"Man's biological weakness is the condition of human culture"
And of all the games he plays, his favorite is that of feigned ignorance.
Hidden from society and yet a dear commodity, he plays the man who closes the final chapter in people's lives. The Undertaker; both his occupation and his name, for he has long shed the proper noun given at the beginning of his existence. A den of death is where he resides, though he is no longer the cause but now the man who tidies the empty shells after his brethren have done their duty.
The dead talk, he grinned, and the answer caused a flood of irritation in the young Earl's veins. The boy demanded how he knew so much, but they both knew he would neither cleave the truth nor bestow him with a lie. The dead do talk and they were quite lively. Corpses were storybooks he pored over, scrutinizing them methodically and reveling in the private game of guessing.
The Undertaker smiled, leaning over the table to touch the boy's cheek. So rosy with youth and so heated with brattish insolence. His gaze traveled past the heir and touched the Demon lightly. He had dealt with many a demon in his long career as a Reaper and he had to admit- he liked Sebastian because the Demonindulged in his games of ignorance.
It was a failing they both shared; boredom drove them to such lengths that they willingly downplayed their knowledge just to let humans toy with chance. They were arguably the same age and having tired of the cycle humanity was stuck in, they began to play with souls to alleviate their exasperation. Perhaps Sebastian had yet to recognize him, but the Undertaker had witnessed many a fiendish feat executed by the Demon over the centuries.
The Phantomhive heir grew impatient with the cryptic answers, the touches, the smiles and the grins. With a curt order he commanded the demon to leave with him, but not before Sebastian offered the man a smile he was all too familiar with seeing.
Centuries ago the Undertaker had cared tenderly for the broken bodies covered in boils and pustules, their faces contorted with agony even in death. He had smiled when the handsome, learned man of worldly travels urged people to return to God. Blame the Jews, he said, and the pagans with their disgusting heathen ways. Cats were put to death and though it pained the Demon to see the beloved creatures perish, it gave him pleasure to see the humans destroy their own saving grace.
It was a common occurrence; humans denying themselves of salvation, one that neither would tire of seeing.
The Black Death, they had called it and the Demon had smiled and the Undertaker shared in that black smile. So when the chance to play another game presented itself, the pair had unknowingly collaborated once more.
"Jack the Ripper must be found!" The boy had said but already the Immortals knew who was behind such murders. The Demon knew it to be the clumsy butler who was not wholly a butler. The Undertaker knew it to be the Reaper who was not wholly a Reaper. But they let the little boy play hero, they let him unravel the twisted mystery that led to his own kin and the pact she had made with Death.
Grell Sutcliff is a master of playing games and the Undertaker had felt a measure of pride when he found the effeminate creature to be the creative force behind the brutal murders of Whitechapel. He fancies the redhead not as his romantic interest, despite Grell's high hopes, but as his protege. In comparison to Sebastian and he, Grell Sutcliff is still a youth in so many ways. Lusting after attention, temper short and heart fickle. He loves him for it, though, yes he loves him dearly because the redhead does not dissapoint when it comes to delivering a show.
He is the perfect inbetween; the bridge between all worlds since he complies with none of the rules each race governs by. Too emotional to be a professional Reaper, too twisted to be a mortal and too naive to be a Demon. The Undertaker had Grell to thank for bringing them all together and starting a glorious game that certainly entertained.
But like all good things, the game ended and despite its magnificent climax the Undertaker found himself missing the collaborative efforts all sides brought to the table. They came to him often enough though; the Phantomhive boy craving information or the redhead craving the scrap of affection his stoic boss always denied.
Now there is an amusingly naive Reaper. William T. Spears, for all his reserve, all his manners, all his rules, still remains as childish as his subordinate though he has yet to realize it. Beneath the polished exterior is an underlying stubborness that calls for everything to be perfect and logical. Even when he personally rescued the redhead from the Demon, he convinced himself it was perfectly reasonable to take up the task himself despite him having other Reapers on duty. To prevent more paperwork and time loss, he explained in his report of the incident.
The Undertaker read the report with a broad smile. William is too focused on what lay ahead to realize what is by his side. Or whomever stands by his side. Paperwork and time were excuses unconsciously used to explain the foreign feeling of friendship he could not quite understand and altogether did not want to.
Yes there lies something so intrinsically human about all of them, he included. It is their greatness weakness and their greatness likeness to dear Ciel, whose life they are all embroiled with. They teetered on a knife's edge clinging to their pride and mocking the other for it. Pride in the cunning, the devious, the manipulations. Pride in the perfect, the logical, the scientific. Pride in the beautiful, the ugly, the melodrama. Pride in the decay, the macabre, the melancholy.
This is their game, one he knows will last longer than the boy's contract, longer than this Monarch, longer than this era. A game they entered knowingly and one they willingly play if only to see who will fall first.