A.N. Dedicated to one of my best friends ever: Fatima, while I know this does't fix anything, I hope things are already starting to fall in place. I miss you lots and I'm so sorry that this is all I can do until I hop on a plane, get back to London, and give you a real hug! So for now, I hope you enjoy the story I started, and finished because of you ;) Et , je t'aime beaucoup, et je sais avec certitude que tu vais trouver ton amour très bientôt .

p.s. may contain vague TFiOS references.

Please read and review! Enjoy!

This will be a three shot, but bear with me for the next month or so while I try to figure out the plot.

When the dryness of winter fell on the country, I found myself echoing moments of the past. It happened infrequently, hardly enough to cause concern, yet curious enough to raise suspicion amongst other demons. After all, did their memories recall more than just the exquisite taste of a soul? Did they often find themselves on the abandoned grounds of a past they should have dissociated from?

Never.

I drifted along from setting to setting, evaporating from, and reintegrating in familiar spaces I was never drawn to. Only on the grounds where no souls wandered did nostalgia hit me like cargo trains collided, or a hunger desperate to be acknowledged. For, while the world forgot, I was still bombarded with whisperings of a voice that disappeared ages ago. I was increasingly aware of the things these ruins held. Memories, still fresh to me, intermittently prodded at the back of my mind like a child's tantrum for sweets. Certainly they were simple enough to ignore, but that did not make them any less irritating.

There was a time this place catered to the smell of the most exorbitant chocolates, the strongest brewed teas, and opaline bottled essences from Ed Pinaud, Guerlain and Lubin. Merriment of servants used to bounce off the corridors, filling the mansion with a loud, incompetent ruckus. For years a thicket of white roses boarded the garden. Their massive petals bloomed annually, to the delight of guests. But after centuries neglected and deprived of life, the non existent halls only imprisoned traces of their laughter. It only encompassed the lethargy of the numbered days that passed since the clock stopped for me.

Many feared the infamous Phantomhive estate. Known as the cursed manor where few ever visited, and even fewer returned, they demolished it decades ago. Machines tore the building down, and I lifted no finger to stop them. What reason would I have to defend a hallow casing, a shell of a memory I should have put to rest? The better, I thought. It reeked of unpleasant tidings. Now under thriving ivy, the mansion was enshrouded by tall, miscellaneous trees, and the groundwork crumbled as irreparable dreams were harshly brought to light, and dragged into reality.

My, my...What have we here? What valiant person dared visit a place haunted by a demon?

Spotting the presence, I skulked the bend. A young man stood at the foot of what was once the entrance to the grand mansion. He possessed a desirable soul I long yearned for. With great anticipation, I dissipated into the shadows and used the wind to draw closer in.

Just as I did so, he shifted his feet before me, and brought his hand to his right eye.

Suddenly, the back of my left hand scorched in a way it did millenniums ago. Retracting my arm, I examined it. There was no glowing insignia, no etched lines that sealed me to another. It was merely another hallucination. The ache however, was unmistakably real, and I inspected the peculiar being before me.

Beneath his thick, coal parka, I could see the delicate lining of his back. His denim pants were sleek and straight cut, sitting loosely around his slender waist. A belt held it together, stopping them from falling down completely. Black gloves covered his shivering hands which were gently tucked into the pockets of his jacket. His hair was trimmed short, and although it appeared a deep gray, it reflected shades of blue in the sunlight. Goosebumps formed on the nape of his neck, but he refused to pull his hood up, or button his jacket: exposing his delicate skin to the frigid temperatures.

There was no need to see his face to know his beauty. His gathered charm screamed features of human perfection. And as I truly laid eyes on him, I thought him a figment of my imagination when I noted how much he resembled him. He took no notice of me while I watched him in the shade of the surrounding forest, my eyes dubiously tracing every inch of his figure. Was I so bored, so desperate for something remotely entertaining as to conjure something this preposterous? No. My imagination was never as rewarding as the detailed effigy in front of me. Though I knew he could not be the same person, the moment my hand burned, I knew who he had to be.

It's...

Even now, I could not bring myself to say his name. He was the little one who often crossed my thoughts, whose orders were a pleasure obeying. His eyes sought me when I formed a new servitude, following me in an endless critic, and mocking me in my choice of a master. He confined me to this cage.

While his name may have changed, and his appearance varied slightly, I would not mistake him for anyone else. It was him. It was really him. He is the one I lost all those years ago.

Of all the contracts, his was the most binding. Like blackbirds we sang to each other, through playful exchanges and snarky remarks that hid the nature of our agreement. The longer I was beside him, the more alike our tunes became. We sang to the beat of the only song we knew, until our melodies unified, and I could not differentiate where I ended, or where he began. The contract that started off as nothing but a farce, ended. Our voices ran out, and the entity I was ceased to exist. I was not just a demon. I was his.

Bordering our sixth year together, the young master's chain reaction of sneezes alerted me of a discrepancy to his health. He insisted he was well enough to continue with our schedule. I did not oppose him. Winter was shifting to the unpredictability of spring, and it wasn't unusual for him to suffer from allergies or the occasional sniffles. As the day progressed, however, his sneezes turned into a wet cough. His appetite vanished completely. Even when I brought him a bowl of his favourite soup, he took no morsel of it. By the time I drew him a bath, his skin was singeing, and I immediately put him to bed.

He refused to see a doctor. Experience made him wary of them, and I did not blame him in the least. He floated in and out of sleep, and I tended to him whenever a coughing fit jolted him from his restless state. While only liquids passed his mouth, he could not stomach them, and they were always disgorged. The yellow-green of his phlegm began mixing with splatters of crimson, and I knew his situation was more dire than he was ready to admit. Blood stained the corners of his mouth, formulating an array of blotches on his casings. So, in the early recesses of dawn, I brought someone in.

The doctor took his temperature, and among various things, listened to the rasp of his chest. It did not take him long to decide his diagnosis. He turned to me, only an arm's length away from the master's bed.

"Pneumonia. With further agitation from his asthma. I regret to inform you but..." No such cure exists. The boy's wheezing drew my attention back to him. His eyes flashed in knowing, lapis lazuli saucers streaked with well known vermillion edges, meeting mine. I saw the unnatural rose of his flushed skin. His pink lips were tainted with revolting sangria splotches. I knew I could not fix him. It was beyond my control.

Even demons had their limitations. By nightfall he was paralyzed, skin sweltering, and colour drained from his face. I fluffed his pillows and elevated his head, making it easier for him to breathe. The mucus, however, continued building in places it should never be. Eventually his lungs would drown in the liquid, and the boy would be no more.

He was suffering. I stayed by his side until the very end. His placid mask vanished, replaced with a hint of fear. However, he was not afraid because he was dying-no, the boy never feared his death-but because he was doing so without completing his end of the bargain. He fretted breaking the greatest thing that bound us together.

As I blotted his sweat away, he lifted his sickly hand to mine and stopped me. He was too ill to speak, but his strained eyes told me what he was thinking. This was not how he wanted to end. His helpless state repulsed him, another indication of his humiliation. He did not come back to die of a natural cause, with vengeance so intangible he hadn't yet conceived it.

When a particular coughing spell proved too painful, he urged me beseechingly. So, submitting to his final orders, I ended it.

The boy did not struggle. Instead, he held my gaze, eyes softening when my hands clamped tighter around his neck. Flashing a brief, but genuine smile, his lashes fluttered shut, falling asleep for eternity.

That was it. In that moment, our agreement was nulled. The insignia dominating my left hand lifted, disappearing along with his future. I killed the boy before he carried out his revenge, and violated my end of the covenant. Because of that, I forfeited my right to consume his soul. After all, demons prided themselves on their aesthetics, and it went against them to steal something I did not earn.

When the reapers came to collect his soul, they deemed it unremarkable. Mistakenly, of course, for the child was anything but. I waited with the corpse to fulfill his last request. His order was to see him to the very end, and while the mark was gone and I was not fettered by this demand, I was compelled to play my role to its final act. Besides, what kind of butler would I be, if I did not stay with my master to view his cinematic record, or see how well I marred his soul with despair? What did I expect to find, but the secrets he wanted to show me?

His memories attacked me, strangling me in a chokehold. Frames consisting of my face in every imaginable angle wrapped around my torso, my ankles, and wrists: hindering my movement. Each scene consisted of intimate moments involving us, moments I too, questioned. Although no part of me was human, they suffocated me with their persistent images, attacking my senses with illogical conclusions. I inhabited the majority of the screen, even prevailing over his parents'. His feelings struck me in every direction, pouring into me as the final memory played.

Immediately after they faded to black, the reapers cut it, freeing me from their hold. Mixed with the master's pain and relief, was an unidentifiable emotion, one that overwhelmed me with its sudden existence.

How amusing indeed. In all my years of living, I hadn't been caught off guard as much as I have today. Even when he was gone, the boy found a way to entertain me. I was right to serve him, for he certainly exceeded my expectations.

He loved me.

. . .

It was a while until I made another contract.

What is your name?

I suppress the one I have grown attached to. My master is dead. Likewise, the being I was, is also dead. I was no longer a demon butler, nor did the name he gave me, belong to me. But in truth, I still was. In essence, I always will be.

"Sebastian," I whisper the lie. I am not him. This I am sure of as I repeat myself. That part has gone away with the little one I murdered. I was finally set free, and yet...

"Sebastian Michaelis."

...somehow, still captive within this cage, still tied by the bonds that held us together.

At first, I used the name and shape as a tribute to my previous master. But after all these years, it has become an unbreakable force of habit. No, I am certainly not the same devil who created that contract. This much is true. However, I have become attached to this name and form, and one may be so kind to presume that I have grown into my previous character.

Colourless centuries fleeted past me, each day as uninteresting as the last. I waited for a soul that could match his quality, but each new master turned out to be just as disappointing. None were able to satiate me. In the days of monochrome, the passage of time came to a standstill. For nothing came of the hours wasted, and the insipidity of countless sunsets were not only a nuisance, but also a relentless reminder of the centuries left in purgation. In the blink of an eye, generations upon generations of human modification shaped the world around me, but I remained constant.

Only when I first revisited the grounds of the ancient manor did I realize that time affected the unaffected. Something changed within me over the course of the small segment of infinity. At first I thought that my obsession sprang from not devouring his soul, but it went beyond that.

To begin with, I did not kill him because of his order, but out of mercy. Nothing in our contract stated I couldn't watch him suffer needlessly. My actions did not benefit anyone except him. I spared him from his misery. I showed him mercy. Demons are never so generous.

I missed the one who freed me from monotony. Why else would I attempt to provoke the same promise with my new masters? It was unnecessary. I wanted to meet with the soul I have long lost, the one who changed me. And here he is. The boy standing over there is Ciel, and he is so close to me that I can almost touch him. I was inexplicably drawn to his soul, so enthralled by his very presence that I hadn't moved at all. Yet there is nothing I could do about it. It will only end in my misery when he grows old and we part. When he is six feet into the ground, rotting under a pile of dirt, I will be the one who is left to miss him for eternity.

I have waited and waited. I have lived many empty human lives searching for him. How can I deal with the inevitable fate of separation, or the fact that I may only be with him in this life? Would it not be easier to laugh him off as a mere figment of my imagination? Shouldn't I carry on, and turn my back on him forever?

Suddenly the boy turned around. Sangria met with the same cerulean I dearly missed. His eyes widened, taken aback by my sudden presence. If I don't say anything now, it may be the last chance I have.

Oh, how foolish of me. I had my answer all along. If a prophet told me my future, and warned me of the turmoil I will be put through for meeting him, it would not change a thing.

Between a world stripped of anything spectacular, and one of unending torment, I will always choose him.