#Cloudia Phantomhive | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tothelasthoursofmylife · 3 months ago

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Paris, Seine, France – June 1848

There was a clock in this room. He could not tell where it was; all he knew was that its ticking reverberated through the entire room, echoing through the walls, the furniture, the ground, and pulsing through the air.

The clock hands were moving, gliding over the clock face with every second, every minute, every hour with a soft, deafening tick, tick, tick.

All while his time had frozen still.

He could not move; he could not think. His limbs were lead; his mind congealed.

He could not tell whether he was holding her hand or whether she was holding his. Was he anchoring her, or was she anchoring him? He only knew that their hands were clutched together, that she wasn’t answering him, that her chest was weakly moving up and down, and that the tick, tick, tick was engulfing everything, even eclipsing the havoc outside.

And that he did not know what to do.

She was bleeding out on a table, and he had no idea what to do.

A scream broke through the unrelenting ticking; it did not come from outside, but from within, beckoning him to do something do something do something…

But he was frozen still. They were in an empty café who-knew-where in Paris. There were no medical kits. There was no help. He didn’t know the way to anywhere. And his mind was blank besides the scream, the scream that was getting louder and louder, but there was nothing here that could help…

Except…

Cedric tightened his grip on Cloudia’s hand as the ice shattered around, reached for her pocket as the world came back.

The receiver.

Cloudia had never returned the receiver and had only retrieved Yvette’s transmitter, not Townsend’s. It must still be on his body – which was now being taken to Cecelia’s house.

Cedric held his breath as he let the screen flare to life and only exhaled when he saw the blinking stationary dot – and the blinking moving one.

Milton had said that the range of his transmitters and his receiver was not much, even with the supplementary stations Quentin had set up, and Cedric and Cloudia had separated from the others so long ago. Still, one dot was dancing over the screen, in a messy zigzag but clearly visible, clearly there. And showing them the way to safety, to help.

“Countess,” Cedric said and squeezed Cloudia’s hand, energy floating back into his body. “Please hang on. I will get you to help; I only need you to hang on.”

She stirred softly in response, and his heart ached at the sight. The pain deepened when Cedric let go of her hand, the loss of her touch sending a cold shock through his system even though their hands could not have been clasped together for that long. With newfound strength, Cedric shuffled hastily through the cabinets and drawers again, procuring some towels at least. He held one of them beneath the tap but an image of blood running, running, running into water blurred his vision momentarily when he reached for the handle. He pulled his hand back instead, turned to Cloudia, pressed the dry towel to her wound, and wrapped others around her. They made poor makeshift bandages, especially on a gaping wound, but it was better than nothing.

Cedric glanced at the receiver beside Cloudia. Townsend’s dot still hadn’t disappeared from the screen, but there was no time to waste; it was only a question of time until it did – just like it was a question of time until Cloudia…

Cedric shook his head free of the thought.

No, no, no.

With the receiver showing me the way, I would get Cloudia to safety.

Today was not the day she would die; not when I had any say in it.

Cedric gently lifted Cloudia into his arms. When her head rolled against his chest, he resisted the urge to drop a kiss on it and whisper into her hair that everything would be all right. He thought it instead, again and again and again, as he stepped outside, back into the riot-filled streets of Paris, even if he couldn’t touch the skull pendant necklace now and he knew that none of his thoughts could reach Cloudia. They were more for him, he supposed, the reassurances that he strung in his mind like pearls along a thread while he followed the way the receiver drew out for him. Still, part of him hoped that they did somehow reach Cloudia; and when she began to mumble softly, too softly for him to make out any words in the noise around and with his heart beating as rapidly as it did, Cedric considered it a sign that they had.

It was difficult to follow the blinking dot at times. The chaos was not ebbing away, only increasing, and it became harder and harder to navigate the streets. It did not help that Cedric did not know them and found himself now and then face-to-face with a dead end, or that there were people everywhere – fighting, running, building barricades. Every new road, every rounded corner offered a new challenge; it had been like that earlier too, only now Cedric could not let anyone get too close to Cloudia, lest someone grazed her, stumbled against her – made her injury worse than it already was.

He wished he could jump over the roofs again, but he did not dare to try.

But what was worse? Losing the signal and any way to find Cecelia’s house or a potentially minor worsening of Cloudia’s wound?

Cedric clenched his teeth together as he navigated the dense streets, dodged flying objects, and manoeuvred around people, all while holding tight to Cloudia and gripping the receiver so hard his knuckles came out white. Sweat was running into Cedric’s eyes. He had no hand free to wipe it away. The dot was skimming the edge of the screen, almost fading out of it. And there were so many people, so many dead ends, so many unfamiliar turns and streets. And so, so much blood seeping out of Cloudia.

“Hold on tight,” Cedric whispered to Cloudia and jumped. The breeze cooled his sweat slightly, and the higher he got, jumping from balcony to balcony, the more at ease he felt. The air was permeated with gunpowder, smoke, blood, and tears, even so high above; still, it felt fresher to him than below on the crowded street.

Cloudia groaned softly when Cedric reached the roof. “Are you okay, Countess?” he asked, his voice full of worry and his mind ready to scold himself for undertaking this reckless behaviour, but her mumbling response stopped the tirage because, this time, he could hear her: “I am,” she said. Tears welled in his eyes to hear her speak clearly, albeit weakly; it hadn’t been too long ago that Cedric had feared he might never hear her voice at all anymore.

“You’re so silly,” Cloudia murmured then.

Cedric chuckled. “I am, aren’t I?” He squeezed her gently before he moved along the roof and hopped to the next to catch up with the dot. It was quickly accomplished, and part of Cedric basked in the relief, but the rest of him urged him not to become careless now: Just because he had brought the dot of Townsend’s transmitter firmly into the screen again did not mean it would stay there.

And, indeed, when Cedric reached the river and saw the masses of people on and around the bridge, his heart dropped momentarily. He had to get on the other side to follow the transmitter, and he could not do it jumping from roof to roof.

“Hold tight, Countess,” Cedric said. This time, Cloudia grabbed his shirt. Her breathing was laboured, and her face was marked with pain, but her grip was still surprisingly strong.

“I’ll be careful; don’t worry,” he told her, though her action did not make him doubt his abilities at all; it only lit him up with hope and determination that everything would be fine – that she would be fine. Taking a deep breath, Cedric descended back to the streets. If someone had noticed them coming from the rooftops, no one cared enough in this turmoil to stare or enquire.

Holding Cloudia tightly, and she holding tightly to him, Cedric charged for the bridge. It was packed with people who were bound southward, either to try to escape the chaos north or let the fire expand. In the streets, one could be squished or trampled to death by the crowds; here, one could be pushed off the bridge, right into the Seine whose water horribly resembled the Thames’.

And there was it again; that image from earlier.

Drops, drops, drops of blood in the water.

Running longer and longer.

Colouring the river red and redder and…

Cedric pushed the image away, letting it dissolve in the stream of his memory. Forwards. He had to move forwards, not backwards. Towards the blinking dot on the screen, through the crowds of people, to the other side of this river.

It was a tight fit, with a few close calls when someone got too close to Cloudia, when Cedric ended up too close to the balustrade, but while he might not know how to treat a wound, how to save a life, he knew how to navigate places like this, situations like this. And he was so much more agile than he had been then.

Dodging people and objects; vision blurring because of the hectic movements all around; ears ringing because of the noise, the shouts, the shots, the screams and the cries. In the end, guards were trying to keep the people away and shepherd them back. Cedric swiftly evaded them too.

The bridge first led onto a small island in the Seine, and he had to take its second half to get to the other side of the river proper. The process for the second part was the same as the first. Cedric pushed through, and then he and Cloudia were fully across the bridge.

Euphoria rose in his chest. He would have jumped in joy if he hadn’t been carrying Cloudia. He would have raised a fist to the sky if his hands hadn’t been occupied. He would have, at least, let out one triumphant squeak if his euphoria hadn’t extinguished as quickly as it had risen.

Their dot was still blinking.

The second one was gone.

Cloudia mumbled a question that sounded vaguely like “what is wrong?” but the blood rushed into Cedric’s ears, and he could not be sure. He went, half-tumbled, to a side street that seemed refreshingly quiet. Leaned against a wall, took deep, gasping breaths.

The dot was gone.

It had been there only a moment ago. I knew it had been there only a moment ago. I had glanced at the screen right after passing the guards, and it had been there, blinking, beckoning – not at the edge of the screen even, but firmer in the middle.

And now it was gone. Vanished without a trace. What had happened?

Had something happened to Townsend? To the transmitter? To Milton’s towers? Was the receiver malfunctioning? Had Oscar and Barrington ventured to an area with no towers, with no signal? Had they boarded a carriage and rushed out of range?

But what did it matter what had happened to the signal. It was gone – and with it any chance of me finding Cecelia’s house and getting to the others.

Laughter sprung out of Cedric. It was not the joyous kind that came out whenever he was with Cloudia; it was darker, harsher – one that rattled both his body and his nerves. Cloudia tightened her grip on his shirt, dug her fingers into his flesh as strongly as she could; he paid it no mind as bitter, hysteric laughter took over him.

He felt so stupid.

He felt so useless.

He felt so lost.

Not much had changed then. It was still the same – I was still the same.

“What on earth happened?”

The question in plain, horrified English threw him out of his trance – and the voice made Cedric snap his head up.

Barrington Weaselton stared at them with wide, worried eyes. Cedric had never been so happy to see him.

“Oh, good Lord, Dia.” Barrington stepped to them, raised his hand to touch Cloudia’s face, maybe brush a lock of hair away, though he let it hover instead.

“She got shot,” Cedric pressed out. Hearing this fact out loud, saying this out loud, sent a punch to his stomach. “I’m so sorry.”

“How could you…” Barrington began but then shook his head. With this simple motion, he seemed to sharpen. His presence was always so loud already, but Cedric never quite understood how nebulous Barrington’s edges actually were until he laid down his usual coat for the one befitting a former knight and senior Aristocrat of Evil.

“Hand her to me, Kristopher,” Barrington demanded with the same force and authority as when he had spoken to Cedric at Phantomhive Manor a few months ago.

Cedric shook his head. “No.”

“Be reasonable. We have little time; Dia is bleeding out as we speak, and you can barely stand.”

“No.” Cedric held Cloudia tighter. “I can still carry her. I’ve carried her so far already, and I can get her to Cecelia’s house. Just show me where to go.”

Barrington mustered him. “If you falter once,” he said insistently, staring right into his eyes, “you will hand her over with no protest, do you understand me?”

Cedric tightened his grip and nodded his head. Barrington held the gaze for one moment longer before he turned, unsheathed his sword, and beckoned Cedric to follow.

The fighting hadn’t quite reached this part of the city yet. They had left the epicentre of it all when they had crossed the bridge, but bits and pieces of the chaos flared up here too before they vanished entirely when the buildings became grander and nicer.

Cedric asked his question earlier though, a mere two steps after they had left the quiet little side street.

“Where are Milton, Oscar, and Townsend?”

“We split up,” Barrington said matter-of-factly.

Cedric nearly stopped in his tracks, only his subconsciousness telling him that it might hurt Cloudia to stop so suddenly urged him forward. “You did what?”

“Oscar suggested that I turn around and try to get you. After all, you don’t know Paris and might get lost.” Barrington rammed the handle of his sword against the temple of a man who came too close to them and reeked of trouble. It was an eerily casual move, and it unnerved Cedric how it did not seem to faze Barrington at all. “I hate to admit it, but Oscar was correct in his assessment.” Barrington glanced at Cedric. “I cannot believe I am glad to have listened to him.”

“But how could you leave Milton with…”

Barrington silenced Cedric with one glare. “This is not the time to care for the Salisbury boy. Just be quiet and follow me. We must be quick.”

Cedric pressed his lips together. Cloudia murmured something he couldn’t make out. That she was making a noise let a little smile appear on Barrington’s face before he shoved some people away and led them down a few more streets until the sounds of fighting and rioting turned into mere background noise. The sudden change, the dissonance between this part of the city and the one they had left behind, was so stark that it left Cedric momentarily disoriented.

A few men and women in fine clothes traversed through the roads, and some polished carriages rattled through the streets here. People stared at Cedric, Barrington, and Cloudia, taking in their battered appearances, and turned to whisper amongst themselves. Barrington had sheathed his sword again, and when a man approached them clearly to try to send them away, Barrington merely placed a hand on the hilt, straightened his back, and stared at him. Without a word, the man turned around and quickly moved away.

Barrington then guided Cedric into the side streets, and they walked through its web until, finally, they arrived at the back entrance of the Williams family’s Paris townhouse. Cedric briefly looked at it but took nothing in; all his attention was on Cloudia and getting up the stairs without falling. How pathetic it would be to drop her now, mere metres before their destination.

Barrington knocked against the door – short, long, long, short –, and it immediately flew open at the last knock. Newman stepped before Cedric and tried to take Cloudia out of his arms. However, because Newman’s appearance had been so sudden, Cedric stiffened for a moment and didn’t let go. Only when Newman assured him that she would be fine, Cedric let go. He nearly tipped over when Newman lifted Cloudia out of his arms. The balance was off now; it was as if someone had ripped a limb from his body. He felt so hollow, and everything felt so strange and wrong that Cedric could only hover before the door. Barrington gently pushed him into the house.

The door closed behind them.

The lock was turned.

And exhaustion and pain crashed upon Cedric.

He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. His knees nearly buckled; he staggered against the door.

I was here. I had made it to Cecelia’s house. We had made it to Cecelia’s house. Cloudia. Cloudia.

Cedric shot out his arm, caught the end of Barrington’s jacket before he could leave. Barrington turned around, and though Cedric had no energy to speak anymore and could only huff, his sight must have been ghastly enough for Barrington’s edges to soften again. “It’s been a long day,” he said softly. “Kam will take care of Dia – and you should get yourself cleaned up and get some rest.” He let his gaze wander over Cedric and grimaced. “Really, you should get yourself cleaned up before Cecelia comes here and lectures you on ruining Michael’s great-great-great grandfather’s Persian rug or something.”

“It’s his great-grandfather’s Persian rug, not his great-great-great-grandfather’s. Don’t you ever listen?” Cecelia said as she appeared by the back door. “And I would indeed lecture you about that, Not-Kristopher, if I wasn’t so astonished that the Bookstore Boy’s hunch has been right.” She folded her arms in front of her chest with a grim expression on her face. “He dropped a plate all of a sudden and began to prepare a room as if possessed. Didn’t even pick up the porcelain pieces, and it was part of Michael’s great-great-aunt’s good tea service too.”

“That’s good to hear. The part with Kamden and his preparations, not the part with the plate,” remarked Barrington and patted Cedric’s hand that still held on to his jacket. “Kam was even ready beforehand; there is no need to worry, Kristopher.”

“Regarding this…” Cecelia glanced at Cedric before she shifted her eyes back to Barrington. “As Cloudia was severely injured, there are some things that need to be discussed, Barrington…”

Cedric tore his hand free from Barrington’s jacket at her words and stormed away before he could hear another piece of their conversation.

Cedric didn’t clean himself up, not properly at least. Wandering unsteadily, aimlessly through the stately house, he did eventually find a bathroom. However, when Cedric had turned on the tap, his intestines had made a flip, and he had had to turn it right off again. He had rubbed his hands and face with a dry cloth, though it helped little to scrub out the blood. Cloudia’s blood. Cedric dropped his face in his hands.

It had barely been ten minutes since Newman had taken her from him, but he missed her already, missed her scent, her warmth, her weight against his body.

But she should be with Kamden now. It was better if she was with him than with me. He could patch her up after all.

I only got her shot.

I should have been there. I should have been there. Instead, I had lost my damn glasses and let her go after Yvette alone.

Cedric ripped his spectacles off his face, flung them away. They rattled against the ground or the wall or a cupboard, he did not care, just as he sunk to the cold bathroom tiles. He drew his legs in, hugged them to his body, and rested his forehead on his knees. He hadn’t dared to look into the mirror, knowing that it would be a frightful sight. His body was sore, every bit of it howling in agony and strain from all the fighting and all the running. He had lost his hair tie on the train, and his long hair must now be tangled and dirty. He reeked of sweat and blood, and his clothes were sticky with it.

And most of that blood was Cloudia’s.

Cedric’s heart tightened in his chest. She will be fine, she will be fine, he kept repeating in his mind and hugged his legs even tighter. Before he had turned on the tap, he had put the receiver into his pocket, and it was now poking him in the side, nudging him to remember its existence.

With a jolt that let him cry out in pain, Cedric lifted his head and fumbled the receiver, Milton’s receiver, out of his pocket.

Barrington had split up from Oscar, Milton, and Townsend earlier, but had they returned too by now?

Cedric turned on the receiver. He held it close to his face to read the screen as it lit up. The dot for the transmitter in Cloudia’s pocket did too. Milton and, or Quentin must have set up towers in this area as well.

Then, where was the second dot? The one for Townsend’s transmitter?

Awkwardly, Cedric got to his feet, pulling himself up on the washbasin. He cursed as he felt around for his damn glasses for a second time that day. He wished he could move around this house at least without them, only he had never been there, and he doubted anyone would want to function as his eyes and guide him around – and he himself did not want this either. Eventually, Cedric found his spectacles again and put them back on; they were still intact, and he wondered for a second how much of a beating they could take until they shattered before he pushed the thought aside and stepped out of the bathroom.

He wandered around a bit. Everything about this house’s interior screamed exquisite, from the floors and walls to the decorative pieces filling up the rooms and corridors. Cedric, with his bloody, torn clothes, must look painfully out of place here. He did not care for it, however; the only person who might care was Cecelia, and he was not looking for her.

He was looking for Oscar and Milton, and when he couldn’t find them anywhere, he sought out Barrington.

“Didn’t you say Oscar went ahead with Milton and Townsend?” Cedric asked when he found Barrington in a small sitting room.

“Didn’t I also say you should clean up, change, and get some rest?” replied Barrington and put down his sword; he had been sharpening it until now.

“Milton, Oscar, and Townsend are still not here yet,” Cedric continued, ignoring Barrington’s response.

Barrington frowned. “Are you sure? We weren’t far from here when he separated.”

“Didn’t you check if they were here?” Cedric asked, panic and anger flashing within him.

“I cannot say that Oscar and the Salisbury boy are my favourite people in the world. And with…” He glanced at Cedric. “… everything going on right now, they slipped my mind.” Barrington was silent for a moment. “You don’t believe Oscar ran off, do you? Discarded Townsend and Salisbury somewhere and escaped? Oscar practically begged to be on this mission, yes, but I doubt he did that so that he could flee and not live as a convict anymore.”

“Maybe. But what if…” Cedric ran a hand through his hair until it got stuck in a tangled knot.

The signal.

The second blinking dot had vanished after Cloudia and I had crossed the river – and not long before Barrington had stumbled across us. Could it have disappeared right after they had gone their separate ways?

“What… what if Oscar kidnapped Milton and Townsend?” asked Cedric, feeling sick at the possibility. “What if he wanted to come along so badly because he also wanted to get his hands on the Queen’s box?”

Barrington blinked at him. “What would Oscar even want with it? He doesn’t even have it; Dia does, or you do, don’t you?”

“The Countess has it, yes, but Oscar now has the person who managed to find and steal it and someone who could open it and…” Cedric stared at the object in his hand, the receiver that should not exist – yet. Cold washed over him. The Salisbury Trading Company was known for its state-of-the-art machinery and swift deliveries; it was not beyond the realm of possibilities that someone might figure out that their machines were beyond contemporary. Just like Townsend had. And even if Oscar hadn’t figured it out beforehand, Townsend might have told him in an effort to wager for his freedom. Point at the unconscious man in their midst, spill his secrets, hope that it would entice Oscar to reconsider his orders.

But Barrington was right. Why would Oscar do something like that? I doubted a man like Oscar would do anything for money alone; one could easily become rich with Milton’s works – just as easily as one could wreak great havoc with them. And what else was there besides fast ships, radar technology, and prototypes of protective gear?

What else was there that could bring danger and chaos?

And for what?

I didn’t think it would be havoc for havoc’s reason.

“It is troubling and worrisome that they haven’t arrived yet,” Barrington said slowly while keeping his eyes fixed on Cedric. “And I have the lowest opinion of Oscar Livingstone; out of all people in this building, I’ve known him the longest too. You could ask every stone in Great Britain, and each of them would know how much I despise that man, but why on earth would he kidnap the Salisbury boy and Townsend? Or try to get his hands on the Queen’s puzzle box? It makes very little sense to me, I’m afraid, Kristopher. Oscar was also carrying Salisbury like an egg; he is taking the word he gave Dia very seriously, and I doubt he ran off with him for whatever reason or dumped him in the Seine.”

Cedric lifted the receiver. “This is a machine Milton made; it’s used to track certain objects. One of them is now with the Countess, and the other one is with Townsend – should be with Townsend. I used the apparatus to track him; that’s why I managed to get as far as I did. However, after I crossed the bridge, Townsend’s signal suddenly vanished. That would have been not long after you split up from Oscar and the others.”

Barrington mustered the object with a raised eyebrow. “This is concerning timing, yes, but are you sure that this thing isn’t just malfunctioning? I knew a tinkerer-type person, and his inventions tended to explode or not function as they should all the time. One of them even blew up a building’s entire west wing. There wasn’t an explosion of this calibre in this area, as far as I know, though that doesn’t mean that this thing didn’t just break. It could have broken down differently. Quietly. Or maybe it’s not whatever you’re holding that’s broken; maybe it’s whatever that is with Townsend.” Slowly, Barrington stood up and walked up to Cedric. “It’s been a long day,” he said and put his hand on Cedric’s arm. “You’re tired and worried; I understand it. I’m worried sick for Dia too, but you won’t help anyone if you don’t go and get some rest and lose yourself in wild theories instead.”

Cedric ripped his arm free. “I’m not making up stuff because my nerves are frayed and I’m tired,” he bellowed. “Why aren’t you taking this seriously? If anything happens to Milton too, it’s your fault!” With that, Cedric turned around and stormed out of the sitting room. Barrington followed him. He tried to grab him, but Cedric’s anger at Barrington’s inaction gave him enough strength to push his tired body to dodge each of his attempts.

Barrington swore under his breath and mumbled that he couldn’t believe he was doing this as he chased Cedric to the back door. “Kristopher, you need to lie down and get some sleep,” he called after him. Cedric ignored him and simply kept on going. He rushed down the stairs, and…

It knocked at the door before he arrived there.

Short. Long. Long. Short.

It made Cedric halt, his surroundings growing still for a moment while everything within him was in turmoil; his heart was beating too quickly, all fibres of his muscles ached, and his mind was scrambled.

After a pause, the knocking began again, in the same sequence as before. This time, it shook Cedric awake, made him hasten forward, unlock the door and pull it open and…

Oscar Livingstone stood before him. His clothes were slightly more battered than they had been before, though he was still carefully cradling an unconscious Milton in his arms while somehow simultaneously dragging Townsend and a man Cedric had never seen before after him.

Cedric blinked at Oscar in bewilderment. Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Could you let me inside?” he asked right before Barrington arrived and pulled Cedric out of the way.

“He’s… he’s a bit out of it,” Barrington explained and hushed Oscar forward. “He’s very tired and… there’s been a situation with Dia.”

“What’s the purpose of dancing around this situation?” enquired Oscar as he stepped inside.

“She got shot in the abdomen,” replied Barrington and closed the door. The instant the lock clicked shut, Oscar kicked Townsend and the other man to the ground. They were both tied up and gagged and wiggled around in vain to get back up.

“Why not say that from the beginning?” Oscar said. “I suppose Sainteclare is looking after her as we speak.” Without even waiting until Barrington had affirmed or negated his words, Oscar continued calmly, “I will lay down the boy; bring those two somewhere secure for detainment.”

Without another word, Oscar vanished into the corridor, carrying Milton with him. It was quiet for a moment by the back door; for a second, the men on the ground even ceased groaning.

“He’s back,” Cedric said in astonishment, having re-found his voice at last.

“Yes, he’s back, and the Salisbury boy seemed perfectly fine,” replied Barrington with a sigh. “I will get Townsend and the other one to the basement. And, Kristopher, please get some rest, you hear me?”

Cedric didn’t get any rest. Instead, he followed Oscar to a drawing room and watched him lay down Milton on a sofa. He took off his jacket and shoes, struggled with the weird utility belt before he managed to open it. He put every item away neatly, searched the room for a blanket, and draped it over Milton. Cedric was mesmerised by the scene in front of him. Oscar did everything with such gentleness, such care that he could not fathom that this was the same man who had sent him and Cloudia to the Witch’s Castle.

“Should I treat him like a ragdoll?” asked Oscar abruptly, startling Cedric.

“No, of course not,” Cedric was quick to say. “I’m just… surprised.”

Oscar looked at him for a moment. “I gave my word that I would keep him safe,” he said at last.

“I didn’t know your word had any weight.”

“I will quickly get washed,” said Oscar, ignoring Cedric’s words. “Do not wake him.”

Oscar left the room. Cedric fell into the armchair next to the sofa, stared at Milton lying on it, watched the soft rise and fall of his chest, and searched with his eyes for any additional injury on his body but discovered none.

I should be more relieved than I was to see him well. To have him here, a living, breathing proof that I had been wrong. Oscar had never kidnapped him at all; Oscar had never been a danger to him at all.

But still.

But still…

“Milton has been unconscious for quite a long time,” remarked Cedric when Oscar returned.

Oscar gently lifted Milton’s left hand and felt his pulse. “His heartbeat is steady, and he has no major external injuries, nor any internal ones from what I can tell. He must simply be exhausted; he will be fine,” Oscar stated and put down Milton’s hand as carefully as if he believed Milton to be a porcelain doll. And lying there looking perfectly serene with his gold-blond hair fanned out over the cream pillow and his skin as pale as ever, Milton did look like one.

Sleeping Beauty, Cedric thought in spite of himself and immediately pushed the thought away.

“Why should I take any of your words at face value?” Cedric challenged Oscar.

“You can come here and check his pulse yourself,” retorted Oscar and fussed with Milton’s blanket. “He’s alive and well. You engaged in a long chase through a city under siege. He must have crashed from sheer exhaustion. You look like you are on the verge of it too, Underwood.”

“Milton wasn’t that tired beforehand,” Cedric protested. “Yes, sure, we ran through the woods, the train, and Paris in short succession, getting chased and chasing, and I cannot remember if he got any rest before our five-hour-long ride to Creil. At any rate, Milton was holding himself together surprisingly well. Though his nerves had begun to fray when we arrived in Paris…”

Oscar turned to look at him, and Cedric sighed. “Yes, okay, okay, it’s a miracle that he didn’t crash earlier. Nonetheless, I think it’s concerning that he hasn’t woken up yet, even if only for a brief moment.” He narrowed his eyes at Oscar. “It doesn’t help that he was with you.”

“As I said, I gave my word to keep him safe,” Oscar replied dryly. A moment later, Barrington burst into the room. “Oscar,” he exclaimed, “who is that other man, and why were you so…”

Oscar glared at him with an intensity Cedric had not seen before, and he had been on the receiving side of Oscar’s death glares multiple times before. Barrington stopped talking instantaneously.

“Weaselton, I believed that you would have at least the decency to speak quietly when someone is asleep,” Oscar said in a lowered voice, but he could have just as well been yelling. “I suppose I have been too lenient with you.”

“Oh, you are…” Barrington began just as loud as before. Oscar glared at him, and Barrington continued quieter: “…not someone who should lecture others on decency, Yard Ripper.”

“Nevertheless, I seem to be more knowledgeable about common etiquette than you, so I am indeed qualified to lecture you,” Oscar replied. “And now please say what you want to say. I want you to leave before you wake him.”

Barrington glowered at Oscar before he cleared his throat. “Who is that other man you brought with you, and why were you so late, Oscar?” asked Barrington, keeping his voice low.

“He is most likely one of Townsend’s comrades,” Oscar answered. “After we split up, that man suddenly attacked me and tried to free Townsend. It was a hassle to capture him while making sure that Townsend didn’t run away, and that the boy would not get hurt. The operation took a while; that’s why I was late. I suppose Townsend must have had his base of operations close by, and that’s why I could and did run into one of his men.”

“See, Kristopher?” said Barrington and patted his hand. “A perfectly logical explanation for why Oscar was tardy. Now, you can sleep peacefully. Please do; please rest peacefully, you look horrendous.”

Cedric scowled at him, and Oscar tilted his head but did not say a word.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Kristopher,” Barrington said. “You had a delirious fit earlier. You look like you’ve been run over by a train or a squirrel that barely survived an encounter with a speedy carriage. I’m sorry but ‘horrendous’ is a mild descriptor in this case.”

“I’m not going to sleep,” replied Cedric intently. “Not before I know the Countess is well.”

Barrington groaned. “You stubborn idiot, can’t you understand…”

Milton stirred a little at Barrington’s raised voice. Immediately, Oscar patted his arm to ease him back to sleep. He then delivered a glare so fatal at Barrington that he fled the room without protesting before Oscar had even followed it with a “Leave” that was hissed with such force that a shudder ran through Cedric’s body despite its ill-treated state.

Thereafter, Oscar slightly adjusted Milton’s blanket and then sat down on the ground, leaning against the ottoman opposite the sofa Milton was lying on. He pulled out a piece of wood and a small knife out of his pocket. For a while, Oscar and Cedric sat in silence, with the only sounds permeating the room being metal on wood, Milton’s soft breathing, and the faint ticking of a grandfather clock. Cedric tensed at the latter sound.

Tick, tock, tick, tock…

The grandfather clock’s ticking mixed with the ticking of the café’s clock, pulsing within my head in canon.

Cold sweat broke out over my body. My breathing was uneven. My heart beating too quickly.

Tick, tick, tick… tick, tock, tick, tock…

So much could happen from one second to the next.

I didn’t know how Cloudia was doing.

I had stumbled across her room while searching for Milton and Oscar. Newman had been staying sentinel and taking and bringing objects from and to the room. I hadn’t asked. I couldn’t ask. I had simply turned on my heel and resumed my search.

Tick, tick, tick… tick, tock, tick, tock…

My clothes were so heavy on me, her blood on them pulling me down.

It was… it was so hard to breathe…

“You should rest, by the way,” Oscar said. His words came out of nowhere; he did not even look up when he said them. Still, they made Cedric flinch and pushed him back to the here and now. It took him a moment longer to realise that Oscar had said those words with an oddly soft edge to them. His tone made Cedric’s ears ring as Oscar continued with the same softness, “There is no reason for you to sit in this room. Your presence here helps no one. You can just go and find a room to sleep in.”

“I’m here because I can’t leave you alone with Milton,” replied Cedric, irritation rising within him.

“And why is that so?” Oscar finally took his eyes off his handiwork and fixed them on Cedric. “He is soundly asleep, and I have no reason to harm him. If I had any intention to do anything to the boy, I would have done it already, after I had told Weaselton to find you and the Lady. Why would and should I try anything now? In a house with so many people around when I had the perfect opportunity to do him harm earlier?” He tilted his head slightly, and the look in his pale blue eyes made Cedric squirm. “But you know that already, don’t you?” said Oscar softly. Cedric stiffened. “You are not here because you want to guard him.”

Cedric pressed his lips together, set not to reply, but the barrier slipped quickly. He had no energy to keep it up, and something about Oscar’s tone pulled at Cedric’s words, dragging them to the surface. “He is a very fidgety person,” Cedric said, at last, the words breaking out of him. “He’s always fumbling on his sleeves or pulling on them. I sometimes wonder if he’s constantly afraid of something with how he seems like he cannot find any rest.” He glanced at Milton’s still form, and his stomach churned at the sight. “Seeing him now, it feels so wrong because he’s just too calm. But, at the same time, it fits so well because Milton is also a very calm person and has an oddly soothing presence. How does that make any sense? I have no idea but that’s just how it is.”

Grunting, Cedric lifted himself out of the armchair and pushed himself to the sofa, made himself take Milton’s hand – the injured left one, not the right one as he didn’t like being touched there, and Cedric didn’t want to upset him even if he was currently fast sleep. Cedric checked Milton’s pulse. It beat steadily beneath his fingers, made his own heart follow its tune and stabilise and calm itself too from the sheer relief that Oscar hadn’t lied. “I suppose,” Cedric added quietly. “I want him to wake up because I just want to talk to him. But I won’t shake him awake for that, don’t worry.”

Oscar mustered him with an unreadable, blank expression on his face. “Now that you’ve reassured yourself that he is here and well,” he said, “you should go and rest yourself. He will wake up later than sooner, and you need to get yourself together before she wakes up.”

***

Everything afterwards passed as a blur. Putting Milton’s hand down, tucking him in properly. Leaving the drawing room. Wandering through the house like a ghost. Up and down, left and right. Moving without being able to feel my body; moving as if something or someone else was steering me. Like a wind-up doll one sets down to wander free and aimlessly.

Alfred found me eventually. I closed my eyes as he guided me gently to an empty room. He left quickly, apologising that he could not even fetch me some tea. But I was not upset. I knew that he was needed.

He smelled of her blood after all.

I opened my eyes again when I lay down on the bed. It was large and lush, and I felt out of place and small on top of it. I must be ruining the bedding, but the thought and worry did not take hold in my mind.

My mind was blank, and my heart was aching.

Somewhere in this house, Cloudia was lying and wrestling for her life.

Kamden could stitch up the wound, but he could not make it heal. He could wash away the blood, but he could not return it.

She was a fighter, but she had lost so, so much blood. And human life was so, so fragile.

A rattle startled me. It took me a moment to realise that I had instinctively reached for my chain of lockets. I pulled it out of my pocket, let it dangle in front of my face like a mobile. I hadn’t even told Cloudia about them yet, about the lockets that I had been carrying with me for nearly a hundred years.

Five lockets on a chain for five lives lost.

A friend, a child, a stranger, a partner, a…

I clasped the charm in the middle, held it against my chest. My eyes fluttered closed. I could feel her fingers on my head, could feel them running through my hair. I waited for her to speak, waited for her soothing voice to lull me to sleep.

But this time, Cesca had no fairy tale to offer, and I plunged into dark, dreamless sleep all alone.

***

London, England, United Kingdom – March 1846

The last tendrils of the sun had followed Cloudia on the way back home, and when she arrived at the Phantomhive townhouse, the sun had set, and the streetlamps had taken its place to illuminate the world. They were brought to life one by one by lamplighters and shone dimly but steadily, ready to keep the shadows at bay. By the time Cloudia passed through the townhouse’s gates, her street was lined by lights. And like the streetlamps, Cloudia felt set alight too.

She had been frustrated for weeks, and while she did not get any answers to her questions, a great weight had been lifted off her shoulders today, and she felt so light and alive. Thus, though she had walked for so long and so much, Cloudia felt oddly energetic all the way to the townhouse. Her exhaustion only caught up with her when she stepped over the doorsill and into the building. Her legs nearly buckled; her muscles cried out in tense agony. Because of her disguise, Cloudia had discreetly entered through a side door, and there was no Newman to help her. She stabilised herself on a small side table and then slowly and awkwardly made her way to the library as it was the closest room with places to sit and rest.

Cloudia immediately threw herself on a plush chaise longue as soon as she spotted it. She pressed her face into a soft pillow and groaned into it. Her body might have given up the instant she had crossed the threshold into the house, but she was still alight inside.

Today hadn’t gone as planned. I had been caught, arrested; I hadn’t been able to say anything I had intended to say, paralysed as I had been.

But all had gone well anyway.

I hadn’t scared Milton away; he had offered to meet me alone. We hadn’t talked much, but he had invited me to write to him.

I hadn’t been given anything to organise my thoughts or pinpoint the oddness I felt but a chance. And I nearly burst in eagerness to write to him now, as pathetic as it may sound, but my body, my aching, knackered body, gave me a firm “no” and a broad hint to get myself to bed.

If only I could get up this chaise longue.

“I haven’t seen you all day.”

Oscar’s voice sent a jolt through Cloudia’s body; she was sure that she had jumped in a lying position a few centimetres upwards too. With great effort, she rolled to her side and squinted. At the other side of this section, a small lamp had been lit, and Oscar was sitting by it, immersed in a book. He was so far away; still, Cloudia could discern from how he was handling the book that it was Paradise Lost again. Oscar had been in a particularly melancholic mood in the last few months and had been reading the poem with great intensity and frequency. Cloudia couldn’t remember the last time she had seen him reading anything else.

“It’s a childhood favourite,” Oscar had answered her a few years back, though Cloudia had never asked, only wondered about his love for that poem. “It brings me comfort to re-read it, even if I know it by heart.”

“A strange thing to say when you didn’t even look up to speak,” remarked Cloudia.

“That does not make my words any less true,” Oscar retorted. He flipped through a few more pages before he finally raised his head and fixed his eyes on her. They shone in the dim light like two pale dewdrops. “Did you do anything you wish to tell me?”

“No, but…” Cloudia considered him for a moment. She did not quite know if this was her exhaustion speaking or if she had been briefly possessed when she said, “You were married once, weren’t you, Oscar?”

Oscar straightened up in his seat. “Yes, I was. I am.”

“How did you figure out that you liked Trudy like that?”

The library was dead quiet for a few minutes before Oscar spoke at last. “I advise you to take all your questions to Williams, or one of your aunts and cousins.”

“I don’t want to talk to them about this,” Cloudia told him. “I’ve heard enough from Cecelia regarding this topic, and I would say that none of it was useful; it was mostly exasperating. I don’t feel comfortable speaking to my aunts about this, and I have talked to my cousins about this before – or, rather, I have listened to them converse about this. I also went to Kamden already. Nothing has helped me yet. I think I need more opinions on this because this is such an annoying state to exist in, and I suppose you’re better than nothing. After all, you have experienced love yourself.” As soon as the last sentence left her mouth, Cloudia wanted to take it back, take the entire conversation back and pretend she had never raised the topic, but then Oscar replied before she could.

“I am certain you can find someone else who is better equipped at this than me,” Oscar said and played with the edge of a book page. “My experience was, is, hardly considered normal.”

“Well, I don’t feel particularly normal about this either. So?”

He drew his fingers along the sides of his book but kept his eyes on Cloudia as he said quietly, “Because it was always only Trudy. I’ve never been in love with anyone before I met her, and I will never be again.”

Cloudia blinked at him. “What do you mean?” she asked and sat up quietly, settling herself properly into the chaise longue while she listened to Oscar.

“My mother gave her heart to my father, and it ate her from within,” Oscar continued haltingly. “I doubted I would ever experience anything like that myself, and I did not care that I would never. Growing up, I rarely had anything to do with children my age, but I would overhear conversations now and then. I never understood their infatuations, how they filled them with so much pain, and how people still couldn’t live without them.

“When I joined the army, I was surrounded by people my age and much older. I was often invited to go along with them to town, though I would always decline. I couldn’t grasp why they needed to be with people in this manner…” Oscar cleared his throat. “I certainly had no desire or understanding for it beyond the basics. I had never been drawn to anyone like that as they were.” He paused for a moment, and when he resumed to speak, his voice was soft and quiet even if his words only came out hesitantly. And while his gaze was directed at Cloudia, he was seeing someone else. “I was twenty-one years old when I first met Trudy, and it took a few more years until things changed. If I had never encountered her, I would have never got married, I would have never had any children. Meeting her was an anomaly that could never be repeated, a chance so small it was almost an impossibility. I loved her first, and I loved her last, and I will continue to love her even if she is not there anymore because she is the only one I can feel this way towards.”

Oscar gazed down at the book in his lap. “What I felt for her was so foreign that I could not tell from the start what it was. I told you before that her friend had to help me out. My experience was not like anyone else’s I knew, not like anyone else’s he knew either, but he could still identify it and make me realise that this was what it was. Just because my experience might have been… strange, it was not less correct than anyone else’s. There was one for me; there are many possibilities for others.

“Love, as I have come to understand, has existed since forever, and though its conceptualisation was transformed numerously with the changing times and societal evolution, it remained unexplainable and unbound at its core.” Oscar paused. “And I’ve done a lot of research back then, to understand.”

And then, before Cloudia could let his words sink in and say anything in response, Oscar abruptly closed his book and continued, “But I also know that one can be drawn to someone else for other reasons beyond physical and romantic ones, beyond familial and friendly ones too. I would investigate the source properly before acting upon anything thoughtlessly.”

“Well, that was my plan,” Cloudia said. She was too tired to consider what he said properly, though his words had made her head spin with thoughts that would have to be sorted out tomorrow. “I’ve been agonising about this matter for a few weeks now, and, thankfully, Milton is fine with me tal…” She clasped her hands over her mouth. Her eyes widened. She hadn’t meant to say his name, not with Cecelia’s threat still so present in her mind, and it made her heart race that she had.

Oscar looked up again, peered at her through his shining, unreadable blue eyes. “Milton, huh?”

#watchdog of the queen #main chapters #cloudia phantomhive #claudia phantomhive #undertaker #kuroshitsuji #black butler #fanfic #I will add a cover image when I return in October #I simply didn't have time to do one but I DID finish the chapter #and that's the important thing I would say #happy (?) reading <3

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