Chapter Text
- That was the last time William James Moriarty felt alive.
Time was an inconceivable blur to him, and the ticking of the clock didn’t matter. The promise of imminent demise that humans feared so profoundly was lost on William, and that feeling of trepidation over the mystery of what came next was not an emotion that William was capable of.
William didn’t want to die, but he didn’t want to continue living either. It was a vicious cycle, one he was perpetually drowning under, the desperation for release smothering his withered lungs with every second more he spent hiding in the shade and running from suspicious passers-by who came dangerously close to revealing William’s secret.
But William had never encountered another Wraith in his nearly two centuries roaming the Earth as one. He’d only heard of them in old tales told around a fire in the dead of night when the orphans had nothing else to do with their time. The fictitious stories were initially created by parents in an attempt to keep their children from wandering alone at night, but the whispers bled into the groups of slum-dwelling kids.
None of them knew that those creatures from their stories were as real as the flame that kept them warm when the bitter cold tried to strip them of life.
William’s younger brother, Louis, had fallen victim to one of those merciless and bloodthirsty beasts when he was eight years old. Only a year prior, their parents had perished due to disease, and all they had was each other after being orphaned.
Then, after Louis’s death, William was forced to traverse the world by himself, maturing way too fast so that he could survive each day and see the sunrise again. He fled the village after a fatal wave of contagious illness swept over the only place he’d ever known as home, with only a tattered knapsack to hold what of his belongings remained.
He lived off of the scraps of humanity, begging at street corners for even a morsel of food or a crumb of money to afford a piece of bread fresh from the bakery. He thought he was going to die– every hour of every day, he felt the looming presence of death trying to coax him into the curtains of eternal darkness, but William refused to give in. He needed to live; his parents and Louis wouldn’t want him to succumb to the end without a potent fight.
William was doing well. He grew up without a home, constantly travelling so that his scent wouldn’t be burned into the earth and tempt any curious creatures to sniff out his location, setting a series of fires to annihilate any trace of his scent for good measure. Plus, he didn’t want to build a life for himself and fall attached to the location, only for a beast to tear it from his hands in mere seconds.
Anything could happen in this uncertain world. And, without his family to offer protection, he swore to never trust anyone. Anybody could be a ravenous bloodsucker in disguise; William couldn’t afford to take any risks.
For seventeen years, William survived on his own, jumping from shelter to shelter and often going days at a time without food, relying on his sheer willpower to take another breath to get through the unending nights of growling agony, his stomach practically eating itself alive as it simultaneously begged for food. He stole books from libraries and read them when he felt like letting himself die. He taught himself mathematics through those stolen books. He stayed up for nights on end discovering his passion for learning.
Nobody wanted to take in an orphan– and why would they? The aristocrats and royal families didn’t want such filth tarnishing their good name and commoners didn’t possess the necessary resources to take care of a child on the brink of death. To nurse him back to health would sap them of every scrap of wealth they did possess, which already wasn’t a considerable amount, to begin with.
William made a friend, once. His name was Sherlock. What a peculiar name , William had thought upon first meeting the man. He was William’s age. He was beautiful.
Was.
He died two weeks into their partnership due to disease. A curable one, but even with the remains of their coins combined, it still wasn’t enough to be able to afford the cure.
Sherlock died pleading for William to live.
So he did.
He lived.
He lived until he couldn’t fight any further, and even then, he pushed through the hazy cloud of uncertainty and death suffocating his mind and lived. One day, he’d find a place he could call home. One day, he’d find people who were willing to call him his family.
He sacrificed himself to help others. If he stumbled across some poor, helpless waif in the gutters or abandoned alleyways of whichever town he was roaming through, he would offer them some of the limited food he had left.
He could find more, anyway.
William had become adept at theft. He could never stay at any target establishment for very long before he was forced to flee, though. As a result, he always left with only a few new pieces of food to carry with him, but he’d become skilled at making even an apple last for days.
When he felt like giving in to death’s waiting, shadowy-cloaked arms, he remembered his brother.
Louis would want me to live. He would want me to find a home.
Nights were spent on forest floors, his body beaten, battered and bruised down to his bones, staring at the stars– or endless nothing, on cloudy nights– wondering how his life could have been significantly altered if Louis hadn’t been killed that night. If his whole family was able to escape the village, not just William.
Sometimes, he would stare at the carcass of a bear he’d been forced to kill with nothing but a flimsy travelling knife– also stolen, much like most of the essentials in his bag– and wondered if this was all worth it. If there was truly something he was fighting for.
Or if he was fighting a losing battle that had been predetermined from the very beginning. If he was fighting to die .
But Louis, their parents, and Sherlock wanted him to live.
He’d only known Sherlock for two weeks, but while he was with the man, he felt as though they’d known each other for lifetimes. As if they were two souls who had been destined to meet since the stars formed in the endless abyss of space.
But Sherlock was taken from him too soon. The stars had reclaimed him because they knew this cruel, unforgiving planet didn’t deserve someone like him.
Sometimes William wished he was taken along with Sherlock. Hell, he wished he’d been taken along with Louis so he wouldn’t have been forced to ensure this unending, relentless nightmare filled to the brink with starvation and sleepless nights, his cheekbones visible through his hallowed cheeks and his skin permanently bloody and scarred, dirty and soaked in torment.
But he had to keep fighting. He had to. There had to be someone, one single person out there who was willing to take him in. Who would be willing to allow a twenty-five-year-old man into their family, William didn’t know, but one day, a miracle would bless him. He was sure of it.
William wished the nobility would put their disgustingly boundless amount of riches to good use and stop rampant poverty, but no, all they cared about was their fancy parties and expensive jewels. They didn’t bat an eye to the unfortunate; they remained in their little, safe bubble acting as though they were the only living beings in the world.
While they twirled in their luxurious ballgowns and suits inside an exquisite mansion, William was plotting a future where they weren’t in power. Where they were on an equal plane as everyone else, and they couldn’t cowardly hide behind their masquerades any longer.
As William stared at the bird that was cooking over his campfire, his knife still in his hand and still dripping with the bird’s blood, he knew what he had to do.
He just didn’t know how he’d go about slaughtering every sinful aristocrat for the sake of justice.
He should focus on surviving the harsh nights, first.
William thought that he’d live to see thirty, at least.
But he wouldn’t. At least, not as a human.
Instead, he was cursed to live an eternity walking a lonely path of misery.
The night it happened, William had been hours into a restless slumber, sprawled out on the forest floor and hidden behind thick rows of foliage and tree bark. It was a particularly chilly night, the erratic gusts of wind piercing through his fragile skin and causing hundreds of tiny bumps to rise on his arms, and as a result, he wasn’t able to achieve a night of very deep sleep. He was prone to waking up due to the tiniest of noises, such as a squirrel scurrying by. He’d had to snuff out his campfire to avoid drawing any attention to himself, and the blanket he once owned had been lost weeks ago after he’d been robbed by a homeless man in desperate need of warmth.
William didn’t try to steal the blanket back from him. He could just steal another one, whereas the homeless man likely didn’t possess the skill of proficient theft.
Thus, it was no surprise when a rustling of leaves and twigs nearby jerked him awake, the forest still and eerily quiet as William strained his ears and forced his breathing to remain as subtle as possible so he could try and scout out the noise again. He tried to deduce whether it was his imagination, or if danger was approaching. He was no stranger to auditory (and on rare occasions, visual) hallucinations, so he didn’t jump to any conclusions immediately.
His eyes slowly fluttered open as he listened.
Complete silence.
Was the noise a hallucination? That scenario was highly likely, but… something was pricking at the back of William’s mind that alarmed him of impending danger nearby. His mind had become accustomed to detecting when something was a hallucination and when something was an actual threat, and right now, the latter was going haywire.
William did not take comfort in the silence.
Snap.
William flinched but didn’t dare move an inch when another eerie noise echoed through the expanse of the forest. No living creature even risked breathing too loud.
Just stay quiet. Don’t move. Don’t alert it to your location.
It could have been a bear, or some other famished wild animal on the prowl for a juicy meal. William hoped for that case despite it not being ideal. He knew how to fight bears, and he had a little over half a chance of surviving an animal encounter.
The other option guaranteed his death.
His vision blurred at the edges as panic and nausea settled into his chest, because he knew.
He knew.
He’d survived this long. He was a miracle; nobody would have survived as long as he had in his situation.
If a Wraith was near, William was going to die.
Moments passed. Minutes or hours, William couldn’t tell. He could almost hear the ticking of a clock.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Darkness enveloped him, and before he was granted a small window to attempt escape, his neck emitted a loud, sickening crack as a strong, rigid hand seized his hair and yanked him up without a hint of remorse or care.
William choked over his scream, and then he was thrown back onto the ground as if he were a ragdoll. His head slammed against the grass with a thud and a pained grunt ripping from deep in his chest, and his vision spun and blurred in pulses from the impact. He tried to blink away the disorientation, but he found himself powerless. Weak. He struggled to even move his hand to push away the bloodthirsty creature (although trying would be fruitless in the end) and his whole body felt cemented to the ground.
The creature was too fast, anyway. One blink later, and he was pinned to the ground, his organs screaming under the weight of the Wraith’s knee digging into his stomach, just below his ribs, and he struggled for oxygen; every atom in his body worked together to produce mere helpless gasps, failing to give him the strength for much more than a cry for help silenced by his own pain and panic.
“ You –” William strained, his words sounding like he was being strangulated. He choked out another noise as the bloodsucker’s knee pressed further, cutting off his voice altogether, and he felt a hot liquid trickle out of his nose and crawl down the sides of his face, just underneath his ears and pooling at the base of his skull. The creature’s eyes immediately darted to the crimson delicacy.
“Your blood smells obscene,” it spoke, and William didn’t know why he felt a jolt of shock flash through him upon hearing the beast’s voice. He’d been under the impression that they were incapable of speech. “Foul. Like you’ve been feeding on nothing but the flesh of hogs.” Its nostrils flared, and its eyes burned with a fervent need, an insatiable hunger engulfing its cold, dead veins that would never be sated. It curled its lip in disgust, teasing William with a hint of its sharp fangs.
Whether or not William’s blood was as disgusting as it audaciously claimed, it didn’t care. It was starving. It was willing to drink anything as long as it satisfied the hole being gnawed into its stomach.
William squirmed underneath the crushing mass perched over him, finally finding a sliver of strength to raise his arm, but the Wraith was quicker. It snagged William’s wrist, and William jerked at the burst of cold that settled into his blood; it squeezed until a haunting scream ripped from William’s throat, and his wrist snapped and fell stiff in the creature’s iron hold. It carelessly threw William’s arm to the side, and another cry wrenched from him as the pain ignited through his arm, shooting up to his shoulder and sparking white hot in his collarbone.
That same cold hand brutally pressed over his mouth, and the Wraith pressed Williaim’s head into the grass below him. Searing crystalline tears dripped down his cheeks, and despite knowing that he was seconds away from eternal sleep, he used what was left of his vigour and fought.
“ Quiet, ” it hissed. “Stop squirming. Useless filth.”
It lurched William’s head to the side with its hand still smothering his noises and pleas for mercy, baring the expanse of his pale, delectable neck. A free canvas to tear open as it pleased. Beneath the surface, its pilfered life essence; the only substance that was crucial to its existence.
Is this what Louis felt?
He found poetic irony in the fact that the two brothers were going to die in the same fashion. In a way, it was almost… comforting. Knowing that William was going to join Louis soon, they could comfort each other in a way that understood the other’s pain.
Regardless, William fought. Without a second thought, he bit down, hard, into the creature’s palm, but it didn’t budge. Instead, it nestled its face into the crook of his neck, and without a shred of hesitation, bit down into William’s flesh, piercing through multiple layers of skin and muscle, the torturous pressure causing the blond’s whole body to seize and stiffen, and he might’ve alerted someone with his scream of sheer, raw agony had an icy hand not been muffling his prayers for life.
Every gush of blood stolen from him felt even more painful than the last, and evidently, this Wraith had no plans to numb William’s anguish. He’d read about these devils in his indefinitely borrowed books, and although there was limited knowledge recorded on them, he’d learned that their saliva contained a chemical that worked as a numbing agent so their victims wouldn’t feel much pain as they had their lives stolen way too early.
This Wraith did not care for William’s well-being. Selfish, so goddamn selfish, feeding as it pleased.
William was helpless to do anything but clamp his teeth down onto the skin of its palm and pray that he died within the next few minutes. His worst nightmare was to be left, cold and pitiful on the forest floor, writhing and begging for a death that refused to come. He didn’t want to be in agony. He wanted a quick death.
Please. Take me. Let me be with my family and Sherlock.
He whimpered and bit down harder. His senses began to fall hazy, and he knew that the embrace of darkness was coming… finally…
The taste of potent copper flooded his mouth.
Fuck.
Through the pulsing fog suffocating his head, his being ebbing in and out of reality, he remembered one crucial bit of information he’d read in one of his books.
Wraiths aren’t born. They’re made.
If a human consumes Wraith blood, then they will Turn. There is currently no known method to prevent transformation once the blood has been ingested.
No, no, no, no–
No, this couldn’t be happening–
William was unsure if a Wraith’s blood could save a mortal’s life and miraculously offer a second chance at existence, or if the human was required to be in a conscious state to take effect. William was partially still conscious, which made his rapidly draining blood run cold, but he prayed to whatever deities watched over this cruel Earth that it was too late for him to Turn. Prayed that he was too far gone for his blood to absorb the venom.
Please don’t let me suffer. Please let me see my family.
Please, God, kill me.
The creature dragged itself away from his neck, the movement sluggish, as if it already mourned the loss of rich crimson on its tongue, a nauseating string of shiny blood still connecting its lips to William’s mutilated flesh. Its tongue darted out to catch the blood still dripping obscenely from its mouth, and it sighed heavily.
William could feel the throbbing of blood spurting from the wound as the bloodsucker raised to its feet. What a wasteful wretch, thought William, albeit a tad inappropriately. He should not have been thinking that the creature should have drained him dry; it didn’t deserve the luxury.
Without a second glance, or even a sliver of remorse flashing over its features, it spun with grace and disappeared back into the trees, the action like a blink of an eye. One moment it was hovering over its victim’s body, then the next, it had vanished into the night as if it was never there to begin with.
William was dizzy. He squeezed his eyes shut against the spiralling blur of his vision, pulsing with black at the edges, and tried to inhale a full breath, but each attempt was sharply cut short.
His broken wrist throbbed with a dull ache, having already fallen almost entirely numb. He rolled his head to the side, mustering a weak cry.
Why wasn’t he dead yet?
Intense, overwhelming heat tingled through every vein as his eyelids finally felt devastatingly heavy.
Oh, no.
Eternal void and silence consumed him.
Or was it eternal?
~ • ~
What is that?
Is that a person?
Quick! Check to see if he’s alive!
His pulse is weak…
But he’s still alive. Throw him in the chariot!
But he doesn’t look like an aristocrat… he’s wearing scraps.
Noblesse oblige. We can enrich our reputation by helping him.
Do you think helping him will make people forget about Adeline?
Do as I say, Wesley.
Yes, sir.
~ • ~
William awoke in an unfamiliar room, on an unfamiliar bed, wearing unfamiliar clothes.
His first thought was, Where the bloody Hell am I?
His second, more appropriate thought was, How the bloody Hell am I alive?
His eyes remained closed– heavy, they felt heavy, weighed down by the immense burden throbbing through his aching body. An aroma that was downright offensive, flowery and nauseatingly dominant struck his senses. His nose twitched, trying to cower away from the overwhelming scent.
He was sprawled out on a large, abnormally comfortable mattress. No, the ease wasn’t abnormal; William simply was not accustomed to sleeping on anything other than the cold, hard ground. He was not used to waking up decidedly not caked in grime and bugs gnawing at his skin and trying to burrow underneath. By the airy, light feeling in his lower half, he presumed he was wearing some sort of nightgown.
He braced himself for the pain to lick hot up his veins when he moved his arms, only to realize that… the sheer agony never came. The bones in his wrist had been healed so intricately as if they’d never been snapped in the first place. With a groan, he cracked his eyes open, only to flinch at how unexpectedly sensitive they were to the luminescent sunlight flaring in through the large, extravagant window adjacent to him.
He turned his head the opposite way, only to see a boy, likely only just entering adulthood, sitting on a stool beside the bed. William didn’t offer much of a reaction past a slight widening of his eyes, but the stranger’s sudden smile was filled with relief.
“Oh, you’re awake,” he spoke, and William deduced from the accent and architecture surrounding him, that he was still in Albion. Wait… oh, hell, was it known as Britain now? He’d overheard idle murmurs on the streets the previous year claiming that Albion was now relabelled to Great Britain… oh, well. William was going to continue calling it Albion. “You’ve been out for almost two days. You were in rough condition when we found you.”
William didn’t answer immediately. Instead, using what energy he had left in him, he used his stiff arms to push himself to a sitting position, every bone in his body wailed under the pressure, sore and aching deeply from over twenty-four hours of disuse. He folded his arms languidly over his blanketed lap, only to jump when the feeling of his skin shocked him.
Cold.
So cold.
Why was he so cold?
With fear trembling through him, he examined his palms.
Pale. He was already pale from years of malnutrition, but this type of pale was…
Like them.
He observed that his body was miraculously reverted into a fairly healthy weight. His skeleton was no longer poking through his thin skin, and his ribs weren’t on the cusp of shattering, now protected by thick layers of cold, healthy flesh.
Was it healthy? No…
William abruptly seized his neck, the movement so sudden that he could somehow sense the boy with him flinch. There were no wounds, but…
But William remembered.
The excruciating anguish, drowning him in the depths of hell, setting his veins alight and boiling him alive.
The fangs… the blood…
The taste of copper as it flooded his mouth. An unending, unforgiving surge of the curse…
The Wraith.
William was one of them now.
He was doomed to walk alone for eternity.
Maybe I can find a way to–
“Uh, sir?” the boy asked with a nervous chuckle. “Are you all right? Would you like some refreshments?”
William swallowed. He shook his head, opting against facing the boy. He inhaled and tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat. The boy, to his credit, didn’t push him to speak; he was nothing but patient.
William cleared his throat, noting how scratchy his voice was bound to sound.
“I…” He swallowed once more. “I’m… well.”
The boy released a breath. “That’s pleasant to hear. When we found you, you were soaked in blood and you were barely breathing. When I found your pulse, though, my father insisted that we take you home, no matter how weak it was.”
William finally faced the stranger. He had a head full of shaggy, dark brown hair that ended just above his shoulders, framing his boyish features. His face was soft, innocent, with no sharp edges teasing anywhere in his appearance. His eyes were a striking blue against the rich brown of his hair, and William felt compelled to avoid staring into them altogether. The intensity failed to match the rest of his demeanour.
Wesley’s smile was gentle, apprehensive. He likely did not know how to interact with people dragged from the deepest dredges of the slums; an aristocratic family would never allow their precious children to interact with anyone who didn’t adorn themselves in priceless pearls and attire crafted from the flesh of extinct animals.
Despite being uneasy, the boy still maintained a regal exterior: one leg crossed over the other, and his hands folded politely on his lap.
William swallowed for what felt like the hundredth time. “ ‘We’ ?”
“Oh, yes, how improper of me,” the boy acknowledged. “I’m Wesley Roosevelt. Pleased to meet you. Lord Wesley, to you. Oh, and no nauseating nicknames, please. I cannot bear it when my name is shortened so promiscuously, especially from helpless creatures like yourself.”
William was the furthest thing from pleased to meet Wesley. While he was immensely grateful for the warm bed and a roof over his head after twenty-five years of sloughing through the wilderness and hauling himself through towns and cities he couldn’t reside in, an aristocrat’s mansion was the last place he wanted to end up. He would take the muddy alleys over… this. And why was the light so goddamn bright?
Wesley held out his hand, encouraging William to shake it. William pulled his hands tighter against his body. Both because no upper-class member deserved his niceties, but also because he did not want Wesley to feel how cold he was, lest he discover William’s secret.
Defeated, Wesley slowly lowered his hand, the movement stiff and permeating the air between them with uncertainty. In a flash, though, his calm smile returned.
“And you are?”
William contemplated for a moment. “... William.”
Wesley waited, then tilted his head. “No surname?”
Biting the inside of his cheek, William directed his gaze at the blindingly white fabric covering the lower half of his body. He shook his head, and that wasn’t a lie. Well, he wasn’t exactly sure if his statement was accurate or a fabrication… truthfully, embarrassingly, he didn’t remember if he, Louis and their parents had a surname. The topic was scarcely brought up, and by the time they were old enough to ask what their surname was, it was too late. Their parents were buried under the dirt, never to speak a word again.
He was ashamed of himself for forgetting.
“Ah, that’s not surprising. Those… people from the slums don’t typically fool around with basic identifiers such as surnames. Too busy scrounging for scraps to even care about how old their mate is. As long as he or she helps find a crumb of sustenance, who cares?”
William narrowed his eyes, a warning twinkling in his irises. This boy reeked of privilege, and if William had doubts about his aristocratic status before, they evaporated the second Wesley uttered people as if it was a filthy word, and his mother was going to wash his mouth out with a bar of soap shoved down his throat for even thinking of the term to describe humans lower than them.
Initially, by the innocent glint in Wesley’s eyes, William had a small, shimmering hope in the pit of his stomach that maybe he was an orphan adopted into this noble family and understood William’s pain. However, it was glaringly clear that he’d been taught warped information since his birth: that the lower class was human filth staining the Earth, and that the upper class ruled the land.
William curled his lip. “What do you want from me?”
Wesley tilted his head. “Who says we want anything? Can’t we do the noble deed of saving a man from his certain demise?”
“You hate me.”
“Now, now, William. Don’t make assumptions. That is very indecent. And you’ve already offended our estate enough with the grime we had to scrape from your skin.”
William grimaced at the use of his name on this noble’s tongue. He promptly thought about how much he missed his name on Sherlock’s tongue. But Sherlock was long gone, and William had been forced to bury him with his own bare hands and no tools, only digging his fingers through the dirt and dealing with the unpleasantness that came with having grime shoved underneath his nails.
He’d stayed by Sherlock’s crude grave for several days, talking to the pile of dirt as if Sherlock could still hear him and respond. Sherlock never answered. He was only a few feet below the surface, as William did not possess the strength to dig any deeper, and the temptation to shovel the corpse out of the hole was substantial.
William forced himself to leave before he could make any impulsive decisions.
Just as he was right now. He was fighting the urge to say something that might have tipped Wesley off, and William was deeply aware of the crimes aristocrats could get away with simply because of their status. He would not be shocked if this family had the means to slaughter Wraiths. The chances were high. Death by aristocratic hands was the most pathetic and humiliating way to go.
William picked at the sleeves of the clean, eerily perfect nightgown. “Why did you save me?”
Wesley’s smile was unwavering. “Noblesse oblige. We have all of this power, so why not use it for good?”
William eyed Wesley up and down with a suspicious glint in his eye. Wesley’s words weren’t lining up… he was speaking as if William was the ultimate burden and that cleaning the grime from his skin was a feat that risked them burning in the deepest depths of hell when they died, but he was simultaneously uttering some ideology that their power should have been used to help the less fortunate.
Acting. This was all acting, and Wesley was doing an abhorrent job at it.
William let a loud, heavy sigh pass his lips. “I’m twenty-five years old. Adopting me isn’t necessary.”
“Who said anything about adopting you?” Wesley asked, and William could hear the crack in his demeanour; he was disgusted by the thought of having William as his brother, evident in the way his tone raised an offended pitch. “We’re simply offering you shelter. Generously at that.”
William folded his lips over his teeth, contemplating his options. On one hand, he could show gratitude and kneel at Wesley’s feet to show his utmost appreciation, but William had a shred of dignity left in him even after being drained dry and making the foolish decision to get himself Turned. He would not subject himself to such humiliation.
He swallowed his true desires and took a deep breath. Perhaps he could collect as many resources from this family as they could, and then flee after a week. Just enough to last him about two weeks without needing to commit theft once more.
“How long are you going to house me?”
“Until you give us reason to throw you back into the streets.” He said it without hesitation. Without even a beat between William’s question and his answer. As if it was planned. Rehearsed.
It was a lie to ease William’s concerns. Wesley and his family were scheming something more vile, more sinister than their polite exterior let on.
Still, William wasn’t afraid. He had the curse of eternal existence flowing hot through his veins, after all.
“All right,” he conceded. “Thank you for your generosity.”
~ • ~
William’s fingertips grazed the subtly bumpy texture of the wallpaper as he wandered aimlessly down one of the innumerable, grand hallways in the Roosevelt estate. He’d been granted a few outfits and shown to his room, which was significantly smaller than the one he’d woken up in. When he’d stepped inside, his finite fabrics slung over one arm, he quickly realized how much these people didn’t care for him as much as they claimed.
The room appeared to be strewn together in haste mere minutes before William arrived, and haphazardly polished as he conversed with Wesley. To keep up appearances, no doubt. To maintain the facade of an innocent, flawless aristocratic family. A small bed shoved into the corner, a dresser with two drawers and a candelabra perched in the middle against the opposite wall, and a window with translucent curtains hanging carelessly in front of it.
At least its smell wasn’t repulsive.
William deserved better treatment than this.
I could kill them right here.
That thought invaded his head more times in the past four hours than he cared to admit. It was as if an animalistic urge had implanted itself deep into his bones, and his new and unfamiliar instincts were crying out to be heard and fed. He needed to eat, needed to soak these posh bastards’ blood into his veins and reclaim his strength. William needed to shine with his newfound power; if only he’d let the poison painting his flesh take complete control.
He was still holding onto the fruitless, foolish hope that he wasn’t completely gone. There had to be some part of himself that was still human, right? William couldn’t let go of his humanity. He clung onto the last bit of human-esque sympathy that fought to pulse within him.
Deep down, he knew that the old William was dead. Buried beneath eons’ worth of rubble, never to be reincarnated as someone blessed with a chance at a better life.
William halted in his steps in front of a large painting. Framed in immaculately carved gold, a man sat, produced with the most luxurious of paint, with a certain sternness burdening his expression. Unwelcoming, was William’s first impression. He looked similar to Wesley– perhaps what Wesley was inevitably going to grow into. Wrinkles creased his cheeks and around his eyes, but despite the aged features, he exuded a peculiar passion that set the canvas alight. His hair was slightly longer and shaggier than Wesley’s, but somehow simultaneously appeared to be more kempt. As if the messiness was a stylistic, meticulous choice.
Much like Wesley’s eyes, William couldn’t stare at the painting’s eyes for too long.
His eyes drifted to the nameplate carved into the bottom of the frame.
“Charles Roosevelt…” William muttered to himself, but despite the quiet words, they still managed to echo across the empty hallway. “Must be the viscount…” Wesley’s father.
William felt feral, molten hatred boil through his body the longer he stared. I bet his blood is bitter. I need it.
Upon being struck with the unseemly craving, William snapped his head back and forth and slapped his temple with the heel of his hand.
“God… damn it,” he cursed. He picked at the sleeves of the outfit he’d chosen to adorn (again, it wasn’t like he had much of a selection to choose from) and sighed. The attire merely consisted of a white top that puffed out at the bottom of the sleeves and some brown trousers that were a size too small, and scratchy in addition to the suffocation in his blood flow. Still, he wasn’t going to complain too much about being offered a fresh outfit after years of relying on river water and the occasional stolen bar of soap to wash his own.
“Just what are you doing, peasant?”
William flinched as a deep voice rang through the hall. As he spun on his heel, he’d realized who had found him even before he laid eyes on the man. Roughly the same height as William, Charles Roosevelt took confident, calculated steps toward him, trained in aristocratic etiquette and refusing to drop the disguise of propriety. Footsteps reverberated through the cavernous space, and despite his mind telling him to flee, William planted his feet and refused to let the viscount intimidate him out of the freedom to investigate his new home.
“Exploring,” William answered as the noble drew closer. “I simply wish to learn the layout of my new residence. Is that forbidden?”
“You’re alone,” Charles said as he slowed his steps, ensuring he kept a safe distance from William. It would be a great tragedy if William’s filth rubbed off on him, after all. “You should have Wesley with you.”
“I could not find him in such an expansive place,” William lied, and it was as easy as breathing. Well… as easy as breathing had been, before. When he was still human. Truthfully, seeking out Wesley was the furthest thing from the front of his mind. “So, I decided to wander around on my own.”
Charles offered William a once over, and then repeated the action, slower this time. “What are you attempting to find?”
William was genuinely confused by that question. With furrowed brows, he tilted his head. “What am I trying to find?”
“You people from the slums are always scrounging for something.” Charles scowled. “Something to steal. Something to kill.”
I’m not the one who has a bloodlust for the less fortunate, William thought. Rather than voicing his undoubtedly unwelcome opinion, he inhaled deeply. “I’m in unfamiliar territory. With all due respect, it’s natural to wish for knowledge of its arrangement.”
Charle’s nose scrunched, distasteful of William’s words. He detested that William was intelligent and didn’t only speak in naive statements. William possessed the ability and courage to argue, and he wasn’t afraid to show it. The regret of taking him in was painted all over Charle’s face.
“Wesley is going to take you on a tour tomorrow,” Charles informed him. “Do you not trust us?”
The defensiveness thick in the air was making the Roosevelt family more and more suspicious as the seconds ticked past. Every word that left Charles’s mouth was incriminating, and William safely filed the information away for later.
“It’s nothing of the sort,” William assured, smiling. “My curiosity is vibrant. I’ve never lived in such an extravagant location.”
Charles huffed. “Peasants don’t know the joys of luxury.” He crossed his arms. “They’re too foolish to understand how to earn a living. It’s a surprise you’re not dead.”
William’s smile was strained, quivering at the edges. Kill him. Drink his blood.
No . William could not let himself sink under the weight of his hunger. That hunger that wasn’t him. Couldn’t be him. And he wouldn’t let it be him.
Charles continued without giving William the chance to respond. “Your trousers are too small.”
William chuckled, and Charles directed a disapproving eyebrow arch his way for such an evidently offensive sound. “You and your family offered me this attire. It would be impolite of me to refuse. I’m not uncomfortable.” More lies. Anything to make the nobles happy.
“... I’ll have Wesley get you a new pair,” Charles said. “We cannot risk you being spotted from a window. Are you aware of the scandal that would arise should someone be seen wearing anything other than absolute perfection in an aristocrat’s home? We generously offered you a place to stay, and in return, we expect you not to be a liability to our reputation.”
This man sure delighted in talking, William noted. The beginning of a headache was blooming, and that pain alone sparked a sliver of hope inside of William’s heart that perhaps there was still a small part of him that was human.
“Understood, sir.”
“Come with me. I’m taking you back to your room.”
William held back a sigh of disappointment. Fighting back would be pointless. “Apologies for wandering off on my own.”
Charles grunted a noise that dripped with venomous disapproval. He didn’t speak as he led the way back to William’s cage, and William’s chest was rising with the temptation to be stubborn and continue his journey in the other direction, his curiosity even more intense and unforgiving now that Charles had made himself and his family more suspicious than they already had been.
However, he did not let his stubbornness win. He forced his feet to follow, their combined footsteps echoing ghostly throughout the hallway.
He wondered how much longer he would last before his ravenous hunger bubbled over and killed one of these aristocrats.
William was not as bothered by the thought as he should have been.
~ • ~
A week later, company came in the form of an unexpected knock on William’s door.
The Roosevelts hadn’t exactly been making an effort to interact with William, opting to do the bare minimum of occasionally handing him a plate of leftovers from their dinner so he didn’t starve to death behind their walls.
William was never satisfied with those meals. The portion sizes weren’t the issue; he could have joined them for a luxurious feast filled with meats and fruits of the finest quality, and he felt deep in his bones that he still would not have been able to satiate his hunger.
Perhaps it was because he hadn’t eaten food off of a plate in fifteen years, but food… didn’t taste the same as it once had. Potatoes were an easy vegetable that William often stole, but now, they tasted bitter. Nauseating. William managed to swallow every morsel he was offered, but his enjoyment was low. Nonexistent, even.
You need blood. Why are you denying yourself what you need?
Because William did not need blood. He was half-human, at least, and he was going to act like it. Never mind the fact that he enjoyed the chunks of rare steak he’d been given yesterday substantially more than anything else he’d consumed in the past few days, simply because the blood that oozed onto his tongue felt like ascending to the highest part of Heaven.
William looked up from one of the books he’d stolen several years ago. The piece of literature had quickly became his favourite when he’d read it for the first time, and while he typically could not read a book more than once without falling bored, this book had managed to bypass his standards and had proven itself worthy of being consumed multiple times without the risk of tedium.
“Blondy? Are you in there?” Wesley’s voice sounded from the other side of the door.
William hesitated. While Wesley had been treating him the best out of his family, that didn’t mean he had been treating William well. His parents delighted in making comments while they thought William couldn’t hear (or to his face sometimes), and Wesley just gave William weary looks, as far as William knew. Wesley likely spoke ill of William while he wasn’t present, though, so William wasn’t going to give Wesley the benefit of the doubt.
William bit his lip, deep in contemplation. His fingers tightened on the edges of his book. His knuckles turned white.
“No,” he eventually answered, partially in an attempt at sardonic humour, but also partially testing whether or not Wesley was foolish enough to believe him. Perhaps Wesley had forgotten what William’s voice sounded like and would assume one of their butlers had snagged a room to rest in.
Wesley snickered instead. “You think you’re such a jester, huh?” he said, an equal amount of cynicism dripping from his voice. “May I come in?”
“No.”
The door creaked open as Wesley completely disregarded William’s privacy. “Wrong answer.”
Wesley was underdressed. The lack of layers was the first thing William noticed; typically, the young noble was adorned in at least three layers of upper garments, looking more fit to be a royal than an aristocrat. Tonight, however, he was simply draped in a white, loose blouse with a criss-cross pattern at the chest. His trousers were a simple brown, much like William’s own, though undoubtedly more intricately tailored and monumentally more valuable.
Wesley leaned on the archway with his arms crossed, and the unyielding scrutiny he sent William’s way made the orphan shift uneasily from where he sat in the corner of his bed. “What are you doing?”
“Reading.” William wasn’t in the mood to entertain answers longer than a single word.
Wesley didn’t take the hint. “You can read? I always figured peasants couldn’t read.”
William sneered. “I taught myself. I’m more skilled than you aristocrats assume. Don’t underestimate me.”
Wesley’s eyes shone with a dangerous thrill. “Oh? You have some confidence, peasant.”
“Do you need something, Lord Wesley?” The name was bitter on his tongue.
“Am I not allowed to be courteous to our newest family member?”
“Family member.” William scoffed. “Is that what I am?”
“We give you dinner.”
“Scraps,” William corrected. “You offer me scraps from your feasts.”
“It’s more than you deserve.”
William rolled his eyes. He couldn’t stop himself from making the rude gesture. “May I return to my literature in peace?”
“Be careful with how you address me, William,” Wesley warned. “... I want to show you something.”
William arched a brow. This was definitely a trap. Still, curiosity seeped into his nerves and controlled his mouth before his rationale could. “An interesting request, indeed.”
“It isn’t a request. It’s a demand. You’re coming with me.”
William smirked. “Wouldn’t your father be upset if he saw you spending time with the orphan? Oh, what a tragedy that would be. We’d be publicly executed in front of the entire town.”
“Correction: you would be publicly executed in front of the entire town,” Wesley interjected without missing a beat. “I’d likely merely receive a lecture I won’t pay attention to.”
William detested to admit it, but he was biting back a smile. This banter was veering too closely to his and Sherlock’s banter, and, well, he knew how that relationship ended. In flames.
William could argue that he didn’t die the day the Wraith mauled him apart, tearing his blood from his body with no remorse. He’d died the day Sherlock closed his eyes for the last time.
“What will happen to me if I refuse to follow you, Lord Wesley?”
“You don’t want to find out.” If William hadn’t known any better, Wesley’s statement sounded almost teasing. William didn’t allow himself to believe as much.
“You drive a hard bargain,” William said. “Death might be a better option than being shoved in here, being served scraps only a sliver of a step above what I had been consuming previously.”
Wesley’s sneer was awful. However, a second later, the expression cracked into something more… desperate. Pleading was not a word William wanted to use to describe his gaze, but no other adjectives would accurately describe the saddened glint that tinged his irises. William also did not want to admit the guilt that settled in his stomach.
“... please?”
William blinked to make sure he hadn’t lost his mind. Then he blinked once more and shook his head.
“I beg your pardon?” He hadn’t meant for it to sound so rude. “Would you kindly repeat that?”
Wesley scoffed, his eyes rolling upwards in an insolent, arrogant show of aggravation. “Never mind. If you don’t wish to join me, all right. Good night, peasant.”
Wesley spun, and as much as William tried to fight it, he slammed his book shut and leapt to his feet, effectively halting Wesley in his departure. The noble didn’t spare William more than a subtle glance over his shoulder.
Against his better judgement; against every instinct screaming at him not to, William took a deep breath, then said:
“I’ll join you.”
As much as Wesley tried to stubbornly hide his delight, William saw past his deception and spotted the hint of happiness that lit up his eyes. William bit down a smile, not wanting to give Wesley any of his pleasantries. He hadn’t earned William’s respect yet, and likely never would. William was curious, and deep down, he knew that he possessed the ability to protect himself despite how weak his body still was.
Even if his conscious mind refused to admit it, his subconscious knew what he was.
The Wraith’s instincts were lingering beneath the surface, scorching his nerves and edging to the forefront of William’s mind. William could fight a little longer. He knew he was strong enough.
Wesley cleared his throat and turned back to the doorway, still hanging open. “Well, follow me, then. And don’t get lost.” William hadn’t expected the sudden fiery warning saturating Wesley’s tone to strike him so brutally, but the intensity alone was enough to convince William to obey. Curiosity grew stronger, more potent and more challenging to ignore, but William trailed behind the aristocrat much like a trained dog would, and didn’t wander off.
As they rounded a corner a few minutes into the journey through the sickeningly extravagant corridors, William dared to speak:
“Lord Wes–”
“ Quiet,” Wesley hissed, an almost flawless mimic of what the Wraith had spat at him a week prior. William shuddered as the vision of the bloodthirsty demon crushing his body into the ground flashed across his vision. “I can’t be seen with you.”
“How kind,” William muttered, sardonically. “You know how to make someone feel welcome.”
“ Shut up.”
William obediently silenced himself.
Eventually, the methodic but tedious echo of their footsteps through barren hallways came to a halt in front of a darker, eerie passageway. It was no less exquisitely maintained, with divinity carved into the domed ceiling and pillars lining the walls, but it was smaller and more cramped than the others. Though it was ostensibly taken care of to some extent, it seemed as though only maids wandered down here. The marble told no tales of aristocrats stepping down here in their luxurious heels, not a whisper about them brushing their proud fingers against the pristine wallpaper.
The corridor was empty. Even maids were wary about venturing down here.
Wesley peeked around the corner, scanned the area, then glanced back at William with a nod to beckon him forward. Without seeing if William would continue following him down into the cryptic hallway, Wesley began treading onward, but William paused at the threshold.
“Uh, Lord Wesley?” William said, and Wesley didn’t reprimand him for daring to breathe too loud this time. “Where exactly are you taking me?”
Wesley paused and spared William a look over his shoulder. “You don’t trust me?”
“Not in the slightest,” William retorted, the honesty a bit too rich.
Wesley smirked. “Then why have you followed me this far?”
William remained quiet for a moment. He wasn’t sure how to respond to that inquiry. Truthfully, he hadn’t the faintest idea why he’d blindly followed Wesley this far. He wanted so badly to convince himself that it was naive curiosity that led him this far; however, that wasn’t the case.
He didn’t detest Wesley as much as he desired to. Out of all his family, he wasn’t… awful. He recalled Charles muttering obscenities about how William was just “goddamn filth trekking mud through the house” and Wesley’s mother, Edith, scoffing to her husband about how William was “going to rub off on poor Wesley” , but Wesley never exactly talked behind William’s back. He’d been honest with William thus far, even if the truth was less than pleasant, and, well, Wesley’s compassionate side seemed to be… intriguing.
Perhaps William wished to draw out his gentleness and see what was really beneath that noble mask.
Still, though, William was going to be alert and cautious. Don’t let Wesley get too close to him. William was inevitably going to leave anyway, so why bother befriending this arrogant aristocrat?
With a huff, William’s shoulders sagged in defeat. “If I die, you won’t see a moment of peaceful slumber.”
“Ooh, how spooky, Mr. Orphan.”
William’s sneer was only halfhearted, his exasperation long since settled into his bones and exhausted his urge to feel irritated. He just wanted to be out of here, damn it . He just had to entertain Wesley’s ridiculous wishes for a bit. That wasn’t too difficult.
Wesley didn’t waste another breath. As soon as William made to continue following, the young noble took long strides down the hall. William could have sworn he heard the squeak and skittering of a mouse in the walls.
Wesley stopped in front of a nondescript door. Wesley pawed at the wood, feeling it out as if he was searching for something specific, and then his hand landed on the copper knob, and a small, triumphant sound left his throat… wait, could Wesley not see the door at all? William conceded that it was a bit dark, but it wasn’t that dark, was it…?
“What’s–”
An awful noise cracked through the corridor as Wesley turned the knob, effectively cutting off anything William dared to utter, and a cry of distress from the door’s hinges followed suit as the door was slowly nudged open; the dust that peppered the air between them told William that this room hadn’t been entered in a considerable length of time, if ever.
Wesley smiled at William. “After you.”
William narrowed his eyes. “You are trying to kill me.”
Wesley chuckled, the sound airy. “I’m jesting. Come on.”
The stairs screamed for mercy, and William almost took pity on the poor items, had they possessed even a sliver of sentience. Hell, the creaky noises they were producing made William believe that they might have had some sentience to them. He’s so worried about being seen with me, yet all of these noises will alert his parents to us more than my voice ever would, William thought, uncertain if he was amused or uneasy by the hypothesis. Likely an unholy amalgamation of both.
William’s foot slowly lowered to the first step, and the obscene sound was equally as dreadful the second time around.
“Gods damn it, I should have brought a torch…” Wesley was muttering in a hushed, frustrated whisper, but William only tilted his head in confusion.
“Are you quite all right? Do you require an appointment with a doctor to get your eyes checked, perhaps?”
Wesley threw a warning scowl his way. “Is this your poor attempt at humour?”
“No?” William tilted his head in the opposite direction, genuine confusion soaking his being. “It isn’t too dark.”
“Ha.” Wesley rolled his eyes and focused on descending into what William presumed was the basement. “Right, I see. You’re trying to convince the aristocrat that he’s lost his mind. Very amusing.” A pause, and then, “You can see down here? Truly?”
“Mmhm.”
“... fascinating.” The word was quiet, as if Wesley foolishly attempted to hide his intrigue from the poor wretch he’s saved the life of.
“Where are you taking me, Lord Wesley? I cannot help but feel as though you are leading me directly to my demise.”
Wesley snorted. “I would have killed you long ago if I wished such a cruel fate for you.”
William swallowed, unsure what he should have done with that information.
Eventually, the stairs broke off into a long hallway adorned with sconces of extinguished torches lining the walls down into darkness not even William could see clearly into, and William tilted his head. Wesley cursed under his breath as he blindly felt around for something in the void, until a scrape, followed by a splashing noise emitted from a bit ahead of William as Wesley presumably kicked the desired object. A bucket filled almost fully with liquid, William noted.
“ Damn, ” Wesley hissed. He retrieved one of the torches from the wall, tucked it under his arm as he dug through the breast pocket of his shirt, and then dipped the torch into the mysterious fluid when he retrieved a small item. He pressed the small piece of wood into the concrete wall and scratched it down and down again, a repetitive, irksome melody, and William realized he was trying to ignite it to set the wettened rags ablaze.
“You’re not pressing hard enough,” William commented. He dared to step up to the noble, who scowled at the pathetic excuse of a man trying to criticize a noble, but ultimately, he didn’t demand that William back off. With a shaky, uncertain hand, William plucked the splinter from Wesley’s hold, shocked by Wesley’s willingness to allow him this close. A shimmer of mutual surprise glazed over Wesley’s eyes as well.
Effortlessly, as if he were breathing again, William struck the wood against the wall, and a small flame erupted from the frayed tip, flickering with a frail will to live; shadows danced across the curves of Wesley’s face, and William offered a gentle smile.
“This is what you wished to accomplish, yes?”
Wesley’s eyes scrutinized the flame, likely searching for a way he could accuse William of being incompetent, but he silently snatched the splinter without making even a halfhearted attempt to be deceptively polite. He brought the flame to the rags and set them alight, a much heartier flame bursting to life between them, and William felt the unexplainable urge to recoil as far away from the burning life as physically possible. How… peculiar. He’d felt the sensation of danger when he was holding the tiny splinter, too, but the feeling wasn’t dizzying. Now, though, he was fighting an internal bloody battle to remain planted on the floor. If Wesley noticed his turmoil, he decided against making any snide comments.
“Lovely. If you’ll please.” Wesley spun on his heel and continued down the corridor. William’s steps had grown slow, hesitant. Unease filled his chest with the knowledge that he was utterly ignorant of where Wesley was leading him. His Wraith instincts and human instincts were bashing heads, unable to meet a compromise and sending William into a downward spiral into the endless abyss of his mind, too crowded and claustrophobic to form a single coherent thought.
“Hurry along, now. You don’t want rats nipping at your feet, do you?”
“A basement in an estate such as this should be properly maintained,” William retorted. “It should not have rats.”
Wesley snorted. “The maids aren’t allowed down here. Additionally, even if they were, they are too cowardly to venture down here. It’s a shame, really. So much wasted space…”
“What are you hiding?”
Wesley stopped short, the movement sharper than a keen blade. William felt the tension slice through him, white-hot and agonizing, and the message slammed into the pit of his cold stomach: ask again, and your tongue will become acquainted with my knife.
William shivered, an awful dread settling into his veins.
“... we’re here.” Wesley directed his attention to another door, lifting the light to it. William joined Wesley’s side, and though William could hear his laboured breaths in painstaking detail, he didn’t withdraw. Instead, he flattened his palm against the door, and pushed, opting to ignore the dusty, decrepit golden handle. He stepped inside, and William awaited permission to follow. He felt pathetic, sitting and waiting for commands, but he didn’t delight in the thought of being on Wesley’s bad side.
Wesley threw the torch into a hearth carved into the left wall, and the space erupted into what William could only assume was brilliant illumination (considering little changed for his sight; the room became a hint brighter, but, quite honestly, that was a mere suggestion of increased intensity), and then tilted his head at William.
“Well?” he urged. “Are you coming? I don’t bite.” A flicker of inquisitive contemplation flashed over Wesley’s face, but it disappeared in an instant, so quick that William was almost convinced he’d imagined it.
“I'm not entirely sure I believe that,” William said. Though, despite his incredulity, he stepped inside. Finally, he fully absorbed the space and its extravagant, ravishing design, and he couldn’t bite down the small gasp of awe that left him. Buried deep beneath the Roosevelt Estate was a cavernous library filled floor-to-ceiling with shelves, the books containing eons’ worth of knowledge, William was sure; the blond was suddenly famished and a fervent need to hide away this room for the rest of his life shuddered through his body.
The archive hadn’t been graced with human presence in some time, the infinite rows of innked paper never being consumed, and William found a strange beauty in the lonely place. Dust and cobwebs shadowed the vast collection, some strings of white even spreading to the high ceiling.
Wesley caught part of a sticky cobweb on his finger and studied it briefly before shaking it off, letting it drift to the floor.
“William.” Wesley was abruptly in front of him. William startled. He didn’t feel his heartbeat accelerate as it should have if he were human.
“Lord Wesley,” William said, “why have you brought me here?”
Wesley remained silent. His eyes darted down, analyzing William’s form, then focused on his face once more. William squirmed under the scrutiny, the feeling of euphoria shattering into discomfort before William had a chance to appreciate the warmth blooming inside of him.
Then, five words left Wesley’s mouth that had William’s soul running cold:
“I know what you are.”