Adult-FanFiction.org : Anime

Shadows of the Night	By : KitsuneNoMari Category: Weiß Kreuz > General Views: 1207 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Weiß Kreuz, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
- - - - - - - - - - -
- - -

Chapter 2: The
Rivals

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Brad Crawford, Eighth Count Crawford, was no more than a few
dozen paces from Ran Fujimiya’s residence when he was called from the doorway
of a vintner’s shop.

“Brad, there you are!” His cousin Farfello Crawford,
resplendent in white pantaloons and dark navy coat, walked up to him. “What a
wonderful coincidence, you’re just the man I wished to see.” His cousin was
half-Irish, half-British. He had silvery white hair with scars marring his pale
skin. He had a scar running down from his left brow down to his eye. It was
only by luck that he didn’t go blind after he received the injury during the
peninsular war.

“Wonderful, indeed,” Crawford replied dryly, “since it was
you who told me where to find Monsieur Fujimiya at this time of day.”

“Fuji—?
Ah, you’re speaking of ‘The Divine Ran.’ Did you see him then? More
importantly, did you see the ring?”

“I saw him.”

Usually, Farfello had to hurry up to keep up with his
cousin’s long stride, but not today. However, he knew better than to refer to
Crawford’s slow pace, or to his cousin’s use of a cane. Twirling his own, he
said, “So? Are you not pleased now that you finally listened to me and attended
the theatre last night? I knew it was the Crawford Amethyst the moment I laid
eyes on it. I knew you’d be grateful.

Crawford raised a brow. “How much do you need, Farfello?”

“You misunderstand!” Farfello protested, doffing his hat
while Crawford stopped and bowed to two matrons passing in a barouche. “I say,
Brad, you really mustn’t be out and about without a hat. Bad ton, don’t you know. And Schoen says
your head would ache much less if you covered it. Or if—”

“Much obliged,” Crawford cut in. “You must thank Schoen for
me. Her concern is most gratifying, and I shall strive to listen to her advice.
Now, Farfello, how much do you need?”

“I assure you Brad, I want nothing from you.” Farfello once
more fell into step beside his cousin. “All I wish is for you to recover what is yours. Did you see the ring?”

“Monsieur Fujimiya was not wearing it.”

“Damn it all! Why did you not ask him to show it to you?”

“I’ll see the ring soon enough. Besides there’s no doubt in
my mind that it is the ring our great-grandfather lost, and when I meet Monsieur
Fujimiya again, I shall offer to purchase it from him.”

“Purchase it?! Why waste your money? The ring is ours. When
will you see him again?” Farfello inquired in earnest.

“We will see each other by the end of the week.” Crawford
answered. They had reached St. Martin’s Lane
and Crawford hailed an approaching hackney. “Good day, Farfello. I shall keep
you appraised.”

“I suppose you will be ‘out of town’ until then,” said
Farfello with a sapient look at Crawford’s cane and the coach coming to a stop
beside them. “Perhaps Schoen—”

“No, thank you! I’m told my pantry is overflowing with jars
of your wife’s restoratives.”

“Just as well, I suppose. Young Brad is ailing, and Schoen
is busy—”

“What’s wrong?” Crawford cut in.

“Just a cough, nothing much to fret about this time.”

“That’s all right, then. He’ll be in good hands with
Schoen.” Concern and love for his five-year-old namesake were probably the only
sentiments he would ever have in common with Farfello’s wife. She was a devoted
mother—perhaps even obsessive since her first child’s, little Marie’s, death.
And she would personally nurse her son.

Crawford climbed stiffly into the coach. “Upper Brook Street,” he told the coachman,
then gave Farfello a jaunty smile. “Do give Brad a hug for me and my regards to
Schoen.”

The smile faded as soon as the hackney started to move. His
side felt hot and sticky, as if the old saber wound was opening again and his
head ached unbearably. Yes, he would, indeed, be “out of town” for a while, he
must count himself fortunate that Monsieur Fujimiya had not been available that
evening. But see him again, he must. And would.

Crawford rested his head against the musty-smelling
upholstery and closed his eyes. What an enigma the actor was proving to be, he
had expected—n truth, he had no notion what to expect, but it wasn’t what he
had found. His mystification had nothing to do with Ran’s appearance, though he
couldn’t be certain of that either; his lodgings were too dark. Except under
bright stage lights, where Ran’s features were enhanced with makeup, he had
never seen Ran clearly. He was tall, a few centimeters shorter than him, but
his figure was splendid, “The Divine Ran” was not a misnomer. His hair was the
color of red wine. Bordeaux, he
thought, but only daylight could confirm his estimation. He did not now the
exact color of is eyes, only that they were dark; brown, perhaps, blue, or
somewhere in between. His skin, when Ran gave him his hand, was soft and
smooth...And what the hell did it matter?

Crawford sat up, wincing, then stared out of the coach
window to judge how soon he could hide in his chamber. Nothing mattered except
sleep and the quiet ministrations of the faithful Nagi, who had been his
companion when they were carefree lads, his batman on the Peninsula,
and now served as his valet.

The only noteworthy facts about Monsieur Ran Fujimiya he
must not forget were the fact that he reacted quite strongly to any mention of
the ring, and that not one had he asked why
he was questioning him. And no matter how good an actor he was, he could not
hide his agitation when he spoke of Fujimiya, or the castle that had been
destroyed by the bandits. Indeed, he was not at all what he’d expected.

- - - - - -

“What are you doing? If you see him alone, you’ll blotch
it.” Schuldig faced Ran.

“What is there to blotch?” Now that Crawford was gone, Ran
felt tired, crestfallen. “I’m not even certain that I will see him again. And if I do, I may just give him the ring.

Schuldig was silent.

“Well?” Ran demanded. “Didn’t you always tell me that I
should forget my thirst for revenge?”

“So I did. I never imagined, however, that you would meet
the very image of the fiend.”

“But he is not the same man.” Ran justified as he sat down
and tasted a spoonful of the now cold soup. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t hungry
anyway.

As always, Schuldig knew his thoughts. “You’re never
hungry,” he said. “But you get tired easily, and your sensitivity to light is
more pronounced. You know what that means. You have known for years.”

“Schuldig, is there no alternative? No end to
this...existence?” Ran looked up at him.

“Why ask?” Schuldig’s voice was harsh. With a sweeping
gesture, he indicated his bedchamber. “You own and have read more books on us
than anyone. Or did you think I would not know?”

“No, and it was never my intention to hide the books from
you. Schuldig, it’s so disappointing! There is nothing definitive. There is no
science, even if the work is written by a scholar, which is rare in any case.
Much of what I found was written by sensation seekers are more vicious than
witch hunters ever were. Some so-called ‘facts’ stated by them are so
preposterous; I do not know whether to laugh or cry over such sickening
misinterpretations.”

“All I know is that you must feed more frequently than you
do, or you will turn into one of the monsters that kill and maim for the sheer
lust of it—as described by the sensation seekers.”

“As what almost happened last night?” Ran’s throat
tightened.

Schuldig seemed about to speak, then shrugged and shook his
head.

“And there is no reversal to this state, Schuldig? There is
no way I can turn mortal again, grow old and—”

“And die?” Schuldig finished. He drew a chair close and sat
down beside him. “You can die Ran. You can die by fire.”

Ran was silent, remembering the inferno that had devoured
the town where he was born, where he had lived until he was married to Lord
Kudoh and moved into the castle with him. He had been in Fujiwara the day the
bandits attacked.

“Why can’t you be like me, accepting that the taste of blood
is essential to our well-being? You ought to be like me. I turned you into what
you are.” Schuldig said.

“And I have hated you for it ever since.” Ran coldly
replied.

“No, Ran, you resent me at times. You would have died had I
not drunk your blood and healed your wounds, and you feel guilty that you
survived...and your family did not.”

Again, Ran was silent. How could he call his existence
survival?

Ran had hated him.
Of that he was certain, He had despised him. But now? Perhaps, over the years,
his feelings had, indeed, mellowed to resentment. Certainly, from necessity, he
had grown comfortable with Schuldig’s constant presence, most of the time, at
least.

“You see,” Schuldig said. “I know you better that you know
yourself.”

“So you would like to believe.”

“Admit that you hold admiration for my abilities,” Schuldig
coaxed. “Just think how conscientiously I contrive to shift members of our
company to other theaters when they begin to question your eternal youth; and
how I have moved our company from country to country, from theater to
theater.”

Ran raised a defined brow at Schuldig, looking scandalized
at the statement.

Schuldig waved a dismissive hand. “We will move on in a
month or so. Remember, instead, the admirable deeds I’ve performed. How I
provided us with a long and distinguished line of thespian forefathers to
explain the similarity in looks to an actor many years earlier.

“Yes, making me grandfather and grandson all in one. Or to
what it seems to be more appropriate, making me grandmother and granddaughter
altogether.” A chuckle escaped him as, no doubt, Schuldig had planned. “That
poor old gentleman—some Comté pairie noblesse or other in France, was it
not?”

“Switzerland.”

“The looks he gave me! How we threw him into utter confusion.”

“So, resentment is not all that you feel for me.”

“No, of course not, perhaps you have forgotten what it is
like, but there is intricacy in feelings. Why, even my husband, whom I loved
deeply, could provoke me to exasperation. And I hated it when Yohji arranged a deer
baiting.”

“Ran,” Hands pushed against his thighs, Schuldig leaned
forward. “I want you to marry me.”

“Marry!” Ran all
but choked on the word. He had asked him to be his lover more than once, and
Ran had refused. But marriage—

“I want to do it right, Ran. You still suffer from human
emotions—more than any of us I’ve ever known. And for some reason, you have not
shaken off the conventions and regulations governing humans. You still remember
what your mother had taught you, do you not?”

“Oh, indeed.” Ran savored the warmth evoked by the memories
of his mother. “I remember so very well. When I turned fifteen and Yohji
started to pay more attention to me, mother took me aside and said—”

“That a man, who can have his milk for free, need not buy a
cow...”

“A goat, Schuldig, we only had goats and sheep. And I truly
hate it when you invade my mind.”

“I did not, at least not this instant. I culled that bit of
information the first time I offered you to be my lover.

Schuldig reached out, clasping Ran’s hands in both of his.
“So, Ran, what say you? Will you marry me?”

Ran heard a strange note in Schuldig’s voice. If it not had
been Schuldig asking the question, he might have imagined a plea. But perhaps,
even Schuldig could plead. Perhaps, he too, suffered from the destructive and
overwhelming loneliness that dampened the spirit and choked all joy in life. The
chill of Schuldig’s skin transferred to him until he felt cold all over.
Unbidden, the memory of Crawford’s touch leaped to mind; such warmth.

Ran freed himself and rose. “I am sorry Schuldig. I cannot
marry you.”

“It’s Crawford!” Schuldig’s chair scrapped harshly against
the floorboards as he stood. “I knew the man was nothing but trouble the moment
I laid eyes on him.”

“You’re talking nonsense. Crawford has nothing at all to do
with my decisions. Who knows, if I had survived as a widow in Fujima, I might
have married again. But as it is...as I am now...I won’t! I promise you, I’ll
never marry again.”

“Then remember that promise. Make it a vow, because with
Crawford, you’d find nothing but unhappiness.”

- - - - - - - -

Schuldig quickly strode down Tavistock Street. Perhaps, if he hurried,
he would catch up to the man. Crawford had been in pain, and slow. His lordship
was injured; Schuldig had caught the faintest whiff of blood as Ran should
have—would have—if he weren’t so inept. Schuldig shielded his thoughts from
Ran. He rarely tried to communicate with him, but with Crawford’s appearance on
the scene, this might change. Ran’s composure was badly shaken by the man, so
badly that he had not yet caught on just how much he knew about Crawford; that
he had kept up with the Crawford family ever since the Fifth Count had ravished
that young gypsy Ran had taken such a fancy to. Aya-chan, the wench was called.
The same name as Ran’s adopted daughter.

His Ran, he had made him one of them—the cursed undead,
doomed to walk the earth throughout eternity. But, somehow, he had made a
mistake; Ran’s transformation had not been perfect.

When Crawford appeared so suddenly at the theater, Schuldig
had hoped the man would be Ran’s salvation. Ran’s attack on Crawford had been a
good sign, but it was all wrong. Ran had been in pain, in a mindless rage. If
Ran had tasted Crawford’s blood then, he would, indeed, have slipped into the
state of the most dreaded. No, it must be done n a different way, the right
way.

Oblivious to the complains of pedestrians who felt the
thrust of his elbow as he pushed past them, and the curses of the drivers who
had to rein in sharply as he dashed across streets, Schuldig forged on until he
reached Grosvenor Square and could see down the length of Upper Brook Street.
There was no sign of Crawford.

Schuldig stood and stared at the imposing building he knew
to be Crawford House. At last, he turned away. It was for the best. Approaching
Crawford in the street might have caused that gentleman to pay more attention
to him than was desirable. Demanding admittance to Crawford House and an
audience most definitely would arouse suspicion. But, for the time being,
Schuldig preferred to remain in the background.

And he had better remember that the next time Ran said or
did something unpredictable, which he would. Schuldig knew Ran too well not to
recognize just how strongly he was drawn to Crawford. Ran might believe t was
the man’s courtesy, his charming manner that held him enthralled. Schuldig knew
better. Crawford was human. That was what drew Ran to the man.

It had happened with the gypsy, Aya-chan. The reason was
simple then: Aya-chan had reminded Ran of his and Yohji’s adopted daughter. It
was more difficult to see what it was about with Crawford that touched a chord
in Ran, not the likeness to the Fifth Count; that could only spawn anger and
disgust. But whatever it was that drew him to the Eighth Count, Ran was not for
Crawford.

Note:

Yes! Schuldig is possessed by the green-eyed monster called
jealousy! I hope that was clear in this chapter. =P

And I also used the suffix –chan to avoid misunderstandings.
I hope I made a few things clear here in account to relationships and others...

Feed back is highly appreciated. Thank you! Until next time
my darlings!

Glossary:

Hackney – a horse of a compact English breed with a high leg
action.

Restorative – anything capable of restoring health or vigor.
- 1
- 2
- 3
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Shadows of the Night