Chapter 7: A Page in History

Disclaimer: If I owned anything, my country would exist in the series.

Boston-1890

If there was one thing that he loathed about the weather at this time of year, it was the blasted mist that had a tendency to cling to the earth. Thick and damp, it slowly seeped through the fabric of your clothes and chilled you to the very bone. The biggest problem about it was its near opacity; you couldn't see more than a few feet in front of your own nose, which wasn't a very ideal situation in the dark of the early morning. Jack's visibility had been reduced to nearly nothing and he now relied almost entirely on his hands to help him navigate the maze of streets. When his fingertips brushed against a smooth, cold metal railing, he realized that he had reached the old bridge.

An idea dawned on him, needless to say, it wasn't even remotely foolproof. There were more things that could go wrong with his harebrained scheme than that which could go right. But it didn't matter because it was the only course of action he had. Near the bridge was the local church, which was a large splendid work of architecture. Jack himself had never visited the famed site, having given up on religion and God many years ago, but he had heard a great many tales of the stone building. Built on top of an ancient Norman site, the Stump as it was called was allegedly what had given the town its name. Perhaps such a holy place would be able to offer him at least a temporary refuge from his pursuer. Surely she wouldn't be able to follow him there as well.

Stumbling, he just managed to right himself and shakily made his way across the narrow path. He gripped the railing tightly not wanting to lose his grasp and fall. Although he still couldn't make it out, he knew that below him, the waters of the River Witham drifted by, deceptively peaceful. His concentration knew no limits, one foot in front of the other, he told himself. That was the only way out of this conundrum.

He was around halfway across when something soft and furry brushed past his hand. Letting out a startled cry, he drew his hand back as though it had been burnt. A cursory glance of his surroundings yielded no evidence as to the identity of his culprit and he decided to press forward. After all, there were other things to worry about, he decided. But he had barely taken two steps forward when a soft noise caught his attention.

Jack's head whipped around in horror, he was sure of it, it was the sound of a cat purring. He could just about discern the silhouette of a cat through the mists. In fact, by his estimation, it was the same feline that he had laid eyes on not more than an hour ago. Licking its paw, it gazed up at him and mewled. "Get out of here, you mangy fur ball!" he hissed, turning around to continue.

"Why Jack, you're not being very nice now are you? After all, it's just a cat." His eyes grew large and his breathing became labored. He had seen the cat, he was sure of it, but that voice…it was her voice. Nervously, he scrambled backwards till he was pressed up against the railing. It pressed into his lower back uncomfortably but he didn't have time to be bothered with that. The clock struck five and he noted subconsciously that the mist was beginning to clear slightly. Casting a hopeful glance behind him, he searched for any of the kindly townsfolk who could possibly help him. But there were none.

His mind drifted to one of his later victims, a pretty young thing he remembered with thick brown hair and seemingly endless legs. What had she said? Oh that's right, she'd told him, venom lacing her tone, that he'd regret all his actions. When the time came, he would be left alone like a dog to die. At the time, he hadn't thought much of it, he'd simply cut out her tongue. But now, he wasn't too sure. Perhaps this is what she had meant, and here he was now, atoning for his sins.

He risked another glance at the cat only to have his heart practically stop. Gone was the four-legged annoyance, in its place stood none other than Jyll Leigh. Smirking at him lazily, she held her hand out. "Give it to me Jack, and I might consider killing you quickly." As the sky began to lighten, the church bell tolled and Jack listened, entranced by the clanging metal. The dull, reverberating echo reminded him of something; every morning at 5:15, the church held its morning mass. Surely, then there would be at least some members of the congregation who would arrive early.

"The book Jack! Now!" Jyll's voice had long since lost its bemused tone, now it held only impatience and anger. She stepped forward. "Jack," she shouted, her eyes blazing with fury, "Don't be a bigger fool than you already are." Swallowing thickly, he came to one of the most difficult decisions that he had ever had to make. In the blink of an eye, he was balanced precariously on the railing. Arms outstretched, he looked like a drunkard who'd had too much at the pub. He looked at her, determined to make sure that she would never get him. "Get down from there!" she screamed, "What can you hope to achieve?"

Taking a deep breath, he yelled as loudly as he could, "It was her!" Somewhere behind him, he heard hushed whispers and stifled screams from some of the elderly women who had been heading to church. As they glanced up at what they perceived to be a crazed lunatic, he repeated, "It was her! Your children, she never wanted to help them! All she was after was the life that flowed in their veins. Ask her what happened to all of them! Ask her what happened to Lauren, to Cedric, to Scott…to any of them! But, each of you is to blame as well. Not one of you abandoned your cowardliness and every visited your children. Not one of you will admit your faults. Have none of you ever wondered just what happened to them after they entered her house?

She's a monster! I can tell you that for sure, because I too am a monster. I'm not sorry for what I've done nor will I ever be but I'll be damned if I let her catch me. I lived my life on my own terms and I will end my life on my own terms as well!" With that, he allowed his eyes to meet hers, something that he had avoided for so long. The feeling of fear was replaced by one of numbness. Slowly, he moved his feet backwards and let himself fall. In the background, he could hear her screaming, "Where is it? Where have you hidden it?" But the rush of wind soon blocked her out, hiding the screams of the bystanders.

His impact with the water was painful. He could feel more than a few bones shatter and the wind was knocked out his lungs. The river was frigid and the water took no time to soak through his clothes, the thin fabric doing little to protect him. Jack was sure that by now, his skin would be bluish at the very least. The water was like a thousand piercing needles, each scratching away a little of his soul. Deeper and deeper he sank, the water pulling him down to its murky depths. All around him, the world slowly darkened and the noise from above the river was drowned out by the gurgling liquid around him. His lungs burned, screaming for air and his throat closed up.

Each passing minute made the cold even more unbearable. Jack had once heard that when you were about to die, your life flashed before your very eyes. Whoever had said that was partially right. He could see his mother, pottering around in her garden and berating him for not eating his vegetables. He could see each of victims, clear as day from the moment that he laid eyes on them to the time when he lulled them into a false sense of security. Every murder he had committed, each slash, each cut, each careful movement played out in front of him like a play in a theater. Amused, he let his eyes flutter shut and his world dissolved into black. He sank to the bottom of the river. It was over for now. It would be another week before anyone could pull his corpse from the riverbed.

Boston-Modern Day

The small fire that Arthur had managed to coax into existence crackled merrily in front of him. Occasionally he prodded at it with a stick, stoking it to keep it going. Glancing over the flames, he looked at Francis, who was quietly eating one of the sandwiches they had packed. Arthur winced at how exhausted he was looking; the doctor had demanded relaxation and rest, not trekking in some godforsaken wood like this. The map wouldn't be of much help until they found the cottage now and he was well and truly stuck. He had heard…things…about the forest. Stories about a restless spirit who wandered through the region. It wouldn't end well if they met her, especially now when they were tired and unprepared.

He wasn't a master navigator and he was working with little more than a few squiggles on a sheet of paper. The thought irked him and he stabbed viciously at the pile of wood. "Taking out your anger on defenseless dead wood isn't going to be of much, mon lapin." Arthur started; he hadn't thought Francis was paying him any attention. Flushing, he muttered, "Um…yes I apologize for that momentary poor performance."

Smiling warmly at him, Francis stood up and moved closer to where Arthur was. He sat down next to the Brit, who now was sure he was so red that he could be seen from another planet, and placed his head on Arthur's shoulder. "Is this alright?" he asked, yawning tiredly. "Yes, of course. But you'll need to lie down soon, that's not to say that I don't want you here, but it's for your health and…well." Francis' smile took on a far more amused air. "Just when I think that you can't get any cuter, you go out of your way to surprise me." He pressed a small kiss to Arthur's cheek. "You shouldn't worry too much; I know you'll find a way out of this."

It didn't take long for Francis to drift off; Arthur's hand having found its way around the slender man's waist, but Arthur himself remained wide awake, thinking over his words. There was one option that he hadn't considered fully yet. According to what he knew, Bradley Woods was part of Britain's ancient forests, and looking around, many of the trees appeared sufficiently aged to be 'inhabited'. He'd need to wait till tomorrow morning to carry out his plan. For now, he was content with letting his head drop down on Francis'. He shut his eyes and let the silence wash over them, this was pure bliss.

Morning came too quickly in Francis' opinion. Opening his blue eyes, he noted that at some point Arthur must have helped him lie down on the ground and covered him with a blanket. The fire was out and the Brit was nowhere to be seen. Slowly getting to his feet, he winced at the condition of his bandages; those would really need to be changed soon. He could faintly make out Arthur's voice, but he couldn't figure out where he was exactly. Following the sound of his voice, he came upon a most peculiar sight. There was Arthur, in the shade of a gnarled old oak tree, waving his hands around in a most absurd manner. He occasionally stopped to point at the air and seemed to be talking to something in an animated fashion, although he couldn't make out what.

Suddenly he stopped, arms frozen in the air and turned towards where Francis was hidden. The Frenchman let out a gasp, his eyes blazed with power; the previously bright green eyes were now almost painful to look at. Arthur beckoned him forward. It was only when he began to talk that Francis saw a bit of the usual Arthur that he was so used to. "This is Francis, the one I was telling you about." he said, nodding at the tree. "Francis, this is Lady Eleanor. She is a dryad, the tree spirit that inhabits this tree. She's agreed, most kindly, to lead us to the cottage."

As they gathered their things, Arthur quietly whispered into Francis' ear, "They tend to be rather temperamental at times, it's best to watch what we say around them." Nodding slowly, Francis tried to ignore the feeling of the warm breath that ghosted across the shell of his ear.

On and on they went, the trail that they were following curved in bizarre patterns, Francis wondered whether they were really going to get anywhere like. Suddenly Arthur stopped, "Thank you very much milady," he said, smiling warmly at a spot above his head. Francis looked around; he couldn't see anything at all. Then Arthur pushed back some of the thick bushy growth in front of them.

There stood one of the most dilapidated huts he had ever seen. It was small and as he brushed some cobwebs out from the doorway, he gazed inside. It was almost painfully obvious that no one had been here in a long time. The cottage was sparsely furnished, with a few comfy looking chairs, a table and piles of books and manuscripts. Flipping through a book, he started when Arthur called to him. "What is it?" Arthur merely pointed at what he was holding. It was an old, black and white photo, browning at the edges. Two men stared back at the camera. One had lighter hair, with a serious look upon his face while the other had dark hair and a huge grin upon his face.

On the back, in messy almost illegible scrawl was 'Adalric and me'. Scrunching up his impressive eyebrows, Arthur said, "I think…I think these may be the people that wrote the book that we found in the library." Shaking his head, he added, "We've got an hour and a half before a dryad comes to take us out of the woods. She says it's not safe to stay here too long and I agree. The map says that Adalric kept their most prized possessions in a box that he placed near his bed. It's a good idea to start there."

Sure enough, they found it. Wooden, much of the carved design had been worn away by the sands of time. Although it was locked, Arthur murmured something under his breath and the lock clicked open. Inside, the box was lined by red velvet. It held a small locket, leather bound book and a sheaf of papers untidily tied together.

"This is it," Arthur said darkly, holding the book in his hand. "How do you know?" Francis asked bewildered. He hadn't even opened the book. "See that mark there, near the bottom. That's a sign of dark magic. Not that ridiculous pop culture nonsense that these kids believe in, but actual black magic. This sign signifies a pact with the devil himself. It's not to be taken lightly." He started to go through the unpleasant material, leaving Francis alone.

He decided to spend his time going through the sheaves of paper. Aeulus was apparently the writer, while Adalric was a travelling book salesman of sorts. Francis smiled softly at Adalric's words. He had written about their courtship, their love, their illicit relationship; everything that he could express on paper and then some. But slowly, the matter became darker. Francis read how on one fateful morning, Adalric had a strange book thrust into his hands by an unknown man. That man took his own life within an hour. The town went into a frenzy, everyone was suspicious.

Aeulus had already been sick when this chaos had begun, but he didn't recover.

'He is weaker today. He won't let me see, that fool. He thinks he can hide his illness from me. But he is tired. So I am thinking of shifting with him into the small cottage that we built in the forest. It is far from this madness and he will be able to rest. As for this book, no one will venture into a haunted wood. I shall continue later, Aeulus' fever has risen once more.'

'It has been nearly two months. Now, he can barely move out of bed, yet he never fails to smile. He told me that I should leave him here to die. That fool, doesn't he understand that my heart only beats for him? No amount of medicine or treatment is helping and I privately fear that everyday will be his last. There is something else though. Sometimes, I think I see strange shadows pass by the door. I don't tell Aeulus, he needs his rest.'

'There was a fire in the village. A messenger sent word. They burnt that woman today. Something is wrong I can feel it.'

'It will not be long now. He has not opened his beautiful eyes even once today. I have decided, once he is….gone, I shall go back to his family. They deserve to know what happened. I shall leave the book here. I have done my part.'

There were no further entries, but Francis found himself on the verge of tears. "What's wrong?" Arthur asked worriedly. Explaining to him what he had read, he asked, "Is it possible that, this woman whom he speaks of, she cursed Aeulus?"

"It seems highly possible. She was working on some rather unsettling spells according to this book. But I can't be sure Francis. In those days, a lot of people got sick."

Francis buried his head in Arthur's chest, leaving the Brit to wrap his arms around him. "It's not fair." he mumbled. "I know," Arthur said, "Life is short though. Sometimes, things happen that we can never prepare for." A flicker near his eyes drew his attention.

"Come on Francis, let's go home."

Putting down the phone, Antonio swore. Arthur would be beyond pissed off at him, that was for sure. He had given him strict instructions that should the pair not return from the woods within two days; Antonio would need to call Llyr. That's how Antonio knew he was serious, Arthur would never willingly call his Welsh elder brother for help. He and Lovino had bid the pair farewell and both Francis' sons behaved brilliantly. But on the second day, fear crept into Antonio's stomach, it felt like eating bad tomatoes. Arthur was in way over his head this time. Even if they made it back safely within the time limit they had established, that didn't mean that they'd be able to solve everything on their own. And… Arthur was his friend, he worried about him. It was an easy decision. He had called Llyr and after a terse conversation, the man had said he'd catch the first train there. What had surprised Antonio was his parting line, "Why didn't that brat call me when this mess started in the first? I'm his elder brother."

Sighing, he went back into the main room. Lovi and he had taken the two boys to a bookstore. While he was working, Lovi was helping the boys read story books. Alfred bounced up to him, "I gotta go!" he said. Laughing, Antonio took his hand and led him to the men's room. He patiently waited for Alfred. And waited. And waited.

After ten minutes, he got worried. "Alfred? You alright in there?"

There was no response. Now slightly frantic, he tapped on the door, eventually banging on the door. But there was no sound from inside. Finally, he managed to slam it hard enough with his shoulder for it to open. It flew open with a bang and crashed against the nearby wall.

The stall was empty and the boy was gone. On the floor lay a small piece of paper. On it, a pair of large eyes glared at him. But there was not even the slightest trace of Alfred.

Author's Note: And there's the next chapter! Bradley Woods is actually listed as a part of Britain's ancient forests. I wanted to put the scene in the Wash but decided against it. I also realized that there was no mention of Flutter in this chapter, she's with Kumajirou and Matthew.

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