Now:

The chairs and settee were a soft faded brocade, olive-green and gold, and the low maple table between reflected the amber flicker of the fire in the grate, its mantle edged with delft tile. Helen, her hair still wet and loose, wrapped her hands and feet in her robe against the faint encroaching chill of autumn. The demons, of course, were not hindered by the change and Ciel, perhaps, seemed faintly invigorated by it: for it made his otherwise sallow countenance brighten, and seemed to add a prismatic focus to his movements, a wild edge of abandon.

Each played their cards; hand after hand. Sebastian's cotton gloves, Jack's rusted suede, Helen's unpainted nails and Ciel, his slim violinist's hand bending as though at the close of a concerto.

The game ended, and at last the four made to retire.

"Goodnight, Ciel," Helen said, with a quiet smile as the two stood by the doorway to the hall.

"Goodnight, miss Abberline," Ciel said in return. For a moment, she clasped his hand: warm and mortal.

By the fire, where the others stood watching, it seemed so very quick and instant; that connection. The one moment where both stood together between the warmth of the sitting room and the creaking floors beyond, their unknown turns.

Sebastian looked at the demon beside him, who had frowned, and Jack, returning his look, let his irritation show in his bright-sparked eyes.

"She will move on from this soon enough," Sebastian said, when they were alone in the room; though the ever-present brush of Ciel's regard still stayed faintly with him, beyond the span of their bodies. "When she cannot rest any longer. The blood in her veins will sing out for motion."

"And you, Sebastian," Jack said quietly. "What of your blood? You were made for better than this. Stagnation has withered you."

Sebastian threw his head back and laughed; and met Jack's incredulity with a quirked grin. "Can there ever really be stagnation?" he said. "The world is full of new wonders. They appear every moment and then pass away; short-lived creatures for those who delight in attentiveness."

"Sebastian—" Jack said, and reached out; and paused, frustrated. "Even the name is false. Don't you see how he has used you?"

"Jack," said Sebastian. "Don't."

"He's half your own magic now," Jack said. "And you're a shade. You really will admit no help. And I… greatly admired you, you know. Back then."

Sebastian sighed. "Those were other times, Jack and they are long past."

A fairy-tale, set before the flood

They were new creatures, all of them, and they had not yet taken the names they would later have: Jack, Hannah, Sebastian, Claude. The blood upon their legs had dried tacky, and their heavy wings shook under the weight of wounds unhealed. But here, in this moment, they sat by the muddy banks and watched the dazzling waves, and the shoals of fish leaping by with the flicker of brilliance, the colors of all things that glowed.

Claude, with his head turned away, slept lightly; the uniform which had been so sharply-pressed before worn until even the patches frayed, and medals, like trinkets, resting on the dull ground. Hannah, beside him, crooned a song no one knew but her, and washed her naked body, shaking the dust from her silvered hair. It became a dance, and the water which covered her washed its way across her brow. Jack sat, eyes fixed ahead, turning a sharpened piece of bronze between his hands; used, hammered by blows, bent out of all recognition. And Sebastian, sitting by the river under the wide sun, picked up the flat stones and skipped them to see how far they might make it across, before they sank at last into the green nothingness, which drifted into silt in the river's unreachable core.

It was hardly a moment, in eternity; and before long they had turned to walk their slow, separate ways, and did not go back again.

Then: 1348

Up on the rooftops, heels pointed, they sat trailing lines of souls behind them. The sky was bright with stars, and the souls, so many myriads of them, were so bright and brilliant, the constant whir of their cinematic records seemed to drown out every other sound, spiking their way from the ground in tendrils like seaweed in a rushing current. Only days ago, they had walked among the dying and pulled out souls that were not theirs to take, and the few reapers, harried and staggering, lost in their own battles, did nothing but glance at them with their acid-toned eyes, and walk on. They were still talking of it now; the downfall of the death-gods, giddy at their own brazenness and their power. One, with shining white hair, reaped more than the rest, driven without stop: they saw humans start as he passed, their faces growing pale, for he was no longer bothering to remain invisible. There, in his long black robes he went again, with the curving skeleton scythe over his shoulder. His silence had begun to be broken by spasmodic giggles; his boots walked over the dead, his glasses shining like another star. Calling out to him, Jack taunted him, holding a fighting soul in his hand.

Even such an equal death as this became so soon wrapped in fears and wars and massacres, excuses for worse actions. It had started as humor, thought the one who was not yet known as Sebastian, but something about it had begun to grow predictable. On the other hand, the world was shaking apart, there were constant small tragedies, wiped-out places with their buildings boarded, flagellants, wailing, those without power thrust into high position without notice, because all else were dead; or bartering for the worth of their work: she yet found amusement enough there.

The reaper stood there on the street below, watching the soul slip into Jack's mouth. His expression almost hid by the fringe that had grown ever wilder, brushing over his eyes.

Then he laughed again, a hideous thing, clutching to his staff; so self-involved that the two demons traded uncertain glances.

"You can't do a thing about it now," Jack said, shouting over the endless laughter.

The reaper trailed off into quiet chuckles, and then, looking up at them, grinned again. "Haven't you heard of Pandora's box, demons?"

"We aren't uncultured," she replied, slightly piqued. "No matter what the lot of you may think."

Jack, smiling, only stared down with his teeth pointed, declining to be drawn into conversation. For that is what she was doing—not quite the same as a taunt. Not quite as justified.

"Well, then," the reaper said. His long pale fingernails tapped out an incessant rhythm on his scythe handle before stilling. "You should know, you can't stop it either."

"Hah!" Jack sneered. "As though we'd want to! Go back to your martyrdom, death-god. We don't have time for you."

Without answer, the reaper turned and trudged away, leaving Jack unbalanced in his wake. "He left," Jack said, baffled. Then, with vicious excitement, "he left!"

She, who had seen the arrogance of dismissal in the reaper's actions, did not speak. What do you know, she thought. Strange mad being. What demon would ever flirt with such a pious notion as regret.

1400

The burning went on. Taking all things with it, to stop the spread of plague. The set ways, the quarantines at every report of its spread, the tricks used to clean each empty house of sickness. Even something of this monument, which seemed to herald the end of the world and laid death upon the street, became routine in time. That was humanity for you, she thought: they keep surviving. Striving, even now. Even when there is no hope left. It was almost admirable.

But on the empty streets where she walked, she remembered music.

Plague pits open to the sky, limbs extended stinking: dogs, mangy, at his heels, eating the dead. She was a scavenger herself, crow-winged, but she hated to think she might have anything in common with those slinking things.

She didn't know why it struck her so; she had never been fond of dogs, those groveling tamed creatures waiting on the cruelty of those who owned them, devoid of pride, but it had never impressed itself upon her the way it did now, watching the empty streets and the flesh with its pustules large and ungainly and the blood and the black spots.

She kicked one away, in its matted side, watching the thing cower in angry defiance, and she looked down upon the mass of flesh, still with staring eyes, searching for the bright morning sun. There it was, and there it remained, dead: and at last she walked on, and the dogs, who had circled around the alleys behind him, went back to feed.

.

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