On one particularly fine spring morning, Ciel Phantomhive—earl and watchdog—learned that his beautiful wife and countess would not be at home this afternoon or evening for she had been called upon by Princess Louise, the duchess of Argyll, into attending a very important meeting regarding the blue-blooded status of London's aristocratic elite. The occasion was, Ciel learned, one of extreme importance for it revolved around the annual mid-May ball, a celebration of great acclaim and cost that, once it was over and done with, resulted in a four page expense bill that could fund a small nation.
Personally the earl thought the entire occasion a ridiculous affair but it was chaired by her highness, the Princess Louise, who was great friends with his Lady Elizabeth and considered her a connoisseur on all things beautiful and charming. As a result, to deny the princess's request would not only be preposterous and impeccably stupid but also life ending, for her majesty—in her old age—had become rather fond of her numerous daughters despite having once considered them little more than chattel. Thus it was with pained politeness that the earl refrained from denouncing the soiree altogether and instead spent an evening fuming in front of his fireplace before his wife coaxed him back to bed. (Really, her honeyed words didn't affect him. Much. In any case, it was his own fault for having married one so lovely.)
(And strong.)
That, however, did not make the following realization any less painful. With his wife gone to Argyll for the day, Ciel was left to watch over their only child—a beautiful, golden haired toddler of charming exuberance and prodigious eloquence who inherited not only his mother's looks but his father's aptitude for all things scholastic. As a result, this cherubic angel with his wide sapphire eyes and precocious manner was both the best behaved child anyone ever did see and also a danger unto the state and there was no way in—pardon the pun—hell or damnation that Ciel Phantomhive was going to allow three bumbling servants, a tea loving Tanaka, and obedient footman named Snake to oversee his son in any shape, way, or form.
Usually he would have entrusted the care of Augustin to his butler, Sebastian, but as today was the fourteenth of May and the sky was clear and beautiful, Ciel had business to attend to. The industry of illegal weaponry was a thriving corporation of mixed circumstances and it was the watchdog's job to regulate it. But due to the size of this particular black market enterprise, subordinates were necessary to allocate duties to and, once a month, the earl was forced to check in on specific individuals to ensure that her majesty's country still remained, for all appearances, legal.
So perhaps that was why Lewis Thompson Westwood found himself seated directly across a rosy cheeked little boy no older than four with a mop of curly, light blonde hair and wide, curious blue eyes. He seemed perfectly at home in the surroundings of a dark, dilapidated building.
In truth, this old gothic mansion had once belonged to the duke of Tannenbay though his constant gambling and fondness for the overstuffed, overdone gaudiness of the nouveau riche had eventually bankrupted him all the way to debtor's prison. Now the grand old manse, situated neatly between London's red light district and the utterly foul Whitechapel slums, radiated a sort of grotesque decay that was all at once grand and pathetic. Above them hung a cobwebbed chandelier of stained gold whilst below the dirtied mahogany floors were covered with filth, shattered effigies, and ruined beauty. The furniture—including the sofa the child was sitting on—was of a deep crimson, just a shade darker than freshly spilled blood and the earl, unreadable as always, was a startling contrast of cobalt blue.
"My lord," Westwood began tentatively, glancing between the earl, his butler, and the little golden haired child who really and truly did not seem to belong here. "It is a great honor to finally meet your son."
The earl gave him a stiff, indecipherable nod. "Indeed." He crossed one leg over the other, left hand on his jeweled cane while the other rested atop the boy's head. "Let us begin."
"Of course—"
"Augustin," the earl interrupted, turning suddenly to address his son, "pay attention. This is in relation to the illegal Birmingham gun industry I've been speaking to you about. It is of critical importance that you remember everything that's going to occur here, do you understand?"
And the child, to Westwood's complete and utter bewilderment, gave a happy, satisfied nod. He then turned to face the pile of documents Westwood had stacked on the coffee table and, observing them, he gave a small frown. "Is this the same group who uses the abandoned textile factories as cover for their crimes?"
"Yes. Now tell me why Scotland Yard hasn't been able to catch them."
"Because they've all got permits to turn these places into au-to-mo-bile factories." He enunciated carefully, struggling a bit to pronounce "mobile" though the mistake was overshadowed by the boy's brilliant smile.
Lewis felt slightly ill.
"Very good." The earl patted his son's head before turning back to his overseer. "How have things been with Rowe and Burton?"
"Fine." He breathed a sigh of relief. There was something monumentally disturbing about watching a four year old talk about the criminal arms trade as if it were child's play. "Their profit has been rerouted to Godfrey's purse and all potential whistleblowers have been eliminated."
"And what about Philip Wraith? He's still determined to provoke the Irish."
"Double Charles got him before he could sell a single revolver. The shipment was given to Godfrey and is currently being warehoused by the British Army as reserve ammunition."
He watched the earl muse over that for a few moments before addressing the butler. "If the army now holds control over that reserve then we can say with a reasonable degree of confidence that Claymore will strike there next."
"It does seem the most likely." The butler agreed with a voice of cool sophistication that made Lewis wonder if he'd been born into wealth himself. "Claymore's tactics are direct. He wants results and cares very little for theatrics."
"That doesn't explain those crude messages he left on the warehouse walls. That," the earl emphasized, "was a desperate cry for attention."
Westwood silently agreed with the watchdog. A gunpowder warehouse had been blown up by the terrorist Scotland Yard had nicknamed Claymore—since his first target had been the British naval vessel Claymore Current. And while the police had initially thought these attacks to be the lamentable cries of some deranged, disordered bastard, the bomber had increased in frequency and damage—and that, her majesty decided, was now problematic.
The warehouse was a turning point since there'd been five people—two dockworkers and three ammunition experts—in there when the timer went off and an explosion so raucous took place that her majesty had to issue a direct statement to the Yard. But afterwards, when one officer found a bloodied message splayed across the one erect wall left standing, the watchdog had been called in.
And somehow, oddly enough, the earl thought it was in relation to the Birmingham arms industry. Odd because the Birmingham racketeers stayed within their intimate, underground circle and odd because Claymore, whoever he was, had clearly disregarded the most important rule of the underworld—never attract the attention of the Queen's Watchdog.
"What bout their dealers?" A sweet, curious voice interrupted and Lewis was forced to glance back down at the child. He was sitting on the edge of his seat, brows furrowed as he slipped down and toddled over to the pile of papers on the coffee table.
Lewis hesitated. "Can he read, my lord?"
The earl returned with a questioning glare—as if Lewis had just asked if her majesty was still queen. "Of course." He nodded. "His vocabulary isn't perfect though his improvement has been steady."
"Dealers!" Augustin called out impatiently. "They've got to get weapons from somewhere, right papa?"
Ciel nodded.
"What if they got their guns from Bi-ming-ham? They don't like you." The boy added wisely and Lewis did his utmost to maintain his already weak poker face. The Birmingham gangsters "not liking" the Queen's Watchdog was an understatement.
They despised the Phantomhive name ever since, a few decades ago, Ciel's grandmother infiltrated, seduced, and then destroyed the Acton family heir, ruining them to such depths that their patriarch committed suicide before the investigation was even complete.
The earl, if he found anything even remotely amusing, hid it well. "You think the Birmingham mafioso has been selling weapons, illicitly, to Claymore in a vain attempt to reap vengeance on me?"
The child thought about it for a moment before nodding. "Yes, I think so."
"Think or know? Never hesitate Augustin—not now, not when you're just within reach."
Lewis frowned. Just within reach? He thought. How odd—it sounded as if the earl already knew the identity of Claymore, as if he'd known everything that'd already occurred, and—could this have been a test? The overseer was aghast. The conjecture wasn't all that farfetched; though he'd only been in the earl's employment for a few months, he'd learned early on that the Queen's Watchdog had a penchant for games and deadly mischief. It wouldn't have been beyond the scope of the earl to have sent him on this (now pointless) excursion only to use it as an academic lesson for his four year old son.
For a moment he glanced up, catching the butler's eye.
This pitch-black servant was looking down at his master's son with an expression of quiet contemplation—as if he couldn't fathom the reality of such a child and was struggling to reconcile his existence with all previously held beliefs. In fact, Lewis mused, the butler's face was curious—almost childlike—as he continued to watch the golden boy sort through various papers and documents. Watched with linear intent as the child's chubby fists dove through reams of incriminating files and for a moment, Lewis could have sworn he saw a passing glance of warmth before his observation was interrupted by the earl himself.
"Westwood."
"My lord?"
"Would you like to know why I brought Augustin with me today?"
He blinked, more than moderately confused. "I…suppose?"
The earl smiled fondly at his son, placing one gloved hand on his shoulder. "It's because my wife was called away by Princess Louise and I could not consider leaving my son at home—not when there are so many who desire to see his head removed from his shoulders." He looked up and Lewis swore he could see ice embedded in those sapphire eyes of his. "He was nearly killed in his cradle, did you know that?"
Behind him, pressed against the shadows, the butler's eyes were bleeding stars of red.
"Mr. Westwood?" The earl inquired again, positively courteous before the overseer began to realize that something was wrong.
Very, very wrong.
"My lord—"
"Had it not been for my wife, Augustin would have died." His voice was soft as powdered snow. "I was away then, on a mission for her majesty and did not arrive home until an hour after the incident ended. Bloodied corpses littered my son's nursery when I found the countess cradling our son, her nightgown—one of white Parisian chiffon—looked as if it'd been painted by an artist's hand. It was all rather vogue, with the hemline stained crimson—and what a dark shade it was! Almost black against the pale moonlight. Her hands and wrists were covered in blood splatter and the flayed bits of organ and intestine from the would-be assassins. But in her arms she held Augustin, wrapped in a cashmere blanket, and they both stood there against the window with the moon behind them and I thought truly, there could have been no better baptism for a future Earl Phantomhive."
A cold sweat broke out on Lewis's brow and he could stand it no longer. The solid seat behind him turned to watery smoke and he fell to his knees, hands pressed against the dirtied carpet. "My lord—!"
"Do you know how close they came to slitting my son's throat?" An eerie silence blanketed the room and Lewis could have sworn he'd stepped into the hangman's noose. His throat constricted, skin chaffing against the invisible rope. "Mr. Westwood?"
"Please, my lord—forgive me! Had I known the target was your son—"
"You would have what? Refrained out of goodwill?" His voice was full of derisive laughter as Lewis cowered on his knees, wishing more than anything for death to come—a swift, clean death he prayed.
"I beg you, Earl Phantomhive, mercy, please!" He gasped as the stale icy air burned down his throat, trapping him in place with his hands pressed against the foreign earth and the knowledge of death looming overhead. "Please," he whispered again, "please, I beg you for—" he struggled to form a coherent sentence, forced himself to breathe, period, before he saw two little patent leather shoes appear in front of him.
Slowly—so slowly—he lifted his head, sweat and tears and fear dripping down his waxy pale face.
Augustin Phantomhive, a Botticelli angel with a wicked smile and rosy cheeks, looked at him whilst clutching a fountain pen in his right hand.
And in that moment, a fit of madness overcame Lewis Westwood as he crawled closer to the golden boy, begging him with open mouthed gasps to be merciful, please—
"Mr. Westwood." The boy looked down at him and he wished he'd choked the brat in his cradle when he had the chance.
"Please, I beg you both—have mercy. I didn't know, I didn't know—"
"What didn't you know, Mr. Westwood? That the identity of your target was a Phantomhive or that the reputation of my wife far exceeded afternoon tea and pleasantries?"
His bitch wife. Lewis bared his teeth even as tears continued to fall. "Neither! I had thought—that is, Lord Harlan thought—" His mind was muddled, having fractured under the weight of realization even while his half-lies melded to form a beautiful, devastating confession.
It was cold, Lewis's hands trembled, so cold.
"Sebastian." The earl ordered, legs crossed and smile serene.
And out of the darkness, the butler materialized in a hazy spread of smoke and poison. On one knee he fell, taking the hand of the earl's son. "My lord? Young master?" He addressed the two of them together.
"Relieve Mr. Westwood of his post and after," he gestured around the shattered mausoleum of hope and desire, "burn this to the ground."
"No!" Lewis's head shot up and he stumbled twice before falling back to his knees, "no—not this, not here! You don't understand my lord, if you burn this mansion down you'll take half of Whitechapel with you! The ammunitions—the supplies, the—"
"The Actons of Birmingham. They stored their entire supply of arms here, didn't they?"
Lewis's hands lost all sensation as the earl continued to gaze down at him with impassive amusement. His son, the golden brat, turned to walk back to his father's arms.
"Sebastian." The earl repeated. "Burn it all."
"No—!"
Sometime after seven the earl returned home with a carriage of silken packages. A sleepy, close-eyed Augustin rested his cheek against his father's shoulder as Ciel carried him inside, with the butler following close behind, a strange little half-smile on his lips. Not two steps after, they were greeted by an enthusiastic Countess Phantomhive who rushed to her husband's side with ready smiles and haloed laughter.
"Mama!" The child cried joyously, chubby arms raised in the direction of his mother.
"Hello darling!" Elizabeth laughed, peppering his soft pink cheeks with kisses and affection. "How wonderful you look and—is that a new suit by Miss Nina?"
"Yes mama!" The boy exclaimed proudly, touching the black velvet material with a hint of pride. "Don't I look like papa?" He crowed, as vain and beautiful as ever.
Ciel touched his son's head with a gentleness few knew he possessed. "You did well today, Augustin." He smiled at Elizabeth.
"I caught a Bi-ming-ham, mama! I caught one!"
"Did you now?" The countess murmured looking between father and son as the servants began to appear one by one, ready to greet their lord and master. "Was it very difficult?"
"Not for him." The earl cut in with a finality that signaled the end of this conversation. "Tomorrow—you'll be home won't you, Lizzy?"
She adjusted her grip on Augustin before answering in the affirmative.
"Excellent." Ciel pressed a kiss to her temple, lingering there for half a moment. Whispered words that were heard by no one save his wife reached the butler's ears.
Inwardly, the demon laughed. Sentiment, it seemed, was still the prettiest lie of all.
- "...he gestured around the shattered mausoleum of hope and desire," - references the quote spoken by a nihilistic Jason Compson III in William Faulkner's The Sound and The Fury.
A/N: Ahh possible future AU's got me feeling some type of way :)
Thoughts and feedback appreciated!