Kuroshitsuji 1. The Storm

Disclaimer: All of the characters and references made belong solely to Yana Toboso, and all those who are affiliated with the 'Black Butler' series. I have no claim whatsoever.

Author's Note: This particular story takes place in an alternate timeline. Therefore, I would consider it a Black Butler AU. The events occur ten years after the supposed end of season one, where the storyline that I have imagined takes a different course. However, I will disclose no more. If you wish to learn the secrets of these events, and the ones that follow, you will have to read. Updates will come when they can. I am a very busy person, after all, but I will put forth as much effort as I can. This story was inspired by a particular roleplay that I have been involved in for half of a year now, and as such, is dedicated to the partner that allowed me to bring this story to life. One Hell of a Butler deserves One Hell of a Story, don't you think? I won't be outdone, even in something as insignificant as fictitious writing. To all who read this, please enjoy.

**Chapter One: The Storm**

Silence.

It was unnerving, really, or would have been, had he not been who he was. Had this not been the type of silence that was most familiar to him; the silence that signaled the beginning of the end; the silence that graced the tense air moments before the destruction of the storm occurred.

And occur it would.

Not a creature's breath broke the silence in the dark alleyway, lest it catch the attention of the Death that loomed above, and be stolen away. The rusted, eroded metal of the fire-escape made not creak nor whine as his laced boot gently applied pressure in exchange for balance. The other boot was firmly planted on the smooth stone of the roof from which the fire-escape jutted, his lithe body leaning slightly forward in order to give a single cerulean eye the prefect vantage point. This position would have proved more dangerous had the rain yet soaked the metal and stone (not that he really had to be concerned _should_ he fall). But the storm had not yet come.

And when it did, the rain would stain everything crimson.

A dark-gloved hand ran lazily through ashen locks, bringing itself back down to rest on the decorative holster strapped to his small thigh. Body relaxed yet senses alert, his nimble fingertips gently traced the filigree on the butt of the customized pistol, ready and waiting. Patience is a virtue…

He had never been virtuous.

The only reason that he hadn't advanced on his prey was the simple fact that the longer he stalled, the more hours he could clock in. But he wasn't stalling, really. Simply waiting; he found that although he abhorred doing so, he was rather good at it…or had been. He was silently thankful (though to what, he did not know) when his thoughts were steered away from the subject that they were teetering dangerously close to as the cool night air thickened around him, coiling tightly around his throat and freezing his lungs from the inside out. His every muscle tightened as the silence reached its sanity-splitting crescendo. It lasted for barely five seconds, until a soft, hesitant, nearly inaudible 'click' of a boot meeting the cold cobblestone of the alleyway's end tore through the dreadful silence like a clap of thunder.

The first raindrop had fallen.

The single sapphire eye narrowed as he crouched low atop the roof (though his small stature alone could have hidden his slim silhouette against the moon), still leaning slightly over the fire-escape to properly observe his target: male, Caucasian, brunette, nearing forty, between 5"7' and 6'0' at 170 lbs, with a small scar just above his left cheekbone. This was certainly his prey. His delicate hand now fully encasing the handle of his pistol, the boy lifted his stone-planted boot and secured it beside the other, balancing precariously on the rusted piping. Inching slowly and silently along the top level railing, he watched his prey ignorantly stroll into his line of fire. Upon reaching the edge of the railing, he gently bent his ankles, tilting his body at an angle as he slid down the slanted railing to the next level, his dark coat rippling in his wake. As his feet left the railing, his left hand swung up and wrapped itself around the pole that his boots had just abandoned. Right hand still wrapped around the pistol in its holster, he swung his bottom half downward to introduce his booted soles to the fencing on the lower level from which he dangled. The entire process was completed silently. The metal didn't release so much as a whine as it supported his weight. The sound of his shoes meeting the metal fencing was timed carefully, masked by the rhythmic 'click-clack' of his preys footsteps (like raindrops on the cobblestone) as he waltzed through death's open door. His prey proceeded to light a cigarette, and didn't so much as pause to take his drag in his advance.

Delicate lips curved upward in a satisfied smirk as the hunter took note of the fact that he had not been detected. He slowly slipped his pistol from its holster, cloaking the reflection of the moonlight as it glinted off of the silver barrel with his mottled coat. Not yet ready to take aim, he lifted the tip of the barrel up to his covered right eye, facing upward, the tip just writhing itself underneath the bottom of the black cloth. He didn't bother to make sure that the safety was on; not only would it make a noise that might alert his target to his presence, but it wasn't as if he really needed to worry _should_ he be shot (not that he would be stupid enough to shoot _himself_. He was _technically_ still a rookie, but _really_…). Agreeably, it wasn't the safest way to remove an eye patch, not the smartest habit, but both hands always seemed to be occupied, and he _did_ need that eye to properly see his target's-

Silence. Sudden, anticipant silence. The raindrops had stopped falling. For just a moment, the world seemed a step off, and his heart seemed half a beat slow as he realized that his target had stopped just below him in the alley. Why had he stopped? Had he been detected? His questions were answered when the man took the cigarette from his thin lips, crushed it beneath his shoe, and reached into his inner coat pocket. When his hand re-emerged, the boy was relieved to see that it held nothing more than a in ornate old pocket watch. He breathed a silent sigh of relief.

_'He's just checking the time?' _An inward, haughty 'hmph' at the irony. _'He won't have to worry about such a thing for much longer…'_

The true irony of the small action only feel upon the boy when his target quietly opened the pocket watch and it began to softly sing to him. It sang a familiar tune that told the story of a falling bridge, and the countless, hopeless, desperate attempts made to keep it standing. His target's annoyed mutterings about "being late" were lost in the vicious reverse cycle that the boy was thrown into. His mind was dragged backward through time and space, hearkening back to a time in which a stone manor stood ominous and impenetrable, protecting the very heart of the London Underworld. When the word "Watchdog" had sent criminals fleeing to the hills, skittering into the shadows like the filthy rats that they were. When time was _his_ master; his _only_ master…and when he was only _truly_ master of _one_ thing. An entirely new wave of emotion washed over the boy at the final recollection. A wave of _unwelcome_ emotion. A wave of unwelcome memories of previously welcome sights, sounds, words, touches, and feelings. His covered eye pulsed and stung painfully (why would it do so? He had been _abandoned_!) as his mind and heart (were it still there in his cold chest) were flooded anew.

_Strong arms pull him against warm protection as marble wings symbolically crumble around them…_

His gun-toting hand began to tremble.

_Brimstone smoldering deep within vermilion eyes; burning him alive as the flames of years before…_

His breathing is ragged…his target will hear him!

_Brimstone is swallowed by uncharacteristic disapprovement, curiosity, struggle, longing…_

He isn't here, he isn't here, he _isn't here_, he _isn't_-!

_Cold knuckles caress his cheek, deceptively soft, knowing what is yet to come…_

And his eye keeps burning and _burning_ and-!

_"And now…_Master_."_

The pocket watch is shut. The music stops, and again, there is silence. Dead silence. It was unnerving, really, or would have been, had he not been who he was. Had this not been the type of silence most familiar to him; The silence that seeped through the darkest crevices of his mind as he lie awake at night; The silence that had been his only companion on that dreadful waking, when _he_ had rejected him (but he must not think of _him,_ no, never again); The silence that signaled the calm before the storm, before something life-altering occurred…

And occur it had.

The silence had been there when he had told him it was the end, and the morning after when he had awoken on the Tower Bridge, alone, sleeping on cold metal like he had all those years before, and when he realized what had happened, and while he had waited for something else to happen. How long had he waited for him? He had waited and waited and waited and _waited_, and-!

The rain began to fall again.

He had never been patient.

His left hand released its grip on the rusted railing and he swooped down to take his prey. His boots squarely met the pavement directly in front of his target, his dark coat fanning out around his small, crouched form. His target blanched and leapt backward, hindquarters meeting the cobblestone in a flurry of flailing limbs. As the boy slowly rose to tower over his prey, the man took in his appearance and assessed his situation. When his eyes dropped to the gun in the child's hand, his complexion paled further.

"Wh…wh-who…what…what do you want from me?" he shrieked.

Scowling at the volume of the man's voice, his grip on the handle of his gun tightened; a silent warning. He spoke in a smooth, monotonous tone.

"John De'Carte, current manager of the exporting branch of Osiris Industries. Thirty-eight years old and already tried for two murders. Found innocent on both accounts. Guilty of both. You have a wife and three children. Your most recent 'activities' include investments in an illegal prostitution ring, and, even more recently…" He pointedly glanced back toward the bar which his target had emerged from moments ago. "…overdosing on Opium. A drug dear to my own heart." He added sarcastically. "How unfortunate for you. I no longer have the authority to punish you for your aforementioned actions, but your last little _accident_ had given me free reign over your fate anyway. A pity, really…you _almost_ escaped me."

A smug leer stretched the boy's cold complexion. The man stared up in confusion and horror as he struggled to adjust his sight in the dim alley.

"W…what? H-how did you know all of that? Just what the hell do you want from me, kid?"

The boy's visible eye flashed dangerously at the man's last word. Clutching his gun tighter to his side, he sharpened his tone.

"While I may appear young, I assure you, sir, I am no _child_."

He caught the telltale metallic glint that travelled from the man's side to his hand too late. He silently cursed himself for allowing his injured pride to distract him. He had waited too long…again. His target's bullet was lodged in his skull before he had even had time to twitch his finger on the trigger of his own weapon, and then John De-Carte was up and running. His frantic silhouette had disappeared into an adjacent alleyway before the child' corpse could hit the ground. His singular blue eye widened as blood trickled between the cobblestone like tiny rivers. Then the silence was back again…that dreadful, ominous, preceding silence…

And this time, there _would_ be a storm.

Mere seconds ticked by (fifteen, to be precise) before the boy decided that he had waited long enough. With a violent lurch of his spine, the child peeled his body away from the pavement and stood. Without so much as a ragged breath, he reached up with a gloved hand, grit his teeth, dug two dainty fingers into the new wound on his forehead, and plucked the bullet from its cozy crevice. Tossing it to the side with a scoff, he brought out a silken handkerchief to clean the blood from his face. He then proceeded to throw in on the ground in disgust of the compulsively cleanly habit. Honestly, he was allowing himself to become more and more like _him_ each day. The back of his glove replaced the handkerchief, wiping across his forehead smoothly, but the blood kept flowing. Eventually it would stop, but it _had_ been quite the deep wound. The boy scoffed in annoyance of the fact that he had allowed that incompetent idiot to shoot him _in the face_.

"Oh, well," he thought nonchalantly.

He strode purposefully toward the alleyway that De'Carte had disappeared into, cocking his gun in the silence; like a clap of thunder.

"This game is more entertaining when they run, anyway."

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

John De'Carte ran as quickly as his legs could take him, his lungs so strained that they felt near to bursting. He cut corners, leapt chain link fences, and slipped through abandoned buildings to throw his young pursuer off of his trail. He _must_ have lost him…that is, if there was anyone to lose. No! He was certain that he had hit his mark! The boy _must_ be dead…so…

Why was he still running? Why did it feel as though death were still on his heels? Perhaps it was guilt? He _had_ just killed a _child_, after all…but had he really had another choice? The boy had made his intentions clear, and he was so _odd_. How had he known so much about him? Perhaps he was a hired assassin, given information by an employer? If so, what had he meant by 'having the authority to punish him'? He had heard the stories in the Underworld about a one-eyed child known as the Watchdog of the Queen, dealing punishment to those who opposed the crown, but it simply couldn't be!

The Earl of Phantomhive had died ten years ago in the Fire!

Moreover, how had he known that he had been leaving an Opium Den? Had he been spying on him? And what the hell did he mean by '_overdose_?' Well, it was too late now. Dead men tell no tales, right? He pushed open a slightly ajar door to his left, leading into what appeared to be an abandoned factory of some sort. Once he had thoroughly blocked his entrance, he collapsed against a run down water heater, panting heavily and sweating profusely. Just a few moments, he told himself as he began to wipe the fingerprints from the handle of his gun with his ascot. Just a few moments, then he would dispose of the weapon outside in the alley (he'd be damned if he'd go to jail for murdering some psychopathic, insignificant, crippled _brat_!) and find his way to the main road. From there, he would go home and pretend that nothing had happened. It was lucky that he had killed the brat when he had. He could feel the Opium beginning to take effect. He leaned his head back against the water heater and closed his eyes. What harm could it do to ride out his high first? After all, it wasn't as if he could find his way home in such a state. His breathing now back to a calm exchange and his heart rhythmically beating out a staccato 'ta-tump, ta-tump,' he reveled in the silence that he had earned. Not even the drops of water assaulting his face from the leaking ceiling above could bother him…but…

The previously appreciated silence became a crucifying proof.

_It wasn't raining._

Then what was leaking from the ceiling? Upon closer examination, it _did_ feel rather _warm_…perhaps the water heater still ran? Then why wasn't it warm, and why wasn't _it_ making any noise?

"What's the point of asking a dead man those questions, Mr. De'Carte? '_Dead men tell no tales...right_?'"

The soft voice cut through the silence like a clap of thunder. De'Carte's eyes shot open to meet another gleaming pair looming above them. A rather mismatched pair: one bright blue, glassy, yet deep as the ocean it resembled, and burning with a fire that not even an ocean could douse. The other was a pale, piercing purple, with a faintly glowing outline of what could only be described as a pentagram in the iris. Yes, the gaze was quite intimidating, but it was the face itself that hitched De-Carte's breath in his throat. Too terrified to even emit a yelp of surprise, he scrambled across the floor, his pistol forgotten in the darkness behind him, to the opposite side of the room, distancing himself from the water heater and the pretty figure crouched atop it. He reached up a trembling hand to wipe the water from his face, only to find upon closer examination that it was red. _Blood_. It wasn't water. It was _blood_. The _child's_ blood. Even as the boy slipped down from his perch to the floor, it streaked down his pretty face in rivulets from the semi-closed hole in his smooth forehead. He was so frightened that he almost didn't catch the meaning, irony, and impossibility of the child's words.

"…b…b-bu…wh…h-how? How? YOU SHOULD BE DEAD!"

The child grinned. Not maliciously, nor condescendingly. As though he were truly amused.

"Fool." He said, matter-of-factly. "I _am_."

At this, he lifted his gun. De-Carte felt his heart leap into his constricted throat. None of this was possible. Perhaps he _had_ taken too much Opium. Dead men didn't stand up and walk! And he had barred the door! How had he gotten in?

"Whether you are pondering that yourself or planning to ask me, you are _still_ asking questions of a _dead_ man, you simpering filth."

He advanced. Dec-Carte was befuddled, and his vision was beginning to blur. He internally panicked as the word 'overdose' assaulted his cloudy memory.

"H-how? Are…are you reading my _mind_?"

The child gave another amused grin, and raised his gun to tap a fragile cheekbone just below his unusual eye.

"You really _are_ an idiot, aren't you? _Dead men tell no tales_…but, I suppose if we did, we would tell them to each other. I don't see you _thoughts_, fool…" At his, his marked eye flashed dangerously…like lightning in the darkness.

"I see you _soul_."

And, true to his word, through the child's gleaming eye, there it was, glowing blue-white like some ethereal being shrouded by mortal flesh just below the man's left clavicle. The child had to suppress the though of 'lucky,' as he was denied the revenge of shooting the man in the head. He had to aim for the soul, or he wouldn't get the Deathplay…then his superior would have his head…and _he_ would have overtime. He'd be damned if he'd take overtime for a whimpering, deceitful, below-the-belt _Neanderthal_. He was tired of answering stupid questions, and he was tired of waiting. Certainly he'd accumulated enough hours for a bonus. Besides, this game was rather unamusing anyway. Who would want to play a game with an idiot? He brought his gun back down, the barrel directly aligned with the unusual light emanating from the man's body. His prey choked out his final words.

"…W..w-who…who _are_ you?..._WHAT_ ARE YOU?"

The boy almost laughed (if only he could remember how to). Of course it was another question. A true idiot to the end, then. Oh well…he supposed answering one more stupid question couldn't hurt. It _was_ the man's final request, after all, and if his teacher had taught him anything, it was to show respect for the _dead_. Without so much as easing on the trigger, he met the man's terrified gaze unblinking.

"I am Ciel Phantomhive, agent B29 of the London Division…"

The lightning flashed once more.

"…and I am…"

A single clap of thunder.

"…a Grim Reaper."


	2. The Question

Disclaimer: All characters and references to the series 'Black Butler' belong solely to Yana Toboso. I have no claim to anything.

Author's Note: Hopefully, the first chapter of this story has brought readers at least this far. The story explains itself, really. No need for a lengthy opening. If you need the basic plotline, please see the Author's Note at the beginning of chapter one. In addition, I am looking forward to a _certain_ person's opinion on this. I would very much enjoy their opinion on how I portrayed them. -smirk- Enjoy.

**Chapter Two: The Question**

It wasn't his home. It was a place where he lived; a place where he exchanged a helping hand for shelter. It was also a roof over his head and a warm meal every night. It was a place that kept him busy in his free time, and made training with his teacher convenient. It was nothing more than a small, spare room in the upper level of an old building on the east end of London; an old morgue belonging to an old acquaintance. Nothing more than a hardwood floor and long-mirrored armoire with a few sets of clothes, a bed by the small window, and a nightstand adorned with what few meager personal possessions he had managed to hold on to. A place where he was allowed access to his acquaintances' facilities and, or course, lower-level workspace where he constantly lent a helping hand in lew of rent. A place where he was hidden from the prying eyes of the world that may still recognize him. A place where he was guaranteed food, shelter, work, privacy, and safety…but not happiness. That hadn't been his for a long time…and would never be his again. After all, something, once truly lost, can never be returned.

It wasn't his home…but it was good enough for now.

After dropping off his 'package' to his superiors, it was surprisingly nice to return to said place. Depositing his gun and its holster on the nightstand, he made his way to the armoire to change his clothes. He would never understand why his employer insisted that he change from bloodied to clean clothes, simply to bloody them again. It wasn't as if _he_ was the one who had to wash them. Then again, the blood staining his collar was no one's fault but his own. If he had kept his wits about him…what had happened back there? He was never so sloppy. Why had that frivolous tune from the pocket watch distracted him so? Why had he thought of _him_? Halfway into his next tasks' uniform, a recollection struck him. He glanced in the mirror accompanying his armoire, and gently removed his eye patch. He met the cold stare of the boy in the mirror with scrutiny. Examining the unusual marking in his right iris closely he discovered that, as always, nothing seemed amiss. It looked just as it had for the past ten years. The fact that it was still there at all was a mystery in itself…one that Ciel had long given up on trying to solve. Its inflictor had vanished, so why did the mark not vanish as well? And why did it _burn_ so? There was a slight shock of realization; a small widening of his mismatched eyes; then the boy chuckled to himself. What a hypocrite he was, asking such stupid questions.

Abandoning the eye patch on the nightstand, he returned to the task of changing his clothes. It had been happening more and more recently; the burning. At first, it had only occurred in small bouts when he used his Reaper-bestowed ability. He had assumed that it was simply the result of two powers clashing, and for a short while considered the possibility that spitefully requesting Reaper's sight in _that_ specific eye only, rather than his unmarked one, hadn't been the best idea…but when he entertained the notion that wherever _that man_ was, he might be feeling the same pain each time it afflicted _him_, Ciel threw that idea out the window, embracing the pain. However, it progressed. The pain worsened, became more frequent. When he awoke from his nightmares, it was there. When his memories resurfaced, it was there. Now it had even escalated to the point of burning when anyone at all physically laid a hand on him, harmfully or otherwise. His buttons and ties were fastened more tightly as his frustration built. Was this _his_ way of showing Ciel that he still belonged to _him_? That _he_ was still with him? He pulled the last tie around the small of his back just a bit too tightly. Impossible. Delicate fingers laced up and down the front of his elongated black coat, deftly buttoning the snaps. His day-uniform was much easier to adorn than his night-uniform. Strolling back to the nightstand, he gently gripped the cloth patch in his small palm. _Impossible_. If that was the case, wouldn't he have simply returned? What was once truly lost could never be returned. His servant was no longer at his side. His eyes masked the imperceptibly quick flash of doubt that moved behind them.

_…still…_

He slowly tied the eye patch back in place.

_In the ten years that had passed since their last meeting…_

He glanced across the room to examine his full reflection in the mirror once more.

_…his voice had never been more clear than it had been in the alleyway._

Just as the sunlight began to peak over the horizon, it seeped through the dirty window and glinted off of the mirror, catching the boy's attention. He turned his cold gaze away from his reflection, and made his way to the door.

Back to work.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

The workspace on the lower level of the morgue allowed less light than his bedroom. His teacher (and current employer) preferred it that way, and Ciel didn't mind; his eyes had adjusted to working in the near-darkness. The actual space hadn't changed much over the course of a decade: the dusty shelves were still stocked with glass jars containing things that Ciel wished that he was unfamiliar with. The 'tables' still housed their 'guests,' and Ciel still had to traverse the mazes of said 'tables' to reach the front door and the stairs to the upper level. The room still smelled of embalming fluid, decaying corpses, dust, blood, and death…but again, Ciel didn't mind it. His senses had become accustomed to it. After all, he had lived there for nearly ten years now. The man who had taken him in hadn't changed, either. Still ghastly thin, so much so that at first glance his fingers looked more like bones. Still swathed in long, black robes, hiding his bony figure from view. Still pale as the corpses that he so adored, with long curtains of silver-gray hair falling past his waist and hiding his eyes (had he any at all, for Ciel had yet to see them). Still scarred about the neck and face, the latter of which was still constantly stretched by an crooked, hysterical grin that twisted his cracked lips as he wheezed out a giddy-

"Earl…?"

The soft cloth in Ciel's hands didn't pause in its task of wiping down the bloodied, silver instruments as the word pierced his consciousness. Not bothering to turn away from his task, he addressed the elder without as much as a sideways glance.

"…I've asked you not to call me that anymore, Undertaker. I cast off that title years ago…you know that."

The man's hysterical grin wavered slightly, then disappeared completely as he turned his back toward the boy and continued with his work. His shoulders sagged slightly; a telltale sign that the man was pouting. Ciel inwardly sighted at the man's immaturity before holding his breath and jumping into the deep water.

"…What is it?" he asked, exasperated.

He was slightly surprised to see a smirk on the man's face upon glancing over his bony shoulder to observe the boy. Ciel hated that smile. It leaked condescending "ignorance" accusations from every pore. As if he knew something that Ciel didn't…then again, when did he not?

"I was just going to ask you how your assignment went last night…"

The white cloth in the boy's whiter hands continued its monotonous motion, up, and down, and up, and down…

"I'm guessing not so well, judging by the dark circles under your…eye…"

Ciel scowled slightly as the man cackled at his own idiotic sense of humor.

"…another all-nighter, hm?"

Up, and down, and up, and down, and-

"Didn't feel like sleeping?"

-and down, and up, and down-

"…or was your _eye_ bothering you again?"

The cloth froze mid-stroke, and the Undertaker had his answer. Ciel cast the man a vicious glare, his visible eye proclaiming that if he had something to say, he would be better off getting to the point. The boy hissed back his response through clenched teeth.

"_Someone_ neglected to warn me that my target may be _armed_."

He still had a slight headache from the point-blank shot. Perhaps a Reaper couldn't technically be killed, save by a Deathscythe, but a forty-four-caliber, point-blank shot to the skull couldn't be pleasant for anyone. The fact that he was still (by their standards) a rather young Reaper failed to enhance his healing abilities or his body's durability, as well. With age and experience, he would gain these things, but that fact did little to help rein the boy's anger as the Undertaker's face split into another hysterical grin.

"Mr. Spears thought that Limbo's _newest little prodigy_ would have assumed."

Ciel's scowl darkened. The fact that such rumors truly were currently being circulated about him among the other Reapers meant absolutely nothing to his superior. No matter how advance he was for his age, to William T. Spears, the Undertaker's 'best student' would always be the small, stubborn, haughty brat with a demon leashed to his wrist that had interfered in Grim Reaper business while he was alive. Ciel's eye narrowed, not in malice, but in a manifestation of an emotion that he could not identify, and his scowl morphed into a genuine frown.

_'…but I am no longer that person…and I never will be again.'_

The Undertaker's smile spread wider still, causing the boy to wonder yet again if the man could hear his internal thought. He had given Ciel his eye's current ability, after all.

"Sorry about Will's neglect…I'll scold him for it later."

Ciel's frown disappeared, giving his expression a haughty air.

"Don't bother. I managed just fine without his help."

At this, the mortician had to cover his mouth to trap the obnoxious laughter that threatened to escape. His speech was sprinkled with snorts, wheezes, and suppressed guffaws.

"…_pfft_….Why, _yes!_ Ha ha! Being…_pfft_…b-being shot in the _face_ is – _ha!_...i-is managing _just fine! Ahahaha!_ -"

Ciel finally turned his full attention on to his teacher, who had fallen into a fit of suppressed giggles and long-winded wheezing. His cerulean eye narrowed in a warning of 'don't mock me,' which his employer promptly ignored as he rode out his fit, then continued.

"…Ah, you're getting better at making me laugh everyday, Earl," he said, ignoring the glare from the boy at the mention of the taboo title. "…but really, I expect better from you. It isn't in your usual nature to passively swallow bullets. What's _distracting_ you lately, hm?"

Silence didn't need to precede that storm. Ciel had seen it coming a mile away. He had already avoided the man's less-than-tactful advances on the subject once now. This was strike two. He had lived with the man long enough to know that his next training session would be absolute murder if he made it to strike three. He set the cloth and newly-cleaned instrument on the 'table,' and didn't respond. The silence was all the answer that the Undertaker needed…but of course it wasn't enough. Of course he wanted to hear the boy say it. He had been trying to break the child's pride from day one. Ciel smiled despite himself at the man's stubbornness and relented. No use in trying to hide something from a man who knew everything.

"…Would you take that laugh from earlier as payment for telling me why my eye is doing this…?"

The man's smile was answer enough.

"…it's getting worse." He mumbled, defeatedly.

The man's smile didn't waver.

"And why do you think that is?" the mortician quipped with a tilt of his head.

Ciel was, for once, admittedly at a loss.

"I…don't know. That's why I'm asking you."

The man's grin spread wider still, and the boy felt a twinge of a nostalgic realization as the man turned away from him, back to his work. There was no delicate, subtle way to voice the knowledge.

"…You know…don't you?" He asked flatly.

The man continued his ministrations with his back turned to the boy. Ciel could practically feel the grin that was splitting the mortician's skull. His shoulders shook with suppressed laughter and it flared the child's anger. His volume remained low, but his tone sharpened.

"Tell me."

The tone caught the man's attention, but did not intrigue him enough to convince him to turn around. He simply hummed, amused.

"Hm? You ask me not to call you 'Earl,' but you still issue commands like a little noble…"

Ciel was thoroughly unamused by the man's change of subject. He had humored him once. He wasn't going to meet him more than halfway. The Undertaker, apparently realizing this, relented. Glancing over his shoulder to address the boy, his expression had morphed from a manic grin to a knowing smirk. Ciel had known the man long enough to know that the Undertaker was about to be serious. Whatever he was about to say was important. His tone matched his expression.

"Just wait, Ciel. You'll find the answer yourself soon enough…" his expression changed again, twisting back to the hysterical grin accompanied by suppressed laughter. "…or, rather…the _answer_ will find _you!_"

He proceeded to collapse atop the coffin upon which his station was set, spiraling into a raucous fit of obnoxious laughter and pounding his fist against the lid. Ciel had had enough. He stood from his seat, scowled in his teacher's direction, turned on his heels and made his way to the other end of the room. He opened a coffin that was leaned up against the wall in the dark corner at a sixty-five degree angle, and stepped inside.

"I'm going to pick up my paycheck." He spat tersely.

He turned to walk forward, as if down a staircase, then (slammed) shut the coffin door behind him, well on his way to the Grim Reaper Library. The Undertaker calmed his fit, wiping tears from his masked eyes, the hysterical grin coming to a fusion with the knowing smirk.

"…Oh, Earl…you're so _impatient_."

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Silence. It was unnerving, really, or would have been, had he not been who he was. Had this not been the type of silence most familiar to him; the silence that occupied the empty space where a once young, strong, proud voice had taken command; the silence that filled the darkest corners of his mind, where an answer to why he had even allowed himself to be put in this situation should have presented itself, bet refused him, no matter how many times he sought it; the silence that graced the tense air, moments before the destruction of the storm occurred…

And occur it had.

That much was clearly evident, judging by the corpse slowly decaying at his feet. It was a rather unusual place to die, especially for a nobleman (if the corpses' clothes were any hint to go by). One would expect him to die at home, sleeping peacefully in a warm bed as his loved ones surrounded him, weeping; not alone in an abandoned factory in one of the most uninhabited neighborhoods in London. Murder was the first conclusion, but ultimately a false one. There were no external wounds, or even injuries…not even signs of a struggle, save for the barred entryway. So what had happened? The man's internal organs appeared to be in perfect condition, and old age was ruled out as well. Interesting, to say the least; nearly as interesting as the blood stains on the man's face. He had not bled, so where had the blood come from? A temporarily un-gloved hand bent down to swipe the blood from a frozen cheek. One whiff sent a shiver racing down a strict spine, giving new life to a dimming fire. It was fresh. It was fragrant. _He_ had been here, and not long ago. He wiped the blood on the front of the dead man's overcoat, nimble finger pressing against something beneath the chest as he did so; something solid, that emitted a small, nearly silent tone. A distinguished brow quirked upward in curiosity, as that un-gloved hand swept underneath the coat to retrieve what had caused the noise. As the hand resurfaced, it revealed a small, silver pocket watch. Curiosity growing, the watch was given a quick wind, and in turn, began to play its chiming tune.

With a small smirk, the intruder turned and headed toward the door. No need to take the time to carefully unbar it. A quick push was enough to remove the objects, door and all, from his path. After all, what would he do if he couldn't accomplish something so simple? The moment that the outside air met his lungs, that fragrant, alluring scent permeated the air. The back of his left hand pulsed with a sickening force, as though maggots were trying to worm their way out of the skin, relaying to him that he was close; as close as he'd ever been. _He_ was closer than he ever would have imagined…but he was not here. A brisk walk across the street would give him more information. The dead man's scent was seeping from the building down the street, and if he knew where the hunted had come from, he would know where the hunter had hidden. He took the pocket watch with him. It wasn't as if he was sentimental, but his previous one had been…disposed of, quite some time ago. He found it rather inconvenient as of late to be incapable of telling the time…and this one played such a nostalgic tune…

_"…London Bridge is falling down…"_

The building down the block that he was certain that the now dead man had come from, held not even the slightest hint of _his_ scent. However, the alleyway directly adjacent to it was a different matter. The small metal gripped between gloved fingertips was caked with dry blood, permeating the same sweet scent that he had found on the victim. This had been inside of _him_. Someone had put it there. Only the faint, inconsistent pulsations beneath the glove of his left hand kept him from going back to the abandoned factory where the corpse lay and putting Jack the Ripper to shame. That, and the stronger scent of _him_ that was farther down the alley still.

_"…falling down…falling down…"_

The bloodied handkerchief was lifted hesitantly, careful no to dirty his pristine gloves. However, one soft wind to carry the scent was all that it took to positively convince him that he could run his tongue across the pavement on which the filthy rag had lain, and he could _never_ consider it _dirty._ It had been ten years. Ten years of wandering, searching, forsaking pride and questioning nature. Ten years of confusion. Ten years of agony. Ten years of _longing_. Ten years of _starving_. Ten years…and the boy had never even left London. An excited, anticipant, mischievous, nostalgic grin stretched across his skull.

_"…London Bridge is falling down…"_

Vermilion irises dilated; dark pupils narrowed to slits, gloved hand still clutching the bloodied cloth against upturned lips.

_"…my_ Young Master._"_


	3. The Homecoming

Disclaimer: All characters and references made belong to Yana Toboso and the 'Black Butler' series. I have no claim to anything.

Author's Note: As always, I hope that my readers have gotten this far. I would hope to keep you that entertained, at least. Reviews are welcomed. Bashing is not. Thank you, and enjoy.

**Chapter Three: The Homecoming**

The Grim Reaper Library was a contradiction of itself; grand and aesthetically pleasing on the outside, yet monotonous and boring within. While no less grand in its interior, the décor consisted of white marble, stone, and plaster, a sparse amount of decoration of another color, an infinite number of endless hallways in which each door seemed to lead to either a superior's office, another hallway, or a staircase that led to another hallway, and one grand, infinite room. The room itself stretched from the bottom floor of the building up to the top level, with entrances on all sides on each level. Its walls were lined from top to bottom with shelves, which were stocked full of Deathplays from all over the world, accessed via the balconies and ladders that stretched alongside the shelves on each level. While stocked with the histories of everyone that had ever lived, what Ciel found most interesting about the room was that, while the east and west ends of the room spanned the length of a normal room in a normal library, no matter where you stood at the south end, you could never look out and see the north end, and vice versa. The opposite end of the room was always too far off in the distance to see. It truly was infinite. The Undertaker had proven that to him on the day of his initiation. During the tour that he had given the child of the building, he had taken him to the bottom level and proceeded to debrief him on all of the rules and regulations of a Reaper-in-training as they walked from the south end to the north…the latter of which, they never reached. They walked for over an hour, and seemed no closer to the opposite end than when they began. Ciel hadn't seen any sign that they had even made headway, save for the disappearance of the wall that had been at their backs after half of an hour. Not even a book out of place. The room was organized, flawless,_ perfect_…and more often than not, completely silent. Other than the light 'tap, tap' of hi low-heeled boots against the marble floor, and the Undertaker's words strangling his consciousness. 'Just_ wait_, Ciel. Just _wait_.' The boy's porcelain canines drew blood from his tongue with every syllable. He was tired of just waiting. Waiting did nothing. If you wanted something, you had to act. You had to stand up and take it yourself…otherwise, someone else would…

…and no one stole from a Phantomhive.

The metallic taste on his tongue was swallowed down to his heart. His visible eye flashed with resentment. He was no longer that person. It was his mantra now; a daily, constant reminder of the difference between the person that he once was and the person he had become…just like his right eye: a constant, physical proof that he was no longer the King of this game. He was now more akin to the board on which it was played; specifically designed and crafted, with rules that were meant to be followed, and the authority to enforce those rules. He was no longer the one breaking them. He no longer had the pieces necessary to do so…nor the payment with which to convince them. He no longer possessed a soul worthy of_ his_ taste.

The metallic taste returned, accompanied by the resentment, though for whom this time, he did not know.

xXxXxXxXx

Of course his superior was in section G. He couldn't have been in sections B or C; that would be too easy. Ciel was certain that the sun had set twice before he finally reached him, and the condescending glare that he was greeted with didn't help his sour mood; neither did the man's snide tone.

"…Good evening, Ciel Phantomhive." He said offhandedly, as one might address Grell Sutcliffe as he intruded upon a group of people who had just been discussing the party that he was _not_ invited to.

The man's insistence on addressing people by their full names irked Ciel to no end; nearly as much as his annoying habit of adjusting his glasses with the tip of his Deathscythe. And this man had the gall to claim that his method of removing his eye patch was dangerous! Perhaps he had picked up said habit from this man in the first place?

With equitable distaste, Ciel grit his teeth, and snapped back a crisp, "Mr. Spears."

Tension palpable in the air, neither made a move closer to the other. Even working under the same roof, the two would more than likely never reconcile the differences that had developed during Ciel's life. Ciel preferred it that way. He had never had a particular liking for the tight-belted Reaper, anyway. He had resolved himself to connecting with as few people as possible; not only did it save him the trouble of future complications, he simply didn't seem to be good at doing otherwise. Whether it was tolerating the Undertaker's insistent birthday cakes, baked in the shape of coffins every year, or ignoring fellow Reaper Ronald Knox's endearing ruffling of his hair and attempted friendly 'Good work, kid,' Ciel simply wasn't capable of accepting the welcome. He much preferred Grell Sutcliffe's continuous, nostalgic contempt and envious 'Brat!' That he knew how to deal with. Hatred, he could accept. It was acceptance that he could not seem to grasp. Such was the reasoning behind his apathy in the face of William's intimidating stare. The elder Reaper turned slowly from his observance of the bookshelves to face the boy, and adjusted his glasses (that damned habit!) before addressing him.

"It's actually quite convenient that I've run into you."

'It's good to see you' would have been too much to ask for. The bespectacled man proceeded to step forward and hold an outstretched arm toward the boy. In his hand, he held a dark leather book, engraved with gold filigree, in presentation.

"You have an assignment." He said, blankly.

Another assignment? So soon? He had been on duty, and therefore sleepless, for the past three nights! He was certain that he would be given a break tonight. He should have known better, what with who his superior was. The displeasure must have shown on Ciel's face, for William T. Spears was not a man to explain himself; therefore, his next statement was incredibly significant.

"We…or rather,_ they_…thought that _this_ one should be handled by _you_."

His golden eyes held a knowing look, and Ciel met it with one of equitable intrigue. The questions that had been on the tip of his tongue were answered by the simple act of glancing downward at the filigree etched into the leather cover in his hands. It read, 'Matilda Simmons.' He knew that name. That was the woman that Sebastian had copulated with in order to gain information during their investigation of that cult all those years ago. She was one of them; the ones who had killed his family, broken hi body, and tarnished his name; the ones who had humiliated him, that he had sworn revenge against. He acknowledged William's generosity with a nod, though it wasn't truly William that was being so generous. William Spears had always detested the fact that these kinds of missions were handed to Ciel, finding it unfair, claiming that he was being favored. However, someone quite a bit above the Head of the London Division had the first say. It was the Undertaker's advantageous pulling of strings that allowed Ciel alone to pass judgment on the members of the cult. In his position, it was his only way of exacting his revenge without breaking the rules, and the Undertaker had the power to make it possible…and while Ciel had yet to comprehend the man's reasoning in favoring him so, for that, he could never thank him enough. What he had not accomplished in life, he would accomplish in death, and as the golden filigree burned itself into his retina, he felt one step closer.

xXxXxXxXx

_'The young woman drifted across the floorboards, closing her curtains and extinguishing the candles before making her way back to her vanity, upon which one candle was still lit. She lifted her hairbrush to her scalp and began to slowly comb the tangle of a hard day's work. She sighed lightly to herself, slightly apprehensive of the day to come. Her service tomorrow would be awkward, to say the least, as was every service at her new house of worship…as were all services at any of the houses of worship that she attempted to attend. What with her reputation, her history of methods of worship to His Holiness, she was lucky that her newest choice of church would even consider allowing her to attend. Her internal thoughts were wrapped in this as she finished brushing her hair, and lifted herself from the vanity stool, taking the candle with her to her bedside before extinguishing it with a puff of air.'_

_"Good. She'll be sleeping soon. That will make my entry all the easier."_

Ciel Phantomhive flipped the page where the text had filled, keeping a constant vigilant eye on his next target, whether she was in his sight or no. In the dead of night, he strode the streets of London with a clam exterior, even as his insides burned with the fire of hatred at the concept of being one step closer to his ultimate revenge. He remembered this one. He remembered this woman well. She had partaken in the cult's practices and beliefs, claiming to be pure, only to fall victim to the seduction of a devil with an incredibly small amount of influence. Purity, apparently, is as skin deep as beauty. Well, no matter. Neither would matter to her soon. As the road before him was cut off by a building, branching into an alleyway that would take him farther from his target, he refused to so much as slow in his advance. Without taking his gaze from the DeathPlay, he placed a single booted foot against the wall of the building and strolled up the side with no effort. Such physical limitations had no hold over a Grim Reaper, and he was learning this well, or so the Undertaker had told him. At this time of night, he would never be noticed anyway. The streets were empty, and the lights in all of the windows surrounding the area had been put out. No one would even be awake to hear the woman, should she refuse to be taken to the afterlife. This would be too easy. His path lead him over walls, rooftops, down fire-escapes and across power-lines, all without ever taking his gaze from the book. He couldn't afford to miss a moment of her actions, lest he be caught off-guard and miss something important.

_'Curling herself beneath the covers, Matilda closed her weary eyes, a dreamless sleep drifting into her consciousness, taking hold and dominating the silence…'_

The night was just as silent as he continued his advance. He preferred it that way. No distractions, no sound. Just silence…the silence that he was most familiar with. The silence that sat on the air moment before the…

…storm.

_'The sudden sound, soft though it was, jerked Matilda from her light doze, dragging her gaze in the direction from which it had come. She could have sworn that she had closed her curtains. Mulling over how very odd the occurrence was, she hesitantly lifted herself from her bed, padding over to re-close the curtains of her balcony window. As she made her way back to her bed, the noise made itself heard again, no louder than before, but accompanied by an odd clicking, much like a lock being broken. She turned quickly to find that, once again, the curtains had been pulled back, this time before she had even reached her bed, along with very window that they masked being opened. How was this possible? The lock was on the inside.'_

Ciel felt a cold, sharp ice in his chest. His intuition could not distinguish itself from paranoia. This was obviously abnormal. He quickened his pace as he continued to read.

_'Hands trembling slightly, she reached out, closing the window and readjusting the lock before closing the curtains for the third time. Without breaking her gaze, she watched the window intently as she backed away, once more resting herself on her bed. The room now felt unusually cold, the silence from before oddly uncomfortable…oddly eerie, as though begging to be broken.'_

His brisk walk took on a slow jog as his right eye began to itch.

_'As she lay herself back beneath her covers, her previously warm bed felt more so like a prison than a welcome haven, giving her little protection should something choose to break the silence. As her mind chastised her childish thinking, she forced her eyes closed under the façade that she was calm, that she was imagining things, that everything was alright…and the she heard the sound again. Her eyelids fluttered open to meet a vermillion gaze boring into her from the other side of the window, now fully visible as the curtains had been pulled back once more. The creature to whom the gaze belonged was indistinguishable in the darkness that surrounded, encompassed it…though it looked oddly familiar…'_

A slow jog became a commendable run. Someone, or something, was interfering in his mission, and his reason screamed that it was not what his paranoia screamed that it was.

_'The window was a useless shield as Matilda scrambled out of her bed, crawling backward until her back met the wall, watching in awe and horror as the darkness slipped through the very cracks of her windowsill, bringing itself to stand at full height on her bedroom floor on the opposite side of the bed. It eyes still glowed, bleeding a dark crimson, as a Cheshire grin spread beneath the shining irises. A moon-white sickle smile that bled the same familiarity as that gaze…and then the creature spoke. It addressed her by her name, and she knew its voice. She had recalled that voice for years, in her dreams, in her nightmares, in her memories. She spoke in a broken whisper, her reason denying what her mind, what her body, knew._

_"W…w-what do you….w-want f-from…from me…?"_

_That leer spread wider, those eyes narrowing in undeniable amusement._

_"Why, my dear Lady…I am simply here to fulfill my orders."'_

Ciel broke out into a frantic sprint, his target home mere blocks from where he was. His reason bled together with his denial. It isn't him It isn't him It _can't_ be him-! He could hear here screams from here, but he could not bring himself to read any further, lest he see that name, lest his paranoia win out over the only thing that kept his sanity. Her screams were louder than before. He would never make it in time this way. His only chance lay in the tactic that his teacher had been training him in for quite some time. 'Only to be used in cases in which it is necessary,' as claimed the Reaper, due to the fact that it was difficult to master, especially for one so young, along with the risk of leaving a few pieces behind if it was not performed properly. As her screams died abruptly, leaving the air in an even colder silence than before, his hesitation fled. He froze on the spot, grasping the handle of his DeathScythe to be certain that it made the journey with him, closed his single visible eye, and in a moment, the child had all but disappeared from the street upon which he had been standing. His form reassembled itself in the very room from which his target's shrieks had come. He made a mental not to rub Grell Sutcliffe's nose in his success later, before his mind was captured by the sight before him. Red. The entire room had been stained red. The walls were painted and the floorboards were soaked and the bed sheets were all dyed the same matching hue of crimson, flaked with flesh and bone and hair and tooth and nail. He brought a hand to block the bile rising in his throat, pulling his weapon from its holster and pressing his back to the wall behind him. Following protocol, he cleared the room with his gaze and his weapon before making a move. His eyes caught the intruder almost immediately. The tall, dark form, obviously human in nature, sat with one leg crossed formally over the other on the blood-stained bed, crimson eyes the pigment of the sheets staring at him with an unnerving combination of scrutiny, amusement, and hunger. His weapon found its barrel pointed between those ruby orbs, his voice as strong as he could manage while restraining his gag reflex.

"I am Agent B29 of the Grim Reaper London Division, and…and you are interfering in Grim Reaper business. This woman was…her soul was to be taken before the Judgment Bureau, and…and you have committed a felony by the rules of the afterlife. You are under arrest by the authority of the London Division…"

Those dark eyes bled amusement as his thin lips sounded the word 'arrest.' He could assume by the slight shaking of its shoulders that the creature was chuckling at him. His nerves fled immediately, fury and indignation rising up to protect his pride as he stood straight-backed, meeting that malicious smile with a deep glare of ice.

"I fail to see the humor, _cretin_. Whoever or whatever you are, you will be tried by the Judgment Bureau and punished for your crime…I will certainly see to that."

The creature's smile only widened, and Ciel couldn't bear to break the gaze that held him captive with its nostalgic glow. It wasn't him. Its aura was certainly dark, menacing, but it wasn't him. It couldn't be. The realization that it was a demon was easily acceptable, but it was certainly another demon, one which Ciel was unfamiliar with. His thoughts froze as the creature before him lifted itself from the bed, standing now at least a foot above him in height, shrouded by the darkness as its head titled in curiosity. Ciel held his gun level, feet planted firmly on the ground, ready to defend himself.

"I had quite the _specific_ plan for this human, and you have stolen my opportunity from me." His azure eye glazed over, narrowed with a quiet rage and cool contemplation of a serious consideration. "Perhaps I shall claim that I did so in self defense, and take my revenge upon _you_ instead."

The creature grinned its sickening grin, wider than he had seen it as of yet, and licked its dry lips before splitting them to speak in a voice so familiar it sent chills down the young Reaper's spine.

"Why ever would you desire to take your revenge upon one who is endeavoring to help you _achieve_ it?"

The child's mind froze in the wake of his broken denial and his own retreat as the creature before him stepped forward, revealing itself to the moonlight that shone through the bloodied window, casting shadows of dark crimson across the familiar face in rivulets and streaked etchings of the life that had been taken by his white-gloved hands. The child's hands shook, his mind pulsing, his heart frozen, and his eye was burning and _burning_ and-!

Silence. It was unnerving, really, or would have been, had he not been who he was. Had this not been the type of silence that was most familiar to him; the silence that signaled the beginning of the end; the silence that graced the tense air moments before the destruction of the storm occurred.

That Cheshire smile leered at him from miles away, fangs just barely peeking out from those pale lips as the child's vision waxed and waned like the moon that the creature before him had claimed to have sworn on so long ago.

_It can't be him It can't be him It isn't-!_

"Well…_Young Master_?"


	4. The Reunion

Disclaimer: I have no ownership or claim to any characters of the Black Butler series, or any other affiliations. They belong to Yana Toboso.

Author's Note:  Thank you for waiting patiently for this chapter. I apologize for not being punctual with my updates. I am doing the best that I can. Thank you for your patience. Also, it has come to my attention that I made an error in my request for constructive criticism. I am more than open to corrections involving grammar, and the opinions of others on my writing style. However, the one criticism that I would appreciate if people would keep to themselves is the criticism of how I portray my characters. The attitude, actions, and thought process of a character portrayed in my story stems from the way that I believe that character feels, thinks, is. It is my own opinion, and I would kindly appreciate it if that portion of certain reader's opinions were kept to themselves. That being said, I am highly appreciative of criticism of any other aspect of the story on a professional level.

On a slightly more positive note, here it is: the chapter you've all been waiting for. I worked tirelessly on this one, aware of its importance, so please, enjoy…oh, yes, and before anyone assumes anything, this chapter is far from the last. It is true that it ends with quite the cliff-hanger, but I promise that there will be more to come. Thank you.

Chapter Four: The Reunion

_The air was cool, the night was calm, the forest was silent, and the devil was waiting. The child wondered vaguely what he was waiting for. Had he not waited long enough by this point? Those claret eyes piercing the thin, useless veil of protection of human skin with ease, the child stared back with an empty gaze, masking curiosity; not curiosity for what would happen, no, he had known that since the day that their game began, had known, and was prepared for it; but curiosity for why the demon was gazing at him so…and then he spoke. The child was acutely aware of the fact that he was…well, unusually aware. Of everything. Perhaps it was because he was about to die? Everything seemed so clear, so plain and simple, like ink on paper. His entire story, his every choice and thought and action flowed together in a smooth path, the end of which he had finally reached. This end should have been frightening. He should be terrified, but he wasn't. He almost felt…relieved. It was over. A great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and he could not think of a single thing that was left for him to live for. He truthfully didn't think that he wanted to live anymore. He was tired; tired of this world and its ways, tired of emotions and feelings, tired of physical restraints and boundaries that fragile human bodies set in stone. He would simply cease to exist. He would dissipate on the demon's sophisticated palate, disappear from all existence, become one with the creature that he had known better than he'd known his own family for four years. He was curious. He asked, and the devil answered. The child had expected this answer. When the devil spoke next, the child denied his last offer of compassion. He deserved this, at the least. He deserved to remember, until the last moment, the pain that he had felt, the pain that he had caused for others. Madame Red. Elizabeth. Abberline. He deserved this, at the least, and at the least, the demon deserved to enjoy a meal flavored with the mouth-watering spices of pain and suffering. The demon agreed, granted the child's last wish, perfect and obedient until the end. He didn't have to grant him anything now. He was no longer the one in control, yet the creature still kept that familiar human form; still promised to do as the child had asked; still reached out and touched his china-doll face as gently as if he were pruning a particularly fragile white rose in the Phantomhive gardens. For whatever reason, Ciel knew. If it had not been true, then the demon would have reverted back to his true form by now. Sebastian wanted Ciel to remember him forever as he was now; not as a demonic monster as he viciously ripped his soul from its cozy crevice. He would not close his eyes. Even as the creature, no, the butler leaned forward, twisted lips curled into a sickle smile, white as the moon, voiced the end, called him 'Young Master' for the last time, he stared with open eyes into his death until the moment that those pale, famished lips met his._

_It ended with a kiss._

_Their first, and last, so it seemed. He did not expect any emotion from the demon. He did not even believe that the demon suspected his desire. However, he was caught completely off-guard by the rush of emotion that flooded his__own__being as their lips met. It was not cold, as he had expected a demon's kiss to be. Instead, it was warm, and sent its heat racing through his veins to every part of his body, from the point of contact to the foreign, tight coiling in his lower abdomen. Though he had escaped the flames that had claimed his mother and father, he was certain that this was what it must have felt like, only he felt no pain…which was very strange. Had he not ordered the demon to make it as painful as possible? Then why did this not feel as though his soul were being torn from his very body? Why did it feel as though…it were just a kiss? He closed his eyes (for he couldn't bring himself to stare into the depths of hell's fire as they swallowed him whole), and lost his thoughts as the demon's mouth moved over his. He had been wrong. It wasn't just a kiss. It was more than that; it was fierce, it was possessive; it was desperate. As if it had been clawing its way out for longer than either of them could remember, and it was fully aware that this was the only time that it would ever be permitted. As if it was not only the first time, but truly the last. As if this was the end._

_It _was _the end._

_It took Ciel a few moments to remember that. It truly was the end…and what an end it was. To the very end, his demon had given him all that he had, all that the child had wanted. He had never wanted for anything that the demon had not given him, and it took him until his final moment of service to complete such a feat. If only for one moment, he was given what he thought had been lost forever, by the only person that he trusted with himself enough to present it. That dreadful word that named that dreadful feeling had been awakened, and Ciel had accepted the crippling emotions in his last dying moments. As the embers of life burned out within him, it (unexpectedly) did not seem so terrible to die with one weakness…not when it gave him this. His final dying hope was that the pain of an unrequited love would be the final seasoning to his tortured soul, and that it would wet the demon's palate like no other had before, and like no other ever would again. Then the boy's consciousness was captured within the small tug of an unseen force within him, precariously close to his heart._

_He welcomed death with open arms._

It had been nothing short of everything else that the demon had done for him: perfect. It had been the perfect final moment for the boy…of course the demon couldn't have let him have it. His misery had been the demon's amusement, after all. He had woken. He wasn't supposed to wake, not ever again. He was supposed to sleep forever within the very being of the creature that would, to him, forever be 'Sebastian.' He was supposed to be enveloped in darkness, his consciousness forever lost. He was supposed to be a part of the demon now; a small piece in the master-puzzle that was the soul of his former servant. He was supposed to forever be with his demon; Not alone atop the Tower Bridge, wondering and wandering and calling and never understanding. Forever ignorant to what had happened that night; to why he still lived; to whom he even was. He was no longer the person that he had been. He had rejected that person that night when he accepted the demon's kiss. Yet, the person that he had embraced in his place was not supposed to exist in this world any longer. He was neither who he used to be, nor who he had been supposed to be. He was no longer the Watchdog of the Queen, yet neither was he Ciel, nameless and soulless forevermore. Who was he? How was he supposed to live, with no future ahead of him? He had no future! He hadn't for four years! He had given it away…and the recipient had rejected the gift. He didn't want it back. He no longer wanted to live in this cold, disgusting, damned world! He no longer wanted to live!  
>The answer was simpler than he would have originally thought. He no longer had to live. The Undertaker, upon finding him and assessing his situation, had promised him so, and true to his word, he lived no more. He was given a new identity in exchange for the life that he no longer wanted. He no longer had to ask himself who he was. He was Ciel Phantomhive, agent B29 of the London Division of soul repossession. He was a Grim Reaper, and the demon in front of him meant no more to him than the child that he had been had meant to the demon on that night.<p>

The person that he was no longer felt anything for the creature before him but _hatred_.

He held his gun up, barrel aimed directly over where the creature's heart would have been, had he one. Gun-toting hand trembling, he fought to regain his own mind as it reeled. Denial would get him nowhere. Sebastian was here. He stood before him, in the false flesh, grinning and proud and more than amused with Ciel's apparent shock. Those claret eyes betrayed his enjoyment of his former master's state. Ciel scowled, his trembling ceasing at the sight. The 'man's' shoulder shook lightly, and the young Reaper was certain that he was suppressing laughter. Sebastian was laughing at him. No one laughed at a Phantomhive. What was so damned funny? He was not a toy for the demon's entertainment. He never had been, and he was less of one now than he had even been. He was no longer the demon's current amusement. He was Ciel Phantomhive, Agent B29 of the London Division…and no one laughed at Death. Not even a demon. The child's gun cocked loudly, and the shuddering of the demon's shoulders stopped immediately, one delicate brow rose above a deep eye, though the smirk did not vanish. The younger's visible eye filled with fire, deep and angry and blank. His voice was soft, stern, but filled with quiet venom.

"Once more, I fail to see the humor. Why are you here? What do you want?"

The creature dawned an expression of faux surprise, matching the condescending tone of his voice.

"Why, Young Master, I'm surprised by your behavior! You would hold such a dangerous weapon to the face of your most loyal servant? A gentleman should have better manners than that. Haven't I taught you better?"

That sickle smirk spread wide across the devil's face, leaking his smug amusement. The child, however, was encouragingly unamused. His gaze did not waver; his gun did not move. He knew what the demon was trying to do, and he would have none of it. He wouldn't let Sebastian get under his skin. He wouldn't let him distract him. He still wasn't sure of what the demon's intentions were, and should he let his guard down for a mere second too long, it could be over. His young voice was filled with conviction.

"I see no servant of mine. The only thing that you ever taught me was to trust _no one._ I do not like to repeat myself, demon."

The pistol cocked once more in the utter silence of the room; a warning or a promise, neither was certain.

"Why are you here?"

That disgusting smirk cracked the devil's pale lips once more, as those claret eyes closed, false face cast downward in mock shame. It made Ciel sick how little faith he had that the young Reaper would pull the trigger…enough to close his eyes. Damn that superior smugness. This was certainly Sebastian. The demon's words were spoken cautiously, articulation precise and slow and smooth, as if he were attempting not to frighten a wounded animal.

"I believe that I have already made my intentions clear, Young Master. I am simply here to fulfill _your_ orders."

The nearly imperceptible friction of cloth glove against the metal of the trigger as Ciel's grip tightened did not escape the demon's ears.

"Bullshit. If you had any intention of following my orders, you would have come when I'd called you…and I gave you plenty of chances, demon."

The child's visible eye darkened, seeped an emotion, a thought that would make any human onlooker turn tail and run…but not the demon.

"…and don't call me that. I am not your Master. Not anymore."

This only seemed to encourage the devil, as vermillion eyes shone brightly in the darkness once more, the white of those hidden fangs peeking out from behind pale lips as their corners tugged toward that too-familiar expression of undeniable amusement.

"Young Master, your language. It is improper of a noble to speak in such a ma-"

A single line of color matching the hue of the devil's eyes streaked across his chiseled cheekbone; the only evidence of the near-death that could have been. The trigger had been pulled, but Sebastian had not moved. Ciel had missed on purpose, and his goal was almost immediately achieved. That condescending smirk slipped off of the demon's face as quickly as the demon himself had appeared. Ciel had to suppress his own amusement at the speed at which the demons fell to the floor. Had this been another day, in another time, Ciel would have counted this as a victory; a win to be chalked up to him against the countless victories of the demon…but not now. He was through playing games, especially with this one. He tilted his gun almost unnoticeably to the side, back to its cozy spot between those glowing eyes.

"I told you not to call me that."

All amusement had faded from the demon's eyes; however, what had replaced it was not fear. His expression was blank; his eyes empty…if one did not look too closely. Ciel had seen this look before. It seemed that Sebastian was through playing games as well. A white-gloved knuckle slowly reach up to catch the blood as it trickled down the demon's face, as those claret eyes closed once more, completing Sebastian's expression of pure impatient aggravation.

"You _are_ my Master. If you truly believe otherwise, why not remove your eye patch and prove me wrong, hm?"

There was no humor or teasing in the demon's tone. He knew, and he knew that Ciel knew. The young Reaper's expression faltered only slightly before his hold on his weapon tightened once more. His voice was cold, devoid of any self-conviction.

"I don't have to prove anything to you. You abandoned your post, and ignored my summons. I don't think that you realize the magnitude of what you've done, demon. It matters not whether I still bear your mark or not…you failed to keep your end of the bargain. Our Contract is void."

The amusement leaked into the demon's expression once more, but only slightly. Only enough to let Ciel know that Sebastian knew something that he didn't; that he was speaking so assuredly of things that he knew nothing about. A dark brow rose curiously, sharp chin tilting upward just a hair.

"Oh? Is that so? Then I suppose that I did not dispose of the Angel, Ash? And the Queen Victoria, who had so wronged you, has not met her end? Have I not granted you your revenge, My Lord?"

He broke. Only slightly, but he broke. He held the trigger just a bit too tightly to appear purposeful as his tone allowed a hint of his anger through grit teeth.

"Don't _call me that!_"

One point for the Reaper, two points for the Butler. He would have to be more careful with his temper…but here he was treating it like a game again. He regained his mind, and spoke more calmly, albeit it a few degrees colder.

"…but you failed to eliminate the cult in its entirety. Members still walk this earth, even while I was under the impression that I had made my orders clear."

He made a motion to gesture to the corpse of Matilda, but he not in which direction to gesture, as she was scattered about the room, and there was not a significant piece of her distinguishable. He swallowed another swell of bile and turned his gaze back to the demon.

"She was one of them. Why was she still living?"

He could not hold back the slight inflection of satisfaction. He had to rub the demon's nose in it. He had waited for thirteen years to say it, after all.

"…you _failed_."

The demon seemed unfazed by this. His expression remained blank, as he clasped gloved hands behind his back in a professional manner, as one might address their superior when being scrutinized. His voice matched his expression, tone completely devoid of taunting or smugness. His was simply pointing out a fact.

"But, My Lord…is she living now?"

The child's heart stopped. His mouth felt dry.

"What do you think that I came here to do?"

He was right. By killing Matilda, Sebastian could claim that he had been following Ciel's orders, based on what Ciel had said himself. Damn that demon.

"I can handle such things myself, now. I don't need you."

Perhaps he was mistaken, but he could have sworn he'd seen it. No one else would have seen it, no one who hadn't known the demon intimately for so long, but Ciel had. He could have sworn he'd seen it; just the smallest change in his expression, the most imperceptible change in the light behind his eyes as he'd said 'I don't need you.' If the young Reaper had not known better, he might have mistaken the hidden reaction as hurt…but he knew better. He straightened his spine, as did the demon in turn, knowing that it was a sign to be ready; a sign that he would soon shoot. Sebastian lifted his chin slightly higher, a show not of his lack of belief, but of his lack of fear for the boy before him.

"Is that so? I was under the impression that it was against the rules for a Reaper to take the life of someone who is not on the list…ah, but seeing as I planned to kill this woman tonight, I suppose that her name would have appeared, yes? But what about the others? It may take years, decades, even, to eliminate them all using that method on your own."

His inhuman eyes held something then; a knowing, a question that needed no answer, but one that he would ask anyway.

"Young Master…can you truly wait so long for what I could give you now?"

He bit his lip so hard that he tasted blood.

"I gave you your chance. You threw it away."

'You threw me away' was far too pathetic to spill from the once-Earl's lips.

"I threw nothing away, My Lord. I simply bided my time until the proper chance presented itself…and ten years was no time at all to wait for a meal so mouth-watering."

He could almost feel the devil's smile as it curled. He would never make this mistake again. This had happened before, and it felt all too familiar. Tremors wrapped around fragile wrists, climbed up thin arms, as his mind struggled not to remember. The very idea broke what little reign he had over the emotions that had slithered and nested themselves inside of the darkest corners of his mind over the past decade. The last time that he had been abandoned by the creature, he had been humiliated, disrespected, and even mortally wounded…and the demon had watched it happen. He had watched the child's suffering from the shadows, unmoving, uncaring, ignoring his duties under claim that 'his Master' was no longer the boy that stood before him. He hadn't lifted a finger…and when he had finally returned, Ciel had accepted him. He had taken his reason as good enough, though it was at his own expense. He had given him everything that he had left, to the very end, and had been more than ready to relinquish the soul that he had been tortured so for the purpose of pleasing the demon…and the demon didn't take it. Ungrateful, repulsive, disgusting creature. Never again would he make that mistake. Never again would he allow him a chance at what he had turned his nose up at, after he had worked so very hard to be certain that he would enjoy it. Whether or not the past ten years had been another of Sebastian's attempts to 'season his meal,' Ciel would not accept it as easily as he had the last time…the last time…

"My Lord, you have become a Reaper, have you not…? Yet our Contract is far from over, for my goal is still far from unattainable."

…the last time he had done this…the last time he had abandoned him, only to find him once more after countless ignored summons…he had found him. That day seemed so long ago now…what had happened that day, in that moment? How had the devil found him? His mind reeled as small bits and pieces of what were previously unconnected occurrences were beginning to piece themselves together into some enormous, ominous puzzle; a puzzle that would undo the young Reaper's restraint. Each piece of information linked together in that moment, and rushed through his mind as the water had rushed his lungs so long ago in the River Thames. Ten years ago, the demon had abandoned him. Ten years ago, he had called, and had not been answered. Ten years ago, he had gone out on his own, taken his goals, his life, into his own hands, and had walked through the fires of ineptitude and humiliation to prove that he could accomplish something on his own...just as he was doing now. Ten years ago, he had only come so close to that goal. He had run, and fought, and lied, and killed, and given away what was most precious to him in the world…all to give the demon a decent meal…and when the demon was satisfied, he had returned. When the hesitant child that had possessed his Master had been murdered by the cold, inhuman boy that would quench the demon's palate, he had returned.

"My Lord…your soul is closer than you think that it is."

Once the boy's soul had awoken…that was when he had come back for him. Now, the demon returned for him once more. He could not have possibly sensed the presence, the awakening of a soul that was no longer there, unless it still was.

"If fact, My Lord…it never left your body."

He could feel the demon smirk.

It must be. His soul still resided in his body. How? He had made a deal with the Undertaker! He had become a Reaper! He had accepted a Deathscythe and the Reaper's sight in his right-

That was it. That had always been it. The answer to the relentless questions that had plagued his mind for days had been staring at him every morning and every night in the tarnished, cracked mirror of his bedroom. His right eye, his Contract. Every question linked together, every answer was the same. Why had Sebastian returned? Why did his eye burn so? Why was the Contract still present? How had Sebastian been able to find him? Why was Sebastian performing his duties as though nothing had changed?

It was because the Contract still held power, and his body still held his soul.

He should have known long ago…should have known why the Undertaker had been wary about his Reaper's sight in that particular eye; Why the mark had not faded, even when its inflictor had all but disappeared; Why it had burned so in intervals, when he felt pain, sorrow, anger, nostalgia. Those feelings called to Sebastian, and Sebastian had followed them. He had followed the essence of their Contract, and the resonance of the boy's soul, to Ciel's place of hiding. The Undertaker would have been unable to remove his soul due to the Contract's presence, and Reaper or no, he could not remove a demon's contract. Ciel made a mental note to speak with the man later about the matter, and why he had not been fully informed of it…but now, he had to attend to more pressing matters. The demon had returned, Ciel's soul remained in his body, and their Contract was still intact. If this held true, and the events of the decade past had been legitimate, then in technicality, Sebastian had completed his part of the Contract, and was therefore still entitled to his prize. His body grew cold, and his mind froze mid-thought. The realization nearly broke his sanity. Sebastian could take his soul at this very moment, if he so desired. If that was the case, what was he waiting for? Ciel had no intention of waiting to find out. Perhaps their Contract was still intact. Perhaps Sebastian still held some sort of claim to Ciel's soul. If he chose to take his prize by force, perhaps Ciel could do nothing to stop him…but he would not submit willingly. Not this time, not ever again. He would fight. He always had. He would thrash, and struggle, and scream. He would make it as difficult as possible. He would cause the demon as much bodily harm as he could. He would not surrender. Perhaps he would lose. Certainly he would lose; but he would fight. He always had. He would not let his spirit die without conveying his hatred to the demon, conveying the magnitude of his mistake. He had had before him a feast; a willing, submissive feast, fit for only the most deserving of gourmets, and he had turned his nose up at it. The feast that he now sought was insulted; would be much less willing; would make it undeniably clear that he was no longer the demon that deserved to sample such a delicacy. The lamb no longer wanted anything to do with the wolf. He no longer saw him fit to receive such a prize.

Azure eye darkened visibly, and instantaneously the smile was gone. He knew what he was thinking.

"Young Master, I swore that I would never harm you. I still hold true to that vow."

The child's expression did not change in the slightest. His tone was quiet, unsurprised.

"Oh? That's good to know…"

An audible 'click' tore through the tense silence between the two. The child's grip tightened _ever so slightly_ and…

"Luckily, _I_ never made such a vow."

…a single clap of thunder.


	5. The Assault

Disclaimer: I have no ownership or claim to any characters of the Black Butler series, or any other affiliations. They belong to Yana Toboso.

Author's Note: Thank you all for waiting so patiently for my update. There is little to say about this chapter, save that it is the continuation of the last. Also, if you would, pay very close attention to the words as the story progresses. You will see repetition, and those sections have quite a bit of significance, which I have worked quite hard on. The placement and choice of said words will be very important as the story continues. Please enjoy.

Chapter Five:

xXx

_Azure eye darkened visibly, and instantaneously the smile was gone. He knew what he was thinking._

"_Young Master, I swore that I would never harm you. I still hold true to that vow."_

_The child's expression did not change in the slightest. His tone was quiet, unsurprised._

"_Oh? That's good to know…"_

_An audible 'click' tore through the tense silence between the two. The child's grip tightened ever so slightly and…_

"_Luckily, __I__ never made such a vow."_

…_a single clap of thunder._

xXx

It was the span of a millisecond; in the time it took one to blink, to breathe their last, it happened. Once a move had been made, it could not be reversed. Ciel Phantomhive knew this better than anyone, and still, he shot. His shot was perfect, as his aim always was, yet when it reached the spot where his target had stood, he felt nothing; no regret, no relief, no crippling pain shattering his world as the only living creature that he had ever been undeniably connected to was ripped from the clutches of existence. He felt nothing as his shot reached the spot where his target had stood…because there was no longer a target standing there. There was one more millisecond, shock, the slightest panic, then control. He felt the dark presence behind him just one more millisecond too late. He felt that nostalgic gloved hand lightly laying over his gun-toting one, light cotton brushing teasingly against his skin in a both familiar and foreign way. He felt the other lay a slight pressure at his side, on his left hip, steadying his frail form against the tall one behind him. He felt the cold lips at his ear, but the breath was warm, too warm, as it whispered in that awful, superior tone-!

"My my, Young Master…I must say, I'm surprised by your determination…to be prepared to take down even myself should I stand against you…"

That elusive clawed grip near his lower abdomen pressed him _ever so slightly_ backward. He wanted him to fall back into those deceptively warm, blackened chains-

"…but I'm not standing _against_ you, My Lord." Their proximity said otherwise.

-wanted him to remember, to return. _He wanted him to fall-_

"My apologies, Young Master…"

_He wanted to catch him—_

"…but I cannot allow myself to die just yet."

-but Ciel Phantomhive did remember. Ciel Phantomhive never forgot, because to forget was to forgive, and Ciel Phantomhive never forgave.

Just as the tempting talon's deceptive partner had begun to lower the weapon-wielding hand to a fragile side, it was quickly tipped upward again, spun backward as the rest of the Reaper's body rotated to face the creature behind him. In that moment, the once-child could think of no greater satisfaction than that which would come with pistol-whipping the damned hell-spawn in the face. Unfortunately, said face had once again eluded his masterful aim. Ciel barely caught a glimpse of that sickening, satisfied smirk as it vanished, warping and twisting into the shadows, blurring with the other refined features of his face as the young Reaper's strong resolve shattered. His small body moved at an unnatural speed, the movements themselves unnatural in their defiance of gravity and the physical limits of the human body. Scrawny limbs spun gracefully in high-arched kicks, dead-aimed uppercuts, but still, the demon was too fast. Ciel had gained an inhuman speed upon his physical change, but he had only been a Reaper for ten years. Grell Sutcliffe had been one for far longer, and even he had not been fast enough to take down the demon on the fateful day that all that embodied the color red had disappeared from Ciel's world. He wasn't fast enough…no matter how his physical abilities (or, lack thereof) had improved from how they had been as a human, none of his newfound power or strength mattered if he couldn't even _touch_ the demon. Lithe arms lifted fury-fueled fists to crush the demon's elusive skull, small torso contracting as his dark form seeped into the floor, breakable legs sweeping quickly across the bloodied floor in an attempt to knock the demon off balance, failing as he was effectively, and insultingly easily, avoided, and all the while that stomach-wrenching _smirk _was staring down at him, gleaming in the moonlight streaking, darkly reddened through the ineffective glassy shield—or was it the demon's eyes that reddened, that darkened that expression?

It was not long before shots were fired. There was less hesitation now than there had been with the first shot, though there had been such little then to begin with. As effectively as he had escaped the first one, Sebastian escaped the rest, with barely a tilt of his neck or a flick of his wrist. Too strong, too fast. Not enough. Ciel wasn't giving enough. He appeared a pathetic, mindless player, a weak piece straining to appear as though he were not, fueled by nothing but fury and rage and allowing his emotions to control his actions in place of his thoughts and—that was it. He _was_ rushing into his attacks before thinking them through. Sebastian was quick enough to see his attacks coming, so long as they came from within his sight! If he had no way of telling where Ciel's next attack would come from…a new, quieter aura shadowed the boy then, as he pulled back a few inches and rose, spreading his booted heels apart on the red-wood that would forever be Matilda Simmons' grave, and flung his dark coat about him to disorient the demon's sight until it was too late to tell how and where the child had gone.

xXx

He could not remember the last time that he had been so amused, so entertained…ah, but that was a lie, wasn't it? He remembered all too well, and ironically enough, that time, too had solely consisted of the boy that now twisted and struck and weaved and bobbed before him like a venomous snake; a creature that had been cornered and struck with its every line of defense, its every ounce of fury and defiance. It was marvelous. To see his Master in such an uncollected state! He never thought that he would see the day…and he almost hadn't. Ah, no, not now. He couldn't afford to allow his mind to wander for even a moment, for even as he squashed the swelling feeling of pride at the thought, he could not deny that his weak, childish, _human_ little Master had become quite strong…at least, in comparison to how he had been. A tick twitched the corners of the smirk that that insuppressible pride had stretched. Still, he would prefer how he _had_ been to how he was now any day. In fact, he would even prefer _dead_ to…_this._ A Reaper. A _Reaper_. A collared, meddling, _soulless, __untouchable __**Reaper**_. Anything. He would have preferred anything to this. How distasteful. To think that his Young Master had fallen so low…that tick twisted that smile back in an upward direction. He had never been good at lying like a human…even to himself. He knew. He had known the moment he'd discovered his Young Master's newfound nature. He was fully aware of what he had done, what he had chosen. This boy was anything but foolish. He knew. He had known the moment that he had accepted the Undertaker's offer, Sebastian was sure. He knew that Sebastian knew, and Sebastian knew that he knew that he would know. They had always been so tangled, so intertwined with one another's thoughts, motives, desires. His soul; that earth-shattering, mouth-watering, all-encompassing existence that held a demon as powerful as himself at the little feet of that little human, licking those meticulously polished boots…it was farther from his reach this way than it had ever been…than it could ever be.

Distraction. Hesitation. Relfex. Attention. That had been a close call barely avoided. That sickle smirk spread wide at the adrenaline that flooded his false veins. It was not excitement of fear. It was a far different kind of excitement.

'_Well, well, Young Master! You have indeed improved. You have my __full__ attention…'_

Perhaps he should strike back? No. That would ruin this fun far too quickly. Though, he did have to admit to being a slight bit disappointed. When he had heard of his Young Master's current tutor, he had expected more, really. So far, he hadn't really displayed anything that was past the limits of—

Oh. _Oh._

He could not afford to allow distraction. Surprise was a distraction, but still, he could not disadmit to being surprised…and all the more amused. Wherever had he gone? That was quite the magic trick! He felt that unwanted pride once more swelling in his chest, mingling with the thick amusement, before another sense prickled along the back of his pale neck. His amusement only grew. Ah, his Young Master never ceased to entertain him, even now, after what had inarguably been the longest decade of his demonic life. Never for another creature had he felt such an uncomfortable mixture of pride, affection, pity, intrigue…and disgust. A small scowl passed over his carefully painted features, too quickly for any being to distinguish. What a presumptuous little cretin, his imperious Master was.

Perhaps his anger was rooted in the fact that through his assumption, he continued to deny the bond that still strung their souls together? Perhaps not. He had never been sentimental, after all.

He spun with a fluid motion, no flourish of fabric or fanciful outburst, as the shows that he usually put on when performing for his Young Master. The once-child's tiny fist had been completely consumed by the demon's spidery fingers before it could even come close to its target. The blatant, innocent shock that spilled across his Master's usually schooled features brought a light smile to his lips, washing over the previous abhorrence. How could he truly dislike a trait that made his Master so _pitifully _adorable? After all, he would never submit himself to a willowy, weak-willed, helpless child of this dirt. Every aspect of his Young Master's haughty, superior attitude made him all the more…exactly what Sebastian wanted. His eyes gleamed with amusement, though he schooled his expression into one of complete emptiness. He threw the boy's bony wrist from his grip as the child himself regained his composure, tearing himself from the demon's grasp (only because the demon had let him) and all but leaping backward, before attempting to surprise him from a different angle with the same disappearing act. Sebastian smiled, chuckled under his breath at the younger's ignorance, closing his eyes (whether to show off as he always did, or simply to prove his point, even he failed to discern at this point) as he turned and blocked each and every strike that his determined Little Master threw at him with all of his might. He disappeared, reappeared, struck, failed, disappeared again, returning at another angle, over and over, again and again and again and again, above him, beneath him, behind him, before him, quickly, too fast for a human, too slow for the demon. All the while the once-butler only opened his claret eyes to meet that furious, darkened cloud of stormy sea with each and every blocked strike. His voice was soft. Calm. Unfettered. After all, if he couldn't even do _this_…

"Young Master, it matters not whether you choose to deny it, nor cover it. Wherever you are, I can _always_ see you…"

That Cheshire smirk spread wide as he reveled in the feel of that soft, warm, fragile skin against his with every failure. He adored his Master's failure, because it was _his_ absence that caused him to fail, and he knew it, and he knew that his Master knew it, and he knew that his Master knew that he knew it, and he knew that his Master knew how to end it, knew that he would, knew that he must, because he wanted to fall as badly as Sebastian wanted him to fall, as badly as _he wanted to catch him_-

"…and you know _exactly_ why."

xXx

The only thing that Ciel hated more than when Sebastian _smirked_, was when Sebastian _smiled_.

When he smiled at him like that, he seemed so damned calm, so aggravatingly serene, as if they were not in the midst of a life or death struggle, as if he were happy about the fact that Ciel was viciously attacking him, genuinely threatening the demon's life! His initial shock at his captured strike had not brought the demon amusement. Ciel had no idea of what the demon felt at the action. He never knew what the demon was thinking when he smiled like that. He thought that he might have had an idea a decade ago, when Sebastian first smiled at him like that, and he had felt the heat rush to his cheeks and the gleam in the butler's eyes had only grown in return and he had felt that warm tightness in his chest as Sebastian had said—no. He had been fooling himself then. He would not make the same mistake again. He would fulfill his duty as a Reaper; he would shove the cold metal of his barrel into the once-butler's skull and pull the trigger and he would not feel a thing; he would remove the demon from his life for good and he would ignore the _goddamn tightening in his chest_ and-!

The demon smiled. He caught his bony wrist in his elegantly gloved one (the _gall, _that he should still be wearing those gloves!), stared into his fury filled, singularly visible eye with an eerie calmness, held his ground without moving so much as an inch, and _smiled_. It was the last straw. He felt himself snap, felt the very last fragile string that held his consciousness to his sense break with the force of a skull being shattered. He felt the previously cacophonous resonance of his blood rushing in his ears fade, giving way to the absolute silence; the silence that the silence that signaled the beginning of the end; the silence that graced the tense air moments before the destruction of the storm occurred…

It was the span of a millisecond; in the time it took one to blink, to breathe their last, it happened. Once a move had been made, it could not be reversed. Ciel Phantomhive knew this better than anyone, and still, he felt it; felt his open palm fall harshly against the razor-sharp cheekbone; felt the fire of his fury blaze brightly, flare blindingly for that imperceptibly short fraction of time, then turn to ice. The temperature of the room chilled with his blood, the previously thick air growing suffocating, asphyxiating, far too thin, far too cold. That moment in time froze with the air; the pair suspended in animation as the realization of the younger's actions fell upon him. He had struck Sebastian dozens of times, years ago, for dozens of reasons…but this was _different_. He felt it the moment that it happened. He had not struck him with the intention of harming him. He knew that such an insignificant physical outburst would not harm someone like Sebastian, who had swallowed bullets and poison and fireplace picks without so much a stifling a grunt. He had truly been attempting to defeat the demon, to harm him with the abilities of a Grim Reaper, but that…he had lost his sense. He had not struck him out of strategy. He had struck him out of anger…and when the demon turned his dark head slowly, ever so slowly back to meet the child's discerning gaze, when that far too familiar gleam lit the dark shadows behind his inhuman eyes, when the shadows cast over his angular face crept lower, spread across the empty plain of his face, deepening the darkness that lie just below the surface _and for that moment in time he looked anything but human and he __smiled__…_

He knew.

He knew that he knew, and he knew that Sebastian knew that he knew. He knew that Sebastian had known. He had blocked every previous strike, though they had come far faster, far harder than that simple instinctive act of anger. He had protected himself against every possibly fatal injury…but he had not blocked _that_. He had not failed to block it because it had come too fast, or too hard. He had not failed to block it because he had not been expecting it. He had seen it coming. He had _wanted_ it to come. He had _allowed_ it. He allowed Ciel to strike him. He had _wanted_ Ciel to strike him…and Ciel had lost his temper. He had fallen right into the demon's trap, had fallen just as the demon had wanted him to. He slowly felt himself falling away, felt his world crumbling around him amidst the shattered bones and splattered blood and the splintering shards of his sanity as a pristine, white-gloved hand rose gracefully to catch his offending one where it had frozen at the side of that false face. Those nostalgic lips that were curled into what Ciel could no longer discern as a smirk or a smile turned ever so slightly in the direction of that hand as it was effortlessly guided to the side of the angled cheekbone opposite of the slowly reddened one. He felt his visible eye widen imperceptibly as the grip on his offending hand tightened as softly as it used to, and those offending lips brushed the dark fabric covering the slowly warming skin on the back of his hand as softly as they used to, and that charming, persuasive, sickeningly sweet voice turned the child's stomach as it whispered against their starkly contrasting fingers.

"Once more, my apologies…_Young Master_…"

The Blood Moon stained the Azure Sky, the gleam of the stars indistinguishable between them.

"…but I have every intention of keeping my promise."

The young Reaper barely registered the loss of warmth (had there been any at all?) when that hand, those lips, the creature before him retreated toward the window.

"…and I'm afraid that such a feat would be quite difficult to do from the grave...even for myself. As I stated before…""

Why wasn't he moving? Why wasn't he breathing? Why wasn't he _shooting_? A long finger rose to those lying lips, a mocking reference to his dumb silence.

"…I cannot allow myself to die just yet."

By the time that his stunned mind had registered that he should lift his gun and shoot, the demon had already fallen half-way out the window.

"…Farewell, Young Master…_for now_."

And, with one last infuriating, unmistakable smirk, as quickly as he had disappeared ten years ago, as quickly as he had reentered the child's life that night, he was gone.


	6. The Interrogation

Disclaimer: I have to claim to or ownership of the characters or any other affiliations to the Black Butler series. They belong to Yana Toboso.

Author's Note: Firstly, I would like to ask forgiveness for how late this update is. I am simply becoming more and more busy. I will not simply stop writing this story, but as I stated before I began, I will update whenever I can. Thank you all for being so patient.

Chapter Six: The Interrogation

Even without the nostalgic musty scent, the mildew and film on the walls, the rust on the tables and instruments, and the dust bunnies running about the floor, the room still encompassed an eerie, quiet aura. Though, it was bound to be eerie, seeing as it was in fact a mortician's workplace, and it was bound be quiet, seeing as the only inhabitants were in no state to be speaking. The only living habitants were not of much help, either, seeing as one of them was not present. Yes, he could always, and usually did, speak to himself, or his other 'guests' when his prominent house guest was absent, but it would be a far better cure to the silence if they had the ability to answer him. He nearly chuckled at his own dry irony. Yes, it would be unlikely for even his prominent house guest to aide in breaking the silence. He quite enjoyed silence, after all…the mortician nearly burst into laughter once more. He knew. He knew, and he knew that Ciel suspected it…but he did not yet know. He would. He would realize it as everyone realized it eventually. He would come to understand it, even accept it. He did not like the silence. He had simply become so used to it that he no longer believed what was true, what had always been true…

…in fact, he hated the silence.

The mortician weaved and flowed about, working diligently as his thoughts were captured by his little student. The silence had always been his companion. That was something that he and his tutor had in common. From a time very long ago, silence had been there to answer his important questions, to keep him company when others had fled, to lie upon his shoulders like a thick blanket, surrounding his senses and infecting his very soul. The Undertaker's lips curled in giddied thought as the boy's soul became the topic. Soon, he knew. Very soon, that would become a very important piece of the puzzle that was the child's existence. The hunter had no doubt already become the hunted, and, being such, the new hunter was sure to notice the truth, more than likely even before his little prodigy. As for his little prodigy, there would be questions. There would be anger, and fury, and fire. There would be confusion, and hatred, no, not hatred, but disgust. There would be insistence and impertinence and haughty demands with no regards to the consequences of his actions. His choices would pave the path to a long and difficult journey, which would inevitably lead him to a life-altering choice. The mortician's unstable grin spread to full-blown insanity as his fingers went about their work and his mind spun its assurance. The humans' journeys always led them to a choice. Nothing excited the retired Reaper more than the thought of just what his little Earl would choose. He had always been such an amusement for him…that was why he had taken him in in the first place, after all!

The small chime of the bell above the entrance broke his train of thought, and his wide grin softened to a small smirk of certainty as the aura of another permeated the air. He knew exactly what this customer had need of, had come here for. There would be questions. There would be frustration, and subdued anger, and determination. There would be insistence, and elaborate ideas, loathing, denial, and, eventually, inevitable victory. The Undertaker saw it all, and reveled in the power that a single human had to change it. He turned slowly, his grin spreading as he held out his arms wide to embrace the arrival of a familiar face…after all, it was so nice to see old friends after so long alone. The intruder glance him over as he was greeted with a scrutinizing look and an elegant, thinly raised brow. His dark eyes were full of the subdued anger that the mortician had seen.

"Well, well! It's been quite a _while_…" the ancient mediator's grin spread wide again, cracking the skin along his face with the same instability held within his expression. "…_Butler_."

xXx

The force with which the door was thrown open was equivalent to that of a torrential wind in an unstoppable storm. The storm had certainly come, and come with a furious vengeance.

"_**Undertaker!**_"

The not-child's voice rang loudly through the quiet room, and the summoned turned his head away from his work ever so slightly to appraise his fuming underling. His clothes were mussed and wrinkled, his hair was disheveled, his posture crooked and weary. His legs shook with the weight of carrying his body home at top speed, and his most important article of clothing, the small black cover that lie over his revealing eye, was missing. He vaguely wondered if the boy even noticed as his small chest rose and fell with the exertion of his run and his gaze burned with the fire of hatred…no, not of hatred…of disgust. He flashed the boy a giddy grin as his shoulders shook with mirth.

"Yes, Earl? Welcome home! Another rough night?" The grin spread wider. "You look like hell."

The fire in the younger's eyes flashed a dangerous warning to the mortician, and he stalked across the room in three steps and a single leap over a coffin that separated them, then he had his teacher by the collar, dragging him down to his level, glaring into the curtain of hair that shielded his eyes. Their breath mingled in their proximity for a moment before the boy hissed the accusation.

"You knew."

After being answered with a wider smile yet, the boy shook the man violently by the collar.

"You knew! Why didn't you tell me?"

The Undertaker shrugged his shoulders and held up his hands in an oblivious manner.

"You never _asked_, Earl…"

The boy nearly growled. "That's because I _trusted_ you!"

The man grinned wider still, tilting his head downward in a dangerous manner.

"Now, Earl, you and I both know that that isn't true."

The child pulled back his upper lip in a harsh scowl, and threw the dark collar from his grip, pushing the man as far away from his as possible. His fists clenched at his sides as his glare stayed trained on his cryptic teacher. He was right, as always. It wasn't true. It wasn't that he had trusted him. The Earl of Phantomhive never trusted anyone-but he was no longer that person-but still, that gave the man no right to lie to him. Had he truly lied, though? This was a question that he had asked himself many times years ago when dealing with his would-be butler. Was it truly considered a lie, when they had not spoken falsely? They had just left out important information that the boy himself had been too foolish or neglectful to ask about. Damn him. Damn them both. He hissed at the man through grit teeth.

"Wouldn't you say that the information that you neglected to make me aware of is rather _important_?"

The Undertaker tilted his head slightly to one side, still holding that eerie grin.

"And, what information would you be speaking of, Earl?"

He was beginning to sound like Lau. The boy bristled, visibly peeved.

"You damn well know what I'm talking about! My soul!"

He grabbed the man by the collar once more, the urge to throttle him greater than ever.

"Answer me, you sickening, soulless cretin…"

The boy's tone lowered, deeper and darker and full of the same malice and fire that filled his open gaze.

"…is my soul still inside my body?"

That horrid grin twitched at the edges, and after a moment of subdued, shoulder-trembling chuckling, he answered…

"…Then, I assume that…the _answer_…has _found_ you."

The boy's eyes widened with realization. He had been right. The Undertaker had known. He had known the entire time…as always. He found his anger mounting.

"Answer. Me."

The man's grin softened to more of a concerned smile, his head tilted the opposite way as his long, bony fingers laced themselves in front of his stomach.

"If it isn't, then how did the Butler find you, Ciel?"

And, just like that, it was gone. His mounting anger dissipated, his fists unclenching with a defeated sigh. A dirty-gloved hand reached up to massage a sore temple, the opposite hand supporting his elbow in a classic expression of pure exasperation. He stared at the ground for a few moments before tilting his glare back up in the direction of his teacher.

"…you have some explaining to do."

xXx

"I see. With the Contract still intact, it was impossible for you to remove my soul."

The warm beaker was lifted to pale lips, a small comfort at the moment, before being replaced on the make-shift 'table.' The two sat adjacent to each other, a small jar of bone-shaped sugar cookies and two beakers filled with fresh, hot Earl Grey sat between them. The Undertaker nodded to the boy's words, finishing off a bite of the eerie treat before responding.

"Of course. It would have been against the laws of the supernatural…not to mention that I have very little experience with breaking through the bindings of a demonic Contract."

His usual grin vaguely cracked the surface.

"Had I tried, I could have killed you."

The boy nodded, another sip of tea passing between them.

"Then, why did you even bother to offer me the position of a Reaper?"

It did not make complete sense. Why would he offer the boy a job, an existence that he could not actually have? He had 'died' enough times and in enough different ways since he began his training to know that his body was now no longer human. It would be nearly impossible to kill him in this state, but that did not mean that there was no longer something to kill. He supposed that no one had gotten close enough. Shot, stabbed, poisoned, crushed, suffocated, drowned, fallen from dizzying heights…none of his previous experiences did damage to the soul within. Humans had no idea of how to access such a thing without doing so via the body. Therefore, as his body was permanent, such a tactic would not work, and humans were unable to access the soul directly. For a demon, however…it was no problem. He wondered how long Sebastian had been tracking him, had been able to sense him…the realization struck him, froze the beaker at his lips. His soul had never even left his body. How long had the Contract still been active? How long had Sebastian been able to sense him? Probably, the entire time…if the Contract had never actually been broken, then that would mean that Sebastian had heard every call, felt every order, and disobeyed, ignored, disowned. It made him ill to think about. He tasted the bile rising in his throat, and pushed the cookie-urn further across the table. Disgusting demon. His hatred was stronger than ever.

The Undertaker hummed with a moment of thought before deciding that it was safe to answer that question.

"You are quite the successful Reaper still, soul or not. I saw an opportunity to test something new, and you were the perfect specimen, Earl."

He spoke with a grin, and his answer brought a soft, knowing smirk to Ciel's lips. He glanced over the beaker with a gleam in his gaze.

"Now, Undertaker…you and I both know that that isn't true."

The mortician's grin faltered, then softened to an honestly caring smile. His little student was learning more and more everyday…and some of what he was learning was about him. A soft chuckle passed his cracked lips.

"…Hm, you're getting better at making me laugh every day, Earl."

He was also learning more than he should every day. The elder took another sip of his own tea before responding with the answer that was true; the answer that Ciel had been looking for.

"…I believe I've told you so before, but…I suppose that it was because I like you, Earl."

The child stared at him blankly for a moment before tearing his gaze away, taking another sip of tea. The Undertaker watched him with interest.

"Hm? Is it odd to hear someone say that?"

The boy set the beaker down with a bit of a harsh sound. The Undertaker had his answer. That was not a can of worms that Ciel wished to open today. The boy downed the last of his tea with a flourish of movement that gave the Undertaker the impression that this conversation was either almost over, or about to take a serious tone. Azure blue met masked gold with a determination that proved the latter option to be true.

"So…what happens now? Shall Sebastian simply take my soul? Is that possible?"

He would not stand for that. He would not stand for such unfairness. To drag him through such a ridiculous string of events, only to fail at giving him what he had promised him, abandon him, ignore him, reject him, leave him to suffer and fend for himself obliviously for ten years, and return with the impression that he could simply take his meal…after all that he had done. The gall, the _nerve_! Ciel would not let that happen. He would not stand for it. He would not let Sebastian have his soul if that was what he intended. He would sooner die…he would sooner kill the demon. His resolve was unshaken. Earlier had been a fluke. He had been shocked to see the demon, that was all. Next time would be different. The next time that they met, should Sebastian try anything, Ciel would not hesitate to pull the trigger. He would kill him. The manner with which the Undertaker smiled gave Ciel the impression that he could hear his thoughts, yet again…it took him a moment to realize that he was simply responding to his voiced inquiry.

"It is indeed possible, seeing as your soul is still inside of you, and the Contract is still, apparently, very in-tact. However…I don't think that he will."

His insinuation was met with a raised brow and a haughtily curious look.

"Is that so? Why not?"

The man's grin spread wider, in a manner that made Ciel certain that he had seen something that Ciel himself had missed. He despised when that happened.

"If he had any intention of simply taking your soul, he would have done it last night. You are much stronger than a human now, Ciel, but nowhere near powerful enough a Reaper to defeat a demon at the level of that butler."

The younger bit the inside of his cheek in frustration, his brow falling rather low as his gaze darkened. Damn the man, he was right again. He had to be. Sebastian had surely had his chance in the midst of Ciel's paralyzing shock. He could have taken whatever he wanted…so why didn't he? The thought, the question stormed the seas of the boy's mind as his hand came to support his downwardly-tilted chin in deep thought. The demon _had_ said something about his intentions, hadn't he? He had said something about 'fulfilling his orders?' Helping Ciel 'gain his revenge?' He had gone to Matilda Simmon's home last night to do so, yes? That was what he _claimed_…but could Ciel actually believe him? What other hidden agenda could he have? He had always been the biggest enigma that Ciel had ever known. Even after ten years, Ciel was disgusted with himself to know that he still had no idea what the demon was thinking…

…wait.

That wasn't right, was it? There was no one in existence that knew more about the way that that demon thought better than Ciel! He had spent four years of his life in the demon's presence, every waking moment of every day! He had dug his nails deep into the crevices of the ex-butler's mind, participated in his mind games, taken his mental torment and thrown it back in his face without breaking a sweat. He knew that it was true, had known each and every time, however rare, that that minute expression of shock, followed by that undeniable gleam of satisfaction, of malicious glee in his eyes had stretched his false lips into a gratified grin, all sadistic intent and deep intrigue and absolutely certain desire…for what, Ciel had never been sure, but he knew that, demon or not, Sebastian had enjoyed his time in that manor more than he would admit. He knew not what exactly had caused a creature of his nature to enjoy such a life, but that variable was not yet important. He may not know what Sebastian thought, but he knew how to read the demon. He would simply have to put that skill to use. He struggled to recall how the demon had appeared the previous night, but it was impossible. He was too tired, and the events had blocked themselves from his memory. All that he could remember was that smile…that smirk…no, which was it? Damn, now even that was gone.

He stood from his seat, running a hand through ashen locks and pushing them back from his face. His other hand made its way to the pocket of his thin, dark shin-cut trousers. He tilted his gaze up to meet the mortician's unsteady smile, his voice quiet.

"Nowhere near powerful enough…hm? Well…we'll see about that."

He turned, traversing the maze of deathbeds and bloodied tools that he would have to polish later, making his way to the stairs. He needed sleep. It would be easier to think, to plan a strategy, to fight a demon, once he had one.

"It won't be easy for him this time. If anything, I can make sure of that."

He would not lose. Not to Sebastian, not to his own weakness. He wouldn't, couldn't.

"If it's the last thing that I do, I'll wipe that smug smirk off of his face."

His voice held certainty, venom, and the Undertaker's grin stretched wider as he watched the boy climb the staircase. He was certain that the boy's words were true. Once Ciel Phantomhive set his mind to something, it was done. He leaned back in his seat, dropping his neck backward, staring at the ceiling as he sniggered. He wished the butler luck, for once, because he knew that he would underestimate the child. He always had. That was the discerning difference between them. Sebastian knew the way that a human functioned, thought. Therefore, he believed that he knew how his Master worked, seeing as he was a human. How hypocritical, that he still spoke the blasphemy of his Master being 'different from other humans,' if that was the case. However, he underestimated the child's abilities to discover things for himself. Ciel understood the demon more than the demon realized, possibly more than he even realized himself. That would be the dark horse, so to speak, the deciding factor in the outcome of this. The Undertaker grinned, curling his bony hands about his paper-thin waist to suppress the violent cackling. As always, he knew what he could expect of Earl Ciel Phantomhive. This was indeed the true reason that he had opted to keep him around a while longer. If anything…most certainly…

…this was going to be _fun_.


	7. The Dilemma

Disclaimer: I have no ownership of or claim to any affiliations of the Black Butler series. They belong to Yana Toboso, characters and the like.

Author'sNote: I apologize for the late update. Midterms have been eating away at my time, unfortunately. Thank you all for being so patient. As promised, I will continue the story. I simply cannot promise punctual updates. On another note, if it is not too much to ask, a few more review this time around would be greatly appreciated. Please enjoy.

Chapter Seven: The Dilemma

The translucent staircase of multicolored glass reflected in the light of their altitude, casting rainbows of mist across the air that they breathed. How any light pierced through the soft blankets of ethereal cloud shielding their view of what was around them, Ciel had never understood. Then again, he was not meant to understand. He was only meant to escort. He did not have to know why he had to be there. He simply had to be there. He found it ironic, in many ways. That he should have to escort this particular one. Was it punishment? That he should even have to approach this place. He hated coming here. It was constant proof that there had been someone to answer him, yet they had chosen rather to ignore. Yet, most of all, he hated the person that was next to him. Even though her loyalty, her faith had been put in a fallen angel, a soldier gone mad, a betrayer of the will of God, this had still been the judgment of Matilda Simmons. Though the orders that she had followed had not come directly from Him, her pure faith in the being that she had followed had saved her soul, as she had performed under the impression that she was following His orders. Who her loyalty had been to in the end did not matter; simply the fact that that loyalty had been meant for God had shifted her judgment. Ciel felt differently. He thought that his boots should not be clicking against the airy platforms of Jacob's Ladder. He thought that they should be descending, falling down into the darkest, deepest chasms of pure despair, of sanity-breaking screams of agony. He did not agree with this judgment. He felt differently…but of course, he would feel differently. She had been one of them. While she had directly done nothing to him, even while she may have been slightly ignorant to the horrors of the actions of her Leaders, she had still been a piece of the puzzle. Her name, her Death Play read the name of the Cult. That was enough for Ciel. He had no mercy for those who plead ignorance. He was never granted such mercy. Why should he grant it to anyone else? He would not apologize to her, even as he was the cause of her death. He would not apologize for the fact that Sebastian had killed her. He wasn't even sure that he regretted the fact that he had not been able to save her in time.

Their journey was silent as the ascended, the young woman beside him unable to keep her gaze averted for long. The silence was meant to be, was usually calming, warming, reassuring and peaceful. This was not so, and neither of them could claim that it was. The tension in the air was thick with the child's unspoken words, his simmering anger, his suppressed feelings. Matilda's gaze softened and her lips turned downward, her expression an undeniable mask of pity, because she knew. She knew that he wanted her down there, not up here. She knew that he had placed the label of his hatred upon her, because there was little else that he could do, and there was little that she herself could say, could do, to erase that pain, to ease the deep hatred, the fiery fury of this little child, the young soul who should have never been exposed to such things, whose heart should not be so dark, so thick with feelings that even most adults cannot fathom. At such an age, he should not even know what true hatred is…yet he breathes it. He bleeds it. He exudes it from every pore of his paper-thin skin, and Matilda is saddened by it. She does not enjoy this silence. She wishes to speak, she wishes to clear this would-be-peaceful air and ease the child's suffering. She would have him break down those steady walls that others have built around him. She would have him sob into her shoulder and, just for a moment, be the child that he is, allow himself to release the pain that held him hostage. He would never release it. She could tell that by the expression on his face now; those darkened eyes, swimming with fury and vengeance. His thin lips twisted downward in a barely visible scowl, his very pallor heavy with the weight of living the life that he has. She purses her lips. She wants to clear the tension between them, but she knows that he will not let go so easily.

In the end, Ciel is the one to speak.

"You sealed your fate, you know."

Matilda turns her gaze fully upon the boy, an infuriating expression of pure, innocent confusion and slight hurt in her eyes at his words. It makes him want to vomit. He does not turn toward her as he responds. She does not deserve his full attention.

"…When you copulated with that devil."

A light of slight shock and understanding gleams in her gaze before it is swallowed by shame, regret, and she casts it upon the ground. She knows. She knows that she should not be here; that she should not be ascending these stairs. Not with the sins that she had committed. They had overlooked her one night of sin, her succumbing to the seduction of another, in lieu of the very fact that he was what he was. She had been ignorant to his nature, so that incident had been wiped clean, his power over human desires taken into account. She did not feel that this was fair, but she had resigned herself that their decision, whether good or bad, was not something that she was allowed to question at this point. Her soul no longer belonged to her. She cast her piteous gaze once more upon the boy beside her as he walked, deepening with that sadness. He must feel this way constantly, and it made her sad for him. His soul had not belonged to himself for a very long time. It belonged to the person, the creature that had taken her innocence, and whether or not it still did, it seemed that the Reapers had a tight hold on it now, as well. For just a moment, Ciel turned his gaze upon her, and his urge to vomit became all the more difficult to ignore as he laid his visible eye upon that condescending expression.

"Don't look at me like that." He spat. "I don't need pity from a person like you."

She knew what he meant. She replied humbly; so humbly it made him all the more sick.

"…I was always told that pity…was a form of love. I…I do not understand why you would reject the care of another person so easily."

His gaze remained ever-dark, his scowl ever-strong.

"I have no need of such feelings, especially from a hypocrite. Indirectly or not, you were one of them. You cannot escape my hatred by hiding behind an excuse like ignorance."

When he had sat in that cage, crying and screaming and bleeding and weak and hungry and pretending not to be there, pretending that he did not know what would happen to him, it did not save him. Ignorance was not bliss. It was no excuse. She knew.

"…I…I am sorry. I know that, something like that…it can't mean much to you now, I just…I just don't know how else to tell you that…that I never would have done such things…as they did to you…"

A heavy sigh befell his lips, his pale fingers brushing his hair back from his face in an exhausted expression. He knew that he couldn't prove otherwise. He knew that she had not directly hurt him. The very fact that she was one of them warranted his hatred, but…

"I had doubts." Her voice was almost so soft that he did not hear it.

He turned toward her again, his thin brow rose slightly in a curious inquiry.

"I…had doubts. I…doubted God, that night. The night that…that man and I…" she trailed off, her face warming a soft scarlet as she averted her gaze at the subject, before she continued. "I doubted that my vows meant anything. He did such a thing so easily…and then I never heard of him again. The Lord had always said through his word that one's innocence was such a significant thing, something so precious…but…once it was lost, and he was gone, it…it didn't seem…important at all."

Why should it have? It had obviously not been important to the person that had taken it. Why should she feel any differently? He almost chuckled. The power of a demon was not altogether conscious.

"Everyone doubts when he is wrong." His gaze was filled with condescending. "Your people choose to ignore when he is, blame the devil, direct attention away…" A soft kind of reminiscing clouded his azure eye. "…He is not perfect. He makes mistakes. He makes choices. He ignored me when I needed him the most. I also have doubts…mine are just deep rooted. Our situations are only different in the fact that a demon was the response to my doubt…while he was the cause of yours."

Her eyes seemed to hold an understanding. Would she release her faith now? How fulfilling it would be turn her around, to send her down the stairway to the other end at the last moment-

"I…think that he has his reasons for making the choices that he makes…even in your case."

So very fulfilling indeed.

"You believe that He had good reason for ignoring me? For closing His ears to my cries, my screams...? For closing His eyes to my tears, my blood?"

He was growing irate. How dare this woman! How dare she insinuate that He was right, even when what he had done was so very obviously _wrongwrongwrong_!

"…I do." Her gaze was calm beneath his anger. "I believe that salvation comes in many different forms, in many different signs that he sends…"

"But he sent_ nothing_!" His fury was rising, as was his voice, as they neared to gates which he was not allowed to cross. How dare she speak of what she knew nothing of! How dare she claim that he had sent salvation when all that he had received…all that had come to his rescue was…

"…Perhaps, in sending nothing, he allowed what you needed most, what alone could give you what you wanted at that time, to be sent by another."

He fell silent.

_What God rejects, the devil takes._

They reached the gate. Peter had little to say to Ciel, as always, and Ciel had little to say in return, to either of them. Matilda turned as she entered, gracing Ciel with one last piteous gaze.

"I am not asking you to give Him credit. Goodness knows that your life has not been an easy one, either way…but if he had simply wished to let you die, he would never have allowed the devil to come near you. Perhaps, instead of being forced to deny you passage to heaven, as you'd already rejected your faith…he preferred to give you what you wanted…at least for the short amount of time that you had left."

She glanced back through the gate, before turning her eyes back to him.

"Perhaps, if you are ever permitted to come inside, you can ask Him."

He did not respond. He watched the gate closed with pursed lips, a deep scowl, and a quiet storm in his heart.

xXx

Well…what an interesting turn of events this was. To think that his Young Master would settle for such low standards. It disappointed him, in a way, yet at the same time, he was slightly proud of the fact that his little Lord had humbled with years; had learned some humility to flavor his personality where that small pinch of spoiled gluttony had been lost…or, at least diminished. The cotton sheets were warm, but far less extravagant than the silk of the ones that he had cleaned and ironed for his Young Master years ago. The color of the paint that stained the walls was far less rich, the furnishing sparse and of cheap quality, the room itself far smaller in area than what his Young Master was used to. He sat his weight upon the small bed, his gloved hand testing the cushion and, unsurprisingly, finding it once again less comfortable than it should have been, than it used to be. Things had changed. He should have expected as much. It should not come as a surprise to him. People, things, places, feelings…all of it changed with time. There in lied his confusion, his uncertainty. Everything had changed. From the smallest details of his Young Master's living quarters to his Young Master's very nature of existence. Everything had changed. The paint, the curtains, the space, the sheets, the bed, the location…even his Young Master had changed, at least a little…so…why was it that this dreadful thing inside of him continued to make that disconcerting noise? That unnatural feeling, that disturbing sound inside of his hollow chest. Why was it there? What was it? The sound was unfamiliar and yet all too the opposite. It was much like a sound that he had heard every day during his service to the Earl of Phantomhive. So much like a rhythmic, soft sound, rapping against the bones of his ribcage as the silver hand had rapped against the shiny shell of the filigreed timekeeper…

_Tick…tock…tick…tock…_

At first, it had not bothered him. He had dismissed it, easily so, as it was small in strength, and would surely diminish with time…but…it didn't. In fact, with time, it grew in strength, in volume. An unwelcomed sound, and unwanted feeling, but one that he could not stop, no matter what he tried.

_Tick…tock…tick…tock…_

He'd crushed the fragile gift, the symbol of his service to his precious Young Master, the damnable pocket watch beneath his palm.

_Tick…tock…tick…_

He smashed every time-keeping device around him. Every machine that made that whirring, that rhythmic beat. Every piece of existence that may be making that horrible noise…

_Tick…tock…_

Nothing worked. No matter where he went, or what he destroyed. No matter how hard he pressed his palms to his ears, that sound still permeated, still existed, still wrapped it's coils tightly around his mind, his breath, his very existence with it's horrible, taunting rhythm, tearing itself from his chest, pressing against its confines with an unbelievable strength-!

_Tha-thump…tha-thump…_

Something had changed. The power had shifted, somehow, and the demon that was Sebastian Michaelis intended to discern where the change had happened, how it had come about, and how to revert things back to the way that they used to be; back to the time where he served a Master, devoured the soul, and left the body to rot upon the street, caring as little for the decaying corpse as any nameless demon would care for an insignificant piece of human filth. The only thing that he could think of to shift the power back, to regain his identity, was to face his…fear? No, no it wasn't fear, exactly. It never had been. What had it been? Doubt? Hesitation? Each of those things was caused by something. What was it that had caused him to run? To abandon his post and refuse what he had worked for for so long? Only a demon on the verge of madness would refuse a meal of such quality as Ciel Phantomhive. Perhaps he was mad? Yet he felt so sane! Then again, did humans not say that those who are mad do not realize that they are so? Did it really matter what humans said?

He was digressing again. He had to stay focused.

He had to face it, whatever it was. He had to stare once more into those fearless, mismatched eyes, and this time, do as he should. He could not run. He could not hesitate, doubt, feel. He had to lean in and rip that existence from its cozy crevice, swallow it in one bite, and be rid of Ciel Phantomhive, of Sebastian Michaelis, of this horrific throbbing in his chest once and for all. He had to…and he could. His head tilted in thought as a cool draft blew through the closed window. He momentarily considered fixing it, but that would be foolish. No doubt his Young Master would notice the sudden absence of a draft. The silence of the room was oddly heavy as he thought, as the certain subject regarding his discussion with the Undertaker washed over his thoughts. It was possible. He could do it. He could take what belonged to him, for the simple fact that it was right where he had left it. At first, he had been concerned…for his meal, of course. What demon wouldn't be? His Young Master had become a Reaper. Reapers did not have souls, did they? At least not souls that resided in their bodies…therefore, it was only normal for Sebastian to be concerned as to the whereabouts of his Young Master's soul…however, it was right where he had left it. That fact brought him joy, as well as an odd, inexplicable pang of anxiety. Why would he not be glad that it would be so easy to take when the time came? Had he hoped to have to do more work, do waste more time? No. That made no sense. He was starving, after all. It would be easy. It would have been easier if the filthy scum from the corners of London had not crawled out of the crevices, reforming their strengths to send their pawns up against his King.

The cult was reforming. It was small, and weak. Sebastian could wipe them out with a swipe of his palm…but he was still under Contract. Once more, a thought that brought him joy and anxiety. He could not move without his Master's order, yet his Master refused to acknowledge him as his servant. No matter. The seed had been planted. He could do enough until his Young Master fell to temptation, and when he fell, Sebastian would be there to catch him-

_He wanted him to fall. He wanted to catch him-_

He shook his dark head, raven locks sweeping across the pale expanse of his forehead as he stood, straightening the sheets where he had sat, his gloved hand lingering on the soft pillowcase perhaps a moment longer than it should have, as the sheets bled his scent, a sweet vanilla and Earl Grey. The glow of soft pale skin, the stark contrast of his dark ashen lock splayed across the brilliant white of the pillow (though now it was more akin to a dimmed eggshell), thin, lithe fingers clenching around the sheets as fair eyelids blanketed with long, thick lashes beat viciously back and forth in the midst of a dream, a paper-thin chest rising and falling so very gently, up and down, up and down…he could see them all now, and that pang of _something_ in his chest grew heavier, that horrible, rhythmic sound growing louder and louder as pressed his gloved palm to sheets under which his Young Master should be lying.

For a single moment in time, an imperceptibly short passing, the demon wondered whether or not he truly, unchangeably was…Sebastian.

He removed himself as soon as that empty, silent moment had passed. He could do it. He could have done it the previous night, in that bloodstained room. Why had he not? Why had he not done it ten years ago? Why had the thought of those bright eyes never opening again, that paper-thin chest never rising and falling again, that china-doll face losing what little color it had, those beautiful limbs and appendages stiffening and growing cold, that tiny, tiny, frightened butterfly of a heart never fluttering against the bars of the cage of bones that kept it trapped, never granting it's wonderful sound to Sebastian's ears again…why had the thought brought him pause? Why had it directed his actions? Why had he felt anything at all in its presence…? He could do it. He would do it.

He moved to the door, so easily intruded upon, wrapping his elegantly covered fingers about the rusting brass knob, twisting it with a soft whine that sounded disconcertingly close to the sound that had passed between his lips from his Master's ten years ago as he had stolen his consciousness, but not his life. He turned his head over his broad shoulder ever so slightly, wondering if it would be safe to return later, to see how close his imagination was to the truth of how his Young Master would appear as he slept. Had that changed as well? He certainly hoped not. The thin bands of light through the streaked window signaled the setting of the sun, the ever-too-soon return of his Young Master. He had to be off. He knew that he would not be able to erase the image of this room from his mind, of his Young Master sleeping, perhaps peacefully during the night, perhaps eternally. It would depend on what kind of dreams the demon would have that night, if he even dreamt, if he even slept.

This had to stop.

His Young Master would fall, and-

_He wanted him to fall, but he wanted to catch him, and he wanted to kiss him, but to kiss him was to kill him, but he wanted to kill him, but-!_

He swept himself out the door, closing it behind him, blocking the room from his view, and shaking his shoulders of the disgusting spider webs of thought. How troublesome it was, that something as simple as a room could bring a being such uncomfortable thoughts.


	8. The Awakening

Disclaimer: I have no ownership or claim over any of the characters of the Black Butler series. They belong to Yana Toboso.

Author's Note: Forgive me for the late update. Finals are next week. This chapter also took quite a while. It was an important moment in the story line, so I wanted to make it just right. Also, forgive the lack of Sebastian point of view so far. I hope to add more of his thoughts, but this was a Ciel-centered chapter. Then again, Ciel is the main character of this story. Still, whatever outlook you have, I hope you enjoy.

Chapter Eight: The Awakening

Silence

All that mattered was the silence, the solitude that encompassed the infinite chasm of the Grim Reaper Library. He had already made it to section G. The entrances from the surrounding building were both at least twenty-five minutes walking distance from where he was. He would not encounter anyone else, and that was all the better. He needed the solitude. He needed the silence. The noise in his head was loud enough as it were.

He use to envy Reapers, and Demons, and other immortal beings; beings that time did not control. Time was irrelevant to them. He used to believe that one year must feel like a fleeting moment to them; he had been wrong. From the day that the demon had left him, every day had passed more slowly than it ever could have when he was alive. Every unanswered call, every moment alone, abandoned, had been drawn out until the boy's sanity could no longer endure. He would not regret the choices that he had made. He had vowed, so, and would keep his word. He would not regret his choice to become timeless; to accept more of the thing was shattering his sanity…but that didn't make it any less horrible. Places, Identities, Feelings…all of that he could escape…just not time.

And not the demon.

_'Nevermore.'_

Perhaps the Raven had not refused to answer Poe's question. Perhaps, in fact, he had answered every one. Perhaps his name truly was, 'Nevermore.' Perhaps Poe had been given the same answer that Ciel had: the Raven would not respite his memories, but ensure that they haunt him until his dying day, and he would never leave his perch; forever watching him from the darkness. Perhaps Poe had meant something in his comparison between the Raven's eyes, and a demon's. Ciel's soul was still trapped within that Raven's shadow, as well. If he could not escape, then he would not make a fool of himself by trying. He was through running. If the demon had found him once, he would certainly find him again. If he was to be burdened with the demon's presence (and the crippling, nostalgic feelings that accompanied it) for his eternity, he would make the demon's existence just as miserable. He would flaunt before him what would never be his. Whatever the demon may claim would be irrelevant. Whether he claimed ownership of Ciel's soul or not, Ciel would not relent. Sebastian's blatant disregard of the boy's orders, as far as Ciel was concerned, rendered their contract null and void.

So why did it still disfigure his eye?

And why did the demon return after all this time?

There was no answer.

Only silence.

xXx

Of course William Spears was in the Library. He wouldn't be in his office, where he was every time that Ciel had scoured the Library for him. He would be in the one place that Ciel did not want him to be; and he would have the exact words to voice that Ciel did not want to hear.

"You have an assignment."

Azure clashed with saffron, equitable disgust in both. And assignment was the farthest thing from the boy's mind. He was sure to fail in his current state of mind…and Agent B29 did not fail. At the very least, that was the rumor among the other Reapers…not that their petty opinions mattered. Ciel simply did not tolerate failure. He never had. Therefore, with every new assignment from his superior came a new challenge: each more difficult than the first. An old man sent to his deathbed by illness, to a newborn child still birthed, to a man shot for money, to a child shot for nothing. Did he think to unnerve the boy with such souls? It was almost amusing…but not tonight. Nothing could distract him tonight…but it wasn't as if he could refuse. He relented, and sighing defeatedly, stepped forward. William's eyes softened to their usual sharpness, and he met Ciel's outstretched hand with a leather-bound book. Upon the cover, the name 'Joshua Garth' was written in gold filigree. Ciel opened it to a page near the back, where an invisible writer's pen flourished across the paper. There were only a few pages left. The story was almost over, and Joshua Garth's life would end with it; it was Ciel's job to ensure that it did. William's voice was intermixed with his internal thoughts, as he his lithe fingers flipped delicately through the pages of the Deathplay.

"Your target's Deathplay shortened considerably this morning;" his monotonous voice drawled. "Yesterday, it was twice that thick."

Ciel took in the information carefully. A Deathplay changing so drastically spelled mystery. Murder would have been predicted at birth and recorded, as would suicide; now, the only option was a supernatural disturbance. Perhaps a being with power in Limbo had decided to abuse it. Perhaps Grell Sutcliffe had grown bored again…or perhaps not.

"Several other Deathplays have behaved in a similar manner recently. Each occurrence seems to be connected to a certain area on the West End. Unfortunately, that was all that we could infer, as upon the deaths of the owners, the contents of their Deathplays disappeared. We have no record of what happened during the final moments of any of their lives, and their souls remain unaccounted for."

That wasn't good. The disappearance of a Deathplay's text meant that the soul itself had ceased to exist. Ciel knew of very few beings that could perform such a feat. In fact, he knew of only one. Perhaps the very subject that he was so desperate to push from his mind was the answer to his dilemma? No. He shook the thought from his mind as he read further back in the Deathplay. From what the text read, he could infer that Joshua Garth was a poor, lecherous old drunkard; far from what he had been lead to believe would make a satisfying meal for a demon. If Ciel knew anything, it was that no matter how starved Sebastian might become, he would sooner die of hunger than partake of a meal of anything less than the highest quality. That Sebastian's sudden reappearance was mysterious, the thought that he could be the culprit was out of the question; unfortunately, that still left Ciel with the question. It would figure that William would give him an assignment like this. It was apparent that his current goal in the afterlife was to find an assignment that would leave the boy stumped. The aforementioned nuisance adjusted his glasses with the tip of his Deathscythe (that damned annoying habit!) and made his orders clear.

"We would like you to investigate these occurrences…and don't be _reckless_, please."

He then turned astride, leaving the boy and his mutterings of 'from Queen's Guard dog to Reaper's Lap dog' in his wake, but tilted his head slightly after five paces to face the boy on his way out.

"Oh, and you might consider changing your attire first…"

Ciel had assumed that he had been referring to his mortician's uniform, but the sudden disgust that sharpened his golden eyes insinuated otherwise.

"…you smell like a _demon_."

xXx

Silence. It was unnerving, really. Truly unnerving, now that it was no longer his sanctuary; his solitude; _his_ silence…but had it ever really been _his_? Had _anything_ really ever been his?

He answered the taboo word; the lie that voiced itself within his mind, with _'no.'_

The wind whipped his dark coat about his ankles as he stood on the ledge that wrapped around the entirety of the third story of the old building. He leaned his shadowed form against the wall behind him to further shroud himself as he delicately fingered the fragile pages of his target's Deathplay. Rule number one of this game was 'know thy enemy,' and Ciel intended to do just that. At this very moment, his target was exiting his favorite brothel, which he frequented every other Thursday. He would take his usual route through the park (of which, from his chosen venue, Ciel had the perfect vantage point), then proceed to hail a carriage home; but he would never make it past the park. It was Ciel's mission to ensure that he didn't. It was also Ciel's mission to discover the unusual reasoning behind the mysterious behavior of the Deathplays. He would allow whatever scene would play out before him to do so, apprehend the culprit (if there was indeed a culprit to apprehend), and secure his target's soul. It was far past midnight, so there would be no witnesses out and about the streets. It would be simple, and quick. Then Ciel could turn his attention back to more pressing matters…such as the searing pain that had afflicted his right eye since his moment of return to the Undertaker's shop.

Perhaps it was better to never have felt the ecstasy of relief, than to be tortured by the pain of its end.

The pain itself was but a fleeting memory with the next passing wind, for what it brought tore Ciel's consciousness from its silent reverie. He smelled blood on the air. The wind had suddenly become chillingly cold, inwardly racking his soul with violent tremors and outwardly raising gooseflesh on his fair skin. His muscles tightened and his pupils dilated as the air grew thick around him. The wind had stopped its assault on his moonston fringe and coat's hem, and for one still moment, all the world was silent. He knew this silence; it was the calm before the storm. It was more than a simple death. It was as if time itself had stopped, as a significant presence vanished from existence. During that moment of stillness, Ciel had nearly felt the light tug of half of a breath being pulled from his lungs to mingle with the night air…and then his mottled form plummeted from the building's ledge to the street below. His boots met the pavement with a harsh sound, and then he was running as quickly as his legs could take him, visible eye scouring and fingers fumbling across the pages of the Deathplay as he went. It couldn't be possible for his target to meet his demise so soon; there had been three empty pages left in the book mere moments ago! Now, however, it was impossible to determine how many pages the Deathplay had devoured. The text throughout the entire volume had all but disappeared.

_Impossible!_

Ciel had never seen a Deathplay alter itself so quickly! What could possibly cause such a thing? Where could it have intercepted Ciel's target between the brothel and the park? He traversed the maze of empty streets, bathed in the soft, eerie glow of the street-lamps and the cloud-obscured moon. The only sound that broke the night's silence were the ragged, rhythmic breaths that he struggled to claim, and the 'clip-clap' of his shoes against the cobblestone, as of raindrops completing their journey from the heavens to the earth, until he came upon a sight that dropped a stone into his stomach. Sprawled across the street, obscured by the shadows that the street-lamps failed to disperse, was the body of his target. If Ciel remembered the streets of London as well as he thought that he did, this street was not far from the brothel. This made no sense! Had someone known of his immanent demise? Who had beaten him to the punch? There was no answer. Only silence. With his small hand poised over his holster, he surveyed his surroundings, senses alert. When no threat was detected, he made his way to the apparent corpse. Keeping his guard up, his visible eye searching the shadows, and his delicate fingers touching the handle of his pistol, for one could never be too careful in such a situation, he knelt beside the man to check his vital signs. He had less of a pulse than the Undertaker. He was certainly dead. Still, one could not be too careful. Rising once more, he retrieved his gun and used it once more to remove his eye patch. Dead or not, he was still a plenty useful target to a Reaper. Without hesitation, he took aim and fired into the still body. The glow of his target was absent, but the body had still produced what Ciel had worked for: the Cinematic Record; the entire recorded history of a human's life; the evidence by which the Reapers judged their target's fate. It spiraled upward, clawing and climbing toward the heaven's from the bullet's point of entry. Ciel knelt down beside the body once more to examine the transparent reel, and scowled at what it revealed: the Cinematic Record was blank. If both the Cinematic Record and the text of the Deathplay had been erased, it could only mean one thing; the soul was no longer here. Unfortunately, it was not a simple question of finding where it had gone. It simply no longer existed. How did a soul simply disappear?

Once more, his answer came on the wind. It blew down the cobblestone street with an eerie chill, and carried with it a horrific, inhuman howl, indescribable save for the stroke of sheer terror and panic that it sent through the child's body. Inhuman was far from accurate…this sound was unlike any of a creature of this world. The very sound invoked an onslaught of emotions (fear, panic, despair) that were of such strength that they could swallow a human whole…fortunately, Ciel was no longer human. Unfortunately, being as young a Reaper as he was, he was not yet strong enough to completely resist it. He felt the strong urge to vomit as his instincts struggled to take control and flush out the intruding emotions. His senses heightened and he swallowed the invocations, forcing the involuntary feelings down his throat. His eyes locked onto the area that the wind was coming from: the end of the road in the direction that he had been facing. From the sound that the wind had carried, there was obviously some kind of creature lurking in the darkness; it must be his target's attacker, and from what he could make of it, it didn't sound terrestrial. He attempted to stand, but found that his body had become like lead. Was this his culprit's power? From his kneeling position, he watched as the shadows that had shrouded his surrounding seeped out of the alleys and stretched in frightful lurches across all that it encountered, swallowing the dim light of the street-lamps as it advanced toward him, with speed as the wind. It streaked over panes of glass and windows like ice in winter, and clawed its way upward, across walls of buildings and around posts of street-signs, rendering Ciel's insightful eye useless in the dark. As it neared enough to kiss his face with the despair that had failed to invade his essence, his pupils dilated and his body jerked back into motion. He willed the heaviness away enough to lift his gun, aim, and fire into the emptiness. What followed horrified him. As his bullet flew, the darkness seemed to dissipate, if only for a moment; there was a small circle of sight of what lay beyond the darkness that had advanced, as the area around the bullet swirled and expanded, as if in evasion. Then the darkness was upon him. It filled his lungs and seeped into his skin, knocking him backward in its strength and striking his head against the ground. A flash of white passed his eyes before the black returned, bringing with it a pressure upon his body from all angles. Enveloped in the darkness, the howling had ceased, and was replaced by a strange, incoherent humming, much like the sound of water rushing in one's ears. His gun-toting hand had limited movement, and he used it to the best of his ability, yet no matter how many rounds he shot, the presence avoided them in much the same manner as before. He had been told that a Reaper's Deathscythe could penetrate anything; perhaps he simply wasn't using enough firepower…

He willed the weapon that he desired to his mind's eye, and his Deathscythe obeyed his orders. The familiar power coursed down his arm, and coiled around his wrist. The light that the transformation emitted pierced the darkness momentarily, and in mere seconds, the six-cylindrical-chambered revolver had been replaced with a fully automatic machine pistol. Such was the power of a Grim Reaper. Each had a different taste in weapons, and a different choice of how to wield them. Ciel's particular Deathscythe could change its make-up at will, taking the form of any firearm that he wished. Perhaps it was a bit advanced for a Reaper of his age…but such were the perks of being close to the most respected Grim Reaper to ever walk the halls of the Library. Once again silently thanking the Undertaker for his influence, he began a new assault on his invisible attacker. He fired multiple rounds, but little more than the sparks emitted from the shots broke the darkness. He began to feel suffocated, and cursed his ineptitude. It would be useless to transform his weapon again. A grenade-launching bazooka wouldn't help him if he had nowhere to aim. How could he hit a target that had no form? It was at that moment that the realization of why he was missing his target hit him: it wasn't that he was missing his attacker's body. His attacker _had_ no body. His attacker was not in the darkness, or even outside of it where he aimed.

His attacker _was_ the darkness.

What madness was this? What kind of attacker could have no form? His struggles froze as some sound intermixed with the humming in his ears. It was accompanied by the feeling of a cool breath on his left ear, and a stronger pressure atop his chest and shoulders, as if something was leaning over him in an attempt to whisper in his ear. The voice that spoke was unlike any that he had ever heard; it was more of a feeling than a sound, as though the creature were speaking to him through his spirit, and not the physical world. It spoke with a hiss, and what Ciel could only interpret as ecstasy.

"…_You…smell **delicious**…"_

The boy could not have been further baffled. He momentarily considered the possibility that he had misheard what had been spoken, and then, quite suddenly, it all fell into place: the disappearance of souls, the inability of the Deathplays to predict death, the speed at which the attacker had beat Ciel to the punch, the ability of his attacker to change form, and the very nature of the creature were all thrust upon the young Reaper with those three simple words.

His attacker was a _demon_.

How foolish he had been in dismissing the possibility! While it rang true that Sebastian would not settle for a meal of inferior quality, that did not guarantee that no demon would settle for a low-quality meal…or a few of them. The Cinematic Records and Deathplays had been erased because the souls had disappeared! They had been devoured by a demon! William had crossed the line this time, and his purposeful endangerment set a fire within him. Could William have known? No…he wasn't fond of Ciel, but he would never take such action! He would have sent bigger fish to tackle this prey had he known. It took Ciel a few more moments to realize that, according to the demon's words, it appeared to be planning on making the boy his next meal…another moment brought with it the realization that it _could._ His soul was still in his body. His struggles began anew as what was only a partly solid hand grasped him by the throat, and he felt the familiar sting of panic and disgust in both his mind and his marked eye at the physical contact of another. His heart leapt into his throat at the realization. His marked eye! The contract with Sebastian remained…did that mean that this demon could not take him if it tried? The mark was also burning…could that mean that Sebastian could…? His own thoughts strangled themselves. No. Even if it would save his life, he would not call for him. As if by the most ironic twist of fate, the hand reached up and removed his eye patch with a feral hiss.

"_You…you're __**marked**__…"_ the voice snarled. However, after what Ciel inferred had been a closer examination, the voice regained its grim glee. _"…but…your bond…is __**weak**__."_ Ciel could almost feel the creature smile. _"He'll…never…notice…"_

Weak? He relented. It must be, after what had occurred. Could it be possible that this demon could take his soul despite his contract? Had he even a soul to take anymore? He was a Reaper! They did not retain their souls! Did they? The only plausible answer was such to more than one question. He finally realized how Sebastian had found him. He resolved that he had a few questions for the Undertaker upon his return…if he returned. He suddenly felt a pressure seize his lungs, and as his instincts told him that the demon had leaned forward toward him, he caught sight of two golden eyes glowing in the darkness before his face. Without a moment's hesitation, he hefted his weapon and fired. The bullet split the darkness directly between the devil's eyes, but it did not appear injured. In fact, it appeared as though it was angered by the action. Another barely solid hand joined the other around his throat, and he felt the darkness fill his lungs again. His vision began to fade as he gasped for oxygen, and found only darkness. Could he truly fight no more? Had he met an opponent that he could not defeat? Was this the end of the game?

No.

_His voice screamed out in his mind, his heart, his soul._

This wasn't the end. Not yet. Not here. Not like this.

_Perhaps the King could not defeat another piece alone…_

He would not hesitate. He never had. He would use whatever was at his disposal to survive. He always had. How had he forgotten that?

…_but another piece, perhaps…_

A demon such as this had no claim to his soul; did not deserve it. The only kind of demon that deserved such a feast would be faster, smarter, stronger. He would have more self-control; more restraint than any other being in all of existence could dream of. He would be cunning, manipulative, sadistic, possessive, infallible, and achingly beautiful.

…_for what is a game without pawns?_

He would be…

_He would not surrender. He would not die at such hands. He would give his soul to no one. No one except…_

"_**SEBASTIAAAAN!"**_


	9. The Answer

Disclaimer: I have no ownership of anything affiliated with the Black Butler series. They belong to Yana Toboso.

Author's Note: I find myself developing a slight problem. I seem to find myself avoiding updating this one, for some reason. Perhaps I don't feel like writing? Yet, I can't leave everyone who is on the edge of their seats waiting now, can I? Even a busy, busy bee has to play his part in the hive. Though, a little encouragement may help me, if those of you who are willing to would be so kind as to review. I find myself unhappy with the scanty amount of reviews I seem to be getting as I go on. I would like to hit one-hundred reviews by the end of this story, if that is not too much to ask.

Either way, I have pushed myself to update this chapter quickly, as I know what a cliffhanger it was. A few things should become clearer here, especially regarding Sebastian's current motives and feelings. I do apologize for the fact that this chapter is a bit short, but I wanted to do a chapter singularly from Sebastian's point of view. I wished to post this chapter, 'The Answer' in regards to the previous chapter, 'The Question,' and if I were to include Sebastian actually saving Ciel in this chapter, I would have had to use the title of the next chapter, which will be called 'The Rescue.' That being said, we are nearing the end, my friends. Please enjoy, until then.

Chapter 9: The Answer

'_I don't need you.'_

Words that no butler ever wants to hear. Yet, he was not simply a butler. He was one hell of a butler, and he was of hell before he was butler, and creatures of hell should care not for such words from an insignificant, weak, diminutive _human._ Yet…his Young Master was not insignificant, or diminutive, and he most certainly was not weak…at least not to him…and neither was he himself simply of hell. Whichever came first, he was both of hell, and a butler. One hell of a butler. He could be neither one nor the other singularly…at least, not until his Contract with the little Lord was finished.

He would not think of that now.

Those words had bothered him. No, 'bothered' was not the correct term. The appropriate term evaded him at the moment. It was a word that danced dangerously close to the line of _human_ emotion, and that brought bile rising from his throat. He would not speak it. If he spoke it, it may become true. If only he could stop other things from becoming true simply by speaking them. If he could, his Master would be purely human. He would walk straight and proud through the silent halls of the Phantomhive Manor. He would have afternoon tea in the garden, guilty attempting to make the sweets that his butler had made for the snack last, as not to appear as though he enjoyed them too much. He would sit so very still, little arms raised at his sides to allow the butler to properly dress him for whatever occasion was necessary, paper-thin chest rising and falling, dusting that delicious scent over the demon's face as he fingered open brass buttons one by one by one, slowly, agonizingly so, that frightened little butterfly of a heartbeat thrashing its wings erratically against the fragile cage of bones just beneath alabaster skin revealed button by button by button-

…Ah. His thoughts were displacing themselves again. It was not as if he was ashamed of these thoughts. After all, he was a demon, an epitome of sin and temptation, and creatures with only a touch of these vices in comparison to himself had not been able to overcome their desires, had bruised the pretty ivory skin, dirtied it with their filthy hands and fingers and lips, intruded with their flesh upon what was once a most holy, pure, pristine temple, one that should have been reserved for the demon alone. They had left their marks, their scents, their seed upon him, within him. They had tasted his meal…and for that, Sebastian had killed them. For giving the boy the taste of salt and tears and blood and sweat and despair, and what a little, little boy should never have to taste, he killed them. He had killed them for it, because the little, little boy had told him to. Yet, as adamant as he was about the fact that humans were far worse creatures than those of hell, he was no better than them in his quiet thoughts, in his sadistic nature, in his shadowed desires. Temptation. What a careless child he was. Had his parents never told him not to tempt the devil? The child was so very, very foolish, so very careless, to let his guard down around a demon as much as he had during that time…and he had not done it because he had trusted the demon. He had not done it because he had felt anything at all for the creature…he had done it because he was sure. Had done it because he was a pompous, haughty, unwavering, unafraid child.

He wanted that child back.

He wanted his Young Master back.

He was still within his reach, barely. He could hear it, smell it, feel it, see it, taste it, just out of his reach, at the tips of his clawed, gloved fingers, and the tip of his tongue. He would take him, and break him, and show him exactly what had been tucking him into bed ten years ago. He would not falter this time. He would lie him down upon the cold stone, lost on the Isle of those who had passed on, too deep in the thickets of forest to ever find his way out, and this time, he would not pause to run his fingers over the porcelain skin, he would not take the time to appreciate what he had fought so hard to protect. He would devour him…ah…but, perhaps, before that, he would give the boy a taste of the sweetest poison that he'd ever had. As wonderful a prize as his soul was, this child had put him to the most difficult tasks of his life, and while he could not deny that he had enjoyed the challenge, and even that he had enjoyed the little quirks about his Master and his personality that caused him to challenge the demon so, he found himself wondering if it was really too much to ask for one more prize? One more small thing to ask of the boy? Perhaps he would be more willing to give it if the demon asked, instead of tooktooktook like those filthy humans…but…would it really matter? Would he not take it, if the boy bade him not to? He was a demon, and that pale white skin and those birdcage bones and those thin, china-doll limbs extended toward him, those soft lips that he had only ever tasted once, that were the sweetest thing that he had ever tasted in all of his solitary millennia…

Would he wish to let the boy leave the world fearing the act? Or would he wish to, in taking his prize, give the child one last parting gift? Would he wish to expel the fears and inhibitions, to show the child that such a thing could be more than horrific and painful? Could be the most wonderful thing that he had ever experienced…?

…Was that even a question that needed an answer? He…he was…a demon. Why…did the thought of showing mercy to a human, to a human that he planned to devour…even surface in his mind?

Why had he ever found such questions, such contradictions coming to mind? Under the fireworks, as marble wings crumbled symbolically from his shoulders, his Master had put himself in danger. He had tested him, and it always made him angry when his Master put himself in danger, because he was putting his meal in danger, but he was not angry then. He should have wanted to strike him, to chastise him. Instead, he had wanted to kiss him…and he had come so very, very close.

That afternoon on the Chinaman's boat, when his Master had doubted his choices, when that damnable Detective had given the boy pause with his honest care for him and his self-sacrificing nature…his Master was in danger. He should have wanted to protect him, and he did…but…what was so wrong with killing two birds with one stone? Was it just as easy to kill one Detective with one sword? He had wanted to protect his Master, but he had wanted to keep him, as well. He had sacrificed the Detective to do so, knowing that his Master would be angry, but not being able to stop himself, nonetheless. If he had saved the man, he may have lost his Master, not physically, but spiritually, emotionally, forever. Had he just been protecting his meal?

That night on the Tower Bridge, when there had been feathers and talons and ghosts and blood and the Angel, and _'close your eyes, please'_ because he did not want his Master to remember him as anything but Sebastian, and he had closed his eyes and he had wanted so very badly to kiss him...and then it had been over. His Young Master, his very strong, very weak Young Master hung helpless, dangling above his demise, and Sebastian had truly been proud in that moment. Proud of his Young Master's will, and power, and strength, and another emotion was slowly seeping in, sinking its claws deep within the demon's shallow, not-so-hollow chest, for that night was the night that that awful sound had started, in that moment, _tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump_…and then he had fallen…no. He…had let himself fall. It was over. He should have enjoyed his Lord's submission. For so many years, he had wanted him to fall, and that night atop the bloodied bridge, he still had.

He wanted him to fall…but he wanted to catch him.

What was he to do? To let him fall, to catch him? To kiss him, to kill him? To keep him, to break him, to hold him, to hurt him? He was a demon. So he let him fall…

…and then he dove in after him.

He had placed him in the boat, and wrapped his fragile fingers in his bloodied palm, and carried him for one last time in his arms, and stroked his precious face and removed that cursed cover over his mark, because he wanted to see it, and stared into wide, fearless eyes as he leaned in, and he had kept his human form, because even in the face of death, the child would not close his eyes, and he did not want the child to die knowing him, remembering him, as a monster, as anything but his butler, as anything but 'Sebastian,' and he wanted to kiss him, but to kiss him was to kill him, but he was a demon, and so he kissed him...

...but he did not...could not...kill him.

…He…was a demon…and…a butler…?

Or…was he a butler…and a demon?

Or…was he simply..._ eternally-_

"_**Sebastiaaaaaaaaaaaaan!"**_

He could see it, smell it, taste it..._feel it_…_hear it._ _He could hear it. His Young Master was awake._

…_He must go to him._

He felt the wretched, wonderful pull at his Contract, and he did not even have the time to pause, to enjoy the shudder that wracked his spine at the force of the command, the sound of his voice as it had once been, so strong, so sure. To suck in the cold air around him, to close his shining eyes and lick his dry, dry lips and smell his Master's sweet, sweet blood on the air…

He did not have time for any of that. A smile spread across his pale, angled face, wide and gleaming and sharp and malicious and gleeful, and then he was moving. His feet could not get him there fast enough. Not even his wings would be quick enough. Therefore, he travelled with the shadows, moving from one to the other seamlessly, in the forest one moment, in the fields the next, in the city in the fraction of a second. He would make it. Whatever his Young Master needed from him, he would give it. Whatever he demanded, the demon would do. Faster and faster, fangs and feathers and talons at the speed of darkness, anticipant and desperate and overjoyed in a most dangerous manner. His eyes were glowing and his claws were bared and his fangs were dripping and that horrible, horrible noise was so fast, so loud, so painfully consuming…

…and he would answer its call, answer _his_ call, and he would be summoned, and appear, and serve, and never lie, and protect him and save him and let him fall and catch him and keep him and break him and hold him and hurt him and kiss him and _kill_ him and bow and smile politely and put his hand over that _horrible throbbing thing in his chest _and 'YesMyLordYesMyLordYesMyLord-'

"_Yes…My Lord."_


	10. The Rescue

Disclaimer: I own nothing affiliated with the Black Butler series. Everything belongs to Yana Toboso.

Author's Note: I am terribly sorry for the late update. I have been incredibly busy, but I assured you all that I will continue this story, and so I shall. Hopefully, my next update will be sooner. I do hope you all enjoy. I will update as soon as I can, I promise. Thank you all for your patience.

Chapter Ten: The Rescue

Silence.

It was…unnerving. It…should not be silent. He…he should be here. Had…had he been wrong? Perhaps it was too late. Perhaps Sebastian was not coming for him. Perhaps it didn't matter anymore to the demon, whether Ciel lived, or died; whether he devoured him or not. Perhaps he had returned for a completely different reason. Yet, hadn't the Undertaker told him that his soul was still inside his body? What else could the demon have come for…? Yes. What else, but his soul? It didn't matter now. Nothing mattered now. He knew that he should feel anger, or sadness, or regret, but he didn't. He couldn't. All that he could feel was the sharp claws, piercing the dark fabric of his coat, the thin veil of his vest to tear open the flimsy layers of skin that did little to protect the human body. He was not afraid. He would not die, he could not. He wasn't human anymore. Even if he were maimed, beaten, burned, drowned, strangled, crushed. Nothing could kill him anymore…but…

A frightening thought broke the boy's consciousness, awakening in him a feeling that he had not felt for years. A feeling much like the sharp little nails at his chest reaching past the skin and bone, and what little muscle he had, to scrape lightly against his heart. Fear. He…hadn't felt fear in so long. A part of him felt a thrill at the recollection of a feeling lost. Most Reapers would be jealous of such a thing. And yet, a part of him wished it away. Any feeling but fear, because if he was afraid, then he would not make it out of this alive…because it may be possible that he could die here. His attacker wasn't some Opium-addicted blowhard with a flimsy handgun who asked dead people stupid questions. His attacker was a demon. A demon could do what a human could not: reach past the confines of the human body, overstep the boundaries of physicality to grasp something that truly could be considered a human's very life. To most Reapers, this wouldn't matter…but…but Ciel was different. The Undertaker had not been able to remove his soul, as it had still had a bind on it by another creature. His soul was still inside of his body. That did not mean that a human could kill him, oh no. Only a creature that could access his very soul would be able to cause him any damage, if they wished it…unfortunately for him, the demon atop him could do so. He felt its hot breath ghosting over his face harshly. He could almost see its nostrils flare as it inhaled the sweet, savory scent of is soul. Its maw was dripping, and there was a pair of bright, vicious eyes gleaming in the darkness that was the creature, and the little Reaper's heart was thrumming against the devil's nails, and his mismatched gaze felt hot, and all that he could think of was SebastianSebastianSebastian.

Regret. Remorse. Pain. Sorrow. Fury. Hatred.

…Love. Unrequited, but Love all the same.

A bitter smile stretched his pale, childish features. A delicious meal for a demon. At least all of Sebastian's work wouldn't go to waste. At least his soul was worth something…to someone. Anyone.

Silence. There was silence, ringing through the air and calming his nerves and strangling his senses. His mouth was dry, and a pit was rising from his stomach to his throat, but he was not afraid, because this was the silence that was the most…familiar…to him? He…he knew this silence…this…this was not the silence of peace, of acceptance, of death. This was not the silence that graced the leaving of one's existence from the world. This was not the silence of the end. It…was the opposite. It was the silence of the beginning. It was the silence not of peace, of tranquility, but of tension, destruction, apprehension. It was the silence that filled the air moments before the destruction of the storm occurred…

The wind rushed through the air, seeming to lift his soul with it. There was a force in that wind…a dark force, powerful and destructive. He knew not why, but he felt as though it were seeking him. He felt as though he were the target of whatever was hiding in that darkness, that force, that destruction. The demon above him seemed to sense the danger as well. It tensed, digging its claws deeper into his skin, earning a soft groan of pain from the boy as it hissed, the formless mass of darkness shifting and swirling violently at the intrusion of the wind. Its attention seemed to be directed in a single direction, but Ciel barely had the strength to turn his head to see what or who the devil was glaring at. He could feel something, he could feel what he couldn't hear, see, touch. He could feel a danger…a violent, furious threat. It sent a chill down his spine. Such anger on this wind. Such fury. Desperation…and then he heard something. It was muffled by the darkness that suffocated him, but nonetheless he heard it…and muffled or not, he could not mistake that voice.

"…Pardon my intrusion, but would you kindly take your filthy claws off of my Young Master?"

Sebastian. He came.

_He came._

Ciel turned his head to the side, a newfound strength swelling within him. He would live. If Sebastian was here, he would live. He saw what the devil had been looking for. It was blurred by his hazy gaze and the darkness, but it was a figure. Tall, dark, sharp and thin, blackblackblack with redredred eyes. It looked…just a tad different from Sebastian…he couldn't make out the familiar tails of the butler's coat, or the starkly white gloves that contrasted all of that black. He seemed…sharper. His limbs and his hands, so black and extended and sharp…claws. Sebastian had claws. He could see their shapes from here. He had seen those claws before, felt them on his skin, wiping away his tears and blood, cupping his face more gently than even his parents. And his shoes…they weren't the dress shoes that he normally saw Sebastian wearing. They were sharp, too. Ciel had seen these shoes before, too. He'd heard the tell-tale click-clack, click-clack of the heels, splashing over the blood and sweat and other disgusting fluids that he was drowning in on the cobblestone, kicking lightly against the iron, rusted bars as he knelt down to see his sallow, tear-stained face…

He nearly chuckled. How ironic, that he should by lying on his back, bleeding, like he had upon the alter. Of course the demon would come to him now. It didn't matter. He had come. Ciel could feel his gaze meet the demon's. It was burning, fiery as the pits of hell, but it softened to an indescribable warmth as it met his own. How reassuring, like calming a child. He nearly laughed again, but his fascade was far too serious for that at the moment. His gaze was cold in response, burning with a fire of ice, determination. His voice was stronger than it should have been, coming from a raw, dry throat and chapped, bloodstained lips.

"…You're_ late._"

A dark chuckle escaped the lips of the once-butler. He may have been smiling. Ciel wasn't sure. His stance was ever so Sebastian-esque, and it made Ciel feel calm.

"My deepest apologies, Young Master. Though, in my defense, you took your time summoning me."

Ciel scoffed, and it appeared to upset the demon above him, whether for the careless way that the two seemed to be ignoring the entity, or the fact that Ciel did not seem to be frightened at all anymore. He dug his claws in deeper, another pained whimper escaping the Reaper's bloodied lips, and Ciel could feel the tamed demon tense from even so far away. He grit his teeth. Sebastian could not act without Ciel's order, and so he turned his gaze once more to his former servant, and made his decision. It was die, or continue living. That was all. It was a rather easy choice for him…it always had been.

"…T-then…what are you w…waiting for…?"

His gaze flashed dangerously, his lips pulled back in a snarl, his Contract shining bright.

"…K-kill it….s…save me…"

The devil smirked back at him. He could nearly see it. His gaze was soft, but underneath, there was a shadow of the demon that Ciel had always known.

"…you know the words that I need to hear, Young Master."

The demon above was snarling, ferocious and carnal, and Ciel couldn't understand what it was saying, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was his survival. For himself, or for someone else, that was all that mattered. That had always been the only thing that mattered. His pretty lips parted, the night air cold to skin as the blood seeped in, and for the first time…his voice broke the silence.

"…It's…an _order_…"

xXx

He could not clearly recall the last time that he had felt quite so…_angry_.

To see the talons of another demon breaking that porcelain skin, another devil's tongue lapping at the sweet essence of his prey's blood, another pair of gleaming eyes gazing down on his flushed, broken form, another pair of black hands holding him to the ground, smothering, stealing, _tasting_…

He felt…quite angry at the moment.

So much so that he barely realized when he was being addressed by his Young Master, and not the demon. Ah, his Young Master. How wonderful it felt to know that that was true again. To know that his Young Master had called for him, that his Young Master was depending on him, that his Young Master's life was in his hands, that his Young Master was looking at him, speaking to him, giving him an order…

…and, _oh_, he would follow it. He would follow that bright, determined gaze, filled with fury and everything that made his Young Master his Young Master to the end of this world, and the next. But first…he would have to take care of the beast that was snarling at him from atop his possession. His glare darkened, his pupils narrowing to dangerous slits at the old language that the creature was using. It would seem that this particular demon was quite old…and corrupted. Always searching, always hungry, never satisfied. Poor thing. He would have to put it out of its misery, once it ceased its incessant threats.

_"**NO**! No, **go away**! You **left** him! You don't **want** him anymore, he's **mine** now!"_

With each word, its talons dug a slight bit deeper into his Young Master's chest. Why was it, he wondered, that with every soft sound of pain from his Little Lord, he felt as though the demon were digging his claws into his own chest?

"…I beg your pardon, but I can assure you that you are mistaken."

His smile spread wide, anything but condescending as his gaze fell to the writhing boy on the bloodied cobblestone.

"…I want _nothing_ so much as I desire _him_."

What did he want from that boy at this moment? His soul? His body? He wasn't certain. The only thing that he was certain of was that the horrible, bloodcurdling ticking in his chest was so disgustingly loud right now…he would do whatever he had to do to stop it…and he knew exactly what that was. The demon above the young Reaper snarled once more, and lunged for him…and he smiled. He was ready and itching for it. He couldn't wait to show this demon of old exactly what happened to those who dared to stand between he, and his meal…especially a meal of such caliber…especially that particular boy.

The demon was quite slow, his attacks rather easy to dodge. Its claws were dull in comparison to his, but the suffocating darkness proved to be a problem. It was rather difficult to see, and he was lucky that he had no need to breathe, or he would have been in a pinch. However, he had fought demons in worse darkness, with less form, and he knew exactly what to do to tear this creature limb from limb. As he fought, the demon's words, the Undertaker's words ran through his mind.

"_He's **mine** now!" _

No. No, he was not. He never was. He never would be.

_A dark kind of smile lit the pale, half-hidden face. "I couldn't remove it, demon. Hard as I tried, the bindings were too strong. Fond as I am of that boy, it wasn't my place to take him. He wasn't mine to take. He still isn't. He's yours. He's always been yours."_

Quick blocks and sharp cuts. Ferocious snarls, coming from both demons. He found himself growing more angry and feral by the moment. He couldn't recall the last time he'd felt so…demonic. So…desperate. Ah, but that last part was a lie, and he didn't tell lies. He recalled all too well the last time he'd felt desperate, desperate enough to run from the only thing in this world that he'd wanted. Why? Why had he run? Why could he not answer himself? Was there no answer to his question, or was he simply denying the answer to himself? Had he been unnerved by the emotion that he had tasted on his lips? Had he been frightened by the undeniable, unbreakable, unconditional, unrequited feeling that humans wrote tales upon tales of? Dreamed of, longed for, based their entire existence on?

"_Why have you truly returned, demon? Have you come to devour that boy after all these years…? …Or…?"_

Or. That horrible word. It was always the question that he could never answer. To let him fall, or catch him? To kiss him, or to kill him? To devour him, or-_or, or, or_-?

His blows became harder, faster, his snarls more ferocious. He realized that he was letting himself go a bit too much, that he was taking his anger and frustration out on this other demon, but he didn't care. He needed more anger, more victims, more blood. Two dark entities mingled, and the cries that broke the quiet night air were inhuman. These were not cries of living creatures. It was as if all of hell was shrieking its loudest, with every voice of every soul that it held trapped.

"_He's waiting for you, you know. He doesn't plan to let you have him now…though somehow, I doubt that he has crushed his emotions completely. Especially for you. You've always enjoyed a challenge, butler, so I hope that you're prepared~"_

He wasn't. He wasn't prepared to be here, to do this. One glance to the side, at that frail body struggling for breath on the bloodied cobblestone, at that shining azure ocean, refusing to diminish in its fire, refusing to die, and he knew that he was not prepared to devour him, because that horrible throbbing in his chest was stronger than it had ever been at that moment. He was not prepared to devour him. He was not prepared to let him fall, or break him, or take him, or hurt him…

…but he was prepared to catch him. He was prepared to keep him, to hold him, to help him, to serve him, to save him, to _kiss him…_

An inhuman snarl emerged from the shapeless mass' ferocious maw as it lunged forward.

_...to protect him._

Its neck was met with sharp, extended claws from long, stiff fingers, the owner of which had his fangs bared and his feathers ruffled. His eyes were gleaming dangerously, and without any hesitation whatsoever, the creature's neck was snapped, and its formless body fell limp in the butler's strong hold. He dropped it with a disgusted scoff, wiping his hands of the black blood that would surely stain his uniform. His white gloves were back in place, a second skin as much as was the tailcoat that followed as he made his way through the darkness, toward the place on the cobblestone on which lie a frail, thin, beautiful little prey that was ever so good at hiding. He had hoped that he had been awake to watch the show, but he was most certainly unconscious. Perhaps he had lost too much blood? As a Reaper, he should be fine, shouldn't he? He knelt down next to the shivering, cold body, drenched in the blood that ran down in beautiful rivulets from the deep gashes in his paper-thin chest. He ran his fingers over each and every wound, staining his gloves and resisting the urge to lap up the sweet liquid like a pitiful dog. He leaned down, pressing palm gently to the torn skin, searching for something that he found all too quickly, that sent a rush of unbelievable relief through him. He found the sound, soft and less frequent than he'd hoped, but it was there.

A weak, barely audible rhythm. Like rain on the cobblestone. Like claps of thunder ringing through the darkness of his heart. Like that damnable timepiece, always a part of him, even after it had been lost.

_Tha-thump…tha-thump…_

_Tick-tock…tick-tock…_

It matched his own so terribly that it ached, that it wired through him a strong sense of something that he had never felt before encountering this child. He lifted to boy nostalgically in his arms, making to take him home. He wished that he could stay like this forever. Hold him like this forever. He buried his lips in that moonlit ashen dust, inhaling the sweetest scent he'd ever known, his voice softer than a whisper as he smiled into his content.

"…Welcome back…Young Master."


	11. The Morning

Disclaimer: I have no claim to any of the affiliations of the Black Butler series. They belong to Yana Toboso.

Author's Note: I deeply apologize for the amount of time it has taken me to update. I was cast as the lead in a show, and it has taken up quite a bit of my time. I promise that I will not forget this story, and that it will be finished relatively soon. Thank you to all of those that have followed it so far. Please enjoy.

Chapter Eleven: The Morning

It was warm. It was warmer than he could ever remember it being, and he could not recall where he was, or why he was there, but he could not have cared less in that moment. He knew all that he needed to know; he knew that he was warm, and he knew that he was safe. In this place, there was nothing. There was no murder, and there were no angels, and there were no demons. There was only silence. It was not unnerving in the least. It was not the silence that he was most familiar with. He did not feel as though something would interrupt this silence, or as if some indescribable terror and destruction would follow. This was not the silence that proceeded the coming of the storm…

…this was the silence that followed it.

The air was calm, and quiet, and he was asleep. The destruction had come and gone, and the young child cradled by the arms of darkness felt relief at last; felt as if everything was finally over. There was no one else here but himself, and nothing else in this world existed save for his soul…his soul. A realization dawned on him, and he vaguely wondered if perhaps he truly knew where he was after all. Perhaps Sebastian had finally finished his duty, and Ciel was now cradled within the demon's stomach, forever to become a piece of the puzzle that was Sebastian's existence. He felt a weak sense of both relief and hollow emptiness at the thought. It had been what he had wanted from the beginning…right? He had one regret. He had died with one regret…but it didn't seem to matter now. He resigned himself to believe that he truly was dead now, and as he accepted this fact, he felt the emptiness edge away into a calm contentment. He could have cried, if he had been less exhausted. It was over, it was finally over, and a soft sound now permeated the darkness around him, and he knew by the unfamiliar familiarity of it that he was indeed one with his demon at last. It was a quiet sound, weak in its nature but steady in its rhythm; it fell into time with his own so much that he had to question whether it truly was Sebastian's heart now, or his own…perhaps they were one in the same now. That made him happy. He couldn't remember the last time that he had been happy.

Yet, if he was dead, than should he not have a heartbeat at all? It didn't matter. He didn't care enough to think on such things. He only cared to keep his eyes closed and his head resting against whatever cradled it so gently, and to keep listening to that gentle, soothing rhythm…like raindrops on the cobblestone…if this was his eternity…

He didn't believe that it would be so bad.

xXx

His Young Master was lighter than he remembered. He wondered vaguely if he had simply forgotten after so many years how that thin, frail body felt curled against his, hefted up in his arms, or if the boy had truly lost weight during his years as a Reaper. Reapers did not have to eat as much as humans, after all, but the thought still worried him. Ever a butler, it appeared he would be. The walk was not long, but that may have been because his attention was focused more on the sleeping, peaceful boy in his arms than on the road or even their destination. They arrived at the familiar lodging shortly, and the bell at the door made no sound as they entered. The Undertaker was waiting in a chair in the first room, watching the door, and Sebastian knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he had known all along, that he had been waiting all along. He gave his a curt nod, which the Mortician returned with a toothy grin. No words were exchanged, as none were needed, and the demon with his bundle in arms headed up the rotting stairwell to the door at the end of the short hallway. That simple room with its simple furnishings, and his Young Master's scent on every last inch of fabric and wood and glass.

The sun would not rise for at least another few hours, and he would make good use of that time as any butler would. He moved to the small bed, and gently laid his little Lord down on the off-white sheets, scowling lightly at how very dirty they seemed for the boy to be laying on. He wished for his Master to only touch the cleanest of the pure; nothing should taint him. Nothing should sully or sour the taste of his skin, his blood, his soul. He sighed, pursing his lips as he stepped back. The sheets would have to do for the moment, as the more important matter to attend to was the multiple gashes on the youth's chest that had stained the front of his uniform. The blood was still seeping from the dark fabric, and the butler leaned forward to gently remove the clothing, earning a half-aware whine of pain from the boy. He felt a twinge of guilt, knowing full well that he could have prevented the attack…but the boy had not called for him. He had always been one to put himself in danger, and Sebastian had never been able to deny that he found a small hint of pleasure in the boy's suffering, so long as it was fleeting. This type of wound was not fleeting. Reapers had a reputation for healing from injuries quickly, but these wounds were deep, and they had been caused by a demon. With clean clothes, antiseptic, and fresh bandages from the cabinets downstairs, the butler made quick, gentle work of the wounds, cleaning away every last drop of blood (and resisting the temptation to do so with his tongue) before wrapping the boy's chest effectively without making them uncomfortably tight.

Once the child's upper half had been properly examined and treated, the demon moved the remove the rest of the boy's clothing. Nothing else seemed to be damaged, save for a slight swelling of his frail ankle, which the demon promptly wrapped, iced, and elevated. The rest of his injuries seemed to have been small enough to have healed on the short walk to the Mortuary, and the butler was glad for it. Wounds such as these would more than likely heal within a few days, but his Young Master would have to stay off of his feet. White-gloved hands pulled the thin sheet conservatively and respectfully over his Master's exposed form; it was nothing that he had not seentouchedtasted before, but modesty was one of his Lord's more endearing qualities, and the devil had had more than his fair share of temptation tonight. He moved a small wooden chair from the hallway into the room, and sat gingerly next to the boy's bedside, with little else to do but sit and stay, like a good dog, until his Master awoke. His thoughts wandered far and wide for an incomprehensible amount of time as he stared down into the boy's pale brow and parted lips. He appeared weary, even in his sleep, and this worried the demon…but he also appeared as relaxed as he had ever seen him. He had always been so peaceful when he slept. The curve of his cheekbone had grown sharper; a minute difference, but one that Sebastian noticed all the same. His skin was still soft, with a pale glow and a flawless complexion. His dark ashen locks still shined with a light tone of azure in the correct light, and the realization of this brought the demon's gaze to the dirtied window above the bed, where sunlight had begun to creep over the horizon and over the old wooden frames, streaking through the ruddy glass to cast a ghostly shadow over his Master's face. He was surprised with how quickly morning had come, but for one reason or another, he found little emotion in himself; he had for a great deal of the night, now. Perhaps he felt numb from all that had occurred…perhaps he was too engrossed in concern for his Master to think of other things…or perhaps it was simply that it had been so very long since he had felt such a quiet contentment that watching his Young Lord rest brought him, that he no longer recalled how to regard it as a 'feeling.' Either way, he certainly felt a jolt within his chest, a thrumming of his nerves over his skin, as pale eyelids fluttered nervously, and a thin throat swallowed audibly, stirring quietly in the dawn's break.

Dark lashes lifted moments afterward, and in place of the peaceful expression was now one of confusion, half-consciousness, and slight discomfort. He suppressed the smile that tugged at the corners of his lips; was it relief? Was it amusement? He was not certain. All that he was certain of was that his Young Lord's eyes were so very bright when they gazed upon him without the slightest hint of surprise. At this, he could no longer keep the corners of his lips turned downward, and his gaze softened to match his tone as he breathed a sigh into the cool air of the musty room.

"…Good morning, My Lord. Are you feeling well?"

xXx

There was light in this darkness. He didn't like it. He wanted it to remain dark. He wanted it to remain silent. The gentle rhythm that had lulled his to slumber had disappeared, and that was the only sound that he wished would return. He heard the creaking of wood, and the wind howling through the old house…but he wasn't in the old house. He felt heavier than he had before, as if he were closer to the ground, and something was burning. He began to wonder if he was truly dead, and the thought brought him sorrow. He wanted it to be over. Wherever this place was, he wanted to remain. He knew that Sebastian was here, he could feel him, and if Sebastian remained, than Ciel wished to remain…but there was light now, and it struck his aching skull with such force that his awareness awakened. He knew that he was alive, knew that if he opened his eyes, he would find the world that he knew…but he didn't want to. He wanted to keep his eyes closed, to keep his body numb, to keep that sweet, soft rhythm raining down from the heavens to fall to the cobblestone with its gentle _drip-drop, drip-drop_.

…but he knew that he had lost the privilege of death long ago…and something once lost, could never be returned.

He forced his eyelids open, straining against the light filtering in through a window above him, and after taking a moment to swallow a large lump in his throat, he gained his surrounding immediately. He knew this place. He was in his bed, in his loft above the Mortuary…but how had he gotten here? He recalled feeling weightless, and warm, and hearing a heartbeat close to him…a movement caught the corner of his eye, and he turned his head to the side to find the ever-present butler at his side, as he had always hoped to find upon waking. He was not dead, and Sebastian was next to him. He should have been surprised…yet, he was not. Everything seemed to be just as it should be at that moment, just as Ciel had truly expected it to be, not as he had hoped for. His gaze lidded slightly as he spoke, the concern and relief that was found in his tone rather calming. His dry lips parted in answer, his expression calm, if not slightly annoyed.

"…I suppose that I have felt worse."

His voice sounded tired and dry, and he was yet again unsurprised as the demon produced a glass of water from the table. He attempted to bring it to the boy's lips, his other hand moving to cradle his crown, but the young once-Noble swatted the hands away weakly, and forced himself into a sitting position, hissing as he did so at the pain that he felt in his chest. A quick glance downward revealed that he had been bandaged, and the memories of the devil's claws ripping into his flesh came flooding back. He took the glass in his own hands, and sipped slowly, his throat cooling at the sensation. He sighed softly before he glanced back to the demon. His voice was quiet, and the butler sat straight-backed and ready.

"…what of the other demon?"

His answer was quick, but not rushed, and his tone was factual.

"It has been disposed of. No creature may lay a harmful hand on my Master and live for it."

He nodded half-heartedly as his gaze fell to the rippling water in the glass. His reflection was morphed and unstable, and his features bled together in the moving water. His face felt heavy, his eyes felt sore, and his chest ached inside and out. He pursed his lips with another swallow, and spoke clearly. His voice was tired and calm, but it was not weak. A shadow of the authority that he had always possessed layered his tone as his gaze flitted up to the creature at his bedside.

"….you said that you would never lie to me, Sebastian."

The demon straightened, if he could even straighten more, and he appeared at attention, nodding without hesitation to the boy's words.

"…..I believe that it is high time that you kept that word."

The devil's expression softened to mixture of resigned acceptance and respectful reverence, his ruby irises masked by his dark lashes and pale eyelids as they fell to a close. His chin fell low, a bow of his head that spoke of his knowledge of what was to come.

"…I deserve more than just answers this time, demon…I deserve the _truth_."

The child stared into the tall form that sat at his beck and call, nostalgia and anticipation surging within him as the elegantly-gloved hands fell to lay over one another on his lap. His head bent lower in a full nod before rising, his glistening eyes opening to reveal an expression of hesitation, yet content; of reluctance, yet acceptance. His tone was low, deep, and foreboding as he spoke articulately, not even the hint of a mumble passing his lips in respect for his Master's command. He spoke three words; three simple words that carried the child's heart and soul, that built him to his peak before tearing his down again with their nostalgic sound and their deep emotion. Three words that were incredibly different from the three that his heart wished to hear…but his intuition told him that the meaning behind them was the same, and that these words were the closest that he would ever come to the ones that he truly wanted.

After all, something once lost could never be returned…

"…Yes, My Lord."

_…Never._


	12. The Truth

Dislcaimer: I have no claim to any characters or other affiliations of the Black Butler series. They belong to Yana Toboso.

Author's Note: I've finally managed to garner both the muse and the time to upload another chapter. Please forgive my inactivity. I've found myself avoiding tackling this chapter due to its importance, and my own lack of confidence in certain aspects, so I do hope that it turned out alright. A review or two may help to ease my mind. As always, thank you for reading, and enjoy.

Chapter 12: The Truth

Silence. For once, the not-child was not comfortable in it…not in the least. He had finally reached the singular time in his short-to-be-long life when he did _not_ wish for silence…when he wished for _anything_ but silence…when he wished for answers, and truth, and confessions and the Demon's smooth voice after so long…! He wished him to speak, and he wished him to speak only what he wanted him to hear…only what his Reaper's sight saw. He did not want any more lies, any more denial, any more avoidance and fleeing and hurt. Even as a child, he understood what was so difficult about admitting what they both knew to himself for the Demon. Love was a weakness. It was natural for him to deny a weakness…even humans did so. Still…he had denied, and the boy had been denied, long enough. A dark, somewhat cold, entirely too familiar monocular gaze stared down the Demon as he awaited his answers. Soft lips lay flat on his expression, long lashes blanketing that deep azure as he blinked slowly. His form was weary, tired…last night's battle had taken a toll on him. If the Demon wanted to have his meal…then he could do it right here, right now, and Ciel would have no strength to fight back. Yet…somehow, the boy doubted that the Devil would act as such…and just as he'd expected, after the longest moment of the most unbearable silence that he'd ever been forced to endure, the Demon's gaze softened, his expression strong yet weak, and he parted his lips to speak…

xXx

That damned sound was near to bursting his chest, and he cursed the lords above and below for his own foolish weakness. How could he possibly even begin to answer the endless questions that the boy had, the answers to which he so deserved? What had brought him to this point? Why had he run at all? Why had he not taken what was promised to him and ended this before it had become so crippling to him…? The answer to that question was more than likely, and simply…because it had become crippling to him far before the time at which he was given his reward. Was that a proper place to begin? When had he, the Butler of Phantomhive, forgotten what was proper? This was all too much…

…No. It wasn't. It couldn't be…because if he could not handle such a small task as answering his Master's questions…then what kind of a Butler would he be?

He straightened, the light in his eyes burning as his duty overwhelmed his weakness, the sound of his voice drowning the sound in his chest with its low rumble. "…You wish to know why I abandoned my post all those years ago, and why I refused to devour your soul, as we had established in our Contract?" His Master, and oh, how wonderful it _still_ felt to say that again…his little, little Master met his gaze with fogged confusion, and his thin brow was so fitting upon his expression as it furrowed so softly. His pale lips parted with answer, and his voice was even a warm welcome to the Devil and the Butler. "…Yes, must I repeat myself?" The child's servant shook his head softly in turn, politely, before lifting his chin to answer in a calm voice. His tone was lowered by honesty…and the loose feeling of finally releasing, of finally accepting his words.

"Well, the answer is simple, really. It is because I have fallen in love with you, My Lord."

The silence fell between them again. He wondered if the boy knew. Dark rubies observed his Master's expression with scrutiny, deciphering every mist that past that sapphire gaze, every seemingly insignificant twitch of those soft lips, or that prominent brow. He did note surprise…but not nearly enough for it to be entirely genuine. Perhaps he was simply surprised by the fact that the Demon had finally admitted it, let alone aloud. Perhaps the boy _had_ known…perhaps he had known all along. That strangling sound in his chest halted for a moment at the assault of a thought that should have surfaced quite a while ago. If the boy had known…if he had indeed, as the Demon suspected, _returned_ the feelings for even longer than the Butler had even been feeling them himself…then why had he simply sat still beneath his lips, content with death, content with abandoning all that he felt and all that was unrequited, all for the Demon's…

…all…for the Demon's…satisfaction?

Was…that the answer? Had the boy sacrificed everything to keep his promise? To give what had been promised? The intruder in his ribcage sounded off louder, so loudly that Sebastian could feel the beat in his throat. His Master sat still, and did not answer his claim, and so he continued. After what the child had sacrificed, he deserved more than those simple words. "It began quite a while ago, actually. I myself was uncertain of what the feeling was until it was far too late…and even until now, I have been unable to truly accept the feeling for what it truly is…but what I will and will not accept does not change what is true, My Lord…and it _is_ true…very, _very_ much true." The boy sat silent, but tore his gaze away, meeting the sheets and his wounds instead of the honesty of those burning brimstones staring him down. "When your time came, I found myself…given pause. I was first hesitant…and then unwilling…and finally violently adamant against taking what was rightfully mine. While I was more than starved by the mere thought of finally having that wonderful meal…I was not at all fond of the idea of how pale you would become once my lips had left yours. How cold…how still…how silent." As he spoke, his own expression fell slowly into a dark, unreadable vision of something that he did not wish to see. "…And so I acted foolishly on impulse, fleeing from what I did not understand to keep you alive. Looking back on it now, I am rather aware of how foolish it was indeed. I realized it more clearly every time that you called me, and I did not answer, and the terrible pain of ignoring your orders and summons ripped through this false body."

As he continued, the boy lifted his gaze, what could only be described as honest care mingled with confusion masking his visage. His voice was soft. "…If you felt such pain, then why did you not return to me…?" At this question, the Devil's lips pursed tight, speaking in a quick tone. "…I believed that if I returned to you, you would demand that I finish my duty…which was something that I could not do…or explain myself, which was something that I was not ready to do. Beside the point…I believed, as a Butler to the core, that the pain that ignoring your call caused me was the very least of what I deserved for the pain that I was causing you by leaving you alone." Both gazes softened to these words, and a silence that both were more accustomed to filled the small space. The tension had loosened, snapped like his sanity at each and every call ignored, and for the first time in a decade, Sebastian felt as though it may be alright again…as if things just may work themselves out, and he cursed himself for not speaking these words sooner, for not easing this tension and over-stepping all of this pain and anguish and loneliness and doubt and hatred and bitterness. Finally, after longer than either could imagine, someone made a move. The young Once-Earl lifted a soft finger weakly, motioning for him to come closer. The Butler, or the Devil…both were more than happy to oblige.

He knelt beside the boy, and oh, how warm the rush of nostalgia was. It was much like a homecoming…to be returning to the place where he belonged, kneeling before his only true Master. The Butler could not help the small smile that curved his lips, filled not with taunting or superiority, but simply honest remorse and contentment at his place. He'd finally responded to his summons, and the pain in his chest was ebbing away to the sound that he so despised, yet could not. He ached for a touch, a word, anything to tell him that he would not be sent away, would not be forced to complete his task…anything to tell him yes. He wasn't sure if he could take no…for although he was indeed one _hell_ of a Butler…

…He could not be so without his Master.

xXx

The boy knew. He had known for quite some time. How could he not have known? They were intertwined, tangled together as were their destinies, far too intertwined to ever be untangled by anyone or anything. The Demon was a fool not to have realized it before, but now that he had…Ciel had always expected that he would never forgive Sebastian for what he'd done. How foolish, how human he was now. Hearing those words from the Demon's lips had melted him, had broken his resolve as easily as he'd ever broken the boy. His motion was soft, one of relenting and calm as the Butler knelt before him. Words would not come to him. He would not forget the injustice, yet he would not send this creature away, not only for the creature's survival but for his own. He couldn't go on without him, not after hearing those words.

…So what was he to do? Certainly such crimes should not go unpunished. His hand rose gently, tracing the Demon's sharp features, down from his cheekbone to his jawline. His voice was soft. "…You will have to work quite hard to earn my forgiveness." Dark azure noted the deep softening on the Demon's own eyes, and smiles. He was answered in a low tone, a gloved hand rising to grasp his ringed one, and the feeling was so dearly missed that his entire body relaxed to it. Small fingers were lifted to cold lips, the finality of the positions of Master and Servant forever established as that low baritone murmured against his skin, brimming with adoration and relief, of absolute contentment to do exactly as the boy had asked. "…I would spend an eternity in your servitude, My Lord, making up for what I have done. I have been a terrible Butler. I vow to regain my reputation…and yours." The younger's eyes softened, and he motioned for the Butler to stand, the Butler in turn doing just as he was bade. Kissed fingers rose to grasp the man's dark tie tightly, tugging him down to dissipate the proximity between them, their lips inches apart as he murmured. "…Then…get to it." As his breath ghosted over those lips, they spread wide in a nostalgic, yet much warmer smirk, perhaps the warmest that he'd witnessed, before their lips met in a soft, deep urge that would not be satisfied ever again. There was not enough time in all of eternity for this. He must have been missed more than he'd thought…but it needn't be thought on now. There was no more need for such feelings.

All that the Butler need do now and for all eternity was serve, and catch, and kiss, and protect, and _love_, and YesMyLordYesMyLord…

"…Yes…My Lord."


End file.
