6spoilers for the manga, namely the character who appears that year when everyone stands in the hallway
other warnings: noncon, hurt/no comfort, Ciel being nasty, major character death (happens at the beginning)
An eerie silence descends. On the hill that has become their battlefield, Ciel, and his brother, and Sebastian all stop short in something like surprise at how suddenly that reapers' scythe has been used against its owner. Sebastian looks down at his shaking hands with confusion that turns slowly to a triumphant smile, and the reaper himself looks at the bloody mess of his stomach and the cinematic record drifting its way into the air, bathing him and the demon in an eerie, white-blue glow, blinding.
"Oh," Undertaker says.
Sebastian steps back, his feet almost giving out, blood congealing thickly in his own wounds, the tiredness of an endless day hitting him with full force as the adrenaline that has filled his body for so long leaves in a rush of giddiness, making him lightheaded. The Reaper is dead.
Undertaker takes a stumbling step; clutches his stomach, almost trips over his own fallen scythe. They watch him, none saying a word; none expecting that in his last breath he will pull the living boy toward him and with his other hand take from his robe the small training scythe that had once belonged to Othello, and in that selfsame movement stab the child, take the scythe and twist it into his belly.
The turning of reels is deafening, now. Behind it is the hum of electricity, and the whole air around it is charged.
Ciel calls his brother's name; stumbles forward and is halted in his tracks. Sebastian stares, his eyes wide, his hand outstretched.
"You failed… your directive," Undertaker laughs, in a choking mix of vomit and blood. "At least his soul… is safe…"
He falls.
Sebastian knows it is true. Has felt the thin bond of their contract pull taut and snap between them—he has not protected the young earl as he promised; the unfinished contract is void. He is no longer Sebastian—yet what else can he be?
The young master is stumbling, gazing toward him, still in some shock; one blue eye, one purpled and ruined, but the star that had once glowed, carved onto its surface, is gone, and there is no answering tattoo on his own hand.
Yet still he catches the young master in his arms while the child takes his last breath. There is betrayal in that gaze along with the surprise, and perhaps regret too, but it is all clouding over, too fast, too unutterably fast. Sebastian wants to say so many things, wants to make this right, but he has no power to heal; certainly not to heal a wound from a death-scythe.
"I swear," he says, without thinking, and he is surprised, distantly, to notice his own voice shake, "that I will complete your revenge."
The boy's eyes show some surprise. "Even... still?" the words pain him, and he coughs, and the only thing Sebastian can do is hold him close, feeling the warm living flesh and the blood, the soul that is pulling its way ever freer of the mortal confines—but not his to have any longer. Time is growing short.
"What kind of a… butler would I be," Sebastian says, "if I could… not…" he breathes in harshly, and the young master reaches up to his face.
"Seb...seba…"
Neither of them finish.
/
Ciel falls to his knees, uncomprehending. None of this was supposed to happen—this wasn't part of the plan at all—Undertaker had promised to save his brother. They were supposed to win. And now—
The demon that holds his brother's body keens, face pressed close against it, hands holding tight. Ciel could not get close, even if he dared—even when it is his own brother who has now died. He can't fathom it. But the sound of that hollow cry unsettles something deep under his skin, makes him feel nauseous with disgust: he presses his hands to his own ears and closes his eyes, wondering if, perhaps, if he wishes hard enough, this will be nothing more than a dream in Undertaker's coffin, if the lid will soon be taken off and the kindly old mortician will peer down at him and crooningly sing good morning, dear Ciel.
It's the only kind of wish he has left in him; it has been so long since he remembered what it felt like to be in mother and father's arms.
.
.
.
