(A/N)
This chapter was like pulling teeth. My God. Maybe it was all the research. Maybe it was the decision to split the chapter in half, but it was difficult to figure out the best way to frame the following two chapters, but I'm happy with the final result.
I had the booster shot over the weekend, so I was planning to have a shorter than usual update whilst I feel drowsy, but in the context of the next chapter this one had to be as long as it is.
And to the chucklefucks who think this fic is dead because I haven't updated in a week, PLEASE HARASS SOMEONE WHO DESERVES IT IF YOU MUST. Lots of other fics haven't been updated in months despite their authors saying they aren't dead.
On the other hand, Memoirs of a Suicidal Pirate updated again. Yes.
Also, with this chap, we overtook HIMBOS. IYKYK.
Big thanks to Hecturnus, Fluflesnufaluphagus and Fallacies for being the best betas one can ask for.
"I've taken care of cows, but I've never taken care of rich people before."
"That shouldn't be a problem. My master is also a cow, if only in the metaphorical sense."
- Baldroy and Archer
For as long as he could remember, Subject-12 would wake to the voices of God.
There was a period of time where he was preoccupied with discovering where the sound originated from. He remembered searching for the source of it every morning, enlisting the help of the placid, dull-eyed boys in the corner. And for a few days, they'd methodically inspect every inch of the room that was their world.
They examined the playground: a colorful construct of cushioned, multicolored foam that had the nice benefit of not collapsing under their grip. They examined their toys in the box, holding each building block and model train to their ears: nothing. Eventually, the three boys took to examining every inch of the wall: white, sterile, and so impossibly clean that the room would have given the illusion of stretching for miles were it not for the clear windows above them from where they sometimes watched the men in coats at work.
Eventually, standing upon the shoulders of Subject-11, Subject-12 would discover the voices to originate from a round grille, appropriately located next to the sun and clouds. Any further attempts to get closer – maybe jump the remaining distance after being properly supported – resulted in the padlocked door above them opening and angry bellows from the men in white.
It was only when the doctor arrived one day with his stethoscope and a stick of alabaster that Subject-12 finally asked what the voices were.
His eyes behind the horn-rimmed glasses had twinkled in amusement.
"That is Beethoven."
Subject-12 blinked. "Beethoven?" He repeated, weighing the word on his lips.
The doctor smiled, putting away the papers in his hands and sat down on the little pink stool, motioning the three to come closer. Obediently, Subject-11 slid down the foam slide from where he'd perched, and Subject-13 put away the game of hoopla and shuffled over.
"Beethoven was the name of one of the greatest composers in the history of man." He began, and Subject-12 hung onto every word. "His music – in contrast to his predecessors and his contemporaries – was quite frankly, extreme in size, volume, and emotional content. Instruments would break – snap in half – under the strain of playing his music, and the modern versions of the instruments that we use today are largely borne as a result of his works' popularity.
His music – especially after his third symphony, the Eroica – was daring. It was gauche. It was nothing short of magnificent, to the extent that for a time, as a result of his oeuvre, composers were afraid of creating symphonies for fear of being compared to him and coming up short. Schubert himself remarked that after Beethoven, there was nothing left to do. If Mozart was like a ray of God's light touching us all, showing what was possible, Beethoven is the cumulonimbus cloud that cast a wide shadow over the world of music.
True, his melodies rarely reached the dizzying heights of Mozart, but his ability to expand upon a theme or motif in his works is second-to-none. Today, only Wagner comes close. It's not hyperbole to say that he sparked the movement of Romanticism as a whole with his passion and his approach to music."
The three boys watched, transfixed, as the doctor rhapsodized over the wonders of this faceless man. And as Subject-12 sat there, arms hugging his knees, he wished – not for the first time – that he could venture out beyond those walls, if only to better understand the wonders of what the doctor was describing.
"Near the adolescence of his life, he began to grow deaf."
"Deaf?" Subject-11 repeated.
The doctor pointed to his ear. "He lost his hearing, Subject-11. Can you imagine? I mean, it's a terrible affliction to suffer through for anyone, but think of what it'd do to a composer of music. A normal man would have crumbled under the indiscriminate cruelties of life, but no, not Beethoven. Beethoven was the master of his own fate. He did not let the loss of a major sense take away his ability to produce brilliant music, no. In fact, one could argue that it was under such distress and anguish that he produced his best works."
At this, he took the time to look each of them in the eye.
"What wakes you up every morning is an abridged recording of the last movement of his final complete symphony, the Ode to Joy, and it was the culmination of everything he'd learned and went through in his life. He applied his ideas on general symphonic form, with the final movement starting off with a recitative where in which the previous movements' themes are played and summarily rejected by the orchestra before the Ode to Joy theme is accepted."
He hummed the key motif in emphasis, moving his hands about.
"The symphony encapsulated and defined romanticism as a whole. With it, Beethoven declared that the pinnacle of humanity lies not in the rationalism of enlightenment, but within emotion, expression, and artistry! A person is truly alive and free when he has the capacity to produce creative thought from his mind into reality. Creation from nothingness! And the music itself," he smiled, "how else can one describe it but absolute bliss? Euphoria? The triumph of the common man over life itself? When one listens to the ninth, one feels like one can do anything!"
He paused, chuckling, taken aback by his own enthusiasm.
The three subjects had not moved a muscle since he began, so glued were they to the doctor's stories.
"It's worth noting that the chorale is singing from a poem of the same name written by Schiller, and it was a deliberate choice that it's only in the final movement – where the previous movement's themes are rejected – that the choir makes an appearance. It wasn't always an ode to joy, you know, Schiller had an altogether quality in mind when he'd put his pen to paper, and I'd like to think that Beethoven somehow understood when he chose to include it within the final movement."
"What quality was he talking about, doctor?"
Subject-12 asked.
And at his questioning, the doctor's smile grew forlorn as he rested a hand gently on the boy's head.
"Freiheit, dear boy. It was an ode to freedom."
At the front desk of the Hotel de Vendôme – a building that formerly served as an embassy to the Republic of Texas – was a receptionist who wished he was a cook.
He knew several chefs – perpetually wild-eyed and overworked as they were – who would squeeze the fat out of his head with a duck press and use it for confit for harboring such a stupid idea, but he couldn't help it.
He missed smoking terribly.
It made little sense that someone handling food was allowed to have a pack a day, nicotine and tar all over their grubby fingers, but he couldn't. There had got to be a health code violation in there somewhere. But the maitre'd had forbade anyone who'd converse with guests from having a fag. Especially the one who manned the front desk. First impressions count, and it'd give the wrong impression for the first person guests meet to come off smelling like a dockworker.
Distractedly, the man clenched and unclenched his fingers, placidly watching the drizzle outside. He was reminded that smoke – much like the city of Paris herself – had the quality of looking especially wondrous in the rain.
He was seriously considering putting up the sign that read "on a break" and light one up right outside when they walked in.
They included a child who couldn't be more than ten, draped in a traveling cloak with a top hat and cane, and an eyepatch that obscured one of his rich, peacock-blue eyes. Walking dutifully behind him was a man, garbed in red with a shock of white hair. The man stowed away a black umbrella into a pouch that the concierge could have sworn he'd produced out of nowhere.
A butler and his master.
The odd pair made their way across the marble foyer, impeccably shined and rain-speckled oxfords click-clacking in tandem with one another, coming to a stop a little way off the front desk, at a distance that made the fact that the child was barely taller than the counter – even with the superfluous addition of a top hat – a little less obvious.
A fact that said child was acutely aware of, if his sour countenance was of any indication.
The concierge cleared his throat.
"Good Afternoon." He fixed on a polite smile. "How may I help you today?"
The boy blinked.
The man behind him smirked.
The concierge's smile never wavered, even as his gaze flitted to and fro the pair, puzzled.
Sighing, the boy waved him forward, and the concierge stood bemused as the man in red stepped forward.
"We have no reservations," the man began in adequate French, "but we'd like a room for two nights."
"Of course, sir." The receptionist opened the ledger in front of him. "Do you have any particular rooms in mind?"
"I've noticed that there are rooms on the top floors with terraces overlooking the Place Vendôme." The man mused. "Do you have any such rooms still available?"
The concierge consulted his ledger.
"You're in luck." He nodded. "We do have a penthouse available, though we've taken care to remove most of the furniture on the terrace in light of it raining. Full amenities are provided, and a valet shall attend to you at your beck and call. We also provide a nightly turndown service should the need arise. Shall I go ahead and put the suite under your name for the time being?"
"That would be very kind."
"Perfect." The jittery man dipped the nib of his fountain pen into an ink bottle, blotting out the excess ink from the nib with a napkin before jotting down details in an elegant script.
"Can I have your names, please?"
The man pursed his lips.
"My name is Archer." He finally said. "Just Archer."
If the receptionist found the name odd he let none of his apprehension show, and dutifully recorded the name down onto creamy yellow pages.
"And your ward's, sir?"
Archer coughed, before hurriedly holding a fist against his lips and collecting himself.
"My master's name is… Honeycomb."
As the scritchings of pen on paper continued, the boy had started exchanging glances between his servant and the concierge, frowning slightly.
"Matters of payment shall be settled the day you check out, but we at the Hotel de Vendôme collect a deposit of twenty francs, which will be deducted from your outgoing bill at the end of your stay."
At this, the man turned to his master and translated the request in English, and the child withdrew from his pocket a lined wallet, drawing forth a single golden louis and depositing it on the marble counter with a clack. Drawing the coin up into the light, the concierge inspected it, and once he deemed nothing out of the ordinary with the Emperor's face, deposited the coin into a nearby lockbox.
"Thank you for your patience." He made the final few notes before folding the ledger shut. "If you do not mind me asking, are you here in Paris for business or leisure?"
"Business." Archer smoothly supplied. "Though we hope to do some shopping when all our work's done."
"Very good, sir. In that case, are there any arrangements you'd like us to take care of? We at the Hotel de Vendôme are happy to help with bookings of tours and purchases of tickets to Paris's attractions."
"Not at the moment, no, but we'll let the valet know if anything comes up."
"Very good, sir. Shall I reserve a table for you in our restaurant for dinner? Or even serve up some afternoon tea to your rooms? Our chefs are amongst the best in the city."
"Actually, the both of us are very tired, and will likely spend the rest of the day in our rooms." The man sounded apologetic. "Maybe another time."
"Of course, sir." The concierge turned, key in hand, before unlocking the cabinet with a grunt, revealing rows upon rows of keys tagged with numbered red velvet. Retrieving one from the top, he handed the keys to the guests.
"Here you are."
"Many thanks."
The concierge rang a bell, and a young bellhop hurried over from where he stood at the ready.
"Please escort Monsieur Archer and Monsieur Honeycomb-" the child choked on his spit, "to the penthouse." The receptionist gave a final bow. "Do enjoy your stay."
"Thank you." Archer nodded, before turning to the bellhop. "Lead the way."
The bellhop took the monogrammed luggage off the man's hands and gestured for the two to follow him to the elevator where another attendant stood waiting, hand on the lever. The child – having recovered from whatever fit had possessed him – hastily schooled his features and followed close behind.
The foyer now absent of guests, the concierge allowed himself to relax, slouching slightly as he rested his arms against the counter.
At the front desk of the Hotel de Vendôme – a building that formerly served as an embassy to the Republic of Texas – was a receptionist who wished he could smoke.
"... and housekeeping will arrive every morning at ten, but feel free to knock on the door of our valet and he'll take care of anything immediate."
"Thank you." Archer gave an appreciative nod as he examined hand-frescoed walls. "That will be all."
"Please enjoy your stay."
Bowing once, the bellhop exited the room, gently swinging the door shut, and Monsieur Honeycomb- no, the Earl of Phantomhive turned to his butler with an expression that could shrink his testicles to the size of peanuts.
"A millennium of development, a flux of dialects and vocabulary…" Ciel Phantomhive bristled, tossing his cloak onto a Renaissance velvet divan. "You had the vast expanse of the English lexicon in the palms of your hands, and what did you choose as my pseudonym? Honeycomb. It's like you're begging for a swift kick in the arse."
"It felt appropriate for someone named Phantomhive." Archer smirked, settling the monogrammed luggage on the mahogany four-poster bed, unlocking it with a click. "I had the idea of using 'Specter' as your first name, you know, just to really drive the point home, but I don't think the concierge would have bought that."
"Right. Because a name like Honeycomb doesn't raise any questions."
"The only questions it will raise is what a snotty brat like you did to deserve such a shitty name like that." Archer took out the neatly folded piles of clothes and laid them gently on the bed. "Besides, would you rather I told them your real name? This is a secret assignment, is it not?"
"Like you're in any position to lecture me on being clandestine." Ciel scoffed, resting his top hat onto the bedside drawer.
"When have I not been nothing but the picture of discretion?" Archer blinked with ill-deserved innocence. "Have I not been dutifully picking up your luggage, shadowing you, making nary a sound throughout our journey here?"
"You did all of those dressed like that!" Ciel groaned. "Everyone who went past our berth on the train did a double-take!"
"To be fair, I'm already quite idiosyncratic as is." His butler brushed him off, carefully removing a holstered pistol from the trunk. "I doubt what I wear would make much of a difference at this point. You should look at things differently. Use the unavoidable instances of me being distinctive as a means to establish your cult of personality."
"Cult of personality." Ciel repeated.
"Oh yes. I can see it now." Archer held up his arm, moving across the air in the manner of one wiping a shelf with a rag. "Beware the Queen's watchdog. A tempestuous and merciless enfant terrible who brings carnage and destruction wherever he goes. Tell-tale indicators include his butler in red, a snarl that would turn milk to yogurt, his eyepatch-"
"Yes, yes, I get the idea." Ciel hurriedly waved him off, already feeling tired as he sunk onto a plush sofa. His butler had by then finished unpacking and was busying himself with threading his dress shirts through projected hangers.
"It's not like we're in any real need for disguises during this assignment." Archer felt the need to point out. "To anyone who asks, we're simply vacationing in Paris, shopping for tea, bone china, and fine art. No one will suspect we'll have anything to do with whatever's about to go down in Metz some three hundred kilometers away. It's the world's most expensive alibi."
"Especially when we're leaving by night through the terrace."
"Precisely." His butler headed to the walk-in closet, hanging the dress shirts with a huff. "We'll put up the do-not-disturb sign on the doorknob, housekeeping will keep out, and it will be as if we're simply too tired from the journey to go out, spending the evening here in rest and recuperation."
With a final grunt, Archer deposited the now empty monogrammed luggage into the closet and swung the door gently shut.
"We have but a few hours before the sun sets, Master. Any ideas of what we should do in the meantime?"
Ciel considered it.
The penthouse suite was tastefully furnished in notes of royal blue and gold. Outside the windows grew red nasturtiums, which contrasted beautifully with the streets of Lutetian limestone beyond them. And as the concierge helpfully pointed out, the terrace provided a sprawling view of the plaza before them, its cobblestones gleaming with the light drizzle.
There were worse ways to spend an afternoon than simply lying back with the books Emiya had packed, he mused.
"If I may make a suggestion?" Archer cleared his throat, and Ciel gestured at him to continue. "Perhaps you should take this time to go shopping for a gift for Lizzy."
Ciel blinked.
"Elizabeth?"
"I talked to her, you know, when I informed the Marquis that we were off to France. She was terribly disappointed you wouldn't be able to meet with her this week. Perhaps a souvenir from France would lift her spirits."
The Earl of Phantomhive groaned, sinking his head back on the headrest. "Great. Another thing to worry about."
"If it helps," his butler piped up, "you could always say you're busy on matters of great importance and send a postcard? Plaster it with hugs and kisses and say you love her. That's probably enough to get her knickers in a twist."
"We are literally steps away from Rue de la Paix." Ciel pointed out, rubbing his eyes with a slender hand. "That excuse isn't going to hold water and we know it."
"Really." Archer squinted. "You sure it has nothing to do with the fact that you can't even say the three little words?"
"I'll be damned if I say my first 'I love you' by post." The Earl of Phantomhive was firm. "I'm not a coward."
"Fine." Archer switched tacks as he walked over to the door that led to the terrace outside. "The House of Worth is right there. We could always commission a dress from the father of Haute Couture."
"Good idea." Ciel mumbled. "Except for the tiny issue of me not knowing her measurements."
"If that's what you're hung up on, that's no cause for concern." The butler muttered absent-mindedly, still peering outside. "I already have a good idea of her three sizes."
Ciel stopped.
Robotically, he lifted his head and affixed his servant with a dangerous glare.
"And just how did you manage to obtain my fiancée's measurements, if you don't mind me asking?"
The venom laced in his tone gave Archer pause.
"... get your mind out of the gutter." His butler glared, indignant. "It was a simple matter of analyzing that dress she wore the last time she snuck to the manor."
The information did little to lift his sour mood.
"Do you think it's appropriate for a butler to be privy to such information pertaining to his master's wife?"
"While there's little about me that's appropriate at all, I'm not a pervert." Archer smirked. "But you knew that already."
Ciel pouted, looking away sullenly.
"I'd rather not think about this when I'm on assignment." He finally said, looking away. " I'll find something else to do in the meantime."
There was a dream as the door to the terrace was opened.
"The rain's died down." Archer observed as a light summer breeze settled into the room. "We could always go sightseeing. Walk down the Champs-Elysées. Climb the Eiffel Tower. Sail the Seine on a Bateaux-Mouche… hell, the Vendôme Column's right there."
Ciel blinked, standing up to take a better look at where Archer was pointing. Together, the two ventured out onto the terrace.
The towering, forty-two meter tall obelisk in the middle of the plaza received many different names: first the 'Austerlitz Column', then the 'Victory Column', then the 'Colonne de la Grande Armee'. The core was comprised of stone, and enrobing it was bronze melted down from over a thousand individual artillery pieces. A frieze or bas-reliefs winded around the column, depicting the major events of the Napoleonic campaign. And at the very top stood a statue of the Emperor himself, styled in Roman dress.
The two of them took it all in in contemplative silence.
"It's difficult to imagine Nietzsche modeling the idea of the Ubermensch after such a short individual." Archer finally said. "A small man casting such a large shadow."
"My father used to say that Napoleon was a distillation of the human spirit, a distillation of the world." The Earl remarked, thoughtful.
"Must have been an excellent distillation to fit all the world into such a small container." His butler snarked.
Consciously, Ciel gave his lanky servant a once-over and pursed his lips.
"He wasn't actually that short, you know." He slowly said, never taking his eyes off him. "It's just his personal… guard was always taller."
"I'm aware." Archer nodded. "It doesn't change the fact that he ended up having an inferiority complex named after him."
Ciel frowned, puzzled. "A complex?"
"Oh yes. The Napoleon Complex. A domineering or aggressive attitude perceived as a form of overcompensation for being physically small or short." At this, Archer made a show of looking down to Ciel, smirking. "Remind you or anyone, master?"
The Earl of Phantomhive kicked his servant in the shins.
"You know, you're only proving my point, master."
"Shut up, Emiya." Ciel spat, deeply disgruntled. "I still have time to grow."
"You're not going to grow much, you know." Archer felt the need to point out. "You sleep little, you only drink milk as a nightcap, you shirk your exercise… it's no wonder Lizzy is about to outgrow you."
"And what do you expect me to do about that?" Ciel gesticulated. "I can't very well bind her feet, can I? It is what it is, Emiya."
"If only you'd stop using your asthma as an excuse, we could do some real training every once in a while."
"Let's not." Ciel shook his head. "I'm busy enough as is without you breathing down my neck."
His servant muttered something unintelligible under his breath that Ciel studiously ignored.
The sun peeked out from a particularly spongy cloud, and the two watched with some interest as a line of sunlight traversed the plaza inch by inch.
The Earl of Phantomhive tilted his head.
"The entire thing looks rather phallic, doesn't it." Ciel observed with some amusement.
"A long column, ridged with little bumps and made out of bronze?" Archer scoffed. "The builders clearly took him literally when Napoleon said he wanted a gigantic erection in the middle of the plaza."
Ciel snorted.
"Though that does remind me," Archer remembered, holding up a finger, "we'd have to travel further south and catch a boat to Corsica, but if you're willing to make the journey, I'm pretty sure I can find the person who is in possession of a very particular curio. It'd be a lovely gift to the Marquis, a daring one if you were to gift it to Lizzy, and should you donate it to the British Museum it'd be the star attraction for weeks."
Ciel raised an eyebrow. "... and this particular curio is?"
Archer grinned.
"Napoleon's petrified penis."
Silence.
A feral pigeon landed on the thatched, navy-tiles roof behind them, cooing softly.
The Earl of Phantomhive's eyes twitched.
"You're serious."
His butler nodded, unflappable.
"You're telling me someone is in possession of Napoleon's nethers in Corsica right now."
"A priest, to be exact. Napoleon's personal chaplain was a petty son of a bitch who remembered a remark that the Emperor once made about him being impotent. In retaliation, he bribed the doctor overseeing the autopsy to emasculate him." Archer lectured with the clinical detachment of a doctor giving a terminally ill patient bad news. "If we go now, I'm reasonably certain we can obtain it without trouble."
"To what end, Emiya? I'm not about to gift Napoleon's junk to Lizzy, Aunt Frances is liable to rip mine off with her bare hands! And putting it on display at the British Museum is just a needless provocation of the French, and will land me in hot water with Her Majesty."
"You know, you could always just keep it for yourself."
Ciel gave his butler the appropriate reaction to someone advising him to purchase an Emperor's fossilized penis.
"Why on earth would I want to keep something like that lying around the manor?"
His butler shrugged. "It's one hell of a conversation starter?"
"Emiya."
"Sorry, sorry." Archer raised his arms in surrender. "It's just an idea that came to mind. I know for a fact that the item has changed hands numerous times over the years, increasing in price all the while. As an… odd investment opportunity, you might believe it some more thoughts. Besides, should certain events ever come to pass, I dare say it can be used as a catalyst for… other things."
Truth be told, Archer knew everything pointed to the fact that things would never reach that point for his master, but the very picture of an Englishman summoning the Emperor of France was admittedly pretty funny.
Ciel crossed his arms.
"And how much would Napoleon's dick cost me?"
Archer looked troubled.
"When it first changed hands, I believe it went for the sum of three thousand francs."
That, more than anything, elicited a reaction from the young Earl.
"I'm not paying three thousand francs for an antediluvian, mummified dick, no matter who it may have been affixed to." Ciel barked, incensed. "Jesus himself could rise from the dead for a third time, castrate himself in front of me and put his knob out for sale at Christie's, and I'm still not buying it at that price."
"So we've established that the purchase is sound in principle and now we're haggling over price?"
"Stop twisting my words." Ciel angrily broke away. "Forget it, Emiya. Let's not discuss this any longer. I'm no longer entertaining this asinine topic."
Dutifully, his butler obeyed, and the two turned back to the plaza, now brightly illuminated under the late afternoon sun. A man in a tweed jacket was breaking small chunks off a picture-perfect baguette, flinging breadcrumbs to a grateful flock of speckled pigeons.
"... I guess even Napoleon himself couldn't help himself from entertaining delusions of grandeur." Archer remarked.
"Hm?"
His butler pointed to the statue standing proud on top of the obelisk.
"Dressing in the manner of the Roman emperors, who themselves likened themselves to Gods."
"I wouldn't deem it a delusion." Ciel countered. "He succeeded where Caesar failed in crowning himself Emperor."
And what a decision it was. The tyrant in all but name fought to ensure the longevity of the house of Bonaparte, and in retrospect it surprised absolutely no one that the revolutionary decided to follow in the footsteps of the very kings he helped overthrow.
To be fair, Ciel surmised, he always had the power, and was already pretty much a dictator. All declaring himself Emperor did was grant him and his family legitimacy in the world at large.
But the irony of a revolutionary re-establishing the very monarchy he helped to topple was not lost on many, and it was enough to have Beethoven — one of his most famous admirers — angry enough to nearly chuck the symphony written in his honor into the fire, settling on violently ripping away the dedication on the front cover in the end.
What a big fuss borne over semantics.
"It's funny you should mention Caesar," Archer spoke up again, "considering how much Napoleon sought to emulate him."
"Caesar himself tried to follow in Alexander's example."
"Indeed." The butler scratched his cheek. "And each iteration improved on the last. Caesar had little in the way of talented subordinates beyond Labianus, whilst Napoleon had Maddens, Soult and Davout, all talented military commanders in their own right. Caesar had his own mutinies to deal with long before the Ides of March, Napoleon had none… well, if there were, he'd learned to keep it out of the history books anyway. All things considered, it's remarkable how similar they were when they began their careers."
At this observation, Archer gave his master a considering look.
"If you don't mind me saying, master, I think you're in the right position to follow in their footsteps."
Ciel glanced towards him, brows raised. "Careful, Emiya. One would think you're engaging in brownnosing."
Archer scoffed. "I am guilty of many things, master. Ass kissing will never be one of them. And I meant what I said. Especially if you consider how the two of them began."
"But I'm not planning on leading a revolution."
His butler shook his head.
"I'm more so referring to the fact that both Caesar and Napoleon lost their fathers when they were teens." Archer said patiently. "Like you, they were thrust into public life and expected to take charge straight away. They improved on what they inherited from their families, and from their posts as militant commanders. Caesar had his bridges and walls, Napoleon created the idea of corps. Like you, they were also some seriously egotistic individuals- no, don't try to deny it, master, you know it's true." Archer smirked, brushing off his master's glare. "At least you haven't started writing memoirs or referred to yourself in third person like Caesar, or alluded to yourself being a higher power like Napoleon, or even spent exorbitant amounts of money building monuments commemorating your own victories and greatness like the both of them… though I suspect that's only due to the fact that you haven't won anything."
Ciel gave his butler a searching look, weighing the words warily before he straightened.
"I haven't won anything yet." He finally said. "But I'm sure I don't need to remind you of my first request I made that day in the abbey."
"Of course." Archer smirked, though the accompanying inclination of his head was by all counts sincere in its respect. "You came to me seeking victory over those who wish to see you fail. And as your servant, my victories are yours, master. Please, use me as you wish."
Ciel made up his mind.
"Then, listen carefully." He began, and he was inwardly pleased to see his servant paying rapt attention. "Change into something less conspicuous, maybe do something about your hair while we're at it, then head to Metz without me. Ask around for anything with regards to the disappearances and come back once you've found a tangible lead."
"You sure you don't want me to settle the entire thing myself?" Archer blinked. "I'm pretty sure I can handle whatever this is."
"No. Beyond the fact that I have no idea how you usually operate, the fact remains that this is an assignment entrusted to me from Her Majesty. It doesn't feel right if I'm not there to make the final judgment call." Ciel shook his head. "And exit the hotel the normal way. IT'd be odd for the concierge to see none of us leave the room after so long."
Sighing, his butler bowed.
"As you wish, master. I'll be back in a matter of hours, shortly after sundown. Don't leave the premises while I'm away."
"I got it." Ciel waved him off. "And while you're changing, draw me a bath, would you?"
"I'll get right to it."
And with that, Archer shuffled off, leaving the Earl of Phantomhive alone to stew in his own thoughts, under Napoleon's unflinching gaze.
…
Or at least, that would have been the case were it not for the sudden bark of laughter borne forth from the bathroom.
"Emiya?" Ciel called, frowning as he headed back inside. "What's going on?"
'Nothing, Master, my apologies for disturbing you.'
He'd be more inclined to believe him were it not for his servant's continued snickers. With more trepidation than he'd care to admit, the Earl of Phantomhive headed to the bathroom, warily opening it a notch.
His mood only soured further when he saw Archer, back turned, unharmed, shaking with mirth.
"What." His voice was flat. "What's so funny?"
Wordless, Archer pointed in front of him and let loose a fresh peal of snickers.
Ciel took one look at where he pointed – a fixture beside the toilet that was too low to function as a sink – and scowled when it hit him.
"You see, master?" Archer's grin was positively shit-eating. "I told you the bidet's all the rage in France."
"I came all the way here because I thought something had happened." Ciel muttered, deeply unamused as he watched his servant valiantly attempt to collect himself. "Instead, I find you laughing at a toilet unit like it's a production of Charlies's Aunt."
"It's not the bidet I'm laughing at," Archer corrected him, still shaking with mirth, "it's more the memory of you reeling from having your arse blasted with spring water-"
"Oh, do shut up, you fucking brownie." Ciel snarled, already stalking off. "Stop laughing and get back to work!"
The door slammed shut with a satisfying bang.
Archer stared at the trembling door, blinking dumbly at his master's outburst.
A heartbeat passed.
Then, the butler shrugged, projecting a comb and scooping the hotel's pomade – produced by Hermes – into his hands.
He had work to do.
The full moon was well and truly out as two people landed outside the forest's outskirts.
"Welcome to Germany."
Blearily, the child peeked out from where he was, held protectively against the man's chest, and looked around in abject confusion.
"This doesn't look like Metz." He stated the obvious, mouth wet with the beginning of nausea.
"That's because it isn't." Emiya set Ciel down, holding an arm out to steady him as he caught his breath. "We went further east."
Slightly winded from his servant's haphazard means of transport, Ciel Phantomhive held up a hand, the other on his knee as he put his head between them, panting. A little way off, his servant stood, keeping one eye out for witnesses and the other on his master's condition. Moments passed, and when his master showed no signs of getting better, Emiya sighed and brought forth a small paper bag.
"You're lucky I took the liberty of preparing refreshments." He muttered, drawing forth an orange and deftly peeling it with practiced hands. "Here, take this."
Ciel looked up, frowning at the pieces of orange peel his servant held in his outstretched hand. "Do you make a habit of feeding your master refuse?"
"The peel of an orange is perfectly edible, if not particularly delicious due to the bitterness of the white pith." Emiya muttered, already taking care to remove the white, spongy tissue lining the rind. "And anyways, this isn't meant to sate your hunger. Chew on it. It'll curb the nausea you're experiencing."
Hesitantly, his master did so, grimacing as the melange of bitter and sour assaulted his senses, and yet his servant's advice held true; he could feel the roiling of his gut being mollified and blunted already.
He eyed the paper bag his servant carried.
"What's in there?" He jerked his chin in its direction.
"Just some fruit, a thermos of tea," Emiya's eyes glinted, "and the best of what Germany has to offer: bread."
Ciel blinked.
"... we were just in France, you know." He muttered reproachfully, taking another bite of orange peel. "If you possessed such an appreciation for bread, I would have thought we'd visit the bakeries together before we left."
Emiya shook his head. "Anything will taste good if you add enough butter, master. Have you ever seen the process of making croissants? It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that a third of every mouthful is just fresh, creamery butter. Anyone can do that. The secret to haute cuisine is usually just obscene amounts of fat. But German bread is something special. The variety, the freshness, the craftsmanship spread throughout every town… forget pork knuckles and sauerkraut, the best thing to come out of Germany is bread."
Ciel made an absent sound of interest. "No wonder Diedrich's addicted to sandwiches."
"That reminds me," Emiya remembered with a start, "now that you've mentioned him, I've been meaning to ask. I was surprised you didn't end up asking for his assistance for this particular outing, given that we are handling clandestine matters in his jurisdiction."
"Diedrich has his own matters to settle, pertaining to his own affairs and what I've already entrusted to him." The Earl of Phantomhive dismissed the very idea. "Also, Alsace-Lorraine is close enough to France, and I don't wish to bother him unless we have a need of going deeper into Germany."
His eyes narrowed. "And I think I'm capable of handling this much myself."
Emiya snorted. "What am I, chopped liver?"
"You know what I mean."
The butler sighed.
"Right then. If you're feeling better, I suggest we get a move on" Breaking the orange into pieces, he tossed one fleshy half to his master, feeding a segment into his mouth as he started venturing deeper into the forest. "The moon's full, we're sitting ducks in the open, we should move deeper inside."
"Wait," Ciel Phantomhive started, hurriedly making to follow close behind. "I think you missed the part where you explain just what led you here."
"I'll explain on the way."
"On the way where?" Ciel demanded, indignantly tugging on his servant's sleeve. "Where exactly are we going?"
His butler stopped in his tracks, giving his master a long-suffering stare. Ciel returned it, defiant as he crossed his arms.
Emiya closed his eyes.
"Tell me what you know of Alsace-Lorraine."
Ciel blinked, mulling the question over.
"If I recall correctly, it has always been a hotly contested region between France and Germany." He muttered. "They initially were part of the Roman Empire, populated mostly by Germanic tribes, until they were annexed by the French in the seventeenth century near the end of the Thirty-Years War. Later, Napoleon and his revolutionaries' political ideals caused a shift in the region's identity towards France, with the Alsation bourgeoisie eager to get rid of the monarchy and gain independence in the process. Of course, they were then ceded back to Germany after the Franco-Prussian war a little more than a decade ago."
"And why was it annexed?" Emiya gestured for his master to continue.
"Because of its geographical importance."
"Elaborate."
Ciel gestured behind him. "This area is mountainous, which would be much more defensible than the Rhine if the French ever attempted to invade again. Militarily speaking, as a buffer zone, it's excellent. There's also the matter of sovereignty, with Germany feeling responsible for those living in the area that consider themselves German. In addition to that, that Alsace-Lorraine came under German control was important such that the southern German states of Baden, Wurtemberg and Bavaria would be compelled to join the Prussian Empire as well. Finally, if Her Majesty's intelligence is correct, it's also prudent to mention that the Germans found abundant mineral deposits underneath the mountains, deposits that are incredibly valuable to any country in the middle of industrialization."
Emiya clapped twice. "I couldn't have put it any better myself."
"Right." Ciel pursed his lips. "Now that we've got the impromptu history lesson out of the way, would you mind explaining why we're here in the middle of fuck-all, and nowhere near Alsace-Lorraine?"
From the inner pockets of his red shroud, his butler withdrew a familiar letter.
"Do you remember what Phipps said back at the manor? About the missing children?"
Ciel paused.
"... He said that this has happened before." He recalled. "Some ten or fifteen years ago."
"Exactly." Emiya nodded. "It would thus be prudent enough to assume that at that point, Alsace-Lorraine was still under French control. The missing children years ago either came from someplace else, or whilst Germany gave those that identified as French within Alsace-Lorraine a buffer year in 1872 to leave, our perpetrators took advantage of the ensuing chaos to abduct those children. Ergo, supposing this ring of traffickers exists, their base of operations wouldn't be in Alsace-Lorraine, but-"
"- but would be in the surrounding areas, deeper into the borders between Germany and France." Ciel finished, the truth having finally dawned on him.
"Precisely." Emiya crossed his arms. "When I arrived here, I did some digging into the surrounding municipalities and communes, moving from Metz all the way to where we are standing right now."
"And?" Ciel pressed, impatient. "Did they say anything about the children that disappeared?"
Emiya leveled his master with a flat look.
"Of course not."
Ciel felt a vein throb on his forehead. "Then what were you doing, if not asking about the children? Jamming bread up your ass and sucking your thumbs?"
"Here's a thought, master. Why don't you show up, a complete stranger, to a hamlet in the middle of nowhere and start asking about any missing children from their homes?" Emiya drawled. "I don't know what kind of ideas you've been getting, but reconnaissance doesn't quite work that way. It's not as simple as going to the taverns and asking the innkeeper about anything suspicious they've noticed over the years. Since we obviously can't exercise your authority as watchdog, we would be treated with suspicion for loitering and snooping around, and for good reason."
Emiya pinched his brow, clenching his eyes shut for a moment before he continued.
"So, as you ordered, I disguised myself. I alternated between this and spirit form and kept my ear to the ground. No one was overtly talking about missing children, but throughout those communes and territories, there has been one common thread. From Valmunster to Falck, from Alzing to Merten, I counted at least ten different people who've mentioned either getting lost or telling their families that one particular area is off-limits, based on past experience and local superstition."
Emiya tapped the forest floor – wet with mulch and detritus – with his boots.
"Beruser Wald."
The Earl of Phantomhive looked around at the dense vegetation, frowning.
"People get lost in forests all the time." Ciel felt the need to point out. "It's not indicative of anything fishy going on. Also, in these backwater communes and hamlets, there's bound to be superstition amongst the illiterate."
"True. But these people have lived here for years, their families have likely been here for generations." Emiya shook his head. "It stands to reason that these people would know their land. But when you have unconnected, isolated occurrences of people unable to navigate the forest, coming out of it disoriented and fearing for their lives, or warning people not to head into this forest for whatever reason… Master, I have enough intuition to suspect that this forest is our best lead."
"And what do you reckon is going on?"
"A syndicate probably has their base of operations here, and they've amassed enough of a reputation to keep stragglers out. The superstitions surrounding the forest seem relatively recent to the extent that it seems to be a cover story to keep outsiders from investigating what's going on."
Ciel frowned. "It seems like rather poor operational security if a crime syndicate allows those that discover them to go free with a warning." Ciel muttered. "Killing them would have been the only way to gain their silence."
"That's true." Emiya agreed. "So there's probably another angle that we are overlooking if the locals were spooked enough to keep it under wraps."
From the familiar rivulets of light came two metallic cylinders, which Emiya clicked once to illuminate the area in soft green light.
"Here, use this." He instructed, tossing a torch to his master. "Keep it firmly pointed to the ground, and remember what I've taught you about light discipline. If we do manage to stumble upon them here, the last thing we need is to tip them off by an errant wave of light. Use it only to have an idea of what you're stepping on."
Ciel nodded numbly, inspecting the tactical flashlight with some interest as Emiya looked ahead.
"Let's get moving. Keep your eyes out for anything out of the ordinary."
And so it was that the master and servant pair began their journey trekking through the dense forest of Beruser Wald. The deeper they went, the more the darkness grew in totality, such that the errant moonbeams that found their way through the canopy were more akin to crepuscular rays. Clambering over toppled trunks, wading through shallow streams, Ciel idly wished that he'd thought of replacing his oxfords with the hardier deer-stalking brogues. It was uneventful – if slow – progress, with the pair having a minor scare when the bushes to their two-o-clock rustled at one point. Emiya had crouched, twin swords at the ready, only to relax when a boar tumbled through, her piglets close behind.
The chatter of the woodland critters never ceased.
Emiya was halfway through hacking through a particularly dense bush, torchlight wedged between his teeth, when his master finally spoke up again.
"Emiya."
"Hm?"
"What's it like, the period where you come from?"
He didn't miss the way his servant tensed.
An owl hooted mournfully above them.
Gingerly removing the torchlight from his mouth, Emiya shot a questioning glance to his master.
"You're really asking me this now?" Thankfully, his servant's tone was more amused than guarded. "We're kind of in the middle of something here."
Ciel shrugged. "Humor me. I know you come from a different era. It doesn't feel right not to know about the state of humanity then."
Emiya snorted before returning to his task of clearing a path for his master.
"I don't know what to tell you." He admitted easily, tossing the clipped branches to the side. "If you're looking for some assurance that the world will make sense in the future, it hasn't. Sure, science and technology has progressed at a rapid pace – beyond your wildest dreams, even – but all that entails is more creative ways for us to kill, maim and torture. Shit, you'll be surprised at what the Russians can come up with.
At the same time, we've undergone millennia of change and evolution from where we began as smooth-brained primates, but our heads never really got past the problem of being absolutely pants at taking care of threats that don't pose an immediate danger. This only leads to more complications, complications that we stumble our way through, oftentimes creating more crises, more non-immediate threats, more half-assed solutions, more problems, more shit."
The bush was cleared, and Emiya trudged forward once more, clambering over a rotting tree trunk with a single stride.
"Along the way, much like how Napoleon and his revolutionaries had inspired the people of Alsace-Lorraine to fight for independence, there will be others with ideas. And as science and technology gets better, it only gets easier for these ideas to proliferate and spread. Napoleon was hardly the first, but he's a prominent example. In the era you live in, and in the continent, we are already seeing the effects of him and Schopenhauer, but soon the world will grapple with the ramifications of Marx's Das Kapital, whose dreams and pictures of a utopia created a mind boggling amount of corpses in its wake.
Maybe on their own, those ideas won't be so bad. The issue is, ideas tend to mutate into something absolutely fucking monstrous with each retelling and interpretation by people who think they know better. And with every tragedy that occurs as a result of these ideas, one can look back on history and feel hope – or despair – in a single, salient fact."
"Which is?"
"History has always repeated itself." Emiya declared. "There will always be another crusade. There will be another Caesar. There will always be another easily avoidable disaster. Any change, any progress we've made will be incremental in nature and paid for with blood, like Napoleon crowning himself Emperor and succeeding where Caesar failed, or even just something as banal as workplace safety standards. Do you know why history will always repeat itself, master?"
Perhaps tellingly, his master had chosen to stay silent.
"Because the state of humanity will never change." Emiya concluded. "Not in your era, not in your father's, not in your progeny's, nor in mine. Nothing has changed. So when you ask me what's different where and when I come from, my honest answer? Nothing of importance."
With that statement, the silence between them grew heavy with the weight of existentialism. As the two continued to bushwhack through dense vegetation, Ciel Phantomhive tried to come to terms with what he just learned, and Emiya tried to come to terms with the drivel he spewed from his mouth.
What started as a means to not delve into the specifics of what his life was like turned into a cynical, defeatist rant about the consistency of human nature.
A squirrel scrambled up a fir tree out the corner of his eyes.
Maybe he was a terrible influence on him.
"So basically," Ciel said slowly, "you're saying we're all fucked."
"I did not say that. I said that humanity has never changed."
"You do realize that that statement doesn't exactly inspire confidence either, right?" He asked rhetorically, narrowly avoiding a low-hanging branch. "If someone like you – a spirit that lives outside the boundaries of time and space – tells me that human nature has never changed, you really have to wonder what it's all worth."
At this, Emiya stopped, and as he turned to regard his master, Ciel could see through the worrying of his lips he was mulling how best to respond in a delicate manner.
"... It goes both ways, you know." Emiya finally said. "When I say that human nature hasn't changed, you can't overlook the good for the bad. I wouldn't be where I am today were that false."
Ciel looked away, frowning slightly, and Emiya took that as leave to continue.
"If you live long enough, you'll get to read from an author – formerly a soldier – who famously remarked that the world is a beautiful place and worth fighting for."
And at this, Emiya put on a knowing smile.
"If you somehow manage to live even longer than that, you'll get to hear someone in another medium quoting him provide an addendum I very much agree with."
"That being?" Ciel said distractedly.
"That he only agrees with the second part."
Ciel Phantomhive regarded his servant in contemplative silence, the two of them slowly strolling through the gloomy forest.
"So… I guess you see yourself as a hero of justice."
The effect of those words was immediate.
Emiya soured, lips contorting into an ugly grimace. "I don't."
The Earl of Phantomhive incredulously looked on as his servant quickened his pace, putting some distance between them. "Hold on. You literally just said-"
"I said that the world is worth fighting for." Emiya corrected sharply. "Nothing in that statement ever implied that I see myself as a hero of justice. I'm not, and I'd rather you stop referring to me as one."
The Earl of Phantomhive pursed his lips, slowly seeing his servant through another lens.
"You know, it's been on my mind for quite a while, but you're really just a regular Merry-Andrew, aren't you?"
"Right back at you, master." His voice was curt.
"Emiya-"
"No, master, I think we've talked enough about this, let's just focus on-"
"Emiya!"
The butler whirled around. "What?!"
Ciel Phantomhive looked around, suddenly alert.
"Listen."
Emiya did, scanning the perimeter for anything out of the ordinary.
"I don't… hear anything." He muttered, before the implications of what he said sunk in.
"Exactly." Ciel hissed. "We're deep in the woods, and suddenly every single animal and critter is silent. No wild boars, no squirrels, no owls… something is rotten in the state of Denmark."
Emiya steeled himself.
"Turn off your light." He ordered.
Ciel did so, frantically stowing the torch into his coat pockets. Frowning, the servant crouched and examined the forest floor. Gingerly brushing aside decomposing vegetation and wood, his eyes narrowed at the untouched expanses of mud.
"No recent animal tracks." He observed.
"Are there any means people can employ to keep animals out of the area?" Ciel asked.
"One can certainly use repellent and certain varieties of musk to keep them away, but to this extent a judicious amount of both would be needed." Emiya closed his eyes, tilting his head in concentration. "I'm not sensing either of those in the air, and one wonders for the need to keep animals out in the first place-"
He trailed off when he noticed it.
The counter guardian opened his eyes.
"Master." Archer muttered, hoping against hope that he was wrong. "Are you experiencing anything… odd?"
Ciel blinked.
"... now that you mentioned it," he muttered, loosening his traveling cloak, "for the past minute I've been getting a serious sense of foreboding. I chalked it to our current whereabouts and the general atmosphere… but it gets worse the deeper we head into these woods."
Archer swore.
"Emiya," Ciel fought to keep the alarm out of his voice, "what's going on?"
"Stay close." Archer snarled, gingerly moving ahead. "Keep a hold of my shroud. Now."
Ciel obeyed, and the two slowly ventured further into the woods. With each step he took, the Earl of Phantomhive felt fear and anxiety ratcheting in intensity. His servant had gone deadly silent, staring straight ahead, swords at the ready, and he wondered just what had the man rattled so deeply.
So absorbed was he in his thoughts that he collided headfirst into his servant's back.
"Emiya, what-"
"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."
Ciel peeked out from his servant's back and flinched.
"Emiya…" The Earl of Phantomhive hissed. "What the fuck is that?!"
The counter guardian gritted his teeth.
An ethereal yellow membrane pulsed and ebbed in front of them, hexagonal fractals shimmering in the moonlight.
"Master. That's a bounded field."