Puppeteer
Ciel.
Step, pause, break, back, step, repeat!
A chilling half-smile whispers across deathly white lips.
Spin, turn, around, out repeat!
There was a hesitant growl, fingertips brushing together softly.
Up, down, around, kill!
A pause.
Kill! Kill!
Nimbly moving bone white fingers and the strings turn and tug at every movement; at his will. Gallivanting across a poorly lit stage, the marionette dances and sways, it movements smooth and pure, and seemingly so innocent. Each minute nerve is controlled, every step is ordered, to a plan, and the puppet obediently follows.
Kill! The order rings out, from below, spiralling upward and echoing from all the points in the room. And perhaps the next action was performed to merely calm the child, as a patronising whim the other couldn't detect. But the action was performed, as was required, and the strings upon his arms slacken, only slightly.
Yes, my Lord.
And you would think it would be the boy, with lopsided crown and eyes in a bored daze, looking down upon the puppet as his head rested on his palm, fingers playing with those strings. But Ciel smells something stale, here, in that thought, in this image, and upon looking into it further releases rather bluntly that this is not the case.
Ciel looks down upon himself. He sits, on the throne of a king, shrouded by veil of darkness, and of death. Raw bones of fear waft below him as he sits, on that blemished cathedra.
Broken chessboard, dying pieces.
He sees little Lizzy's blood covered hand hovering before him, poking through the other pawns, lying carelessly where they fell. And for a moment, he looks at her, that pitiful being, and then he turns away.
The thought frays and simmers. No, indeed, not the case.
Ciel realises that he isn't the king, and his crown falls, and tumbles, and cracks. There are so many cracks in his reality, now, that he has lost count, and can no longer determine what is real and what is not.
Above him, the demon murmurs unspeakable horrors, "It is done, my Lord."
And below him, Ciel tugs at the strings tugging him and nods once; the gesture returned with a sickly smile.
What a master puppeteer...Ciel thinks, but he does not think it bitterly, no, he finds himself in a state where Sebastian's betrayal doesn't hurt him like it should. To be fair, he is a demon…
Ciel stops, and Ciel thinks.
Perhaps it is because it is the near the end...But he knows it is more than that, more than giving his soul to the being. He looks up, the stage lights dimming, those white clad hands lifting the boy from the arena.
And suddenly Ciel is frightened, not of the demon, of the creature before him, but of himself. Sebastian was meant to be a pawn, a puppet for his use, certainly not the other way around.
The Servant shouldn't have had the Master wrapped around his little finger. But he did.
And Ciel did not mind.
Ciel leans forward hesitantly, giving the demon an airy kiss.
"And what, my Lord, was that?"
And as Ciel leans forward, he realises one final thing. He did not mind that the demon was killing him.
Ciel opens his mouth and speaks with simple grace, "My soul."
A/N: Sorry if that was awfully confusing. Hope you all enjoyed! Comments are greatly appreciated..
R&R!
Alyss