Belle Morte Bites (Belle Morte 4.3)

Back Into The Ring

London,1890

Six years ago, Gideon Hartwright had stepped into a boxing ring for the first time and been named the champion after defeating several opponents in a row.

He'd only fought that one night, trying to get his hands on enough money to keep him going rather than venting any real aggression, but tonight was different.

Tonight he was going back in the ring, and this time he didn't care about the money.

It had been two weeks since he and Isaac had parted ways, since he'd quietly packed up his little life in Stratford-upon-Avon, and returned to London.

Last time he'd come here, he hadn't really known why he'd come back.

This time, he knew exactly why.

He wanted to fight.

He wanted the anger and the violence and the pain because, with any luck, it would knock the problems right out of his head.

Every night since saying goodbye to Isaac, had been spent going over their last conversation, again and again and again, trying to see if there was any way things could have gone differently.

Gideon would never have been comfortable rushing things, even for Isaac, but at the same time he didn't understand why it would have felt like rushing. He hadn't felt that with Nicholas or Howard, and the confusion over what was wrong with him and the pain of losing Isaac had manifested into bone-deep rage at himself.

In the ring, two men battled it out while a crowd cheered around them, their faces twisted with bloodlust.

Nearly thirty years had passed since Gideon had first become a boxing champion in the dark depths of a different underground gambling den. That night he'd only meant to fight once, to win enough money to keep him going, but after winning his first fight, he'd been challenged by someone else. And then someone else, and he'd won every fight until he finally came to his senses and realised that drawing this much attention to himself was not wise.

It probably wasn't wise to start fighting again, either, but Gideon no longer cared.

He needed this.

One of the men in the ring crashed to the floor, unable to fight anymore. Gideon waited until money had exchanged hands, as people celebrated their wins and bemoaned their losses, and the winner beat his bloodied fists against his own chest and the loser was dragged away.

Then he stepped up to the ring.

This time, it had been a lot harder to find an underground den that still allowed bare knuckle boxing. It had always been illegal, even though everyone knew it happened, but it seemed that the social acceptability it had gained was disappearing. Intense religious beliefs were taking hold of the country, and boxing was considered a sinful pastime, especially because it was associated with gambling and drinking, both of which were rife in these underground dens.

Perhaps it was only a matter of time before this form of boxing disappeared altogether, and if that was the case, then Gideon should take advantage of it while he could.

He eyed up his opponent – Ernest Felton, current champion. He was an older man, his hair receding from his temples, his belly starting to slump into a paunch, but he'd just taken out two opponents in a row. Clearly he knew how to fight.

A line was scratched in the dirt, dividing the ring, and both Gideon and Ernest stepped up to it, putting their toes against the line to prove they were fit enough to fight. Anyone who couldn't toe the line like that wouldn't be allowed to fight.