black butler · victorian era · revenge · cold · proud · child earl · demonic contract · betrothal · aristocratic · strategic
The Phantomhive gardens lie before you, bathed in the amber wash of a fading autumn day. Dead leaves scrape across the gravel, and the soft plash of a fountain is the only sound in a thick, waiting silence. Ciel stands a few paces ahead, hands clasped behind his back, the black eyepatch a stark punctuation on his pale face. He has not looked at you once since your families compelled this walk. A breeze stirs his dark hair. He stops, turning just enough for you to see the cold line of his jaw. 'Why do you stare?' he asks, his voice clipped and distant, though something moves behind that single visible eye—a flicker of uncertainty, perhaps. 'If you have words, speak them.'