Black Butler: Sands of Eternity

Chapter 6

In the quiet glow of the drawing room at the Phantomhive Manor, Marisol gently dabbed a cloth dipped in warm water over Neitha's wrists, her movements deliberate and careful. The flicker of the fireplace danced across their faces, casting long shadows and soft highlights. Marisol's tattered dress, reduced to a hastily pinned-up skirt, gave her the air of a weary warrior returned from battle.

Neitha sat still, her golden skin faintly glowing under the soft light. She regarded Marisol with an expression of amusement and curiosity, her green eyes sparkling as she flexed her now-free hands. "You certainly went all out, hermana," Neitha remarked, her tone both teasing and impressed. "Though I don't think even Osiris himself could predict you running like a beast after a carriage."

Marisol's lips curled into a half-smile, but her expression betrayed a flicker of regret. "I believe I may have lost myself," she admitted, her voice quiet and tinged with shame. Her indigo eyes met Neitha's briefly before looking back down at the reddened skin she was tending to. "Just a touch."

There was a pause, heavy with unspoken thoughts, before Marisol continued, her tone softening into something more wistful. "But that was my first favorite dress." She huffed slightly, her lips pressing into a tight line as if trying to suppress her frustration. "The fabric was divine, you know? Silk from Lyon, lace from Calais... It was a masterpiece."

Neitha tilted her head, a sly grin spreading across her face. "And now it's in tatters, thanks to a pack of cursed dolls and a chase across London." She leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "I must admit, Marisol, you might be the first lich in history to mourn a dress more than the dead."

Marisol let out a dry laugh, shaking her head. "Oh, dios mío, you're impossible," she muttered, though her smile lingered. "It's not just the dress. It's... everything it represented. The beauty. The normalcy. It's not every day I feel like a young woman instead of..." She trailed off, her expression growing distant. "Instead of what I am."

Neitha reached out, her hand resting lightly on Marisol's arm. "You're still that young woman," she said firmly, her voice steady and warm. "Even if the dress is gone, even if you've had to fight, you're still her. That won't change."

Marisol looked at her for a moment, her indigo eyes searching Neitha's face before a small, genuine smile broke through. "Gracias, hermana," she said softly. "But if I see that Trancy brat or his spider again, I'll be charging them for a new one. With interest."

Neitha chuckled, her laughter rich and melodic. "Now that, I'd love to see."

The air at the docks was thick with the mingled scent of saltwater and oil, the faint creak of moored ships breaking the silence of the night. Lysander stood apart, leaning against a wooden crate with the detached grace that defined him. His chartreuse eyes were fixed on a figure further down the pier—a woman with trembling hands and a vacant expression. His mother.

Her once-commanding presence had withered into something hollow. Her coat hung loose on her frail frame, and the lantern she held cast trembling, flickering shadows. She paced near the water's edge, her muttering barely audible above the lapping waves.

Lysander's gloved fingers brushed over the handle of his pruning saw, a gesture as practiced and effortless as a pirouette. He sighed, the sound carrying no weight. "There she is. The woman who turned an opera house into a mausoleum."

From behind him, the distinct click of Grell Sutcliff's heels broke the stillness. "Oh, darling," Grell cooed, her crimson hair catching the glow of a distant ship's lantern. "You're really going to prune her? The woman who gave birth to such an elegant creature as you? Tragic! Beautiful! I love it!"