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Chapter III
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The Kirkland house was quiet, still and holding its breath. Not a creature or being was disturbed within the corridors or bedrooms, nor were there any whispers trundling down the hallways. Not so early in the morning. The walls may have muttered to each other, and the trees outside may have creaked and groaned, either in relief at the warmth of summer or in pain of their aching limbs. Either way, the house was full, but silent. However, this may have been a white lie, for something was indeed stirring, bare feet slapping noiselessly on wooden floorboards and fuzzy carpets. Although there was no sound, there was movement.
The movement belonged to none other than Arthur, patrolling the hallways of the ancient manor sluggishly, pits of shadow beneath his eyes and a sickly parlour dusted upon his cheeks. Eyes glassed over with some grime that made him look everywhere at once, he gripped the banister for support as he lugged himself down the staircase, returning from yet another trip to the bathroom to squeeze out (what he hoped was) the last vomit from his stomach. Exhaustion rimmed his features, as did pain and frustration. Dragging his small frame across the entrance hall, he collapsed on the couch in the lounge, massaging his aching temples.
Perhaps I shouldn't have gone drinking last night.
Arthur vaguely remembered following the usual routine yesterday: playing guitar, going for a ride, homework and sneaking out…but then it was blank, replaced by flickering images of him and the others crouched around a fire and passing around giant bottles of alcohol. Followed by…argh…ah, yes, that was it…they had run through the forests like hooligans, screeching bloody murder as they let the poisoned drink take hold of their brains. Rain had battered their bodies, but they hadn't cared. Shrieking, jumping, whooping to the moon as they sprinted over fields and took refuge in abandoned barns and run-down sheds. There was nothing else left, save the pounding reminder of his antics last night that resonated with each throb of his head.
Arthur groaned, risking a glance at the time. 6:37am. After somehow wandering back home and barely managing to climb the branches to the spindling tree outside his bedroom window and haul himself back inside, the teen's brain had been reluctant to fall asleep, to the point that he'd given up and retired to the bathroom where he could relieve his churning stomach, mixed with an unhealthy amount of toxic chemicals that it desperately needed to rid itself of. And, now there was the tightness in his chest. Did I smoke last night? I can't remember… He deduced that he must have been inhaling some sort of substance, thanks to the crispy, and slightly grainy texture residing in his mouth, the bittersweet smell of his fingertips and the general taste of ash on his teeth. Arthur had never taken drugs before (not that he could actually recall), and he seriously hoped that he hadn't been foolish enough to last night. However, he could never be sure nowadays thanks to his drinking habits.
The alcohol was still half-poignant in his brain, playing tricks with his vision and messing up his balance, thus why he'd decided to sit down and just moan for the next few moments. It didn't seem like his stomach had anything more to regurgitate and he was immensely thankful for that as his throat felt like it had been rubbed raw with grit. Dazed and practically wallowing in his own stench of booze, Arthur curled into a tight ball. He knew that his parents wouldn't wake until at least 9:00am (as it was the holidays), but he didn't want to take chances and only lay there from a full half hour until he dared to move again.
Sniffling piteously, since the night had been unnaturally cold and wet, Arthur dragged himself back up the stairs and to his bedroom where he could hoard his saturated, beer-scented, ragged clothes until he deemed it safe to wash them himself. He never trusted his mother to do his laundry unless she suspected something from the many grimy stains on his jeans. Shortly after skilfully hiding his jacket, T-shirt and trousers in a wicker basket nestled within the bottom compartment of his wardrobe, Arthur retired to the bathroom that he shared with Dylan (and now Allistor, as he decided (or rather, had been forced) to join the family for the summer) to take a proper shower and rid himself of the dirt that clung to his limbs and feet for good. A hot, steaming bathe was just what he needed after a long, eventful night, of which he could never fully recollect.
Water thrummed rhythmically on his back, painting a melody of its own as it sprung from the tiles walls and curtain, thoroughly drenching the naked body that stood beneath it. Bedraggled and utterly exhausted, Arthur pressed his arm up against the cold tiles, slightly surprised at the contrast between the boiling water and the frozen wall, to steady himself . Resting his forehead upon the soft skin, he brushed a hand over the tattoo on his lower back – he'd grown accustomed to feeling the odd sensation of the skin there now, and often went through a daily ritual of following the curves with the tips of his digits. It no longer stung or ached, and the skin wasn't sore or infected. The parlour had done a good job.
As he leaned his head against the wall, hoping that the coolness of the tiles would offer some relief to his hangover, Arthur half-listened at the sounds of his older brother stirring in the next room. From the groan of the bed, he guessed that Allistor was just getting up, and the gentle thumps on the floor signalled that he was moving to get dressed in some clothes that he could freely walk about the house in without showing too much skin. Arthur and Allistor had always had a somewhat strained relationship, and it wasn't improving. Arthur hated the way the self-proclaimed Scotsman would intrude on his lifestyle, leaning back oh-so-calmly on the wall and pressing yet another cigar to his lips. Arrogant. Intimidating. Obnoxious. Arthur seethed.
He was anxious – eager, in fact – to finally be rid of this place for good. Just two more abhorrent weeks and he'd be up in Yorkshire, via train, enjoying education in a new school to its fullest. From the looks of the website, it offered some very nice facilities, especially for boarding Sixth Formers. God, please deliver me from this place soon. An ironic prayer, since the oppression of his parents' stifling religion was exactly what he was trying to escape. Arthur's faith was wavering; he knew, but he didn't care. It was just another thing in his life that would get weaker, and might diminish in the coming years, if he let it get that far. A sharp spasm of pain shot through his head, producing a hiss from his mouth and his fingers to probe gently at his temples again. The shower was too hot, stuffy and closing in around him, roasting him as if he was some sort of meat that was to be cooked in an oven until tender.
Arthur decided to take his exit, the cold air greeted his naked skin as soon as he pulled back the curtain. Reluctant to engage in any unfortunate interaction with any one of his brothers that morning, he rushed to his room immediately, his only haven (save the stables) for the last two months. Once inside, he took it upon himself to firmly lock the door and settle himself into some clothes for the day. Hair dripping into the towel he'd slung around his shoulders, he observed what was left. Naturally, in his impatience to leave (anyone would've thought he was going to university rather than a boarding school. Then again, it could count as college) he'd thrust most of his possessions into his suitcase already, leaving only the bare essentials that he'd be needing in the upcoming fortnight: clothes, revision books, notepads to revise in and from, ordinary novels to immerse himself in etc.
His room didn't look much different than before really. Arthur was so neat (in fact, he was terrifyingly neat – it was beginning to border on OCD), hardly anything was ever in view. The only noticeable difference was the emptiness of his bookshelf, as he had shoved most of his classics into his bag too, until he was left with 'To Kill a Mockingbird', which rested on his desk, a bookmark nestled between clusters of pages, 'Don Quixote', which was what he claimed as "one of the greatest classics of all time" and 'Clarissa', which he still hadn't finished despite wasted hours of staying up late at night thanks to its impossible length.
Arthur simply plopped himself down in his chair, dusted some droplets from his hair and tried (unwillingly) to read over his History revision notes. He had already memorized most of the facts by heart, but there was no harm in checking. Unfortunately, his pounding headache offered no reprieve and he eventually gave up trying to recall what date Kristallnacht was, even though it was something he seriously should have known. The Night of Broken Glass…some time in…argh…November…and the year was 1938……
Knowing that a remedy for hangovers that he'd made himself was somewhere in the depths of the stables, Arthur eventually rose from his chair, pulled on a jacket and started back through the halls of the house. As he feared, Allistor was awake, as was Niall and even Peter. Perfect. He could deduce that much from their bedroom doors, which hung upon slightly and revealed ruffled, empty bedsheets sprawled across mattresses. Each step took him further from the gush of the shower water, and he peered over the balcony to check that nobody was in the entrance hall. From the spastic sound of jittering electricity, he guessed that one of the brothers was in the lounge, watch television. Or perhaps listening to the radio. Confident that he wouldn't be stopped, Arthur crept across the floorboards, cursing his stumbling, half-drunken steps and thanking the wood for the quietness of each breath it whimpered as he stepped upon it.
Finally, he had reached the porch, tugged on some black boots and was outside, greeting the rare sunshine with graceless happiness. Each steps stomped upon the earth too hard, leaving an imprint in the soggy ground. It had rained last night; that would be a reason for Arthur's rosy cheeks and constant sniffling. A few streaks of feathery clouds covered the risen sun, translucent and barely allowing much of the multi-coloured light to burst upon the rolling countryside. They resembled paper, crimson coating their edges and lining the holes where fragments of amber had burned through. The remains of charred paper drifted listlessly about the ocean-blue atmosphere, dots of cloud that floated to nowhere. Arthur would've admired the breath-taking scenery were his home was had his head not started to throb precisely at the moment he had opened the door.
Shit, that hurts…
Following a sickly snuff, the blond tripped and lurched down through the grove of ancient trees to where the lonely stable sat. He could probably get away with ingesting a few gulps of his homemade hangover remedy (which, to be honest, tasted like crap) and perhaps groom the horses before his parents would wonder why he wasn't in the house revising. It didn't look like he'd be able to squeeze in any riding or guitar playing until later. And he certainly didn't want to indulge himself with the illegally acquired booze in the state that he was in – just the scent of alcohol to one with a hangover was enough to make his stomach to cartwheels. No, just the thought of the stash of secret beer made him want to blow chunks.
Even though he couldn't feel the bile in his throat, Arthur rose tentative fingers to his lips to mentally push down the vomit that threatened to start churning again in his vacant stomach. He severely hoped that it wouldn't. Somehow, splurging everything that you'd eaten and drunk in the last forty-eight hours wasn't a pleasant feeling. He faltered through the stable doors, dropping to his knees in the tack room with blessed maladroitness. Brain spinning, inept digits dragged out a bottle of foul, grimy green liquid, unlabelled and strangely thick. Mixed with an essence of tea and aspirin, an uncouth scent escaped into the atmosphere when he loosened the lid. Wrinkling his nose, Arthur took a swig, hardly pausing for breath as the sludge entered his mouth and bubbled on his tongue.
Unbearably sour, he struggled not to spew it all over the cobblestone floor and set the bottle down in its usual hiding place; behind the bucket of musty reins that were either broken or too small to fit comfortably in the horse's mouth without hurting their teeth. A few tears streamed down his cheeks from the pure vulgarity of the taste that had thoroughly saturated and practically burned his taste buds. Stifling a choke, he wiped his wet cheeks with the palms of his hands and toppled backwards, barely catching himself on the doorframe before he landed on his rear. A splinter dug into his hand and he hissed irately.
Today just isn't my bloody day, is it?!
The haziness in his head now complimented by a sting in his palm, Arthur seated himself on the second step of the ladder that he usually used to lift himself up into the hayloft as he yanked to pointed piece of wood from his skin. Unable to stifle a yelp, he softly apologized to the horses, which had jumped from the shrill, oddly girlish screech that had erupted from his mouth. Crumpet waited loyally for her master to come and tend to her, as a gentle smile stretched itself upon Arthur's face and he threaded his fingers with her longed, matted fringe.
"Sorry, girl," he murmured again, this time quieter as he scratched her ears. "I didn't mean to scare you." Crumpet nickered, balancing one of her hooves in the hay. Arthur had taken her out riding the day before, pushing her hard across meadows and fields – just the usual well-worn tracks that they both knew well. The evidence of her run was encrusted on her legs since Arthur had forgotten to wipe them down with a brush. He rectified that speedily, soothing as he scrubbed the mare's lower calves dutifully. Yes, he often liked to take extra care of his horse, as well as his brothers' when he had the time to spare. It always deepened their bond and Arthur found a sort of solace in animals that just wasn't present in humans. Not in the ones that he knew anyway.
He didn't exactly count his drinking-buddies as "friends." They were merely idiotic people who agreed to have a good time with him after dark. He hardly believed that they'd be willing to escort him home if he got too drunk. Luckily, there hadn't been a time when he'd gotten himself so stoned that he'd woken up in an alleyway, but Arthur still knew he'd have to monitor just how much alcohol he was taking every day. He did want to lead a long and fulfilling life rather than just rot away on the streets, his only companions a half empty bottle of wine and some stray dog that had pissed on him and claimed him as its territory. Most of the simple-minds that roamed around the towns late at night were hardly intelligent anyway. Most of them had dropped out of school as soon as they gotten their GCSEs out of the way. Some of them just mooched off of their parents and slept on the couch. Arthur doubted they could even spell each other's names.
"That's better, isn't it?" he hummed contently to Crumpet after he'd scoured the last dirt from her hind leg. Arthur's smile was scarce. His brothers had rarely ever seen his mouth curve upwards at the edges or seen his teeth present themselves in a radiant grin. His parents had probably never seen it at all. It was difficult to get Arthur to smile genuinely. Sure, he smirked often enough, either from a sarcastic remark or an insult or something, but his golden smile was definitely an uncommon sight. Being so elusive, it probably should've been mounted on a wall in a museum with a golden frame. After all, his smile wasn't unattractive. But, not many could be the judge of that since not many people had had the good fortune to see it.
As he crooned to his horse happily, his arm wrapped around Crumpet's neck, the sudden sound of the stable doors opening turned Arthur's smile to a frown. Then, when he saw which of his brothers had entered, a downright scowl.
"Hey Artie," Allistor greeted. Ever since he'd moved up to live in Scotland, the older brother's accent had changed slightly. It sounded gruffer than usual, more guttural. The aristocratic dialect that his mother had fought so hard to teach him was slowly whittling away, replaced by the raucous Scottish accent. Or rather, that's how Arthur saw it. He didn't like Allistor's new way of speaking, nor did he like the new nickname that he'd acquired.
"What do you want?"
"Can't I come down to just talk to my little brother?" was the jolly reply. Arthur snorted. So, he didn't like his brother. Or rather, brothers. There wasn't really a reason for it, apart from they were uneducated numbskulls who took pleasure in childish banter and generally acting idiotic. Allistor wasn't a terror, or a bully, or intimidating (as much as his appearance counteracted that). Contrary to Arthur's belief, he was fairly relaxed and laid-back, jolly and a downright joker. He was an easy person to like, unless you got him too drunk and angry – you see, Allistor could hold down a respectable amount of drinks whilst keeping a cordial, jovial appearance, but after a certain point he grew clumsy, rash and sometimes aggressive and his temper was definitely something to be feared – but Arthur wasn't someone who went out of his way to like people very often. Or at least drop his usual anti-social act. He figured that there were some people whom he didn't want to have a very close relationship with, and his brothers were included – they hadn't exactly been friendly to him when they'd been young kids, so why should he? Yes, Arthur held grudges; just one of his many, many, many personality flaws.
"I don't particularly want to talk to you," he replied tersely, trying to keep his voice even so that he didn't spook the horses. A wry smile stretched itself upon Allistor's face. It looked like he hadn't shaven for a while thanks to the bristly auburn hair that glinted on his chin. He reached up one hand to scratch the stubble as the other rummaged in his pocket shortly before pulling out a thick cigarette and a lighter. Arthur raised a thick eyebrow; he'd seen his brother smoke before, but from the way Allistor almost hungrily lit the wrapper of tar and other nasty substances with a ravenous glint in his eye, he could deduce that it had become a rather unhealthy habit, perhaps even an addiction.
"What?" he asked laxly, realizing the disapproving look Arthur was shooting him from over the stable door as he shoved the cigarette in between his lips and inhaled deeply. "I haven't had one today."
"That's because it's the morning."
"So?"
Arthur sighed, the low sound of irritation rolling less-than-smoothly off of his tongue. There was no use debating with his ignorant brother, so he just returned to stroking Crumpet's long, soft fur. Allistor grinned. It sounded petty, but he enjoyed getting Arthur annoyed, simply because he could provoke some of the best reactions from the middle Kirkland brother. It was always hilarious watching him get all riled up. He wondered if he could really get him fuming before they went to breakfast. Leaving the cigarette dangling in his mouth, the redhead held out his fingers for his own horse, Angus, to sniff. The gigantic Clydesdale draught horse snuffed at the familiar scent before whinnying playfully and nibbling the very tips of Allistor's members. Said student chuckled and proceeding to gently roughhouse with the chestnut-coloured horse's giant head, eliciting annoyed glares from Arthur in the next stall, who huffed to convey his irascibility.
"That's dangerous, you know," the blond scolded, waggling his finger at the cigarette that Allistor clutched in his teeth. "If that falls, it could land on the dry hay and start a fire."
Booming laughter filled the stalls. "I doubt one ciggy could set this place alight." Allistor continued after he detached himself from Angus, who had started to tug at his collar, seeking attention. "You'd better head up soon. Ma and Pa don't like tardiness, especially when it concerns breakfast."
"I know!" Arthur snapped tartly. Allistor only grinned in response and exited the stables with his hands in his pockets. On his way out, he spat the cigarette into a bucket full of water, and watched with lucid fascination as it sizzled into nonexistence afore strolling back up to the house. The younger followed soon after once he'd produced an apple from the overhead hayloft and let Crumpet indulge herself on the crisp, red fruit.
"Good girl," he crooned as he re-locked her stall door and quickened his pace.
Despite the encounter with his wily brother, Arthur's headache had decreased considerably until it was nothing but a dull throb of dull pain every handful of minutes. The ground still sloshed beneath his feet, producing some sort of icky brown mush that gathered around his shoes and sucked angrily on his soles, almost dragging them back down into the sticky cesspit of muck. Eventually, he slung himself through the gate and trudged around the front of the house so that he could enter through the utility room door; that way, he might avoid meeting his parents or anyone else in the entrance hall and having them question him and he wouldn't track all of that mud on his shoes into the house. Kicking off his boots, Arthur lingered in the laundry room for a few moments, entranced in his own little world as he stared off into the distance. He jolted gently back to reality, hearing the sounds of his mother bustling around in the kitchen just next door, probably starting to dish up breakfast. Risking a peek through the door frame, he waited until her back was turned afore scurrying through the great hall and into the dining room, hoping he wasn't too late.
Thankfully, Arthur wasn't the last one to arrive in the dining room. Although Dylan and Allistor were present, engaged in a light-hearted conversation, the other seats were vacant. They turned briefly when he entered the room, but didn't pause in their exchange. Since Allistor had been in university, he hadn't really been in contact with the rest of the family, so he'd been "repairing" his relationships with his siblings since he'd arrived back at the old manor house. Cillian and he were on fairly good terms anyway, spending the most time together and occasionally sharing a beer with each other when they thought nobody was watching, and he would belay his accomplishments and new life to Dylan whenever they encountered. Naturally Dylan had lots of questions as he'd be leaving for Cardiff when September started, which was less than a fortnight away. Connor was probably the most attached to Allistor out of all the brothers so he'd been exceptionally glad when he'd seen his older brother's grin greeting him, as well as a rather informal and slightly embarrassing bear-hug. Oh, and a large, calloused hand ruffling his thick red locks for good measure too. He never received such affection with Cillian. Nobody (but Allistor, but that wasn't exactly affection – that was play-fighting) did.
Cillian had never been very loving towards any of the younger brothers since he'd hit puberty, which had been way, way, way back, shortly after he'd become a teenager. Whereas Allistor had only become more playful and jovial and Dylan had matured considerably, Cillian had become somewhat reckless, foolish and rash, moving too fast for anybody to keep up. He was growing more and more independent. And the parents did not like that at all. In fact, he hadn't visited last year thanks to a scathing argument that had exploded last Easter over his future and whether he was going to run the family business. It was tradition for the eldest child to adopt the job, but Cillian was adamant not to, thus practically forcing Allistor to take the burden for him. But, Allistor sure as hell wouldn't be doing it and neither would Dylan, leading the patriarch of the Kirkland family to pressurise his most prized "possession" (cough, son) into taking the job. Arthur had heard the late night conversations passed between his mother and father about his job outlooks and it seemed like the company was to be thrust upon him. He was no fool.
Thanks to the two eldest brothers returning home, the seating arrangements had been altered slightly, meaning that Arthur was regrettably seated next to Allistor. Dylan, sat opposite the auburn haired student, and he stopped chatting for a few moments. From the slices of their discussion that Arthur had actually heard, Dylan was asking about university accommodation.
"You made it then, Artie?" Allistor chuckled softly. "I thought you'd rather spend breakfast down yonder with those horses."
"Shut it."
Arthur wasn't in the mood for his brother's garble and was about to add to his retort when lo-and-behold, Cillian entered. He paused, his mouth half open before staring at the eldest brother with a scathing look that just about bordered upon a mistrustful glare. Clad in a pair of pale orange pyjama bottoms and a gaudy green jacket, he flicked a strand of half-curled, half-tousled ginger hair out of his vision and muttered a tired "good mornin'." Or rather, "top o' the mornin'." Allistor wasn't the only one who'd picked up a dialect whilst he'd been away. Arthur only wrinkled his nose; in his opinion, Irish accents were worse than Scottish accents. The first time that Cillian had come back home earlier that month, it had come as a shock to everyone when he'd spoken since they hadn't heard his voice for a good year. Arthur had been the least willing to accept it and expressed his disdain almost every time they had a chat, which was quite rare. They tended to ignore each other for they both knew even the slightest exchange could set them off.
"Hey," Dylan greeted. Cillian and he were on fairly good terms anyway and he nodded to him as the eldest took the seat to his left, closer to the head of the table and opposite the empty spot where Mother would sit. Allistor acknowledged the presence of his senior both verbally and physically, reaching his sinewy arm across the table and grasping the elder's hand firmly in some sort of aerial arm-wrestle. The veins on both of their arms almost popped from how much they were squeezing each other's palms, yet they both smiled warmly at each other as if it was just a friendly handshake. Dylan rolled his eyes and Arthur just huffed. He hated family meal times with a burning passion, especially with the presence of Allistor and Cillian. Scowling irritably, he watched as the two loosened their grips and backed away, still grinning like buffoons. Idiots.
A deep yawn from the doorway signalled the arrival of both Connor and Peter, standing one in front of the other and still in their pyjamas. The summer heat had instilled a lazy reaction in most of the siblings. Arthur noted this as he browsed the attires of each of his brothers, frowning. Allistor may have been dressed, but his clothes made him out to be some sort of industrial builder. All he needed was a tool belt laden with hammers and screwdrivers. Cillian glanced briefly at the new arrivals, his gaze lingering on Connor, who had settled himself next to Arthur in the usual spot. The younger almost seemed as if he was purposely not meeting the other's eye, pointedly looking the other way. That was usually how it was at most meal times – Connor and Cillian seriously didn't get along, although nobody really knew the reason why. Well, they both had relatively ginger hair, although Connor was more of a redhead than anything else. The two of them actually looked quite similar to each other; tousled curls, pasty skin and freckles splattered across their cheeks and noses. But they still didn't like each other. Whenever they spoke, they ended up bickering and sometimes even fighting. Well, not really fighting. It was more of Connor throwing a few punches and Cillian blocking them easily, for he knew that if he really went all for it, he'd probably break the younger's bones. That, and despite his raging temper, he was secretly quite a gentle soul and didn't particularly take joy in beating his younger brother's senseless. Play-fighting and roughhousing was fun, just as long as it was evenly matched and the worst injuries were a black eye, a chipped tooth or a bloody nose. Or all three as the case may be.
Finally, the head of the table marched through the doorway, accompanied by the bringer of the food. They both took their respective positions as breakfast was distributed and after a long, half-hearted, drawling grace, the devouring of all the food began. Just like any other day, Cillian and Allistor piled their plates with all sorts of meats and delicacies, probably immersing themselves in a silent competition to see who could eat the most. Dylan ate like a pig too, just slower and with more purpose. Arthur just picked up a piece of toast, buttered it and tried to avert his gaze from the massacre of the bacon and sausages happening just out of the corner of his vision. Splashing a generous dollop of fruity jam onto his golden piece of toasted bread, he tucked in with less heart than those around him, savouring the sweetness on his tongue. Like his parents, he also had a cup of tea as he requested one every morning, and sipped it delicately. Arthur looked quite peculiar, stuck in the midst of all of the breakfast carnage.
The Kirkland brothers, although related closely…since, you know…they were brothers, all differed greatly from each other with their own appearances and images, traits, habits and personalities. Although they all shared the same eye colour, minus Peter whose aquatic blue eyes mirrored their father's, if you dared to look close enough, you would notice the various shades, flecks and imperfections reflected in each iris. Whilst Cillian's eyes glowed bright with a murky, shamrock colour that resembled the stems or leaves you might find sprouting on flowers or vines creeping up a fir tree, Dylan's were more of a sea green, like how the ocean floor looks when you stare at it from the surface. Connor's eyes were a vivid, almost intense, yellow-green that scorched through the air, whilst Allistor's were a deep, bottomless midnight emerald that seemed to sink forever into his mind, holding all of the secrets of the universe. And Arthur's?
Arthur's exquisite, one-of-a-kind eyes were those that only came around in a couple of thousand years. Although few cared to stare hard enough into those pools of liquid wonder, they held a unique shade that probably couldn't be found anywhere else. Well, the same can be said for all eyes, really. But perhaps it would how they reflected his emotions so well one minute, and could suddenly turn into an unreadable mask so quickly; how one moment they could be directing so much warmth, caressing their view with an unfelt touch that could bring someone so much comfort and cushion them in a blanket of affection, then change into a tempest of anger, turmoil and ire, producing a swirl of icy emotions that swept away all of that balminess in an instant like a cruel blizzard. Maybe that was what made them such gems. Not that anybody ever knew, of course. After all, who has the time to scrutinize somebody's eyes all day?
After the hectic breakfast, Father departed from the house, bidding his wife and sons good-bye as he rushed out of the manor and clambered into his car to drive to work. Being the head of a massive corporate did have its major disadvantages. For one, John Kirkland was always stressed, busy and exhausted, constantly trying to keep order and quell his worker's disagreements. Secondly, he even had to work on the summer holidays. Well, except Christmas and Easter as those are Christian holidays and he excused himself from work to worship and pay respects to the Lord, and he was allowed off Sunday mornings for church.
His wife, Alice, relieved the children (apart from Dylan, who was clearing up the table) and wandered off to either read or clean. Arthur took the day as an opportunity to try and read deeper into 'Clarissa', retiring to his room once he'd finished his tea and propping himself up on his bed.
Thanks to the hangover remedy he'd ingested, his headache had been completely annihilated, replaced only with the normal fogginess that came after drinking as he couldn't quite remember what he had done last night. Perhaps it would've been better for his to catch up on sleep, but Arthur decided to wait a little while and began scouring the pages for more plot on the epic story. His bedroom was quite large, complete with dark pine wood panels running along the walls instead of wallpaper and circular patterns engraved onto the cream-coloured ceiling. An impossibly large carpet, dark burgundy with golden and violet swirls inked into the fibres, stretched across the whole area of the room, covering all of the birchwood floorboards underneath. On top sat various furniture, including a redwood foot locker, hiding a few precious items that were too valuable or dangerous to be disposed of (such as, empty cigarette packets and void alcohol bottles, all wrapped in white bedsheets); an underused armchair nestled in the corner by the window, that had no real purpose since Arthur preferred to sit or lie on his bed; a chest of drawers on the right hand side of the bed, on which was a small lamp that emitted a soft amber glow whenever it was turned on and an alarm clock (which Arthur planned on packing in his bag to take to boarding school); an ornate desk with another, more modernized lamp, a few text books and a laptop stacked atop of it, which were also to be added to the suitcase, and a chair tucked neatly underneath. And of course, the centrepiece of the room, the single bed which looked more like a double, with a thick crimson blanket spread on the top, slightly crinkled in the places where the blond teenager was sitting as he soaked up the words of the classic he was engrossed in.
Arthur didn't quite know how long he studied into the tragic life of poor Clarissa Harlowe, expressed through hundreds of letters back and forth between friends, however, when he checked the clock it was already nearing lunch time. Bloody hell, I need to keep a better track of time. Somehow, the novel had become wearisome and tedious cradled in his fingertips, and Arthur only urged himself to read more to satisfy the dull curiosity of what would happen to Clarissa as her terrible, thwarted life enfolded into the words etched onto paper. The teen stuffed the bookmark back into the pages, set the thick book down in its original place and mapped out some revision before he was summoned to eat by his mother. Sure enough, by the time the clock struck one o'clock, Alice Kirkland was calling out the names of each son respectively to come downstairs. Lunch was similar to dinner, the only changes being the food and the atmosphere without the oppressive eyes of Father analysing his children's every word and movement. He was a hardened man with a wooden jaw; when he smiled, it resembled a thin, jagged line that a child might've scraped into the bark of a tree. Rough, slightly fake.
The day wore on slowly and slightly painfully, minutes barely merging into hours. In summer, the days always seemed to drag on at a more sluggish pace, which only proved to bore Arthur further as he delved deeper into his near-impossible Mathematics revision. Unlike last year, there were barely any numbers to work with and everything was just a mad jumble of letter over letters squared by more letters. And that was just the tip of the iceberg! The blond worked furiously in his room, wondering at what point he'd allow himself a break. Now that the effects of his hangover had worn off, he somehow felt like putting a nice bottle of cold beer to his lips and strumming his guitar into the essence of the night, as usual. Perhaps, if he had spare time, he'd take Crumpet out for a ride as well. Surged forward by the renewed goal that he wanted to strive towards, Arthur memorized each line in his A-level Maths booklet and almost pulled his hair out over some of the more difficult sums before he excused himself, his brain practically exhausted. I can do more revision tomorrow, he thought glumly, staring at the clock on his dresser which clearly read that it was just a couple of minutes past six o'clock.
Arthur, pondered in the hallway that separated his room from Dylan's and Allistor's for a while, staring out of the window that he usual snuck out of at night at the gnarled branches of the oak tree. Not surprisingly, the sun still hadn't set and he didn't expect the horizon to swallow it until about eight o'clock. That was the price of summer. Feeling a faint vibration in his pocket, he glanced swiftly at his phone screen at the invitation for yet another night of drinking. Following a couple of seconds of balancing the situation, Arthur refused and gracefully chucked the mobile back into his room where it bounced lightly on his bed before coming to rest amongst the scarlet sheets. He didn't want to risk his mother seeing the rectangular object jutting out of his pocket.
"Arthur?"
Said blond perked up at the sound of his name, looking over his shoulder at his little red-haired brother sceptically. Little known to him, Connor had been aware of him staring out of the window and vaguely wondered if he was thinking of drinking again. He didn't particularly like Arthur drinking, but he couldn't say anything, could he? One, he was younger so the elder most likely wouldn't listen to him and two, it was a bit hypocritical. Just a bit.
"What?"
"Are you going out tonight?"
"No. Why?"
Connor didn't answer, his mouth pressed into a thin line. He just simply turned around a walked back to his room, probably to "study" on his own laptop for a time. Arthur just shrugged; it wasn't uncommon for the freckled boy to ask him whether he was going out or not, but that was all their conversations seemed to consist of nowadays. Connor never answered why he wanted to know Arthur's plans, but he guessed that was alright. As long as he didn't bother him too much anyways. Stifling a yawn, the blond skipped down the stairs, keeping his eyes and ears alert for his mother who would probably remind him of his curfew if he mentioned he'd be heading down the stables. Occasionally, she would stop him from just wandering around on the estate and rambling on about how he "should be revising for his A-level exams", which wouldn't actually begin until next May or June. Certain that she was somewhere else in the house, Arthur followed his normal procedure of darting across the hall, pausing only the tug on some shoes before the lukewarm air greeted him again.
The sky swam with colours, bright and bursting with wispy clouds that slid lethargically across the horizon. The sun, gradually lowering down to kiss the earth, shone just as bright as it had all summer, burning bright amber as bathing some of the clouds that dared to drift close to it in a yellowish light. They almost looked like they'd been dipped and slathered in honey, the undersides coated in a fluffy pelt of soft, creamy butter hues. The fields stretched out, seemingly forever, corn rippling and swaying in an eternal dance of summertime glory. The stems of flowers bent in silence reverence to the passing sun, a few grains and seeds entwining themselves in the soil and blessing the ground to provide new plants with the coming of next spring.
Arthur was creeping down to the stables in a matter of seconds, halting only to admire the delectable view from his position on the crest of the hill. It would look so much finer when he was strumming to himself, alone, half-buried in the hay. The imagery of it was so poignant, that he could already hear the blissful music ringing in his ears and taste the beer. It was amazing how, even after he'd just recovered from a fierce hangover, he still desired to feel some of that sweet, sweet alcohol slithering down and warming his throat before pooling in the heart of his stomach and sending shivers of delicious heat through his body from his core. Just the idea was enough to make him smile to himself as he squeezed through the gate for the fourth time that day: once had been in the darkened hours of the early morning on his way back from trekking through the fields, the second time had been to fetch his hangover medicine and third to come back.
The thin frame of the small boy could be seen from a distance, walking with an air of reserved comfort to his haven. However, his silhouette wasn't the only figure that could be seen from afar. If one were to be nestled in the branches of a tree, lower down on the hill amongst the beginnings of the small forest, they would've noticed an additional three shadows, obscured slightly by the half-stone, half-wood structure of the stables. True enough, Allistor, Dylan and Cillian were "chilling" in the meadow, one leaning casually against the wall of the oversized shed as the other two brandished bottles of beer, half full of translucent, rust-coloured liquid. Arthur had not noticed any of them yet, too caught up in his own little world of alcohol and guitars, until the sounds of tipsy laughter reached his ears.
Locks of burning auburn, vivid ginger and strawberry blond hair all fluttered, not unlike feathers, in the breeze upon his arrival at the stables. He hissed, noting the beer each of his older brothers were clutching in their hands. His beer. Allistor was the first to notice him, and grinned stupidly before calling out his name cheerfully. Arthur wasn't fooled. He knew how violent the redhead could get from just a few gulps of alcohol, as he'd seen when they'd been younger, and he halted, eyes narrowed and glinting maliciously.
"What are you doing?" he spat, accenting each and every word as though it were poison to his lips. Dylan simply blinked. Cillian was the only one who wasn't facing Arthur, and took another swig of his bottle, not bothering to even look over his shoulder at the youngster.
"Drinking." It was Allistor who'd answered. If Arthur had to guess, it was he who was the tipsiest at that point, although he corrected himself after he viewed how much liquid was left in each of their flagons; Dylan had drunk the least, although the water line was wavering close to the redheads, whereas Cillian had almost finished. Despite the eldest's temper and vehemence, especially when alcohol had been added to the mix, Arthur didn't back down. He was stubborn, and now thoroughly pissed that his brother's had not only invaded his private sanctuary (well, it was exactly private since they all owned a horse, but it was his sanctuary), but also dared to touch his secret stash of liquor.
"I can bloody well see that!" Arthur fumed, provoking a whole-hearted chuckle from Allistor and an amused grunt from Dylan.
"Oh, come on, Artie, lighten up!"
The youngest clenched his fists at his prolonged insolence. His voice sounds even drunker with that Scottish accent tinged to it, he thought sourly, his thick eyebrows crumpled together in frustration. He opened his mouth to argue, but he was beaten to it by Cillian, who had dropped his flask into the mud and finally turned around to face the blond. A dangerous gleam filmed his irises.
"Those were yours, were they?" he muttered absently, twirling one of his orange hairs with such nonchalance that a cat would be envious. "Not bad. Tasted quite nice." Arthur hissed. Cillian paused for a moment, as if he was done speaking, before his treacherous gaze met Arthur's and they stared almost hatefully at each other. "You shouldn't be drinking though. Still underage."
"As if you'd care," Arthur scoffed immediately, interrupting his brother's reasoning. "I can do what I please."
"That's some crude logic," Cillian deflected. "It only makes you seem more like an idiot."
"I'm an idiot!?" The younger's voice was laced with anger and venom as he spewed out the rhetorical question in shocked fury.
"Sure. And you're bossy, too."
Arthur winced, willing himself not to look too hurt. When all of the boys had been young, he'd recalled the three eldest being the closest. They'd always stayed out playing with each other until dark, roaming the countryside and the moors before returning home when the sun disappeared behind the hills. Nonetheless, Arthur had been the odd one out. Instead of harbouring the sparks of adventure and the want to venture beyond the distant horizon, he'd spent his time alone, reading old tales and legends of fairies and pirates. Strangely enough, he'd never felt inclined to explore those sandy shoals he'd read about so much, or search for wondrous flying pixies in the forests at the foot of the hills. Truth be told, Arthur had never needed to search for them. Unlike his brothers, all driven by the same urges of "who can climb the tallest tree" and "who can jump to the other bank of the river", he'd been content secluded in his own little wonderland, closer to home. The bright coloured flowers and twisted trees were all sorts of interesting and new creatures lived grew in his very bedroom or in the hayloft of the stables. Unlike his brothers, older and younger, he had a much broader imagination.
Maybe his reclusiveness as a child had made him envious. Other children didn't want to talk to him. He was boring and weird, always nestled in the corners of the classroom during break and lunchtime, his nose deep in a book, completely engrossed and utterly oblivious to the world around him. It was only when he'd started to grow older did he truly realise that he was gazed upon with indifference by his own siblings. They didn't want much to do with him, if anything, and they never listened. They varied so much from each other; where they were strong from years of throwing rocks in the faraway river, Arthur was little weak with thin gangly arms. Where they were gruff and settled debates with brawn, Arthur's mind was the key to his success. Where they grew to be people he admired, Arthur remained an undersized pest to be snickered at and teased, at worst ignored entirely.
Of course, he had never boded well with their taunts, especially as Connor had been accepted by them (minus Cillian) so easily. More than anything, he'd wanted to be noticed and acknowledged. Perhaps Arthur had been lonely in the company of beings that didn't exist, or he wanted some positive attention for once, but he'd evolved from the usually quiet and docile child into a grumpy, irritable, argumentative youth who…well, was indeed bossy.
In order to make up for all of the times he wished he'd been there, or done that, or made them do something right, he would bite back with snarky comments and a lashing, whip-like tongue. For those type of memories to brought back stung slightly, and Arthur suddenly proceeded to swear and cuss at the top of his lungs, hurling profane insults at Cillian as though his life depended on it.
"Woah, woah, calm down, Artie," Allistor chided, although the hint of laughter in his voice was certainly detectable.
"Don't call me Artie!"
"Quit throwing a tantrum," Cillian continued, sounding somewhat bored. Ah yes, another best-forgotten recollection. Arthur's tantrums.
"Shut up!" was the blistering retort, coming from the more-than flustered teen.
This is why those two should never be left alone together. Cillian often enjoyed irritating people (a more sadistic trait of his), and since it didn't work on Allistor (or rather, didn't quite work; in most cases Allistor just took it as a joke; in other cases, a fight would break out and, although Cillian wouldn't want to admit, the younger was just that bit stronger than him) or Dylan ,who was far too cool and collected to let it bother him, he would often lightly tease Arthur instead. Connor was also a prime target, but his temper was so fierce that it never ended prettily. And Peter…was just a tad bit slow…
"Bloody hell, don't get so worked up," Dylan muttered, clapping Cillian lightly on the shoulder as he too dropped his now empty bottle into the sludge beneath his feet. "He's just kidding you." The musician turned to the other two brothers. "I'm heading back. It's starting to get chilly out." Sure enough, the previously warm wind had been replaced with an eerie cold, remote and uncalled for. Summer was starting to merge into autumn, and the birth of the new season was beginning to show with dropping temperatures, the few early leaves that had started to flutter down from the trees above and increased rainfall. As if they didn't get enough of that already. Dylan took a detour around Arthur, his hands shoved into his trouser pockets. Usually, he could withstand the chill, but he was only clad in a red T-shirt, and that wouldn't do much against the biting wind. Dylan's absence didn't really change much about the exchange, other than the heated debate seemed to flare up even more. Arthur was pissed. Super pissed. If anything, the shouts that were passed between them were just a reminder of how much he utterly hated his brothers, especiallywhen they were drinking his beer.
An inferno of yelling (mostly from Arthur) blazed between both brothers, interrupted only when Allistor occasionally stepped in to try and quell their rage. The argument didn't sway in his favour though, and only continued. Cillian, despite his usual refined and uncaring atmosphere, had even grown to the point that he looked truly terrifying, emerald eyes alight with fury as his ginger hair burned like a flame against the darkening sky. Arthur, cussing the elder's existence with every phrase, clawed in vain at his temper, fighting for control. He was supposed to be the more sophisticated out of all of the brothers (that was most often his ego's opinion though), but he certainly didn't look like the ominous and mysterious Arthur Kirkland that he was usually seen as in school. As stated earlier, he didn't normally go out of his way to befriend people, therefore he was often viewed as aloof and reserved.
Regardless of the anger instilled in both of them, Cillian seemed to remember himself too late and straightened up, sending an acrid glance at Allistor.
"Whatever," he snorted, still bristling. Refusing to meet Arthur in the eye, he strode with a criticizing air past him and launched himself, with much more force than necessary, over the gate. "I don't have time for this."
Allistor lingered for a few moments longer, eyeing Arthur sheepishly. The younger didn't look as though he'd settled down one bit, and almost had half a mind to hurl more abuses as his brother sauntered past; his fists were still clenched, his knuckles white and he stared with livid concentration at the ground before him. Following a half-apologetic, half-sardonic grin, Allistor too shimmied back up to the manor house, not before calling over his shoulder: "Don't sulk up there for too long!" Obviously, he was referring to Arthur's usual habit of sitting in the hayloft and drinking away his sorrows away with the sound of heavenly guitar melodies pouring through his ears. The blond, who had stomped down to the stables, responded with a rough growl of irritation and a curse as he threw one of the empty beer bottles with all of his might up towards the fence. It smashed on the gate post producing the ugly, shrill cry of shattering glass. Unlike his brothers, Arthur's tempers didn't disintegrate after a few minutes. Instead, they stirred and brewed deep within him, forming a grudge that he would normally hold for a few days, perhaps even weeks. The worst grudges stayed within him for much, much longer though and were more difficult to dispel or forgive.
That evening, his guitar did not bring him the usual pleasure or solace that it normally gifted him with. Eyes scorching all that they looked at, Arthur discarded his guitar among the hay after yet another failed attempt at rehearsing one of his favourite songs: Opus 15 Sonata. Driven with a powerful, perilous desire to forget all that had happened that evening, especially the harshest jibes Cillian had poked into his self-esteem, Arthur clambered from his practice spot. Even the horses, which often nickered gently to offer some consolation, stood well away from the entrances to their stalls, sensing his dangerous mood. They were right to do so, as Arthur ripped and tore at the tack equipment, desperately searching for something…anything that he could indulge himself in until the night beckoned him. He sincerely regretted not taking up the offer to join the "gang" to go to town when the moon rose. Unfortunately, it seemed his brothers had licked his alcohol reserves dry, as all he could salvage was half a bottle of Tullamore Dew; a strong Irish whiskey. He could easily guess that it was Cillian who had down about half of the flagon. He was a sucker for good whiskey.
His fingers tightened around the flask, and he swore bitterly chugging down a burning mouthful, immersed in ire. It wasn't nearly enough to get him tipsy, let alone drunk, but it was better than nothing. The harsh liquid scorched his throat, but he liked that. Wiping his lips with the cuff of his jacket, Arthur slammed the flagon upon the saddle stand aggressively, eyes ablaze. I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, the words throbbed in his mind with each breath and he downed the whiskey with another gulp. Suddenly dizzy from everything he'd consumed in less than five minutes, Arthur steadied himself by clutching the doorframe tightly. He didn't want to go back up to the house and risk running into his brothers. He seriously didn't want to face his mother or father either, both of them pressuring him into doing more work before he went to bed. In fact, his the faces of his family were the last things he wanted to see on the earth at that moment. Unguided, Arthur's gaze fell upon the multitudes of tack in the small, stone encased room. The night was still young, so he could go riding, although he'd be in some deep shit if he happened to pass by his father as he drove back from work. With the little sense he had left in his wrath-induced mind, Arthur pondered the idea slowly.
He wrinkled his nose disdainfully and stepped back from the doorframe. "Fuck it." Purposefully dropping the glass bottle that only held a few meaningless drops of Tullamore Dew on the flagstones and hearing it shatter with a satisfying 'crash' (a few of the horses flinched at this), Arthur hoisted Crumpet's saddle from its stand clumsily. Even though he was smaller than average and slightly weedy, he was much stronger than he looked and could definitely pack a punch. Fiddling with the lock to her stall, he wrenched it open forcefully with a muttered curse, and went about his business; pulling the saddle blanket on before laying out the leather saddle on her back (he did this as gently as he could manage), then tightening her girth suitably, pulling on her reins and fastening her boots. Throughout all of this, Crumpet complied quickly and hastily, knowing that her master was already irritated. She could not only scent his anger and hurt, but feel the rashness of his movements and hear the laboured swearwords that he uttered with each step.
Arthur, too upset and fervent to get as far away from the house and his family as possible, wasted no time in yanking Crumpet from her stall and out into the evening. If he had to guess, it was around half past eight, from the sudden chill that had formed in the air and the spookiness of the darkening moors around him. There was an edge to the dimness that made his hackles rise, however that was probably just his over-heightened emotions getting the better of him. He'd been out riding late at night before, and nothing extraordinary had happened. But, that time, he hadn't been so…angry. An oddly cold wind blew from the north, making the nearby trees move as though they were livings things. Crumpet, nervous at her master's quirky behaviour and the unfamiliarity of her surroundings, shifted slightly at the whispers of the breeze, but Arthur didn't even flinch. He was too pissed to notice the darkness, or even to notice that he wasn't wearing appropriate gear for riding. He wasn't even wearing his hat. All of his own attire lay, abandoned, in the tack room and he had no desire to take the short walk back to collect it. He was honestly too outraged to care. Fuelled by incandescent indignation, he mounted Crumpet with the ease of long experience and sent he less-than-soft kick to her sides. At once, she replied by starting off into a hastened trot that only got faster with each step she took as Arthur urged her forwards.
Soon, she was consumed by a full-on gallop, the shadows cast from the moon blocking her path. She was frightened by the lunar light that glittered through the branches of unfriendly trees, and more than once she skittered left and right, terror gleaming in the whites of her eyes. Nonetheless, Arthur offered her no comfort with soothing words or a gentle pat on her neck. It was he who needed comfort. As they traversed the countryside, unbidden tears streamed down his cheeks, propelled by forbidden choking sounds that caught in his throat. He wanted nothing more than to run, run, run as fast as he bloody well could away from the God-forsaken house as though it was Hell itself. It might as well have been. Everything had just built up into a fantastic, terrible tempest of swarming emotions and hidden fury and it was just too much. Something about the salty taste of his own hot tears and biting night wind against his cheeks that froze them to his face brought a sadistic, bittersweet flavour to his tongue. He relished the frost accumulating on his half-naked arms as his jacket ripped out behind him like a cape.
The air was icy; it was filled with the kind of cold that could creep up on you, quieter than a wraith, and at first set you shivering and cause your teeth to chatter as you dreamt of mulled wine and crackling fires. It would make you stamp your feet and scald you, as cold can be so bloody cold that it literally burns. However, that feeling would only last for a short while, as it would fill you up and drench your senses with drowsiness until you drifted off into a deep sleep, otherwise known as death. Nonetheless, Arthur hardly felt it, as he had a fire heating him from the inside. Although his skin was soon icy to touch and his fingers grew numbs, something about him (probably to whiskey) was warming him. The pure wrath had awakened inside of him, and he's rather die out in the chill of an autumn night than go back home and face the shame of his parents. Besides, they probably weren't aware that he was out. For all they knew, he was in his room, asleep. After all, it was actually just past ten o'clock since Arthur's assumption had been wrong. At this time, he was supposed to be in bed.
He didn't know how long he rode for, only that his grip on the reins was much tighter than usual and the racking sobs that rippled through his body counteracted the fast, terrified gallop that Crumpet pushed through her body. Arthur greeted the ache in his thighs almost gratefully and the searing pain in his joints with thankful gracelessness as he flew across the ground faster than lightning. It went well with his tears and reminded him that he was alive. He felt so much more alive than ever, and in spite of his hatefulness directed towards each and everyone of his brothers, some part of his him enjoyed the thrum of Crumpet's hard hooves on the grounds, splattering mud up her legs. Not that Arthur could really see, since blackness was everywhere. Suddenly, the Exmoor horse jumped, causing her rider to lurch forward into his stirrups in surprise. She stumbled slightly as she landed, unbalanced, but continued with relentless speed, hell-bent on getting away from everything that was around her. With terror powering her mind and the thumping of her heart and her sturdy figure, built for swiftness and stamina, Crumpet surged onwards, able to keep galloping until she collapsed from exhaustion or until morning light came. Whichever came first.
Hours probably passed before Arthur heard a drastic change in the sound emanating from the ground that Crumpet's hooves came in contact with. Instead of the occasional slosh of wet mud and the thump of something heavy smacking against dirt, he heard between his ragged breaths hollow clomping, like hardened tarmac. It took him a while to realize, but she was now running on a road. He didn't know how she'd managed to get onto a road, but he guessed it was probably when she'd jumped over and fence or hedge – he could no longer register where they were, and Crumpet had leapt so many times that he wasn't sure whether she was leaping over country fences or garden walls. The tears had long stopped falling, and were instead replaced by some pinkish puffiness that outlined his green irises. It was almost ghostly, how he rode. The fluidness of his body on the back of the sandy horse made them seem like one, especially given the suppleness of Arthur's back. He barely had to move when Crumpet jumped thanks to his weightlessness and the shift in his position came as natural to him as walking. Even though she was going treacherously fast and driven by wild fear, Arthur wasn't scared. He trusted his horse enough to allow her the freedom to roam wherever she wanted to or needed to and barely had to touch the reins. Not that it wouldn't made much of a difference anyway; he doubted that even if he pulled with all of his might that Crumpet would slow her adamant gallop across the moors.
And he didn't want to stop.
Even though his cheeks were no longer wet and he couldn't feel his feet, hands, ears or nose, Arthur could still hear Cillian's biting insults ringing in his ears and taste the sourness of his defeat. It was breathtakingly anger-inducing to recall and he choked down what little pride he had left as he melted into Crumpet's fast pace. He clamped his teeth down on his tongue until he drew blood. Good. Let it bleed. Metallic and tangy, the taste filled his mouth until he spat. He could've sworn he heard a dull 'smack' on the tarmac where his bloody saliva had landed. Everything moved slowly, as though he was in a movie. Murky shapes of trees that lined the road were illuminated against soft, silver moonlight and the stars glittered icily in the sky, encrusted within their own prisons of frost. Arthur stared at the view, his gaze devoid of admiration. Now was not the time to bask in the beauty of the twilight.
Somehow, everything hurt. An indescribably burning sensation had opened up in his chest, a giant gash that got wider and wider. It felt…somewhat familiar, and whether it was from the alcohol he'd consumed earlier or the feeling or true freedom flowing through his veins he couldn't tell.
When his eyes moved back down to the lingering dark in front of his eyes, wrenching themselves away from the crescent moon, he was met with a rather strange sight.
Instead of the stretching oblivion that he had been staring at for the last couple of hours of riding, he was met with a stark, yellow light that blinded him completely. Artificial brightness swam in his vision and Arthur swore inwardly in shock, yanking sharply on the reins. Nonetheless, Crumpet did not halt, or even slow down and only emitted a shrill screech before the black shape of a car loomed over her. Before Arthur could even open his mouth to shout, the scream of leather ripping along tarmac split through his ear drums and he was on the floor, listening to the sound of gradually receding hooves and staring blankly into nothingness.
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Author's Note
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Just to highlight a couple of things in this chapter:
≈ I go horse-riding myself, so I trust that the facts there will be correct. I've used the English/British style of riding though. I just found out that Americans and Canadians ride differently, with flatter saddles, looser reins and less straps on the girth. Interesting…very interesting…
≈ I've probably made a few mistakes.
≈ I went into a lot of depth about Artie's eyes…because, why not? I've always found green eyes attractive anyway, I thought that each of the UK siblings would have their own unique shades of green eyes. Naturally, Ireland's would be shamrock green.
≈ Cillian and Arthur don't get along, nor do Cillian and Connor. Contrary to popular belief, I don't think that Connor and Cillian would be twins because Northern Ireland came into existence in the 1920s, and Northern Ireland is not the same as Ulster.
I don't go by the whole, "a county's age is based on when it became a country" though, because then England would be the eldest out of his siblings and Ireland would be the second youngest. Instead, I think that a country is as old as when it was discovered or whatever, hence why I don't believe that America is about 240 years old (because most people believe that he was "born" on 4th July 1776, which again, doesn't make sense, because he had a childhood with England before the revolution) and instead, I believe he's much older and came into existence/ was "born" just after the plague that killed off most of the Native Americans burned out. Which means that America is at least 500 years old…woah…
≈ I have nothing left to say…
Chapter word count: 11,103 words
Total word count (so far): 37,837 words
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Thanks for reading!
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