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Devilish Impulses	By : Arianawray Category: > Black Butler (Kuroshitsuji ???) Views: 13948 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji or any of its characters, and I do not make any money from these writings.

Chapter List
- 1-Unwanted
- 2-Whim
- 3-Trust
- 4-Taste
- 5-Scheme
- 6-Command
- 7-Competition
- 8-Advice
- 9-Enlightenment
- 10-Sustenance
- 11-Caught
- 12-Breath
- 13-Arms
- 14-Inflammation
- 15-Imagination
- 16-Intent
- 17-Compromise
- 18-Sacrifice
- 19-Despair
- 20-Compassion
- 21-Interest
- 22-Equality
- 23-Mentor
- 24-History
- 25-Disorder
- 26-Reputation
- 27-Gifts
- 28-Admission
- 29-Watching
- 30-Bonds
- 31-Revelations
- 32-Confrontation
- 33-Struggle
- 34-Separation
- 35-Duty
- 36-Change
- 37-Together
- 38-Love
- 39-Epilogue: Heaven
- 4
- 5
- 6
Scheme

Ciel knows that he is dreaming, but he cannot get out of the dream. It is horribly real while he is trapped in it. It has been some time since he has had nightmares about his parents' murders and his own abduction and torture. But he is experiencing one now, with disturbing new elements that were never there in reality, or in previous dreams.

The cage he is imprisoned in is filling up with blood – a sea of blood – he cannot get his head above the liquid... he will drown, but the terror he feels in that nightmare hails from not knowing whose blood it is. For reasons incomprehensible, he is frantic to discover if the blood he is up to his chin in is his own, or someone else's... but there isn't time to know... he clutches at the cage bars, gasping for one last breath of air, looking up into the impassive face of a devil who makes no move to help him, and then–

Then he is clutching at his gun concealed beneath his coat to assure himself it is there as he races into the unused workhouse after Lady Susan Rothstein. A lady like her travels everywhere by carriage, but they have lured her out on foot after delivering a simple note to her house in the afternoon, which reads: "Susan Eliot, you left something of importance behind at your last murder."

She realises her stupidity the moment she finds them waiting for her – knows she should not have come out here like this. But it is too late. Even the oldest and most cunning of foxes can make tactical errors when surprised by hounds. She has been cornered by two of them, a watchdog of the queen, and a devil playing at canine faithfulness.

She whips out her concealed blade, and lunges at Ciel. Ciel is both appalled and not at all surprised to see that she has thrust it through his chest. He will be an invalid for life with such an injury, but Sebastian stands there smiling beatifically down at him. There is nothing to be done, other than to take his gun, lift it to his own head, and pull the trigger–

Suddenly, he is with Lizzie, and they are small children again, playing on the lawn with Sebastian the great black hound. He is deliriously happy – so happy that he wants to weep for not having felt such joy for so many years. But Lizzie and the dog recede into the distance before his eyes, as he feels a shadow looming over him from behind. He does not need to turn around to know that it is Sebastian the devil, as he hears him speak the words: "You will taste so much better now, little one."

He thinks to himself as he sees Lizzie and the hound drift further and further from him: No, no, no, no, no, this is not the time to die – not now, not here! No!

Blinding white light hits him, and he knows even before he moves that he is no longer dreaming, but awake because Sebastian has parted the curtains in his bedroom to let the morning light in. The town house is smaller than the manor, and everything is so much closer to the windows. His eyes fly open. He blinks into the sunlight, struggling to keep his vision focused on the silhouette of the butler. No dramatics this morning, he tells himself. No terror or overreaction. Calm yourself.

He has slept with his blue diamond ring on; small wonder he has had nightmares. But his butler need not know. If he acts normally, he will not realise...

"Bad dreams, Young Master?" Sebastian asks smoothly.

Damn him.

"This Sencha variety of green tea fresh from Japan will soothe you," the demon says, pouring out a cup. "It is just hot enough to be drunk, for such tea cannot be put into boiling water."

Ciel forces his hands not to shake as he takes the saucer and teacup from Sebastian. He drinks. It is good, and calms him as he takes his second sip, then a third. When he feels steadier, he rises and relieves himself in the bathroom before returning to the bedroom, where he stands by the dresser. There, Sebastian pours a steady stream of water from the pure white porcelain jug into the matching basin to let him wash his hands and face, then hands him the china mug and the bone-handled bristle brush so that he can clean his teeth.

It is back to the bed again, to sit at the edge of the mattress while Sebastian slips off his nightshirt and drawers and dresses him. The butler's hair falls forward as he bends to buckle his master's shoes. Ciel watches the black locks of hair hanging there between them, hiding Sebastian's eyes from him.

As if aware that he is looking at his over-long fringe, Sebastian asks: "May I cut my hair, Young Master? It has grown too long for my liking."

It has never occurred to Ciel that Sebastian might have preferences regarding the length of his hair.

"Our new agreement does not forbid you to alter the details of your appearance," he answers curtly. "I do not know why you are asking my permission for something so trifling."

"I ask out of courtesy, my lord," Sebastian replies lightly. "For three years you forbade so much as a hair on my head to be trimmed without your consent. I feared you would be displeased if I appeared before you with shorter locks."

"As long as your appearance does not embarrass the reputation of the Phantomhive estate, I care not what you do with your hair," Ciel mutters. "And what have you ever cared about my displeasure?"

"Very good, sir."

"Stop that polite nonsense," the earl snaps. "What is all this 'Very good, sir' rubbish you have been doling out for days?"

"Would you rather I be rude to you, Young Master? I thought that under the new contract, you would want new treatment. You did say so when we discussed the detailed terms..."

"Enough of the rubbish," Ciel growls, remembering with embarrassment that on the island, while discussing the detailed terms of the contract, he had indeed uttered words suggesting that if he was to put up with Sebastian for five more years, he would demand better service. Except that he had thought of it at the time as a way to punish the butler by making his existence unpleasant for those five years. But what, truly, is the purpose of all this petty behaviour when the creature he is trying to torment will live without him for centuries more, and might betray him at any moment now, as easily as he discarded the first contract...?

"Young Master, what do you want from me?" Sebastian asks, unexpectedly, looking into his face.

Ciel feels the seed of his anger burning, expanding into a kernel of white-hot resentment. "I'm the one who asked you that on that night!" he bites out the words. "How dare you turn the question on me when–"

He feels incapable of facing the day ahead; he is tired even before it has begun. But precisely because he feels as if it would kill him to leave his bedroom to face what waits for him, he compels himself to stand up and walk across the floor.

"Young Master," Sebastian says, not having moved from the bedside even when the earl has almost reached the door.

He could simply reach for the doorknob and let himself out. But no... he now realises why Sebastian is calling to him, for he has not put his eye patch on yet, and cannot face the world.

The butler walks up to him, bends down so their faces are level, and cups his right cheek in one gloved hand as he says: "My lord, this symbol in your eye was once a brand that marked your soul as one that God could no longer touch if I refused to yield it. But now, it marks you as the one with the power to continue or end our contract. I cannot break it without your consent. Dreams are only dreams – they echo what hidden or open feelings you have within yourself, and no more. Prophetic dreams such as those your Good Book is filled with have not occurred in this land for a very long time now."

"It is hardly 'my' Good Book," Ciel retorts, irked that his feelings are so transparent to his butler even when he attempts to hide them. "In any case, such dreams as I have belong to no Good Book."

Sebastian slips the silk over his eye and knots the ribbon that holds the patch in place. He gazes at his master thoughtfully, before asking: "What makes it so hard for you to live?"

"There is nothing to live for. You know that."

"What is lost can never be recovered. But other things were never lost, and new treasures have been found. Why is it so hard to survive for the new world you could build? Could it be this that makes your life so hard to live out?"

As he says 'this', Sebastian reaches for his master's hand and adjusts the blue diamond ring on his thumb, which has turned inward so the stone rests against Ciel's palm.

"Do you remember, Young Master, what else we agreed to? We agreed that I would hone you into all that you were capable of becoming. It is my desire to groom a prize-winning horse that is pleasing to watch, not a shackled nag that becomes more of an eyesore as each day passes."

He tweaks the eye patch as he says the latter words, lifting the silk briefly to peek at the pentagram in the earl's iris. Ciel slaps his hand away and growls: "Are you trying to be funny?"

"Oh, was it not humour and irreverence that you wanted from me, my lord? What a dreadful mistake on my part." He sounds not at all sincere, and Ciel glares at him until he continues: "If you are to be all that you could be, then that ring which is the collar binding you to the royal throne needs to be loosened."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that it is time for you to step out of the shadows and bring whatever you may think of as light into your existence. To do that most smoothly, I would advise starting with the next monarch of England."

"I beg your pardon?" Ciel asks, not understanding what Sebastian is saying.

"I kept my ears open last night, even while hunting ghouls and licking up grease. Something else of a distasteful nature has occurred in this city, and it will soon grow out of hand unless you step in. You may also be able at the same time to take action to improve your own lot."

"Explain," the earl commands, trying not to redden at the allusion to that unorthodox cleansing of his hand.

"I shall do so once you hear the facts from the appropriate parties. You will be hearing from at least one of them very soon. I am certain, Young Master, that you can expect a visitor to the town house today."

***

Lord Arthur Randall, Commissioner of Scotland Yard, has no love for the Phantomhive boy. However, he has come to terms with the necessity of the earl's existence. The need to acknowledge that shift in his attitude, however, has come sooner than he likes, thanks to a scandal in the making involving His Royal Highness the crown prince. Unfortunately, some men from Scotland Yard have become entangled in the mess, dragging the Commissioner into reluctant action.

Decades of waiting to inherit the throne from his long-lived mother, a love for women, gambling and fashion, and limitless ease and wealth have made Prince Edward, future king of England, a regular source of embarrassment to the rest of the royal family. His reputation in the public eye has, however, improved in recent years, and the common people are starting to think better of him. But if this latest trouble blows up, it may turn the winds in the other direction again.

The gambling and prostitution murk the prince has become mixed up in this time has turned extremely distasteful, not least because a woman of low repute at the scene has died, ostensibly from drinking too much liquor in one sitting. In fact, she is said to have fallen over dead, after vomiting suddenly and copiously, at the very feet of the prince.

The brewing scandal has dragged a few of Scotland Yard's best into the mud. They have not been ensnared by vice, but by foolish loyalty to the Prince of Wales. It is therefore turning into a potential embarrassment to the Yard. And it will be an embarrassment once the news breaks – unless the Phantomhive Earl can save the Yard's face at the same time as he cleans up the mess for the royal establishment.

So it is with a sense of rare humility that Lord Randall pays a visit to the town house where he knows the earl is still in residence. They may both be addressed as "Lord", but Randall is only a baron who rose to his title from a simple knighthood after years of hard work and devotion to the crown, while the Phantomhive child is an earl by birth – at least two ranks of the peerage above him, and countless degrees beyond him by sheer virtue of his bloodline. To sweeten the bitterness of requesting help from the precocious, one-eyed boy, he brings some information which he believes will be news to his ears.

"Lord Phantomhive," the Commissioner says, when he is shown by an odd young man with pins in his hair into the presence of the master and his black-clad man in the dining room, where Ciel is having his breakfast.

The earl courteously invites Lord Randall to join him. Randall sits down, two seats away, but declines toast or tea.

"Thank you, but I have eaten more than my fill at home," Randall states, holding his hand up to stop the butler from pouring out a cup for him. "I have only come for a short visit, to give you some information that may be of interest to you."

"Oh?" Ciel asks, picking up his tastefully rose-patterned teacup and giving the Commissioner a sly glance. "Did you not come to ask if I could extract your detectives from the mess growing over in the west of Chelsea?"

Lord Randall colours, and his whiskers bristle. He has not thought that the earl would hear of the incident so quickly. But the boy has hit the nail on the head, and he, Randall, is hardly in a position to be haughty.

He therefore replies honestly: "I did come to request your help in that department – but not because I have any desire stemming from pride or corruption to cover up what has happened. I am making the request because the men involved are good, decent men, who foolishly became entangled by their attempts to protect what remains of the prince's reputation – exactly what the previous two Phantomhive earls have also been responsible for doing over the years at the queen's request. At the same time, I do have interesting information for you."

To the earl's credit, he puts his teacup down, blinks the cheeky look out of his exposed eye, and gives Lord Randall his full attention. Perhaps he is sobered by the recent memory of the Commissioner's kind-hearted right-hand man, Fred Abberline, who died shielding him.

"I would not leave your men in the mud while paving an exit for His Royal Highness to emerge from smelling of roses, Lord Randall," Ciel says evenly. "What can you tell me about why this incident promises to become publicly known?"

"That is thanks to the Easton brothers."

"The stupid, fashionable pair who have been much in the prince's company of late, their faces all over the newspapers?" Ciel asks, distaste in his voice.

"Yes. In the chaos that erupted once it was determined that the girl was dead, they saw His Highness into his unmarked carriage, then called three of my men to deal with the matter quietly. Unfortunately, there was a newspaper reporter outside, hidden in another house whose scullery maid he was friendly with. We were later to learn that he observed the prince's hurried departure, and waited to see what else would happen. What he saw was my men turning up shortly after, and at the request of the Easton brothers, carrying out the wrapped-up body to be placed somewhere else and later 'found'. He stepped outside to sketch the scene, was spotted, and ran. The Easton brothers caught him, knocked him unconscious, and dragged him away. The scullery maid ran out into the road, screaming that the police were disposing of the body of someone murdered by the crown prince."

Ciel looks at Lord Randall as if he thinks he has lost his mind. "Commissioner," says the earl. "It seems to me that it must already be very publicly known."

"Not quite," the Commissioner snarls. "The Easton pair also snatched the scullery maid off the street, gagged her, and bundled her into a carriage, leaving my men in the street with the prostitute's body. Two policemen patrolling the streets not far away had come running at the sound of the maid's screams, and failing to recognise my men right away, arrested them for the murder of the prostitute."

It seems to Randall that the butler has a smirk on his face, but when he looks again, the man's countenance seems perfectly sober.

"Then what happened?" Ciel asks.

"The brothers sent a message to the prince at the palace, and told him that they had the maid locked up in one of their houses, but the reporter had died from being hit on the head. They said they could keep the girl quiet if he paid her a large sum of money to disappear and start a new life elsewhere. His Highness was horrified by what they told him of the reporter's death, and in a panic agreed to hand over the money at once. But the brothers sent to him again later in the evening, telling him that they would need more money to silence the policemen and my officers as well. He handed over another sum, but immediately after, considered the matter in a calmer frame of mind and summoned me to the palace to tell me all that had happened. For such an arrogant prince, he was frightened."

"Why did he not send me an urgent message?" Ciel asks. "He knows that is what the queen would have done were she here."

"His Highness believes the Phantomhive estate to be loyal only to the queen, but not to him. He trusts in my discretion, and turned to me once he began to think that he was being blackmailed for money by his Easton friends."

"Which he obviously is. They are probably in league with the scullery maid, and with the reporter, who is most likely very much alive."

"Undoubtedly. But I cannot prove all that using normal processes without blowing everything up and scattering the filth into the open. Even if the Easton brothers are blamed, they are certain to shout out the prince's participation in the unseemly activities of the evening, and His Highness' reputation will be sullied again when it was beginning to improve. My men too will be dragged through the grime. We can explain the facts of the case and the need for secrecy concerning the prince to the rest of the police officers who are involved, but we will not be able to explain away a supposed attempt to bribe their fellow officers into silence."

"I see. Very well, I shall do all that I can," Ciel says.

"I am grateful," says the Commissioner. It costs him something to be this polite to the child, but things have changed...

"What is the other information you have for me?" Ciel asks.

"It relates to the matter of Lady Susan Rothstein."

"Oh?" he is immediately interested.

Lord Randall explains: "When I learnt more of the facts about Lady Susan's true age and nature, I began looking into old police documents. Not many such papers have survived fires and floods over the years, but a few dating from fifty to sixty years ago record mysteriously shrivelled corpses found in London. The difference between those cases and these recent ones is that the dead people from the older cases were all themselves murderers of one sort or another, or rapists. No one particularly minded that they were dead. The condition in which their bodies were found was barely even documented in some cases, having been hastily attributed to unusual weather conditions, or limestone surroundings, or damage from a source of heat. Nobody cared to waste time investigating the deaths of men who were violators and mutilators of women, or murderers of good people."

"Lady Susan could have been responsible if she was in London."

"She was not, my lord," says the butler, speaking up for the first time since Randall's arrival. "Lady Susan was on the Continent at the time, and certainly did not pay a ten-year visit to England, nor is there any sign that she re-entered England at all until two months ago."

Randall deeply dislikes the butler – something about him is most suspicious – but there is no denying the man's efficiency.

"So someone else – perhaps the one who taught her how to control succubi – was responsible."

"Perhaps, my lord."

Randall interjects: "It may also interest you to know that there was a survivor."

Ciel's eye widens. "Who?"

"This man," says Randall, pushing over a piece of paper with a name and address, and more written on it. "He told the police fifty years ago that he had been attacked by a ghoul controlled by a young man with silver hair. He said that the man stopped the attack after a few minutes, and apologised profusely. The police at the station he went to dismissed his rantings as those of a drunken man, and threw him out, although they recorded his name and address to guard against his making trouble in the future. But one of the young constables at the station remembered his words. He is now a retired detective inspector, and when informed of the matter of Lady Susan Rothstein, he told me all he recalled of the supposedly mad report, dug up the man's name and address, and handed the information to me. I do not know if this person still lives there, or lives at all, but that is for you to find out. As far as my duty goes, this case is closed."

"I see," Ciel says thoughtfully.

"That is the news I had for you," Lord Randall announces, getting to his feet. "I hope you will find the information useful for whatever purposes you have."

The butler opens the door of the dining room for him. Before he steps into the hallway, where the odd young man with the hairpins waits with his hat and greatcoat, the Commissioner pauses and turns around, filling the doorway in a bearish manner.

"Lord Phantomhive," he says, with a look behind his eyeglasses that suggests he is not certain about the wisdom of saying the next words he will speak. "I have never made a secret of disliking what you stand for. I have always believed as a private individual that no one, of any birth, ought to be above the law. I have considered the work you and your ancestors have done as dark work that helps those in the highest of places to remain beyond that law. But as a Commissioner, I have come through recent events to understand that the work you carry out is required for the stability and peace of this kingdom. For reasons beyond my personal understanding, Abberline regarded you as worth defending with what pathetic influence he had. I do not understand his motives, but I respect his conviction. He may have been a fool, but he was an honourable man of good heart. I still do not approve of what you stand for, but I wish to say here that I accept the necessity of your existence. Good day to you."

He walks down the hallway with a firm and resounding tread, takes his coat and hat from Finnian, and leaves the house.

"Hmm," Ciel mutters casually once Randall is out of his house. "Any more than that and he would have been embracing me."

He speaks as if he does not care, but it is to cover up his reaction to the mention of Abberline, and the tell-tale signs of it in his left eye do not escape Sebastian.

"Young Master," says the butler, after he has closed the dining room door. "You now have two cases to follow up. The matter of the ghoul, and the matter of the attempts to deceive and blackmail the Prince of Wales."

"I suppose the prince's tasteless choice of associates is the thing that you believe will loosen the grip of the throne on my collar?" Ciel asks, glancing at Sebastian.

"I do."

"Well? You have the liberty in this new covenant to no longer be a chess piece moved purely by me, obeying my orders to the letter, but one who would take all necessary action to achieve our joint objectives. So don't just stand there like a block of wood."

"Then you are in need of my advice?" Sebastian asks with a smile.

"Put it any way you please," the earl grumbles.

"Very well, Young Master. This is what you must do now..."

***

The vicar of the church south of the Thames is still wondering if the events of last night were no more than a bad dream when he wakes up in the morning. Tomkin the ginger cat is sullen and wary, however, whereas the other cats who were not with him are behaving normally. That confirms that something very strange occurred as he was leaving the church and Tomkin greeted him in the churchyard. But try as he might, he cannot fully comprehend what took place.

The phantom pursuing him and the cat, the one-eyed child with the aristocratic accent, the more-than-human creature the child called his butler...

Poor John Jarvis cannot wrap his mind around it all.

As he is making himself a cup of English tea to settle his nerves, however, a sharp knock at his door almost makes him drop the kettle. He steadies his hand, sets the kettle back down carefully on the stove, and hurries to the door of his small house, which stands within the same plot of land as the church building.

Perhaps it is someone from his parish, in need of urgent prayer or assistance because a family member has taken ill, or is in other trouble.

"Yes?" the vicar says, opening the door expecting to see anyone from a child from one of the houses down the road, to a maid from one of the more well-off families two streets away.

But the person he sees on his doorstep is an elegantly dressed man with green eyes and gleaming silver hair – not the silver strands of the elderly, but shining locks like those painted in scenes from children's tales of fairies, elves, and brownies. Behind this expensively dressed apparition is another man, a tall one with dark hair and a blank expression in his hazel eyes, attired more like a gentleman-servant would be.

"Are you the vicar of this church, Mr John Jarvis?" asks the elf-like man. He looks young and beautiful, but his green eyes the colour of the seas off Cornwall appear to contain worlds of knowledge far beyond the realm of mere mortals.

"I am, sir. What can I help you with?" the vicar asks, opening his door a little wider out of politeness, although the elegant man and his servant give him a sense of unease.

"Forgive me for disturbing you so early in the morning," says the silver-haired man pleasantly. Behind the pleasantness, the vicar thinks he detects urgency. "I must, however, ask if you encountered anything out of the ordinary here last night."

"I did, as a matter of fact," Mr Jarvis answers honestly. "However, I do not think you would believe me if I told you what it was."

"Try me," says the man with a serious smile.

"Well, I was attacked by something I cannot name – some manner of spirit. But I was saved by a butler who was with a one-eyed child. The butler apparently... ate the spirit." There. He has said it, it is out of his mouth, and has somehow become more real for having been spoken.

The silver-haired man turns to look at the hazel-eyed one, and asks him: "Does that tally with what you learnt, Carsten?"

The one addressed as Carsten nods and says in a strangely tranquil voice: "Yes, Master. The traces of the succubus ended in the churchyard, and I detected traces of another of my kind here as well."

"That is it, then. The thing is dead," the silver-haired man states, thoughtfully, more to himself than to his companion or the vicar. But seeming to remember that other people are with him, he makes eye-contact again with the vicar and says to him: "Thank you, Mr Jarvis. I am more pleased than I can say that you were not harmed by the creature. That was all I needed to know. Good morning to you."

He is about to leave when the vicar asks: "Sir, do you know the people who saved me last night? If I could thank them..."

"Do I know them? No," says the elf-like creature, to the disappointment of the vicar. But in the next moment, he adds: "However, I believe I know who they are. I think that the child you saw last night was the Earl of Phantomhive."

"Oh, I see," says the vicar, pleased to have obtained a name, or rather a title, from the man, although it means nothing to him at this time. "And what might your name be, sir, if I might ask?"

"I?" the man remarked, looking at the vicar, sizing him up, determining if he ought to bestow him with the knowledge of his name, before he seems to decide that it matters little either way. "I am Percival Ambrose."

=================

Note: For some minute degree of consistency, I nearly always keep to the guideline of following the English-language manga spellings of character names in all my stories. For better or for worse, Yen Press has chosen to render the name of the cook (which I see written as "Ba-ru-do-ro-i" in the Japanese version of the manga) as "Baldroy" or "Baldo", instead of what may be a more correct Bardroy or Bard; and the housemaid "Mey-Rin" instead of the possibly more correct "Maylene".

I am – no doubt to the annoyance of many – keeping to the spellings offered in the English version of the manga rather than attempting to second-guess the translators. Even historical characters like Frederick Abberline are rather casually named "Fred" in the manga, and I will keep to that for consistency despite my preference for the full "Frederick".

I apologise if my adherence to that guideline profoundly upsets anyone who may read this piece of fanfiction.

Additional note: I choose to remain vague in this story about the anime's take on the fate of Queen Victoria. I do in fact prefer the way the manga continues to keep the original queen as a character, and am leaning towards crafting a world in this story in which the queen had never been involved in Ash's/Angela's schemes.
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Devilish Impulses