LUMINOU! RABBIT

Wishing? You think it’s in the realm of reason. If he can make feasts appear within seconds and ash turned into home, then a head of hair shouldn’t be too ridiculous. There’s a paranoid part of you that wonders beyond the drawbacks of having your soul consumed, another potential price. You’ve read stories of wishes with catastrophic consequences maybe due to the folly of the user, more likely the innate selfishness of human desire that sullies the idea of a “clean” wish. You say nothing however.

Another puzzle piece that remains missing takes the form of the remainder of your injuries on your hands, feet, and back. 

Twin marks cast on the backs of you and the boy’s, marks of the beast in an ugly shades of pink and brown, burnt and marked like the coals still smolder upon your back. Where Ciel’s resides on the side of his ribs unevenly cast by some burly good for nothing fucker, yours had been pressed between the underside of your breasts upon your sternum. The mark was almost methodically placed to have the mark unmistakable and apparent, strapped down and buckled rather than just physically restrained by some no name fucker. 

Your hands and feet are a similar story, you have a superstitious assumption as to why Sebastian couldn’t heal them. After all, could a demon heal wounds that came from something holy like a cross? And so, there remains a round blot on the front and back of your hands and feet around the size of a railroad bolt, perhaps a bit bigger they resemble blotting ink- most likely from the way you had ripped and tore at them from what seemed like mere hours they struck your hands with what felt like hot, aching coals at the time. 

You’re not complaining by any means though, you’d like to say you would remain within your wits disfigured but it is simply not within the realm of your vanity to think that way. 

Your hands and feet still red wrought with blood and bruised an ugly purple-black where it mattered meant you’d be carried when it could be allowed, mostly in private settings by Sebastian due to the vastness of the manor and the scarcity of staff. You’d wager you’d look much like a doll in appearance with how used to the act of being carried, propped like an ornament. You still wear the nightclothes that you frequent as they act as the only suitable fitting clothes- that issue being resolved today. 

“Oh! My dear girl, you’re a marvel to wonder!” Dr. Dalles exclaims with such vigor and excitement marveling and musing your face and hair. Ciel lets his lips purse as his eye narrows calculatingly on your appearance. Your unmarred face and hair to him were obvious signs that something greater was at play. Dr. Dalles would be none the wiser- though she had been your main caretaker in name the actual handler of the role would definitely go to Sebastian who was far more versed in the injuries you carried, in fact, the alarms about your hair specifically had not been raised to the doctor who examined you because Ciel and Sebastian from the start had strict boundaries of her withholding inspection of Ciel’s eye and apparently, your hair. 

This had been on the insistence of Sebastian giving some excuse of your and Ciel’s delicate temperaments as one of the many reasons as to the many circumstances of why they shouldn’t inspect too deeply, puzzling you at the time as they were allowed to treat minor injuries and prescribe you with painkillers to high heaven. You finally understand why. 

“It’s all thanks to the care you and Sebastian had given me!” a smile comes easily at her sheer joy. “Yes, that butler of yours is a miracle worker, my coworkers and the lady nurses always stir whenever you come down to the hospital with him, sweetling! It’s easy to see why- your recovery is immaculate! It’s a blessing you’ve kept such a darling face!” she exclaims jovially, cupping your cheeks inspecting you. 

“Such a distinct face, oh lord you’ll be the most coveted beauty! Nina will do you wonderfully, in fact- I’ll visit her back in London, I just have to stop by and rave about how inspirational you’ll be!” 

“The…The tailor for Ciel and I?” You question.

“Yes, she’s brilliant! She typically dresses young women but between you and me she has a…daring aspect to her. She’s quite the eye for fashion! It’s just the thing a fresh face in the garden needs to outshine even more!” She exclaims with such a vigor it shocks you. The clinical Dr. Dalles who looked at you with the eyes of something far more maternal, heart on her sleeve. You’ve heard about her scandalous affairs she’s had on the ton when she’s had far too much brandy to drink after routine checkups. It’s still jarring on occasion to see the drastic switch, though you think it’s for the better- separating your personal and work life is always good. 

She’ll arrive tomorrow, that’s the plan. As of now, the night grows darker and there’s a scheduled attack on the manor. Nights like these drag along like cigarette smoke: Thick and oppressive, like the rotten men who orchestrate for something worse than fun, the curiosity of it. You usually stay with Ciel under Sebastian’s request, not like the two of you have a need to complain about it. Only two residents in the manor are presumed targets, because of course the presence of a mysterious girl would circulate with the uptake of new visitors in the form of crooked swindlers and the honest businessman. 

Nights like these are long, you find. In your earlier days you had been prepping for the next day’s meal while Sebastian did some chore off and away, stationary on your designated chair; it had been monotonous but refreshing. The presence of Sebastian tended to do that to you- temporary but oppressive safety. That night, the silence and peace you had assumed had been revealed as an illusion, a rat had slipped past the hunting grounds that you think he uses for entertainment or observation- whatever, a rat had slipped by. Undetected? You don’t think so. Uncared for was more like it, nothing bad would happen to you of course. The reasonable part of you knew this. 

The rat had skittered to the kitchens. The Kitchen is located on the first floor with multiple exits, avenues for something small and meaningless to make away from. Perhaps the rat had seen it when it observed the looming manor that had been so foreign to it. Vermin-like rats are never the coddled lap pets, in fact, they’re feed for the exotic ones. 

Perhaps the rat could recall a kitchen better than the layout it was given. Perhaps the rat could find familiarity in it. The rat’s mama cooking over the hearth, a nice smell in the stink of the city, the rot of the bare country. You don’t like to think about it because the rat grows thumbs and a human face- The rat was hungry and smelled food, so it followed its nose and nothing more. 

So the rat had burst into the kitchen. The impression of soldiers and bad men are usually depicted in the minds of the innocent as bad and burly, muscle and evil intent sown into its body, but this was just a boy around your age, scrawny as the sticks broken under his boots on the trek to the manor, just as easily broken. 

He’d only had the time to gape and heave a soundless scream at the living undead he thought he saw. Perhaps the screams of his comrades and the obvious beast deluded the mind into claiming the place cursed or doomed, (a correct assumption, as you saw later from the carnage left it appeared as if something from within them tore them apart.) He had decided on doomed when a black mass had ripped through his chest like a slow cooked roast, like skin had rejected to touch the mass so muscle and sinew would rather separate like candle wax burning. 

Sebastian never said anything that night, he was in a horrible mood that day. The young master had humiliated him with a display of his awful service, while you had stared uncaring and blank as the brat had poured a cup of tea onto his pristine linen gloves. 

He just gave you a look of what you consider contemplation, scanning your hunched figure sat over the skinned potatoes and promptly left, the rat dragged along with wet scrapes along his coat tails. 

Needless to say, you don’t like the extermination days you faithfully dub. 

“Sebastian,” You call as he brings Dr. Dalles to a separate parlor. “Please be sure to keep your rat catching quiet tonight.” You murmur, “Please remember to keep one alive to test it for disease, or better yet, lead us to the source of infestation.” You say with finality. 

“As you will, My lady.” 

Sebastian had so faithfully escorted Dr. Dalles to her chambers after 30 minutes of yammering, a true test to school your expression you’ve found the seeds of discontent to be sprung across your face and brought into a premature bloom you try to weed; looks of astute boredom and overall solidarity are the common offenders to which Ciel looks pointedly at you with a sharper than typical glance. Only then when Ciel almost commands for her to be placated to her room does she finally relent with a well meaning goodnight kiss for the both of you, final words of glittering excitement over your future presentations. 

The study hearth glows brightly. It does well to illuminate your face quite favorably, to determine the lack of scarring and sworn tissue. There’s none from that night. 

“(Name), let down your hair.” Ciel breaks the silence with a command that’s weightlier than anticipated though you understand the bewilderment lies not with you. 

You do so, revealing hair floor length. Tumbling down in its usual pattern towards the carpeted floor.

“It’s longer than when I first met you.” Ciel observes plainly. He’s correct, your hair was a long, proud thing back then. It was something you could never cut for one reason or another yet it had never been this defying length. If it was possible through natural means you couldn’t tell at all. 

“Not only that, but you also don’t have any of the cuts I remember you bore.” He says openly. He’s not truly upset by this fact it seems, but skeptical. 

“I could give you some guesses as to why the demon couldn’t heal holy wounds.” You gesture your hands and feet smiling rather wry at the nasty joke, “Not only that, but the brand. I fear we’re stuck with that, sweetheart.” You reply solemnly. 

Ciel nods his head, all night the question is his mind since your reveal truly put to application. “Your wrists…” he starts slowly, pointedly looking into the hearth knowingly. 

You understand where he’s getting at instantly. 

“Yeah,” you say. “Sorry boy,” You smile wry and slow, testing the motion, lifting your wrists in the air towards the gleam of warmth. It’s an ironic gesture, wish fulfillment at best. Your loose per usual sleeves drop eventually, when your arms prop upright. Ciel stiffens at the reveal, you giggle. “Honestly, I didn’t want this one gone.” You start, “it’ll be covered up at all times though.” You reassure sweetly. Your eyes on your wrist could be the look of something maternal, or perhaps that warm feeling is the hearth hitting your skin, illuminating it; the golden light revealing two almost identical bite marks on either meat of your wrists on all the rich veins, deep, neat, and gifted. 

Holding it up to the light you notice that there’s some slight differences in indentation. Molars are spaced out and a deviated canine left from the boy’s jaw. “Have you lost any of your baby teeth yet?” You ask curiously, arms hoisted. 

“No, I haven’t.” He says quietly.  

“Late bloomer then, on my right, there’s a gap where he must have lost a molar.” You reply far too casually before you realize your slip up. 

Ciel stiffens like the dead. “I see.” 

“They’ll be concealed at all times, along with other abnormalities.” You reassure flat, final. He nods in approval and reprieve. 

You turn to leave, it’s late and you don’t want to be around whenever Sebastian starts his nighttime cleaning. “(Name)” Ciel calls after you. “Yes, sweet thing?” You respond naturally, halting at the door. 

“If he tries anything you come to me, please.” 

A laugh rips from your throat, dying down into a croak. You cross to him, enveloping him in a hug that presses your chin to the top of his head, kissing on the soft blue-grey crown. “That’s very sweet of you.” You reply, stalking down the hall. He doesn't call for you again. 

You’re woken up around the same time you’d be off to town, but apparently Nina is restless when faced with a supposed muse. It’s Sebastian as per usual who rouses you. 

“My lady,” he calls, “The seamstress Nina is here.” 

“Mmngh, Seb- Sebastian?” You call out in confusion, eyes hugging the dark round the corners. “Why so-” You yawn, “Why so early!?” You whine, stretching rather feline with your newfound mobility, sitting up and arching your hips and back. Sebastian’s eyes narrow.

“I apologize, my lady. I was under the impression she would arrive around noon.” 

“No- no worries,” You rub the sleep from your eyes. “I was just suprised ‘s all, shall I get dressed?” 

“No actually,” he starts rather tentatively, “She would prefer what she refers to as a “blank canvas” as she calls it. She would like permission to enter your quarters.” 

“I see, I grant it.” You say simply. It’s less work to simply not get ready at all, Sebastian’s eye twitches at just how easy you accepted. 

“Strange protocol.” He forces out. You pointedly ingore him. “Send her in.” 

He leaves wordlessly with what you think is a sigh. Around a minute later, a shapely lady wearing a men’s top with an adjustable bustle waltzes in. Framed hair and glasses to pair her eyes scan the room before landing upon you. 

“Oh my god, you’re absolutely gorgeous! Meg, Agusta, my tape!” She squeals too passionately for the early morning. “O-Oh, thank you!” You stutter out, mid stretch. Sebastian watches the exchange warily.

“What’s your name darling?” The seamstress Nina inquires as she leans in so fast you collapse back into laying on your bed. 

“(Name)!” You squeak as she doesn't bother to move, rather pinning you to the plush comforter. 

“Your hair, oh your complexion! You- You’re just as Ann puts it, such a gem you are- in fact- Where is she, butler?!” She turns to Sebastian who watches the exchange distastefully. It seems they got off on the wrong foot. 

“The sun has barely risen, the lady Dalles remains asleep in the guest quarters.” He replies sharply. 

“Oh, (Name) dear, older ladies rise with the sun- but you! You’re a flower that blooms overnight! I do my best to keep myself rather vital as my assistants can vouch but, oh! Does the night call for you to be more radiant in the day!” She takes your hand, holding it close to her heart placing it upon her breast. You flush, if there’s a blush on your cheeks it matters not, as the look on your face is enough explanation. 

“Oh, we’re two women,” Nina winks at your awestruck expression. “Society says that the most pleasant bloom are the ladies that find a rosy companionship, I however find a creative liberty upon that term as an artist.” Her voice drops teasing, the two assistants Meg and Agusta- She calls them share a devious look as they exchange glances, the one with the bob bites her painted lip. 

You can feel the weight of Sebastian’s gaze upon you as you do nothing to push her off, maintaining the heavy eye contact. “I trust in that, Ms. Nina” You respond rather softly, her eyes crinkle in the familiar face of laughter. “Oh my darling, you’re just too precious. If I were a man I’d hide you away, but I am a woman so I must stake my claim on you.” She finishes rather seriously, glancing over at the butler who remains motionless at the doorway.

 “I’m sure your faithful servant understands the feeling all too well.” She simpers at him. She shakes her head and doesn't elaborate any further upon seeing your narrowed eyes, rather she hoists you to sit via a hand on your waist. “Stand for me darling.”

You obey her of course. Your tail might as well be wagging. 

“Good girl,” Your face whips to the side, you feel flushed. “You have quite the lovely figure; that goes without saying. Today’s fashions will suit you well, no doubt. What we must do is make you unforgettable. Unfortunately we cannot be too adventurous given your frequent audience with royalty and nobility, our queen has quite the sensibilities.” She notes seriously. 

“I must dress you in english then, though the heart of mine years for Paris." She finalizes solemnly. 

“That’s not to say one may add the accent of Paris.” Madame Red, the lady who stands at your door, adds coyly. You sigh, there was Dr. Dalles and then Madame Red. The hand on her hip tells you as much.

“Oh, Ann!” Nina all but falls into Madame Red’s respite, kissing her cheeks. “She is just as visionary as you wrote!” 

“Oh, I and I have been modest still!” She laughs along. “(Name), dear, she really is a genius- you’re in capable hands.” You think you see Sebastian roll his eyes next to her.

“Sebastian, please wait outside. I will summon you if needed.” You command gently, “I’m sure Ciel will wake soon, until then Nina and Aunty will assist me.” 

“...” Sebastian eyes you for a second. “As you will, my lady.” and swiftly departs. 

Madame Red and Nina share a look, one that Madame Red does her best to hide behind a hand, and fails.

“Dear, while I may not dress you as I envision.” 

“Francis will have your head-” Madame Red interjects.

“She will,” Nina finishes.

“I may dress you upon your terms, what that may be.” Nina smiles softly. 

“Nina dresses the Midford family. She wouldn’t touch your uncle and cousin if it weren’t for the tremendous respect she bears for Francis,” Madame red interjects giggling, “Though she does a spectacular job with each of their particulars.”

“Oh, Lizzy is such a darling! So colorful, that girl! She wanted a dress like a carousel, I had to tearfully refuse because her mother rejected it!” She recollects. 

“I trust the eye you posses, Ms. Nina.” You begin, thoroughly entertained.  “I would like to highlight my being then, as a member of the Phantomhives but also as my own being. I will not bend to the dressing if it makes me look foolish, I will define it rather- That is the goal.” You claim fiercely. 

“Oh, then it shall be done.” Nina winks at Madame Red. 

“I want the strongest colors. I shall not be a thing to be overshadowed and overlooked. Every color shall be planned to my complexion, what suits it best- Even the white shall be to my taste, the black to my desire. The dress itself may be modest in embellishments but intricate in craftsmanship. The priority will be complementing my figure.” You request, certain.

Madame Red nods in approval. “They claim you not an English rose, but something beautiful nonetheless.” 

“I can’t please everyone.” You say plainly. 

“You shall not,” Nina confirms, the cogs in her head turn. Muttering to Meg and Augusta as they create concepts on the go, modified styles of english wear- to be complementing rather than conforming. Polite yet firm. “You should please the eye, they could not deny you that.” 

The designs they show you favor the complexity of design rather than accents. The color is rich and purposefully distinct. “The cost would be in the color and the labor, but that is the labor of love.” Nina replies happily. 

“I shall only require for outings of these occasions,” You hand her a list. “Occasions more grand such as this will be commissioned weeks in advance.” You add, then lowly mutter. “Please uphold priority for any…last minute unconventional requests.” Nina nods. 

“That is without a doubt.” Madame Red confirms. 

“I will have you pick jewelry from a collection come three days before your meeting with the Queen.” Nina pauses, “Shoes, garters, underthings, and dailies will be ready for pickup tomorrow, along with simple wear I can prepare from anything in this catalogue." She hands you a magazine and a fountain pen to pick your desirables- everyday wear inspired from different regions. You pause when you find something inspired by your own home country, circling it quickly. 

“Very well!” Nina clasps her hands together, “We have one more matter to attend to!” Her eyes trail behind you. “Your hair! It is lovely, but I must impose something needs to be done!” Her eyes glitter. Madame Red chimes in. “It is lovely, darling. Yet, you must want something in fashion?” She recommends softly, tone more like Dr. Dalles, the doctor who wasn’t allowed to touch a hair upon your head at all. 

“We can. Nothing that’s in fashion should be put into consideration, I want it to suit my face shape, my features.” You advocate steadily. “It should have no regard for what’s in fashion- what suits me shall be deviated from the norm I think- it is possible to style it anyway for formal events-” 

“No need to explain anything to me, dear.” Nina coos, “We agree wholeheartedly” Madame Red adds once more support, putting a hand on Nina’s padded shoulder. You don’t want to ask why they seem to  finish each other’s thoughts like they’ve been inside each other- 

You’ve just answered your own question. 

“I thank you.” you reply nodding greatfully, you let them get to work. 

It took 3 hours to determine a style, Ciel had spent the rest of the day in a foul mood. 

You’d say the effort paid off though. The hours you had all spent to determine an aesthetic for you to follow set itself up nicely. A perfect balance of conformity and individuality, an embrace of a part of you not everyone would accept. The Phantomhive colors moulded to fit your complexion, jewelry to suit the Phantomhive name and you, your own colors and jewelry to represent Lady (Name) Phantomhive. Nina had crafted a wardrobe based on what felt like far off idealism and dreams.

Buckingham Palace feels surreal to you. It’s grand, of course that’s enough to be said. It towers over you: A shining reminder of where you are today. The Chinese man beside you nor the Indian immigrants you passed on the way could make you forget what country you inhabited. The golden angel that lay in front of the gates shone the sun so bright a phrase could only come to mind as your eyes whitened at the refraction.

“The sun never sets on the British empire.” In fact, the Indians, the Chinese, and Irish you encountered on the way only cement this. 

Being escorted into Queen Victoria’s drawing room is a daunting affair. It goes first to Ciel, dressed rather valiantly as his little frame can hold, a heavy overcoat and metal pieces adorned. He looks honorable. He had even left Sebastian behind next to you. You wait outside in the parlor, awaiting the call you sit stiffly, your posture extra pristine for the silent guards that stare blankly at the wall ahead of them. Madame Red and Lau had been sent to another parlor with an audience that had the relevant members of Parliament. If everything went according to plan, then the newly reformed Phantomhive family would convine with the Midfords in the open ceremony.

Your mind races, you can tell it’s bad when Sebastian glances down upon you with a raised brow. 

It’s been thirty minutes since Ciel had been called to the queen’s drawing room. You don’t dare say anything to Sebastian, the help if society were to dictate. The guards in the room draw any comfort you could draw from his familiar presence. 

When your heart drums at a pace and your gloved hands finally sweat is when Ciel emerges with a conflicted expression on his face. You try to read the look in his eye, his hair drawn back gave an easier face to read but he shakes his head, looking forward as they summon you by “A Ms. (Name)” 

You step forward, perfect in your off white dressing gown. Your hair and makeup leaves you a vision to be sure, stares have garnered from every expression you drew up. That’s different though. 

The drawing room opens and closes with a thud,  “Ms. (Name) it is good to finally meet you.” The queen addresses you rather kindly as you curtsy, your head bowed. “It is an honor to be in your prospects and healthy presence your highness.” You greet fondly. You flatten your skirts for the drawn chair, right across from the queen of the English Empire. 

“I've heard your case pleaded to me in many different forms by that sweet boy.  I’m afraid I remain curious though, as it was never clarified- I must ask what happened in that dreadful fire to make a son of the watch dog so attached.?”  You look up from your seat as your posture remains sweet and english. The look in her eye speaks to no mal intent but a morbid curiosity. 

“I don’t know what to say, your highness.” You start, “The good queen requests a memory that is not mine to recall. The boy had lost much, all that to say is that we remain where many did not. I have the scars to bear, as does he. More physical than mental, that is.” You reply cautiously. 

“Oh! May I see?” Queen Victoria asks rather suddenly. You notice an assistant or butler at her side clears his throat. “Oh, I don’t see why not.” You reply cheerfully, matching the ingenuine nature rather well. “These are mine to tell,” You lift your gloves, “devil worshipers, the lot. Sinful. It is through God's grace we were able to escape. I’d say it was a feat of wit.” You mutter lowly to her, bent over the table to get a good look, enthralled. “Oh my! How awful! It is good then, that the boy’s return must signify God’s grace, that good takes over evil in its most foul forms- I must ask child, what else you must tell me!” She looks into your eyes awestruck. It throws you off, the illusion of a grand figure tarnished. 

“Tounge of the most foreign forms. Spoke the old Latin, yes, lots of foreign eastern tongues.” You lie nastily, watching her expression go from childlike to one of a senile older crone. “Oh! Those types don’t celebrate god one bit, do they? They refuse to work and find the cheap sin to bring whatever mortal delight! Oh, and if they did it’s not proper like the English way!” She chides almost like scolding a child, baffling you. Yet, your face doesn't betray you one bit. 

“I must say, I had been sent to England to study- never made it. I was to be studying at a convent.” You reply solemnly, adding to the shock on her face. “No! It mustn't be!” She replies in abject horror. “It is against the teaching to rip you away from such a thing!” 

“On the contrary,” you retort knowingly, nervously. “I am of the personal belief that it was God who sent me to the boy’s side. I had dreams you see, of an angel telling me to be this boy’s shield for his own were so horribly departed.”

“Then it must be!” The queen nods vigorously, “God must prevail in speak of the devil and sin.” She speaks in a tone of education. “Then it must be that you stay by his side, the English way.” 

“At my own will.” You agree, “I was sent to serve the boy, and if the boy serves his country and Queen matriarch, then I am to serve just as faithfully.”

“You are a good girl then, devoid of the superior sensibility rather than what you may have been taught.” She speaks softly. “I believe it is my duty as a ruler of justice to bring that to you, if you serve as my subject of the protestant- anglican faith. I believe that you were robbed of your opportunity to serve God, so the good lord must have brought you to me.” 

You smile sweetly, “That must be it.” 

“Then you are to be christened and named family at once, not only of strong will, but the bond you two share must be preserved and kept as an example of how we must uplift each other.” You smile endearingly as she nods, finalizing some thought in her head. You wonder if this comes to you too easily as a pretense to a treacherous road- A road you claim with a full heart. 

“The darling boy was correct in his stance on your morals, what a good girl you are.” She peers up at you. You didn’t realize how little she is, you had been sweating at the thought of her presence. “(Name) Phantomhive will be a proper lady, she should be a devout lady, she should be a desired lady. Lady (Name) Phantomhive will be the pinnacle of English reformation, we will turn you yet into the most exotic rose, my dear. Most of all, a wonderful accessory for my obedient dog!” 

You don’t know why your heart thuds to the bottom of your chest, but it does. You smile tightly, curtsying once more, and bending like a swan so she may kiss the top of your head. You’re escorted out the room, past the parlor to the throne room. Ciel waits for you there.

“What did you say to her?” You murmur quietly, your eyes bore the carpet in front of you as you walk side by side.

“What I expected you to say, did it work?” 

“It did,” you pause. “Thank you, brother.” 

Ciel’s smile is tight and wry. “Of course.” 

Ciel’s installment and your legitimacy as a member of the Phantomhive family is witnessed by parliament, a set of old, sunken in faces set in stone like the graves that lay at the base of the manor. It is a quiet and polite affair  where no one dares object at the idea of such a young lord, the documents that recollect the seizure of assets and will had been summoned from a bank in Paris, the feat of Ciel’s earnings had been projected as some form of evidence of mental sound. It is settled by the man it white, the Queen’s presumed assistant who had then introduced himself to you as John Brown after a quick round of congratulations. It is when the doors open, the room stills as a private ceremony is held for Phantomhive heir to take upon his ancestral role, you are to bear witness along with Madame Red, Lau, Sebastian and the Midfords. 

The boy seems to be swallowed up by the tall pillars and arching windows, still standing his pride and right, stalking down to kneel before the Queen as he bears his vow to servitude. The words he relays to bear arms for the crown utter hollow to you. The guard dog is something he embodies, something he wants to be. He is a guard dog in spirit if not name, to you however, it is clear he lays false upon his loyalties. A memento, a tradition he must possess rather than a true desire. 

Ciel Phantomhive is in the spotlight now, and the people demand a desire. He must give them one, lest he shows the hatred in his chest. The one way hatred that would do no one, least himself any good. 

“Welcome back Earl Phantomhive, I rejoice to see you returned to us.” 

He is sworn, you realize the motions are quite similar to knighting if not the same. It is done. Ciel is now what he said he would be, you are what he said you would be. There is no debate about it now. You congratulate him with the appropriate fanfare, as do the Midfords, It is a cautious sort of congratulations for the road ahead- Lau a respectable distance. Your eyes follow the blood red stain of Madame Red, convening with Sebastian at the doorway that he stays sat. Your newfound family goes to make their separate entrances at the gathering after bidding an upbeat farewell, Aunt Francis takes a good look at you and nods her head with what must be pride, Aunt Ann giving you the typical affections.

“We’ll reconvene shortly” Aunt Francis reminds you pointedly.

“I wouldn’t miss it.” 

You say nothing as you, Ciel, and Sebastian bear down the halls ready to brave the crowd of close allies: A Deidrich and an uncle Claus from Germany, The Midfords, Lau, Madame Red, a man named Pitt and some others. A small spread you’d gathered immense loyalty from. You stalk a bit ahead of Sebastian and a pace behind Ciel as expected. 

Right, the social season’s start is conveniently now so you’d then open the town house to the Ton who, from what you heard, have been gossiping wildly about the resurging Phantomhives. You can at least savor the moments of familiarity before diving into unknown territory.

“Now you have formally become an earl. Status, wealth, a beautiful fiance- it is all yours.” Sebastian states with a feline tempt, looking down on the boy from the shadow he cast, “So what do you say?” He starts with a shadow that seems to coil around him like a vice, you train your eye on the floor, observing the ways it twists within itself like a starving belly. 

“Why not cease aspiring something as foolish as vengeance and simply live a happy life from here on?” He inquires, dangling forbidden fruit. Ciel’s glance falls to you, narrowing as you frantically shake your head “no”. 

“That’s not a bad idea either,” He probes nonchalantly, he doesn't mean it surely but it doesn't stop Sebastian from shivering with a sick sort of glee, a hand molded black and wrong reaching for him with his teeth bared. The ice that freezes over your heart rivals unparalleled as you swipe at the hand that approaches the boy, tugging the arm to your chest. Oh what a mistake, the split second it connects the feeling of dread seeping inside your body, the physical feeling is thick air-like smoke penetrating your clothes and skin, seeping back into the hellish form it came from. A split second to see the venomous glare Sebastian shoots you, lowered and narrowed. 

“But-” Ciel whips his head around, “(Name), what are you doing?” 

“I fell.” you say rigidly. 

“I didn’t come back “here” for happiness. I returned for the sake of waging war.” Your chest floats up and down like an air balloon, he’s safe for now; digging his own grave. “Now that I carry this name, the name of Earl Ciel Phantomhive, moving forward is the only option left for me!” 

“I swear upon this baneful name of mine I shall have revenge!” He clarifies sharply, with no resolution to his plight it is raw and angry. You slowly withdraw from Sebastian. Ciel shoots you a look as he motions for Sebastian to kneel. 

“I command you Sebastian, be my sword and shield and bring me victory!” You stare at him, not knowing whether to cry or spit, so you nod. 

“Yes my lord.” Ciel waits for the both of you no further as he moves towards the door, a step closer to achieving his desire- without you, something you refuse to forget. 

“My lady.” 

“Yes, Sebastian?” You stay frozen in place, the words tumble out of your mouth like stones.

“Do not stick your hand in a cage with ravenous beasts.” He reminds you childingly, yet he bears no smile. 

“Thank you Dr. Dalles!” 

“Oh please, call me aunt Ann!” She kisses the top of your head, a crimson red mark left behind. 

“Aunt, please stop smothering (Name).” Ciel interjects from his desk. 

“Well, it’s only because (Name) doesn't mind if I pinch her cheeks or give her affection, nephew! You’ve become so prickly! Where did that arise, hmm? Must be from Francis- don’t tell her I said that!” You giggle at her rant. 

“Yes…well, next week as planned, we’ll see you and Lau after our meeting with the queen. We’ll all reconvene at the town house with the Midfords and company, it’ll be our re-entry into society and the start of the season” He finishes the conversation prior to its cutoff, perhaps he could feel the next topics wouldn’t be taken so seriously- His aunt has a meter for those sort of affairs. 

“Does that man have to be there?” Dr. Dalles simpers. It’s a farce at best, considering how much time post their initial meeting they surround each other- they get along quite splendidly in your opinion. 

“Yes, it was his condition with his involvement with the Phantomhives, it’s rare a Chinese merchant has access to Buckingham Palace and the ton. It’s only reasonable considering the fact he gave us entry into the Chinese underworld.” He reasons. “My predecessor had even struggled with such a feat. 

“It’s only reasonable,” You offer innocently enough. Lau was a man of humor, he was good enough not to mention any adult filth if it wasn’t absolutely necessary to whatever discussion Ciel would take up, a balance in his eye. The respect of Ciel’s aptitude but the knowingness of corruption. “Besides, he won’t bring Ran-Mao.”

“Ugh, how can he be that way with his sister of all things!” Dr. Dalles shudders. 

“Oh you don’t know?” You raise a brow, a bit amused. “They’re not related at all.”

“Wait- what?” Dr. Dalles blindsides.

“No, not at all.” Sebastian interjects smoothly. “It’s a running joke for those in his particular trade, they find that Englishmen have a hard time distinguishing the relation between a man like Lau and his…merchandise.” 

“Claiming family relations gives them more domain, you see.” You finish Sebastian off with a sly grin. 

“Yes, nasty work.” Ciel concludes bored from his desk. “Madame Red, I’ll need you on standby in case (Name) needs medical attention during her unwrapping. We’ll have tea until then.”

“Hold on one second, I’m not the one undoing (Name)’s bandages?” She puzzles. 

“And call me aunty!” She adds more sternly. 

“You see, (Name) has been rather delicate lately, it is routine for myself to be tending to her injuries. I wouldn’t want to deviate from the norm to upset her temperament.” Sebastian confirms with a pleasant expression. 

“Hold on-” You protest, why would he say something so false!

“Oh, (Name)! Don’t justify yourself, I understand you sweetling!” Dr. Dalles all but coos.

“Yes, my lady. You should be thankful for your supportive family.” Sebastian further adds with a smile. Ciel huffs in annoyance. All but ushering the both of you out much harsher than normal with a wave of his hands. Sebastian takes the wordless cue and scoops you into his arms. 

You bristle outside the study.

“Why would you say that!” You whisper yell leaning closer to his face disregarding his super human senses- actually, you wish it rings in his head. 

“My lady,” His expression has a subtle smugness. “We had to give a compelling reason as to why lady Dalles must not be in the room for this occasion.” He settles calmly keeping pace as he does, his pace evenly setting out in the carpeted halls so even it’s almost akin to a carriage ride in a rich neighborhood in London. Sebastian dares not drop you. 

In fact, ever since that Undertaker incident a week ago his grip had further tightened; his gaze sharper. Something you could only reasonably interpret from Sebastian’s mannerisms as a lack of trust. Sebastian of all people could find no relation or information about Undertaker for contingencies yet the boy had insisted on the contact as he had been his predecessors. 

You think it’s a tad sentimental, if fact, you’re happier for it. Sebastian, you could tell, was more reversed on the opinion. 

Your room is quite bare. You sleep in it more often nowadays, but there’s nights that Ciel requests you by his bed side. Another sentimentality that eats at Sebastian’s patience. You note the annoyance on his face when he summons you from late night paperwork. It’s the annoyance he carries for when someone held up the road to help a man who had been struck by a wagon, all but whining on the way to your errand about lost time and the pointlessness of it. You had been struck by the lack of comprehension at the time. 

Your room is bare, it was originally the room of a mistress past- The boy’s grandmother called Claudia Phantomhive. It’s only a few doors down from the master bedroom. It wasn’t unusual for Phantomhives to have separate rooms if they had relations to the guard dog title, you noticed. Ciel even noted one time briefly that his own mother who doted upon his predecessor had her own room when bouts of sickness came to her or when his predecessor had been kept far too busy with work as the guard dog. 

Your room is bare: You can relate to it, despite receiving no comfort in it. You feel like your room most days, bare because your bandages feel like your skin and everyone else dressed heavy for the winter that remained. You’d look at Sebastian oddly when he’d bring lighter garments, loose flowy things that would work as night clothes. It was deemed okay though since you were covered in wraps- Even the stern Lady Midford turned cheek in understanding her first come around. When everyone else wore elaborate thick things of stiff cotton and form fit wool you felt naked, your body forgot the burden it bears and tricked your mind into mundanality. 

Now that you think about it more, you’d really be truly naked. Sebastian had changed out your bandages. Never all at once though. Always done in the dense heat of the washroom, everything feels heavy in a place like that. The fog had clouded the illusion further, granting you the peace. You’d been disgustingly familiar with the feeling of nakedness at one point, even becoming a commonality at the time. Yet you feel worse this time around, confusing you greatly. Sebastian had insisted that only his presence whenever you take your second skin off. He’d introduced the idea so nonchalantly that Ciel had to clarify as to exactly why rather than nodding his head mindlessly. 

Why? 

You had agreed even when Sebastian didn’t elaborate, the conversation parting with a certainty and wicked sense of trust on your part: 

“It’s for the best, my lord.”

You had nodded and exclaimed just as nonchalantly, supposing in your mind it was appropriate enough, though no logical thought could come to a reason to define your conclusion. You suppose there’s a brazen trust you carry with Sebastian, that he has not shown any signs of breaking a contract that binds him loyal to you- but you’d rather think of him as a thing with a stomach than thoughts and emotions with a stomach. Sebastian the stomach has no taste for sexuality, for the likes of scrawny, malnourished, bone set things like you. 

It’s idiotic to think he has no thoughts, but it gives you peace of mind to think that way then to imagine in the blank stare he saddles upon you what he may be thinking, so you’d like to think he thinks of nothing at all outside of his stomach.

He sets you down on the marble countertop of the bathroom behind the vanity mirror. The thin linen you wear as day clothes comes off as easily as raising your arms. It’s routine at this point, and never before had you felt anything particularly for it, always under the expectation the bandages go back on.

The bandages unwrap nicely, they’re made of the finest linen they had shipped in from India; Ciel insisted only the best which you’ve taken more than graciously. 

Your face is revealed first. Sebastian’s face reveals no emotion, straight to work. You feel no pain on your face at all, only met with the open air of the room. Your eyes squint a bit, the wraps had been a cover for your eyes which had been bloodshot as you were told, the room isn’t particularly bright, which worries you slightly.

Sebastian says nothing as he unravels you, the sound of linen is something you’re used to. You couldn’t comfort yourself by saying that it was the standard remove and replace because you’ve never felt so exposed in your life. It’s an idea you never thought you would struggle with but you’re seconds from grabbing Sebastian’s wrists as they wander lower and lower as you sit well and immobile. 

You look at the ceiling and think of better things as you feel the cold air on your breasts and stomach, your pelvis. Lower, lower, lower. 

Your breaths try not to become hiccups as you feel your chest intimately beating rather intimately, flushing you red, Sebastian can definitely hear it. Thankfully, you can hardly feel his fingers on your skin. Just dry open air. Sebastian works further on your legs now, from the countertop he’s kneeling on the floor between your legs, working on one, the other propped on his shoulder.

The worst part is you don't even realize until your left leg is completely unraveled, save for your foot. 

“My Lady.” His voice is a bit clipped and careful, void of any personal interest as per usual yet a bit human by his design. You squint at the Ceiling, undoing the damage of your mind.

 You recognize that in this moment it’s dangerous for your mind to wander such places in a vulnerable position, as per experience it should only breed the deepest hatred to bubble. The worst part is, there’s nothing you could do about hatred for this kind of man: One who’s not a man at all. 

His gaze travels your posture with a raised brow, you note peering at him in the corner of your eye. You notice your hands grip the side of the counter that your arm trembles- you notice your arm is completely devoid of scarring. 

“...Sebastian?”  

“I wasn’t sure if my methods had worked properly. Good to know they’re not inefficient.” he muses halfheartedly, though his gaze is heavier and his mind lays elsewhere. 

“How-” You wonder aloud.

“They were shallow. Three months is plenty of time to get rid of light abrasions, the issue was the softer skin of your face, My lady.” He finishes his musings, turning back to you. “In fact,” he muses with a smirk on his face, leaning closer, the leg propped on his shoulder gently set down by a gloved hand clutching the fat of the underside. You panic, your thighs work to clamps shut- He doesn't plan to stop you, rather moving forwards, up towards your face. You don’t bother reprimanding him. You’re instilled with a feeling he’s ahead of you. 

A hitch of your throat. A gasp. 

Your thighs catch his hips, unsteady your remaining bandages on your hands cause your arms to slip. 

The hold on his hips tightens, a hand of his reaching out to grasp your waist. You refuse to look at him, your head whipping to the side so quick you think your neck would snap under the pressure. He looks down at your position, back at you and chuckles. 

“My lady,” He reprimands more amused than anything “No need to be frightened, after all-” He jests rather cruelly as you interpret. “Bad things happen when you least expect it after all. I’m sure you know this, so there’s no reason to keep me so tightly, my lady.” 

Your mouth opens with a huff, your legs to slack. The first time Sebastian showed any reaction, bare faced and cruel he gets. You quickly shove him off. 

“Warn a girl.” You say weakly.

“Oh, I thought you were perfectly comfortable with the proximity. I apologize, I’ll re-evaluate next time.” He grins.

“You wouldn’t touch Ciel like that.” You say sharply more for your own reassurance. He wouldn’t- would he?

“No, young master requires a different sort of care, my lady. If you must know,” if you were brave enough to ask, he means. “I consider the care between you and the young master to require an ocean apart.” 

“To be a butler “Worth his salt,” you mock with a huff, “You must have an understanding for the care that goes into tending to a lady, Sebastian!” You raise your voice, there’s a horrible crack at the end that sounds like the start of tears rather than the neglect of tone. 

You don’t question the strange behavior you’ve come across since the trip to the Undertaker’s, already treading on what seemed to be melting ice. You want to kick yourself from piquing his interest, starting a game you can’t finish. 

“I didn’t realize you saw yourself as one, my lady.”

Your eyes narrow in understanding, the niceties drop, so does all semblance of human tone. His voice is flat and devoid, a hand goes to your chin, gripping it just hard enough you can’t move away. He doesn't speak further. The only sound in the room is the heaving breaths you take, eyes looking at anywhere but him. 

You want to snap back, you don't. Your lips feel like cement. His other hand travels to remove the bandages that rest on the crown of your head, almost fantastically, he pulls down one knot that sits at the nape of your neck and unravels the bandages. 

There’s a number of things you expect to see or feel, after all it was probably the most memorable assault onto you, also the most noticable: 

You’d expected some patchy mange, crusted blood and dried scarring. Sparse patches and tufts of hair. 

You had been almost scalped unintentionally, handled so roughly in an attempt at pinning you down and shaving your head it was almost like they had shaved some skull off at the time. 

In fact, you had felt patches of pain in your head the most for the first two months. It was the type of pain that ebbed and flowed in aches and burns. Those were the bandages that needed to be changed the most.

It’s to your surprise you feel thick, luscious hair- So long and healthy it seems impossible to be grown naturally, piling on the counter top so long you assume it could unravel to the floor. 

“Se- Sebastian?” Your voice is a mix of horror and wonderment. 

“From what I could gather, this is your correct hair type…is this correct my lady?” He was correct, but you're too speechless to confirm.

“Sebastian…H- What is this?” You ignore him, for some odd reason, you tear up. You really settled with the idea of being something more disfigured, come to peace with it even. You’d cried one night and no more because there were better things to cry over. You twist around to see your reflection for what feels the first time and fantastically, you look almost the same as you had before. “Sebastian?!”

“That is what I’m called, my lady.” 

You’re caught saying his name, again and again. From horrified to hopeful, questioning and overjoyed. 

“Sebastian.” Once more, something slips out his skin, he looks genuinely perplexed at your reaction. 

“My lady?” And he studies you for the first time, truly naked and yet, you pay no mind to it. 

“Sebastian!” You exclaim idioticly, even more stupid, throwing yourself at him like a worshiping heretic, you don’t care where your arms and legs go. How your body moves. How naked you are. How it is perceived, you don’t care. You throw yourself at him even though you draw blank upon his intentions, you don’t care.

“My lady!” Sebastian questions, alarmed at the initiated contact. Your tears damp his coat, you don’t care. 

“My lady, are you crying!?” He questions, genuinely alarmed at the act. You clutch him harder. 

You can feel it now, lowly in your skull. This is a mistake in the making; bearing your insecurities like this, letting him initiate such a vulnerable scene rather than Dr. Dalles. A myriad of foolish decisions, this entire ordeal you come to realize has every marker of stupidity on your part.

Sebastian poisoned you with the promise of comfort and repetition, false perception. You had attempted the same and look at you now, failing miserably. So clear in your future you can almost taste it; when his alarm fades like it inevitably will he’ll have something about you.

Perhaps, optimistically you think; he’ll think you a vain and vapid girl obsessed with the way she looks. 

You hope whoever may find himself there, through the untimely demise he may have faced, will be wiped off the face of the earth like you’d been reassured rather than in a scary place like that- alone. Your heart twists. The dark does you or the boy no good- vivid dreamers. 

Your mama showed you a picture book that had Bosch’s hell paintings on it once, years ago as a small child. You don’t remember which one, but she had told you your ears and tongue would be cut off to regrow, old wounds open once more and again. You wish you could ask your mother why hell resembled the world you had found yourself in. 

You want to cry alone in the dark as it consumes you, it can be any dark as long as he is not around to watch. 

“Heheheh,” a voice echoes chillingly through the room, you don’t know where. It’s not from pure disorientation this time- it’s simply untraceable. “Are y’eh ‘ere to be fitten’ to one o’ me coffin’s today, li’l lady?” the voice drawls teasingly, you stiffen. 

“No! Not today!” You exclaim, you’d like to pretend the shock comes from the fear of the odd man’s arrival, not the embarrassment of slipping a tear in a foreign office- not that anyone could see that. 

Of the things you couldn’t see, being a majority of things- you felt a sort of unease come over you as his voice echoes and bounces off the wall sort of like a shark circling prey came the illusion of him circling you, but how? The room was far too cluttered to be stealthy, at least at first glance. In the dark which your eyes accustom to, you make sense of the room in the gap of silence. 

It’s a clever trick of the eyes. Your mama fell for this trick many times when you were a girl when she claimed your room was a mess to be functional. You’d beg to differ on those occasions, maybe it was messy to her. You could navigate it just fine, an untamed mess of scientific journals and economic reviews, history books and anatomy references. Your papa told your ma to leave you be. The thought runs bitter in your mind.

You really don’t want to believe your parents would do this to you, send you off bright eyed and starry to be disposed of- There was no indication of anything other than love. Is your understanding so disgustingly shallow and  infantile- What does that make of you as a human being if your sense of love is something so blind?

Your nightmares, unlike the boy's, revolve not on the affairs of the horrible months, but the scenario if your mama and papa had intentionally sent you to that ship. 

You don’t like to think about it, you decided when your wounds refused to heal the first and last time you cried from it. It’s a mystery you’ve overheard bits and pieces of during your time in kennel. Haughty robbers and assaulters would recite the facts of the tale to you when they’d enact their evil upon you. You’d requested a paper of the event upon your return, a whisper to the nurse so silent it was almost inaudible in your first bout of consciousness. You’d never thought about it then- until now.

“Sir, I’d like to discuss an urgent matter with you!” You squeak. You think the words spew from your mouth in an infantile way, the way your throat tightens and your eyes tear up, the way you pick at your hands. 

“Ohoho! And what ma’ers would ye’ mas’er trust a fragile li’l kit’en like yeh?” The voice centers to the coffin centered at the end of the room, parallel to the door. 

“Kitten?” you question innocently. You wonder how to phrase your next prose. 

“Hehehe, yer li’l paws ye’ got fer hands, girlie.” Ah, your bandages lump your fingers together in an awkward fist. “Ye’ got ki’ty paws there!” He states redundantly, bursting into a choking gwuaffs, doubling over in the coffin he seemingly resides toppling over. 

“Right.” You breathe lowly, inching closer. “How did you see my hands and I can’t see an inch of you?” You curiously remark, cautiously craning your back down you lift the toppled lid 

Only to find it empty. 

“Because, this is my shop dearie. Shouldn’t I have an advantage in my domain?”

There’s a whisper of air that makes it past the base of your neck; past the high collar Sebastian dressed you in and past the bandages that keeps your skin from falling apart.

 He’s behind you. 

The realization registers in your mind. You yelp, a sharp unguarded sound from a part of your vocal chords you hadn’t tapped into since the last time you screamed. The haze you had been made familiar with in your head suggested years ago despite the haunting recency of it all, you were completely sober now. 

“Mmph!” 

You don’t flinch anymore per say, at least you say you don’t. You hadn’t come under any threat that you hadn’t invited yourself, so you’d ration it’s the feeling of something natural like breath being introduced that makes you stumble out of shock. It’s your instinct that makes you spin around to see your offender- an instinct they couldn’t bleed out of you if they tried. 

Now tumbling backwards towards the coffin, towards the worst omen you’ve ever seen if you were to believe in such things. The omen of looming death halts when an iron grip that reminds you of Sebastian in sheer strength alone grips the wrist of the arm meant to brace your fall back, another your waist. Suddenly, you’re being pulled flush to skin and bone- The man. 

Your heartbeats are flush. You can’t feel his. You don’t feel much of him at all, rather you feel your own heartbeat pounding in your ears utterly racing. You feel the heat embed into your skin, trapped in your wraps like a sauna. 

His face. Long scar, messily stitched, not gaunt but sharp and angular. Wide mouth with alabaster lips, hardly flushed from his face. Most hidden by the long silver fringe. You see a long angular nose that peaks out- proportionate to the rest of his face. You’d wager he’d be handsome if you could see all of him, perhaps that’s the proximity talking. That’s the blood rushing from your heart to your head. Adrenaline you hadn’t felt in an age, useless associations. 

“Sorry.” You say rather dumbly, you think.

“Eheheh! No worries, kitty!” He’s back to being hysterical, the thrill of the scare on its back legs. 

“What can I do for yeh?” He asks calmer this time. 

You dig round your pockets with your free hand and pull out a letter complete with the Phantomhive seal. “My lord would like for you to remain in our services.” The hands that hold you grip you noticeably tighter. That’s when you notice long, long nails poking you through your dress and wraps.

“Phantomhive, eh? Seems I’m never truly done with them. I fix a bond with any I get myself wrapped up in.” He mutters lowly more for himself than you, it is an unexpected development you ration- Ciel’s return isn’t public yet. 

“I understand your shock, but any accounts or settlement that was used as reimbursement for your services is in working order once more, I have some documents as further proof if you’d like to verify.” You reply coolly this time. 

 “Oh, li’l thing. I’ll serve the Phantomhives as long as ‘ey keep me satisfied. I’ve got no use for the Queen’s coin, after all.” he says neutrally in his upbeat tone. 

You’d only drafted up a general account of past transactions, but this man wasn’t on any. You had brought it along for proof of a well run estate but it seems rather useless. 

“I see, I shall provide Earl Phantomhive with your statement.” You nod understandingly, tugging at the hand on your wrist. He relents and lets your wrist and waist go.

“I’ve served many Phantomhives- almost like a dog to a bone, yeh see. ye’ll have to remind me which one I provide my services to, missy.” You bristle at the nickname, keeping an eye on him as he watches you adjust your bearings. Far more relaxed and watchful than yourself, now munching on a…bone shaped biscuit that resembles dog treats. 

“You serve Earl Ciel Phantomhive.” You reply not too sharply. 

“Ohoho, Ciel Phantomhive, is that right?” He bears down condescendingly. You feel a bead of sweat press onto your brow, a fleeing feeling overtaking you.

“That’s right.” You reply simply instead. 

“I could have sworn it was the other one that survived, what was his name again? Ah, yes-”

“Ciel Phantomhive,” You cut him off sharply this time, “Is the rightful heir to the Phantomhive earldom and the sole survivor of the manor’s attack sir, I’m sure you’re quite mistaken.” You almost heave. 

“Oh my, how does a li’l thing like you know that for fact, who do you happen to be in the grand scheme of things?” he smiles more sardonically, almost mourning you read. 

“(Name)” You swallow tightly. “I am firsthand witness to Ciel Phantomhive’s uptaking as heir. Though you may deal in rumors sir, a first hand source will always bear the truer story.” you say with a grit. 

“Is that so,” he says tentatively. A dawning of understanding you’re grateful you don’t need to elaborate upon sits upon the frown bearing on the edge of his mouth. “If I may add upon me’ grave of contacts-” he giggles stupidly at the joke. “What do they call ye’ (Name)? Who bears the name as ye’, weepin’ upon yer grave?” Your face twists. 

“No one but the earl. (Name) Phantomhive.” You say, because you like the idea of Ciel at your grave rather than the alternative. 

“Phantomhive. I’ve dug many graves for Phantomhive, too many for me’ liking.” He says slowly, his smile doesn't grow with his words. 

“Ye his wife? Coulda sworn he was engaged to that little Midford-Phantomhive poppet, yer a bit old for him, no?” he giggles, regretting his past words.

“NO!” You screech in horror. “Sister.” You clarify, shaken by the thought. 

“Are yeh? Can’t see yer face, but I coulda sworn there was no such thing, unless I knew the boy’s father less than I thought- or he was hiding some dark twisted secret!” He giggles. 

“He considers me such, he bore the name upon me.” You clarify. “So I am.” 

“A stray, then.” 

“Whatever you want to call it doesn't deny the truth of it.” you say flatly. 

“Heh, I’ve had all sorts of dealings with your Phantomhives, I wonder how I’ll deal with yeh, (Name) Phantomhive.” he states rather menacingly. 

“I look forward to it.” You say hotly. 

“Now, don’t be so tense li’l missy, missy ki’ty, missy Phantomhive!” He simpers, “What’re yeh looking so dreary for! It’s almost like ye got the dead on yer back!” He cackles once again at his own jest. 

His laughter, he’s at ease once again. It’s infectious. You find yourself cracking a smile.

“Sir grin reaper over here…” you mutter sharply with a foreign giggle bubbling in your throat, laughing seemed like years away.

He pauses. The shop goes silent. You flush because you can’t stand being not funny. 

He bursts into a cackling, falling over, stomach clutching, snorting laugh. 

“Oh, missy, dont’cha know? Laughter is the best payment?! oh, ye’ got a head of wealth on yeh!” He wheezes from his position on the floor, you can’t help but grin. 

“If the coffin fits?” You say puzzlingly. His laughter doubles. 

“It was not that humorous!” You deadpan.

“Afraid you got the dead rolling over, missy!” He cries from the floor.

“Oh my god.” 

Sebastian didn’t know what to expect when he went to retrieve you. He didn’t have a gauge for your social competence other than utter failure.

 Case I: The Midfords. 

In fact, this was the first time you’d be out and about un-chaperoned. You’d both set just as dawn broke, his young mistress is quiet when recovering from rest, the brilliant orange of dawn slipping into a striking blue then inevitable grey the closer they got to London, it seemed to Sebastian at least that the city held its own oppression that even the rich couldn’t fully escape.

He’d actually taken less liberty in your treatment out the door, it’s not like you’d know what to correct him on or even care. Breakfast for his lord had been served by Tanaka, (Who had just rejoined the household as the steward mere days ago, his rest and recuperation being hindered by his age.) Breakfast had been prepped yesterday as you oversaw Sebastian’s work. You could rationalize the act being your work as “Lady of the House” but you had just graduated from babying him to his newfound competence in the kitchen. You’d solely responsible for passable food being put on the table for a near month, it was obvious to Sebastian’s displeasure. Southern comfort food- slow cooked beef you called “brisket” that you’d leave on a makeshift smoker all day, heaping american style breakfasts, american sweets like a berry cobbler, and a mix of all that and some sort of mexican influence that was a surprise to the young lord’s taste buds. Those were some of the notable examples. Other times, she and Sebastian would have clumsily followed European cooking or in a pinch, made food from her homeland. The boy would eat the food with little complaint when it was obvious (Name) had a helping hand in making it, his temperament had little reservations for Sebastian himself.

Sebastian didn’t have much experience in the Americas, he’d consider himself adapting to European sensibilities the most, though you couldn’t call him expressly from one place- He decided that the American taste was often against his aesthetic, or what he gathered from (Name). 

She gave smiles too easily. It confused him. She was easy to smile at most things- morbid things too he remembers, though there haven’t been any recent instances. You could tell what she’s thinking quite obviously, though her face and form being obscured, Sebastian felt disgust at the thought of colorful expression; an iris amongst daisies, a sheep dyed red in a flock. Both ready to be picked off, in his opinion. 

He won’t deny he’s been neglecting your supposed status where it would matter, but he’s a bit short staffed and you’re the willing participant when it comes to running the household. He won’t deny your general competence for most matters being helpful, in return, he’s learned to find you infinitely more tolerable than his brat master. 

He stalks across the streets of London too quickly to be considered normal or appropriate, but he found himself in a crowd that favored the next brightly colored contraption rather than the shadow it cast. Perhaps the quickness in step came from her, the urge to come to her. To see what had been made of her, Sebastian would open the mortician’s door and there would be a macabre sight to see, something interesting.

His quickness in step is a reflection of time, he wants the time to go by so quickly. In the blink of an eye, Sebastian would be leagues better at what she had introduced him to. He knew it, she knew it, that’s just the way this arrangement worked. It’s adorable their lives centered around each other like fledglings, Sebastian wanted their lives to orbit a couple suns or so until the day she noticed he was superior to her in every way. It’s no hard feelings, but it’s his nature to want to be better than a human in the things that they call human.

Most of all, Sebastian wants to see what she’d do when she’s the one who needs helping. When there’s no one to save so maybe she’d finally back off of his meal. 

There’s many games like the carriage he’s willing to play with her so long as she doesn't touch his food. 

That desire, for a thing like him obviously would manifest into something more curious and twisted- He wants to see her desperate and jealous, rotten so perhaps her soul would be worth the chase rather than a bump in the long road ahead of him. 

Sebastian shakes off the thought. He’s simply just high strung because of the pint-sized brat he’s got himself saddled with. With less proximity (Name) would be an afterthought, she’s rather low maintenance and little to complain. 

Despite the speed riding on his coattails, Sebastian reaches the funeral parlor at half past four like promised, the winter turning spring so very early in the season does little to halt the sun from setting London into pre meditated shadow. Sebastian sees (Name) just as he started: in a bout of glorious sun. 

The light from the door opening catches the silver of the soft jingling bell, the open door centered an illusion of some opening to hell springing from the floor. 

The light catches, and the first thing that Sebastian registers in that dingy little shop is you, perched securely on a coffin with dog treats and a beaker of tea. It’s awfully domestic, you’d gotten comfortable, your dress is draped intentionally fixed so you could sit. Petticoats draped over catching the shadow over the new golden glow. Your legs curl at your side like a new born fawn.

Your laugh curdles something within him, apparently, you’re an easy laugh too. 

There’s a man on the other side of the coffin just as comfortable as you, the Undertaker- obviously. Watching him coax laughs out of you like a cheap whore for a coin. Except whores lie and cheat their way to the top, the sound that bubbles from your throat has all the vocal implications for genuine. The brat had told him that you had done just that at one point, but he hadn’t seen an ounce of it since arriving in this plain. Could this be some scheme of yours to get in the Undertaker’s good graces? 

“Sebastian?” You mutter a bit dreamily. Talk and sweets had gotten you drowsy, the aching dip of the sun cast a golden brown looking light from the curtain’s cast. The job had been done hours ago, written contacts and verbal obligation had been enough- these things aren’t meant to leave a paper trail of “I shall obey”. 

The Undertaker hadn’t moved an inch since the door had swung open, his back towards the intruder of grand time the two of you were having, but the feeling of hair raising overtook you. He hadn’t moved an inch since the door opened, since you uttered the name. Not a muscle twitch, no cheery greeting. 

“I can always count on you for being…dead on arrival.” You blindly throw out- it’s probably half past four exactly knowing Sebastian. Sebastian promptly ignores the snickering man on the floor, moving towards your stationary posture.

“My lady.” Sebastian’s gaze trails Undertaker’s form, seemingly laid back. “I see you’ve made yourself acquainted.” He continues rather sharply. 

“Oh yes, quite,” You reminisce. “He’s a riot, lord knows you and Ciel have a humorous bone in your bodies.” 

“My bones are punctual, my lady.” 

“Stiff crowd.” You mutter as no one laughs. 

“See, they just don’t land on occasions like these.” You whisper even lower. Sebastian may be a charmer, you’d be blind not to see it. He’s charming- But he’s not funny. He’s charming, but he’s unable to elicit certain emotions out of people, humor being one of them on the average occasion. 

The Undertaker snickers, the stiff spell wearing off. He giggles at you, “Phantomhives aren’t typically the humorous type, I’m sure that involves their company. I’m sure they would rather pay in gold than me’ special currency.” His head jerks towards Sebastian and says no more.

“Oh sure, the one you got now will make the dead roll over in the grave. A real jester, that boy” You nod. 

“Hehe, if a little miss would look the part, the dead would be ready to drag ye’ rolling, kicking, and screaming.” 

“I am NOT sleeping in one of those things, Undertaker!”

“(Name).” 

“Sorry, Sebastian.” You sigh, reluctantly rising. You pause.

“My legs are numb.”

“Heheheh!” 

“You’re not helping, Undertaker”

Undertaker pauses, leaning forward and ready to assist you in some way. The way his hands reach for you he’d be willing to pick you up from your shoulders. 

There’s no way to tell for sure what his true intentions may be; Sebastian briskly scoops you up in his stiff frame more dead than most times he’s held you. 

“My lady, we must be back in time to finalize dinner preparations.” He says tonelessly, already heading for the door. You flush a bit, you don’t want your friend thinking you incapable is your childish thought emerging. 

“I can walk by myself!” You protest, loosening the grip on his coat. The part of you that has survival instincts advises against pushing him off of you. 

“And who are you, mister?” Undertaker pipes up. He’s standing behind Sebastian, you can’t find any logical explanation to how he found himself there so quickly. 

“I got caught up in this delightful li’l missy, I didn’t gather who ye are, rude, rude, rude of me!” He murmurs, his tone is humorous and something else you’re trying to place…careful? 

“Sebastian Michaelis, Phantomhive head butler.” He says rather blandly. “The lady and I have matters to attend to, I do apologize. It’s getting rather dark and unsafe for a lady.” he says just as intentionally. 

“Oh, this li’l lord’s got a lot of cogs, eh butler? How utterly confusing!” 

“Quite.” 

“The li’l lady will find no danger in the dark in me’ shop: She’ll find peace in fact. All me’ patrons eventually end up ere’ y’see…” He trails off after gesturing to you with a pointed finger, his fringed gaze focusing on your expression the way his neck cranes forward. Sebastian narrows his eyes avoiding the man’s attention instead narrowing in the final brilliance of the setting sun. Looking at him bathed in light, his eyes are a more brilliant red bordering fuchsia. 

“What kind of butler would I be if I couldn’t protect my Lady?” He retorts customarily.

He laughs like the idea amuses him.

“Make sure she and her li’l brother don’t end up e’re too early!” He snaps with a sharp laugh, collapsing in on himself like the idea was not only humorous but preposterous. 

You stiffen at what feels like an omen, the grip Sebastian has on you tightens a moment.

Undertaker waves lazily from the front of his shop as you’re toted onto the carriage. 

“Buh-bye, li’l missy, make sure ye’ come back to me whole!” 

You nod small and wave as you cling to Sebastian, you feel like a cat stuck in a tree. 

You don’t utter a word on the carriage back.

You remember thinking to yourself when you’d seen it the first time; a bunny doodle in between the pages of an accounting ledger. Any dream he chases, no matter how innocent, will lead him back into an open cage with a starving beast at the other side. 

He had told you once, when you were both locked away, where closeness and cold had disregarded propriety and shyness in both physical and mental means huddled up like starving seal pups in a ditch about a dream that seemed seas away, past the cold of the arctic to familiar warmer waters: A toy shop for lonely kids such as himself. A Thoughtful and more pleasant idea than your reality, you had told him you’d like to see it.

It’s why you like to shift your posture in your chair during your working hours with Ciel, blocking the view of his doodles in his drafts or the spare notes of paper whenever Sebastian makes himself present.

 On days of the opposing afflictions- days when your head remains in the clouds and your body much too heavy, would be spent being nursed by Dr. Dalles back in London. You’d been acquainted well with the staff at that point, and the talk of your bandages being removed became quite the gossip with the lady nurses in the hall you’d frequent for observation. In this time, you’d befriended the little old Japanese man, Mr. Tanaka who had handed off the role of head butler to Sebastian whose pin he was gifted shone so brightly on the days he could make a proper cup of tea. 

“Sebastian, why must we follow the stifling English style of gown?” you groan out. 

“Because we are in England and will be having an audience with the Queen in two months' time,” He replies simply. “Furthermore, knowing how to dress you even with your current bandaged complexion will lessen the time for the future.”

You roll your obscured eyes. A lady maid would do the same as Sebastian but without the sass and tone. It was actually preposterous that Sebastian would be the one dressing you but alas, the only option.

When Sebastian dresses you, your thoughts lean into an uncomfortable territory. You’d expected such with his addition in your life, but knowing doesn't aid in your comfort. 

You think it’s rather comforting that Sebastian dresses you, he looks over your naked form (Your bandages are your skin at this point, you feel naked even with them on- it’s feeling he can smell.) You can gauge no such thing as desire in his eyes. There’s no need or want for something that happens to be a woman despite how unappealing she may be, this reassures you- Sebastian has the gaze that turns breathing things into meat. 

Sebastian is unfortunately comfortably in sync with your desires. In return, you’ve done your best at leading on with the household chores. Sebastian could master things like cleaning and housekeeping almost instantly, taking to it aptly as a butler such as a thing like him should. Yet, you remember when dispositions sour and Sebastian’s frustrations raise silently, demons don’t comprehend why a human child may have difficulty eating after being starved of nutrients for so long. This idea frightens you to the core, as Sebastian had reminded you.

You’d toil around the mansion by yourself if you could, Sebastian would only assist you for a manner of things he may need assistance with, child rearing most commonly. He’d appear at your side in a silent shade of black where the light from the open library windows had dimmed and the room shades over like it’s wilting- like the room wilts. He’d say nothing. Sebastian is easy to sense when the world around you abstracts into shadows that shouldn’t be possible; the light had split into a ball and tossed itself into four corners, shadows and light bending into something unearthly and there he appears with the usual human signs of pleasantness in his face, but the penetrative aura of a silent rage. You silently let him scoop you into his arms and carry you towards Ciel. You worry often that one day they will burst each other into flames and consume each other half-hazardly, leaving you alone in this empty, soulless place: The look in Sebastian's eyes is often still and hungry, his fingers are stone stiff on your legs and back. He ought not show this side of himself to his Food, it will spoil. Perhaps he shows you because he needs someone in this household to fear him for what he is. 

You by far spend the most time with Sebastian if you spend your day in the manor rather than recuperating in London, your schedule tends to rise and end with him:

8:00 You are woken and dressed by Sebastian. He doesn't speak much, out of pride you think. You help him prepare Ciel’s meal and speak of lunch plans. 

9:30 Ciel rises, he likes it when you’re in the room. You usually are. He won’t get away with sleeping in like this, but you made an irrefutable claim on his need for sleep and stress patterns- Sebastian can’t argue with facts especially if it does benefit his master. 

10:00 Breakfast is served. Sebastian and yourself dodge questions on breakfast preparation. Sebastian seems happy to only be spoken when spoken to: Chatter between yourself and Ciel commences. You like the fact Sebastain can’t speak freely. You’re free to ultimately reign Ciel into childish banter, board games, fun things to eat, fun things to do, cartoons in the paper which had been delivered and pressed during breakfast preparations; in fact, you study them beforehand almost obsessively. 

11:00 Work. Sebastian leaves to tidy the house and maintain the land. If you can, you stay with Ciel. You try to slip in dreams where Sebastian is too busy to reach. If it is a day for physical therapy or errands, you’re joined to Sebastian’s hip. Your chatter is more to train your voice, to probe and to understand the beast. Human tactics, does he have human appeals? To talk about himself? You like to remind him how useful you are. You don’t know if he can like you, but you hope he can respect you.

14:00 A light snack and tea held in the greenhouse- Ciel cannot stomach three meals a day, nor can you. You like to ask and talk about Ciel’s day, to get the oppressive gloom slowly out the window. 

14:45 Lessons. Tutoring in many things relating to earldom, language, arts, and economics. You are the heir, you are taught the same things plus etiquette. Sebastian likes to use this time to let out his anger, strikes and condensation on his part. You find yourself on days of sour spirits to do worse on examinations. 

17:00 Brief recess before supper. You usually play chess with Ciel or leave him to his devices when your brain is working ahead of the day, then you’re with Sebastian. A neutral party to plans and worries, you think he prefers to know every variation of a future idea. This dynamic works symbiotically for the both of you, better days ahead and pleasant moods. 

18:30 Supper by your design. Sometimes your recess is used to help Sebastian with supper, it depends. It’s pleasant enough, you have something to distract him with.

23:00 Bed time, whatever is done before bedtime is variable. Maybe leisure, but most nights, it’s more work. Somedays, Ciel crawls into your bed. Somedays, he makes you wait in his room till he’s asleep. You know to take your paperwork to his quarters most nights. 

1:00 You retire. Once the boy is in bed, you prepare the mansion with Sebastian for the following day, to take a protective sweep, for no mortal monsters to be waiting to eat children in the dark. It’s the only way you can get adequate sleep.

This is not how every day commences, but it’s a rough estimate. Somedays, you insist on a day spent outdoors if the boy looks too pale for your taste, maybe you and Sebastian run errands- nonetheless you make it a point to spend the most time with Ciel and Sebastian than they do with each other.  

Today, you’re to go to London, a two hour carriage ride away for errands. Hence, Sebastian’s dressing you extra early, at 7:30 to approximate. 

“My lady, stop frowning. Raise your arms to the side.” He can’t even see your face! You do so, and he slips your petty coat over you. Everything is a bit too big for you, having been sent in by Marchioness Francis a week after your first meeting when Ciel had written you well enough to wear proper clothes and go on minor outings. Lady Francis had sent in a couple stifling gowns a size too big to accommodate weight gain and your bandages, the seamstress “Nina” would be sent for when you can remove your bandages. 

“When will you pick me up again?” You mutter, Sebastian raises an eyebrow at your typical noncommittal address. “Half past four, outside the Undertaker’s place of business.” You nod grimly, your mind scrapes to remember what you know of him.

“Ciel, who did the graves outside the manor?” You asked bored during working time, the world outside had been cast in a grey scale, lord knew you needed an excuse to nod off or stare into space, a question that had floated into your mind was a grateful distraction.

“Why do you ask?”  He replied, his tone had grown a bit dark at the mention of the graves but his disposition lightened upon further thought. “Now that you mention it, we should cover those up. When a guest arrives at the manor, they shouldn’t be greeted by the theoretical dead.” he scoffed, alluding to the strange emptiness of his family grave sight. 

“Well,” you replied rather openly. “I didn’t think your aunt Francis would permit just anyone to do the graves, yet I didn’t think she or your aunt Dalles would approve of the grave sight right outside the manor. Especially if that’s your aunt Francis’s childhood home. I would assume the Phantomhives have a plot for graves, it would have hindered repurposing the land into something else because of the graves, which would be frustrating for any potential successors outside of the family, namely your aunt Francis. Plus- I imagine she’d want them to be at the official family lot.” you replied neutrally, not letting a slip of emotion but curiosity carefully.

“You’d be right in that regard,” Ciel said without judgment. “The Phantomhives do have their own plot for such things and it would go against my aunt’s wishes. She’s not the type to dwindle in sadness, rather she’d use any opportunity to strengthen what’s left of what was lost. In this case, herself and her own family. She’d probably petition for this land to go to the Midfords, which I wouldn’t object to if I were actually dead.” He concluded sardonically. 

“Then who?” You questioned with more haste. 

“Probably one of my predecessor’s old networking's, which we will need support from to regain the title of guard dog… speaking of…” He trailed off glancing a bit at your direction across the desk, his eye narrowed and assessing. 

“The person who may have had something to do with the graves would have been part of my predecessor’s close network, while his archives are unrestorable, I’m sure a good portion will reach out and the dots will connect…in due time.” He muttered, “But we cannot count on good will, (Name). I’ll task you with being a representative over time to strengthen these ties. If we’re to speak on who could have placed these graves, a name does come to mind.”

“Who?” You couldn’t hide the interest that slipped into your voice. 

“The Undertaker.” Ciel answered with an unease in his eye.

In carriage, a copy of Around The World in Eighty Days lays limp in your hands the cover slightly worn by your clumsy mitts, your vocal chords are renewed and revitalized, something you take advantage of constantly. 

“Sebastian?” You chirp to your newfound companion.

“Yes my lady?” Sebastian answers neutrally. 

“What did he say about Undertaker again?” You ask, putting on a rather dumb lilt in your voice. 

Sebastian eyes you, heavy and oppressive as per usual, his eyebrows like to narrow and furrow whenever you speak to him. Like he’s trying to dissect something and he wants you to know. 

“He was one of his predecessor’s many informants, he should have a high chance at cooperating with us, similarly, he made it a point to highlight how your representation of the Phantomhives would concrete your place in the eyes of the Queen.” He reminds- more reprimands you. 

“True.” You lilt mockingly. Though you told him it’s to practice your accent. Since Sebastian has the accent of a highborn noble, you wonder if he really sees himself as a servant at all, if he likes to imitate the elevated part of humanity so much. 

The thought had come across you at one point that you could abuse him with your blows and kicks. You could even stab him and shoot at him and there’s not a thing he could do, like some lecherous old fool to his young, defiled maid- but that’s not a known way to damage Sebastian. What would it show him but the fact that he’s winning an invisible game you play, occupying your mind at every moment. Sebastian is blind to absurdity in human nature, not to the anger and rage he’s probably spawned from. 

Long moments of proximity with Sebastian is more frustrating when he’s not holding you shockingly. When he’s holding you, you can speak of things like preference and plans when he’s your arms and legs. When you’re comfortably situated, your time is spent a game of watch. You find Sebastian unapologetically studying you, the outside world uninteresting to him. Even more frustrating when you realize he doesn't need to blink. 

You watch him too. Watching the window becomes boring after a while, as your trips into town become more frequent, being every couple days. You watch how he takes no breath, how he responds not to the jerk or bump on the road, how he doesn't shiver at the morning chill or react to the light of the setting sun in his eyes on the way back home. It becomes oppressive trip after trip, when you could call it routine. That’s when you start talking to him instead. He’s learned all of Ciel’s preferences, not thanks to his own knowledge or prowess in understanding traumatized children, but through you.

 He doesn't know you at all besides the fact that you flinch if he holds you too tight and you stare into space often. 

You don’t want him to know more. 

To aid this, you ask stupid questions, intrusive questions, thoughtless questions, but never the right questions that would let you learn much about him or him, you. A game of diversions and probing. A game he willingly plays to get the opposite objective: 

You. Something you realized the first time you’d traversed into town with him and let something slip- you frustratingly can’t remember what, you were utterly high. Only the fact you had said something heated after he had responded to a dumb question too intrusively for your temperament at the time. You remained with the idea of his active study of you, now a mistake you pay for in every trip being meant to satiate both of your obvious motives. 

You don’t know if it’s in genuine interest or to amuse himself. Silence or a slip up means he wins. You’ll feel his victory for the rest of the day: Ill. 

“Sebastian, what do you think happens all the way from a foreign country and here that make people think coming to England is a land of opportunity?” You say wistfully on the way to the Undertaker’s Funeral Parlor.

Questions you know the answer to, questions he knows the answer to, rather debatable. “That depends on my lady- perhaps you’d know better. You ended up in England, after all.”  he replies unblinkingly, smoothly like an interviewer. Your lips purse under your bandages. 

“I wouldn’t know, I don’t quite remember!” You reply cheerfully, ambiguously. Sebastian isn’t in a position to ask for a follow up question you think, except he does, perhaps this question gave him too delicious an in to back out from? 

“Oh,” he simpers under a false wonder “I was under the impression that my lady would have been privy to such matters, given your general competence in the manor, she would be well informed in such a fact by her traveling party.” He says under the thick oppress of complement. In The Essential Etiquette Handbook Sebastian had made you study, it’s bad manners to not clarify a question that could lead to miss interpretation or not to address a complement. You plan to get top marks on the next exam if Ciel didn’t aggravate Sebastian too much or you’d have to face the sting of a riding crop on your hands again- Sebastian doesn't care you’re crippled. 

“Well, I was under the assumption my case was quite elementary, I simply meant to ask about the working class- I hardly think, though your compliments on competency flatter me, the working class applies in my particular situation.” You say politely. 

“That is true, my lady. I had assumed you shared a kinship with those you described, that is all. Forgive me for the misinterpretation” Sebastian replies just as politely. You tighten at his words nonetheless, you don’t want him of all things to dig into something close to your heart or precious, you gave him all he needs to know. Sebastian could have two ideals from you.

You love the boy he wants to eat with all your heart.  You were more obedient than he in that regard. 

You want those ideals to be unquestionable. 

You’re about to retort when the sharp knock from the doorman on the roof signals your stop. At that, Sebastian lets an emotion slip onto his face you’ve never seen from him before. 

It’s utter annoyance. 

“Right, well. I’ll be off.” You finish rather awkwardly as his eyes bore into you from across the carriage. Such an expression looks alien on his face, so intense you turn away instinctively. There’s no need to remind Sebastian of punctuality. You grab your cane as Sebastian fluidly steps out the carriage momentarily to help you down. 

“We’ve written ahead to alert the Undertaker of your physical accommodations. Until we meet it’s up to him to address your comfort, my lady.” He replies plainly, almost bitterly than what you’re accustomed to.  

“Comfort has no matter if it suits the Phantomhive interest.” You remind Sebastian falsely as he goes off to run his own errands. You say it almost gently out of the shock of his open annoyance on his face, cloaked naught by a pleasing face and an oppressive room. 

“How pledged you are, my lady.” He replies gritting, but far more pleasant this time. 

“Yes. Well, if that’s it, I’ll be off then.” You say rather factually, you don’t bother trying to gather the look on his face.

He nods stiffly, you can catch some of his body language in the midday light. A silhouette of black that blots out the sun’s light, almost a month glued to the hip will do that. Sebastian’s a pessimistic force at the ideals you’ve let him have, an inconvenience. 

Maybe- A worrying thought intrudes your mind, it’s because demons like him can sniff out liars like a dog to a fresh kill. 

You part without another word, the bells of the mortuary parlor being the last contact with him as he holds open the door for you. You’re enveloped by a darkness that’s strangely comforting. 

The air- Though the store is unkept and musty it carries a slight scent of sterility. It’s the opposite of the manor, clean, spotless, and fragrant because of Sebastian's efforts. Where every inch of darkness is him.

A/n: and then she hit "post" 😭

Sebastian and (Name) if i could write peak:

“(Name),” Ciel warns. Sebastian huffs, unamused as he places the scabbard on your lap.

“Sorry.” you drawl.

“That,” Francis reprimands with a raised brow, “Is a saber. It is the traditional weapon in case of a duel for any knight that represents England.” Her form straightens with pride. “The Midford family has served the royal family for generations as knights.”

“I see.” You acknowledge noncommittally.

“E-Edward is an amazing knight, sir!” Elizabeth sniffs, finally placated with tea and your biscuits once the family had been moved into the dining room. “So you should g-give it up! You- you’re injured right? Edward cannot take back the duel as he proposed it- it would be dishonorable…” She whimpers, pleading to you as her stern father and mother would not have Edward take back his word no matter how green in the face the boy appeared to be right now.

“Oh, it’s okay my lady.” You reply in a daze. After the first hiccup break Elizabeth took to soothe her tears, you felt incapable of comprehending what she’d expressed. Ciel puts a gloved finger to his temple.

“Edward,” The boy flinches at the sound of his name.

“Explain to (Name) how to compose a duel.”

“He doesn't even know what a saber is!” Edward exclaims.

You could have sworn that Ciel had referenced you as a girl whether your name was feminine or not, but perhaps your voice and your mannerisms were too rugged to acknowledge? Perhaps the Midfords didn’t care to listen, maybe they didn’t discriminate. Yet Edward seemed to repress this fact by making the “H” in “He” sharper than necessary.

“Whatever.” you mutter.

“H-Hey, you’re holding it wrong!” Edward squeezes out.

“I thought English men used huge swords, like in King Arthur!” You project, ignoring what you considered to be a stupid question- with your hands wrapped up like mittens, you didn’t have fingers to spare.

“If it were a hundred years ago!” Edward retorts, coming to his senses he realizes the duel was a stupid affair. You didn’t need to come to any sense to realize how idiotic it was– but you agreed anyway.

“Sebastian will start you, (Name), count three paces forward then face your opponent at his call; then you may act as you wish. Do not kill.” Ciel interjects sternly, wanting to cut to the chase and be done with. You could tell the boy was frustrated, a new habit you gathered from the way he snaps at Sebastian: They want to have constant control at all times. The Midfords arriving out of nowhere wouldn’t do good to set this new confidence, along with the general exhaustion of the past brutal months.

“Edward, you wouldn’t!” Elizabeth interjects Ciel, needing confirmation from her hot headed brother who nods jerkily.

“C-Can he even walk?” Edward sputters, a seeming attempt to get out of this any way he can, as if the regret hadn’t set in minutes ago.

“We’re about to find out,” you reply as coolly as possible when your knees tremble like a baby deer.

It seems the ill-thought duel seemed to commence despite the three adults in the room.

From your chair, your elbows dig into the wooden arms. You’d really need to be wary of your hands and feet, to which you test a slow shuffle, planting on your bent knees- the lower you stick to the ground, the better.

You can move, but it must look awkward- you’re essentially stumbling a balancing act. Edward stifles a gasp when you almost fall over.

“Mother! Father! Please stop this- Ciel!” Elizabeth bargains to no avail. Ciel’s eye takes a calculative gleam you can sense. The scrutiny of his gaze drifting entirely to you, ignoring his cousin entirely.

“My lady, please don’t worry.” You droll, mostly for your personal concentration.

Edwards posture shifts. You think he could consider this bullying. You’re handicapped in almost every way possible. You can barely see, your ears are obscured by the bandages- something is clearly wrong with your arms and legs by the way you’d turned the grip of your saber under your armpit. Your other non dominant bandaged arm’s wrist held at the base- ready to shift and flip the blade as fast as you could allow.

Your stance is as efficient as it can get- to outsiders, perhaps you look like a pigeon with broken wings.

“Right…” The Marquis Midford begins uncomfortably, this looks unfair to a painful degree.

“Does the presumed offender take responsibility for her charge?” Marichoness Midford interrupts her husband Oh, so the Midford Matriarch is aware of your sex.

“Nah.”

“(Name).” This time it’s Sebastain, he’s corrective for all the wrong reasons.

“I mean, no.”

“This is completely unnecessary.” you hear Ciel mutter lowly.

“While I agree, Edward must take charge for his actions.” Lady Midford counters.

Sure, let’s see how much morality this boy has.

Will he beat the breaks off of you or not?

“Right, both participants walk three paces” Sebastian cooly interjects.

One,

your feet feel like they’re on fire. But your knees are steel. Steel shall not bend or bow.

Two,

you feel the muscle and skin that had attempted to heal itself come undone, the ache renewing deep in your pierced bone. You let out no sound.

Three,

You shift your position around to face Edward. You can’t see his face, but he’s trembling- his grip however, is as steeled as the saber.

Your saber is a blade at the end of the day, it’s something you can work with.

“Begin.” Sebastian’s command is rare, distinct and set in stone. You’ll remember the demanding sound for the rest of your life.

Right, Edward is debating whether to give you a fighting chance or to finish it quickly by attacking. You see the tense of his posture, it’s tensed out of guilt- the hold of his blade is as practiced as breathing to him.

What he doesn't expect is for you to launch yourself forward, low and striking. He recovers fast enough ready to parry the blade wedged on your side.

Unfortunately, you’re close enough to see his eyes, they’re blown wide and green trying to gather what face you must be making, ignoring how his blade’s strike weighs shifting from the shaft to point as you rotate your shoulder outwards catching the hilt with an awkward hand, meeting his blow- now thrown off at the shock of weightlessness.

His gaze, distracts but you know it will settle soon and be done with you if you don’t act fast enough

You catch the saber with both hands, awkwardly gripping the hilt and guard sandwiched.

Your back foot uses the polished floors to rid of the weight as you lean around weaving a blow near his neck counting on his sharp parry.

Searching for his eyes under your own blindfold there’s no way to misrecognize the look of someone committed to an act than the sheer determination of his eyes: Muscle memory.

There’s a million things he can block with a flick of the wrist, his eyes say so; gleaming like sun on wet grass- the dawn in a forest, the light would reveal what survived the night and what perished.

The Midford family is a family built of stern social values and hierarchies that founds countries. That honor keeps the Midford family almost untouchable from other nobility, in a lighter vein from say, the Phantomhives, it is rigorous. They live with honor and die with it. They would never try to win a fight through low tactics.

Unfortunately for Edward, you’re not a Midford.

His parry to your attempted strike is immediately thrown off when you elbow him in the face.

As you continue your rampage, blind to the gasp of horror Elizabeth let out as your elbow drives into his face again, and again, and again you wonder why you haven’t been pulled off the boy yet- That’s when you realize that he’s fighting back just as dirty.

His blows to your gut, (saber too out of range) connect. The feeling of the air leaving your lungs gets trumped by the feeling of getting your way. You could reason this is in fact a fair fight, considering your lack of mobility.

A particularly powerful blow knocks the feeling from your chest, reeling off of him, the both of you spread on the floor. The less-honorable-than-prior boy thinks that will do it- ideally, it’s a finishing blow. Sadly, the ache in your gut, along with its contents stalls in your throat as you grab the saber he reconveined in his hand with the crook of your knee in the span of seconds. The bandages are your armor, but there’s the warning sharpness that’s constant in any good blade as you pin it to the ground.

The pin only needs to last seconds, with his sword, an arm is essentially gone unless he forgoes his weapon. It’s in his blood to die before he willingly drops it. That allows you to grab your own saber, your core burning as you sit up to hunching and have one final spring of faith towards his torso.

Pinning his arm and his torso, you lean your lower weight back onto his forearms, his saber still in that iron trained grip useless. Your own saber meets his throat in an unconventional hold: the crook of your elbows press the blade to his throat in an uncomfortable angle, your back hunched.

The relief of winning is more powerful than any drug, the opium is replaced by pure rush.

Yet, the more you let it settle the uglier the feeling gets. Suddenly, the violence sitting at the edge of your throat wants to sing its way out. Maybe your pin lasted a couple seconds realistically, yet the feeling drags even as you dazedly push off of him almost gently.

“Touché,” Sebastian remarks politely, but almost plainly, the event of your triumph not at all surprising and almost boring despite the seeming almost impossible odds.

“(Name) wins.”

“Congratulations,” Ciel stated boredly. The two seconds of silence that come after are cut between yourself and Edward gasping for air.

“Please understand that from now on the addition of (Name) in the Phantomhive household is to not be questioned nor are my decisions as the heir. I am Ciel Phantomhive, future head of the Phantomhive family. (Name) is family." He remarks rather coldly, reassuring himself more than his audience.

"When I get my title that I rightfully own, I will continue my predecessor’s work as the Queen’s Watchdog. I will send for an audience with the queen in four months' time, this will determine the state of the Phantomhive household; I only ask for you all to carry your faith in me.”

“This is without question, after all; you are the heir. I think we can all agree to do our best to support you.” Francis says after a brief silence, almost earnest and a bit soft. The atmosphere sobers. All the spite and the trivial instances of wrongs and rights cease and you smile to yourself as you slump to the floor, Ciel has his remaining family’s utmost remaining support.

“Y-Yes,” Edward lets out from his rather undignified position, also on the floor. “I apologize cousin, it was not my place to question a decision I had little knowledge about.” He announces honestly.

To make a show of it, he stands up with a wheeze, which you mutter a “sorry” you think only you can hear. He dusts off something imaginary- maybe his pride, Sebastian made sure the manor remained impeccable already, a promising start to his hopefully long, long, career as Ciel’s butler.

Edward takes a step towards you, his hand extended outwards in a reach for yours planted onto the marble which you had slumped yourself over in an attempt to cool the racing heat of your rush.

“It was good showing,” he says with no judgment, a genuine observation. He doesn't seem to blame you for your tactics due to your handicapped nature as he speaks out of pure objective. “You could protect Lizzy, Ciel, and their children well if you trained more.”

He recalls hopefully, “When you’re in a more stable condition I myself will teach you how to defend with honor!” Edward exclaims enthusiastically, like the act of beating him down instilled more fire than what he had prior as if the act of your elbow on his face inspired him.

If anyone could read your body language it would be incredulous. But for your sake and Ciel’s, you’d rather ally with his family.

You nod absentmindedly, “Good showing as well,” you mutter glancing at his outstretched hand.

You lift your non-dominant hand to reach his, your movement is slow and heavy, under the weight of ache and medicine. Like a mark on fresh snow you reveal a bloody handprint left on the marble which you only noticed when you hear Elizabeth’s gasp- It seems your wound has reopened.

Still; you grasp Edward’s hand in a firm grip unwavering like the end of a good business deal. You hoist yourself up, unsurprisingly staggering when the rush has left and the dullness of poppy returns into your system like cold and hot currents contained in a tiny sphere.

You reveal in your stumble:

-1 more bloody handprint -1 left bloody footprint -1 right bloody footprint that slips in itself and leaves a dramatic streak of red on the pristine white tile that Sebastian will most definitely scold you for later.

Finally, the sick sound of your bandages having blood wrung out, dripping onto the floor thick like water in a rag when Edward had tightened the grip on your hand just so slightly out of alarm.

“Speak UP, boy!” The marchioness snaps. Your dulled gaze draws back to her- veins around her dulled eyes, steel blue. Boy? You suppose it’s hard to tell- You hope Sebastian would like you enough to hurry Ciel in his waking. 

“To be honest,” Your voice must be rougher than you process. Ciel and Sebastian don’t have a strong reaction. But you remember Dr. Dalles flinched when she heard it, she all but gaped when she saw your face. Lady Midford almost recoiled at the sound, as did her husband. Their two children: a boy your age and a girl Ciel’s age- couldn’t hide their flinching, the girl particularly whimpered at the sound, clutching a doll to her chest. 

You try to clear your throat awkwardly. “My apologies, my Lady. My position in this house is up to Ciel’s determination.” You state plainly. “He is asleep, therefore I cannot determine a proper ranking for myself.” Lady Midford scoffs at you. 

“Likely. Where do you come from? Better yet, how did you get involved with the boy?!” She retorts, rising from her seat. Her husband does her best to console or restrain her, pulling at her arm. “Francis, you mustn't be too hard on him, you heard what lady Dalles said! The two arrived joined at the hip practically, perhaps you’re being too harsh?” Lord Midford mediates, attempting to appeal to his wife. 

“I’m born from (Country Name),” You reply easily, maybe your accent got corroded away from your screams.  “I am… Fif- Sixteen years old,” you nod. Your birthday had passed in the place, the time ate at your ribs like hunger. 

“I see,” Lord Midford starts rather kindly, “Apologies, but we worry for my nephew. We have yet to see his face and we see that you’re quite injured- h-has he lost…a limb?” He mournfully inquires. 

“An eye,” You lie smoothly. “He is blinded from a blow to the head and the conditions of the fire, poor rest and the improper conditions to heal have rendered it such, now it is quite sensitive to light and rather limp. He’s quite against its reveal, my lord. Please keep this to yourselves.” you recite mournfully. 

“Oh!” the Marquis exclaims, “Yes, we wouldn’t dream of it.” 

“Yes.” The Marchioness cuts him off, “That goes without saying.”

“Natuarlly.” You nod.

It’s then the girl, by the looks of it, Ciel's age who speaks up. “Will he still play with me?” she asks timidly, her arms pinning the worn out doll to her sides. 

“When he gets ample rest and time to heal.” You reply as warmly as you can muster. 

“And when will that be?” She pipes up, excited at the prospect. 

“Who knows? He is a strong willed boy, but his conditions took more than will to survive, my lady. It is simply not for me to say.” 

The girl frowns, her deep green eyes watering like a faceted emerald. “And he should play with me, he is my fiance! I have missed him dearly- playing is good for his health! It will make him happy again I swear it!” She sniffles, her mother sternly cuts her off. 

“Elizabeth Cordielia Ethel Midford, that is highly inappropriate!” The Marchioness scolds, in her own way attempting to mediate. It does little, as the boy your age glares daggers at you. 

“News like that is unsuitable for the lady! It is a delicate topic, apologize to Lizzy immediately!”

“I apologize," you apologize as you realize your apology will not land. “I’m afraid I’m not too sensible in these topics.” You mutter, maybe too absentmindedly. Maybe in all you went through, the numbness would make you care for propriety less. 

It does nothing to appease them, as Lizzy cries in her seat, her father the Marquis gently rubs her back soothingly while her mother turns to scold the boy (“Edward! Today is not the day to cause a scene if any at all!) as the boy, Edward scolds you harshly. You simply sit and take it all in. cacophony of sound, one that the fuzziness and heat of your opiates shields you from, the perfect device to perfectly tune out. You’d rather feel the light on your bandages and weightlessness of a nice cushion. 

This desire is immediately cut off by a stern voice you think sparks the match in your brain. 

“What seems to be the cause of this racket?”  Ciel. He’s properly dressed, wearing something too well fitted that Sebastian definitely didn’t haul from London- In fact, you were all empty handed, spare what could be stored in pockets. 

“CIEL!” The girl’s eyes, reddened shut in an astounding display of glee, almost knocking the boy where he stood with how fast she raced for his shoulders in a proud hug. 

“Ciel” stood there, limply. Unmoving like he hadn’t been expecting it. You hope it’s only you who can see that. 

“Oh Ciel!” Elizabeth Squeals, “I’ve missed you so much! Thank god you’ve come back, you’re-” She pauses, your eyes narrow at the sound, Ciel was taller than the one in front of you, and bigger in her memory, the both of them, but this one’s skin and bones made it more apparent in his size. 

“You’re back, I’m so happy you’re alright. I don’t know what I would have done if you weren’t here!” She finishes, her tone is convincing, desperate, in a way. You sigh to yourself, this is the start of the unmovable boulder he’d have to push. 

“Ciel, who is this person?” Lady Midford interjects sharply, her eyes are hard like ice buried beneath the ground. But you noticed when she saw him for the first time, her shoulders eased, like poisonous air had released from her lungs. The Midford patriarch, caught in his tears, embraces the boy as gentle as his burly frame would allow. 

“Oh, my dear boy! We’ve missed you so, we know you’ll grow well into your position. We’re oh so very happy for your return!”

“Alexis!” Reprimands Lady Midford, but there’s no bite to it. 

Ciel, stuck in his uncle’s arms tenses- you could imagine the aversion to older men holding him. Luckily, before the boy’s arms could coil in an attempt to rid himself of his uncle’s iron grip, it’s Lady Midford that pulls him off by the ear.

“Alexis, be more mindful of yourself!” She reprimands. 

“Yes, well if that’s enough of that, this is (Name). I consider her to be the sole reason for why I stand here today, in that aspect; I owe her much, she is to be considered family and a prime authority in my decision making onwards.” he recites plainly, with finality. You hadn’t actually considered what his plan for you held.

“Is that so, Nephew?” Lady Midford-Phantomhive inquires, old roots had yet to be chopped off, her nephew remains proof. 

“It is. Upon my first audience with her majesty I would ask for (Name) to be given the Phantomhive name and responsibilities. In that aspect, she is my heir if I were to die before having offspring of my own.”

Elizabeth flinches at the insinuation of death before their duty- no shared future could be fulfilled. Edward, who had looked like he had seen a ghost interjects- a nasty habit of speaking for his sister, seemingly. 

“And hold on!” He bursts, “What about Lizzy?!” 

“That condition holds true if I do not have any biological heirs.” Ciel refutes plainly, shutting down the argument entirely. 

The room tenses. They had no eyes of yours to look into, to sense lies. Nor a face to put a name to, nor a body to observe. Were you fair skinned? Were you riddled by scars? You could be a sack of potatoes with how unresponsive you fared. There was no trust for (Name) (Last Name) among the Midford Family.

“Well, Ciel. This is the first time I’ve heard of this arrangement.” You rasp, attempting to placate the blond horde. 

“Well, now you have. I planned to debrief you during breakfast.”  he states plainly. 

Lady Midford’s eye twitches. “That doesn't explain who that boy is, along with the man in black.”  If Ciel notices her mistake, he doesn't bother to correct her, maybe to avoid another scandal.

“Sebastian is my butler, he is my staff. (Name) has a mouth, and should do best to use it.” You let out a particularly unpleasant cough. 

“(Name) (Last Name)-” You start simple, a name to a presumed horrifying face.

“(Name) Phantomhive” Ciel cuts you off, a habit he’s picked up as of late. 

“Whatever, I’m American- From Texas, but I was born in (Country Name). My parents came over there when I was young, and just recently sent me to London to study.” 

“Your parents are alive?” Edward interjects bluntly. 

“Yes.”

“Then you don’t need another family.” He spits.

“Under normal circumstances, yes. My ship to London was sunk in a coup d'etat by choice of crew members, in which passengers were either meant to be assassinated or sold off to various peoples. This could be under an article from, say- Novemeber. I was aboard the The Carrier.”

The atmosphere leaps and bounds, as each Midford member decides how to take it, your voice rasps, but the tone is flippant, casual.

“I’ve read of it.” Marquis Midford nods solemnly. 

“So what of it-” 

“Edward!” 

“Well,” Edward grits, “Why can’t you just go back to your own family-” 

“It seemed you missed a crucial detail in my tale. If most of the passengers had an order to be sold specifically or to be killed, who would order that for a random assortment of people? I hate to say it, but most of the passengers were young or old. The capable adults consisted of sinners, drunks and whorers.” You pause, watching the cogs turn. 

“I suppose I wasn’t clear enough. Most of the people on that ship were disposable for some reason or another- now, the question is whether this was a purposeful affair or not- the act of mutiny and the fate of passengers such as myself, obviously not. But to the children whose parents put them there, seemingly off for London, did they know? Or was it some higher design.”

You shrug your shoulders. “I don’t want to know.” 

“What?” Puzzles Edward. 

“I don’t want to know if my parents sent me to die, perhaps secretly hated me because I love them so much. Or, if someone stole me from them, from under their noses. Not that it matters, because everyone on that ship was pronounced dead- after all, the official report states that-”

“The ship had engine failure and combusted.” Lady Midford finishes gravely, wanting to be done with the topic. 

“Precisely.” You finish bored. “And for worse, then better- I happened to be in the same situation as Ciel, and here I am.”

“Here you are,” Ciel rolls his eyes. “None of that matters, because ultimately, (Name) is loyal to me, therefore Phantomhive.” His eye turns to his blood family.

“I would advise in the future not to aggravate the topic of (Name)’s place here.” 

The statement has the tone you’d find on a hardened Earl, but the demand is ludicrous and rather idealistic- Naive and attached. 

Lady Midford purses her lips, drifting towards your bandaged form and Ciel’s patch covered eye. 

“Though I have my concerns, as any good natured relative would- it’s clear you both have been through much. In the end, we came to monitor your health.” She concedes rather neutrally.

“In that case,” Sebastian appears all too smoothly from thin air- but you know better, he’s hidden in the long shadows dawn casts. “We should continue to take breakfast in the dining room. Today, we have biscuits with various spreads and tea." He introduces the idea of a meal he didn’t make.

“No!” Edward bursts indignantly, “Mother, Father- You can not be okay with this! We know nothing at all! We’re left with this thing to take priority over your own daughter!”

“E-Edward!” Elizabeth squeaks as she watches Ciel’s eye narrow. “Really- Ciel has his reasons!” 

“No, you shouldn’t stoop lower! It is your right, Lizzy! Not his!” 

“Is that what you think this is?” Ciel groans, his hospitality wearing thin.

“Yes, it shames your fiancé! I’d duel for this transgression!” he yells, his face gone rather red. 

“Edward Cedric Midford! Cease this behavior at once!” Lady Midford snarls, rising from her seat. Her husband is too exasperated to stop her. 

“Really?” Ciel groans. 

“Would it satisfy you?” you reply lowly, almost inaudible.

“It would! If I am victorious, then this arrangement should cease at once!” 

“And how would this be conducted?”

“(Name), are you serious right now?” Ciel gapes at you. “Honestly.” Sebastian sighs, a gloved hand on the bridge of his nose, not annoyed at all you gather. 

“How would you conduct a duel?” You question politely, the way one would naively ask how to use a fork at an out-classed dinner. 

“With blades, of course.” 

“Blades?” Ciel’s eyes widen, more horrified this time, mind slower than your mouth which had almost salivated at the word “blades” 

“I shall accept this duel.” You say simply, as if someone had told you something you had already known. 

There’s a cage, and in it are three children of varying ages, yes there had been others but who cares about them?

“My lady.” You rose before he’d have to get closer to rouse you from your slumber.

“Sebastian, good morning.” You said automatically.

“It’s time to change your bandages, my lady.”  You nodded absentmindedly, you swallowed. Your head was taken by other things- How pretty the room you inhabited is; it’s hard to believe it was ash and ruin mere hours ago, the sun that rose outside the window you registered. You usually dissociated through the process where the man in black wraps you in fresh bandages so delicately now you hardly notice his touch, you had hardly noticed him move you from the bed to the folding screen. Where you don’t notice his touch you notice his presence, the aura of ill intentions. You looked away at the act; your nude body, his hands. 

It’s like watching something unravel from the window or the door, the body on the bed isn’t yours anymore. 

“You fuckin’ lil’-!” You groan, they were so tender to you, your pain so controlled. The blows they give you comes from the wickedness in their hearts, the capacity to harm the defenseless and things they deem pure like yourself but also the bitter poison of betrayal. 

The plan had failed. Of course it would, three malnourished children stuck in a cage seems like the start of a morbid joke. Of course Ciel couldn’t drag ****  out in time, too many contingencies where one was bound to set off if not all- 

THWACK! The iron’s heat seems to seep down to your bones, settling itself in a cruel reminder that your mind is bent and swayed at the will of pain. 

“O-ONE!” You scream a forbidden scream, a scream you promised yourself you’d never let them hear you sing. 

One, The twins are too malnourished to be coherent, scurrying like rats in a tunnel blind leaves room for error- a map drawn on a fabric digested and vomited up for the nth time won’t change that. 

THWACK!

“HAH- TWO!” 

Two- The map. It’s shaky at best. A drunk could make a better one. A product of being blindfolded and spun around being passed like a cocktail platter. The hallways are learned from who wants you on a given day and from there, who wants you the next day and the day after that. Your purpose, horribly luckily, is to be passed around. 

“HK! T-THREE!” That’s as far as you can get before your knees hit the marble, the fall rattles your bones as you stiffened at the blows. 

Three, you’re doomed to die either way. But this is far more painful than whatever they had planned for you. You think you take it better than most, you can get a far off look into your eyes and you’re suddenly somewhere much more pleasant than that place.

“My lady, shall you take breakfast with the young lord later this morning?” said the pleasant looking man in the pleasant place you stay. That didn’t stop the now familiar pit in your stomach. 

“Do you think he’ll eat solid food today?” You rasped, your throat was hoarse still from screaming. 

“Only due to your guidance, my lady.” He would do well to remember how truly useful you are. 

“I shall attend to monitor his progress.” You nodded absentmindedly, the action is still as stiff for a mummy like you. Your bandages weighed like an extra layer of skin, tendons that cease your movement. 

“Will his relatives be alerted by Dr. Dalles? Or shall it be his old steward, Mr. Tanaka?”

“It shall be the lady Dalles.” The butler “Sebastian” confirmed. “Sebastian” to you it’s the dead giveaway which Phantomhive boy lives, only **** would think to name his leashed monster Sebastian. 

 If you recalled, that's his name. Bouts of consciousness befitted you the previous night, the man who had been carrying you around like a doll while you limply ordered him on topics of housekeeping had been anonymous to you, like he hadn’t existed outside of his fateful role. In that moment, he was a simple machine that acted as your body, your legs, arms, and mouth. It was hard to tell what was real and what wasn’t, the opium they gave numbed the mind and limb, but not the pain that they inflicted on you. When the hours that ticked to your supposedly imminent death consisted of the measurement of pain as its scale, you felt a euphoria when released from both constraints. A euphoria so much so that the butler whose hands dig into your lacerated legs as he hoists you round is a good pain, because all pain is less mighty than the pain of mere hours ago. 

You thought Sebastian’s not to be trusted. That’s what “Ciel” told you, he recited as such like a child, like he was afraid you weren’t all there. 

There’s three rules that Sebastian has to follow:

1. “Never lie to the contractor.” Ciel knows well enough that that thing would eat him given any opportunity, in fact their first conversation solidified it, as much as you could barely remember. Sebastian would eat him at the first opportunity, for convenience, for fun. 

2. “Obey the contractor's commands without question. (Only applies if the contractor says "I command you.")” If Ciel wanted to, you’d be dead. Luckily, his pride at the minimum wouldn’t allow it. 

3. “Protect the contractor without betrayal until his revenge comes to fruition.” This set up some interesting terms for you.

Ciel’s first command?

“Obey (Name) as if she were myself- She is your lady as I am your Lord. Furthermore, only disobey if her actions are susceptible to my bodily harm." Because of course there’s a caveat with him, this loose of a leash is more generous than you’d expect from the hardened boy- he had indeed trusted your consequential judgment. For some reason. 

The contract you know of is of the goal to consume Ciel’s soul in return for the revenge of the Phantomhive family. For the time within the 24 collective hours you had been conscious all that’s been on your mind is how to free the boy of his leashed dog. 

Upon returning to the real world, supposedly Ciel had found his aunt Angela and a prior servant called Tanaka at the Royal London Hospital his aunt operates at. Lady now Dr. Dalles, had been overjoyed at the prospect of some shred of her sister’s family returning to her from the seeming dead. Tanaka or “Grandpa” Ciel exclaimed, the former head butler who had been injured critically during the attack, wept tears of joy. Staggering out of his wheelchair to embrace him. They both had thoroughly thanked Sebastian for bringing the boy back to them, Tanaka had passed down the Phantomhive Butler pocket watch, and Dr. Dalles the Phantomhive signet ring that had miraculously survived. When they had looked at you as much as their eyes held sympathy for the thing in front of them, they also held a weariness you could understand but at the same time detest entirely. 

(The same could not be said for the boy’s other aunt, Francis Phantomhive-Midford.)

Prior to the surprise meeting, which for a lady of rules and propriety had a touch of desperateness in her visit- no invitation. You had been carted off from London to the Phantomhive estate- The ashes of it, the land had scorched even earth deep below the ground you had heard. As confirmed by Ciel, flames of an unusual cerulean that made your eyes narrow. 

Blue fire? To the point where the lord, lady, and every other unfortunate soul had burned to a crisp, none the bones to remain? Blue in fire burns hotter than the orange in sweltering ovens in factories, it’s blue that blooms from the chimney. The orange is hot enough, eating at skin and bone but to be swallowed till none remains is just the type of business as summoning a demon. You think it's completely unnatural, how would such a fire start? Unfortunately, the fire itself cleansed any evidence for who could have started it. 

You had been placed unceremoniously next to him like a lump of wood. He laid still at the sight of four polished graves laid fresh before him reborn and new as he. You wondered who arranged for them to be made to be looking up at the sky. You know nothing lay under the ground. You wondered if their coffins would have been laid separate or apart if they could find bodies. 

as he stared down at grave markers before him polished well enough to become a mirror, he had whimpered for his father and mother, paying respects and wishing simultaneously. He turned his head to his face the grave before him, reflection cruelly mirroring onto the plaque marked:

“Ciel Vincent Phantomhive, 

1875-1885,

 May he find his eternal peice.”

Piece. 

His blue, blue eye met yours staring ahead. You finally see your lack of face- bandages that had been arranged to keep something sealed away, blotting blood or your skin held together. You don’t think you have any hair left on your head as your bandages wrap smoothly where your long luscious hair would have been at least plaited for neatness. 

You don’t look at ****’s headstone. Neither does Ciel, the best you both can do is look at each other. 

Your eyes, bloodshot and doubly blackened meet his eye. You can’t look away.

Only when Sebastian calls you both for supper do you break away only to be met with a grand but homely manor, complete with sprawling gardens that seemed to sprout from the blackened earth in the blink of an eye. 

Taking turns of Sebastian bathing the two of you had been a drowsy affair- your hands and feet burned at the warm water more than the rest of your injuries, but it felt weightless. More than once Sebastian needed to tap you awake. Supper had been a prime moment of clarity for you, as the food that had assaulted your tastebuds made it all too real. 

“Eugh, Bleh!” Ciel scowled, “It’s  greasy, spicy, and salty!" 

Sebastian to his credit, looked genuinely apologetic. “I see, I suppose this menu is a bit too heavy for you since you’ve been in that place this whole time.” You sighed, the food looked perfect, but the lobster had the flavor of butter and the bread tasted like a mouthful of yeast. 

“I’ll make a Risotto right awa-” Sebastian tried “Enough, I’m going to bed” Ciel snapped. 

The boy had been guided to the master bedroom, leaving you immobile in the grand dining room. With your limited mobility, you had sampled the dishes closest to you; Japanese Spiny Lobster Sauteed, Sticky Toffee, Roasted Turkey, and Fairy Cakes. 

“Is the food to your liking, my Lady?” Sebastian all but appeared behind you, ready to assist your eating. The food had been carved poorly. The turkey was carved with puncture holes as your shaky hands tried to cut a piece. 

“Oh.” You rasp “Uhm, it’s unique. I don’t think Ciel would be used to eating food like this…” you tried nicely, because it’s good to be on good terms with the man who acted as your body.

Sebastian looked rather crestfallen, “I see, to be honest. I’m not too accustomed to human palettes. Creatures like me don’t taste human food the same way.” he sighed. 

“Well. Ciel isn’t used to being head of house too, I, a lady. We all have a lot to learn.” You started awkwardly. “But he’s frail, Dr. Dalles said so herself. He needs to eat. His stomach lining is weak. I fed him grains and water-” 

“A righteous attempt. I have no doubt the young Master stands here today because of that, but as a Phantomhive servant I cannot in good faith serve him grains and water.” He cut you off, the idea offended him it seemed. 

“I wasn’t suggesting that at all.” You retorted, voice strained. “Simple foods, the goal is to raise his nutrition, build up his stomach, and give him some weight.” Sighing, you continue. “Simple foods help, fat heavy foods, nothing acidic. The boy will eat, just not from you. I’m versed well enough in simple work and cooking.” 

Sebastian raises an eyebrow. “I see, I thought if I protected him from germs he would grow healthy.” You wince, Ciel had told you about his washroom stunt, gravely warning you about his manhandling as he all but scowled up at the demon before taking the waiting chair you inhabited. 

“That’s one way. As you said, humans are fragile. Right now, he’s more fragile than most. We can heat up a fatty cream and sweeten it with honey, call it milk and honey. He’s fond of sweets. It’s best to do what he prefers.” You replied easily. 

“Is that so…” Sebastian mused thoughtfully, as though the thought never  occurred to him. 

“It is,” You said wisely. “We should go to the kitchen and I shall show you how to do so.” 

“It couldn’t be that hard to prepare cream and honey.” He scoffed.  

“Human creations are sensitive. You don’t know the first thing about it, come.” And so he did, taking you into his arms and escorting you to the kitchen. 

Two servings, yours a bit bigger than his- you were after all, older and bigger than him. Perhaps he would trust it more if you essentially drank from the same cup. 

To Sebastain’s complete shock, Ciel took the cream from your hand like it was second nature, and had downed it completely. He chugged it for a full ten seconds and promptly went to bed after he commanded Sebastian to not only prepare the vast bed for your comfort, but to also stand and guard the both of you at your bedsides.

Needless to say, you weren’t surprised when Sebastain woke you before Ciel today, promptly dressed you and brought you back to the kitchens. Supposedly sourly ordered to make food like a human would, he had asked for your guidance under the guise of learning your preferences and tastes as you would be “Furthermore binded for the unforeseeable future.”

You were surprised when just as you had finished setting the table of biscuits, more cream, jam, a fruit and nut bread, and tea did Sebastian sense a harsh frantic banging of the front entrance. 

And so now, surrounded by Ciel’s extended family barely 48 hours after you survived the worst experience of your life do you think you're in out of your depth. 

Especially with the now introduced Midford family seemingly drilling holes into you, Francis Midford, who had spoken for her husband Alexis Midford when they had announced themselves as his kin glares at you. 

“And what relation do you have with the Phantomhives?”