One Last Dance - One-shot

At long last, I have recovered from a bit of a writer's block. Not quite sure with my overall performance. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji.

"One last moment to fill the void of a lifetime." - Phantom Ou

It is yet another dreary day that consists absolutely of nothing. "Nothing"—a general term, perhaps, but its meaning conforms to reality to an extent unparalleled. The daily routine has become soporific, which, of course, is all the more contradictory since demons do not sleep. But drowsiness is an aspect that Ciel would not disregard.

Quite envious he is, with his hand adjusted below his chin and his gaze pinned to a few demons skittering about, seeing as how others appear to be engaged in some sort of matter that substantially occupies their time—no doubt, preparing to form devilish contracts. When it comes to that, these typically bored demons would industriously seek to fulfill their obligations so that their greedy claws can wrap around the savory souls the bound humans possess as soon as possible.

In the sum of the several years in which he had undergone rebirth as a demon, he has yet to taste a single soul. Plausibly, this is due to his past as a human where he has acquired morals, the fundamental principles of proper conduct, and concerns with the distinction between right and wrong. However, as instilled into him by Sebastian's words alone, it would not be so since their nature is not one with scruples. It is patently evident by the butler's opprobrious fashion at dealing with potential adversaries when Ciel was human; he would morbidly decapitate them or annihilate their entire vessels, only to leave the grisly corpses for speculation the following morning—Sebastian had received quite an earful whenever he would delay in scavenging the mess.

It is getting increasingly tiresome how Ciel consistently fails at materializing a contract. His source of satisfaction of hunger is derived from his everlasting servant, Sebastian. The butler would feed him tidbits of the essence of a soul—that usually comes from a random target that he has set his eyes upon—so that Ciel can avoid starvation. Nevertheless, Sebastian is never truly kind about it, as he does not spare a thought about Ciel's pride; occasionally, he would snicker derisively at Ciel's incompetence when he allots a portion of the soul to share, or he would make an "amicable" suggestion for Ciel to forage for food himself.

The smirk of that cynical demon manifests in Ciel's mind, much to his disdain. It is mocking and smug, yet faint upon the lips to conceal a bit of his already prominent satire. If he is to be completely honest with himself, it is slightly mortifying in having to rely on the butler to that degree; an encumbrance he is. He can identify the tedium associated to this unduly dependence: the constant waiting, the indolent perception of the rise and fall of the hot ball of energy the humans named "the sun," and the languid tapping of his night-tainted fingernails.

Why must he wait when he can obtain food himself? Perhaps exercising authority he has grown far too habituated to. It has been a while since he had become a demon—he should be a "familiar" by now, an expert in this particular field. If he was supposed to digress from the sense of ethnics, then that would be fine, but he certainly has not forgotten about his own inordinate opinion about his superiority. A deplorable fact, he must concede, but as a former king of the chessboard called "Life," he is compelled to demonstrate that he is capable.

And thus, Ciel actually bothers to heed this time around. He closes his eye, the lid veiling the mystical orb that fluctuates sporadically from sapphire blue to red. Taking deep breaths to free his troubled mind of the impurities imposed by ennui, he concentrates solely on establishing a connection with individuals from the human world. Initially, a jolt of electricity skitters along his nerves at the attempt, and he instinctively gasps at the phenomenal sensation; unaccustomed to this procedure. He nearly relinquishes his scantily tangible hold on the human world, until a soft voice murmurs besides him:

"Young Master, calm yourself and allow for it to carry you there."

It is needless to state who has spoken to him. His fingers furl inwards, his nails marring the glistening pale integument that envelops his entire being. The portentous feeling rattles his body frame, and yet he allows for himself to mentally lift and prepare to penetrate the depths of the world that is apt to spawn humans—food.

"Well then, Young Master. It is my greatest desire that you return accomplished."

The presence of the demons gradually dissipates around him, and it astounds him to no longer hear Sebastian's subdued whispers beside him. Ciel nearly destroys the connection he is cultivating, but abstains from the foolish act that was impending to occur.

He is suspended precariously in a strange, dreamlike dimension, and he steps forward a foot at a time atop a delicate surface that appears brittle as though glass is its principal constituent. Acting by pure instinct alone, he lets his feet guide him; if he were to anxiously open his eyes now, it should shatter the fragile link he is struggling to maintain with the human world.

Then, there is bright light all around him. It swallows his whole physical structure, greedily lapping against his skin and tinging the insides of his eyelids with red.

A single gasp escapes his lips before he is crushed by a suffocating weight that seemingly flattens his windpipe at its destructive force. It takes a moment for him to realize that he is spiraling downward, at such a breathtaking speed that curbing his movements is impracticable; and thus, the ridiculous flailing of his arms and splayed fingers—a feat that would have undoubtedly entertained Sebastian were he to bear witness.

Suddenly, Ciel comes to a collapse; that is, the shroud of blinding illumination dwindles to nonexistence, and the pressure subsides. His feet, to his surprise, alights upon a matted rug. His stance is threatening to crumble at the abrupt stop—he should practice at improving this—but the heels of his feet manage to plant firmly on the ground.

A deep breath, the sweet air that the humans indulge in tickling his sharp nose; almost inducing a shudder. Standing erect, shoulders contracting upright to issue a sense of authority.

Now, he must behold the human that has summoned him. Admittedly, this would be the first time that he plans to forge an affiliation with a person he would subsequently consume. Perhaps he is a bit brisk and perturbed at the moment—to justify this queer disquiet stirring in the pit of his stomach though, he must accentuate once again that this is his first time, so pardons to his "agitation" are warranted for.

Who would it be?

An ambitious subordinate with hopes of overwhelming the current sovereign and establishing his own kingdom? Or perhaps, it is an eccentric scientist who desires to contrive an ingenious method that would forever alter their philosophical views? A broken orphan, bereft of all happiness, who yearns to inflict punishment to the excruciating world? Oh, how he can relate; he has pathetically failed in renouncing the jarring, bitter memories of his human life—in some ways, there is a certain tranquility in being a demon that he appreciates.

It does pique his interest, though, how Great Britain is faring since his death. What has exactly happened in society as of late—irrefutably, it is bound to have been subjected to some changes. After all, he has been gone for at least a handful of years.

But, how grievously erroneous Ciel was, and it all comes crashing down as though enraged gods from the celestial skies above are issuing doom. For, he decides to not squander about any longer with speculating who the prospective recipient of his services is.

His eyelid raises, like a curtain.

And there, in front of him is none other than an elderly woman.

She possesses many signs of senescence: wisps of grey hair, and wrinkles and liver spots that riddle her skin. Her attire is nothing of noteworthy significance; simply a long-sleeved, tawny dress with buttons sewn down the middle of the front.

But, there are those eyes that harness the brilliant shade of jade; a striking pair of emeralds. Those are the eyes that he has not forgotten, that his mind has tenaciously held on to the memory of. He is not mistaken—in fact he is definite of the identity of this particular individual merely by scrutinizing the gleaming irises; they still retain the resplendence he remembers, so vividly that he can compose a precise picture of them from reminiscence alone.

Because, those are the eyes that belong to the person he had deeply cherished in his life as a human being.

Elizabeth.

Parched throat, trembling fingers, inarticulacy; these plague him, oh so very well that the effect is quite bewildering. Here he is, face to face to her, who he has conjectured that he would never meet ever again.

How long has it been?

It must have been a tediously long time since he had died. For, Elizabeth has aged, drastically so. Almost unrecognizable, she is. Ciel is not trained to this sight of her decrepit and infirm; she is breathing shallowly, staring listlessly at the distance and barely moving.

Should he step out of the shadows and greet her? There is nothing between them to obstruct their union; he can easily approach the elderly woman that is languidly resting on a rocking chair, which groans while sustaining the pressure of the oscillation propelled by her feet. Certainly, that can be too much of an intense surprise for her if he was to come into view, but she did summon him after all.

Summoning, an act conducted when a soul which has languished for something to be fulfilled to such an immense extent that it is able to rouse demons from the other world. Eliciting his manifestation, even if she is not fully aware of it, must mean that she, too, wishes for the tantalizing completion of a matter that she herself is unable to carry out. However, in compensation for achieving the individual's goal, the demon will devour his or her soul.

I would have to eat Elizabeth's soul?

Never in his life would he surmise that events will develop in such an abhorrent fashion. Ciel wrinkles his nose in repugnance at the sheer thought of engulfing the disembodied spirit of his childhood friend; nonetheless his splitting craving for food, he cannot bring himself to do as such.

Before he can entirely exercise restraint over his own actions, his foot, adorned by a black, heeled shoe, defiantly steps out into illumination provided by incandescent light bulbs hovering overhead. His brows draw heavily together, and he feels like an exasperated parent struggling to manage a refractory child; that is, to control his movements in which seem to be performing as they please.

Suddenly though, footsteps erupt in the empty house, echoing to establish its forthcoming. While blanketing himself by seeking refuge in the obscure and secluded corner of the room, Ciel observes as three adults emerge and surround the debilitated Elizabeth. Anxious, worried tones lying beneath the rushed, prolix whispers, he can readily perceive. Although slightly inquisitive, he decides not to hearken to the conversation, as odds are, it would be a fruitless effort; humans have an irksome tendency to ramble on about trivial matters.

Or so he thinks, until one of the adults presses a hand on Elizabeth's seemingly fragile shoulder, and coaxingly speaks:

"Mother."

It is the single word that sounds louder than most; it is much more pronounced and significant than the rest. His heartbeat ceases for a frightening interval, and a frigidness that he cannot begin to comprehend temporarily puts his body under arrest.

Inconspicuous and mutely constraining his eye to gaze upon this scene as the adults say something before leaving, Ciel can hardly register the precision of each unfolding moment.

Realization is a pervading and powerful force, as inevitable as it is, and it appropriates him of the strength required to dispel his stationary position. Elizabeth has borne children—three of them, as a matter of fact—and undeniably, with another man.

His piercing eye scans the room and falls upon a dusty picture situated on a dresser. It limns of a male of no acquaintance or familiarity to him, especially not in the intrinsic sense, but the shock of black hair, robust frame, angular face and imposing nose hold a remarkable resemblance to the adults he has seen earlier; therefore, telling him that this person is their father.

Surprisingly enough, indignation does not torment him. Instead, after proper acknowledgement, he finds himself relieved that Elizabeth was able to persist in life, even after his afflicting death. It must have been detrimental, and yet, she continues to dwell steadfastly, and for that, he is imbued with gratitude. She should be happy; as she has always desired, she consummated the circumstances of her life—an abiding marriage and a household of children.

He should be reassured.

Yet why . . .

The elderly woman that has remained still and stagnant in spite of her surroundings, as though immersed in oblivion, finally moves. She plucks her creased hands from her knees to clap over her face, covering her lustrous eyes, as her back arches a small degree; her fringes filming atop her forehead.

Why does she cry?

It is a low moan of anguish at first, the weeps so melancholic that it profoundly startles him, but it soon elevates to a wracking sob. She is quivering, the shawl placed about the shoulders sinking at the actuation. The harrowing sounds that she produces sadden him greatly, to the scope that he pines to quell her misery. He has never witnessed, nor did he ever associate this level of despondency to the bubbly Elizabeth he knew.

A throttling pang of hunger deals a blow to his stomach, and Ciel hisses and stubbornly grinds his teeth together to suppress the impulse to raid the streets for consumption out of pure and utter voracity. Instead, he invests all of his concentration on his former fiancée.

And once again, his body moves, almost reflexively. With his breath held in, his torso inclines slightly, testily; as if he is experimenting, floundering in each second of experience, what it is like to venture forward. Then deliberately, his foot glides across the rug toward her, delicately plucking at the tangled plaits. It is at that moment that Ciel shuffles quite a bit too loud, and his shambling gait is forced to come to a stop before her when she raises her head curiously.

Her cracked lips part slowly to permit a wavering, quiet voice to trail out: "Who is there?"

Ciel concludes that he must still be sheltered in the darkness, and huffs a breath of relief. Still, internally, he braces himself. He has to face this one way or another, and simply cowering would not provide fruitful results.

Thus, the former Earl of Phantomhive steps out entirely.

"You have called for me," he speaks, mystically. "You have summoned me, and that fact would not change for all eternity."

The light rains down upon him, delineating his features.

"I am here to grant your wish. Now tell me, what is it that you desire?"

Ciel prepares himself, then, for her recognition. He can imagine it occurring; her flabbergasted visage, and the drainage of blood from her leathered cheeks. Gathering the portions of courage that has scattered indiscriminately and compressing it to his very core, he directly, proudly stares at her, letting her register his appearance; and his eye that he is certain would be gleaming with a disconcerting crimson color.

What would you do, Elizabeth? Now that you see me?

Elizabeth seems to have at last recovered from her initial shock. He expects bewilderment, horror even. Yet instead, the elderly lady suddenly emits a laugh; a soft chuckle in which each layer of her tone is shriveling with grief and distress. She does not question the peculiarity of this situation, she does not jump eagerly into the contingent contract.

Confounded, he searches her eyes, scrutinizing them more closely than ever.

And that is when he finally understands.

"What else can an old lady like me wish for?" Elizabeth sighs wearily.

No.

The urge to expel vehemently the word of refusal is nearly irrespressible. Impulsively, before he can control himself, Ciel's composure crumbles into dust, and he clamps a hand over his own mouth to cease the forthcoming madness, to hold onto at least a salving piece of sanity.

No, this is all wrong!

Indeed, it is, dreadfully so.

For, her eyes . . .

they see nothing.

Those bright emerald eyes that he has come to adore, to appreciate the sight of, are overshadowed. He has wondered why she would cry, why she would mourn if she has a fulfilled life, with a husband and children. The answer is elucidated upon, but now he pines that he has never exposed himself to such a macabre thing.

She cries because she cannot see. All of the happiness that she has endeavored to achieve, she can enjoy none of it, for she cannot perceive what she has. Every single thing she has gained is drowned out by the forever and permanent darkness that plagues her.

Life has been cruel.

But, there is even something crueler, something so unrelentingly ruthless. It is the fact that there they are, old friend to old friend, finally reunited after years and years . . . and yet, she will never be able to see him.

"Boy," Elizabeth calls, eliciting his attention. She peers at his direction, squinting hard as though hoping that it may be able to induce vision. However, she gives up after a while of futile strain, and shakes her head, her grey fringes swaying and gently brushing against her withered cheeks.

His breath is hitched in his throat when he acknowledges a bit of a cowlick adorning her forehead. He remembers the recalcitrant tuft of hair that defiantly sticks out in a different direction from the rest very well; when she was a child, Elizabeth would fitfully comb it back to no avail that she eventually relinquishes all efforts. It has amused him back then, perceiving her frustration, and her malcontent mutterings.

And now, acting by instinct alone, Ciel reaches out and gingerly pushes the cowlick behind her ear. Elizabeth grants him a pleasant smile, and her hand pats his. It startles him how warm her touch is, even to a demon, and he finds himself trembling.

"Thank you for visiting, boy. For keeping me company. It has been a while since I've talked to other people besides my children."

"Where is your hus—husband?" Ciel inquires, before he can withhold himself.

The old lady blinks for quite some time, as though she is confused by this question. But subsequently, she recalls of a distant memory and gravely nods. The rocking chair creaks as she moves to and fro in an amicably mild manner. "Ah . . . he had passed away long ago. He died in war. A good man, he was."

Elizabeth laments with another deep, longing sigh, and she reclines to rest the back of her head against the chair. She closes her eyes for a moment as she reminisces, congenial memories lifting her lips into a smile. "I've spent most of my life taking care of my children, and now they are taking care of me. Life can do funny things. They are so kind, I am incredibly blessed to have them. I cannot imagine a life without them. And yet . . .

"Yet, I know I will go too, soon enough. I may be old, but I am not senile. I can feel it, every bone in my body aches so much. I sometimes just want to lie there and never wake up."

Ciel has absorbed in it all, and his lips have been obstinately fastened together, as if stitched. He does not interrupt her, he does not throw a tantrum to highlight his indignation, he does not allow his effervescing emotions to display. Everything is subjugated, even if it is only for a brief and temporary period, by his gritted teeth and clenched fists.

He can sense it as well, Elizabeth's deterioration as they speak. With each elapsing moment, flitting by so simply and interminably without a care, comes a breath closer to her last.

Elizabeth is sure that the inexplicable boy must have departed when she hears silence. Her ears have grown accustomed to monotonous buzz of muteness, to the degree that she merely rocks in her chair when this is to transpire. Alone, even till death. Nothing ever imposes a change, but it is not as though she has had her hopes up. She has forgotten about the dizzying sensation of optimism, that she now frowns upon it. Has she really been so puerile and childish when she was younger?

But, it should be fine like this. After all, she is comfortable right now. A moderate life she lived. Perhaps it is time for a refreshing repose of slumber—a sleep that she would never again awaken from.

It should be fine, she tells herself. After all, every time she is to wake up, she would still see the afflicting incessant darkness. She cannot chase it away no matter how hard she tries. These dead eyes are the results of a ghastly carriage accident, years ago. She seldom ponders of the abhorrence, so that the nightmares can disperse.

Alone till death. Sounds fitting for a foolish old lady like her.

But then, abruptly, without prior warning, music fills her ears. She is skeptical of it at first, but her ears, the primary connection with her surroundings, hearken very carefully. Akin, she is able to conclude that she is not suffering from aberrational auditory problems, and there is actually music. An aesthetic melody pacifies her nerves, and Elizabeth delightfully hums along to the beautiful tune.

"May I have this dance?"

The old lady chuckles as if it is a preposterous question that is unneeded to be addressed. Her frail hand slips into the boy's, as she murmurs, "Why, of course."

Ciel hoists her up from her seat, cautiously as to avoid hurting her. He firmly holds onto her hand, and with the other, he rests it upon her back. Elizabeth places her free hand on his shoulder, and then they proceed into a dance.

It is not a graceful dance, with the thick rug impeding fluid movements. It is not one of utter precision, and it does not entail a cultivated employment of intricate and formalized steps. Nonetheless, this last dance that he shares with her, he would forever cherish.

Her mussed hair tickles his chin, and her shallow respiration is accentuated now that she is near. His nose picks up her tranquilizing scent of jasmine. The soothing music accompanying their dance continues to play from the record beside them. Ciel holds her tightly, when her voice fades and she grows heavier.

Her hand, small and warm, pats his head in an assuaging fashion, as if he is the one that requires comforting. "I'm sorry, boy."

Ciel feels a bizarre entanglement of emotions battling within himself, hostilely contesting to gain the upper-hand. His knees readily buckle at the magnitude of earnestness of feeling inside him. Weak, vulnerable, he is; susceptible to even the slightest of sorrow.

"What should you be sorry for?"

"It's so cruel of me," his old friend mourns woefully. "I don't want to leave you all alone, young lad."

Her words, they stun him, and for some unexplained reason, they also deal a gruesome slash across his heart. She is right; it is cruel of her, to leave him, to abandon him. Had he not vacillated in coming here, in retrieving food independently, he would have at least preserved a bit more time with her. Just a little more, and that should be enough.

But this, this is much too short.

"You, boy, you must be so lonely," she says, tearing up a little. "I know how you feel, I understand you."

Ciel cannot call upon the will to respond. If he was to open his mouth, there is no doubt that he would have shouted; he would have selfishly demanded that she is to stay by his side and never leave, because she is Elizabeth. She had always, indefatigably, been there for him, ever since they were growing up. They did absolutely everything together in their precious childhood.

No, perhaps she is the one selfish. She is planning to do this all by herself.

Life is cruel.

"Ah . . ." Elizabeth mumbles languidly, as she gradually droops. "I remember now. My wish. My dream . . ." Her voice fluctuates between levels of coherency, while she wistfully envisions that dream of hers that she revels in as it is the sole thing that she can see in the abyss of nothingness.

The old lady laughs softly. "It was a dream of my younger self, I suppose. I remember wishing . . . to have one last dance with an old friend of mine."

He feels his throat go parched as though all moisture suddenly dissipates into oblivion. A lump manifests in the heart of it and securely embeds itself within it, dispelling any means of engaging in a conversation.

So instead, he listens as she speaks in that gentle voice of hers.

"But, he had died a long time ago. What a selfish person he was. He promised me he would at least wait for me," the old lady says, clicking her tongue disapprovingly. "Still . . . I never forgot him. He was something . . . valuable to me."

The light chiming of the music satisfies the transient moment of reticence, as the mysterious lump hinders his breathing altogether. An excruciating flame of agony gnaws at his core as he acknowledges that all this time, all these wasteful years, she has never forgotten him. And what was he doing, lounging about in the other world? How could he have done that, how could have he left her all alone?

"Silly, don't you think?" Elizabeth murmurs. "This dream of mine."

He is shaking. ". . . Yes, foolish."

"I would dream of this old friend of mine, taking my hand, but I never get to experience the ending to the dance before waking." His old friend sighs contentedly. "It is foolish, indeed." Sluggishly then, she sags, her spirit disintegrating. Soon, very soon, there should be nothing left but an empty vessel.

"Please," comes his plead, that is reserved at first, but slowly gains fervor as the quivering of his heart will not cease. His own damned voice breaks discordantly, but he does not care. "Please, Lizzy, wait. Wait until we finish the song."

At the sound of his nickname for her, his old friend begins to cry, to weep and express her lifelong pain and sadness. He compresses her in an embrace, as the music slows.

"This is a dream, is it not?" Elizabeth whispers. "What a beautiful dream this is."

Ciel agrees, "A dream. This is all simply a dream. Persist until its very last moments, until the song finishes."

The old lady murmurs, with her head upon his shoulder, "This dream, it is beautiful, indeed."

It is when her hand went slack in his that he finally falls to the ground.

Then, the music terminates.

In the end, she never finished her dance.