Bailey didn't feel very beautiful today. He stood in front of the mirror all afternoon, tugging at his wavy, strawberry-blonde hair. It only went down to the nape of his neck, but it was thick and often got into his eyes, and not in a very dashing way. More like a monster had descended and eaten a quarter of his face, he thought. It would've looked attractive on a woman, but he was most definitely not one and his skin complexion did nothing to help the fact that strawberry-blonde clashed with most everything a man could wear.
"I swear, Bailey, sometimes you act more like a girl than me," his older sister teased, striding into the bathroom with her evening gown on. "Now, what do you think of this dress? Will the men like it?"
"I don't act like a girl," Bailey pouted, irritably, but continued to pull at his locks. "And if you're complaining about how you think I act like one, then why are you asking me about what dress you should wear?"
"First of all, I wasn't complaining, dear. Second, you're supposed to be a man, so you should know if this is appealing to your species," she replied.
"I'm your brother, Lizzy. You know that you'll still look like a swamp creature to me no matter what you squeeze yourself into," Bailey said, finally giving up on his hair. Elizabeth slapped him on the back of the head, causing his hair to stick up comically, and left.
"I hate you," he called out the door.
"I hate you too!" came the cheerful reply. Bailey loved his sister. However, he could easily put the blame on her if he had to name the person who had made him paranoid about his appearance. She was three years older than him and had taken to reading to him when they were small. Of course, the only books provided for her were ones having to do with princes and princesses and so forth. In the end, Bailey had turned into a rather hopeless romantic. His goal in life was to make women swoon and then carry them off on a horse into the sunset. Though, they never got any real sunsets in London and Bailey was terrible at riding horses. In fact, Elizabeth was probably more capable of sweeping women off their feet than Bailey was. His parents were incredibly upset about this turn of events because Bailey never seemed to want to marry any of the girls he courted. However, they were going to try extra hard tonight at the Winter's Ball to introduce him to someone with so much wealth and status that he would be sure to marry her. Unfortunately for them, they didn't really know how fairy tales worked.
Bailey smoothed down the destruction Elizabeth had caused before going back into his brightly lit room to find something to wear. In the end, he finally had to embarrass himself by skulking over to his sister's room and asking what color jacket wouldn't make him look as pale as a corpse. She enthusiastically took the opportunity to make fun of him and then stuffed a gray suit into his arms.
Once darkness had settled in for the evening, the family left the extravagant mansion for the ball. Bailey sat alone in his own coach, having planned to go back to his own estate after the ball, hopefully with a girl in tow. The thing about Bailey was that he liked the process of charming a woman, but when they started to get more insistent in the physical department, Bailey gave them a peck on the forehead good night and then tried to avoid them as much as possible. Bailey probably knew the reason for this, but he was taking great care not to even admit it to himself.
When they reached the estate of the hosts of the ball, Bailey held back for a bit so that Elizabeth could properly usher their parents in before they tried to drag Bailey into marriage that night. Bailey rubbed his hands together in the cold, winter air. It was going to be a long night.
Delicate snow flakes and frost consumed the London air, drawing a blanket of blinding white over the gray city of fog. Beautiful glittering stars winking up at those that walked upon them. From the warm safety of a house, winter was a wonderful time of year. Full of magic and inspiration-- especially when one had the money to discover these delights. However, it was quite a different story for the men and women living beyond the wall. The miserable souls who had to work past the freezing temperature just to get some money enough to eat. This was a terrible time of year for those working individuals and also for those... under the table lots.
Cold, numb feet did their best to gallop over the peaks of hard ice lying on the floor, harsh gulps of icy air doing it's best to slow him down by eating away at his tired lungs. He was just so damn hungry. So hungry and finally he got a break!
The man skidded to a stop, finding a hiding spot in the alley wedged between two large stores. It wasn't clear if anyone had saw him kill the poor lady. But it never hurt to be careful, now did it? Because after all his efforts, he would have hated to have his victory token taken away from him. It was a shame, though. Killing that poor lady over a loaf of bread?
Ah but how warm it was! And how warm she was, he realized, when his knife stabbed her just below the jaw and through her pretty gaping mouth, the hot, steamy crimson soaking his hands. His skin was so cold in comparison. He had barely noticed it before until then, and after relishing in the comforting heat, was it too strange of him to crave more of it? It should have been a honor to be so carefully cut up the way he had done it instead of being just a mere victim to a theft act. His movements had been so delicate when he pried open her belly and dipped his hands inside, the rest of his jealous body shivering in the cold. But when her body heat had eventually died and she was no longer useful, again he was merciful to her. Ripped out her organs and cut her up he did, then threw the flesh into a leather pouch and offered it to the butcher shops and the meat pie shops, hoping that one or the other would give him some money in return for his good deed. After all, meat had become so scarce and expensive these days. And when they bothered to ask him where such a plentiful amount had come from, why, he simply explained that he caught a stray sheep or cat wandering around and killed it. No one needed to hear any more explanation and no one cared to ask questions about it. Just gave him the lowest amount of money they could get away with and sent him off on his way, muttering to themselves as he did. "Poor crazy, Amon," they laughed, "it's a shame he can't count!"
Handfuls of snow did nice work of washing away the sticky red mess from his hands and favorite blade. A simple knife it was, but oh so close to his heart. It was like family to him. Since he could remember that short little dagger had been with him. It was his only true companion in these dirty streets. It kept him safe, and entertained him! How could he treat such a dear friend wrong?
"Right?" He asked the dagger, running a thumb over it's sleek blade and peering into his own reflection. A pair of honey brown eyes, a single turquoise ring dancing around his pupil, thick, long lashes framing them, powdered in snow crystals along with his curly mass of shoulder length chocolate hair. His whole body was peppered in snow from his dirt smudged face to his torn and tattered black jacket and gray-white shirt and black pants.
"Right." He answered himself. His pale blue lips curved into a small smile, and silently the knife was tucked back underneath his coat and onto his belt. His attention was now on the bread he had bought moments ago, ignored and left to cool on his knee. But no longer. Now he could finally rest a second and eat but... what was that?
Being a curious person, Amon couldn't resist turning his eyes out onto the street as a thin film of people began to gather on the sidewalks, the tops of fabulous horse carriages passing everyone by. Heading to the Winter's ball, no less. Happened every year. But despite that people always stopped (mainly young women) what they were doing in order to properly admire those rich aristocrats and their fancy gowns and perhaps dream of being one of them.
Distractedly, Amon got up off the ground and found a spot up front of the crowd, nibbling the tip of his bread loaf and eyeing the windows of passing carriages until one person caught his attention. He had seen this person millions of times, but it was always just a glimpse. Like a passing thought.
And God was he beautiful...
Amon didn't hesitate following the string of fancy coaches, stalking them from the shadows all the while continuing to eat the snow-glazed bread. There wasn't a plan in his head besides following them all to the party, but once he had gotten there and really saw first hand the huge crowds, and the looming stone castle above them all, well, suddenly he decided he might want to stop and reconsider things.
Nothing was left of the bread besides a few stray crumbs that clung to his filthy scarf, so there was nothing to distract his hands as he sat in the snow behind a grove of trees and thought endlessly of how the hell he was getting in that place. All his hands could do was play with his knife.
He had to get in there. He had to get in! Why did he have to go in? Because he HAD to. There was no other explanation in his heart. So many times he had tried to catch a moment alone with that man. Express how he felt-- tell him everything! But Lord be damned, he never got the chance! Someone always dragged him away, something always happened. He wanted so badly to tear those people away, but it was never of any use. The man always left him willingly.
He craved for his attention and never got it.
Amon bit his bottom lip in anger, almost breaking the skin and making it bleed. If he wasn't so poor, he could... he could do a lot of things. But for now luck was at least on the poor man's side. The street rat slowly got on his feet and crouched, waiting patiently and silently for a coach to come by and slow to a stop. When it did he slowly changed position until he was close enough to the single horse running the coach that he could stick his arm out from the bushes and not get caught doing it, and waited for someone to get dropped off. Excitement made his eyes grow wide and a jackal grin bloom on his mouth. Like he had hoped, a gentleman was in the middle of walking out of the carriage. About his size and with a cape. Excellent.
Before the other could fully hop out, Amon got ready and quickly jabbed his knife into the horse's side, causing it to scream and race down the street, everyone's attention drawn to the wild coach and not on the poor man almost falling out. The aristocrat barely had a second to curse before finding a blade launched into his mouth and a hand throwing him backwards into the tree grove. Amon sat behind him when they landed and smiled down at the gagging face eyeing him from his lap, ignoring the nails desperately trying to scratch his hand off the hilt of his knife.
"Good evening, sir." He chirped pleasantly, the knife twisting in the man's mouth and pressed harder down. If only the man would just die already. He couldn't afford to get blood on the clothes! But when the man didn't die like he wanted, Amon began to frown and finally took the knife out, replacing it in the other's eye socket and finally smashed a hole through his forehead. "My God you're a stubborn fellow." He sighed. He pushed the man's head off his lap and washed up the knife, placing it on the floor and then getting ready to change. When the swap was done and his tired out get up was exchanged for a crisp (if a little wet) black suit, top hat and cape, Amon put the knife under the jacket and began to wash his face. Couldn't be nicely dressed, and ill groomed to a party!