RWBY Backstories:

Little Candle

Update: 5/30/18

Hey. been a while. sorry about that. just wanted to say that i'm not dead, just busy and hideously lazy. great combo :P

After writing a bunch of the story for Creeping Thorns, I've finally come to the decision that all of my RWBY Backstories are no longer canon within my soon-to-be mainstory. Sorry to disappoint folks, but chances are the changes made between the Backstories and the actual character backstories won't be big, but will be big enough that my decision to out and out say these aren't canon anymore is important.

As a consolation prize, the first chapter of Creeping Thorns is coming out later this week. So, I'll see you guys then. Ciao

Greetings ladies and gentlemen of the RWBY fanfiction community!

We all aspire to be something in life. You probably want to do something lame and boring, like become rich and successful - but not I! For I have greater aspirations!

I want to write something I can look back at and be proud of! You and your substantial amounts of money and fame can take a hike! Maybe it'll be my own, original work, or maybe it'll be a fanfiction - I find that irrelevant!

Whatever it is, I want to share it with you guys! I have a vision that I want to share, whether you ungrateful little shits want it or not! That's right! Consider this a hostile takeover of your tastes in writing! I'm calling the shots now!

And one big part of making that something is my first-ever multi-chapter (with actual continuity and plot) story! Perhaps I'll be able to look back at this and say 'yep, I dun good' or maybe I won't! It's all part of the process, you see! I make these as part of a series of backstories,

Onward, to the first step on this long, long... long... long, journey!

"Burning~ Candle~, Burning~ Candle~. Little candle~, oh so bright~, aflame at night~...please be alright~, my guiding light~... my~ little candle~..."

Orange.

Of all the colours, in all the world...

It had to be orange.

He frowned, sighing deeply. And not just orange - but neon orange, like the ungrateful mop of ugly hair on his head.

The one people really didn't seem to like. Really, really didn't like.

Sometimes he really hated his mother's fashion sense.

His younger sister's reaction was worse.

"You look like a candle!" Like most 6 year olds, little Harlequin was adorable. Also, unbelievably annoying and brash. "Little candle!"

"Don't call me that!" He shouted. His sister giggled.

"Now you really do look like a candle! Your face is so red, Ro-ro!"

"Don't call me that either!"

"Relax, little candle," Punch intervened, her flowing red hair flickering in the candlelit night. "Aren't you supposed to the oldest?"

"And don't you forget it," he replied. "Besides, I feel a little older every time I deal with you little brats. I'm gonna go bald before I'm 10, I swear!"

"Then we can put some wax on you and we can turn you into an actual candle." Signora commented dryly from the furthest bed. Her book was held off-handedly, thumb between the pages.

Everyone laughed. Except him. It was hard to laugh at yourself. He made a show of anger, winding up his fist. "Why I oughta-"

Shouting and the shattering of glass pierced through the response, and the pleasant warmth within the room flickered out like a candle.

"I wonder what it's about this time," Harlequin wondered aloud like a girl 20 years older. She gave a full-bodied hug to a weathered bear, larger than herself, something her brother made years ago. It was falling apart at the seams but the thought behind it had never fallen out, like the stuffing or the stitches.

She never knew how he'd gotten the thread or the bear itself, but she never questioned where he'd gotten the skill. Someone needed to keep them together, their clothes and otherwise, and it certainly wouldn't be those two.

Ro-ro was the greatest brother ever.

He made another show of sighing, putting a hand to his forehead with all the melodramatic flair of a professional actor. "I believe that's enough activity for one night. Come on, you lot, it's bed time!"

"But brotherrrr~!" The girls cried in unison. "You still haven't told us one of your stories!"

My suffering knows no end, he thought, purposefully speaking aloud. His sisters made a unified expression of gasping shock.

"If you lot simply must have one of my stories,"

"We do! We must!" They cried.

"Then I'll give you one!"

"Yaay!"

"...And the wooden nose grew, and grew, and grew! Long enough he could no longer turn in the room, for fear of hitting the professor.

'There are two kind of lies;' the professor begins. 'Lies that have short legs and lies that have a long nose. And yours are clearly the kind that have a long nose...'"

Smiling peacefully, his sister's drifted into a quiet sleep.

His mouth worked itself into a smile at the sight.

He adjusted himself on his stool, sitting beside Harlequin's bed. He leaned over, and tucked her in. Even her soft breathing was adorably, all snuggled up with that damn bear. Honestly, he knew it wasn't the greatest - read woefully lacking and gave him a feeling of inadequacy that left his fingers clenched and his chest hurting- but heaving it around all the time just because she wanted to spare his feelings was getting a little tiring.

Harley's sleep finally deepened, and he made to leave-

"Don't go," when a hand stopped him, holding onto his arm with all the strength a desperate, frail 7 year old could muster. "Don't go, Ro-ro."

He looked at Harley, and saw the strain on her face, like tears wasted to flow but were being held back. Even unconscious, she couldn't rest. Scowling, he held her hand, and let his palm overtake hers. He soothed her, soothed the one who acted so much older when she really, really shouldn't.

He let her breathing ease, her expression soften, and only then did he stop scowling.

Now, if only his own dreams were so easy to deal with.

"...Would someone like to tell us of a characteristic that separates humans from the faunus?"

Just five more minutes. He pleaded, hearing the lecture as though through a waterfall. Five more minutes.

Someone answered the professor's question.

"Cages." And the almost entirely human class laughed, their faunus classmates all huddled in one corner and ignored. He abruptly didn't feel like sleeping, coming to with a shake of the head and straightening in his chair.

"Very good, Mr Volpe." He eyed the grinning boy, so proud of his racism, a trait imbued by his father - who probably inherited from his father, and so on.

More meaningless words of human supremacy lulled him back to a dreamless unconsciousness. It turned out, he did really only have five more minutes.

"So, Woody, got termites?"

His own pure genius would never cease to amaze him. Also, to be the bane of every other living being's existence.

His best friend palmed his face. "Really, Ro'? Do I need to knock some sense into you?"

"Hey hey hey - don't know if termites can spread through contact now. Let's not be hasty."

"If you were anyone else, I'd so have beat the hell out of you, Ro'."

"So what do you think is the deal with that Volpe guy anyway?"

"Well," here, he put on his best Southern vale accent, "af-tur 'is father got tured of 'is mom, he prolly resorted ta secshunal inturcurse wit his half-cousin-brothur-sistur-in-law."

His best friend snorted and held back a laugh with vicious abandon. "Ro', you know that he's also really stinking rich. His dad can probably afford to buy the hookers."

"Don't meen he ain't got time fo' some gud ol' fashuned 'familay tradishin'!"

They both promptly burst into laughter. Wiping away a tear, 'Woody' smiled. "Never change, Ro'."

"You too, Pino."

The dirt tasted wet and slimy in the morning dew.

"Don't get up." Volpe instructed, though the foot on his back may have made the comment overkill.

"Daddy needed his favourite punching bag recently, so it's only fair I get mine."

And boy, did Volpe get love his punching bag. He loved it so much he was using it for hours, until the morning dew gave way to morning light and peaceful, shining blue.

He honestly forgot sometimes that he was here, his mind adrift between the pain and the beautiful, endless sky. Gleaming orange at the edges.

Volpe abruptly stepped off, apparently satisfied. His attempts to move, however, were met with numbness.

Well, crap. If he was paralyzed he'd never walk it off.

Very funny, Roman. How's humour going to get feeling back in your legs? Well, it would make him feel better, he guessed...

"Harlequin..." he began, and the girl shrunk in on herself.

"Ro-ro..." she whispered, embarrassed and pouting.

"What have I told you about the stove?"

"...Not to use it?"

"That it's dangerous," he stated. "And yes. That too."

"Am I in trouble, big brother?"

"Very big trouble, young lady." She looked worse, as though her whole world had ended. Tears shimmered in her eyes.

He let her stew the situation in her head for a few moments.

"But," and now she looked so heart-meltingly hopeful, "I am, this time, going to let you off with a warning-"

"Ohthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!" She cried and tackled him with a hug, falling with a manly cry of 'AH!'.

"Thankyouthankyouthank- ow." The moment of crushing love was ruined when Harley abruptly shook her hand, the stove burn flaring up from the activity.

He reacted instinctively, taking the wrist and noting the shoddy wrapping on her hand up close. "So this is what you were hiding behind your back earlier... Young lady..."

Harley suddenly seemed sheepish, scratching the back of her head. "Eheheh..."

"Give me your hand. I'll redo the bandages."

She held it out without further complaint, and he unrolled it.

He hissed protectively, eyes flaring. "Harley," he never called her by her nickname unless he was really mad oh she was so screwed.

"This burn is bad. I might have to get you to a hospital - this is serious, Harley. What temperature did you set the stove to?"

"Um... high?"

"How high?"

"...The knob wouldn't turn anymore?"

"Dust Harley," he cursed. "You could've gotten yourself seriously hurt!" All earlier promises of mere warnings vanished, and Harley went back to looking crushed.

He ran a hand through his stylish, swept-aside hair. "Just - give me back your hand, and I'll rewrap it. Properly."

Harley didn't move. "Now, Harley," and that same feeling of guilt over his inadequacy flared up, but was ruthlessly forced back.

Reluctantly, she did. He silently went to re-wrapping the bandages, Harlequin fidgeting.

When he was done, he gave one last word of warning. "Don't go near the stove again, Harley." And he left, his disappointment ringing clear.

"I can't believe you'd do that!" Punch shouted.

He'd just wanted time to reflect. Time for himself for a change, instead of constantly devoting himself to his sister's. When one of them wasn't even grateful for the fact that he'd tried just to - to keep her safe, if only from herself... well. Excuse him if he wasn't fuming.

(There was the also issue of her having lied. That was quietly swept under the rug.)

"She's Harley, Ro', and you still yelled at her! What makes you better than them?"

He stopped. He'd hoped to just walk away-

He turned two piercing, blazing dark green eyes to Punch. He wouldn't lose control, but the inferno within was constantly threatening to make him do something he'd regret. He held it back by willpower alone, but that didn't make him any less vicious. Signora, still-pretending to read further away, was just silent.

"You should be more careful with your words, Punch. Don't you ever compare me to them. Ever."

"Harley is in there, crying-"

"She should be! She could've gotten seriously hurt - maybe killed - from her foolishness!"

"She was doing this for you, you ungrateful asshole! She-"

"Is this the part where you leave, big brother?"

Harley had walked in, and was watching her eldest sister and only brother fight like they did all the time. Her only question was whether it would end the same way too - would Ro-ro go?

He decided then, in that moment, watching Harley with yet another expression she was too young to have - resignation - that he should apologise before this got any further out of control.

So he opened his mouth, and said-

"Yeah, big brother. Are you gonna just run away?"

All words and thoughts of apologies died. If they wanted it so badly...

"Fine. Be like this. But remember - when you two see reason, I'll be there to say 'I told you so'."

And he walked out. He thought at the time he might be making a decision he would regret - leaving Harley in a manner that amounted to almost abandonment, leaving Punch and Signora like their father - father's - had. He had, of course, every intention of coming back.

But he would never realize just what his decision to walk out would truly do. Not until it was too late.

"I'm gonna bake brother the best cake..."

The midnight before brother's big day, Harley was, against Ro-ro's advice, working with the stove.

It was simple really. Ro-ro was mad. Their dad had been mad - really, really mad. Their dad hadn't come back because Adults were really stuck in their ways. But Ro-ro wasn't like that. He was always willing to listen, and she couldn't help but feel a little (okay very) guilty that she apparently hadn't appreciated it. She guess she hadn't.

The thought that Ro-ro would walk out had just... never even crossed her mind. She'd always been certain that nothing could faze her brother. Her brother was the best brother ever, after all.

And that's why she had to do this. The absence of her dad - she never considered all those other guy's her dad, not really - was heart-breaking, and made her realize there was no such things as fairy tales. But if Ro-ro left and really never came back... she'd die.

"And then he won't ever wanna leave again..."

She'd make him the best birthday cake ever.

"Thanks for letting me stay the night Woody."

"I wish you'd stop calling me that."

"We can't all get what we want, unfortunately."

"Still. Thank Dust for you quick wit. I think my dad would've said no if you didn't BS your way through the door with the whole sleepover thing."

"Sometimes it pays to parents universally renown for their negligence."

Pino stopped smiling, the dark, star-filled night streaming in through his window falling over his bed.

"...You know, you could just stay here. We got too much stuff anyway. At least, compared to you."

"Gee, thanks. I didn't notice how obnoxiously poor I was either, what with all the clothing I've had to personally sow."

"You know I didn't mean it like that."

He was silent. Contemplative. Perhaps finally falling asleep. Until, "I can't leave them."

"You could bring them over too."

"One stray strains your parents enough as it is. They wouldn't be able to handle 4 strays."

"But you're not just a stray, Ro'."

"And neither are my sisters."

"Ro'..."

But his friend had finally gone silent. Scowling, Pino rolled over onto his own bed, snuggling under the covers.

You're my best friend, Ro'... why do you have to be so stubborn?

Sighing, he let his eyes droop closed, the darkness wrapping around him like a cloak.

"'Night," he muttered, but was never given a response. Slowly, peacefully, he drifted off into sleep.

Roman rolled his eyes at Pino's protectiveness.

Ain't like when we were younger, Pino... you can't help me with something like this.

Roman had always been thankful for meeting Pino on that day. He was not thankful, however, for how Pino had been pressing him. Roman Torchwick would not be anyone's burden.

Scrunched in on himself, he forcefully closed his eyes.

After all, it's not like I'm any better than them now anyway... I don't deserve a home - not like my sister's do.

Self-loathing and guilt clogging his gut, Roman fell into a fitful slumber.

That night, he dreamt of his mother.

It was years ago. It must've been, because she was still smiling. Soft morning light streaming like the radiance of a golden candle, perfectly framing her beautiful smile. She glimmered like gold, perhaps as part of the dream, part of how he remembered that smile, or both.

She was reaching for him, suddenly, and the morning light stopped streaming.

"Roman! RUN!" The light had stopped steaming - or, no, it never had. It had been flaring. Flaring because it wasn't morning light framing her face, it was a real candle, a real wick in the middle of the night-

Fire.

He burst from the bed in a shower of sheets, suddenly awake and alarmed. He remembered the dream in startlingly detail - and he would for years to come.

He ran, past Pino's cries for him to stop, out Pino's front door, out of the house and out of the neighborhood.

He had an instinctual urge to just run, run because something very, very bad was happening.

"Burning~ Candle~, Burning~ Candle~..."

His house was on fire.

He didn't even hesitate before he rushed in, everything burning, his skin and his eyes. Sweat clung to him like the soot and the smell of fire, of ash, would also never leave him. This night would never leave him.

He came by the kitchen, dodging and jumping over debris. A sparking cinder left a painful burn on his arm, something that would scar, but he couldn't focus on that right now.

Harley was under a beam, unmoving. Ignoring the burn more than ever, he grabbed her and tried to pull. She didn't even budge. He prayed to whatever higher power there was she wasn't dead.

Over the fire and the flames, he heard footsteps. He turned, grabbing a kitchen knife just in case-

Signora - mother of Dust what happened to her face - stumbled in, clutching a torn cloth. There was blood on it. Blossoming blood.

She grimaced, and wheezed out "Ro-..." she coughed, and blood flew from her mouth in great splotches. "Is Harley...?"

"I don't know!" Another burning piece of wood fell in a flash of flames, the fires growing ever hotter as everything fell apart around them. "Can you help me get the beam off her?"

"Do I look like I can lift anything heavy?" Point taken. "We need help!"

"Agreed! You go, I'll try and get Harley out!"

"No can do!" She protested, still going strong when the blood staining her cloth only continued to blossom. It started to drip. "You can move faster! I'll stay!"

"I won't leave her!"

"You already did once, why can't you just shut up and did it again?! Isn't that all you men are good for, running away!?"

"THIS ISN'T THE TIME FOR THAT! WE HAVE TO-"

A wave of fire blasted down the hallway, and he could only watch, too slow, far too slow, as the fires consumed the house and Signora.

"SIG!"

The fire consumed everything like a hungry beast, and he couldn't even recognize the smoldering black ashes left in its wake as anything resembling her sister. Her book - pages, not cloth - tumbled from her grasp, hand spreading the pages and letting whatever blood hadn't been vaporized flow thickly across the words.

And then the blood stopped flowing, having exhausted its supply.

"Si... Sig..." the fires felt strangely cold. Fire was hot, so why was he suddenly so cold? Was he crying, or was that somehow even more blood? He didn't want more blood. He'd had enough blood, too much blood, too much blood-

Harley's sleeping face suddenly broke through, as did Punch's. Moonlight cascading like white water, peaceful and worriless. Somehow, the thought gave him the shove he needed, hastily pulling together what had moments ago been falling apart. He could have a breakdown later. He had sisters to save.

Hastily stumbling through an apology and a promise to be back, he ran past Signora's body, down the scorched hall into his parent's room.

The smell hit him first - it was the smell of something decidedly overcooked, and considering he didn't hear cries of agony, he had no interesting in seeing whatever was inside for himself. But it came anyway, as he'd already opened the door-

Black, melted flesh, like a puddle. Blood flowing, at such a strange contrast with the orange and black. Together, almost indistinguishable they were so melted. But he could still see her face. His mother's screaming, skinless face, stretched open in a scream of what must have been unimaginable agony.

He bent his legs and heaved, so utterly sickened he could swear madness was brimming at the edges of his mind. No time, no time he told himself. Can't do this now.

He went to their bedroom, squeezing himself in between a fallen beam and the fallen door. Everything they owned, everything they had was burning all around him - but he focused on Punch, looking for her, finding her.

He did. Her hand protruded lifelessly from a pile of debris.

Praying that she wasn't already dead, he grabbed her arm with both hands and pulled, the debris tumbling away in a spray of burnt wood.

Once she was fully out, he checked her neck - thank merciful dust she was alive. She was hurt badly, blood soaking through her clothing, and breathing heavy. The oxygen was beginning to get thin, and he only noticed he was also breathing heavy, his mind muddled as the smoke sank lower and lower to suffocate them.

He hoisted her onto his back, holding her legs and wrapping her arms around him. He was weak, so pitifully weak, but he had to push on, every step staggering and requiring a grunt of effort.

He forced his way to the window, gasping and heaving, his arms and legs burning, his vision blurring and darkening.

And then he heard creaking, and so slowly, lethargically, he looked up.

A beam was falling.

He honestly thought that was it. After all this, and then wham. Crushed into red, red paste by a beam. How many beams did this damn house have anyway? It seemed like a lot. He couldn't even close his eyes, his strength sapped by the heat, smoke and resignation. He just waited to die.

"RO-!" And then a familiar voice was calling his name and an abrupt shove saved his life, the beam shattering and splintering where he no longer was.

He wheezed, an uncomfortable weight on his chest. "T-thanks..." he breathed, and coughed, red and raspy.

"No problem, Ro'." Said Pino, standing over him like some kind of savior. Hell, he was. "You shouldn't run off like that. Makes people worried."

Ro' levelled a glare that stated exactly how little he cared. Pino rolled his eyes and sighed, putting an arm under Ro's and hoisting him up. "But first let's get you out of here."

"W-wait..." he sounded so weak, even to his own ears. How much smoke had he breathed? It felt like he'd never breathed clean air his entire life. "Save...t-them..."

"Can't. I'm not superstrong, I can only carry one person at a time. It'll be hard enough getting you out. I'll have to comeback."

Summoning the last of his strength, he gripped his best friend by the shirt and squeezed. "I d-don't... care... get them f-first..." He spluttered and coughed and oh god was that blood, that was blood, it was so red it had to be blood...

(Mildly, he recognized he was going delirious.)

"I'll come back, Ro'."

But that was wrong no he couldn't he couldn't "n-no... save them..."

He didn't hear him. He tried again, feeling a strange sense of weightlessness - like flying. "S-save... them..."

Nothing worked. He wondered if he was actually speaking or if all of this was in his head. It would explain why he felt so loopy.

But the candle on the horizon, the burning candle, seemed to trigger some last measure of sanity.

He regained awareness long enough to look back, scream "SAVE THEM!" but be ignored. He struggled to his feet but was held down by too many hands, more than Pino's - large, weathered, young, old, somewhere in between - holding him back. But he couldn't... they were still-!

And then watch it explode, the shockwave reverberating through his bones, moving fast, fast enough to hit and then he was gone-

The ash fell like black snow.

Drifting, floating lazily in the breezeless wind. Specks of dark spotting the green grass, everything coloured in such rich hues smeared over by dark grey.

He saw them, in the distance, as his vision blurred and darkened from the falling, bitter ash. Why did ash have to be so bitter? The ash was Sig, who was so sweet and quiet, why did it have to be bitter?

Why, so bitter... so, so bitter...

They called to him, sitting around a campfire set upon a beautiful smile now blackened and sizzling.

"Tell us how I died, thinking you hated me and wanted to leave like they all did!"

"Tell us how I died, thinking you were worse than they ever were!"

"Tell us how I died, thinking big brother was the best brother ever!"

"No..." He breathed, so weak, even to his own ears. So weak, too weak, too weak to do anything... "I have to go!" And run, and run like he always has. Run and run and abandon them all over again.

"But brother," they cried, flesh bubbling as the fire raged and surged like a monster. Their beautiful, sleeping faces cracked and split open to form puddles of melted, oozing red.

"YOU STILL HAVEN'T TOLD US ONE OF YOUR STORIES!"

He didn't look up as the predators approached.

"Hey, look, it's new meat." The alpha was gaudy and audacious to be so close, so arrogant when he had yet to see his eyes. He was king to these people, these hopeless kids known as 'orphans', residing in a gray, lifeless building - if not by guile then by force. His pack hovered around him. Given the space they unconsciously gave him, their loyalty was born from fear.

His neck was grabbed and his face was forced into position. "Hey, look at me when I'm talking to you."

"...I'm sorry." The most crippling wounds were delivered by shadows. He was already a shell, so why not become a shadow?

"That's better." The affectionate pat was a thinly veiled method of demeaning him. It succeeded, and only made the alpha foolishly trust him more. "I get the feeling we'll get along just fine."

For the first time, he looked up. Everyone had turned, the expectation to follow as obvious and lingering as any demand.

And for the first time of many, many times in his life, Roman Torchwick smiled wickedly.

"It's nothing personal. Well, actually, it kind of was." He hit him again.

"AGH-!" The coup had gone off perfectly. 'Shockingly', subordinates won through fear were easy to coerce. Roman believed in his abilities but was not stupid, so he'd come with the pack. The pack who'd looked at their former alpha like actual, hungry wolves.

And now the king was dethroned. It'd been too easy.

Far too easy.

His mind whirred, a strange sense of unfufillment coursing through him. He'd won without a single loss. The game had been almost boring.

Roman detested boring games. Now more than ever, he wanted to play again.

It only made sense then, considering he wasn't exactly running for Council membership, that he'd turn to crime.

It was petty at first - so amateurish Roman sighed depressively just thinking about it. Simple theft and basic maneuvers to evade arrest, oh dust he was such an short-sighted fool. If he met a younger version of himself, very little would've stopped him from strangling the damn moron.

("Oh, look at me, I'm a criminal, look at me do criminal things, weh weh weh...")

And then, of course, he'd met Tomb.

Tomb, as his name might imply, was not a man you wanted to cross. As Vale's most powerful mobster, it was a strange mystery that he'd taken Roman in.

They'd met when Roman discovered for the first time ever that actions beget consequences. His reputation as a neighborhood thief led to a manhunt which led to him jumping just the right fence, and land in the ridiculously luxurious palace Tomb called home. The man was reading on his scroll, when Roman literally just dropped in. Without even a word of comment, the burly businessman lowered his scroll and gave him a flat-stare.

In retrospect, Roman supposed he was quite the sight. Dirty, ragged, and exhausted after spending hours running - he must've looked like any of the pathetic fools Tomb made a living off of. Instead, when Roman had just asked for a place to hide, Tomb had shrugged, gestured to his shed - or average sized house to most people - and said "sure."

Perhaps he'd wanted a son but never wanted to raise an infant. He certainly acted like Roman was his son, teaching the thick-headed fool to become nothing short of a visionary. Teaching him that a thug made just a bribe, but a master criminal made a bribing system, one that would facilitate not just the smuggling of a single package, but a whole shipment drug. He taught a boy who only saw an exchange how to spot an economy. And it was. An economy.

A closed system of corruption and politics and backstabbing flowing and circulating like blood in a human body. Living and breathing. It was beautiful, and Roman was thankful every day that Tomb had showed him the view from above - or, perhaps really, below.

"Sorry, it's not personal."

Of course, no amount of father-son bonding could change the fact that they were both ultimately money-grubbing gangsters with class. Tomb had taken his silence like a monk might his vow, breaking it only to instill urgency or for extraordinary circumstances. Mostly, he communicated by grunts and gestures that almost seemed to flow like a language. It kind of did, really. Because anyone who was 'in' in the underground spoke a least a little bit of 'Tomb'. You wouldn't be there otherwise.

Tomb didn't even comment as Roman killed him, his mentor, a man he almost - almost - viewed as the father he never had. Instead, he just smiled, as though in approval.

It was the closest Roman ever got to a word of praise. Especially now that the man was in pieces and at the bottom of the Valesian river.

Things started to get a little bit too easy after Tomb died.

Evading police, organizing raids, capturing territory... Roman was playing a game that was rapidly losing opponents. Match after match, drug trade out-smuggling drug trade... Roman was always better in some way.

He'd swapped out his pack for something better, a pack actually worth surrounding himself with. He trusted these people, obviously, about as far as he could throw them - but he and them shared a very common interest. Money. If nothing else, betraying him would turn very little profit.

He smirked. Game advice number 2; always hold something over someone. And he'd succeeded marvelously.

Soon, there would be one last game to play. One last man to drive out of Vale. Tomb's only real rival, and someone he planned on meeting tomorrow to discuss their concocted plot to 'assassinate Tomb'. Sometimes, naturally coming off as a slimy bastard who would work for the highest bidder paid off.

And then he'd have another game, another match, but in a different league. International drugs and arms trade. The thought made him just warm and fuzzy - 'cause in a couple months, baby, Roman Torchwick was gonna hit it big.

The candle he worked by flickered suddenly, and only after he blinked did he realize how late it was. Leaning back in his chair - some mixture of laziness and survival instinct made him wary of sleeping in beds - he let his hat dip over his eyes.

"But brother," he heard them call, as he always could, every time he tried to find some measure of sleep. "You still haven't told us one of your stories."

Unknownst even to himself, Roman Torchwick drifted into a dreary sleep with his eyes moistened by tears.

And then, of course, he'd met the second person to have an enormous impact on his life.

Cinder Fall.

Roman hated how easily he fell into closed-mindedness.

He thought he was truly seeing things when he envisioned himself on top of the world, not owning or controlling the kingdoms, certainly, but having a hand in their food and water supply for... certain political sway.

Oh, how wrong he was. He thought the shadows had given him absolute power, but he was so wrong. So pathetically wrong. Those shadows which had obfuscated him had also blinded him.

It was not about controlling a part of it. It was about controlling all of it. He didn't need political sway when he had an army. He didn't need subtley when there was literally nothing anyone could do if he walked into the Vale capital and declared himself King.

Cinder had let him see, see something like he hadn't since Tomb was alive. (It was like suddenly breaking his hymen again, if he was a girl that is)

As absurdly melodramatic and stereotypical as it sounded... Roman desired the greatest thing anyone could want.

Complete, global, domination.

And of course, Cinder desired something similar - or something in the same general direction. It mattered little. Cinder was nice enough, but, well, they'd said the same of Tomb.

And that didn't make Tomb live any longer, did it?

He knew he'd have to be careful. He'd have to be more cunning and conniving than he'd ever been before. A woman with connections like hers had irrefutable experience in the game. She would be his toughest opponent - stronger, with more resources, and dare he say it, perhaps just the tiniest bit smarter - he didn't doubt. It might be utter suicide to challenge her.

But that, ladies and gentleman, was just all part of what made the game fun.

The candle went out.

It'd been any other day at the office. Well, not quite, Roman just always wanted to think that.

His quota for the day had been filled. He'd even personally gone out and robbed a dust store, to ad a bit of excitement to his evening. Plus, it kept him from losing the edge Tomb once had. His personal training had finished some time, and after a refreshing, steamy shower and a cup of smoldering hot coffee he was officially considering his day over.

In a few minutes, his end of the day reports would come in, hand-delivered by those below him on the food chain. It was time for relaxation, peace and quiet, some nice, well-earned Roman-time...

Which turned into a nap, that was broken sharply by Cinder.

Cinder, who now had a smirk simultaneously amused, playful and critical, holding hands with something he didn't quite expect.

"...Hey, I can assure you, I ain't the dad. Roman Torchwick doesn't take chances."

Oh, what a wonderful first-encounter - a 5 year old so adorably, nostalgically (don't think about it don't think about it she's gone) confused and Cinder, who's smirk lost its amused quality.

Until she said that he'd be looking after her. Things had gotten considerably less wonderful after that.

Cinder's first proclaimation, immediately after Ruby had left, was an affirmation that no, he couldn't kill her.

Also, no, he couldn't do anything that would result in her death. And that indirectly did count.

Feeding and clothing were part of taking care, yes. And yes, just to be sure, she meant 'taking care' as to keeping Ruby (so that's her name) alive, not dead.

And then, when asking for one last confirmation, "Dust's sake, Roman. It's just a child. Surely you don't consider yourself not up to the task?" And that, like a magical can of oral glue, managed to seal his trap tight. Say anything about Roman, but he considered his pride as second only to his continued existence.

Which ultimately meant one thing. Roman Torchwick had been put in charge of children.

All in all, Roman considered his normal day to have gotten a lot worse.

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The first of the series! Think of this as 'Trailer: Little Candle' if you want.

I hope you enjoyed this! Check my drabble story thing if you haven't already!

Review, or be forced to look after children today!