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The Morning Chronicle
London, Thursday, August 27th 1890
Tragic news this morning for London society and the young fans
of Funtum. Earl Ciel Phantomhive, the sole survivor of the fire
that killed his family, as well as the owner and operator of the
Funtum corporation, has passed away at the tragic age of 14.
The estate has not released his cause of death, but his body
was found this morning by his staff. The Earl’s death is the
final nail in the coffin of tragedies that have marred the
Phantomhive line. Police are investigating but, at the moment,
have no cause to suspect foul play. The funeral is expected to
be small and private.
The fires of the Young Master’s final revenge burned long into the new evening, creating a false dawn made of furious flame. It was exactly as the demon currently called Sebastian had pictured it.
His master’s hatred scorched the very earth they tread upon and shook the heavens above with such ferocity that a heavy rain was sent down as if to extinguish such a wild blaze. Of course, the days and months and years of searching and gathering up his twisted, agonizing hurt had ensured that nothing short of the total destruction and humiliation of his former abusers would satisfy the fire of his anger. The demon felt like he could almost feel full feasting just on the radiating heat of that blazing rage. Centuries of life, working and contracting with humans, and yet the demon still occasionally found himself taken aback by their capacity to utterly ruin their own precious souls without any intervention.
Not for the first time, the demon found himself humbled by a child who could barely tie up his own bootlaces. He would have made an excellent demon but, alas, fate had deemed for Ciel Phantomhive to suffer. And soon that suffering would come to an end.
For eventually all the blood was spilled, saturating the ground, leaving no one left to wrest revenge from. He had lost count of how many souls were destroyed in the battle, but he doubted the London underworld would swiftly recover from such a devastating loss of lives. Just as well, since this was the Watchdog’s last and final case. What a note to end a legacy on, with fire and death and the destruction of all involved.
England would not soon forget the Watchdog. The Underworld indeed took a heavy blow with this last stand, and it took months, if not years for some, to resume operations. By then, a new Watchdog was prowling - a young girl with blonde curls, sharp green eyes and a terrifying affinity for swords. Even when the Watchdog title was officially dissolved in 1901, England’s criminal element still whispered of those fearsome noblemen and women as if speaking too loud might summon them once more.
“Young Master,” the demon said, bringing his bloodied glove to his abdomen and giving a small bow. “It is done. Your revenge is complete, my Lord.”
“Yes, it is,” the young man said, tilting his head back to feel the warm glow of the still burning fires. It lit up his face like a cherub from heaven, only he was filthy with blood and sin and his mismatched eyes shone with the heady rush of victory. The demon was unsure he had ever seen his master so unburdened. “Thank God, it’s about time.”
“Excuse me, my Lord,” The demon tutted with a smile, as he pulled a mostly clean handkerchief out of his pocket and began wiping at the blood on his master’s face. “But God had nothing to do with this.” The boy was positively covered in it, some of it his own, but most from his enemies. He had never looked more regal in all his finery than he did now. It was already partially dried, he would need a good scrubbing to be rid of it. On the surface at least. The dripping and dribbling blood was already saturating into his soul, flavouring it beyond compare. The demon’s mouth watered.
Soon, so very soon.
“I suppose you are right,” the young master said with a ragged chuckle before he scrunched his nose and turned his face away from the demon’s attempts to clean him. Fourteen years of age and yet he still acted like a spoiled child. But to the demon, he would always be the battered, bloody boy of ten demanding his revenge on a silver platter. And four years later, both an eternity and an instant, the demon had laid the offering before him and watched his master devour it whole. “Stop that! I order-” He paused and looked at the demon with a thoughtful frown.
“Huh, I suppose I can’t order you around anymore,” the boy huffed. Still, he smacked away his former butler’s hands. He let out a long, shuddering breath and dropped unceremoniously down onto a stone block behind him. The adrenaline and excitement were obviously tapering off, leaving his frail body exhausted. Vulnerable. Still, the demon jolted at the rough landing of his charge.
“Young Master, be careful,” he chided, squatting down to study the child. The boy, to his annoyance, paid him no mind as he surveyed the scene of his long held desire. He gazed upon the slow burning fires and broken bodies and buildings that littered the land, like he was trying to imprint it onto his eyes. “Are you injured?”
“What does it matter?” The young Earl shrugged before staring straight into the demon’s eyes. “You have done well, Sebastian, or whatever your true name is. You performed your duties to the high standards of a Phantomhive butler, both the strenuous and the mundane. I know I did not make it easy for you at times, but you are finally able to receive your well-earned reward. I intend to hold up my end of the deal for your service. My soul is yours.”
“Young Master…” The demon said, almost hesitant.
“What are you waiting for?” the boy frowned. “Surely you must be starved after so long. You no longer have any responsibility to me or my house. You may have my soul then leave my remains where they fall. I’m certain the Queen’s agents should be here soon; they will smooth over whatever problems this incident will cause for her Majesty.”
Her Majesty would, indeed, be very upset at the mess her Watchdog had caused, but was equally as dismayed to learn of the young Lord’s death the next day. Victoria spent much of her life in mourning, and so she simply added the young Earl to her nightly prayers. She would often wonder if the boy would have lived had she not placed on his shoulders the family burden. But then she sees London, bright and thriving, and realizes even if she had hastened his demise, she would do it again. She remains eternally grateful for one boy’s sacrifice to keep England shining.
The young master was correct. His end of the contract was completed, and the demon no longer had any compulsion to follow the child’s orders. He could wrench that delicious soul from that pathetic mortal form and be gone like a thief in the night, leaving his master’s body in the wreckage of his vengeance and food for the buzzards. The thought turned the demon’s stomach.
“My lord, this is not the appropriate place nor time. Besides, we are no longer alone,” he stated. He made a deliberate side eye to the Reapers who were beginning to descend and start collecting the records of the many, many dead. He reached out to help his young lord up only for the child to gasp in pain at the touch. The demon frowned at his charge, who just continued to glare at him.
Oh, he would not miss these interactions in the slightest.
“Where are you hurt?” He asked more forcefully than decorum dictated, but he, too, was tired, testy, and not to mention ravenous. “Tell me before I strip search you in front of all these Reapers.” Someone in the background, evidently having overheard, began to snicker.
The boy colored heartily from both embarrassment and anger, making the demon realize just how pale he’d been before. Mortal children truly were devils in and of themselves. He never wanted to deal with this sort of headache again.
“It’s nothing,” the young master scoffed. “I’m already dead, my lord demon.”
He grabbed at the boy’s rounded face, squeezing just enough to be constricting and painful.
“As you previously mentioned, I have fulfilled my end of the deal and do not need to follow your inane orders any longer. It is up to me to decide how I enjoy a meal I have worked so long and hard for and I will not let your petulant attitude ruin my prize.” He grinned, baring his sharp teeth. “Now, shall we try again, my Lord?”
“Always with the dramatics,” the boy grumbled when the demon released him. But his flippant words did not hide the slight tang of fear in his tone. He had never had a master grow so comfortable with his more inhuman traits. The demon could admit there was a certain pleasure in still being able to stimulate a fear response in a child who hardly blinked at his true form. “My wrist, I believe, is broken,” he winced as he gently turned over his left hand which had previously been protectively curled in his lap. “The rest, I don’t know. Everything was happening too fast. I think I may have been stabbed as well. That would explain the pain in my side.”
If only there was such a way to kill someone twice.
“Give me your hand, Young Master,” the demon said curtly as he waited for the brat to deposit his clearly broken hand into his own. The child may have many flaws but, when he wanted to be, he was a bulldog when it came to physical pain. The hand was horribly bruised and swollen, the fingers warped and bent. Any other grown adult would have been howling in agony. Modern human butchery, ahem, medicine would likely not be able to restore function to the limb and would potentially need to amputate. He was sure the child would resist rest and treatment and inevitably make himself and his situation worse. Luckily, they were past the need for keeping up human appearances.
“Hold still.” He kissed the mangled knuckles of his former master and knit the broken bones back into their original shape, along with every single other scratch and bruise and the deep stab wound that had nicked one of the child’s kidneys. His brow twitched in irritation. Clearly this boy was never intended to survive without divine - or hellish - assistance. “There we are.”
“What a fascinating trick,” the young lord smiled almost benevolently as he stretched and flexed his now healed fingers. Then he used that same hand to slap the demon hard in the face. “Did you conveniently forget how to do that when I fell off my horse and bruised my tailbone? Or that time my finger got jammed in the chamber of a gun? What about when that meathead Greenhill beaned me with his cricket bat?”
More snickering from the Reapers in the field. The demon was done with this ridiculous pantomime. His injuries healed, the demon hauled the boy up from his seat and threw him over one shoulder.
“Unhand me this instant you vile, ungentlemanly, rancid, ugly-” the Earl raged, pounding his weak, little fists against the demon’s back. Ah, the vigor of youth. It would really add a delightful flavor to the boy’s soul.
“What? Were you going to leave without saying goodbye? I’m hurt.” The demon groaned as Grell Sutcliffe slid up next to him. The irritant even gave him a coy bump to the hip. Both he and the young master glared in sync while the reaper just laughed. “Aw, look at the two of you. Two evil little peas in an apocalyptic little pod.” Sutcliff gestured widely to the surrounding destruction with a spin. “Look at what a marvelous, bloody scene you two caused. You sure know how to bring up a baby, Sebas-chan ☆ . It makes me all hot and bothered.”
“Well, go bother someone else,” the boy sniped, clearly having given up on escaping the demon’s grasp. He flapped his newly healed hand in a pompous, dismissive fashion. It might have been more impressive were he not being carried like a sack of flour. “We’re busy.”
“Oh, I know Bassy has big plans for you. Just figured I’d say goodbye and pay my respects,” Sutcliff said with a sad, almost gentle smile. “You were an arrogant little pain in the ass, but you did good work and you were terribly fun to rile up. Plus it was only because of you that I met my beloved.”
Sutcliff leaned forward and planted a kiss on the young master’s forehead, leaving a bright red lipstick mark. The boy furiously began wiping at it with his sleeve which resulted in some bizarre parody of holy ashes. He would need to clean up the Young master before Lady Elizabeth saw him. Well, his body, anyway. “May whatever comes after treat you better than this life.”
“Thanks,” the young master said quietly. “Be sure to keep bothering my demon in my place after I’m gone. We don’t need him getting too cocky.”
“My lord,” the demon said with an irritated little hiss, jostling the boy on his shoulder. Sutcliff laughed loudly and outrageously, drawing the attention of all the reapers towards their little group. It was highly improper and degrading, but soon he would not have to deal with this troublesome lot.
“You are something else, my little Lordling. I wish I could see your cinematic record, but I suppose the mystery will have to suffice.” Sutcliff chuckled, studying the boy fondly for a moment before turning to the demon and batting their eyes. “And now the lady gets a passionate goodbye kiss from her shining knig-”
“We really do need to get going,” the demon stated, striding forward and avoiding Sutcliff’s leap and puckered lips. “I would delight in never seeing any of you nuisances again.”
Grell Sutcliff remained a reaper for centuries, long after many of her original compatriots retired or moved on. She mentored a great many shinigami and all of them had to listen to their teacher wax poetic about the handsome demon and his little aristocrat master. The students would roll their eyes fondly, chalking it up to one of Ms. Sutcliff’s wild stories. There was no way she was Jack of the Ripper, right? Still, they would laugh to each other about the Earl and the Butler during their off hours.
“Yeah, but imagine how boring your eternal life will be without all this. You fellas sure got up to some crazy shit,” Ronald Knox smirked, leaning over his garish death scythe. “Don’t worry brat, I ain’t gonna kiss ya. Still, I will kinda miss seeing you around. Maybe not quite worth the paperwork y’all caused but, eh, it was fun while it lasted. Safe travels,” he gave a jaunty little wave before speeding off on his scythe.
“Wow, lucky me, I even got management to come out,” the young lord grumbled as Spears walked by and side eyed them.
“If you two hadn’t made such a disgusting mess, I would not be dispatched on retrieval duty,” Spears noted. He stopped and stared at the cinematic records of dozens, if not hundreds, of souls gently careening in the dark night. “You know you cannot be saved. Your quest for vengeance in this short life has thoroughly damned your immortal soul; there is nothing I can do. Your existence, your memories, your soul will disappear and be eternally forgotten.”
“Good,” the boy ground out harshly. “I don’t need you monkeys watching and judging my life, my choices. No God has had any sway over me since I spat their name into the ground and gave my soul to someone who could actually get something done. My life may be damned, but at least it’s on my own terms. I don’t need heaven or hell - I have already gotten what I needed.”
The demon and Spears shared a quick, curious look. It went without saying that most of his masters and mistresses did not hold such a view of their impending demise.
“You really are quite strange,” Spears huffed and adjusted his glasses minutely. “However, despite your cynical nature and the actions of your despicable demon, I believe some good has come from your brief presence in the world,” he noted. The demon felt the boy take in a soft, shocked breath. “Farewell. Despite your best efforts, you will unfortunately be difficult to forget.”
William T. Spears’ desk was barely visible beneath the stacks of folders and paperwork constantly being piled onto his desk space. Any time he made a dent, the pile somehow grew larger. Because of this, the average Reaper would not notice a small piece of paper taped to the back of his desk wall. It is a file carefully torn from a soul journal of a young boy with a dour expression and mismatched eyes. It is stamped, ‘Demon Contract - Soul Voided’ . They cannot know that sometimes, he looked at it when his pile dipped low enough and thought about what it meant to be saved.
Spears and the rest of the Reapers went about their tasks, dutifully cutting and cataloging the souls of the deceased. In all his years of life, the demon had never come across a death god, and yet his time as the butler had been filled with all sorts of supernatural nonsense. Knox had been right that ordinary human masters would be dreadfully dull from now on. His hunger and his boredom were at war with each other over what to do now.
“Let’s go, we’ve no reason to linger,” the young master said, giving the demon’s back a pound.
“And where exactly are we going?” The demon quipped, raising an eyebrow even as he carried the boy away from the scene.
“Wherever you take me, I suppose. I’m at your mercy, remember?”
As if he could ever forget. England remained asleep through the darkest part of the night. But dawn was coming, a dawn his former master would not live to see. The demon had been fantasizing about this moment for years, but they both looked dreadful. He would not lose his aesthetics so close to the end.
He took them to the London Townhouse. It was still abandoned since Agni’s death last year, desolate and despairing, yet still fully stocked with whatever they would need. The place had the added effect of being haunted by bad memories, adding a little extra zest to his master’s ripe soul. Having magicked himself clean and in a fresh suit; the demon warmed a bath for his master. He could feel the waves of grief radiating from the other room as the child stared at his brother’s bloody message. The demon took a moment to himself to breathe in the glorious stench of misery.
The reanimated corpse of the original Ciel Phantomhive had been put back in his grave last December. To those who remembered the shell of who the boy had been, it was a tragedy and a relief to see him finally at rest. Historians continue to debate and misinterpret the true horror of the usurper claiming to be the real Earl, never knowing that he was correct. Rarely is the younger, sickly twin ever brought up which is just how the boy preferred.
“Would you like help with your bath, my Lord?” He questioned as he stepped outside of the bathroom. The boy was straight backed, hands clasped behind his back as he stared at a long dead friend’s dried blood. His expression was blank, and the demon had no idea what he was thinking. “Young Master?”
“Stop calling me that, the charade is up. Why in God’s name are you dilly dallying?” The young man sneered. “What’s next, are you going to take me back to the Manor, warm up some milk with honey and tuck me into bed? Make me wake up and run through the motions over and over again until I go insane? When are you going to release me from this hell I call a life?”
“My Lo-”
“Don’t call me that!” The boy raged, grabbing the nearby lamp and throwing it with all his might at the demon, who was so shocked he let the device crash into him. He barely even felt such a trifling blow, could only stare at the boy’s heaving chest and wild eyes. “Take your damned payment, demon. I’m ready, I’ve been ready for ages! You’ve always been so quick to follow my orders, yet you shy away from fulfilling the last one!”
The demon had seen many contracts end. He was used to running, to blubbering tears, to begging, bribery and violence. Never before did he have a master who was so ready to die. Never before did he have to wonder if he himself was ready for it to end.
“My Lord, this behaviour is quite unbecoming of a young man much less a distinguished Earl,” the demon chided. The boy bared his teeth in frustration. “How and when I finish this is up to me alone, and if I want you clean and presentable when I end your life then so be it.”
“Fine,” the boy ground out through gritted teeth, his hands clenching and unclenching in aggravation. “It doesn’t bloody matter anymore. Let’s just get this over with.” He stomped into the bathroom and slammed the door shut, the sound reverberating through the entire house. The demon took a steadying breath before running to collect what would be needed for the end. He returned to the townhouse to find silence from the bathroom. Without a thought to his master’s wishes, he entered the room and rolled his eyes in annoyance.
“You really can’t do anything without me,” the demon huffed, observing the teenager sitting listlessly in the pink-stained bathwater. He was staring at the wall and making no move to clean himself. Petulant to the very last. The demon just sighed, stripping off his gloves and rolling up his sleeves to begin scrubbing every trace of blood and revenge off the boy’s thin body. His thumb brushed thoughtfully against the old ugly burn on his master’s back which stuck out sharply against visible ribs.
Four years in the prime of human development and his master had hardly grown from the emaciated victim he had once been. Years of the best meals, a comfortable abode, and the utmost care were given to protecting and preserving his physical being. And yet the young lord never did eat well, preferring short term sweets to heartier, sustaining meals. His sleep was often interrupted by his duties, assassins or raging nightmares that ensured he rarely slept through the night. His body was here, safe and without a scratch on him, but his soul was withered, broken, and tired. And it was all the demon’s doing.
Sutcliff had been wrong earlier. He had not raised a child, rather a lamb to the slaughter, who lived not for love or joy, but solely to be feasted upon. Perhaps if he had never been stolen away and tormented that fiery December night. Perhaps if someone else other than a hungry demon had rescued him from that hell. Perhaps if the boy’s many physical and emotional traumas had been properly attended to, lovingly healed into scars instead of being encouraged to fester and rot… maybe things might have turned out different for the boy. But this is not that kind of story; from the moment the contract was sealed, this was always how it was to end.
“Sebastian,” the boy croaked out as the demon poured lukewarm water over his head, causing more blood to pool in the tub. His face was turned away from the demon but his tone was quiet, aching with an unseen pain.
“I know you have no obligation to tell the truth any longer and yet I ask regardless. Was any of it real, or was it all some tedious chore you are happy to be rid of?” The young lord scoffed to himself. “Nevermind, of course being bound to a spoiled child asking the impossible of you day after day would be nothing short of infuriating. Apologies, I don’t mean to be maudlin.”
“How about another deal then, Young Master? One with slightly lower stakes than our last,” the demon said gently. “A truth for a truth. You answer my question honestly and I will answer yours.” The boy hummed an affirmative in response, weariness etched into his very being. “Are you truly so eager to die?”
The Earl, the Watchdog, the Young Master who was also still a boy slowly, cautiously, leaned his head back until it rested on the demon’s abdomen. The child’s wet hair stained the butler’s uniform, but such things did not matter any more. Perhaps for the first time, with the contract complete, the demon and his master could speak plainly to one another. The demon continued his cleaning, taking great care to scrub out the stubborn blood hiding under his master’s nails, while the boy ruminated.
“I can’t say I’m not scared,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m a human and all humans fear death. I have the revenge I’ve wanted for so long, and it was important and rewarding, but it will not return what I have lost nor the person I used to be.” He snorted derisively, “I’d go to hell for sure if the reapers were to judge my rotten soul.”
The boy looked down at his now cleaned hands. The demon imagined he could still see years worth of blood dripping from them. “There are things I will miss about this life, people I will long for and regret hurting. But I’m tired, Sebastian. I’m exhausted from playing this role, wearing a name not my own and knowing I was never living up to Ciel’s potential. It was never meant to be long term and that made it a little bit easier to bear. I’ve known since the cage that my future was nonexistent and destined to be cut short.”
“You have damned me, but you also saved me, back then,” he said, glancing up shyly for a moment before turning his gaze back to the wall. “I’d rather die by your hand than from any of those vile, disgusting creatures who dared call themselves men. Even if I could escape my fate, you’ve more than earned your meal and I do not wish to continue on any longer. I’m frightened, I cannot deny that, but I am also ready to meet my death with the dignity I am owed.”
“I see,” the demon said, continuing his cleaning. They sat in silence for some time, even as the bathwater cooled and the child's body was thoroughly cleaned. The Earl breathed in slowly and deeply, seeking out comfort from his soon to be murderer while said murderer offered it back. And for a moment, it seemed as if time itself had stopped to give them a moment to appreciate what they had before it was gone for good.
All too soon, the boy started shivering and the demon’s ever punctual internal clock told him midnight was fast approaching. The young man had pulled himself back together, calm and placid as the demon attended to him. He was once more the untouchable Earl who had held the London underworld in the grip of his tiny hand. Cleaned and dried, they began the familiar routine of getting the young master dressed. The boy gave a wan smile when he saw the outfit his former servant had brought for him.
“How thoughtful of you to have me dressed in my funeral attire. No need to trouble others more than necessary,” the young master quipped as he ran his fingers lightly over the black fabric. Though he loathed being fitted for clothes by Ms. Hopkins, the boy had always made sure his funeral wear was clean and sized appropriately. He needed to be ready whenever the moment finally came. “You didn’t answer my question, Demon. A truth for a truth.”
As the demon did the buttons up on his former master’s shirt, he found himself in a curious position of feeling – not guilty, exactly – but perhaps a bit forlorn, nostalgic for something he had not lost quite yet.
“My Lord,” he said, “I cannot deny that parts of the arrangement were frustrating, near intolerable at times.” He had brought this boy up to die, put him in a position where the child was practically begging for it. Perhaps the demon did owe this child some small scrap of kindness as recompense. “However, this was certainly one of my more exciting contracts. Fights with reapers, moving corpses, confronting human corruption and wickedness, that was all well and good. Yet serving you, young master, was its own adventure.”
The boy’s funeral clothes complete, the demon grabbed the rings off the nightstand and took both of his master’s hands. On his right hand, he slipped on the Phantomhive signet ring. The demon brushed his lips against the boy’s fragile knuckles. “I’ve never had a master so accepting of my true nature, using cunning and subterfuge to employ my abilities to our mutual benefit. Just as your true self leaked out from behind the mask, I felt the same. I have never felt more myself than when I was playing the butler, Sebastian.”
He then took his master’s left hand, the one which had been badly broken a mere hour earlier. The blue sapphire that had been in the family for generations was placed on his master’s thumb. He kissed that hand as well. There was no love, nor regret or obeisance in the gesture. It was merely a sign of respect and acknowledgement of their fated farewell.
“As the reaper Spears noted, when your soul is consumed, everything that you are made of will be gone. But though your soul will be lost, the impact you have had on others will remain. The Midfords, the servants, the lives you stole and the lives you saved - you have left an indelible mark on this world, Young Master, and on me as well.” He let go of the child’s hands and bowed before his lord.
“You will die this night, as we both desire, but you will not be gone entirely. No matter how long I live and how many masters I shall have after you, our time together is one that will stay with me in perpetuity. Your loved ones will die, your Queen will die, England will die. However, through me, you shall remain eternal.”
“My,” the young master said with a huff, yet there was a small smile on his face and his eyes lost some of that vacant stare. “You really have gone soft, Demon.”
“And you, my Lord, have grown quite cruel,” the demon retorted as he stood to his full height. “It is almost midnight. Ready for one last flight?” He took the boy into his arms and sped out into the night. If he took a slightly longer route, made extra long jumps and ran high over the trees for a stellar view of the countryside, well, his passenger would not live to tell the tale. His lord’s heart fluttered in vain against his chest as they landed at their destination.
“You really are a bastard,” the young master rasped as he took in where the demon had brought them. Still, he held his head high as he walked into the burnt out husk of a mansion where his brother, and his future, had died. With a bit of illusion, the place was returned back to its former glory with blood and death and misery permeating the air. The boy’s body reacted to the scene of his greatest trauma, his muscles clenching, his stomach churning with nausea, his breath quickening. One last pinch of spice to enrich the delicacy of a ripened soul.
“I thought it appropriate to end where we began,” the demon said, no longer able to hide his anticipation. “You told me, back then, that it should have been you who was sacrificed. I must heartily disagree, but how can I deny your first request in your final moments?”
He held out a hand as his master climbed onto the altar that chance had kept him from four years ago. The boy’s body was trembling slightly, and yet his face was relaxed and betrayed none of his thoughts. The demon wondered what was going through his quickfire mind in these final moments. No one knew Ciel Phantomhive better than the demon and, yet, the child would take some mysteries to his grave. It was as fascinating as it was frustrating.
“Any last requests?” The demon found himself saying as he gently brushed some stray strands of hair away from the boy’s marked eye. “Free of charge.”
“Make it hurt,” the child declared, glaring with all of his soul up at the demon about to kill him. “Turn all the pain I have been carrying inside of me into something real. I don’t care if it benefits you or not, I want my suffering to be etched onto my very being as a disgrace to God.”
No, the demon will likely never have a master like Ciel Phantomhive again.
“And if you would, check on Lizzie and the servants one last time,” the boy whispered. “My will should take care of their monetary needs but, still, I know my passing will be difficult for them.” He swallowed and closed his eyes one last time. He looked like he was about to fade off to sleep and - this time - there would finally be no interruptions to wake him. “I am ready. Do your worst, demon.”
“Yes, my Lord,” the former butler said.
When the deed was done, the demon believed he had never felt so full and satiated in all his life. He gently wiped away a stray tear that had escaped from the boy’s now identical eyes. The contract was complete, their bond was severed, the Earl was gone.
Some humans lived for a short time after losing their soul, as if it had not yet gotten the message that it was dead. The demon should not have been surprised that the boy’s feeble yet stubborn body held out, breathing in and out in defiance of its unfair death. He cradled the empty vessel into his arms and sped off into the night.
It was a pittance to detour to Midford Manor, to look into the windows and see the Marquis and Marquess resting peacefully. Further down the hall, Lady Elizabeth lay with her arms curled up and her hair in disarray as she slept. Soon she would learn she was a widow before she ever became a bride. Edward Midford was asleep in his room at Weston college, a book sprawled across his chest and his sword propped against his bed.
The Midfords mourned their family with distinction in public, but raged and sweated through their grief in private. All the members felt they could have prevented the death if only they had tried harder, been more involved, and none more so than Elizabeth. She thought of her former fiancee every day when she tied on a silk eye patch identical to his own over her eye. Even when her tenure as the Watchdog ended and she left England to begin a new life, Ciel’s cruelty and kindness remained with her always.
Prince Soma had been traveling for years, but stayed at the India Office whenever he was in London. He held himself protectively in his luxurious bed, Agni’s ashes by his bedside. Lady Sullivan was asleep at her desk in a cottage given to her by the Queen. Her butler’s coat was over her shoulders and Wolfram dozed in the corner, keeping an eye on his lady even at rest.
It was years before Prince Kadar Soma learned of what truly happened regarding Ciel Phantomhive and the death of his beloved Khansamah. Anger and grief still warred in his heart, though eventually he turned to Agni’s example and learned to forgive. He never had a chance to tell his friend before his passing and later dedicated himself to providing for the less fortunate. He partnered occasionally with Dr. Sullivan who worked in pediatric prosthetics. They became friends and spent several evenings reminiscing about the Earl over a pleasant meal.
He came upon Phantomhive Manor for what would be the last time. Tanaka breathed heavily in his sleep, unaware the family he had served most of his life was now gone. Snake was near silent in his private room, a few of his snakes coiled around him while some of the others roamed. A few glanced in the demon’s direction, but he was already onto his next destination. Mey Rin was lying on her stomach, a bit of drool leaking out of her mouth and onto her pillow. Bardroy had one arm dangling off the bed with his fingers lightly gripping a mostly empty bottle of wine. The bed next to him, however, was empty.
The servants, once only good for killing, took the skills they learned at Phantomhive Manor to better themselves and the world around them. Tanaka bravely kept up the Phantomhive name and Manor for all his remaining days, doing his duty til the end. Mei Rin strived to use her skills to protect people even as she had failed the Young Master. Bardroy would save Elizabeth’s life at the cost of his own. He died fulfilled and, having redeemed himself, reunited with his family. Snake only used to have the company of his snakes, however the Circus and the Manor helped him learn to interact with his world more. Soon, he had a place to belong for the third time.
The demon found Finnian sleepily wandering the halls, a blanket held protectively over his head and his shoulders shivering a bit. Ah, a nightmare then. He was heading, the demon noted, in the direction of the young master’s bedroom. Finnian ought to know they weren’t at the Manor and was likely walking there out of habit. He often checked on the Young Master to ensure he wasn’t having his own nightmares.
Finnian suffered greatly from the loss of not only his Master but the happiness and dreamlike quality of his home. But all dreams end and boys grow up, or at least, most do. Even at his lowest moments, he told himself he was living for them, for everyone he had loved and lost. Before he knew it, there were new people, places, and things to love. He never forgot what came before, and simply allowed his heart to expand to accommodate. When he sent in a box of journals and keepsakes a century later, he told himself he was just sharing with the world the Young Master as he had known and loved him.
For the final time, the demon put his master to bed. He laid the soulless body atop the covers and kept his shoes and stockings on. He tied on the silk eye patch, though the mark it had hidden no longer existed. The Earl’s small hands were arranged on his stomach, his rings glittering softly in the moonlight filtering through the windows. His heart still beat and his lung breathed but everything that made up the Young Master was gone.
He considered, just for a moment, leaving the boy to be discovered as is. Left soulless but alive, to be tended and cared for by his loved ones until this living doll of a body eventually gave out. It could be days, months, even years from now. The demon noted an extra presence appearing on the roof and he felt a disgusted rage bubble in his chest. After so long protecting this body, it was pathetically easy to snap the final threads keeping it alive.
One final breath and what was left of Ciel Phantomhive died.
The demon observed his handiwork, a swift and simple death with no visible wounds. He was curious what the authorities would say about this unusual death. He hoped they were quite confused. The boy looked more at peace in death than the demon had ever seen him in life.
“Rest well, my Lord,” the demon bowed before evaporating out of the room. Finnian’s wandering would soon bring him in this direction. It was cruel to leave him to find the body but crueler still to let the corpse’s decomposition alert them. The door to the Master suite was left ajar which any servant worth their salt would know was not right. And the Phantomhive servants, for all their eccentricities, were loyal to a fault.
“Don’t you dare,” the demon growled at the figure hiding in the shadows of the rooftop. “Let well enough lie, Undertaker. It is over.”
The former reaper stepped out into the open. His mouth was curved into a bitter, dissatisfied frown and his phosphorescent eyes were harsh in the moonlight. While the world slept; two beings without proper names stared each other down.
“What does it matter to you, Butler?” The man questioned.
“I am no longer a butler just as you are no longer a reaper,” the demon frowned. He stood resolutely above the window to the Young Master’s bedroom. “You have defiled one twin with your ghastly experiments, leave this one be.”
“You got the little Lordling’s soul, Demon. Your part in this sad, little affair is concluded so why not let me have the remains?” Undertaker questioned, tilting his head with a grin. “As you’ve seen, the little Earl doesn’t need a soul to live. We can both get what we want.”
“And what of the Young Master? You and I both know he would rather burn in the pits of hell than have his body propped up and puppeted by the likes of you,” the demon hissed, baring his fangs and unsheathing his claws.
“Really? You would fight me over the body of a child who no longer holds onto your leash?” The Undertaker teased, summoning his death scythe and gently running a finger along the back of the blade. “I’m sure you remember how well that went last time.”
He was right. It was insanity for the demon to risk injury and possibly even death to fight the former reaper over something as paltry as a human corpse. But something inside chaffed and burned at the idea of this wretched being playing make believe with the boy’s body. It was about his aesthetics but it was also more than that.
Their stalemate was broken by Finnian’s wails as he came upon the Young Master’s body. The lights in the Manor came on as the household woke up and learned of their loss. Midnight passed and the first day without Ciel Phantomhive began.
“It is over,” the demon repeated, settling himself back into human skin. “Your childish scheme has failed; the Phantomhive line has ended. Let the boy at least have dignity in death.”
For a moment, the demon thought the reaper would still attack. Instead, he laughed as if he’d been told the world’s funniest joke.
“What a pair you two make! The demonic little boy and demon who learned to be human, its like something out of a storybook. It’s all so stupid and senseless, it makes me sick,” the Undertaker wiped tears from his eyes as hysterical laughter overtook him. The demon held his position as the servants below began searching the grounds for whoever dared to harm their Lord. He and the reaper were slightly out of phase from the real world and thus were hidden. The demon would not relish having to fight the unrestrained fury of the Phantomhive servants.
“I could have saved him,” Undertaker said finally after his laughter finally petered out into sobs.
“You cannot save someone who does not want to be saved,” the demon responded resolutely.
“No, I suppose you can’t. It’s what made him so terribly interesting,” the reaper sighed wistfully. “I will miss him something awful. And what about you, Mr. Not-A-Butler, will you miss him as well?”
Assured that the reaper would make no attempts to steal the body, the demon relaxed slightly as he mused over the question. Would he miss the non-stop orders and his constant whining for sweets and other impossible tasks? Heavens no. Had he enjoyed elements of this contract, found a certain pleasure in playing the role of butler? Perhaps. Will some part of him miss that annoying brat with his broken soul and his penchant for self destruction?
He looked up at the moon, “Maybe. I suppose time will tell.”
“Fair well, Demon. It rankles me to lose to you but I suppose I can let the Earl take this match,” the reaper said before disappearing into thin air. If he was lucky, the demon would never cross paths with him again.
“Truly, this was indeed the Young Master’s victory,” the demon preened for a moment. He gave himself a few last seconds in the skin of Sebatain Michaelis before he, too, disappeared into the dark. He left behind the impossible Manor, tainted down to its foundation with dark magic and malice along with the furious and grieving servants. He also left behind a body, small and weak, with a peaceful smile on its face. The undisputed winner, even in death.
Jordyn Trelawney: Welcome back to Good Morning Britain! I’m Jordyn Trelawney and I have with me today Dr. Richard Mattingly, who was part of the team that first uncovered the secret history of the Watchdog, Ciel Phantomhive. Richard is promoting his book, Demons of the London Underworld , which gives a brief history of the so-called “evil noblemen”. So happy to have you back with us, congrats on your doctorate.
Richard Mattingly: Thank you, Jordyn. This book actually started as my doctoral thesis, but so many people have been clamoring for information about the Phantomhives that I thought I would tweak it to be fit for publication.
Trelawney: In your book, you cover the origin of the Watchdog title way back in 1772 all the way to 1895 when Elizabeth Aster nee Midford left the title behind to be married. Of course, the most well known Phantomhive is the young Ciel Phantomhive who was the Watchdog from 1886 to 1890, starting when he was just 11 years old. What was the most challenging part of the book?
Mattingly: [Laughs] Finding information, of course. The Phantomhives were notoriously secretive and paranoid which is why their actions went unnoticed for so long. My partner, Beth, and I have spent years pouring through the records to piece together the timeline as best we could. Even so, there’s so much we don’t know and likely never will.
Trelawney: That’s a bit sad, isn’t it? To know how much has been lost?
Mattingly: On the contrary, it’s a bit of a relief to be honest. There is something inherently dark and tragic about the Phantomhive line. Since I started down this trail, I’ve found things that don’t make sense, things that seem impossible and I can’t explain. I can tell you, its kept me awake many nights. There’s a thrill in discovering things of historical value, but there’s also an excitement in knowing we will never truly understand what happened back then. But we can theorize and wonder and revel in the mystery.
Trelawney: So it’s been four, going on five years, since you and some fellow graduate students uncovered the truth about the Watchdog and yet interest in the Phantomhives - Ciel in particular - has continued to explode. Do you have any thoughts about the enduring popularity of the subject?
Mattingly: Like I said, there’s certainly an appeal in the gothic mystery of it all, but I think it’s more than that. Victorian London has always been an area of intrigue and the Phantomhives really highlight the best of the era.
[voiceover of Dr. Mattingly speaking as several images fade into the central screen. It starts with the interior of the renovated Phantomhive Manor. A young child grins toothily up at Ciel Phantomhive's portrait. She is tightly clutching an Eyepatch Bitter rabbit in one arm.] Despite being a noble from a time long ago, there is something very relatable about the Phantomhives. Take young Ciel. We know he went through several traumas in his short life and experienced side effects regarding it. But we also know that he loved sweets, had a playful banter with his butler and was fiercely devoted to those under his care.
[A picture taken at New York Comic Con has five different people of varying age, race and gender in Ciel Phantomhive cosplay jumbled together for the picture. A few try to act stoic but the rest are grinning. There are three Elizabeth Midford cosplayers, one splattered heartily with fake blood. One Sebastian cosplayer stands awkwardly in the corner, trying to fit into the picture despite the large crowd and their ill-fitting suit.] There’s enough space for people to wonder what it would have been like, to have been the young Lord of the Manor charged with heading a great household and running a company while keeping London’s Underworld in check. They can sympathize with his burden while appreciating all that he accomplished despite everything against him.
[A still from the Watchdog movie, currently in post-production. The child actor playing Ciel Phantomhive, Aiden Finnley, is listening intently to the director say something on set. He has his eyepatch flipped up, lips pursed in thought. Actor Vincent Micheals, playing Sebastian Michaelis, is adjusting the boy’s neck collar with a bemused smile on his face. His eyes glinted a harsh red from the camera.] There’s something romantic in the idea of an Underworld protector, like they’re some strange mix of superman and the boogieman. It’s enough to excite anyone, and that’s not even accounting for all the high profile crimes they wound up being involved in.
[A candid photo of a crowd of students in the Royal Archives. A young woman is speaking, holding up the lovingly preserved Phantomhive journal wearing gloves and an open smile. The students eagerly pour over the documents, soaking up the history and mystery. One young man has their hand raised, waiting to ask their question.] Most of the Phantomhives died young, with Ciel being the youngest at fourteen. However, their legacy lives on in the London they helped create and the fascination they continue to inspire. We’re already seeing undergrads who got into historical research because of the popularity of these evil noblemen.
Trelawney: Wow, that is so exciting and I know we continue to learn more every day. Maybe one day, historians will unravel the puzzle that is Ciel Phantomhive. If you could, is there anything you would say to the young Earl?
Mattingly: Mostly apologizing for digging up and announcing his well hidden secrets. [Laughs] I would probably thank him for what he did back then, whether or not he would accept it. My family and I live in the world he protected and that means an awful lot. I guess I’d also wish him a good rest after his tumultuous life. We still don’t know exactly how he died, but sources say it was peaceful. I just hope that extends after his mortal death.
Trelawney: A lovely sentiment. Even if we never get the full picture of what happened to Ciel Phantomhive, we know that his name and legacy will live on for a long, long time. And in a way, isn’t that what it means to be immortal? I’m Jordyn Trelawney with Dr. Mattingly. Up next, after a word from our sponsors, we are seeing an increase in street crime in the greater London area. Who is going to tackle this issue and what-
The demon turned off the television, he had no interest in tawdry human affairs. The young researcher was becoming too comfortable with his unofficial title as the Phantomhive expert. The demon would surely have to do something about that human’s undeserved pride. But that was for another day.
The moving picture record of the Young Master’s life was almost complete, but he still had tasks to do. The editors needed some gentle nudging to arrange the footage for the most accurate portrayal. The producers still required some careful scaring in order to ensure it was marketed to the populace correctly. Young Aiden’s Latin pronunciation was abysmal and the demon had volunteered to help with the boy’s elocution while on the press tour. Too much to do and so little time, even for a being with an eternity before him.
He adjusted his gloves, smoothed the wrinkles on his collared shirt and put on sunglasses that weren’t needed because that’s what celebrities did apparently. It had been enjoyable revisiting the character of Sebastian for a spell but he’d avoided forming contracts during the filming and had grown quite hungry again. The job of an actor, or a butler, was truly never done. Perhaps that was for the best, for there would always be a soul to steal, another story to end.
Just as he has now ended this one.