Venice Lock was nearly seventeen years old. After the encounter with Arthur and the loss of his purity, his father had hidden himself away in his room. At one point Venice grew sick of waiting and tore open the door, flinging it hard as it had been unlocked. Inside was his father sprawled across the floor. His skin was ashen and his nails blue. His eyes stared unseeingly at the ceiling and yet he did not smell of death. Zadig was not there, for he had sucked the soul from Lock and flew off into the night, severing the ties between him and Venice. Unable to comprehend the scene before him, Venice fell to his knees and gently took his father's hand, pressing it to his forehead and weeping freely. Tears rolled down his cheeks, releasing the last of the innocent, naïve heart within him, draining it of its youth. Now, dry of emotion and hard, cold, his heart pulsed without the need for love. Venice, without tears left, stared at the body before rising.

He stood and a fierce hunger for danger consumed him—something to take his mind off of his deceased parent. He took a satchel from his father supplies and filled it with food and other supplies, dressing himself in a great coat and waltzing outside into the dead of night. Darkness poured from the sky, hardly a star was visible. Two days had passed since his father's life's breath was sucked away and the nights seemed only to deepen and thicken, becoming impenetrable. Holding the bag tight, he went down the streets blindly, not knowing where to go.

Muddy cats scoured through the night, their thin legs pawing at the ground and then angling backwards as Venice approached, their narrow mouths splitting open in a hiss, revealing yellowed, broken teeth under yellow eyes. Venice paid them no mind and walked forwards broodingly.

He reached the end of the street and discovered a forest. The dense forestry captured the darkness, not letting it go even in the brightest of days. He brazenly entered it, hearing rustlings and muffled talking. Again he hardly cared for it, keeping his eyes fastened on the ultimate goal—which was a vague, intangible notion he could not name.

At the end of this part of the forest, a ribbon of train tracks was laid out before him. He went over to the clearing and pulled off his bag, approaching the metal bars and smelling their sharp iron tang. In the distance the headlights of the train pierced the night as two miniscule points like stars. Venice stepped onto the tracks and lay down between them. He placed his hands on his head, turning it sideways and making himself as thin as possible. His heart thundered in his chest, seeming ready to burst out of his ribs. He shut his eyes tight. The train hurled forward, rattling the bars and causing them to juggle Venice's small frame around. In a moment the hulk roared overhead, leaving him quite unharmed.

The heavy shadow passed and Venice was again exposed to night air. Frightened half to death, Venice fell unconscious.

When he woke again, he was lying on the grass, his bag on his chest and a tree overhead, casting a shadow down on him. The sun beamed down on the earth, right on the fields of grass and causing them to glimmer like a sea of emeralds. Warmth buffeted past him and he rose to a seated position, looking around. He could not find his savior.

He opened his bag and found some more food had been placed in there. He raised a loaf of bread to his lips and hesitated.

"This could be poisoned," he thought suspiciously, "but then again they went to the trouble of rescuing me. So why would they try to kill me now?" he took a bite. As it were, the load was completely harmless. He ate half of it, just to settle the mumblings of hunger in his stomach. He rose to his feet and continued on.

He walked as if in a dream. The greenery unrolled before him endlessly. Trees swayed in a light breeze and he half expected a fairy or witch to leap out at him and hand him something. Crimson spots danced in his vision and he brought his hand up to his forehead, finding it wet with blood. Bandaging it and taking a sip of water from a bottle he packed, the crimson faded away.

He never found out what had caused it.

After what felt like hours, he discovered an abandoned house. The roof bent inwards. Musty smells rose from it in waves. The front door hung open, cracked in several places. Venice stepped inside, the floorboards creaking under his weight. Inside the furniture was untouched and unmoved, as though whoever lived there had left in a great hurry. Dust coated them like fuzzy blankets. Spider webs decorated the corners and trailed down to the floors, though any spiders now clustered below them; dead from malnourishment.

A brief investigation proved that the house was built twenty years before and the final letter there was from eighteen years ago. Whatever caused the inhabitants to leave must have been urgent enough to warrant an evacuation of a relatively new house. Venice left and continued his journey.

Several years later, during the Second World War, that house would be obliterated and forgotten.

During his adventure, Venice came across many sites and natural structures that were amazing. He ended up rounded back towards the city, nearing the Phantomhive manor with every step as though drawn there by an invisible string. However, he only met one other person.

It was a young woman who was in the outskirts of her village, picking up flowers and placing them in a basket. She wore a kerchief around her head and a long, thick, brown braid flowed down her back. It was half way through Venice's journey, day 13. He had eaten all the food in his bag and, with the little money in the bottom, entered merchants' carts during the night, set atop it several coins, and took some food.

Now Venice had none and he needed something to eat. Gnawing pains in his stomach grew fitful and impatient. He caught sight of the girl in the distance and crimsoned. He approached her and she looked up, terror straining her pretty green eyes. "Who are you?" she said, pulling the basket to her chest. She appeared to be the same age as Venice.

"Venice," he said quietly, softly. His old character cropped back up within him. But it would soon be extinguished by the lust for danger again. "And you?"

"Arlene." She replied. Her voice was full and proud, but also stifled by her bashfulness. She lowered the basket, sensing that the man before her was hardly a danger.

"Do you have food?" he asked.

"I do."

"May I have some?"

She gave him a long glance and nodded. "Wait here." She rushed away, her braid bouncing against her back. Her green skirts rippled along her legs.

She went into a cabin she shared with a red-headed Scotsman. He grinned at her. "What're you doing here so early, miss?" he said.

"I'm getting food." She responded sourly and went to the cabinets and found some bread, cheese, and other items, setting them in her basket before running off.

The Scotsman, named Quinn and a relative of Arthur, scoffed and returned to his meal, picking at it again.

She approached Venice who stood as ordered and handed him the food. He thanked her and went on his way. She rushed over to him and grabbed his arm. "Hello now, you can't just have a maiden give you food and run off like that, it ain't nice."

"I have nothing to give you." Venice replied softly.

"I know. But now you owe me. So you have to give me something."

"Then…" Venice looked around, the dangerous feelings rising up in his gut. "I'll jump from a roof. I bet you I can do it," he said quickly, not knowing why.

"Do it."

He did. She led him to roof of her house and he clambered up it.

"What are you, anyway?" Venice asked. She didn't seem to be an average commoner girl.

"I'm a maid. I tend to homes. I let people take my kindness so long as they repay it."

"But it isn't really kindness that way." Venice reproached, looking down at the ground. The house wasn't too large. His satchel leaned against the wall below. He jumped and tumbled down, successfully not breaking his legs. However he pulled his arm. A bone broke through his skin and muscle and blood poured out. She clicked her tongue and glowered at him. She went into the house and then brought out bandages, fixing up his arm.

"You still owe me." She said.

"I'll pay you back when I can." Venice replied, feeling even more foolish.

He eventually did pay her back with a decent sum of money written in his will.

Ah, but it seems to have slipped my mind. There was another woman that he met. She was older and more brutish. She discovered Venice crossing her path and took him in, stealing him away. She was dirty and red-headed.

What she did to him is unspeakable and gave him a long scar along his face and neck. He never told a soul about it and wept some nights upon remembering it.

When he came back into the city he found the female cohort of Arthur's. A blonde, short woman who quarreled fiercely with an Italian woman; and that is a story for another time as well that does have connections with Lovino's tragedy. Again, for another time.

Venice stood before the Phantomhive manor and raised his knuckles, rapping against the door curtly. No one replied. Later that day it burned to the ground and rose anew; like the almighty phoenix.

Sometime later Arthur would stumble into the meeting. But what Venice made of himself was a very interesting story that will not be told later but will have connections. He went on to become a great many things: from a clergyman to a merchant. Somehow he found himself making money off of a trade and climbing through the classes. He grew to see both wars and died shortly after the second as a wealthy, educated old man with two daughters, both given to him by Arlene of the forests. As said before he left her a sum of money that she later used to help Arthur, also written in his will. Interestingly enough she never lived to meet Arthur face to face, but she spoke once to Francis on the matter of art and French.

But while Venice was alive and just becoming a well-to-do merchant, having recently married Arlene, they intervened with Lovino's path as well as the ominous force attacking Arthur and his fellow comrades. The two became some of the few humans who knew about the nation's identities and kept it hidden well. It was also the reason Venice gained such wealth.

Arlene had actually tried for a child at least five times. The first time they had their daughter, the second they had a son who died ten years later. The next two were a miscarriage and a still-born and the final was the other daughter with a seven year difference between her and her sister. The two went on to become successful and wealthy, but they never learned of the nation's identity.

The scar along Venice's face became host to a good deal of folklore, as he eventually admitted that a woman of the forest caused it, but how remained a secret.

But the woman will become very important soon enough.

And so to step out of the future the past will have to be described, particularly Arthur's tremendous feat in gaining information.