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Shadows of the Night	By : KitsuneNoMari Category: Weiß Kreuz > General Views: 1206 -:- 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
Title: Shadows in
the Night

Author: Blue-eyed
Fox

Pairing:
Crawford/Ran, past Yohji/Ran and one-sided Schuldig/Ran

Genre:
Romance/Mystery/Suspense, AU

Disclaimer: If I
owned Weiss Kreuz, Brad Crawford would be downright chasing Ran Fujimiya’s ass
all over Tokyo
until he marks it as his own. The same disclaimer will apply on the following
chapters to come.

Warning:
Non-beta-ed. Yaoi, enough said. This fic is based on the story A Lady of the
Night.

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Chapter 1: Ghosts’ of the Past

- - - - - - - - - - -

Ran felt his gaze on him all the way throughout the
performance that night, slightly blinded by the bright lamps surrounding the
stage and proscenium, Ran did not catch a glimpse of
him until the final scene. All but the five stage lamps were doused, and those
burned opposite him, illuminating the spectacle that had drawn a full house
since the play opened five weeks ago. The man with the intense gaze would be
the only one of the almost exclusively male audience whose eyes were not on the
nude-appearing female casts shrugging off a ghost’s white shroud, but were
drawn to the dim corner where Ran stood.

Ran turned and scanned the seats to the left of the stage.
The Flower Theatre was one of the popular theatres near Covent
Garden. It also served as an inn with stables and a small café to
entertain guests and those who wished to kill time. There were boxes for higher
admission with velvet lined armchairs. With chandeliers to be raised or lowered
to shed constant light upon the audience, that could at times, become too raucous
for comfort.

Ran saw him almost immediately and stumbled backwards as if
pushed by an invisible hand. His mind spun, whirling, sending him back in time
close to 120 years, and he was staring at the man he had sworn to punish, but had
escaped his vengeance: the insufferable Fifth Count Crawford.

“An eerie likeness,
isn’t it?”

Ran heard the voice, soft yet unassailable instant attention—Schuldig,
his mentor, his eternal enemy, his only friend. With garnered effort, he closed
his mind to Schuldig. Ran did not want his intrusion, not now while his mind
was still in a maelstrom of confusion and his body trembled worse than that of
the “revived” ghost on the stage. It had been so long since he’d experienced
such fervent emotion running through his veins; he could not be certain whether
he was shaking from the emotion itself, the wrath invoked by Crawford’s face,
or from the liberation that he was still somehow capable of human emotions.

Somehow, Ran made it through the applause, the curtsies and
the smiles. Somehow, he had found his way back to his dressing room. As always,
it was dimly lit, soothing his eyes after the bright stage lights. And of
course, Schuldig was there. In his peerless style, lounging on the Cleopatra in
front of his dressing table, a dark austere male with ginger-red hair with
dark, jade-green eyes soulless eyes. His golden pale fingers clasped the goblet
of ruby liquid. At Ran’s entrance, he raised the goblet in salute before
bringing it to bloodless lips.

Ran trembled, but when he did not smell the heavy metallic
scent of blood he despised, he squeezed beside Schuldig on the Cleopatra and
faced the mirror. He saw himself, not as clearly as he would before but it was
still the old Ran he had known for almost three centuries. As happened every
time he gazed at the mirror relief flooded him and so did fear. He would swear that
his image had paled two shades lighter since he’d applied makeup before the
performance. Soon he would be like Schuldig, completely without a reflection on
the mirror.

“Not soon enough for me,” Schuldig replied at his train of
thought. “You need to feed, meine liebe.”

“You saw him.”

“Crawford’s great-grandson? Yes I did.”

With a soft wash cloth, Ran wiped the lipstick off his lips.
His great-grandson. Of course. The
shock of seeing that hated visage had so numbed his mind that he had imagined
the criminal himself watching him so closely. But since it was not—couldn’t
possibly be—the Fourth Count himself, so why the interest in him?

“The ring,” Schuldig said.

Ran looked at his right ring finger, where the amethyst, the
size of a quail’s egg, was set with diamonds glowed against his pale skin.

A knock fell on the door. Omi, his young helper and sort of
butler poked his honey-brown head into the dressing room.

“A gentleman to see you, Ran.” Omi had once confused using
the title of ‘Miss’ and ‘Monsieur’ whenever he was about to address him. Ran
pitied the poor boy and decided to drop the title and just have Omi call him by
his given name. Before Ran could turn or respond, the man whose face had
stunned him so badly, stepped inside the dressing room, he saw him in the
dappled mirror: tall, dark like Schuldig, but without Schuldig’s austerity that
bordered on death’s door.

“Good evening.” His voice was deep and beautifully
modulated; his bows were courteous, neither mockingly low nor arrogantly curt,
as so often practiced by most gentlemen thrusting their uninvited presence upon
an actor. “My sincerest apologies for the intrusion, but I would beg a few
moments of your time.”

Ran could barely nod, as once more the heat of rage engulfed
him. Neither could he deny the man. Something in Ran demanded that he speak to
him. After all, his anger and hate were irrational. The man standing by the
door was not the man who destroyed the only human he loved since he lost his
family at the beginning of his immoral existence.

“I am Crawford,” he said, inadvertently twisting the blade
in the still-fresh wound in Ran’s heart.

Schuldig rose and stood some distance away from the mirror. “Schuldig, at your service, my lord.”

Crawford acknowledged the other man’s greeting with a nod,
then returned his gaze to Ran, still facing the mirror, still holding the
crimson-stained cloth.

“Brad Crawford,” he elaborated, “Eighth Count Crawford. May
I know your name?”

Not an unreasonable request, since Ran was billed only as
“The Divine Ran.” Ran chuckled silently, yes, he was indeed divine. With his ivory skin, lavender
eyes, thin, cherry kissed lips and lithe, slender limbs and with his long
crimson locks, he could very well be mistaken as one of the noble’s daughters
or such.

“Ran Fujimiya” He picked up the silver brush to smooth his
unbound hair. “And, no.” he added, “You need not use any formalities around
that name. Addressing me as Fujimiya will do.”

“Why do you wish to speak to Ran?” Schuldig said.

Crawford’s gaze was on Ran’s hand wielding the hairbrush. He
took a step closer. “Monsieur,” His voice was crisp, almost sharp. “How did you
come by that ring?”

How...How...?

The question minced in his mind, breaking down the barriers
he had built around the bitter memory. He saw Schoen, on the ground, struggling
with Crawford. He heard Crawford’s laugh and Schoen’s sobs. He saw—

“Leave! And do not dare show your face here ever again!” Ran
rose violently that the cushioned bench he had moved to sit in front of the
mirror, toppled.

“My apologies, Monsieur Fujimiya, I had no intention to
distress you. In truth, I fail to see how I did with a simple question I posed.
Unless, of course...unless you came by that ring dishonestly.” Crawford’s dark
brows knitted in a frown.

Red-hot, violent fury engulfed Ran’s well-being. No longer
could he distinguish between present and past, he only saw Crawford face and
only knew the urge to have his blood at last. The heavy, silver-back brush
dropped with a clatter as Ran flew at him. He looked surprised, caught Ran by
the shoulders and held him off. Then cold fingers touched Ran’s cheek and neck.
Schuldig’s voice, smooth and cool, extinguished the fire of his rage.

“Ran, Ran mien liebe.
Restrain yourself.”

Ran stumbled back, sick with shame...and fear. It had
happened! He was turning into a monster! He heard Schuldig talking with
Crawford but did not take in what the men were saying. Only when Crawford
bowed, with an unreadable look towards Ran, did Schuldig’s last words to the
retreating count penetrated Ran’s mind.

“You have my word, my lord; I shall pass on your apology and
plead your cause. I do not doubt that Ran will be pleased to speak with you at
the moment.” Schuldig said.

Nausea racked Ran’s body. See Crawford and turn into a
monster again? He snatched a shawl from one of the wall hooks just as the door
closed with a soft click. Ran sank to the floor and was violently ill. The last
thing he remembered was Schuldig rushing to his side before the world around
him faded black.

The faint rattle of china woke Ran from his dreamless
slumber. The bedchamber of his lodgings was dark, but from the door to his living
room came a shard of light. He heard Omi’s soft humming, smelled the flavorful
aroma of soup, and knew it was time to rise.

How did you come by
that ring?

Ran’s breath caught as the memory, clear and sharp, of
Crawford’s visit to his dressing room returned and caught him unaware. And with
it came the memory of the monstrous reaction. He could not stir in bed.

“Good morning Ran! Rise and shine!” Omi called from the
living room. “I made chowder with onions, potatoes, leeks and mushrooms just
the way you like it.”

Ran rose from the bed and performed his morning rituals as
he slipped into a gown. It had become a habit for Ran to wear female clothes
for the past centuries, besides, he already wore female clothing ever since his
mother and other female relatives started doting on him, saying that he rather
be off as girl since he looked like one. His father of course along with his
uncles couldn’t argue with the women so they just let it be.

Omi then entered the bedroom holding a basket in one hand. “Ran,
I’m going to the market, it’s going to close soon. Shall I pull drapes of the
window back a bit?”

“No, not yet Omi, thank you, probably when you return. And
will you kindly draw the sitting room curtains on your way out?” Ran said
fondly. Omi knew what Ran was and kept his lips shut. He never questioned Ran
nor did he fear Ran for what he is and Ran was forever thankful for the boy and
promised to watch and take care of Omi as the boy did over him.

With soft clatter of brass rings, the thickly lined velvet
curtains banished what little daylight the three small windows had allowed into
the living room. Then the outer door closed with a soft click before the key
turned in the lock.

Ran smiled. He was rather grateful when Omi replaced his old
maid Sakura fourteen years ago. Ran remembered the day his path crossed with
Omi.

Flashback

He had found Omi as a child in the streets of London. He saw the fear
and a shard of hope in the eyes of the child. He went to him in the small
alleyway and crouched low to meet Omi’s eyes as the boy scuttled to the wall.
Ran saw the fear in the boy’s eyes. He knew instantly that the boy had
experienced the hardships of living in the streets with no roof to cover his
trembling form. Ran stretched out his gloved hand to the boy and offered and
promised the comforts of a home.

“Come, I won’t hurt you I promise.” Ran smiled.

Omi looked at the outstretched hand and flicked back to the
gentle face smiling fondly at him. Omi was hesitant at first but with much
courage, took the hand. He found the gentleness of the touch and the firm and
steady grip comforting.

“Come, let’s get you out of those rubbish clothes and
something to eat. I’m sure you’re starving. What’s your name young man?”

Omi found Ran’s mirth filled voice comforting and soon, all
his fears were being washed down the drain.

“Omi.”

“Well then Omi, I’m Ran Fujimiya. Just call me Ran.” Ran
said with a smile as the two of them walked hand in hand.

End Flashback

As Ran entered the living room, now lit with four five candles
on the candelabra, he once more heard the key. The outside door opened and
heard Omi’s voice.

“Please go right in, my lord. You’ll find ran in the living
room straight ahead.”

“Omi!” Ran rushed into the small,
dark hall, colliding with a tall, solid shape just as the door to his lodgings
was locked again.

Firm, strong hands steadied him.

“I do beg your pardon Monsieur, I had no intention of
barging in like this but your manservant—“

“My assistant,” Ran corrected, instantly recognizing the
deep, modulated voice and dreading the return of his uncontrollable rage, the
bloodlust, of the previous night, “is too trusting. I should scold and ground
him when he returns.”

“But you won’t.” His voice held confidence. “You’re not that
cruel.”

“You know nothing about me, my lord.” Ran retorted as he
turned and took a few short steps into the living room. Ran could send him on
his way. He should. Or he could rather face his demons. Ran hesitated for only
an instant. “Since you’re here, you might as well come in, I suppose.”

“Thank you.”

Ran darted a look at Crawford as he followed him into the
living room. It was impossible to see his features clearly, but, perhaps, it
was for the best, kit was safer not to see his face too sharply—the face that
held the power to tear down Ran’s defenses and plunge him into purgatory.

Crawford was walking slowly, almost hesitantly, touching the
back of the sofa as he approached him.

“Pardon the darkness of the room, Lord Crawford; since I
bask in the light, so to speak, most of my nights, I prefer the dimness during
the day.”

“Nothing to worry about, Monsieur Fujimiya, I, too, prefer—”
Crawford’s gaze fell on the low table, where Omi had placed Ran’s lunch. “But I
am interrupting your meal. My apologies, I should leave immediately. Please do
tell me when it will be convenient to receive me.”

Last night, even a little while ago when memory of the
previous night had returned, Ran would have replied, “Never.” But something was
different. Perhaps, at last, reason prevailed within his judgment. Ran motioned
Crawford to a chair.

“I...I lost my temper last night. I need to prove—never
mind. I promise I shall do my best not to fly...into another fit.” Ran said.

“I provoked you Monsieur, and I do beg your pardon. What I
said, more or less accusing you of theft was inexcusable.” Crawford professed.

Ran did not correct him. He could not. How can he explain
what had happened to him, that sudden transformation. If Schuldig had not
stopped him...Ran banished the dark thoughts.

“Perhaps you’ll join me in a bowl of soup, my lord?” Ran
offered.

“Thank you.”

“Then if you shall excuse me for a moment.” Ran excused himself as he fled to the small kitchen adjoining Omi’s
chambers. Ran did not understand himself. Undoubtedly,
it was reassuring to know that he was no longer ruled purely by emotion where
Crawford was concerned. But that did not mean he must share a meal with him,
for heaven’s sake!

“You need him Ran.”

The soup bowl slipped from his slender fingers as Schuldig’s
voice invaded his thoughts. Ran stared at the shards scattered on the peach
tiles of the kitchen.

“Discover what he
wants. What he knows about the ring and stay calm Ran. Be friendly, and
remember, you need to feed soon!”

Nausea threatened Ran’s well-being. How he detested the mere
word “feed,” let alone the deed itself. Ran’s hands clenched, eyes shutting
against the light coming from the open kitchen window, Ran gathered his
strength and thoughts.

“Don’t bother me now
Schuldig!”

“I am guiding you, my
love, protecting you. If I left you to your own devices, you’d be long doomed.

It was indisputable, but t was because of Schuldig in the
first place that he was doomed.

“I will not tolerate
any interference with Crawford. I am locking you out Schuldig.”

“No! You must not be
alone with him.”

Ran decided not to reply, but closed his eyes even tighter.
It had taken him decades to master, and still required willpower and
concentration to put up the mental block that would stop Schuldig from invading
his thoughts. But Ran could do it, even when he fought with him. Breathing
slowly, Ran channeled his energy until he had deflected his determined assault,
and the barrier in his mind was impenetrable.

He was trembling from the effort when he opened his eyes.
Taking another bowl from the cupboard, he set it on a plate, picked up a spoon
and returned to the living room.

Crawford was still standing.

“I heard a crash. Are you all right?” Crawford asked.

“Quite, thank you. I’m merely clumsy.”

“I did not know what would be the greater mistake—rushing to
your assistance or remaining here. I hope I made the right decision?” Crawford
gave a small smile.

“That depends on what you wished to achieve, my lord.” Aya
replied.

“I did not wish to be shown the door. My sense of consequence
still has not recovered from last night.”

“My lord? You sound amused, I fail
to see what was so funny about last night?”

“What is a man to do but laugh at himself when he acts like
a fool? And what can be more foolish than barging in on you for the second
time?”

Ran was not convinced that he spoke the truth but allowed
Crawford to seat him, then started ladling out the soup while he took the chair
opposite his. His movements were slow and cautious, not as if hampered by the
darkness of the room but as if he was in pain.

“Did I hurt you when I ran into you in the hall?” Aya asked
in concern.

“No, not at all monsieur.” Crawford
answered quickly. Too quickly.

“I did. I am sorry. My elbow I believe, I seem to remember
poking your side.”

“I assure you Monsieur Fujimiya, it isn’t your fault. It is
just a small memento from the Peninsular War that acts up now and then. Please let
us not mention it again.”

Ran nodded. “You have no trouble pronouncing my surname even
with the Japanese accent.”

“I heard it pronounced when I traveled to Japan a few years
past.” Crawford sipped a spoonful of soup, but is gaze remained on Ran. “I went
to Kyoto and
spent a few nights in a town called Fujima.”

Ran’s heart pounded. Kyoto
was the town of his birth, the place where he lived until his marriage. Now he
did regret the sparse candlelight. An aching head and burning eyes were a small
price to pay to see his expression. Crawford’s voice was casual, but the way he
kept looking at Ran so steadily imbued his words with special meaning. But
surely, Ran’s imagination was running away with him. Crawford could not know
anything. It was mere coincidence that he had been to Ran’s birthplace. A mere coincidence and nothing more...

“I had the privilege to stay at the Koneko Inn. Parts of it are three hundred years old, as old as the
castle perched above the town” Crawford said.

The castle, his home, if he had been there with his husband
and daughter when the attack came—

Ran felt cold all over as the terror of his last moments as
a mortal threatened to overcome him. Forcing his mind to stay immersed on the
present, he too, took a spoonful of soup, which he could barely swallow.

“Monsieur Fujimiya? Are you all right? Have I once again
said something to distress you?”

“Dear me, no!” Ran gave a gurgle of
laughter. He was an actor after all and a very good one too. “I am fascinated,
that is all. Imagine stating in a three-hundred-year-old inn! I can only hope
that the beds weren’t quite that ancient.”

“That would have been quite a torture, indeed. Straw beds
are not my preference. Fortunately, the ancient parts of the inn are the wooden
beams and frames, which are kept in good shape and the onsen overlooking a
lake.”

“Ah, that’s all right then. Would you like a glass of wine,
my lord?” Ran inquired.

“No, thank you. It was a rogue band of mountain bandits, you
know, who almost destroyed the inn—most of the town actually—and the castle.”

“Indeed,” Ran said as he tried to shut out the clash of
katanas, the screams of the people and the cries of the horses. The mountain
bandits were allies against the neighboring Daimyo. The attack had taken the
town and the castle by surprise. “Perhaps a cup of tea, then?”

“No, thank you.” Crawford nonchalantly stirred his soup, and
looked at Ran again. “The town was rebuilt, but not the castle. Do you know
what the castle was called, Monsieur Fujimiya?”

Why would he not abandon the topic, the god damned man!

“Dare I guess?” Ran kept an airy tone. “Seated above the town
of Fujima, I’d
say the castle was castle was called Fujimawara. Or perhaps—” Ran’s hands
clenched, there was no reason to continue, but something impalpable made him
continue. “Perhaps, Shiro
Fujiwara?”

“Shiro Fujiwara it is. Monsieur Fujimiya, why do I have the
feeling that you are sparring with me?”

“I am sparring
with you?” Arrogance overrode caution. “If you believe that I am familiar with
the History of a Japanese town or castle, why don’t you say so?”

“Well Monsieur Fujimiya? Are you?”

The challenge hung between them and it was impossible to
ignore. Ran sat up straighter. “I am indeed! And I’ll thank you to stop tossing
my name in such an annoying manner.”

“My apologies, monsieur. Are you a
descendant—”

Ran rose up from his seat, forcing Crawford to follow suit.
“My lord, I must ask you to leave now.”

“Why are you afraid of my questions?”

“Do not be ridiculous. I am merely pressed for time.” Ran
lied.

“Just tell me about the ring then.” Heat engulfed Ran as
Crawford stepped towards him. “At least permit me to take a close look at it.”

“I am not wearing it, perhaps some other time?”

“But where, how did you come by it? And—”

A heavy knock on the entrance door cut Crawford’s questions.

“Ran, my love! Let me in!” Schuldig called.

Torn between relief and annoyance, Ran admitted his mentor.

“I happened to meet Omi on his way to the market,” Schuldig
said. “He told me that you’re here alone
with Crawford.

Ran knew fully well that he would not be out at this time of
day to “happen” across Omi had he not closed his mind to him.

“And how dark you have it! Scandalous, my love! Have you no regard
for your good reputation?”

“Whatever are you talking about Schuldig?” Ran said
impatiently. “If an actor of the Flower Theatre has a reputation at all, it
certainly does not qualify as ‘good.’ ”

Schuldig faced Crawford. “My lord, I gave my word that you
would speak with Ran in time, but you presume too much by forcing this conversation.
You will be so kind to leave now. And in the future, if Ran is agreeable to see
you again, any meeting will be arranged through me.”

The two men, both tall and dark, measured each other.

“Are you the man’s guardian, sir?” Crawford said.

“Indeed, and I’ll
thank you to remember it.”

“Nonsense!” snapped Ran. “I am well past the age requiring a
guardian or chaperone for that matter.”

“In that case, Monsieur Fuji—I beg your pardon monsieur.
Monsieur Ran, I would like to invite you to dinner after your performance
tonight. And if you do not wish to answer any of my questions, you only need to
say so.”

“Thank you, my lord. But I fear I must—”

“Decline,” Schuldig cut in, taking Ran’s hand and holding it
possessively. “Ran is promised to me for supper. However, if he is agreeable,
you may join us.

Crawford looked at Ran, and he, who had indeed been about to
decline his invitation and intended never to see him again, found himself wavering. Schuldig was forever making decisions for
him. It was nice, for once, to be deferred to and Crawford did promise not to
interrogate him.

“My lord, I would prefer then if you would take me to dinner
some other night.”

“I’d be delighted Monsieur Ran. I have some urgent business,
which will take me out of town for a day or two. Three at the most, you will
hear from me on Friday.”

“Decline!”
Schuldig commanded silently, gripping Ran’s hand more tightly when he tried to
remove it from his grasp. “Or take me
with you.”

Smiling, Ran extended his free hand to Crawford. “I have
never had dinner at Leicester
Square.”

“Then, that is where we shall go.” Crawford smiled as he
took the extended hand and bowed. Ran relished the warmth of his touch, how
human compared to Schuldig’s, which chilled him with its iciness. Ran had a
sudden, staggering need to cling to that warmth, to capture it, make it his to
savor during those dark moments that were his lot for eternity. But Crawford
had already released his hand and inclined his head at Schuldig. “Good day,
sir.”

Crawford left the living room, his movements still slow, and
a little stiff. He retrieved his gloves from the hall table. But he had no hat,
Ran noted as he saw him out, only a cane, which he had leaned in the corner
close to the entrance.

Note:

I’m mixing era’s here. As we all know, during the time of
Queen Elizabeth, male actors took the role of the female characters in plays. Take
note of the film “Shakespeare in Love”. However, the timeline I’m using in the
story is somewhere in between 16^th to 17^th century. Think
of the movie, “An Interview with a Vampire.”

I refrain from addressing Ran with the title ‘Sir’ since I
don’t like the sound of it and it makes Ran seem older than he appears to be, so
opted for the French ‘Monsieur’ instead.

If any of you have watched Phantom of the Opera that is how
the theatre would look like.

And yes, Crawford does not have his gift of sight. I decided
to take away his powers since it will spoil everything. XD
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Shadows of the Night