His Butler, Cemetery

The Problem of the Flowers

He never asked to go to the cemetery. Not once. Of course, Sebastian knew, it wasn't really the kind of place one asks to go to in the first place.

The Young Master made a point to move forward, to leave the past behind, to be the best fakes they could be. Yet, in the weeks succeeding their return to the mansion, that same Young Master often...found himself there. Like it was never a place to which intended to go, but he somehow, by no fault of his own, ended up there anyway. Like it was some hellish Rome that all roads led to.

As they made simple trips into town, sometimes on their way, or on their way back, they would arrive at the cemetery, as if it had appeared through a fog—(of course the idea was absurd). Or the Young Master would ask to go somewhere alone, and the cemetery (or perhaps the ghosts within) would call him back. He must have thought it was a secret, but there was nothing in their contract about surveillance, and ensuring his Master's safety was top priority. So Sebastian would watch him, and wait. And neither would say a word about it later.

His Young Master would never cry while he was there. Never break down. Never fall to his knees, overcome by emotion (like most humans do). Never whine that they were gone, or plead that they would come back. Never pray. He would just stand there, his cane in one hand, fingering his ring with the other, looking solemnly down at the graves, like he was an old man, who had watched his friends all die one by one, and he was the only one left—and while it was all very sad, he had no right to cry, because it made sense after all; death comes for us all in the end. Or maybe he was looking down at the porcelain headstone like it was something beneath him, (beneath the call of a king, the pawns that fell lifeless at his feet, but he was not shaken), beneath him, yet something that was judging him all the same. A curious notion; that one can be judged by things beneath the ground.

Perhaps most often than anything, he would bring flowers.

White lilies, and pink carnations, lavender, and geraniums, roses, lilac, and peonies.

He wondered if his Young Master knew what they all meant.

Purity and love for his mother. Devotion, determination, gentility for his father. Innocence and bravery for his brother.

Pretty little words that meant nothing to the boy who had lost them all.

Were they his reason for coming so often; to lay a pile of lifeless words at their feet?

Or were they merely an excuse for something greater? But an excuse for what greater thing? To stand there looking forlorn?

The Young Master was never one for sentiment. So why this? Why not leave them behind, burning in the past where they belonged? Or was there more sentiment in him than Sebastian initially thought, and the boy advertised?

Nevertheless, it was there his Master went, and it was Sebastian's job to know why.

If he couldn't, what kind of a butler would he be?

He cycled through the human emotions—(he kept them on a list).

Was it the obvious emotion: sorrow? Mourning? They were his family after all. Sebastian knew, (not personally, but on principle), that it was hard for one to lose their parents. He had certainly broken down, called their names, once before. But never again.

No, he was too stubborn, too detached for that. The Young Master didn't like the muddiness of sorrow. It was too much effort. And wearing black wasn't a clue; he wore black no matter the occasion.

Or perhaps he was always in mourning.

How about pity? Did he feel sorry for those in the ground?