His most prized possession was once his most hated— a feather. It had fallen from him as he fell. Moments after he landed, cracking his bloodied, blackened wings, it drifted down beside him. Even in the ash of hell, the feather glowed white.
He cursed it, dyed it, willed it to be black. He stole, lied, murdered, devoured souls and relished the taste.
Yet the feather shimmered white.
Now, he feels the plume in his pocket while he dresses Ciel, feeds Ciel, heals Ciel, saves Ciel, and he wonders if he isn't glad some part of him still shines white.