Nicholas Vials: The Case Of Michael Vials

Amidst the drizzling rain, the old house leaned, threatening to crumble against the gentle warmth, its walls adorned with ivy that seemed to sigh in response to the wind's gentle caress. The weathered wooden door, battered by years of weather, exuded a silence that would have been shelter for the animals of the forest.

"I told you he wouldn't be of much use," remarked the boy, his cigarette barely clinging on as he tapped it against the weathered door. The weather outside matched the gloomy atmosphere inside, with grey clouds hanging heavily in the sky and a persistent drizzle that seemed to seep into every crevice.

Leaning against the corridor wall, the second boy stood with an air of resignation, his head tilted slightly to the side. His hand rested wearily against the paint of the walls, while the other supported his heavy head, heavy from the alcohol-laden hours he had endured. The dim light overhead cast long shadows, accentuating the weariness etched on his face.

"I had to try," he murmured, his words a soft exhale amidst the cool breeze that brushed against their surroundings. The corridor's faint light cast uneven shadows, playing along the contours of his figure.

"Try to not waste my time next time around," his companion exhaled a plume of smoke, the tendrils swirling and dissipating into the moist air. As his words formed, they mingled with the warmth he exhaled, a stark contrast to the chill that seemed to seep into everything. He turned his back on the door, taking slow steps away, his silhouette a fleeting presence against the subdued backdrop.

"Henry!" the voice called out, cutting through the silence that had settled.

"He knew my brother," his voice etched the annoyance and nausea he had endured, "but he lied," the frustration in the boy's voice was palpable.

Henry felt his body fall in defeat, as though he had lost a battle. He had never been one to fail to comply to reasoning but Nicholas was, and perhaps it was his failure to make his point across that frustrated him.

"You don't know that," he almost shouted, making his throat itch.

"He had loaned Michael money, which he had known he didn't intend to pay," the boy moaned. Despite his pain, a vicious smirk played on his lips.

"So what do you suggest, that he had killed Michael?" Henry said mockingly.

"Why would he lie about not knowing him if he didn't? After all, he did have a motive," Nicholas retorted. His face became pale, sweating even on the coldest night of the year.

"Because you keep going there and threatening him!" Henry exclaimed through gritted teeth.

"I am the least threatening man he has ever seen," Nicholas reasoned, though he knew he wasn't entirely wrong.

"What proof do you have?" Henry inquired, he sounded annoyed at his story.

"I have none," he smiled back then he writhed in his pain.

Henry sighed, his patience had been tested enough. He had to scour the entire town for Nicholas but he had been in the abandoned shed, drinking himself to death.

"I asked him," Nicholas spoke, as to clarify Henry after his disappointed gaze rested on him. "I confronted him," he sounded wordy now. Nicholas's frustration turned into a bitter chuckle, his lips curling into a sardonic smile.

"I said 'I am a reasonable man, let's talk' but he said 'no', now what would a gentleman gain by such distances?" He mused aloud, a mixture of ridicule and curiosity in his voice. He was trying to unravel the motives behind the stranger's denial, searching for any shred of logic behind his blatant denial. As he laughed at his rhetorical question, Nicholas's body slumped against the wall, his legs unable to bear the weight of his body because of the alcohol that clouded his senses. His figure sprawled on the floor.

Henry felt himself take a deep breath before shouting, "Nicholas, Did you kill him?" he asked a question he dreaded an answer to.

Meanwhile, Nicholas had started to play with a ring that adorned his thumb, his fingers tracing the intricate design of a heart on its surface.

"Oh god no! I am not a monster," he said calmly, "I would never do that," he made himself clear.

"But I happened to stumble upon his son, so I brought him along," he hesitated to say the next word, "forcefully,".

"Nicholas!" He shouted in disbelief.

"I'll be going back to the institute, I'm already in a great deal of trouble for being absent, Make sure our friend upstairs is well fed and clothed," his voice trailed off, his mind went numb and he embraced his slumber, falling onto the hardwood with a thump.

"This bastard!" Henry raged, in a fit of anger, he kicked the boy in the heart but he made no movement.

All he could think of was the day he met him, and how he wished he hadn't.

"Now what," he wondered, he pushed aside a great deal of anger, staring down at his unconscious friend. He stepped away, his attention taken by the sudden thumping upstairs, a cry for help.

He traced his hand over the walls of the stairs and led himself up, where he saw a young boy, barely older than fifteen years, his hands tied and feet suspended behind the chair he was tied to. His mouth was stuffed with an apple, like a sacrificial pig.

Henry tried to push away the urge to do this very thing to Nicholas. The boy writhed to free himself as soon as he saw him enter the room.

Untying the boy from behind, first freeing his feet from the chair, then his mouth of the apple. He saw the boy shaking in fear and again felt the burden of cleaning after Nicholas's blunders.

"You will tell no one about this," he seemingly warned him, but in reality, he told him. His eyes strained as he cut him free of his ropes. The boy stood from the chair, examining the man before him closely, as though he had kindness he had to repay.

Henry felt the boy's weary gaze on him as he approached the stairs, not for a second believing he had been saved.

Henry had waited for him to start descending the stairs to take his gun out and shoot a hole through his chest.

...

Nicholas lay on the hardwood, wearing a heavy blanket, a fragile defence against the biting chill that seeped through the shattered windowpane. He held a bowl of soup, the warmth of which reddened his hands and a subtle shudder cascaded down his spine as he raised the wooden spoon, its clink against the bowl's rim an echo of the unease tightening within his stomach.

"You didn't have to kill the poor boy," he looked at Henry, a monotonous yet mischievous look on his face, a reflection of the situation's irony as it was a testament to Nicholas's own morbid humour. It was a cue that Henry was quick to catch, his lips curving into a responding eye roll with a mixture of annoyance and coyness.

"You shouldn't have brought him here," Henry said, their intensity akin to that of a disappointed father reprimanding a child.

Henry wasn't any older than Nicholas, barely four years older, he had seemed broad and old, wearing his heavy raincoat, its fabric worn and weathered, much like the grey and frayed

shirt it concealed. A mop of unruly black hair peeked out from under a chocolate-brown hat. He had striking black eyes that were hidden behind highly angular sets of eyes, reminiscent of a cat's gaze, held an uncanny ability to intimidate, his nose almost always squinched in disgust and his lips decorated a heavy cigar that was lit under any circumstance.

How he came across Nicholas was not quite the mystery as to why he became so close to him, rarely leaving his side. Nicholas had once been the embodiment of refinement, his attire tailored to perfection, a charming smile forever adorning his features. His dark hair was always immaculate, his auburn eyes a beacon of warmth and invitation. It was not a big leap for one to say, he was not at all one to keep Henry's company. An educated man from an institute that many rich people had sent their children to. Henry however was one with no place of stay, and no good repute amongst the worst of bandits. Yet here they both were, sharing a meal while a lifeless body lay just outside.

Nicholas had slowly changed his appearance over his stay in Odonbury, his smile became a sight not most were fortunate to see and his wide-open gleaming eyes became lazy as though he had been drunk, which he was most of the time.

Nicholas took a spoon filled with Henry's concoction and took an exaggerated sip.

"This is saltwater," he coughed.

"I was hoping you would forget that you no longer surround cooks and cleaners whilst you sit amongst rat shit in an abandoned house," Henry groaned, his voice echoing against the emptiness of the barren wood.

"I did you a favour, at least endure the soup in return," he added.

"I am sure I could have gotten my answers had the kid been alive," Nicholas had now started to gulp down the soup in a hurry. "You have just put a bounty on my head,"

"A man who kills for money has many enemies, I doubt his first thought was you, besides he would be fortunate to find the body," Henry felt a twinge of anger and frustration.

"Your soup's getting cold Henry boy," Nicholas mocked.

Henry looked at the soup he prepared and presented before himself and felt his own body betray him. He threw his bowl, his soup flew unto the walls and seeped into the wooden boards.

"I am tired of your stupidity! When will you decide to stop being an idiot and putting me in more danger?" he scolded him, Nicholas seemed unfazed, his eyes fixated on his soup.

It wasn't the first time Henry had felt this anger towards him, knowing full well that he had a life of luxury, one that people spent generations building yet he was living the life of an outcast, in search of an unresponsive killer, causing him immense stress.

"I'll return when the killer is found," he replied.

"This isn't about your brother," Henry reminded him.

"Of course it's not," Nicholas murmured to himself.

"Who puts so much vodka in their soup?" Nicholas scrunched his face in distaste before Henry had an answer to his previous remark.

"If you felt the taste too bitter then you should never have left your house, must have had plenty of servants to feed you," Henry mused.

"I prefer a sweeter drink," a heavy sleep took over him in a moment.

"Not a time for wine," said Henry.

"Disappointing," Nicholas replied.

Henry stood, a sudden urgency in his manner.

"I need to leave for Margyiswill for a few days, Don't end up killing yourself while I am gone, and stay away from the boy's father," he gestured at the boy whose blood pooled just beyond the door.

"I'll try," was all he could give to reassure him.

"Good," Henry said. He seemed suspect but he had enough of his worrying for someone who did not worry anyone.

"I am allowed to see his wife though am I not?" he questioned innocently, as though he didn't expect Henry's sour expression.

"You have a certain feud with death," Henry wearing his coat with a flick of his arm.

"I simply want a conversation with her, she seems great company," Nicholas stressed in his last words. Henry had begun walking out the door, but stood still before the dead body.

"May the lord have mercy on his soul," Henry whispered to himself.

"You killed him," Nicholas pointed out, but was met with a deathly glare from Henry himself as he swiftly took his leave.

He hadn't been as difficult before, although now that the responsibility of his father's ancestry relied on him, he felt it a great duty to find the man who killed the rightful heir of the Vials family, one who had now forced a once careless boy to handle the duty of business. He had felt The vibrancy of his days had been replaced by an unending procession of joyless tasks. But he wasn't one to take orders.

Yet, in the recesses of his mind, a darker thought lingered—a whisper that spoke of his own impending freedom, perhaps this was his final adventure. Joy filled his heart, as he sipped on the remainder of his soup.

A little rebellion won't hurt.