Music I listened to while writing :Watching over Me - Brimstone OST - Tom Holkenborg
Chapter 12 : The Farewell of the Fool
At the manor…
When Arthur woke up, he was surprised to see bright light filtering through the heavy, thick curtains of the guest room. He jumped up from the sofa where he had spent the night, placed his hands on the green velvet fabric, and drew them open. The burst of sunlight made him avert his eyes. As he adjusted to the brightness, he gazed out at the Phantomhive estate bathed in the morning's azure glow. He was surprised that the terrible storm had given way to such a radiant prelude to spring. The ground was still damp, but it was no longer the swamp of mud that had turned the beautiful garden into a marsh.
Yet, the newfound clarity in the sky brought him no comfort. Slowly, he pressed his forehead against the cold glass, as he had done two days earlier, at the start of this story, after the first night he had held Ciel Phantomhive in his arms. That fateful night, he had thought he had taken all innocence from the young man who had none.
That single night had perhaps sealed his fate, though the purpose of it all remained unknown to him.
He looked at his hands suddenly, as if becoming aware of his body or simply of himself. But his fingers, like his skin, felt unfamiliar, foreign. He realized his eyes had lost the habit of seeing the surface, now open to other mysteries, other horizons. The blood veins running through his fingers seemed more real than the skin that covered them. Blue lines, terrifying, interwoven beneath the skin. And yet, they were just hands…
Everything becomes monstrous when you look a little closer. That was the lesson he had learned in this manor.
He pressed his cold fingers against his eyes, feeling an urge to cry, a latent pain like the one felt at the end of a tragic play. Bitterness choked his throat, and he held back the tears threatening to fall down his cheeks.
"Ciel,"he murmured, but his voice caught in his throat. He placed a hand on his heart, digging his nails into his chest as he pressed against the painful tightness. He found himself hating the name he had once loved so much, the name whose single syllable now burned his throat.
He turned toward the large bed where Frederic Abberline had slept. The sheets were disheveled and empty. The inspector had likely been a lighter sleeper, even though the clock had only just struck eight.
Arthur hadn't asked for a separate room—he was done with the unbearable luxury. A sofa was enough, after all, especially when its comfort far surpassed that of his own bed. Besides, he had stayed up so late that a bed wouldn't have served any purpose. On top of that, he had gone to bed fully dressed. Lit only by the flame of a single candle, he had spent hours working on the piece he so longed to write but would never publish.
He left the window and moved toward the nightstand he had dragged over to the sofa, serving as his makeshift desk throughout the night. Resting on top were papers filled with his writing. In feverish, angry strokes—reflecting the morbid thoughts that had assailed him in the moonless darkness—he had poured onto the pages everything that had transpired within these walls and within his heart.
Hesitant, he took the sheets in his trembling hands, holding them with a solemnity reserved for a testament.
Outside, voices broke his contemplation. He took one last look at the stack of papers before hiding them in his coat and stepping out of the room.
He had never seen the manor bathed in light. The sky had been overcast with dark clouds when he arrived, and he hadn't been able to appreciate the estate's springtime splendor.
A soft breeze blew in through the open windows, causing the white curtains in the empty hallway to flutter like ghosts of a forgotten summer. The voices grew louder as he descended the grand staircase, approaching the dining room, where the guests were likely having breakfast.
He winced with each step, wrapping one arm around his torso while using the railing for support. His ribs still ached—unsurprising, given that the shinigami's kick had probably come close to breaking them. Struck by a god of death... the thought left him numb, his mind refusing to believe what his eyes had witnessed. Had he truly fought a god that night? It seemed madness to even consider it.
A voice pulled him from his trance.
"Sir, are you all right?"
He looked up. A young woman with large round glasses and a warm smile was gazing at him from the bottom of the stairs. Arthur returned her smile and joined her at the foot of the steps.
"It's you I should be asking that, Mei-Rin."
Then his smile faded, concern taking its place.
"You've left your bed? I'm not sure you should be…"
"I'm fine, Doctor Doyle, thanks to you. And I can't very well stay in bed with so much to do today: packing the luggage, organizing the departures, preparing a meal for the trip…"
"Organizing the departures?" Arthur asked.
"Yes, according to Bard, the river is receding and should be back in its banks by the morning. With such radiant sunshine, the carriages should be able to head for London this afternoon."
"So, we're leaving," Arthur murmured.
Once again, his throat tightened. The confused pain in his chest grew stronger.
So, this was the end. He had to leave, didn't he?
The words Ciel had spoken the night before, at sunset, came back to him, pounding his heart in rhythm with the thoughts echoing in his mind.
"Tomorrow morning, you'll go home. You'll return to your dull life as a doctor and your flourishing future as a writer. You'll write stories decorated with your memories, full of madness and mysteries. And your heroes will resemble us because you'll be afraid of forgetting. But in the end, these nights, these events, and your hands on me… it will all fade from your memory."
"Never," he had replied.
He hadn't imagined this moment of separation would come so soon. A hand brushed his face, and he flinched. Mei-Rin withdrew her fingers from his cheek; Arthur's tears had graced her fingertips.
Surprised and ashamed, he brought his hands to his eyes.
"Forgive me," he murmured with a smile, despite the tears still streaming down. "It's rather unbecoming to cry like this in front of a young lady. Please, excuse me."
But the young woman took his hand and squeezed it warmly.
"Thank you for your help, Mr. Doyle," Mei-Rin said gently and kindly. "Thank you for me, but also for the young master."
She let go of his hand, returning a courteous distance between herself and the writer.
"Please, join the other guests in the dining room, sir."
She walked away toward the stairs leading to the kitchens, leaving the young man to regain his composure.
He made his way toward the room where joyful voices were rising, carefully wiping his eyes with his handkerchief, already stained with ink.
He entered the dining room, which was crowded with people and bathed in light. A surprising cheerfulness filled the large room, making him feel even more alone. At the doorframe, Tanaka bowed to him and asked what he would like for breakfast.
But for reasons he couldn't quite understand, Arthur couldn't respond to the old butler and instead walked toward the large table where all the guests were seated.
The beautiful Irene was radiant in her blue flannel dress, stirring her tea delicately with a silver spoon. Before her, and all the guests, lay a grotesque array of food. Cakes and pastries, breads of all kinds, toast, bacon, grilled sausages, eggs, and pudding stretched along the entire length of the table. Out-of-season fruits, impossible to find in English markets, overflowed from the baskets in the center of the table.
"I thought we were short on food," he said disdainfully to Tanaka, who simply bowed his head slightly, having nothing to say in response.
Arthur suspected that such an extravagant display was the work of the demon who resided within these walls, and it made all this food feel like a funeral feast. He watched as Grimsby greedily bit into a slice of cheesecake, devouring the creamy pastry. Arthur felt a wave of nausea and turned away. To the young writer, the guests might as well have been drinking blood or eating ashes. The result was no less macabre. Every gift from the butler would one day be paid for with his master's soul. And he had no desire to feast on such dearly bought fare, especially when the debt was owed by the one he loved.
"Mr. Doyle!" exclaimed Charles Gray, sitting before a pile of dirty plates. "Come, sit with us."
"No, thank you," Arthur smiled faintly. "Do you know where Inspector Abberline is?"
"I believe he's in the Count's office. They're trying to contact Lord Randall at Scotland Yard. We need a carriage to transport the killer."
He turned to the other guests, all of whom were now listening.
"And none of us want to make the trip with such an individual in our carriage."
"Oh, absolutely not."
"That would be unthinkable."
"What an abominable being..."
"I see," said Arthur, observing the distasteful scene of these hypocritical nobles. "I must speak with him. Please excuse me."
Without another word, ignoring the disapproving looks from Charles Gray and the other guests, who were no doubt repelled by his lack of manners, he left the dining room and ascended the grand staircase. He knew where the young Earl's office was, having used the telephone there himself. He walked down the corridor on the first floor, and as he rounded a corner, he came face to face with Abberline, who jumped.
"Good heavens, you startled me!" cried Frederick.
"Forgive me, I wanted to see you. Do you have any news?"
"Yes, I just came from the Earl's office. Scotland Yard is on its way. It'll take them twice as long as usual, but they should arrive just after lunch."
Arthur understood the inspector's words, but they stirred no joy in him. He observed Abberline, whose eyes were darkened with deep circles. Both he and the young inspector had stayed up late the previous night, unable to find sleep—Frederick consumed by his conscience, and Arthur preoccupied with writing and avoiding the grim dreams the night might bring.
"That's good news," Arthur said suddenly, though his voice sounded like a lie to his own ears.
"Is that a question?" Frederick asked gently. "Yes, it's good news. And you should see it that way, Arthur. It's the best thing for you now."
"Is he alone in his office?" Arthur interrupted, not wanting to dwell on his departure from the manor.
"He was when I left," Abberline replied, frowning with concern.
"I need to see him," Arthur said abruptly.
He moved past the inspector, but Abberline grabbed his arm as he passed.
"I haven't told him about the boy in the cellar," Abberline said, biting his lip. "I'm counting on you to do it."
"So you're handing over the responsibility for his fate to me?" Arthur said harshly. "How charitable of you, Frederick."
He pulled his arm free, but the inspector stopped him again.
"You're wrong," Abberline said.
He hesitated for a moment, then continued gravely, "But let's be honest—you have a better chance than I do of getting a favor from him. This wouldn't be the first time he's lowered his defenses in front of you."
"I've never been able to, and will never be able to, force him to do something he doesn't want to do himself. But fine, I'll talk to him."
Abberline nodded, releasing his arm and turning away as he said, "If you need me, I'll be with the boy. He might be thirsty. I'll see if I can help him."
But the young doctor barely heard his words as he continued down the corridor.
He approached the door and raised his hand to knock on the polished wood. His heart clenched, and he couldn't bring himself to act. He rested a trembling hand on the golden handle and took a soft breath. Tears welled up again, but he refused to cry.
Behind that door was the most precious being heaven had ever sent to his tortured soul. The desire to see him was unbearable, yet laying eyes on his face seemed like a torment. Despair clung to him like a heavy, icy cloak. He leaned his head back, his hand still pressed against the cursed golden handle, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, rolled back. He hoped the sadness wouldn't suffocate him. Finally, he opened the door, entering the office with a soft exhale.
Ciel was there, seated behind his desk, in the large black leather chair. His elbows rested on the dark mahogany desk, and his chin was propped up on his interlaced fingers. His eye was closed, his angelic face betraying no emotion. He wore a dark blue suit, accompanied by a black scarf wrapped around his delicate throat. A rather original touch, but hadn't someone tried to strangle him the night before? Was the silk fabric concealing the marks left by the fingers that had bruised his soft skin?
"Come in, since you didn't bother to knock," the boy suddenly said without opening his eyes.
Despite the harshness of the words, the young man's voice had lost its sharp tone, and there was no coldness in it. Feeling heavy-legged, Arthur crossed the room, his eyes strangely fixed on the frail young boy. When Ciel opened his eye, Arthur's heart skipped a beat, and his throat tightened. That blue. He hadn't imagined it. That blue was perfect—cold, but gleaming. For a moment, he wanted to take his pen, dip it into Ciel's iris, and claim that perfect ink for himself forever.
"So, we're leaving?" His voice was hoarse, but he was glad it didn't tremble.
"Today," the boy replied, leaning back in his chair, resting against the leather backrest. "I'm leaving too. I have to go to London. The Queen is already expecting my report."
His voice was weary, and his face held a new sadness, carefully concealed beneath his stern noble features.
"The young man, the one in the cellar, he's innocent."
Arthur's lack of tact was apparent, and he realized he had perhaps started the conversation too bluntly. Surprised, Ciel furrowed his brows and pressed his lips together, letting the doctor continue.
Arthur took a deep breath and went on, "Do yourself a favor. Don't let him die. Don't send an innocent man to the gallows."
"You're asking me to spare him?" Ciel scoffed, shaking his head in disapproval. "But he is responsible."
"You're blaming him for all the crimes committed in this manor," Arthur continued, leaning forward, both hands pressed on the desk. "It's absurd and cruel."
"He tried to kill me," the boy hissed, clenching his fists. "Have you forgotten?"
"But from what you've hinted at, it seems you think you deserve his revenge. At least, that's what you believe. Guilt is starting to eat away at your heart. And making him disappear won't erase that pain."
Ciel sighed in frustration, looking away for a moment, trying to calm himself.
"Pity is not welcome in this manor," he said in a low, firm voice. "And I've already performed my good deed, Arthur."
He fixed an unforgiving gaze on the writer.
"Don't you think you should die, knowing far too much? Don't you think Sebastian is just waiting for my order to destroy you?"
Arthur stepped back. A sudden, dark fear gripped his belly, but it disappeared as quickly as it had come. He had tasted enough fear; he no longer wanted it. But the name grated in his ears, tensing every muscle in his body with silent fury. He looked at the boy before him, so straight and immaculate. Who could believe that such a fragile body could hold so many secrets, so many shadows? Only his eyes betrayed his indomitable will. But behind that resolve, Arthur could see a new, burning wound, growing larger and larger.
"You won't do it," he said at last, a sad smile forming on his face. "Deep down, what's happening here affects you more than you're willing to show. And this mask you wear will break you in the end. You want to spare me because asking for death weighs on you—because you've already asked for it too many times."
"In the end, you don't know much about me," Ciel interrupted, his face closing off even more. His posture became rigid, as if his whole body formed a shield against Arthur's words.
"You judge me based on your own values, yet you should know what I'm capable of to get what I want. For someone like me, your arguments are pitifully weak."
"Fine."
Arthur straightened up and moved away from the desk. His eyes wandered over the furniture in the room, taking in the luxury surrounding him, aware that Ciel was still watching him. The boy seemed to be thinking, weighing his actions. Arthur hesitated, biting his lip, then, turning to face the boy, he finally added,
"I'm offering you a deal."
"You have nothing I want."
"Don't be so sure," Arthur replied with a sad smile. "I admit I never thought I'd part with it, but…"
He walked around the desk, approaching the leather chair.
"What if I told you that the gods of death aren't very careful beings?"
Visibly intrigued, Ciel let him continue.
"I even told him how careless it was to leave a weapon that cuts both body and soul among humans," Arthur continued, emphasizing each word. "But he left one behind."
A flicker of understanding crossed Ciel's azure eye.
"You kept the scissors… Where are they?"
"Oh no, no," Arthur murmured. "Now it's your turn to give me something in return."
"You don't give without expecting something in exchange."
"No. That, I learned from you," the writer replied, turning serious again. "The boy's life for a death scythe."
After an irritated sigh, Ciel seemed to hesitate in turn. Arthur suspected the boy wasn't keen on letting "a stranger" keep something as valuable as a shinigami weapon.
"What will I tell the Queen?" Ciel finally asked.
"You're clever; you'll find a way. I trust you in that, at least. Do we have a deal?"
"Very well. I'll do my best to spare him from the gallows. You have my word. Will that suffice?"
Arthur nodded grimly.
He turned his gaze toward the window. The pain returned, relentless and merciless. Ciel and he had likely just lived through their final confrontation, their last quarrel. That thought left him feeling deeply empty and sorrowful. But what more was there to say? One last battle, and he had won. He lowered his eyes before speaking again.
"Abberline will keep me informed of the case," he said, though he couldn't meet the boy's gaze. "It'll be unnecessary for you to contact me. I'll leave the scissors in a place where you can find them."
He saw Ciel give a slight nod, but no words escaped his rose-colored lips. Arthur cleared his throat again, finding his voice. He pulled the pages he had tucked close to his heart from his vest and placed them on the desk in front of Ciel.
"Before I go, I wanted to give you this."
Wary, the Count made no move, simply staring at the pages with apprehension.
"Angels of Darkness: A Drama in Three Acts"—a strange title, far removed from the author's usual style.
"It's the story of our adventure," Arthur explained. "Only the first two acts. I needed to tell it all, to free myself from it. At first, I didn't know why, but in the end, I think it was necessary."
"I won't read it," Ciel murmured.
Arthur couldn't help but smile.
"It doesn't matter. I just wanted you to have it, as a keepsake…"
But his voice choked before he could say more. He gathered himself, clearing his throat again to hide the tremor creeping into his voice.
"In any case, you already know the whole story. And I don't know the end."
"Angels of Darkness…"Ciel read aloud, tracing the title with his finger. "It's so cliché. Admit it, you could've come up with something better."
"I thought the title was fitting."
"Sebastian isn't an angel."
"He's not the one the title refers to."
Ciel ignored him, still staring at the pages, fanning through them as if counting them.
"A drama?" he said with an amused tone. "And here I thought this story had a happy ending."
"My idea of a happy ending is different from yours. That's why I didn't write the final act. I don't know how this story ends."
"You're the writer; it's up to you to imagine it," the boy scoffed.
The smile on his small lips turned mocking.
"I misspoke. I think I know how it ends, and I hate it."
The pain strangled him as much as the anger constricting his heart.
Ciel looked up at him, almost surprised by his fury.
"What more do you want?"
"You're going to die,"Arthur said abruptly, unable to hold back.
"Clearly, my death is the topic of choice these days," Ciel sighed.
"Demons take souls to devour them."
"I see that despite your atheism, you've attended catechism classes. And yes, that's what he and I agreed on."
"It's an abomination," Arthur hissed, his eyes burning with fury.
"Don't believe that! It's a true luxury to choose your own death. I rejected the one that had been assigned to me. I've been able to delay the moment when my last breath leaves my chest. It's costly, yes, but I can't be ungrateful."
"It's vile. It's a monstrosity!"
This time, he shouted. A tear even slipped down his cheek, which he wiped away with a trembling hand. "For heaven's sake! I thought he was protecting you!"
He stepped back, slamming his fist on the desk.
"That's what I believed, that's what everyone believes."
He began to laugh, a laugh filled with disillusionment and sorrow.
"Abberline is convinced you have the most devoted butler this world has ever known. Your servants admire him and are fiercely loyal to him. Your family members leave you in his care, and I'm sure they believe he wants nothing but your well-being. In my ignorance, that's what I thought. But he's a monster! He only follows the orders you give him. He keeps you alive, waiting for the day he can finally kill you."
"Save your breath, Arthur! This is a subject where you have no place," Ciel interrupted, his voice icy and implacable. "Sebastian has served me for three years. Don't you think I know what he is and what he desires? Everything you say—I've known for a long time. There's no need for you to torment yourself with it."
"No need to torment myself…" Arthur repeated languidly, as if the words seeped into him like poison.
He pressed his hands to his face, letting them slide into his hair, gripping the strands tightly. The tears came again, from despair and sadness.
He stepped forward and turned Ciel's chair to face him. Kneeling before the boy, Arthur's trembling hands hesitantly rested on Ciel's legs, slowly moving up to his thighs, his hips, and then his chest. He seemed to be touching a porcelain doll, fragile and ready to break.
Finally, he let his hands settle on Ciel's hips, gripping them firmly. He rested his forehead on the boy's legs, his breath shaky, strained. He wanted to speak, but the words wouldn't come. He lifted his head, pressing a kiss to Ciel's bare knee, staining the soft skin with a few tears, and looked up into the boy's eyes.
"You're right, it's pointless. It's pointless to fight for you because you don't want to be saved. It's pointless to desire you this much because you'll never be mine."
His hands tightened, his nails digging into the flesh through the clothing.
"But I need you to tell me. I need to be convinced. Reject me, allow me to live beyond you. Prove to me that no matter what I do to have you, I will always fail. I need that. Give me my life back."
His throat tightened, choking him, and his voice broke into a sob. He wrapped his arms fully around the boy, nearly pulling him from the chair, and pressed his head against his stomach.
They stayed like that for a moment until the boy slowly slid his fingers through the brown hair of the young man, as one might comfort a wounded child, before stopping.
Arthur felt Ciel shift slightly, but he remained clinging to him, refusing to let go. Something fell to the floor.
He opened his eyes, pulled back slightly, and looked at the familiar object lying on the ground. It was the eyepatch that Ciel wore at all times.
Arthur slowly lifted his gaze to the young man staring back at him. Two blue irises scrutinized him, two azure gems in that angelic face, but one was imperfect. In the eye now revealed, there was no scar or injury. But in its center was a symbol, a star etched with inscriptions. Memories of some esoteric knowledge came flooding back. Yes, it was indeed a pentagram, its five branches encircled—an authentic pentacle, a mark of a curse engraved on the body.
"I am marked," Ciel murmured, his fingers brushing his own eyelid. "He bears the same mark. It's the symbol of our pact. It's the seal of our contract that you see, and nothing will ever break it. Never."
"Then there's nothing more to do."
"No."
Arthur seized him abruptly by the hips and lifted him, ignoring his cry of protest, then placed him on the desk. He cupped his face in his hands, brushing his thumbs over Ciel's cheeks.
"Then you have to listen to me, because I know this is, without a doubt, the last chance I'll have to see you and touch you. To say those words you hate, but that I so desperately need to speak. I love you. Every fiber of my being, every beat of my heart reminds me, like the most beautiful and melancholic love song. I no longer know who I am; I've forgotten who I was, because it feels like my life began when I first laid eyes on you."
The boy averted his gaze, moved but too unfamiliar with such frank words to appreciate their meaning.
"Sebastian once told me you put me on a pedestal where I don't belong," he said gently, though his breathing was quick, and his eyes were sad.
Arthur's face darkened suddenly.
"Sebastian should try to understand his own heart before commenting on mine."
Ciel froze for a moment, surprised by the remark, but Arthur seemed uninterested in dwelling on anything related to the manor's butler. His brown eyes locked onto Ciel's azure ones as his thumb brushed over Ciel's pink lips.
"I love you," he whispered, his voice barely audible.
"Thank you," the boy replied, but it sounded almost like a question, as if he didn't know how to respond to such words.
Arthur laughed. Cold-hearted child of ice, he thought, but what more could he expect from him?
"Say your goodbyes, Arthur," Ciel said, offering a faint, melancholic smile. "That's all we have left now."
Arthur leaned in and kissed him. A crushing sweetness engulfed him, setting him on fire from within. His fingers, still caressing Ciel's skin, ran through his hair. The boy returned the kiss, surrendering to this final embrace, soft and innocent, far removed from the passionate moments they had shared in darker hours.
A salty taste mixed with the sweetness of the kiss as Arthur's tears joined their lips. The world vanished once again, taking with it the sorrow that weighed so heavily on his heart.
But too soon, a hand pressed gently but firmly against his chest. Defeated, he broke the kiss and placed his hand over the one pushing him away.
Ciel looked at him, lips reddened, eyes filled with sadness. A brief, melancholic smile flickered at the corner of his mouth before fading.
"Go," he said, and the hand still resting on Arthur's chest clenched his shirt. "It's time. Please, go."
Arthur nodded, squeezing the boy's trembling fingers that were still pressed against his chest. In that moment, there was only pain, and their entwined fingers, shaking so violently. Resolutely, he stepped back, each step feeling like an unbearable effort. Yet eventually, Ciel's fingers slipped from his grasp.
After carefully memorizing every detail of the boy's face, Arthur bowed deeply to the Count, offering one last farewell. He straightened and began walking out of the room.
The sound of his footsteps was unbearable, echoing in his ears like a dreadful rhythm. The tears on his cheeks began to dry as his trembling hand grasped the door handle.
"Will you think of those who loved you?" he asked suddenly, without turning around.
Was he referring to the moment when Ciel would die? Or did he simply not want to be forgotten? Arthur wasn't sure himself.
"No, I don't have the luxury of regrets," came the noble reply from the Count.
Arthur nodded in silence.
"Goodbye."
And he closed the door.
But anger burned in him just as much as the sadness that weakened his heart when he saw the man in the black tailcoat standing elegantly in the corridor near his master's door, a courteous, mocking smile on his deceptively perfect face.
A deep disgust filled Arthur as he stood before the demon.
"You…" he began, his voice meant to be threatening, but it was only filled with suffering. "You are the worst creature that crawls upon this earth. Do you realize that?"
"I've been called many things."
A voice so polite and gentle, yet belonging to such a perverse nature…
"I don't need to be a shinigami to understand what you are. I'm just a man, but I know a monster when I see one."
And the boy's words echoed in his mind. His anger was pointless… because he had lost. Ciel didn't want to be saved. And he lacked the strength to save him.
"You've won, he's yours!" Arthur said, his voice trembling with emotion, his legs barely supporting him. "He's always been yours, really, but I didn't know…"
There was a grotesque theatricality to his gestures, but he didn't care about appearances. It didn't matter if he lost face—he had little left to lose anyway.
"But there's something you don't know, or something you refuse to understand. And when you do, it'll be too late… Look at me closely, I am your mirror!"
To his great shame, he was crying again, but he didn't bow to the butler, determined to speak his piece. The demon's smile faded. He felt a certain impatience watching this man suffer before him. It had never moved him before. Yet a murmur in his chest echoed the young writer's sobs of rage and sadness.
"I hope you'll suffer," the young man finally spat, like a curse, pointing his finger at the man dressed in black. "When he collapses lifeless in your arms, I hope you feel a hundredfold the pain I feel now, leaving him with you, knowing what you're going to do."
He approached Sebastian, so close that his breath brushed the butler's lips, who remained motionless. Drunk with rage, his face wet with tears, he murmured,
"Yes, without a doubt, the worst damnation I could wish for you, Demon, is that in the end... you suffer as much as I do!"
Disgusted, wounded, he pushed past him, brushing against his shoulder, unable to bear his gaze any longer.
He wanted to leave. For the first time since his arrival, he wanted to flee these walls, and every step that took him further from Ciel and his demon felt like a step closer to a forgotten freedom.
As he was about to turn down the corridor, he realized Sebastian had not moved. Despite himself, he asked the question that burned within him, the one he barely dared to voice.
"Will he feel pain?"
"... Yes."
Despite himself, Arthur began to laugh.
"I was right the first time I saw you," he said, sorrow tinting his words. "You are the hero of an Oscar Wilde novel... just as beautiful... just as merciless."
The Departure...
The carriages were harnessed and ready to depart.
Arthur stood at the foot of the stone steps, at the main entrance of the estate, watching the guests climb into their carriages. He, too, was about to leave, in a carriage he would share with Abberline. The latter was speaking with Lord Randall near a large carriage with iron bars, against which the young prisoner rested his forehead. His face was not as swollen as the previous day, but he still couldn't speak. Behind the police carriage, he noticed Finni harnessing two powerful horses to a black carriage that would undoubtedly take the young Earl to the Queen's Palace.
"Sir?"
Arthur turned to see a young officer with heavy eyebrows and a thick nose.
"We're ready to leave, if you'd like to get into the carriage."
He nodded and followed the officer. He walked straighter, and he likely appeared prouder and more assured. His face had lost its naïve expression, and his movements were no longer hesitant. He regretted the gravity that clung to him like a melancholic aura, and he hoped time would ease it.
He didn't wait long in the carriage before Abberline joined him and knocked twice on the wood, signaling to the driver that they could start. The horses began to move. Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur glimpsed Ciel emerging from the manor, but the carriage was already moving away, and Arthur did not turn back.
He watched the landscape pass by, the same path that had taken him far from London now returning him with the same fervor, the steady rhythm of the black horses pulling the carriage away from the cursed estate where he had left his heart. A ray of sunlight grazed his cheek, and suddenly he felt as though he could breathe better, as if a curse was lifting.
"Will we see each other again in London?" he asked Abberline, who had remained silent, allowing Arthur his private grief.
"Why not?" smiled the inspector. "This experience wasn't entirely bad. It's rare to develop such a friendship in so short a time."
The writer smiled in return and nodded. But then his smile faded from his lips.
"You'll look after him, won't you?"
He didn't need to name him, nor did he want to anymore.
"Sebastian is there for that. He'll protect him."
"No,you... I wantyouto watch over him."
"And you want me to tell you how he fares during our meetings…"
"No... when we get back to London... I don't want to hear about him anymore."
For he was leaving, wasn't he? And he would never return.
The Gardens of Buckingham Palace
The report was done, and the large council room closed behind him. The Earl sighed, then walked away, straight and dignified in his ceremonial attire. He absorbed the atmosphere, taking in the sensations that arose with each of his visits to the palace. The imposing and monstrous palace, and Victoria, who grew larger and older.
Ciel lingered for a moment in the hall, before an open window, gazing out at the Buckingham Palace gardens.
He could see the Waterloo Vase, standing proudly in the royal park, a work commissioned by that madman Napoleon to commemorate his future victories, unaware that the very Battle of Waterloo would bring about his downfall. Ciel didn't know the full extent of his family's involvement, but the Phantomhives had worked skillfully toward the Frenchman's defeat. Another of the Queen's watch dogs' achievements that would remain in the shadows.
Ciel felt the demon's presence before hearing his voice, like a cold, dark breath brushing against his neck.
"Young Master. Did your meeting with Her Majesty go well?"
His voice was so close that Ciel felt as though he was whispering against his ear. He refused to turn around and kept his eyes on the garden, which winter had not spared, where the trees struggled to bloom again and regain their former beauty. Memories, almost shameful and incredibly recent, resurfaced in his mind.
He had woken up in his bed that morning, though he couldn't remember going to bed. His chest still hurt when he opened his eyes, and his throat was sore, constricted. Then he recalled the confrontation from the night before. The light filtering through the curtains promised a bright day, and with it, he hoped for a moment, the departure of the insufferable crowd that had taken residence in his manor.
Pushing back the covers, he was about to get up when he noticed the dried blood on his shirt.
Shocked, disgusted, he got up and went to the mirror, unable to suppress the gasp of surprise that followed. He placed his hands on the mirror, as if trying to push away his own reflection. His shirt was stained with dried blood that cracked on the white fabric. His arms, legs, and skin bore repulsive crimson marks. Around his neck, dark bruises covered the flesh. His disheveled appearance did not frighten him, but it provoked a merciless fury that threatened to consume him entirely.
The humiliation of discovering himself in such a state was unbearable, and he clenched his teeth so tightly that his jaw hurt. The demon's blood that sullied him, the memory of the night—it all revolted him. He could still feel Sebastian's weight on him, crushing him, his fingers sliding through his hair, caressing his face, and intertwining with his own.
Nausea suddenly overwhelmed him, and he breathed deeply to keep from being sick, gripping the wooden frame of the mirror with all his strength, digging small scratches into it with his nails.
How had things degenerated to this point, breaking all barriers of decency, becoming so abject and sacrilegious?
For heaven's sake, the demon's taste was still on his lips!
Suddenly, he had torn the buttons from his shirt, which hung loosely around his arms like a cape as he ran to the dresser to grab the water jug. He poured the entire contents into the porcelain basin and, using a towel, he tried with desperate force to scrub the dried blood from his pale skin. Sitting on the floor, he rubbed furiously, uncaring about the brutality of his jerky movements.
He hadn't heard the knock on the door, nor that it had been opened.
"Young Master, you're awake?"
He looked up in shock, his legs wet and reddened from the harsh rubbing of the rough cloth. His butler had entered the room, pushing a breakfast tray on wheels.
The demon froze, surprised to find the young earl half-naked and trembling, his face drawn and furious.
"What were you thinking, letting me sleep like this?" Ciel shouted, holding up the dirty, blood-stained towel clenched in his fist.
For a moment, Sebastian didn't know how to respond, not because he lacked words, but because his young master's anger was incomprehensible to him.
"I didn't want to wake you. Sleep is the best remedy for humans, and you were weak..."
At these words, the boy's anger flared even more, and he bit his lip to hold back the words of rage he so desperately wanted to say. His eyes dark with fury, he clenched the filthy towel, and the water mixed with blood dripped onto the carpet before he violently threw it onto the tray, knocking over the porcelain, which shattered on the floor.
"Prepare my bath and get out!"
After that troubled awakening, he and his demon had exchanged only brief and banal words throughout the morning.
But the cold anger hadn't left him. Perhaps that was why hearing Sebastian's calm voice, so indifferent to his inner turmoil, aggravated him deeply.
"The Queen is saddened, but she seems pleased with our actions," Sebastian said finally.
"At this moment, she's writing the letter that will sentence Snake to be hanged high and short. His sentence will be carried out in the courtyard of Newgate Prison."
He fell silent and, sighing, turned towards his butler, who stood, as always, with dignity, upright and immaculate.
There was no trace of what had transpired the night before etched on the butler—no weakness, no wound. In his eyes, the malice had returned, drowned in the boundless cynicism of his perverse nature. Ciel almost regretted that Sebastian didn't bear any scars, deep and indelible.
Why did he have to suffer, faced with the dark marks on his neck, constantly reminded of every word exchanged, while the demon bore no hideous scars? A bitter taste rose on his tongue.
"Our actions being secret, his execution will be too," the boy continued in an even voice. "Who cares about a man hanged without trial inside a prison full of condemned men waiting for the noose?"
"And does that trouble you?" Sebastian asked.
"Let's say it doesn't satisfy me."
He rested his eyes again on the dead trees in the royal garden. The withered branches reminded him of the stretching of his own heart. Deep down, without his desire for revenge, he was no more alive than this nature, tortured by a too-harsh winter. Grotesque, monstrous, as vile as the blood that had covered him.
Am I becoming less human? he suddenly wondered. I've been walking over corpses for a long time now. My own humanity has detached itself from those bodies. And how many more will die?
In the end, despite all the disgust he felt in admitting it, Arthur was right.
"Snake must not go to the gallows," he said coldly. "He must not die. Find a way to have him freed. That's an order."
And from the corner of his eye, he caught the disapproving look from his butler. At that moment, irritating the demon almost amused him.
"Is this the last gift you offer to a lost lover?"
More than the mockery, the disdain in those words did not escape the boy. He found himself smiling, shaking his head disapprovingly.
"It suits you, doesn't it, to attribute all my decisions you don't understand to him. But you're mistaken. This is a gift I'm giving myself... When he's freed, bring him to me."
"Yes, my Lord..."
At Undertaker's
Sebastian pushed open the wooden door of the funeral parlor, which creaked and groaned eerily. He stepped into the dimly lit room, lined with coffins of all sizes and designs, and was greeted by the smell of dust and decay.
There were no windows in this lair, and only the scattered, haphazardly placed candles provided a faint, cold light to the gloom in which the owner seemed to thrive.
Seated at his desk, surrounded by a row of human skulls—bleached but dusty—Undertaker was scribbling on a half-rolled parchment with a long feather almost as black as the ink staining its tip.
"Mister Sebastian," he murmured, lifting his head from his work.
He stood, placing the quill back into the inkwell, and circled around the desk. His robe, with its billowing sleeves, swayed around him with every step he took toward the butler.
"Welcome to my humble abode," he continued, sitting on a coffin and gesturing politely for Sebastian to do the same, which the butler politely declined. "What can I do for you?"
"My young master wishes for you to do him a particular favor."
"Oh? And what does our dear Earl Phantomhive desire?"
"A body will be brought to you tomorrow," the butler said, dispensing with any pleasantries. "The body of a condemned man, dead in his cell. It will appear to be the result of a fatal snake bite. But he must not be buried, for the poison coursing through his veins will give him the appearance of death for only a few hours. Just long enough to avoid the noose."
"And what shall I do with your dear Juliet once the effects of the poison wear off?"
"I will come for him and take him back to Phantomhive Manor. The young master wishes to speak with him."
"Is that all?" the undertaker inquired in his rasping voice, sounding almost disappointed.
"That is all my young master has requested of me."
"Ah! Very well, very well. But I thought you came to see me about our other matter."
"I have nothing to say to you," Sebastian replied, his voice icily courteous.
"But now you know what I'm referring to, don't you?"
"No, I don't."
Undertaker let out a soft laugh, lips pressed together, as he scrutinized the butler through his long white bangs. He fell silent but left a caustic smile on his pale lips, which he traced with his blackened nail.
"I see a clarity in your eyes that wasn't there before. I suspect you don't want to talk about it—you, a demon. But I am dying, oh yes, I'm dying to hear it from you."
He took his time emphasizing each word, savoring them as he watched for the brief, almost imperceptible reactions that passed across the butler's face.
"And you know the kind of payment I require in exchange for my services. If you want me to accept the young Earl's request, you must give me something in return. What I want is your answer, Butler… Or perhaps you need help loosening your tongue? Should I put the words to your soul's torment myself?"
"Unnecessary."
"Excuse me?"
"It's unnecessary. What you want to know is so futile, so hollow, that having to give an answer degrades and disgusts me."
"It must mean something if you find it so dishonorable to dwell on."
"I don't know what name to give this feeling, this pain, as you call it. But what I do know is that it changes nothing."
The demon took a deep breath, his gaze drifting into the darkness. His voice was barely a whisper when he spoke again.
"I've often dreamed of that moment. For a long time, I've imagined the moment when I would take his soul."
He finally turned his eyes toward the undertaker, who had lost his mocking smile. Sebastian continued, a new intensity animating his words, and a cynical smile curled his lips, revealing his sharp canines.
"I hold him against me as I savor that unbearable sweetness, that perfect spicy taste. His soul glides over my tongue, and I drink in every fragrance of it, trembling as I hold him so tightly that his bones shatter in my hands. And when all that's left is his disjointed body in my arms, I imagine abandoning him and moving on to more enticing conquests."
He fell silent, his gaze wandering over the objects in the room, as if searching for words that had never before failed him. A sadness darkened his features.
"But now, it's different. After that pleasure, the emptiness consumes me completely... My dream has a bitter taste of melancholy. My desire to take his soul is still there. I can still see myself devouring it eagerly, and giving it up seems simply impossible. But afterward..."
He stretched out his arms, bending his elbows as if cradling the boy, like in his dream. His darkened eyes stared into the void as his voice lost its passion and became a mournful whisper.
"I look at his fragile body, lifeless in my hands. I know I must let go, abandon him. He holds no more interest for me. His lips are sealed, his voice is silenced, and his closed eyelids will never open again. The color fades from his cheeks, and I've lost the rhythm of his heart. Already, I feel his skin growing cold against mine. I know it—he's nothing anymore. I must let go and walk away. I must let go..."
But his arms remained suspended, still holding the invisible corpse. His fingers tightened in the empty air as if they were truly gripping Ciel's body. His face twisted in a grimace of pain. But he did not let go. His hands began to tremble, and he closed his eyes, unable to continue.
"That's your choice," sighed Undertaker. "If only you could see it through. It's not good for us immortals to get attached to humans. And to do so is perhaps the worst of our curses. For we cannot take them with us. Their bodies don't survive time. And that's likely why they fascinate us. Simply because they are going to die. That's why, sometimes, despite all our power, they disarm us."
"Nonsense!" the demon suddenly spat with fury. "I'm going to kill him, do you hear me? I will kill him!"
To his own surprise, he had shouted, and his voice echoed against the cold stone walls.
"There is no other choice," he continued, his narrowed, fiery eyes fixed on Undertaker, whose gaze gleamed curiously. "It's all pointless! What you're asking me to put into words is meaningless, because if I loved him… That's what this is about, isn't it? If I loved him, what would that change? What would I gain besides his soul? Could I endure his presence while he ages? Because that's the real betrayal. What burns inside me seems eternal, while he is not. What irony! What a sacred mixture of mud and wax, this putrid love. I despise this nascent pain. I'd rather kill him than watch him die. His young corpse will always be more beautiful, lying among cold flowers, than as the withered shell of an old man, mired in his humanity. I am too selfish to wish him happiness. I will tear him from life. I will drink his final breath, and I will be the last beat of his heart."
His voice calmed somewhat, and he finally murmured,
"Yes, that body… That empty shell with such sublime features, that's how I want to see him dead."
Undertaker's face suddenly lit up.
"Ah, the beauty of humans when they enter their eternal sleep... There, we meet again, my friend. Come, come! I wasn't sure if I should show you this, but since your decision is made and irrevocable... Come."
Undertaker left his macabre seat and opened a door at the back of the workshop, which creaked loudly. The undertaker disappeared into the adjoining room, and despite his revulsion at venturing further into this man's lair, Sebastian followed.
It was a workshop, but again, a human would not have been able to discern what lay inside, as the light was scarce. The floor was littered with sawdust, likely scattered when Undertaker built and polished the coffins. The smell of varnish was nearly unbearable. Undertaker beckoned him further into the shadows at the back of the room.
Squinting his supernatural eyes, Sebastian finally made out what the undertaker was showing him: a black coffin, with gleaming wood and crimson padding. The sinister piece, finely carved, was smaller than the others, almost a child-sized coffin...
"Will you leave him to me? His body?" Undertaker whispered to the demon.
Sebastian sighed sharply, as if expelling the pain these words evoked. He fixed a dark gaze on the undertaker, who beamed beside him, indifferent to the wound he was digging into the demon's chest.
"He will look so magnificent in this ebony coffin," he enthused, dragging his black nails over the red stitching inside the coffin, scratching it nervously. "I'll cover the padding with white roses and lay the count to rest for eternity. You're right, his youth, lying among cold flowers... Touch it! It'll be perfect..."
But the demon made no move toward the black wooden box with its silver handles.
"I'm waiting for your answer, Mister Sebastian..."
"It doesn't matter," the demon replied, his voice rough and deep. "When the contract is fulfilled, I'd be a fool to stay near his corpse."
"Ah, I did not have your strength... I stayed, all the way to the end, even after the death. But I didn't know how to embalm properly at that time, and his body eventually crumbled to dust," Undertaker murmured in a monotone voice.
Then, he abruptly turned toward the butler, a wide smile stretching across his face, grotesquely revealing all of his teeth.
"Would you like me to tell you the story?"
"No, thank you."
A high-pitched laugh escaped Undertaker's lips, echoing through the dim room. It was a mad laugh, a blend of unsettling joy and sadness. The manic giggles continued for a while, but Sebastian made no attempt to stop them, respectfully observing Undertaker as tears began to streak down his cheeks, slipping into the scars that marred his face. Sebastian wondered if the undertaker laughed himself to tears just so he would have an excuse to cry. But deep down, he didn't want to know.
Silence eventually returned, and Undertaker gestured for the butler to follow him back to the main room.
"Well, I've laughed enough for today. I won't keep you any longer," he said, resuming his seat at his cluttered, dusty desk. "Tell the young Earl that I will handle our mutual friend."
Sebastian bowed, his mind and gaze empty. He was almost relieved to leave this morbid, suffocating lair. But just as he thought he could escape, that hissing voice echoed once more:
"Butler... When you bring me Ciel Phantomhive, dress him in blue. That color suits him so well."
Sebastian was aware of his rudeness, but he left without replying.
In the Earl Phantomhive's room
Silence at last. The boy had never appreciated the calm that reigned within the walls of his manor as much as he did now. A peculiar sense of melancholy sluggishness enveloped him, though the day had been so hectic he hadn't had time to dwell on it.
As Ciel threw his sword onto the bed along with his ceremonial attire, his eyes caught sight of the scissors resting on his bedside table, next to a handwritten note in familiar script. He picked it up without trembling and read:
Make good use of them and don't let them fall into the wrong hands.
Forever yours,
Arthur.
"The wrong hands?" Ciel scoffed, burning the small note in the flickering flame of the candle. "Are there hands more vile than mine?"
He picked up the scissors, turning them carefully between his fingers. Such a small, ordinary object—yet so deadly... Holding something so dangerous pleased him. In the end, he hadn't lost as much as he thought in this whole affair. At least, he managed to convince himself of that as he slid his fingers through the scissor loops, opening and closing them, admiring the sharp, gleaming blades.
"Make good use of them," Arthur had written. That was the issue—Ciel didn't yet know how to use them. For now...
But during their last encounter, Arthur had dropped some key hints on how to handle his new toy. From what the young doctor had mentioned, and from the scattered bits Ciel had picked up when he awoke in the mud beside Sebastian the previous night, Arthur had conversed with William T. Spears. The shinigami hadn't been shy about detailing the tools and duties of the reapers, a fact Ciel had realized when he'd met him at the circus. The death god had no qualms about revealing his identity to the circus members…
However, Ciel hadn't been able to overhear the conversation between the two men, and had even considered questioning the writer about it.
But it proved unnecessary. In his romantic and morbid passion, Arthur had written down their entire adventure, documenting every moment spent in the manor.
Ciel hadn't had time to go through the pages, but he knew that hidden within the young man's feverish prose were the secrets William had shared about the shinigami's scythes.
No, he definitely hadn't lost everything in this story… There was a knock on the door, and Tanaka entered the room.
"I retrieved the file from your study as you requested, sir," said the old man said, handing a red Moroccan leather folder to the young Earl, who took it before dismissing his servant.
Inside was Arthur's handwritten gift, which would serve as his reading for the night. But for now, he stashed the folder and the little death scythe in the drawer of his dresser, beneath his white flannel shirts, waiting for the time when he could make "good use" of it.
End of Chapter 12
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Author's Notes:
"Angels of Darkness: A Drama in Three Acts": Arthur Conan Doyle really wrote this book but never published it.
Newgate Prison:An English prison for convicts, particularly those sentenced to death, in the 19th century.
Arthur and Ciel:Once Arthur understands what Sebastian is, he knows that Ciel can never be his, but he needs to hear it. It's worth noting that the real Arthur Conan Doyle was passionate about medieval knights—honor, bravery, and the codes of knighthood were important to him (even though he ended up writing Sherlock Holmes, and we thank him for that…). I think he shared those values. That's why I believe if Ciel had asked him, Arthur would have fought Sebastian to the death (like a knight of the Round Table fighting a dragon). So, Arthur needs Ciel to tell him to give up so he can be at peace with himself, even though it tears his heart out. But when he says goodbye to Ciel at the end, it's a real vow to never see or hear from him again.
Arthur and Sebastian:I haven't fully developed the reasons why Sebastian hasn't killed Arthur yet. I didn't think it was necessary, though there will be a discussion on the matter in the future. In this chapter… these are also farewells… filled with hatred on Arthur's part. In his place, I would feel the same. What's interesting is the effect it has on Sebastian. He's only just beginning to realize it.
Ciel and Sebastian:To be clear, they're lost and walking on eggshells, simply because their usual balance has been shattered, and that's what will push them to react to each other. This is what the next chapter will reveal.
Sebastian and Ciel's death:If you reread the previous chapters (which I do—it takes a lot of time, so it's okay if you don't), you'll remember that Sebastian almost died at Grell's hands. That experience shifted his perspective on things, particularly his sense of time passing...
We know that Ciel impresses him with his unwavering determination for vengeance. And I think Sebastian fears that this determination might wane... As we know, most mortals mellow with age, they grow more forgiving... I don't think Sebastian would like the idea of Ciel aging. Ciel's soul promises too much for it to become ordinary later on...
Furthermore, Sebastian is attracted to Ciel's appearance—his cheeks, soft like cushions, etc. He finds him adorable, almost like a kitten. In the manga, Sebastian even tells Arthur (when Arthur comments on how cute Ciel looks while sleeping in his bed) that he wishes Ciel could always be as cute as when he sleeps. I wanted to incorporate this aspect as well.
And lastly, and most seriously, there's the fracture between their natures. They can never truly connect, and Sebastian believes he must settle for Ciel's soul because, in the end, it's the only thing that can be his for eternity since Ciel's body won't survive the passage of time...
To conclude, I don't see Sebastian as someone cold, especially considering both the manga and the anime, and particularly in season 2. He gets angry, he explodes, darkens, and even feels sadness...
But all these emotions are unique to a demon, and he doesn't feel them like a human would. For example, he experiences love and sadness, but his calculating and pragmatic nature prevents him from seeing these emotions as enough of a reason to act on them. Let me explain: no matter what Ciel's death might bring—pain, sorrow, or loneliness—Sebastian will kill him because that's what his nature demands. And because, to him, Ciel's soul is worth the sacrifice.
When I watched the OVA "Ciel in Wonderland," episode 2, the ending hit me like a shock, but I found it beautiful. Seeing Sebastian read a bedtime story to Ciel's body, even though he no longer had to, was heartbreaking… If the demon achieves his goal, this is how the story will end. And that inspired this passage.
Ciel upon waking: Some might be surprised that Sebastian let Ciel fall asleep while still stained without cleaning him, but for Sebastian, it makes sense. Agni told him that when choosing between his master's orders and his health, he should prioritize his master's well-being. Ciel needed rest, so a bath could wait… It's logical… for a demon.
But for the boy, it's traumatic and humiliating to wake up like that. It's even somewhat intimate but degrading to be marked this way, especially by a demon.
Ciel and the scissors: It's important, very important... if he understands, it's important...