Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji. I am making no profit from this fanfiction and would not accept it if offered. This is for fun and to improve my own writing skills. I also do not own Baudelaire's "The Dance of Death" or Poe's "Alone."
Character(s): Ciel Phantomhive, Sebastian Michaelis
Rating: T
Prompt: None
Word Count: 1,128 (including the stanzas)
Suggested Song: Saviour – Black Veil Brides
Info/Notes: So this didn't go where I was expecting it whatsoever. The original idea was a philosophical conversation of Ciel's weaknesses and strengths based off of the poem. Clearly that didn't happen o.o Also, Sebastian is a hard bitch to write. Again with the derpy titles, I know . Aaaand self-edited. I've not yet found a beta ._. I apologize.
"Carrying bouquet, and handkerchief, and gloves,
Proud of her height as when she lived, she moves
With all the careless and high-stepping grace,
And the extravagant courtesan's thin face."
Sultry summer air poured in uninvited through a partially cracked window, admitting the nighttime cacophony of bugs crying out their nonsensical melodies. Avians fluttered and flittered this way and that, their feathery appendages catching updrafts and down currents, soaring and swooping through the midnight atmosphere with a gay manner that only those not capable of human thought could achieve. No clouds stained the visage of the heavens, not even a tiny wisp of cirrus clouds could be seen in the milky-sapphire firmament; the earlier rumbles of thunder and rippling flashes of lighting had been chased away by the unseen hand of a god. Nocturnal beasts that often frequented the grounds of the sprawling manor crept and prowled about, irises and corneas radiating feral gleams when the light of the razor's edged moon passed over them. Grasses rippled and swayed a tango under the mild wind that purred like a feline through the ether, making the emerald blades tremble and shudder. They were startling green despite the season being the midst of summer, the meteorological conditions stifling hot. This, in part, was why the majority of the windows in the regal manor of Phantomhive were cracked open.
Supple digits traced over the g(u)ilted lettering on the parchment, while pallid lips formed each syllable with a ridiculous ease. Mismatched oculars – one revealed to have a pentacle upon it – slipped from word to word, taking it in and locking them into the jellied grey matter. The youth's soft articulations were as posh and proper as he could arrange them to be, making utmost certain that every sound was as true to what the poem had been intended to be read as. The child sat in a desk chair on his lonesome, though he reclined in it as though it was a throne and he a king – and in the metaphorical sense, he truly was. A petite king for a petite kingdom, one that extended the length of the Phantomhive manor and grounds as well as England's Underworld. The young male had his feet, bare save for stockings, propped on the corner of the desk, providing the perfect place for a book to rest in his lap. Baudelaire's "The Dance of Death" purred from him, radiating thinly from his chest and slipping into the stratosphere.
"The swarms that hum about her collar-bones
As the lascivious streams caress the stones,
Conceal from every scornful jest that flies,
Her gloomy beauty; and her fathomless eyes"
But the sleek tumbling of words cut off as another voice melded into his own at the beginning of the next stanza. "Are made of shade and void; with flowery displays/Her skull is wreathed artistically, and sways,/Feeble and weak on her frail vertebrae." An already pale mien paled even more as the boy slowly sat up to turn and lock his unequal visionaries on the slowly approaching form. As the devil unwound himself from the shadows, the leather trappings of his true form melted away to reveal the uniform he wore to act as the Earl's butler. There was a cruel smile quirking the corner of his lips and revealing jagged dentals, each one gleaming individually in the low light. The leather shoes that adorned his feet clicked lightly against the oaken barricade of the floor as the devil approached, that sinister smile remaining perfectly in place. Svelte tones like purest silk being twined around a throat whispered melodically from his vocal cords even as the Earl shifted in his chair, dropping his feet to the floor. "What an odd thing for my young master to be reading at such an hour. Perhaps he is looking for similarities between himself and Lady Death?"
Unseen hackles rose, bristled, as teeth grit together and ground. The noise was like a violin's bow sweeping across the strings of hell. The petite lord's mind was slipping over the half-stanza of the poem that had slipped so lyrically from his butler's pearlescent maw, wondering if he had been subtly insulted. After a moment, his young grey matter decided he had been and a retort was snarled forth, potent and writhing with fury. "Are you calling me weak, Sebastian?" The demon's earthly name was growled out between those gritted enamels, the amount of power in the name making their twin Contracts clench. The young earl cringed in pain involuntarily, his hand twitching toward his suddenly throbbing eye. For the demon's part, he lifted one fine brow up slightly, finding it amusing that the child cringed at such pathetic pain. But the youth did not remove his mismatched spheres away from the contracted demon, who dropped to kneel at Ciel's side. "I am not weak." The tones were whispered, as though he was trying to convince himself that he wasn't.
Serrated dentiles glittered cruelly as the smile widened. "Such a humble servant like myself would never dream to call their master weak, my lord." Suave tones purred forth, mimicking humility and subservience but they both knew the truth – the tie that bound them was Ciel Phantomhive's soul, not loyalty or love. Lithe fingers pulled the book from the diminutive lord, kid gloves tracing the letters much like the lips of young Ciel had traced them. One digit touched the word "death" in its many places, trailing like a serpent through the grasses. The child's deep blue eyes – one marred with the mark of the beast – tracked the finger, hating it. "My lord will give himself nightmares reading such grisly works before his bed." The smile was as thin and sharp as that of a razor's edge, each jagged tooth flashing like gems. The tome was closed gently as the devil rose, his six foot one frame towering over the tiny one of his master, who stood up unhurriedly as well. "Come, young master, it is well after midnight. I will let you sleep in an hour in the morning. Run along."
It was a dismissal, and Ciel hesitantly crept toward the door, assured that the demon would come in a few moments. Silently, the beast watched his master mutely depart, the door closing with little more than rasp of sound behind him. A soft whispering chuckle escaped from the demon as he turned to face the shelves of books that lined the study walls, his fingers flicking to a completely different author and a completely different poem. Poe's "Alone" gleamed up at him in that same golden lettering as what "The Dance of Death" had been. His perfect maw twitched, vocal cords shuddering as lungs gave up the air needed for speech in and in seductive rumble of a voice, the male purred out the words to the last few lines. "From the thunder and the storm,/And the cloud that took the form,/(When the rest of Heaven was blue)/Of a demon in my view." The laughter came again, sonorous and echoing, as his hands closed the book and gloved hands lifted the tome to place it back perfectly in its spot. As the devil turned around, his ruddy claret oculars briefly changed, from that muddy hue to a gleaming, sickly coral, the pupil a slit, the glow as evil as the smile that tainted his orifice.