little grunt at the horrible sting in his shoulder. His shirt was sticky, the cravat drenched through with blood, and he gave a shaky exhale as he looked up at the ceiling.
He knew. Of course he knew. He knew better than anyone (he felt) that Arthur was a monster; that he was, really, one of the most dangerous things this war had to offer.
Bleeding out on the bed, it did not make him love him any less.
It had been an uneventful night, by all accounts. Matthew didn't really know what Francis was looking for – or, indeed, expecting, other than perhaps the Nation to walk right into the bar they had been sitting in all evening. He took a look at his pocket watch, reading the time at a little past eleven.
He yawned, stirring his drink, and glanced at Francis – who was scouring the newspaper, the dirty sheets of it spread out across the table of their private booth. There was a maroon film painted on the inner contours of the wine flute to his right, the residue of several glassfuls.
Francis looked up at him and met his gaze; he looked tired but he smiled nonetheless.
"You are faring well?" he asked in low, pleasant French. "Or does the hour encroach upon your wakefulness?"
"I am rather tired," Matthew admitted. "What purpose have we here?"
Francis shrugged.
"I suppose I was merely being hopeful," he said; he gestured around the bar, which was overwhelmed by the company of women. "This particular establishment attracts ladies of the night and it would appear that they are in the target demographic of the Penny Ripper – the Nation England, as we have agreed."
"Do you think it likely that he would kill twice in one night?" Matthew asked.
Francis frowned.
"I would not rule it out," he said. "The fighting at the front is growing worse and the appetites of Nations are governed thus."
"Then why is he not at the front itself?" Matthew questioned. "Surely it is there that he would be of the most use."
"That," Francis said, "is something which I hope to unravel very soon." He glanced idly back at the newspaper. "I am growing worried that he is not here of his own volition – but is present instead at the insistence of the Empire Army. Should that be the case, I can conclude that he is here on an assassination mission."
Matthew bit his lip worriedly.
"How likely do you suppose that is?" he asked.
"Frankly, I think that it is almost undoubtedly the reason for his presence," Francis replied gravely. "This is the Continent's capital. Many of our important figureheads are here, not to mention the War Office."
Matthew gave a hopeless shake of his head.
"What do we do?" he pressed.
Francis sighed.
"For now, there is not much that we can do," he answered. "With Antonio and Gilbert in Rome, we haven't the option of being in many different places at once and I have little grounds to launch a thorough investigation here. If the Nation is indeed in this town – and I believe firmly that he is – then he has done well to cover his tracks so far. A string of bodies is not enough to lead us to him." He shook his head. "England always has been so very good at disappearing."
"So we simply sit and allow him to kill again?" Matthew asked, beginning to feel a little cross. "That is not much of a solution, Francis!"
"I agree," Francis said gently, "but it is the beginning of one. We must do what we can, Mathieu. That is all we can offer."
On the way home, they came across two prostitutes shivering on a street corner not far from the alleyway in which the girl in the red dress had been murdered earlier that evening. They both looked scared, skittish, huddled close to one another (one in blue with lace edging her low bodice, the other in grey with a higher neck); though resolute, determined to stand their ground and go on with their job, they were clearly terrified that they would be next.
Francis took the both of them, speaking to them in soft and reassuring tones, helping them into the small carriage. Matthew sat, embarrassed, across the box from them on Francis' left, not making eye contact with either prostitute as Francis made pleasant small-talk with them to put them at ease.
They were sisters, long-orphaned, and had known the girl who had been killed in the alley; her name had been Beth and she had frequently ventured alone, believing it to be a better way of securing customers. She had been alone when she was approached by the client who had killed her. No-one had seen her go off with anyone.
Francis paid them in advance, both of them, and bought them for the entire night. Still feeling rather embarrassed, Matthew cleared his throat and passed them in the hall, announcing that he was retiring (to make it perfectly clear that he wasn't going to be involving himself with either one of the prostitutes).
"Good night and pleasant dreams, mon cher," Francis purred after him, ushering the girls towards his own chamber.
Matthew paused. He couldn't help it. He had to say something.
"Two I can perhaps understand." he said coolly, "but to keep them the entire night seems excessive, even for you, Francis."
Francis gave a good-natured smile.
"I told you," he replied. "We must do what we can. A night spent in my bed is a night that they do not have to spend upon the street – where they are prey to those far worse than I."
Dozing feverishly, Alfred dreamt of bright things, things which glittered strangely and flitted out of his reach like jewelled butterflies; his shoulder gnawed at him even through the skin of his sleep, the pain splintering the images every now and then, and they reassembled quickly but never quite right.
He shifted onto his side and the sting was enough to wake him; opening his eyes, he found himself face-to-face with Arthur, who was lying on the bed alongside him, smiling. He gently stroked Alfred's hair, coveting the gold of it, his expression sweet and serene and a little bit sad. His eyes were back to their fullest green, potent and powerful jade, unbottled smoky forbidden absinthe.
"England..." Alfred paused, feeling how gentle his touch was. "You... are feeling better now, I trust?"
"Much better, my love," Arthur replied. He sat up on the bed. His shirt was unbuttoned down to the last three or so, baring almost his entire chest and belly; and it was clear to see that he was recovered, his time spent in his coffin doing wonders for his being. Some of his circuits, glowing as green as his eyes, blazed clearly through his fair skin like strange veins and a familiar sort of static resonated off him.
"I might have known that you would be too lazy to attend to yourself," Arthur went on; he reached to the bedside for the small First Aid kit they kept for situations like this. "Allow me."
"Too lazy?" Alfred gave an indignant snort. "I am tired only because I had to carry you all the way out onto the street and from the cab into the house!"
Arthur laughed.
"I cannot deny that you are indeed good to me when I need it," he replied. "And patient and understanding, too. A man of lesser character than you would doubtless tried to have run from me by now." His smile flickered amusedly. "I am a monster, after all."
"I care not." Alfred sat up himself, wincing as his wounded shoulder pulled with the motion. "England, it does not matter to me. You have raised me with kindness and affection – you have made a better parent, I am sure, than a great many humans. There are few in this day and age who would take in an orphaned child and take care of him as his own." He shook his head and leaned towards Arthur, nuzzling him insistently. "I do not judge you for something that you cannot help. I will love you no matter how many you kill – or who."
Arthur, pulling out the iodine and some bandages, paused, glancing up at Alfred with genuine curiosity.
"No matter who, you say," he repeated faintly. He pulled the bandage taut for a moment, then wrapped it around his fingers distractedly. "I do wonder..."
"I love you," Alfred pressed desperately. He kissed Arthur's cheek; he tasted coppery, still caked in dried blood. "I'll always love you."
"I know," Arthur replied, though he sounded rather absent. He kissed Alfred's forehead briefly. "I love you too."
His mind was clearly elsewhere, however, as he cleaned Alfred's wound for him and dressed it properly; he met Alfred's eyes and yet wasn't really looking at him. He was sometimes like this, strange and melancholic, but Alfred thought oftentimes that it was no wonder. Arthur was very old. Oh, he had been young once and had been killed – and the life that had been his own therein had ended. He was someone who was, by and large, in the wrong century, in the wrong clothes and living the wrong lifestyle, and Alfred wondered if at times he yearned for the era into which he had been born. The vacancy in his expression at moments like these did indeed speak of a longing for something which was long gone from his grasp – as though he was waiting desperately for it to come back and yet knew, really, that it never would.
"I trust that you are feeling refreshed," Arthur said when he was done, checking his enchained watch over the top of Alfred's head (Alfred cuddling at him rather fiercely, holding onto him as though afraid he would fade and be gone). "It is almost two o' clock and the night is by no means over."
Alfred exhaled, rolling his blue eyes.
"You cannot possibly still be hungry," he said. "Surely you are on the verge of bursting at the seams." He patted Arthur's stomach to punctuate his point.
Arthur gave a cryptic smile.
"No, my hunger is quelled for now," he said. "I am indeed very full and it seems that a few hours of proper recharging in my coffin has settled my irregular urges."
"Then where are we headed?" Alfred asked, leaning back and slipping out of his shirt to change into a fresh one.
Arthur left him, climbing nimbly off the mattress and stepping over his coffin.
"Give me an hour, for I must bathe and change, and we shall hence at three o' clock. You shall find out then." He went to the door, his body moving easily and powerfully, the grace of Tudor technology sparking in the sway of his hips, in the quick and clever motions of his fingers as they curled around the handle. "I have an assignment."
He slithered around the door and was gone. Alfred arranged himself cross-legged on the bed and exhaled, looking at Arthur's empty coffin, the old sheet rumpled from where it had been slept on. Across the town, carrying on the still night, the clock struck the hour – two heavy peals waltzing with one another upon a deserted dance floor.
All of Arthur's assignments were the same, of course. He was England, the only remaining Nation in service to the Empire Army, and he was more than a monster.
He was a machine designed for nothing else other than to kill.
WELL, IT'S ALL COMING OUT NOW, ISN'T IT? Again, though it is doubtless becoming more obvious, I would like to stress that England is not a vampire (nor is he a zombie/cannibal – though he embodies traits of all three). It's probably easiest to think of him as something along the lines of Frankenstein's creation. :3
It's one week until Halloween and I am SO EXCITED. Unfortunately for my parents, I am done with university as of July this year, which means that I have no more student accommodation/houses to decorate and they must put up with it instead. My dad actually had fun helping me put bloody handprints in the window, spiderwebs on the front door and hallway mirrors, banners all over the front room and bats on the light – my mum is away in Northern Ireland at the moment but I think she's going to be mad when she comes back and finds that we nailed a skeleton and a holographic-changing picture of Dorian Gray up on the wall. XD Just have to get my pumpkin and I'm ready to go!
BTW, is anyone going to London Expo this weekend? I'll be there dressed as Tim Burton's version of Sweeney Todd (which I have been wanting to do for YEARS), so anyone who is going, hit me up!
Thank you for reading! Hope you liked it!
RR xXx