DISCLAIMER: I do not own Kuroshitsuji or any of its lovely characters. I am not making any money off of this and have nothing but the highest respected and awe for its creator Yana Toboso.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the sequel to "Commodities". If you have not read it, this story may not make a lot of sense- as it references and builds upon previous events. If you haven't read "Commodities" I sincerely hope you will consider it. I think you will find it quite interesting.

AUTHOR'S NOTE #2: I FINALLY finished this first chapter. I am so sorry, everyone who has me on author alert and has been waiting for this. My Muse has been so terrible lately and life has just… gotten away from me. I hope you enjoy it and I look forward to your reviews. Your words feed my fickle little spark of creativity and I could not write what I do without your support!

The Mortal Coil: Chapter 1

Ciel awoke to the dark as he had every night since returning home. He tried to tell himself that anyway, that he had returned home. That he had come back to where he belonged. But it wasn't really home at all. His home was long gone, ashes on the wind, where only his bitter memories remained behind. He didn't know if this new place, this new 'home' would every truly be his. That was why he jarred awake each morning, hours before the cock crowed or sunlight painted the indigo sky pink, fading into the sweet azure of day.

He took a breath, closing his deep blue eyes in hopeful exhaustion. There was still time to fall back asleep and he was going to attempt to seize it, elusive as it was. The same routine had played out for months and just like every night previous, slumber was just barely out of reach. Perhaps it was because of the other thing which he felt lingered in the halls of his new home, something which everyone else assured him was not there at all; the distinct smell of fire.

The Earl could smell it in the walls, in the floor, hanging on every thread of his sheets and even in the fine fabric of his clothes. The char of burnt wood, acrid and heavy, seemed to haunt everything he touched. It was like he died in that fire and had been imbued with its cologne. Had he died then? No, he knew he hadn't. But it all seemed a little fuzzy in his mind.

He concluded to not dwell on it, thinking instead that he would call on the painters in the morning. It would be the third time since the mansion had been built. Construction had only ended four months previous. He wouldn't change the colors on the wall, just pay for another coat and hopefully banish the smell which troubled him. His keeper would not be pleased about this decision, but he knew she wouldn't fight with him over it. She was very accommodating when it came to his needs. Not like his butler had been, but in her way.

It seemed like mere moments had passed by the time sunlight streamed through narrow window framed far above the others. It was the only one without curtains to block the light and was the last to be struck by the golden rays of morning sun. A bird's window really, built as an amendment to the original design of the home to facilitate the quirks of its occupants. The architect had been very confused about it, among other things, as the boy overlooked the reconstruction of his home.

There had been other changes to the estate, most notably the shape of the structure itself. From the outside it appeared much as it had before, tall, imposing, and British. But beyond those walls was a series of halls and rooms which tucked around a center atrium, vaulted in clear glass and decorated with an amazing array of exotic plants. It was a gift, or perhaps a compromise, to the woman who had been kind enough to agree to stay with him, at least until he was ready to be on his own again.

It was an endeavor which was not close at hand. His uneasy sleep and subsequent fatigue sapped his strength one day at a time. It would be a year or perhaps even two, before he would feel comfortable without her. Despite that, he didn't crave her closeness as he had his butler, though she seemed to crave his. She was like mother, friend, servant and master to him, a strange mixture of power and help. But then, what else should he expect from the witch who saved his soul? The whole situation had been paradoxical to begin with.

Ciel pushed the covers back, groaning to himself as he realized yet again that sleep had abandoned him. From the angle of the sun, streaking across the golden brocade fleur-de-lis of his down comforter like errant paint, he knew it was well past nine. He should have been up nearly two hours ago, though the slimmest chance of sleep kept him in bed, eyes closed just in case.

Ciel dressed himself quietly, facing the antique mirror with a serious expression. As he looked at himself, He took stock for the hundredth time; his face was still round and boyish, limbs slender as the sapling branches of a willow, eyes (now both healthy and unmarked) large and expressive, rimmed with thick dark lashes. He hadn't changed a bit, not a single hint at growth or development. It was as if he was doomed to be short and look like a little boy forever. Somewhere in his mind, he could hear the witch explaining how the body only grew when it was asleep. Which meant his habit of waking up was more than mere annoyance. Perhaps there was some medicine he could take to stay asleep?

When Ciel reached the bottom button of his shirt he stopped, holding a long pointed shirt tail in one hand while a stubby one was gripped in the other. He looked at them in frustration, growling quietly before he started pulling the buttons apart once more. Every morning he mis-buttoned his shirt at least once, sometimes taking four and five tries to make it line up as it should. Annoyances like that made him miss his butler all the more.

The cavern walls reverberated with the low din of sound. Like the haunt of machinery, and endless growl of despair multiplying as the waves bounced around the alcoves with conviction. It was a singular symphony of noise, and for those unfortunate enough to find themselves within the maw of the great cave, a cacophony of insanity.

Minimal light snaked along the ground as volcanic cracks, dotted with hissing geysers or sulphurous steam. The light shivered and shook in time with the noise, flickering with menace against the base of the jagged walls.

A figure sat amongst the alcoves, seemingly unconscious against his barbarous surroundings. He was dressed in what was once a finely appointed white suit, now torn and stained almost beyond recognition. Though it was not odd for individuals of high status to find themselves in the bowels of Hell, there was one quality which gave reason for pause. Two bloody stumps situated over his shoulder blades, gory remembrance of the life he had lost. This was no ordinary human. His fall had been from a much higher plane.

Now he hung like a macabre marionette, arms fastened by heavy chains to the wall above him. His silver hair hung about his face like a ragged veil. If he was thinking anything, if he even felt anything, there was no hint. As the firelight danced about him, coloring his pallor in the rumbling sunset hues of the crag, he remained limp in his bonds.

Barely discernible in the depths, a shadow came over him, watching with candid interest. It stood for some time, as if waiting for the fallen to make the first move. The game would be set in motion one way or the other, but the looming darkness knew it was customary for white to take to the board first.

When he did not, the black knight took an uncustomary opening slide, "Did you really think you were doing Heaven's bidding?"

The chained man didn't respond immediately, but his pale violet eyes opened at the sound of the familiar voice. Protected by the cover of his pale hair, he pondered the question. It rolled back and forth in the kinetic haze of his mind, internal voices bickering over the correct answer.

He dared not let the other know he was aware, lest he take the opportunity to further harass him. In life he had fought this darkness, this shadow. He had fought and he had lost. To say his actions had been noble in the face of such crippling defeat was unthinkable. To admit to the sin of it, given his place in death, was also out of the question. Silence was the only answer he could give. After his verbose monologue, culminating in his death, it was all he had left.

"I know you can hear me, Ash," the shadow said, chuckling lightly, "So don't play dead. It is not a game that suits you."

In his bonds, Ash frowned deeply, anger and disgust twisting his features. So the devil knew he could hear him. Even in death he was to endure defeat at the hands of this creature. It was shameful. But then, he was in Hell. His punishment had to be thus, to fit his crime of hubris and self appointed import. The meaning was not lost on him, though at each turn he wished for an end to it. He felt thoroughly chastised.

In unbroken silence he looked up, hardened gaze softening to little more than a withering glance by the time he could see the other's face. It was that beautiful face he had appealed to, not so long ago, to be his lover and companion. It was that deceptively handsome, dark and alluring face which clouded his dreams with the most depraved acts. It was the face of his wanton prize and his ultimate destruction. The owner of that face, with its untamed onyx locks, sharp features and exotic brown eyes, had brought him death. For that, he hated him.

The demon smiled, towering over the fallen angel proudly. It wasn't that he had been the man's executioner or that after his defeat he had been sent straight to Hell. No, that smile was one of opportunity and salvation, if only in the blackest of ways.

The demon didn't expect a response. Ash was not one to waste his words, especially with him. So he took another move in their new game, a card this time, the ace, "I have come to make a trade, Ash."

The angel stared at him blankly. That was the last thing he expected the demon to say. A trade? A trade for what? Of what? It was cryptic and lent itself to immediate and intense scrutiny.

When the demon broke the heavy shackles which bound him to the wall, Ash was sure it was some sort of farce. Despite that, he stood hesitantly brushed himself off, "What sort of trade?"

The demon, the one he knew as Sebastian Michaelis, gave him a familiar half lidded smile. It was Cheshire in its intensity, but did not show even the smallest hint of teeth. It was a dangerous and beautiful smile, "I will return you to Earth, in exchange for your soul."

Ash sneered, brushing off his sleeve brusquely, "Absolutely not. Why would I do that? I am an angel. Piss off."

Sebastian nearly laughed at the vulgar outburst, opting instead to clarify his position, "You have been stripped of your divine rights, you are bound to Hell. I am your way out and might I be clear that I am your only way out."

Ash looked at him, darkness brooding in his mind with the same intensity as the rumbling fissures all around. An eternity bound to Hell was an unbearable thought, but giving his soul to the demon was almost as final. Then again, if given the opportunity, maybe he could be free and retain his soul as well. Just one more means to an end, "Fine, you can have it."

Sebastian smiled cruelly, "You are not as stubborn as I expected you to be."

Ash returned the smile in an effort to disarm his rival. The devil may have made the opening play, but Ash was now well aware of the game. This round he would not lose, "As you say, you are my only way out. To deny you is only keeping me bound."

"True," the demon said confidently, crouching down the angel's level, "Very true."

The cell block was dark, save for the single torch of pitch which sent shivering shadows along the seemingly endless walls of stone and mortar. No moonlight dared trickle through the high barred windows, afraid of the human animals which lay trapped within. Like the bowels of the Earth, narrow twisting halls, thick with torch smoke and the humid ranker of overcrowded confinement twined downward with cell upon crowded cell. Within those cells sat the criminally damned, awaiting their fate in filthy squalor.

Rats scurried about the floor, feeding on fallen scraps and scattered refuse left by the guards. For them this place was a good home, protected from both the elements and the feline hunters which prowled the London streets at night. For its human occupants however, also driven to seek scraps and trash to augment their meager fare, there was a desperate wish to return to the outside, away from the bars and the guards.

Disease ran rampant through the prison population, and one man sat in near silence cataloguing each fatal case. His long brown hair hung in grimy locks about his pale face as he murmured to the dark night, some still vainly held back with a frayed red bow of satin. It had been very nice once, as had his tailored black coat and linen shirt; but it looked like that had been a long time ago.

He kept his head bowed where he sat, his quiet words almost like prayer to those who chose to listen, "Catalon Smith, death Tuesday April Second 9:14 PM, cholera. Bones Gregor, death Monday April First 7:02 AM, execution by hanging. Neil Bugsey, death Tuesday April Second, consumption. Miller Norfolk, actually name Milly Eddleman, female… death Friday April Fifth, consumption."

The list went on and on, one name after another spoken quietly, fate brought to light by the unlikely messenger. With his brown hair and round glasses, speaking more for himself than anything; anyone listening would assume his insanity. He didn't care if those around him knew the death log. He was only reciting what he could tell from his surroundings. There was a time when it was his job to know such things.

A guard passed by the barred door on his rounds, dark uniform seeming to soak up all the light cast by the torch, blacker than the night itself. As his shadow fell over the meek man within, the prisoner turned, face plaintive behind the cracked glass of his spectacles, "Excuse me, but what is the date today?"

The guard paused, scrutinizing the man asking. He was not obligated to answer and with most prisoners he wouldn't bother. But this one seemed smarter than the rest, bat shit crazy, but with the steadfast edge of education. How he ended up in the bottom cell block was a complete mystery. It was a simple question after all, "It is Just after midnight, so it is the twenty second of March."

"Ah, I see," the prisoner responded blankly bowing his head once more, "James Worlwood, death April fourth, consumption." He paused, pondering the next name in his mind before actually putting voice behind it, "Grell Sutcliff, death March twenty fourth 7:11 am, execution by hanging. "

There was a long silence in the cell, broken only by the hiss and crackle of the pitch torch as it consumed the tar surrounding its wooden base. The man rolled the idea over in his mind again and again, "7:11 am… the noose must not break the neck… perhaps poorly tied." A moment longer, thinking. Then he resumed as he was, "Larry Bijon, death April first, knife fight. Leno Murlson, death March twenty fifth, consumption. . . "

Night turned to day, bringing tight pinches of sun, broken by each person to walked in front of the small, street level windows. The man did not find sleep until the sun began to recede once more, climbing too high in the sky to waste its rays below ground, and even then he only dreamed of death.