Wine
A/N: Watched "A Room With A View" and couldn't help myself. May be taken as part of the Birthright universe. I'm sorry I haven't updated that one yet. It will update soon enough. Apologies.
There is little difference between the color of blood and the color of wine.
AU: Where there is a demon more powerful and more charismatic than Sebastian.
"Roses."
In the English countryside, flowers are needed to impress any member of the high-class. Where groomed flowerbeds reflect the tidiness of the homeowners and the absence of unsightly weeds reflect the absence of vice, or rather the concealment of it. After all, what vibrant garden wouldn't have worms squirming underneath its soil?
The Grandier garden however, does not only have worms in its soil, but a gifted gardener tending to it.
A gifted gardener.
Sebastian Michaelis scoffs.
"Of course," the aforementioned gardener spoke, "any home would be incomplete without them."
He looks at the bed of roses before him; vibrant, well-kept, blooming beautifully against the carpet of green, yellow, and blue.
"What an odd way of thinking." He remarks, brushing a fingertip against a petal.
He's more of an indoor person, to be honest.
"Have you ever been to Italy, Mr. Michaelis?"
The gardener plucked a rose from the flowerbed.
He gives it some thought.
"I have, some time ago."
About three hundred years ago, actually. At the height of the Renaissance.
"And isn't it just the most delightful place?"
He wonders whether they could have met before. There's a familiar air about this gardener.
The gardener continued speaking, utterly joyful at the memory, "Stone churches surrounded by alleys where the most ludicrous indecencies take place!"
There's almost a manic glaze over the gardener's eyes.
He clears his throat. "I prefer London."
The gardener frowns before turning to him to say, "People are all the same no matter where we go, aren't they?"
There was a knowing hint in the gardener's eyes. The rose twirls in their hand.
"I believe so." He agrees.
"Then at least choose a setting that is pleasing to the eye," a displeased frown erupts on the gardener's face, "London is drab in its colors, foul in its stench."
"I feel quite at home here." He smiles.
The gardener sneers, offering him the rose in mockery.
"Of course you would."
The rose withers in her hand immediately.
"This is quite an excellent arrangement."
Though they're ways away from the decadent parties of the French, the English high-class know of ways to entertain their guests; lavish decorations and expensive spreads, flavorful food and fine drink, and never forget the gossip and the back-stabbing occurring at the same time.
This party, however, is just another show of power and influence by the Phantomhives.
A grand flower arrangement stands as the centerpiece of the ballroom. Towering over heads and boasting large, bright blossoms, strings of pearls, and gilded vines. Anyone else would look at it in awe, but the gardener knows better and looks at it with a discerning, if not critical eye.
"I suppose that would be praise coming from you."
Sebastian approaches the gardener from behind. The gardener notices him and greets with a wry smile.
There's a practiced mockery in their voice when they say, "I dare say these were the flowers that have gone missing from my garden."
It's as if they've been waiting to say that the entire night.
"Your garden, Ms. von Borken?"
And the gardener smiles brightly, showing teeth and fangs so unbecoming of an English maiden. She is Theresa von Borken, the gifted gardener of the Grandier family, the loyal aide of the Grandier matriarch, Evelyn, and now the companion of the youngest Grandier child to the event, the fair-haired, blue-eyed Alice Marguerite.
How has she become so close to the daughter?
How indeed.
"Yes," she punctuates, "the dahlias, and the freesias, and the roses."
"It is as you said yourself," he counters, "no home would be complete without them."
She plucks a loose bud from the arrangement before she turns to him, dark blue eyes flashing red for the briefest of moments, mouth parting to show the faintest hint of sharp teeth–
He is likely treading dangerous territory now.
"Stealing is unbecoming of a gentleman, sir." She scolded him, her tone quiet like that of a disapproving mother talking to her rowdy son.
This passes by him, and he responds calmly, "As is coming without an invitation, madam."
Ever the gentleman.
"And leave my lady with you?" She gasps. "I would never."
"She would see no harm in my presence." He takes the stalk from her hand and places it to his chin, looking at her with tender eyes.
She is unconvinced.
"As long as I'm here, mind you."
She takes long strides away from him and towards the young lady chattering among nobles.
He looks at the bud in his hand and sees that it's blossomed, only to reveal a rotten core.
As the nobles in England have simply too much time and money, these parties seem to happen quite often, as the Phantomhives are hosting yet another gathering of prominent and influential personalities among the noble class. But for what?
Ah, to welcome this unremarkable noble from some European country or another.
Upon orders of the Queen, of course. Ciel Phantomhive would never volunteer for such a thing.
Sebastian, being the ever-gentlemanly butler, has arranged everything to the minutest detail as there is, after all, some he wishes to impress–or is it threaten? Though he is a demon, he wholly detests a show of skill and power through aggression and violence. He actually prefers a more refined manner, such as arranging lavish parties to deter potential rivals and enemies such as the Grandier gardener.
"Perhaps the lady would like some champagne?" He offered to the young Alice.
But before she could answer, the gardener answers for her, "She would, if she had the time."
Alice turns to the gardener, an elegant frown gracing her face, before turning away to entertain herself elsewhere. And she is quick to remove the frown and replace it with a vibrant smile.
Sebastian notices this and comments lightly, "She's quite the charmer."
Theresa responds without turning to him, "She had just been to France, after all."
"Ah, the French." He remembers that time he visited France, "Quite a free-spirited lot, aren't they?"
She was there when Marie Antoinette married Louis XIV. He was there when they broke into the Versailles. How strange that they had not met even once, but likely it is because they sported different appearances then. In France, he was a woman, red-haired and green-eyed, and she had been a man, blonde-haired and purple-eyed.
"But not as romantic as the Italians, nor as passionate as the Spanish."
She was there when the Medicis were living in the lap of luxury, being one of the courtesans often coming to charm their way into the arms of the Medici sons. He had been there when Leonardo painted the Mona Lisa, being a young, nameless student who caught the eye of the artist. She had been there in Carlos the Bewitched's court, and he had been a bystander in the downfall the said king's reign.
If he had met her that time, then he would have figured that she had been the one who drove the Bewitched King to madness, murdering him in the most gruesome fashion; draining him of his blood, shrinking his heart and lungs, rotting him from the inside.
Physicians spoke of witchcraft, but he knew otherwise.
She turns to him then, "The English are quite bland, to be honest."
He agrees.
"Even to the palate?"
"Quite so." She continued, "They lack the richness of the French, the spice of the Italian, or the particular zest of the Spanish, even the sharp flavor of the Oriental."
She remembers the particularly strong-flavored ones she had consumed before, her mouth watering at the memories, her belly gurgling with hunger.
"The English are just..."
She can't find another word for bland.
"You're quite a learned woman, Ms. von Borken." He complimented.
He's actually quite jealous of her experience.
She laughs. "Just a seasoned traveler, Mr. Michaelis."
And there's the look on her face, that one particular expression that tells him that she's not deterred at all, that she isn't threatened by his presence, but that she pities him, mocks him, flaunts her experience to him as a peacock would its feathers.
She's smirking.
He keeps himself in check as he wouldn't want to break his careful facade of the gallant butler, though his rage boils deep within him.
Instead of ripping her throat, he offers a glass with the softest of smiles.
"Perhaps you would like some champagne?"
She takes the glass from his hand slowly.
Deliberately.
And then she tips it in his direction, tips it in mockery, tips it until the liquid spills over the rim and drips onto the floor.
Her eyes never tear from his as she does this, the haughty smirk plastered on her face.
And the champagne drips.
And drips.
And drips.
Until there is nothing left.
Until the floor around his feet is wet with it.
And to him, this is one of the greatest insults.
"I prefer wine."
She places the glass back upside-down on the tray before sauntering away.
Other than the majestic gardens of the Grandier estate, it boasts a library filled with numerous books from all corners of Europe. It is a large room filled with thick, leather-bound rarities and bookshop favorites. But, much like any other room in the manor, the one that completely draws the attention of all and any visitor would be the luscious floral arrangement in the center of the room, illuminated from behind by a massive window.
And the arrangement is quite out of place in the quiet library, with its bright blossoms quarreling for attention, a tower of purple lobelias, scarlet begonias, pink peonies, yellow carnations, violet delphiniums, A library was supposed to be a quiet place, a place of solace from the rush of everyday life.
Not a battlefield of flowers laced with threats.
"Shame on you, haughty and disdainful man. Beware. I am a malevolent woman."
That seemed to be the arrangement's message.
They've caught each other alone again, without their respective lord and lady. Or is this perhaps part of the gardener's plan to rope him into this powerplay? Or has Ciel Phantomhive simply wanted time alone with his sister-figure, Alice Grandier?
Either way, the air is thick with the smell of flowers and the vague threat of a fight.
"Does your young master read Byron?" Theresa asks suddenly, eyes trained on the flowers before her and hands placed deep into the arrangement.
"No." He answers plainly, "Unfortunately, he has not the time to read."
"Perhaps Shelley?" She continued, "Dumas? Goethe?" She sighs. "What a waste of his young life."
Her hands shuffle within the arrangement, and they emerge with purple viscaria as if a magician's trick. She looks at it admirably before offering it to him with a smile.
It is an invitation to dance.
How bold of her.
He reaches for the stalk in her hand, and takes it.
Only to throw it off his shoulder.
"Perhaps you've been idling too much." He says disapprovingly.
She holds her chin up high as a response before speaking, "My lady wishes to be left to her own devices, who am I to refuse?"
"Such blind obedience will only lead to her ruin."
And she laughs, a loud, barking sound that fills the room immediately.
"I have not lived this long on earth because of my incompetence, Mr. Michaelis." Her eyes glimmer with the promise of blood, fangs spilling out from under her lips, "Do remember it next time."
"I only speak truth." He defended.
"And I am only reminding you," She says, voice heavy with malice, "I am far stronger than you."
Has he wronged her somehow? Has he done something to merit her disdain? Or has she simply found him a tad bit too interesting to leave alone?
Has she the mind of a beastly predator who had found its next plaything?
"Are you?"
His smirk matches hers. It interests him, this sudden disdain she holds for him. Her irises burn with the bright scarlet of their kind, as does his.
"Yes. I am." She proclaims arrogantly before she pounces like a wolf to its prey, claws and fangs bared.
She has him by the throat, nails tearing at his flesh. He retaliates quickly, cutting the skin of her cheek. She throws him. He pulls her. A bite. A scratch. Torn fabric. Torn flesh. Blood is split on either side, and it drips to the maroon carpet.
"The howling demon dog of Hell." He hissed.
He rips her dark hair from its confines and it spills over her face. He pulls her by the scalp and throws her to the floor.
"The screeching black crow of Hell." She growled.
She reaches for his head and pulls him down by the ear. She bites his neck and hears him screech.
"The insatiable she-wolf." He pushes himself off her.
She thrusts her hand into his abdomen, piercing through cloth and flesh, and curls her fingers into his belly before pulling her hand abruptly. His blood, his flesh, and the vile darkness inside him spills out from the wound and his mouth.
"The destroyer of cities." She licks his blood off her hands.
He kicks her from the side and sends her crashing into the flowers she had meticulously arranged, the flowers falling around her in mockery of her earlier threat. He appears above her and thrusts his hand towards her face–
She throws him off her, throwing a number of petals along with him, before she gathers the stalks in her hands to throw at him like darts.
A peony pierces his thigh.
A delphinium on his shoulder.
A lobelia in his stomach.
A begonia straight to his chest.
But he had done the same with his silverware.
A fork stabs her collar.
A knife is embedded in her calf.
Another fork in her chest.
Another knife in her forearm.
She has five more stalks in her hand, and he has five more silverware in his. She's still smirking, and so is he.
They haven't had this much fun in a long time.
He returns to an upright stance, and so does she. They bow to each other.
"Marchosias." He says breathlessly.
"Raum." She returns.
They stride towards one another like a man and a woman in a ball. He picks up the spared viscaria from the destruction and offers it to her.
"What a name you go by these days, Ms. von Borken."
She takes the viscairia from him and holds it to her chest much like how any lady would.
"As do you, Mr. Michaelis."
The dance is over.
"And to be a gardener!" He gestures to the decimated blossoms around them, "How admirable."
She laughs, and in a whirl of her skirt, the petals scatter in the air.
"I am a cultivator." She says as the flowers fall around them.
And suddenly, the blossoms are set alight, burning until they are no longer.
They shake hands.
They're friends, now.
And by friends, it only meant that their tolerance for each other is at a higher level than it was before. There's still a certain amount of animosity for the other, but not as much as to threaten each other outright, nor to instigate a fight in the most subtle and artful way possible.
Still, he wonders what it was about him that garnered her full attention, whether it be her desire to tear open his chest and plant hydrangeas in him, or her subtle disapproval of his choice in drink to serve in a gathering. Perhaps she is bored, or perhaps she has plans for something far more sinister.
Like to steal his young, delectable lord from him.
Theresa von Borken is Marchosias, the winged demon dog of Hell, a member of the Gluttonous, the ever-hungry and never satisfied. Whilst he, the proud blackbird of Hell, a member of the Prideful, the ever-arrogant and never humbled.
He doesn't hunger merely to be satisfied, but he hungers in order to be filled, completed. A soul is more than just a thing by which to fill the void inside him, it is something that completes him, elates him. Whilst she, he thinks, hungers only because it is natural to her. She seeks souls in order to fill her mouth and belly, to relish in the carnal feeling.
She hungers merely because she is.
And this is proven by the sight before him.
She is hunched in the darkness, surrounded by bodies of the dead. The corpses' bodies are drained of their blood, lacking a heart, intestines strung out and bitten carelessly, lungs ripped apart and half-eaten, eyes popped out, brains spilt from the skull. She is in the midst of a feast, feeding on the bodies of those who dare trespass the Grandier estate.
His face curls in disgust.
"How unsightly." He derides.
He hears her slurp, and it makes him want to gag.
"Well," she spoke through a full mouth, "forgive my manners. I didn't expect visitors."
He hears the crunch of bone between her teeth, the gurgle of blood from a ripped stomach.
It is so unrefined, so beastly. And he cannot immediately picture that this woman who digs her hands deep into flower arrangements and flowerbeds would have the same hands she would dig into stomachs and rip out entrails to stuff into her mouth.
He is thankful, however, that her back is turned to him, else he would see quite a gruesome sight.
He looks around him, noting, "And this is how you dispose of intruders?"
She swallows before answering, "Setting them ablaze seems a waste."
He could imagine her frowning. The Gluttonous are the ones who don't believe in wasting food, after all.
And then he smells it, that utterly irresistible smell of a soul newly ripped from its body.
She has a part of the soul in her hand, a thick and heavy object dripping with viscous liquid. She laps up the liquid dripping on her arm.
He sees it and his throat tightens. He could almost taste it.
What a remarkable soul.
She glances at him briefly, giving him a victorious smirk, before chomping on the soul, devouring it hungrily between her fingers.
"When was the last time you ate?" He asked once he's regained his composure.
She licks the remainder of the soul from her hand noisily. She wipes her mouth and hands on the skirt of her dress before she stands to face him. Her dark hair is mussed, eyes sparkling with an elated glaze, tongue licking at her lips to chase after the taste.
She smiles, showing bloody teeth, before stating, "Such is the clear distinction between my kind and yours, Mr. Michaelis."
The Gluttonous are known for their messy eating habits, whereas the Prideful are known for their prim manners at the table.
He sighs dejectedly. "And here I thought you observed proper etiquette even when feasting."
When he would expect a challenging glare, she merely kept her elated smile.
She hums, "When you've lived as much and as long as I have..."
She leans down to cup her hands into a corpse's open chest, drawing blood from the body to her lips, drinking it as if it were the sweetest wine.
Blood drips from her mouth when she smiles.
How she must have terrorized cities, parading as a vampire.
"As you were saying?" He prodded.
She looks at him questioningly before she mutters, "The Prideful are always the spoilsport."
She begins digging graves.
He dares to ask, eyeing the foul sight before him, "Aren't you going to finish?"
"Have you ever tasted a cured one before?" She throws off her shoulder, "Simply delicious."
He leaves without another word.
"There's enough for both of us."
She buries the bodies with the care of a mortician, having wrapped them in linen with a layer of oil, salt, and herbs.
She hears light footsteps behind her and a certain tutting.
"You're late, Death God." She called out. "But no matter, they were bound to die soon enough, weren't they?"
Ronald Knox looks at her and thinks that if she weren't what she is, he would have asked her for a date.
A/N: This was supposed to be a one-shot until I thought of writing more.
In AO3, this is tagged as writing practice.
In my head, demons can consume souls, whether or not they have a contract, but are left wanting. They only devour a part of the soul. Souls under contract are tastier as they are "cultivated" by the demon and are devoured whole. Meaning, if a demon eats non-contracted souls, they're only eating a part of it, whereas eating a contracted soul means that they're eating the entire thing.
Yeah. Okay. Feedback is always appreciated. Thanks for reading.
Language of Flowers used in this chapter:
Lobelia - Malevolence
Peony - Shame
Delphinium - Haughty
Carnation (Yellow) - Disdain
Begonia - Beware
Viscaria - Invitation (to dance)