literature

Black Butler: A Second Encounter Part 1

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       I often cross paths with Grim Reapers during my travels, and for the majority of those interactions, I manage to avoid being attacked. They are neutral creatures, after all, and are on a tight schedule, so although I am a demon, the usual response to my presence is merely a glare; perhaps they sense that I will not trouble them… or perhaps they are afraid to enter combat with one of my kind when it can be avoided. (It’s hard to tell if you’re challenging the strongest among us or the weakest because our appearances rarely give anything away.)

       Because of the careful nature of the Grim Reaper, it is rare that one intercepts the same individual more than once. Grell Sutcliff, of course, is an exception to this concept because he appears to seek out danger like it is a necessity to his survival. With the loud, red creature, I had truly hoped that I would never see him again after the case of Jack the Ripper, but I knew quite easily that I would, no matter what result I personally hoped for.

       On the other hand, I had been quite certain that I would never see the redhead’s companion – the manager William T. Spears – again after that night. I later found, however, that my prediction was wrong.



       It has been several weeks since Jack the Ripper, and my Young Master Ciel has sent me on an errand pertaining to a newer case. The sun is beginning to set, casting oblong shadows across the city. The chill that is enveloping the air causes breath to be seen as whitish puffs on the wind.

       I have been absolutely focused on the task that has been assigned to me – to make a list of suspects – when my concentration is altered by the eruptive sound of a battle from an alleyway across the street. The humans nearby immediately scurry away at the sound of danger.

       Although I would usually ignore such a thing (it is common for fights to break out between humans or immortal beings), a strange force seems to urge me closer, to see what is transpiring within the alley. Before making a decision on this feeling, I consider how this would affect my schedule. A small delay is apparent, but I come to the conclusion that it would not affect my duties too greatly and I’d still return to my master earlier than he would expect. With this in mind, I cross the cobblestone to investigate.

       Near the end of the alley is where the brawl is occurring. It is a common fight – one between a reaper and a demon over a soul – and I am immediately disappointed that it is nothing really remarkable. I am considering turning on my heel and leaving when the demon is flung in my direction with a force I never would have expected from a Grim Reaper. I easily dodge the form as it comes at me, and the demon, seeming humiliated by this defeat, picks himself off of the stone ground where he has landed and leaps to a rooftop, disappearing from sight.

       I return my attention to the bespectacled immortal who is now calmly skimming through his book of duties as if the fight had been an average occurrence that could be forgotten instantly; he is obviously a veteran of sorts.

       It takes me a moment to recognize him as the reaper who had retrieved Grell Sutcliff after his affairs with my Young Master’s aunt.

       The last time I had seen him, I hadn’t had much time to observe him, so now as we stand in silence, the man that I had originally brushed from my mind without a second thought I am now seeing in a new light.

       I first notice his orderly appearance: he had just been battling with another immortal being, but his dark suit is still just as wrinkle-free and his hair just as tidy as if he had stepped out of his residence only a moment ago. I then notice his physique: although obscured by his loose-fitting clothes, it is easy to tell that he is lean and powerfully built, as if he’s been chasing down souls and gliding from rooftop to rooftop for the entirety of his existence. His face is angular and somehow elegant in appearance, and it feels that every bit of him is meant to function as precisely as the mechanics within a clock.

       He stands as if he already knows what will happen and without hesitance in his power, boldly commanding my attention without effort (and perhaps without intending to).

       For a long while, he remains gazing into his book, not even acknowledging my presence, and finally – but without removing his attention from the text within his pages – he says dully, “You’re the tame dog from the Jack the Ripper case…” His voice is clipped and as crisp as his facial features; it seems to come partly from his nose, which somehow accentuates his air of authority. I know he is not looking for a response, so I do not reply.

       After several more minutes, he tucks his book away into his suit jacket and adjusts his spectacles before finally looking at me. For the first time, I notice that his eyes are different from those of an average Grim Reaper; physically, they are the same polychromatic yellow-green, but they appear to hold an understanding unlike that of any other Grim Reaper I’ve seen.

       A story seems written in those eyes, and to an extent that surprises even me, I want to know what is there. I suddenly desire to dwell in every word that could be within them – every syllable that could be uttered by their wielder.

       He eyes me over with subtle intrigue, and I hope that maybe he finds as much interest in me as I do him.

       Big Ben chimes in the distance, signaling the end of one hour and the start of the next. The clock’s call seems to summon its clock-like reaper, and the manager turns his gaze away and begins his quick stride out of the alley, passing me. He likely has another job to get to.

       I realize quickly that I don’t want him to leave yet, so I step toward him without thinking my actions through.

       Although having been supposedly unarmed in the previous moment, his weapon is now suddenly in his hands, the sharp blade pointed at my throat. His eyes are alight with their glimmering power, and while his expression has only darkened slightly – a subtly harsher tilt to his eyebrows – a silent, threatening growl seems to be emitted by his gaze. If I had to breathe regularly like a human had to, I am sure that the air would have been knocked out of me at this moment.

       His ferocity is somehow beautiful and unparalleled in my mind. He reminds me of a wild creature lurking in the shadows of civilization – a creature so suited to and deserving of a different environment.

       Although I look at him now with reverence and admiration, I recognize that I have upset the delicate balance between us. He might be different from other reapers, and I might be different from other demons, but we are not friends – we are not even acquaintances; it is obvious that his first reaction to my sudden movement would be to protect himself. And indeed, he displays that he can protect himself quite marvelously.

       I step away to allow him peace, although the fire in his eyes that sends shivers throughout my body I wish I could dwell in for longer. Slowly, he lowers his weapon to his side. He speaks again, and the annoyance is evident in his tone.

       “I have souls to collect, demon, so I warn you: do not test my patience.”

       He moves to leave again, and I hastily conjure up a subject that will keep him near if only for a short while. “I have my own duties,” I find myself saying. “My Young Master has ordered me to find information on several individuals... I’m sure you – as a Grim Reaper – know a considerable amount of information on them.”

       He is silent a moment, and his emerald eyes dart over me as if he can scan through my thoughts, and I wonder if he knows that I am lying. He quirks a dark eyebrow, and replies, “Do you honestly think I would give such information to the likes of you?”

       I am not offended by his clear distaste for my kind because it is both common and expected. I only say, “No.”

       The intrigue comes back to his eyes; he’s obviously puzzling over this, wondering why I would request something from him that I already know I will not receive. I almost want to give him the reason – that I just wanted to look at him a little longer and hear his voice for more than a moment before he was gone again, where the likelihood of me seeing him a third time would be even slimmer – but I don’t say it because I know it will startle him. I just allow him to think it through and come to his own conclusion.

       At this point, I’m not sure what else I can do to keep him, and I recall that I must return to my own task given to me by my master. It leaves me bitter to have to go back to serving the brat while this creature roams the London streets at night, his shimmering eyes lit by the moon and his hair disheveled by the cold wind. I know he goes about his duties on his own (it is evident that he is a solitary being), and I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to travel alongside him through the shadows of civilization – a small possibility if I weren’t a ‘tame dog.’ But it is nothing more than a fantasy that I recognize there is no use in hanging onto.

       He will continue on his way as I will mine.

       But I’m desperate for something to serve as a memento of this reaper who I will most likely never converse with again – or something that will keep me satisfied until I can remove myself from the manacles made by my master and can come searching for him.

       Being that it had been mentioned so passively apart of his introduction, the manager’s name now escapes my mind. I think that his name should be enough to dwell on for a while.

       I know the question will confuse him, but I hope he will answer, anyway. I try to sound casual. “You’ve said your name before but I’m having difficulty recalling it… What is it?”

       It’s obvious that he is eager to return to his collections because he quickly answers my inquiry without reflection, perhaps hoping I’ll let him go if he does. “My name is William T. Spears, and while I am sure demons like you have oodles of time to idly talk, I have business to attend to. Excuse me.”

       He leaps up onto a rooftop just like the demon had, and I watch him momentarily stand with his weapon tucked under his arm and his book open under his nose. The moon is rising behind him, and the white light reflects off of his spectacles as he looks down at me and adjusts them.

       I take the moment to commit his voice, his speech pattern, his eyes, and his illuminated figure to memory, and by the time I attach his name to it all, William T. Spears has closed his book, and he leaps over to the buildings on the opposite side of the street and soon disappears from sight.

       William means ‘determined warrior.’ It suits him, I think to myself. As I leave the alley, I hope silently that my Young Master won’t get in the way of my hearing that same, icy voice murmuring from the shadows in the future.
This is just a little thing I wrote up some weeks ago. I just got around to editing it and decided it would be interesting enough to upload. :)

This one-shot occurs after the Jack the Ripper case in Black Butler (Kuroshitsuji). I don't really write in first person present tense very often, so this was a pretty interesting experience.

I suppose it's kind of SebastianxWilliam, but it may depend on the light you're under when you read. :XD: (It'll probably get more 'pairing-y' as the story progresses, though.)

I hope you all enjoy~

Part 2: naminem.deviantart.com/art/Bla…

You can also find this on AO3

Sebastian Michaelis, Grell Sutcliff (mentioned), Ciel Phantomhive (mentioned), and William T. Spears (c) Yana Toboso
New literature author tag (c) :iconchris-toe-fur:
© 2014 - 2024 Calciferous-Kelpie
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KatsuNoJutsu95's avatar
Cool! I like the style :D