Busy Day
Title: Busy Day Fandom: Assassin's Creed/Kuroshitsuji. Sort of.
Author: write_rewrite
Rating: PG-13.
Pairings: None.
Warnings: Universe-mixing; hints of child abuse.
Notes: Meet the rest of the cast - chamberlain Eric Slinby, cook Sebastian and stable-boy Ciel (who has a penchant for seeing things Eric doesn't believe in). Also, still having writing problems - I apologize x_x.
Summary: It's a busy day, and Eric doesn't believe in ghosts.
Eric slammed the door on the way to the kitchen, in just a slightly fouller mood than the chicken that the cook was plucking. The King was throwing another one of his infernal parties, and rather than err on simplicity, had given him a list of purchases that would take half the morning to complete, and meant a visit to most of the market stalls.
The pay was good. The position was good.
The work was actually bloody awful.
"Sebastian, there's been a change of plans."
With a flick of a wrist, the chicken flew to the dogs, and the slavering hounds fell upon it as though starved. Bones crunched beneath their teeth.
Eric handed Sebastian the 'food' part of the list, and jerked his head towards the ceiling. "His Royal Highness would like you to do some extra work," Eric explained, when he really meant 'oh, we're in for it now'.
One hound pushed its head into Eric's hand, and he scratched its ears idly, watching the cook's eyes widen.
"Very well. On your way out, please ask Ciel to take these mutts out of my kitchen -- if you can find that dratted boy." Sebastian shook his head, and grabbed a sharp cleaver from a pock-marked block, "honestly, that boy is always running off."
"Aye, if I'll see him, I'll tell him."
. . .
Ciel was nowhere to be found. At the best of times, the stableboy vanished entirely; then again, he was small and sprightly, with the kind of slim and young body that squeezed into improbably tiny places.
A cold wind rattled the flowers in the garden path, and Eric wandered alone, his shoes sharp on the stone. "Ciel? Where's that feckin' boy gone to - I'll beat 'im black'n blue when I find him."
Shadows ran behind him as clouds hid the sun, and the bitter wind blew more bitterly. Eric drew his coat tighter around him and swore, once, that there were another pair of footsteps on the stones aside from his.
"Ciel, if'n yer behind me," Eric growled, but when he turned, there was no Ciel and no Sebastian and nobody else. Hearing things. Brilliant. Now, if it could just block out the useless tattling that most of his King's guests would partake in, it wouldn't be so bad. Eric could handle the odd ghost or two if it came at the cost of hearing gossip.
"M-Mister Slingby!"
The child shot out from behind an overgrown hedge (the gardener was slacking; Eric made a note to belt him round the earhole) and grabbed onto him. Eric teetered for a moment, arms waving for balance, and steadied only by planting a hand on a rather terribly-carved statue - an angel, perhaps, or a woman, but the face was mossy and the wings were green, and it really should've been removed.
Ciel's little shoulders shook. "I-I-I saw a ghost!"
"Get off me, y'brat, or yer gonna have more t'fear than some bloody ghost," Eric snapped, and pulled him away by the back of his shirt. "Sebastian's lookin' for ya. An' there's no ghost here."
"H-He's back there, I /saw/ him, Mister Slingby!" The threat of a pouting, sullen adolescent loomed, with a great deal more warning than the storm - the edge of Ciel's lip was dangerously thrust out, and those eyes (or, rather, eye) threatened mutiny. The narrow shoulders stiffened, like a man about to take a swing.
Please, Eric had both height and weight on him. If the brat so much as fisted a hand, he'd swing him into the duckpond, and take Sebastian's rant.
"Off! Sebastian needs yer help; I'm sure the ghost didn't follow you."
"I saw him," Ciel insisted, but he slouched off, little cap askew and hair full of leaves, more skipping than walking. Shaking his head, Eric debated it a moment, then walked on right ahead, and looked about.
This part of the garden was not oft visited. Tall trees gave the area a perpetual shade, and in the winter, the pathway became slippery and treacherous; the gardener's reach did not stretch to this area, which made the grass overgrown and the weeds plentiful. All the statues here were old and forgotten and gray; the idiot boy had likely seen one of them, and thought it a ghost in the darkness.
"Ghost, my arse." Sneering, the chamberlain turned back the way he came, and patted the list safely tucked into his pocket, "I've got work to do - no time to be chasin' after any ghosts. Y'leave that boy alone; he doesn't need bigger reasons to not do his work."
A shudder moved inexplicably down his spine, and Eric scowled deeply, and pushed his fingers through his loose hair, grumbling to himself, "stupid child doesn't know the feckin' difference between a ghost an' a statue; I swear, Sebastian spoils that boy somethin' awful. Makes him lazy. A good belting would do him th' world of good."
When the footsteps faded, and the voice became a whisper, the Assassin perched in a wizenened oak dropped down to the ground, and hurriedly clambered over the crumbling garden wall.