Disclaimer: I own no more than usual. Which would be nothing.

Author's Note: This was inspired by a submitted Kuroshitsuji headcanon on tumblr. I believe the confession was something along the lines of "Ciel sings when he thinks no one is listening, and Sebastian thinks it's adorable so he pretends not to notice." I can't recall who submitted it, but I thought it had the potential of becoming a cute-and-creepy fic. Unfortunately, "cute" died at some point while writing this. 8/ Oops…?

Warnings: SebaCiel snuck in there. (NO REGRETS.) Lots of allusions. Kinda dark. It's hard to work my brain right now (I think I'm getting sick), so more edit-fail than usual.

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Swansong

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Mine eye is consumed because of grief; it waxeth old because of all mine enemies.

~Psalm 6:7

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The click of an opening chamber resonates through the empty night like the first beat of a metronome. Bullet shells clatter and roll; ghosting about in haphazard patterns, the casings make an odd whirling sound as they troll from barrel to desk ledge. A makeshift percussion: a tinny chorus of bells. And beneath their chiming, a steady thrum echoes— the drum of a young boy's heartbeat. Slow. Stable. No longer exaggerated by adrenaline; instead, calm to the point of apathy. The organ pulses out a rhythm, which the bored nobleman uses to his melodic advantage.

"Who killed Cock Robin?

I, said the Sparrow,

with my bow and arrow,

I killed Cock Robin."

The juvenile strain leaves his lips with less breath than a whisper; at first, it isn't readily apparent if the child even realizes he is singing. His eyes—mismatched and narrowed in concentration—are focused on his work; his fingers—sure and adroit— are flicking through a collection of bore brushes. Slender handles clack against one another in time to the tune; he makes his selection, tying a fresh handkerchief around the rear of his pistol with an unnecessary flourish. Theatrical. A performance for the shadows, for himself, for Queen and Country, unseen by anyone else. The second in one night.

"Who saw him die?

I, said the Fly,

with my little eye,

I saw him die."

The pretty earl's musical murmurs are momentarily interrupted by a muted sniff. Faintly annoyed by some tickling sensation, a small hand lifts to bat a matted lock of hair behind an ear; his wrist butts against his cheek, smearing a droplet of crimson across the pale of cool flesh. A macabre sort of rouge, the rest of which has since dried, cracked, and started to flake. The ashen fragments of ruby fluids mix with old gunpowder atop the desk, and the whole of the room reeks— the air pungent with the odors of oil, copper, and metal.

"Who caught his blood?

I, said the Fish,

with my little dish,

I caught his blood."

He dips wiry bristles into the proper solvent; the bell-sweet tinkle of brush against bottleneck— like an orchestral conductor at his stand— resounds hauntingly. Excess fluids fall with the crystalline peal of chimes: drips and drops and plops. Waste not, want not; what a waste of a life that man had led. There is no point in crying over spilt (blood) milk, but the queen will surely weep, all the same. If only for show. Because someone will have to, and he will not.(How could he, when he no longer has tears? Only tea and cleansing solutions enter this room.) As the child begins to clean, a delicate scritch-scritch-scritch fills the darkness of the opulent study, like moldering nails against the inner lid of a casket.

"Who'll dig his grave?

I, said the Owl,

with my pick and shovel,

I'll dig his grave."

The heat of his breath leaves a mist against the mirror-smooth surface of his Collier Flintlock revolver; he picks at its muzzle, then begins to scour the dirt from the gun's cylinders, ends, rod. Bits and pieces fall apart, only to be hastily set back in place, and shined to such perfection that it's as if nothing had ever been broken. And all the while, the boy mumbles his customary chant, fluting voice tripping mindlessly over trilled notes:

"Who'll carry the coffin?

I, said the Kite,

if it's not through the night,

I'll carry the coffin."

"I rather think my lord would lack the physical strength for such a task, if he does not mind my saying so," came a silken voice from the entryway, its speaker nearly as black as the midnight hour itself. Nearly. Through the chilled veil of autumn gloom, twin embers are flickering scarlet with amusement; the demon's enchanted irises are as luminous as any glowing candelabra. The little earl pauses momentarily upon sensing his intruder; where he'd been almost-silent before, he now falls fully-so. In turn, the butler's serpentine grin widens a bit, its corners contorting in mild disappointment. "Oh, no need to stop on the account of a lowly servant," he purrs, spanning the gap between them on a bridge of silhouettes. "The young master's voice is most endearing. Will he not continue? No? Oh dear, does my presence give him stage fright? Perhaps if we shared in the next verse…"

"Who'll bear the pall?

We, said the Wren,

both the cock and the hen,

We'll bear the pall."

The demon's vocals—as velvet as the caress that traces the outer curve of the mortal's throat— melds most harmonically with the other's quiet whispers, tenderly coaxing more power and volume into the shared descant. As one verse dwindles into another, so too does the devil's accompaniment fade; he is ignored like all slaves are, even as he rests his smirking head atop his king's crown. Willowy arms brace themselves against the fine upholstery of his master's chair; said master begins to polish his well-loved weapon, already preparing for tomorrow's battles.

"Who'll sing a psalm?

I, said the Thrush,

as she sat on a bush,

I'll sing a psalm."

And such a pretty psalm she sings, muses the monster, idle fingers dancing too low and silvery smile stretching too wide. It is far too lovely a song for whom it is sung: a collaborator whose grisly end has brought his charge another step closer to his ultimate goal. A small victory—one that many would argue had not been worth its price. But the Phantomhive is not known for pity or caution, and prepubescent recklessness has only been exacerbated by hormones, impatience, and feelings of entitlement. He had cared not a whit that his prey had been a high-ranking official, and had not hesitated in removing said piece from the chessboard—without, perhaps, considering possible ramifications, or his opponent's future plans. The morning light is sure to find his tamer in a good deal of trouble; a guard dog gone rabid, the public would say: foaming at the mouth and fighting against his leash. Like all aristocracy— mad with power, genetics twisted. Insane. The creature chuckles (a honeyed hum), because the masses, despite their ignorance, are not entirely wrong. It is hard to see insanity in the crisp, confident movements of his earl, but his is a trained eye; the public labels his lord a heartless being, but their mistake is understandable. The state of his soul now-withstanding, the child has always had a heart—it had simply been turned to stone by the gazes of boyhood beasts… and now is beginning to splinter and groan, collapsing under the weight of an empire. During his years of contracted servitude, the butler has dared repairs: built up from shaky foundations with metaphorical wood and clay, only to see his work washed away; bricks and mortar had also been tried, but would not stay. Iron and steel bent and bowed; silver and gold were stolen away, rescued, and kidnapped again. All attempted improvements have ended with disaster, mayhem, and internal rot. So instead, the demon has taken to watching his tamer at night, all night, every night… if only to more-thoroughly enjoy the sight of his gradual, inevitable collapse.

"All the birds of the air

fell a-sighing and a-sobbing,

when they heard the bell toll

for poor Cock Robin."

The revolver glistens in rays of moonlight, pristine as the day it had first been purchased. Ivory fangs wink like distant stars, and the space between them lessens: satin lips caressing the shell of an ear, rosy tongue dipping salaciously inward—as if in mimicry of his master's bore brush. A sonorous chortle, a staccato stiffening. The earl shudders as the hush left in the wake of his nursery rhyme is lovingly filled by his sensual servant: each familiar note disturbingly prognostic as the demon coos his lullaby.

"London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down…"

And fall it (he) does—against the desk, against the floor. Mounting pressures build; his back arches, bows, and rises, only to—in true fashion— fold against the forces that ride him from above, below, outside, in. Out and in, and again and again, as all the birds of the air fall in time— a-sighing and a-sobbing (one crooning "nevermore") as the horizon flushes burgundy— and the sound of Sunday bells swallows the wuthering of the moor, and the panting of the demon, and the ever-progressive crumbling of the young boy's ruptured mind: memories tumbling before hazy eyes like wreckage and debris.

If mankind was able to express the true depths of its sorrows with words alone, the butler had once decreed, smiling his most beautiful, terrible smile, I hardly think that humans would have needed to invent music.

"…my fair lady."

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