White Robin - Before You Take Wing
His mother was the boss of this family they ran.
"Our business ain't vengeance," She told him. "It's justice. We're the 'eroes wot everyone else is afraid ta be."
He believed it, then, but it still wasn't his cup of tea. Emma Marie Kirkland told her son this multiple times, but he didn't truly believe it when he was young.
"That's not a 'ero, mum," He'd respond. "That's a 'vigilante'. That's batman."
He was born from within the sound of the bow-bells (as any true Cockney Brit is) as Arthur Winston Kirkland to a father named Timothy James Bannet, who upon marrying Pitch n' toss Emma Marie, took her name.
Who, upon the birth of his son, took her job.
So this love went.
They were school sweethearts, really. Timothy'd fallen for her in highschool and become one of the family. She married at 21 and met Arthur at 22. He married at 25 and met Arthur at 26.
He called them 'Beryl Eyes'. He was geology major. His own eyes were hazel with opal-like spikes of teal from the pupil.
Emma hadn't gone to university like Timothy had.
She'd been the boss since 18.
She'd had no male siblings to take the job when her father died. Cousins tried to step in, but none had sharper aim than Emma. Emma took the family like a good queen takes the throne.
"Takin' the famalam was nothin'," Emma would muse with her friends at times. "Blimey! Raisin' Artie was tug a chore more!"
And those who knew the story wouldn't beg to differ. Arthur hadn't been so 'family' oriented as a child, not like his mother. In highschool he decided to cut them off entirely, forming a band with his friends.
The guitar strings were much more friendly than the bloodstains, after all.
Timothy and Emma would go for days without seeing him. He never skipped school- concerts were always evening time- as school was another way to avoid the profession.
Hair streaked with blue, piercing, tattoos. A dragon on his back, a lion prowling down his arm. Not a streak of white on his clothes. Anything to avoid association with his family. He would not be involved in their vigilante dreams.
Junior year came and Arthur applied for university. He had the grades and had passed the test to skip Senior year, and thus would attend in the fall.
However, things weren't quite right in the Kirkland family. Talk of dissent. Justice not being worth the rewards. Poisonous words by a jealous brother, Gregory Bennet.
Gregory Bennet, who entered the kitchen of Mrs. Emma Marie Kirkland one sunny spring afternoon.
Gregory Bennet, who kissed her, and held her down, and ignored the protests.
Gregory Bennet, who raped his brother's wife on a spring afternoon.
His brother's wife, Emma Marie Kirkland, who had laughed when others had said she'd grown soft over the 16 years of caring for her son.
Who had grown soft.
Who was, quite simply, frozen when Timothy returned to her that evening after picking their son up from school, having confiscated the keys to the boy's car after Arthur'd seen it fit to come home drunk a few weeks before.
As Timothy touched her shoulders, she shrank, re-wetting the streaks of tears that stained her face, wetting the dried blood on her lips from fighting, searing her heart with the knowledge that she had grown weak.
"Bennet." She said, and that was all.
And her Timothy knew.
And as Arthur ran to hold the mother who was still not ready to be held, her Timothy walked out the door.
That night the evening rain was deafening.
Arthur, however, who had led his mother to her bed, cleaned her up, and watched her sleep, heard the sound of struggles, heard a man being lead to that room beneath the floorboards.
The special room.
The torture room.
And as he crept down into this hidden cellar-beneath-the-cellar, he watched Timothy Kirkland bind the next victim to a chair where many had sat before to be interrogated.
Watched Timothy Kirkland restrain the man, make sure that nothing moved, but that the man was alive, and aware.
Watched as Timothy Kirkland tore the whole eyes out of a Gregory Bennet, ivory-wrapped jems of amber, and met Timothy Kirkland's eyes with a frightening rage flashing in his own green-beryl orbs.
"He's the one?" Arthur asked simply.
Timothy nodded.
Hands shaking, Arthur grabbed the iron bar that was leant against the doorway and stepped up to the blinded man, un-gagging him.
There he beat him, destroyed him, took every inch of life that had ever breathed within Gregory Bennet. That had ever touched his mother.
Emma Kirkland awoke the next week and decided that no man's touch would keep her from giving every inch of her love to Timothy and Arthur.
And Timothy loved her even if she'd gone soft.
And Timothy'd fought for her. And so had Arthur.
She'd be strong again for them.
Arthur slept for three days.
When he awoke, he dressed white. White slacks, white blouse, white shoes. Forgot his piercing, wore long sleeves over the tattoos.
At University he studied to be a linguist, running jobs for his father on the side. He learned to speak without a Cockney accent there. It's difficult getting around and learning other languages when no one understands the English you're speaking.
"We ain't 'eroes, ducky," Timothy reminded him. "We're tug like Robin 'Ood, see, wot we goes 'roun' doin' ain't tug better'n any uvva criminal."
Arthur simply shrugged.
"We're 'eroes, mate," he replied. "Jus' the kinda 'eroes oll the uvva ones are to afraid ta be."
And White Robin took to the sky.
"Our business ain't vengeance," She told him. "It's justice. We're the 'eroes wot everyone else is afraid ta be."
He believed it, then, but it still wasn't his cup of tea. Emma Marie Kirkland told her son this multiple times, but he didn't truly believe it when he was young.
"That's not a 'ero, mum," He'd respond. "That's a 'vigilante'. That's batman."
He was born from within the sound of the bow-bells (as any true Cockney Brit is) as Arthur Winston Kirkland to a father named Timothy James Bannet, who upon marrying Pitch n' toss Emma Marie, took her name.
Who, upon the birth of his son, took her job.
So this love went.
They were school sweethearts, really. Timothy'd fallen for her in highschool and become one of the family. She married at 21 and met Arthur at 22. He married at 25 and met Arthur at 26.
He called them 'Beryl Eyes'. He was geology major. His own eyes were hazel with opal-like spikes of teal from the pupil.
Emma hadn't gone to university like Timothy had.
She'd been the boss since 18.
She'd had no male siblings to take the job when her father died. Cousins tried to step in, but none had sharper aim than Emma. Emma took the family like a good queen takes the throne.
"Takin' the famalam was nothin'," Emma would muse with her friends at times. "Blimey! Raisin' Artie was tug a chore more!"
And those who knew the story wouldn't beg to differ. Arthur hadn't been so 'family' oriented as a child, not like his mother. In highschool he decided to cut them off entirely, forming a band with his friends.
The guitar strings were much more friendly than the bloodstains, after all.
Timothy and Emma would go for days without seeing him. He never skipped school- concerts were always evening time- as school was another way to avoid the profession.
Hair streaked with blue, piercing, tattoos. A dragon on his back, a lion prowling down his arm. Not a streak of white on his clothes. Anything to avoid association with his family. He would not be involved in their vigilante dreams.
Junior year came and Arthur applied for university. He had the grades and had passed the test to skip Senior year, and thus would attend in the fall.
However, things weren't quite right in the Kirkland family. Talk of dissent. Justice not being worth the rewards. Poisonous words by a jealous brother, Gregory Bennet.
Gregory Bennet, who entered the kitchen of Mrs. Emma Marie Kirkland one sunny spring afternoon.
Gregory Bennet, who kissed her, and held her down, and ignored the protests.
Gregory Bennet, who raped his brother's wife on a spring afternoon.
His brother's wife, Emma Marie Kirkland, who had laughed when others had said she'd grown soft over the 16 years of caring for her son.
Who had grown soft.
Who was, quite simply, frozen when Timothy returned to her that evening after picking their son up from school, having confiscated the keys to the boy's car after Arthur'd seen it fit to come home drunk a few weeks before.
As Timothy touched her shoulders, she shrank, re-wetting the streaks of tears that stained her face, wetting the dried blood on her lips from fighting, searing her heart with the knowledge that she had grown weak.
"Bennet." She said, and that was all.
And her Timothy knew.
And as Arthur ran to hold the mother who was still not ready to be held, her Timothy walked out the door.
That night the evening rain was deafening.
Arthur, however, who had led his mother to her bed, cleaned her up, and watched her sleep, heard the sound of struggles, heard a man being lead to that room beneath the floorboards.
The special room.
The torture room.
And as he crept down into this hidden cellar-beneath-the-cellar, he watched Timothy Kirkland bind the next victim to a chair where many had sat before to be interrogated.
Watched Timothy Kirkland restrain the man, make sure that nothing moved, but that the man was alive, and aware.
Watched as Timothy Kirkland tore the whole eyes out of a Gregory Bennet, ivory-wrapped jems of amber, and met Timothy Kirkland's eyes with a frightening rage flashing in his own green-beryl orbs.
"He's the one?" Arthur asked simply.
Timothy nodded.
Hands shaking, Arthur grabbed the iron bar that was leant against the doorway and stepped up to the blinded man, un-gagging him.
There he beat him, destroyed him, took every inch of life that had ever breathed within Gregory Bennet. That had ever touched his mother.
Emma Kirkland awoke the next week and decided that no man's touch would keep her from giving every inch of her love to Timothy and Arthur.
And Timothy loved her even if she'd gone soft.
And Timothy'd fought for her. And so had Arthur.
She'd be strong again for them.
Arthur slept for three days.
When he awoke, he dressed white. White slacks, white blouse, white shoes. Forgot his piercing, wore long sleeves over the tattoos.
At University he studied to be a linguist, running jobs for his father on the side. He learned to speak without a Cockney accent there. It's difficult getting around and learning other languages when no one understands the English you're speaking.
"We ain't 'eroes, ducky," Timothy reminded him. "We're tug like Robin 'Ood, see, wot we goes 'roun' doin' ain't tug better'n any uvva criminal."
Arthur simply shrugged.
"We're 'eroes, mate," he replied. "Jus' the kinda 'eroes oll the uvva ones are to afraid ta be."
And White Robin took to the sky.