The Nightmare
Summer rolled through Paris, bringing fresh flowers and fresh air through the network of the city. People clattered by without heavy coats. Children in shorts and short sleeves raced through the streets, calling to one another. Thieves lurked through the crowds, picking off all they could and hiding it away in their greasy sleeves.
Francis Bonnefoy was behind such a thief and, with a raised hand, changed his fate. The woman who owned the purse his dirty hands were buried in turned violently. The purse jerked from his grasp and she, offended and astonished, smacked him on the head and dashed away. Francis smiled, despite knowing that she would never know who rescued her from the robbery. The thief did not notice Francis either and grumbled to himself, rubbing his reddened cheek and lurking away.
It was one of those rare days that the sun overpowered the clouds, drying up the rain and allowing warmth to gently unfold on the skin of the French people. Francis adjusted his lapel, making sure his pin was in shape and his hair, tied back with a red ribbon, reached his shoulder blades. He needed to cut it, he realized, but decided he would hold it off. He passed by a flower shop and purchased a bouquet of chrysanthemums, carrying them in one arm and a bottle of wine in the other.
The bundles were for two separate occasions, as he was a very busy man. The flowers he would use first. He went down the street and, avoiding galloping cabs, rushed to the hill of green. His shirt tails trailed behind him in a whispering wind, like black banners. People were gathered in the cemetery, their heads bowed gloomily. All were dressed in black. Women wore great shawls around their shoulders and beautiful hats that tilted to cover their faces. Morose and pale-faced men looked on to the proceeding, looking at the coffin before them. Within that coffin was an old professor who had died of fever the morning before. Tears stained one woman's face. She was elderly and graying, but her gray eyes were filled with electric energy fueled by sorrow. Francis rarely visited funerals, but saw that he was passing through this one and decided to pay his respects.
He placed the bundle of chrysanthemums by their kin and bowed in courtesy to the people, who couldn't help but feel a gleaming hope rise up in their minds. This was a common occurrence for anyone who came across one of the nations, and it was unexplainable for them. Most of the mourners believed that it was due to the pure and clean face before them. Others believed in something more distinct and miraculous. But in a moment Francis disappeared down the hill, the bottle tucked under his arm. The hope lingered in their hearts like a phantom, fading but never departing completely.
Now Francis entered the impoverished and dirty part of town. Dirtied, brown faces looked up at the sound of his clicking heels. Their eyes widened on their ill faces.
Francis stopped and dug through his pockets, finding some francs, and placing them in the hands of a withered-looking woman. She stared at the money in horror and held it back out to him, opening her toothless mouth and beginning him to take it back.
Francis gently pressed her hand and curled back her fingers. "No," he said, "you must keep it. It brings me great grief to see how people can live in such a state while above them people in fine gowns and pompous noses stuck in the air can trot upon you. I can do so much, but for the suffering I can do little."
The woman burst into wretched tears, covering her face and thanking him. She fell to her knees and bowed at his feet, kissing his boots.
Her children grinned at him. The younger ones could not understand their mother's frenzy. The older, wiser ones had gratitude lining their faces.
"Mister!" the cried, "What can we do to repay you?"
"Use it wisely," Francis said compassionately, trying desperately not to cry. The woman now stood again, thanking him a million times over, even after he left her line of sight.
Once he had his back to them he had to suck in a deep breath to keep sadness from his voice. He continued down the streets and, bowing to several passer-bys, went to the end of the neighborhood. There was an inn there, clean as it could be. Francis entered and was greeted by the owners.
They were a couple, both short and healthy with ruddy faces and gleaming eyes. The man had little hair and a mousy smile. His wife had a stern complexion and was prone to beating her husband when he went out drinking or gambling too much. She pinched his arm whenever he reached for the wine cellar and he would wince and walk away. She, triumphantly, would reward herself with a five minute rest from her incessant tidying of the place.
"Hello, Mister Bonnefoy," he said, shaking the man's hand. It is important to note that all conversations that took place were in French. The man spoke with an Italian accent, however, and constructed his sentences as though they were Spanish. Francis always found that a bit odd.
Nonetheless, he replied in his smooth and lilting tongue, "Hello Jean."
Jean was his pseudonym, which he used instead of his birth-given Italian title. His wife took on the name "Maria", however.
"A mister Vargas awaits you upstairs," Maria said in a commanding tone. She spoke perfect French, having had a French mother bring her up.
Francis thanked them and clambered up the stairs. He discovered one door slightly ajar. From the other side was a harsh, Italian muttering. Francis knocked on the door with two knuckles and chairs hissed as they were pushed back on carpet. The door swung open and Feliciano greeted him. He wore a plain cotton shirt and pants, his feet in stockings and his boots laying one on top of the other in the corner of the room. Feliciano smiled brightly in greeting and welcomed Francis in. His smooth amber-colored hair was combed back, save for the one hair that stuck up like a flag.
The other person in the room was Feliciano's surly and conceited brother, Lovino. He grunted a hello and crossed his arms tightly.
"I brought you this," Francis said, in English, holding up the bottle.
"Thank you!" Feliciano replied, also in English. They spoke this language when around each other. This was not because neither knew the other's mother tongue but because they did not wish to be overheard by the innkeepers. Unfortunately, they never thought of the neighbors on either side of them.
Feliciano set the bottle on a table near Lovino, who uncorked it and poured it into three already set glasses.
Francis sat down gently on one chair and Feliciano took the bed side, grabbing his glass of crimson wine. Lovino handed the other cup to Francis who did not bring it to his lips but held it in his palm of to the side.
"You brought us here for what? What do you want?" Lovino asked harshly.
"Can't you let me rest for a moment?" Francis smiled, taking another deep breath. He hadn't quite recovered from his run in with the poor from earlier.
"We don't have that much time. The train leaves at seven and we hoped to be finished by then."
No one touched their drinks. The brothers looked at Francis who had gathered his thoughts. Slowly, and building energy as he went on, Francis began.
"So I'm sure you remember our last meeting, right?" The two nodded. "Well, Arthur came up to me with an envelope filled with marigolds, and I'm sure you know their significance. He discussed them with me and then left to investigate the matter. This was four months ago and some time ago he came up to me and told me of it. I'm sure you two know of the demon butlers that lurk our world." Here, Francis relayed what Arthur had told him, detailing the cruel act Rockwell wished to carry through and the strange acts of Dante.
Lovino downed his glass and poured himself more, his cheeks tinted pink. "And what do you want us to do?"
"I only wanted to bring it to your attention, as somehow it concerns us. In fact, I received my own letter some time ago." Francis pulled an envelope, torn at one corner, and held it out to them.
Lovino picked it up and pulled the package open. Inside there was a piece of parchment. He unfolded it and held it up. Written on it, in dried blood, was the letter "F".
"Is this the first one?" Lovino said, setting the letter aside, apparently undaunted.
"First one…?" Francis frowned, "It's the first one I've gotten in a very long time."
"What did the other ones say?"
"That was years ago! It had, in the same 'ink', the letters an 'I' and an 'N'."
Lovino held the cup rim to his lips and tapped it against his teeth, seemingly in deep thought. His dark, brooding eyes fastened on the paper. The edges were frayed and curling inwards. The blood it was written in was old and smelled faintly of metal.
"I suppose it's a message," Francis said.
Feliciano, who had otherwise remained silent, spoke up. "Do you think it could be trying to spell 'inferno'?"
"Could very well be trying to do that," Lovino agreed.
Feliciano ran his fingers through his hairs, loosening it and allowing his bangs to fall forwards. His hairline was bright red, even though he hadn't even touched his drink. Francis took a swig and set the glass down, enjoying the bitter taste.
"If Arthur has hellish messages then that would be quite possible. But what do they want with us?"
"Are you asking what Hell wants with us?" Lovino scoffed, downing another glass.
"Careful, you'll get drunk," Feliciano muttered.
"I have reason to believe that some sort of group wants to interfere with us and possibly cause us harm." Francis concluded.
Feliciano looked uneasy, almost sick. He placed his untouched glass beside Francis's and placed his elbows on his knees, holding his chin in his palms. Several people scuffled in the room to their right and Maria could be heard shouting in Italian to her husband. Feliciano winced as a particularly nasty insult was hollered.
"Have you spoken to anyone else about this?" Lovino asked.
"No, only you two," Francis paused, noticing Feliciano's growing discomfort, "I plan to speak with Antonio later on."
"Why us in particular?"
"First off, you're closest, and second off: I have a feeling you, too, have received these strange messages."
Lovino raised his head and looked at Feliciano. Feliciano smiled wanly. Lovino frowned in response. "I'm awful at keeping up with the mail. That's Feliciano's job, and I suppose he has found something."
Feliciano nodded and slipped off the bed. He went to the desk and picked up his coat which was strewn across it. He dug in his pockets and found an envelope, similar to Francis's, though yellowed and in worse condition.
Francis took it and gingerly peeled it open. Inside there was a crumbling, blacked bone, as big as a bird's. He held it between two fingers and stared intently, trying to discover its origin. "This is…"
"It's a bone from someone's wrist. It's awful," Feliciano said, covering his face in anguish. "I was very scared when I saw it. I hid it right away, afraid someone would find it. My heart was thudding! I couldn't bare it."
Francis, disgusted, put the bone back and returned the envelope to Feliciano's pocket. He did not sit back down and instead paced back and forth, his eyes forwards and misty with thought.
"It could have been some sort of prank or method of frightening us," Lovino suggested, raising the bottle again. Feliciano touched his shoulder and he, angrily, tore away and poured more, splashing some down his hands. The fluid trailed down his knuckles, as though it was blood from a wound.
"A prank that has been going on for over a hundred years?" Francis gave him a hateful smile. "And furthermore, no one knows our addresses but the others and some important figures! I hope you don't mind if I take off my coat, it's getting dreadfully hot in here." He added quickly, tugging off his coat and gently placing it on a hook at the door.
His and Feliciano's coats—Lovino refused to bring one—were simply for formality and extra pockets. Francis, now free in a regular dress shirt, sat back down.
Feliciano looked at the both of them. Lovino was starting to get drunk. Feliciano swiped the bottle away and stashed it in a cupboard, locking it. Lovino scowled and finished the dregs in his cup.
Lovino had been discomforted for several days and drinking at an irregular rate for him. He usually resorted to a cup or two on formal occasions or to give himself a treat, but now he lapped it up every time he saw some. His actions and constant grumblings upset Feliciano who loved his brother passionately.
Alas, Lovino's story is for a later time.
"What should we do?" Francis asked Feliciano warmly and confidently.
"I think we should see what Arthur has in mind. You can't deny that he is intelligent, no matter how many quarrels you two get in." Feliciano said, blushing at the recognition.
"We don't quarrel that often in these past days. I think it's because of this. He's been so absorbed in this mystery that he's put off insulting me. But his slanders will come soon enough." Francis said sadly. He quite enjoyed being treated as an equal by Arthur.
Besides the obvious conflicts between Francis and him, Arthur had trouble with talking to certain people. He had grown too accustomed to looking down on others as beings of lower intelligence and it had carried on to everyone, even scholars who he knew had a greater knowledge of certain subjects than he. But that too is a story for another time.
Lovino stood and dropped on the bed like a heavy weight, falling asleep as alcohol flowed through his veins. Feliciano sat next to him, gently passing his hand through his brother's hair. Lovino scowled even in his sleep. Feliciano smiled warmly at that.
Francis watched in admiration. He longed suddenly for a brother he could comfort in a similar way, but it was only a minor longing that faded away in an instant. "I suppose we will have to wait for Arthur, then." Francis paused, "There was one last thing that I wanted to ask you."
Feliciano looked up at him, his eyes wide and interested, as if telling him "go on."
Francis wet his lips, unsure of where to start.
"I think… Oh, Feliciano, listen to me while your brother sleeps!" He broke out in sudden passion, trying to keep his voice low. He sat down and took Feliciano's free hand, pressing it. "Please, Feliciano, you're so gentle and warm that it is impossible to dislike you. You know I love you, my dear, amiable thing, and I trust you to give me the best advice. But you must promise not to judge or hate me! That's what's holding me back."
Overwhelmed, Feliciano stammered. "I-I won't hate you, Francis, you're like a brother to me, an older one whose judgment I trust without fail!"
"I'm so glad," Francis smiled, kissing Feliciano's hand, "But you must listen very closely, I'll be brief I promise. Some strange feeling has come over me. I don't know if it relates to these doomed messages or not, but they are just as frightening! Listen, I live in the heart of Paris and I know all my neighbors very well. One is a painter who loathes himself and threatens to tie a noose around his neck if his next painting fails to bring him some money. His wife is worried that her job as a grocer won't suffice for the two of them for much longer. My other neighbor owns a faltering business in a book shop. He is upset but he thrives on. Oh how beautiful people can be! And oh, how ugly too. My other neighbor was once a soldier and he, laughing, once beheaded an enemy in front of his children.
"But my point is not to relate all these tales and how they tangle together in the end. I see their fates and destinies clearly and I cannot interfere, no matter how much I would like to. My point is this: I've wanted to become one of them. I've wanted to give up my deathless life and become one of the mortal humans! I thought about this many times. I could have myself killed beyond repair and perhaps I would rise from my grave as a young child, fresh to the world and ready to experience it without the knowledge of everyone's life that I meet.
"I don't understand why I feel this way and I know I cannot separate myself from this life. But I need some comfort and Feliciano, dearest and most pure of all of us, what do I do?"
He was quite breathless. His eyes gleamed desperately at Feliciano. It was obvious he had longed to tell this for a very long time. Feliciano looked back at him. He thought about it for a moment, casting his eyes downwards and dropping his soldiers. Lovino slept soundly behind him.
"Francis," Feliciano said softly, "You know I'm not the purest. You know I've had my share of the darkness and bloodshed of Italy. You know that very well. And as for your situation, I can't respond. I'm not wise enough, nor am I smart enough to help you. But I still can feel for you and understand the heart-ending trauma it causes you. But I say you go against this and live your life out, play your role to its fullest. I-I don't know what to say!" Feliciano laughed tearfully.
"Thank you for helping," Francis beamed. "Just that you understand me and don't shame me is enough. You have some time before your train leaves, but make sure Lovino wakes up and drinks water before he goes. You don't want him to groan the entire trip."
He stood and kissed Feliciano's cheek good-by. "Thank you again. I will call you back, and maybe next time we'll know what to do. I hope, at least, that we meet in peace and not in great peril."
Francis even smiled at Lovino and bent down, clearing his hair from his forehead and placing a kiss on the hot skin. "Good-bye to you, too, my black swan."
And so we begin Part II: The Nightmare.
The style has changed slightly: with more characters and, I hope, stronger and longer chapters. The titles should be longer as well, but perhaps not.
Reviews are always welcome! I love seeing what you have to say.
Note: Some more mature themes in this part, so if you are sensitive to a bit of gore/blood then this is your warning. If it gets too bad in a chapter I will put a trigger warning in the beginning.
Thank you for reading!