The Most Beautiful Bluebell - One-shot
OK, so lately, I have been feeling particularly sorry for Hannah. I never had anything against her in the series—in fact, it was pitiful watching her getting mistreated by Alois all the time. And that sucks, too, because she deeply cares for him. She never woman'ed up and defended herself, which was quite grating to watch. Thus, I was like: why don't I make a one-shot for Hannah where Alois will actually be a bit nicer to her for once? It wouldn't hurt.
Hence, this is a one-shot that centralizes around Hannah and Alois. I love Alois, but his poor judgment on who truly cares for him is utterly aggravating. He depended on . . . Claude. Disgusting. At the end of the chapter, I will rant about my distaste for that monotonous and despicable man, but you may go ahead and skip it if you wish to.
Anyway, I hope you will enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji.
"In every human being alike, there exists a child's heart that yearns to be loved." - Phantom Ou
"A flower for you, a flower for you, and a flower for you," Hannah Anafeloz says as she bestows each and every one of the triplets a magnificent bluebell.
They nod in gratitude, mumble a comment about the size of her breasts, and usher off to finish their tasks. Hannah pensively watches them disappear and then returns to tending her garden of bluebells.
She handles them with delicate care and is meticulous in fulfilling the vital necessities of maintaining the flowers, so that they remain in the ideal states and healthy conditions they are in now: abloom and resplendent. Each day she would institute a close vigil over them to make sure that no damage will transpire against them. As long as they flourish, her dear master will be content.
A light smile touches her lips as she realizes that only she knows her master the best—not even the distasteful Claude is as knowledgeable as she is when it comes to him. Even if it has yet to surface, Hannah is definite that her master does have a heart. That is plain to see when one is to observe how much he loves his brother Luka.
Because to that, she is willing to endure anything as long as she can stay by his side.
Noon is soon to arrive, and she is called back inside the manor. Bidding her bluebells goodbye with a meaningful look, Hannah advances her way to the entrance of the manor with small, tentative steps. The moment that she steps in, her master's voice rings out: "Hannah!"
Hannah permits herself to raise her chin to a slight degree, so that he can appear in her line of vision. Her master is a young boy of fourteen with blond hair and beautiful cerulean eyes that compel her to a moment of breathlessness whenever she views them. While she is captivated by them, she fails to notice that his face is contorted into a sneer.
"Come here, Hannah," her master Alois Trancy coos in a satirical manner, as he beckons her over with a crook of his index finger.
Hannah does as ordered and approaches him; despite the acquiescence, internally, she is aware of what is in store for her. And, it will not be pleasant—one should not be fooled by the smile graced upon his lips. It is superficial, undoubtedly, and that is patently evident if one is to peer into his eyes which portray nothing but bitterness.
Alois performs a once-over of her, and grimaces as if he is staring at a repulsive vermin. "Get down." The cheerfulness in his voice has dissipated, replaced by a harsh and grating tone.
As abjectly submissive as she is, Hannah kneels to the ground; her gaze is directed at the hardwood floor. Anticipation flutters in the pit of her stomach, but she does her best to desist from the tension by pursing her lips, a conscious effort to resist succumbing to it.
Then, she feels his surprisingly warm hands clasp against each side of her face. It is a light hold which lacks the firm and inflexible compression she has conjectured would occur. "Hannah! Were you looking at me straight in the eyes when you entered? Were you?"
Hannah does not answer, although they both know fully well that she has, indeed, made eye contact. Alois snickers derisively, and in a trice, his nails burrow their pointy tips into her skin, and a pathetic wince emanates from the victimized maid.
"I thought I told you already, Hannah: don't look at your master directly in the eyes. Didn't I teach you a lesson last time?" As if to remind her, his fingers spread against the bandage in her right eye that was gouged out during a previous incident. Then, he softly drags a finger along the skin around her left eye, which depicts the color of indigo.
He breathes, "Do you want to suffer from the same treatment for this eye? Hm?" When she refuses to reply once again, he decides to move on from the rather mundane and banal subject, "I haven't seen you around the manor for so long. Where the hell were you?"
"G-garden," Hannah stammers, and she is grateful that she has managed to utter that much without slipping into a mumble of incoherence, in which would have only been employed to infuriate him.
A low chuckle emits from her master, and although inquisitive, Hannah does not dare to lift from her vision of the ground. His nails remain lodged into her skin, and they draw a breakage, resulting to her cringing in pain.
"Garden? You'd rather go dance around with flowers than serve your own master?" Alois accused in a blithesome, nonchalant manner, but she is able to deduce that the joy is presented fictitiously—he is, in actuality, not pleased. In fact, he is probably abstaining from violence at the moment in order to wrongly impute her of misdoings, so that he can throw oil into his own flames of rage and lash out at her.
Hannah attempts to shake her head, but his infringing hands force her to stay fixed in position; instead, she whispers, "N-no."
"No? I think you do. To you, even stupid weeds are superior to me, isn't that right? Spending your time with trees and plants is much more diverting than being in my company. Have I stated all of your thoughts correctly yet, bitch?"
Silence sets over them, when the maid is mute and unresponsive. Anger thrashes about inside him, and he grits his teeth in annoyance. "You don't want to talk to me either? You are such a cocky whore!"
His foot thrusts forward to deliver a well-rounded kick upon the square of her chest. The powerful blow induces her to falter from her stance and collapse to the ground. Alois glides down from his seat to tug her by the fistful of lavender hair, and he pulls her upright until her chin collides against his shoulder. For a split-second, Hannah fleetingly thinks that he is executing an embrace.
However, that is not the case—not that it was likely to happen anyway. He grips her head once again, tightly this time, and mutters into her ear, his tone doused with utter contempt, "Listen closely, you ugly hag. I hate looking at your hideous face and body that befits a wench. Everything about you makes me want to gag. You are as irritating as a foot up an arse. You think you're better than me, but allow me to properly inform you, you result to nothing but a nuisance! You are a disgrace! Why can't you go rot in a ditch somewhere? I hate you; I hate even the mere sight of you. I will always hate you, tramp. Since you love that bloody garden so much, get out of my face! Stay outside like a dog." He laughs scornfully, to belittle her. "I will only let you back in if you beg me like a cute, little bitch—and you'd better make the show entertaining."
Alois releases her with a satisfied smirk and waits for her to inevitably leave. However, Hannah moves at such a sluggish and insufferable pace that it exasperates him, and he slaps her viciously across the face. "Get out! How much longer do I have to stare at your abhorrent face?"
Hannah bows her head. "Y-yes, Your Highness—"
"Don't call me that!" Alois shrieks, his turquoise irises blazing with fury. His open hand strikes aggressively against her cheek again, constraining her to turn to the side at the strong impact. "You don't deserve to call me that!"
"M-my apologies," she says quietly, and shuffles back outside the manor, leaving him to huff alone in wrath.
The deep rumble of thunder unleashes its terror on the defenseless grey sky, and Alois, startled, jumps from his seat. He glances behind him to peer out the wide, glass window. A vigorous rainfall showers the streets, gradually escalating in intensity until the drops hit the asphalt in an incessant and pounding fashion. Shortly thereafter, it is as though the exterior of his manor is completely deluged with water.
"It is a storm," his stoic butler, Claude Faustus, identifies rather dispassionately. Notwithstanding, there is a slight insinuation of derision immersed within the dullness of his tone, as if he is ridiculing his master for reacting so profoundly to an insignificant change in weather.
However, Alois is paying little heed to his butler since he has caught sight of the stupid maid sitting in the midst of the grass in his garden, as if she is entirely oblivious of the potent rain pelting down. Under his breath, he murmurs in an absentminded and reflective manner, as if he is trying to process it as he speaks, "She's still out there."
Inwardly, Claude is astonished by his comment—it is not commonplace that his master would mention anything relevant to the Hannah he despises. Vexed, Alois must have noticed the peculiar content to his speech as well, and scoffs, dragging out an acute "tch" sound. Even so, he does not abate from the queer, unfathomable tension building up within him, and paces back and forth for several rounds before returning to his position in front of the window.
Alois spits, "That whore deserves this. . . . I hope she drowns out there." It appears as though he is attempting to convince himself, as opposed to making his statement for the purpose of demonstrating his cruelty and callousness.
In order to feign indifference, he settles on his chair, but the discomfort lingers; that is indicated when Alois begins to twiddle with the hem of his shirt, while impatiently tapping on his foot as if he is expecting something. Claude observes this tacitly, divest of any interest or concern. The sole reason behind why he is rooted on the ground is because he is carrying out his duty as a butler. Otherwise, if he was granted a choice, he would have departed and fixed a distance between Alois and his preposterous show.
Lightning streaks in the sky, illuminating the room with a blinding yet transient white light, and the deafening roars of thunder and howls of the ferocious wind follow suit. The rain is now great with vehemence, and it bombards down to assail the streets with ceaseless drops of water, which also trickle down the window.
A strangled groan is expelled from the Earl of Trancy. He runs his fingers through his platinum blond hair, tousling it as he tangles his digits around the filaments. His forehead naturally dips and collides against the hard surface of his desk.
"Dammit . . . just tell her to come in, Claude!"
"Yes, Your Highness."
Alois cringes slightly at his butler's address to him, and he cannot help but compare Claude's tediously soporific tone, which can also be likened to reluctance, to Hannah's delicate and compliant one. In truth, it is much more congenial to hear Hannah say it—but, he cannot allow her to! Simply because— His brow furrows as he strains his brain in a mental effort to attain a reason. Simply because she is dirty? A slut? A whore?
He laments his low variety of insults. Certainly, he has overused these insolent affronts on a daily basis, to which that they have become prosaic and unimaginative at best. It would be miraculous if Hannah truly gets offended whenever he denounces her.
Alois hears Claude's footsteps diminish in the distance, and he impulsively rises to his feet, maneuvering toward the window once again to watch the scene below. Seconds later, his butler clad in black manifests before Hannah, and they exchange a few words. Or at least Alois infers that they are talking; both possess quiet, reticent natures, thus their lip movements are very subtle and restrained.
Then unexpectedly, Claude heads back into the manor without taking Hannah along. Bewildered, Alois presses his nose against the glass to glance questionably down at his maid. What in the bloody hell is she thinking?
His jaws tighten in frustration. He can never predict what his maid is thinking. With the rest of the servants, he can at least guess what is circulating in their minds—Claude is beset with boredom, and the triplets are unduly nosy and meddlesome, so needless to say, they remark about everything to each other.
But, Hannah. She is different, very much so. She normally refrains from speech, which makes it harder to communicate and understand this perplexing woman. However, what piques his interest—although he would never admit it aloud—is how she can be so calm, so peaceful, so content. She is never angry nor irrational even whenever he abuses her to an unreasonable degree. Often, he is disturbed by her seclusion; therefore, he attempts to elicit a more prominent reaction by intensifying his punishments. Still, no matter how much he tries to make her at least show something, whether in facial expression or body language, she does not.
And yet, there are occasions when Alois would catch sight of Hannah peeking at him. She would have a gentle and kind look on her face, and her eye would glimmer in a strange way, as if she does not regard him with resentment, but rather, with compassion. His maid is so bemusing that it overwhelms him. In fact, she is hard to read and comprehend, to the extent that it frightens him at times. Which, of course, results to him harboring the need to conceal his confusion by provoking her with incisive jabs and aspersions.
The moment that Claude enters his room, Alois impatiently demands, "Why is she still out there?"
A tenuous frown wrinkles the butler's forehead for a second, before he blanks his expression. "She refuses to come inside."
"What?" Alois exclaims, appalled. Why is she doing this? Why is she willing to suffer through this turbulent weather? For what reason would she do that? Has her sanity betrayed her?
Grounding his teeth together with irritation, as the burning questions bestow a headache, he glances at Hannah. Then, the thought hits him that perhaps she is being haughty and indignant, and she is waiting for him to beg her to come inside.
The thought grows increasingly plausible as he contemplates about it. Why would she not do that? Who knows what is going on in her mind? Maybe she was always that arrogant, but he just has not paid sufficient attention to it before.
Without warning, his master barks out a laugh, and Claude has a suspicion that his soundness of mind has terminated from existence.
"I've illustrated a fool of myself, Claude!" Alois declares, spitefully smirking. "Here I am, actually giving a damn about this. But I've got it all figured out. She is simply being a cocky whore, as per usual. She chose this, so let's enjoy watching her suffer—. . ."
Out of the corner of his eye, thunder rips through the dark clouds, and his maid doubles over. For a terrifying moment, he believes that she is struck. However, Hannah can still move—he curses himself for secretly releasing a sigh of relief at that sight—but she remains hovered for a reason unbeknownst.
Curiously, he places his palms against the glass window, which is cold and icy to the touch, and squints out in the distance with the intention to descry. What he perceives sends jolts of shock skittering through his veins.
Hannah is protecting his bluebells.
Alois stares at how her stature looms over the patches of bluebells, as she shields them from the violent surroundings. Suddenly, thunder deals its calamitous stroke again, and it directly hits the spot she is at.
Claude watches as his master stiffens, as if rendered stupefied by an invisible force. An absence of any noise, besides the rain hammering down and the harsh wind shrieking, commences for a long duration.
Then, finally, his master clenches his fists, and his voice cracks, "She . . . she really is the stupidest and most idiotic maid ever." He extends a hand in a meaningful gesture, and speaks up again, this time in an alarmingly composed manner, "Give me an umbrella."
Albeit his puzzlement, Claude retrieves the item requested. Alois snatches it from his hold, and without explaining himself, he leaves the room in a hurry.
Hannah wistfully gazes up at the somber and gloomy firmament, allowing for the raindrops to cascade from her cheeks to her jaws. The chaotic wind whips around her, disheveling her hair and clothing. Her dear master's cutting words race through her mind over and over again, but she wills herself to not be hurt—her trifling feelings do not amount to anything. As long as his precious bluebells are safe, her condition is inconsequential.
Abruptly, a flash of light and power is dealt right beside her, inflicting itself against the ground. She hastily withdraws, but it is much too swift. The thunderbolt grates against her left arm, the force heated and scathing, and she cries out in pain. Compulsively, she spasms as the excruciating shock claws and tears its way throughout her body, paralyzing it for several moments. On instinct, Hannah retracts her injured arm to see that it is substantially charred, with the muscle tissues exposed and the pale bones glinting. Blood pours from the wound to drip onto the wet grass, staining it with a deadly red color.
Nonetheless, Hannah grits her teeth and stays in proximity to the bluebells. She has to protect it no matter the circumstances. This is for the sake of her master Alois, and also for Luka's long-lasting love for his brother.
The abominable wound stings horribly when the rain has made contact, and she is driven to collapse to her knees. Cursing herself for being so weak and feeble, she bites down on her lower lip and strains herself to stand. However, dizziness obliges her to stay down, and her vision begins to fluctuate through a series of blurs.
Abruptly, the rain ceases.
Hannah pauses in surprise for a moment, and subsequently discerns that the rain continues to descend upon the other areas, so it has not exactly ended per se. But yet, she is untouched.
Perturbed, Hannah cautiously glances up and recognizes a black, circular cover of fabric sheltering her from the weather. It requires a brief interval for her to acknowledge it as an umbrella, and she looks at its holder.
Her breath hitches in her throat, and she purges the lump in her throat by swallowing hard. "M—Master . . ."
Then, she slips into the dark abyss of unconsciousness.
When Hannah wakes up, daytime has already taken position. The sunlight invades into the slits of her eyes, and she winces ever so slightly. Recovering at a exceptionally quicker speed than a regular human's, the maid sits up to find herself on the sofa. Her left arm is bandaged, and she is dressed in dry clothing.
What has happened? She recalls of the severe storm that occurred yesterday, and of her master who has come for her. The thought of that incites for a pervasive feeling of warmth to swell in the midst of her chest.
The sound of shoes clicking against the hardwood floor seizes her attention, and she identifies that Claude passing by. Immediately standing up, Hannah calls, "Cl-Claude? Where is Master? Is he all right?"
The butler halts in his travel, and his hazel eyes flicker once from her head to her toes before replying, "If by 'all right' you are asking if he is alive, then, yes, he is 'all right.' However, he has contracted an illness from floundering about in the storm yesterday."
"H-he's ill?"
"Yes," Claude confirms, a bit frustrated with having to corroborate this despite after blatantly stating as much. "He stayed outside to guard those bluebells for you."
Hannah is no longer listening, and acting purely by instinct, she ushers up the stairs and into her master's room. When she opens the door, a pillow is hurled at her.
"Claude! I told you I don't want to drink the medicine— Oh, it's you." Alois is sitting languidly on his chair, having donned a thick overcoat, and it is agitating to see his drastically pale face and phlegmatic voice. Before he can say any more, he wrinkles his nose and sneezes. Soon after, he notices her watching him and complains with repugnance, "You're just going to stare at me, eh? Fancy me getting sick?"
"N-no, Master."
An awkward silence takes place when neither of them has much to say—not that Hannah would have articulated anything anyway. But, he is Alois Trancy. He is supposed to have a repository of witty and sarcastic remarks that are brilliantly well-developed, but degrading all the same.
The only noise that disperses the silence is his coughing into his elbow. At this, Hannah proposes, "I will leave you to your recovery, Master."
"Wait!" he brusquely shouts, when she is about to retreat, and the increase in volume instigates a coughing fit. "C—come here."
Obeying his command, Hannah shuffles toward him, with her head down. When she has finally reached him, Alois fumbles into the big pocket of his overcoat for a brief interlude, sniffing furiously as if to urge the air to unclog his stuffy nose.
Once his hand grasps around the item, he glances at her with disdain. "Get down, you damned giraffe."
She deferentially sues to the ground, while he revels over his new insult. Giraffe. How could he not think of this before? Perhaps being ill has a secondary effect of boosting creativity.
Alois, then, extends his arm and uncovers his hand. In his palm lies a crumpled bluebell. Without looking at her, he mutters, "Take it."
A sharp intake of breath issues from his maid's lips, and he is wholly surprised that he has educed a reaction from her at last. Hannah's trembling hand stretches out slowly to take the flower into her possession.
Alois coughs a few more times. "You'd better take good care of it; it's the last one. Everything else got fried in one bloody second when I wasn't paying attention."
Hannah studies the small flower with great admiration. Although it is considerably crushed after being placed in the tight folds of his pocket for an extensive period of time, she cannot help but find that this is the most beautiful bluebell she has ever laid her eyes on.
Alois observes in suppressed astonishment, as his maid glances up to grant him a tender smile that radiates with affection. Overwhelmed, he rummages through the recesses of his mind for a contemptuous remark in order to get a grip on his old malicious self.
However, before he could, Hannah rises to her feet and bows to him before departing from the room. She then sets to work on replanting the bluebells in the damaged garden, the smile never leaving her lips.
Thank you for reading!
And for whoever is bothered to read it, this is my opinion of Claude:
Words cannot ideally describe how much I despise Claude Faustus. He is tastelessly dull, a cardboard cut-out of Sebastian, no less, with the imitation of skill, look, outfit, weapons, job, etc. It does not pique my interest in the slightest when he dominates the screen, for his matter-of-fact disposition is irksome. The only effect he has is that he can prompt me into a sleep with his tediously unvarying tone and attitude. There is no flair to him as a character, and there exists not one notion about him that is memorable or unique. Not only that, but he neglected and killed his own master after developing an inappropriate obsession over Ciel, and it's nasty. He practically went bat-shit crazy over the whole 'pure soul' conundrum (even though he hypocritically ridiculed Sebastian for paying such heed to his master's soul), after licking Ciel's blood and swooning over it like a typical vampire. He blushed and kissed the poor kid's leg, for crying out loud! I don't take that with humor; I deem it as pedophilia, and thus, it's revolting. He's a jackass, and he even stole other people's credit in the last OVA of season two, an act I absolutely loathe. I do not know why there are even fans for him—there are so many issues with this guy, and this is just my introduction. I can elaborate on all of his problems, but I do not want to bore you to death. Now, no character is perfect, how true . . . but this guy seemed like he was created from someone with a mindset of a first-grader (though, that would be an offense to little kids all across the world)! Here is how 'difficult' it would be to invent a character like him: draw someone exactly the same way as Sebastian except give him no personality and no special quality. I wouldn't even break a sweat. It follows the procedure of 'copy, paste, then cut'. There is a fine line between an imperfect character that is still enjoyable to see and watch develop, and an imperfect character who is not only a creep and a pedophile but is debased and exasperatingly boring to the degree that I scowl at his every appearance. My impression of him declined as the series progressed, and never did it improve. But if you happen to be a fan of him, I apologize; I don't mean any personal offense toward you. This is my own opinion, in which I am entitled to have.