"Abutilon"
Abutilon hybridum, known for its red colour and unknown origins, means meditation.
After what seemed like endless night, a weak sun began to rise over the hills. It's wavering and feeble rays colouring the mysitfying dawn a faint pink.
"Ah, morning. At last."
The man, dressed immaculately and from head to toe in black, stood still beside his young master, watching the sun rise while nonchalantly preparing the morning's tea. His gloved hands were quick in their work, and just as, if not a few moments before the morning had properly bloomed, the butler had a fresh and steaming cup of a curiously spicy tea steaming beneath the boy's nose.
"Masala Chai, my Lord, boiled in the petals of the Rosa Laevigatea found only in China, with powder of cardamom imported from West India."
With the briefest of frowns grazing his thin lips, the young boy sipped quietly from the proffered teacup, pausing every so often to gaze over its gilded brim towards the burning skyline.
"The sky bleeds. The blood on mankind's hands run into the stars,"
Jerking his head away from the cup, Ciel swats it away (to which the butler mutely obliges), while a dangerous brooding expression begins to shadow his delicate features.
"Red, because everyone bled. There is so much red,"
There's a slight wind that breezes through, rousing a small flurry of dead petals to float past like paper, before settling and causing them all to slowly drop back down to the earth, and even onto the pristine white tablecloth that had been laid out only an hour before
Ciel's eyes are locked onto the sun, the brightness of it begins to sear his pupils, the blinding whiteness burns itself even onto his eyelids, as he shuts his eyes tight out of fury.
"Fade to black once more,"
His fingers begin to absentmindedly brush the brittle petals, a certain gentleness in his sad, slow stroking as the searing after-image of the star above burns into his very bones.
"Make it so, Sebastien."
Raising his head ever so slightly, his gaze slipping imperceptibly from the face of his Lord to the skies he seems to be so fixated by, Sebastien brings a gloved hand to his chest, placed palm-flat over the area where his heart would be. A small smile sketches itself across the black butler's lips, before it is overcome by the familiar blank mask, submerged into the murky depths of what the demon uses as a face.
"Yes, my Lord."