A Vampire's Life - Part 2

5 July, 1602

He hadn't seen the punch coming, but he certainly saw the stars exploding on the insides of his eyelids after it connected. One good hit was all it had taken to down the thirteen-year-old, and he'd dropped like a sack of rocks. Dazed, he groaned in pain, trying to roll over so he could get up off the wet wood of the shipyard's dock. Yet, even as he did, another burst of pain came to him as one of the older boys kicked him in the stomach. He dropped onto his side and curled, dry-heaving from the pain.

“Look at this little git.” Said one of the boys, “He can't even get up.”

Another laughed, “Not as fun as I thought. Gonna be over too quick.”

“All the better. Let's finish off the little Hessian and be done with it.” This one was the leader, “But before we do, I do fancy that coin around his neck. Whoever grabs it for me gets an extra share on whatever our next take is.”

The first part of what the older boy said made Bastian wish that they had just knocked him out and tossed him in the Thames. At least then he wouldn't have had to feel all the pain beforehand. He'd been dealing with bullies since his family had moved to London. At first, it had just been because he was a quiet kid. Then it had gotten worse when he had actually tried to speak English to them. Came out sounding funny to them because of his accent. It really wasn't very different from his own language. A bit slower, in some respects, and words were more often divided instead of unified, but it hadn't been hard to learn. Pronunciation was his problem. That, and being from the mainland.

What had stoked a sudden fire in him was the second part. The bit about taking his coin away. The coin that his father had given him as a birthday gift before they'd ended up moving here. The pain was nearly washed away as fury raged inside the young teen, and when his eyes opened, he looked around to see if there was anything he could use as a weapon. His eyes landed on a coil of rope, and his brain lurched into action.

Forcing himself up, he didn't bother looking at the three bullies. Instead, he lunged for the coil of rope, knowing that they'd come for him as soon as they saw him move. Grabbing the coil, he turned, and sure enough one was closing in on him. Spinning, he twisted his body and threw the coil of rope as hard as he could. The force of impact did little, but the older boy flailing about was off balance and tripped himself up as the rope came uncoiled. He dropped, tripping over his own feet, landed on the dock, and then, due to his own momentum, ended up rolling off the side into the water.

Bastian continued running, but the other two boys on the dock stopped. Then the leader smacked his minion. “I'll get him out. You get that little Hessian rat!”

Bastian shouted at them then, “I'm not Hessian! I'm Prussian!”

The minion rushed at him then, and the thirteen-year-old's hazel eyes went wide. He turned and ran again, grabbing a gaff hook as he neared the end of the dock. When he had gone as far as he thought was safe, he rounded on the boy, striking him with the end of the hook hard enough that the wooden shaft snapped and sent him tumbling into the water. Looking again, he saw that the leader was just fishing out the first boy, and he made a run for it.

Unfortunately, right as he ran past, the now-drenched rope he'd thrown just a few moments ago was thrown at him, knocking him back down on the dock. He dropped the broken gaff hook's shaft, and it rolled just out of his reach. The boy he'd first knocked off the dock rolled him onto his back in the tangle of rope, and the leader grabbed the gaff hook's broken staff.

“Go fish your brother out of the water. I can handle this.” The leader said, and the other boy moved out of the way. Once he did, the leader stepped down on Bastian's stomach and held the broken shaft over him, aiming down toward his heart. Murder blazed in his eyes, and Bastian clenched his own shut. However, the furious pain never came. Instead, he heard a dull thumping sound, a splash, and the boy stepped off his stomach. A second later, he heard the shaft hitting the dock and opened his eyes.

Above him was the boy, stumbling backward, a gash on his head and blood flowing down. He was amazed by the sight and twisted his head around to look – finding his brother only a few feet away and charging. He ran right past and planted one foot, lashing out with the other and connecting a powerful kick right on the boy's diaphragm; knocking the wind from him and sending him sprawling. The other two boys, both looking like drowned rats, paused when they saw this – the one boy still dripping on the dock.

Donner spoke, “Alright, kids... playtime is over. I don't know what your problem is, but if you ever touch my brother again, the only thing anyone will remember about you is that you disappeared.”

The two boys on their feet looked to one another, then at Donner, and slowly stepped forward, warily, until they reached their fallen leader. Then they began to check him over. They were two years younger than the boy that had just shown up and knew better than to mess with him. Seeing that they were done with the nonsense, Donner moved back to his little brother and began untangling him from the ropes.

“You really should try not to get into trouble, Bastian.” He said, offering a smile, “I won't always be here to save you.”

“They started it.” Bastian replied as he shoved some of the rope off, squirming out of it, “Idiots.”

Donner chuckled, “Ah, well, then maybe you should learn to finish it.”

Bastian glared up at his brother, “Yeah, well...”

He didn't get to finish as the three boys came charging down the dock and leaped upon his brother. The tangle of boys rolled away, and Bastian was dumbstruck for a moment. His brother was fighting valiantly, having thrown one away from the others and pounced upon him, unleashing a flurry of punches to the boy's face. However, the other two soon grabbed him and dragged him off, delivering kicks before setting upon him themselves. When Bastian saw the tide turn against his brother, he got up, grabbed the broken wooden shaft, and rushed the boys.

He didn't pause to consider the consequences of his actions. Didn't even think about any repercussions. No, as soon as he was in range, he rammed the sharp end of the shaft into one of the boys' shoulders. The boy screamed in pain, but Bastian wrenched the shaft out and stabbed him again, this time in the leg. The boy doubled over in pain, and the trio's leader span to face Bastian – only to receive the bloodied, sharp end of the stick striking across his face. He cursed and tried to rush the younger boy, but Bastian took the chance and rammed the pointed end of the shaft into the elder boy's thigh. The leader of the trio crumpled, yelling in pain and holding his leg as blood poured from the wound.

But Bastian wasn't done. Rage rose in him, and he stepped up to the elder boy. A coldness had come to his gaze, and suddenly he began to deliver blows. Again and again, he brought the wooden shaft down on the boy. First his face, and then when he tried to protect it, his hands and arms, then the wound he'd already given him. Any time he moved to try and protect something, he struck anything that wasn't protected. He could hear something in the back of his mind, telling him to stop, but after two years of being bullied by these three, he didn't care.

“Bastian!” A voice bellowed, almost in his ear. Perhaps it hadn't just been in his mind. “Enough!” His name hadn't made him stop, and neither had the other word. What stopped him was when the person behind him grabbed the shaft and pulled it from his hands. Then he was spun around, to see the shocked face of his brother looking down at him. “It's done, little brother. It's over.”

It wasn't until his brother tossed the broken shaft into the water and then pulled him close that Bastian felt another emotion. He clung to his brother, holding tight as the tears began to fall. He knew that he had just lost control of himself, and while he didn't feel bad about what he had done to the boy necessarily, he was fearful of the fact that he had lost control at all. He'd never felt that kind of anger before, and what scared him more was the fact that letting it out had felt so good.

Slowly his brother began to loosen his grip, prying his younger brother off him so he could look at the younger boy, “Alright. Let's go.” He took stock of the conditions of the boys, their injuries, and soon enough deduced that they would live. Francis Kitts, the well-bloodied leader of the little gang, would probably have quite a few scars to remember this day... but perhaps it would teach him not to be so antagonistic toward others.

A few hours later, after both brothers had something to eat and had gotten cleaned up, Donner was leading Bastian toward an undisclosed destination. The younger of the two had asked many times where they were going, but the elder had not once even given a hint toward their goal. Finally, they came upon a large house, three stories tall, though it seemed thin thanks to the other buildings on either side of it; as if someone had commissioned a tower and later decided to make it look like a house. Bastian looked askance at his brother, but the older boy said not a word to him.

Stepping up to the front door, Donner took hold of the knocker – a large circle of iron that looked as though it was clutched in the jaws of a sea serpent – and knocked three times. The blows seemed to resound inside like the impact of a gavel in a courtroom, and then all was silent. Bastian looked to his brother once more, but before he could ask the question that was on his mind, the door opened. Before them stood a man, dressed as if he were wearing a wealthy man's old clothing. White hair circled the sides and back of his head, though the top was bald. A thick white beard hung down a few inches from his chin, and he wore spectacles perched at the end of his nose.

“And who are you?” The old man's eyes were instantly scrutinizing the two boys.

“I am Donner Falkenrath, and this is my brother, Bastian.” The elder of the two began, placing a hand on Bastian's shoulder. “Are you Edward Scrimshaw?”

“I am he.” The old man said in a clipped tone, “What business have you that warrants this disturbance, boy?”

“I once heard you were the best instructor in London, for those who wish to wield a blade.” Donner said evenly, “I want you to teach my brother; to take him as a student.”

Scrimshaw scoffed, “I will do no such thing.” He raised a hand before Donner could protest, “But I will take him as an apprentice. He may consider his pay the lessons that he will learn.”

Donner nodded, “Done. May he start today?”

Scrimshaw smirked, “He may.”

Bastian looked at his brother, dumbfounded until now at what was going on, but finally finding his voice: “And what's this all about, brother?”

Donner grinned, “You're useless with just your hands in a fight, little brother – but put a weapon in them, and you're an almighty terror. So you're going to learn to use blades. Perhaps firearms too, if I can convince the Old Man at home to teach you how to use his.”

“Don't I get a say in this?”

“No, brother, you do not.” He smirked, “Because this will keep you out of trouble.”

And, Donner hoped, teach him some control.