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Ciel Phantomhive is dead.
The words hung above him, calligraphic strokes etched into the black sky. They shone, basked in the absence of the stars, filled the silence the moon cast upon the dreary night by the sea which he was submerged.
The same words plastered on newspapers spread throughout the small island of England, headlines blazing in the greedy eyes of the many who dreamt of bringing down the Earl in a fire, in fury. But that’s all it would be: a dream. A bitter, empty, careless dream. They would sit and toast and celebrate a victory they had no part in.
Yes, Ciel Phantomhive was dead. The beautiful boy graced with cerulean locks and lacquered lips, he now lay in a bed of white roses wearing a pitch-black suit that matched the enhanced blackness of the sky. Some would find it ironic, the black that followed the boy all through his life now consumed his very presence on the day meant to commemorate him. He was wrapped in the fabric, from head to toe. It drenched him, enclosed around him the same way the sky did the scene, the same way curtains would block out the light.
His final curtain call was not at all how he imagined it would be, though that was on him. He still imagined. He still believed, even when he knew it was pointless to do so.
They say when a person dies, their ghost will linger until their business is finished and they feel at peace. Their souls will finally begin to rest easy, and they’ll succumb to true bliss. Foolishly, a small part of him hoped he’d get to witness those passing stages of death. Even after he learned to accept the fate, to know exactly how he’d go. There was no longer anticipation for the inevitable. Instead, it became just that; inevitable. Boring. Plain.
Yet, he still hoped. By some chance, the grace of god, the sinister trickery of a demon, somehow, he could experience ignorance.
His hand reached out, subconsciously, trying to grab at something to see if he could feel. Though there was nothing, just his fingers intertwining with the calm whirl of the ocean. The temperature was cold enough to freeze, and still, he stood afloat in the water with not even the prickle of his fingertips startling him out of his trance.
His eyes were trained on the coffin where his body lay. His veins were a nasty green, wrapping around their violet counterparts respectively through his almost translucent skin. It was as if his blood had been completely drained from him and he was rendered empty. Veins splayed on the corners of his face, shriveled and bulging on the tops of his crossed hands, they were nothing more than cracks. The body he once knew as home truly nothing more than a shell, hollow and weak, slowly crumbling as his fervent spirit was no longer there to keep it stable.
Fervent spirit.
He could laugh to himself.
“Young Master, you’re so cool…” Finnian marveled one night as they sat on the White Cliffs of Dover. They were on business, Ciel deciding to bring Finnian along rather than leave him alone at the quiet mansion.
He knew how the boy got when he was left alone. And while he wouldn’t admit it to him, he figured that bringing him out to see more of the world’s landscape would make him happy.
“I beg your pardon?” Ciel turned to him with a raised eyebrow. He was greeted with the boy’s wide eyes that twinkled in the moonlight, in a way that suggested innocence, awe. Somehow, the brightness of his blonde hair reflected as well, burning into Ciel’s eyes. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to look away.
“The young master’s younger than I am but… he’s seen so much. He’s not even phrased by the beautiful view!”
Ciel sighed, watching the boy exclaim and turn to the waves crashing against the chalk below them. “It’s ‘phased’, Finnian. Must we increase your lessons yet again?”
Finnian shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t care. I just like being at the manor and doing what I can to help.”
Ciel took one look over at him before turning back to the sky.
“The young master knows about all of these things. He knows so much. He always gets to see these things and he never gets tired of it,” he kicked his feet in the air. “His spirit is still ferret!”
“F-ferret?”
Finnian nodded enthusiastically.
“Finny, do you mean ‘fervent’?”
Finnian nodded again. And Ciel couldn’t help but throw his head back in laughter, not stopping when the young boy looked at him with a mix of confusion and horror.
A memory as minimal as that washed away with those harsh waves. The memory was far, far below the calm surface of the ocean that engulfed him tonight.
Finnian stood there, dusted in a suit he probably never thought he’d wear. He didn’t look too happy, nor sad. In fact, the most Ciel could read on his face was a twinge of discomfort due to the snug collar.
He hated restrictive attire, insisting to wear battered rags and torn cloth since they made him feel careless and free.
There was none of that tonight, though. His blonde hair didn’t shine in the bright the way Ciel thought it always would. It was as dull as the shadow cast upon his face, matching the look on Meyrin and Bardroy as well.
Ciel watched them, eyes not even red from crying. In fact, they didn’t seem as though they shed one tear since they had known. Perhaps he was selfish to want that, perhaps he was selfish to even look.
Yet, they came. Standing idly near the open coffin, watching his motionless body with… obligation. He was their master, after all. This was part of their service.
Ciel could make peace with that. His eyes dawned on the three, watching the reflections of their horrid pasts and previous torture, watching how he reduced them to nothing but slave work and trapped them in nothing but a more well furnished version of the ugly lives they lived before. Allowing them slivers of freedom and no kindness, leaving them to wallow in their past trauma even while he was away.
He brought them here, forced a life on them and trained them to think it was right. He was a noble, after all, and his way was always the right way. That disgusting title he wore gave him the right to deceive and manipulate his way into situations without explanations, it was why he stood so tall, why he didn’t have to listen to a word from anyone else.
Not the jealous ridicules from lowlifes who thought they held some form of power, not the cries from those who thought they could change te world for the better, not even the sweet words from his fiancee. All that time of dismissal, of disregard, there shouldn’t be any surprise on his face as he watched her blank expression.
Somehow tonight, he could see the beauty in his cousin. His eyes trailed up her form, dolled and styled in that lovely manner she was so passionate about flaunting, he could see why she had been so proud of her dresses and presentation. She was beautiful, even with the empty scowl on her face.
If back then he could have told her that at least once, he would have.
If back then, he could have played one game of chess with the Indian prince, he would have.
If back then, he could have held tighter onto his brother’s hand as he was ripped away from him for good, he would have.
So why didn’t I?
It was rising up, the guilt in his hypocrisy climbing the walls of his throat as he watched the company. Surrounding the coffin was those who cared for him the most, those who he thought he had done the best for, those who he failed when he thought he was protecting them. And in spirit, he felt the taunting of those he shunned away completely, laughing at him now.
Because yes, Ciel Phantomhive was dead, but here his soul lay. Overwatching and unravelling as the truth screeched in the silent night. The self-centered arrogance emitting from his antiquated body made his stomach churn, made the wavering feeling of realization rise higher, and higher, stomach contracting yet nothing was coming out.
Nothing was left in him to come out.
His hand clutched at his center, angry that while his body was reacting, he still couldn’t feel a thing. He was volatile, empty, floating in the water as the contortions overtook him without feeling. There wasn’t a single feeling .
He looked up desperately, why he wasn’t sure, but his eyes were searching nonetheless. Grazing over his pale face, watching his long, curled eyelashes that sat on his cheeks. And for the first time, it seemed as though his sleep was finally peaceful. He seemed as though this time, there wouldn’t be a nightmare to shake him awake.
No, his nightmare had left his side.
And then the waves spurred. They began to glide, slowly, with purpose. Beneath the water, Ciel’s frail frame started glowing. His naked body pristine and porcelain, illuminating within the blackness of the sea. He looked like a doll, floating in the water like ceramic encased in resin.
He felt it, the beauty he possessed reaching its heightened potential once he was cast away from sight. He wasn’t visible to them, no, they wouldn’t dare notice him no matter how bright he cast his light.
He was never supposed to know the damage he had inflicted on others, but now, that mocking light came in the form of the absence of his blackness.
The abyss no longer seeming welcome to him, anger swarmed in his chest. Ciel Phantomhive could not be dead. Ciel Phantomhive refused to be dead. Ciel Phantomhive would never lose to death.
Yet there he was, watching as their focus shifted to the paper lanterns in their hands, each of them burning with white light. A mocking, false light. Turning to him and laughing, the lights stinging in his eyes as they drifted higher and higher out of his reach, out of their view. He wanted to call, kick, scream, beg, whatever he could so they couldn’t end his remembrance with an empty light. He wouldn’t let the blackness of the water stifle and continue to drown him out.
Though, as he opened his mouth, the air escaped him in trade for the water that consumed him. That wicked, disturbing black, once more trying to shade his light and drag him down until he could shine no more.
Yes, Ciel Phantomhive was dead. The villainous noble who held the underground of England in shackles. The hellish child Earl who cast away dozens by the dime without remorse. The weak, sick, second choice to everyone he had dared to encounter. He was dead, his coffin was to be dropped in the ocean, and he was to rest on the bottom of the grimy floor, where no one could conjure up his remains had they tried. He was to lay quietly, completely consumed by the black.
His death wasn’t a noble one. He didn’t go out in a blazing heap of fire, fury, there was no significance to his last breath. Instead, there was the send-off of taunting lights, to help his stubborn soul find the path farthest away from the ones who held him so close.
By the final strike of the hour, the only sign, the only reminder of his existence, would be the lone bubble erupting from the surface of the ocean: the lone trace of effervescence emerging as the world resumed its rotation.
Ciel Phantomhive, born December 14th, 1875. Died December 14th, 1889. No outstanding notes, just arrogance, and a legacy of the boy whose shadow drenched his world in a dancing, dissonant black.