So, I found this on my computer, and I was like "Huh, that's kind of interesting." This is my first and and most likely only Kuroshitsuji fanfiction.

Hopefully this is relatively clear as to what is going on. If not, do tell me.

Disclaimer: Don't own it.

Whispered words. Frantic words. A promise to take away the pain. All the pain.


A scarf falls to the ground.


"It's been like this for a while. He never gives me the words I desire. Ever since Father left the circus to us, he's distanced himself from me."


"He's the one who founded the circus. Who helped develop our prosthetics, who gave us new bodies."

"So this mark is Father's?"

"Yes. We belong to him."

"And by what name do you call him?"


"I don't know Father, not one bit. How can I greet him if I don't know his name? It's all right if you tell me, right?"


A name falls from trembling lips.


That face is burned into her mind. Pale skin, smiling lips, dark eyes, black hair. She can't forget it now.

No matter how much she might want to.

Why can't she get it out of her head? He isn't the one she loves.



"They are the servants of Phantomhive."

They will all die.

He had sought them out himself. The manor would be protected. The servants would keep it safe. One by one, the intruders would fall to the skills of the gardener, maid, and chef.

Even the woman would die…

She isn't important. Forget her.

She had been so oddly trusting. Her naked emotions had been delicious to play with. Her human beauty had nearly been great enough to tempt him.

Forget her.

She would have been a suitable consort for a demon. A beast…

They would all die.


Why is it only his face she can think of as she watches the match fall?


How irritating. They had blown a hole in the side of the manor.

That might take some work to repair. Hmm.

He bends down, speaking to the servants, picking things up and putting them in the bag he holds in his gloved hand.

A scarf.

He covers his recognition; the scarf goes in the bag without a second glance.

He burns the bag, but even as the flames begin to lick at the material, he can't stop himself from reaching into the fire and pulling out the scarf. He holds it in gloved hands, looking at it, unable to rid that vulnerable, human face from his mind.

He can't throw the scarf in the fire.

He can't burn it.

He can incinerate an entire mansion filled with children, but he can't burn a simple, battered scarf?



He keeps the scarf locked in a chest at the foot of his bed, never looking at it, never touching it.

He's tried to burn it again. So many times he has tried.

Yet he can never bring himself to condemn that simple article of clothing to the flames.

Foolish demon.

Foolish mortal.

Some things are never meant to be.

Sad... Reviews are always welcome.