10/ the game
When Sebastian climbed from the bath at last, he noticed that the definitions of the room had gained a new sharpness that heralded the coming dawn. Not yet anything but pale greys, it was as though they floated in shadow; along with the midnight drapes of the bed upon which the tableau still stood, looking as eerie as the stage-ghosts that magicians used to call to appear, courtesy of clever mirrors and recorded tapes, back when even the moving image itself held yet a certain, intangible magic.
He turned, to see Ciel following him from the dark water; the young demon carelessly putting the vastness of the real to bed and looking like himself, but taller and older than he had ever been in life. Though they were each undressed still, Sebastian saw the vial, with its five remaining drops, hiding in a curl of his own shadow; the light from its reflection winking up like the point of a needle. And on the ground beside it was a game Sebastian remembered making with Ciel, all those long years ago; the careful drawings they had inked and colored with watercolor, pasted onto the board, labeled. And it did not seem surprising here, and now, to find it; nor was it even a surprise to find that certain elements had changed. Two black pieces from a discarded chess game were in the middle of the board, the king and the knight—yet, on this board and in this game, the special powers given to both king and knight were of very little use against the vagaries of chance. The wheel of fortune, a spinner to take turns, lay beside it. Fooled by a flower's perfume, said the square they were on; in which the image of a demon wearing lavender, and a rose eaten away by spider mites, could faintly be seen. —go back to start.
He reached down and moved the pieces.
/
Seventy-two years ago, and Hannah has ruined everything.
(It's something he never tires of repeating.) Hannah has ruined everything. (Even still, it is hard to wash all stain of culpability from himself. Surely, he must have erred—somewhere. How else could Claude, then Ciel himself; that dreadful Alois, and Hannah… how could they have gotten the better of him? How did it all come to this?)
(He doesn't like to think these questions. To ask it of himself. It hurts his pride; whenever he has failed before—rare occasions, those—he has been able to quickly move on, to allow time to brush the edges of its sharpness; to distract himself with something else. But, now, there is nothing else to do… but wait on Ciel, and think—)
About how. much. he. has. failed.
The thing that only looks like Ciel takes its rest, and acts with aloof coldness that deepens every passing day. And every passing day, he—(Sebastian?)—hates the sight more.
What a tiny little master. If only he had been quicker in killing it. If only he could wring its tiny neck.
(Do you wish to pull it tighter—?)(But he did not lie.)
/
(He held out the vial, poured another drop into Ciel's open hand. And even as the spot burned as though with acid, the limits of the room shook as though it was only a reflection in a pond, in which a thrown pebble had created ripples.)
"I remember this game," Ciel said, with some amusement, as he peered at the old thing. "We didn't do half bad."
"No," Sebastian admitted. "We didn't."
"We used that to torment that embezzeler—Damiano, I think."
"Indeed, the very same." Sebastian smiled, and mirth danced in his eyes. "He couldn't wait for dessert, so he decided to serve himself."
"Sebastian—" Ciel said; and then he paused. Interlaced his fingers for a moment in thought as he sat beside the game. "You know I don't regret it."
"I find that hard to believe," Sebastian said.
But Ciel only gazed back at him cooly. "Do you really?"
And there was something that stopped Sebastian's quick retort where it lay on his tongue. He curled his hand tighter around the vial and wished that Ciel would give him an order—force his hand; overturn the entire blasted thing. He stared back, and let his eyes speak the confusion of rage. But Ciel only smiled, as though he knew just what he was doing.
Foolish young master. (And, still, so unbearably fascinating; so full of a purpose he could never hope to divine.)
If you win this one, he thought—for he knew that to win would be to say nothing until Sebastian had emptied the vial of every drop—you will die.
.
.
.