- 16th Century France -

A man garbed in charcoal tones appeared as if from nowhere.

A buckled collar covered his neck, belts holding the tattered unconnected bell-like sleeves over his arms. His chest was bare, save for the chains crossing over and behind each other; a slim sword, a katana he had gotten from a now-dead man, rested on his hipbone as it was caressed by a tattered silk sheet, covering the back of his buckle-infested pant legs as if a blanket.

The man groaned, finally realizing he had been perched atop a building of many he dreaded and loathed with a submerging passion for the past hour - a gothic cathedral with leering gargoyles and Roman towers holding the loathsome palace together. He had never exactly understood religion, Catholicism and Christianity mainly, however much the very religious Catholic community he had grown up in wanted him to; he had simply thought of religions as a mere escape from reality and an unscientific reason why everything existed, which had always made the most sense to him…

He watched as a small French girl scamper out of the cathedral pouncing onto a teenage brunette woman who seemed to be alone and depressed, even with the smile plastered onto her dirtied features, all the same. Her clothing was of mere patches, it seemed; a peasant’s dress with a low-cut top, the dress of a poor prostitute with no francs to spare. He growled unknowingly, his mind racing with a feeling of dread as the what could happen to the maiden, which confused him knowing he had never felt sorry for such a woman before.

Calming himself, though his mind continuously racing with the sudden aching dread, he had noticed an broken stain glass window, the shards scattered inside, below him. He hung himself low enough through the sharp-edged window for his feet to touch the thin windowsill and snuck inside with angelic grace, finding himself on an beauteous indoor balcony looking over the main room as the full moon shone unto his back. The choir’s section, he noted, sighting the dusty vocal music of “a Latin piece with no pronounceable name to him

Suddenly finding himself entranced at the place he loathed, he gazed the at the ancient winding woodwork of the building connecting to itself in multiple ways as it spun through whatever mind was left of his own. The alter below, where an old priest stood studying an old written work, had Christ himself carved upon it, He hanging upon his loved Cross to die for all sin. The gothic man spat in disgust, leaning onto the carved wooden railing as he glared towards it’s general direction.

A Christian church, the man finally noted; yet hadn’t Robes Pierre burned down all of these places in the spite of the national razor?

A cry of shock echoed absentmindedly, causing the man garbed in darkness to snap out of his daze of wonder and glance towards the priest, the old man’s platinum hair falling onto his wrinkled forehead.

“Wh-Who are you? Where is it that you shall belong?” cried the priest, grasping a small silver Christian cross with his left hand, the rest of its rosary around his neck. The man garbed an impure black smirked sadistically as he focused his full attention on the obviously-scared old fool below. Leaping like a fallen angel from the balcony, the mysterious man landed on both feet, the chains wrapped around his chest seeming to glow the shade of night as the sadistically-twisted mind of the younger male spoke to him, emanating itself through his vocals.

“Have you never heard of demons before, old priest?” the dark man spoke, sending a chill through the old priest’s spine. The demon came to a sudden realization on who the priest still was - the young man had been led to the exact man who caused the disaster that had forever changed the course of his history, the man who had transformed the demon man into his known title - yet still holding his opposing damned demeanor. “It seems I’ve been forgotten by this old stone Hell, Father… or is it Grandfather now, olden friend?”

The old priest stood in pure awe at the young damned boy standing before him. “That phrase… Is that not a phrase of Lady of Light? Could you possibly be him…? A-”

“Une démo jamais répéter eux-mêmes, Prêtre,” muttered the blackened-clothed man, his slim pale fingers entwined over the silk hilt of his blade. The priest seemed unyielding in his elderly brown eyes, however struggled to stand upright and grasped the edge of the altar in desperate fear. “Éhonté, Saint Père, éhonté. Imagine the poor girl’s face if she saw you frightened by a mere boy…”

“You stay silenced about Lareyne, you fiend! She is but a mere girl who seeks comfort within the Lord Himself…” the priest droll on, finally meeting the demon’s poison emerald eyes and finally noting of the demon’s own platinum hair. “You seem so young for those white hairs upon your scalp, boy…”

“No thanks to years past and people such as yourself, monsieur,” spoke the demon, “for if not by the foolish religion you priests follow I would not have been met by the guillotine and failed to die…” The priest’s eyes widened in spite, folding his hands in prayer, forgetting about the boy’s current state of imprisonment. The demon man growled low in his throat, cursing the man into utmost horror. “I suppose you’re purposely being ironic, Father.”

“Not in the least bit, my child,” the priest spoke, “for I am certain we have met once before. You are monsieur Ciel, are you not? The former heir of this place some fifty years back…” The demon’s eyes sparked with a light of enthusiasm, one not often seen within a demon’s eyes, and let go of the grasp of his katana.

“Yes,” the demon murmured, “yes, I am Ciel. So, then you are truly Father Audic, are you not?” The priest Audic let out a whimper alongside his nod in which he would be soon to regret. Ciel smirked in a demoniac way, his hand grasping the hilt of the katana again with a much tighter force than before. “You, who had caused my own downfall. You, who has belittled me into the darkest realms of Hell. You should indeed have no right to even speak alongside me… However, I shall let you live for the time being.”

“Why… Why do you let an old man such as myself live on, demon?” Father Audic asked in a scared tone after a sigh of relief. Ciel, his emerald eyes gleaming in amusement at the old man’s antics, laughed loudly with a demoniac tone at the sight of the father of the church, who was attempting to collect what belonged to him in his thoughts.

“Father, with all do respect…” Ciel unclenched his fists with a sudden sprint in his step, walking towards the terrified elderly priest with a sadistic smile. “Who ever said you would live through tonight? You know who I am obviously, and so you must know why I’m here exactly, don’t you?” Ciel’s eyes turned venomous. “I want The Lady of Light, Saint Père. She of all queens deserves to be home this mysterious night, does she not?”

Only blood paved the wooden panels of the altar.

Ciel’s features turned stoic yet again as he gently grasped the small poem in his hand, his eyes gazing over the French words with utmost skill. “To die without warning is to die knowing you’ve lost. To die knowing how is to die without fear. Without fear, Saint Père, even you are worth nothing in the eyes of your God…” He calmly exited the gothic cathedral with the loud repetitive tapping of his boots on the cold stone floor, showing himself to the main archway to the outside world, ice crystals fluttering around him at every gust of harsh wind…