the sad saint of the east end

to define himself as a doctor would be to cut off the parts of himself that were nothing at all   :      the silence of his body,   the shaking death of hands not quite meant for life      (      he was a doctor in the same way that other people were priests      …      it was a dedication of life,   but not a definition of the self      ).      what made up lawrence,   then?     what part of lawrence was so uniquely him that nothing could take away from it?     he circled his fingers around nothing,   blunt fingertips digging into a body ripe for disappearances.      ‘   another soul.   what an interesting choice of words.   ’

his tongue touches at the back of his teeth,   tasting bone.      ‘   your approach leaves out how reluctant people can be to talk to each other.    how uncomfortable people begin to feel when sharing information      …      we are strangers,   after all.   ’

His smile widens at the way the doctor fixated on his manner of speaking. He chuckles, “Is it?” Sean wonders if perhaps he had been too far removed from society for too long a time, but he would have spoken this way regardless. From one soul to another. Another laugh startled out of him, “My approach?” Sean repeats the words, finding some amusement in the way the doctor saw it.

Hermione smiled kindly at the man, he seemed a bit suspicious but with everything going on in the world of witches, vampires and the Spanish Flu she didn’t blame him. 

“Yes, I have a few questions for you and I am friends with Jonathan. I was told I could trust you.” She smiled keeping things vague for now. “I know of a place, it’s in the nicer part of London, though nobody shan’t say anything to you. Don’t worry.” She lead him to a carriage, one borrowed by Lady Ashbury. 

“I’m good friends with Lady Ashbury as well, she was kind enough to take me in recently.” She explained to Sean as they headed off towards the better area of London, and it would be on the way home to Lady Ashbury’s mansion. 

“I know this all seems cryptic but I would like to speak in private once we get there it won’t be long.”

–

As soon as they got to the tea shop it was fairly empty and dusk was setting in. She got out of the carriage and lead him inside the cozy place to sit by the fireplace as the nights were still cool. She ordered herself an earl grey tea with milk and sugar and allowed Sean to order what he liked before speaking once they were alone.

“Sean, if I may call you that? I am going to be frank with you.” She said slipping off her leather gloves and putting her purse down onto the floor.

“I have been losing my faith in God recently. I loved someone very much and she died back in 1840. She was of Anglican faith and I just - I sometimes feel like she’s still around. Do you think it’s possible that spirits linger? Or maybe something else is at work?” 

He watches her as she speaks, his eyebrows lifting slightly when she says that Jonathan had spoken well of him. His gaze drops, humbled by the trust that the doctor had placed in his character. Slowly, he looks back at the woman, trying not to blanch when she mentioned taking him to one of the nicer areas of London. Sean held no ill will towards the richer of society, but they seemed to be discomforted by his presence whenever he did enter the Western parts of the city.

Nonetheless he follows her lead, dipping his head in recognition at the name of Lady Ashbury. Sean had not personally met the woman, but he knew of her through Doctor Reid. He did not pressure the young lady for answers, opting to sit quietly until the shop was reached. Sean had never been inside the place, having passed by it perhaps once or twice whenever he visited the area seeking donations for the shelter.

His attention drifts back towards his hostess when she asks if she can call him by his first name. “Of course, I’d prefer it.” He confirms with a small smile as he settles into his seat. He asks for a black tea with nothing in it, feeling somewhat guilty in doing so before he places his attention fully on her.

YOU’RE TOO NICE.

lewis had never quite known how to interact with religious men. that had already been true in his mortal life, but becoming an ekon had only exacerbated his discomfort. he was a blunt man, in most respects; he rarely ever shied away from giving his opinion, especially when it was a negative one. far from having any qualms about starting arguments, he considered it a favourite pastime. when it came to the matter of religion, however, he was uncharacteristically hesitant. as much as he found the notion of god ridiculous, particularly in light of what he was and what he knew to exist, it felt wrong to attack someone’s entire spiritual foundation. a condescending remark quivered on the tip of his tongue, as it usually did, but he kept his teeth clenched to hold it back. if it comforted sean to cradle his rosary and give thanks to god for delivering the woman into lewis’ hands, then there was little sense in taking that comfort away from him. 

so lewis said nothing. sagging back against the bricks, he stared out over the city skyline in silence as he contemplated the preacher’s question. he was not altogether surprised that the man had identified his accent; even after nearly a century in london, he had not lost the heavy welsh lilt, nor had he any intentions of letting it slip away in the future. he had always hated english. that hatred had only grown, fuelled by spite, when the systematic crackdown on the welsh language began in the 1840s. 

as for london itself… lewis had never quite been able to make up his mind about the city. it was odd to say that he disliked a place that had been home to him, on and off, since 1820 — and yet, lewis could not truthfully say that he liked it, either. for him, life in london had always been a necessity, and one that he slightly resented. 

“ no, mr. hampton — if i may be candid, i do not much like it here at all. ” honest and blunt as ever. with a sigh, he lifted his left hand to begin scraping the dried blood out from under his nails. “ london was a stinking hellhole when i first came here a century ago and it is a stinking hellhole now. however much it changes, i am sure that will always remain true. ”

One corner of Sean’s lips quirks slightly, a sentimental bemusement as he looks at the surgeon. He imagines he is like many men of medicine in that he has a great deal of skepticism towards religion. Those who pursued science seemed to hold little regard for the more spiritual aspect of existence. Sean wasn’t here to preach, nor did he seek to convert those who held no love in their hearts for the Lord. So long as they could have mutual respect as living, or nearly living beings, he would be sated.

The answer he received to his question was far more honest than Sean would have expected. He blinks, eyes widened from surprise in the crass answer before softening as he chuckles. He will have to remember that the good surgeon held little regard for niceties in conversations. It reminded him of the denizens back in the East End. His shoulders relax a little more, at ease with knowing the measure of the man –– at least somewhat. Then he tilts his head, glancing over at him quickly when he says just how long ago he had come to the city.

Sean’s condition was still so new as to him to leave the Skal learning new things each week, sometimes each day. He couldn’t imagine a century of life. It was such an obvious prospect now that it was given voice, yet Sean still struggled to grasp it.

Times had changed. People had changed – - the world had changed. Yet with everything that had happened, those small strides humanity made in their ever evolving existences, there still remained tiny remnants of the past, whispers, myths, legends, that never truly died, never faded into the darkness of which some of them came. 

The Outsider was one of them. His name may not be on the lips of every human in the street, leaders, politicians, those at their beck and call, may no longer know him, let alone utter his name in disgust – - but still he sits in the shadows, watching, listening, observing. Why? Because that is what he’s always done in the many millennia he has stalked all of creation from the depths of the Void. Just waiting – - patient, attentive, every thought, every breathe, every decision made coursing through those colourless eyes, quenching the untameable thirst for some sliver of entertainment, to hand off knowledge and power to those who interested him most, and simply sit back and observe the choices they would make. Would they keep his interest? Would they surprise him? Or would they walk the same path so many did? What was easiest, what was quickest, what was most selfish – - the most tedious choices of all.

Even those who remembered, the family’s who continued to speak his name, dared to utter it aloud, scratch it into wood, scribble it down on a piece of paper, they were never guaranteed an audience with the ancient being. Though every so often, there was one who would catch his attention, just as it had now. A devout man of God, a man who had every reason to throw aside his hopes and beliefs and give way to the creature he had become. Yet – - he hadn’t. 

The Outsider sees the man in front of his shrine, the purple glow illuminating his tattered face and those pale eyes. It’s almost amusing, as the old being tears into existence just a couple of feet behind the Skal, everything around them darkening, pulsing. Straight wooden boards wobbling, wriggling, shards of ash floating in the air as they dance like snow on a cold winter day. But there in the middle of it all, stands what appears to be a young man, a mere teenager, clothing of times past covering him, dark hair lightly swept to the side, arms crossed tight over his chest, and eyes as black as night. There’s no white to them, no life, no heart – - just an endless darkness. “What an intriguing soul you make…” The voice cut through the air like ice, lingering as it melted away, echoing, lacing the wisps of darkness that radiate from his very being. “Presuming you still have one.” There’s something bitter about the way he says it, not out of cruelty, but almost – - mocking, in a deliberately provocative manner. “Here you stand on the precipice. Neither dead or alive. Treading on a delicate balance between man and monster… but what will win in the end, I wonder? How long can this good nature last in a world that does not look so kindly upon those who are different? Will they show you the same kindness? Or will they tear you down like a beast and cast your name to the shadows?”

His head ached the longer he remained in the room, but it further spiked when everything seemed to shift around him. Sean grasped for an anchor in the uncertainty, his fingers landing on the edge of the tapestry he’d pulled down upon his accidental discovery. The material slips through his fingers, and with it some of the floor itself. Sean staggers up, legs unsteady as he takes in the way reality warps into something unrecognizable. It was something he had never bore witness to, not even in his dreams. Perhaps this would be more akin to a nightmare. Brows furrow in shock, eyes darting from one impossible view to another.

And then he turns and sees the young man standing in the midst of the chaos. Eyes widen, taking in the odd clothing, the body language, and then finally the eyes which are as black as the Thames he’d crossed over earlier that night. He doesn’t dare move once he looks upon the boy, barely dares to breathe. Sean’s eyes narrow at the barbed quip that falls from pale lips, and he reaches up, one hand curling around the crucifix at his chest. A childhood filled with warnings of being led astray, of demons and devils came rushing back to him in that moment. Sean had to smother the childish fears, whispering a silent prayer before he released the cross and stood straighter, refusing to cow before whatever .  .  . he was. Could he truly be a child? Have once been? Or was this a cruel trick to try and prey on Sean’s sensibilities? Whatever he was, it was clear that he knew of Sean’s particular condition.

“And what of you?” Sean bites back, one hand gesturing at the creature before him. “A being that wears the face of one so young with empty eyes. Does knowing all that you propose you do offer any solace?” He should not be goading such a being, should turn and flee rather than face off against it. Sean knew he wasn’t immortal, not truly. The Lord saw fit to test him with his unlife, and there would be no Heaven for the likes of him, not in the way there would be for the mortal flock. Sean grimaces when the not-man asks him such questions. He thinks of William, of the kindness that had not been given to him and how he’d been struck down to save his own life. Sean can’t risk looking away from the being, but he desperately wishes to, if only to give himself a moment’s escape from that gaze.

      Geoffrey has never considered himself to be a particularly kind man – nor has anyone labeled him as such in recent-to-distant memory. As a child, perhaps, a schoolteacher might have commended the soft heart of the youngest McCullum boy, but that was a lifetime ago. Many a storm had come and passed since then, pains of life both great and small that had weathered Geoffrey against the worst of it. There was little room for conscious kindness in the Guard. Sure, they protected people as a manner of course – and Geoffrey wasn’t immune to the tear-filled eyes of freshly minted widows and orphans. He helped where he could, though Priwen’s resource were often too scarce to offer any substantial help. But he could keep watch for an extra night if it meant letting someone sleep a little easier. And he was quick to let his own men have first pick of whatever the Guard could get its hands on – weapons, clothing, food. Nothing that he’s ever viewed through the lens of needing to be kind. It’s just what a leader does.

      Sean does the same for his own people. Going without so that they don’t have to. Their methods of societal assistance might differ greatly, but perhaps the two men aren’t so different at their core. Geoffrey has been able to determine that much from his observations. Sean is kind. Sean is a good man. And the hunter knows that the Saint wants to see that sort of selfless piety in him, too – maybe even believes that he does, based on those little half smiles he tries to hide whenever he catches Geoffrey helping around the shelter. He figures he could tell the Skal to piss off and mind his business, but he also figures it wouldn’t do him any good. One’s nature cannot be fought, and Sean is stubborn to a fault when it comes to his desire to find the goodness in almost everyone.

      He’ll probably say the same of this moment, later. That it just proves that Geoffrey’s heart hasn’t completely hardened to stone. The hunter will just have to bear that as it comes. For now, he isn’t viewing this as any grand gesture of generosity, but purely in pragmatic terms. Hampton needs to eat. Hampton is going to eat, and better he find a meal this way than let his hunger get the better of him. Geoffrey knows he wouldn’t hurt his flock on purpose, but one’s nature cannot be fought. At least this saves him the trouble of having to hunt the Saint down for murder.

      “No, I haven’t.” Neither has he dwelled on the matter. Whatever Hampton saw in his head couldn’t be retracted, and the other man hadn’t made a point of trying to dig any deeper. Now Geoffrey knows what to expect. “If you’re worried that you’ll hurt me – don’t flatter yourself so much, Hampton. I’m a might stronger than you even discounting the inhuman abilities, and if there’s one thing I know, it’s how to deal with a leech in a feeding frenzy.”

      In the middle of his blunt attempt at reasoning, Sean fumbles a bottle of antiseptic. The scent of it is as briskly piercing as the shards of glass now littering the floor. Geoffrey huffs a frustrated sigh through his nose. “Don’t be so damn pigheaded, Hampton–” And then the Saint is agreeing, and the hunter has to force his shoulders to relax a measure just to make it seem like this is the most casual thing in the world. “Alright,” he agrees, continuing to roll his sleeve and bare his arm as he sits on the edge of a nearby cot. “Come on then, before your dinner goes cold.”

His shoulders tense, the muscles beneath his too-large suit bunching enough for his discomfort to be visible should Geoffrey be paying attention. Knowing the hunter, he most certainly was. The man seemed keen on keeping his eyes on every little detail regardless of how important it may or may not be. Sean does not look behind him to see if Geoffrey had noticed the anxiousness that radiated off of him when Geoffrey confirmed that he hadn’t forgotten the last ill-fated attempt at feeding from the man. At least this time they both knew the risks going in and were very aware of what to avoid. Sean still felt uncertain about breaking the peace that had formed between them. They’d made good progress at becoming friendly with one another and Sean would hate to be the one that ruined that.

If Sean had the energy for it, he’d of rolled his eyes, but he merely sighed when Geoffrey mentioned a leech in a feeding frenzy. He took no personal insult from the terms that the hunter seemed entrenched with, but he didn’t much care for the comparison. He would have said something smart, some sort of banter, but his mind was too slow in the moment, and so too were his fingers as the bottle slipped between them. For a few seconds Sean doesn’t move or say anything until he finally gives in. Stubborn pride would get him nowhere and would only put his flock at risk. Sean was no stranger to hunger, but that of the Skal’s was much different from the nights he’d gone without even a chunk of stale bread to ease the pain in his stomach when he was mortal. Sean slowly turns around, eyes narrowed at Geoffrey when he curses, calling him pigheaded as well. One eyebrow lifts, a look of frustration briefly passing across his features before he heaves a sigh and watches as Geoffrey seats himself at the edge of a cot.

“Before my – ” Sean repeats the beginning of Geoffrey’s sentence, his own words stilted and cut off as he runs a hand across the lower half of his face, eyes shut tight. Geoffrey made things difficult at times, and Sean didn’t begrudge the man it, but he did wish his odd sense of humor was perhaps not so odd at this moment. The Skal would have said more but he doesn’t get a chance, distracted by Geoffrey’s exposed wrist. At the pulse that lingers beneath. His body moves and he is vaguely aware of it, but his awareness has narrowed to the exposed patch of skin. He should give Geoffrey a moment to take out a knife and cut his own skin, a choice to be made, but Sean drops to his knees and his hands take ahold of Geoffrey’s arm at both elbow and palm, the grasp surprisingly gentle given his singular purpose in that moment.

It had been a shock to his system to be in such a position of vulnerability once more. Sean couldn’t quite comprehend how he had gotten here. Faith placed in the wrong person? Assurances believed with so little regard for his own wellbeing? Sean liked to think himself a good judge of character, and he had known there was something to be suspicious of with the newly arrived representative. Despite his misgivings, he had given the benefit of the doubt and opened himself to being disproven. It had led to him being placed in a precarious position, left nearly dead. He’s surprised that Jonathan had thought to seek him out and search high and low until having discovered the Skal entombed beneath the home of the newly arrived parishoner.

The doctor could not remain with him, intent on seeking out the one responsible for such a crime. Instead he’d led the way to a trusted man and thought to leave the sickly Skal with Mister Anwyl. Sean was still on the verge of recovery, his entire system shocked by the events that had occurred and doubly so to be with the surgeon. They weren’t particularly close, but he did trust the Ekon, and was grateful for this kindness. He opens his mouth, closes it then finally manages an apology. “I’m sorry to intrude on you like this.” Sean would have returned straight to his flock, but Doctor Reid had insisted on him having some time to recover. Had said that he was a risk to the living until he was fully himself again. ‘No longer in such a state of shock.’ Sean didn’t think himself a danger to those around him, but for the first time in many months he had ceded to the other man’s opinion.

He's ashamed to be seen like this, but he supposes the surgeon had witnessed much worse in his many years. Without meaning to, Sean cringes when the man’s shadow edges closer. There’s a hesitance before he speaks and holds out a hand at the edge of his periphery;

“You don’t feel safe, here.”

Sean tilts his head back and glances up to finally meet the other man’s eyes, but then they drop to the extended arm, and he realizes with a start that it was his well-worn bible held in the other man’s grasp. It must have slipped from his pocket at some point. There was no cross emblazoned on it, not that the shape ever did him any harm, but he did wonder if the surgeon was similarly safe from such damage. The book dips with a small gesture, a reminder for Sean to take it and he does so, clasping the cherished item closely to himself.