†

Disclaimer:

The author, with all due respect, makes credit where it's due to the evil genius of Yana Toboso, Monthly GFantasy magazine, Square Enix, Yen Press, Shinohara Toshiya, A-1 Pictures, FUNimation and Hirofumi Ogura (Kuroshitsuji II)—including all script, characters, plot/subplot/movie plot {past/present/future} henceforth. The author garners absolutely no money from this piece. The Author has cosplayer's debt BUT would NEVARR resort to thievery—especially such a highly recognized anime. The author makes absolutely no claims to the copyrighted materials contained in this fictional work of literature.

IN SHORT:

[x] NOT MINE

[x] NOT MINE

[x] SOOOOO not mine.

PS: I realize I have bent the plot to serve my own crazed purposes. This should, in no way, influence readers to believe that the events described in this "fanfiction" honestly occur as any plot line(s) of KUROSHITSUJI [I&II] progress in the way the original, forenamed copyright holding authors intended. At all.

I'M GOING TO SAY IT NOW.

This work of FICTION….FANFICTION….contains

YAOI.

}hawt sweaty PWP yummy man+man acshunz.

IF THIS ISN'T

WHAT YOU CAME HERE FOR

NOW IS YOUR CHANCE TO RUN AWAY SCREAMING…!

The Author wishes to bow at the feet of Anime News Network and HULU for simulcasting Kuroshitsuji II and making my world a better place again. The Author wishes to apologize for the glaring historical inaccuracies of this fanfiction's implications of photographic quality in 1889. The text, The Encyclopedia of Nineteenth-Century Photography by John Hannavy, contains a wealth of information, especially pages 463-4. It tells me what I wrote is possible, but far-fetched, despite Ciel's wealth. [FARFETCH'D! xD]

This fanfiction contains spoilers for Kuroshitsuji and its sequel [Kuroshitsuji II].

Flames will be used to toast marshmallows, and the author loves toasted marshmallows. 3

She folded her arms over her forehead as she leaned against the massive oak tree, counting backwards from fifty—and secretly watching Ciel's shadow against the immaculately trimmed lawn instead of keeping her eyes closed. She had let her fiancé successfully out-run her twice, but once more it was her turn to be the Seeker, and she was determined to actually beat her cousin.

"Forty-eight! Forty-niiine…FIFTY! Ciel Phantomhive, ready or not! Here I go!"

She was grinning wildly as she bounded away from the mighty tree, a flurry of delicate blond curls and pink. She was careful of her skirts, taking care to act like the lady her mother wanted her to be until she rounded the corner of the estate and was out of sight. Only then was it safe to run as fast as she pleased after the fading shadow of her dearest cousin.

Their childish laughter echoed in her mind, the warmth of that far-away sunshine-filled afternoon unable to stir the numbness in her bones, in her soul. Her eyes opened slowly, her lashes glued together with her dried tears. She could hear her parents' muffled voices through the carpeted floor, no doubt worried about her marital future.

Then came the sound of someone knocking again, and she was resolutely silent in her place on the other side of the room.

"Elizabeth, it's Paula."

The young girl shifted her stare from the decorative ceiling to the direction of the door behind her. A small, black gloved hand reached up slowly, pulling back the lace veil so her voice could be heard. She was still hoarse from crying so loudly hours earlier.

"You may enter. I've long since removed the barricade," she said slowly and flatly.

She had meant it very, very much so when she'd wanted to grieve alone—everyone in the whole manor had suddenly wanted an audience with her at the one moment she wanted to be left unattended. And when no one wanted to give her even that, not even the servants her family commanded, she'd pulled dusty furniture coverings from old candelabra and forced them through the door handles.

She pulled the veil back down.

The light from the hallway filled the dark room, Paula's silhouette cast against the opposite wall.

The maid could see her ward in the same position she'd left her hours before. Elizabeth was in a sitting position in the plush chair she'd been occupying since early that morning, with the chair's back to the vibrant blue carpet and her legs resting upon the chair's. To her left was the silver tray of lunch—upon which had been arranged her ladyship's favorite foods—in the exact same spot on the floor next to her. The dishes intended for her meal were as clean as the moment she'd brought them up.

Paula let out an inaudible sigh of disappointment. She had really hoped that Elizabeth had at least touched her tea.

Elizabeth had been working on construction of a scrapbook for her fiancé, secretly collecting photographs from Ciel's butler and servants, as well as drawing on her personal collection. Her mother was reluctant at first, not appreciating her daughter choosing a craft over sport. It was only because it was for her fiancé that the Marchioness Midford had given her approval—though she was unsure if it was going to be as well-received by Ciel as Elizabeth so envisioned.

The girl had made a project of it, and ordered the finest crafting supplies brought to her so she could surprise Ciel with 'the best collection of smiles' at his next birthday. Elizabeth had been anticipating an order of decorative sheets of paper to paste the pictures onto, so Paula really hadn't thought much of it when there had been a knocking at the door earlier that day. But when she pulled back the door and delivered her best greeting to the post man, there had been no one in sight but a flat white and black stripped box. It was decorated carefully, with Elizabeth's full name and title in delicate calligraphy printed on a tag hanging from the black bow. She had gasped, certain that she'd heard someone and knowing full and well that the manor sat on a very open hill—no one could've slipped by that quickly, not even a breeze.

Very slowly she had walked towards it, cautiously placing both hands on the package. It was weighty, but she was able to lift it and immediately brought it to her masters' chambers. There would be no chances with a noblewoman's daughter.

When the Marchioness ordered Paula to open the package, she removed the lid slowly and the two women peeked into the box.

Inside, nestled delicately on white tissue paper, were neatly tied stacks of photographs of Ciel Phantomhive—some even Mrs. Francis had never seen—along with a tiny hinged velvet box that the Marchioness picked up carefully. A card fell from the velvet box, and Paula registered its meaning the moment her noble ladyship realized what was inside of the velvet box.

Paula could see Elizabeth still clutching the card.

The two women had come to Elizabeth while she had been working on the scrapbook—trimmed photographs and newspaper clippings covering the floor and a disused dining table that the young girl had commandeered for the project specifically. Her back had been to them, and when she turned and registered the sight of her mother with tears in her eyes and her maid without a hopeful expression on her face she knew.

The tiny pair of pink scissors she'd dropped in that moment, thankfully, was still under the table.

Paula stepped carefully into the room, shivering and trying to let her eyes adjust to the darkness.

The maid watched her feet, gingerly stepping over the newspaper pages and photographs that were strewn about the floor.

"My lady, you'll catch cold with the windows open like this, letting in the chilled fall air," she said, softly, not wanting to seem stern and forceful. She moved around the room, slowly pulling the glass-paned doors shut tight. Elizabeth had no response, simply remaining still in her position on the floor where she'd been after throwing herself there whilst crying out, refusing to accept the harsh reality that so suddenly imposed itself upon her life. There was no re-gaining what had been lost, not matter how precious her fiancé was to her. Every time she realized how Ciel used that phrase to mean losing his parents, she felt the sorrow embed itself further into her heart.

Elizabeth raised her left hand to her face, staring at what had been the blue diamond Phantomhive family heirloom ring that Ciel loved and hated so dearly that was resting around her thumb. She was unconsciously still clutching that horrible card that had been attached to the ring's box. Her fingers gently traced the black rose pattern, and then the delicate embossed font.

'In memory of Ciel Phantomhive, died at August 26th, 1889, AGED 13 YEARS'

Shrouded by mist deep beneath inaccessible places of the known world, a secluded island sits peacefully amidst dark waters against a bleak sky. This belies its true nature, for the jagged rocks and tall, regal firs hide a demonic presence at its core. Stone slab and concrete ruins litter the otherwise white-and-black rose-covered lawn, upon which sits a sprawling Victorian estate of impressive architecture worthy of a certain Earl. What remains, including pieces of what could've been a stone bench, are overgrown with ivy and grass and time.

The young boy sat in his plush armchair, behind his heavy oak desk, his feet in heeled clogs resting on the spotless surface. He wore a perfectly tailored woolen coat over an immaculate vest and black pin-striped dress shirt, tucked into shorts with a small belt. Like everything he wore, it was all black. Black as his contract, black as his heart, as his butler…

He opened an expressionless cerulean eye that wasn't covered with an eye patch, watching as his butler methodically went through the motions of preparing his tea. Of course there was no actual tea in the delicate bone china, but Sebastian stressed the importance of keeping to his human routine as much as possible. It was arguably a waste of time, but really, that's all the Earl had.

When the small tea-cup on its small dish was proffered to him, he took it and subconsciously raised it to his lips. He narrowed his eyes as he realized he'd defeated his own point, and gently set the dishes on his lap.

"Sebastian."

The handsome butler in demand (for he knew, after all this time, the subtle meaning in the tones of his young master's voice) stilled his hands from pushing the tea cart from the room, and turned to the young Earl.

"Yes, my lord," he asked.

The young Phantomhive stirred his non-existent tea with his finger, tapping the black nail into the cup as if in thought. He spoke resolutely, as if in an eternity his butler would be able to execute his orders with anything short of deadly precision. "Retrieve my Cinematic Record from that shinigami who fancies you so much. I wish to view it properly."

"Yes, my lord."

He paused, and then Ciel's cerulean eye turned to a demonic red. He smiled inwardly to himself—it was growing quite entertaining to watch as his new form integrated itself slowly.

"When choosing an appropriate method of coaxing my Record from him, do remember that we owe him a debt of gratitude for his assistance in the Phantomhive name. Saving my fiancé, aiding in the management of the epic chaos when a certain angel went rouge…"

The young boy licked his lips of the tea he hadn't sipped.

"You are to be as gentle as possible, despite whatever painful thrashing you truly wish to inflict upon his person. That is an Order."

Sebastian put a hand on his chest and bowed slightly.

"Yes, my lord."

Ciel shifted position, his feet on the floor and his torso leaning forward, elbows on the desk, idly twirling the heirloom blue diamond ring on his thumb.

"And Sebastian, while you're up there, deliver something for me, won't you?"

"Is that an order, sir?"

He grinned mischievously.

"Yes, my butler."