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| London, England "Since when have you acquired a cousin? I would have thought that anyone unfortunate enough to have a blood tie to you would have disowned you as quick as humanly possible." A thin, red eyebrow arched upwards at the good-natured jibe directed at its owner. "Contrary to what you may believe, Youji, I boast qualities that would make my person an honour to befriend," Ran returned in a casual, deadpan tone. He straightened away from the ornate, marble column he'd been leaning on and uncrossed his arms slowly and stiffly. With a deliberate motion, he smoothed the expensive satin of his black knee-length coat, and turned his bored gaze on his blond companion. It was a commonly known fact that Youji was a man of affectation, and held appearance to be of the utmost importance. Even when they had met as boys - a period of time that Ran fondly referred to as 'the better years' - the man had held a strict philosophy about public image. Back then, the older boy had introduced himself by a simple Asian name, a continuing trend that still permeated present day fashion. This, to the impartial observer, may have painted the supposed fop as superficial and shallow, but to Ran, the man successfully masked a core that was as intelligent and as loyal as a knight of old ... for when Ran had been writhing in the dankness of Newgate, it had been Youji who'd pulled him out and given him the start-up capital to reclaim all he'd lost. Indeed, the crimson justaucorps, elaborate brocade vest, and vibrant high-tongued heels were a mere ornamental layer of the man Ran had come to know, but telling Youji that fact was akin to tempting death. A person could easily compliment him on the intricacy of his gilt embroidery or the richness of his velvets, but one remark about the integrity and constitution of his character, and one risked a blade between the ribs. Yet, where his apparel may have declared him to be a fashion connoisseur, his hair was an entirely different matter. It could be said that his neatly queued strands were his pride and joy, and thus, he eschewed the use of wigs altogether. "You know as well as I that Ken is nothing close to being my cousin," Ran noted quietly as his eyes discreetly scanned the crowded ballroom for the man he'd brought to tonight's 'intimate' affair - intimate according to the Duchess of York's definition, which was to fill the chamber to overflowing. Women in their wide panniers and silk, and men in their powdered wigs and lace twirled and wove their way about the overheated room in an almost colourfully grotesque collage, but even through the massive societal organism, Ran could pick out the identifiable figure of Ken. He was dressed in a simply cut brown jacket and sensible vest - attire befitting a visiting country relative - but Ran couldn't help but notice how the boy's trim and healthy body filled out his clothes. And despite the extravagance of those around him, he somehow managed to exude a freshness and vitality that outshone even the most precious gems that adorned the sallow-faced nobles. When Ran had first told the younger man about their impending trip to London, Ken had looked at him with a clueless expression that was almost comical. Deep down, he understood that their sun-drenched idyllic picnic still lingered as unfinished business between them but then, the dark-haired man had agreed and Ran had felt a wave of relief flood through him. Now, gazing upon Ken, he realized he could have forced the boy to come - willing or not. Oddly though, that option sat heavily in his chest. "Then who is he and why is he here?" Youji asked as he focused on the subject of their conversation. At his friend's question, Ran's eyes began to wander, searching for the telltale sable sheen of the man he planned to destroy. He knew with undeniable certainty that Crawford was in attendance tonight; the event was too full of influential politicians and court nobles for the ambitious man not to be. And he didn't want to miss the look on the dark-haired man's face when he realized he could be politically and socially ruined any minute with Ken's presence. "Why do I do anything now, Youji?" Ran replied absently as his gaze finally found his target. Crawford was currently in the company of several portly, middle-aged men, the very image of a young, up-and-coming man of stature. His expression remained impassive, bored even, but in those calculating eyes, Ran saw the workings of a cunning, Machiavellian mind. Surely, his eventual downfall would be wonderful to behold. "Crawford," Youji stated matter-of-factly, his attention seeking and finding the object of his companion's scrutiny. Silently, Ran gave his old friend a commendation for knowing him so well. After all, it was Youji who had known him before his father had been tried for treason and executed. It was Youji who had witnessed all his possessions being stripped away by the Crown. And it was Youji who had seen the pathetic creature he'd become after wallowing in the depths of prison. Therefore, no one other than his friend could understand the hatred he bore the man responsible or the fire that fuelled him. Ran's eyes narrowed slightly as they continued to observe the raven-haired man, and then, subtly, seemingly guided by Fortune's hand, Crawford's golden gaze fell on the animated brunet mingling amidst the revelers. A small smile of satisfaction formed on the his lips at his target's sudden discovery. The reaction was barely perceptible, but for one observing as carefully as Ran, the stiffening of the spine and posture of discomfort were more than evident. A sense of accomplishment flooded through his body, and for the first time in a long while, he fought a tingling of near giddiness. "I would be careful, Ran." Youji's voice cut through his temporary euphoria with the quickness of finely honed steel. "You're playing with affairs you know nothing about, and probably ruining lives you have no right disrupting." The younger man turned his head sharply on his companion. "Crawford's life deserves to be ruined! In fact, ruination would be too good for him!" The retort came out so quickly that Ran was surprised such a passionate statement had come from his mouth. "That's not who I was referring to." Ran breathed in deeply before speaking again, this time, more calmly. "I know exactly what I'm doing, Youji. I've been working on and planning this for far too long not to." The older man watched his friend with an exasperated expression and sighed quietly. Although Youji did not speak, Ran could veritably taste the censure and reprimand in his taller companion's silence. "Don't, Youji," he said in hopes of alleviating the guilt he felt beginning to creep up on him. "Don't." But the man in question still didn't respond ... at least, not immediately. Instead, he turned to lean on the column Ran had been making use of earlier and observed the room with a jaded expression of ennui. Then, with all the airs of the spineless fop he strove to personify, he raised a painstakingly plucked eyebrow and said, "I dare say, my friend, you don't have an immediate need for the boy, I hope." "Wh ... ?" At the very mention of Ken, Ran instantly sought out the youth with his eyes, only to be greeted by the sight of a young, powdered and coiffed woman flirting outrageously with Ken. Absently, he wondered how his country visitor was handling the ample cleavage and high-pitched giggles being thrown his way, but all that seemed overshadowed by an inexplicable sensation that gripped his chest. Ken was an innocent in this rabid, cutthroat world - more so than even the youngest debutante - and for some reason, the prospect of him being tainted by this glittering two-faced company didn't sit very well with Ran. But before he could do anything, the two flirting party attendees started moving away from the crowd. Automatically, Ran began to follow. He vaguely recalled throwing an 'Excuse me' in Youji's directions before he mechanically wove through a mass of chintz and taffeta, his gaze never straying from the couple across the room. Had anyone questioned him during his pursuit about the motive for his actions, Ran wasn't certain he could have truthfully given one because, for all intents and purposes, he couldn't explain it himself. He had somehow drifted into a semi-glazed world, a cloudy, encompassing tunnel in which everyone and everything around him appeared as nothing more than a forgettable blur, and the only thing that stood clear and crisp in his vision was Ken ... Ken and that woman. It wasn't until the shock of the cool, night air hit the flushed skin of his face that he realized he had followed his quarry out of doors and into the well-tended gardens. In general, London did not boast the most breathtaking of private landscapes, but here, in the prestigious Mayfair District, where the rich and the privileged played, the manor grounds were a sight to admire. The silvery white light of the night sky cast a magical glow upon the beautifully tended - though deserted - terrace and in the distance, beyond the lush green grass and neatly trimmed bushes, he saw the Duchess's much-touted amphitheatre. In the back of his mind, Ran couldn't help but compare the tranquility of this evening to that of the one in Medmenham Abbey - the night he'd captured Ken. Ken. Ran looked around him at his lifeless surroundings with the intention of seeking and tracking the the man down, but then, he stopped himself. What was he doing? Surely, he hadn't followed a mere boy across a crowded ballroom like a blind, lovesick puppy! He gave himself a mental shake and re-prioritized his objectives. Ken was a pawn, he rationalized. And there was no need to get agitated over his brief disappearance. Besides, the boy had served this night's purpose already. Still, as he began to turn around to head back inside, a lingering uneasiness dwelled in the bottom of his stomach. "If you wish to play with me, little boy, then you'd better be prepared." The stone-cold voice stopped Ran in his tracks, and caused his skin to tingle with goose bumps. It was a voice that he had dreamt of hearing in defeat and desperation for so long that a brief pang of nervousness hit him with unexpected ferocity. Stealing a lungful of the cool air for fortification, Ran pivoted around and stared into the glittering, steely eyes of his mortal enemy. "Crawford," he said without the proper protocol due to a titled nobleman, eyes narrowed. The dark-haired man looked his opponent up and down before stepping nearer, his lethal expression indicating that he hadn't detected much of a threat. "Don't think I don't know you're the one playing this juvenile game." Ran could almost feel the other man's warm breath against his face as he spoke and fought the overwhelming urge to punch the man. "But be careful, because by the looks of it, you still have ten years of growing up to do before you can even begin to challenge me." Unconsciously, Ran felt his hands clench into strained fists. With as much self-control as he could muster, he held his gaze and said, "I would watch what you say, my lord, because I might just make a liar out of you." And with that, exuding as much dignity as a ruling monarch, Ran turned and walked off the terrace. (***) Ran was an enigma. The fact couldn't have been any clearer to him than if it had been smacked in his face like the rolling pin of a screaming fishwife. One moment, the man would act as accommodating as the most generous host, and the next, he behaved like one's mortal enemy. Or, as tonight had shown, he could be the most persuasive, charismatic companion, inviting an unsuspecting person to a posh London party, and by the end of the night, become an absolute tyrant, dragging said invited friend away from the revelry as if he were an ... an obligation! Ken breathed out a heavy breath that could've easily passed for an exasperated sigh as he haphazardly dumped his restrictive coat onto a nearby chair. He was willing to grant the upper class their indulgences - like Ran introducing him as a cousin, or the highly uncomfortable style of dress inflicted upon him - but there were things about his host that put him in a class completely separate from all others. He next kicked off the sturdy heels he'd been made to wear and released a throaty sound of relief at the sudden freedom his feet experienced. Finally, he loosened his collar and discarded the abundant lace. Now this was what he was used to, he thought with satisfaction as he began to wander out of the salon and into the darkened hallway of Ran's London townhouse. When the curt man had first mentioned that they were headed back to London, Ken's initial reaction had been shock - sheer, speech-stealing shock. They had just abruptly ended a wonderfully enjoyable lunch al fresco, and the man had wanted to leave for the city. He had wanted to refuse, scream and shout that he much preferred the country and its lulling freedom, but then, one look into those fathomless, tortured eyes, and Ken remembered the most convincing reason he had for staying in the first place. And so, he had followed the man into town, a place that held no pleasant memories for him, in hopes of solving the mystery of his host. But now, he truly questioned his own motives. He had barely managed to extricate himself from that clinging Lady Clara-something when Ran's harsh grip had led him from tonight's party, no explanations given. Their trip back to the townhouse had been made in silence, and upon arrival, Ran had darted into the building, leaving him to his own devices. How was he supposed to help the man if Ran barely had the inclination to speak to him? "Stupid, stubborn man," he muttered as he headed for the study, his instincts telling him that his host might have holed himself inside. He guessed wrong. Ken entered into the empty study, guided by the lone lantern on the desk. The room was smaller than its country counterpart, but much to the his consternation, it was the only place he could imagine Ran brooding in, short of his bedroom. Absently, he glanced at the papers on the desk, wondering if Ran had already stopped by or if the servants had just left the lamp burning by accident. Unable to draw a definite conclusion, he was turning to leave when several words on the scattered documents caught his eye. He stalled his movements, and concentrated on the scribbling before him. Slowly, he enunciated some of the most crucial words while easily recognizing some of the remaining ones. 'Tried', 'treason', and 'Americas' were easily deciphered. 'Statement', 'evidence', and 'Crawford' took a little longer to understand. But after several minutes of effort, the meaning of the papers began to dawn on Ken. Soft, brown eyes widened as fingers shuffled through more documents of the same nature until they finally came to rest on a detailed list, an out-of-place thing when compared to the surrounding official documents. From what he could tell, each item written on it was that of a social gathering here in London - parties, recitals, soirees - and the very first one had been neatly checked off. 'The Duchess of York's Dinner Party.' Various pieces were being fitted together in his head like the wooden puzzle toys he'd played with as a child, from Ran's harsh comments during their trip from Medmenham to his insistence of their presence at tonight's gathering. A rather grim story was being written of the man Ken had wanted to help. "What are you doing in here?" For some reason, he didn't jump or stiffen at the sudden intrusion. In fact, he had rather secretly wanted to be discovered. "Did you get what you wanted?" he asked the newly arrival in a soft voice - a voice calmer than any he had ever used before. He didn't turn around to greet the man, but even without looking, he sensed Ran approaching him at a wary pace. "Did he squirm and wiggle like you planned?" "What are you talking about?" Ken heard the hard edge in the other man's voice and understood the rhetorical nature of the question. "You know what I'm talking about," he replied plainly and gestured to the papers on the desk before finally throwing his nearby companion a searching look. "These documents ... they're real, aren't they? These are official documents linking Crawford as a sympathizer to the American colonies and a traitor to this country, aren't they?" Ran's ensuing silence was enough of an answer. "You don't have to explain, Ran. I can read it for myself now. You've taught me that much at least." Ken watched the other man quietly walk up beside him and start collecting the scattered papers, all the while, keeping his gaze focused on his task and refusing to look at his interrogator. "It looks like the Devil has been caught in a device of his own making, doesn't it?" Ran said with gravity-laden lightness. "And me ... I finally understand what you're trying to do," Ken went on, ignoring the levity of the other man's tone. "Does it feel good? To destroy another person, I mean?" By now, Ran had gather his papers in a pile, his long fingers carefully straightening every errant piece that didn't conform to the neat stack he was trying to achieve. Then, slowly, calmly, he looked up at Ken, his eyes emotionless but his words tempered with restrained anger. "Do you understand?" he returned steadily. "Do you understand what it's like to watch your father branded as a traitor when all the while you know he's being framed but are helpless to prove otherwise? Do you understand what it's like to watch his execution and then get thrown into prison with your mother and sister all because you've been implicated as his accomplices? Do you understand what it's like to watch the only remaining family you have die before you because you couldn't protect them from the disease and vermin that runs rampant in those dirty cells? And do you understand what it's like to wallow in filth while the man you know is responsible for the whole thing - the man who is true traitor - walked free and enjoyed the fortune that was rightfully yours?" Throughout the whole tirade, Ken felt a well of pity form within him for the man who'd just bared his soul, but fought valiantly to quell it. Pity was the last thing Ran needed, but patience ... patience was something different altogether. "No, I can't," he said simply, dark eyes leveled with the violet ones turned on him. "I can't even begin to understand. I'm just an illiterate farmer's son who knows nothing about the workings of a nobleman's twisted mind, but I know enough to see the difference between right and wrong. You ... " "Don't preach to me about right and wrong!" The sudden smacking of flesh against paper and the slightly raised voice halted Ken's words. The pile of documents that Ran had so meticulously arranged floated like an angel's feathers to the ground, an action resulting from the older man's momentary loss of control. "Don't preach to me about right and wrong," Ran repeated, this time a little more calmly. "My whole life has been filled with nothing but wrongs that have been accepted as rights. And this one goal, my ultimate goal, be it right or wrong, has kept me alive on the darkest and coldest nights in my pathetic excuse of a cell for far too long to be abandoned." "But it won't bring them back," Ken added quietly, his gaze not missing the subtle but powerful emotions that swelled in his host's implacable face. "Yes, destroying him may make you feel better, but for how long? A week? A month? A year? It won't last forever, Ran. You'll eventually end up where you are now, only you'll lose a part of yourself and not even know it." To these words, the other man didn't respond, the flickering of his eyes indicating an internal debate of which Ken couldn't be a part. And so, the younger man continued. "You could be the poorest peasant or the richest king, but all that counts for nothing if you walk a path that betrays who you are. A man is defined by the choices he makes, Ran, not the name he bears." By now, Ran's attention had wandered, his violet gaze seemingly riveted by the sheets he'd recently knocked to the floor. "So what do you expect of me?" he asked quietly, and tiredly. "What am I expected to do ... ?" The question trailed off into silence, its potency enough to fill both men in the room with a sense of anticipation as well as trepidation. Ken swallowed, and found the simple act more difficult than usual. To be honest, he didn't know how to answer; he didn't even know if he was the right one to give the advice he had just given. But, subconsciously, he knew he couldn't let Ran continue on as he had been doing ... not if he valued the very person he was. "Let me go," he finally said, allowing his instincts to guide him. "Forget it all and let me go ..." At this, Ran turned and shot him a hard look, the sharpness of those amethyst orbs honed enough to cut diamonds. "No." Ken didn't know what he had expected. Part of him had wished that the other man would capitulate without argument and realize what he had been doing to himself. But the other part - a part that he wished wasn't correct so often - had known that the refusal was imminent. But hadn't he been the one to remind himself that patience was what Ran needed right now? Trying not to feel defeated, he gave the other man one long, meaningful look. Then, in a move that conveyed no judgment, he turned and walked steadily out of the room. 'Patience,' he re-iterated mentally to himself. Perhaps it was his naive outlook on the whole situation, but when all was said and done, the patience he needed was easily supplied by trust. In the short time he'd known the man, he'd come to trust him. And oddly enough, at this very moment, and until the very end, he trusted Ran to ultimately make the right choice ... just as he trusted Ran to decide both their fates. (***) Had anyone asked Ran if he had an easy-to-rile personality, he would have bet his life with certainty that he was the complete opposite. But then why, in the past seven days, had he felt like a man ambling precariously along a thin rope where one wrong move could send him spiraling into a fathomless abyss? / ... Let me go ... / For seven days, Ken's haunting words had echoed in his head, ruining his appetite when he least expected it and disrupting his sleep when he least desired it. Yet, no matter how often his guest's deep, silky voice sounded in his head, he still could not bring himself to respond - even mentally - in the fashion Ken had wanted. Perhaps it was a weakness in his character, or perhaps it was the complete opposite, but either way, he could not seem to relent on the goal he'd been striving for during these past nine years. And now, they were returning to where it had all began - the scene of their first encounter, and hopefully, tonight, the scene of a conclusion to this whole thing. A glimmer of anticipation tickled Ran's chest as he spotted the tall towers of Medmenham Abbey after they rounded the last bend on the road from London. Without looking, he knew Ken followed close behind on his own horse, the boy's seat now significantly better than when they had first ridden away from this place. Ran forced the unbidden memories of their carefree riding lessons from his mind as the thought entered his head. He couldn't dwell on such trivial, useless things now ... just like he couldn't dwell on the fact that they had barely exchanged ten words with each other since their heated talk in his study. All he should be concerned about - and grateful for - was the compliancy he'd gotten from his quiet companion. Crawford's demise and subtle torture were meant to be drawn out and taunting, and in accordance, for the past week, Ken had attended the parties and soirees without major protest - as he had agreed to journey to Medmenham without protest. He knew that he couldn't have asked for anything more, but for some reason, he felt uncomfortable with his companion's complacent nature; it was odd, unnatural, and ... and almost daunting. "We're here," he turned and stated redundantly to the younger man behind him. He knew Ken saw their destination as clearly as he did, but nevertheless, he needed to speak aloud, if not to try and coax a sound out of the other man, then at least to break this uneasy silence that descended whenever they were together. To Ran's disappointment, Ken merely nodded and continued to stare directly ahead with enigmatic, lackluster eyes. Fingers tightened on the leading horse's reins involuntarily at the passive response, and the rider had to consciously force himself to relax his tensed muscles. For several more minutes, they rode, the soft pounding of their horses' hooves on the dirt road the only sound to fill the cloud dappled afternoon. They arrived at the doors of the Abbey earlier than Ran had originally expected, but seeing as how he had a long evening ahead of him, he didn't mind at all. Both riders dismounted easily and handed their horses over to the liveried servants who had been standing idly by the entrance. 'Dashwood's employees, no doubt,' thought Ran. Their host would not want his guests to lack for any comfort. Before stepping through the looming doorway, he cast a quick glance up at the engraved motto sitting above the entrance. 'Fay ce que voudras.' 'Do as you will.' The saying epitomized the heart of the Hellfire Club, and walking under those words a month ago hadn't disturbed him at all, but his time ... this time, he felt something twist and knot deep inside him. 'Do as you will ... ' / ... Let me go ... / Ran closed his eyes briefly, expelled a quick breath, and strode purposefully into the Abbey. He heard Ken's soft footsteps follow suit, and fought the urge to turn around and ask the other man for guidance. They got no further than the Abbey's common room when two large scraggily, but well-dressed, men approached them. "Is he one o' tonight's entertainment, sir?" one of the pair asked. His cockney accent was slight, but the air about him proclaimed to all that he was not to be trifled with. He gestured to Ken with his head and his companion looked the brunet up and down. Ran nodded. His use for Ken was coming to an end, and he understood that he should be happy to be rid of the boy. As he had told Youji, he knew what he was doing and he would not disrupt Ken's life more than he had to. The younger man's purpose was only to throw Crawford off-center, to torment and tease the man with the potential of ruination. Hard, concrete evidence to destroy him was what Ran had been really working for, and as of today, that evidence had been signed and sealed. Delivery was pending on tonight's outcome. So this ... this guilt was unfounded - or so he tried to convince himself. "Then he's to come wit' us," the cockney-accented voice continued. Ran bit his lip at those words, wanting to refuse them but knowing full well he couldn't. He felt Ken's soulful brown eyes on him, burning and branding him with thoughts that he could not and would not handle. For fear of losing all his self-control, he did not look back when he said, "Then take him." Amethyst eyes locked on the cold, stone floor as the two large men moved around him and led Ken from the room. Fists balled and jaw tightened, Ran heard the receding footsteps slowly give way to silence. And then, he was alone ... again. He knew this was as it should be, understood that this was what he had intended, yet ... Why did he feel as if he'd just betrayed someone to whom he owed a great debt? Questions and doubts flew wildly through his head, the turmoil seemingly endless until excited voices interrupted his thoughts. Looking around, Ran noticed several younger club members making their way across the room. It would appear as if he weren't the only one to arrive early. Normally, he wouldn't have paid that type of exuberance any mind, but several words that floated in his direction caught his attention. 'Victims' was the first word he caught. And 'early taste' caused his heart to accelerate. Their intentions took a moment to register in his mind, but when he finally pieced it all together, his legs were moving before he even had a chance to think about it. Plans, vengeance, destruction ... those became secondary thoughts as an inexplicable sense of worry washed through Ran. He had a rough idea where tonight's victims would be held, but to pinpoint that exact location would take time. And seeing as those men seemed sure in their steps, he was definitely at a disadvantage. This early in the day, it was unlikely that any other victims would've arrived yet, which meant that in all likelihood, Ken would either be near or all alone. Furthermore, Dashwood's servants would probably be more than accommodating in letting bona fide members sample the wares. Ran felt his heart leap into his throat at the prospect. They couldn't ... The air burning his throat by the time he reached the Abbey's sleeping quarters, Ran anxiously but methodically began opening the doors to what used to be the monk's cells. Room after spartan room, he found nothing but emptiness, each failure spurring a sense of dread and anger through his blood. He tried to tell himself he should leave it be. His ties to Ken were virtually non-existent, and letting the boy handle the situation on his own was perhaps the best recourse. Yet ... yet, the very thought of him getting hurt or succumbing to another's authority had Ran ready to kill. He finally found his target on his sixth try, the fatigue from his previous failed attempts overshadowed by the sight of the younger man fending off three overeager club members in the sparsely furnished cell. The supposed victim was doing quite well for himself as he managed to land a particularly wicked right hook on a lanky blond attacker, but even his strength wasn't a match for sheer numbers because as soon as he managed to land that punch, the injured man's comrades had latched onto Ken's arms and legs. A feral grunt cut through the small room, and it wasn't until he had pulled off one of the attackers that Ran realized the sound had come from him. His knuckles connected with solid flesh as the pent-up frustration and confusion from the past week made themselves known through every move he made. His breaths burned a scorched path to his lungs as his already strained senses entered a muddled state, and although he knew that Ken was fighting there right along with him, he couldn't deny his need to protect the younger man. The melee was short - though it could have lasted for hours as far as Ran's perception of reality was concerned - and before long, only he and Ken remained in the confining cell. Heavy breathing filled the small space and without thinking, Ran used the pain that shot up his nerves and flexed his fingers to re-orient himself with what had just transpired. Everything that had just happened - the rush to find Ken, the fight to save him, the subconscious drive to protect him - couldn't be explained, but to Ran, there had been no other course of action. Wearily, he looked over at the younger man, suddenly more afraid of what he would see there than the danger he'd face in the fight. Two, glittering eyes stared back. Ken's skin was flushed from the recent exercise, and his chest was still heaving from the exertion, but that delving gaze held true and held strong. And it was then and there that Ran somehow saw the paths of his future open up before him, paths that offered him a chance at damnation and a chance at salvation. His mouth went dry at the choice now given to him, and he felt his heart start beating irregularly. He tried to swallow, but such a trivial action seemed inappropriate at a time like this, and his muscles rebelled, almost causing him to choke. Slowly, mechanically, he brought his hands together, pulled off the signet ring that encircled his small finger, and threw it gently at the other man. His motions seemed to have belonged to somebody else while he remained an impartial observer, but still, every denied desire, want, and instinct was making itself known through that detached body. Ken deftly caught the ring and looked curiously at him. "Take it and get a horse," Ran said softly. "Get out of here and go home." At first, the younger man didn't move, and then, fingers closing around the ring, an expression of suppressed joy lit up on that beautiful face as Ken nodded in accordance to Ran's words. He strode the few steps toward the door, and stopped just short of exiting. "I never asked for this," Ran heard his former guest say breathily. "All I did was agree to go with that man, Whitehead, when he came to my local village in Norfolk and asked if I wanted to go away for a while. I didn't know that ... I never asked for this." And then, Ken was gone, leaving Ran to his own company. After a brief pause, he looked around the empty room and marveled at how closely his surroundings reflected his soul at the moment. "I never asked for this either, Ken," he said quietly to himself. "But life has given me but a few paths to walk, and I've taken the only ones I thought best. But I never asked for this either ..." (***) / ... a man is defined by the choices he makes ... / Ran closed his eyes in a futile attempt to block out Ken's voice and his haunting words. Ken was gone now. This had nothing to do with the man, had nothing to do with choices, or doing the right thing. In fact, he had chosen this course a long time ago, and doing anything else would destroy everything he had worked his whole adult life for. / ... a man is defined by the choices he makes ... / He slammed an angry fist against the hard ground and forced himself to ignore the tormenting voice that resonated in his head. Instead, he leaned his back against the cold stone statue he was sitting beside and tried to pay partial attention to the groans and grunts that cut through the crisp, night air of Medmenham's gardens. Crawford was over there, on the other side of this landscaped property, sating his needs on some young, nubile redhead. Of this, Ran was certain since he'd kept a close eye on the man since the Club's activities had started that evening. He was also certain that the dark-haired man was aware of his presence at the earlier meeting, but with Ken's absence from tonight's proceedings, he had duly ignored Ran and sought out some other fresh youth when Dashwood had given everyone carte blanche to the victims. And so, Ran had discreetly followed the man as he had caught himself a tall, slender young man to bring out with him to the gardens. As he waited for Crawford to finish, he idly traced the intricate metalwork of the two swords that lay innocently on the ground beside him. One was his own, a finely-honed weapon he had been training with for as many years as he'd been out of prison, and had brought with him tonight to fulfill the obligation he had christened it with years ago. And the other was just as impressive an affair, a blade procured from Dashwood's own collection here at the Abbey. Its gold-gilt hilt proclaimed it to be of a fine-crafted background, but its ostentatious appearance quite easily misled many from its lethal edge. The sounds that soon floated to his ears reached an almost deafening crescendo, leading him to believe that the whole act would be over shortly. But even as the anticipation began to build within him, he could also feel an uncomfortable heat consume his lower body at the carnal noises. He shifted uneasily as he felt himself harden, trying his best to veer his thoughts to less stimulating images. His subtle torture lasted for several more minutes before the moans and heaving grunts gave way to silence, leaving the redheaded man to breathe a quiet sigh of thankful relief. With swift efficient movements, he grabbed both the swords and stood, his wait not long now that Crawford was finished. The man would eventually have to pass by him if he wished to return to the main building and no better opportunity would present itself than that moment. The first figure to pass by him was the redheaded youth, a fairly graceful boy with barely tamed bright locks and flashing green eyes that seemed far too old for his face. The younger man gave the shadows surrounding Ran a fleeting look before continuing back towards the Abbey, but that glimpse of kiss-swollen lips and tousled hair oddly reminded the waiting man of Ken on their first night in the garden. But any remnants of the younger man soon disappated when the muffled 'swish' of expensive boots rubbing against the healthy lawn alerted Ran to the man coming in his direction. With one fluid movement, he stepped around the corner of his concealing statue, lightly gripping the hilts of each sword in each hand, and threw the borrowed blade toward the approaching man. A barely noticeable look of surprise crossed Crawford's face as he instinctively caught the weapon, but his expression quickly regained its inscrutable quality. Ran stared unwaveringly at his opponent, his own expression a stone mask in the revealing moonlight. "I believe in facing one's opponent fairly, and sentencing others to death honourably, unlike some gentlemen." The black-haired man's eyes narrowed at the insinuation, but accordingly, he unsheathed his blade. "You're that traitor's son," he said, more as a statement than a question. In response, Ran uncovered his own weapon. A small twitch pulled at Crawford's lips. "Then I really do owe you my gratitude. Without your father, I wouldn't be where I am today." Ran barely managed to leash in his fury at the comment. "If I were you, I would enjoy that position for as long as I can before it ends. Your activities with the American colonies left quite a paper trail ... a very well concealed paper trail, but a trail nonetheless." For a blink of an eye, a sliver of panic flittered across the other man's hard gaze, and for that moment, Ran reveled in his minor victory. But the feeling didn't last long. Without any apparent warning, Crawford quickly raised his sword and lunged. As it was, Ran barely had the chance to deflect the blow, struggling to guide the thrust blade to his left. What followed was a series of attacks and parries, the quick reflections of moonlight on metal and the musical clash of steel on steel prompting his senses to heighten and his limbs to react. Crawford's swordsmanship was skilled, his movements calculating and deadly, but Ran found himself falling into positions that he had often practiced. This was what his whole life had culminated to, and his body seemed aware of that fact as instinct and training matched his opponent attack for attack. His muscles soon began to burn as he and his fighting partner wove skillfully around the still stone statues of the white-lit garden. 'It was a rather interesting tableau,' he noted absently in the back of his mind, 'for the tranquility and simple beauty of this well manicured garden to be broken on this perfect moonlit night with the sound of clashing steel and heavy breathing of fighting men.' No sooner had that thought ran through his head than his opponent thrust his weapon forward with renewed vigour. Unable to completely evade the move, he felt Crawford's blade slide against his left bicep, the edge of the cold blade sparking an almost blinding hot streak of pain to course through his body. But pain was immaterial. Everything was immaterial save for the act of killing his father's murderer. Thus, ignoring the sword that cut into his arm, he rushed, weapon raised, at Crawford, his anger escaping his throat in a loud, inhuman growl, his action halting only when his blade met the soft resistance of his enemy's vulnerable neck. / ... a man is defined by the choices he makes ... / And it was then that he froze. It was then that everything seemed to freeze. Both fighters stood stock still, one man's blade slightly embedded in his opponent's arm, and the other's poised against his enemy's Adam's apple. Their breaths came in short spurts as blazing amethyst met with impassive gold. "Do as you will," Crawford's eyes said silently, uncaring of what the other man would do next. But Ran did. Inexplicably, he now cared about what he would do next. For the past nine years, he had lived for this moment, for this one triumphant heartbeat when he could finally and blessedly end his years of self-torment with just a twitch of a muscle, and he was suddenly hesitating over his actions. / ... a man is defined by the choices he makes ... / What was happening to him? Why couldn't he go through with it? Why couldn't he accomplish this one goal when it was in his power to do so? / ... a man is defined by the choices he makes ... / Damn him. Damn Ken and all his naive words. With an angry yell that echoed eerily through the empty gardens, he pulled his arm back, knocked the other man's weapon away from his body, and raised his sword for a death blow. But as he brought his blade down, he relented slightly and just missed Crawford's artery by a hair's breath. The red haze that he had been walking in this whole evening - if not the past nine years - had slowly began to lift, revealing to him the stark, cold reality of the life before him. Ran hated it. He hated it, but he would live with it. Crawford would be ruined by his hand - the papers he had in his custody would see to that - but this ... this he could not do ... not anymore. So, with what remained of his strength, he plunged his sword into the ground, and walked away, leaving his blade to rock back and forth with Crawford, his vengeance, and his past. He walked without thought, easily finding the path that led to the horses and an escape from this place. And it was as he made his way to the stables that he realized why he had given it all up when he could have easily gone the other way. He had seen what was on the other side - had almost been sucked into its vortex even - but living with and building from what had now was infinitely better than that alternative. Ken's words were beginning to make sense now. A small, depreciating smile worked its way onto his lips at the thought of the younger man. The boy was as ignorant as the next newborn babe, but he could be undeniably wise and insightful without meaning to be. Not encountering anymore problems for the remainder of his trek, he quickly retrieved his horse, and soon, he was riding away from the Abbey, his heart somehow lighter than he had ever remembered it being. "Defined by the choices we make, huh, Ken?" Ran said under his breath to himself as he guided his horse onto the dirt road, the white light of the shining moon his only companion. And so saying, he rode into the night. But instead of heading west, back home to Somerset, he decided to ride east ... to Norfolk ... and to Ken.
End The Hellfire Trilogy
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