This is a translation from French of "Nature Morte" by Flesh Delirium. ( www .fanfiction [dot net] [slash] s /10971292 /1/ Nature-Morte)

You can also find a link to the original on my profile :)

I'm really honored to have been able to try to translate this wonderful story!

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Still Life

by Flesh Delirium
translated by ArgentNoelle

1] The Observer

On the computer screen, windows appear and disappear. These ads, supposedly meant to entice the viewer, eventually supplant the active page entirely. Attacks by people disguised as clowns, the conviction of the runner Oscar Pistorius, the failure of the Scottish referendum…

None of this is of interest to the man, though he continues to stare, unblinking, at the only source of light in the room.

The news depicts the constant errors of humans. It means little to him.

Then a window comes to his attention. In a flash, the observer comes out of his torpor; his eyes seem to come back to life. With a quick movement, he clicks on the headline. The article is about an English business, Funtom; it is well known to the public and enjoys international renown for offering quality products at low prices. But according to the article, its stock market rating is falling more and more each week.

The norms the company flouts seem to deride the promise of higher profits, and hurt what others pompously call "human working conditions." Such a crisis has been reverberating through society for some time, and no business has been spared the scrutiny. The reactions are split: condemn capitalism or praise it? After all, "With the crisis we are going through today, they should be happy to have a job. People in precarious positions don't have time to go on strike!"

Whatever. The observer is not an ordinary human (he is not even a human himself). The socio-economic character of the case does not interest him. No need to read a boring theory established by a boring little schoolboy. Nevertheless, he continues his reading, for the slight historical interest. The article isn't bad. The antecedents of society today are drawn up in a table which supports the criticism of Funtom pushed forward by the article; a one-eyed rabbit, smiling with all its teeth and grabbing a sugar cane in its paw accompanies the box: the logo of the company. Under the charming animal, a text slogan pronounces, "Making you smile like the Cheshire cat since 1886!"

Such sales techniques have always left him skeptical. But when he reads these words, he doesn't doubt their truth: he attended their creation. All the same, he is suddenly possessed by a shred of curiosity to read the history that has been written since.

Nobody knows who founded the Funtom company. In 1886, at its birth, it was already a startling success, but the company changed ownership in 1894. Its successor, a man named Edward Middleford, sank the company into disaster, and was forced to sell: a new family took possession in 1902. Johnny Marr, the heir, is the one involved in the current scandal.

The observer has finished reading. He closes the tab.

The screen goes dark; twilight settles in. The silence stretches on, grotesquely.

The observer's features relax, becoming twisted into a hideous humor. He starts to laugh: it begins as a low, rumbling chuckle, then explodes into the room; the sharp noise ricochets from the walls.

"Humans will never change! What do you think, sir?"

This is not the first time he has pronounced this sentence. If his memories are good, he had said just the same two months before the disappearance of Ciel Phantomhive. Before the company changed ownership. When both were still in the light...

2] Fault

The discussion had started with that. A sentence Sebastian pronounced with an innocent tone.

"...What do you think, sir?"

"My thoughts… are none of your regard. When did you imagine that you could take such personal initiative? One would think that after six years at my service as a butler, you would be well trained. … But it seems that a devil, as clever and cruel as it may be, will never be able to satisfy the desires of humans to perfection."

"Such a hot temper you have today! Are you dissatisfied with the lunch menu? No… that is not it? Tsk. A young nobleman should not be so childish. You reproach me for not satisfying your desires, yet you are the one who gives the orders. So who is to blame?

"—For example, if you were really interested, after so many years, in finding your parents' murderer, all you would have to do is give the order… and I would find that repugnant human and bring them to us forthwith. Ah… but that would spoil the pleasure; is that not the excuse?

This Sebastian replied, without losing his smile, eternally tinged with sarcasm.

"It is our agreement, as established in our contract. I want to know the reasons behind the annihilation of my illustrious family. Should I refresh your memory? Or perhaps you need me to teach you your place? I have no interest in these digressions of yours. We were talking of the portrait."

"Very good sir. Let us talk of this portrait… whose very idea you seem to disdain."

"Your quick wit astounds, Sebastian."

"Might I know the reasons for this refusal? To own a self-portrait is quite ordinary for a noble of your rank. To make such a small contribution for its realization seems to me only sensible,"

—replied his servant, with that plastic smile.

He that would be the most disdainful, the most contemptuous, would win. Ciel was not ready to lose that game. Not so easily, after a mere five minutes of conversation.

"First, you know better than anyone the vital role I play in the shadow world—in addition to managing Funtom. For my safety, any proof of my identity must be skilfully concealed. Whether such is a person ... or an object. Such things must be put out of reach of the rats, lest they chew this information and cause me to lose my footing. And you—! Would you like to give them, on a silver tray, the means to break my secret? And for a reason as ridiculous as a portrait? I do not even think I have ever expressed such a desire.

"I did not think you senile to the point of forgetting that we humans have invented other ways to create memories. If you want so much to preserve an image of myself out of some pure sentimental attachment…

—a caustic smile—

"...then be content with a photograph of me. This would save me long hours of sitting in an already busy schedule; furthermore the representation to be gained through a portrait would be nothing but an approximation of my appearance, filtered through the eye of one of these unfortunate "damned artists" of the capital. With a simple photograph, all that would be avoided."

"Is it possible that the young lord has not yet passed out of that phase of childhood where one is unable to sit without fidgeting? That would surely explain why the idea of staying still for even a few moments seems unbearable to you."

The features of Ciel's face press together in a palpable reaction which does not escape the butler.

"Must I remind you that I am an adult now?"

The demon can only approve. The thirteen-year-old boy with sometimes childish expressions has become a handsome young man who is master of himself. —However, the more he strives to consolidate a mask around his emotions, the more the mask begins to show its cracks.

Easily provoked emotions show conspicuously on the earl's face, and the demon exploits these fragile flaws skillfully. The butler has his fun in this way, finding the fault-lines in the ceremonial costume, and delights himself with the flaws of his orders which he can turn to his advantage.

And Ciel offers him constantly opportunities.

"It is indeed useless to remind me. You have become such a charming person growing up that it would be hard to forget."

Ciel graces him clearly with his disdain. One of his favorite expressions.

"Tch. Spare me the flattery. What are you waiting for to refute my arguments?"

"But I do not wait, sir. Do not expect me to catch two of your darts at the same time, all hell though I am. Your only goal is to belittle me, is it not?"

It is a wound. Ciel would like to stop being reminded that he is childish; he already know it, anyway. Since when does he let himself become disturbed by the remarks of his chess pieces? Has he become what he fears most: a weakling?

His servant seems to hold the key to all his deeds and thoughts. This idea displeases him. Indeed, the contractor cannot claim to know everything about his butler—this is an area in which Ciel admits he is inferior. That word, and his emotions, burns his tongue like fire that will never be smothered.

—The muteness of the master remains. So Sebastian does not hesitate to continue.

"Well then, allow me to state my theory: and I hope to refute your argument to your satisfaction. Painting exists in the domain of the arts, and for humans it represents aesthetic value. But the portrait—a shade in painting—has another, implicit meaning. It is the obvious, of course. It helps to keep track of the past. Thus, we can say: this being existed, look, here is his portrait. This is how, even after death, a person can survive on earth. Do you see where I'm going, sir? A portrait allows humans to maintain their nostalgia. They can cry hot tears for their dear ones who have departed. But it's useless, is not it? As you like to repeat, 'What is lost can never be regained.'

"That's why this portrait would make sense to you. As the proof that you existed. The mark of a miserable life where you loved and lost everything. What need to preserve the original model when there are a multitude of humans that swarm across the surface of the planet? … To pose for this portrait is to show that you are ready to die."

Clear eyes fix on him in silence.

"Did you think I would not notice? You have been less concerned about your revenge recently. You cannot deny it. Where went those beautiful words you spoke when you were given the title of earl? It's as if you were once again that innocent child fearing death. Yet has not he been sacrificed by the sect that day? Have you not proudly stepped over his corpse? I must tell you as your honest servant: you have disappointed me."

Ciel takes time to swallow the words of his butler. Then he bursts out, in a wretched fury:

"How did I disappoint, Sebastian? Is my life boring? It could have ended a long time ago if you had the desire—no, the will! If you manage to exploit the flaws of my orders, why not exploit those of the contract? Drag up a few clues here and there, to finish this revenge quickly and take my soul. But no! Instead, you take pleasure in seeing me suffer before what remains of my life. I was subjected to it every day, eventually getting used to it ... to simply living, without the constant momentum of these goals. And no longer wanting life to leave me... so be it! But now you reproach me, when you are the one responsible for my condition? After so many years together, after…"

"Why sir, I did not know you to be so sentimental. It is very clear that you are only a pale copy of the Ciel Phantomhive of old. And you hold me responsible for your actions… have you learned nothing, after all these many years in my company?

"You humans, when overwhelmed by misfortune, cry to devils and spirits: that they hate you, and therefore cause your misfortune. But know, dear humans, that the devils only feel indifference to you. The only ones to blame for your suffering are other human beings… or yourself. When will you finish blaming others?"

Sebastian's eyes were harder than ever.

"Get out."

"I'm sorry, sir?"

"Get out of here right now. Without asking frivolous questions."

Ciel tried to act as though these words had not reached him. He still hoped to regain his footing, and yet he was already standing on the precipice. And if he wanted to prove his worth, like that day, he must…

Sebastian started a movement to leave—launching one last remark at his contractor before he did. After all... Ciel had not said 'it's an order.'

"Regarding the portrait... I hope you will think about it. You owe it to the servants and to Lady Elizabeth. Rest assured, I will find the best painter in London."

He bowed, and left, smiling at his master.

So. So— Ciel thought, it was like that… pure indifference to him. The worst thing was that he could not formulate a single reply to these underhanded remarks. It was not like him, to voluntarily drop his mask in such a way…

For the next two months Ciel searched for the killer of his parents with ferocity. He chose between the two evils that were offered to him. The fear of the precipice was too strong...

And finally, in March 1892, Ciel Phantomhive went missing. His body was not found.

3] Vanity

"What do you think, sir?"

Only silence answers him. He gets up painfully from his chair: his body is heavy. But he goes to the room. Where is the object of his desire?

"You know sir, it's very childish to ignore his interlocutor. Even if he tells you things you do not wish to hear. Do you think that's how a Phantomhive should behave?"

He crosses the threshold of this room.

"Of course I would find you here. Ah, you are trying to hide something from me. You could not resist tasting my last confection. How do you find this sponge cake?"

Perhaps what is on the desk could have been considered consumable in the past. Maybe even delicious. But now it's just a piece of moldy cake surrounded by the drone of buzzing insects.

But that does not seem to bother Sebastian—or Ciel Phantomhive, who sits on the chair behind the desk. The elegance of his appearance must be admired. Who would not marvel at a body made up of four different corpses? And to complete the image, the thing had only one eye. —Oh, so that's the slimy substance on the floor!

The remaining eye, however, is bright blue. It would look like the eye of a well-known young earl, if it were not surrounded by rotting flesh. But then, everything is relative in this world.

"Still not answering? If you persist in this ridiculous behavior…"

Silence.

"Very good then! You will not have dessert tonight!"

Sebastian tries to remove the food from its grasp, but in his hurry he knocks the thing to the floor. A small piece of flesh comes off in the fall.

"It's no longer fun to keep hurting you so, my lord. You know that's not how to get my attention. But of course I'll always be able to get you back on your feet. Is that not it?"

He puts the thing carefully back on the chair and pulls out a comb from God-knows-where, brushing the hair of the thing, the long hair of a woman.

"It was still very bad taste, what you did that day. All this to see if you were more important than the walls of the manor for me. To see if 'breaking myself up would make you more emotional than breaking these walls'! The answer is obviously yes, contrary to what your human stupidity dictated. As if you were dead... We both know it was just one of your little games. The proof—I'm styling you. You are alive and well, no?"

Yet the demon had other proof. After Ciel's death, he had spent days, and then longer, contemplating his corpse. Until, at the end of this slow alteration… only the bones remained. And one day there was nothing left. He needed another corpse to contemplate and quickly. Over the months (years? Centuries?) the old butler found himself with the thing, in this room, with these mouldering sponge cakes.

"Ah Ciel... I would never have been able to kill you. This portrait, this staging, these provocative remarks, all these things were only part of our little game. You said it yourself: after all these years together ... right?"

Sebastian decides that the silence of the thing means 'yes'. For three hours, he continues to happily brush the dead hair. Then he returns to his screen and his news.

END

—Vanities are a category of still lifes.

They always include a skull, to symbolize the emptiness of human existence.—

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