Immortal
by Zoni
Chapter One
Regret.
There are not many emotions that demons do not often feel. We have the same emotional range as humans, perhaps greater in many instances. But we do not throw ourselves into them at the slightest inclination. If we so wish, we may choose to avoid them, to take ourselves out of the path that would lead us to them in the first place. Humans do not possess that level of restraint. They are foolhardy creatures that live in the moment and delight in the pain it brings them once it has ended.
Of all those emotions that exist, regret is something I have never fully experienced. Avoiding such inconveniences is a simple matter, one that utilizes the most basic of intelligence. We do not allow ourselves to get attached. We do not get overly involved. Much as a human would never eat their dog, we know to keep our distance.
In all my many years, I can count the number of such mistakes on the fingers of a single hand. The only truly remarkable part about that fact is that two of these instances have occurred within the last century and a half. And the thing I regret most is the decision I made to leave the service of Ciel Phantomhive.
/*\
Shortly before his fifteenth birthday, my former young master achieved his goal. The last of the men who had tortured him, burned his home to ashes, and destroyed his family had been found at a country estate in Leicestershire. I tore the head off the last of them with my own two hands.
With that single action, our contract had reached its conclusion. He had realized everything he had asked of me when first I was summoned. I had played the part of the dutiful butler, following the three conditions he had laid out so clearly. After more than four years of waiting, the time had come to indulge in the meal I had so patiently prepared. His soul, so perfectly flawed and tempting, was to be my reward for faithful service and unshakable devotion to him.
And yet, as I knelt before him and saw the resignation in his eyes as he stared back at me, I came to a startling realization. I had no desire to bring about the end of his existence. I could not bring myself to devour his soul.
I had failed to keep myself from those very emotions I had so easily avoided before. I had failed to keep my distance from him. Somewhere along the way, I had come to care very deeply for my young master. There would be no exaggeration in saying that I loved him, perhaps more even than I loved the game that we had played over these past years. This was not a new realization, but the effect it had on me at the time was startling.
From the moment a bargain is struck, the future is clearly defined. A demon will abide by the terms of the contract, even unto the most tedious of details. But when the terms have been met and both sides have satisfied their demands, payment must be made. I had known from the moment he first gave me my name that I would take his soul. That is the final part of all contracts with those such as myself.
Never before have I gone against the terms of a contract or simply walked away. Those words are incredibly deceptive, making it sound as though such a thing is easy to do. They do not carry the weight that comes with going against one's very nature or the consequences thereof. But in that moment, I had no other choice to make. His existence meant more to me than my own selfish ideals.
With that knowledge, my path was clear. Though I would not take his soul, I also could not remain in his service. His life, so tainted by the darkness around him, would only be further corrupted by my presence. But I would not leave him unprotected. In that aspect, no forethought was needed. When I had gone, the other servants would watch over him.
A letter was drafted to Tanaka containing some flimsy excuse for my departure. I no longer remember the exact words I chose to say why I had left my charge. Within the paragraphs, I also included the directions I felt would be needed, guidance for the household staff that I needed to provide even if it might not be heeded. Though I could not watch over him, my young master would be safe. He would be alive.
When at last the rest of the household was asleep, I went to his room and stayed there for a long while. More than an hour was spent watching as he slept. When I had waited as long as I dared, I leaned close and smelled his hair. I pressed a kiss to his forehead. With that final gesture, I left.
That night, that moment, is what I regret. Leaving him was by far the most difficult thing I have ever done. For someone who has seen as many centuries as I, that is no small admission.
Our contract, however, remained intact. Even my blatant violation of the terms we had agreed upon was not enough to destroy something so ancient. The contract was binding and eternal, and so were the signs of it. The mark of it still stains the back of my left hand.
While I could not destroy the contract itself, I could sever some of the connections that our agreement had created. The piece of our bond that kept me ever aware of his presence, that let me hear his voice when he called for me no matter where I might be, was severed. A part of me could not bear the thought of hearing him call my name when he woke, as I knew he would, to find me gone. This last token of my selfishness was all that I could manage. This is what I thought was best. As I left the manor house for the final time, I tried to forget the remarkable young earl I once served.
Only within the past year, since my new master and I reached a bargain, have I tried to learn what became of Ciel Phantomhive. With the amount of time that had passed, I did not expect the pain I felt when I learned of his death. It is not that I had deluded myself into thinking he would somehow be alive, mind you, but I also had not expected the reality that I discovered. He had died just over a year after I left his side.
Even had I remained, there would have been nothing in my power that I could have done to save him from his silent assassin: pneumonia. Humans are so fragile.
/*\
Memories of that distant past are a fine escape for my present reality. Eleven months ago, I was summoned accidentally by a man possessed of desperation. Mugged by someone carrying a large firearm and not much sense, John Anderson had been dying in a pile of rotting food and refuse. He is my master now. At first, I was intrigued by his contradictory desires for both class and filth. Time has revealed him for what he is: a disgusting creature unworthy of being called a man.
There are many foolish things people demand in their bargains with me. You might guess at some of them easily: power, sex, popularity. But of all the many demands that would cause someone to give up their soul, the most futile is money. That is John Anderson's idea of happiness. His dying wish was not to live or for the safety of a loved one. He did not even care if his assailant were ever found. He only asked for one thing: a fortune beyond his imagining. And what a small imagination it is. I have wondered more than once if he even comprehends the true nature of our contract or if he has convinced himself that I too may be bought.
Every aspect of the man's life shows the same callously careless approach. In his former occupation, he was an investment banker whose funds were never his own. Now, he frequently spends more than he makes through his petty scams and social thievery. I am uncertain whether that is stupidity at work or some ingenious attempt to avoid fulfilling the agreement between us.
His fortunes are spent on carnal delights. Many times, this constitutes the pleasures of the flesh, but he is not above sampling more chemically based entertainments. Occasionally, I too am humiliated for his personal amusement. I detest him.
But for all my many complaints about my master, there is one oversight I am glad for. While many would give me a name they find attractive or appropriate, Mr. Anderson did not care about such insignificant details as to what I might be or what name I might be called. And so, I remain Sebastian Michaelis.
To add to this, my time with him is often brief. My presence is only required once a day and rarely beyond that. When he has need of me, he insists on using a cellular phone purchased for that purpose. Beyond that, I am expected to remain out of sight and out of mind. To that end, he has also provided me with a small apartment intended as my storage. This suits my tastes, as I do not wish to interact with him any more than is necessary.
For my master, it is the ideal situation. For myself, I believe his contract may soon end abruptly. After all, when our bargain was struck and the contract was signed, he failed to specify what level of wealth would satisfy his demands.
As I walk down the street on my single daily errand, I am struck by how much the world has changed around me in the past one hundred and twenty-two years. At the same time, many things are just as they were in London a century past. The carriages have been replaced with taxicabs, the newspaper boys with sidewalk vendors, but cities remain as they always have been.
My journey this morning takes me into an unfamiliar section of the city. As part of my duties to Mr. Anderson, I am to bring him coffee and pastries from his favorite bakery each morning. He does not believe that I can create them myself, or that I even have any concept of what food might be. His tastes are also quite particular. This morning, his preferred bakery was closed, something even I cannot circumvent. I am risking his fury by patronizing another bakery.
This particular venue has far more pastel decorations than should be necessary, the vast majority of which are thrust in my face as I walk through the double doors and join the queue of other customers. More than a dozen people stand between myself and the register. My torture will be drawn out this morning, it would seem.
While I had developed something of an affinity for the creation of pastries and baked goods while serving at the Phantomhive manor, I have no appreciation for the modern invention of the coffee shop. The smell of artificial vanilla and cheap, mass-produced cinnamon are irritating to the senses. They lack the refinement of any truly enjoyable creation. They are just as shallow as the customers who buy them.
But those shallow creatures are still my amusement as I wait in line, taking in the sights and sounds of the people around me. I find myself wondering what punishment I will endure for the brand substitution of this morning's breakfast as I watch the punk rocker in front of me and the elderly couple seated in the corner. No amount of distraction can take away from the sound I hear at the edge of my awareness.
A voice. Small, yet deep at the same time. The source of it is coming from the customer standing at the counter and placing their order. Something about the cadence of the words and the determination of the tone I can hear tug at my mind. The voice sounds familiar. There is an instant where I wonder why, but then I place it. The accent is not as thick as I remember, but the commanding tone that knows exactly what it wants is unmistakable. The voice isn't similar. It's the same. I have not heard that voice in more than a century. That is a coincidence above all coincidences in this world where everyone is an individual.
As these thoughts fly through my mind, the customer breaks away from the counter and receives their order. They turn to make their way to the exit and the entire world stands still around me. There, walking towards the doors, is Ciel Phantomhive. Small, regal, proud. He looks exactly the same as he did on the day that I left... right down to the black silk patch covering his right eye.
-
Author's Notes: Immortal was originally published in 2011(ish?), back when I still couldn't find my way around a keyboard very well. Since my plans for a YouTube channel are being put on hold temporarily, I thought it might be fun to clean up and rewrite some of my old things. A reader requested Immortal, so let's get this party started! On a side note, I forgot how much of a bitch FFN is with formatting. UGH.