twoset oneshots

11: Your Poems and Literacy, Eloquence in Misery

part two to a three-part series.

warnings: expletives, death, sensuality, homophobia and internal homophobia

summary: it has been years since he's published his own book, while he strolls down the market he spots the same location he used to teach people reading and writing. he sees a man with soft black locks swaying around the area playing his violin gracefully.

whether this was God hinting at him, he hoped that the words he wrote will be the same in his wrist.

advanced warning, this is longer than any fic I've written, so grab yourself something to drink because this is gonna take a while to read.

10,000+ words.

i know.

i can't help myself but write :3 (the last few paragraphs are rewarding trust me)

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The raven firmament casts a looming shadow over the hills, there were no stars to light up the sky but rather a group of grey clouds, swirled with the frightening possibility of a vicious predator hunting for prey with the freezing gust, he proceeds to hike on the grass with his steady leather boots and his courage nowhere to be found. He grasps on the pail instead.

After a brisk trip to the river, taking every amount of water he can get, Edward wasted no time in preparing his boots for return.

He sees the shop in his blurry line of vision, the grip to the wooden container has been carved with crescent shapes from his long unkempt nails, anxiety, and agitation working hand in hand to keep his heart pumping furiously. It was night. And it was goddamn scary outside. Robbers, criminals, wolves, there has been a name floating around the city called "Jack the Ripper" who's prying on innocent commoners. Edward had to be careful.

Warily, he carries the two pails, juggling and balancing both of them. As he struggles his way towards the shop residing at the end of the market line, he almost dropped the containers on the cobblestone floor.

"Get off me dickhead!" He sees Olaf wrestle with a shadowy figure, undetermined to see who the perpetrator is, the only thing his eyes were able to see was the shiny piece of silver glistening through the night. A bloody knife. "Fuckin' meater!"

But before he was able to prepare for combat, the crimson color that shines together with silver almost made him faint. Edward quickly dropped the pails to the ground in slow-motion, he lunged forward to the murderer in his black coat. The lack of lighting in the market made it more difficult to see the man behind the black fabric.

Flabbergasted, he punched the perpetrator away from Olaf. Kicking his shins, landing another powerful kick in the gut. A headbutt. Then another punch and he was quick to run away.

Edward turned around to focus on the bleeding luthier on the floor. Slow and painful, Olaf pulls out the knife inside him. Some of his tissues stuck in the murder weapon. The creator of such an instrument, his delicate hands that focuses on meticulous attention now covered in unwanted bodily fluids.

"Olaf, stay with me please . . ." Edward carries him from outside the shop and into the lobby, laying his body in sheets of fabric and linen. White as wax tainted with scarlet. Olaf groans with the immense pains he feels in his stomach. The wanker cut deep, deep enough for him to feel.