Chapter 1:

It was the third time this week that the man had forgotten to draw the curtains before he had retired to his bed. The sun was warm on his skin as it cast itself over his slumbering face. He stirred slightly, pulling the thick white sheets over his head in a futile attempt to block out the unwelcome morning. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried vainly to force himself back into his previous dream. He wanted to be dancing with sprites and riding winged horses. He tried to picture himself swimming with water nymphs, capturing dragons, and befriending fearsome giants, but the persistent sun continued to deny him his escape from reality.

Reluctantly, he eventually sat up, raising one arm high above his head and rubbing his eyes with the other. He drew in a long, deep breath and held it for a moment before his shoulders slouched forward and his mop of blond hair fell into his emerald eyes. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he slipped his feet into his warm, bedside slippers. Before long he found himself standing upright. He looked down at himself and scowled at his appearance. His blue pajamas had wrinkled in the night and his pockets had turned inside out. His bed sheets were in shambles and his pillows had been rejected onto the cold floor. Slowly, he shuffled over to the window that had let in the obnoxious light. Taking hold of one of the white curtains, he squinted, shielding his eyes with his free hand as he peered through the sun at the outside world.

His garden was in full bloom; red and pink roes covered vines that twisted their way along neatly trimmed bushes and wooden gates like snakes constricting their next meal. Neatly kept lawns spread over the quaint little property, framed by patches of flowers and young, fruit baring trees. A blue and white stretch of jasmine followed the little stone path that lead from the front door of his house to the road at the end of his property. From the branches of the tall birch that rose from near the window he stood at, the man could hear the morning song of birds as they welcomed the new day by bathing in its early light. Everything seemed so old-fashioned: just the way he liked it.

The man had never cared much for how industrial the world around him had become. He missed the days of his youth when entertainment had been found by dashing threw a field with a kite or, on a good occasion, in the pages of an exiting story brought home from the library. He hated all the big, shiny buildings in the city. He did not like the noise of traffic or the concrete roads it moved on. He liked his quiet, serine, peaceful little bit of the countryside that he had kept the same all these years. He sighed and drew the curtains.

Turning around, the man made his way back to his bedside. He looked at the wrinkled blanket for a moment, longingly, as if wanting to slip back into its warm embrace and fall away into the world of dreams once more. Taking the fabric in his hands he stripped the blankets from the mattress along with any chance of fulfilling his dreamy desire. Carefully, he remade the bed with crisp white sheets. He neatly tucked the corners and pressed out all the puckers and wrinkles until he was satisfied. He stood for a moment, admiring his work, as he combed his fingers through his blond, messy hair. His tired eyes were still half closed with sleep as he suddenly noticed the one thing out of place in his room.

"Oh drat," the man muttered to himself, shuffling over to his bedside table to retrieve the picture that had been knocked off. He reached down and grasped the silver frame. Slowly, he lifted it from the ground, turning it around so that he could see the embedded photograph. The smile of the boy in the frame almost took the man by surprise. The wild blue eyes and outrageous smile of a troublemaker gleamed from their glossy paper world. The boys' blond hair was loose and wild, just like him. He was holding his first rifle, looking proud and strong as he posed happily with his new gift from the man. He was too old, in this picture, for toy soldiers and fairytales. 'Alfred, 13' was written carefully in the bottom corner of the picture.

"That wasn't too long before he left…" the man muttered to himself, placing the picture back onto the table. He turned away quickly, not wanting to think about the smiling boy too much, before making his way to the kitchen.

The man didn't know why he still kept that picture by his bedside. He began to think about his reasons as he placed his kettle on the hot stove and started to rummage through his cabinets for his coffee beans. He hated coffee, but this morning he really needed it. The boy wasn't even his real family. He had been abandoned and the man had simply taken him in. He had never felt like a 'father' to him; more of a guide, an older brother.

When he had first started raising the boy, everything had been fine. He had told him stories, taught him to read and write, and given the boy many life lessons to learn from. They seldom fought, and when they did, it had only ever been over trivial things such as preferred music or what to eat that day. They had shared a happy, comfortable life. The man had even given the boy a name, Alfred, after a respected father-like figure who had helped to raise the man in his own childhood. The young boy had been such a joy to the man. He had truly loved him and had often found himself spoiling the young lad with homemade gifts such as footballs and one of a kind toy soldiers. He had never regretted treating the child. In fact, he had been quite happy to do so. Every gift he had given had been received with such joy that it had been more of a reward than a hassle to make them all. Not one of the gifts seemed to influence the boy in a negative way, until…

The man's thoughts were interrupted when he felt his fingers find the cold glass of the jar of beans. Wrapping his grip around it, he lifted the container from its place on the shelf and quickly unscrewed its top. Carefully, he slid a silver spoon amongst the beans, lifting his preferred amount from the jar. Placing the lid back, he poured his spoonful into his coffee grinder and began to turn the crank. Once it had become a powder, he scooped the grounds into the filter he had placed into his coffee pot. Now he just had to wait for the water to boil.

Pulling back a chair, the man sat himself down at his kitchen table. He rested his elbow on the hard wood, and supported his chin with his hand as he stared wearily through the kitchen window, into his garden. The bright sheen of sunlight and flowers seemed to blur away as his thoughts turned again to the boy from the picture.

When he had decided to buy Alfred his first rifle, the man hadn't thought it would cause any real problems. The young boy had been so thrilled with the gift, jumping up and down at the first sight of it. He had even begged the man to take his picture with the gun, so that he could remember the happy occasion. It had been fun to teach the boy how to use his new weapon. He had stood behind him, holding his shoulders, and encouraged the boy to keep trying after every missed shot. He would never forget the beaming smile on the child's face when he hit a tin can for the first time, and he would never forget how he was so proud of the boy that he had felt the same smile sneak across his own lips. But he would also never forget, after the boy had become a man, staring down the barrel of the very gun that had brought the both of them such excitement.

The kettle screamed from the hob, causing the man to nearly fall out of his chair with surprise. He jumped up and rushed to the stove, lifting the hot container from the element. A loud knock at the door suddenly startled the man. For a moment, he lost his grip on the pot and it fell from his grasp. Scolding water splashed onto his hand. He howled in pain as he stumbled backwards in shock, gripping at his burning skin. The pain shot through his entire arm and into his body as he felt his flesh sear in the overwhelming heat. He clenched his teeth together, as tightly as he could, to try to stop his own moaning and hurried over to the sink. The cold water felt like a godsend as it flowed over his throbbing hand. He steadied his breathing and pulled up his sleeve to allow the relief of the liquid to flow over his skin without worry of wetting his shirt. The knock, to the man's dismay, came again from the door in a persistent urgency.

"Maybe if I don't answer they'll just go away," he whispered to himself, not wanting to remove his hand from the comfort of the cool water. He stood quietly, waiting for the pounding of the door to stop. With each repetition of strikes, the knocking seemed to become softer and softer, but still it continued. The man finally grunted in annoyance and snatched up a dishrag from the counter beside him. He ran the cloth under the cold sink until it was soaking wet, then wrapped it around his injured hand, fashioning it with a loose, makeshift knot.

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" the man barked at the incessant knocker as he hurried into the hallway, towards the front door. "Who on earth would be so insistent to see me this early in the morning?" he hissed under his breath as he reached for the latch on the door.

"Can I help y-"

The words caught in his throat as he saw the man on his doorstep. Two wild blue eyes stared at him from behind a pair of unfamiliar glasses. A mess of uncombed blond hair flowed gently in the soft warm wind as the tall figure stood motionless in the doorway.

It was Alfred. The sight of him nearly made the man stumble backwards. Alfred never visited him. They hadn't even spoken to each other casually in what seemed like years. But there he was, standing on the man's doorstep. His mere presence, though, wasn't the only thing that shocked the man. The boy's cloths were ripped, his posture broken, but mostly, Alfred was covered in blood.

"Hey Arthur…" the words shook from the tall boy's lips as he seemed to gasp for air. "…You look like your doing well." Alfred shuddered and fell forward, hitting the ground at the man's feet. Arthur was completely in shock. Why was Alfred here? Why were his cloths torn apart? Why was there so much blood on him? What was going on?