Music I listened to while writing :Power of Lust - Gabriel Saban - Wednesday OST
Chapter 11: The Black Knight Takes the White Bishop
Grell looked surprised, dazed, by such a weak yet unexpected attack.
His crimson blood, slowly spreading across the back of his precious red coat, stained the valuable fabric. In the dull pain, he let go of his scythe, which sank into the muddy ground.
Furious, he kicked his assailant violently, ripping the bloodied scissors from his own wound, which the writer still held as he fell.
"How dare you? How dare you lay a hand on a god of death!" he roared, raising a threatening gloved hand toward Arthur.
The young man, kneeling, made no attempt to flee.
What chance remained when facing the power of a divine being, about to deliver the fatal blow?
He didn't tremble; fear had long since left him. All the terror of the unknown that had suffocated him had vanished, like the flame of a blown-out candle.
He closed his eyes, and behind his shut lids, images flashed by—fast and silent. But he couldn't put names to the faces that appeared in this final moment.
Was it his baby, smiling in the arms of the woman he had once loved? Her lips, her silky hair… yes, it was her, the sweet one he had forgotten. For a brief moment, he wished he could regret not carrying those dreams and hopes toward the people he cherished, but he couldn't. With one final sigh of shame, he asked for their forgiveness.
But the fatal blow didn't land, and suddenly, he felt himself pushed back. Something brushed his face. Perhaps it was the shinigami's hand that had missed him, and then he felt the cold, slick ground against his back, and mud tangling in his hair.
He opened his eyes.
The butler was standing beside the shinigami, trembling ever so slightly, but standing tall, arms extended in front of him, ready for battle.
"Oh, I see you want more, my handsome demon. You plan to fight me with a wound like that?" the death god mocked, adjusting his glasses that had slipped down his nose.
A blow was delivered, so fast that Arthur couldn't see where it came from. Grell hit the ground for a brief moment, or so it seemed to Arthur, but the shinigami was back on his feet faster than human eyes could comprehend or even notice.
"Insatiable, aren't you, Sebastian?" said Grell, wiping the thin line of blood from his lip. "Well, you asked for it!"
The assault began—violent, with blows flying at an incomprehensible speed, almost invisible. If not for the reddish splashes mixing with the mud and the smell of blood filling the stormy air, it would have been hard to tell there was a fight happening, as their forms had become indistinguishable.
Suddenly, Sebastian was on the ground, and Grell was on top of him, crushing his throat with his fingers, making the small bones crack.
"I always knew we'd say goodbye like this—your body against mine in a deadly embrace!" Grell whispered with a grating laugh, eyes wide with pleasure, teeth bared.
The demon punched him in the ribs to free himself, tearing screams of pain from the shinigami with a wicked satisfaction. Grell's fingers loosened, releasing his opponent's breath.
"Arthur!" shouted the demon, striking the death god again. "The scythe, Arthur!"
Breaking free from his contemplative trance, the young man stood up, painfully, clutching his ribs, bruised from the kick he had received. He was surprised that his legs could still support him, and with unbearable effort, he stumbled toward the motorized scythe, resting not far from Ciel's motionless body.
"What do you think you're doing, darling?" Grell screamed as he struggled to break free from the demon's brutal grip that kept him pinned to the ground. "Don't touch that!"
Arthur lunged for the weapon, a heavy, terrifying object, coated in a slick, red liquid, reeking of fresh blood. He lifted it with difficulty, the weight straining his aching arms. His frantic hands fumbled over the motor, searching for a way to start it: a saw, a motorized system, a chain... connected to a pull-starter, similar to those found on the new diesel engines at the London Academy of Sciences.
"I said don't touch that!" Grell screamed again, slamming his knee into Sebastian's still open wound. He broke free and rushed toward the young writer, hands outstretched, ready to tear him apart.
Arthur yanked the starter, activating the whirling saw. Kneeling in the mud beside Ciel's body, he swung the saw forward clumsily, blocking the shinigami's path to the boy, threatening him with his own weapon.
The blade struck.
Blood splattered, and a horrifying scream echoed through the darkness.
Falling to his knees, the god of death clutched his arm, wailing in agony, pressing down on the stump as his severed hand lay in the mud, twitching one final time.
"YOU'RE GOING TO PAY FOR THAT!" Grell shrieked, wild with rage. "YOU'LL DIE FOR THIS!"
Behind him, a demon let out a long, satisfied sigh.
"It seems the advantage has shifted. Now I can deal with you as I please," Sebastian murmured, cracking his knuckles with relish as he advanced toward the shinigami.
He picked up Grell's severed hand from the ground. Playfully, he tossed it into the air, once, twice, like flipping a coin, watching the god of death still kneeling, panting in pain.
"Such perfect manicure!" the butler remarked, peeling the glove off the dismembered limb.
With a horrid grin on his face, he slapped the shinigami with his own severed hand, tearing the skin of his cheek with those perfectly polished nails.
"Ahhh, stop! NO!"
Another slap, and the claws pierced through his eyelid, gouging out his eye, ripping off his glasses.
"MY FACE!"
"You wanted to take what I cherished most, didn't you, Grell? Well, accept the irony of this moment! Now it's my turn to destroy what you hold dear."
And Sebastian raised the bloody hand again.
"Enough!"
A giant pair of shears appeared out of nowhere and grabbed the demon's clawed hand, wrenching it out of his grip. Startled, Sebastian looked up at his attacker.
Perched on the branch of an oak tree stood another shinigami, holding the scythe that had ripped away his improvised weapon. The god of death leaped from the tree and landed near the demon, who stepped back, glaring menacingly.
"That's enough," William T. Spears said, lowering his scythe.
He tossed the severed hand at the feet of the red-haired shinigami.
"William!" Grell whimpered, searching with his one good eye for his fellow reaper. "William! Look at what they've done to me! They mutilated me!"
"Go back," Spears cut him off, his voice icy. "You've done enough."
Grell, surprised at first, grimaced in pain as he tried to stand.
"I've done enough?" the shinigami snarled, trembling more with fury than with pain. "I didn't break any rules! The kid would've been dead long ago if the demon hadn't intervened. It doesn't matter now, he'll never be on any list. What does he matter to us? And the demon, why spare him? No, I haven't broken any rules!"
He pointed at his own face with a trembling hand.
"Look at what they've done to me, look at me!"
"Your hatred blinds you," Spears murmured. *"And we cannot tolerate such behavior from a shinigami."
"My hatred... what do you know about hatred, when you feel nothing..." Grell whispered, clutching his mutilated arm to stave off the pain. "You judge without knowing, but what else can I expect from you!"
A brief flicker of sadness passed through William's eyes, but it disappeared as quickly as it came.
"Go now. There's no point in lingering," he replied coldly. "Wait for me at the manor gates. You need to be treated."
Grell touched his face and winced as his fingers traced the deep lacerations. He picked up his severed hand and stuffed it into his pocket before limping miserably down the muddy path.
Spears watched him for a moment as he left when a voice called out.
"You received my message days ago!"
William turned to face the demon, who glared at him with barely concealed fury.
"The mail goes through a long administrative process," he explained without emotion, "and we work by pigeon. Your owl was examined before we read its message."
"Such efficiency!" Sebastian growled, seething.
"It may surprise you, but a demon's life is of little concern to us."
"It's not my life I'm concerned about!" Sebastian shouted, overwhelmed by a rage he could no longer contain.
Adjusting his glasses, William observed the demon, who leaned on one leg to relieve the other, struggling to stay upright. A gaping wound slashed across his chest.
"I know," he murmured, glancing at Ciel Phantomhive, still unconscious. A young man with dark hair was checking his pulse, touching his forehead. "The boy must be protected at all costs, according to your contract."
"The contract?" Sebastian echoed, as if the word was foreign to him.
A faint groan escaped his lips, and the fury drained from him, replaced by a deep, aching weariness that etched itself on his face.
"Ah yes, the contract," he muttered, glancing down at his hands, stained with his own blood. "That must be why I'm doing this."
He fixed his gaze on the shinigami, calm and resolute.
"Leave, and take your circus animal with you. Get out of this estate." He turned, intending to return to his master. "You take up so much space in the human world, one could mistake you for demons."
Spears grimaced at the remark, letting out a disdainful sigh as he prepared to leave.
"Excuse me? Sir?"
A soft voice. William turned back. The young man, no older than thirty perhaps, though his exact age was difficult to determine. He looked both young and old in that moment. His face was lovely, innocent yet wise, like that of an eternal student. But this one had learned too much, and the weight of it burdened him. He held the shinigami's scythe in his hand, his arm limp as if he lacked the strength to carry it, the blade sinking into the earth.
"A young woman was injured... by your friend," he continued. "She was bleeding, and her blood was dark…"
"That's because she was wounded by a shinigami's scythe when she wasn't supposed to die," William explained, emotionless. "The blood that flows is mixed with the liquid that surrounds the human soul, because the scythe tears both flesh and soul. That's why the blood is so dark."
The young man nodded without truly understanding, but persisted,
"We cauterized the wound to stop the bleeding…"
"That was the right thing to do. Humans can't survive a shinigami's scythe unless it's just a scratch that's cauterized. If you burned the wound, she'll survive."
Arthur approached William without fear and handed him the scythe.
"A weapon that cuts through souls? It's quite reckless of you to leave it lying around unsupervised."
William adjusted his glasses and took the scythe, eyeing the writer. There was a gleam in Arthur's eyes, a hint of madness that crept into those who encountered the supernatural—those people who had "seen things" and succumbed to their dark fantasies before slipping into madness.
"You may be the only one I'll see again, Mr. Arthur Conan Doyle, on the day of your death, no doubt. Until then…" He glanced at the demon, now bent over the young earl, who was slowly beginning to stir. "Take care of your soul… and forgive us again for the disturbance."
"The disturbance?" Arthur sighed. The irony of calling such an event a "disturbance" when it had upended his life, shattered his innocence, slashed at his reason, and crushed his heart.
"Is my soul really in danger?" he asked with a sad smile.
"A pact with a demon is the greatest threat to a human soul. But madness haunts those who linger at the border between the mortal and immortal worlds. Leave this manor, you don't belong here. They've chosen to be damned together. You have not."
Arthur looked at the boy lying beside his butler.
Neither spoke nor touched, as though the other's skin was forbidden. A dark veil enveloped them, and at last, Arthur understood what he had failed to discern until now. That unbreakable bond was a demonic pact, a vow forged from the blackest evil. Forgotten words resurfaced in his memory—prayers, fasts, and psalms he'd learned as a child and spent his life denying. A mixture of mud and blessed wax: the soul, eternity, final judgment, damnation...
He had abandoned all that long ago. The only angel who had touched him and inspired in him a sacred devotion was named Ciel Phantomhive. And his soul, like his body, was lost to him. Ciel would never be his. He belonged to another.
"It doesn't matter," Arthur murmured as a suffocating sadness slowly enveloped him. "I've seen enough. I just want to go home."
He turned, smiling with melancholy. The god of death had disappeared.
Ciel exhaled sharply, his eyes snapping open as if jolted awake by a distant, muffled scream. His vision gradually cleared, revealing a face framed by jet-black hair. Copper eyes stared back at him, offering comfort, a familiar gaze that brought him peace. He sat up, aided by his demon, whose hands gently supported his back. The boy scanned the area for the shinigami but saw no one. His eyes then fell on Arthur, walking slowly toward the manor's main door, with a heavy step and a sorrowful expression.
Ciel wanted to call out to him, to ask what had happened while he was unconscious, but the young man's demeanor was so forlorn that Ciel couldn't bring himself to say his name. Silently, he watched Arthur walk away.
Glancing around furtively, he realized that he was alone with his butler. The God of Death had vanished.
He felt exhausted, his breathing pained, but his mind was calm. Rain dripped down his face, and he shivered. His eyes landed on the demon kneeling beside him. A soft sigh escaped his pink lips as Sebastian raised a hand, pulling off his glove. The demon's cold fingers gently brushed Ciel's throat, moving aside the wet, heavy strands of hair to touch the bruised skin where Grell's hand had strangled him.
"It's over," Ciel said as the cold hand moved up to his forehead, soothing his fever.
"Yes, it's over," the demon replied, though it wasn't a question.
The boy, in turn, placed his hand on the butler's chest, where the deep wound still carved into his flesh. Sebastian exhaled sharply at the touch, the searing pain flaring, then subsiding under the cool fingers tracing his injuries.
Ciel's breath was still uneven, a faint wheezing in his chest, but his heartbeat was steady and calm as his fingers glided over the torn skin.
He didn't understand why this sudden, overwhelming urge to touch had gripped him, but as his hand brushed Sebastian's chest, all fear faded, replaced by a deep sadness. Where did this growing melancholy come from, a feeling that made him forget the pain and the cold, urging him to indulge in forbidden touches? The world seemed different now—darker, yet somehow less frightening. Just a little more tragic, if such a thing were possible for him.
The images from the cinematic record flickered through his mind, but he pushed them aside, unsure what to make of them, not knowing what they could mean.
He hadn't seen anything particularly revealing in the demon's soul, yet their memory stirred a deep unease that weighed on his heart and compressed his chest. He didn't want to think, not now, when there was so much left to do.
What was to be done about Snake? How could he explain these attacks and the deaths that had occurred within these walls? How would he present a report to the Queen, one worthy of the Earl of Phantomhive, without arousing suspicion or prompting Earl Grey to come after him?
Shaking his head, he tried to clear his mind of these thoughts, which had no place in this moment—while he felt the intense gaze of his demon burning into his skin, while their faces were so close, and the breath escaping from Sebastian's lips brushed against his cheek.
Trembling, he became acutely aware of the state they were both in: his demon was injured, and he, still kneeling in the muddy ground, with torn, dirty, and soaked clothes. The rain made them heavy, clinging to his skin.
Sebastian gazed at him without moving, his shirt and jacket in tatters, stained with blood and grime. Ciel turned his head away, bitter. He attempted to move his legs, but his strength failed him. He doubted he could stand.
In a hesitant yet deliberate motion, he gently wrapped his arms around Sebastian's neck, pulling his fevered body close, holding him tenderly even though he could feel the butler's wound pressing against his own chest and stomach. Blood still oozed, mixing with the rain and the mud already staining his velvet jacket and once-white flannel shirt.
"You may be injured, but you still have to carry me to my room. It's your duty as a butler," he said, his voice hoarse and strained from being choked.
Solemnly, Sebastian nodded, slipping his arms beneath the boy's body, ignoring his own pain as he forced his muscles to tense one last time on this cold, endless night.
His polished shoes slid slightly, but he kept his balance, though each movement sent waves of excruciating pain through his limbs. A dull fatigue settled over him, and he held the boy more tightly in his arms, the boy who had rested his head on his shoulder, eyes closed.
They crossed through the manor's main entrance, and the warm air inside briefly felt suffocating. In the middle of the hall, cloaked in darkness, stood Tanaka, holding a candlestick.
"Shall I inform the guests that they may now leave the drawing room?" the old butler asked in a calm, measured voice, paying no attention or passing any judgment on the bedraggled state of the two figures, drenched and clinging tightly to each other.
"Do so. I'm taking the Earl to his chambers," Sebastian replied, his voice still fitting his role despite his weakened state. "Please offer his apologies to the guests."
"Very well, sir," Tanaka said, bowing before turning and disappearing through a door.
As they ascended the stairs to his room, Ciel felt nothing, for the demon carried him with dizzying speed up to the upper floors, barely brushing the steps in his swift ascent.
At the door, a moment of weakness hit, and it seemed as if the demon might collapse. But he caught himself, steadying one hand against the doorframe while the other still supported the boy. Ciel's arms tightened around him, silently pleading for him to stay on his feet. A soft cough escaped him, but he didn't open his eyes.
"You shouldn't have come to find us," Sebastian said, his voice strained, his hand clenched as he leaned against the wall.
"Did I have a choice?" Ciel murmured, denying the truth, hoping his demon wouldn't answer.
For despite his hypocrisy, the truth was that he had had a choice. Lost in Arthur's arms as he tried to hold him back, or during those stumbles as he ran in desperation, he had had a choice. He could have stayed safely hidden within the manor, could have remained silent, out of sight. Or perhaps not. Fear drives one to madness, and it had seemed to him that losing Sebastian would mean losing himself.
But how could he explain that to a demon? Better to keep quiet about what he couldn't understand, or what might seem laughably human to him.
"You didn't trust me?" the butler asked darkly.
"Of course not," Ciel replied coldly, though his arms tightened even more around his servant's neck. "I can't trust a demon. But if you're asking whether I doubted your ability to win… yes, I'll admit the thought crossed my mind."
The horrific scene from that night replayed in his mind: Sebastian falling from the roof, crashing to the ground…
"I'm sorry," the butler simply said.
Ciel felt sadness grip him again. Keeping up appearances was painful; he felt as though he was suffocating from all he wasn't saying. He wanted to tell this wounded being who held him so tightly something true, something passionately sincere. The kind of words men write on paper to declare fervent, beautiful feelings. Yes, he wanted to open his lips and say them aloud, forgetting who was listening. But those words—he didn't know them. He hadn't learned them, and in his breath, the words crumbled into ash before they could form into sound.
And yet, he had so badly wanted to explain the heartbreak, to tell him that watching him be tortured had hurt, hurt terribly. That the horror of that night had stripped him raw, a prey to the deepest, most humiliating emotions, crying over the suffering of a demon whose absence he couldn't imagine. Running to him, even if it meant dying in his arms.
Oh yes, better to remain silent!
The demon entered the room and headed toward the large fireplace. He raised his hand, palm out toward the logs, which ignited instantly, and large flames filled the hearth.
Sebastian approached the bed and set his master down on the floor. Kneeling, he began to undo the young man's jacket. Removing his dirty gloves to avoid soiling his skin further, he tore the shirt apart, too damaged to bother with care. His master's eyes never left him, watching every familiar movement as if those skilled fingers were undressing him for the first time.
The air grew thicker, and unsettling shadows, cast by the flames, spread across the walls, forming terrifying shapes that seemed to glide across the wallpaper, licking at the patterns. As he admired them, Ciel felt his trousers slide down his cold legs and fall to the floor. The ungloved hands dug into the bend of his knee, lifting one leg, then the other. Nothing felt real anymore—only exhaustion and the flickering ghosts of the fire. He watched the dancing shadows on the wall, dizzy with fatigue.
His eyes closed, and his deep breaths seemed to draw him into a peaceful slumber, one he had longed for over many days.
Fingers slid through his damp hair, removing his eyepatch. He was gently washed, the remaining mud wiped from his face, hair, hands, and feet. Then he was dressed in a fresh, soft shirt that smelled of lavender and clean linens. Fingers slid over his skin, fastening the buttons. Strong arms lifted him from the floor, and he felt the thick mattress and the soothing satin sheets against his sore neck.
He thought he was about to drift into sleep when he heard footsteps moving away, and a sudden fear gripped him—a powerful reminder of the sadness that had overwhelmed him earlier.
"Stay…" he heard himself whisper before falling silent, ashamed of his childish desire not to be alone again. "Stay until I fall asleep."
An embarrassing request, but he didn't care, just as he didn't care about the shameful warmth rising to his cheeks, reddening his skin. He didn't even mind the soft laugh that briefly filled the room, proof that his butler was mocking his human weakness once more.
But… did he detect a note of melancholy in that mocking sigh? Perhaps even tenderness, he found himself wondering. But it didn't matter.
The sound of rustling clothes reached him, or at least that's what he thought he recognized behind his closed eyelids. A jacket brushing against fabric, a belt buckle being undone, the soft thud of cloth falling to the floor. Water too, pouring into a jar, the faint splashing, the fire being stoked, and then, silence.
Silent minutes passed before Ciel opened his eyes, slowly sitting up, and searched for his butler.
The dark figure stood before the hearth, his shoulder resting against the stone fireplace, half of his body bare. Ciel flushed and found himself turning away. He felt only more ashamed.
For heaven's sake, he wasn't a child anymore!
Swallowing hard, he forced himself to look back at Sebastian.
His servant was wringing the blood-stained shirt he had worn earlier between his hands, pressing it firmly against his wound. In the flames burned his waistcoat and jacket.
Seeing his demon in that state, Ciel felt his heart clench. The bleeding wound was nothing compared to the sorrow that hardened Sebastian's features. It was a deep despair.
He stood up slowly and approached, his bare feet tapping softly against the floor.
"You're going to die."
Startled and afraid, Ciel froze. His demon wasn't looking at him. His gaze remained fixed on the flames, their flickering light reflected in his eyes.
"Not today, but one day," Sebastian continued in a hollow voice. "By my hand or another's. By illness or old age. One day, you're going to die."
Ciel stood alert for a moment, unsure, not understanding why his death mattered to the demon.
"Of course. Are you trying to scare me? Or are you just realizing what it means to be mortal?" Ciel taunted, but his mocking smile faded as he saw the solemn, sorrowful expression on his butler's face.
Sebastian finally looked at him, admiring the nightshirt that still seemed too large for his master's body. A fallen angel in his celestial tunic, and though the demon despised angels, the boy had all their radiance in this dreadful March night.
He raised his hand to Ciel's face, brushing aside the damp strands of hair.
"I'm the fool who's only just realized what that really means," Sebastian murmured, feeling the weight of the words, which held more than he could say.
He saw a flicker of doubt cross Ciel's face, followed by anger and confusion. The young earl shook his head, brushing aside the fingers that had touched him.
"Of course I'm going to die. That's what you want, isn't it? Isn't that the whole point of this?" Ciel gestured between the two of them.
With an irritated sigh, Sebastian turned away, abandoning a conversation he didn't fully understand.
Ciel felt exasperated, frustrated by his demon's unexpected behavior. He almost wished for the usual sharp, mocking remarks. Anything but this sorrow that mirrored his own.
"You seem uncertain," the boy said, his tone icy, almost disdainful. He didn't know where this rising anger came from. "Are you afraid you'll have regrets when you kill me?"
"Ciel!"
Hearing his name, the boy hesitated. It was rare to hear it spoken by those demonic lips. His butler seemed to forget all etiquette in this moment. He wanted to silence him, as if Ciel's words were unbearable. How ironic!
"No, answer me!" Ciel demanded, furious. "Why that bitter, melancholic look? Why talk about my death today? Haven't you killed others before me?"
"Oh yes, so many," Sebastian replied with a mischievous smile, though there was no laughter in his eyes. "Humans passing by whose names I learned only as I stole their souls. But with you, it's different. With you, I'm blind. I move from surprise to discovery, from suffering to delight. But I must admit, I've gotten lost in this journey."
"Then why didn't you keep devouring those insignificant souls? Why come to me?" Ciel asked, clenching his fists, hating every word the butler spoke.
"I thought it would be fun. But today, I'm no longer laughing."
Ciel clenched his fists tighter. Sebastian's words stirred feelings within him that he wanted to suppress, a taste of the impossible, the forbidden, that made him miserable and wounded.
He was so tired, he no longer wanted to think, plan, foresee horrors, anticipate misfortunes. He just wanted to lie down by the comforting glow of the fire.
In a sudden, uncontrollable burst of anger, Ciel rushed at the demon, shoving him against the stone hearth, both hands pressed against his chest.
Taken by surprise, Sebastian dropped the bloodstained cloth he had been holding against his wound, placing his hands on the boy's shoulders. The injury on his bare chest appeared even more severe now, though it had already begun to heal.
"Hypocrite!" Ciel shouted, unable to contain his fury. "Liar! For these three long years, did you ever think one day you'd be holding my corpse in your arms? No, you only thought about the taste of my soul. You saved me so you could devour me. I've lived with that thought ever since you dragged me out of that filthy cage. And now you doubt, now you weep! Like some miserable shepherd before the lamb he's fattened for slaughter! Act like a demon, the monster you are!"
The boy slapped him, once, twice. But his blows were weak, powerless, which only amplified his anger. He wanted to hurt him, to make him regret those words that felt unjust and hollow, too far removed from their bond to be real.
"Why are you telling me this now?" he asked, exhaustion and sadness stifling his voice. "Why say these things tonight, when I don't have the strength to hear them, when even breathing is difficult? Be quiet! Until tomorrow, don't say another word. Erase that sadness from your eyes that I refuse to understand. Look at me the way you always have, I can't stand those eyes that make me seem more precious to you than I really am. That's an order, Sebastian!"
His words ended in a rough cough that shook his body. Weak, he leaned on his butler, who placed his hands under his arms to keep him standing. His breath returned, though it remained labored. The demon pressed his forehead against the boy's, his burning gaze fixed on him, tender, waiting for the episode to pass. Slowly, Ciel felt his breathing steady, his body calming.
"I hate you," he murmured, with such passion that it seemed he was saying something else.
At that moment, the demon's lips pressed against his.
His anger faded, replaced by a soft, melancholic longing. A devouring desire surged within him suddenly, making him tremble. He realized he had longed for this kiss, had ardently dreamed of these lips without daring to admit it.
He wrapped his arms around his demon's neck, shivering under the fingers that caressed him through the thin fabric of his shirt. He trembled, his whole body quivering, intoxicated by this sacrilegious kiss. He had neither the will nor the desire to question the insufferable yet delicious act, nor to wonder whether his demon kissed him out of desire or to calm his fury.
The hands on his back pressed more firmly, and the kiss grew deeper, more feverish. Ciel felt a sweet numbness envelop his body.
Blinded by pleasure, abandoning the little strength he had left, he let himself slide to the floor, in front of the blazing hearth, bringing the butler down with him, who lay atop him without causing pain.
Leaving the soft lips, the demon buried his face in his neck, breathing in the life that animated the fragile body, feeling the heartbeat in the vein where he rested his lips.
He expected his master to push him away, but Ciel did nothing. On the contrary, the boy parted his legs, easing the weight of the man pressed against him.
The demon felt his master's knees brush against the sides of his body as Ciel's slender fingers threaded through his hair—an intimate and foreign gesture that he did not mind. It felt as though the boy were trying to soothe a wild animal with gentle strokes. The image made him smile against the burning skin.
Ciel felt the carpet tickle his neck and arms. The weight of his demon's body atop him was neither unpleasant nor painful, and the warm contact of his bare chest was both comforting and frightening.
He didn't care about the dirt, but he knew Sebastian's blood was running over him.
The warm liquid flowed over his clothes, sliding across his skin, trickling between his legs. The room filled with the sharp scent of blood, mingling with the smell of burning logs. Sebastian's hand trailed along his arm and caught the fingers that had been running through his hair, intertwining them with his own.
He stopped breathing for a moment, but from his parted lips, no sound emerged, for where their fingers met, the breath was too short to form coherent words.
The boy emptied his mind. He wouldn't think about the powerful body crushing his own, about the dark hair brushing his face, or that the fingers caressing his lips were not human. Shadows cast by the flames danced across the ceiling, and the silence was broken only by the reassuring crackle of the burning wood.
They remained like that for long minutes. The demon's breathing grew deeper, his warm breath grazing the boy's neck, and Ciel realized that his demon had allowed himself the luxury of falling asleep in his arms.
Soothed by the rhythmic heartbeat thudding in the powerful chest, Ciel drifted off to sleep.
Tanaka entered the sitting room. The voices fell silent at his entrance, and the anxious eyes of the guests turned toward the old butler.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the Earl of Phantomhive informs you that all danger has now passed, and you may leave the parlor."
A collective sigh of relief filled the room.
"Well then, let us be served tea!" exclaimed Keane, rising from his chair and taking young Irene by the hand, who placed her hand over her heart, visibly relieved, though her porcelain face remained drawn and weary.
"Tea? Champagne, by all means!" Charles Gray shouted. "The night deserves a little celebration. Let us toast the end of this adventure."
"Very well, sir," said Tanaka, bowing. "The Earl sends his apologies, but tonight's events have exhausted him and—"
"No matter, we'll drink in his honor," Grimsby interrupted. "Please serve us in the grand salon. I feel too confined here, I can't bear these walls any longer."
One by one, the guests began to leave the room.
Abberline watched them leave, but he himself had no desire to rise from his seat. He had endured the empty remarks of the guests for several hours, but his mind was focused on what was happening outside those walls. Above all, he wondered what had become of Arthur and Ciel Phantomhive. They had not rejoined them in the salon.
Abberline had concluded that the earl had given in to the demands of the writer, an unlikely scenario for anyone familiar with the boy's stubborn nature.
A sudden pang of jealousy stirred within him, fleeting but real, and he pushed it aside, unwilling to dwell on it. It was true that the young man had intrigued him for some time now. The fact that Arthur had grown so close to him in less than a week made him uncomfortable, or rather, it stirred feelings he considered unhealthy and inappropriate.
It was best to keep a distance from Ciel Phantomhive and, if possible, never turn his back on him, as Abberline knew well. However, the young doctor had ignored all the warnings Lord Randall had given him. And now, he found himself regretting having followed his superior's advice...
He escaped his shameful thoughts when he saw Arthur appear in the doorway. The young man nearly collided with Lau, who was about to leave the room with the others.
"Easy now, my friend," said the Chinese man.
"Forgive me," Arthur replied, more out of habit than sincerity. He seemed dazed, lost in thought.
"You seem quite weary; the night has been hard on you."
Arthur stared at Lau, searching for the reason behind the amused note in his voice.
"You could say that," he finally answered, hesitating. "But it's been hard on all of us."
"Yes, hard on all of us…" Lau responded.
The Chinese man leaned in toward the young man, placing a warm but insistent hand on his shoulder and whispered in a smooth voice, "Have you uncovered any of the secrets our young earl hides?"
Arthur flinched, pulling away from his grip.
"I—"
"Ah, but you can't share them, can you? And even if you could, don't. I'd rather discover Phantomhive's shadows for myself."
Arthur felt that familiar discomfort in Lau's presence. The man oozed dishonesty from every pore. The thought that he might be a close associate of Ciel's exasperated him.
Clearly, the earl enjoyed surrounding himself with monsters...
"You won't be disappointed, Lau."
Lau placed a finger to his lips, amused.
"Yet you seem to be."
Arthur smiled, a smirk that didn't suit him, but in his eyes, Lau could read all the animosity he felt. Then, without further ceremony, he bowed slightly and walked past Lau and his companion, approaching the inspector, who was eyeing him from head to toe.
No doubt, Abberline noticed that Arthur was no longer wearing the same suit and that his hair was damp. He felt relieved and grateful when the inspector refrained from asking any questions about it.
Doyle sat down in the chair across from his friend, just as they had done two days before this terrible night. They remained silent for a while, the policeman waiting patiently for Arthur to speak, although the writer had no desire to do so, simply because he had nothing to say. Nothing, at least, that rational ears could hear and accept without thinking him mad. In any case, at this moment, everything felt unreal.
His life, devoid of its usual dose of modern rationalism, seemed chaotic and unstable, and he no longer knew what creed to hold onto. Science? It didn't explain anything that had happened tonight. Reason? It wavered like a flame in a storm. His anchors were crumbling to dust, and he could no longer trust his eyes or his mind.
As for his heart, it was in even worse shape than the rest. He found himself staring at his own hands, seeing them as foreign, different, though they remained the same.
Suddenly, he realized Abberline had been studying him for several minutes, and he flushed with embarrassment at his impolite, evasive behavior.
Tanaka's arrival with champagne spared him from offering awkward apologies. The butler handed them both a glass, which they took, but Arthur gently set his down on the polished wooden table.
"You don't want any?" Abberline asked, not wanting to drink the celebratory liquid alone.
"I wonder what there is to celebrate tonight."
"The end of this ordeal."
"Has it really ended?"
"You sound bitter."
"I'm... disillusioned. And tired."
"What happened?"
Arthur raised his eyes to the inspector, who had asked the question with a touch of urgency, and his friend's impatience surprised him. But he should have expected it; Abberline was naturally curious about the events of the night. Arthur wished he could tell him what he had seen, to share those moments. Yet he doubted the young man would believe his story. Gods of death, a demon, a damned boy… Come now, let's be serious...
At his silence, Abberline pressed on, "Did you get what you wanted?"
"More than I expected," Arthur finally replied with a sad smile. Nodding his head, he raised his hand to his eyes, rubbing his eyelids. "However, I'm not sure I know what I want anymore. Sleep, perhaps. Yes, sleep. And for that, I need the couch in the room the earl has given you."
"You're not going to sleep in the earl's room?" Abberline asked, surprised.
"No... I need to step away and think. It's better for me. I've already moved my things to your room. I apologize for doing so without consulting you, but I guessed you wouldn't object. On my way down, I checked on Mei-Rin to make sure her wound was no longer dangerous. She's sleeping soundly in one of the rooms on the second floor."
"But why? Was she injured?" Abberline asked, surprised.
Arthur looked puzzled by the question, then realized he had led his friend into a rather slippery conversation. If he wasn't careful, he risked revealing things about events that weren't supposed to have happened—at least not in the rational world where they both thrived, unaware of the dark forces moving around them.
"An open wound," he said quickly, hoping to dispel the curiosity shining in the brown eyes watching him. "But we treated it, and her life is no longer in danger."
"I don't understand," Abberline said slowly. "Was she present during the attack in the greenhouse?"
"The attack in the greenhouse... Frederick… I don't know what I can tell you or what I should keep to myself, but—"
"Arthur, they arrested someone tonight," the inspector interrupted, his face suddenly serious and pleading, surprising the writer. "Tell me it's the killer we've been searching for."
"He's involved in the crime," the doctor replied.
"But he's not the one behind all of this?"
"I don't know. I don't understand this entire story; I only know bits and pieces that don't make sense."
"Oh, but I understand all too well what happened here!"
"Really?" exclaimed the writer, startled.
"Oh yes, the Earl and his butler have once again fooled everyone and resolved a sordid affair while only revealing part of the story and burying the truth," the inspector replied.
He paused for a moment, then continued, "Was there another killer? Or another threat?"
"There was...somethingelse," murmured Arthur, unable to name what had attacked him. "But it's no longer a threat to us now. Still, that thing will never be brought to justice, at least not byour justice system... From my point of view, which is admittedly clouded and confused, Ciel and his butler did what they could tonight."
"Arthur! To hear you say these words... You're justifying their methods, accepting their lies!"
"I'm not defending them! But I didn't know the full scope of the situation or all the forces at play in this place. I'm overwhelmed, the world is overwhelmed by what happened tonight. And though it breaks my heart to admit it, I doubt that you or I are equipped to solve the grim mysteries haunting this manor."
"They caught someone tonight," Abberline said, his voice strained with emotion. "A boy who's now rotting in the manor's cellar, chained up with shackles on his wrists. He'll be presented to the Queen, and the rope awaits him. Is he guilty of what he's been accused of? Did he act alone? That's what I want to know, Arthur. Because I can't bear the thought of an innocent person being blamed for all these crimes and sentenced to death simply because that version of the story suits the Earl of Phantomhive."
Arthur hesitated. He wasn't sure what he could reveal.
"The death of Lord Phelps... he's involved in that murder."
"A snake bite," the inspector exclaimed, exasperated. "He's guilty of keeping venomous creatures he controls. But that's not even a direct crime. He wouldn't be hanged for that. However, accused of Lord Siemens' murder, he will die. Doesn't that idea bother you?"
"Great God, of course it does!"
"Then do something! Speak on his behalf, tell them what you saw."
Arthur suddenly laughed, a hollow, bitter laugh he was becoming accustomed to. It was a laugh born of disillusionment.
"No one will believe me if I tell them what I saw. I don't even believe it myself!"
"Then speak to the Earl. He listens to you."
"He only listens to himself, Frederic, as he always has and always will," the writer said darkly. "He follows his own purpose, no matter the cost."
"And what aboutmypurpose, have you thought of that? Becauseit's me—yes, me!—who will personally imprison a boy I know is innocent, a scapegoat chosen by Phantomhive, and lead him to the gallows. It's my police signature that will seal this lie! Meanwhile, you'll return to your home, kiss your wife and child, and forget this entire affair."
"I willneverforget what happened here. Just as much as you, I understand the injustice that festers within these walls. But I feel powerless! I don't know how deeply that young man is involved in these murders, and the only people who can answer those questions are either locked in silence... or have vanished."
"Let's ask him directly."
Arthur looked at his friend, unsure of what he meant, and Abberline continued, "He's down in the cellar; nothing's stopping us from talking to him."
"For the love of God...! Will this night never end?"
"Come with me," the inspector said, standing up with determination, resolute and unyielding.
"Fine, but help me up—my ribs are killing me. And no, I won't tell you how that happened."
Stifling a groan of frustration, Abberline grabbed his friend's extended hand and pulled him out of the chair.
The rain had just stopped, and the ground was still swampy. They decided to go through the interior of the estate and enter via the kitchen door that led to the cellar.
They descended the spiral stone staircase and arrived at the kitchens. None of the servants were present, as Arthur knew. Finni and Bard were tending to Mei-Rin in one of the castle's rooms, busy applying damp cloths to her face and burn wound.
They opened the heavy wooden door. Once again, a spiral staircase, even darker than the last. Their only light came from a weak candle they had taken from the drawing room, not wanting to ask for a lamp for fear someone might question its intended use. Abberline led the way, followed by Arthur, who clung to the stone walls with each step he took downward. The shinigami had no doubt cracked one or two of his ribs. Every step was torture, but he pressed on behind his friend without complaint.
They reached another wooden door, which groaned loudly when they tried to open it. It took both men's strength, as the damp wood had swollen.
A strong scent of wine hit them, thick and pervasive. The room was plunged in total darkness, and the humid air clung deep in their lungs.
Thankfully, they knew the layout. They had been down here just a few days earlier when Coroner Baxter had examined the bodies stored in the cellar, in their presence. They felt their way toward the stone column that supported the vault of the cellar, waving their single candle's light through the darkness.
A shape began to emerge, and as they approached, they saw the prisoner curled up against the stone column.
At the sound of their footsteps, the boy scrambled upright, like a frightened animal, retreating until he hit the stone he was chained to.
"Don't be afraid," Arthur said gently, raising both hands in a gesture of peace. "We don't mean you any harm. We're only here to talk, just to talk."
But in response, they heard only garbled babbling and incomprehensible gasps.
Abberline raised the candle and brought its light to the young man, and he froze in horror. Arthur, too, gasped in shock and stepped back.
Snake knelt there, his eyes watering, his swollen, blue tongue hanging out of his bloated, open mouth, thick veins visible. His face was so puffed up that one of his eyes couldn't open anymore. It seemed like he was lapping at the thin stream of air that managed to pass through his cracked lips. The boy bore no resemblance to the sketch the inspector had made of him the day before.
"Good God, what's happened to him?" Abberline exclaimed. "Has he been bitten by one of his snakes?"
The boy began babbling again, shaking his head frantically.
"Have they silenced you?" Arthur asked softly, moved by the cruelty that he knew was all too possible in this hellish manor.
A nod from the unfortunate boy confirmed his suspicions.
"Do you have an antidote?" Abberline asked, kneeling down to examine the boy more closely.
"For what? I don't know what they've given him. I could kill him trying to save him. Garlic to help his circulation, maybe. Allicin in garlic sometimes works as an antidote for certain venoms and poisons. I'd like to give him laudanum for the pain, but if we drug him too much in this state, he might not have the strength to keep breathing."
"See if there's anything in those crates over there," Abberline instructed. "Some supplies—anything we can give him. We can't leave him like this."
Arthur obeyed. The inspector pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and tore it in two. He placed the strips of cloth between the boy's wrists and the shackles. The boy had clearly been pulling at the chains hard enough to cut his skin.
"This will ease the burn from the chains. Don't pull at them anymore—it's no use."
He used his handkerchief to gather some water dripping along the stone column, then wiped the boy's face and neck with the damp cloth.
Arthur returned with a coarse wooden bowl, its strong smell of garlic filling the air.
"I found some cloves. I crushed them with a stone. Hold his head back—I'm going to put some on his tongue and face. Did they make you drink anything?"
Another shake of the head, and the boy frantically showed them his tongue. Arthur brought the candle closer to examine it.
"A puncture! I see it—the skin is almost black around the spot," Arthur muttered.
He took Abberline's handkerchief and dipped it into the bowl.
"We need something sharp, something to lance his tongue and drain the poisoned blood."
"My pen—the one I use to write in my notebook," Abberline said, pulling out a small pad, a tiny bottle of ink, and a sharp pen.
"Perfect," said Arthur, taking it. "This is going to help. We're going to try and drain the poison from your tongue. It's not as good as a real antidote, but you'll be able to breathe more easily."
He pierced the tongue, and foul-smelling blood oozed from the swollen muscle. Ignoring the boy's whimpers, Arthur applied the garlic-soaked cloth and pressed down on the tongue, letting the infected liquid drain.
After a few seconds, he let go of the boy's head.
"That's all I can do for now," he told Abberline, disappointed he couldn't do more.
"Can you speak?" Frederic asked Snake.
The boy tried, but his speech was garbled and guttural.
"Can you write?" he asked, handing him the pen and notebook.
The boy pushed them away and shook his head.
Abberline sighed and continued, "Did you kill Lord Siemens?"
The boy shook his head.
"Did you attack Sebastian Michaelis?"
Snake growled at the mention of the name, but again, he shook his head.
"Why did you kill Lord Phelps?"
The boy gibbered and shook his head again, flapping his hands.
"It was an accident, wasn't it?" Arthur asked gently. "Were you aiming for the young Earl?"
The boy nodded.
"Why?"
The boy struggled to speak again, trying desperately to form words despite his swollen lips that refused to close and his veined tongue hanging out of his mouth.
But a few words were understood by the two men, kneeling in front of him, trying to make sense of his garbled speech.
"Slaughtered... the ones I loved. My friends... All dead."
Arthur lowered his head. He couldn't bear the despair in the boy's eyes. He saw his own suffering and self-loathing reflected there. Having stepped into another world, a mystical and fantastical one, he had started to doubt everything he believed in, driven by a strange and dangerous skepticism.
He stood up, retreating into the shadows. He watched Abberline drape his coat over the prisoner's shoulders, speaking to him gently, words the boy acknowledged with grateful nods.
In the end, the boy's only crime had been crossing paths with Ciel Phantomhive and his demon... And Arthur knew all too well that silent execution. It seemed to him that both their lives had been on borrowed time ever since those two had entered their world, trampling over their consciences and ideals. And that thought was unbearable.
He saw Abberline pick up the candle and stand, while the boy lay back down on the damp floor, wrapped in the inspector's coat.
Neither of them spoke as they walked back across the room. They closed the heavy wooden door on the unfortunate soul, and Arthur lingered for a moment, his hand resting on the rough wood, lost in thought.
"I'll speak to Ciel Phantomhive tomorrow," he said as they ascended the dark staircase.
End of Chapter 11
For more chapters quickly (free!): 🔗 My P.a.t.r.e.o.n: TiffanyBrd
Author's Notes:
Demons sleep, but they don't need to; it's a luxury. But Sebastian desperately needed it :)
"The new diesel engines from the London Academy of Sciences": The first diesel engines were exhibited in London in the 18th century, which allowed me to give Arthur some idea of how a chainsaw-like scythe might work, given his scientific background.
Grell:I have to admit, I went pretty hard on him... Between Arthur stabbing him in the back with scissors, cutting off his hand with the scythe, and Sebastian using his amputated hand to slap him so hard it bursts his eye... Grell really takes a beating. I'm not sadistic—I was actually horrified by what happened to Grell. But the world of Kuro is dark and painful, and this story is no exception.
Grell and William:Yana said that William was Grell's great love, and he's cold as ice. I'd really like to learn more about Spears, and I believe he hides a softer heart than it appears. And I think in this story, even though he doesn't openly say it, Grell's injuries make him unhappy. But he'll never admit that...
Arthur and William:The conversation between Arthur and William is extremely important for the rest of the chapter. Besides the content, I really enjoyed seeing a human and a shinigami converse.
Sebastian's owl:Sebastian sent the owl to the shinigami bureau. I don't know exactly what it said, but it was probably something like: "Come pick up the lunatic roaming the Phantomhive Manor, or I'll gut him myself." Of course, phrased much more politely and formally in the style of the Phantomhive butler...
Ciel/Sebastian/Arthur:In this chapter, these three characters are not in their usual states. Strained, overwhelmed, and plagued by raw emotions, they're not really themselves. The end of this story will restore