Disclaimer: As always, I own nothing.

Author's Note: Since we haven't gotten much in the way of back-story for the servants, I thought I'd do a little writing exercise on their behalf. :3

Somewhat Important: The title is a bit of a pun. Ciel's name means "sky" in French.

More Important: These were all written BEFORE the subbed release of episode 21. Actually, I still have yet to see episode 21— all I know is that it revolves around the servants. So if anything in this collection is contradicted by the anime… well, that's why.

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Finding the Sky

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"You're pathetic."

She can't deny it. A tattered dress, old stains, dirt smudges and bruises… she keeps her hunched back pressed lightly to the cool brick of the alley wall, allowing the ice of the stone to sooth her battered body. A trickle of blood swirls lazily down the pale curve of her thigh; her half-exposed breasts tremble with each shallow breath. Curled mats of off-auburn hair tickle her neck, hanging limply in the stagnant, sour air.

No, she certainly can't deny it. And if it's reached the point that a mere child can spot how horribly worthless she is, then things have become far worse than she'd ever dared imagine.

The little boy before her—at least, she thinks it's a boy—makes some sort of move (a shift of the hip?) and snorts in the wake of her silence. "Aren't you even going to stick up for yourself?"

She thinks about it for a moment. Stick up for herself? She might have, once upon a time. But she can hardly remember those days, anymore… Instead, she shrugs listlessly and toys with two fingers, trying to ignore the persistent and unending ache radiating from her womanhood. "Why bother arguing the truth?"

There's an impatient taping noise on the cobblestone. It sounds like… a cane? Could this child be a nobleman? There is a certain arrogance in his condescending voice; she resists the useless urge to squint in an attempt to confirm her suspicions.

"If you know it to be true," the boy drawls, his words heavy with irritation and disgust, "then why don't you do something about it?"

"Like what?" she returns flatly, resting her chin on her knees. "There isn't much in the way of work for weak, orphaned women who can't see."

Another haughty huff. "That sounds like complacency to me. You're just making excuses. You must have other talents besides selling yourself."

He pauses. She assumes to take a better look at her, for when he next speaks she doesn't need her eyes to see his leer.

"…though I'm not sure I'd consider you incredibly skilled at what you do, taking your current state into account. Still, your eyes don't work properly, so the rest of you is useless?"

"I'm not useless." The retort leaps from her lips before she can stop it; she wraps her frail arms around her emaciated legs and curls into a tighter ball, as if trying to hide from the nobleman's piercing gaze. And maybe that is wise… because his stare seems to make something within her snap, and before she knows it her throbbing face is wet with tears, and she is whimpering secrets she thought she'd take to the grave. "But… I am pathetic. I mean, I'm thankful that I can't see. That way, I don't see their faces… and I can't remember them."

Silence. For a moment, she thinks the boy has finally gone on his way, but no—instead, he's taken a graceful step closer, kneeling before her.

His hazy face wavers ethereally in her weak, watery vision.

"But if you could see," he whispers, almost in her ear, the words sweet and laced with a bitter poison, "you wouldn't be in this mess to begin with. Doesn't that make you hate God?"

She hiccups once, wiping her nose on the back of her thin hand. "Hate God?" she echoes tremulously. For the sake of the conversation, though, she considers his question. "I don't… I guess I don't think about God all that often."

A chuckle. It sounds far too dangerous to come from the mouth of a child, and yet… "Wise of you. He doesn't listen, anyway."

The creak of a cane, the tip-tap of wooden heels. The swish of a cloak that seems to be heading for the main street.

But then the child hesitates again.

"…if I were to offer you a spider's thread," he suddenly asks, eyes returning to the mangled teenager, "what would you do?"

Spider's thread? The girl blinks twice in rapid, bewildered succession. "Excuse me?" she squeaks, tilting her head in confusion. And while she hates herself for not knowing what he's talking about, she hopes that he doesn't hate her. She hopes that he doesn't get angry. She hopes that he doesn't hurt her…

"I'm in the market for a maid," the boy continues, ignoring her attempts at seeking clarification, as well as her obvious fears. "And London could do with one less prostitute. You'd work hard in the Phantomhive House, but you'd receive shelter and food and a wage as compensation. Plus the added bonus of never having to act like a strumpet again."

He waits for an answer, acting about as patient as any other child who has decided that he wants something now. That is, not very. But her mind has long-since stopped—frozen upon hearing the name Phantomhive. She was being offered work in the Phantomhive House? The Phantomhive House? Her?

"…me?" Her pasty, wrinkled brow smoothes over in surprise, pretty pink lips falling open in shock. "B-but I… I can't…" Her fingers instinctively leap to her eyes, as if ashamed that they continue to sully her face.

But the child is over such excuses. "Easily fixed," he sighs, sounding bored. "Sebastian."

And from the dingy shadows, a voice like that of God purrs in sweet reply.

"Yes, my Lord."

Before she can move, react, or make any sort of noise in protest, two cold strips of metal brush against her pallid temples, and something heavy falls to rest upon the bridge of her nose. For the first, initial moment, she tries to fight— the last thing she wants is someone else touching her— but then…

Behind the glass, her eyes widen.

"Oh…!" The world. The city. The alleyway around her. She can see it. Everything is opening up to her: no longer are there only shapes and colors and vaguely defined lines, but objects. Things. People.

People…

Quivering with poorly suppressed emotion, the stunned girl looks up; the young boy towers above her, pompous and lazy and frowning faintly, watching her with an eye as blue as a sapphire. He is small and thin and as beautiful as a girl, bedecked in velvet and finery and oh, so perfectly lovely that a fresh round of tears begin sliding down her cheeks: tears that fall like round, shining pearls, shattering against the grimy ground.

Can he be God?

"Do you have a name?" the boy asks quietly, radiating a maturity and intelligence that far exceeds his years.

"I…" She gulps back another loud sob, falling forward and onto her knees. "I… well, it's… it's M—Maylene…"

"Hm." He offers her a small smirk—encouraging and confident. "Well, then, come, Maylene. You have a great deal of work ahead of you… Those glasses weren't free, you know."

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