#mochujun

He lay on the floor, and the faucet kept dripping.

Mikhail. Misha. The one with the name. They stole that from him, much like they stole everything else.

—(Were ‘they’ the vampires, or the humans?)—

But No. Sixty-Nine would still call him by it.

Misha didn’t get up. He lay on the floor, the sobs quiet and wracking his entire being.

Sixty-Nine wouldn’t shush him or tell him it was okay. He knew it wasn’t. And screams and tears were all they had in this empty place, he wouldn’t take them away from him now.

Those blue eyes flickered open, and they glistened with sadness and loss, but they looked at him like he was the moon and the stars, and everything in between.

Sixty-Nine wasn’t sure he could bear such a burden.

Misha leapt upon Sixty-Nine, wrapping his arms around him and holding him as tight as if, if he didn’t, he’d turn to sand and slip through his fingers.

They were trapped in an hourglass alright.

No. Sixty-Nine leaned his head back against the bar, trying not to listen to the doctors on the other side. He didn’t run his hands through his hair or rub soothing circles on his back, he merely continued to let him cry, and this was mercy and comfort of its own. He let him cry and the sound was flint to the already raging fire of hate inside him, soothed only by the thought that it was into his shirt rather than the palm of the doctors’ hands.

After a while he spoke gently over him:

“Once upon a time…”

Misha raised his head, blinking up at him and sniffing. “What?”

“The other day you were telling me about a story game you came up with, weren’t you?”

Misha nodded slowly.

Sixty-Nine raised an eyebrow as if to say ‘Well…Aren’t you going to play?’

“Oh!” Misha realized what he was saying, and backed up, sitting on his knees.

“Once upon a time…” Misha put a finger to his chin, thinking, “There was a nice prostitute!” He threw his hands in the air, beaming.

Sixty-Nine tried not to let his eyes widen in shock at the word. Misha really had no clue what that meant, and he had no intention of making such things clear to him. He’d already seen far too much for a boy so young.

“…Sure.” He looked away. “A nice prostitute. And she…she liked tarte Tatin.”

“Tarte Tatin?”

“It’s…a dessert. A pastry with apples and…” He exhaled heavily, shutting his eyes. The words curved around his tongue, a ghost of sweetness.

“That sounds amazing! I-I never got to have nice desserts,” he murmured softly.

Sixty-Nine tried not to let that taint his expression.

He envied the boy, in a way: the echoes of the taste on his tongue now was almost worse than never knowing it in the first place.

“So she liked tarte Tatin.” Sixty-Nine repeated. “And one day…”

“One day a nice vampire came by with some!”

Sixty-Nine couldn’t help reacting this time.

“A nice…what?”

“Yeah! Sometimes I saw men bring mom gifts!”

“You said vampire.” The word was venom.

“Well a vampire gave her the loveliest gift of all! Surely they bring other nice gifts too!”

Sixty-Nine tried not to feel sick to his stomach, tried not to shout How could you possibly think that?! Tried not to spit The only gift he gave her is death.

But maybe that was a gift, in a way. Especially to the boy she would hit when he didn’t dress like a girl.

“Okay...” His breath rattled. “And he gave her some…and it was delicious and...he told her that he would be back with more.”

“And he came back the next week with a whole bunch of it!”

Sixty-Nine closed his eyes and spoke softly, “She he said it tasted like all the stars came down and burst in her mouth.” His breath heaved with the weight of the memory of taste.

“And he told her that he would take her away from all this. …Her and her son beneath the bed.

Sixty-Nine’s he turned to look at him. Misha only smiled.

“Y-Yes. Her and her son beneath the bed. And…he did.” He exhaled the words. “He came back with cakes, and tarts, and chocolates…and”—He couldn’t bring himself to the end the story on a kind note towards vampires—“he drank her blood, and he…took her away.”

“Yay!” Misha clapped. “That was a great story! Let’s do it again next time!”

“Yeah,” he sighed.

Misha curled up against him, and after a pause asked softly:

“Do you think he did? Take her away? My mom?”

He swallowed the spit that had gathered in his mouth from the talk of good food, and looked away. “Yes. I do.”

“Do you think she’s in a better place?”

He thought of the church when he’d been with the chasseurs. How they always made grand speeches about Heaven.

He thought of the traveling players, and the general goodness to people he saw there.

He thought of the doctors here, and how sometimes people were cruel.

He thought of the sermons about the evils of sins like prostitution, and their consequences.

He thought of that one story about the prostitute who washed the feet of the son of God.

“I don’t know. …Better than us, probably.”

He stood up and grabbed the blanket from off his bed, wrapping them both in it. Misha leaned against him, and Sixty-Nine thought of how Moreau said he was to be his guardian, and tried to decide if he resented the command. He was never very fond of physical contact as a form of affection, but he knew it was all this boy had, and to take it away would be almost worse than what the doctors did.

“Say…Why do vampires drink blood?” Misha asked.

That hate flared behind his throat. He wanted to say Because they are parasites. He wanted to say Because they suck the life out of innocent for fun.

But then he thought of the doctors, and the needles.

“Did your mom ever drink…alcohol?”

“I saw her drinking stuff from a bottle a lot. It was red. It made her look all red too. She wouldn’t tell me what it was. What that alcohol?”

“Mostly likely.”

“She was always mad. She got even madder when she drank it.”

Sixty-Nine bit his lip, then continued calmly:

“Blood is like that for vampires.”

“But when the vampire drank her blood it made him happy.”

“Yeah, alcohol makes some people happy too.”

“So…he drank my mom’s blood, so he could feel happy?”

Sixty-Nine hesitated. “…Yeah”

He expected Misha to get angry at that, or sad. It certainly returned that burning to Sixty-Nine’s gut to think that human life was nothing more than a good drink to vampires.

“Then I’m glad!” Misha laughed. “I’m glad they could both be happy.”

And Sixty-Nine tried not to let horror affect his gaze.

He’d fired many bullets in his lifetime. Too many, perhaps. Some at targets. Some at Chains. Some at people. Some at the Baskervilles, who were somewhere in between. And he wasn’t always sure the decision to fire was right.

But those shots—even those situations a bit too ambiguous to be sure—didn’t echo for longer than a night.

This one. This one he knew would echo throughout his whole life if he wasn’t careful, or was simply a little too careless.

But there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing at all. He was bound and broken to Glen Baskerville, because that’s what he was: a Baskerville. Etched into his name, the fabric of his flesh, his being. So here he was, spending the night on the dark side.

Not Oz. No. Never. Never. Never Oz.

“Shoot him.”

His left palm was bleeding now.

His Master. His best friend. His dear light. He’d swallow and bathe in dark if only for a sliver of light. He’d never, never, never hurt his precious—

“A loyalty that holds fast will become a blade…and will someday pierce those you hold dear.”

Oh but it wasn’t a blade, was it? It was a bullet. There is a difference, yes. Blades are quiet. Far less risk of tainted memory.

Loyalty. But it wasn’t his loyalty to Oz that became the bullet, it was that towards Glen.

“Is the one you need really Oz Vessalius?”

Damn him. Damn him for trying to help. Damn Gilbert himself for thinking him nothing but a useless clown.

How can I know if I’m not with him?

He loved Glen, once. Looked up to him. Idolized him. Cut and polished as his successor, his copy. And, once upon a time, he didn’t mind.

This loyalty was more than pure and blind devotion. He knew that now. It was something far more deeply ingrained. Something that branded and stained, and may just maim. He loved Glen from the start, yes. He was kind. A good king. Even as a child Gilbert could tell that.

But at some point he couldn’t tell what was his true feelings, and what was the magic curving its way inside him like puppet strings.

Where was the oath written again?

No prince should be permitted to disobey his king, after all. Even those whose relation was bloodless. Hereditary loyalty.

Couldn’t we do this without anything attached? Can’t we let our bodies move according to the request of our souls?

So his loyalty towards Oz…was it something pure, or something that immured him? He always thought it his most honorable quality. He was his steadfast servant, his chivalrous knight. But perhaps he only latched on because he was puppeteered and programmed to be a creature of service.

“That loyalty of yours…No, should I call it your obsession?”

Maybe this was how things were supposed to be after all. There was no such thing as love or fate, or dreams. Just the strings, the spiderwebs. We’re all cocooned, waiting for the poison to kick in.

What was he thinking? How could he think he didn’t really care for Oz? How could their adventures, their time together really mean nothing?

He loved Glen too once. And he couldn’t tell if even that was real anymore.

Glen’s successor, his copy, his soul, his left hand, his wings—

Raven.

The one thing he stole from him. The contract half-fulfilled then. Promises broken. Promises that couldn’t help but be fulfilled. The one thing that would ever belong to him. A chain half-connected. The ship might just drift out to sea that way.

Raven, whose seal lay in his left hand. His ever cursed left hand. His symbol of Glen, still.

“You will be bound by your left hand again.”

He felt like his face might break as he tried to keep both the tears and laughter that simmered beneath the surface from boiling over.

Break wasn’t the only one who’d tried to warn him.

He hadn’t understood then. Hadn’t understood anything at all.

Raven. One of Glen’s four black-winged Chains. The first. The first drop of four poured into the vessel. A ceremony cut in half by the sound of screaming, and the smell of smoke.

Raven who he created his legal contract with because he thought he could save his master. Raven whose seal saved his master’s life and sanity. Raven who took them from Cheshire’s dimension, who protected him and Break from the Baskervilles.

Raven, who had only helped since he’d made his contract with him. Raven who he shared a connection with. Raven whose name he even took at times. A name he took once to save himself the pain of his master knowing who he really was.

Raven who perhaps could be of some good now.

He sat up.

Oz wasn’t merely the reflection of Jack. And Gilbert wasn’t merely the reflection of Glen.

Maybe Raven wasn’t a symbol of Glen’s tyranny either. Maybe he was just the opposite. Maybe Raven belonged to him. Maybe Raven’s fire was exactly what he needed to break the unbreakable.

And there is at least one benefit to being a Baskerville.

He looked at his left hand.

“Open both eyes wide. That is, if you don’t want to end up like me.”

“Well…I just wanted to ask…” She wrung her hands. “I wanted to ask if you could…” She dropped her hands to her sides and said confidently, and a little too loudly, “Please get Reim glasses!”

Rufus blinked, taken aback.

“He stumbles around all the time, and runs into things an awful lot! One of these days he’s going to hurt himself! He really needs glasses! I know it’s not my place, but I’ve come to request that you please buy him a nice pair!”

Rufus’ eyes flicked to Sheryl, then he turned around to hide his smile. He silently walked over to one of the shelves behind him, pulling down something nestled between the books. He handed it to her.

It was a sort of oval shaped case. Trying to curb her fear that it might explode, she slid it open to find a pair of shiny gold-rimmed glasses.

Her expression broke into a grin, and when she looked up at Duke Barma, he was smiling too.

“Shall we present these to him together?”

She gave a nod beaming.

When Reim saw Duke Barma, Sharon, and Duchess Rainsworth walking down the hall towards him together, his brain didn’t delay in predicting all the terrifying scenes that might just play out in a moment, and tried to delay the self-destruct sequence that began to count down.

“Reim, young Sharon and I have a gift for you.”

Sharon held out the case with both hands.

Reim glanced from the two smiling imps, taking the item very slowly and cautiously, wondering not if it was going to explode, but just how it was going to explode, and how much damage he was going to have to clean up.

When he opened it his expression broke into to surprise.

With wide eyes, he flicked his gaze from his master to his friend, then to the Duchess.

“I can’t accept this.” He spoke flatly.

Rufus’ traded his smile for a furrowed brow. “Art thou refusing a gift from thy master?”

He bristled. “No! No! It’s just—this is too much, Rufus-sama!”

Rufus put a hand on his shoulder. “I do not consider it much, compared with the price of all the heirlooms thou hath broken.”

Reim froze, eyes wide.

“Many apologies, Rufus-sama!” His nose almost touched the ground as he bowed. “I will accept this most gracious gift with honors!”

Rufus leaned down and spoke to Sharon behind his hand. “Thou wouldst do well to use such methods with him the future.”

Sharon took a step forward. “Why don’t you put them on, Reim-san?”

Picking them up as if they were a valuable and ancient artifact, he ticked up the two sides, and slid them over his ears, looking like he’d been doing so his whole life.

He looked around at them all, finding that there was a lot more detail to their faces than he was generally privy to.

“I think they suit you perfectly, Reim-san.” Sharon beamed.

******

It was those glasses. It took Kevin a while to realize. It was those glasses he hated.

He could rarely tell what was behind them, the light reflecting off them obscuring any expression within the young boy.

Reim hated him. He knew it. He must. He intuition was usually pretty good, and, no, he didn’t feel any malice off of him, but he was sure that behind his back the boy whispered malicious things, and gossiped with the rest of them.

It was those glasses that told him that. He was always looking at him with that indecipherable glass gaze, but Kevin was unsure he really saw him at all.

Kevin was just as creepy as they said, of course. It only made sense the children would be all that much more afraid and judgmental. It wasn’t their fault a murderer had taken up abode into their home.

…That didn’t make it any easier for Kevin to take.

He could handle the gossip of the adults. That was high society, after all. Such whispers followed him long before he arrived at the Rainsworth manor. But that of children…

—(“Kevin…Please don’t leave.”)—

That was a bit more difficult to take.

He longed to break them. To throw them to the floor, just to see something real in his eyes. To confirm his fears and assumptions.

And one day…the thread snapped.

“Shut up! Don’t pay me any mind….Don’t come near me… Don’t so much as look at me!”

The glasses hit the floor.

But the look in the boy’s eyes…it wasn’t one of malice or judgment. No anger or annoyance at his actions. Not even fear. It was one of simple surprise, wondering, and…compassion, even?

Was it possible that when he told him to stop…he was truly looking out for his well-being? That there wasn’t some ulterior motive? That Kevin’s intuition about the boy being a pure and un-violent soul was right?

When Shelly picked up those glasses, gently replaced them on the boy’s face, kind words mixed with reprimand for Kevin…he decided it might not be remiss to give the boy a chance. To try and meet the golden eyes behind those glasses, and realize that they may not mask something darker after all.

The next time he stumbled against the wall, and wanted nothing more than to shove Reim’s helping hand away, he decided to give in, and let him help him.

As Kevin leaned against him, the boy smiled. “It’s alright. I know what it’s like not to be able to see very well.”

The first happened when he was very young. He drank the blood of the Raven, and accepted its fire into his veins. Raven was gentlest, that’s why they always started with him.

The mark appeared on Oswald’s chest then, and he wouldn’t tell anyone but his sister than he cried that night, and didn’t know entirely why. But it felt like something in him had died.

The feathers fell the day, like ink splotches on the floor, on the pages of his life. Inerasable. Sealing his fate.

These feathers didn’t allow him to fly. These feathers were Chains.

The next, a few years later, was the Dodo, and though the boy’s eyes had always shown him much more than anyone else’s, the illusions told him this wasn’t all sane, or the same. That sometimes people lied.

That would be an important lesson to remember later.

The next was the Owl. The little creature with the big, starlit eyes, and the night’s wings.

The darkness suffocated.

And the feathers. Every time. Always the feathers. At the end of the day, all that was left wasn’t the fire, or the illusions, or the dark. It was the feathers, like a hole in the pages, revealing the truth of who he was becoming. He may be becoming a thing with wings, but they were flightless wings, merely for decoration, and intimidation, like the eyes on the backs of a moth’s.

Next to last was Gryphon, the one that allowed him to open the way. It was bigger and scarier than the first three, but he accepted it, tamed its blood, like the rest.

The last: Jabberwocky—(and it’s true, this didn’t make any sense at all)—the one that’d allow him to erase all his sins.

It looked altogether monstrous that day.

…Or maybe he did.

He drank the blood, and he looked at his sister—a flower bud, disallowed to bloom—and he raised his hand to her forehead, and he tried not to break.

He was the prince of the breakdown. This was the price of the crown. Sometimes one must put down their family for their profession in the end.

The feathers sprinkled the world like blackened snow as the chains ran her through.

And she smiled, and she said something he couldn’t make out. Her spirit may have been devoured that day, but the ghost of her unspoken last words would roam these halls until he was torn apart.

The feathers were all that was left of her when she died.

The feathers became his mark, as they had been his predecessors; the knowledge that Glen had been here, and had done something wonderful, and possibly terrible. The moth’s eyes.

He didn’t have to use them often, but sometimes there were deals, and duels, and neither were quite fair.

He always won. It was five against one after all.

—(Until that day. When that one was a bloody black rabbit)—

When others saw those feathers, they saw the seal of a noble king. The proof that he flew, and he fought, and he knew, knew everything, knew a little too much—(Do I really know anything at all?). They were the signet that he was Glen, a more telling mark than any brooch, medallion.

When Oswald saw those feathers, he could only see Lacie’s blood, like melted wax.

Sometimes he even thought he saw a drop of red in the black, until he understood it was nothing more than the memory of her eyes pooling in his brain.

He used them all the same, and he tried to remember that these feathers were his crown.

The only day he saw them as something different was that day. The day when the Chains that held the world together came down, and the sky was falling. He sent his Chains to hold it back up, their feathers a trail of hope for any who came across them, knowing that the five would use their wings to hold the sky up if that’s what it took. He rarely had to use all five, nor understood why he needed so many. On that day he understood. On that day…they were beautiful.

But, sending them into the fray left their master defenseless and exposed to friends, and their scythes.

******

The family held each others hands tight, sweat carving tracks across their skin, breath shallow as a tide pool. They didn’t understand what was happening, but the Earth was shaking, and Sablier was burning.

They ran through the streets, unsure where exactly they should go—and, clearly, neither did anyone else—just trying to get away, wherever that may be.

A building crumbled before their eyes, falling with a deafening thud upon the street before them to a chorus of screams, and they skidded to a halt, looking all around.

The mother looked to her husband for guidance, and the father tried to look brave, like he knew where to go next, but pain and panic was infecting his eyes.

His daughter held tight to her parents, trying not to cry.

Even the son, who always liked to seem brave, bit his lip as he looked up at his parents.

But what could they do? Everything was falling apart, and no one had any idea why, or where to go. What hope was there? They didn’t even know which direction to run towards.

As they were standing there trying to figure out where to go next, and not lose hope, a great gust of wind rushed by them, and drifting down to them upon the ashen air, the light shape of a black feather.

“Papa what is this?” The daughter asked, reaching out to catch it.

“It’s Glen-sama,” he exhaled.

He looked into the horizon to see the wings of a great and terrible beast; a Chain that in that moment was the personification of hope. He wrapped his arms around his family, both a smile and tears breaking out across his face.