rphantomhive:

The tension in the room was palpable, like a violin string pulled taut; tight enough that should anything go wrong it would break in half, and that was how Rachel felt in the current situation. She was walking a precarious line that could either go very well or very badly very, very quickly, and she was desperate that the latter would not come to pass.

There was no proper way to describe the grief and heartache Rachel felt in that moment as she watched each passing emotion flick across Ciel’s face — shock, surprise, horror, confusion — it was all there plain as day to her, because only a mother could know such a thing so well, know every detail of his face as if it was burned into her memory. He was older, yes, but he was still her Ciel in the ways that mattered. Her son. Her flesh and blood; sweat and tears. Her joy. Her sorrow. He was all of that. Ciel was the core of her existence.

She stopped in front of the desk, eyes fixed on the back of his head once he’d turned from her. Rachel couldn’t help the small flinch that ran through her at his words, though she could only expect them. My mother is dead. She was unsure how she could possibly even begin to explain her sudden re-appearance in his life, and so for a while she let the silence hang between them almost like a physical barrier. 

Then she took a breath, long and slow. A gloved hand shakily reached out and clasped onto Ciel’s shoulder. “Ciel. Ciel, look at me,” she coaxed; her voice was soft, but with an undertone of firmness that spoke of her need for the young earl to listen to her. She needed him to understand. Or at the very least try to, because she would have a lot of explaining to do and she knew it.

“I am here, Ciel. You must believe me. This is no trick or dream. I’m as real and living as you are—” she stopped, lips thinning into a firm line as she waited for the information to process. Her hand remained on his shoulder, as though the physical contact would keep them both grounded in the reality of the situation.

Even though his back was to her, he still felt her there. The warmth radiating off of her skin like it always did, her presence filling up the room as real as it could be. After he sold his soul to Sebastian, his demon butler, he thought that was it. There was no future for him anymore, there was no moving on or living in peace or being his parents successor. He ripped it all away from him for cold-blooded revenge, but what revenge is there to obtain if all he knew was a complete lie and there was no killer in the first place?

Would he lose his soul now?

The hand on his shoulder temporarily screeched his thoughts to a halt. To feel her there, just like she used to be, made him shake as if the ground was moving from under him. He heard her, and to ignore his mother was something a child should never do, but he couldn’t turn around. He took in a deep breath, his wide eyes closing, the tears that formed so quickly at the sight of her ceased, his eyes no longer stinging. My tears truly have dried up, never to exist again.

Crying was considered a weakness. Any tears shed for even the most perceptible of reasons was unforgiving and a sign of cowardice. One of the things Ciel promised himself was that he wouldn’t be weak, and he wouldn’t succumb to the devastation that was his parent’s death. He would take revenge for them, then leave the world with the Phantomhive name as strong as it would ever be. But at this moment, where he felt frozen in time, he realized the fault in his actions.

He acted so quickly, so ruthlessly, that cold-blooded revenge seemed to be the only option. His parent’s and his home was burned to the ground. The only thing left was the chalky ashes and some pieces of cement. Everything was lost. The beautiful garden that his parents took care of so well was blackened by smoke, fire, and ashes. Their bedroom, his bedroom, destroyed. Valuables were buried under all the rubble, including the ring that Ciel wore on his finger. His life seemed empty, he felt like he had no purpose. The young earl believed that if he gave up his soul, the one thing that belonged significantly to him, he would prosper. He would live up to his parents, who sacrificed themselves to be the Queen’s watchdog. They perished together, while he would perish alone.

Ciel realized that day, he was born to be alone.

“How are you alive? Tell me!” he demanded an answer, his hands balling into fists. This was no way to treat the dead. His eyes pointed at the ground now, and he stared at his polished black boots. The hand on his shoulder felt like an incredible weight. The torridity that he used to embrace was like a flame. Her touch burned him - her presence was driving him mad. Everything he worked for, everything he sacrificed…

The blunette took a step forward toward the window, placing his hand on the glass, watching his fingers tremble. The step created distance between the two, so her hand had fell from his shoulder. He still felt the heat of her touch, and his deep blue eye glanced away from his shaking hand to stare at his mansion, and the outside. Many would call it beautiful or calming. But right now he was too confused and hurt to recognize any form of beauty. Especially the reunion of mother and son.