Compulsion - Chapter 4: Unfitting of a Gentleman

Extremely epic, award-worthy announcement: I have defeated the three-chapter curse—it was deadly to battle.

Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji.


Is it appropriate for him to freeze up at this crucial moment?

No, probably he should not—absolutely not—be losing the requisite strength of his cognitive senses, and admitting defeat to his petty emotions. But even if he can muster enough intelligence to form that judgment, he cannot summon the inner force to expel the dense imaginary cloth that has tightly folded his muscles and hemmed in his body.

He is wrong; in retrospect, the arrival of this person does not assist in alleviating his headache at all. In fact, the violent shock of it, in the evil manifestation of electric coils, reverberates continuously in his mind. He must look very foolish, an ignoramus moron, with his mouth slightly agape and his eyes staring impertinently, absurdly at his companion. Not a single word manages to trail out from the wide gap he has afforded.

An uncontrollable barrage of questions ignite, swirling in streams, in his mental domain, allowing him no rest. Once it gathers momentum, it evolves to an insurmountable might that overtakes him, pulling forth from his chest an oafish splutter that is supposed to be the first of the many questions that have impetuously lined themselves up in a rashly prepared order.

The boy—or perhaps he should say "man"—no, he must not present to him that high of a praise; he is unworthy of it due to his prolonged absence—or is he just tossing a childish justification in the air and hoping it would suit—

Stop!

It is amazing, really, what this perturbing person is already capable of doing: just his presence alone has induced for Ciel to have a ridiculous battle with himself and to avoid and obstruct his own thoughts, in which, are developing to a sheer annoyance at a startlingly fast pace.

The person in front of him has definitely cultivated his masculine features; he has grown yet again, by several centimeters this time (Ciel refuses to be towered over by seemingly everyone that comes across him), and although he is still relatively lean, his muscle mass is more delineated than before. Both of his chin and brow are prominent, the shape of his jaw is chiseled. His voice, when he has spoken, has apparently deepened by a few minor but notable degrees. His cerulean orbs, expressing the softest gradation of blue, are piercing and keen, as though finely sharpened by enriching experience and acquired wisdom. He has a very particular outfit that consists of a regency tailcoat that is hunter green with velvet trim; black fall front trousers, with elastic y-back braces; a black baker city vest; a dress shirt with a high stand collar; a black cotton cravat; black preacher boots; and completing the exquisite apparel is a Mavericks glass handle walking stick. He emits a clean, wholesome scent. His superlative sophistication supplements to Ciel's astonishment.

"There is not a need to panic," the person says smoothly to the crowd, his bemusing smile holding much mystery, with his palm still resting upon Ciel's shoulder. "Since I was with him, after all, I can stand as witness that he has not committed any sins."

A short silence ensues, with each individual distraught, until one noble voices his opinion, "It is not like we can trust you, either! From what I can recall, you are usually in cahoots with Earl Phantomhive!"

"You're just going to have to take my word for it. You have no evidence that Ciel has done anything other than baseless assumptions, correct?" he retaliates, his tone collected and tranquil, his composure extraordinarily unblemished. He has made his vindication with such flawless assertion and unassailable self-confidence, that it compels the man into a state of reticence.

This person . . . it is Alois Trancy and yet it is not him.

The Alois he remembers is apt to eccentricity and unpredictability when declaring his side in an argument, the farthest thing from calmness. If someone so much as refutes him, his mercurial and fickle nature will emerge and he will unleash upon his opponent his erratic, and often unbecoming of a noble, comments and actions; the brunt of his crudeness will not be concealed.

What has happened to that Alois? The one before him is almost a stranger, to say the least.

"We want to hear from the Earl of Phantomhive himself! Has he actuated such a horrible murder?" a marquess demands, hurling at Ciel a distasteful look and directing to him a pointy, blood-red fingernail rather contemptuously.

Alois turns his head to Ciel, and the moment they establish eye contact, it comes to his mortifying realization that he has been staring at his companion for far too long, while trying to decipher him. Embarrassed, Ciel consciously obliges himself to close his mouth, and hastily averts his gaze with a scoff.

Earl Trancy returns to the crowd, squeezing his shoulder. From the corner of his eye, he perceives as Alois bites back what should be a mischievous smile and proclaims, "Unfortunately, it appears like a cat has gotten the tongue of poor Earl Phantomhive over here, so my statement will have to suffice. . . . He is probably much too delighted by the sight of me."

Oh, never mind, Ciel internally grumbles, suppressing a groan and an indignant roll of his eyes; he is just as obnoxious as ever.

"The Scotland Yard should be arriving soon," Marquis Wright's booming voice echos in the confines of the unpropitious ballroom, snagging the center of attention. Everyone, naturally, shift their heads to the man. His eyes brusquely slide over to Ciel and Alois, where they narrow disdainfully, before he re-addresses the crowd. "After all, one of my butlers standing outside must have heard the gunshots and went to fetch them."

"But, what if the butler is the killer?" someone yells, frantically looking about. As ludicrous as his suggestion is, it is sufficient to proliferate the abundance of fear existing in everyone, until it hangs over all of them consistently, an oppression upon their shoulders. The fear of the unknown is, incontrovertibly, powerful.

However, before anyone can further speculate, nerve-wracking sobs burst in the hindmost of the room, near one of the exits. A distressed woman is slobbering against it, quite in an uncouth, unrefined manner, pounding and clawing weakly at the doorknobs. She appears to no longer possess any sort of energy, her movements sluggish but regular, and is just drilling mindlessly against the door in hopes of escaping.

"I don't want to die! I don't want to die! I just want to leave!" Frenzied, her hands thread furiously through her bulk of disheveled hair. "Don't you understand?" The volume of her voice fluctuates wildly, slithering from stentorian heights, where each word is uttered with choked cries, to chilling, quiet whispers, gurgling with omen. "I don't think you understand! The longer we stay here . . . the killer will get us all! He will get us all! Each and every one of us, and he won't let us go!"

Anxious glances of the nobles skirt cursorily over the crowd, as they unanimously seek guidance from a charismatic individual. It is patently evident that everyone is pining for a person to pop out and announce that this is all a frivolous joke, a very puerile one indeed. Nevertheless, the uproarious train of reality has collided into the minds of all, making the inherently fantastic idea of this as being tomfoolery rather difficult to conceive.

Everyone is rejecting the proposal of investigating upstairs, where the murder happened. There are an intrepid, audacious few who offered to (one of them being none other than the invigorated Lau), but the cynical Earl of Durant, who is a notorious wallflower much like himself, has finally spoken up and questioned Lau's intentions, "Why must you go up there? Planning to destroy the evidence, are you?" The accusation is bewildering; it stitches Lau's mouth to a close and it constricts his enthusiasm, until he mutely sulks with Ran-Mao. Although groundless, the concept that one may aim to erase whatever signs may be present up there is much too frightening to allow the chances to come to effect. There are inelaborate conjectures that the killer may still be upstairs, but Sebastian tells him otherwise, informing him that the killer has disappeared. As proficient as the mysterious killer is in evading Sebastian, Ciel cannot rule out the possibility that one of the nobles in this very room has hired a hitman to dispose of Sir Hughes; that circumstance is much too likely.

Ciel feels the hand abandoning his shoulder, and looks over to his companion. Alois has an eyebrow quirked inquisitively, while observing as a couple of people strenuously attempt to pry the overwrought woman from the door. Her clamor becomes unduly hysterical, gashing his eardrums. "She lost her mind pretty quickly, didn't she?" Alois comments with mild interest, twirling the walking stick in his palm.

If asked to elucidate, Ciel would not be able to provide a logical reason to his actions either. However, watching as Alois behave so worldly-wise, polished, and genteel is beginning to rub off a negative effect, implanting a small taste of repulse. And thus, Ciel simply ignores him altogether and says under his breath, "Sebastian, this is an order: contact the Yards and give a synopsis of what has happened here. Do so anonymously. If the Yards can deal with this unbridled bunch, I can well be on my way. I've got important matters to attend to."

The reply of "Yes, My Lord" rumbles fleetingly by his ears before vanishing just as quickly.

"Talking to your invisible butler, eh?" Alois inquires, tilting his head as if to demonstrate that he is baffled. Though, that is extremely preposterous to do as they both have their share of demons. At an oblique angle, he can see as Alois absentmindedly brush some imperceptible dust off his forearm and stimulate the rotation of his walking stick some more. It is such an unhinging sight, to discern that Alois has developed into a stranger; he has become a prudish gentleman, concerned with cleanliness and his appearance. From a conflicting perspective, it is a good, harmless, and perhaps serviceable thing, he supposes, that Alois has matured. Yet, Ciel cannot expunge the incomprehensible and perplexing disgust lingering in his chest.

To himself, Ciel shakes his head. He needs to return to the peace of his study so that he can decently reflect on the events of this ball. Indubitably, the skeptical Scotland Yard officers will propel a deluge of queries his way, but if he can just manage to survive that dizzying, wearisome stage, he can retreat to the comforts of his townhouse and never crawl outside again unless it is unequivocally required for him to. He has attended a social event. There. Now, he will use this as his crutch and decline having to attend anything else for another twenty-five years at best.

"Unbelievable," Alois' sharp voice penetrates his thoughts, "you are ignoring me, aren't you?"

The Earl of Phantomhive cannot resist the impulse to roll his eyes, this time—it surprises even him, is he throwing a noiseless fit? But just when he was rolling his eyes, his vision conveniently lands on Lau and Ran-Mao who are forging a path to him. The fashion in which Lau is dynamically bouncing toward him shows that he has nothing better to do and is questing for small talk until Scotland Yard arrives. He inhibits himself from slapping a palm to his forehead and promptly spins on his heels to find a secure, unobtrusive spot to dawdle at.

Although he is trying to rid himself of a forthcoming burden, another burden is dragged along with him. Alois follows him easily, as if they are friends. There is none whatsoever the potentiality that he is well-acquainted with this stranger. His stomach lurches with repugnance, but this time, toward himself. There it is again, that unreasonable tantrum. He wonders briefly if this unjustified act can even be classified as a tantrum as it largely consists of a silent, moody treatment.

Alois contorts his face incredulously, as Ciel picks up his pace to lose him, with shoulders taut and posture stiff and rigid. "That's outrageous. You really are ignoring me."

His reiteration of the obvious is grating on his nerves, causing him to seethe a little but he hastily amends his faulty demeanor. Not to mention, Alois' tireless pursuit—his long legs grant him an unfair advantage—is exhausting Ciel, who has to invest more in physical exertion to maintain a modest distance from Earl Trancy.

"Care to explain why you're ignoring me, your savior?"

Something snaps in his composure, and Ciel roughly halts, actuating Alois to stumble into a stop as well. Infuriated, the Earl of Phantomhive feels the blood channeling to his face, as he musters as much raw savagery as he can to boost his scowl.

"No one asked for you to save me, Trancy!" Ciel scolds angrily, his frown twitching so much that his eyepatch starts to irritate his skin and he desires to scratch.

Alois gawks at him, taken back. Ciel assumes leaving him in a confounded state is enough for him to be inclined toward a measly sensation of victory. But, Alois' next actions shatter and quash his optimism: he suddenly grabs at his abdomen and laughs. For him to be chuckling at this time is not only incongruous (those within juxtaposition are thwarted by the lack of seriousness, and they gape at him out of condemnation), but it also installs self-consciousness, as Ciel's mind races to construe what it is that he has said that has made it so insultingly comical.

Eventually, the Earl of Trancy ceases his agitating laughter, wholly oblivious to the rebuking stares he is receiving. "So that's the first thing you say to me, after so long? To think that the Ciel Phantomhive would throw a tantrum so openly," he teases, "that is unfitting of a gentleman."

Ciel could have snickered at such a farcical assertion, "You, in yourself, are unfitting of a gentleman!"

He fluffs his suit, indifferently. How loathsome. "Pardon?"

"I," Ciel clears his throat, acknowledging that he has not made much sense, "I meant it essence-wise."

Alois retains a puzzled expression, and when his azure eyes drift to the ceiling as he attempts to assess Ciel's "clarification," Ciel's ears prickle with the heat of abashment, and he impatiently retorts, "Oh, never mind! You'll never understand."

"Because you're so confusing," Alois whines, his shoulders drooping a bit. Ciel almost thinks he saw the remnants of the old Alois, but then Alois speedily straightens his spine.

The both of them refrain from saying anything for a while, perceiving as a couple of nobles clench their heads (most of them have disturbingly receded to dour, sullen conditions, curling in against the walls or whatever solid, and maintaining a wary, discreet vigil over everyone else). Alois then instigates a conversation, "Aren't you going to ask?"

Ciel greets Alois' newly formed smirk with a deepening frown. "Ask what?"

"I know you were curious," Alois affirms with a roguish grin, folding his arms, the walking stick dangling listlessly by his side. Ciel concentrates on observing as it sways softly to and fro.

"Hardly anything about you sparks my interest," Ciel remarks unpleasantly, the edge of his voice scathing and virulent.

He notices as the smirk slips from Alois' lips; he presses them into a hard line instead, and he speaks strangely, dispirited by Ciel's latent hostility, "About where I was for the past year."

At this, Ciel bristles up, but he adamantly denies favoring Alois with the sight of seeing him intrigued. "I can care less."

"Not in the least, huh?" The question has come out queerly, almost like a statement. There is something about Alois' conduct that is odd, as though he is growing detached by the second.

Ciel is disconcerted by the distant expression Alois is wearing, but he refuses to submit himself, and his mouth moves on its own discretion, "You've always been an annoyance, Alois."

He appears to have driven Alois away too far, and all of the Earl of Trancy's mirth from before entirely dissipates like a crumbling leaf. "All right then." He exhales dispassionately, as though bored, and his sky-blue eyes desert him, already wandering to a few acquaintances of his.

If Ciel had been forewarned, perhaps he would have chosen a different route; for, Alois abruptly turns around and walks elsewhere, having lost all concern for him. The curt departure, admittedly, deals a potent blow to his composure, and Ciel nearly takes a step forward in his direction. But, instead, his hand knots up to his cane, as he stands alone again.

He realizes that he has been firm, unbending, and provokingly evasive, invariably dodging anything that may be inconsequential to his duties. However, that practice of avoiding being self-indulgently carefree has been ingrained into his nature; he cannot help it, he has set illiberal limits for himself, so that he can attain revenge for the Phantomhive family as soon as possible. But, Alois should know that. He should be aware that as stringent as he is to himself, there is always a tenuous crack, if one searches earnestly, a negligible aperture in him; if Alois had prodded him peskily, if he had persistently done so, ultimately, Ciel would have opened up a little bit. Alois has performed as such so many times before in the past, and it stuns him that he has given up so plainly, without even trying.

Not that he should blame him, of course. Though now, he inwardly inquires why he has been anticipating his reunion with Alois; it has been revealed to be considerably anticlimactic, chiefly due to his own unyielding self. Wistfully, he looks down at the glistening ring embracing his thumb, as he hears the Scotland Yard officers barge in through the doors. They will be approaching him soon, certainly, but he does not care much for the fruitless interrogation.

And, as inferred, Ciel is the prime target of a flood of questions of where he was during the time, what was he doing, and who did he attend the party with. He unemotionally responded to each query in a terse, straightforward, and unswerving manner, not once faltering or flinching when they spit imputations of guilt.

In the meantime, he executes a dive into his pool of thoughts. Supposing the killer is working with someone here at the winter ball, he will have to calculate the untrustworthy individuals. There is a number of them, such as the Earl of Durant or the waiter, but Marquis Wright is definitely the most suspicious of them all. He will have to personally catechize the man.

About an hour later, the Scotland Yard officers have documented their various accounts and accumulated adequate information. When they take into custody Sir Hughes' deceased body, however, they discover a ripped piece of paper in Sir Hughes' breast pocket. Scrawled on the paper, is his full name presented fancily: Aaron Hughes. The cursive is beautifully designed, with the e's bizarrely extravagant, but that is the long and short of it. Aside from the name there is nothing else written on it. It has muddled plentiful of minds, including Ciel's, as to why Sir Hughes would compose his own name on a piece of paper and then stick it in his pocket. It is an unfathomable enigma.

The nobles are free to go; there is not an acceptable amount of evidence to reproach anyone, as it seems. But, Ciel has reason to believe otherwise.

Returning to the night sky is mollifying. With Sebastian once again by his side, they travel specifically to a parked carriage, shoes clicking against the pavement. As they do as such, Ciel gathers as much succulent air as he can clutch onto, packing his lungs with the refreshing bliss after having smothered himself in insufferable perfume.

"Your parole," his butler warns in a hushed voice.

"Do not heed to him. We are simply taking a stroll with our 'friend.'"

Sebastian opens the door to the carriage, and Ciel climbs in right next to Marquis Wright.

Close to a heart attack, Wright all but explodes in his seat with shock. Without hardship, Sebastian manipulates the coach driver to move aside and huddle in the corner as he takes over the reins.

By the time the carriage has begun to advance, Wright's expressions have already filtered through astonishment, fear, then belligerence. "What the hell do you think you're—"

Ciel's pistol digs into his temple; he has uncovered it from the folds of his coat. "It's not your turn to speak, I'm afraid."

Wright breathes noisily through his nostrils, in frustration, clenching his hands into balls at his laps. Carefully, he says, "You're the killer, aren't you? I knew it. But, let me inform you, killing me will be of no good use to you. Unless you are doing this for the Midford family. In that case, this is simply ridiculous—"

Ciel sighs, tedium eddying at his head. "Truly, I have no patience for this. My fingers are itching to pull the trigger, so be quiet." Of course, Ciel is not the type of person who would shoot someone else—that is excessive—unless for self-defense. But, to instill terror is a separate matter, and an activity he reprehensibly enjoys; it facilitates the process of examination quite significantly. The tip of the pistol pokes further into his skin, and he notes as Wright cringe, though his countenance remains grim. "You can drop the act now, Mr. Wright. My hypothesis is that you are, in actuality, very relieved with Sir Hughes' death, am I right?"

Wright's eyes widen at this notion, and he grips his pants. But other than that, he does not respond.

"I'll take that as an affirmative reply."

"You—"

"There is more to my hypothesis."

Wright frowns.

"My guess is . . . you have ordered for a hitman or likewise to assassinate Sir Hughes."

"Rubbish!" Wright bellows, saliva spewing from his mouth, his eyes bloodshot. "I have done no such thing! Do not accuse me wrongly, boy! I don't take kindly to that!"

A bullet slicing through the roof of the carriage effectively silences him. Ciel, having freshly unleashed a destructive bullet, points the pistol back to Wright. "Bite your tongue. Do not overreact or the next one may enter your head."

Enraged, Wright furls and unfurls his fists, and he huffs in a fit of resentment. He appears to be in a strife with himself, as he deliberates on what to do. Slowly, he calms his nerves and then says with positivism, "I did not order for anyone to assassinate Sir Hughes. His death came as a surprise to me as well."

Ciel is not one to be deceived so artlessly. "You were relieved by his death, were you not? I saw you myself. No one would be relieved by a friend's death unless you orchestrated for this to happen."

"No, I did not!" Wright shouts and then ogles the pistol restlessly. Chipping off several degrees to his volume, he states, "Why would I orchestrate for this death? He is my friend, like you have said yourself."

Ciel narrows his eyes. "Unless he has done something that made you rather upset with him."

Wright draws back, refusing to institute eye contact. His lips are constrained together tightly.

"Silence will not help you. Now, tell me."

"Remind me why I am liable to—"

Ciel shoots twice, once through the roof again and the other at Wright's window. When the treacherous bullet cuts implacably through the air near his face, he flies apart with overmastering alarm, yelping and casting himself against his seat timidly.

"I . . . I understand your business now, Phantomhive. It's terrible," Wright mutters in between gasps. "Forcing people into speaking against their will—"

The pistol plunges into his neck. "It's wonderful that we're all now well-acquainted with each other, but I will need you to answer my questions. Were you relieved by his death?"

Wright gapes at the pistol nervously. "I . . . I s-suppose there's a bit of relief there . . . somewhere. Perhaps a little—"

"And, why are you relieved?"

Wright scowls at the peremptory interruption, shaking his head. "Well, it's not because I orchestrated the kill, if that's what you're thinking. I would never soil my reputation in that way. I am a respectable man, and I need to live with my head held high"—he shrinks when the pistol weighs heavily against him—"All right, so I'm relieved! What of it? He's an annoying man! It doesn't necessarily mean I killed him! He is just annoying! Why do I need to explain what I feel so minutely? I do not like him, so when he died, I am glad that he is gone. Would that suffice? You . . . you have to work with him to know how annoying he is!"

Ciel is doubtful it is as simple as that. "I do not work with him, so I don't know how annoying he is. Care to give an example?"

With the pistol pressing harshly against the man, it is made apparent that it is not a request by far: it is a command.

A groan is exacted from Wright, who then crumples over. For an appalling moment, Ciel is misled into thinking he has accidentally shot the man. However, Wright soon sits back up, massaging his face with his hands, fatigued.

"It was back at that blasted Bardsley Village," Wright mumbles reluctantly. "I'll . . . I'll tell you what happened . . . but you have to believe me when I say I did not arrange for his death!"

"Yes, yes," Ciel mutters tiredly. Wright looks worried by his flagrant apathy, but Ciel is not about to reassure him that he already knows that Wright is being honest. "Just hurry it up."

Wright grits his teeth in exasperation. "Well, Sir Hughes has accompanied me there, as you are aware. It was there, that I did something horrible, so to speak, and Sir Hughes witnessed it."

"Tell me."

The man winces, shuddering at the pistol. "First, can you please remove that thing from my neck? Don't worry, I won't hurt a puny boy like you . . . even though, you are readily willing to hurt me," he complains. "You know, your waving of a gun around so recklessly is unfitting of a gentleman."

Sebastian stifles a chuckle. Ciel scowls. "Shut up."

Only when the gun is sheathed, Wright is satisfied and he gradually eases into his seat. "At any rate, remember when I told you the villagers are a rambunctious bunch? It was not travesty. I hated them, and they hated me. And on that day I was particularly stressed and angry. And so, when I saw them all blocking my way without a care in the world, I . . ."

The man so inordinately filled with pride trembles, and when he hesitatingly opens his mouth again, he begins to tell his story.