Author's Note: *sings* This is the saga that never ends~

But you can blame Goodbyemyheart for that. Or thank her. Whichever you feel is most appropriate. XD

Warnings: Part of the "Hide and Go Seek" saga. Spans the course of the entire collection of stories, so it'd be best to know them all. The Latin is from "Si Deus Me Relinquit." The (mutilated; sorry! orz) poem is by the genius Goodbyemyheart. Standard series warnings apply.



"Oh riddle me this says the serpent's tongue
(Dark void with eyes of gold):
Tell me what is the price of a body bought twice
And a soul that is already sold?"


Remember December




"The Lord of the dark sold his soul for a lark…"


"Happy birthday to you…"

"Be quiet."

"Happy birthday to you…"

"I said be quiet!"

"Happy birthday dear—"

"I order you to silence yourself, demon!"

A virulent glower cut through the shifting shades of the hallway, as bitter and icily cold as the sheet of sleet that had affixed itself to the high-paned windows. Through that curtain of crystal, watery midday sunlight cast translucent crosses and crucifixes against the tinted marble of the floor; they were visions slowly blotted out by the twining fingers of the shadows, ever-reaching for the pampered earl. And as said earl shot another furious glare over his shoulder, eyes staining to trace the form of his most elusive servant, he found that he could pick out nothing more than wisps and whorls of gloom, patchy and ethereal and chuckling.

There was no light at the end of the tunnel. Not for him, anyway.

"Goodness me, master," the blackness then lilted, in a velveteen voice that echoed and resonated and burned and chilled— too loud and too soft all at once, grating against his eardrums like the talons of a gremlin. "Whatever is the matter? You act as if someone has died. You do realize what day this is, don't you…?"

Another callous chortle, sonorous yet subtle; the saccharine syrup of his tone was enough to leave his tamer feeling nauseatingly sticky, both inside and out—trapped in a spider's web and unable to wrench himself free, no matter how much he struggled. As if in testament to this, the man could feel ghostly arms twining around his chest, unfurling and coiling like the smile against his throat. He half-worried about his heart, pounding hard and fast against his ribcage… for if the monster desired it (in any form or fashion), it would undoubtedly be his in a moment. But no, not today—

"You should sing with me, master," the jolly devil cooed, and while his appearance remained concealed, the earl could feel him— yes, he could feel him everywhere— little touches that shot down his spine like lightning, static shocks and slivered glass. The darkness clung, parasitic and damning. "It is a most auspicious occasion, as they say..."

Vincent said nothing. And it was just as well. For even if he had, it would not have been heard over the sudden scream— the growing wail, like the ebbing and flowing of an ocean tide, that rolled from the locked bedroom and out into the hall, washing away the loitering flakes and filaments of the sniggering silhouette.

The oaken double doors creaked open, and an excited Angelina popped her head out from behind the heavy barrier.

"It's a boy!"



"…and a prison of marble stones"


Ciel was a big boy, now. Five whole years old (that's half a decade, you know) and so he was too old for crying. Too old for tantrums, or pouting, or nighttime irrationalities… or so said his mum, when she tucked him into bed after his birthday cake and picture book. There was nothing to be frightened of in the peace of evening, anyway— no monsters lurking under his bed or in his closet.

But there was a cat upon his windowsill. Stately and noble and black as the sky beyond the glass, its irises shone the same otherworldly red as the distant planet Mars. And it was not an unusual sight; the stray had been lurking on the Phantomhive premises for many years, now—no more a stranger than the shadows themselves, always skulking somewhere in the corners of the mansion.

All the same, Ciel didn't really like cats. Something about them (or maybe just this one) was too familiar. Disturbingly so—reminiscent of nightmares and stories of witches, half-forgotten memories of things that awaited mortals beyond the Veil. And though Ciel had once enjoyed the creature's company (back before he'd lived an entire half-decade), recent sightings of the creature had begun to take their toll on his lungs… freezing them over, turning them into useless stone. Aunt Ann would call it allergies, but the boy somehow realized that wasn't all; the fear of asphyxiation wasn't nearly as clawingly real as the horror he felt upon seeing the cat, wearing its Wonderland smile as it watched him through his looking glass.

Yes, this animal, his asthma—both stole from him his air, both for reasons he didn't fully comprehend. And though his father had once told him "we only fear what we don't know," Ciel couldn't help but think that knowing the full truth of either ailment would only serve to make things far more frightening. More frightening than be could ever possibly bear. (And though it would take him a lifetime to realize it, the little boy was right.)

A year for each finger of his right or left hand… The more he thought about it (on his own, as he was, in the stillness of twilight), the more that seemed like barely any time at all, really.

"Sebastian," Ciel croaked, whimpering voice muffled by the down of his comforter. His right hand (or left) had clenched around tasseled hems, lifting his quilt to create a barrier between himself and the rest of the big, scary world. Beyond, in the center of that big, scary world, the cat was blinking. Considering.

That creature was far too intelligent to be left alone with…

"Sebastian," the little one summoned again, more insistently— and when he twisted his body towards the door, hoping to project his reedy whispers further, he found that his dog was already there, waiting for his attentions. In greeting, two front paws pop simultaneously upward, finding a point of balance against the mattress; a silken nose nuzzled lovingly against the baby heir's side, moist and warm.

The cat has vanished. The air had calmed.

"Good boy," Ciel whispered to his regal pet, giggling as a silken tongue lapped against his cheek. In thanks for defeating the blasted feline, the little one invited his precious puppy into bed with him; it was a reward that the dog accepted without prompting, leaping into the waiting pile of pillows and blankets almost-before his master had made enough room to accommodate for his size. Of course, even after his cooperative shifting, it remained a tight squeeze for the mismatched pair… but Ciel was perfectly content to cuddle close, braiding pudgy fingers through tufts of Sebastian's tousled fur and drinking in the comfort that the canine's body provided.

And lulled as he was, mind wandering back to nightmares, stories of witches, and half-forgotten memoires, it never once occurred to Ciel how familiar the dog's auburn eyes were— shimmering like ruby-colored globes in the flickering light of the candelabra.



"And his Lady weeps for the House she keeps
While she weathers the night alone"


She was sitting in her favorite armchair when he walked into the luminous lounge, pale hands folded and cobalt eyes set. Waiting. Watching. And when the devil finally found her, his lips pursed around a jovial tune, her own mouth began to tremble, pressed into a fine line of acidic gratification.

She welcomed him with a pained "I knew it."

The waltzing demon's immediate response was a grin, pointed incisors flashing in the firelight. He'd had thought that he'd need an introduction (as it was rude not to introduce oneself, and he was nothing if not a gentleman), but it appeared that the earless remembered him, and instead required nothing more than the purpose of his visit. And that was something he was equally happy to provide.

"A good evening to you, my lady. I have come to help celebrate a birthday," the now-infamous servant announced, sweeping into a low and obsequious bow. Through the ruddy brightness (colored, perhaps, to match his vermillion gaze), the feathered ink of his leather-worn outfit glistened like black ice, glossy and frozen; a bloodstained nail lifted to dissect the white worm of his leer, laughter writhing beneath his skin like larva in a carcass, malodorous and covered with maggots. "But as I forgot to bring candles for the young master's cake, I lit the manor instead. I do hope the mistress does not mind…?"

He raised his pretty head, 'til then tipped at a mordant, mocking angle, and through the draping ebony of his fluttering bangs added, "And when we've finished with our feast, I would like very much to take home what is rightfully mine."

A hissed breath, a stiffened back. Rachel's pallid visage shone like a winter moon through the smoggy haze of night, spiraling ever-upward to cloud over the high ceiling. Dry winds whipped through airy scraps of a cotton petticoat; disheveled blonde ringlets danced amidst lifeless fireflies, glow worms hanging as stalactites from the threads of a moaning chandelier.

"He is mine, too, you know."

The monster's toothy sneer lengthened at this, fissuring his features until it seemed as if his smile might split his face in two. A breaking doll, masquerading as a man. "Indeed he is," the devil then agreed, standing without a sound. Beyond the relative safety of their bizarre and humid haven, there was the sound of crack-creak-shattering, as if the entire world was caving in upon itself—as if the House was being swallowed up by the greedy maw of Hell. "And I am ever-so-thankful, my lady, that our son inherited your beautiful eyes."

A noiseless step closer, needle-thin heels pulling pinpricks of tar-black blood from the floor. On the wall, ravenous embers ate their way through ashen flowers of decorative paper, consuming their meal like iridescent termites; beneath the doily-lace pattern of the resulting destruction, exposed coats of ancient paint boiled and bubbled like the layers of fat found under oily flesh.

"They say that one's eyes are a window to their soul," the monster continued in a mulling sort of murmur, cool talons whispering down the melting putty of Rachel's apple cheek. She, too, was a breaking doll—plastic liquefying in a kiln. "And you have been tempting me with those eyes of yours since the day that we first met."

The earless scowled, but did not resist his cloying touch. It was, after all, futile and foolish to fight against death, and she was no imbecile. (Perhaps, if she had been, things might have turned out differently...) "I am impressed that you managed to resist me for as long as you did, then, l'homme aux gants blancs," she softly returned, though not without a bite of contempt.

Five spidery fingers clamped around her porcelain chin, tightening like a vice; the crackle of brittle bone was serenaded by a folsom chuckle. Irritation and amusement, disgust and delight. The lambent light of the growing blaze added highlight and lowlights to his inhumane body, face, eyes… Rachel could see herself reflected in the unending abyss of his pupils, and realized (with a mounting sense of dread) the true terror of her fate.

But at least, this way, she'd be with—

"As am I," the creature quietly replied, parted lips lowering, lowering, lowering… "for devils are not built to resist temptation."

He left the burning room empty, save for a smoldering armchair and the echo of a song.



"Bishops and snows and shrieking crows
And kings on rotting thrones"


"Well, my lord…?"

Ciel hadn't thought he'd live to see his 11th birthday. In the grime and filth of the occultists' lair, amidst the frothy fluids— drying sperm and spit— of men, women, children, animals, the bird-boned boy in his rusting iron cage had assumed he'd breathe his last long before the white-washed purity of December came 'round once more.

But then there'd been the rustling of feathers, an avian cackle, and a flight freedom on midnight-colored wings.

"Young master?"

Ciel hadn't thought he'd live to see his 11th birthday. Hadn't thought the white-washed purity of December would ever find him again, would ever attempt to salve his wounds— would ever try to cool the flames of agony, hatred, revulsion that even-now wracked his tiny body, leaving him ill. The mere thought of his still-too-recent-past was enough to start him shaking, freshly manicured nails gouging into the fragile frost that left crocheted patterns upon his study's latticed windows.

He hadn't thought he'd live to see it, and so he had no earthly idea how he wanted to celebrate it. But why would he want to celebrate, anyway, on the day that saw so much stolen from him?


"Don't you ever shut up, Sebastian?" Ciel ground out, teeth clenched as tightly as his bitty fist. Against the glittering glass, the warmth of his flesh was melting the thin layer of snow; tears that he could no longer cry trickled down the frail curve of his wrist, dripping into the plush design of the carpet. "Stop asking me such pointless questions. I don't want a cake, I don't want a present, and I certainly don't want a party." He shuddered at the very idea, knowing the ruckus that little Lizzie would surely cause, given half the chance.

"But young master," the butler wheedled in retort, looking ever-so-somber as he left a gift of tea upon the earl's paper-strewn desk, "there are people who wish to rejoice over the fact that you are alive."

"Hmph." Ciel snorted as he turned his back to the rest of the world, holding his damp hand out to his demon. An unspoken order floated between them: pamper me, care for me, and for now, pat my fingers dry. Sebastian followed the charge with all manner of tenderness— with a flick of white gloves and a flair of a creased handkerchief. "My only concern is with those who wish I were dead."

The demon nodded curtly, the tilt of his head helping to hide his lengthening leer.

"As you say."



"Ever the wicked wolves she says…"


The kiss was a gentle, alluring tease that passed from lip to tongue and slithered down his spamming throat, crawling beneath his skin to vibrate and thrum like a second pulse, like another heart, like a hive of killer bees. Touching, tickling, coaxing, frightening; the memory of stingers, of pain, of pleasure. He could hear the hungry buzz of those newly-aroused wasps, resonating just-within the conch of his overheating ear; could feel his nerves, synapses, and pound-push-pumping blood make a writhing mess of his insides— furious and frenzied and in blatant contradiction with the serene sweetness he tasted, lingering in his mouth like a honeyed, candied mist. And the apple-sugar spittle that came to coat his lips-tongue-spamming throat whetted an appetite that he had only barely begun to notice—gradually taking hold of the stomach-below-his-stomach, the brain-beneath-his-brain.

I know that you dislike your birthday, my lord, but might I take the liberty of bequeathing upon you one meager gift?

The little earl tumbled against the whitewashed wall, finery catching on the graveled spackling that scratched and scrabbled at his back through his clothes. Familiar hands were caressing him, holding him firmly in place— he recognized the stroke of each finger, though he couldn't see them. That— like in the bath, carefully cleaning the puckered ridge of his scar. This— the touch of autumn mornings, digits dancing as the butler fastened a starched cream collar. Thata soothing embrace in a nightmare's aftermath, a dream in itself but reassuring all the same. And this

Too rash, too sudden, too like the lightning, which was accompanied by the thunderous crack of Ciel's hand, ripping like a kitten's paw across Sebastian's cheek.

"…I told you," the boy then panted, in a voice low on air, but thick with venom. He sucked down a shallow breath, hearing it whistle between clenched teeth; still, despite these calming efforts, his pasty countenance appeared to glow: splotched the same whorish shade of crimson as the print now-coloring his butler's startled face. "I hate presents."

But the stomach-below-his-stomach had started to rumble, and even as he stalked angrily away, Ciel found that budding hunger difficult to ignore.



"…and he smiles within my bones"


"My oh my…"

In the late afternoon gloom of the empty kitchen, a single shadow glided— an entity in itself, rummaging through the contents of a propped and opened cupboard. From the cabinet's spider-webbed innards, a spongy concoction was birthed; Sebastian set the cream covered confection atop the chilly counter, laughter curdling beneath the perfume of his breath as he combed dried grease from his hair.

"It seems as if the cake I made will go to waste…"

A pause. Deliberation. In the end, curiosity drove him just as much as starvation— a year since his last taste of lips and flesh, of soul and sugar. And while the grave soil flavor of red velvet was little more than a poor man's substitute, it was better than nothing at all.

"Hmph. It is difficult to comprehend how these humans think. They actually believe that this filth is delicious…"

A tongue infinitely redder and far more velvet than any pastry could ever hope to be cupped and massaged a pair of dirtied fingers, lapping at a crusting of cake crumbs before sweeping over the elastic edges of a malleable mouth. And as it did so, the butler's mind drifted to birthdays and deathdays, to contracts and heritage, to his young master's not-aunt, and his not-cousin, and his young master himself—his beloved baby bird, growing up ever-so-fast, but still not old enough to appreciate the truly tasty things in life.

But the devil would teach him, in time. Oh, yes, he would. And Sebastian could hardly wait for that distant day to arrive.



"But the puppet, the toy, Insanity's Boy
In a silk-white web is spun"


The kiss was desperate, pained, and frantic— as if the embodiment of the gravest asthma attack, and Sebastian was his oxygen. Ciel wanted him, needed him, yearned for him, ached for him, tried to suck him down, down, down. And once he had his servant where he wanted him (down, down, down, yes, but no, not enough, he wasn't close enough just ye— oh, yes, there—!), his lanky arms tangled and twined 'round that porcelain neck, demandingly adamant, and his foppery became like the nooses and knots of an executioner's rope.


The butler's arms, in return, were like a madhouse's straightjacket… Which was, perhaps, appropriate, for in his devil's serpentine embrace Ciel was half-certain he was losing his mind.

I've decided what I want for my birthday.

They fell without grace against the petite earl's mahogany desk, now more one than two— a writhing, thrashing, multi-limbed creature that lacked any degree of elegance or shame, communicating in feral hisses and groaning grunts. An arching back undulated, lost in lust and loathing as it was crushed against a cushion of half-completed documentation; swirls of still-wet ink smeared upon the crinkling blanket of parchment, leaving telling streaks of onyx sin across the virginal white of his linen shirt— just as Sebastian was leaving bruising badges of cherry upon the paper of his flesh, possessive and permanent.

Temptation, Ciel found, was far sweeter than any pastry that he'd ever tried.

And the Earl of Phantomhive had always had a powerful sweet tooth.



"The Boy in blood-red lies in Perversion's bed,
Ice-pale and mad and cold"


Puberty was a force of nature, and not something to be trifled with—a monster in itself, impossible to resist… even more so than the monster who pinned Ciel nightly to his bed, binding him to the posters and sheets with a chain of saccharine promises, words already fetid and rotting beneath the veneer of his violating voice. But that voice didn't violate quite as much as the lithesome, lacquered fingers, and the fingers not as much as other silken organs, probing deeper, deeper, deeper… as if trying to shatter his core into a thousand million gleaming pieces of glass, as dangerously beautiful as the shards of a mirror.


"You have… nngh… beautiful eyes… my lord…"

Like ice and snow and frozen looking glasses as December days became December nights, and the sky was torn between navy and ebony.

"Sh… shut u— ah…—! You sound like… Lau—!"

A mirror— a reflection of a person, of reality, but reversed. A lie in a truth. A lie of the self. Doppleganger. Demon. A me-OR—


Ciel nearly splintered his skull against the headboard as his neck snapped back, baring his throat and spreading his thighs as those broken glass shards danced across his bleary vision, sparkling like shooting stars and fairy dust and twinkling ever-brighter in the ruddy glow of eerie feline eyes, watching the boy unblinkingly from the darkness above.

And as the young teenager laid amongst the sweat-soaked coverlets in his birthday suit, his second-stomach burbling in satisfaction as semen dribbled from softened cock to ever-soft navel, Ciel relished (as he always did) those few idyllic moments of thoughtless bliss… When the mirrors in his life were in pieces, and he didn't have to wonder about the peculiar length he'd sometimes notice—the way his pupils seemed strangely ovular whenever the faceless Cheshire leered…



"Winter has eaten our hearts says he
And our games are nearly done"


"Brings back memories, doesn't it, Sebastian?"

Wooden heels clattered against the rune-inscribed ground, ribbon-encrusted bootlings trampling over the near-unrecognizable remnants of disassembled human bodies. Near-unrecognizable. But Ciel had been around so much carnage and killing that he could now distinguish more anatomy than most university-trained doctors. That there— right beside his left foot— that was a kidney, bloated and bulbous. And there was a squelching spleen beyond it, beside a ruptured appendix; a little further, a femur, then a prostate—steaming slightly as gelatinous warmth bled outward, like life from its once-owner. On the opposite side of the dusky room, just past a half-exposed spine, lay a tiny collection of greasy gall bladders, like little green marbles piled upon the bedrock. And farther still, blanketed by his servant's living shadow, were tell-tale hearts and limbs and breasts, and it almost felt like a homecoming, really.

Ciel hummed to himself, hopping atop a jelly-streaked altar and dangling his tired feet. And as he looked across the sea of evisceration and gore, of mutilated occultists dressed only in scraps of robe and flesh, he saw that it was good—had to swallow back a giggle.

"It was just like this, don't you remember?" the nobleman prompted, smirk curling up the corners of his sickle-sharp mouth, as cutting and cruel as a shinigami's scythe. Lissome legs kicked and swung, childlike in their blitheness, but such an innocuous mask could only hold for so long—especially when the soul beneath the face was so deliciously unctuous. "But oh, wait a moment…" A purr, a flutter; a sapphire gaze languidly lidded itself, patently challenging the note of vivacious surprise in Ciel's fluting tone. "There was one important difference…"

Flimsy fingers—stained with bile and gunpowder— tip-toed evocatively upward, popping an opalescent pearl button. Then another, and another, and another… Sebastian's cinnamon gaze followed the trailing progress of peek-a-boo skin, drifting nearer and nearer as gloves, vest, shirt, pants eventually fell away, shed like a fabric cocoon. And indeed, the once-revolting caterpillar that emerged from the cloth chrysalis had become a stunning butterfly… one that everybody longed to capture in their net.

"That's much better."

Discarded shoes bounced and skidded over the polished stone of the floor, kicked away to leave the earl entirely naked atop the marble slab. Even his tattered leather patch had vanished— though of course his enchanted eye remained decidedly shut. (It was, after all, too early for that in their little role-play.) His perpetrations thus complete, Ciel flashed his devil pretty, pointed pout and began a lazy descent backwards: leaning and lounging and urging Sebastian on, summoning him with a crook of a finger and a wriggle of his foot...

"Si deus me relinquit, ego deum relinquo."

Like the finger, the foot, and the blue-fire gaze, the Latin confession was an initiation— nearly as provocative as the dangling promise of depravity and temporarily slaked hunger. With a famished growl, the darkness was upon the proffered lamb— faster, perhaps, than it had been six years ago, when the black-eyed raven screeched and crowed and whispered its first "nevermore."

"Sed qui… me defendet? Ab— ah— me terribilissimo…ngh… ipse..."

It was true, so dreadfully true—far truer than the poor boy had yet to realize, Sebastian reflected. But the baby bird was like his mother, a slow and steady learner… and the demon was certain that the halfling had started to take notice— of his increasingly violent urges, wreaking vengeance upon innocent masses; of his strangely sadistic desires, suffered through by friends and family; of the odd sensation of free-falling, stitched to the heels of death-sex-satisfaction

And how, in the mirror of the demon's lustful gaze, his rounded pupils would wax and wane and slit into crescent moons as sharp as eagle's talons, ripping into prey when desire dyed his vision a passionate burgundy.

Sebastian kissed his darling little one (hard-deep-thrust-grind-screech and yes, he loved the sound of that gratified, wheezing, squawky caw, nails digging and hips bouncing and head flailing) and he wondered idly how much time he had until he'd have to leave their rebuilt nest.

For if there was one thing that the devil knew all-too-well, it was that nothing lasted forever.



"I am tricked and deceived, the prize unachieved—
Where once was all is none."


Absolutely nothing.

Omnias ianuas praecludo…

"Goodbye… Sebastian."

sic omnias precationes obsigno.




"'We all fall down' and he snatches his crown
To assure his tale never be told"






"Happy birthday to you… happy birthday to you…"

A piercing pair of leather boots lifted-lowered, lifted-lowered, falling as soundlessly as the midnight snow. In the distance, there was the screech of rubber tires slipping across invisible ice, of off-key Christmas carolers and blaring telly specials, but here, on this road, there was silence— quiet night, holy night. All was calm, and yes, very bright: the cheerful suburban streets had been decorated in all manner of neon opulence, tinsel and wreathes and mechanics that wished passersby a very happy holiday. The forever-seventeen-year-old traipsed past the glazed windows of these gingerbread houses, shoes leaving little more of an imprint on the walkway than the tumbling flakes themselves. And in the darkness, his jewel-bright irises were almost as luminous as the strings of colored bulbs that framed and traced and twisted around the bungalows and buildings, the huts and flats.

"Happy birthday dear—"

The devil paused, both in word and action, as he reached a familiar residence—a snuggly periwinkle cottage, seemingly coated in sugar in the wake of winter weather. Jack Frost had had his fun with the bay windows, but even still, the demon had no trouble seeing through the sheet of glass. It was an ability that he had no qualms against using, and so spent a pleasant five minutes peering into the rosy living room beyond, spying on the family that lived (like puppets) within. It was a mundane existence that the three humans were enduring, a sickeningly-sweet sort of fairytale: a hoary-haired father was helping his toddler crown an evergreen with a golden star, all the while urging the boy to sing along with Daddy, sing along with the radio… sing along with Mummy, listen, she's singing too. And indeed, from her seat on the couch, the little one's mother was half-way through the second verse of "Up on the Housetop," a peaceful smile on her face and a pale hand atop her bulging belly. Within the sizable round of her stomach, a set of rowdy twins were excitedly wriggling, wriggling, wriggling—perhaps in time to the music— as they strained against the taut skin of her womb.

The monster watched the woman for an especially-long while, wicked smile softening for a quarter of an instant. He drank in her visage like visual canterella: her raven locks, her rose-tea eyes, her alabaster flesh… Her grinning lips, which had tasted of cookies and cakes and teatime and gardens and everything that he had known while growing up wi—

The devil's black heart hardened as the child that he did-not-care-for scuttled over to his mum, babbling on in babyish glee. And his mother listened, attentive and animated and—for the moment—entirely his.

But it was only a matter of time, now.

A clench of ringed fingers in a festive cashmere sweater; a jolt of unanticipated pain that zipped from shoulders to ribcage to tailbone, electric sparks crackling everywhere in between. Wetness and panic. Excitement and fear. (But of the wrong kind and for the wrong reasons, those silly, stupid mortals.)

Ciel turned from the window with a song and a sneer, hooded eyes radiating indigo death as he continued down the snowy street.

He'd be back soon.


"Oh what to do to die today at a moment or two 'til two?
Best hide your baubles and bolt your doors before I come for you."




Ciel's Latin:

Si deus me relinquit, ego deum relinquo.
As God has abandoned me, so I shall forsake Him.

Sed qui me defendet? Ab me terribilissimo ipse.
Yet, who will protect me?
For my most-terrible self...

Sic omnias precationes obsigno.
Omnias ianuas praecludo.
I will close all doors
With this, I shall seal all of my prayers.