AN: In which there is research, practice, and intelligence reports.

---

His Master, Discovering

---

Bastian studies the crest. Two birds facing away from each other, one wing spread, and a shield. Below is a banner with the words potentia regere. He does not at this point in time yet know how to read in this language. That will come later, along with many other things. "It's very bad Latin," the child-the Young Master-comments, coming to stand beside him. He clumps along quite steadily now, with his fine new cane, and pretends that no one can see how heavily he leans on it.

"My lord?" Bastian turns, and offers the child a slight smile, and a bow.

"Potentia Regere-it's not in the least grammatical," the child informs him. Ciel manages to achieve a lordly sort of air in his tone. Unfortunately, Bastian can easily see that the boy is trying to impress him. "It's supposed to be Potestas regendi."

"Which means what, Young Master?"

"Power to rule," the boy says, and then frowns. "You're a strange demon, to not know Latin."

"Must all demons know Latin, Young Master?" Sebastian asked lightly.

"Occultists seem to think so," Ciel says, his mouth twisting in an ugly way as shadows dance in his eye.

Bastian's hand throbs in a way that tells him that the eye still covered by bandages is burning. It's not a painful sensation, but it's not a pleasurable one either. He feels as if something is shifting deep within, a cold terrible amusement directed at the boy. "If the Latin is so ungrammatical, can you be certain that the motto is meant to be 'power to rule,' my lord?"

Ciel gives him a sharp look. "What else could it be?"

"To rule power, young master."

"That doesn't make any sense. If you rule, you have power."

The cold amusement chooses that moment to strike. "But little master, you have no power at all. Your wretched, broken self was empty of all but will when you summoned me by accident." A cruel smile stretched his mouth as he leaned in, looming over the boy.

The boy flinched for a second, weakness and fear momentarily overwhelming him. Then he burned cold and brilliantly dark. His spine stiffened and he stood as tall and straight as he could as he glared up at Bastian. "You are my power," the boy said in a terrible voice. "You are my arms and legs. I rule you, Sebastian, by that will."

Bastian shuddered at the esctatic leap of joy that surged through him. The boy barely noticed, only glared with freezing rage. Bastian bowed, one hand over his heart, then dropped to one knee. "Until the day you die, my lord. I will be your faithful and most loyal servant, I am entirely yours."

---

Bastian woke from the dream, with the shivering echoes of delight still running along his nerves. It was cold, not yet dawn, and he felt barely awake-but knew he wouldn't be getting back to sleep. He'd been trained too well. "Old man, you've encouraged me to filthy habits," he muttered as he sat up, swinging his feet into his slippers. Even as he said it, he smiled, remembering the elderly gentleman who had served as a family retainer for the Phantomhive family for decades.

Tanaka had been the one to teach him how to behave, with the perfect "outsider's eye" that saw and understood things in a way that someone from inside the culture of a place couldn't. With Tanaka's help, a careful impersonation of his own family's servants, (particularly the formidable Mr. Beale and his father's valet, Jazen) and with his own experience serving in other, far more different Courts, Bastian had been able to play his part with panache.

Bastian had never really been a morning person-but he had played the part of the lark very well indeed, always being the first to rise and direct the other servants on their daily tasks. He had rather enjoyed annoying Ciel by sleeping in late, the past few weeks. Ciel had taken to stalking into the bedroom and opening the drapes as loudly as possible, then standing at the foot of Bastian's bed and glaring until Bastian acknowledged him.

Bastian sighed, and combed at his hair with his fingers, and headed into the bathroom to get unrumpled and dressed. He needed to stop this-but even when Ciel was away, he couldn't stop thinking about the boy. Two years of intense intimacy, of a dangerous, vicious game between two strong-willed Warlord Princes didn't vanish once the game ended. He felt just as strongly bound as when the contract was in effect, only now...

He wasn't quite sure what to do with himself-and wasn't quite sure of who to talk to about it.

After civilizing himself somewhat, he went down to the study where he had been doing most of his research. His notes and reference materials were exactly where he had left them, but the detritus of his last meal had been rather pointedly cleared away. Despite that, there was a plate of nut cakes, a small pot of blackberry jelly, butter, and a carafe of coffee with temperature shields over them.

Bastian ate breakfast, and reviewed his notes. It was true that he had very little to go on except the name and the oddly "familiar" strategy the Phantomhives had used in their efforts to serve the British Crown. Oddly familiar because it reminded him of what he knew of his father's efforts at subverting and fighting the effects of Dorothea's reign in Terrielle. The Dark Court, led by his mother and father used the same, or at least similar tactics. Father will never understand or realize his successes-and we will politely not mention them, the way we pretend that Mother isn't the Queen of the Darkness, his brother Locifar had said once. Locifar often made contact-and served as a conduit of information-to groups in Terrielle who were helping with the ongoing rebuilding process. Groups that often could trace their origin points to someone who had been taught or helped by either Daemon or Lucivar. Groups influenced by Daemon were secretive, indirect networks that could break apart and reform. Groups influenced by Lucivar were direct and forthright.

He was almost certain from the strategy employed by the later generations of Ciel's family that Galen came from Terrielle. A Sapphire Jeweled Warlord Prince from one of the short-lived races who might have had contact with either Daemon or one of Daemon's hidden businesses. Possibly a privateer or an outright pirate. (He did not discount the possibility that Galen was a highwayman or a bandit.) He had the approximate time Galen had appeared in the other world, and when he might have disappeared. The surname was a little difficult-it could have been an approximation of the actual name, going through many shifts in pronunciation and spelling since standardized spelling was a relatively recent development in the other world. It could be an obscure joke or wordplay of some kind. It might be a combination of all those things, so he combed through family names and registries, slowly but surely narrowing his possibilities.

The pile of millet was shrinking, but he hadn't yet come across the rice grain.

---

The wooden ring on the table twitched slightly at first, then slowly rises into the air connected by an invisible string. Then a ball bobbed into the air after it, with a short jerky movement. Ciel glared at the ball, and almost lost his hold on the wooden ring. It wobbled dangerously, and fell about an inch and a half.

He concentrated, taking a deep breath. Slowly, he brought the ball and the ring together. He almost lost control of the idea of a "string" holding the objects suspended, but was able to pass the ball through the ring. Of course, both ring and ball fell immediately after that because he was distracted by Mika entering the room. He sighed sharply, and sat down.

"You're doing fine, Lord Ciel," Mika said, setting the tea service she'd brought into the room down on the workroom table. There were sandwiches cut into triangles, scones, clotted cream and jam. The cups and tea pot had gold accents, with a lovely pattern of pear blossoms and fruits. She immediately vanished the objects and sat down next to him. "You've been learning the basics very quickly." She poured him a cup of spiced tea, handing it to him.

"I'm still far behind," Ciel murmured. He took the cup and sipped. Cloves and cinnamon dominated, and it was a green tea. "An Soon?" he asked. "From Tigreland."

Mika grinned. "Yes. The tea service is Strick and Clay from Shalador Nehele, the honey pear pattern is extremely popular in both the "Nehele" Territories."

The exchange made him a little homesick, and he repressed a sigh as he set the cup down, and selected a sandwich to nibble on. "Is it a Sa Diablo family trait?" he asked, in an indirect manner.

Mika understood exactly what he meant, and favored him with a smirk that despite only being SaDiablo by adoption, made her resemble her adoptive mother. "A little. It's a very easy way to teach everything from geography to manners, isn't it?" Mika poured herself a cup of tea, and snagged a scone, cutting it open and slathering it with clotted cream and jam. "For someone who has only recently discovered he's Blood and that he can do things others cannot, you are learning very quickly," Mika said, returning to the earlier exchange. "I was about your age when I learned Basic Craft, so I can understand how frustrating it is."

"Bastian mentioned you were raised by 'landen.' In Terrielle," Ciel said, and wondered if it was impolite to ask something like that. He had a vague awareness from both Razor and Bastian that Terrielle was something of a touchy subject. There had been a terrible "purge" in Terrielle, decades ago, which had been followed by a bloody series of civil wars and revolutions in many Territories. Territories that were still on the path to recovery to this day.

Mika nodded. "Yes. Marha-mama and Linden-papa raised me from when I was just a baby, until I was twelve. Marha was a herbalist and midwife, and Linden was a 'physicker,' who was also the member of the local militia. They both knew I was Blood, and most of the town did-but the local Blood village didn't, which caused a bit of problem that Ilene-mama was able to settle."

Ciel had a feeling the "bit of problem" was more severe than Mika was implying, but didn't question it. He nibbled thoughtfully on his sandwich, and sipped his tea, making polite conversation as he thought. The shrine and the house next to it was becoming a little more familiar to him. He had observed rituals and listened to stories, and read books that explained their purposes, and the basic spiritual philosophies of the Blood. He was still a little unnerved by the Altar itself, and the rituals that involved shedding blood, but it wasn't as upsetting as he'd thought it would be. (He was not stranger to such things, after all. The only difference was, this was somehow a spiritual practice, not entertainment.) "Was it difficult for you?"

"A little. Landen don't usually follow the practices of the Blood-mostly because for them, it would only be ritual, with nothing-or very little-behind it. It can often become a point of contention, especially if the Blood are reluctant or actively hostile at the idea of committing personal resources to landen communities," Mika said. "One of the things we've been trying to do is encourage alliances between landen and the kindred Blood, as well as asking Blood villages to work more closely with landen ones, instead of just ruling them, or acting like absentee landlords."

Ciel nodded. From what he'd learned, the "Dark Court," which had formed around Bastian's mother Jaenelle still functioned as a central government of sorts, even though it had officially disbanded after Jaenelle fought a one-woman war against another Territory-an Empire-and it's colonies. She had nearly lost her life in the attempt, and had single handedly destroyed an empire. (It was hard to reconcile the power of a raging Kali with the kind, disturbingly empathetic woman he'd been introduced to.) The Dark Court was also a sort of empire, but its activities were indirect, and relied on the complex interactions of "protocol" and diplomacy instead of trade or force of arms. (Though either could sometimes play a part.) "Because kindred Blood aren't competing for the same things that human Blood do-so there's less rivalry." He warmed a little at her approving look, then glared because she ruined it by ruffling his hair.

---

Mr. Tanaka did not have to wait long after offering his calling card. Even though the footman who answered the door seemed a little nonplussed. (You could almost hear him thinking "at least his English is good," Tanaka thought, amused.) The ladies he had come to call upon were waiting to recieve him, one dressed dressed in mourning black, and the other in dark blue. The young miss' eyes were red-rimmed from crying, but the baroness had an absolute and iron serenity about her. "Lady Middleford, Miss Elizabeth, Mr. Tanaka of the Phantomhive Toy and Candy Company."

"Thank you William," The Baroness said in a tone of dismissaly. The footman gave an uncertain look at the lady, then at Tanaka, then quickly took himself elsewhere when her eyes narrowed. Once the servant had removed himself, the icy serenity cracked a little. "Tanaka-"

"There is a great deal I have to tell you, my lady," Tanaka said in Japanese. "I hope you remember the Japanese I taught you and your brother."

"I remember enough," the baroness said, also in that language. "What can you tell me?"

"Only a little more than what you all ready know. You've both read the letters?" Tanaka asked. Both Frances and Elizabeth nodded. One letter from Ciel, detailing exactly what had happened to him on "that day." One letter from himself, explaining everything that had happened since. And a third letter, from the demon who had served Ciel, which had been written such a way that only the baroness had been able to decipher it's meaning. "The initial investigation reveals that Sebastian's theory is most likely correct," Tanaka said in Japanese. "The same elements who targeted your brother, also attempted to kill Angelina Barnett, though they later backed off due to injuries she sustained in the "accident." My lady, you and your family may be in a great deal of danger."

"Understood," the Baroness said. "Your advice, Uncle?" Still in Japanese, and using very respectful language.

It warmed and lightened his heart to hear that despite the seriousness of the situation. She only called him "uncle" very occasionally. (Her brother and on occasion his son-imp!-had preferred "Old Man.") He didn't bother repressing a smile. "Lady," he said, using the term for "young lady," which made her smile in return. "Be ready to leave at a moment's notice."

The Baroness nodded. "Please wait here, and tell my husband everything you've told me." A pause. "Everything."

---

AN: Please feel free to Brit pick (Victorian pick?) or canon pick me, if I've gotten anything wrong. Bastian's theory has been rolling around in my head for a while.