Sebastian Michaelis [Broadcast Mind]
-1.-
A London alley. Nighttime. Foggy.
You are accompanying a boy, about twelve years old. He is small for his age and wears an eye patch under a head of tussled hair. You have been serving him for almost three years. He is the young master. Your master.
He is speaking, but you’ve become distracted. A cat with beautiful markings has wandered up the alley. You crouch down to greet her, and in a few moments have scooped her up into your arms. She is very soft and begins to purr. You rest your chin on her head and stroke her gently.
Moments like this are rare in your life.
“Hey, are you listening to a word I’m saying, Sebastian?!”
You turn slowly and look up. The young master is above you, glaring indignantly. You feel a bit like an adolescent lover, caught while in a passionate embrace.
You fumble for words. “As she is a rare beauty, I… Ah, excuse me. I could not resist.”
He is disgusted by your behaviour. Hands on his hips, he barks an order. “We’re not keeping it! So put it back!” He knows you cannot refuse.
Reluctantly, you obey. “Very well… but she is so lovely…”
You put her down and straighten, watching with disappointment as she wanders away.
You never see her again.
-2.-
“How’s it going?”
You turn. The young master never usually visits the kitchen, but here he is, leaning in the doorway with his walking stick. The Chinaman Lau is in tow. Both are grinning like villains.
How is it going? You’ve produced countless variations of the same curry in the last twenty-four hours. You are surrounded by incompetents, each trying to offer opinions on something they know nothing about. The potential for one of the under-servants overturning the essential pot in a fit of idiocy is high. But orders are orders and you are making do.
“Young master,” you say. A butler should never let his master see any part of the household in disarray. “You shouldn’t come down here right now…”
He struts in regardless and in a moment is sampling a dish by sticking his finger in it. Somehow Finny is beside him, face covered in food. They both lick curry off their hands.
You are recalling what murderous intent feels like.
The young master looks up at you and smirks. “Three days until the contest. It looks like you’re researching very hard.”
You look back and say nothing. You cannot call attention to his obvious contempt with the others around. The young master strolls back to the doorway. You hold your breath and wait for him to disappear.
His hand pauses on the door, and he grins at you over his shoulder. “Oh, by the way, for today’s dessert I’d like to have gateau chocolat. Bring it to me later.”
For a moment you cannot manage words.
The kitchen in ruins.
Fifty pots of curry.
Three days to work the impossible.
You give him a slight bow, your hand pressed against your heart. “As you wish.”
You are making do.
Out in the hall, you can hear Lau speak. “You act as if you want your butler to lose.”
“Impossible,” he says dismissively. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, “But... instead of getting the royal warrant, don’t you think it would be more interesting to see that butler lose?”
Of course that’s what this is about.
The Chinaman laughs. “The earl is sparkling! What a bully.”
You agree.
-3.-
In the London townhouse. Young master’s bedroom. He is displeased. He throws his coat down onto the bed in a huff. “What I’m saying is, why did it end up that I was signed up for the circus?!”
You shut the door against eavesdroppers and remain there for a moment, summoning patience. You turn to him and speak as evenly as you can. “You were not signed up for the circus. You were signed up for the entrance test.”
He can be such an ungrateful brat. He is the watchdog but you’ve done all the legwork. Contrary to popular opinion, you cannot actually perform miracles. Even you cannot draw blood from a stone, and this circus has built up an entire wall of them.
He flounces onto the bed, pulling loose the cravat you tied perfectly for him before your outing. “Just you infiltrating it is enough, isn’t it? Living in a tent, what a joke.”
You certainly weren’t lying when you said your master is spoiled. But he’s not getting his way with this one. If you’re the marionette, you’ll drag the puppeteer along with you. You grin and ask, “Would that really be all right? With me living according to my own free will, rather than your orders?”
You know how he operates. He likes keeping you on a short lead. He grits his teeth at your words, props his hand up under his chin. “I guess you’re right.”
You nod, satisfied. You cross the space between you and kneel. You begin untying the lacing on his boots. He leans back and glares down at you.
“But you need to perform in the circus, right?” he says. “I can’t do that sort of thing.”
You smirk. “How true.” The young master’s sickly disposition would never get him far in a place like that. The thought of it is very amusing.
With his shoes removed, you stand and walk to the bureau to prepare his nightclothes. “Well, as much as you can, please do your best on the entrance test.” You turn back to him and flash a sparkling smile, obviously false, so wide it hurts. “As your butler, I will be rooting for you from the bottom of my heart.”
He glares wordlessly. He despises when you pretend to care.
-4.-
“Sebastian…?” The young master’s voice.
Finally. After lying on the floor for hours, this can finally be over with. It’s an odd vantage point, only able to stare at the ceiling while sprawled out amid bits of coal from the fireplace.
“Young master, you shouldn’t go closer!” Meirin’s voice, even choked with grief, is so very grating on your ears.
The sounds of a struggle. “Let go!”
“You can’t, young master!”
SLAP! “Stand back! Don’t order your master around!”
He comes into view, just at the edge of your periphery. He walks right up to you, barefoot. Still in his nightshirt. No one cares for him when you aren’t there. Even he knows he can barely function without you. He steps right into the blood on the carpet and looks unimpressed.
“Sebastian. Stop fooling around. Sleeping on the floor doesn’t look all that comfortable to me. Exactly how long are you planning on pretending to be asleep?”
But you are not asleep. Your eyes are wide open, in fact. And you mustn’t answer. That would ruin everything.
He prods your stomach with his foot. “Didn’t you hear me, Sebastian? I said get up.”
The others gather, servants and house guests alike. Quite an audience for young master’s little show.
The sound of something being ripped from a wound. Metal clattering to the floor.
“SEBASTIAN! Wake up this instant! That’s an order!”
It’s a good performance, but you aren’t fooled. How can you be? He wanted this. He’s loving this.
He crawls on top of you, shakes you. You don’t move. You can’t move. This whole display is quite undignified, but you are what you are. What good is a disobedient servant?
BASH. He strikes you across the across the face, open-palmed with his ring hand. Even you aren’t expecting that. The force is impressive for someone so small. Your head snaps to the side, the impact of metal against jaw ringing in your ears.
Of course you feel pain. Every living thing feels pain.
“Are you ignoring my orders?!”
He raises his hand to hit you again.
Bard steps in, seizes his wrist. Frowns sternly. “Young master. Give it a rest, will you? He’s already dead.”
The young master looks down, as if the idea just dawned on him. But you know it hasn’t. He’s probably imagined this scenario and others countless times. Perhaps he just wanted to see how this one would play out. He always was fond of games.
He leans down in front of your face, so only you can see. The cruel, maniacal grin. The small body shaking with glee, hand curled into a fist.
“Are you… dead? Sebastian.”
Without an audience he’d be laughing. He’s barely keeping his composure as it is. He touches your face, a facsimile of tenderness, when really he’s just smearing your face with more blood. One more mess to clean up once this is over.
“Only you…” He speaks softly, mocking the words you’ve told him again and again. “You said you’d be there until the very end.”
He’s imagining a life without you, free from the shadow of your existence. He wishes this were real. He hates every fibre of your being, every last strand of hair on your head.
You’re glad.