Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was a waiting room.

That is, in one sense it was a waiting room—since one waited in it, and since "room" was the accepted term for an inside-another-larger; you wait in}. A circular argument; there was really nothing roomlike about it, the more one kept a careful perusal. It was more like the suggestion of a room, or perhaps the suggestion of a gaol, but no conclusions about its use should be drawn from that, as everything in hell contained the suggestion of gaol.

It was hell.

"...ʟɨʋɛʀ-քǟȶɛɖ, ɨɢռօɮʟɛ ɮǟƈӄֆȶǟɮɮɛʀ," Sebastian said.

"Are you quite done?" Ciel asked after a moment.

Sebastian sighed. "I deeply regret, master, that my lack of foresight [tearing limb from limb the first time we saw him] lead to this situation. I apologize profusely, I…"

He may have gone on for (days) at that rate, but the two demons became aware that the waiting room, which had been full of the irate members [and dismembered] of hell, had finally emptied out into them and only them.

Considering the sheer score of creatures which had populated the waiting room, and were constantly pouring in, Ciel found this fact faintly ridiculous, but realised that it was not the waiting room that had emptied, but they that had finally exited it.

The judge, with feathers that glimmered like an oil spill and a mouth that smelled like roadkill, opened the mouth and spoke. Ciel was distracted from the words at first because of the slowly dawning impression that the judge was indeed roadkill, in all senses of the word. There was the moment when a seemingly endless speed, the dial cranking upward, is suddenly stopped by a jolting shudder, the gut-punch of air bags, (powder and acrid like medicine) if one were lucky or a crash through shattered glass if you were not (whiplash and falling into the atlantic with blood pouring from your side). Then, of course, the animal/[human was what Ciel grasped on first, but one could view the crash and its aftermath from any point of view you wished] lay there dying from its shortcut, and the world around it racing on.

Ciel, who had never driven a car, was amazed at the deep understanding he suddenly had of the concept of when one crashed, and decided shakenly that he much preferred the section of hell Sebastian had shown him to previously; the courtyards. caverns. shimmering veils. overstuffed armchairs. fire-burnt manor houses now ruins. cities now running with filth and. open sky.

"A complete disgrace," the judge said, turning to the other judges in the room, which nodded perceptibly. The room was almost completely filled with the blackened ink forms of the other judges (in front of which they projected their preferred impression) which oozed and puddled around Ciel's feet, giving him the uncanny temptation to raise his shoes to some higher vantage point.

He shuddered, and all eyes were on him.

Sebastian, whose two eyes were the only ones he welcomed, watched him with a wince, and Ciel realized he had already made a mistake of some sort. Of course, he reminded himself. If I seem fazed, they will think I'm naïve, out of my depth—they will press harder. It was something he'd used to his advantage countless times in the past—where, in reality, he had known all the pieces and their moves, and had planned his game well in advance. Here, he knew nothing, and he had just projected that fact to all and sundry.

"You, ₴Ɇ฿₳₴₮ł₳₦, have allowed yourself to fall prey to your own prey. That this was Ⱨ₳₦₦₳Ⱨ's fault gives you some leniency, perhaps, as Ⱨ₳₦₦₳Ⱨ was a formidable adversary. Still, it smacks of something dreadful, letting yourself fall as far as you have, and we agree completely with J₳₵₭'s assessment that this needs a full review. The question of course arises as to how a demon who is now under eternal contract can be in possession of any title (and associated properties) at all. We'll tell you already, we're this close to throwing the both of you out in metaphorical rags, but, you know the motto, hell ain't fair but it's its got un]due process. You may speak to each of us in turn, ₴Ɇ฿₳₴₮ł₳₦, otherwise known as the accused, and when you have spoken to all seven of us we will deliberate as to whether you may keep your titles or if you are entirelynothing("

"Your honors," Sebastian said quietly, but in a voice that very clearly projected itself into every crevasse of the room, "please also take note of my updated will, which names Ciel Phantomhive as my inheritor, in the occasion of my loss of title for any reason."

There was a murmur of surprise around the room, and then mocking applause, coming from every hand (and some extras that had been manifested for the occasion). "Clever, ₴Ɇ฿₳₴₮ł₳₦, very clever—of course, we can choose to disregard any and every will made by entirelynothing(, but I suppose you're hoping that we'll agree to such a preposterous claim out of sheer… what do they call it these days… ennui? hardly a lawful way of running a noncountry."

Sebastian tilted his head and smirked, carefully and glib. "Why, are you afraid Ciel will be able to claim the inheritance? Afraid of losing out on the spoils to a brat born from adam?"

There was a complete silence for some time, and Ciel thought it may have had the palpable taste of shock. The constant susurration of thought/voices stilled entirely, and Ciel said nothing, and did not turn or acknowledge Sebastian in any way. He hoped, desperately, that this—their Plan B—would not be shot down; because, though he had expressed hope to Sebastian that they might win their case, Sebastian's only answer had been a bitter chuckle.

"Careful, ₴Ɇ฿₳₴₮ł₳₦… you yourself lost to that brat born from adam. But of course. You always were a freak of nature. A bit too soft."

… they waited. /they waited/. then:

"Well!" the judges said at last. "It's too good a game to pass up, isn't it. Let it be noted that whether ₴Ɇ฿₳₴₮ł₳₦ is judged to be entirelynothing( or not, Ciel Phantomhive shall be first in line to claim inheritance on all titles formerly possessed by the demon ₴Ɇ฿₳₴₮ł₳₦."

"Noted," the judges answered.

"The accused may now speak."

There was never any waiting room. The judge had no feathers, because there were no feathers in hell, just as there were no cars and no roads to crash them. There were no overstuffed armchairs, no burnt manor houses, no cities, no manifestations or impressions—because impressions, too, require Time and Place. There was no chorus of hands, although those, as with everything else, were as good a metaphor as any.

In another sense, what happened was:

darkness darkness darkness darkness darkness darkness darkness darkness darkness darkness darkness darkness darkness darkness darkness darkness darkness darkness darkness darkness darkness darkness darkness darkness [ciel phantomhive] [sebastian]

darkness

Chapter Text

This one should be easy enough, if potentially disconcerting, Ciel thought, as the entire room sped backward beneath their feet. Stepping into the memory, Sebastian, then Ciel, then all the judges, the noise like hacksaws that had been droning beneath them for the whole time, shaking its way through the floor and walls, suddenly ceased, and everything became liquid-bright.

Light. Falling through window-panes sparkled with early morning rain like cut class, pearls and crystal chandeliers. There was the walls of his mansion—not burnt down, as its image seemed to be in hell, but new and strong and re-created as Sebastian had made it, though the jagged teeth of its old foundation could still be found over the low slope, covered in brambles; and turning, Ciel almost thought for a moment that he saw its shadow through the fog, and the glint of the blue ring he'd fished from its wreckage.

Still. Here and now, they are: trembling behind a film like water, behind Sebastian's form, the butler's persona clean and perfect and playful. And there he is, Ciel Phantomhive. They looked, of course, because he has been looking, in the memory. Human-souled Ciel, feast among men. The child doesn't seem to realize how every breath of his exhales sweetness; could not be more unconscious of the deadly lure he is to demon or mortal alike, just by being. This child, Ciel thought, hardly looked like him at all, though of course he did and does. The same hair, the same small face, cut with an expression beyond his years; a haughty impatience with fissures within. Cracks upon cracks, but they do not shatter, only turn to mirrored shards for the unwary traveler; still Sebastian takes every opportunity to slide into his thoughts, which at the moment consist mostly of boredom.

All unconscious of it, or perhaps uncaring, the child asks for breakfast. Soon, Sebastian thinks. Soon— and as he carefully passes the teacup in his gloved hand, he imagines the meal they will partake in, something no dust-mortal food, thick and heavy and rancid, could ever compare to. They have not met Hannah or Claude yet. The child has not yet lost his memory of his revenge; he has not even met his revenge, he is not even close to finding the Queen under her numerous disguises and dissimulations. This is the perfect time, Ciel thought; if indeed they had ever had a perfect time. Far enough along that their thoughts had begun to mirror each other, in a way that even then he had realized called something of that glimmer to Sebastian's eyes, like banked fires. He had not felt that regard in years, not truly; and no night facilitated by the illusion of Julie's soul could quite recapture it. And feeling/seeing it again, he remembers: the coy looks and the games, his own careful pushing forward, wondering: what does he mean, and; if this is the way the pieces fall I must win, as always.

Small thing. He knows not enough to win; even his own movements, which he had thought so bold and assured, are nothing but uncertain steps, fear chasing at his heels.

He sips his tea. He eats.

Spun out of his reverie, Ciel saw mist fallen over the ordinary scene, and there in Sebastian's thought he lies upon the table, dressed in finery with plates piled around him; are you quite comfortable, young master Sebastian says

tolerably, but i hardly think that's of importance to you Ciel replies with boredom that is—oh yes; not quite put-upon, it is very real, and nothing could be quite as satisfying; still there is that shiver of uncertainty that his bravado skates over

oh, you hardly think so? and I suppose you're the foremost expert in such matters

i eat every day, Sebastian, and i am not possessed of the delusion that it is pleasant for the quail to be eaten.

now now, i think you are forgetting something.

and that is?

the quail cannot be of an opinion on the matter one way or another, because the quail is not alive at the moment when it is consumed.

...i see. Ciel twists his face at that; a disgust he can't quite overcome. don't you think it's enough that it's pleasant for you?

not at all.

Hmm. Ciel looks up at the drapery hanging above him glittering with silk brocade in the flickering dark candlelight. It is night, and it has been, and will be, for as long as Sebastian desires it.

And the butler carefully puts down his tray, and skates his gloved hands over the child's ankles, while Ciel remains still, but full of tension as though preparing to leap and flee. It is right, of course, that he does, Sebastian thinks: for no matter quite how much he wishes to lull his soul into complacency, he never quite succeeds: and yet Ciel never runs.

there is no need to hurry the matter of dinner, of course; Sebastian says, musingly. but an appetizer would not be amiss.

and what would we do if i lost a foot? Ciel says

why, i'd have to carry you

Ciel laughs, then, the sound startled out of him and subsiding after a short moment. oh, i see your game at last. His words twist ironically, and Sebastian savors them, and the lack of fear his contractor shows, oh yes, and the fear—that catch of breath as he carefully slides off the shoe, and then as though to show that nothing dissuaded him Ciel brushed that stockinged foot up to his shoulder and the toes through their cotton, slightly damp with sweat, brush against his cheek

And with his teeth he takes hold of the fabric and carefully pulls it down the trembling leg, and off, with one hand, as the points of his fangs rest delicately against the flawless skin. But he does not rip, no nothing but the barest brush of sharpness. This is just the appetizer after all. There is so much time left to peel the edges off… but here and now it is this wariness he wants to destroy, until there is no fear left, until the child has stopped wondering about the shadows that shift more than the candlelight allows; until he does not even think of running; until he believes in every lie, believes himself safe, absolutely. Would he wish to see such devastation in his young master, truly? No. But here in this endless moment of thought he can play with the idea, tug on it like a string and see it unravel

I will touch you carefully until habituation dulls you of your response and the soft hazy warmth of the table linens seem to you a bed and your eyes spin love out of adoration and populate it with every fantasy you've created, until you forget about the beast you never saw except in shadows beyond the shifting feathers in nothingness, forget about eyes and teeth and the open press of lips and think yourself cradled in exquisite care; as though being loved meant being safe from harm

And the judges, with their hands and fingers and the grasping breath, deemed the conversation a successful one, for they had been convinced of the evidence of lust.

Chapter Text

“The Black Death, beyond a shadow of a doubt.”

“But, of course, it took place before the demon ₴Ɇ฿₳₴₮ł₳₦ met Ciel Phantomhive. No, gentlemen, as impressive an example of gluttony as the plague provides, we must narrow our search to only the relevant results…” 

“This wasn’t laid out as a rule ahead of time,” Ciel protested. “You’re purposefully adding bias to your examination of the evidence.”

“Bias? Evidence? Did the demonling speak as though it knows OUR intentions?” (a chorus of laughter, and Ciel stepped forward, clenching his fists tightly. Around him, like a whirlpool, spun the forms, each alike and each as unalike. When he had been still human Sebastian had never showed his own form, for that way would have lead to madness; even now when Ciel had long since figured the ways of refraction allowing him to lose sight of his nameandbeing to slip into wind, snow, and sky, Ciel felt a faint shifting sickness at the myriad reformations and the sheer number of eyes and the speed, which seemed again like the endless road rocked at last, reefed and downed, drowned tumbled and overturned—) “This is not an examination of evidence, this is a conversation; and your presence here is not required.”

A box, black-sided and all there in; ;sides and folded paper and knives and /sides/ and blood, Ciel stumbled, putting his hands out. He felt something like stone and something like a throat filled with sand. All that was only sensation, decoration and he forced himself to look past it at the shape of the structure, which was [BARS!] spinning inward to an infinite point around him and in between him, the him of tangles and the whirling void of his being, and he reached out, stopped by :

“Your honors, is this really necessary?” Sebastian said, with a hint of fang despite his eyes lowered in deference toward the judges and his careful, carefully flat voice, to betray nothing.

“This conversation is with you, ₴Ɇ฿₳₴₮ł₳₦, and not the whelp. If that one persists in speaking—”

“He will not.”

“Oh, he will not?” (he will not, will he not, a mocking voice echoed from the rafters, and turned and fled at any piercing gaze)

The noise like hacksaws began again. The room spun away, and … 

A starfall of souls, all shimmering in the sky bright-sparked and soon to lose its gleam on the cold ground, snuffed out, opening from the kept place they had been, one thousand of them and a death god bleeding, dying on the ground with his soul burning and his companion lost by his own success, weeping above him. Such feckless deserters; such an inconsequential diversion, and though Sebastian could feel the myriad souls like points of bubble-smooth candysweet sugared no, he had no interest only: only in the young master beside him.

Very soon, he would be captured in the deep roots under the Tower, very soon, the fallen angel would offer him any and every soul from a burning world, and he would reject her: why, she would say, without understanding, why

I crave ambrosia || and will otherwise go hungry

{He doesn’t seem like a catch to me} (but Will was never a purveyor of quality) || how could he describe a sense to those that lack it? All he could say was hunger makes everything sweeter

“I am a gourmet,” Sebastian said. “A connoisseur. It’s the pinnacle of my aesthetic; something I’m sure you can understand. We all have our foibles.”

“But yours, ₴Ɇ฿₳₴₮ł₳₦, less understandable than most. You almost act as though you disdain to be associated with our ways… but surely we misinterpret.”

He caught his breath. “No, of course not, your honors,” he said quietly. “I defer to your judgement.”

Ciel stepped out onto cold flagstones as the box unfolded seeing Sebastian beside him, shivering in an air that seemed never to have seen sunlight, a constant, lonesome wind. The room built itself up around them, like ants on a carcass, shifting with legs and then: a glinting wing.

And the judges, with their tails and bellies and the ripping teeth, deemed the conversation a loss, for they had not been convinced of the evidence of gluttony.

With a reckless impulse, Ciel slipped his hand in Sebastian’s, and faced the wine-dark eyes which looked at him, startled. “You shouldn’t…”

Ciel scoffed. “Like I will let them coerce my very movement,” he said, though he spoke softly.

Thus they stood, facing the void at the front of the room.

Chapter Text

Because I spent so long preparing. Because I spent so long on every decorative impulse. The careful hard eyes. True brittle ink-stained AND } lilac sussuration. Because of the nights spent watching over the child’s bed. At its heels teeth bared to warn the nightmares away. Slowly learning what there was to fear from darkness. The complete black, silken-smooth eyepatch soft skin-touch falling, snow and candles. Chocolate. I taste it as : thick, malingering bright-dark lump-lustre lack but in his mouth it transmutes. Alchemy with unknown cause

Because I spent so long bleeding and bruising, harsh slap at softness and sin regardless, the little thing spins wide without its vaunted control, but i myself am amazed and wonder/wander down corridors both night and day [night with its secrets and the gunpowder smoke soft footsteps candleflame i hunger] [day with our illusions polished to a sheen soft smiles careful hands carriage wheels champagne] (sometimes, you know, they bleed into each other and you no longer remember which was which, or where that boundary lies) under the whip your own blood drying tacky over your eyebrows and chin, red-mottle sharp-sting at my lord’s hand under the tower i will stay until at his hand i will be released

Because I spent so long crafting the experience of care, seedling-sprout in a hothouse surrounded by winter’s gales, and watched curious the way it blossomed amid the venomous things

I will have no other. And when, at the last, the soul slips beyond my reach, that sticky residue of Claude’s fingerprints in our own space my anger is beyond measure, and I will stop at nothing. With the husk over my shoulder I walk. With the husk on the bed dressed in finery I wait and read in hopes to catch glimpses of the soul soaring beyond, with the husk locked by my own trickery in its case, gold clasps, a pillowed space to sleep curled up broken bent, I will still have you yet

Even in the under-trees flower-field forget-me-nots; having lost all my charges. As though nothing had happened. Not the last moment the blood lost pawns all moves the soul’s hard fractures unspun, the hatred he avowed, his choice again and again to keep me / how, at this point, could I walk away? From mine own creation, even as it stood / Claude’s curse — he taunts me for the interest I take that my possessions might not be lost mishandled cast aside, as though any idle glance could understand the soul itself. Even when, later, he mocks my fervid interest with his own, I will not falter from my course; even stolen I cannot stay away; for what else of such value do I even have, and must I not go to anything for its return?

And the judges, with their throats and eyelids and the stroking palms, deemed the conversation a successful one, for they had been convinced of the evidence of greed.

Chapter Text

When at last it is all over, you wait. Unknown yet of the future, but you feel it wrapped around your throat, a dog’s collar for a dog. Puling thing, sickly messing squelching nestling sharp-tooth sadist your master is. In the house in London, you put your shell and scream in the essence. Scream into the odd nothing-night. No one hears you. You are apart and away and angry, and you will stay here, if you must, but you will not move forward. You will stay here like a stone falling through endless water into the depths. Like a stone unliving, without knowledge. Without shape and darting movement trapped. Like a stone unhearing the soft cries in the night with it scratching itself bloody in the other room, sulphur-smoke soundless. 

Ah, but it hurts you to hear it!

Like a stone, unthinking, unplanning, without joys, but the cats mewl at the doors alley-cats scraggled bedraggled waiting angry-hurt untrusting self-serving sharp-clawed menaces, soft purrs when at last you lure them in and watch, crouched upon the kitchen floor, your shoes caked with mud and unscraped. Watching their perfect tongues, pink and dainty and their proud self-assurance that nothing (nothing) is ever not to plan. Gloved hand under your chin you watch and smile without meaning to, speaking soft words they neither heed nor care about. It is such a relief not to be needed by someone, you think. It is such a relief to have to only watch, and not exist, for a moment.

You sleep, these nights, doing nothing like it’s going out of style: what else will appear if only I wait softly enough? You test the floor with your feet, and walk past. Such strange things this unconscious is. You saw it created by thinkers looking inward plumbing the depths, or in fact creating them where none had been before. What self-assured vanity! Thinking that the rational-irrational is the basis for everything, that their own fragile human egos held up the atlas of the world. No more room for devil-sent impulses; now we have centres and secrets hidden inside. Which came first: the interpretations or the truths? Your own dreams have grown alongside you without you noticing. They speak in images that Jung and Freud would gladly dissect, co-opt. Trauma and death, perhaps? Alienation and longing, and endless brokenness? Or something sunk deeper into the spirit of things, story-known, path-finding, purposeful shadow-self not meant to shun but find? LOOKING INWARD is itself an act, though a tunneled one. Nothing can be found but endless cycles, but perhaps the stairs you descend you make yourself, through the mist before your straining eyes, adding expanse to the only-one-point you used to be; questions nagging at you in that nothing-time, nothing-space, withoutness. What is there in this endless hall and whose shape created it? 

What is the meaning of these ruins you built only yesterday?

And the judges, with their thighs and
fur and the
shuddering brains,
deemed the conversation a successful one,
for they had been convinced of the evidence of sloth.

Chapter Text

And the anger he felt when Ciel came back with the middling soul of James was all, but it was not wrath, not really. Not the tree-shaking down earth-quaking wrath that sent souls fleeing, striking down tearing up all that last-time hatred simmering late.

He has felt wrath that killed armies and wiped out kingdoms till their names were spoken in whispers of fear and wiped the slime of contractors' bodies dead upon the ground amid the maggots and mealworms. He has felt wrath at the world and its unendingness and lashed out and killed, and killed, in wrath and upon orders and in numbness and at sudden whims until the sharp crack of bones breaking which surely must once have shaken someone never miss and felt that wrath boil away with time leaving scraping rust and dust and sick memories. He has felt wrath continually, as though it were a hobby, and lost interest with it again, and picked it back up fixing dropped stitches, but he has not been faithful to it. His primary hobby, you see, has always been observing humanity and in wrath one notices nothing except the red-blinding-rage and everything strips down. This little contractor of his, this Ciel Phantomhive, has honed his blades and dipped them in wrath like poison, like he will learn how to make use of fire, but that is a mortal strength, for even the brightest fire fades to embers in time. He admires it, this here-now anger, this terrible fury, this despair. But eternity creates only amusement and boredom in turns, and his wrath is sparing.

He has felt wrath when the world was new and before that, at God, and he fought for it, and saw pain for it, felt emptiness because of it and clung to his hatred because he had already traded away everything else he had of value. He had used it to warm him on cold nights cut off from forgiveness, but every fire burns to ash in time. Even at the end of the first armies standing together with those who convinced themselves they had won, they looked at the others darting eyes and wondered at the boredom and the madness and the twisted horrors of their fellows because even the wrath had begun to grow cold, and beyond that was only fear, a fear like quicksand, swallow-up fear, everything-fear, hateful, angry, and none of them had known how to cry yet.

They had only seen weeping once; only one had ever wept for them. But they did not know what it meant.

he had known wrath at Hannah's actions, and like a flame with no kindling to burn it had sparked out leaving ice behind.

"What an interesting interpretation," the judges said, with disgust upon their words and shy-away memories of the beginning, spinning in dismay, "…of wrath. We have not found a similar effect… look anywhere in hell, you'll find wrath alive and well, brought to an art form of course like every sin. But… on the other hand… it is a valid argument… therefore we will cast wrath out of the running, and rule on six out of seven, if that is amenable to us all."

Chapter Text

Grell and Will sit together in the flat, eyes bent down, squabbling amiably as they mark up their endless stacks, and he, always-Sebastian watches, wondering at the strange feeling that image conveys—

"Your honor, I object," Sebastian said, startling Ciel away from his perusal of the scene. He seemed faintly uncomfortable, and cleared his throat. "That is not an example of envy. I have never in all of my life envied those reapers."

Ciel caught his eye with a cool expression. 'What are you doing?' he mouthed. And, because it had already been made much of, continued in some irritation, 'if they want to rule it for a success what does it matter if you agree?'

"My professional pride—" Sebastian began.

The judges chuckled. "Yes, we know all about your pride," they said, indulgently. "But we haven't gotten to that one yet. Hold your horses, you know."

"I don't think I remember this time anyhow," Ciel said, staring back at the silenced image of the two reapers, working without knowledge that they were being observed, brought forth as evidence in a demented game. "I've never seen Grell with hair that short. And…" he paused. "And you were there with them… without William trying to kill you. When did this happen?"

Sebastian cleared his throat. He opened his mouth. "Err…" he said, in perhaps his most eloquent moment to date. He cringed.

Ciel stared at him with haughty challenge, waiting for his butler to speak.

"Master… you may recall I said I had worked something out in the matter of obtaining souls," Sebastian said at last.

"You can't be serious," Ciel said. "Those two? Grell?" He boggled. He may, perhaps, have screeched.

The judges smirked, and clapped their hands brusquely. "As fascinating as this all is, we really aren't here to see you two have a domestic, so let's just mark this one a success and continue. Shall we?"

"A domestic?" Ciel spluttered. "I am not arguing with him. I am merely asking for clarification."

"Your honors I really must protest," Sebastian said, looking pained. With an uneasy look, suddenly realizing the delicacy of the situation, the two contracted demons glanced at each other and, with belated good sense, decided to shelve the issue for another time.

It disturbed Ciel that he'd been so eager to argue with Sebastian—such an easy, regular sort of thing—that he had disregarded the impression they were making. Hell, and particularly this room, with these judges, was slippery, hard to keep track of. One could not merely 'prepare for a situation' and then 'carry it out' for it existed as much in the minds of those who were there as in any illusory physicality. Lies were almost impossible to create, dissimulation required constant concentration; it made sense to Ciel that, having existed in such a place for however many millennia, Sebastian would make much of the fact that he didn't tell lies—would consider it, in fact, a strange human aberration, charming; in the way you might watch caged animals in the zoo and speculate about their behaviour. But Ciel was unused to it and it rattled him deeply. Lying had never quite been his raison d'être but it had been a tool always at his hands, useful and predictable. In hell it meant nothing—or worse than nothing; the truth was there, continually, graspable by those more versed in its pointed ways.

The scene they had made, Ciel thought, was below the both of them. He wished desperately for the last conversation to be over and done, so that they could leave this horrid place, regroup and plan their next move.

Chapter Text

Pride was the reason it pricked him so, all of it. What, of course, could the butler Sebastian have pride in, having lost everything? Or perhaps it wasn't the butler Sebastian that had lost his pride, but only the demon who played the butler Sebastian, and existed no longer.

Not quite yet, though. The death-rattles could be heard, still faintly shaking through the room, where the judges ruled the last conversation a success.

"Pride is your defining trait," they said. "You take such pride in your work, in your aesthetic, in how you appear… your independence, your accomplishments—we could go on, of course, but there's really no need. We're quite ready to vote on the outcome at this point. Please:" they waved amiably at the hard uncomfortable chairs in bile-green and the cooking magazines on the small square table between them, "sit." It wasn't a request, and Ciel perched uncomfortably on the edge of the chair and tried not to notice how it scuttled and screamed beneath him. Sebastian, on the one beside, reached between them and flipped distractedly through a magazine. It was full of pictures of humans laid out like erotica on tables surrounded by designer brand furnishings, with smug demons standing beside them, saying something about 'the finest quality'. Of course, it was not really a magazine, not as such; therefore it shouldn't have been surprising to Ciel when, after a moment's looking around the blank-walled room at the huddled mass of the judges beyond, sighing, and swinging his feet, he would look back in idle curiosity and find himself laid across the spread, an image of Sebastian in the demon's place on the page, holding a silver serving platter toward the reader as though about to unveil horrors.

Ciel coughed and looked away, his cheeks burning red. I did not see that, he thought, caught between embarrassment and mortification. I did not see that. And then—well, it is no worse than the first conversation.

It differed, though, in an imperceptible way. The first conversation had been uncomfortable, yes; it had been provocative and indecent, jarring to see himself in another's fantasy, but nothing about it had really seemed off. It had, instead, had an almost welcoming, leisurely air about the whole thing. This, though: it reeked of a consumer stamp: it felt blatant, pointed and objectifying.

Sebastian looked at his averted face and, gingerly, put down the magazine, which sat, falsely innocent upon the table, promising "Best Tips for Seasoning Your Soul!" with cheerful one-of-a-kind offers. They looked ahead. Ciel kicked his feet again. His feet did not quite reach the floor. He considered changing to his older appearance, but disregarded the consideration as frivolous. It did not actually exist, nothing in hell really did; it was all other things in the end, immeasurably worse things.

They glanced at each other again, awkwardly.

"My dear," Sebastian said. "About Grell…"

"Oh, damn Grell," Ciel said. He giggled, then, slightly hysterically to his own ears. "It doesn't matter. You were right anyhow, you had to eat and I'm obviously not cut out to take care of you properly."

Sebastian turned a bit to face him, across the low armrest of that hideous chair. "It wasn't how you ought to have discovered such a thing," he said at last.

"Really," Ciel said. "It's fine. I suppose I should have anticipated such a thing. I was just surprised is all. I really thought William hated you."

"Yes," Sebastian said. "It is rather odd."

He smiled, awkwardly, in Ciel's direction, and Ciel smiled back. And fidgeted again. "Damn these judges, too," he muttered. "What are they waiting for?"

As though that had been their summons, the judges were all before them with countless burning eyes, moving with a parody of solemnity. Robes were, and then a gavel, or something akin to one.

"After much deliberation," they announced, "we have ruled the demon ₴Ɇ฿₳₴₮ł₳₦ to be entirelynothing(."

Ciel leapt to his feet, enraged. "But he won the majority!" he shouted, uncaring of the intimidation of the judges and all their legal power. He had known, Sebastian had warned him, but to have it thrown so gleefully in their faces after jumping through every hoop was suddenly more than he could stand. "You idiots!" he said. "Can't you bloody count?"

He would have gone on to shout at them and indeed had a host of insults lined up but the judges turned and glided from the room as one, as though they were worth no more time. At the doorspace, they paused for a single instant. "We shall eagerly anticipate your forthcoming trials, Ciel Phantomhive. Good day. Oh—and do keep track of that thing beside you. You wouldn't want to lose it after all this effort." They smiled, nastily, at their own parting remark, and the air closed behind them.

Ciel snarled. Then, after a moment's pause, he turned back to Sebastian.

Sebastian, who was… still sitting on the chair, head in his hands so that Ciel could not see any expression. His limbs had a fine tremor. Beyond and instead of that, that-which-was, the endless space, hurled itself through itself as though trying to no longer be, but without any horror and anger that Ciel would have expected, and had come to recognize. At last, Sebastian looked up. "Well," he said, in a dull voice, "that is done with."

"Sebastian…" Ciel said, carefully. He did not, quite, dare to say something as unutturably foolish as are you all right.

"Yes," Sebastian said. "Quite correct, master…"

"Should we… reconvene?" Ciel said, holding out a hand. Sebastian stared at it, with a numb sort of incomprehension, and did not move for a long time.

Then he grasped the black-nailed hand, and stood.

The End