Hospital For Souls (M i c h a e l i s) [Kuroshitsuji 3]{Completed}

Don't Fear the Reaper

The one thing that is absolutely awful about being a reaper is the eyesight problems that come with it, he has decided.

Even now, in the sunlight (the accursed sunlight, almost burning through his excuse for a skin), holding the stupid list two inches from his damn face, he is still having difficulty reading the names.

"Jarrod Fineman," he murmurs aloud, still squinting at the paper. "Aged twenty five. Died on the 12th of March, 1894; cause of death... butter knife to the heart." His nose wrinkles as he connects the dots; the butter knife with the butler, the butler with the demon, the demon with the earl. It was evident - a business deal gone wrong, which had resulted in Jarrod's rather ignorant move to attempt to shoot Ciel Phantomive.

The demon had moved without hesitation; the reaper had watched as he tore the man's throat open, while at the same time skewering him in the chest. Phantomhive looked on, completely unfazed, as the crimson blood pooled on the floor of the magnificent palace that he liked to call a mansion. Afterwards, he cleared his throat, and said to the butler:

'Clean it up. I have other business to attend to."

Sebastian Michaelis had bowed dutifully at the waist, his demeanour totally serious. "Yes, my Lord."

He had watched as Michaelis so very carefully mopped the floor, almost as if he were in cheerful ignorance about the corpse in front of him. He could not have known about the reaper in the room with him already, with his own strict expression, his wicked scythe in the form of a heavy axe. Watching him, ever moment that had unfolded, whilst judging the dead man secretly.

He had already sent him to Hell.

As he left the room, not sparing another thought for Michaelis, he checked himself. His eloquently cut black suit had not a speck of blood on it; convenient, yes, because washing was such a pain when you no longer had servants. A small smile crossed over his lips as he caught sight of himself in one of the mansion's perfectly polished windows. Spears still wasn't happy about the modifications to his uniform. But he was efficient, and fast, and that's all that really counted. The pitch black shirt in place of a white one, and the silky purple tie really were not going to change anything else - Spears could get bent out of shape all he wanted about it.

Violet was fine with that.

He scans his list now, reading the next name that is in line for judgement. A couple of white strands fall into his eyes and he murmurs irritably, pushing them away; the very reason why he now kept his long, thick black hair in a constant ponytail. There had also been a close call with another reaper's scythe; a chainsaw mechanism had tangled in his hair, and it had hurt. Probably took off two inches as well at the time.

How annoying.

Violet pushes his black-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose as he studies the woman's profile. "Josephine Bluer, twenty-five years old... died on the 13th of March, 1894, from complications during childbirth."

"I'm sorry," he says quietly as he tucks the book away in his open jacket. He knows how much it is going to hurt, losing the one that you love, feeling like it's your fault. But the wrong will be righted. It's going to be okay.

His mind is focused solely on Lawrence now. Violet considers revealing himself as he reaps her soul, maybe to comfort him as she passes. However, he knows that this would only do more harm than good. Begging, pleading and crying change nothing. There is no reason to fear the reaper.

He is not a threat. He is a result.