CHAPTER EDITED: 11/21/2017

This one is actually finished. I have everything written down...so that means I should be able to update regularly for once, right?

SUMMARY: The Earl begins to remember his days as Mana Walker. He soon realizes his greatest enemy may be his own beloved son.

NOTE: The Earl watches a lot, but he is not thinking any inappropriate thoughts. And! There are random excerpts starting next chapter.

Earl

He watches children dart in and out of the crowded streets; their little feet made rapid thudding claps on the cobblestones. Tinkling, exuberant shrieks and giggles light up dull, cold bricks as they chased each other to their hearts' content. They were such joyful, young, adorable... creatures. Their parents must be so fortunate, he concludes, to be raising such nice children. What a pleasant life it would be to take care of them, he thinks.

He imagines saying goodnight to the children, tucking them to sleep with a thin blanket on straw mattresses over hard, cold dirt floors on moonless nights. He imagines a child-stubborn with a dash of kindness.

He imagines.

One brown-haired boy runs by the Earl, and something about his hair catches his attention more than the others.

Ah.

Brown. His heart aches with wonder. Somewhere in the back of his mind, his memories vaguely whisper of another brown-haired boy with spiky hair, eyes wide with desperation. He may have turned the boy's father into an akuma. Probably. And then the memory was gone just as fast as it had come.

His thoughts drift back to the children. He wants a kid with brown hair, he thinks. He thinks a lot these days. Living for thousands of years tended to do that. He thinks about his goals for humanity, his plans to crush the abominable Heart, the family, their setbacks, and then, after all is done, he thinks about children. His eyes follow them, too. He wonders what it would be like to take care of a child. Then he backtracks and realizes he would never do that. Probably.

He gazes at them again. He's not responsible enough to pull that off. What would he even do with a child?

He doesn't know why he thinks about children so much. He doesn't know why watching them makes him feel as if he is remembering something (or someone) he can't quite grasp, and he doesn't know when this habit of his started. Sane men probably didn't spend every hour they weren't making more akumas in observing children. Then again, sane men probably didn't go around turning grieving people into hideous, killing machines either.

Twinge. His senses tingle. He shakes off the feeling of disappointment. Somewhere in the northern part of the world, a mother was driven insane with mourning the sudden death of her only son: the perfect opportunity to make a new akuma.

He gives the playing children one last, fleeting glance—time to head back to work.

The dark haired man adjusts his top hat and weaves through the crowd of busy town people. He ducks into an alley, and is gone.