You! Me and my fucking knife!

[brentjoyce]

Winter: Alright Andrew you have gone to far now your in for it!

[glamorousgnome]

Sometime in the nineteenth century, when all the men wore tall hats and black coats, and all of London was filled with splashing carriage wheels and black umbrellas,

a solitary man stood on a cobblestone street, in gentleman'a attire, waiting.

His skin crawled with anxiety and his veins flooded with adrenaline. Any minute now, his pupil's widened, any minute now Winter would be here.
A deserted street, dried leaves drifting lazily onto the road in the breeze, the collar of his black coat ruffled-

Andrew Baron carried two weapons with him
-the ever classic sword
-the ever technological gun, dark, silver, deadly.

And a passionate hatred that spread beyond his coat pocket, where the weapons latched on.

[brentjoyce]

Winter walked into sight.

His hat was so low only his mouth could be seen. A slight cracked smile came across his pale face.

"Andrew Baron?"

[glamorousgnome]

Andrew nearly lost control at the mere sight of him- that horrifying, bloodthirsty, crooked murderer. He imagined himself rushing up, pounding his fist into his face, screaming, telling him what he really thought of him, that cheap, lowlife, son of a bitch.

But a duel, he reminded himself.
And the street was secluded enough so that they could remain unwatched or uninterfered with.
After, disturbing the peace could have a price of prison years, hard labor, the noose...
Andrew returned the smile, but it was a smile of confidence, and it held far less danger than Winter's.

"Andrew Baron," he affirmed politely, but with venom. "And you are Winter. What a pleasure to see you again," and he rolled out his next words with mockery. "Old friend."

A spell of fear ran through him for a moment, causing his spine to shiver ever so slightly. A trained assassin, a man who's life breathed for the kill, and a simple businessman from London, with a wife and children, whos greatest adventure these days was, well, this duel.

But anger swelled inside of him.
Winter must be stopped.

He thought of Sera back home for a moment, wondering if he'd ever see her sweet face again, and of his children, and how he supported them, he loved them, they loved him, and all would be tragically lost if he lost this.
How stupid was this, challenging Winter to a duel-
Ah well, bigger heart than his brain.
Andew Baron unsheathed a long, glorious blade, with a beautiful, glimmering hilt, so unused and unloved in this new industrial era.
His great grandfather made this sword, and it had been in his family for many years. The sword making days died off for the Barons, as it did for many other families with the popularity of the gun, but Andrew sharpened it, and practicied with it, and now it would pay off, hopefully, today.

[brentjoyce]

"You know after i am done killing you."

he paused and took his hat off.

"i am going to kill your wife, i will make it quick and painless for her."

He placed his hand against his head as if he was bored. His hand then went down to his sides into his pocket.

"what are you trying to prove here anyway? your just going to die like the rest of the hounds that i have put down."

He took out silk black gloves from his pocket. He stood ready for what Andrew had to bring.

[glamorousgnome]

Andrew's stomach squirmed, an image of his wife's hand on the bannister, coming down the stairs, then bloodstained dresses, beautiful now bloodstained dresses-

He couldn't bear it, and wanted nothing more than to spill Winter's guts onto the pavement. His teeth felt weak in comparison to Winter's, and chances are they would fight like mortals in this battle- with human weapons.
But still, the taste for blood gave him the stomach to handle this battle, especially, well, especially if he lost.

He couldn't lose.
Or this would all be worth nothing.

But if he backed out now, like a coward, like a spineless rat, Winter would not end this here. And Andrew had a family to protect-

For a moment, he wished that Adrien was by his side, and Tobias too, so that all three of them could take down this monster together, but they were not hear.

It was Andrew versus Winter.
And it was going to be ugly.

Silk gloves.

They brought terror to Andrew's heart, but his fist clutched the sword, sweaty, determined not to back down. And he waited, watched, trembled under his adversary's gaze.

[brentjoyce]

Winter fitted his gloves on. His cloths begun to sway with the cool night breeze, and his pale skin was only more sallow with the moon shining upon it. It was cold, the dead middle of winter put this didn’t bother him one bit as we was stone cold.

Winter took a few steps back to allow room between him and Andrew to counter and offensives that he was to make. Winter didn’t draw a weapon he just kept his hands down at his side and gave Andrew a bitter gaze.

Winter was looking past the vampire’s eyes into to the back of his head. Winter held his lips tight for a moment and then begun to circle his prey as if he was a shark ready to make his strike.

“It doesn’t have to end this way Mr. Baron.” He gave a dark laugh “you can just place your weapon in its holder and leave…”

“there will be no fight”

He stopped and begun to circle counter clockwise with his hands behind his back. He was feeling his black silk gloves rubbing his hands together.

“you can just kneel down and bow out”

[glamorousgnome]

Andrew laughed harshly, without any humor, and his voice trembled with regret. "I'm a free man, Winter. Besides, if I did bow down and out, then you would never stop pursuing me and my family. You would never leave us alone."

A dreadful thought.
Lying awake at night from every strange noise, even just a branch scraping a window, for fear of Winter's bloody knife, his cold, restless face that searched for blood to spill and waste.

Andrew followed Winter's steps, keeping the circle they formed whole, moving. Years ago, back in his childhood, both his uncle and his father taught him the art of fencing, of swords, of weaponry, and he practiced and perfected his skill throughout his lifetime.
But now-
someone who killed for the pure delight of it
Could Andrew match up?

"You're a true monster, Winter."

[brentjoyce]

“Am I Mr. Baron?”

He looked at Andrew with a jovial smile. His lips curled into a sinister laugh.

“Am I the monster? Have my sins brought to such levels.”

He stopped his circle and took two steps forward. He raised his chin in a pompous act.

“back to our prior discussion, I said I was going to kill your wife quickly.” He gave a toothy smile “I change my mind I think I will make her suffer.”

[glamorousgnome]

Somewhere deep inside of him, hatred snarled its deadly teeth, and Andrew gripped the sword harder. Rage boiled in his bones and blood, and he tried to control himself, tried so hard.

I will make her suffer.

All control fled from the fire of his mind, and he thrust his sword viciously through the air, once, twice, knowing from the moment he first lifted his arm that all of this would end disastrously for him.
An image of Winter's hands around his wife's throat, his knife against her naval, his eyes on her breasts, and Andrew wanted to kill him.
Viciously, and no longer with remorse, Andrew wanted him dead.
"You are a monster," Andrew snarled like a beast. "May you rot in hell!"

[brentjoyce]

Winter gently parried the thrusts that Andrew made. In Winter’s mind these thrust were pathetic in nature. Only a fool would do such a thing. Winter was a trained killer, Andrew was a husband; Winter was fighting for the sheer joy of the killing, Andrew was fighting for his life. He was a cornered trapped animal. Winter took one large step back and drew his shimmering silver dagger from its sheath.

The dagger glowed in the faint moonlight. Winter took the dagger up to his face and slid it across his cheek and drew his own blood. All the while looking Andrew in the eyes, he licked his own blood.

“Tainted” Winter spoke

He then placed his dagger in a fight position.

“You have a kid?” Winter had a sinister smirk his pale bleeding face “or children?”

“Care for me to elaborate how I will kill them?”

[glamorousgnome]

"None of your fucking business!"

Andrew swiped the sword again, astonished that such a little dagger could ward off his blows. The sight of Winter's blood rolling down his cheeks sent chills throughout his body, centered with his spine, moving along it in little prickles to all the limbs, every finger tip, of him.

He tried to be brave. He tried so hard to pretend that his only stake was pride, but he could not convince himself to believe so, to calm down.

Paris Andrew Baron.

Andrew closed his eyes and imagined his teenaged son, trying in vain to avenge his father, trying so hard and falling limply to the ground, all pathetically failing against this man, this evil, rotten monster.

Then next his wife, beautiful, sweet, and tragic Sera.
Then his daughter- lovely, youthful, only seven years old with moist brown eyes and troubled brown hair.

All victim to Winter's blade.

Andrew Baron, you must not lose this fight.

Terror, passion, devotion overtook him, and all of his years of his life, many decades and decades still youthful in strength, filled his head.
A warm house, the smell of cinnamon and ale, cold lips on warm flesh, his uncle's hat, his daughter's smile during beloved rainstorms, childhood days in London, a London long gone, beautiful, beautiful poetry, his wife's hands on his body, all over his body, a silver tea set, and now-

blood on a dagger, flashing in the moonlight.

All of this was at stake.

[brentjoyce]

Winter stood there. He was starting to get to Andrew.

He could feel it.

Winter could feel the nerves in Andrew stress.

Winter gave a wicked smile; he was enjoying this very much. The thought of killing Andrew’s family wasn’t quite as appealing as it was now.

“Mr. Baron how much do you love your family?”

He took a few steps back he was trying to see how much emotional damage he could do before Andrew would snap.

“Well its not going to matter how much you love them when your dead.”

(Assuming all goes well) Winter said under his breath.

“Well anyways I think I am going to kill your children oldest to youngest.”

He paused and thought a little. He rubbed his dagger passionately like a lover would to their lover.

“Actually I think I will leave the youngest one alive…” Winter cleared his throat “assuming you have two or more children so they could have survivors guilt.”

[Her Royal Highness]

Sera: you SON OF A BITCH I'll kill you MYSELF!!!

[Andrew Baron]

On a little street corner several years back, not far from this cursed place, Andrew fell to his knees and embraced his youngest child, Helena, in his arms with such tightness that he forgot all of the man he once was.
The man who spent late nights with women and booze just so that he did not feel alone for an hour or so, the man who stepped on those around him for his own selfish wants, and the man who promised himself he would never love another being on this planet again, all of them died, extinguished forever, and now leaked away, in this moment, completely forgotten.
"Helena, where were you? I was so worried! I couldn't find you-"
He shook her shoulders gently, felt his heart lighten with relief, and all the images of the evils that could have snatched her away from him on that street corner surfaced in his mind.
Hand in hand, he walked with his daughter home to the people that filled up that ugly, empty void in his life. These, his family, were the same people that helped him pass his own torch from foolish, arrogant, youth to a brighter manhood, and he vowed to watch over them for the rest of his long, uncountable years.


Andrew never meant to show himself as weak to Winter, but he recalled this scene in his mind with such vivacity that a tear rolled down his cheek, even as he struck his sword out. He realized all that Winter threatened could, and probably would come to pass. He, Sera, and Paris would become ashes, and Helena would grow old, lying awake at night in deepest longing for the soft, blurring faces of family from her childhood.

In Andrew's eyes, Winter held no weaknesses, and he feared the vicious glinting of the blood against his face and his dagger. For one moment, he saw his blue eye reflected in the blade, glittering, swelling up with tears and intense pupils.

It was then that he knew he could no longer go on, and dropping his sword onto the ground, he fell to his knees.
What's a free man, he asked himself bitterly, if he has not the liberty of love?
"Mercy," he begged, his hands trembling, his neck bare to Winter's fury. "Mercy, Winter."
If Winter decided not to give him mercy, Andrew determined he would try to fight this out, to the death, but he begged and pleaded for what Winter had the power to give. Mercy. Please. Let us go our separate ways-
"Mercy!"

[brentjoyce]

“Mercy”

Winter laughed at such a notion

“mercy? You egg me on for this long and then you lay your arms down and beg for mercy?”

Winter took several steps into Andrew until he was standing directly over the man. Winter looked the tormented soul of Andrew.

“your not even worth my effort”

Winter turned around and placed his dagger back in its holder.

[glamorousgnome]

Mercy.


Andrew rose to his feet, sheathing his weapon, but not turning his back. He still felt a chill rise up his spine at the site of Winter, at the blood still on his cheek, and he felt disgusting bowing at his feet like that, like a coward.

"Thank you."


He paused, took a step backward, and continued cautiously. "But just so we are clear, Winter- I am in no way in your debt for this.

You will leave me, my wife, and my children alone, is that very clear?"

It had better be clear, Andrew thought to himself, his breath catching in his throat. He had no way to enforce that challenge.

[Her Royal Highness]

Sera: Dont worry, Andrew. He comes anywhere NEAR us or our kids we'll kick his fucking ass together!

remember, as Capt Sparrow would put it, Woman is scorn like which fury's hell hath no!!!

[brentjoyce]

Winter stopped mid-step and raised his head and looked over his shoulder, looking right at Andrew's eyes. He paused to give thought to what he was to say next. Blood begun to drip down his wound in slow beads. The moon light shimmered off the dark red substance.

Then he said "If the mark is fall upon you and your love ones, Mr. Baron, then i will not grant you no mercy. Gold and pounds far out weigh the words of a single man." Winter wiped the blood on his cheek with his sleeve and the tainted blood soiled his green jacket. "The only thing you are in debt to Mr. Baron is yourself."

After finishing up his sentence Winter turned his head forward away from Andrew. "For your sake lets hope we never meet again." He begun to walk away in the cold shadows of the city.

[glamorousgnome]

Andrew thought about it- hard.
Impulse writhed inside of him, and his knees burned where they hit the ground to beg mercy. A flush of humiliation crossed his face, like a part of his manhood had been snatched away from him by the man who left him there with blood in his veins.
It was over- finally over, but Andrew still hated Winter with all he could hate with.
He felt an ugly sort of wrench inside of him, like this had solved nothing, and he would still live in fear for his family's lives.

And Winter's comment disturbed him- Gold and pounds far outweigh the words of a single man.

Yes, Andrew decided. Giving up had solved nothing. This murderer was still out there, and his family's life could one day be jeopardized again.
And Andrew was a man who made many enemies throughout his life. Any one of them could find Winter, hire him so they'd put no blood on their own hands-

In his mind, he saw himself scrambling to his feet, drawing his dagger, and thrusting the knife deep into Winter's turned back. But this, he realized, would never work. It was wrong to go back on his word, and chances were Winter would turn around and break his neck.

With slow breaths, he walked in the other direction from where Winter walked- his home.



*~*


Seventeen years old, thick, waving golden hair that gathered past his ears, down to his shoulders, and two blue eyes that quivered with every emotion that crossed the boy's heart.
Today's emotion was scorn.

Andrew clung to the glass of whisky as tightly as he could without cracking it. His throat tingled with warmth, his fingertips tapped the rim, and he stared straight at the wall ahead, the one with the oil-portrait of a Parisian flower girl.

The boy folded his legs under himself and leaned back in the grand and plushy chair. The word coward fought from the inside of his lips, prying them open, trying to utter itself out. As hard as he tried to prevent it from escaping, it did-

"Coward."

Andrew slammed the glass down onto the table beside him, the whisky splashing onto the table and his hand. Turning his head sharply away from the beautiful portrait, he snarled, "Winter is twice the size of me, Paris, do you honestly think I could have taken him on and won!?"

"Winter's weak," Paris insisted, his delicate eyes hardening. "You just don't see it. Everyman has a weakness, especially a man who feigns so well that he has none. Look at how pompous he behaves in battle, how he runs the blade against his skin. It's all a show, Father. How could you be so stupid not to see it?"

"He would have murdered us all," Andrew insisted, reaching for the whisky again. "Murdered us all..."

A cold smirk brushed Paris' features at this statement. The statement was horrifying, and Paris was indeed horrified by it, but his mind chose to overlook it, and to jump to the next critique in his head. "It of course didn't help that you chose an old man's weapon.
A sword? Yes, we all have heard the stories about how powerful it supposedly is, and how old it is, and what an heirloom, but how can you honestly kick a nineteenth century man's arse with that?
Use the pistol.
The pistol is a much harder punch."
His legs beneath him pushed him so that he stood now on the chair, and shifting the pistol he'd so cleanly snitched from Andrew's pocket, he pointed it at the oil portrait.
"Tell me, Father. Can a sword do this?"
The gun rang out. The smell of gunpowder, thick, ugly, brutal around the room.
When the smoke cleared out, the beautiful woman in the portrait took a bullet to her head.

Down went the whisky glass, cracked to pieces on the ground as the liquid slithered out. Footsteps from the maid came from up above, thundering down the stairs to find out what had happened.
Paris stood with his arm still outstretched, perhaps shocked that he had gotten so carried away, or maybe pleased with himself. He stood there for a long time in that position, until Andrew pried the gun from his hands and pushed him to where he sat again.

"Let's not get carried away, now," Andrew muttered, his nerves still shaking, his nostrils still burning from the smoke. "You stupid boy, give me the gun. I'm not going after Winter again, that's it. It's over. I trust that Winter can keep his word."

"I don't trust a man like that," Paris shrugged. "You heard him. He'd cut your throat for a mere shilling. This won't stop until he is dead. And you're taking the coward's way out by just pretending it's all going to just disappear-"

"It might-"

"This isn't over yet! Think about Helena and Sera! What about them? Do you really want to take Winter's word that their lives will not be endangered? What about our family name? Your own pride?
If you've lost the balls to go out and teach this Winter his place in hell, then I will! The gun please if you'll so oblige-"

"No!" Andrew stammered. The smoke made him feel dizzy, and the bullet hole in the pretty painting’s head gave him chills. The violence he tried so hard to avoid already entered his household. Flashes of his younger days mocked him in his head, days when he himself was a monster. “I will not 'so oblige', Paris, listen to me. You or I- neither of us will be going after Winter again- ever. You have to trust me. Winter will not show his face near us again. This family is safe.”

"Sure," Paris mused, a new expression forming on his face, far more dangerous. "Neither you or I will go after him....Two can play at Winter's game.
We'll hire someone."

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard," his father scolded sharply. "Why would you even say that? Winter is probably the only assassin in London."

But Paris shook his head, slowly, with conviction. "The streets are teeming with them if you know where to find them (not that I've been hanging 'round anywhere I shouldn't). Winter will never trace the man back to us, right?"

"Wrong," Andrew snapped. "He's a bloodhound. And he’s the best of those ‘teeming in the streets’.” His expression turned hopeless, pleading. He understood the craving for blood in his son’s eyes, that terrible, violent thirst, and especially his vengeance.
Dreaming of vengeance, with chops dripping of blood, each swipe of a knife or neck no longer worth a flinch…
He refused to see his son become like this, this thing that all monsters are made of- like Winter.
Andrew wasn’t quite sure how to say it, but his son was acting just like Winter-

“Paris,” the man sighed gently, taking the gun up into his hands and tracing his palm along it lovingly. The room seemed suddenly very disturbed, like there could never be peace there again, and the oil portrait victim only proved it. “You call me a coward. Did you ever for one moment think that the one on his knees to stop the madness is the real man?
You insist that real men follow their pride, their impulse, the strongest brute wins at whatever the cost. You insist that men who do not are cowards.
But I say that the real man is the one who gives up his pride, his impulse, and his strength to stop the bloodshed, keep the peace.
I used to be like you Paris. Just like you- I learned too late-”

The boy sighed heavily, unsure of whether or not Andrew’s words meant something to him. The world was so dark these days, darker than he remembered as a child, and his relationship with his father plummeted lower and lower as the nights wore on. They seemed to live in different worlds; different places with different philosophies, customs, and sometimes, he laughed, even languages. It never used to be this way. Now, the boy gritted his teeth, there could be no understanding.

“Learned too late? That’s fine for you,” he stated coldly. “But I swear you will never see me drop to my knees like that in a petty duel.”

Nothing hurt Andrew more than that statement. Did his son not understand what he had gone through to keep this family together, to keep this family alive and thriving in the city of his birth? “Paris, please. You must try to understand why I chose to do that-”

“Don’t be so afraid of Winter. He’s vulnerable too. He may be more of a coward than you are.” Paris’ smirk slithered back onto his face, but his eyes grew warmer, more childlike. “You’re considering hiring an assassin aren’t you? Winter may never harm us again but imagine how many others he will curse. There’s a row of them down…well…don’t be angry I’ve been about the city a bit, but there’s a good shady row of them near Blackfriar’s Bridge…….or me-”

That’s it.
Andrew stood to his feet, the tortured portrait behind him, and he towered over his son, who still curled himself over his feet in the comfy chair. Snatching the gun from the table, he shoved it into his pocket, and set his gaze dark and heavy upon his son.

“Listen to me, Paris. Listen to me closely.
This gun! See this gun? Not yours to touch. EVER AGAIN.
You are not going after Winter. I am not going after Winter. No one is going after Winter, actually. I’d rather not hear about it anymore. We’re going to let this go, like it never happened.
You’ve underestimated by far me and Winter, so I am begging you, ordering you, to keep your distance from Winter, and anyone associated with him or his job-
Paris, you can’t possibly understand, so don’t even bother. Don’t ever bring this up again-”

“-bullshit-! We can’t just sit and do nothing-?”

“Well,” Andrew growled. The room around him felt suffocating, brutal from all of the violence, and he grasped his head to prevent it from aching harder. “If you need more of an incentive, I have no problem with kicking your ass. So I suggest you do as I order, stay away from Blackfriars, and get a good night’s sleep like a normal boy of seventeen… Fucking headache.”


But about two am Andrew Baron looked down at his feet in surprise to find that he stood nearby Blackfriar’s Bridge, pacing back and forth, shivering in the cold, waiting for someone that could help him.
A figure in a dark coat, completely hidden, completely incognito.
They spoke for several minutes in hushed voices, and this ended with Andrew walking in the direction he came from, and the cloaked figure walking in the opposite direction, flipping through a stack of pound notes in her hands.