"Kamalani" and the Earl of Phantomhive
The boy called Ciel didn't talk to his daemon much, anymore. Not, that is, in the way that most people talk to their daemons. He didn't confide in her or seek reassurance or a second opinion like he had as a young child. He didn't turn to her when he was alone and wanting desperately not to be. And she no longer curled up under his chin as a rabbit while he slept, or when he was in need of comfort. She hadn't been able to do that since she had settled.
When the boy did talk to her, it was to assign tasks, or grant permission.
"Keep watch," he would whisper to the shadow perched on his shoulder, and the raven daemon would launch herself into the sky, her dark eyes scanning the streets below her and keeping track of the boy as he walked beside the demon.
"I'm leaving," she would croak softly into his ear, and he would incline his head and she would fling herself through an open window of the manor house. Behind her, a door would crack softly open, and he would step sedately into the room with the boy. The raven daemon would streak farther and farther into the cold sky until the clouds misted at her wings.
"Kamalani," he would say, when there were others in the room, "Well done," and "Thank you."
"Kamalani," he would call out, in the dark of his room late at night, "Stay, please, please, Kamalani! Don't go—!" And the raven daemon would flutter down from the top of the wardrobe where she watched in silence, and hop close to him on the bedspread. Cold, shaking fingers would latch onto her wings and feathers and hold too tight. She would allow it.
...
Noelani, now called Kamalani by all but herself, had always been partial to soft creatures; forms to comfort and care and bolster confidence. She was a rabbit, a puppy, a kitten that wound around legs and nuzzled cheeks. She would dart and run, faster than Kamalani—the real Kamalani—by half and always, and receive smiles for it. And then, later, when the children were trapped and weighed down, she and Kamalani were partial to the forms of birds. Robins and blue jays and canaries; songbirds; birds with sturdy wings that could touch the sky, if only. And the flight was still a craving, a need. But Noelani, now called Kamalani by all but herself, was no longer a bird to lift up spirits. That was fine; she couldn't have done so if she'd wanted to.