Pic: Whispers After Dark: Chapter 11
Short but hopefully sweet. More later, muse permitting :)
List of previous parts here.
Details and warnings:
Whispers After Dark is an all human AU set at an English boy's public school somewhere around 1850, think Tom Brown's School Days. I haven't been overly specific about the era in terms of research, and I realise some of it is anachronistic, but in this case I really don't care that much.
However, because of the setting, some of the boys will be underage - fifteen at minimum - in case that squicks anyone. There will also be non-con, semi-non-con, bullying, fagging, spankings, the ocassional caning over a desk and private oral tutorials. Needless to say it is NC-17.
Chapter 11
William flew down the corridors in the direction of Finn’s rooms. Around him the school began to stir, calls going out from dorm to dorm as the boys woke up early to prepare for the first day of classes. But Latin and Greek were far from William’s mind as he laboured up the final set of stairs and stood panting outside the head of house’s private study.
He knocked and waited impatiently, shifting from foot to foot and periodically glancing over his shoulder, expecting Ripper or Angelus to come after him at any moment. Andrew had insisted he replace the gag before he left, and William hadn’t disclosed his plans, too scared of Andrew informing the bigger boys if things went badly for him, but still the possibility of discovery remained.
The door opened, the narrow gap revealing Charles’ worried face. “Good morning, young sir,” he said, pulling the door back further when he recognised the visitor as another pupil and then pausing when he saw the state of the boy in the doorway.
Not waiting for an invitation, William barged past him and into the rooms, searching for the sixth former and calling out for Finn at the top of his voice.
“He’s not here,” Charles said, following William as he ploughed into the bedroom. “He’s off takin’ his morning bath and won’t be back for-”
“Where? Which pool?” It was all William could do to remember his manners and not clutch at the huge servant’s chest and beg him to tell.
“Well…” A sudden stubborn expression set itself on the man’s face and he said, “How ‘bout you tell me what’s the matter then when the master returns-”
William was in no mood to say anything to anybody who wasn’t Finn, but the set of Charles’ jaw suggested he would get no further unless he was at least a little forthcoming. The question was, how much to tell him.
“There was…” William dropped his gaze, unable to look another man, even a servant, in the eyes while he remembered what had happened, to himself, to Andrew, to Wesley even. “An incident,” he finished, balking at the truth.
Charles nodded sagely at him. “An incident, was it. And did this here incident put paint on your eyes like a Jezebel? Or was that by way of being somethin’ else.”
William’s hands flew up to his face in horror and he spun around in search of a looking glass. There, above the dresser. He stumbled over and peered at his reflection, dim and distorted in the cheap mirror and of their own volition, his fingers reached out to touch, tracing the lines of his face. His hair, typically neatly combed fell in a shock of rampant curls, his eyes smeared and blackened, cheeks still coloured, lips bruised and swollen. He looked a fright, and frankly, William didn’t fault Charles his scepticism for one moment.
“Ripper,” he said suddenly. “It was Ripper and Angelus and-”
“I’ll take it from here, Charles.”
Finn appeared in the doorway, a huge, looming and above all reassuring presence, and William wanted to run to him, as he had his father, and beg to be held safe from all harm.
Charles glanced from William to his master as though checking for something and then said, “If there’s anythin’ you need, just holler, an’ I’ll be right along.” That said, he nodded respectfully to Finn and left the room.
“So, you have a problem, little man?” Finn asked, setting down his bundle of clothing, apparently unfazed by William’s wild appearance.
William, suddenly confronted with having to tell the truth, found himself stuttering and searching for something to say. In an attempt to give himself more time, he searched for another topic and drew attention to an illustration of Isaiah that hung next to the bed.
“The words are from Judges yet the picture tells of Christ’s coming. Why is that?
Ignoring his question, Finn poured two glasses of claret, offered one over and sat on the bed saying, “I’ve few decent yarns myself but I guess I could tell y’ll about my home?”
William nodded, not actually caring what they spoke about for the moment. He simply wanted to relish the feeling of being safe.
And so William had his mind filled with wondrous tales of the Carolinas, the sumptuous balls in Charleston and beautiful women in silk crinolines dancing with their beaus, about the vast plantation where Finn was born, the slaves who worked there raising tobacco, and finally learned that Charles was owned by Finn’s father.
The claret had loosened William’s tongue and slavery was topic he knew something about. Whenever his parents discussed it his father complained that his inheritance had gone to pay freed slaves in the West Indies. “Not in England he doesn’t,” William asserted. “There are no slaves in England.”
“Good point,” Finn agreed. “Though there’s a good few Englishmen that own slaves in America.”
“I bet Ripper does,” William said.
Finn raised an eyebrow but said nothing, simply getting up to refill William’s glass. When he sat back down William added more quietly, “He seems to think he can own me.”
“Is that a fact. Did he tell you himself?”
“No, Wells told me.”
“And who might Wells be?”
“Wells is the chap that Angelus beat for touching me.”
The moment the words left his mouth William realised he had let the cat out of the bag. Having nothing now to lose, and more than a little claret in his belly, the rest of the story followed, flowing from him like a putrid stream. He didn’t have words for some of the things that had happened, either to him, Wells or Wesley, but he managed, telling Finn the entire tale from his flight after Oz’s tossing right up to his search for the older boy this morning. Finn sat silently through it all, not moving or commenting, his only action the occasional lift of glass to lips, sip and swallow.
At last William ran out of things to report. “And that’s when you came in. Sir,” he finished for good measure.
More silence. Finn refreshed his own glass, and remained standing with his back to William who stayed sitting on the bed. Finally he turned and said, “I think Ripper’s overdue a visit. What do you say?”
“Oh, yes!” William exclaimed, leaping up. “I’m sure if you were to tell him to leave us be, then he would. After all, they say you will be head boy in six months.”
Finn grinned and ruffled William’s hair, then pulled back his hand and looked at it suspiciously. “There is fresh water in the jug on the stand,” he said. “I’ll wait for you in the study.”
Less than an hour later William strode happily along at Finn’s side as they headed for Ripper’s quarters, taking the shorter route across the quad. The bigger boy had insisted that William at least had bread and jam before they left, arguing that with the unholy racket William’s stomach was making, Ripper would never be able hear a thing Finn said.
When two familiar figures emerged the other side of the square and began to walk across the green, William said, “I’ll be back directly,” before running off after them. As he drew near, he called out, “Wesley! Harris! I say, chaps, wait up.”
His friends stopped but rather than the open smile he was accustomed to seeing on Harris’ face, the other boy glared at him and moved to stand between William and Wesley.
“Leave him alone, Bartlett. Haven’t you done enough damage for one day.”
William drew up short. He’d intended to tell Wesley about the upcoming confrontation, positive that Wesley would be overjoyed to hear the news, but it wasn’t something he could blurt out in front of just anyone, Harris included.
“Wesley?” William said, appealing directly to his best friend.
Wesley gazed at him, his eyes travelling over William’s body from head to toe with something like regret, before he turned away, saying, “I’m sorry, William. I think it better if you do not talk to us again.”
Stunned by the unexpected words, William could only stand open-mouthed as the other boys walked away, leaving him alone by the horse chestnut tree.
“Never mind, lad, you’ll make other friends.” Finn’s large hand clasped on his shoulder was more of a comfort than the words. Other friends? William didn’t want other friends; he wanted Wesley.
Finn paused outside Ripper’s door when they arrived, straightening his own coat and William’s collar before knocking. William’s heart pounded in his ears. He was terrified and excited all at once, proud of himself for having freed his friends, even if they didn’t care enough to speak to him.
The door opened wide and, as they stepped over the threshold, Finn’s hand clamped tight onto the nape of William’s neck.
List of previous parts here.
Details and warnings:
Whispers After Dark is an all human AU set at an English boy's public school somewhere around 1850, think Tom Brown's School Days. I haven't been overly specific about the era in terms of research, and I realise some of it is anachronistic, but in this case I really don't care that much.
However, because of the setting, some of the boys will be underage - fifteen at minimum - in case that squicks anyone. There will also be non-con, semi-non-con, bullying, fagging, spankings, the ocassional caning over a desk and private oral tutorials. Needless to say it is NC-17.
Chapter 11
William flew down the corridors in the direction of Finn’s rooms. Around him the school began to stir, calls going out from dorm to dorm as the boys woke up early to prepare for the first day of classes. But Latin and Greek were far from William’s mind as he laboured up the final set of stairs and stood panting outside the head of house’s private study.
He knocked and waited impatiently, shifting from foot to foot and periodically glancing over his shoulder, expecting Ripper or Angelus to come after him at any moment. Andrew had insisted he replace the gag before he left, and William hadn’t disclosed his plans, too scared of Andrew informing the bigger boys if things went badly for him, but still the possibility of discovery remained.
The door opened, the narrow gap revealing Charles’ worried face. “Good morning, young sir,” he said, pulling the door back further when he recognised the visitor as another pupil and then pausing when he saw the state of the boy in the doorway.
Not waiting for an invitation, William barged past him and into the rooms, searching for the sixth former and calling out for Finn at the top of his voice.
“He’s not here,” Charles said, following William as he ploughed into the bedroom. “He’s off takin’ his morning bath and won’t be back for-”
“Where? Which pool?” It was all William could do to remember his manners and not clutch at the huge servant’s chest and beg him to tell.
“Well…” A sudden stubborn expression set itself on the man’s face and he said, “How ‘bout you tell me what’s the matter then when the master returns-”
William was in no mood to say anything to anybody who wasn’t Finn, but the set of Charles’ jaw suggested he would get no further unless he was at least a little forthcoming. The question was, how much to tell him.
“There was…” William dropped his gaze, unable to look another man, even a servant, in the eyes while he remembered what had happened, to himself, to Andrew, to Wesley even. “An incident,” he finished, balking at the truth.
Charles nodded sagely at him. “An incident, was it. And did this here incident put paint on your eyes like a Jezebel? Or was that by way of being somethin’ else.”
William’s hands flew up to his face in horror and he spun around in search of a looking glass. There, above the dresser. He stumbled over and peered at his reflection, dim and distorted in the cheap mirror and of their own volition, his fingers reached out to touch, tracing the lines of his face. His hair, typically neatly combed fell in a shock of rampant curls, his eyes smeared and blackened, cheeks still coloured, lips bruised and swollen. He looked a fright, and frankly, William didn’t fault Charles his scepticism for one moment.
“Ripper,” he said suddenly. “It was Ripper and Angelus and-”
“I’ll take it from here, Charles.”
Finn appeared in the doorway, a huge, looming and above all reassuring presence, and William wanted to run to him, as he had his father, and beg to be held safe from all harm.
Charles glanced from William to his master as though checking for something and then said, “If there’s anythin’ you need, just holler, an’ I’ll be right along.” That said, he nodded respectfully to Finn and left the room.
“So, you have a problem, little man?” Finn asked, setting down his bundle of clothing, apparently unfazed by William’s wild appearance.
William, suddenly confronted with having to tell the truth, found himself stuttering and searching for something to say. In an attempt to give himself more time, he searched for another topic and drew attention to an illustration of Isaiah that hung next to the bed.
“The words are from Judges yet the picture tells of Christ’s coming. Why is that?
Ignoring his question, Finn poured two glasses of claret, offered one over and sat on the bed saying, “I’ve few decent yarns myself but I guess I could tell y’ll about my home?”
William nodded, not actually caring what they spoke about for the moment. He simply wanted to relish the feeling of being safe.
And so William had his mind filled with wondrous tales of the Carolinas, the sumptuous balls in Charleston and beautiful women in silk crinolines dancing with their beaus, about the vast plantation where Finn was born, the slaves who worked there raising tobacco, and finally learned that Charles was owned by Finn’s father.
The claret had loosened William’s tongue and slavery was topic he knew something about. Whenever his parents discussed it his father complained that his inheritance had gone to pay freed slaves in the West Indies. “Not in England he doesn’t,” William asserted. “There are no slaves in England.”
“Good point,” Finn agreed. “Though there’s a good few Englishmen that own slaves in America.”
“I bet Ripper does,” William said.
Finn raised an eyebrow but said nothing, simply getting up to refill William’s glass. When he sat back down William added more quietly, “He seems to think he can own me.”
“Is that a fact. Did he tell you himself?”
“No, Wells told me.”
“And who might Wells be?”
“Wells is the chap that Angelus beat for touching me.”
The moment the words left his mouth William realised he had let the cat out of the bag. Having nothing now to lose, and more than a little claret in his belly, the rest of the story followed, flowing from him like a putrid stream. He didn’t have words for some of the things that had happened, either to him, Wells or Wesley, but he managed, telling Finn the entire tale from his flight after Oz’s tossing right up to his search for the older boy this morning. Finn sat silently through it all, not moving or commenting, his only action the occasional lift of glass to lips, sip and swallow.
At last William ran out of things to report. “And that’s when you came in. Sir,” he finished for good measure.
More silence. Finn refreshed his own glass, and remained standing with his back to William who stayed sitting on the bed. Finally he turned and said, “I think Ripper’s overdue a visit. What do you say?”
“Oh, yes!” William exclaimed, leaping up. “I’m sure if you were to tell him to leave us be, then he would. After all, they say you will be head boy in six months.”
Finn grinned and ruffled William’s hair, then pulled back his hand and looked at it suspiciously. “There is fresh water in the jug on the stand,” he said. “I’ll wait for you in the study.”
Less than an hour later William strode happily along at Finn’s side as they headed for Ripper’s quarters, taking the shorter route across the quad. The bigger boy had insisted that William at least had bread and jam before they left, arguing that with the unholy racket William’s stomach was making, Ripper would never be able hear a thing Finn said.
When two familiar figures emerged the other side of the square and began to walk across the green, William said, “I’ll be back directly,” before running off after them. As he drew near, he called out, “Wesley! Harris! I say, chaps, wait up.”
His friends stopped but rather than the open smile he was accustomed to seeing on Harris’ face, the other boy glared at him and moved to stand between William and Wesley.
“Leave him alone, Bartlett. Haven’t you done enough damage for one day.”
William drew up short. He’d intended to tell Wesley about the upcoming confrontation, positive that Wesley would be overjoyed to hear the news, but it wasn’t something he could blurt out in front of just anyone, Harris included.
“Wesley?” William said, appealing directly to his best friend.
Wesley gazed at him, his eyes travelling over William’s body from head to toe with something like regret, before he turned away, saying, “I’m sorry, William. I think it better if you do not talk to us again.”
Stunned by the unexpected words, William could only stand open-mouthed as the other boys walked away, leaving him alone by the horse chestnut tree.
“Never mind, lad, you’ll make other friends.” Finn’s large hand clasped on his shoulder was more of a comfort than the words. Other friends? William didn’t want other friends; he wanted Wesley.
Finn paused outside Ripper’s door when they arrived, straightening his own coat and William’s collar before knocking. William’s heart pounded in his ears. He was terrified and excited all at once, proud of himself for having freed his friends, even if they didn’t care enough to speak to him.
The door opened wide and, as they stepped over the threshold, Finn’s hand clamped tight onto the nape of William’s neck.