Le Papillion Part I
This involves Jem, an unconscious Chiffon, and Raifel being pretty cool. Told from Dawson's point of view. As of right now, unedited and unfinished.
June 18, 1887 (pre-Jem Knowing where Chiffon lives through Murdoc)
It was June of the year 1887 when I got an unexpected call from my old military commanders to assist in the inspection of the ship that had fallen on the northernmost shore. It was just a small thing, from the look of it, and though they had claimed it was only the remains, I was surprised to find the ship still mostly in tact. One of the sides was torn off and the mast was broken, but it was nothing that couldn't be repaired, and so I had offered my expertise to restore it to its former glory, hoping that rebuilding the ship would shed some light on where it had come from. And upon pitching this idea, it was immediately agreed that I should indeed do just that.
The following morning, I was out at the site with my bag of tools, having slipped out before Holmes had awoken and confident that I should be back before he noticed that I was gone, but either way he knew of my commission and cared little about what the job actually was. But fixing a ship alone without an assistant was not something that I intended to do, and there was one in particular that I wished to have. It was not only his help and his young nimble fingers which I desired, but the mystery of his past which I had been hoping to delve into. The boy Chiffon still had amnesia, as far as I was aware, and though his time with Alastair had allowed him to learn proper English, he was making no progress as far as his memory. Though I wasn't completely positive about there being a connection between the boy and the ship, it was still a possibility and one which I wished to discover.
As it turned out, it was not only a possibility, but a certainty, for the moment we reached the ship and I pointed out the peculuarity of the symbols across the side and the written that read, 'Le Papillion,' his mouth hung open, his eyes grew wide, and he dropped the supplies that he was carrying, staring at the ship as if he had seen a ghost.
"I know... this ship..." The boy mumbled before dropping to the ground, having fallen unconscious, and I, with a yelp of surprise, dropped my own load and rushed to his side, kneeling beside him and pulling him up into my arms, pressing a palm to his forehead and checking his pulse, but all was normal otherwise, he might as well have been sleeping. But whatever sleep it was, it was a restless one for the boy was groaning and twitching every so often as if he were quite uncomfortable.
Though as I sat with the boy in my lap, waiting to see if he would awaken, wondering whether to simply abandon my project and return him immediately to Alastair for further care, I heard the sound of a footstep and the safety being clicked off of a pistol and looked up to see a tall, thin, white-haired man wearing a hat pointing his gun at me with a wicked smirk on his face.
I must confess that I had never met anyone with white hair aside from the boy in my arms, and so seeing a second one in my presence at that moment, I couldn't help but wonder if they were related at all. "Who are you?" I barked, my brow furrowing and my eyes darkening, though I was honestly frightened for both myself and young Chiffon.
"I should ask you the same question," he returned with a voice not unlike the hiss of a snake and a hint of an accent, and accent which I recognized as the same as Chiffon's, though much less strong. "You who hold my nephew in your arms so closely. You would be wise to return the boy to me before I am forced to take drastic measures."
"Nephew!" I gasped. But that only brought more questions to my mind. What if the man was lying? But what if the man was telling the truth? They did look the same. But if he did not think that there was some reason that I might not return the boy, what was the need for the gun? "There is no need for violence. You claim that the boy is your nephew, and yet I found him beaten in an alleyway and he has been in the care of myself and our friends for nearly a month already.
The white-haired man gritted his teeth, seemingly considering an answer before replying, "I have been charged with bringing him home. Hand him to me."
And though he claimed to be family and certainly looked the part, there was something in his voice or his eyes or body language that told me not under any circumstances to let him take charge of Chiffon. Surely he meant only ill will upon the boy, and that was what my instincts were screaming to me. So I scowled at the man and reached to my waist for my own revolver, replying firmly, "I shall do no such thing."
But the moment I reached for my gun, he pointed his directly towards my head, the look on his face viscious and terrible, and I thought for certain that my life was over, closing my eyes and looking away, praying to any greater being that my life might be spared. And when I thought for certain that it would not be, I heard another voice, and this one not French at all, but a sharp and unmistakeable English accent.
"It would be wise of you to lower your gun, Jereme."
When I looked up again, a man with long grey hair stood there, and it was indeed my friend Rodger King in all of his six feet and six inches of height, the usual black frock coat hanging off of his long, thin frame, pressing his gun to the side of the white-haired man's head.
"Who are you!?" The white-haired man hissed, his lip curled in a growl until he turned a little and got a better view of just who this other man was. Then his eyes grew wide and he lowered his gun slowly to his side, blinking in shock, before Rodger spoke again in his commanding tone of voice. "Call me a friend. What are you doing here, Jem?"
The man, apparently called Jereme or Jem, quickly slipped from shock and back into the fox-like expression he had held earlier, his eyes narrowed and a sly smirk upon his face. "I should ask you the same question... Raifel..."
"Don't call me that. And I live here. Now tell me."
Rodger had his own pistol, which he had pressed against Jem's temple, and he pressed it harder as he prodded him to answer. The white-haired male scowled at the hotel owner out of the corner of his eye. "It should be very clear to you why I have come given ze circumstances. I have come to retrieve ze boy." Though there was a pistol pressed to his head, he motioned with a flick of one hand to the boy in my arms.
I stared at the two of them, also in shock. How did Rodger know this man? And who was he? As I watched in a stupor, Rodger curled his lip and glared at the other man, looking as if he were very tempted to simply pull the trigger and end the man's life, while the white-haired Frenchman seemed far too relaxed. Finally Rodger blinked at Chiffon out of the corner of his eye, contemplating. "Then this is...?"
Jem smirked at him knowingly. "The very same."
With a sigh, my friend mumbled, "Drop the gun," And when Jem did so, he let down his own gun to his side. "Now go. I don't want to see your sorry face here..."
The man shrugged. "Very well." He replied in a tone that was far too light-hearted for my tastes. "But mark my words, Raifel Rodger King. I will have that boy. You and zese othzers, you cannot watch him forever. And the moment I find him alone... he will be mine." Then, slowly, he backed up, and then took off at a sauntering pace, hands in his pockets, and the last thing I saw of him was a black cat trailing behind before I looked to Raifel, who was already kneeling down beside us.
"How is he?"
"Fine." I replied, shaking my head a little, still trying to wrap everything around it. "Sleeping."
"Good. It could have been much worse. That man... he isn't one to be messed with." Rodger sighed and reached out to take Chiffon from me and I let him. I trusted him enough, and he had just saved both of our lives, after all. The taller man hefted the boy onto his back with ease and started off away from the scen of the ship. "What happened?"
Scrambling to my feet, I followed, still shaking my head and feeling as if in a daze, but I did recall what had happened only moments before. "I brought him to assist me in fixing the ship... the moment he saw it, he collapsed."
"Did he say anything before he fainted?"
"Yes..." I had to pause to think for a moment. "He said... 'I've seen this ship before.'"
"Hrm." And that was the last of the response that I got from the taller man for a long while, until we well back within the streets of Londonport. It was nearing noon now and the sun was high in the sky, the streets busy with pedestrians and vehicles alike, and no one seemed to pay them any mind at all.
After a long while, after I had realized that we were headed in the direction of King's Hotel, my friend spoke again. "You, Doctor."
"Yes?"
"How do you know this boy? And what do you know about him?"
I shrugged a little and adjusted the bowler on my head. "I saved him, I suppose. He was in an alleyway, he has amnesia, he only spoke that odd language... French, I believe, when I found him, but our friend Alastair, that is, a friend of Holmes and myself has been teaching him English.
"I see. We're going back to the Hotel, we'll have lunch and talk."
"Sounds... delightful." He blinked in surprise at him, wondering why he was being so secretive with me. He clearly knew more than he was saying.
--
When we arrived at the hotel Rodger yelled something quite rude, as per usual, to the white-haired woman puttering about the entryway, and then we proceeded into a backroom where there was a fire going, presumably his personal sitting room. I had never seen it himself as the work that I usually did took place in his office or the bird room. After sitting myself in one chair and draping Chiffon in the other, Rodger brewed a pot of soup for the three of us. By the time he had finished, the boy was coming to, mumbling incoherently and blinking his eyes open slowly.
Rodger came whisking in from the kitchen then, shoved a mug of hot tea into the boy's hands, and stared him straight in the face. "Where did you come from!?"
"I uh..." Chiffon mumbled, blinking up at the man in confusion, and as he regained consciousness, began looking about. "I ... I don't know? I don't... remember... What happened?"
He turned to me then, clearly seeking answers, and I sighed and shook my head, honestly not knowing what to tell them. And then Rodger turned to face the fire.
"Do you know of a place called... Port de France?"
We both shook our heads. The man sighed and sat himself carefully in the armchair between the two of us and began to explain.
June 18, 1887 (pre-Jem Knowing where Chiffon lives through Murdoc)
It was June of the year 1887 when I got an unexpected call from my old military commanders to assist in the inspection of the ship that had fallen on the northernmost shore. It was just a small thing, from the look of it, and though they had claimed it was only the remains, I was surprised to find the ship still mostly in tact. One of the sides was torn off and the mast was broken, but it was nothing that couldn't be repaired, and so I had offered my expertise to restore it to its former glory, hoping that rebuilding the ship would shed some light on where it had come from. And upon pitching this idea, it was immediately agreed that I should indeed do just that.
The following morning, I was out at the site with my bag of tools, having slipped out before Holmes had awoken and confident that I should be back before he noticed that I was gone, but either way he knew of my commission and cared little about what the job actually was. But fixing a ship alone without an assistant was not something that I intended to do, and there was one in particular that I wished to have. It was not only his help and his young nimble fingers which I desired, but the mystery of his past which I had been hoping to delve into. The boy Chiffon still had amnesia, as far as I was aware, and though his time with Alastair had allowed him to learn proper English, he was making no progress as far as his memory. Though I wasn't completely positive about there being a connection between the boy and the ship, it was still a possibility and one which I wished to discover.
As it turned out, it was not only a possibility, but a certainty, for the moment we reached the ship and I pointed out the peculuarity of the symbols across the side and the written that read, 'Le Papillion,' his mouth hung open, his eyes grew wide, and he dropped the supplies that he was carrying, staring at the ship as if he had seen a ghost.
"I know... this ship..." The boy mumbled before dropping to the ground, having fallen unconscious, and I, with a yelp of surprise, dropped my own load and rushed to his side, kneeling beside him and pulling him up into my arms, pressing a palm to his forehead and checking his pulse, but all was normal otherwise, he might as well have been sleeping. But whatever sleep it was, it was a restless one for the boy was groaning and twitching every so often as if he were quite uncomfortable.
Though as I sat with the boy in my lap, waiting to see if he would awaken, wondering whether to simply abandon my project and return him immediately to Alastair for further care, I heard the sound of a footstep and the safety being clicked off of a pistol and looked up to see a tall, thin, white-haired man wearing a hat pointing his gun at me with a wicked smirk on his face.
I must confess that I had never met anyone with white hair aside from the boy in my arms, and so seeing a second one in my presence at that moment, I couldn't help but wonder if they were related at all. "Who are you?" I barked, my brow furrowing and my eyes darkening, though I was honestly frightened for both myself and young Chiffon.
"I should ask you the same question," he returned with a voice not unlike the hiss of a snake and a hint of an accent, and accent which I recognized as the same as Chiffon's, though much less strong. "You who hold my nephew in your arms so closely. You would be wise to return the boy to me before I am forced to take drastic measures."
"Nephew!" I gasped. But that only brought more questions to my mind. What if the man was lying? But what if the man was telling the truth? They did look the same. But if he did not think that there was some reason that I might not return the boy, what was the need for the gun? "There is no need for violence. You claim that the boy is your nephew, and yet I found him beaten in an alleyway and he has been in the care of myself and our friends for nearly a month already.
The white-haired man gritted his teeth, seemingly considering an answer before replying, "I have been charged with bringing him home. Hand him to me."
And though he claimed to be family and certainly looked the part, there was something in his voice or his eyes or body language that told me not under any circumstances to let him take charge of Chiffon. Surely he meant only ill will upon the boy, and that was what my instincts were screaming to me. So I scowled at the man and reached to my waist for my own revolver, replying firmly, "I shall do no such thing."
But the moment I reached for my gun, he pointed his directly towards my head, the look on his face viscious and terrible, and I thought for certain that my life was over, closing my eyes and looking away, praying to any greater being that my life might be spared. And when I thought for certain that it would not be, I heard another voice, and this one not French at all, but a sharp and unmistakeable English accent.
"It would be wise of you to lower your gun, Jereme."
When I looked up again, a man with long grey hair stood there, and it was indeed my friend Rodger King in all of his six feet and six inches of height, the usual black frock coat hanging off of his long, thin frame, pressing his gun to the side of the white-haired man's head.
"Who are you!?" The white-haired man hissed, his lip curled in a growl until he turned a little and got a better view of just who this other man was. Then his eyes grew wide and he lowered his gun slowly to his side, blinking in shock, before Rodger spoke again in his commanding tone of voice. "Call me a friend. What are you doing here, Jem?"
The man, apparently called Jereme or Jem, quickly slipped from shock and back into the fox-like expression he had held earlier, his eyes narrowed and a sly smirk upon his face. "I should ask you the same question... Raifel..."
"Don't call me that. And I live here. Now tell me."
Rodger had his own pistol, which he had pressed against Jem's temple, and he pressed it harder as he prodded him to answer. The white-haired male scowled at the hotel owner out of the corner of his eye. "It should be very clear to you why I have come given ze circumstances. I have come to retrieve ze boy." Though there was a pistol pressed to his head, he motioned with a flick of one hand to the boy in my arms.
I stared at the two of them, also in shock. How did Rodger know this man? And who was he? As I watched in a stupor, Rodger curled his lip and glared at the other man, looking as if he were very tempted to simply pull the trigger and end the man's life, while the white-haired Frenchman seemed far too relaxed. Finally Rodger blinked at Chiffon out of the corner of his eye, contemplating. "Then this is...?"
Jem smirked at him knowingly. "The very same."
With a sigh, my friend mumbled, "Drop the gun," And when Jem did so, he let down his own gun to his side. "Now go. I don't want to see your sorry face here..."
The man shrugged. "Very well." He replied in a tone that was far too light-hearted for my tastes. "But mark my words, Raifel Rodger King. I will have that boy. You and zese othzers, you cannot watch him forever. And the moment I find him alone... he will be mine." Then, slowly, he backed up, and then took off at a sauntering pace, hands in his pockets, and the last thing I saw of him was a black cat trailing behind before I looked to Raifel, who was already kneeling down beside us.
"How is he?"
"Fine." I replied, shaking my head a little, still trying to wrap everything around it. "Sleeping."
"Good. It could have been much worse. That man... he isn't one to be messed with." Rodger sighed and reached out to take Chiffon from me and I let him. I trusted him enough, and he had just saved both of our lives, after all. The taller man hefted the boy onto his back with ease and started off away from the scen of the ship. "What happened?"
Scrambling to my feet, I followed, still shaking my head and feeling as if in a daze, but I did recall what had happened only moments before. "I brought him to assist me in fixing the ship... the moment he saw it, he collapsed."
"Did he say anything before he fainted?"
"Yes..." I had to pause to think for a moment. "He said... 'I've seen this ship before.'"
"Hrm." And that was the last of the response that I got from the taller man for a long while, until we well back within the streets of Londonport. It was nearing noon now and the sun was high in the sky, the streets busy with pedestrians and vehicles alike, and no one seemed to pay them any mind at all.
After a long while, after I had realized that we were headed in the direction of King's Hotel, my friend spoke again. "You, Doctor."
"Yes?"
"How do you know this boy? And what do you know about him?"
I shrugged a little and adjusted the bowler on my head. "I saved him, I suppose. He was in an alleyway, he has amnesia, he only spoke that odd language... French, I believe, when I found him, but our friend Alastair, that is, a friend of Holmes and myself has been teaching him English.
"I see. We're going back to the Hotel, we'll have lunch and talk."
"Sounds... delightful." He blinked in surprise at him, wondering why he was being so secretive with me. He clearly knew more than he was saying.
--
When we arrived at the hotel Rodger yelled something quite rude, as per usual, to the white-haired woman puttering about the entryway, and then we proceeded into a backroom where there was a fire going, presumably his personal sitting room. I had never seen it himself as the work that I usually did took place in his office or the bird room. After sitting myself in one chair and draping Chiffon in the other, Rodger brewed a pot of soup for the three of us. By the time he had finished, the boy was coming to, mumbling incoherently and blinking his eyes open slowly.
Rodger came whisking in from the kitchen then, shoved a mug of hot tea into the boy's hands, and stared him straight in the face. "Where did you come from!?"
"I uh..." Chiffon mumbled, blinking up at the man in confusion, and as he regained consciousness, began looking about. "I ... I don't know? I don't... remember... What happened?"
He turned to me then, clearly seeking answers, and I sighed and shook my head, honestly not knowing what to tell them. And then Rodger turned to face the fire.
"Do you know of a place called... Port de France?"
We both shook our heads. The man sighed and sat himself carefully in the armchair between the two of us and began to explain.