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“I simply do what I can. And well, to me, there are some things in life that cannot be bought with money.”
His father had said this, once, when he had asked him how he could go on. Could continue to bear such a miserable existence under such miserable burdens, without even putting up a fight. He had answered without judgement, without patronizing, without a single ounce of naivete; simply stared directly into his eyes with that ever-present, quiet hopefulness, framed by that same, tired smile.
Rupert hated it.
Such platitudes were reserved only for those in the upper classes, who could afford to believe it – not that they did, as they frivoled away all their endless riches on meaningless things meant only to sit in their homes and prove how much money they still had, and then some. It was easy to speak of transcending materialism and “appreciating what truly matters” when one lived like a king – when never having had to bow and scrape in filth their entire lives, where as little as a single coin could mean the difference between life and death – but being surrounded by silver and gold as far as the eye could see could only ever blind them to all else, in the end, as they drowned in a bottomless sea of greed, forever living lives as insignificant and hollow as all the trifles their wealth could never buy them enough of.
His father was good. Too good. Better than those people would ever be, to be able to say and believe and act on such words wholeheartedly, despite living in such a thankless world where he had so little, where those meager earnings were all that kept them (barely) alive… but that was exactly what made him so weak.
(and yet, he had been anything but weak walking to his death that night, shoulders held high despite being so frail; he had been strong, as he always had,
so much stronger than—)
In their world, money was everything. Money was food, it was clothes, shelter, it was life, and anyone who believed otherwise was a fool indeed. To simply settle in that desperate squalor and make the best of it, to never fight for, search for, never even dream of anything better, it was tantamount to laying down to die, and Rupert could never forgive it. They were all that way in the slums, each and every one of them, blending together into browns and blacks and grays, wasting away in their putrid cesspools of starvation, disease, and cold until they expired, with nothing and no one to ever know that they had even been alive.
He wouldn’t accept that. Could never accept it. There was no happiness to be found in such a life – it could never be called a life at all. He would not admit defeat the way they all did, would not justify it away as his (too good, too weak, yet too strong) father chose to; he would rise above it all with his dignity intact, into the world of color and light and life that every human being deserved… that he deserved.
Rupert would achieve his happiness using his own hands, with all the money the rich could never appreciate.
(he had not been wrong to want that, had he? How could
anyone be, wrong to not just want to survive, but to thrive, to live?)
Because it was true, in a way, there were intangible things that money couldn’t buy: comfort, security, relief, hope, that came from all the wondrous things it could. Emotions that were never known in the slums, where money and the simplest of luxuries it brought could never be found, that charted new landmarks in Rupert’s journey towards a brighter future; emotions that had only ever lived before in his wildest dreams.
For only money could buy the way his hands trembled as he held his very first paycheck, eyes gleaming with longing, clutching it tightly as if it would crumble away in seconds, hardly daring to blink, to breathe, to believe.
(the cup sat on the street nearly bereft of coins, yet he was more distracted by the brothers’ silly antics, snickering with a sigh as he walked them through the moves again.)
Only money could buy the swelling in his breast, the tears unwittingly spilling forth as he stared down at the veritable feast a waiter placed before him, face buried in hands as he desperately stifled sobs, the diners all around lost in their own worlds, utterly ignorant to all that they took for granted.
(sweets for his birthday, given kindly by his father, and from the brothers’ secret stash; so rare a treasure, savored slowly and methodically, the taste made all the better for it.)
Only money could buy the pride in his heart, the joy on his lips as he admired his bright new suit, the shining, pure white he had always wished for, hair neatly trimmed and grime washed away, skin and bones having filled out into muscle, and a cane in gloved hands and a top hat on his head: the picture of an English gentleman.
(a polished, fine new cane for his father, given mere weeks ago, with childish, stiff hesitation, rewarded with a bright smile, that somehow warmed his hardened heart more than anything else could)
And only money could buy the contentment, the euphoria, the rapture threatening to burst from within Rupert as he walked amongst the city each day, amongst its people, worked as one of them, spoke as one of them, lived as one of them, felt their praise and their kindness and their admiration from within that world, their world, instead of outside looking in, as was all he had ever known, and as far as so many of them were concerned, should have been all that would ever be. Perhaps it was shallow, perhaps it was meaningless, coming from them – but how could it matter, when his sheer exhilaration was anything but? Even if their words were fake, his joy was real. No longer was he bound by his status, by their scorn, and worst of all, their pity; now, he was one of them, and how satisfying it was to see each and every time they reaffirmed this very truth.
Rupert Milverton was dead. He was Chrogray now, reborn, and Chrogray would never look back.
(as he looked back, and back, the trail of money leading him
straight back, straight down, even though money should only have ever helped him, and yet, and yet—)
He climbed higher and higher, each new stepping stone bringing a new emotion, a new achievement. His first apprenticeship, his first work meet, his first code competition prize. His first club attending, his first shopping trip, his own home. His lowly accent melting away, replaced by refined language fostered by all he had read; his apartment safe and comfortable, decorated sparsely yet to his fancy, its occupant warm and fed, leaving freezing winter nights behind as a thing of the distant past. Each new gift that life in the city gave, that shed Rupert’s burdens away, replacing them with all he was always meant to be (a traitor, a manipulator, a patricide, a murderer—).
It all came from money. There were things in life that money couldn’t buy, but all that they were came from money – Rupert had never believed anything less. People would kill for it, people would die for it (just as he had, and wou—); there was nothing it couldn’t grant, nothing it couldn’t attain, that Rupert so desperately desired.
He already had everything he needed.
(Nemmy and Tully slumped against his shoulders, fast asleep, their and the fire’s warmth lulling him there as well, as he drifted off to the faint tinkling of a music box, a blanket laid gently around them.)
Everything was as it should be.
(as he awoke gasping for air night after night, back there again and
again, his apartment soon empty and bare, everything sold; as he checked his accounts week after week, day after day, searching for a difference, knowing it, seeing it—)
Nothing would ever need to change.
(as that man smiled sweetly at him, whispering words smooth as gold into his ears and preying on his terror, in every way from which he had always known to run, were his heart not so weak and the allure so strong, the allure of never being pulled in again to that darkness, dragged back to that despair, to that death—)
And yet…
(“Milverton and Tinpillar Dairies, milkin’ the neighbor’ood for all its worf!”)
…it hadn’t meant anything in the end, had it?
(“Look at you, Rupert! What a fine gent you’ve become.”)
Not after sleepless nights, frantic days, lonely years (how could a penniless birthday ever feel so much warmer than all the rest?), that all the money he could ever carry had never been able to heal.
Not when he has blood on his hands, the Reaper around his neck, and such agonizing, unimaginable sorrow that he thinks his heart might split in two.
(as he’d raged hellfire and sworn revenge, clutching his father’s frail, frozen body, the life stolen from him before he’d even had a chance to starve.
The next day, every single blood-soaked guinea was gone, the kingdom he had toiled so long to build incinerated in the seconds it took for Cosney Megundal to die.)
Ah… I see now…
Rupert Milverton remembers those words at the gallows, the ones spoken so long ago, as he waits for death.
“To me, there are some things in life that cannot be bought with money.”
How clear it is, now, far too late.
(for all the gold in the world could not return him to his father’s loving arms.)
My happiness, after all…
(“I’d be delighted, son!”)
(it was you)
Perhaps in another, kinder life, they could find it, he thinks, as he falls.