At last, I have it! I have no excuse for the delay - other than life's happenings and a strange writer's block where I knew exactly what needed to happen, but didn't know how to get the ball rolling - but enough petty details. Thanks so much for your alerts and favorites and reviews, they warm my heart and feed my soul and all that jazz.

Oh, and I don't own Kuroshitsugi, Yana Toboso does. This carries throughout the story, cuz I'm not writing it every time.


Counting Dropping Heads

Seven: Gambling


"The raggedest nightcap, awry on the wretchedest head, had this crooked significance to it: 'I know how hard it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to support life in myself; but do you know how easy it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to destroy life in you?'"

Charles Dickens


Supper was a chaotic ordeal. As per usual, those who could not find a log or a stone to sit upon would plant themselves on the ground or stand while they ate. But tonight, the soldiers laughed and shouted and teased and shoved as they gulped down their bland stew. Instead of scattering themselves about as always, the rebels grouped close together, the threads of warm camaraderie visibly tugging them into one rag-tag cluster, tightly centered around their leader. Ciel observed this phenomenon from the ground below them, where he ate in silence.

Ciel ignored the noise of savage conversation for an impressive bit of time before, to his immense surprise, being dragged into an immensely pointless argument.

"What bullocks are you spewing, Finny? Madrigals are leagues better than that rubbish!"

"Motets aren't rubbish, Bard, they're wonderful!"

"Motets lack spirit, passion!"

"They most certainly do not! You gotcha terms jumbled, yes you do! What do you think, Mr. Ciel?"

Ciel's head jerked upwards as his name was called. It was easier than he would have expected to brush off the surprise at being addressed by someone other than Michaelis. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

Finny piped up, blonde hair wisping about a bit in the breeze and green eyes wide. "Which do you prefer, Mr. Ciel, between madrigals and motets?"

Ciel kept his gaze on the three rebels as he thought fast. This was not a trick or test – it was blatantly obvious that these three had not the malice nor the intelligence necessary for scheming – but nonetheless, he most certainly did not want to opinionate while amongst enemies.

"Why are you comparing the two?" His tone was light and curious, and he even threw in a cock of the head for good measure.

May-Rin seemed to consider her answer for a moment. "Well- I'd s'pose it's 'cause people tend to favor one and not the other. They're opposed, aren't they?"

Ciel thought the two were much too different to be properly opposed. "Yes, I would say that's true."

Bard butted in with his booming voice. "So which do you prefer? I side with madrigals, myself."

Ciel pretended to consider for a moment, peering up at the dark purple horizon as if in contemplation as he chose one to prefer. "I'd side with madrigals as well. Motets are in Latin, which I can understand well enough, but it seems to me far more patriotic to sing a song in one's home language."

Finny raised his blond head a bit and countered very civilly. "But motets are sacred. Compared to all the petty topics of madrigals, the motet raises the soul higher."

Ciel was a bit surprised at the decent solidity of his argument. He shook his head gently. "But few speak Latin in these times. Are we to simply trust that our souls are being raised by the priests who may praise heresies in a motet? Isn't that a rather Catholic notion – to place the sanctity of your spirit in the hands of another human being? Would it not be much more Protestant, to sing of your love for God, in plain English, by describing life's petty beauties?"

A grin spread slowly across Finny's face as Ciel spoke. "I reckon you may have just changed my views, Mr. Ciel. Your words do ring true for me."

May-Rin smiled brightly before chirping, "For me as well, sah!"

Bard accepted his victory with far less grace than his friends had their defeat. "I told you wankers! 'S wut I been tellin' you this 'ole time!"

May-Rin scoffed. "You have not, you've said no such thing! You just think a song's boring if you can't understand it, you fool! You don' know Latin!"

"And you do?"

And so the banter began again, and Ciel slipped back into the inaction of things, where he ate in silence.


"Last on today's agenda is –"

"-The strategy meeting, yes I know."

"Testy, are we?"

"Not at all. I leap with elation whenever I get the chance to be held captive in your presence, master."

A chuckle. "So mature for your young age, little one. I feel almost as if I am talking to an adult."

That shut Ciel up instantly, and he heard the bark of Michaelis' laughter as the man pulled the flap of their tent back for him. Ciel walked past him with a glare, then stopped inside and waited for Michaelis to enter and light a lantern, as he did every evening.

He heard the flick of a match, the tent was flooded in fire-light, and Ciel immediately – calmly – made his way to his harem's bed and snatched up his eye patch. He felt his entire being heave a great sigh of relief as he slid it over his cloudy. Demented eye. He reveled in the sensation of his fingers intertwining with the smooth string as he tied it behind his head. Michaelis' voice shattered his trance, and he opened his blue eye (When had he closed it?).

"I don't know why you are so insistent on putting that thing back on when you're going to go to the strategy meeting anyway."

Michaelis had one hell of a point, and Ciel refused to acknowledge the presence of reason in the tent. "I am keeping it on regardless of your opinion."

The man chuckled a bit ominously. "I would not be so quick to test my kindness, little one. Disrespect is the one thing I will never grow to tolerate."

Ciel smirked and said nothing, but looked down at the flickering shadows on the ground for the briefest of moments. His head turned back up and he looked Michaelis in his impatient red eyes. He nudged his chin upward.

"Well? Are you going to incapacitate me now, then?"

Michaelis looked very bemused indeed at his choice of words, and turned away to grab the blue blindfold and stoppers behind him. Ciel silently applauded himself for so successfully displacing the man's ire. Michaelis turned and approached. Ciel stood his ground, letting his blue eye fall closed as he kept still. The dark cloth brushed against his skin, and he waited as it blackened his world the way his eyelid couldn't. Soon after, the world was devoid of sound as well when the stoppers were placed in his ears.

He kept his head up as Michaelis tested his sight and hearing, as he always did, yelling aloud and moving around in some way or another. Ciel caught the rumble of a deep voice and the faint vibration of footsteps, nothing more, and he kept still to ensure Michaelis of the fact. When a pressure against his back was made known, he knew they were done and heading out now.

As always, he kept his footsteps as self-assured as he could while blind and deaf. Michaelis, as always, kept his hand firm on Ciel's back as he led him toward the other tent. The breeze was gentle tonight and the air was warm, but Ciel only distantly noticed; he was a bit distracted, attempting to dispel the rising panic that always threatened to swallow him during these nightly blind walks toward the crowd of Protestant soldiers. Tonight he was especially nervous - he'd been far from silent today, and he had no clue how the higher-up soldiers would respond. But, as if sensing his fear through touch, the hand on his back became even gentler, even steadier as it urged him forward. As always.

When the air became warmer and the breeze fell away, Ciel knew he'd just entered the command tent. A few paces more, then the large hand slid from his back to his shoulder and nudged downward before pulling away. Ciel lowered himself to the ground and felt the dull roar of the rebel troops as they poured in after the pair.

Ciel remained straight-backed and high-headed as the council commenced. There was a part of him – too deep and honest to ever be fully acknowledged – that wondered if he was just using his pride to steel himself nowadays.

It wasn't very long before he felt the first sloppy stab of a thick finger. He turned toward the general direction of the stabber and curled his lips up into a snarl. He heard the rumble of a jeer or two in response, and more fingers, this time from all directions. This was more vicious than usual. Ciel felt his heart thump a bit faster.

What was he supposed to do every night, in this situation? He felt like a caged animal, surrounded on all sides by creatures who only wanted to watch him squirm and scream. He would scowl and snarl and roar and nip, but this only egged them on further, and they would press in closer.

It was only a matter of time before such an animal finally snapped, and bit someone.

A large thumb pressed and dug itself into his cheek as the hand attached to it seized his chin. As dirty nails carved painful marks into his skin, Ciel became hyperaware that his wrists were not bound tonight, and suddenly he had power again.

Ciel's right hand darted out and latched onto the one twice its size that had hold of his face. His fingers seized the man's wrist and he twisted with vicious, snarling precision. He instantly felt a popping crack, followed immediately by a roar of agony. The large hand swiped itself away and he felt the man stand up.

The blow came before he was ready for it. He was on his back before he even felt the pain. He didn't know if it was fist or foot; he just knew it was unbelievably powerful and it would be a miracle if his cheek didn't swell. The pain ambushed him a heartbeat later, and he gasped a choked breath in as he curled into himself on the ground.

He heard the thundering vibration of the man as he – Ciel could only guess – informed the others of Ciel's transgression. His prone body was jolted backward as a foot collided with his midriff, and he wasn't quick enough to bury the ragged scream that came tearing past his lips. He held his breath and brought his hands up to protect his head, curling up into a ball as the bombardment of blows cascaded down on him. There was noise and pain, vibration everywhere, from yells and grunts and kicks and then Ciel could hear again as his left stopper was knocked out of his ear and onto the ground.

"THIS IS WHAT YOU GET FOR STRIKING A SUPERIOR, DOG!"

Massive, deafening cries of agreement as he was stampeded. The sound, muffled and deadened for so long, was grotesquely amplified now and Ciel curled tighter, blind eyes hot.

"KEEP YOUR HEAD DOWN AND YOUR HANDS AT YOUR SIDE!"

Kick to the back, kick to the legs, to the chest, the shoulder, noisenoiseNOISE –

"CEASE THIS NONSENSE AT ONCE!"

The voice towered above all the others, rich and terrifying, and everything stopped. Ciel sucked in the choked breath of a drowning man as he silently reeled. That same voice from before, the voice that had saved him, was speaking, and Ciel did his best to listen.

"HOW ARE YOU TO PROVE TO ENGLAND THAT YOU DESERVE THE RIGHTS OF CATHOLICS WHEN YOU ACT LIKE SAVAGES? YOU CAN'T BEAR TO BE IN A HELPLESS CHILD'S PRESENCE WITHOUT BEATING IT? WHAT ARE YOU PROVING?"

Stunned, terrified silence.

"Get out of my sight, all of you! GO!"

Huge, frantic scrambling as the men piled out of the tent.

Undiluted agony throbbed in time with Ciel's racing heart. There was no part of him that wasn't screaming. But he remained silent, dazed, and he listened to Michaelis' soft footsteps approach, his harsh, furious breathing steadying like the flip of a switch.

"Oh, little one…" he heard him murmur as the man knelt down and placed a hand on his arm. Ciel moaned from the touch, despite its tenderness, and felt rather grateful for the courtesy when it promptly removed itself.

"Let's get you out of this blindfold, shall we?"

The voice was quiet, and Ciel was thankful for that as well; if Michaelis had spoken any louder Ciel was positive he would have shattered like the tinkling glass in an opera house.

The blindfold fell from his eyes after a moment, and the stopper was removed from his right ear. The sudden invasion of full sensory potential was completely overwhelming, and Ciel squeezed his blue eye closed.

He felt those two large, gentle hands turn him onto his back and probe his body softly. For broken bones, his fuzzy mind supplied. The examination did not last long, it seemed, and then Michaelis had slid his arms under Ciel's body and was lifting him up. Ciel mewled as agony washed over him once more.

"Shh, it's okay, little one. Let it pass."

Waves of pain pulsed out from where Michaelis' arms were meeting his body, and he remained still and quiet as the man began walking, giving a snare beat to the pulsations. His head, nestled in the crook of Michaelis' arm, didn't bounce as he walked.

When light gave way to black and a breeze rustled his hair Ciel knew they were out of the tent. Not too much farther to go now. He began counting Michaelis' footsteps in his head – pain-one, pain-two, pain-three – just to keep track, be aware of something. Michaelis remained silent and smooth-gated, and Ciel was grateful.

On step two-hundred sixty-seven, the breeze gave way to a very still darkness, and Ciel knew they were inside their tent now. Michaelis remained sure-footed as he took two more steps – pain-one, pain-two – then lowered Ciel down gently and slowly until his body met the familiar-to-the-touch blankets of his harem's bed. The arms left painfully, and a moment later the lantern flicked alight, bathing the space with shaky luminescence.

He stared up with one visible eye at the flickering orange glow upon the cloth ceiling as he listened to Michaelis shuffle about the tent without a word. The pain was still sharp and very there, but Ciel was already beginning to feel his own exhaustion as well. The combination of insistent drowsiness and sleep-depriving pain ensured Ciel that he was fit to have a rather miserable time of things tonight.

He jumped when he felt something cold against his cheek, and was surprised to see Michaelis kneeling beside him, pressing a wet cloth to his face. When had he become so unobservant?

"This temperature ought to assist in reducing the swelling."

Ciel remained silent, but nodded slowly after a moment.

"I've already looked you over for any serious injuries. You will suffer only bruising, which will be painful, nothing more."

Ciel nodded again, turning back to stare into the ceiling.

A minute of two later he heard Michaelis rise from his spot next to him. He heard a quick rustle of clothing as he changed, heard a flick that plunged them both into darkness, and heard the rustle of sheets as he climbed into his cot.

The drowsiness was not diminishing, but neither was the pain. "Michaelis?" he murmured.

The voice was soft. "Yes, little one?"

"They were especially - quick to attack tonight."

A sigh. "Yes, I know. I think your presense in weapons training today did not please all, though you did an exceptional job. It seems your origins as Queen's Watch Dog is more unsettling to the troops than I'd anticipated."

"Understandable. I hunt down their kin for a living."

Chuckle. "You have not done much of that as of late, if I recall correctly. Either way, they will have to be spoken to promptly."

"Why did you stop them? You didn't before."

The span of an inhale passed. "You hadn't given them anything before. Some of the men in that tent, including Henry Barrymore, the man who dealt you that first hit, learned a move in swordplay just today, and you were their teacher. Treating you the way they have in not justifiable anymore."

Ciel scowled into the blackness. "And it was before?"

"You were a captive before, an enemy. Someone who, in all likelyhood, had slaughtered someone they knew by name. Deny it all you like, but you've witnessed first-hand the atrocities that befall our sect - some of my men have turned very hard, bitter from loss. They think you're the head defender of that which they hate. They want blood, revenge. But you gave them something today - something that will arm them against your supposed allies. They cannot call you an enemy anymore, and they most certainly cannot treat you like one. Not to that degree."

"I would rather be treated as an enemy than as a friend, Michaelis."

There was a soft chuckle. "Too much of a gamble for you, is it? I think if you were to give it a try, you'd find that friendship is in fact very tolerable."

Ciel shook his head and winced when he did. "Nothing comes of friendship. With an enemy one at least gets a challenge, and a victory if one plays his hand right."

The chuckle was louder this time, more insistent. "How sweet is victory for one alone? Everyone needs a friend, little one, even you."

"Friendship is not needed. It's only desired."

"Time will demonstrate the contrary to you, rest assured."

Ciel scoffed in the dark. "If all that friendship offers is arguments over madrigals and motets, I'd say it's safe to assume you will be the one proven wrong with time, Michaelis."

"Petty talks are one of the sweetest boons friendship grants. Don't you remember your own argument that you made to those We-Three's* this evening?"

"Tch. Of course not. I didn't mean a word of it, I was simply defending a case, that's all."

A laugh. "I see. Either way, there is truth in what you said. You may think you did not take your own words to heart, but the truth does not lie to us, you know."

Ciel ground his teeth together for the briefest of moments. "Whatever. I'm going to sleep now." He shut his eyes, knowing full well that unconsiousness would not carry him away tonight.

A final chuckle. "Alright, little one. Sweet dreams."

He responded with silence. It was after perhaps five minutes of futile attempts at sleep and dull, pulsing throbs of pain that the still night was broken.

"Oh, and little one?"

Ciel's eyes, both covered and visible, opened. "What."

"I am terribly sorry I let these injuries befall you. It is very unbecoming of a friend."

Ciel growled. "You are not my friend, Michaelis."

He could hear the smile in the man's voice. "I suppose only time will tell us about that, won't it?"

Ciel did not respond, and not one more word was spoken until the black of night gave way to the rising sun. Ciel did not sleep a wink.


*We Three: a picture, universally familiar by the time of Shakespeare around twenty to thirty years later, that depicts two fools, the title of which, "We Three", suggests that the viewer is the third fool

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