Agnus Dei

His father wound a sock around his mouth, allowing the teen a good taste of soot and dirt. Cringing in fear and disgust, he watched his brother laugh in derision. After countless visits to the hospital, they finally diagnosed him with tuberculosis; this was merely his punishment for wasting the family's time.

An uncouth, greedy man; his brother the exact epitome of such a parent. They would find a reason for this punishment. They always did. For this occurrence it was "time is money", although both carbon copies were jobless and penniless.

His father. The only person he hated without a doubt. Alexander, his brother, had days where he was tolerable. This man had no such days. He was always searching for his next meal, beating his mother after suspecting her with other men, and "punishing" him relentlessly.

"So you won't spread 'da disease. Don't want you killin' everyone in 'da fam'ly." His father, Edmon, chuckled, then continued his little speech, "Strip 'n bend ova."

Without hesitation James obeyed his father- against all modesty he distributed the clothing aside in a far off corner and distinguished the familiar patterns on the floor boards. He watched Edmon's watchful eyes turn feral, smirk grow into a grin, and the imminent flare of desire. The man approached his toxic son, unbuttoning his pants with one hand, the other playfully smacking James' rear until it was past paternal joking into an abhorred sin. His father didn't apply any ointment or properly prepare him when forcing his manhood inside.

A short cry announced the pain, any more than that and this "punishment" would have a credible cause. The teen watched Alexander unclothe his member, teasing it in front of his face like a tasty treat. Clutching his younger brother's blond hair, Alex pushed his arousal into James' mouth, hardly pausing at all.

The soreness from "punishment" always left him with a high fever, this left untreated, and in bed for days on end. Even though he was the only member in his family, besides his mother, who held a respectable job, he still was forced to endure this treatment. His mother attempted to help many times, yet it only made his own "punishment" more severe.

James waited daily for a time to rebel; when his mother, the only person he truly loved, was out of harms way. Though it seemed that time would never come. Along with the proclivity for his mother, James took after her in looks as well as physique. His body embraced many illnesses, cursed with a weak immune system and fragile appearance. His father and brother only "punished" James for this feminine aggregation. And each time only instigated him further yet left him unable for action.

His life contained happiness though. Like walking to performances, his job consisted of playing the violin at such productions, and stopping at the bakery shop for the night's stale bread. Free of charge. Helping out the neighbors wherever need be; earning a better reputation than his father ever hoped to. These deeds helped him through the day. Throughout the weeks and months living with such harsh conditions. But one blessing erased a dozen calamities.

It was on one of these trips, after the usual three day healing period, that a tall gentleman perked his interest. His looks were definitely foreign: angled face, black hair reaching the middle of his torso pulled back into a braid, an uncanny height, and eyes that held such a mysterious color. Though his attributes indicated he wasn't from around New York, his clothing worked to enhance this feeling. Everyone in the city wore grimy scraps of clothing; this man flaunted his wealth, dressed in apparel reserved for royalty.

The man stood outside the bread shop, apparently waiting for it to open. Withstanding his curiosity, James walked to the bakery door and opened it, earning a concerned glance from the man. "Elle!" The teen yelled after taking a few steps inside.

From behind the counter past a wooden door, presumably the kitchen, a girlish voice screamed back, "Hold on! I'm sort of busy!"

A few minutes later and James was drooling over a steaming plate of fresh bread. That was what she was busy with. Elle smiled, took a look outside, saw the suspicious man and winced. "He doesn't look ... right..."

Her comment was dismissed when she held out a loaf of stale bread. "Here. I would offer you some of the hot ones but... People are gettin' more restless. The demand is gettin' out a control. They're startin' to line up before we open."

"I don't mind. Food is food."

"Are you headin' off to practice? I'll never understand why so early in the morning..."

"The earlier the practice, the more serious we are to get better. There's a big concert coming up soon."

"Make sure you invite me. Otherwise, there'll be no more bread for you this early."

"I-I will! I have to go now, I don't want to be late. Thanks for the food!" Accepting the portion and giving a friendly hug, James exited the building with a smile. On his way out, however, the man's grim countenance affected his own, choosing a detached facial expression rather than blatantly happy "I got my breakfast" one.

The teen ignored- however, succumbed- this show of power and continued to the auditorium for practice while scarfing down the free food.

As norm, the practice hall was littered with people. Their orchestra, although big in number, held the lowest, or one of the lower, rankings in the state. At least they had state-wide popularity. Taking out his violin and setting himself next to a child hood friend, Raoul- a lovable teen who loved trouble, James allowed himself one glance before the whole episode emanated from his body.

"Again?" Concern was evident on Raoul's face. After witnessing one of the "punishment"s, Raoul suddenly understood his friend's aloofness.

"Mm." James answered quietly, "This time... it was because the doctor said I had TB."

"Tuberculosis?" The redhead asked incredulously, fear radiating his eyes, "How long did they say?"

"Six months."

"I-If they.... If you're bastard of a dad cared he would-" Raoul stopped, realizing he was hurting his friend more this way. But how could his parents just sit around and wait? A half a year. He wouldn't even turn eighteen, yet would be six feet under. It sickened him to think about. So with disgust, he turned his attention to their conductor.

"I have a special guest for us. A composer from London has accepted an invitation to instruct our orchestra for a few months."

The door opened.

"Sir Balaur."

The awkward man from earlier marched up to the podium, took one look at the spacious practice hall and sneered. "I will be conducting you. Do not take this for granted. Do not disobey me. We will have a tolerable time."

His accent wasn't British. In fact it was something James had never heard before. A quick look around and he caught the confound expressions of his colleagues. Although the man wasn't all mystery. Everyone knew what type of loathsome person he was. His attitude and body language told of self-discipline and self-importance. Their new conductor was a snob. James couldn't wait until performance.

Balaur was more than that though. He held a certain aura about himself, one that made the women of the group giggle and prolong their stare. James found himself doing the same. Those eyes that seemed to focus only on him, twisting and shaping the image until it was something he found suitable. And for a moment, James was mesmerized, returning the whimsical gaze with his own debase peer.

Then it was gone. The feeling of being watched disappeared, Balaur's eyes turned to the sheet music in front of him. "From the beginning."

The man held up a baton with his right hand, it drooped as if bored. He gave four beats to ascertain the tempo then he was possessed. With every entrance the baton ignited an immaculate array of sounds. Beauty to the ears, creating picturesque settings of bright light and immunity. It wasn't how they usually played. Somehow, this man changed them.

So amazed by the performance, James completely missed his entrance, picking up somewhere three or four measures ahead. Balaur's eyes struck his. The anger... disappointment drilled into his body. Feeling ashamed James dropped his head as well as his violin, depositing it on his lap with a heavy sigh.

With an abrupt cut off, Balaur glared at him. The orchestra wondered why they stopped so short of completion, but immediately started chattering and laughing about the success. The piece sounded superb. Better than ever before.

"Is there a problem?" Balaur's voice rose above the wild drone of excitement. James looked around him, everyone was so involved it seemed he was the only one witnessing this encounter. Stuttering, the teen began to reply, only to break out in a coughing fit.

Raoul noticed his friend heeling over in pain, coughing blood into his hand. He dragged James to his chest and held a tissue to the teens mouth with worry dripping from every move. The fit continued; gathering the gaze of everyone in the room. Balaur growled, seemingly angered by the interruption

James finally stopped heaving, settling himself against Raoul's chest for a minute to rest, unaware of having every pair of eyes in the room on him.

"Are you alright?" A tuba player, a very masculine man two rows up from them, asked.

"Ya.... uhm... Should we take you to the hospital? That was pretty bad." Another voice added.

"There's blood."

"A lot of it."

The voices continued showing concern, as well as pity, when the director cut in with his low growl. "This is an orchestra. Not somewhere to gain sympathy."

"It's not like he can help it!" Some random girl from the flute section shouted. Modesty was extinct.

"Go to a hospital then. Do not waste my time." Balaur glowered at the incapacitated teen.

James lifted his violin, preparing to join the orchestra again when Raoul's strong arms forced him back against his chest. "He has tuberculosis."

Despite everyone knowing this fact, there were gasps all around the room. The blood told everything. This still did not strike a cord of remorse within Balaur, so Raoul continued. "He has six months to live. At least give him a break once in a while."

"Everyone dies. Why should he be special?" The man picked up the baton once more, this time it was held with vigor and fortitude. With a face akin to pious ignorance, Balaur began counting off.