(A/N):
Y'all are the greatest.
Once again, big thanks to fallacies, hecturnus and fluflesnufaluphagus for beta reading.
"It seems my master aspires to be Dantes when in reality, he's Hamlet."
"How dare you. I'd never aspire to be French."
- Archer and Ciel. P
In his younger, more vulnerable years, the boy later known as Ciel Phantomhive had once - in a rare spell of good health - accompanied his father and brother to the nearby parish. The pastor had brought out a plate of divinity for the brothers to share, before he and his father retreated into the vestibule to discuss official business.
It was in the middle of a spirited game of hide-and-seek, sequestered snugly under two pews and hearing the soft footfalls of his brother in the distance, that he wondered why the church was so empty. Granted, it wasn't the Sabbath, but the boy couldn't help but think that the building - elaborately furnished and built as it was - was such a waste of space to be only bustling one day of the week.
When questioned, the pastor merely smiled, and conceded that spirituality was ultimately a personal affair, and that it made little matter where one considers his faith in the Lord above.
His father, however, was more blunt.
"Some who visit the church are here for the community. Some visit to be a part of history. Most see it merely as an obligation, as if God above takes attendance and makes note of who's here and who's not. For those people, the point isn't to think about God so much as being seen doing so." His father had explained, settling the brothers down on his knees as the carriage made its way back to the manor. "Take all of those people out of the equation, and you have the very few that visit to actually think about God."
His brother had asked when would these people visit the church.
"Whenever they would need something from God."
He then asked when would those people need something from God. Vincent Phantomhive had smiled.
"Only in times of crises, of course."
The boy watched as the priest who summoned a demon mere moments ago bled out from his bowels babbling psalms.
"... he maketh me to lie down in green pastures," the man rasped with a practiced air, "he leadeth me beside the still waters-"
Distantly, the boy conceded there was nothing the man could do in his wretched situation, and as pointless as the gesture was, he might as well. But the boy who would inherit the seat of Phantomhive was made of sterner stuff, and in the month of his captivity had categorically refused to join the other captives in their prayers.
He remembered his brother - his strong, sweet brother - being disappointed at his apathy, despite his best efforts to lift his spirits, but it seemed their discussion on the non-existence of Santa Claus proved to be a coda of sorts.
In its own way, he supposed, there existed a strength in following a delusion. If he was stronger like his brother, perhaps he would have put his palms together and joined them in entrusting their hopes of deliverance to a higher power.
Maybe if he had prayed, his brother might have-
No, he rid his head of such thoughts. That time had passed. If God exists, he cares little for any of us. If he cared at all, my family would still be alive. If he is all-knowing and just, it would have been me on that altar and my brother in my place.
His eyes stung with unshed tears, and he angrily swiped his sleeves across his face.
He returned his attention to the man that knelt before him.
As if fate wasn't cruel enough, his salvation had arrived late as a killer clothed in black and red. Tanned, chiseled and sporting a shock of white hair, in terms of demons he looked… rather unimpressive, truth be told, nothing like what the stories described.
And then he moved, carnage borne of swords and sorcery, dismemberment and decapitation followed his trail. The boy had watched, unable to look away, even as a particularly gruesome kill forced him to vomit his dinner for the second time that night.
And it was now this very killer that stood in front of him, waiting for an answer.
"I ask of you, are you my master?" He repeated, a little impatient.
Were he in different circumstances, he later reflected, he might have taken longer or arrived at a different answer. But as it was, stuck in a cage, malnourished, it was no choice at all.
"Yes."
And thus, his fate was sealed.
"Well, now that that's done, let's get out of here." Without further ado, the man wrenched the bars apart like soft cheese, pulling him out without any real fanfare. "It'd do neither of us any good to be found in the middle of this mess, and if the other masters aren't going to investigate the disturbance we've caused I'm actually a Saber. We'll have to relocate at once to a-"
"Wait, we can't leave yet!"
The man turned, incredulous, and in all honesty, he couldn't begrudge him for it. But as he was placed unceremoniously onto freedom, the reality of the situation was rapidly piling upon him in waves. Ciel, the title of Earl, the manor, his family, his vengeance, each new thought paralyzed him further in his tracks. Like a songbird raised in captivity released to the wild, he was lost in the face of the boundless world around him.
"I…" the man raised an eyebrow, obviously unimpressed with his indecision, "I can't leave yet. We have things to discuss."
"Master." And wasn't that title odd to hear. "We are standing in the middle of a veritable crime scene. I've just dispatched 50-" behind him the priest chose that moment to wheeze, "... 49 people into kingdom come. There is a crater where there used to be stairs, half full with giblets and limbs of cultists who were in all honesty in over their heads. Whatever it is you wish to discuss, I assure you it can wait until we head somewhere more inconspicuous-"
"Let me just stop you right there." He held up a hand, all full of righteous indignation. "I've been here for a month and no one heard any of us scream."
The man stilled.
"I doubt anyone will come now, and a few minutes of discussion won't make much of a difference. If we're going to work together going forward, there are some things we need to make clear to one another, the sooner the better. We need to talk. Now."
His voice was level enough that it didn't betray his fraying nerves, and yet the boy still avoided the man's steely gaze. Behind him, the priest had moved on to the lord's prayer.
Finally, the man sighed, waving a hand beside them. From motes of light arrived a table and two chairs, and the man dropped himself down, an arm draped over the back of the seat with the air of a beadle in his workhouse. With the other, he gestured lazily towards the remaining chair. Numb, the boy walked over and pulled the chair out - mahogany, he was surprised to note - and gingerly sat, wincing slightly.
It was the first pretense of civility he's had in months, and it was spent in a dungeon with a killer, a dying priest and the corpse of his brother to their side.
In a moment of madness, he almost imagined himself at a teashop.
"Right then, we might as well get it out of the way." The surly man muttered, tapping the desk in boredom, and something about his tone made the boy wish nothing more than to upend the table onto his stupid face, mahogany and all. "Go on, get it out of your system, before you need dialysis or something-"
"Can you bring the dead back to life?"
The tapping stopped.
Whatever the man expected him to ask first, it clearly wasn't that. But he had to know. He had watched as the man conjured swords and detonated a good chunk of the room with a bow and arrow. He was sitting on a chair that the man had just casually brought into existence like Tanaka sneaking him honey cakes after bedtime. Whatever this man was, he represented his last hope, that he wouldn't have to do this. That he could avoid his destiny. That he could have any hint of a normal life in his rightful place, beside him, in the shadows.
The man turned to look at him, lips pursed.
"No."
Dread.
And once again it was proven that all hope did was set him up for disappointment. To the man's credit, his voice was soft, as if he hadn't already dashed whatever delusions he had of things ever going back to normal again. "Please," he wet his lips, trying again, "if you can only grant a single wish of mine, let it be this! I'd be in your debt forever, on my honor as the heir to the house of Phantomhive!"
"You wish to save your brother, I understand. It's very noble of you. But your brother is dead." He looked tired, gazing critically at the body on the altar. "I am capable of many things normal people would call 'miracles', but bringing your brother back to life? I'm afraid I simply cannot grant your request."
BANG
"Why?! Explain!"
The man remained unfazed, even as the boy had risen and pounded the table in anger and desperation. Then, with the air of someone picking his words carefully, he spoke:
"Souls exist, and once someone dies, their soul follows the natural laws of nature: they rot, they grow corrupt, until they ultimately cease to be, returning back to the root to be recycled. What you understand as a true resurrection requires two things," he held up two fingers, "the restoration of the soul's original vessel, and the reformation of the soul, fully intact. Let's see. Now how would we go about accomplishing the first requirement?"
In the boy's peripheral vision, the blood around his brother's body had begun coagulating.
"A mortal wound like that would take months of supervision and therapy for the body to even begin to resemble something normal. Even if I were an accomplished healer and can manage to return the body to a picture of perfect health, it'd take time, time we simply do not have by virtue of our second requirement: the soul. Imagine yourself carrying a handful of sand." The man held up a fist. "That collection of sand is the soul of your brother. For a short while, yes, you can carry on holding it, each individual grain staying in place. But eventually, specks escape your grasp. Inevitably, you shall find yourself in the middle of the desert, holding nothing. Granted, from that desert you could pick up another collection of grains, but at that point what you are doing is creating a bastardized life, and it would certainly not be considered your brother's soul. You could spend eternity searching for every grain of sand that composed your brother and never find them. If such magic existed, it has been lost in the annals of time… well, the demigod Asclepius accomplished it before, but he had the blessing of a Goddess and lived in the age of gods besides."
It was at this point that the man paused, as if wondering whether he had ridiculed his request enough.
"On the other hand, in more recent years a magic existed to restore a materialized soul with no negative consequences. We called it the Third Magic, Heaven's Feel. It is a form of transcendence, where the soul does not require a body to stay on this plane of existence. However, while such an instance has been recorded in history before, the actual means to this process has been lost for a thousand years. There remains but a single family dedicated to recovering it, but these days it's regarded as a lost cause. I assure you if they accomplished it once more, we'd know." His face darkened. "It is, after all, a secret wars have been waged over."
The man recovered his bearings, shaking his head. "So you see, Master, I am unable to help you in this regard."
"But you have to!" the boy cried, and for a moment he was back to being a helpless child, "he's the rightful heir to the house of Phantomhive! Ciel's the one Father and Mother prepared for this title. Ciel would know how to conduct himself. Ciel would know what to do were he in the position I'm in! I'm not ready! I was bedridden a good deal of my life whilst Ciel shadowed my father in his duties as an Earl! That's how it's always been, Ciel the strong one and I-" he choked, biting his lips so hard it drew blood as he collapsed back onto the chair, head in his hands. The man's words were the final straw, and as sobs wracked his frail body, there was but one unassailable fact left to him.
"T-they should have taken me."
The truth, bitter as it was, borne at last. How wretched he felt, as his sniffles reverberated about the room. And as the priest moved on to yet another last rite, he had never in all his life felt as helpless.
Then all at once, he felt arms around him and almost lashed out before he realized what had happened.
"I felt the same way once," the man murmured above him as he held him in a firm embrace, "when I'd lost everything I had in a great fire. My house, my family, even who I was. I was lucky enough to be saved and adopted by another, but as to who I was before the fire? Dead. Whoever I was, I ceased to be."
"I always grappled with why it was me who emerged out of that hell, and not the others I did not save as I tried to escape, not the girl who grasped at my ankle begging for help. Me. A boy who was no one, instead of the others who had families and friends to return to. Take it from someone who's been there before: what you are feeling now will never leave you."
The boy had gone very still.
"My… calling, as it is, was in part a response to my father saving me, but it was also a result of me trying to fulfil this inadequacy I felt within me. The road I embarked on as a result brought me a whole different set of problems. But if you were to ask me whether I regret letting that incident define the rest of my life…" The man trailed off, lost in thought.
"... some men are great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them. As of this moment, Master, you are none of them."
At this the boy looked up, indignant. The man did not even have the good grace to look guilty.
"By your own admission," he went on, "you pale in comparison to your brother. You are a child and have accomplished nothing of note. From what I gathered, your family is dead and what you stand to inherit cannot begin to be described as 'great'. Whoever did this to you made certain of that."
Anger was fast becoming a familiar emotion, and he began to feel blood furiously pumping within his veins.
"Your brother is dead. Nothing will change that. You are alive with much to accomplish. Are you going to waste away, wallowing in pity and bemoaning what could have been? Or will you live as your station demands of you, and achieve greatness?"
And there he was, at a crossroads. To be or not to be. To stay in the cage or be free. There was hardly a choice in the matter, one of them wasn't even an option. In that direction laid Ciel: dead as could be, smiling and waving goodbye. In the other: darkness. within that darkness laid the Midfords, his Aunt. and beyond those figures he saw their faces in the darkness: masked, robed, coalescing into a giant disgusting mass that ebbed and pulsed.
Ciel, I'm sorry, but if this is what it'd take…
The boy took a deep breath.
"Don't you patronize me, and get your hands off."
The arms were gone in a flash, and to his credit the man didn't raise a brow at the sudden steel in his voice. At length, he returned to his seat, now paying proper attention.
"Yes," he smirked, "my master."
Then I… a person with the same face, will become the person you were destined to be.
"There's still much to discuss, and I'll get to that in a minute, but first: really? Shakespeare?"
"It seemed appropriate. Prat he may have been, but he did have a knack for expressing himself." The man shrugged, as easy-going as a cat out in the sun.
As with all things, it turned out all that was needed to make the boy focus once more was a good cry. The boy who moments ago convulsed with grief was replaced with one that considered the man in front of him appraisingly.
"Setting aside the inadequacies of Shakespeare," the boy forged on, "what exactly are you? A devil?"
"Goodness, no." The man looked affronted. "I'd show you the non-existence of my horns, my wings, and my cloven hooves, but I'd rather you take my word for it all the same."
The boy was dubious.
"I watched as you engaged in witchcraft."
"Magecraft, there's a difference. Fuck, I can't believe I have to clarify this," he muttered, a hand raised to pinch his brow, "but I'm not a devil. Granted, I've done some morally reprehensible things in the name of justice and world peace, and I certainly wouldn't call myself a hero either," the man sneered, "but I haven't done nearly enough to rub shoulders with Lucifer and the like."
"You emerged from a pentagram drawn with saltpeter after a blood sacrifice."
"The forces that sent me here have a sick sense of humor and probably did it for shits and giggles. Coincidence. Besides, what these people did here was hardly the correct way to go about summoning a demon."
"Oh?"
"... I'll leave the matter of the summoning circle aside, since I somehow managed to end up here," the man conceded, "but my stint working in the church made a few things quite clear: when you engage with a demon, you're not supposed to address them with anything that resembles a name. If you do so, they acquire identity to a certain form and function, granting them independence from whoever was making use of them. It's even more dangerous to summon named demons," he pointed at the grimoire on the floor, "and that includes all 72 demons listed in the Ars Goetia. Barbatos, Bael, Paimon, Malphas… I could go on. Named demons already have autonomy, and their summoning can easily backfire against its hosts. At best, one who summons demons should treat them as tools that happen to understand language."
"It is with this knowledge that I conclude that these cultists had no idea what they were doing, and if I didn't arrive you and your brother would have shared unceremonious, anticlimactic deaths and leaving them empty-handed." The man tilted his head. "Given time, you might even consider it funny."
"Never." The boy vowed, before remembering just what it was that he was trying to enquire. "If not a demon, then what are you?"
At this, the man hesitated, chewing on the insides of his cheeks as he ruminated how best to answer him.
"... I am a heroic spirit." He finally answered. "An incarnation of a man who achieved notable deeds in life, who in some cases have become objects of worship after their death."
…
If he wanted to deny being a demon that badly, he might have come up with a better excuse.
"Incarnation." He repeated, incredulous.
"Yes. We exist outside of the constraints of time."
The boy considered this.
"A hero… you mean like Siegfried?"
The man stared, nonplussed. "That's the first person that comes to mind?"
"Diedrich once gifted me a copy of the Nibelungenlied during one of his visits to the house." His father's perennially mercurial assistant was almost friendly as he passed the thick tome to him, wishing him a speedy recovery from his cold.
"Well, yes, though I wouldn't compare myself to someone as legendary as him." He admitted, sounding almost flattered. "I'm what's known as a counter guardian. I serve the collective unconsciousness of mankind. I'm usually dispatched to take care of a threat to humanity."
"Threat to-" the boy looked lost. "Then what exactly are you doing here?"
For the first time that night, the man looked stumped.
"I actually don't know." He admitted. "Some threats take longer to materialize. I can only assume that I'm supposed to take care of it before it takes shape. As it is now, I have my own suspicions on why I'm here, but I'd have to do some checks of my own before I can state things conclusively."
The boy frowned. "... then why me? Why did you assist me?"
"Because you asked for help."
And he had, the boy remembered, startled. It had been a moment of weakness, stuck in the middle of the cage and watching this man come into existence, and when they gazed upon each other for the first time he had allowed himself to hope.
"And as for the first question," a mirror came into existence in his hand, "it might be best for you to see for yourself."
The man held the mirror up and the boy stifled a gasp.
The spectre that stared back was frail, his hair matted in messy locks over his head. He could make out his cheekbones, the collarbones that peeked out, scuffed with grime and dried blood. But his eyes… one remained the bright blue that his mother had always loved, but in the other swirled three distinct markings in the make of an emblem.
"Those markings engraved on your right eye are command seals." The man explained. "Three claims of absolute obedience over me. They signify you as my master."
"Absolute obedience," the boy repeated, before looking up, "so if I commanded you to drool on your foot…"
"My shoes would be wet, and you'd have a very unimpressed servant at your disposal." Sure enough, the man was not amused. "These seals are meant for greater things. Feats that normally take more time to accomplish. A general rule is the broader the command, the less powerful the effect will be. As an example, if I were across the pond, as it were, you can use one to summon me back in your presence in an instant. They're meant to be used in matters of life and death, and I urge you to think carefully before using them instead of satisfying your flights of fancy."
"... and if I were to command you to save my brother?"
"I would give my best go in restoring your brother's body, and while there would be little I can do in the matter of your brother's soul, I'd try and try until I exhaust you and myself."
Ah. Of course. He knew it sounded too good to be true.
And then came another problem.
"What if I were to command you to kill yourself?"
Silence. Utter silence. The tension in the dungeon grew thicker than suet, and he absently wondered if he'd crossed a line.
"... I would obey and go about the motions that would lead to a mortal injury." The man finally answered, almost casual in mock indifference. "Though whether I'd die immediately is a different question entirely."
"I see."
He set the mirror down.
"I should have to conceal it, then. I don't need to give people more excuses to stare at me."
"My thoughts exactly."
"But that doesn't answer the question…" the boy narrowed his eyes, "Why me?"
The man shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine."
The room descended back into silence, the table's occupants pondering the questions left unanswered.
"You know," the man began, "while I'd be content to simply continue referring to you as 'brat' for the foreseeable future," the urge to backhand him across his smug face returned, "I suppose it'd raise more questions when we're out in public. So, brat," he raised a brow, "what's your name?"
The boy squared his shoulders. He'd prepared for this.
"My name is Ciel Phantomhive."
The man frowned.
"You and your brother must have had a confusing childhood, twins sharing the same name. Did your parents ever consider how inconvenient it was to you two, making you share one name? What was the reasoning behind that, I wonder. Tax purposes?" The man scoffed. "Enough joking around. From what I gathered, your dearly departed brother was Ciel Phantomhive."
"Exactly." He confirmed. "That's why I'm taking his name."
The man looked confused, but the boy didn't wait for him to interject before pushing the chair back and standing, before making his way to the body on the altar and staring into his brother's lifeless eyes.
"... My family was slaughtered. Whether we were betrayed or not, the fact remains that there exists a concerted effort to strike the house of Phantomhive from the annals of history. My father is dead. My mother is dead. Ciel - the rightful heir groomed to take over - is dead. It is as you said: as far as I'm concerned, I might as well be dead too."
"But my enemies will not succeed." His voice shook. "I shall take on my brother's mantle. I shall become the person he was raised to be: strength, decisiveness, charisma, I'll embody them all. Who I was, that weak boy stuck in bed watching the world from the windowsill, that boy is dead, and he shall take my place."
He whirled around, and the man grew still as he watched his right eye glow a deep purple.
"I am alive! I shall raise the house of Phantomhive from the ashes!" He declared. "I shall execute those who did this by my own hand! I will make them rue the day they ever considered rising against us, subjecting us to this hellish torment! And through it all, I will not have my legitimacy and authority as an Earl be called into question, and if that means taking up my brother's name, it is a lie I shall swallow with pleasure!"
"Spirit!" He screamed. "Whatever the fates have planned for the both of us, you shall assist me in my revenge, my glory, my destiny! That is my request, that is my command! And you shall bring me victory!"
Upon his outburst, the man released a breath he didn't know he was holding and stood up with great gravitas. He made his way past the still-praying priest until he loomed over him, and knelt, head bowed.
"Yes, my master." The man smiled. "Yes, Ciel Phantomhive."
"Tell me, what happens at the end of our contract?"
"I simply disappear. You are free to go about your own devices."
"Oh." Ciel didn't seem as happy as he should've. "That's… good."
"Master, you can speak plainly." His servant drawled. "The dead don't talk, after all."
"No, it's just…" Ciel struggled with his words, "it's going to be very difficult living as my brother forever."
…
Was that pity in his servant's countenance or merely a trick of the light?
No matter, he thought as he turned his attention back to his brother's corpse.
"Lastly, I'll need the ring."
"The ring?"
"It's been passed down for generations, signifying the wearer as the head of the house of Phantomhive. The day we were kidnapped, my brother swallowed it whole so that no one could take it away from us."
"It'd be more than likely your brother expunged it from his system already." His servant warned. "If not during one of your meals, then after he died. Corpses often have a habit of loosening their bowels."
"No, it'd be there." Ciel insisted, biting back the sudden bout of nausea that welled forth at his words. "My brother is stubborn to a fault, and he knows what the ring signifies to us. He'd find a way."
Sighing, the man gently pushed him aside and placed a hand over the corpse's body, murmuring something unintelligible.
For a long moment, there was silence.
When his servant turned to look at him again, however, there was an unidentifiable emotion etched on his face. Ciel wondered what could have elicited such a reaction before it occurred to him, and at once a wave of cold overcame him.
"I-Is something wrong?"
Ciel prayed to every God he didn't believe in that the man in front of him would not bring the matter up.
"... no." His servant finally muttered, and Ciel breathed a sigh of relief, "You were right. The ring is located here," he pointed at a spot near his navel, "in the abdomen."
From nowhere he produced a surgical knife, and was about to commence forth when Ciel pulled his sleeve. At his questioning gaze, Ciel stood a little straighter.
"I should do it. This is my duty, both as Earl and as a brother."
His servant's sigh was long-suffering. "Master, I understand your need to do so, but you're not going to be able to do it."
"God damn it, I said let me-" His outburst was cut short as his servant brought a hand to his chin and forced his gaze upwards.
"The ring is in his bowels. It will stink. You will more than likely make a mess of it, targeting viscera and bone without success and desecrate whatever's left." His servant was firm. "I understand you wish to assume the responsibilities entrusted to you, but remember: I am your servant. If it would give you any sort of satisfaction, see me as a tool for you to use as you wish. My actions are after all yours, Master."
The boy struggled in his grip, before giving up, sighing.
"Do I have your leave to continue?"
Helpless, all the boy could do was nod.
Moments later, Ciel gazed darkly into the sapphire set upon his ring in quiet contemplation. Of course it wouldn't be easy. I'm sure father and my brother would have had troubles too.
"Finally, there's one more thing to take care of."
Ciel looked up. "Oh?"
"Our final… guest."
The pair directed their gaze to the priest, who had notably stopped praying.
Ah… of course.
There was a flash, and the sword that had impaled the priest's shadow dissolved into light. His servant walked over with long strides and gripped the priest by his hair, earning a yowl of pain.
"Who sold my master to you?" He barked. "Answer me!"
"I-I don't know who they are, I've never bothered to ask their names-"
His servant dragged the priest to the altar, giving his hair a good twist as he did so, and the priest screamed.
"I swear, I d-don't know who they are! They operate a ring, but it was the first time they ever had nobility up for sale!"
"Who was responsible for the attack on the manor?"
"Who the hell knows? His father made many enemies! It was probably the work of bandits-"
His servant smashed the priest's head onto the side of the altar.
"I s-swear to you," the priest garbled, now sporting a bloody nose, "no one knows. It's been the subject of gossip in the noble circles for weeks! I'm sorry, I don't know any more, I beg you… please-"
The sharp stench of urine permeated the air, and his servant dropped him in a hurry.
"Well, that was as useless as a second asshole." The man ran a hand over his hair. "Why did I even bother."
"... this man murdered my brother."
His servant went still.
"It probably wouldn't make a difference but…" Ciel gathered his senses and gripped the knife tightly. "He should be the first to die by my hand."
With less courage than he appeared to project, Ciel made his way over to the priest only to be held in place by his servant.
"As it is," his servant murmured, "the man's stomach has been punctured. His bowels have been perforated. He is already in excruciating pain as stomach acid leaks into his bloodstream, and he will suffer the worst infection of his life as whatever waste churned in his bowels traverses throughout his body. His organs will fail in the next 20 minutes, and he will die a painful death. There's no need for you to stain your hands any further."
Ciel knew the action was superfluous. But this was his brother's murderer. One death wouldn't be enough for him to feel any better. And if his servant understood him at all… wait.
He looked up. The man was looking distinctly uncomfortable.
Something clicked.
"Are you with me on my quest for revenge or not?!" He demanded.
"I am simply saying any more would be doing him a kindness." His servant supplied smoothly, "If he could still talk, he'd beg for you to stop the pain, and my master isn't someone who'd show pity to those who wronged him. Unless… my miraculous arrival has you in a merciful mood?"
…
Yeah, whatever this man was, he was downright third-rate. A demon shouldn't be so flagrant in his manipulation.
Still, his thoughts bore merit, and he returned his gaze to the priest still wheezing in pain.
"Ultimately," his servant conceded, "the choice is yours, Master."
For a moment nobody spoke.
And then:
Fire.
In the cover of darkness, the duo watched as the abbey burned in a merry blaze that would be seen for miles. Chunks of stone came crumbling down, sending plumes of embers up in the air.
I'm sorry, brother, I wish I could take you with me.
Stained glass exploded, raining the ground with bright, multi-colored shards.
It's better like this, Ciel thought, watching the church being consumed in a torrent of hellfire. There lies me, weak and blubbering, the spare. And here I am, the strong, the courageous, the earl.
No one shall discover what went on this past month. No one but me and-
Ciel paused, puzzled, and turned to look at his servant, who was gazing at the fire with a cool intensity.
"You.. what's your name?"
His servant never took his gaze away from the fire.
"... Archer."
Ciel blinked.
"Did your parents simply not love you enough as a child? Or was it tax purposes again? What kind of a name is 'Archer', anyway?"
"A very, very well-worn one, I assure you." The man sounded exhausted.
Ciel pursed his lips.
"Well, I'm not addressing you as Archer. And I'm not going to keep on referring to you as 'servant' either. That's bound to cause problems down the line."
"And what would you suggest, then?"
Ciel wondered.
The answer came to him in an instant.
"Sebastian seems appropriate."
The servant blinked, finally turning to regard him in mild consternation.
"Appropriate… was this Sebastian the name of your former butler, perhaps?"
"No." Ciel muttered. "Sebastian was the name of our dog."
His servant froze.
Another pane of stained glass shattered in the distance.
For a moment, only the ebbing hum of the church's immolation could be heard.
...
"My name is Emiya," he bit out, scowling, "and I'd thank you to remember that."
Emiya… Ciel weighed the name on his lips. Well, why not? It, in its own way, is also appropriate.
For a moment he felt the curling of the corners of his lips, before schooling his features once more.
"Well then, Emiya," he thrust his hand out, "I look forward to having you serve me."
The die was cast. There was no turning back. The blaze burned brighter, and the hand was grasped.
"Yes… my master."