Chapter Text
Everything is going to be okay.
Every line on every page of the book Ciel is reading says so, so it has to be true.
After all, it is difficult to think otherwise, when nothing around him can do him any harm. It is a peaceful day in White Space, just like yesterday, just like every day before today, and tomorrow is going to be the same.
Halfway through his nth re-reading, Ciel puts the volume down on the snow-white floor, not wanting to tire his only working eye out. He bends down to retrieve the cup of milk and honey he left near his feet, takes a small sip, and puts it back where it was. It doesn’t taste quite as sweet as it should, and it’s somewhat lukewarm, but it spreads a feeling of comfort through him nonetheless. The gesture only feels natural when a cool, gentle breeze flows from all directions at once, ruffling his hair, leaving feather-soft pecks on his cheeks. Today, like every other day, feels like an unusually warm winter morning.
Ciel catches a subtle movement from the corner of his field of vision, or at least he thinks he does. His favourite plushie, Bitter Rabbit, is sitting right in front of him. It’s a bit shy, so it tends to come to life only when Ciel isn’t looking, but sometimes even the most skilled actors betray themselves. Not that Ciel expects it to admit to anything, not even when he’s caught it red-handed. Evidently, Bitter Rabbit is content with giving the impression of being exactly what it is on the surface, a stuffed rabbit with an eyepatch and an elegant attire – most notably, a blue vest embroidered with black roses – to match its human best friend.
For a while, the two of them simply stare at each other in comfortable silence. At first, the rabbit’s uncovered eye looks like nothing more than a lifeless, opaque black sphere, but the longer Ciel focuses on it, the easier it gets to spot a speck of ultramarine blue reflected in it, until he ends up believing that the colour of that eye, too, is a perfect match to his own.
A distant, soft thud, like a light object falling from the sky and landing somewhere behind him, steals his attention. He looks for a hint of approval in Bitter Rabbit’s unchanging expression.
… (Waiting for something to happen?)
He wouldn’t call it approval, but it’s not a reprimand, either, so he turns around, sweeps his gaze across the boundless expanse of white, and sets off towards the small, indistinct item he spotted from afar. Only when he’s close enough to pick it off the floor does he identify it as a box of matches. The front and the back are blank, of a slightly dirtier white than the one that surrounds him, while the sides are red and coarse to the touch. Ciel slides it open; at a guess, there should be thirty or so matchsticks inside.
He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do with it. For a moment, he considers leaving it where it was, going back to his favourite book and taking another sip of milk, then another, and another, until today blurs into tomorrow. But if something like this has appeared out of nowhere, in a place where almost nothing ever happens – it must be important, right? The more he thinks about it, the more he gets the impression that the box wants to be shoved in his pocket. He closes it and does so, opting for the left pocket of his vest. He has some complaints about the way its rectangular silhouette distorts the fabric, but its weight is so insignificant, he supposes he will get used to it soon enough.
When he returns to the spot he was previously occupying, there’s a hole in the ground, right beside Bitter Rabbit. The plushie must have dug it while he wasn’t looking.
It’s just a neat, pitch-black circle, wide enough for his body to squeeze through with some patience. To be honest, Ciel is not really in the mood for an adventure today. The thought of staying here isn’t particularly appealing, either. He might as well recite a nursery rhyme in his mind and let fate decide how he’s going to spend the rest of the day. But if Bitter Rabbit went to the effort of digging that hole, it would probably be disappointed if his best friend continued to ignore it.
That’s why Ciel ultimately decides to sit down at the edge of it, sliding lower and lower, a bit at a time, unperturbed as he watches his legs merge with the darkness and disappear. He only has a vague recollection of what lies below, but he knows that he will be safe down there, and that’s all that matters.
The loss of solid ground only takes his breath away for a brief moment. During that same moment, the sea of pure white he’s left behind is replaced by a sea of shadows. Before his mind can cling to the impression of having been fallen into the jaws of a giant beast, the contours and colours of the world begin to reveal themselves in all their glory. As he falls, he catches a glimpse of a cloudy sky, a hint of gold filtering through the gaps, the same gold reflected on wet roof tiles, a lush garden – blue cornflowers, vines of purple bougainvillea coiling around the structure of a gazebo, patches of pink camellias and wine-red hellebores –, and in the distance, an endless horizon of pine trees. He passes through those roof tiles like a ghost, and finds himself in a richly furnished office.
Instead of landing on the floor, he lands into someone’s arms.
A familiar scent of bergamot and sage reaches his nostrils. It’s hard to focus on the surroundings when he’s met with the sight of a black necktie, the starched collar of a white shirt standing around a strong yet elegant neck, raven black hair framing the face of a handsome young man. The corners of a neatly-defined mouth curve upwards just as Ciel’s gaze passes over it. A pair of maroon irises, snake-like pupils narrowing further as they return his attention. After a few moments, those eyes start looking less like they might belong to the beast that devoured him earlier, losing much of their sharpness, their colour fading into a more ordinary shade of brown.
“Welcome home, young master.” When the man speaks, he reveals a flash of pointed canines. His voice is silk-smooth, deep but not too rough, his tone an odd blend of lilted and devoid of emotion.
At the mention of that title, the fog permeating Ciel’s mind, or at least a section of it, clears.
He is Ciel Phantomhive, Earl and private detective, and this man is Sebastian, his butler.
As comfortable as Sebastian’s arms are, the situation is getting quite embarrassing, so, with a scowl and a huff, Ciel wriggles out of his hold and pretends to be busy getting reacquainted with the interiors. To be fair, those floor-to-ceiling bookshelves are a sight to behold...
“If I may remind you, my lord–” Sebastian clears his throat. “Several matters await your attention.”
Ah, of course. Ciel has been away for quite some time, hasn’t he? The pile of documents on his desk confirms it. He doubts he can wade through it in one day, but he has to start somewhere. “Give me a summary of the most urgent ones. Have there been any crimes or misconducts I should know of?”
“Fortunately not, but as an Earl, certain responsibilities, no matter how trivial...”
“Spare me the lecture,” Ciel interrupts him.
“Very well, my lord.” Sebastian walks over to the desk and draws a few sheets of paper from the pile, the gesture so smooth one might think he chose them at random. “For a start, Weston College has organised a parade to celebrate the beginning of the Christmas season...” His hand, covered in a white glove, holds out one of the reports.
There is something peculiar about those gloves, Ciel thinks, but for the moment he does not recall what that might be, so he simply plucks the report from the butler’s index and middle finger, and skims through it. “I struggle to see why something like that would require my attention. Besides, Christmas is two weeks away – isn’t it too early for a parade?”
“It is a matter of tradition, I suppose. As for your involvement, the prefects have sent numerous letters stating they still feel indebted to you after the help you provided with the case of the missing student... simply put, this year’s celebration would be in your honor.”
“How bothersome.” Ciel discards the sheet he was handed and holds out his palm to receive the next one. “What else is there?”
“Your cousin was hoping you would join her on a picnic today–”
“I said urgent matters, Sebastian.”
“Then I assume we should also leave the book signing with Mr. Wordsmith out of consideration? That leaves us with the grand opening of the Nectar Springs hotel. Apparently, the back garden boasts the tallest chocolate fountain in the world, lollipops planted in the ground to imitate flowerbeds, hills of whipped cream, and...”
“We should head there as soon as possible.” As soon as he realises how childish that must have sounded, Ciel gives a little cough. “I mean... we should check the quality of the products they used to put those attractions together, and ensure everything complies with health and safety standards.”
For a moment, he thinks he catches the ghost of a mocking smirk flickering across Sebastian’s lips. “As you wish, my lord.”
“I want to look over these papers one more time before our departure. In the meantime, pack up our bags and gather the staff. I’ll leave the rest to them.”
“Are you certain that is a good idea, young master?”
“I don’t remember asking for your opinion. Go, now.”
Sebastian replies with a deferential bow and walks out of the room. Ciel spends the next few minutes sticking to his word, sitting at his desk, writing down notes about each event; but after a while, that simple chore starts to feel so tedious, he would pay all the money in the world for a distraction. He swings his legs under the desk, drums his fingers on its surface, doodles stylised eyes on the report he’s supposed to examine.
Without thinking, he finds himself reaching for the box in his pocket. He still hasn’t figured out what he’s supposed to do with it. It might have proved useful if there had been a case to solve, as a means of bringing light to a dark place – yet today seems to be such a peaceful day, the further Ciel lets his imagination drift, the more he convinces himself that maybe the box of matches is the mystery he has to solve, although he really has no idea where to start.
The sound of knocking startles him. He instinctively shoves the box back into his pocket before standing up.
Sebastian pushes the door slightly open without waiting for permission, and peers at Ciel from the crack. “My lord, everyone is waiting for us downstairs. I apologise for the delay. The cook thought he’d spotted a mouse in the kitchen, but it turned out to be a cat, and convincing it to leave the manor proved to be a rather troublesome task...”
Ciel raises an eyebrow at that poor excuse. “I can imagine.”
As promised, they find the rest of the staff lined up side by side at the entrance. They may be kids Ciel’s age, and they may be absolutely worthless when it comes to fulfilling their official roles, but each of them has a special talent or two that makes up for their shortcomings. In a way, sending them on special missions is more sensible than keeping them within the confines of the manor. “Good morning, young master!” the three of them exclaim in unison.
The gardener takes off his hat with a swift motion, as if suddenly mindful of the breach of etiquette. Although it’s not like Ciel would have scolded him either way: in the absence of hair to protect his scalp, it’s only natural he’s used to taking additional measures to stay warm in the winter. “Finny, my cousin Elizabeth is having a picnic in Evergreen Meadow. It might rain again later, so I want you to arrange the local vegetation to make sure the spot she is occupying stays dry. Furthermore, you must keep her company, address her dolls with due respect, and compliment her choice of tea and pastries.”
“YESSIR!”
Too loud... Ciel furrows his brow, but keeps the comment to himself, and moves on to the duty he intends to entrust to the maid. “Mey-rin–” Since they’re about the same height and build, and she’s pretty good at imitating his signature look of disdain... “Your destination is Weston College. Listen carefully: you must disguise yourself as me, infiltrate the Sapphire Owl dorm, briefly appear from the balcony during the parade, and as soon as its tail slips past the corner, take up position on the roof and ensure the rest of the ceremony proceeds smoothly.”
“Consider it done, sir!”
Lastly, it’s the cook’s turn. He might be the scrawniest of the group – and the only one shorter than Ciel –, but his proud posture, with his hands on his hips and chin held high, makes him look rather imposing nonetheless. “Bard, you will attend the book signing with Mr. Wordsmith in the Pavillion of Mysteries. As the location is often targeted by people of suspicious intent, you must be prepared to act as Mr. Wordsmith’s bodyguard. And while you’re there...” Ciel lowers his tone, the rest of his speech dissolving into a mumble. “...See if you can get a signed copy of his latest book.”
“Got it, sir! Should I also bring along some sandwiches for him and the guests? I was testing a new recipe earlier, and trust me, young master – they’re out of this world.”
I’m sure whoever tastes them will be out of this world after the first bite, Ciel thinks. “That won’t be necessary.” It’s not without reason that Sebastian has effectively usurped the role of the chef, while Bard is only allowed near the kitchens on the condition that the results of his experiments stay a safe distance from Ciel’s mouth.
Now that everyone has a purpose to follow, the gardener, the maid and the cook head for the door at the same time, close it behind them, and disappear from view before Ciel has had the chance to point out that he’s not finished with the details, or to remind Mey-rin that she needs a wig to impersonate him. Seriously, what is he going to do with those fools...?
“You seem a bit tense today, my lord. Is there something on your mind?” The weight of Sebastian’s hand on his shoulder catches him off guard. He turns toward him, staring at his face as if he expects to find the answer there. He is tense, now that Sebastian mentions it, but he doesn’t know why.
Before he can come up with an appropriate response, the sudden sound of someone banging on the door steals the breath from his lungs. Unplanned visits are a rare occurrence, so the most logical explanation is that one of the servants has realised they’ve forgotten something. Mey-rin, then? But her knocking is not that vigorous. It sounds more like Finny...
Still, for some reason, Ciel has a bad feeling about this. And he’s probably not the only one. When he tries to take a step toward the door, Sebastian’s arm intercepts his movement. “Stay here, young master. It might be dangerous.”
What an absurd thing to say. All the crimes Ciel has solved have ended in a heartfelt apology and a reconciliation between parties. Even the most vicious criminals he’s dealt with never truly harmed anyone; they were just in the mood to cause some chaos...
Bang, bang, bang.
Not even Finny would knock with such force.
When Sebastian’s fingers close around the handle, the noise cuts off as abruptly as it started. In the same heartbeat, something slides through the gap beneath the door, fluttering directly into Ciel’s grasp as if guided by a sentient gust of wind.
An unmarked envelope.
When Sebastian opens the door, there’s no one outside. Only the quiet view of the garden and the clouds looming above.
There’s a mailbox right beside the front gate, so why didn’t the sender leave the letter there? Sebastian says something, but his voice sounds like an indistinct blur to Ciel’s ears. “What?”
“What does the letter say?” Sebastian repeats.
Ciel is not particularly enthusiastic at the thought of finding that out, but he extracts the letter from the envelope anyway. The handwriting is far less elegant than he would have expected, each character having a size that doesn’t match the others. The option was already unlikely, but this confirms that it can’t be one of Ciel’s clients, unless they altered their handwriting on purpose.
He takes a deep breath and begins reading out loud.
“Dear detective, things have been oh-so-peaceful as of late, haven’t they? But that doesn’t mean you should lower your guard. Something horrible, an unforgivable crime, has been committed right under your nose, and since you have been too busy playing with your dolls to notice, I’m doing you a favour and sending you a list of clues you should look into. Once you find yourself face to face with the culprit, all I ask is that you turn them over to justice.”
Ciel pauses, raising his face to meet Sebastian’s gaze, finding a frown that mirrors his own.
“An unforgivable crime?” the butler repeats.
“No crimes are unforgivable in this land,” Ciel recites. It’s what he often says to the criminals he apprehends. Yet the mere notion that a crime of any degree has slipped past his watch is a serious accusation. “The list of clues says...” His gaze drifts to the lower half of the page. “Lamppost, E4. Handle, E5. Face mask, E6. Rabbit, E7...” At first glance, he can’t figure out whether there is a connection between those items, whether they refer to something literal or metaphorical, or what those letters and numbers have to do with each of them. Right when he thinks a theory is starting to take shape in his mind, he notices a smaller line of text at the foot of the letter.
He would have stumbled backwards if Sebastian’s hands hadn’t been there to keep him upright. “Is everything alright, my lord? What does the postscript say?”
“Don’t...” Ciel’s throat feels parched. That is the first and only word he was able to focus on; the rest of the sentence becomes blurrier and blurrier the harder he tries to decipher it. His heart is pounding in his chest, so violently it reminds him of the thumping on the door that had preceded the letter. His lashes flutter as he struggles to keep his eyes open; both Sebastian’s voice and the pressure of his hands behind his shoulders have faded into a distant echo. A heavy, acrid smell Ciel can’t quite pinpoint fills his nostrils.
Maybe the letter was a tasteless prank. He should convince himself of that, leave it behind, and... what was he supposed to do today? Right, there was that hotel he wanted to visit. He tries to remember the description Sebastian provided, that fountain of chocolate, the lollipops, and hills of whipped cream...
The flash of white his mind is desperately trying to cling to expands more than it should, until it’s everything Ciel is able to see. He blinks a few times, and when he regains his sense of direction, he realises he’s back in White Space.
“Sebastian...?” he murmurs, but the only company here is that of his stuffed rabbit. The hole next to it has disappeared; on the other hand, he spots a black door standing in the middle of nowhere, a couple steps away from him.
Bang, bang, bang.
It’s quicker this time, as if it’s trying to match Ciel’s frantic heartbeat.
If he doesn’t find a way out, he’s going to die here. Whatever lies beyond that door, soon, it will break through it and go for his throat.
His gaze darts to Bitter Rabbit. Maybe, if he pretends to be distracted, it can dig another hole through which he can escape. Any option sounds better than opening that door.
... (Waiting for something to happen?)
“Please! Please, help me!”
... (If you’re looking for a way out... there is always one... but...)
A way out... yes, that’s exactly what he’s looking for. Why won’t Bitter Rabbit help him find it? The knocking is getting louder; he’s running out of time.
Maybe the answer is in his favourite book. He snatches it from the floor and flings it open, but the words are smudged to the point of being illegible, just like the poscript of that letter. Even when Ciel flips to another page, the result is the same.
What is he going to do now? From the corner of his field of vision, he thinks he catches the door tremble under the force of that constant thumping.
The cup of milk and honey doesn’t look like it would be of much use, either. The harder Ciel is trying to come up with a solution, the muddier his thoughts seem to get. Bitter Rabbit speaks in riddles, his book is unreadable... is there really nothing he can count on?
Wait. There’s still that box of matches in his pocket, right? The moment he remembers, he fishes it out and slides it open. He’s not sure in what way a box of matches is supposed to constitute a way out. This is a stupid idea, isn’t it?
Bang, bang, bang.
Still better than doing nothing at all. Ciel plucks a single matchstick from its bed, strikes it against the side of the box, watches it flare to life. The flame quickly steadies and begins it slow descent. Its passage dyes the light wood of the matchstick black and twists it shape, making it curl miserably on itself. A sense of peace settles over Ciel’s heart.
What was his plan again?
Right, he doesn’t have one.
The feeling that he’s just committed a grave mistake lingers in the back of his mind, but somehow, even if this mistake comes with terrible consequences, it’s easy to tell himself that none of this is any of his concern, that someone else will face those consequences in his place, that somehow, as long as he doesn’t let go of the match until the very end, everything is going to be okay.
All that’s left of the match is a charred skeleton. The flame has reached Ciel’s fingertips.
Something so small can’t possibly hurt him. It shouldn’t.
And yet, as soon as the flame comes into contact with his skin, it spreads until it’s the only thing he can see, swallowing everything in a blinding red glow while the heat thickens into a stifling haze. Ciel feels like he’s been thrown into a pyre.
He screams–
And when he wakes up in his bed, he’s still screaming, the same burning red branded behind his eyelids.