Compulsion - Chapter 6: Quill of the Inferior

Sorry, all, for the terrible delay. This is just a build-up chapter for the next, unfortunately, but it's necessary otherwise I won't be able to update at all. (I have much stories to read and review, but school is getting in my way and it's been ridiculously burdensome.)

Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji.

Alois Trancy.

Those were the words that his mind has stumbled onto, that have emerged strongly, prominently, upon hearing Marquis Wright's story. The boy present at the village of Bardsley, he has blond hair and blue eyes—who else could it be other than Alois Trancy?

If it was him—regardless of the notion that there is no plausible way it could have been anyone but him, as the boy Wright narrated about was highly idiosyncratic—what could he have desired there? Was this where he had spent the past year dwelling at? Was this what he had wanted to tell him about during the winter ball? Regrettably, Ciel had not the provident judgment to inquire, back then. If only he could be educated on Alois' side of the story . . .

Well, it is not an impossibility.

Yes, all it should take are dabble of ink, a quill to write with, and a piece of parchment. He has listed the expedient requisites. But yet, his hand quivers while holding the quill over the paper. Why is that so? What can excuse the involuntary oscillation? Perhaps, it is because he is nervous? But, for what reason? Is he anxious with earnestly conversing with the boy after the unpardonably lengthy period of cessation between both parties? He has never been apprehensive about talking to Alois to this extent before; it is all a conjecture, yet again, but maybe he is acutely uneasy because Alois' temperament has advanced in such a flummoxing manner, that it discards Ciel behind in the dust.

What if all he speaks is childish nonsense compared to Alois' milled, impeccable style? Previously, he had no cause to feel inferior to Alois; it was always Alois who looked ludicrous beside him, the rational, sagacious Ciel. Alois was recalcitrant, absolutely difficult to manage; he was so rebellious, that even the Queen was depleted after chatting with him, and her loyal butlers were provoked to all but draw their swords. But, now, it is an entirely divergent matter. While Ciel was mourning the loss of his esteemed position, Alois ambitiously embarked on a voyage to explore, to attain knowledge and to aggrandize his experience. What he brought back with him, that is, his transformed, ameliorated disposition, overwhelmed Ciel, who had done nothing and faded from the light.

How frustrating it is, that his teeth collapse against his nether lip and his fingers tighten around the flimsy quill. He is not even fit to be called Alois' rival anymore. Alois has actually accomplished it, he has surpassed Ciel, overshadowing him to oblivion. While Ciel's balance of mind was dismantled and torn apart to fragments, Alois was calm, tranquil, and placid, all the traits worthy of admiration. Since when was Ciel so ignominiously weak that he had to depend on Alois of all people for assistance?

His grip loosens, mirroring his disintegrating confidence, and the quill flutters slightly as it frees itself and reposes on the surface of his desk.

He will never forget the embarrassment he had felt, the intense yearning to dive into the ground and to be invisible, so much that it burns his face and grapples at his heart whenever he ruminates about it. It is awful, it is humiliating, being saved by a rival he had considered substandard. What is he supposed to see himself as, now that he is transcended?

The fists trembling with fervor aimed toward himself are exposed to view before him.

But, still, Ciel must pick up his quill. He must draft the invitation. He must get to the bottom of this case. He does not know how Alois can help in this situation, or if he is even a significant figure, but the information he can bestow may be auxiliary to his overall goal. Whatever relations there are, no matter how slim, are worthwhile to pursue. That is a knowledge he has acquired after years of "detective" work.

I must do it.

But—

His quill remains untouched; it rests peacefully. There is an intimidating emanation securely surrounding the object, deterring his fingers from going near it. His well-trimmed nails, a token of his luxurious lifestyle, curl inwards, grazing the plane of the desk; although they are sitting only centimeters away from the quill, the much too minor distance is unlikely to be overcome.

I can't.

His sharp teeth dip even further into his lip, prompting a minute globule of blood to emerge; it tinges the tip of his tongue with a peculiar, metallic taste.

Again, it is his damned pride that causes him to shamefully demur.

When will he learn to swallow it, to accept its detached condition? Perhaps, he has grown much too unduly habituated to haughtily pointing his nose up to the clouds and adamantly denying any form of assistance. Well, he cannot help but choose to be independent; his direful past, he had to endure it all by himself. He had to rely solely on himself and his own willpower in order to rise.

It is definitely commendable, if one were to gallantly declare that he will abandon his dignity, when it is already so crushed. But, the second thoughts sibilantly bustling about in a treacherous hiss in his head stand as quite a foe; what if he does do it, but then mortifies himself? Why is he constantly obliged to shoulder humiliation after humiliation?

The quill does not move.

He cannot do it, after all.

On the umpteenth time that the rancorous Ciel shouts, "I cannot do it . . . no, I must! Argh, but I cannot!" Soma whimsically opts to investigate. The prince, though relatively immature and guileless, is garbed in sumptuous, expensive clothing; his sherwani was manufactured from the finest of silk imported from China, and the quality of his churidars is unparalleled. Having been made very disturbed by Ciel's uncharacteristic and contradictory self-conversation, Soma barges into his study, with Agni, his ever loyal butler, close at his heels.

The sight is, surely, matchless: Ciel has his head bowed low, almost remorsefully, his network of navy-blue forelocks nearly coalescing with the desk; his hands are thrust into fists that firmly grip his hair; mushed, crumpled slips of paper rolled up into balls are untidily dispersed along the floor, their positions a consequence to his careless flinging about.

Inquisitively, Agni stoops down and picks up one of the scattered units. He unfolds the paper, smoothing out its wrinkles with such gentleness that one may assume that he holds it with much reverence. Its contents are then disclosed to him; the inky words are seemingly awry and distorted due to the permanent creases actuated by Ciel's immoderate alteration of the paper.

Dear Alois Trancy—

Ciel, evidently, has judged the greeting inadequate, and he has quickly skipped over it:

Salutations Rightful Head of Trancy—

Toward the left margin of the paper, Ciel has hastily scribbled his reason for deeming this inept as well: Overly formal and methodical. As lifeless as a scarecrow. Exaggerated sentiment, how revolting.

To Whom It May Concern—

Repeating the practice of earlier, he has deprecated it with a spiteful comment: I believe I am only addressing Trancy, am I not? Preposterous.

Dear Earl of Trancy,

Apparently, he has found this acknowledgement suitable enough for it to be allowed to stay.

I wonder if you are doing well. Indeed, it has been quite a while—

He, again, has decided to start over. On the side lies a rather derogatory remark: How ridiculously stiff and frivolous the statement. Whatever posh impression I was questing for, it definitely has more effect in regards to inducing me to hurl.

I do not wish to beat around the bush. I would like to address—

A heavy, uneven line is hostilely dealt across the said words, and he has given an account for the intriguing action: Now I am completely neglecting my propriety, while he upholds his to the highest tier. Is this not why I feel so disgustingly subordinate?

At this point, Ciel has filled three quarters of the letter with furious crossings, incoherent and rushed scrawls, and extravagant declamations, of which are composed of invective diatribes and sharp criticisms aimed at himself. Ciel's discrepancies quietly instill worry in the stout hearts of Agni and Soma.

"Ciel!" Soma calls loudly, intrusively perching his palms on the surface of Ciel's desk. He bends forward a bit, to curiously squint into Ciel's brilliantly sapphire eyes. "Do tell me, your best friend, why you are beating yourself up to and fro! It just makes me anxious for you, Ciel."

The tiny boy (well, to Agni's standards, he is but a wee peck) behind the desk is palpably exasperated by the unwarranted interruption; his brow plunges profoundly, as if a massive and cumbersome weight has just been dropped upon it, and the corner of his lips twitch to exhibit his boiling anger. Fermenting with agitation, he scrunches another piece of paper in his hands, and glowers unblinkingly at Soma.

"You are an annoyance," the Earl of Phantomhive seethes, unpleasantly. "Leave before I have Sebastian usher you to the exit. With force, if necessary— You! Give that back!"

While Ciel was griping and complaining, Soma has made use of the situation to snatch the paper from his possession. Deliberately ignoring the younger boy's demands that he returns it, he merely pushes the upset boy back down on his seat by pressing on his shoulder. He then tosses the stolen item to Agni, who is waiting expectantly. "Read it, Agni," Soma lightheartedly orders, flashing a mischievous grin at Ciel while still constraining him to sit. The poor boy does not have much bodily strength to boast of, or to utilize competently for that matter, and cannot properly oppose Soma.

Agni, on command, begins to read off the abused paper:

Dear Earl of Trancy,

Good day. There is something gravelly important I would like to discuss with you. It would be wonderful if you can—

"Uh, Agni?" Soma urges, cocking an eyebrow questionably, and he repeatedly taps his foot against the floor to exercise his impatience. "Go on."

"It ends here, sir," his butler informs.

"Oh."

Soma whirls around to Ciel, and plasters a bright, ebullient smile on his lips to rival the latter's deepening scowl in earnestness. There is latent sympathy stringed in Soma's demeanor as he warmly claps his hands on Ciel's shoulders, that does not go undetected by any of them. Ciel is infamous for equipping himself with a contentious and quarrelsome behavior when it comes to pity, and he grants honor and verity to the theory by belligerently stating, "Out of my sight, you two. This is your final warning."

The prince speaks very soothingly, despite knowing fully well that consolation is something Ciel detests on a regular basis (alas, the prince is an exceedingly obstinate being who will resolutely seek out the tender side to everyone albeit the prospectively unfavorable outcome), "Ciel, you don't have to do this to yourself. It makes no sense for you to stress about this person!"

Ciel petulantly propels his quill aside with a negligent flick of his wrist, at the haphazard recognition that he still has the despicable thing in his grasp. Folding his arms in a fashion he hopes is intolerably supercilious in order to devalue the confidence of the other individual, he reclines against his leather seat with an irritated sigh, "You wouldn't understand."

Soma scratches his head in frustration, and then pulls up a chair across from Ciel. Unsatisfied with Ciel's sullen and brooding expression, he energetically proposes, while pumping his arms with fiery enthusiasm, "I know what will get your mind off this! Let's play a name game! Finnian was playing it earlier, and I couldn't help but overhear it! It's a lot of fun; Agni and I have tried it out before." In response, Agni smiles and nods, and Soma eagerly proceeds to the instructions, "Basically, you take any two names, and create words out of the letters of both of them, within a thirty-second time limit. For instance, 'Soma' and 'Ciel.' Quick, Agni, think of a word using the letters of those names!"

"Hm . . . 'coma'?"

"Excellent! Now it's your turn, Ciel! Hurry!"

"Absurd," Ciel mutters, offhandedly inspecting the blots on his porcelain inkwell. "You both can enjoy this game outside. Leave. I have a letter to write."

Agni, as usual, is the first to notice the severe reduction of ardent light in Soma's hazel eyes as well as his dissipating smile. His prince frowns confusedly, as if endeavoring to solve a complicated mathematical equation, and he sulks against his seat with shoulder blades diminishing in rigidity and falling to a sluggish, spiritless condition.

"Why is it always . . ."

Initially, it appears as a tentative and experimental whisper, as though Soma is cautiously ascertaining his right to articulate his opinion; once he is spared of stern reproof, however, his innate tendency to vociferously exclaim his discontentment soon prevails as a dominant dictator of his conduct. He physically attempts to restrain his bitter disappointment, his fingers entwining around the arms of his chair.

"Why is it always Alois Trancy?" the dejected prince asks, affected by a considerable level of sadness that causes even Ciel to retreat from his preoccupation to focus. Agni, naturally, turns to his master, an extension of his exceptional concern for him. "Why does he always win without even exerting the slightest of effort at obtaining your friendship? I cannot comprehend this madness! He was gone for the past year, and although you haven't spoken of his name, I can read it trembling in your eyes! Why is that? Aren't we friends? Why do you gaze at me with little to no importance, when it was I that stuck by your side? What's more, now that he's back, you've been enslaving yourself over writing a letter for him. Why the hesitation, Ciel? This is unlike you! If he had wished to meet up with you, he would have gone out of his way to do so already. You told me yourself, haven't you?" The volume of his voice steadily increases until he is vehemently enunciating each and every word, "You told me not to cling to the past! You advised me to let go of the persons that no longer belong to me! And, I've listened to you. Now, it is the time for you to heed your own word, Ciel. The way you're acting at the moment is the complete contrary to the best friend that I know of!"

The Earl of Phantomhive is astonished and conscience-smitten—shaken, even, as he is unequivocally appalled with being reprimanded by the very one he has had low estimation of. Puerile, infantile, foolish, he has used all of those words to succinctly describe Soma; and yet, here he is, being harshly rebuked by him. Again, the abhorrent irony: those he has belittled are expeditiously surmounting him; perhaps, his days of glory were numbered long ago. It is such a depressing notion that he has no choice but to reserve himself for personal defense.

"Ludicrous. I'm not friends with either of you, and I'm not enslaving myself. Now, leave."

Indeed, all that he is currently capable of producing are denials. How reprehensible for an earl of a distinguished house.

Without difficulty, Soma disinters Ciel's uneasiness, by keenly deciphering the nuances in his friend's visage that struggles desperately to be blank and impassive. "You know I'm right, Ciel! Sometimes you choose to deceive yourself. That is when I step in to offer you eyes that reflect a different perspective!"

"Leave."

"I will not, until you accept my words as truth."

"That is not happening anytime soon, unfortunately."

"Ciel, don't be stubborn!"

"Leave at once."

"No!"

They share between them a sweltering, resentful glare, which fails to dismay either of them. When Ciel suddenly resigns against his seat, Soma is raring to rejoice in what seems like his surrender, but Ciel then utters the name that he is aware will thoroughly discourage Soma's relentless pursuits:

"Sebastian."

Near the Port of London, River Thames

While soaking up the calming breeze of the cool night, Lau looks toward his beautiful and everlasting companion that snuggles up against him to preserve warmth. His wistful gaze wanders aimlessly to the sky, and he sighs, "Things have been quite incongruous lately, haven't they, Ran-Mao? The chain of murders. There's even a hysterical woman roaming the streets and claiming that her husband has been missing. From what I heard, a deadly disease may be ravaging the villages in the countryside, too. I wonder when things will start to settle. . . . Ah, here comes our guest."

Viscount Neville Kynaston is a shady, nervous type of man, with a complexion so loathsomely pale it is on par with a specter's. A cylinder hat is—incessantly, as it would seem—atop his head to cast sufficient obscurity upon his face; the expedient shadows are not enough to conceal his identity, however, but perhaps the darkness, albeit how scanty, is a makeshift form of privacy and a comfort all on its own. Relatively tall but terribly lean, his physical frame is attired from head to toes with a brown trench coat of an excessive, tiresome length. He moves promptly, replete with purpose, but he would intermittently fling wary, distrustful glances behind his shoulder as he scurries to afford distance between him and whatever is kindling his paranoia.

Lau takes two steps forward, and widens the breadth of his smile into a cheerful grin. Kynaston, notwithstanding, does not think of the vivacity with much goodwill; he narrows his eyes suspiciously and provides a concrete, tangible space between the both of them when he comes to a halt. He even expends a moment to ogle in a condemnatory way at Ran-Mao, who is clinging to Lau rather pertinaciously.

"Good evening, Mister Lau."

An impetuous handshake.

"I hope you're feeling better, Viscount Kynaston," the Chinese man politely says, although truthfully, the man's pathetic health would never be an object of worry to him. "I heard you've recently caught a cold."

"Ah, yes . . ." his raspy voice trails off, as his eyes dart about Lau's countenance dubiously. Lau has to withstand the forthcoming laughter throbbing in the pit of his chest to signal of its birth; it would be inappropriate to snicker, despite his strong urge to display derision at the other man's farcical behavior. Will Kynaston be skeptical with his every word? Who has not ever gained knowledge of Kynaston's fluctuating constitution? It frequently becomes a popular topic to poke fun of in London. One day, he would be hale and robust, and the other day he would have deteriorated to a frail, sickly creature. This day is simply not his day to shine.

Kynaston then gestures toward the silver railing, which barricades the streets from the port, and they go to stand by it. Peering out at the mighty waves of the ocean ambushing the shore, made tenebrous by the night, he lets his grating voice—is it conceivable for someone's intonations to sound similar to creaks and scratches?—slip out from his barely opened mouth, "I'm going to go ahead and make the assumption that you have heard of the Noble Killer."

"Yes. Weird name he's got there. It almost has an euphemistic feel to it. So, we're just going to make small talk? Is this why you called me out?"

Solemnly, the viscount shakes his head. "Not quite, I'm afraid. You see, I had wanted to talk to a professional in the business, which would be you, the head of the Kon Ron trading company."

Lau prods Ran-Mao's cheeks with his fingers, his mind wandering off to Ciel, whose precise and punctilious speech never fails to grant him a headache, "Please, no formalities. Call me Lau."

"Indeed, I thank you for the offer, but I am more comfortable with calling you Mister Lau. As I was saying, it is you who is in charge of the imports and exports here, correct?"

"I own a branch of the trade, if that's what you're referring to."

"Yes, yes," Kynaston affirms. "Well, I am going to be exporting certain . . . goods to India, and I would like to hire you to assist me on the ship transaction. You see, the goods I am conveying . . . they are extremely difficult to obtain, and I do not want to lose them, or my life for that matter, during the journey. You are familiar with this business, so you should understand . . ." He whispers the crucial detail into Lau's ear.

Surprised, Lau exclaims, "Gunpowder? You're smuggling gunpowder to India?"

Kynaston plainly shrugs. "Business is business. I have stocks of them all piling at my ship. I'm sure you understand . . ."

Lau abandons his amazement, and replaces it with smugness. Of course he can relate; in fact, he himself has committed such a culpable crime a myriad of times before! Sail where the money goes, that is an aphorism of the black market. "I have qualification on contraband, yes. So what exactly do you need my help in?"

"Quite frankly, I am hiring you to be my bodyguard. I am a paranoid man. Nothing is allowed to go wrong in this pivotal transaction, and I'm not willing to take risks. I know of your skill in trade and deception, but most importantly, your reliable ability to rid yourself of any 'troublemakers' that cross paths with you. Mister Lau, protect my goods and I from harm. Protect me from the Noble Killer."

Is now the time to laugh? He is not certain. But, he laughs anyway, enjoying Kynaston's flagrant confusion unfurling like a well-coordinated stage play before him.

"That sounds interesting, Viscount Kynaston. Why not?"

The man nods, coughs a few times, and then spins on his heel to face the direction he came from. "Wonderful. I will see you in two days' time, at four in the morning."

And with that, Viscount Neville Kynaston departs, leaving behind a blithe and jaunty Lau, who internally flutters with anticipation. He fondly pinches Ran-Mao's cheeks.

"You hear that, Ran-Mao? You just may be able to test out your new clubs pretty soon. There's finally a chance to chat with this Noble Killer, if he chooses to come. I've been waiting for this. I wonder what he's like . . ."

Phantomhive Manor

Ciel busies himself with plucking out old and expired documents and letters from his immense pile of paperwork. Sebastian, on the other hand, is assigned the duty of getting rid of the material Ciel no longer needs. They toil tacitly and meticulously for several minutes, before Ciel shatters the silence, "What were they doing after you removed them from my study? The idiotic prince and his butler, I mean."

"Hm, they've returned to your townhouse in London. Prince Soma told me to tell you that it is a shame he is mad at you at the moment, for he would have personally gone to bid you farewell."

"I see." A flat, insipid reply. In his flagging constitution, he can barely retain much liveliness or vitality to contrive of a better response. Alois Trancy has expropriated him of any sort of vigor, as just contemplating about the inscrutable person is wearying him to the bone. Nevertheless, what is he supposed to say to Soma anyway? After investing in some constructive meditation, from his precious time alone in his study, he reaches the conclusion that perhaps earlier he has been a bit too unreasonable; he has his testy and irascible deportment to blame.

Ah, well. The idiotic prince will forget about it all in due time.

And with that, Ciel arbitrarily brings closure to the subject.

"Young Master," Sebastian murmurs, pitching the unemployable files in the trash bin for a later disposal, "is your letter for Alois Trancy finished yet?"

"Never mind about that," Ciel dodges the topic a little too swiftly that the shrewd butler quirks an eyebrow, and he falls back on a separate one, "I want to discuss about the happenings at the winter ball. We shall review the information we have gathered."

"Indeed," his butler agrees, "Sir Hughes' death marks the seventh murder of an aristocrat by the killer. The killer is circumspect, adroit, and highly skilled, enough to evade me. He will not be an easy target."

Ciel flips through his papers. "Furthermore, his pattern of attacking is much too random, but we can be assured that he favors the gun as his primary weapon. Three bullet holes . . . any significant meaning to you?"

"Perhaps just an assertion that the target will be dead?"

"Credible speculation. That'll pass for the meantime. I want to address the seventh murder, in particular. It seems a bit unique compared to the others." Ciel raises his index and middle finger. "Two factors that immediately come off as strange to me. The first is that the killer must be among those at the winter ball, since you were guarding the premises of the mansion . . . and yet, he manages to exit so inconceivably fast after carrying out the murder that it is almost unrealistic . . . unless, of course, you allowed him to."

Ciel's dark and somber intonations obviously humor his butler into cracking a faint, cynical smile. "Please do not accuse me of such a thing, Young Master. I am loyal to your orders."

"Very well," the Earl of Phantomhive relinquishes the rather unfounded claim that serves more as an mollification of his contingent impulses to assess his much too enigmatic butler. "Moving on to the second factor. It is that note left in Sir Hughes' breast pocket. It holds the most mystery of all."

Sebastian dutifully hands him a document that has been surreptitiously tucked in a pocket of his tailcoat. "Here is an economic report written by Sir Hughes that I have retrieved from his office, as requested. After crosschecking this and the note, it is made apparent that the handwriting is not the same."

"Yes, this is much too sloppy," Ciel proclaims with a disapproving grimace, after surveying the file with little interest. "Ah, well, I never expected it to be Sir Hughes to print his own name himself. I just wanted verification. Now that I have it, we are certain that it has to be someone else, no objections."

"As you have also ordered, I infiltrated the Scotland Yard administration center, and I scrutinized the note very closely. I have made a relatively small, possibly worthless, observation."

Ciel wordlessly signals his consent with an idle wave of his papers, and Sebastian continues, "Well, the piece of paper was creased in an extremely accurate manner, denoting that whoever has torn out that part of the paper from the whole had substantial time in his hands. However, the name appearing on the note was written rather hastily; granted, the handwriting still is neat and trim, but the remiss loops indicate a hurried pace. Moreover, I hope you have not failed to notice a splotch near his name; there was a drop on the piece of paper itself that varied in texture from the rest, signifying that the paper has expanded to some degree. And due to what? A drop of water. A salty drop, if I may add—my senses tell me that much—which makes me hypothesize that it was perspiration."

The Earl of Phantomhive is largely unimpressed. ". . . And? There are countless of circumstances that could have produced those results. Such as, the killer was dawdling with the paper, until he realized he was pressed for time, so he hurried to write the name. Perhaps, he was near a fireplace, and he sweated. It—"

"True," Sebastian says, his smirk evermore widening, "this may just be a worthless observation, as I have stated before. But now, I ask you, Young Master . . . why are you so certain it is the killer that has printed Sir Hughes' name?"

"Call it sharp intuition," Ciel drawls, as though he is bored, but, inwardly, he is thwarted by their lack of new data on the unattainable killer. Unable to vent as he does not know where to start, he instead throws some undesirable documents toward Sebastian for him to shred and wholly eradicate them. As he proceeds to search his pile, however, he—ironically—comes across his invitation to the winter ball.

So I was actually informed of the winter ball, after all. And yet, I told Lau otherwise.

Scoffing, he opens the top flap and peruses the contents:

Greetings, Honorable Earl of Phantomhive!

Ciel pauses there to jokingly think to himself that he should use this greeting on Alois. But, just before he could compliment his witticism, his eye catches on the invitation again, and he rereads it, painstakingly this time. When a paralyzing flood of realization deluges his tightened chest, he looks up to see that Sebastian is already smiling.

"So then," Ciel grumbles, crinkling the invitation, and stands up with a renewed sense of urgency, "I understand your implications now. We must hurry, then, to Marquis Wright. As it turns out, our friend here has been keeping a very important secret from us."