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kinkfestTitle: Before Last Rites
Author/Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nekokoban
Rating: PG
Prompt: Black Butler, Ciel/Sebastian: companionship - until the very end
Word count: 1863
Summary: The last days of the Earl Ciel Phantomhive.
+++++
In the end, it is illness that will claim the life of the young Lord Phantomhive. This was only to be expected, the gossips whisper amongst themselves; his lady mother had been of a delicate constitution, after all, and if her son had inherited her delicate build and ethereal grace, it was only proper that he would have received her fragility as well. Over a dozen of the best doctors are sent for, and some spend hours in consultation with the Earl and his faithful butler, but the conclusion is always the same: the consumption is too deep in his lungs now, and even adjourning to the warm sea-side (if indeed the Earl would agree to such, his dedication to his work being what it was) would do him no good. The exact amount of time left is the one thing they cannot decide on--he is young, just coming into the prime of his life, and he is stubborn, and the Phantomhive family has produced miracles before. His servants are given strict instructions as to his care, to help ease the pain he might experience, and already a half-dozen cousins and more distant relatives are beginning to appear out of the woodwork, with their condolences and their eyes bright with greed.
The Earl Phantomhive, however, turns them all away. The only family he permits are his aunt, the Marchioness Middleford, and her daughter. The Lady Elizabeth displays remarkable grace and poise during this time; though her smile grows strained at times and she occasionally trails off into wistful silence, she never once fully lets her facade crack. She would have been a good wife for the young Earl, the gossips sigh, if only God had been kind enough to allow them that time. As it is, it is expected that she will be named as heiress and keeper for the Phantomhive name--there are already rumors of a secret marriage and desperate attempts to conceive before it was too late, heightened each time the Middlefords alone are allowed audience with the young Earl.
And throughout it all, with the proper grace and dignity expected of his position, the Phantomhive's butler accompanies his lord. Nothing of his concern shows on his face as he deals with the practical matters of coming death: speaking with doctors, with lawyers, with the heads of prestigious funeral homes (and if it is in bad taste, to decide these things before his lord is even bedridden, he is efficient and practical and shows neither resentment nor macabre interest in the proceedings; it is the same as if he were commissioning a new carriage for his master, rather than a hearse). The few times that the Earl himself came out to oversee his own arrangements, his butler was attentive without being overbearing, assertive while still being deferential, and unfailingly, unshakably, devotedly by his master's side.
("This is all just a game to you, isn't it? It must be hilarious, watching me. I can hear you licking your lips, you know. It's disgusting."
"If my Lord would rather, I could always make it easier for him."
"..."
"My Lord?"
"No. No, what's done is done. The Phantomhive family will close this chapter of their lives. Aunt Francis was my father's sister; through her, this cursed family will be reborn into something better."
"As you wish, my Lord.")
In the Phantomhive estate itself, the mood is somber to the point of stifling. The three servants (only three servants! it is amazing, the gossips hiss, that the place has not simply crumpled down around the young Earl's ears long before his health failed him) mope and sulk around. On the very rare occasions that one comes to town for an order, or accepts a delivery from a shop, they are all pale and tight-lipped. For all their faults as servants, there is little that can be said to fault their loyalty. Whatever pains the Earl suffers from his illness, the gossips can only speculate and no more, for the servants won't say a thing, and no one is quite brave--or foolish--enough to approach the butler.
Amongst themselves, though, the servants talk, and their conversation is far from cheery.
"Of course Mr Sebastian will find employment again, and soon," Meilin says, hushed and downcast. She has freshly-laundered sheets in her hands, ostensibly folding them, but she has remained still for the past half-hour without so much as straightening a cloth. "He's such a splendid man and a hard worker, who wouldn't want him? But to see him working for someone other than the young master ... I think it would break my heart."
"Anyone who'd want him wouldn't want the rest of us," Phinney agrees, equally quiet. He perches on the edge of his chair, fiddling with his straw hat, methodically pulling out a stalk at a time and shredding it with his nails. "After the young master's gone, we won't be together any more."
"Phinney," Meilin says helplessly. "No, don't think about it like that! We'll stay together somehow--Mr Sebastian wouldn't abandon us, and we'll make it through somehow, you and me and Bard, and we'll still be in this house, and we'll take care of it even when--even when--" She chokes on her own words and drops the sheet. She doesn't cry, but she presses her fingers hard to her mouth and breathes very slowly and deliberately for long, long minutes. Her feeble promises seem to hang in the air like more ghosts among the many that already exist.
"I don't think Mr Sebastian will stick around for long after the young master's gone," Phinney says, with a quiet wistful sweetness. He tucks himself more into his chair, wrapping his arms firmly around his legs. He puts his chin on his knees and continues unraveling his hat one strand at a time. "But if the rest of us could, that would be nice."
("That is the last of the paperwork, I believe."
"Then with this, it's done."
"Not quite. There's still the waiting."
"That's the part you're looking forward to the most, isn't it? How disgusting."
"Rather say that I enjoy anticipation, my Lord. I am still yours to command, for the time.")
In autumn of the year that his doom was announced, Earl Ciel Phantomhive collapses while taking a short stroll together with the Lady Elizabeth Middleford through the gardens of his estate. The Marchioness stays behind to speak with the Phantomhive butler of a few last items of business when the young lady's scream catches their attention. Though the years have not slowed or stayed her speed, the Marchioness reaches her daughter and her nephew behind his butler, who kneels and sweeps his lord into his arms. There is bright fresh blood on the boy's lips and his breathing is ragged and wet; his one eye is milky from pain. His butler carries him into the estate and up the stairs to his bedroom, trailed by aunt and cousin and three concerned servants, to be laid upon fresh sheets before his face is wiped clean by a new silk handkerchief.
For long moments there is only silence in the room as the Earl struggles to breathe; the onlookers find themselves holding their breath with his, as his butler tends to him, gentle as any real parent. When he finally calms from his fit, he reaches out and grips hard at his butler's sleeve and struggles to a seated position. His other hand presses to his throat, as if he could physically tear the illness from his body. "Leave."
"Ciel," the young Lady Middleford protests, her pretty face crumbling. "No, don't say that, I won't--"
He looks at her and her words dry up into feeble silence. After a moment he smiles--it is not a gentle smile, but it is a kind one, and there is a wistfulness in his expression that any who knew him well--and in all the world, that handful was here in this room--would be surprised by. "Lizzie," he says softly, "if there was anyone in this world I could have loved, it was you. I'm sorry. Thank you."
"Ciel!" she cries, but the Earl looks at his aunt, who nods and takes her daughter by the shoulders, steering the sobbing girl out. The elder woman herself looks aged a dozen years, but any farewells that might have passed between herself and her nephew are silent: she, too, is a Phantomhive by birth and blood, even if marriage has changed her on the surface. He looks to his servants, and though it seems as if they too might protest in the same way as the young lady, finally his cook nods. He ushers both maid and gardener out ahead of himself, though he glances back before he goes himself, first at the butler, and then at the pale little Earl, wrapped in his blankets.
"Sir," he says, "it was a helluva an honor workin' for you. God be with you."
"Thank you, Bard," the Earl says softly, his voice hoarse, and then the door to his bedroom closes. For a moment there is silence between lord and butler.
And then the demon-butler Sebastian Michaelis laughs, his voice low and throaty. "God? I suppose maybe, somewhere, something like that exists. But not to worry, young master--you won't have to deal with that mess of bureaucracy. I'll handle everything."
"As you always have," the boy-lord says sourly. "You live for this sort of thing, don't you?"
"I live for many things, my lord," his butler says. "I must confess, though, this farce has been one of the more enjoyable I've been through. I must thank you for that." He reaches down and pulls the eye patch from the boy's face, and the scrap of cloth crisps to ash in his fingers. With that disposed of, he takes Ciel's chin in his fingers, delicately, tilting it up. "Truly, you've been most wonderful. I look forward to seeing what else you have in store for me. Please continue to struggle in all these little ways."
"I'll make your life hell," Ciel says, his voice low and ragged, shredded from coughing and worse, "worse than anywhere we end up."
"You are, of course, welcome to try," Sebastian purrs. "But I would not be too confident, young master. Stronger men than you have broken in better places than our final destination." His fingers stroke possessively over Ciel's cheek, below the marked eye. "Don't make promises just to turn into a sniveling heap. I'll be terribly disappointed."
"You'll see," Ciel growls, and closes his eyes; the hand that grasps Sebastian's sleeve tightens until it trembles a little from the force of his hold. "I'll make myself your master again, I'll fight until you're forced to kneel before me again." He takes another breath, struggling hard for it; the world is growing hazy and dim. "I swear, you'll see ..."
The last thing he is aware of are lips on his forehead and the stink of sulfur over the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. "I look forward to it ... Ciel."
Author/Artist:
nekokobanRating: PG
Prompt: Black Butler, Ciel/Sebastian: companionship - until the very end
Word count: 1863
Summary: The last days of the Earl Ciel Phantomhive.
+++++
In the end, it is illness that will claim the life of the young Lord Phantomhive. This was only to be expected, the gossips whisper amongst themselves; his lady mother had been of a delicate constitution, after all, and if her son had inherited her delicate build and ethereal grace, it was only proper that he would have received her fragility as well. Over a dozen of the best doctors are sent for, and some spend hours in consultation with the Earl and his faithful butler, but the conclusion is always the same: the consumption is too deep in his lungs now, and even adjourning to the warm sea-side (if indeed the Earl would agree to such, his dedication to his work being what it was) would do him no good. The exact amount of time left is the one thing they cannot decide on--he is young, just coming into the prime of his life, and he is stubborn, and the Phantomhive family has produced miracles before. His servants are given strict instructions as to his care, to help ease the pain he might experience, and already a half-dozen cousins and more distant relatives are beginning to appear out of the woodwork, with their condolences and their eyes bright with greed.
The Earl Phantomhive, however, turns them all away. The only family he permits are his aunt, the Marchioness Middleford, and her daughter. The Lady Elizabeth displays remarkable grace and poise during this time; though her smile grows strained at times and she occasionally trails off into wistful silence, she never once fully lets her facade crack. She would have been a good wife for the young Earl, the gossips sigh, if only God had been kind enough to allow them that time. As it is, it is expected that she will be named as heiress and keeper for the Phantomhive name--there are already rumors of a secret marriage and desperate attempts to conceive before it was too late, heightened each time the Middlefords alone are allowed audience with the young Earl.
And throughout it all, with the proper grace and dignity expected of his position, the Phantomhive's butler accompanies his lord. Nothing of his concern shows on his face as he deals with the practical matters of coming death: speaking with doctors, with lawyers, with the heads of prestigious funeral homes (and if it is in bad taste, to decide these things before his lord is even bedridden, he is efficient and practical and shows neither resentment nor macabre interest in the proceedings; it is the same as if he were commissioning a new carriage for his master, rather than a hearse). The few times that the Earl himself came out to oversee his own arrangements, his butler was attentive without being overbearing, assertive while still being deferential, and unfailingly, unshakably, devotedly by his master's side.
("This is all just a game to you, isn't it? It must be hilarious, watching me. I can hear you licking your lips, you know. It's disgusting."
"If my Lord would rather, I could always make it easier for him."
"..."
"My Lord?"
"No. No, what's done is done. The Phantomhive family will close this chapter of their lives. Aunt Francis was my father's sister; through her, this cursed family will be reborn into something better."
"As you wish, my Lord.")
In the Phantomhive estate itself, the mood is somber to the point of stifling. The three servants (only three servants! it is amazing, the gossips hiss, that the place has not simply crumpled down around the young Earl's ears long before his health failed him) mope and sulk around. On the very rare occasions that one comes to town for an order, or accepts a delivery from a shop, they are all pale and tight-lipped. For all their faults as servants, there is little that can be said to fault their loyalty. Whatever pains the Earl suffers from his illness, the gossips can only speculate and no more, for the servants won't say a thing, and no one is quite brave--or foolish--enough to approach the butler.
Amongst themselves, though, the servants talk, and their conversation is far from cheery.
"Of course Mr Sebastian will find employment again, and soon," Meilin says, hushed and downcast. She has freshly-laundered sheets in her hands, ostensibly folding them, but she has remained still for the past half-hour without so much as straightening a cloth. "He's such a splendid man and a hard worker, who wouldn't want him? But to see him working for someone other than the young master ... I think it would break my heart."
"Anyone who'd want him wouldn't want the rest of us," Phinney agrees, equally quiet. He perches on the edge of his chair, fiddling with his straw hat, methodically pulling out a stalk at a time and shredding it with his nails. "After the young master's gone, we won't be together any more."
"Phinney," Meilin says helplessly. "No, don't think about it like that! We'll stay together somehow--Mr Sebastian wouldn't abandon us, and we'll make it through somehow, you and me and Bard, and we'll still be in this house, and we'll take care of it even when--even when--" She chokes on her own words and drops the sheet. She doesn't cry, but she presses her fingers hard to her mouth and breathes very slowly and deliberately for long, long minutes. Her feeble promises seem to hang in the air like more ghosts among the many that already exist.
"I don't think Mr Sebastian will stick around for long after the young master's gone," Phinney says, with a quiet wistful sweetness. He tucks himself more into his chair, wrapping his arms firmly around his legs. He puts his chin on his knees and continues unraveling his hat one strand at a time. "But if the rest of us could, that would be nice."
("That is the last of the paperwork, I believe."
"Then with this, it's done."
"Not quite. There's still the waiting."
"That's the part you're looking forward to the most, isn't it? How disgusting."
"Rather say that I enjoy anticipation, my Lord. I am still yours to command, for the time.")
In autumn of the year that his doom was announced, Earl Ciel Phantomhive collapses while taking a short stroll together with the Lady Elizabeth Middleford through the gardens of his estate. The Marchioness stays behind to speak with the Phantomhive butler of a few last items of business when the young lady's scream catches their attention. Though the years have not slowed or stayed her speed, the Marchioness reaches her daughter and her nephew behind his butler, who kneels and sweeps his lord into his arms. There is bright fresh blood on the boy's lips and his breathing is ragged and wet; his one eye is milky from pain. His butler carries him into the estate and up the stairs to his bedroom, trailed by aunt and cousin and three concerned servants, to be laid upon fresh sheets before his face is wiped clean by a new silk handkerchief.
For long moments there is only silence in the room as the Earl struggles to breathe; the onlookers find themselves holding their breath with his, as his butler tends to him, gentle as any real parent. When he finally calms from his fit, he reaches out and grips hard at his butler's sleeve and struggles to a seated position. His other hand presses to his throat, as if he could physically tear the illness from his body. "Leave."
"Ciel," the young Lady Middleford protests, her pretty face crumbling. "No, don't say that, I won't--"
He looks at her and her words dry up into feeble silence. After a moment he smiles--it is not a gentle smile, but it is a kind one, and there is a wistfulness in his expression that any who knew him well--and in all the world, that handful was here in this room--would be surprised by. "Lizzie," he says softly, "if there was anyone in this world I could have loved, it was you. I'm sorry. Thank you."
"Ciel!" she cries, but the Earl looks at his aunt, who nods and takes her daughter by the shoulders, steering the sobbing girl out. The elder woman herself looks aged a dozen years, but any farewells that might have passed between herself and her nephew are silent: she, too, is a Phantomhive by birth and blood, even if marriage has changed her on the surface. He looks to his servants, and though it seems as if they too might protest in the same way as the young lady, finally his cook nods. He ushers both maid and gardener out ahead of himself, though he glances back before he goes himself, first at the butler, and then at the pale little Earl, wrapped in his blankets.
"Sir," he says, "it was a helluva an honor workin' for you. God be with you."
"Thank you, Bard," the Earl says softly, his voice hoarse, and then the door to his bedroom closes. For a moment there is silence between lord and butler.
And then the demon-butler Sebastian Michaelis laughs, his voice low and throaty. "God? I suppose maybe, somewhere, something like that exists. But not to worry, young master--you won't have to deal with that mess of bureaucracy. I'll handle everything."
"As you always have," the boy-lord says sourly. "You live for this sort of thing, don't you?"
"I live for many things, my lord," his butler says. "I must confess, though, this farce has been one of the more enjoyable I've been through. I must thank you for that." He reaches down and pulls the eye patch from the boy's face, and the scrap of cloth crisps to ash in his fingers. With that disposed of, he takes Ciel's chin in his fingers, delicately, tilting it up. "Truly, you've been most wonderful. I look forward to seeing what else you have in store for me. Please continue to struggle in all these little ways."
"I'll make your life hell," Ciel says, his voice low and ragged, shredded from coughing and worse, "worse than anywhere we end up."
"You are, of course, welcome to try," Sebastian purrs. "But I would not be too confident, young master. Stronger men than you have broken in better places than our final destination." His fingers stroke possessively over Ciel's cheek, below the marked eye. "Don't make promises just to turn into a sniveling heap. I'll be terribly disappointed."
"You'll see," Ciel growls, and closes his eyes; the hand that grasps Sebastian's sleeve tightens until it trembles a little from the force of his hold. "I'll make myself your master again, I'll fight until you're forced to kneel before me again." He takes another breath, struggling hard for it; the world is growing hazy and dim. "I swear, you'll see ..."
The last thing he is aware of are lips on his forehead and the stink of sulfur over the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. "I look forward to it ... Ciel."
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Date: 2011-02-24 04:51 am (UTC)This was an absolutely outstanding piece.
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Date: 2011-02-24 07:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-24 09:52 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2011-02-24 12:36 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2011-02-25 05:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-26 01:29 am (UTC)Wonderful, wonderful story
Date: 2011-04-04 07:05 am (UTC)"Truly, you've been most wonderful. I look forward to seeing what else you have in store for me. Please continue to struggle in all these little ways."=one of my all time favorite quotes now. Gotz da goosebumps.
I just had to comment to let you know this=best Black Butler fic ever written. Seriously. In it was everything that was best about the series itself: wit, darkness, Ciel's hard-headed stubborness clashing beautifully with Sebastian's inhuman patience and seductive hunger, heart twisting reminders of the humanity of the staff amidst such a dark setting...
Just wow, thank you. I am so freaking impressed. (I find writing Sebastian to be a real bitch...he is the most demony demon ever in fiction, isn't he?;)