Disclaimer: I have no claim to any of the characters or affiliations of the Black Butler series. They belong to Yana Toboso. I also have no claim to any of the quotes used. I have given each due credit, as best as I can.

Author's Note: I know, I know. I should be working on a new installment of 'For What is A Game Without Pawns?,' but I cannot help what I have inspiration for. Forgive the lateness of the other, and my recent lack of activity. I hope you enjoy this work as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Achluophobia

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"Achluophobia - An abnormal fear of darkness, or night." - Webster Dictionary

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When he had been young, he had been afraid of the dark. After all, what child hadn't been? He had gone through the ritualistic motions; His Father had checked his closet and under his bed, his Mother had left the hallway candles lit…and when those reassurances did little to ease his childish fears, he would pray. He would pray to God to keep him safe from the monsters, to protect his Mummy and Daddy from them, as well, and to never, ever let the lights go out. He had never thought until that night that prayer had been powerless. The lights in the Phantomhive Manor were the brightest for hundreds of miles that night, as the blaze lit the sky with embers and ashes of his memories, sparks of warmth swallowing up the sounds of destruction, of sorrow, of prayer. He had once feared the silence that the darkness brought. Now the sound of the roaring flames had taught him to appreciate the silence of sanity.

Like a star at the end of its lifeless existence, the blaze burned as brightly as it ever had, and ever would, before the lights dimmed and perished, never to bring salvation to the child again. God had not kept his promises…any of them, for the lights had gone out on his young life forever, and the monsters had come for his parents, and taken him away.

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"We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; The real tragedy in life is when men are afraid of the light." – Plato

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He had missed the silence, and grew to miss it more and more with each passing night, for all that he could tell was night. The difference of daytime did not matter to him, for where the monsters were keeping him, it was always dark. The only difference between day and night was sound and silence. The day was filled with long, torturous shrieks and howls of children being eaten alive by the monsters, their sharp fangs digging into young flesh, scraping bone away from muscle tissue, popping pustules of crimson and ebony. Iron clanged disharmoniously against brittle bone as he was thrust repeatedly against the solid bars and blood-dampened floors, rusted flakes soaked with sweat and salt and other vile things peeling away at his flesh as his insides burned, all the while the small, shrill voices crying out for Mummies and Daddies that would never bring the salvation of a lit candle through the doorway again, never open the shelter of warm and loving arms to protect them from the monster's reach…he cried. It was the last time that he shed tears, and it was not for the monsters, or the children, or even for himself, but for his parents. Shimmering trails soaked his sallow, filthy cheeks as he held his knees close to him, a realization burning brightly in the ashes of his tormented sanity as the flames had filled his home in the silence.

He was no longer afraid of the dark, and likely never had been. He was afraid of what was inside it.

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"In time we hate that which we often fear." - William Shakespeare

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There were other monsters in the darkness. They were not the monsters that he knew of, not the monsters that tormented him and the others, for this monster only came once the others had gone away, bringing always in its wake the staccato 'click-clack, click-clack' of booted heels on cold stone. The shadows always seemed darker when it would come, and it would never come too close, never close enough for him to see. He knew that it was watching him, but for what purpose, he did not know.

All that he knew was that this monster did not hurt him as the others did.

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He soon grew tired of crying, and began screaming. Soon he grew tired of screaming, and began fighting. When he grew tired of fighting, he began hating, and that was the beginning of the end.

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The taste of his own blood in his mouth was familiar to him now, and he had found ways to ease his pain by sacrificing the others around him. If he caused another child to scream, or to cry, they would take that one instead, to silence the unbearable noise. It was all that he could do. Humanity had reverted to animalistic methods or survival, and of them, Ciel was the fittest. It was a pointless fight, as whether or not his pain was eased or avoided for the time being, he had heard word of being 'special,' and 'chosen.' He knew that when his time came, his pain would be far worse than the others, and that his time would eventually come. It was inevitable, pointless to fight for one more night without the taste of blood and gore on his lips, but Ciel no longer knew how to stop fighting.

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"He who fights with Monsters might take care lest he thereby become a Monster." - Friedrich Nietzsche

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Somewhere between the rising welts on his skin, the blood choking his scream-sore throat, and the perverse grumbles and rustling of clothing as one white-masked monster switched places above him with another, Ciel realized that these were not monsters at all. They were human.

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"Hell is empty. All the Devils are here." – Unknown

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Each night, the monster came closer. He felt the air around him cool, chilling his bare, blood-soaked feet, wisps of darkness and shadow curling about his tiny frame as he sat, huddled amongst the remains of what were once children surrounding him in the tiny cell. The monster never came close enough for Ciel to see, but he could have sworn once that he heard it breathe, and with each passing night, the child felt safer wrapped in the darkness than he had ever felt in the light.

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He told them that he was thirsty, and so they forced him to his knees, and made him drink.

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When his time came, he was not afraid. He was angry; furious at the sky and the sun, furious at light, and sound, and prayer, and God. There was no God, none which cared for him, anyway. He sought no more help from those who were not listening, and instead chose to seek help from the only thing that he was certain existed in the world, anymore: monsters.

The price was of no worth to him. The only thing that he sought now was darkness. He would surround himself in it, and he would never have to be afraid of the light again, for he would become what hid in the darkness, what he had once feared…he would become human.

The monster did not frighten him. It did not appear as he had thought that it would. He did not know what he had been expecting, but what he did know was that its taloned hand was the warmest that had graced his cheek in what seemed like eons. It grasped his frail fingers in its own, and he wanted to hold it tight and never let go. His parents could not protect him from the monsters. God could not protect him from the monsters. Perhaps another monster could.

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"What God forsakes, the Devil takes." – Unknown

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A monster now tucked him into bed each night. There was no need to check the closets anymore. He preferred the light to be left off.

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He was no longer a child. He was not naïve, or foolish. He knew that this monster was his protection, but it did not have his trust, or his affection, or any part of him save for what had been given in the bargain. This was a monster from his nightmares, and he would find a way to control it. If he did not, it would kill him. He had no fear of this creature…but that did not mean that he was not wary. Perfect. Too perfect. It was tall, and eloquent, and punctual. It was physically appealing, and strong, and dangerous beneath the surface. He had always played pretend as a child, and now, he hated the idea of it. He hated the creature.

It grew from a hatred to an omittance, and from an omittance it grew to a tolerance. From a tolerance it grew to an acknowledgement and from an acknowledgement to a familiarity. Familiarity bred comfort, and comfort bred fondness. The fondness was not so much for the creature, but for what the creature brought him; safety, protection, successful results of his orders (each and every one of them)…and moreso than anything, entertainment. Boredom was a festering blister, growing and bleeding and molding in his mind, bringing him all the closer to an early demise…

Or was that the Demon?

…Oh. Oh, no. Perhaps these games were becoming a bit too serious.

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These games were certainly becoming too serious. Where once he could find a simple thrill in scraping the Demon's shoulder with a dart, or garnering the infinitesimal twitch of a brow to wreck and ravage that too-perfect expression of smug superiority and calmness, he now found that such things were lacking in the adrenaline and excitement that he sought. He was forced to find other, more dangerous methods of entertaining himself…yet still, the only suitable opponent was the Demon. The risks grew higher, and the games developed as he grew.

He played against himself moreso than the Demon, as the Demon, if involved, would certainly prove to be dangerous; and so his opponent was himself. He tested his own limits, and the Demon's. How could he outwit the other? How could he delve into his mind without getting caught? He was rather entertained by his conversations with the Demon…until the Demon started playing back.

It was not long before the games became more dangerous. He did not miss the glances. He did not miss the tensing muscles. He did not miss the nearly imperceptible hesitation that the Demon took on that final button of his off-white collar, or the sweeping covering of his plush towel. He did not miss the too-quick second, the too-soft 'accidental' brush of satin-gloved fingers to his porcelain skin. Ciel Phantomhive never overlooked anything anymore, especially the Demon. Every action was considered, analyzed, stored away. Every one was thoroughly thought upon, but never considered seriously.

He would never be fool enough to let the monsters take him away again.

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Days turned to months, and months turned to years. Hatred spurred him forward, and as his hatred and love for games grew large enough to swallow the land, he found himself being swallowed by his own inadequacies. Ciel Phantomhive was an accomplished liar. He had even managed to fool himself into believing that the fondness had truly been for the game, and not for his opponent. It was only human nature, after all, to grow fond of the only thing that one kept close, was it not? No. He would not give himself excuses. He never regretted the moves that he made. It was weakness. The Demon was weakness. It was eating away at him…but it was only the beginning. It was not the end. He would not let it come to the end. It was only a fondness for the creature's quirks; for the way that he stood, and the voice that he used when they were alone, and the feel of that satin on his cheek, both foreign and achingly, nostalgically, cruelly familiar, a reminder of the fear, of the salvation…

Demons were not salvation, and fondness was only that.

He would not lose to this monster, because in the end, everything that he held a fondness for was a lie; a false skin, a faux voice, a loyalty and an honesty that were as transparent as the violet iris that had signed away his soul in blood.

He would not love what did not exist.

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"It is better to be hated for what you are than to be loved for what you are not." - Andre Gide

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Love was very different from lust. Love was dangerous, and could be his undoing. Lust was just a game…a game that he was rather fond of winning…and, as always, the only suitable opponent was his Butler. Subtle touches and coy glances spiraled downward, dragging his frail limbs and clouded, mismatched eyes into the deepest pits of the Demon's desires, tangled amongst the sheets and the creature and the darkness, breath heaving and voice demanding and pushingpullingtugginggropingneeding…

He did not need the demon. He needed the win, after all that the Demon had chalked up against him.

He needed the feeling of control. Even if he was not the one dominating, he still held all the cards. If he told the Devil to stop, he would stop, and that knowledge made Ciel feel safe. He needed to feel safe.

This was not Love. It was Lust…and it was only a game.

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He lost the game when he finally asked the Demon to stay the night after.

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Somewhere amidst the throbbing of his hips and the warmth of the Butler at his back, Ciel realized that this was not a monster…nor was it human.

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The tea was perfect. Too perfect, as was everything else. He had learned too quickly when taught, and he knew too much now. Too much about humans, too much about monsters…too much about the young Earl. He was no longer safe with this monster…perhaps he had never been safe in the first place…perhaps he had known that from the start. But Ciel Phantomhive never regretted a move. That was weakness.

It was too late to go back now.

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He heard a sound. It unnerved him in the night, to hear something breaking his precious silence, threatening his protection, his sanity. He calmed the frightened bird fluttering within his chest, quieted it enough to hear the sound more clearly…though, it would not seem to be silent, no matter how he tried. It grew louder and louder as he calmed, and it took him nearly the span of an eternity (or so it seemed) to realize that the sound that grew louder and the sound that his small ear listened too acutely for were one in the same.

A steady rhythm, 'tha-thump, tha-thump,' rising from the silence of the room, from his own bed, as steadily and forebodingly as the 'click-clack, click-clack' of those telltale boots in the darkness. A telltale heart. Ravaging the inner workings of his sanity as thoroughly as it ravished the chest that it sounded from within. It should not be there. It could not be there. It had never been there before.

It must be another one of the Devil's lies.

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"A truth that's told with bad intent beats all the lies you can invent." - William Blake

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More orders, more leads, and still no closer to his vengeance. His hatred grew and grew, and the sound within his bed at night grew louder, stronger by the day, or the night, for they still held little difference to the child that was no longer a child. He threw his mind back repeatedly through time, struggling to recall exactly when things had changed, exactly when that sound had begun.

He could not remember. It was not his sound to worry over. He wondered if the Demon worried over it…

He knew very little about the Demon, and he cared little to learn more.

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Somewhere between the lines of Master and Servant, between the straight-backed bows and the heated hips straddling his own, between the hateful glares and the amused, delighted meeting of gazes that shared thoughts, spoke volumes…something changed.

When had it changed?

Perhaps it was under the Chinese fireworks, when the marble dust coated his lungs and obscured his breathing, for it certainly was not the flaking rust of old that glimmered in the Demon's eyes that had caught his breath in his chest so.

Perhaps it was in the damp alleyway, hovering over the corpse of his last-loved-living relative, when that nostalgically warm, satin-gloved hand had chased away the chill in his cheeks, and the faux-accented voice had sounded so very earnestly concerned, and he had reprimanded himself violently for hesitating to remind himself that the sound was a lie.

Perhaps it was in the chapel, when the light had returned, and all that he had wished for was the retreat to the darkness that he had become a part of, that his only protection ruled over, when he had woken amidst dust and ink and parchment, inhaling the scent of tea leaves and cinnamon and ever so warm in the dark-light of the Devil's gaze…

Whenever it was, whenever it wasn't, somewhere between the lines of Devil and Butler, of Child and Earl, of Human and Monster…

…Lust had become Love…and Ciel Phantomhive had chalked up his first and only loss.

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"Darkness cannot drive out darkness; Only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; Only Love can do that." - Martin Luther King Jr.

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The Demon knew, as well as the Not-Child knew. He was, contrary to his own insistence, as accomplished a liar as his Master. His Master had resigned himself already; had taken this not as a victory, but as a small enjoyment that he would forsake as easily as he had forsaken his soul when the time came for the Butler to return to the Demon. He would not hold onto this fleeting emotion, however wonderful it may feel to him now. He was no longer a Child. Love did not conquer all, and there were no such things as happy endings; still, the youth was not above indulging himself in an enjoyment that would no doubt season his soul to the finest once it had been wrenched from his greedy, spoiled fingers…

Somewhere between the transition from Child, to Earl, to simply Ciel Phantomhive, his goals had shifted from 'all for hatred, all for revenge,' to 'all for the Demon.' If it suited his tastes, then at the end of his afterlife, the pain and sorrow of a broken heart would be worth it to see joy and satisfaction etched onto those ancient, beautiful features. He deserved nothing less, after giving the boy what he had once thought was unattainable to him now.

All the same, he doubted. He had always doubted…not himself, but the Demon. He doubted whether or not the sound in his chest would be his own undoing, whether or not the Demon would be able to overcome the Butler, if there was indeed a difference between them anymore. Ciel had come to know less of the Butler, and more of the Demon, and he loved each and every tiny fragment of his existence, Human, or Monster, or Devil, or Butler, or Salvation or Demise…

It mattered not, for at the end of the road, he knew that Sebastian, and only Sebastian, would be beside him, and so long as that promise was not broken, then Sebastian was as good as God to him. He would never break his promises, he would never let himself be his own undoing, and he would never forget to leave the lights on. Sebastian would be all that he needed at the end of his time, and whatever would come to pass, he would not blame the Demon for whatever choice he made. He could disregard the sound in his chest, he could destroy the boy in seconds without a passing thought, and Ciel would be happy to simply die in his arms of his own volition, because he understood the Demon better than the Demon understood himself now.

He knew that the Demon loved him as much as Sebastian did, and so he understood why he had to destroy him in the end…

Because Love was a weakness…

And one could not Love what did not exist.

…

…yet still, he wondered…if what did not exist, could still Love.

…

…Well, he would simply have to wait and see. He would find out eventually, he supposed…after all, the end was inevitable, one way or another.

…

…It always had been.

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"Walking with a friend in the dark is better than walking alone in the light." - Helen Keller

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