Outside of the local dosshouse, an envelope is slipped under the door of the spartan room where a young man lays back, exhaling plumes of smoke that ensorcell his mind. The deep nothingness that was so welcoming was interrupted by the messenger's rather insistent pounding on the door. A rhythmic, heavy thudding only reminded the young lad of the burgeoning pain in his head.
"I hear you, damn you, I hear you... Alex said, slithering off of his bed and barely remembering how to take the form of a proper man. His latest conquest, a girl who remained better unnamed, slept deeply in the thin, bare cot beside him. The little stove nearby had gone cold as the rays of morning light pierced through, chilling the air and skin alike. Alex opened the door, ready to curse the cur that dared wake him from such wonderful slumbers. The stark hallway remained empty, despite the last strike resonating right before his very own face.
"Curious." Alexander murmured, closing the door. As he stepped, the crinkle of paper was heard and he looked down to find an envelope laying upon the ground. Lifting it, his glassy-eyes widened at the symbol of his home imprinted in the red candlewax. Cutting the paper open, he retrieved the elegantly written paper and read over it with squinted eyes. He then read it over again. A third time. "Impossible...me?" Alexander muttered, tossing the paper onto the desk.
"Wh-what is it darling? Come back to bed." The girl in his bed muttered. Last night, her hair reminded him of Annabelle. Today, the light cast her in all the wrong ways. A mirror stretched profanely to fit the dreams and nightmares he longed for.
"Nothing. And no, no more bed. Get yourself dressed and gone. Oh, I lied about there being breakfast served. My apologies." The girl sat up, covering what little remained of her modesty, before throwing his tin cup at him with all the force she could muster. He ducked down as he buttoned his shirt, paying her and the litany of profanities that escaped her lips no mind. His focus was entirely on that letter, on that dreaded symbol of family, blood, and terrible disappointment. Before she could find his bucket full of unmentionable liquids and throw that at him as well, he was out the door and onto the streets.
The thoughts of the old manor consumed his mind entirely throughout the day, even as his small entourage of poets, sycophants, rakes, and would-be lovers talked amidst themselves and to him. Would he even remember its hallways? He was so young when he was made man of the branch, left to take care of so many things. An inheritance, a terrible burden, all crushing down on him. All he wanted to do was paint and make what he saw in his mind into reality.
"...gonna do?" The voice said, gruff and inquisitive. A silence had filled the room before Alexander noticed it, his remaining eye lifting in a questioning arch. All the faces there were looking upon him like a savior.
"The blind leading the lost." Alexander thought, clearing his throat as he shifted in the worn seat in what was once a beautiful chapel that had suffered immensely in the fire of last year. Now it was hollowed out, a resting place for ruffians, addicts, and whores. "What was that?" He asked, his tone accusatory in order to not let the others think that they had caught him off-guard.
"W-w-well, boss, you have tha' fancy invitation yeah? To your family's 'ome? Ya going?" Hank asked, the large man almost more than half bigger than Alexander. The scar on his cheek to his lip from a blade, a relatively fresh one, was a reminder of who was in charge here. Even amidst criminal scum, a Rookwood must soar. The others eagerly awaited to hear their man's plan or witness the scolding that was certain to be delightful.
"I don't think I will." Alexander answered, his voice nonchalant. It was an unexpected and potentially disappointing answer but it made the room crave to learn why. "What can they offer me that I don't already have? If I wished to be spit on, I rather pay Lucy over there to do it." The waifish girl curtsied, earning a quick chorus of laughter. Hank's face was still concerned though.
"Fair'nough, fair'nough, but...what if she left you money boss? A lot of it?" Hank asked, the room's laughter dying down. It was a possibility. His grandmother was quite well off and the Rookwood Family always seemed to have more coin than sense.
"You just want me to buy for you Hank. Debt collectors coming for your knees with boys bigger than you?" Hank laughed nervously, shaking his head.
"Nah, nah, I just...I just think it is good to make right with the dead. Maybe something good will come from you family?" Hank mused, grinning at the kind thought. His grin died on his face as he met the cold, angry stare that still shined through the haze of opiates.
"Listen closely and listen well; the only good thing my family did was show me to Annabelle. Their hatred, their intolerance, set me free. It showed me what freedom could, what happiness could be, what love could be...what dark melancholy could be..." Silence filled the room. All knew not to speak about Annabelle, a sore point as ever in the young man's life. "No, nothing good would come of it. Rookwood does not know 'good'. It does not know 'kind'. It only knows blood, of both body and mind." Alexander said cruelly, shrugging away the pain as he reached for the pipe.
"Maybe there is someone you'll miss!" Lucy said, not reading the room at all. A few hissed her down and a worried look spread across her face. Alexander watched her for just a moment before lighting the pipe, his calm and unreadable face illuminated by gentle fire before smoke poured from his nose while his mind dived deep.
Back at his flat, the room tidied up barely but still smelling of opium, piss, and worse, Alexander sat at his ramshackle desk once more. Fingers traced the fine parchment. It would be quickly consumed in the fire, gone from his mind's eye completely. Yet his hands reached into the desk and pulled out a few other letters. They were written in fine calligraphy, practiced but not perfect. Words that carried strange emotions upon them; encouragement, trust, and affection. The letters from Claire had kept him going in his darkest moments, giving him a reason to stay awake and alive each month. Would she be there?
The thought of her being alone with the numerous vipers of his family troubled him greatly. Removing a piece of floorboard, he collected his stash of coin and made his way downstairs to pay his accumulated tab before calling for a carriage. He would not let her manage alone, even if it meant being by those most despised. He could endure them, he endured far worse. Maybe it was a chance for redemption?
That hopeful voice was quickly smothered by a cruel laugh to himself as Alex stepped into the carriage and gave it directions. The Rookwoods were not good. The Rookwoods were not kind. Most importantly, the Rookwoods would never forget.
The carriage had trotted along paved roads in the city before moving upon the dirt trails of the paths beyond the magnificent center of cultures and to the home of backward villages and insular bloodlines. It was in these dark, outer reaches that the Rookwoods grew in influence, power, and infamy. They were both respected and feared, gossiped of and envied. Even though the noble house had suffered, there was still strength in their name.
As the carriage crested the hill, the first thing his eyes were drawn to was the monolithic and imperial estate upon the hillside in the distance. His hairs stood up on edge as he gazed upon his family manor. Even in the afternoon rays of light, their home seemed to draw in the light and snuff it. An impossible shadow lingered there, a stain that could not be seen but Alexander felt it in his bones. He reconsidered his thoughts for a moment but only just for a moment.
As they travelled further, the quaint town that lived in his family's metaphorical and literal shadow came to view. Old cobblestone, so beaten into the ground to almost have no difference than smooth stone now, bounced the carriage lightly as they pulled into town. It was as if time had not passed here, everything still very much the same yet somehow strangely different. Alexander could remember running with his cousins through the streets, the shrill cries of excitement and the searing burn of skinned knees. The memory brought the gentlest smile as he looked out the window to see Manferd's Butchers, the place they would sneak into for prime bits of jerky before being chased by the portly man's beast of a dog. His knees hated him that day but it was better than being ripped apart.
The carriage soon arrived at the local tavern and inn known as "The Sentry's Rest". Named after being a strategic location in a long since ended war, the soldier loved the land around him so much that he asked the Rookwoods for an investment. That same family, the Tarhallows, owned the establishment to this day thanks to that investment. If Claire was going to be anywhere in town, it'd likely be here.
"Here were are, Sir Alexander." The wizened coach driver wheezed. Alexander stepped out of the carriage himself, sparing the old man the task of taking his few bags and belongings. A handful of coin was exchanged with a sizable tip before the coachman began to ride towards the stable up ahead. "My condolences to you and yours. May your family find peace." The man said as he left, earning a wave of thanks.
"Let us hope most of them lost their invitations." Alexander whispered, hefting his two bags and taking his cane under his arm. With a moment to breathe, he stepped through the doors and into history.
