Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji, nor do I own the little bit of Greek mythology I borrowed for this chapter.

Chapter One:

The Funeral and the Awakening

This Is Just To Say

I have eaten

The plums

That were in

The icebox

And which

You were probably

Saving

For breakfast

Forgive me

They were delicious

So sweet

And so cold

~William Carlos Williams

Apologetic, but polite.

Yes, that was it.

Sebastian had looked politely apologetic right before he ripped Ciel's soul from his body. He was a butler, after all, and it was his nature to be courteous.

And it really did rip, with an awful, scratchy, unnatural tearing sound that would have made Ciel flinch had he not already been dead. Actually, he felt the tearing noise rather that heard it, since he abruptly found himself without the physical ability to hear anything.

And the tearing noise hurt. Quite a lot.

He had known that it would hurt. He had had something of a morbid curiosity as to how much it would hurt, so the moments leading up to his death had seen him gracefully calm in a resigned sort of way. It was a bit like going to the dentist to have a tooth pulled; it was just something that needed to be done. Yes, it would hurt, but since there was nothing he could do about it, there was no point in panicking and making a fool of himself. So he just sat back and waited for it to happen.

That wasn't to say that he hadn't been a little bit frightened, and more than a little bit sad.

But he had told Sebastian to make it hurt, and Sebastian was always efficient. After all, this was the demon who had repaired his broken ring so that it was better than new; who always made his favorite tea exactly the way he liked it, who had helped Ciel manage his taxes when the numbers confused him, who had looked upon him with something akin to pride when he had played Hamlet, who had managed to dress him in his neat black suit and tie his black tie with one hand, who was teaching him to play the violin… And what kind of a butler would that have made him if he couldn't even cause pain when he was ordered to?

Sebastian had leaned in, and reached in and pulled, and

Riiiip.

Politely.

So Ciel had first been calm, a credit to his nature and his class.

Then, his very soul had writhed and warped and his spirit burned and screamed and twisted as he had been torn to shreds in an agonizing, searing tumult of excruciatingly horrible pain. He would have blacked out from the pain, but he already was, in every sense of the word, out. And now…

Now it was dark. It was also probably very cold, but Ciel couldn't tell for sure. He couldn't see anything, hear anything, or feel anything. He simply wasn't, anymore.

It was peaceful. It was still. It was dark. It was very, very boring.

Apparently, Ciel was realizing, there was not much for one to do when one had ceased to exist. He began to lose track of time. Had it been a minute, or two hundred years? He counted out sixty seconds just to make sure that a minute was still a minute. But what if a second wasn't actually a second? It was rather hard to concentrate on anything with all the dark. What if, after a while, he lost the ability to focus on anything and forgot everything about his entire life? What if he forgot everyone? Would he forget the color of Lizzie's eyes; the sound of her voice when she called his name? What if he forgot who he was, why he had died, and how? Was this how his eternity would be spent; forgetting things?

Now Ciel was very bored and deeply depressed. He began to think that even Hell would have been a better option; at least he might have had the chance of some company in Hell. But he was alone. He would stay like that for a while yet. The prospect of his blank eternity was nearly enough to cause Ciel to start praying. Nearly. But it had only been a little while, and Ciel was not quite that desperate. All the same… he was lonely. He supposed he had better start getting used to it. The darkness certainly didn't help matters.

Time passed.

More time passed.

And some more.

Ciel was still depressed and lonesome, more so than ever before. But more than those things… He. Was. So. BORED. Good lord, purgatory was dull. He couldn't even focus on how increasingly frightened he was becoming. If only he could sleep to kill some time – but that wasn't how death worked. Ciel longed ardently for the sound of a human voice. Or even an inhuman voice. Would he forget the sound of voices? Was he never to hear another sound again?

So many questions and no one to answer them. Ciel thought hard and desperately to try and recall the sound of his own voice. What did it sound like, again? Oh, yes.

I am Earl Ciel Phantomhive, he thought experimentally. And then a very real chuckle gave his consciousness a jolt.

"Good evening, young Earl," said the Undertaker.

Sebastian was astounded.

He was furious with shock and disbelief. He could hear his heart thudding in his ears. How could this be happening? It was unheard of – it was completely impossible. He refused to believe it… but it was true.

Grell Sutcliff, perched on a broken pillar above him, bared his pointed teeth in a sympathetically gleeful grin.

"Wow," he crooned, "that kid must have had one hell of a soul if it was able to give you a hangover like that."

Sebastian would have at least glared at him, but he was too busy making sure that his brain wasn't seeping out of his ears.

The red Reaper giggled, the shrill sound of it cutting straight into Sebastian's pounding head.

"You probably should have expected this, you know," Grell scolded lightly, finger-combing his long crimson hair over one shoulder. "He was such a stubborn little brat. Souls like that are worth it, I suppose, but they never go down easy. And I'll bet you ate too fast. That's what you get when you hold off for too long, you know. Poor thing, starving yourself like that! Now, drinking blood, on the other hand, will never give you a hangover… well, unless you let it sit too long and it clots, then it develops this flaky texture, which I think…"

He kept on talking, but Sebastian tuned out his magnified voice as best he could. The thought of ingesting anything else was making him ill.

Yes – though it was preposterous; ridiculous, unprecedented – Ciel's soul had given Sebastian a hangover. And a doozey of a hangover, at that.

Sebastian sat on the stone bench next to Ciel's lifeless body. The sun had risen, and seemed to be purposely directing its light straight into his eyes. There was absolute silence all around him, and everything was peaceful. Or it had been until Grell showed up and started chattering.

Sebastian was bent forward, his elbows resting on his knees – both elbows, as he had wasted no time in regenerating his arm with the rush of power he had absorbed from his recent meal. At the moment, he was resisting the urge to clutch his head in his hands; as such an action would be undignified. As it was, he had taken off his black jacket – it lay on the arm of the bench – loosened his collar and undone his tie.

Grell eyed him with appreciative interest. He was such a graceful figure, arched over as he was, in only his clean white shirt and trim black vest. And how appealing was the slip of his pale throat revealed by an open collar…

Grell hopped daintily down to land on his toes before the demon.

"Oh, poor Sebastian," he crooned, his voice filled with adoring concern, "You must be in such pain. Shall I kiss it better?" He leaned in hopefully.

Sebastian did not bother to raise his aching head. As soon as Grell drew close enough, Sebastian snatched the Reaper by the throat with one hand and flung him away to the side.

"No," he said.

Grell fell hard in an ungainly heap some distance away, but he was up in a minute, wheezing with indignation and in a full out huff. How dare Sebastian kill his reaping buzz?! He had been having such a good day!

"Honestly!" he pouted, marching up to the bench. "I think only of your well-being and this is the thanks I get?"

To Sebastian's very great annoyance, Grell's chainsaw roared to life, the sound magnified a hundred times in Sebastian's ears. But the chainsaw was not meant for him.

"You never threw him around so carelessly!" hissed Grell, and with a flourish, made to bring his weapon down upon Ciel's corpse.

Faster than before, Sebastian reached up suddenly and grabbed the live chainsaw in both hands. That was how much power a soul could give him; the blades did not so much as break his skin. Oh yes, Ciel had definitely been worth the hangover. Grell suddenly found himself staring directly into the demon's livid eyes, eyes that were still glowing magenta with soulful energy.

"You'll not touch him," said Sebastian calmly, and he twisted the Reaper's chainsaw in his hands the way one would wring a washcloth; it spluttered and died instantly as Grell's mouth dropped open in horror.

"There is no cinematic record for you to watch," Sebastian continued, "and no soul to judge, so I don't believe you have any more business here." Even through his headache, Sebastian managed to favor Grell with his company smile. "And it would behoove you not to disrespect the dead," he said.

Grell stood and gaped at his broken scythe, and Sebastian could have sworn that he was about to start yelling, but he didn't. He did something louder. He burst into pathetic tears.

Sebastian sat back down on the bench, and – it just couldn't be helped – he put his pounding head in his hands. He sighed inwardly as Grell sobbed in front of him, and glanced to his left, where Ciel's body was draped lightly upright, his head tilted to the side as though he were sleeping. He was obligingly silent in death.

Sebastian studied the boy's face, committing it to memory, until Grell saw fit to let his destroyed piece of weaponry crash to the ground at his feet, at which point Sebastian went rather overboard in the process of restoring the quiet.

When news of Ciel Phantomhive's death reached the Middleford estate, the Marquis and Marchioness Middleford were reluctant to break it to their young daughter. They hesitated, fearing for her sensitive nature, and did not tell her on the day it happened. When she inquired that night at supper why they both looked so glum, they had her handmaiden Paula take her upstairs. That was their preferred method of getting her out of the way.

"We'll tell her tomorrow," they said.

This turned out to be untrue, however, as the next morning, Elizabeth took up the newspaper to bring to her father at the breakfast table, as she did every morning. Glaring at her from the front page in bold black letters were the words "YOUNG PHANTOMHIVE HEIR PERISHES TRAGICALLY IN ALL-CONSUMING INFERNO" and the paper went on to say what a decadent life he had lead, and what a pity his poor young life had been cut short so painfully.

The Middlefords watched as their vivacious little daughter turned ghastly pale. She turned so white and stood so still and frozen that her parents grew frightened.

"Elizabeth," began her mother.

"Darling - " cried her father.

Elizabeth only looked blankly up at them with a queer expression in her eyes. The paper slipped from her numb fingers and fell to the floor. Her lips parted as she took a shallow breath. Her parents waited for the tears to overflow, but they never did.

"What's the matter with her?" Marquis Middleford gasped in a stage whisper, grasping his tie nervously, "Why doesn't she move, why doesn't she cry?"

"She's going to faint!" cried Paula, whose own eyes brimmed with tears. She placed gentle hands on her young mistress' shoulders to steady her, but Elizabeth did not need steadying.

Slowly, she moved away from Paula, her face expressionless, passed her parents, climbed the main staircase, crossed the hallway, went into her room and shut the door softly behind her.

She did not emerge for the rest of the day, even for meals, nor did the door open the next morning.

"My Lady, you must eat something!" Paula implored, holding a food-laden tray and still sniffling for the sake of poor grieving Elizabeth and her poor dead fiancé. Elizabeth did not make a sound or open the door even a crack.

Marquis and Frances Middleford grew worried as another day passed.

"Elizabeth," her mother knocked quietly on her door the next morning. "The funeral is in a few hours. You must eat something before we go."

"Oh, she won't come out!" fretted Paula, quite forgetting her place in her anxiety. Frances, ever composed, only sighed impatiently and waved a lacy handkerchief at her husband.

"Dear, you'll have to break down the door. Imagine the talk if Elizabeth isn't present at her own fiancé's funeral."

But breaking down the door was not necessary. The door swung open and out came Elizabeth, neatly and prettily arrayed in black. Her blonde curls fell messily and wildly around her face, but if she had been crying, no one was able to tell. Her eyes were dry and her lips were set, though she seemed too pale and drawn to be natural.

"Paula, will you help me with my hair?" she said.

"Of course, my Lady," said the maid in some surprise, and brought Elizabeth to her mirror, where she proceeded to tame her hair into its usual swirling style.

Frances Middleford surveyed her daughter's attire and gave her an approving nod. This afternoon was the time to keep up appearances. There would be time for grief and sympathy later. She turned, and descended the stairs again.

Marquis Middleford lingered in Elizabeth's doorway a moment longer. The look and the nod he gave her were a little less subtle, and much more kindly than those of his wife. He felt his daughter's loss more keenly than sensible Frances, though Ciel had only been his nephew by marriage. He recalled how happily the two children had played together in years past, and shook his head slowly as he followed after his wife. Such a shame.

Elizabeth, for her part, felt sick. Just sick from her head to her toes. Her hands were like ice and her movements were heavy and labored while her head felt as though it was spinning. Her breath caught and stuck in her throat. Her eyes ached with unshed tears, but she felt too numb to cry. Having joined her parents at the table, Elizabeth could not eat a single bite of the food set before her. She could only sit and stare at it and think, as she had been thinking for the past few days in her room.

She wished that she didn't have to go to the funeral. She felt that she couldn't bear to be around other people. Other people hadn't cared for Ciel the way she had, and they wouldn't understand.

Elizabeth had fallen asleep the previous night with the knowledge that Ciel was dead. She had woken up that morning knowing that Ciel was dead. She would get into the carriage with Paula and her parents knowing that Ciel was dead. Though there would be no body, since no body had been found, Elizabeth would attend Ciel's funeral knowing that Ciel was dead.

He would be dead tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. This time next year, Ciel would still be dead. Elizabeth felt as if… she didn't know quite what. Sorrow like this had never touched her before, not even with the deaths of her uncle and aunts, and she was still adjusting to it. Everything around her seemed dimmer, as if the colors had been toned down. The sunlight seemed flat. Her black silk dress with all its frills seemed ten times darker.

Her parents did not try to force her to eat. They were just relieved that she was out of her room and displaying signs of life. Shortly, their driver pulled the carriage up to the front door with a clatter of hooves. "Elizabeth," called Frances gently, and Elizabeth rose, put on her black gloves, and followed her parents out the door.

Sebastian did not intend to stay long at Ciel's funeral, as churches made him uncomfortable. It didn't pain him, exactly, to be in a house of God, but given the choice he would much rather remain outside. There was just a certain amount of discomfort involved… the kind of discomfort a human might feel if he were to crawl into a deep, constricting, filthy, muddy hole in the ground that was so tight that he couldn't move and so deep that he couldn't see the sun, and horrible itchy bugs were creeping all over him. That kind of discomfort.

But how could he count himself a decent butler if he couldn't even attend his former master's funeral?

Sebastian was swathed from head to foot in his usual garb of black, but the material was much finer and the lines and cut of the clothing much more refined than what he usually wore. No one who did not know him to be a butler would have suspected that he was one. Only the best for the Young Master's funeral. He entered the church and sat directly in the last pew on the left of the aisle. There was no harm in being close to the doors.

Thus situated, he casually surveyed the turnout. It was large, as he had known it would be. Ciel's corporation stretched far and wide, after all, and employed many, many people, most of whom had attended; the majority of these with their wives and children in tow. Sebastian recalled that the Young Master had characteristically taken steps to ensure that the faithful workers of his company should not be stranded without jobs in the event of his untimely (impending) death. A fact which most of the people present at his funeral would, in all likelihood, remain ignorant of.

Glancing ahead and over to the right, Sebastian could clearly see the Middlefords seated almost at the very front of the church. Elizabeth's blonde head was bowed. Having had his fill of observation, Sebastian began to listen.

"A pity that no body could be found," remarked a wife to her husband, "He really was such a beautiful boy, in spite of the eye patch." Her husband, whom Sebastian recognized as one of Ciel's former business associates, shook his head.

"No," he said, "Probably the body wouldn't have been in any fit shape for an open casket. Very messy way to go."

Sebastian's lips twitched upwards in just the slightest hint of a smile. They could look for the body… or rather, the remains… all they liked. They would find none. Sebastian always cleaned up after himself. Upon taking his leave of the ruins as his headache died down to a manageable throbbing, he had placed his black-gloved fingers lightly on the boy's shoulder and watched the body fade away as though it had vanished. The corpse was now sleeping peacefully in its own grave… along with all of Sebastian's other human masters. All of them had died in the ruins, and all of them would repose forever in the ruins, until – well – close enough to forever to satisfy Sebastian, anyway.

"How haunting – dying the same way as his parents, only three years later. Like a curse!" said someone else in a chilling tone, effectively spooking those around him.

"The young Miss Middleford doesn't seem to be taking it very hard," whispered one of the many strangers at Ciel's funeral to another, observing Elizabeth's apparent composure. "Not even a single tear for the boy she would have married. I don't believe it's quite proper not to cry at a funeral."

"Ah, youth." Someone responded, falling back on a cliché.

Sebastian reflected silently that he, too, as well as the Young Master, had expected Elizabeth to cry. But no matter. Grief had odd effects on humans, even those as typically predictable as Elizabeth.

As a matter of fact, Elizabeth did not shed a tear until the eulogy was drawing to a close. Her face had been blank as the minister droned, and she stood and sat mechanically when standing and sitting was required. She did not cry until she chanced to look behind her, and saw Sebastian on the opposite side of the church, far in the back, nearly hidden by the rows of people in front of him. He was framed by a brilliant red stained-glass window depicting a saint.

Sebastian sensed her green gaze as it lighted on him and gave a small, solemn nod in her direction, quickly lowering his eyes from hers in a show of sorrow.

The sight of the butler standing there alone, without his young master beside him, drove home the awful truth to Elizabeth with a jarring impact. She felt the reality of Ciel's death strike her, and the numb feeling vanished, leaving a raw, open wound in its place. She began to cry. She could not help but cry.

Hushed whispers of sympathy spread around the hall as onlookers began to notice the silent tears staining her face. How sweet and how sad, thought the crowd as a whole.

Elizabeth was not listening to them, nor was she listening to the minister. She could not get over how wrong it seemed that Ciel and Sebastian should be separated. She could see Ciel so clearly; blue-eyed, melancholy and proud, with Sebastian standing always just behind him, a dark but benevolent guardian. He hovered at Ciel's shoulder with an air of thinly veiled possessiveness.

Elizabeth had always found it comforting, how close the two of them were. Since Ciel would no longer let her so close, at least he had trustworthy Sebastian by his side in the meantime. Now, having seen Sebastian standing alone, she realized fully that Ciel was gone.

She looked for Sebastian when the funeral was over, hoping to speak with him, but he was nowhere to be found.

Sebastian couldn't have described the taste of Ciel Phantomhive's soul, because soul tastes like soul and there is nothing that could possibly compare. Suffice to say that it was very much worth Sebastian's while, and then some. But now that it was gone, he did not intend to wait nearly so long before obtaining another.

He had slipped quietly out of the church doors and into the London air when everyone's attention had been otherwise occupied. He gave a very audible sigh of relief, thankful that no one was around to hear it, recovered himself, and walked steadily away from Ciel's funeral with familiar purpose sparking in his mind. The Undertaker, lurking near, had given him a drearily cheerful wave and a grin, but Sebastian had not stopped to acknowledge him.

Ciel Phantomhive was dead, and the time had come for Sebastian to start something new. Demons, as a whole, were not given to mourning.

If anyone had been around just then, they would have seen a slim young man of about twenty, sharply dressed, with a lilt in his gait and a gleam in his ruddy eyes. His smooth dark hair was a bit strange for the times, but he was so handsome that no one would think to care. He did not look like someone who had just attended a funeral, nor did he look like he had very recently throttled a grim reaper, nor was there any evidence in his attitude or countenance that suggested that he had just eaten the soul of a young aristocrat.

Keeping a casually brisk pace, Sebastian wound his way through the twisting London streets, taking a sharp left at this alley; turning abruptly right at the next corner. He kept on this way for hours. He nodded to those he happened to pass, but he never spoke and he never slowed down or sped up. The sun was beginning to set and Sebastian felt the lure of nighttime and darkness begin to stir in his veins.

He heard a crow cawing somewhere out of sight, and, smiling to himself, followed his finely tuned instincts into the lengthening shadows.

Jeremiah Reed was eighteen years old but looked older. He had always looked old for his age.

He had lank, unwashed brown hair that could have used a trim, and a few days' worth of five o' clock shadow. His clothing, though obviously tailored, was unkempt. His waistcoat was stained and one sleeve was badly ripped.

It was obvious to Sebastian that the young man had been drinking, and also that he had recently been in a fight. He was covered in sweat and bruises, and his lower lip was torn and bleeding down his bristled chin. The man's eyes were dull brown and wild.

"-sick of this shit," he was muttering. He seemed rather disoriented. He turned and spat on the ground, then wiped his wet mouth with his sleeve. "…show every goddamn one of `em… think they can… every goddamn…shit -"

He crumpled, retched, and was quite sick for the next few minutes.

Sebastian, concealed in shadow, watched him.

At the moment, Jeremiah Reed hated the world and everyone in it. Laboriously, he pulled himself up and tried to avoid staggering into his puddle of vomit. His throat burned and his vision swam, so he couldn't tell if there were three crows sitting on that windowsill, or just one.

He blinked, sniffed, rubbed roughly at his eyes, and looked again. He must have been drunker than he thought, or maybe that hit to the forehead was playing havoc with his eyes in the dark.

There was a man standing in front of that window. There was not a bird in sight.

He opened his mouth, partly in surprise, and partly to ask the man who the hell he was, when the sound of angry voices sounded faintly in alleyways that couldn't be too far from where Jeremiah Reed stood, suddenly petrified. A chill ran up his spine, and he almost bolted.

But then the man in black by the window said "Hello," and Jeremiah Reed stayed right where he was.

"Good evening, young Earl," said the Undertaker, becoming clearer as the dark mist sank away from Ciel's vision. The Undertaker was coming towards him from a large and decrepit stone archway, which Ciel recognized. He was still sitting on that stone bench – that is, he thought he was sitting. He couldn't be entirely sure.

Hearing, vision, feeling… the most appropriate next attempt would be speech. Ciel summoned his voice from wherever it had fled.

It took some effort, and it was very faint.

"Wha…I…" he drew a breath. "How…wh…time?" he breathed out.

The Undertaker smiled patiently, trying to hold back his obvious amusement.

"It has been three months since you died," he said.

Three months? thought Ciel. That was all? It had seemed ever so much longer. He grasped at his elusive voice again. It sounded so whispery and strange in the silence and gloom of the ruins.

"Am I… am I myself?"

"Of course you are yourself, who else would you be?" asked the Undertaker, leaning on his shining scythe.

Ciel blinked, or at least, he thought he blinked. He looked at the tall scythe, and the Undertaker followed his line of vision.

"But my soul…" said Ciel, in his echoing voice.

"Is gone, of course," said the Undertaker. "Gone, gone, gone, gone," he sang, swaying from side to side with each word, "and any memory of past lives lived; any knowledge or awareness of Heaven or Hell went with it."

"How do…?" Ciel's voice echoed, "What, what do I look like now?"

"What do you want to look like?"

Ciel did not have to think.

"Like myself, of course," he said, and his voice was suddenly fuller, louder, much more like his own. In a leisurely instant, he felt himself take form. He knew all at once that his hair was again ashen silver-black; he knew that he was still short and slender; he knew that he was dressed in what had been his most comfortable suit of clothing – dark green, like the forest that was pushing its way inside the ruins – and that the Phantomhive ring was still absent from his finger. He stared down at his hands, and lightly touched the vacant place on his thumb.

The blue flower was gone, too.

"That's more like it," said the Undertaker. "You know, most soulless beings have a hard time pulling themselves together, if they manage it at all." He tilted his head to one side, revealing more of his odd scar. "But then, you've always been quick on the uptake, haven't you, young Earl?"

"Soulless being?" asked Ciel, looking up at the Reaper. "What, precisely, does that make me?"

The Undertaker leered at him.

"You are the shadow of your soul," he said. "Just as people become ghosts of their living selves, you are the echo of your soul."

Ciel stared at him. "My soul is gone," he said.

"Oh yes, it's gone," said the Undertaker, "But of course, it isn't actually gone."

"…what?" said Ciel.

"It's your immortal soul," the Reaper said. "It won't ever be gone… you just don't belong to it anymore."

Ciel shook his head slowly. It felt odd having a body again after three months of not existing. "I don't understand," he said.

"I know," replied the Undertaker. "I didn't expect you to. I've never been good at explaining these types of things."

Ciel's eyes travelled his surroundings. It was nice to have both eyes again. He settled them both back on the Undertaker, who seemed to be waiting for something.

"Why are you here?" asked Ciel. The Undertaker's grin grew, if possible, wider.

"That isn't the question at all," he said, and paused for effect. "The question is – why, young Earl, are you here?"

"How should I know that?" asked Ciel, sounding even more like himself.

"You wouldn't know," said the Undertaker, leaning even more precariously on his scythe, "But I do."

There was another drawn pause, in which Ciel eventually realized that he was expected to ask 'the question'.

"Why am I here?" he asked, marveling at how much the Undertaker had irritated him in just a few minutes of being in his company.

"Because you want to be here," the Undertaker said.

Ciel's eyes narrowed. He could have told him that. He was getting mad, and as soon as his voice came entirely back, he was going to yell the Undertaker's ears off for speaking in pointless circles. But then he realized that the Undertaker wasn't finished.

"And," the Undertaker continued, "because you have been conjured."

Ciel's eyes grew wide.

"Plenty of things have happened in the three months since your death. Circumstances have… changed."

And that was apparently all that the Undertaker had to say on the subject.

While Ciel was attempting to absorb this, the Undertaker picked up one glossy black feather from the ground and rubbed it against his cheek. He laughed then, and let it float to the ground.

"Silly bird – trying to be dignified when all the while he's molting all over the place."

This was such an odd way to refer to Sebastian that Ciel nearly felt his lips twitching upwards. He looked at the ground. There were, indeed, lots of black feathers scattered on the dusty stone. There was also a black butler's jacket lying on the arm of the bench, obviously disregarded. Ciel felt just the tiniest bit offended when he noticed it. Apparently Sebastian had just eaten his payment and sped on his way. He must have had other places to be. Ciel didn't know why he felt mildly insulted by this, but he did.

He didn't care to look at the jacket and the feathers anymore, so he stood up, a bit hesitantly, and walked towards the dark stone archway. The Undertaker stopped playing with feathers and joined him.

Outside the archway was… water. A vast amount of water. And a little way off, rowing steadily towards them, was a boatman, steering his boat. It was a very small boat, but it was big enough for Ciel to sit in. The mists parted around the boatman as he drew nearer, and he seemed very, very tall. This time, the Undertaker did not make Ciel ask.

"That is Charon, the ferryman," he said. "For a price, he will take you across the River Styx."

"For a price?" asked Ciel, turning to the Reaper. "I have nothing to give. Not even a soul, this time."

"I'm sure you'll think of something," grinned the Undertaker, and Ciel couldn't be sure, but he thought that the Reaper might have winked at him.

"That's silly," said Ciel. "Why can't you just take me back?"

The Undertaker, predictably, laughed at him. "That isn't how it works!" he chuckled, patting Ciel on the head. "I remove souls from the mortal world. I don't bring them back to it! You always had a droll sense of humor, young Earl."

Ciel sighed and brought his fingers to the bridge if his nose in a calmingly familiar mannerism. He turned to ask the Undertaker something else, but there was suddenly no one there. The Undertaker had gone. Ciel turned back, and the ferryman stood before him. Slowly, he extended his hand toward Ciel; an inhumanly large and skeletal hand with long, long fingers.

Charon's two empty sockets stared down at Ciel from beneath his shadowy cloak, which hung off him in tatters. "Coins are traditional," suggested the ferryman.

Ciel stood on the bank of the River Styx, looked at the expectantly outstretched hand, and did not know what to do.

A/N: I know that in a while the second season of Kuroshitsuji will be out, making this fic pretty much obsolete. But I wanted to write it anyway. It's probably going to be pretty long… and I tend to be a slow writer, which means that I will also be a slow updater. But if you like it so far, please review!! I need feedback like Ciel needs sock-garters!