Rain fell with alarming intensity against the roof of the manor to match the air within. Well, alarming for some. Everything was alarming for some. Others cared not, and yet a third group couldn't care about anything anymore. Bu all knew, or had once known, that something deadly lurked within the manor. Water shot from the sky like silver bullets and encased the manor in an ever moving cage with liquid bars. It encased the occupants, trapping, caring or otherwise, in the home of the child-earl.
The child himself slept, disregarding the death that lingered in the thoroughfares of his grand home. The wordsmith sat upright beside him in the plush bed, unable to sleep. The bed frothed with covers and quilts, finery in such a degree the chocolate-haired man had never experienced, finery that he would probably never experience again. He was uncomfortable amid all the comfort. The shackle that was clamped around his wrist felt like ice even after all the heat his body had spent to attempt to warm it, all the heat drunken up by the greedy metal. The man's mind buzzed with thoughts, trying to work out what was going on, how such things were possible. Why was this happening to him?
The wordsmith's eyes, however, were continually drawn back to the boy, however. His pink lips were parted slightly, the fleshy gate open to free the dream filled breaths that accumulated within the cave of his mouth. The breaths that kept him in the world of the living. His eyelashes were black spider silk against a snow white sky. He was a crystal doll with painted lips and a soft caress of flush across his exposed cheek. The beige eye-patch, however, shattered the china illusion of the boy's otherwise beautifully crafted face.
The hungry cloth cupped at the earl's eye, selfishly hiding the closed lid from sight. As if there was some secret beneath that was too heavy for a mere man to bear. The secret pricked at the wordsmith's mind, drawing larger and larger, manifesting a increasing number of cells inside his skull. What was it about the boy's eye that made him so reluctant to remove the covering even in sleep? It was an oddly childish action, seeing what the wordsmith had learned so far about the earl. For such a young boy his age wasn't readily apparent even in sleep. The single factor that gave away his youth was the inherent beauty of childhood that lingered over the downy curve of the boy's cheek and the length of his lashes.
A small slender hand lay delicately bent against a pillow a few shades lighter than the skin of the head resting so heavily upon it. Occasionally the slight appendage would twitch or flex slightly in reaction to some dream occurrence. What did the boy dream of? How did the child dream when there lingered such a frightening smog of threat in his abode? And the earl the one accused of the killing. How did he sleep so peacefully?
The pale half moon of the earl's visage visible to the restless wordsmith moved slightly, a muscle jump, and the boy snuggled his face further into the feather soft cloud of pillow that supported his china skull. Dark hair tumbled down his face to cover his turned down lids and collect at the bridge of his finely arched nose. A small sound of contentment escaped the by's throat nearly at the same time as a soft, sharp intake of air.
"S-sbas-stian?" The child mumbled, butterfly lips moving so little that the intrigued wordsmith had to lean in to catch the flutter at all. The words held none of the usual confidence the earl's voice usually overflowed with, none of the authority that often manifested the thin voice, filling it out.
In a sudden movement that caused the young wordsmith to jump back slightly on the plush bed the child earl rolled over, his elegant neck further exposed as his jaw tipped back. The chains rattled like objects possessed at the motions, scraping at the floor beneath the bed. The sounds were partially concealed by the child's continued silky mumblings.
"S-Se- Help Seba- ow, no, stop… It hurts, Sebastian. No!" The words were strung upwards into a plaintive continuous mewl. A whining cry trundled back down the octave, and a milky hand reached out as the boy rolled over again, facing the wordsmith again, his sleeping face twisted into a mask of fearful apprehension. The boy's dreams were not treating him kindly.
The hand caught the man's wrist and clung to it like spider-webbing to a struggling insect. The wordsmith froze, unsure of what to do as the boy's body twisted slightly under the onslaught of his dream world. Or perhaps of the assault of his fragile sugar imagination failing to darker images, tumbling down about his delicate body.
"Sebastian, help!" The wail was cut abruptly off as the boy calmed, relaxing back into his dream, his fingers still tighter around the coffee haired man's wrist than the iron shackle.
"You truly seem more child-like in your sleep than in waking, Ciel." The wordsmith said, prying the fingers from his wrist, his eyes on the delicate face. The face still darkened by slight turmoil.
"Doesn't he though?"