Chapter 17
Mother
[Author's Note: So, this chapter needs a little prefacing to explain what it is. Basically, it can be either taken as an actual part of my story, or as a side story to it; kind of like an AU, or alternative story line to the rest of the story; it is the reader's choice! It will work either way, as you will see at the end. Now, as for a few other caveats about this chapter: This is just one possible theory I had about the whole issue (I won't say what the issue is in this preface, so as not to spoil it for anyone.) I actually don't really think I am right, and that this theory is actually what will turn out to be the case in the manga. Or at least, I would be very surprised if so. I have to say that I really think Yana is going to end up totally surprising us all with what's behind all the hints as to this mystery in the manga, and that it will be something no one has even conjectured yet. But then again, who knows. :)
Additional Author's Note: (Do not read this part until the end, if you don't want spoilers): I would like to take the time to credit a fellow writer/Black Butler fan (Aservis Roturier on Fanfic, and just Roturier on Ao3) for having inspired me a year or so ago regarding parts of this fic. Here are their wonderfully wise words:
"Jaena, and anyone else still agonizing over the matter of 'how many Ciel's am I holding up?' isn't it really just a storm in a teacup? Personally I'm not fussed about it one way or the other... but nothing that's been said, written or published so far really explains the way Ciel was talking at the beginning of his latest flashback and that's why I'm withholding judgement on it (well, that and the fact I just don't really care one way or the other because a Ciel by any other name would taste just as sweet... heh...) I think Shakespeare's argument (paraphrased above) continues to make the most sense, no matter how many hundreds of years go by: that rose will still be just as sweet-smelling whatever we call it. If you love the kid for being quick, clever, versatile and more than a match for the demon and his tricks, a miniature Nelson-Rommel-Patton-Machiavelli-SunTzu in short pants, is he really any less than those things if he turns out to really be the spare instead of the heir? It's still the same blood, the same genes and noble upbringing, plus if the firstborn's dead he'd be the rightful heir in any case, so what difference does it really make if his name's Ciel, Sue or Nigel?' All it really means is in addition to his already considerable talents you'd have to respectfully add 'one hell of an actor.' Another way to look at it is he's the Ciel you fell for, not the name and not the real Ciel should he prove to be part of a set, and that won't change if you discover the original was swapped out for a changeling at some point. It was the changeling you fell for and the changeling you're left with-which is good because for all you know the original might be thick as two short planks and dull as dishwater. Would you insist on the original then? Heh, thought not…"]
Through misty memories, murky fragments arose and coalesced into forms that were all too familiar in his nightly sojourns of terror. Flames licked and roared about, screams rent the air. Running; running desperately, barefoot down the cold marble halls of his mansion. Calling out: Mother! Father! He found them; found them as he always did. Splayed out on the floor, his father's form wrapped protectively but futilely around that of his mother's; both dead. Blood running copiously from their bodies, pooling at his feet. His dog, his precious hound, Sebastian, also slain, mercilessly. He ran out the room again, trying to find someone, anyone to help him.
Slamming into something, he staggered back, and looked up at the tall figure that stood stonily still before him. His eyes looked harshly down at Ciel.
"Father!" Why was he just standing there? "I thought you were dead!" Hope raced through him. Perhaps everything would be alright! Perhaps, this time, rescue would be found, he wouldn't be taken away... But those cold dark eyes just continued to stare implacably at him.
"Father!" He looked back, and could see that the men with hooded faces were coming closer, as they always did, to take him away… "Father, please! Help me! Don't let them take me!"
Vincent looked thoughtfully down at his son. A wry smile twisted his lips.
"And why should I do so? Why should I help a no-good, useless piece of work such as yourself?" His words bit and tore through Ciel's heart. "When you couldn't even do your job; the job you were trained for. Couldn't even save the one you were meant to protect!" His gaze was angry now, his eyes glaring at him with venom.
Arms grabbed Ciel's waist from behind, pulling him away. He snatched desperately at his father's jacket, barely managing to grasp it in time.
"Please! Save me! Father, save me!" He fell to his knees, now clinging desperately to his father's legs. The men behind him were tugging on his ankles, laughing and cackling with glee at the prize they had found. Vincent just looked down on him disdainfully, apathetic to his pleas, and hissed.
"You don't deserve to be saved! You are a thief and an impostor; a charlatan! You deserve to be executed like the criminal you are!" Despair speared Ciel's heart at these words. He pleaded piteously once more.
"Father, please!" he cried. "Please, forgive me, father!"
Vincent looked contemptuously down at Ciel's still struggling figure, trying vainly to kick at his abductors, but failing to do anything but make them leer and guffaw harder at him. Then came the words that brought him tearing up through the layers of unconsciousness with excruciating agony.
"But I'm not really your father, am I?"
"Nooooo!"
"My lord! Young master!" He heard the words as threads of salvation; ropes of safety being tossed out for him to grasp and cling to, and be dragged up and out of the pit of hell in which he had been imprisoned.
"Ciel, wake up!" It was the use of that name that finally broke the last vestiges of the phantasmal world in which he was being held sway, and delivered him to the surface of reality. Sebastian almost never called him that. But then the name that his butler had been using to call out to him brought the full force of his recent torment back to bear. Chest heaving, breath wheezing, he looked up at the demon's face hovering just inches away from his, leaning over him from the side of the bed. Clutching the demon's arm, he gasped out.
"Sebastian! Aahh, aahh," he panted, and then when he got his breath back, he spoke accusingly. "Why… Why are you calling me by that name?" Slowly growing calmer, he gazed up into the ever-perfect features of his butler, with eyes that glowed with tender solicitude and worry. But he couldn't evade the truth anymore. "Why do you call me Ciel, when you know…" He hesitated. But he had to say it. "When you know that's not my real name?"
The demon gazed solemnly down at Ciel. Gently releasing Ciel's hand from where it was still clutching his arm, Sebastian sat on the edge of the bed and turned to him. "It is the name you chose to go by, my lord. I honor that choice, of course."
Ciel nodded. He had always been satisfied with the choices he had made, the identity he had assumed. But now, Ciel suddenly felt a need to know more; more about his past, as impossible a task as it might be. But if anyone could achieve this, it was the demon. Gazing back up at his butler, he made his decision.
"Sebastian, I need to find my father."
"You mean you have decided to go to the Shinigami world after all, and meet with him?"
"No; I mean my real father. I need to find out who he was. Or at the very least, who my mother was. I need to find out who I am. Sebastian, make preparations for a trip tomorrow to the Newfoundling Orphanage."
The demon had known, of course. Since that first night, he had known; he had seen the body on the altar, the bloody body whose face was identical to Ciel's. Ciel had explained to him the reason for this during their introductions after having made the contract, and since that time there had been an unspoken agreement between them never to acknowledge that fact.
Leaning back against the pillows, his butler by his side and his heartrate slowly returning to normal, he thought back to how it had all started, to the very beginning.
He remembered the day vividly. The day his life had changed, radically and for the better. It had seemed like a miracle to him, only four years old at the time. Tiny even for his age, he was dwarfed by all the other boys in his age bracket at the orphanage. He was called Laz, and was often teased by the other boys for it, as well as being called a runt. As undersized as he was, however, they managed to always find work for even a scrawny four year old to do in the workhouse every day.
Working the heavy lever back and forth with effort to pump the water, he then dragged the big bucket over to the washing area. Half way there, he was startled by a hand on his collar, dragging him up and away, his feet almost leaving the floor. The water sloshed over before the bucket tipped completely as he dropped it, turning the kitchen floor into a lake.
"Idiot boy!" the orphanage proprietor yelled, dropping him and boxing his roundly about his ears. "Lookit' ye've gone an' done, my shoes all ruined and a patron come calling and all!" One more cuff to his head and he grabbed his collar once more and dragged him roughly after him out the door. Into the grand hall he was made to stand in a line, with all the other boys his age from the entire workhouse. A grand nobleman was then shown in, accompanied by his manservant, and looked them up and down, studying them intently as he did. His grey overcoat was thick and soft looking, his top hat of matching color tall and stately. One elegantly white gloved hand suddenly pointed to Laz, singling him out.
"You!" the man exclaimed, looking right at him, and he quaked in his threadbare shoes. Turning to the proprietor, the nobleman demanded, "Bring him here!" Terrified, he was brought forth to stand before him. The man actually knelt down before him, and reaching out, gently grasped his chin in his hand, turning his head this way and that, seeming to scrutinize his face with amazement.
"Remarkable…" he muttered, and then standing back up, addressed him directly.
"What's your name, boy?"
"L… Laz," he stammered.
"And how old are you, Laz?"
"Four, sir," he answered, a little more steadily this time.
"Well, my child. How would you like to come with me, and live in a grand mansion?"
He could only stare speechlessly, finally nodding timidly. Turning to the owner of the workhouse, the gentleman then opened his change purse. "We'll take him," he said, and reaching out, he tipped the purse over to pour a fortune of gold coins out and into the other's palms, having come up to catch it as it spilled forth.
The proprietor just stared down, with mouth hanging open, struck dumb by the amount of gold that overflowed in a pile in his hands.
"I'd like for there not to be any record of this transaction. Is that amenable to you?"
Finally getting his mouth closed, he swallowed and replied, "Yes, yes! Of course, sir! Of course! Not a word! Not a word to anyone!"
The man inquired of the proprietor if there were any belongings or personal effects that they should bring with them, but was told there was none; even the letter that had come with him as a baby had been sadly misplaced, and lost. And thus he was led out the door of the workhouse, the man and his servant to either side of him, and walked down the steps for the last time, never looking back.
The elderly servant helped Laz into the waiting carriage, settling down on the seat next to him. Opposite them, the nobleman introduced himself as Earl Vincent Phantomhive, and his servant as his butler, Tanaka. During the trip he was told of the mansion where he was going to live. He listened in amazement, unable to believe that all this was really happening, remaining mostly silent except when spoken to. He noticed the butler, Tanaka, giving him an odd look or two during the ride, almost as if he was trying to figure something out, but then he finally looked away, a complaisant look on his features.
"My god, Vincent," said the lovely woman who greeted them at the mansion when they arrived, with a cloak having hidden his face as he was carried up the grand staircase to the most beautiful room he had ever seen. "He looks identical! How is it even possible?"
"I don't know… I really don't know, Rachel. All I know is that I have been to nearly every workhouse and orphanage in the country looking for a good candidate for this past year… They do say for every person there exists a double of them somewhere out there in the world. I just thank God we have finally found the perfect one." His wife nodded.
"Yes. Our dear little Ciel simply cannot be seen going out in public all the time being so sickly; he presents too much of a target to all our enemies as it is."
He learned that he had been chosen to be a double for their son, a decoy in times of high danger, to throw off Earl Phantomhive's enemies who might think to target the one object that was the Queen's Watchdog's biggest weakness. If ever there came to be such an event, he was to act as Ciel, throwing himself into the role in every way; and even surrendering up his very life if need be, to ensure the safety and survival of the real little lord.
He was called Ciel as well, and nothing else now, so as to optimize his ability to integrate himself into his role. Rachel was given the task of tutoring both boys herself. Besides Vincent, Rachel, and their son, only Tanaka and Aunt Ann knew of his existence. Both Ann and Tanaka treated him just like they treated the actual young lord, however; not seeming to care which one he even was.
He grew up to look exactly like Ciel. Rachel and Vincent couldn't believe it. And they were good to him, treating him almost as if he were their son. He grew to love them deeply, as if they were his own parents, in turn. To him, they were. His life there was as paradise compared to his old; he resented not one second or one aspect of it, taking on his role with pride and devotion. It was his duty; and he would perform it with full conscientiousness.
The other Ciel, the real little earl, he grew to love just as much. The two were just like brothers; inseparable. Although admonished to remain at all times on guard to prevent discovery of the existence of a decoy, the two boys still found opportunities to romp and play, devising mischief but remaining ever obedient to the overarching rules.
And then came that day… the day that ended his happy world; the only world of comfort and love he had known, dashing it to bits forever more.
"Ciel," the young lord whispered to him in the cage they had been thrown in, their clothes dirty and torn, they stomachs empty for days. "I will protect you. It is my duty as a noble, and I will keep you safe; I promise."
"No! No, lord Ciel!" he cried out but in an equally low whisper. "That is my duty, to you! I should be the one to serve and protect you!"
But in the end, it hadn't mattered. They were both branded and shackled, the cultists never quite sure of who was really the decoy and who was the real young lord Phantomhive. But the day came when one of them was to be the sacrifice that night. He pleaded with Ciel to let him be the one. It was no use. Ciel was obstinate, and finally Laz broke down, and allowed him to do so, to be the one, as he found in the end he didn't want to die. To his great dismay and shame, he found he wasn't able to refuse the sacrifice that would let him stay alive, even if for just one more day.
"No! Ciel!" he wailed in grief and guilt, as they dragged Ciel off, away from him, his outstretched hand reaching futilely for him through the bars. "Don't take him away!"
And then the demon had come. But not to the cultists. He came to him. Him, in his fury and despair. Yes, he would have his revenge. Not for anyone else's sake, but for his own. And the best way to accomplish that, he determined, was to become Ciel, fully and completely.
"I am… Ciel. Ciel Phantomhive," he told the devil, after having sealed the contract with him, blood dripping from his newly branded eye. And in his mind, he was. He would be Ciel now. He had always been treated nearly like a son by his virtual parents; he, himself had almost felt like he was truly Vincent's son. Why shouldn't he fully accept that as his identity, now? And thus he integrated himself into that role, completely immersing himself in it, such that he truly believed it, even himself.
And now, here he was. His goal accomplished; but his life still unending. It was wrong; he didn't deserve to be here, in so many ways. The reapers had got it wrong. They must have known who he really was, but decided to have their sport with him despite it. And then the demon… had let him live. At least for now. Why? He tore at his hair.
"Sebastian! Why?" he keened. "Why, Sebastian? You know; you have known all along. Why do you even bother with me, or want me at all?" he asked. "I…" He grimaced in agony and spoke through gritted teeth. "I am a nobody; an imposter. It's true. What my father said to me in the dream. I cannot deny it. I don't belong here; I don't know why you even wanted my soul in the first place. It is nothing but a common, lowborn soul, not worthy of your even glancing in its direction!" He put his hands to the sides of his head, and pulled at his hair.
"Hush, my lord." The demon's arms went around him, and he felt his lips press lightly on the top of his head. "My lord." Drawing him close, he continued. "It is not your title, or your name that I adore. It is you, yourself. Your soul shines and radiates with a brilliance like no other I have ever encountered. A demon sees through the trappings of manmade status and wealth. I care not for such things, only what's important: the person you are; the body, and the soul which dwells within."
Ciel listened to his words, taking a deep breath, and felt himself growing calmer as the demon continued.
"You are the one I want, the only one I want. No other could compare. The real Ciel would pale beside you, I am sure. You are the real Ciel, to me; the only one that matters."
At this, the demon embraced him tighter, letting Ciel cling to him, riding out the tide of his grief. A feeling of relief flooded him at the thought that tomorrow he might finally get some answers as to who he really was.
They set out the next day late in the afternoon, so as to arrive around midnight, and facilitate their mission.
The workhouse was dark and forbidding, its halls grim with filth and disrepair. The two snuck silently, unheard and undetected, to the door of the main office, which opened with hardly a twist of the knob by Sebastian and the tiniest snick as the lock was broken. Creeping in, a lantern was lit after closing the door once more. Placing the flickering glass-walled light on the old, cluttered desk that loomed in the middle of the room, the butler then began going through the drawers one by one, and then on to every other file, nook and shelf in the room, combing through every scattered and randomly organized stack of papers.
Ciel's heart leapt when the snapping of a paper suddenly jolted the relative silence of the room. Looking to his butler, he saw the demon smiling triumphantly, holding up a small, dog-eared document of some sort. Sidling over to it slowly, where the demon stood holding it out, he came at last before him, and reached out to receive the offered item with trembling hand.
Moving to the desk, Ciel held the paper out in the light of the lamp, the flame of its wick glowing steadily with a warm radiance.
It was a letter, addressed to "The compassionate and good-hearted saints of this orphanage." Ciel snorted internally at that. Good-hearted saints, his ass, he thought, as memories of beatings and the horrid mistreating of all the children swirled in his brain. He pushed them aside, and read on, quickly, trying not to notice the one thing that had jumped at him the moment he handled the letter, which he would wait to process in a moment, after finishing.
"Please take my darling, precious child into the warm bosom of your hearts, and care for him with all the love and tenderness that you are able to bestow. His name shall be Lazure, as his beautiful eyes are the azure hue of lapis lazuli. May he grow to be strong and noble, as his lineage would ensure.
"Sincerely, with hope and assurance of your benevolence,
"A"
Ciel's heart stopped, and he now allowed himself to feel the full import of what he beheld before him.
The letter was written upon a sheet of cream-colored stationary, decorated along the edges with a border of delicate, spidery-looking flowers, the shade of red that burned like the sun sinking beyond the ends of the earth. Lycoris, he remembered the flowers as being called, along with recognizing whose stationary it undoubtedly was. He had seen it many times, with words of wisdom and love written on them to him, on the occasions he received a letter from his aunt.
Madam Red.
Falling to his knees, Ciel continued to stare at the portentous document, held reverently in both his hands. Bringing it gently to his breast and cradling it there, he bent his head over it, and tried to process what it meant.
He saw the demon stride quickly over, and crouch down beside him, then felt him place a tentative hand on his shoulder.
"My lord?" The query somehow seemed to ground him once more. With blurry eyes, Ciel looked up at him. The demon's face radiated a questioning and concerned look. Ciel answered him shakily.
"Sebastian, this letter is… is from my aunt. It is in her handwriting; I recognize it." Here he couldn't contain a small choke. "The letter… is from Madam Red." His eyes went wide with the audacity of the statement, as if he was surprised at his own temerity for stating it.
The demon's eyes went wide, as well, flashing crimson, then narrowed, and he seemed to be in thought.
"Is it possible?" the demon mumbled. "How…" His face twisted into a look of consternation. "How could I have not seen, have not remembered?" Looking at Ciel, he continued. "Until now, I had not thought of or given any heed to it…" Ciel began to be impatient at what the demon was getting to.
Looking deeply into Ciel's face, the demon cocked his head ever so slightly and put one slender white-gloved finger to his chin, stroking it softly. "It is best that we retreat outside and head home 'ere I tell you, my lord," he finally said. Ciel only nodded in agreement, and soon found himself being carried in his butler's arms as they sped home by the fastest method possible. The demon express, as he liked to call it, to amuse himself.
Within half an hour, he was seated upon his bed, dressed in night shirt and slippers. Feet hanging off the side, he listened as Sebastian knelt before him, finally resuming his imparting of what information he had to relate to him.
"My lord, I… There was something I witnessed, on the night of Madam's death, that I did not tell you. I saw no need of it, as it seemed to serve no purpose for you to know…"
Ciel wanted to scream now, but forbore. "What? What is it, Sebastian? Just tell me!"
"Very well. In the instant that Madam was killed by Grell, I witnessed her entire cinematic record. This is not something you, as a human, are privy to. It goes by in a flash; mere seconds for you humans. But for a demon, we are able to take it in, and see it in its entirety. And in that time… I saw… certain things… Things which she had hid from almost everyone; even herself. Buried in the back of her mind, it was like a half-seen image, even to me, because of that. Events which she had almost completely succeeded in wiping from her own consciousness."
Ciel listened in dumbfounded amazement as Sebastian related the rest of his story; her story.
The party was in full swing; voluminous dresses swirled in dance with finely tailored evening suits; Champagne flowed like rivers; glasses clinked in riotous toasts of good will.
Angelina herself had donned her finest, red silk brocade evening gown, with the most extravagant flourishes and finishing touches. Long, red-lace gloves complimented her gown perfectly, and a subtle ruby-dotted tiara glittered in her flaming red hair, gracefully coiffed, with tendrils that hung down in flowing curls about her slim, white shoulders.
She had hunted relentlessly for the only one her eyes had the desire of seeing after having spent time with her dear sister, trying valiantly to be glad for her good fortune. In just five months, the Phantomhive family would gain an heir; and her heart seethed with jealousy.
Finally wandering away from the main ballroom, she walked aimlessly and slowly through the corridors, unconsciously heading for her sister's quarters outside her bedroom, where she and her sister had spent many a contented hour, gossiping and regaling in each other's adventures. Swaying a little with weariness and no slight inebriation still, she found her feet had taken her not to her sister's, but to her brother-in-law's room, which she now stood in the entrance to, having somehow turned the handle of the door and brashly entered, unannounced. Her heart hammered with her brazenness, and she felt a sudden urge to turn and run.
But then she espied Vincent, sitting on the edge of the settee of the drawing room to his quarters. His head hung over his lap, his hands covering his face. She watched with amazement and then compassion as his shoulders heaved with barely contained sobs.
Without thinking, she ran to him, and exclaimed, "Brother! Dear brother! Do tell me, what is the matter?" Looking up, his drawn and haggard face instantly brightened in surprise and pleasure, but then consternation.
"Ann! What are you doing here? It is not proper! You should leave, this instant!"
Shaking her head, Ann simply came to him, the man she loved more than life itself, and going up to him took his hands in hers.
"My dear brother… brother-in-law… You must know that I cannot leave you in a state of such apparent sadness. Do tell me what is wrong!"
Vincent gazed up at her and his dark eyes seemed to see her for the first time; seemed to see her as more than who she had always been to him; more than a sister. Her heart melted and her pulse raced. Could this be true, what she saw? But soon she could not doubt it any longer, as Vincent rose up, and drew her into his arms, embracing her close for many seconds.
"Ann, my dear Ann," he murmured into her hair. "I can never hide anything from you. I… I am simply overwhelmed by it all." At that, she looked up into his handsome face with confusion. He went on. "I just… I don't know how to do this. How to be a father… If I should even have brought a child into this world of danger that I live in. I just don't know…" He stopped, and seemed to consider her face for a while. When he continued, her heart jumped into her throat, and her knees wobbled with excitement.
"Ann, you are so beautiful." His hand reached up to her face, brushing some loose strands from her eyes. "Your hair… ever so lovely, so bright, like the reddest spider lilies, blazing in the fields."
Bending his head down towards her, she could detect the barest hint of alcohol on his breath, apparently having imbibed a bit, as well. She didn't care. All she cared about was that his lips were now on hers, drinking her in. Her entire body sang with exhilaration and her hands trailed up his back to wind themselves in his hair, while he in turn drew her closer to him. Soon, bodies intermingled in heedless passion, and the course of many lives was forever changed.
Afterward, Vincent was stricken with remorse, falling to his knees after they hastily redressed, and calling out.
"Oh, my God! Our dear lord in heaven! Please forgive me for what I have done." And then turning to Ann who sat on the bed next to him, spoke with voice laden with self-loathing.
"Ah, Ann! Dear Ann! Please forgive me, as well! I…" Here his eyes got a faraway look of sadness. "I have been missing my wife's… comfort for some months now, and I just… Oh, God, Ann! I am so sorry! Please! Please, if you can, just pretend that this never happened! You must! Promise me!"
She had sworn she would, as she would do anything for him, but it was with leaden heart, full of despair.
Four months after Rachel had her child, Ann had hers. She hid her condition well, leaving just a month after her sister gave birth to go up north to visit relatives, as she told everyone. But where she had actually gone was to a secluded cottage with just her maid, where young ladies of high status could go with no questions asked; and no tales told. In secret, she had her baby, and then just a week later, gave him up to the care of the wet nurse there, for her to finish weening; and then, after a few more months, to drop him off at an undisclosed orphanage, a letter tucked inside his swaddling.
Vincent was never told; how could she tell him? It would only end in tragedy for all, for him to know. He would demand she have the baby in all her ignominy and shame, and then raise it himself, no doubt, with her sister, Rachel, in full knowledge. She could not do that! She simply could not! It would bring disaster and disgrace upon him, upon the Phantomhive family; would be the end of his career; of his respected place in society. No, that she could never do to the man she loved. It would be her burden to bear, and hers alone.
She had given him her word, swearing to keep it secret, and to forget it completely, even. And she did. She successfully put it out of her mind such that she truly did not even have any thoughts as to it ever having happened whatsoever. Her mind was a powerful one; but also a warped one, from the effort and the toll this had taken on her, forevermore.
And then had come the day, four years later. Vincent had come to her in secret, and demanded of her, demanded to know. He had beseeched her, desperately, lovingly.
"Ann, my dear Ann, my darling Angelina, I need to know. Could you have… Did you have… Ah! This is so hard. Ann… You must tell me, is it possible that what happened that night… led to… consequences, later on? I must know! Ann… Because, as I am sure you could see, the child, Ann… he looks exactly like my dear little Ciel."
A part of her knew, but not consciously; a part of her knew what had happened, knew exactly who this little boy he had brought home was. But it was a part of her that had been pushed to the farthest reaches of her subconscious, buried under layers and protective layers of denial. In the forefront of her mind, it hadn't happened.
And so she denied it. Looked up into his earnest, honey-brown eyes, and denied it. Denied it completely and vehemently. And he looked into her eyes, and was satisfied.
Until the night when fate dealt its last, cruel blow to her. From a reaper's scythe; a reaper whom she had thought she had loved, at that.
"I cannot kill this child!" she had cried out in final acknowledgment, her recognition at last of what she had always known, but could never admit. "This child is my…" But then the blade had bitten deep, had halted her words along with all her hopes and shattered dreams. But Ciel knew now what her last words would have been.
Her son. He was her son. And not only that; he was Vincent's son, as well. Not his legitimate son, true; thus not the true earl, perhaps. But still his son.
"Sebastian…"
His butler looked up at him from where he still knelt before him, and took both of Ciel's hands in his, pressing them together in his. There was no need for more words. This was something that Ciel would just have to process in his own time, in his own way, and the demon obviously knew it.
"Sebastian, thank you. For telling me this. Now… I have to…" He wasn't sure what he needed to do. "Sleep." The demon nodded in understanding.
"Yes, my lord." Rising, he stood before Ciel. "I will leave you to your rest then, young master," he murmured, and gave a small bow. "I bid you goodnight." And with that, he turned and left the room, leaving the candelabra still burning on the table next to his bed. For many minutes, Ciel sat on his bed, perfectly still, and just watched the shadows jumping and swaying on the walls from the light of the flickering candles.
Finally, he got up and strode across the room to his armoire, opening the heavy oaken doors. Rummaging around a bit, he quickly found what he was looking for, and brought it with him to set beside him as he lay back in his bed.
Softly stroking the smooth red silk of the now faded and worn jacket, he whispered, "Madam."
With tears stinging his eyes, he pressed his cheek to the precious object, and with a softly suppressed sob, amended his wording.
"Mother."
