Chapter Text
Bodmin Aslym for the mentally ill 1845.
He had another nightmare again. He saw horrible scary things involving people he had yet to meet. The other problem after such traumatic visions is that he lost a little piece of his memory. This time the boy lost his name and the name of his Father again; he hated it. It scared him, so why was no one hugging or telling him everything would be okay? Why was he standing in a sterile white brick room with a doctor asking him hard questions and poking him?
“The boy suffers from mania, paranoia and religious visions.” the doctor closed the file dipping his quill back into the ink pot. “I fully believe the best treatment forward is for him to come to our care here in Bodmin. I understand this is a huge adjustment, but he will be safe here” The doctor looked at the boy’s mother; she wasn't his real mother. The boy never met his birth mother. He knew about his father, but he was nothing more than a man who enjoyed making maps. The Boy’s father had left for India again. He wanted to take the boy with him, but the Army funding his trip was against the idea, so the boy was placed in the care of a spinster who only loved the house's money and not the father.
A sinister smile spread across the doctor's face, but it looked sincere to them like he cared for the patients that entered his care. The doctor could not give a flying fuck what happened to the people in his care. He just wanted to experiment with them.
The boy stood in the communal shower room, cold, scared and lost. He forgot his name again. The woman who he should call mother left him there. He couldn’t remember who his father was, he wore a pith helmet, and they lived in Kolkata. He could remember that he liked the word a lot; he liked how it sounded and felt to say. He smiled at the memory.
The doctor didn’t like it when he smiled. He didnt like the boy much. He hit him a lot and blew a whistle down his ear when he wasn’t paying attention or spoke a different language. He likes talking to himself.
On his good days, the boy would remember his name. His name began with a J, so the boy next door to him called him Jay. Jay hated the way they locked his friend up. His friend had a name… it was Barty. Barty. Barty
“Barty?”
“Yeah?”
“Just checking you're still you.”
“Thank you. Are you still Jay?”
“Yes, can I tell you the dream I had?”
“Please”
“It’s that boy again, the one with stormy grey eyes—”
“And the black hair?”
“Yeah, I saved him again from the ocean this time.”
“Am I there with you?”
“No, Barty. But I hope you will be.”
Barty doesn’t reply, but Jay knows he is still there. They won’t leave. They can’t.
Jay sufferers from mania, paranoia and religious visions. Barty had a horrible temper and would hurt people. The nuns who care for them believe he is the devil's spawn, so they lock him away in a cage. Jay hates how the nuns treat them, but then they give them medicine that makes their brains quiet, and they don't talk or feel anything when the nuns take them for their ice baths.
********
Euphamina met Fleamont Potter during the Anglo-Sikh War. She wasn’t fond of the British man who stumbled upon her apothecary; she didn’t like the war plaguing her homeland. But Fleamont was different; he was scared. Not of Euphamina, he was scared of the war. He wasn't a soldier. He was just a cartographer; he joined the platoon hoping to curate and update maps. He was there for adventure. More money than sense with him; he wasn't in it to kill innocent people in a rebellion he had no interest in. Fleamont liked making maps; he enjoyed exploring; he wished to explore the world one day, not die in some blood bath.
“Ah, my apologies, miss. It appears my map is wrong. I will be on my way,” Fremont tipped his hat at Euphamina, who replied with a giggle.
“Are you not fighting, my lord?”
“Me? Oh goodness, no. I am but a humble cartographer.” Euphamina’s beauty encapsulated Fleamont in how her golden eyes glittered without the sun present and how the shimmer of her sari sang in the breeze. “You are incredible”, Fleamont sighed. Euphamina chuckled, sorrow filling her eyes.
“Thank you, my lord–”
“Fleamont Potter”, Fleamont took his hat off, bowing at Euphamina and kissing her hand, all gentleman-like, “But my friends call me Monty”, he purred, looking up through his eyelashes. If her heart was still beating, she could have sworn it would have skipped a beat at how Monty looked at her. She clutched the golden amulet hanging from her neck. Her face felt warm for the first time in centuries. Was she…Blushing?! Surly not, unless it was true about finding your mate, the moment you lock eyes with them, you feel alive….
“Well, Monty.” Effie purred, composing herself, “My name is Euphamina, but my friends call me Effiie.” Monty sighed, falling deeper and deeper in love with her
“Your name is as beautiful as your eyes” Effie knew deep down that Monty was just trapped by her curse of immortality, but another part of her was intrigued to wonder how far this chance would go.
*******
Jay woke up bolting upright, gasping for air, a bright smile on his face. “Barty, they are coming for me! They finally met!” Jay cheered. Barty was still asleep; he didn’t stir. Barty couldn’t understand how Jay could be so happy all the time. The asylum was hell on earth, torture to any soul and yet Barty witnessed a person he could only describe as the sun personified still shining brightly with hope. Jay had hope for the future. He could see into the future. He knew he would get older and meet the love of his life; his father would come for him. But Jay could not see Barty in his future, and Barty hated it. He hated that he might not be free of his hell.
It had been three years. Barty still envied the happiness that radiated from Jay; they were 20 now. The Asylum had fallen under a new governor. He told patients that their cases were to be reviewed. Barty had begged Jay to see if they would be released, but Jay couldn’t explain how his visions worked. He just kept telling Barty to be patient. Barty didn’t see the humour in his words and hit him. They didn’t speak again.
When Jay reached 21, he was forced into a room, standing in her ornate gown with a woman with golden eyes; Jay knew who she was.
“You don’t know me yet, but—”
“You’re my darling Monty’s boy”, she chuckled. She cupped his cheeks he hissed at their coldness. “You’re father has missed you, James. But I suppose you already know what is going to happen.”
“Yes, will it hurt?” James placed his hand atop Effie’s, comforting her. She smiled sadly.
*******
James was 21. He had been 21 for a while, and the year was 1872. James liked his life; he loved his parents, and he loved exploring, yet he had all this love and no one to give it to. Sure, he gave some to Effie and Monty, but he had more to offer. So James pursued his vision of the raven-haired boy with stormy grey eyes. The problem was James had nothing but his vision of the boy drowning or being half-dead in an alleyway to go off, so he was limited to two places to meet him—a body of water or the rough streets of a busy city. So James landed in London. There were the Tames, and it was always full of dodgy ally ways. James also concluded he was looking for an upper-class viscount of some description, so he went through individual boroughs, and something drew him to the burrow of Islington.
It was early spring a lot of the aristocrats of london were still back in their stately mansions until May. one house stood out to James the most it was dirtier than the other uniformed townhouses. Where 11 and 12 had been scrubbed clean of soot, in the middle stood number 12. James wondered if this was the house his friend-to-be was in. The only way of knowing was to knock on the door. So James did. And he waited until a young man answered. He looked no older than 19; his eyes were those stormy greys but sunken in, and he looked like he needed a good meal. His clothes were ill-fitting, and he clutched his ribs as if he was hurt— he was hurt, internal bleeding James could smell the blood.
“If your looking for the Master of the House, he hasn’t returned from the country estate”, He rasped, clinging to the door frame. “As for the lady, she is out shopping.”
“Oh, no, I was looking for you, I think”, James started as he stepped closer to the door. “My name is James Potter. You are?”
“Sirius Black, the third”, Sirius spat his name out as if it was a curse. “I must go” Sirius closed the door on James. James didnt take offence; instead, he just pushed a card through the bottom of the Door inviting Sirius to the gentlemen club he is a regular at.
“Who was it?” Sirius looked up the stairs to his younger brother Regulus. He looked equally as sick and malnourished.
“Some club owner”
“Will you go?”
“Why do you even care if I do.”
“Because you should at least get some freedom before Mother marries you off to someone in France” Regulus leaned against the railing of the stairs looking down at Sirius. “Why do you make her angry, Sirius?”
“I don’t mean to. She just hates me.” Sirius leaned against the wall. “Would you tell her if I left?”
“No, as long as you have fun”, Regulus smiled, erupting into a coughing fit; Sirius raced up the stairs catching his brother.
“You need to rest, come on.”