Just for clarification's sake, I'm going to explicitly inform you - this story is not meant to be historically accurrate. I'm intentionally taking what little I know from this time period and I'm rewriting history as I would have liked it to happen, had these characters been present. If you're bothered by this type of approach, I suggest you watch something like Inglorious Basterds, I'm sure you'll warm up to the idea real quick (fuckin' love that movie).
On with the story!
Counting Dropping Heads
Two: Purging
"A rumor just lived in the village – had a faint and bare existence there, as its people did – that when the knife struck home, the faces changed, from faces of pride to faces of anger and pain."
Charles Dickens
Protestantism is heresy! Its followers are demons and devils!
- A whip, a crack, peeling flesh –
You will listen to God! Heed the not the lies of false prophets, sinner, or be damned to eternal hellfire!
- a poker, the sizzle of charred skin –
Damned to eternal hellfire!
- a thousand fists, a thousand feet, all raining down –
Eternal hellfire!
- fists and feet and the snap and crunch of bones –
Hellfire!
- whips and knives and pokers and fists and nowhere to run –
Fire!
- agony and frantic desperation and nonononopleasenomore –
FIRE!
- a burning house, burning, burning, burningburningburning –
Ciel's eyes snapped open and he made not a sound. He sat up slowly, remembering as he did so that he was now a servant of the Protestant leader, that his wrists were still bound – and by this time, chafing a fair amount – and that he was currently sitting ramrod straight in a pile of soft blankets and animal skins that served as a servant's bed, in the same tent as Michaelis, who was currently splayed silently out on his cot on the other side of the small space. Ciel looked down at the sheets surrounding him and was reminded of a harem's bad. He shuddered before tossing the thought aside.
He stared into the darkness of the opposite tent wall as he contemplated how he would accomplish his job in such a fix. He could easily escape this very moment, his master – hate boiled in his veins at the very thought – none the wiser, but that would not crush the Protestants.
It was necessary for him to be in two places at once, really. If he ran away back to the Queen's side, the enemy would move their base and Mary's men would find nothing but abandoned huts and left-over table scraps. If he stayed, the Queen's men would have no one to inform them of the location.
What he needed to do – though the thought of lowering himself to servitude made his skin crawl – was wait until Michaelis trusted him enough to order him on errands. If he could leave camp without the base relocating, he'd have this thing in the bag.
All he had to do was play the humble servant for a while – great god, the thought – and he would save all of England. It was worth it.
Of course, as Michaelis rolled over to face him, opening his red eyes leisurely, Ciel had to acknowledge that is would be – dare he say it – a challenge.
"My my, little servant already conspiring against me? You don't waste time, dog."
"You will not address me by such derogatory terms."
Michaelis sat up, the smile growing on his face like a tumor. "I will address you however I wish, prisoner of war."
Ciel said nothing, but his visible eye communicated malice and defiance, because Michealis would not win.
"Today you will be at my side as I form plans of attack against the Crown and discuss strategies with my men."
Ciel sneered, almost tempted to laugh at this man's idiocy. "Do you think it wise to form battle plans in front of the very enemy you hope to defeat?"
That trademark smile never strayed as Michaelis rose from his cot and began to dress. "I will not allow you to wander from my sight, dear servant. And worry not, I will make quite sure that you will see nothing and hear nothing, and therefore will be able to speak nothing should you ever escape to your queen." He donned a black tailcoat as he approached Ciel and bent down so they were face to face – once again – before speaking in a low whisper. "And I assure you, little servant, you will not escape me."
He straightened and his expression turned cold. "Now get changed, I will not be kept waiting."
Ciel looked down at the blue wool coat that he had not removed the night before. "I have nothing to change into."
"Well," Michaelis said, not missing a beat, "we'll just have to wear this today then, won't we?"
The condescending tone made Ciel bristle, and he barely restrained himself from striking this arrogant bastard.
Michaelis' smile widened. "Already learning to control yourself in the face of your master, little one? You do catch on quickly, I must say."
With that, he turned and vacated the tent, leaving a fuming Ciel with the humiliating obligation to follow after him. Like a dog.
He hated this man.
He felt a nudge from his left and did his best to scowl in that direction. He heard the rumble of a chuckle and scowled more, in the more general direction of everywhere this time, owing to the fact that he was incapable of determining the position of the offending chuckler.
Ciel thought he'd hated that tall, black-haired, blood-eyed demon of a man before. He hadn't had a clue.
After humbly following after his master like the good little servant he was, the bastard Michaelis had tied a blindfold over both his eyes, and had shoved stoppers into his ears, leaving him blind and deaf as the good master led him with a sadistic hand on the back to the command tent. Michaelis – Ciel assumed – had gotten himself comfortable at his mahogany table before pulling Ciel's bound wrists down to make him kneel at his master's feet.
Now, words could not express the burning hatred Ciel harbored for this man.
After a few hours of silent, undisturbed fuming, Ciel had felt the footsteps of several large men entering the tent as Michaelis prepared to discuss strategy and probably terrorist attacks. The men in the room had quickly grown fond of teasing and confusing Ciel, who could do nothing to defend himself except scowl about him and growl with all his twelve-year-old ferocity. It had made for one of the longest half-hours of his life.
He heard nothing, he saw nothing. He felt a shove from behind, and turned abruptly to growl. He felt the rumble of several men laughing, and several disembodied fingers poked him painfully from all sides. He attempted to bite one, and was unsuccessful.
He was completely vulnerable to these large, malicious enemies, and he could do nothing. He could neither anticipate nor defend. If he had been the type of child to cry, he would have.
Michaelis carried on with the meeting, and the men carried on with the taunting, and Ciel carried on with the scowling. All this carried on for an hour or so until the council was adjourned for the sake of lunch. Ciel felt the heavy footsteps as the men left the tent, felt Sebastian rise from his seat beside him, and felt the blindfold and stoppers be removed. Ciel opened his uncovered eye, making sure to grace this bastard with a glare that was known to give the most heartless killers nightmares. Michaelis, the bastard, just quirked his lips up into a smile.
"Have fun, little one?"
Ciel glared – some more.
"It is lunchtime, and I would hate to be late." He turned and walked out, leaving Ciel to follow. Again.
How was he going to survive this?
"Bard I hate to crush your – sensitive spirits, but this soup is awful."
"Sot it! I spent a right long time on this, so eat up!"
"You probably should have put oregano in the soup, Bard, that would have done away with that rather particular taste in it, would it've not?"
"Shut it, Finni, make your own if you're so fuckin' keen on correctin' mine!"
"Aw come on, constructive criticism is needed for the makin' of any masterpiece, it is."
"This is masterpiece enough, I don't need you lot talkin' down to me!"
The stew was indeed awful, but Ciel hadn't eaten in a very long time. His portion was tiny compared to all the rebels', and he'd had to remind himself that Michaelis had chosen to feed him, which was something of a remarkable courtesy. He had even removed the rope from his wrists. However, his portion was still tiny, and he had gobbled it down – despite its being honestly horrible – before Michaelis had swallowed his third mouthful.
He was then left with nothing to distract him, and he was unable to keep from drowning in the humiliation of sitting on his knees, in the dirt and gravel at Michaelis' feet while his master lounged comfortably on a log with the other revolutionaries, laughing and joining in on the fun of human camaraderie. The idea disgusted him a little, but even it was not enough to cut through the thick haze of embarrassment and vulnerability that threatened to pull him under. He was a distinguished aristocrat, a noble, and yet here he was, kneeling in filth at this peasant's feet.
But he made sure to keep his chin firmly pointed upwards, and his eye emotionless.
"Seh, 'oo is that little lad you got there?" the one named Bard blurted. Ciel felt like sinking into the dirt and gravel under his knees, and his head threatened to lower itself. Someone please just put a bullet in my brain.
"This is my new servant, Bard. He is famous for his acts committed in the queen's name, and I felt he would be the perfect prisoner of war."
""Ee's famous? Wot's his name?"
Nonononononononono –
"Ciel Phantomhive."
The others blanched, mouths agape.
"That's the Queen's Watch Dog? But he's just a little boy…" After a moment, the woman with a shock of red hair laughed a bit. "OH, you're being funny seh, you had me fooled for a minute there, yes…may we ask his real name now, seh?"
"That is his real name, you dunces. The Ciel Phantomhive is before you, obeying my orders as any proper servant would. His appearance and young age are often concealed from the common folk, so that the queen might maintain that image of a loyal, deadly brute for him. "
After a few potent moments of receiving stares from the revolutionaries before him, Ciel was more than ready for Michaelis to complete his stew. He felt his face even heat up and rage nearly overcome him as he heard the young blond man – Finni – mutter "so cute" to the others. Ciel wished he was back in the tent with those perverse men. No one called Earl Ciel Phantomhive cute and lived.
It seemed that Michaelis was deliberately taking his sweet time in savoring his horribly prepared soup; it was nearly an hour before the bastard announced to his subordinates that he must return to his work. Ciel remained obstinately in his crouched position as Michaelis stood and handed his wooden bowl back to Bard. Michealis began making his way in the direction of the command tent, and Ciel did not move.
He thought for a moment that perhaps Michealis had left him – whatever that would mean – and then a terrific pain exploded on the back of his head, launching him forward to his hands and knees. He heard the clatter of gravel resettling itself and felt the back of his agonized head, his hand returning sticky and red with blood.
Fucking bastard threw a ROCK at me!
"I do not like to be kept waiting, dog. Next time, I expect you to follow me without a word."
Ciel saw stars as he stood up, stumbling to Michaelis' side, too dazed to even throw him a proper scowl.
"I will not tell you again, understood?"
Regaining his awareness, Ciel refused to nod. He hardened up a glare, and found satisfaction in the total lack of a smile on his master's face, this time around.
