As You Wish

Fallen

"Are you sure?" You held a copy of an old text, one attained from nobility before you, which held several names of power, the Enochian Angels, tracked in ways both directly and indirectly by John Dee and Edward Kelley, a pair of famous astrologers during the late sixteenth century, with the undisclosed personal blessing of the Crown. You'd run out of ideas outside sheer overpowering force and the Rites, invoking the name of The Lord, commanding a complacent malignant entity to come out of its host, soaking him with holy water, burning him with crucifixes, the only thing that you knew would work was triggering a memory. Most of that other stuff never effected Sebastian anyway, at least not significantly. Not the way you needed it to now.

Hopefully inductive forms of solving this ancient case, going trough each name on the list, tattered and torn but sill in tact -as though only time itself had tried this before- would work.

It was stupid. This might be the worst plan you'd ever come up with. You had no idea what would happen.

You glanced around you. No longer staying at Phantomhive Manor, you'd gone away with Sebastian, telling no one of your whereabouts, only following the instructions given to him by Ciel, ensuring your safety. You hoped the manor would be in good hands, only knowing that the servants would be taken care of, and his family would be content to know he wasn't taken away from them unjustly. You wondered what he'd told them, what lie he'd come up with.

You'd never really know, and you didn't care. You knew the truth, that was all that really mattered, wasn't it?

You'd been able to move freely, go where you wanted, and he went with it, electing to let you choose the destinations, and you opted time and time again for anywhere close to the sea.

Here you sat, across from each other, the sunlight dying as night approached. A flickering candle rested on the adjacent window as the night winds blew soft from the sea. You were restless, deep in your thoughts, and you couldn't sleep. Before you could properly relax, you had to finally figure out the truth.

You knew he felt the same. He never slept. You realised that after you stayed with him. Well, now, you were living together. It was fortunate people here in the country didn't ask too many questions of outsiders. No one bothered you, asked judgmentally if you were married, or whether or not you came from a decent family, nor who your father was, or anything like the people in London had. The only negative quality concerning the vast majority of the questions you'd been asked on your way through Calais and the countryside was that they were a bit shallow.

"Oh my dear, aren't you lucky? Is this your beau? He's quite a catch, isn't he?"

"Sir! As you're headed to France would you mind telling me why two right proper young English fellows would leave this land behind? Your lady there looks like she could be a princess! Why don't you stay for a drink?"

You stayed for far more than "a" drink with those Englishmen. It was freakin' awesome. You could hold your own as much as any man. It impressed quite a lot of them, too. Men. Women, they were always harder to please.

"Why would you go now? Don't you like it here? I think you'd be better off without your little gipsy traveller." You remembered another late night in a tavern, overhearing what was to be one of many futile attempts at getting Sebastian's attention. "Esmeralda over there with Commissioner Claude and his mates seems happy enough! Victor! Hugo! You three can take her! Come on, handsome!" Thankfully, you didn't need to do anything brutal to her yourself. The later rejection she faced from her target was enough to put anyone's ambitions at bay. "Why don't you tell Miss First Estate to hit the Killburn High Road?"

The irritatingly pretty inebriated girl was all over the place with her allusions. Though, she knew her literature. Claude Frollo, as she was referencing The Hunchback of Notre Dame was always someone who's repression you understood on a spiritual level. Though, Sebastian looked more like Esmerelda then you ever could- with his raven hair, tempting eyes and all his dark mysterious ways. Yeah. You understood Frollo. Maybe Esmerelda had been a witch after all. No, probably not. The sad truth was that the pitiful man just wanted to get laid and he burnt down all of Paris instead of simply confronting his sexuality.