Into These Waters of My Soul

Sebastian had known since his early years what story he would write when it was time. He knew, rather instinctively, what it would be full of… Necromancers — true necromancers — have Darkness for the eyes. It is the never-ending Void that stares out of their sockets like pillars of a pitch-black fabric of the cosmic forces. Being a mirror of invisible dimensions, Darkness is a prism of Light, but not the other way around; it is the source of everything. Everything comes from it, and everything returns to it in due time. And if Light is an infant of Darkness, then time is its umbilical cord. Everything is born of Nothing and everything fades into Nothing. This is a story with no beginning and no end, in the illusion of linear time and about the illusion of existence. This is a story about how necromancers — the sorcerers who hunger for the rank of Liches that have gained the kye to the immortality of soul — greedily seek the truth, the Great Knowledge of the sacred. For them, of course, it is the purpose of each of their reincarnations in this world. These wisdom-craving sorcerers are never humans but Spirits sealed inside perishable, mortal shells. Sooner or later, at different stages of their lives, they start to feel their destiny, and then the search begins. Tiring, laborious… eternal if one is unlucky. Needless to say, only the most persistent ones get to the truth. Here is the fact: if everything has a price, the truth is priceless. Literally. One has to give everything for it and even a bit more. By a bit more, we mean what a man of reason would never want to lose under any pretext, not for anything, ever. There are no riches — material or spiritual, including “enlightenment” — for which a man would agree to part with this Treasure. They feel, instinctively, that it is the most precious, unthinkable, tremendous, and exceptional thing — the only thing there is!... It is oneself. What a confusing, boring tale! And strange, the reader would yawn. But how truthful, and for that reason rejected in every way possible, the demon would remark and smirk. He is like a dark fox explaining a story to a chicken, which he will delightfully and hungerly swallow after. Does it have any purpose? Telling a story to your future meal? Hardly, but it makes it less boring, and then again, a chicken that knows a thing or two and a chicken that knows nothing are two completely different dishes. Where were we?.. Ah, yes. And so, these necromances — only few of them — reach their goal in the end. They become heartless and soulless Kings. They sit their thrones in the invisible Nothing, flying to Nowhere, outside of time and space. Their minds are rotten, their hearts are dust, and their souls are torn to pieces, like an ancient star. They know no human love; happiness on earth is beyond their reach; they are like silent phantoms in a theatre that has long burnt, rattling with their chains and decorations. Now their Spirits know the truth, they know the essence of existence and can even control life and death. But at what cost?.. It should be said that a necromancer sees no Light, as a man should, and, of course, he sees it differently from angels and other sugary and foolish creatures. As they say, what is especially black was once especially white. They also say that black and white do not exist. There is only one colour, from which all is woven, and which pretends to be both black and white. Your eyes are liars. Your mind is a funfair mirror, and it, I can assure you, fools you, chuckles the demon. It won’t obey you… And in the end, you are marionettes who imagine themselves puppeteers. Ha-ha! Sebastian resists the counterpart’s irritating voice, and at least halfway through the tale, he will write it in his own way. This will be a tragic story about the corruption of not so much the body as the soul. And, most importantly, about love. There are good grounds for saying that he who knows true Love, accepts Life wholly, and that means all its horror, its ugliness, and… Death! But he who holds it in abhorrence and turns his nose up at it, who is afraid and flees from the unknown — he does not love enough. And therefore, he is not worthy and will unlikely know true love. He who truly loves accepts both white and black. And he who truly loves ceases to tell white from black. Michalis described a spiritual fall of an adapt of All Love, for everything there is, both black and white, a sorcerer who strives to comprehend the comprehendible and understand the impossible. His character abandons his pursuit of Knowledge in exchange for the love of a mortal. Oh, this boy is beautiful, of course, with both his flesh and soul; he has all the virtues a human may have. A young creature who was never meant for a world of rough fabric; a young creature who was given nothing but a vulnerable body and a few fragile, small claws to protect it. This is a gentle nature of a winter rose — a beauty framed with thorns. And as befits any true beauty — short-lived and desperately delicate — there is a deadly poison hiding in the bud. In the end, there is so much of it that the boy dies at the dawn of his days. It is then that the necromancer regrets, for the first time in his life, that he didn’t sacrifice his heart for the forbidden knowledge and that he didn’t gain the power to bring the slipping soul back to the cold body. A farewell? Impossible. Unthinkable! For love like this… Now the necromancer is willing to give more than he possesses — the remnants of his mind, his life, and his soul. If not for love, then for what?... For what is everything? Oh, woe to thee who has not loved! And yet, what bliss, what peace of mind… It is better without it… isn’t it? Out of unimaginable grief that has torn his heart apart, the sorcerer decides to gather all his power and resurrect the body of his lover. The miracle happens — the leaden eyelids of the dead man rise, and he opens his eyes. But, alas! this is just flesh bent to the necromancer’s will; it has no hint of the beloved soul. The shell is empty, and he can’t turn back the clock to mend the cracks. Despair and pain of his choice cut the sorcerer deep to the core. To know without love or love without the chance to save the one he loves with all his heart! A curse — that is the fate of every sorcerer and necromancer who dares abandon his path. What could be crueller? The choice must be made, the path must be travelled, and the truth must be found. All that must happen will happen. Isn’t it sad? The demon laughs. Alas, alas! Every actor in this world has their own part to play, properly and by the rules. Are you a tragedian or a comedian? Or a gloomy and solemn philosopher? Or maybe just a witless fool? It doesn’t matter. Each character has their own role, and it is not life that will put everyone in their due places, just as it is not the actor who will take his place; all life will do is play its own part by living this same actor. By sucking him down, like wine. As chance would have it, the vessel does not choose what to be filled with or how to be emptied. But the cracks in what is broken cannot be fixed, and the vessel cannot be refilled. When the vessel breaks into pieces… those pieces don’t scatter, they simply dissolve in its emptiness. There was never a vessel. You fancied it. Sebastian is tired. He is like that same cracked vessel. The only one who feels good in this story is the counterpart. That bloody demon. He won’t leave me alone! The story was confusing, but then again, it wasn’t a story at all, only a draft about a meeting of two lonely souls with death for the scenery. There were many descriptions, for which Sebastian had his blue-eyed muse to thank. Ciel was reading meticulously and for a long time, first Arthur’s work and then Sebastian’s. All of it was just a little game and farce; Arthur, perhaps, took it a little bit seriously, and for Michaelis, it was a chance to take delight in the honest and severe judge, who was undoubtedly one of the most beautiful things that had ever happened to Sebastian in his life. The young man took his seat in a wicker chair in the shade of azalea and rhododendron bushes. He was charming as he brought the manuscripts closer to his eyes so that the light could fall on them. Sebastian could observe the other’s attention unpunished — attention that might be directed at him in that moment, through his own work. This peculiar intimacy with Ciel was a little exciting. Let his angel scold Michaelis in his own adorable manner, embarrassed and dominant at the same time, and blushing and rejoicing even more when the man accepts his power over him. When Sebastian was walking towards the boy and Sir Knight, holding his work under his arm, he felt a numb fatigue. It gave to his muscles and bones, spread through his veins, and made him giddy, just like the lovely sight of Phantomhive’s innocent face. It all began to seem like a demonic trick. Could it be the wretch who made the author write a thing so reckless? Giving this work into Ciel’s hands was like admitting the shameful desire that took control over Sebastian’s soul and body. Confession of his baneful passions. An attempt to drag a flower into a swamp full of toads and vermin. Homosexuality and necrophilia floated on the surface of the text like a net. Unless Ciel saw it differently. If so, then Sebastian was doomed. He put his own head on the block and sighed, finding relief in the fact that the block was of blue colour. The whole time Ciel was reading their works, Arthur was nervous, like a student before an exam. In the light of the sunset, his young, excited face acquired even smoother features, like those of a completed stone sculpture. It gave him just a little bit of the same manly character that Arthur often lacked at other times, and yet it was distorted by some childish nervousness. Sebastian couldn’t recall anything bringing out similar excitement in himself. He even envied Arthur in a way. Sometimes, to feel that life was still flowing inside him, Michaelis had to do disparate or even reckless things. For Arthur, a mere conversation or a stupid, private competition was enough to shake things up. Michaelis felt a dull irritation as he watched Wordsmith with all his impetuous movements and his smooth, young face. An invisible border seemed to cut off Sebastian from Arthur and Ciel. They were two lively creatures bursting with energy, desires, and curiosity. Sebastian had to play along to keep in step with them. He is lonely. He longs to be around Phantomhive so desperately. That’s all. It took the man some time to realise: That’s it! He can no longer compete with the young. Perhaps Michaelis doesn’t belong in the shade of this garden. But he just can’t agree with it. He can’t. Time runs so fast… All he is doing is smoking and watching the judge. A blue ribbon of the young man’s suit has been blown by a gust of warm breeze to his clavicle — a silky snake upon an even silkier dimple. In place of the snake and the wind, Michaelis happily imagines his own tongue. Arthur ruins everything by babbling loudly: “I am so nervous! Competitions are always exciting, aren’t they?” Here he turns to his “competitor,” who is supposed to show his reaction, which he does, though not without irritation: “I don’t think so.” Sebastian is eagerly watching the reader’s expression; he wants to behold the slightest change in it. How many blissful feelings for the man, how much of Ciel’s own self can be found in this open face reflecting the hearts of two stories! The young man knows that he is being watched, and, perhaps for that reason, he is trying to play along a little. He has already realised that he can draw the eye with the right movements — this is not silly girlish coquetry, but something dancing on the edge of an innocent, enticing game. It might be better than chess, but Ciel isn’t sure yet. For now, embarrassed and hesitant, he only tastes the eyes on him. When Phantomhive is reading Arthur’s story, a blissful smile won’t leave his face, and at the end of it, he laughs. Arthur’s tale is all light and kindness, as one would expect. But then it’s time to read Sebastian’s story, and Ciel is no longer to be recognised. Tension hangs and vibrates in the air. The young reader is thoughtful and serious when his face starts to change, and yet he tries not to reveal more of his emotions than needed, and these attempts charm Michaelis even more. Ciel is confused because someone has allowed himself to be straightforward in giving descriptions. Let it be their little secret. A magical confession, isn’t it? Sebastian can guess what lines these blue… these so blue eyes are reading at the moment. In the shade of the garden, they seem the colour of an ocean again and beckon to come closer. These are the waters of the soul that urges one to plunge headlong. To dissolve in it and disappear. Finally, even Arthur notices a strange change in the reader’s expression, and he begins to worry even more, but not for the contest this time, as it seems. “What did you write there?” he asks Sebastian. Ciel looks disturbed and can no longer hide it. Or perhaps he doesn’t want to hide it to give a special flavour to the contest. He finishes reading both works and is ready to speak. “I don’t think that you should read each other’s works. It will be hard for me to choose the winner.” He sweetly tilted his head to the side, and the wind returned the silky ribbon to its rightful place. “Before I make my choice, I want to talk with each of you alone. Let’s start with the last story. Mr. Michaelis?..” Ciel was tired of sitting, so he stood up and took the man aside, never waiting for him to come closer. Ciel found it difficult to conceal his confusion: his cheeks, his ears, and even his neck were burning red, while his eyes were glowing with feverish moisture. He was also trembling, which Mr. Wordsmith couldn’t help but notice. Sir Knight was listening to them, or so it seemed to Sebastian. Ciel wasn’t speaking quietly enough, and in the silence of the garden, his words might be heard well. “This Kind of the Dead, what is he trying to achieve by spreading Darkness everywhere?” asked Ciel. At the sight of his proud timidity and confusion in his eyes, Sebastian was certain that Ciel had recognised himself in the necromancer’s lover. How could it be otherwise? The young man was blue-eyed, fragile, and full of hope… and poison that ate him away from inside. Wasn’t it a portrait resemblance? Ciel was flattered, but he wouldn’t like it to be known. “Just that,” smiled Michaelis. “Isn’t it natural that there are those who sow goodness everywhere, even by force at times, and there are those who long for the opposite? If only for the reason that the omnipotent, stubborn light is repugnant to them? Even very happy people still don’t achieve happiness. It’s a paradox, isn’t it? A human soul, I believe, needs something entirely different, something that lies outside the parallel of black and white. Perhaps something that lies beyond it?” Ciel didn’t answer, but only slightly bit his lip. “Was it not to your liking?” asked Sebastian. “I’ve never read anything like that, and now I am suspecting you.” “Of what?” “That you are doing it on purpose… trying to show yourself to me like this...” “Like what, Ciel?” But the young man was in no hurry to answer; he was burning with shame and that new, inexplicable feeling that had been stirred in him by the strange images of the lifeless young man and the grief-stricken necromancer. There was too much of the forbidden in the description of their feelings, yet a doubt arose. What if this is also love? The thought would have been immediately and decisively rejected if not for Phantomhive’s conviction that the story was dedicated to him and that the characters were Ciel and Sebastian themselves. A boy withering away from his own poison and a man willing to throw himself at his feet. “Like what? You didn’t like it, did you?” insisted Sebastian. And he would be lying if he answered no, but to say yes would mean compromising himself. He was flattered, flattered by this… love confession. And Michaelis wouldn’t have fallen in love with someone who couldn’t understand such an elaborate confession the way it was meant. “If this is a confession, then I am afraid to interpret it,” whispered the boy. “I need some time…” “Then what about the description of love? Could you see it?” Ciel found it embarrassing to look into the brown eye; they were impossibly insightful, and now, after he read the story, they suddenly become completely different — devouring and dangerous. It was like the forbidden fruit in Eden. He never thought that it would give him joy to look for it amongst the branches and, more importantly, to find it. The judge was trembling with nervousness. Good thing that I’m the only one who read the works! If Arthur knew… Such should have been the thoughts of a confused young man who, for the first time in his life, had encountered something forbidden and tempting. However, Sebastian could see something else — no, the demon — the demon could see how proud happiness was spreading throughout Ciel’s chest, followed by a desire to make two ships sailing abreast collide. If the sun shining upon them was beautiful, then everybody had to see that sun. Wasn’t it right? The bright rays touched the hidden, secret corners of his soul to play the strings that, as it seemed before, could not be there… Such a desire contradicted the Ciel everyone knew. It was full of dark madness, but Ciel knew that he was longing to fulfil it, like that time on the beach with the deadly cones. He was aware of the mysterious playfulness inside him, and suddenly it felt so natural. It was so exciting and… entrancing… But what was it? He felt a startling surge of energy and joy. What would Gabriel call it? he wondered. Meanwhile, Arthur did something unforeseen. When Ciel left the stories unattended, he wasn’t expecting Sir Knight to take the papers in secret and read the other’s work. As suspicion and doubt had seized the soul of Sir Knight and squeezed it in their vice, he believed it his duty to sacrifice his honour for the sake of a good cause. Wordsmith had a feeling that there was something unclean happening between Michaelis and the agitated Phantomhive. That feeling was so strong that his hands grabbed the heaps of papers on their own accord. The longer Arthur ran his eyes over the lines, the more distorted his features became. His face was filled with either anger or bewilderment… which in the end became a plain and sheer horror. The storyteller’s eyes were filled with tears, but not with those of tenderness or sadness. “‘… He moved the boy’s dead hand over his own lips, feeling the icy death that had greeted his lover,’” Arthur began to read the fragments, his voice now tensed like a string of a freshly made bow and now hoarse from the bewilderment that rose inside his chest. “‘… If my love prevails over my own self in life, then so it does in death. Who am I to stand against your power over me? Someone like me has nothing left to lose. My God is dead. My God was you,’ ‘…He kissed his lifeless lips.’ What is this? He brought the young man from the dead? What blasphemy!.. Are they living together as husband and wife? But they are…” Arthur opened and closed his mouth in turns. He was not so much scary at that moment as absurd. “I cannot believe this… Mr. Michaelis. You… you are sick! You are sick, and you want to spread your sickness to Ciel! Know that I won’t allow this!” And he began to tear the pages apart. His confidence in justice and the truth of his verdict were helping him. Ciel tried to stop Arthur, but the latter rushed away from the young man, threw the torn thing on the ground, and began to trample it into the mud, thus tearing the pieces into even smaller ones so that the manuscript could not be fixed. “Aren’t you going to do anything?!” Ciel turned his head to Sebastian. The man was remaining tranquil despite the fact that his work was being treated brutally and arrogantly. “Why?” he asked. “The goal has been achieved — you’ve read the story, and now it’s up to you to choose the winner. I am only interested in your opinion; you are the judge.” “Are you still hoping for something with this abomination?!” exclaimed Arthur. His cheeks, his forehead, and even his nose were ablaze with righteous anger and covered with spots. It even seemed the man was having difficulty breathing — his lungs were filled not with air but with rage, which he began to spit in all directions. Mr. Wordsmith was nothing like himself, if only like a deeply slighted knight. “This is unseemly of a writer! Can you not see it?! It's disgusting! There is no beauty in this… and certainly no love!” “Oh,” Michaelis drawled as he feigned disappointment, “you should have been called not Sir Knight but Mr. Judge, isn’t it right?” “If a man has a gift for writing, he ought to use it for the benefit of people, not to corrupt and deprave them!” “You and I don’t share the same vision of true corruption and depravement.” “It’s true!.. Yes, it is, for Christ’s sake! God… I’m sorry that you cannot see how low you have fallen! But even so, speak for yourself and don’t drag others into your… into your swamp of vile, unseemly, sickening… oh! of corrupting things!” The irony of this was in the fact that, in Sebastian’s eyes, Arthur was nothing but a sheep that had stuck its head into the opening of the fold and bleated threateningly to a wolf about freedom and true values. Would it be worth it to stop and bite its head off? A waste of time and strength, right? A truly precious lamb was now elsewhere. He was standing aside with his breath deep and heavy, for what was happening worried and touched him. “It isn’t for you to decide, Mr. Wordsmith,” answered Sebastian. Arthur rushed to Ciel’s side. “I refuse to take part in this! I don’t wish our works to be compared — it’s insulting!” The young man tilted his head in confusion and thoughtfully said: “Ah… but you can’t do that, Arthur. There is no need for it anyway. You both… you both are disgusting to me! You,” he turned to Wordsmith, “what kind of knight are you if you don’t fulfil an agreement? I am sick of your goodness! Maybe I’m not as good as you think. What makes you believe that you can decide for me? And you,” his wet blue eyes — especially alluring at that moment — darted to the black-haired man, the latter reminding a statue with at least two shadows of his own, “I’ll talk to you later!.. Perhaps!” With these words, the judge turned on his heels and walked away, not towards the hotel but deeper still into the garden. It was some time before the clinking sound of his sandals faded away into the thicket of rosebushes. Arthur called out after him, but vainly. He was about to rush after Ciel, but then he changed his mind; instead, the writer lashed out at Sebastian and grabbed him by the lapels. “This is what you’ve done! Are you happy now? Are you?!” Arthur’s eyes were bulging out. What a wrong knight indeed, Sebastian thought sadly, and then he said out loud: “Of course. Everything goes as planned.” He grabbed the other’s fingers, trying to pull them away from himself. “What are you talking about, pray tell?” “You won’t understand it, Sir Knight. Don’t think about it. You’ve played your part; it’s all that matters. Now let go of my jacket. You are messing it.” “No, tell me, what are you talking about? What do you need with Ciel? Who are you? Are you a family friend?” Sebastian had to roughly push Arthur away from himself, and, in his turn, he pinned the man against the wall of the gazebo. “You are taking too much upon yourself, Mr. Wordsmith, don’t you think so? You are very agitated. I think we both need a break.” “I’ve read about men like you, but I thought that there were few of them,” mumbled Arthur, and it dawned on Sebastian — he was being serious! And there, Sebastian believed that fools like Wordsmith didn’t last for long. “Good Lord, do you think that I’m a necrophiliac? Then, by your logic, you are a moth in a coat, or what are these beasties you are writing about? Ridiculous. Why am I even talking to you? Go to hell!” Sebastian let go of Arthur and dusted off his hands. “What I’ve read was not only about… It is disgusting and unnatural! It’s filthy! And you gave it to Ciel! How dared you?” “Fortunately, it isn’t up to you to tell what’s filthy and what’s not.” Arthur exhaled heavily. “Maybe you are right, Sebatian. But if you are guilty of upsetting Ciel, then you should give it a serious thought!” Arthur could be understood; at least, he was sincere. Sincere idiot. Sebastian looked him up and down and replied: “I am the last person in the world who would want to hurt Ciel or cause him any trouble.” “I cannot trust you after what I’ve read,” returned the storyteller. Michaelis smirked. “And who is asking you to trust me?.. Good night, Mr. Wordsmith.” He walked away, in the direction where Ciel had gone. If he understood the proposed plot correctly, the victim wanted to be found.

***

Thoughtful and crouched, Ciel was sitting opposite a flock of peacocks. Several males were showing each other their bushy tales. Perhaps the birds reminded Phantomhive of the two writers. Sebastian smiled at the thought. The place was empty — on a sultry evening such as that, people were drawn to the fountains, and only in the distance, near the cypress trees, could one see pairs of wandering silhouettes. The man tried not to sneak up on the boy. Although Ciel didn’t turn at the sound of approaching footsteps, he could hear them well. “Did I upset you?” asked Sebastian. He stopped by his side. “You did what I asked you. Unlike Mr. Wordsmith. Maybe you are right…” “About what?” “A certain hypocrisy does run in overly good people.” “Is it hypocrisy when a hypocrite truly believes in what he does?” Ciel shrugged. “Anyway, I can see what you mean.” “Mr. Wordsmith is not a bad person.” “I’ve never said that. But now I want to call him names.” Michaelis nodded knowingly: “It is your right.” “Do you want to call me names too?” “Yes. But I won’t,” the young man muttered. He turned his head and gave the man a quiet glance before he smiled with his eyes and rose to his feet to take a seat on a bench. Sebastien sat beside him. They were silent before Ciel asked: “Do you really believe that people can be as devoted to each other as they are in your story?” “No.” “But you still write about it.” “Because there’s nothing more to write about. Such devotion is the only thing that would be meaningful if it were possible…” “Art is all about love, right?” “Right.” “And your words…” From now on, they are about you alone. “Yes. At least, I hope so,” returned the author out loud. “So will you tell me who’s the winner?” Ciel moved his head evasively, which could mean yes or no. Seeing the anticipation in his companion’s face, he answered with sheer simplicity: “It’s Gabriel.” Sebastian was surprised. “Your brother?” “Yes. But not this Gabriel. The other.” “I don’t understand.” The young man put his hand into his pocket and took out a folded sheet of paper. It looked well-worn and seemed to have found its way in some syrup, a long time ago. “Read it. I think this is love.” The man was eager to see what was written there. He unfolded the paper; written in crooked, childish handwriting, it said: Dear Ciel! Tanak says that you are getting better. I hope it’s so. I can’t wait to see you. I think about my little brother every day, when I gather seashells on the shore or when I catch butterflies. I’m so upset that he’s not here! We will play chess the first thing I return! Tell me how you spend your time and what you think about. Kisses and hugs! I will bring a mountain of gifts, as promised. With love, your brother Gabriel So that was it. “There are two Gabriels for you,” Sebastian shared his discovery. “The child and the hair of the family, the eldest son.” “The latter is warm, isn’t it?” Ciel asked in such a way as if he were looking hard for confirmation. “Written with love.” “Alas,” agreed Sebastian, “I yield. Arthur and I are no match for such art.” “Are you jesting?” “Not at all. A living love, not that of fiction, cannot be surpassed. No words can do that.” Ciel smirked. “You weren’t jesting, but I was. Of course, I just don’t want to tell you which one of you has won.” “It isn’t me then.” “I knew that you would think so, that’s why your answer is wrong.” “It is me then.” “It will remain a secret.” “I shall tell Mr. Wrong Knight that he’s the winner. It will cheer him up a little.” “It isn’t for you to decide, it is only for me. Don’t forget that.” The way he said those words made it sound not like Ciel was the one to choose the winner but to decide whether victory would cheer Arthur up. That exaggeration of ambiguity added a nice flavour to his words. “I like it when you are like this.” “Like what?” “Not like you are with your family.” Masterful. Wilful. Free. An ambiguous angel. Ciel moved his hair out of his eyes and tapped his heel on a leg of the bench, a dull thud echoing throughout the place. It was music for Sebastian’s ears, as if someone were playing a piano or a harp. The sound was clear and filled with a mixture of emotions, even though it was only the clicking of heels. Whether it the moment when they found themselves alone or the weather — the hot humidity enveloped them in a tight felt, surprisingly pleasant due to the certain laziness one felt sitting like that, in the shade of the garden — the man was filled with admiration. Everything about Ciel was perfect and complete, from a lovely mole at the base of his neck to an awkward, childish movement of his little finger that suddenly wanted to chase a bug on the edge of the bench. His pinkish nail the colour of a morning flower, the colour of a pale rose — even it evoked strange feelings in the author, stirring up a storm. If Mr. Michaelis had been living all that time, hadn’t he been living for this moment? A chill of pleasure ran down his spine. He suddenly found it nice to imagine that Ciel was feeling the same way. You have been living to meet me, and I know it, trust me. He knew it, and he would use it. And he would be right — a thousand times right — to do so! Ciel Phantomhive was worth everything Sebastian had done in his life, everything he had said goodbye to. The chill of pleasure suddenly ran throughout the man again, as he realised that Ciel was certainly aware of and clearly understood the power he had over the lonely and grown-up man. “You said,” the young man started quietly, “that you were willing to be…” “Your dog?” The man had to help Ciel take his first steps. “Is it true?” “I’m not a liar.” “And you would do anything I wanted? I mean… how serious are you when saying this? Don’t think anything wrong of it…” “It would be my happiness. And I am very serious.” “And what are the boundaries?” “Only you set the boundaries.” “And if… let’s say, if I lost my mind and ordered you to kill someone? What would become of your boundaries? You not only like to exaggerate things in your stories, like Arthur, but youalso like to use… big words. In that case, I have a right to ask you a counter question, don’t I? Just as… big.” Sebastian couldn’t help but smile. The young ones loved to exaggerate everything that came into their hands. But it was a pleasure to give it what it wanted so naively and capriciously. Michaelis was too old to resist it. He really had nothing to lose. Ciel just couldn’t know it yet for sure, just as he couldn’t believe that he was able to drive others mad. “Of course, I would fulfil your wish… If you were ready to take responsibility.” “If?” The young man’s face said something like, So these are your conditions! This is the worth of your words! But Sebastian clarified: “In that case, I am only your weapon. That’s what I mean.” There was no arguing with that. Ciel smirked. “It’s not the gun that kills, but the man holding it, right? Of course. I didn’t think about it… But it’s ridiculous. It’s only theories!.. This isn’t serious. I just can’t stop thinking about one thing. If you began to obey me… like… hm…” “Like a dog?” With his cheeks painted red, Ciel nodded. “Or like a knight we were talking about, then… I could really help you.” Sebastian suspected that Ciel was lying and that he saw the difference between a knight and a dog, and it was the dog he liked and not the stalwart knight. The man didn’t answer, so Ciel explained a little hurriedly, which meant that he still doubted his own abilities: “You would do what I told you, which means that under my influence — if you believe that I am a good person (even though I am not!) — you would become better yourself.” “It’s an interesting thought.” “You are making fun of me, aren’t you?” “No at all. But one thing surprises me a little.” “What is it?” “You are trying so hard to ignore the fact, Ciel, that I have been obeying you for quite a long time now. It is you who’s been setting the course of our relationship.” Ciel turned his face away; he seemed excited by the talk. As was Sebastian. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt life so vividly, both his and other’s, and! what mattered more, a life so young and strong. The stars were shining in the sky. The wind had died down, and a floral suffocation, a real flower inferno, reigned the garden. But neither the man nor the boy wanted to make a move to leave. One after the other, they lazily and slightly raised their heads upward, where drops of poison, splashes of cobwebs, or… dew flickered on the velvet belly of a giant spider.