Blackened Wings

1: Red Ribbon

A/N: I've already written five chapters of this but keep forgetting to upload them... :3

Andromeda Macabre could remember a time in life when Lysander Knox would want to hold her hand. All the maids and butlers could. He used to be such an innocent little child with round chubby cheeks and a smile like a crescent moon. His black hair curled around his face, and his green eyes were wide and curious. One of her fondest memories of him was taking him to the circus. Both his parents were out of town and the difficult responsibility of entertaining Lysander fell on her shoulders.

                                                                           ***

The circus was quite the magical thing, Andromeda thinks. It is a wonderful tent of scarlet and black and the flags wave in the non-existent wind. There is the scent of caramel and sugar wafting through the air, and Lysander’s face is covered in powdered sugar from a funnel cake he had eaten earlier. The circus inside seems even bigger than the tent looks. It is much more fancy than any circus Andromeda had ever seen, and Lysander can’t be kept still. He scurries about, yelling, “Andy, look! Look at this!”

Finally Lysander seems to tire out, and drags himself back over to Andromeda, lifting his hands above his head, a signal that he wanted to be picked up. Andromeda smiles and scoops him up as she walks to her seats, the lights beginning to dim as the circus began to start. “Andy…” he murmurs, tugging on the back of her shirt. “Look at the flowers,” he mumbles sleepily, pointing behind her.

She turns obediently, looking behind her to see a vase of flowers sitting behind her on the top bleacher. They're roses, pure white, and very pretty. “They’re roses. Maybe they’re being used for the show,” she tells him quietly before walking down the stairs.

The circus is fantastic, and Lysander sometimes gasps or points, and shakes Andromeda whenever he sees something amazing. The contortionist twists into shapes she doesn’t think possible, and the trapeze artists swing from impossible lengths, sometimes only hanging by their fingers or by the crook of a knee. When Andromeda is carrying him out the ringmaster, who still has a top hat obscuring his face, approaches them. He plucks one of the white flowers that Lysander had been staring at earlier, and gives it to the small boy. He sleepily accepts it, and Andromeda tucks it into his shirt and then turns to quietly thank the ringmaster, but he’s long gone. She can see him on the opposite side of the tent, gathering up what seems like a never-ending swath of blood-red ribbon.

Lysander is blabbering about magic on the way to the car, and it’s only when Andromeda puts him in the back seats and buckles him in when she realizes the flower has turned black.

                                                                           ***

“Stop telling me what to do, old man!” Lysander yelled, slamming his palms down on the table, making the fine china rattle.

His father was red in the face and huffing as if he had just run a mile, his hands clenched around the arms of his ornately carved chair. He was boiling over in rage, yet remained seated, unlike his son, who was now pacing the room agitatedly. “Lysander Knox, I will not tolerate this kind of behavior,” he said quietly, his tone deadly. “You have been dwindling away our money on things like clubs and alcohol. This behavior is-”

Lysander growled. “We will never run out of money! So why can’t you just let me leave this stupid house? I’m in here all day doing work, and you get upset when I try to have fun?” he snapped before sitting on a marble table, just like his father hated.

“Get off the furniture,” his father replied predictably, before continuing. “It is the principle of the matter. You are always out at night, doing god knows what, bringing home a different girl every other night…“ he trailed off, as if at a loss for words. Lysander watched as the man rubbed his temples, irritated. “I wish your mother was here right now,” he sighed. Lysander frowned stonily.

“You fired Andromeda.”

Lysander’s words were short and cruel, and the heir wrapped his arms around his skinny frame. His eyes glittered maliciously.

But his father’s hands slammed down on the table like Lysander’s had done minutes before. “That is it. I let Ms. Macabre go because she was encouraging this sort of behavior. And I cannot tolerate it any longer!” He leaned into his son’s face. “Grow up,” he snarled.

Lysander stormed out of the room and up the staircase, rubbing his eyes, and before he knew it, he was hurtling down the hallway. He had to get out of here. Just leave, grab some money to escape his father’s hands playing him like a marionette, grooming him for a life of paperwork and conference calls. He felt hot, like his blood was on fire, humming and singing in approval of what he was doing. He threw open the door at the end of the hallway, before slamming it and ducking down on all fours to grab a suitcase out from under his king-sized bed. He quickly unzipped it and flew over to his closet.

Suits, suits, dress shirts, fine jackets, and more suits. There was nothing of interest in there, and Lysander groaned before picking out the white dress shirts and the most comfortable pants. And, of course, the black hoodie he kept stashed in the corner of his closet that Andromeda had given him. You’re seventeen. Dress like it for once, she had scoffed. He hugged the hoodie for a moment, and then realized he was being stupid and emotional and threw everything into his suitcase, not even bothering to fold anything.

Lysander stared at the suitcase for a moment, realizing he was absolutely crazy, before running to the bathroom, too excited to try and stop the insanity that he was about to do. With trembling hands Lysander packed his toothbrush and everything of the sort before rushing back and throwing that in his suitcase as well. By now some of the maids were watching him curiously, and some of them had the gall to try and see what was inside the suitcase. Lysander hurried them all away before opening the bottom drawer of his dresser. There was money. Money his father had given him for himself, given to him on birthdays and Christmas and almost every holiday because no one had any clue what he liked.

Then he quietly zipped the suitcase.

He stared at it for a moment, as if it held the meaning of life before standing up silently. It was beautifully insane. Then he stood up quietly and walked over to his work desk, opening the bottom drawer. There, sitting innocently was a beautiful black rose.

Andromeda had given it to him. He didn’t know exactly when he had gotten it, but Andromeda had always said a mysterious person had given it to him. That was all she would call him. A Mysterious Person. It hadn’t wilted, nor had the petals fallen off. It was as beautiful today as it had been years ago. Lysander fondly rolled it between his fingers. Andromeda had cut off the thorns so he wouldn’t prick himself as a child. He carefully tucked it into his pocket before picking his suitcase up.

He gulped. How am I going to do this? He dragged it out of his room, hoisting the handle up and rolling it out of his room. By now quite a few of the maids had huddled around the base of the staircase, whispering to one another, and he couldn’t catch a snatch of conversation, but he knew it was about him. He hauled his suitcase down the stairs, not caring anymore if the wood chipped, and the maids parted for him as if he was a king.

He caught one last glimpse of his father in the other room, staring at Lysander, looking shocked.

But Lysander just flipped him off with one hand and opened the door with the other. And then he was gone.