Author's Note: A character study, written for Aservis Roturier, another keen Kuroshitsuji enthusiast of the highest order. What follows is a glimpse into Sebastian's mind during what constitutes a routine day serving his young master. One-shot…perhaps.

Please read and review if any good.

Enjoy.

Sebastian on Ciel

I have served many masters. My existence spans eons. Since the first time a human mind was capable of wanting anything, since the advent of avarice and desire, I have served these mortal constructs. If their motives for my service may be deemed simple, then mine are of the basest sort. All mortal beings, to some extent or another, have souls. They cannot be replicated or simulated. Their purpose and innerworkings can barely be understood, even by their celestial keepers and demonic predators. They exist and I am compelled to consume them for sustenance. To do this, I must make contracts. Humans must understand the nature of their bargain before a deal can be brokered. I will gift them revenge of the sweetest and most satisfactory order against their perceived enemies, and they will willingly give me their souls. As arrangements go, it is easy to grasp for both parties, a one-for-one exchange, a service for payment.

To the present date, I have served three-thousand, one-hundred and fifty-nine masters. All contracts have been closed amicably. I believed that, after such prolonged exposure, these brittle constructs could no longer surprise me. So many similar wants and needs, so many generic life histories and faces. No matter the era or continent or country, all human desire looked the same to me...and all souls tasted bland. I conducted my affairs by rote, finding a timeline of less than six months was all that was required to settle a contract from beginning to end. Even for a demon, after several millennia, I grew listless with my own endless lifecycle.

So, I began to starve myself and drift upon the planet, invisible and hungry, but still listening. I listened for a cry of help that would pique my interest, a soul that would absolve my abstinence from mindless consumption. In short, I desired a meal instead of a snack. I do not know how much time passed. Since I exist without living, the human concept of time is something I pay little mind. I could guess an hour had passed and be out by half-a-dozen centuries. Eventually though, I did lose hope of finding my elusive prize. I thought I had overestimated the complexities of human nature, and was resigned to continue my so-called 'lifecycle' of service and consumption, when I heard it. I heard the cry I had listened for.

I will admit, I first thought the shrill squealing was that of a pig going to slaughter. It was only when I strained that I recognised it as a child's voice. Nothing remarkable. Thousands of these half-formed creatures scream and cry every moment, a wall of unwanted noise I have endured since they dwelt in caves. What caught my attention was its desperation and the specific words that it would give its soul in exchange for help of any sort. Until that moment, I was of the belief that human children were both stupid and uninteresting. Ill-bred, ill-trained and ill-advised, their function was to mature. They were not required to think, speak or be seen unless required. But here was one that knew of such existential concepts as a soul and the bargaining tool it could be in the direst of circumstances. And then there was the soul itself.

It burned bright, brighter than any child's soul I had ever seen, and rivalled the luminance of the most delectable souls I had thus far encountered. So, I went to it. Unlike a moth drawn to a flame however, I made sure to appraise it before committing any energies towards its host's problems. The vessel housing it was weak and feeble in appearance. It had been tortured severely and with the repeated enthusiasms of those responsible. I was initially doubtful it would survive a single night outside of its captivity and was going to depart. Only for the little creature to demand an audience with me. I found this amusing. It had been so long since I was amused by anything in this realm. So, I granted it one. Not my true form. Not any form at all, just a glimpse of what darkness looked like. The vessel did not shy away. It only grew bolder. I offered the contract and it accepted. It heard my terms of engagement and it accepted wholeheartedly. And now, here we are.

My name is now Sebastian Michaelis, and I serve as head butler to the current Earl Phantomhive, Ciel. I have learned many things during our three-year association. Firstly, that serving a child is scarcely different from serving a mature human. He thirsts for the blood of his enemies weekly, and I provide it when required. Secondly, male children, known colloquially as 'boys', are more aggressive and violent than their adult equivalent, both in temperament and deed. And thirdly, despite the power and influence wielded by my Master, he cannot do anything for himself. I am required to wake him, feed him, bathe him, dress him and, several times a day, carry him as a husband would his bride. To say any of these duties are a burden would be inappropriate. They are not a burden...they are a joy.

My other masters treated me as a tool, but not one for daily use. I was used as an instrument for destruction and death, nothing more. My opinion was not valued, my appearance not wanted and my more nuanced skills not called for. With this master, this 'boy', every skill I have ever mastered is needed. I am a doctor, a teacher, an assistant, a detective, a fighter, a spy, a chef and a manager. And these only represent the roles I am expected to fill on a weekly basis. My other roles extend far beyond this remit. I am grateful to be stretched by necessity instead of as an amusement. He calls me his pawn, sometimes his puppet, but always I am something of his. I enjoy being labelled so clearly as property. It exemplifies his need for me. More enjoyable than my necessity to the young master though, is his contempt for me.

He is never kind. He never offers me praise of a recognisable sort. He is always disparaging, always cruel and eternally snide. I am always wrong. My aesthetic is always lacking. My service is always 'passable'. Words cannot express my pleasure at hearing his displeasure with me. All other humans fawn over me. They praise my abilities, my looks or my manners with alarming regularity. I find it tedious. That a child, bound to me by a Faustian bargain, can be so vicious in his dismissal of my talents and superiority to his finite species is a delight. And yet, even this is not based on blind prejudice. He does not lambast me because he is inferior, but rather because as a being whose existence is interminable, I should be master of everything as a minimum requirement. That I paint better than Michaelangelo and compose greater music than Mozart is not something he considers remotely impressive, given my lifespan. There is little doubt he is an intelligent vessel, worthy to safekeep such a rare soul.

It is morning and the hour upon which the Master insists he is awoken every day. I enter his bedchamber, a space magnificently decorated after the stylings of the French kings, namely Louis XV and his successor, with the morning's tea. He insists on my presence to stir him to consciousness and will never rise on his own, unless plagued by particularly hideous nightmares. As expected, he is sound asleep, laid on his stomach with his face mashed into the pillows like the victim of a carriage crash. It is his preferred sleeping position, despite being both very bad for his quality of breath and entirely unbecoming for a nobleman of his class. Sometimes I will enter early and watch him sleep for a time. I enjoy hearing him snore. It sounds almost like a cat's purr. Today, he is not snoring. I open the curtains, announce myself and the morning, and then begin to pour the tea before he has even ventured to open an eye.

He has only just graduated to a sitting position when his hand grasps at the cup and saucer being presented. He takes receipt of it without looking and with a remarkably steady grip. It is impressive considering how easily such mortal constructs scald and burn their exteriors by improper handling. He then gestures to my pocket watch. He wishes to check it is six a.m. and that I am neither late or early. He regards the open face presented in my palm without a word whilst sipping his tea. This scrutiny goes on for several minutes, almost until his cup is drained. Exerting control is an immediate habit of his, one I also admire. He flicks his hand in dismissal of the watch.

"Where's the Times?" The Master demands with venom in his voice. His eyes glare at me. I smile in presenting the broadsheet from behind my back. He is not amused in snatching it from my hand. He eyes it in distaste. "There's a crease in the top-right corner." He remarks before throwing it back in my face. His papers must be ironed. We both know this. One crease is an error too far for his sensibilities. I smile and produce a second copy from beneath the tea tray. It is impeccably pressed. He takes it slowly this time, scans it for longer. I watch his nose wrinkle. He is in a good mood this morning. "A test, Sebastian? Really?" He says with withering contempt. It is a lovely tone.

"You passed with flying colours, Sir. Would you care for another cup?"

"Your choice this morning was horrid." He tells me whilst opening the paper to block out my face. I was wrong; the Master is not in a good mood...he is in an excellent mood. 'Horrid' is his new way of admonishing me despite liking my offering. If my selection was truly disagreeable to his palette, he would call it 'dreadful'. I pour him a second cup and wait for him to finish reading. He is intentionally mute for almost forty minutes. He has drained his second cup in the interim. He folds the paper, sets it to one side and then exits the bed. "Don't follow me." He cautions. He has drunk too much tea and needs to relieve himself.

"Would you like me to aim it for you?" I ask before he is out of the room. He turns and glares at me, his contract seal dulled in the ambient light. Then he smirks.

"You would, wouldn't you? If I ordered you to, you would." He scoffs at this and leaves without another word. He is very happy this morning. It is an unusual pleasure. I have already laid out his clothes when the Master returns. His nightshirt is still immaculately white. I will admit, he is competent in at least one aspect of his morning routine. He examines my fashion choices. "This colour is..." He pauses and frowns at the hue. He looks at me. "This is new, is it not?"

"Yes, Young Master. It is periwinkle, also known as 'lavender blue'. You said you wished for something different." I reply. He gently picks up the jacket and thumbs it. His eyes say it has struck a chord with him, a positive one.

"Whatever. Just hurry up and dress me." He says, dropping the article on the bed and seating himself beside it. I enjoy dressing him more than any other duty I perform, even though bathing has gifted me an extraordinary insight into the way a human body is constructed. My favourite element of dressing him is when he raises his arms and is divested of his nightshirt. No embarrassment at his nudity, no hint of humiliation at being so exposed. His expression is just as regal and unimpressed. So different from other vessels. It is a small detail, but so rewarding to witness close-up. Underwear is first, followed by his shirt, shorts and waistcoat. All clothes suit him well. Except those in red and yellow. They are detestable, a sentiment we both agree on. Next should be his socks, but the Master always wishes his bowtie fashioned first. Today the ribbon is dark green. It complements the suit nicely. When I move to put his socks on, always black, he jams a bare foot against my chest. "Do my toes need cutting?"

"I believe you mean your toenails, Sir." I tell him. I have severed toes before. It is rather anticlimactic. He lets out an irritable sigh.

"They feel long." He says. I take hold of his foot and examine their condition. They are short, perfectly rounded and buffed, just as I left them three days ago.

"They appear unchanged."

"Are you calling me a liar?" He challenges. I smile. He is in rare form today. I decide to take my first liberty and proceed to roll him onto his back before bringing his own toes close to his face. He says nothing in retaliation and offers no resistance to the motion.

"Can you see your toenails clearly, Young Master?" I ask.

"Yes."

"Can you see your face reflected in their surface?"

"Yes."

"Do any of them look unruly?"

"No. I suppose not."

"So, you would agree I am not accusing you of perjury, but inferring that you are mistaken in your analysis?"

"You honestly believe yourself to be clever, don't you?" He sneers as I gently pull him back to his seated position and resume dressing him. He smiles at me in a manner I know he has never done with any other in our association. There is genuine delight in moments like this, levity he does not partake in from any other source. "You are a dismal servant, Sebastian." He informs me, folding his arms as one sock is tied off below his knee. "Truly dismal." He is still smiling. It is easy to return.

"Yes, My Lord."

After he is dressed and after my breakfast offering of eggs Florentine is dismissed for being too seasoned, but eaten regardless, the Master is keen to begin the day's agenda. Unlike his predecessors, this one approaches his revenge in a methodical way. Nothing is half-baked or improvised unless the action forces him to do so. Today is the day he intends Lord Flanders, a wayward subject of Queen Victoria, to pay for his misdeeds, both against the Crown and the Phantomhive family. His plan for manoeuvring the target into a suitable position to enact his strategy began two weeks ago with an invitation for lunch at a local restaurant.

An initial meeting to test certain threads the Master told me upon that day's conclusion. When I asked which threads he had pulled, he told me it was the only one that counted. His approach to the scenario was revealed to me several days later when the Funtom Company negotiated contracts with Lord Flanders' shipping firm, to transport their confectionery products overseas. He had manoeuvred another piece into place. This Monday, when he ordered me to destroy the Flanders' ship as it departed from Calais back to Dover, I was unable to reconcile all the pieces into a reasonable narrative. The second invitation to Lord Flanders, the one extended for an evening meal today, to discuss the incident and its impact, is also somewhat perplexing.

"Are you prepared for this evening?" He asks me when we have completed an exhaustive shopping list in central London. He is currently sat in the Marigold Tea Rooms, drinking rose-infused black tea to accompany his jam-covered scones. I stand to his left, my topcoat still in place. He likes to sit with his left leg crossed over the right. He does not look comfortable in any other position. Humans have many interesting quirks. It amuses me that I know all of the Master's.

"Yes, Sir. All ingredients are ready. What are your orders for these other items gathered?"

"I need you to soak them all in saltwater and then place them in one of the manor's rear rooms. Pack them as if for a voyage by sea that has run into...difficulties. Understand?"

As I regard the items again, I believe I am starting to grasp his tactics. If so, this promises to be a most entertaining night. I smile. "Yes, My Lord."

Evening comes swiftly. Darkness descends. The manor's dining room is bathed in candlelight. Both the Master and Lord Flanders are halfway through their main course, Lobster Thermidor. Conversation has been deliberately controlled by the host and has thus far avoided talk of business altogether. He is always in control. It is only as I begin to clear their plates that the Master brings up the matter.

"Do they know what happened to your ship, Lord Flanders? Why it sank in such shallow waters?" He asks his guest with sympathy that is well feigned. His companion offers a grave shake of the head.

"Not as of yet, Earl Phantomhive. The entire matter is most peculiar."

"I understand some of your cargo was salvaged though?"

"Not enough to break even on the venture. The losses are manageable, but the crew were not receptive to manning another ship under my company's banner. They sailed back on a schooner the other day." Lord Flanders takes a sip of his wine and shrugs. "You will of course be receiving the full amount from sale of your company's goods within the week. I apologise for the delay."

"Yes, you are most kind to pay such a sum from your own pocket, Lord Flanders. I appreciate your sense of urgency in the matter." I watch the Master pretend to take a sip of his wine. He does not like getting drunk when there is a reason to avoid it. He considers. "It's funny though, isn't it?"

"What's that?"

"That this is the third time this year one of your vessels has been lost leaving Calais for return to England. How do you explain that remarkable coincidence?" It is his opening gambit. It is no longer a probing question, but a strong attack. Our guest is equally bold in defence.

"The first time, the hold was open to the sea due to a crewman's error and the ship became too laden with water to travel beyond the port. All cargo was destroyed. The second instance was due to colliding with another vessel making an incorrect turn towards the port. Neither was the fault of my company." Lord Flanders says without a pause. It is a fine exchange for both, but the Master is far from finished with his cross-examination.

"It is true however, that in the previous two instances, insurance recovered was twice the value of the goods lost, is it not?"

"Yes, it is, but that is merely the result of having a proper insurance policy in place. What are you implying?"

"That you make a habit out of ruining foreign businesses by not reimbursing them for the sales of goods you lost. I also believe that in the previous two instances your ships ran into difficulties, your cargo was replaced with packing crates of lead shot to not only ensure it could not be recovered, but also to allow you to sell on the real cargo without the manufacturer's knowledge." There is the viciousness and full-blooded gall I am so attracted to in a master. It is not these qualities that separate a good master from a great one. It is how and when these qualities are implemented that distinguish Ciel Phantomhive from all that have come before him. Lord Flanders reacts with ire, rising to his feet in avid protest.

"That is an outrageous accusation to throw at me! That is slander, Sir, slander!"

The Master gifts him a thin smile. "Yes, of course, you're right, Lord Flanders. You only used lead shot the first time. The second time, you used something far less suspicious. Come with me, I've prepared some after dinner entertainment." He joins his guest in standing and begins to move towards the hallway.

"But we haven't even had dessert!" Lord Flanders snaps in exasperation, gesturing to the empty table. The young master smiles.

"Yes, but given what I've been told, you've had plenty of dessert over the years."

This is where he distances himself from his forebears. Regardless of evidence to the contrary, the Master is a showman where these matters are concerned. There is greater flair in his deduction and presentation of crime than a Shakespearean play performed in the Globe Theatre. The drama is heightened and the stakes even more so. He may not be able to act on a stage, but in his own dominion, there is no-one who plays his audience with greater verve or conviction. Lord Flanders is led into the rear room with the gathered items fashioned after a ship's cargo and bound together in the same manner. The Master gestures to the display with a sweeping hand gesture.

"Do you recognise this particular construction, Lord Flanders?"

"Should I?"

"This is how the cargo on your second ship was found in the water after the collision. Notice anything?"

"Aside from the fact it is all wet, no."

"They are imitations of the pastries, cheeses and other foodstuffs you agreed to transport to England on behalf of their distributors. Imitations being the keyword here, Lord Flanders."

"This...show of yours smacks of desperation, Earl Phantomhive. What on earth do you hope to prove with your imitations that an investigative board could not with genuine samples of my lost cargo?"

"Because it wasn't lost, Lord Flanders. Many tonnes of goods were recovered from the waters because they floated on the surface. This is because of the difference in quality of ingredients used. Your original cargo was composed entirely of luxury items. These items were heavy. Sealed in packaging, they were too heavy to float. But your cargo floated. It points to inferior products being passed off as luxury items."

"Even if that were true, it does not mean I am responsible for the subterfuge. The crew loaded the vessel. It is their responsibility, not mine."

"But you were careless, Lord Flanders. You only increased the insurance on these two occasions, well beyond what was necessary. Both crews were captained by the same man, a man who has been involved in no less than ten incidents of lost or damaged ships and cargo in the last five years. This man has been in your company's employ for seven years."

"Coincidence and circumstance. Nothing more than conjecture."

"Yes, until I bought this from one of your shops this morning." The Master produces a Flander's Fudge giftbox and opens it to reveal the perfectly square cake inside. "This is a new product, is it not?"

"Yes, only a few weeks old. Selling well though."

"Not yours though, is it?"

"Excuse me?"

"I said it's not yours though, is it? This is a Hubert Grainne gâteau carré. I recognise the piping. You see," The Master waves me over as I carry another giftbox, this one decorated with the tricolore instead of the dark puce and white motif of Lord Flanders' company. When I open it beside the other, the two cakes are identical in every conceivable way. "Voici un que j'ai acheté plus tôt. Identical in appearance, but also in taste. And it implements French baking and decorative techniques instead of anything remotely English in origin."

"For all anybody knows, you could've bought two of my cakes and then transplanted one of them into an empty giftbox. You have no proof." Lord Flanders scoffs, his arms now folded in triumph. The Master haphazardly drops his cake on the floor and shrugs.

"You're right, but I'm not the law. And I do not require proof of any sort to see you suffer. Sebastian, put Lord Flanders inside the cargo."

"Yes, My Lord."

I grab our guest by the shoulders and effortlessly force him inside the cargo netting and ropes until he stands trapped in its centre with only his head visible above the clutter. Whilst Lord Flanders looks bewildered by this change of circumstances, my young master adopts the most wicked of smiles. Now is finally time for the crux of his plan. He almost relishes the explanation more than the acts that form it. He likes to gloat. I like to see him gloat and strut and flaunt his superiority to a subdued foe. Cruelty is his hallmark, one I respect.

"Have you heard of the Salem witch trials, Lord Flanders?" The Master asks his companion who seems too paralysed with surprise to muster a reply. I have learned such queries are usually rhetorical with this one. It proves so again. "They had a test, one to prove whether the witch was genuine or not. It involved dunking them repeatedly in freezing-cold water until they either confessed their blasphemy or drowned. We are going to enact something similar. You either confess to your crimes or you stay silent. Just as a reminder though, your silence means you will drown. We wish the experience to be authentic for you. Sebastian, carry him to the pond."

I was ordered to construct a weighted pivot at the north end of the estate's pond some months ago. Its purpose was unclear. Although modelled on the mechanism used by puritans to dunk suspected witches, I did not expect it to be used in the same capacity. It is something of a delight. The cargo is attached to one end overhanging the water's edge. I take up position on the opposite end of the pivot, holding the roped goods steady. The Master stands at the side of the pond with the best view of the spectacle. Lord Flanders pleads for release and protests his innocence. I am given the signal to 'dunk' the cargo. I do so three times in quick succession. The young master's eyes shine in the dark as our guest coughs and splutters for air.

"Do you confess, Lord Flanders?" The Master asks with obvious glee in his voice. His delivery is almost theatrical. The man opens his mouth.

"Fraud merits this barbarism? Fine, I confess to defrauding the insurance companies! I confess! But, this is far from appropriate treatment! Let me stand trial as any gentleman is entitled to! It is only just." Lord Flanders pleas are not unreasonable, given what little the Master has divulged thus far. This is the moment when he finishes with a flurry of revelations to explain and excuse both his actions and the malicious whim in which he carries them out. It is the high point of human theatre. Tonight, proves no exception. He scoffs at our guest.

"This is not about money. This is about you driving Monsieur Grainne to suicide with your deception. This is about robbing a wife of her husband and five children of their father. This is about you denying them an income and a future. This is about taking my favourite chocolatier from this world, a man who was not only a business associate, but a good friend. And for what? Fifteen-thousand pounds? Paltry. And you insult him and his legacy further by branding his goods as your own? Unacceptable. Both I and Her Majesty find it worthy of the hangman's noose. You are lucky to have the luxury of choice. So, will you offer a full confession and serve a prison term, or would you rather drown here and now surrounded by the instruments of your deception?"

"I will confess, Sir! Just do not subject me to this torture any longer. I beg you." Lord Flanders is a broken man by the simplest of tortures. A lack of spine is readily apparent, now we have graduated beyond the trappings of material success to which he is so accustomed. The Master grins at him.

"Do I have your word of honour?" He teases blithely. I sense an unmistakable turning of a knife.

"You may have whatever you require for your burden of proof! Just let me out of this nightmare!" Our guest is begging now. My young master's expression is one of indifference. He regards his family ring almost absently in calling my name.

"Sebastian?"

"Young Master?"

"Dunk him again, longer this time."

"Yes, My Lord."

The torture of Lord Flanders amuses him for another half-hour. Then he tires of his fellow nobleman's choked sobs and lack of noise. He dismisses the practice with a casual wave of his hand. Transport to the gaol is already at the entrance of the estate, sent for shortly after breakfasting this morning. The Master does not watch him leave in chains. He no longer acknowledges his presence at all. He demands dessert as we return to the dining room. I provide him with another of Monsieur Grainne's square cakes to feast on. His gaze is wistful for several minutes, before his fork and natural attitudes to sugar replace any reverence. He does not offer me any conversation until announcing it is time for his evening bath. We move upstairs where all other servants have combined their efforts to gift me a prepared bathtub. Although it is filled, the water is barely lukewarm. I replace it before he can give criticism.

"Did you enjoy your evening, Master?" I inquire once he is settled and my hands are embedded in his scalp. He sighs.

"We should have drowned him. I know such a fate would be far too cliched, given the circumstances, but I fear I have denied myself immense satisfaction." There is always more conversation when he is tired or embittered by the day's events. His melancholy is almost as delectable as his venom. It grants his soul textures no other has matched in this century's offerings. I gently rinse out the soap from his hair.

"I believe you conducted yourself with exactly the right tonic of disdain and control. Killing him would have been too kind a fate."

"Did I ask for your opinion?" He snaps. A yawn soon follows, signalling that the day's play is almost at an end. "You're right though, drowning would have been a reprieve. Captivity will punish him better." He turns his head to look into my eyes. His contract seal glows in the subdued lighting. "I should not have wasted all those foodstuffs for my display, certainly not imitations that the common man deems a treat instead of a bargain." I adopt what humans refer to as a 'sympathetic' smile. I take my second liberty of the day in putting a gloved hand on his bare shoulder.

"Then may I ask why did you not simply buy their luxury equivalents for your demonstration?" The Master sighs again and turns away from me, folding his arms, but not shrugging my hand away in doing so. A small comfort.

"I don't know. I had more evidence to throw at him. The accident reports from the investigatory board, the contracts with Monsieur Grainne and the other businesses his malpractice ruined..." His pause is involuntary. A thought has struck him, one I expected him to grasp many hours earlier, regarding Lord Flanders torture. "The cargo didn't float when placed in the pond...it should've floated, unless..." The young master glares at me. "You swapped out the imitations for the real things, didn't you?"

"It was either that or place several pounds of lead shot into the cargo arrangement. The latter would have marred the aesthetic of its shape."

"What if I had wished to demonstrate the floating phenomenon to Lord Flanders?"

"I reasoned you would be tired of his evasions before such a demonstration was required."

"How did you know I would wish to submerge him in water?"

"You have a flair for dramatic irony, Sir. Since his crime is predicated on the sabotage of supplies on the ocean, returning the favour was the only logical step for you to take. I must admit though, I did not anticipate the use of the pivot. That was a marvellous addition to proceedings." This is my third liberty of the day and is, admittedly the most blatant. I can escape heavy reprimand for a maximum of three liberties per day, provided they are evenly spaced and not too ostentatious in their execution. Stretching his patience to its breaking point is an amusing pastime, one I indulge as often as possible. Today's liberties are founded upon his initial mood at daybreak. His reaction to my first, encouraged me to be as devilish as I could with the last...or perhaps it is the second? He narrows his eyes.

"If they were the luxury goods, why were they in the imitation packaging?"

"I bought both and transplanted them into the imitation boxes."

"And the imitations themselves?"

"Distributed to your workers and associates as gifts from their kind-hearted employer and acquaintance. They were all most appreciative of the gesture." I tell him genially. He strikes me across the face and points. His face is like thunder. It is exquisite.

"Don't. Do. It. Again. Understand?"

I smile. "Yes, My Lord."

The Master is tucked into his bed. Eyelids grow heavy as he succumbs to biological weakness. Inside him, the soul still shines, even mired in absolute blackness. While there is little doubt that his soul will be the best meal I have ever tasted, it only represents the end of our contract. There is much ground between then and now that must be traversed. That meandering journey, through bloodshed and hardship, would be made all the longer without a good vessel to chart the course with. Fortunately, the Master is the most amusing human I have ever served. I enjoy all aspects of serving him, a rare feat for a demon such as myself. As I take my leave of him and exit out into the corridor, I know this association will cease sooner rather than later. Just as I cannot go hungry for the rest of eternity, neither can my young master continue to live without his revenge. Even knowing this is how demons must conduct their business, shackled by the most primitive of drives, I find the arrangement bittersweet.

A demon cannot love. In truth, aside from pain, a being such as myself cannot feel anything akin to human emotion. Ciel Phantomhive makes me question that certainty. Though I will take his soul upon completion, I will not enjoy it. Given the choice, I would serve him indefinitely. Since that is impossible, I will simply console myself during the coming eons with memories of our time together.

I have served many masters. To the present date, I have served three-thousand, one-hundred and fifty-nine. All contracts have been closed amicably. I remember none of their names. They are like dust in the wind, and just as fleeting. I will remember Ciel Phantomhive though...

I will remember him forever.