The Comedy & Tragedy of Ciel Phantomhive
By Lily Maxwell
Ciel pondered how it felt to be in love with the Devil itself.
In love. Perhaps not the best term to be used. Mesmerized or fascinated, perhaps. Or maybe, captivated.
Yes, perhaps that was a better term. To the origin of the word, to be held captive by him. Captive by voice, and his ways, and his loyalty. None of which could be truthfully trusted.
Maybe he was insane. The star of a Comedy, taunted by the gods, mocked by the Devil, awaiting him nothing but an end made to please the audience. And that audience was the world, and the world would be better without him. It should be better without him, such a pitiful child.
Pitiful to let himself be held within demonic hands. Hands that held him in place, at the same time he dictated wherever the hands should bring him. Playing with Fate at the same time it played with him.
Or maybe he starred a Tragedy. Not a better end awaited him, but a bitterer in-between. As if his feelings, the turmoil inside him brought by age and hormones and confusion, and simply the horror in his past and the dependent stance he developed towards Sebastian throughout the years betrayed him, at the same time a blessing and a curse to his soul. Damnation brought to him by himself – something he could never, ever deny.
But to hell with Fate, and the gods and all that bullshit. There was absolutely nothing in the world that could begin to describe whatever was inside him, boiling and burning, burning all of his insides, as if he was becoming ashes and dust from the inside out. But dust was a poor metaphor, for the burning consumed him in such a way, that he was probably going out in flames instead.
Curious how even the metaphor to the play being held inside him was so much like hell.
A sense of belonging suddenly made its way into him, and he chuckled under his breath.
He wondered if when his time was up, what would consume his soul?
He imagined the hand holding him bringing him up to its glorious teeth, feasting on every last bit of him.
Maybe their souls would intertwine and become one, for all of his immortal life. As if Death meant nothing, as if Death were nothing.
Maybe he was insane.
He sighed, shaking his head to rid himself of the many disturbing contemplations.
Putting away his books, Ciel decided to never read Romanticism literature ever again, for it was not helping his hormonal infatuation at all.