Disclaimer: It should be evident enough that I don't own Kuroshitsuji.
And finally: This is a flashback of Claude Faustus' childhood- when he was human.
"Wandering off to play the harpsichord again, I see?" inquires the edgy-toned voice of Warwick Lockwood. Though a man of short stature, his posture and overall aura promises a man of high authority.
The latter turns swiftly, with no intention of meeting his elder's glare. Detached, leaden-coloured eyes narrow. "Perhaps," he mutters, peeling off a pair of matte gloves. "Or perhaps not. Why should it matter?"
The authoritarian draws in an uneven breath. With each drawn out word he speaks, his agitation becomes more clear. He begins tauntingly:"Claude Garrickson Lockwood, the viscount of Michaelis Manor."
"Yes, that is I."
"I despise your absolute will to defy me. The mere audacity disgusts me. And I am sure your mother will be very disappointed. To hear that her dear child is acting so disrespectful to one of the most respected men in England? Ha! What shame she will carry!"
With no response from the viscount, the man continues with adamance.
"Here, boy. Let me break it down for you."
"Your mother will come home in a few minutes to the person she cares for most. She will walk out to the balcony and stare out into the night sky in crippling despair. She always was a weak-willed woman, but now especially so. She has nothing but the money her father's pension gives her, the money accumulated from working, and an apathetic son. She is rich with money and lies. Did you know that your detachment wounds her? Even she would readily admit you show respect to no one- easily disregarding them with either disinterest or harsh words.."
The viscount's expression shows no remorse nor pity; instead he glances down at the polished floors, bored. "Mother was supposed to be back a few days ago."
The business man has a strong desire to snap the insolent boy's neck. "Can you feel anything, Claude? You surely cannot be human. Look at the grief you cause your mother, the reproachful glares you cast at those who offer kindness, the aloofness that you cannot seem to mask."
Lower-heeled boots tread to a smaller room, with circular walls that depict a magnificent victory amongst two warring countries. In the middle of the carefully polished oak floors, awaits a Clavicembalo-inspired harpsichord. The aged instrument is intricately painted and dappled with an occasional tudor rose.
"I believe it is time for you to leave, Claude."
"How do you mean?"
"Abandon this thriving country for another more suitable for your tastes. It would do us all well."
Sitting down on a contrastingly duller bench, the composer rests his hands on the keys. Brushing a hand through his glossy, black hair, he glances up to review the messy scores in front of him. He smiles slightly, preparing to compose a concerto for an opera in the making.
"How vexing… Very well, I suppose it can't be helped," the authoritarian mutters and advances to the room that has begun to fill with music. He glares down at the composer, snatches the scores, and begins to leaf through them. "This is the only way you express your emotion.. through this music? What if.. what if I took that away from you?"
The composer's eyes widen, and the music comes to a halt. "You would never!" he cries.
"And let go of my work! Such filthy hands should never have the satisfaction of holding such a masterpiece!"
"An opera, ten concertos, six trills, and nine symphonies. Truly amazing, my dear boy.. It's a pity they'll all go to waste."
Hardly a few seconds go by before the scores are ripped in half and the tattered remains litter the ground.
The composer stifles a sob and glares at the authoritarian with pure hatred. With vehement force, he pushes the authoritarian out of the way and kneels down. "I'll just.. I'll just glue them all together!"
Little over seven-hundred scores lay on the floor.
With a chuckle dripping with derision, the authoritarian kicks the scores away, and resumes his haughty posture. "It's so nice to see you broken down like this. And this satisfaction was unusually easy to obtain this time~! You see, Claude, I'm the superior force here. Not you. Yet your silly, greedy little mind filled with dainty little music can't comprehend that."
"Music is all I have, and it is all I will ever have, you fool."
"Is that so..?" The authoritarian offers a lopsided grin. "Well, I'm quite glad we got to meet each other, boy! You make me happier than I've been in years. And oh, it's so pathetic, but amusing all the same.. heh."
Don't you wish to know where your beloved mother is? Since you seem unable to process anything at the moment, I'll give you a hint- she wrote of me in her will." The authoritarian then turns around and begins to drag the boy by the sleeve of his tailcoat.
The boy knows it is best not to resist, but wishes to as an overpowering feeling that something is very wrong consumes him.
Glassy eyes squint to see the next room in front of them. Rather, balcony.
On the the balcony's edge, leans a woman practically skin and bone. Her dark hair is chopped messily and her back is bent at an odd angle. Her clothes are ragged, damp with the harsh, rainy weather.
"Mother-!"
"It's a shame to see a noblewoman in such a state," the authoritarian sighs. He reaches into the pocket of his woolen trenchcoat to reveal a dagger.
"Now Valentina, do you remember the deal? If you fall from this balcony, your son is safe, I receive the majority of the money from your will, and all is well. If you pick the latter, your son dies and I send Jack after you."
What is already practically a corpse nods meekly.
"Or are you so weak you can't push yourself over the ledge?"
"S-STOP IT!" the boy screams, and attempts to struggle free from the authoritarian's grasp.
"I thought you only cared about music, dear boy? Move one more muscle-"
The overpowering feeling that something was wrong returns, but it's too late before the boy realizes what's happening.. His mother is gone, her body lost and mangled in the streets below. The authoritarian pushes a pair of plugs into his ears as people begin to scream. Even as the boy begins to scream, he remains just as detached as the youth had been for so long.
He kicks the boy's ribs as to shut him up.
"W-What are you?" the boy chokes, sobbing hysterically.
"I am, and will always be, the authoritarian."
Clavicembalo: The first design of a harpsichord. Italian-styled and first started circuiting in the early 1500s.
Tudor rose: England's national flower
I initially wrote this mid-seventh grade.. But I only just recently tweaked it. I hope you liked it~