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SECOND SON, THE NOBODY,
that was always how armand moreau was seen. the child that wasn't needed as long as his brother was alive. tossed aside to nannies and tutors while his older brother was waited upon as if he were the king of england himself. but it gave him his freedom, able to do whatever he wanted without much consequence because no one was paying attention.
with crumpled pieces of paper being thrown about his room, ink stains on his hands from messy scribbles that only he himself would read, left to collect dust until he plucked up the courage to one day share with the world the plays that he conjured up within his mind. and when he did, he suddenly couldn't stop. needing to write more, to scratch the itch of seeing his works performed. while he could and would never compare himself to shakespeare, being the next big thing would be enough for him. to make up to the years that he had been overlooked.
but when he faltered, it was six feet under.
there was nothing that could seem to bring him the glory of his first play. lightning needed to strike, and when it did, it burned.
