#ohtilldeath

[ladyelizabethecordelia]

+oh-till-death

She really didn't know how she had managed to lose track of time, it just sort of happened. The sun was now gone and replaced by the bright full moon, which shined down on the lamp-illuminated streets of London. The some-what empty streets made her nervous, and every little sound catched her attention. 

[dreadbutler-blog]

[oh-till-death]

Sebastian knelt to pluck a handful of promising weeds, wincing as the stitched wound at his side tore wider and was flushed with rainwater. Damn. Damn boats, damn his master's disastrous record where leisure was concerned, and-- most importantly-- damn blades. Specifically, damn the infuriating men wielding them. 

He and the boy had been back from the ruinous Campania voyage for two days, and Sebastian still hadn't healed. The fact was bothersome; the other servants couldn't be depended on to pick up his slack, and the housework was falling behind. It was also, however, beginning to be cause for concern. While in the service of his current master, Sebastian had sustained a thousand injuries, all which healed within the day. His magic made this skin he wore quite resilient, and never had it had any trouble stitching itself back together. Then again, it had never been so thoroughly shredded by a Death Scythe. He supposed a lag in healing was to be expected.

Expected or not, it was still unacceptable. The manor hadn't been properly cleaned since his and Ciel's departure for the cruise and was collecting dust exponentially. More than that, the boy's usual calm indifference had become strained. Every stiff step was followed by a litany of aren't you better yet? and should you see someone? The boy's concern, while somewhat endearing, was nearly as much of a hindrance as the injuries themselves.

And so it was that he found himself here: the manor dozens of miles to his back, gathering herbs for a paste he was only somewhat certain would speed healing, and spitting cold rainwater. Yes, certainly damn the owners of Death Scythes.

Stuffing a handful of weeds into his pocket, Sebastian scanned the surrounding woods for shelter. He wouldn't catch cold, but he didn't much care to make the journey back injured and drenched; it would be better to wait out the rain. The boy wasn't expecting him for several more hours yet. There was time enough to dry off, and if memory served--

Yes, just beyond the trees stood the shell of an old abbey. It had been vacant for decades, and he doubted it was any warmer or dryer inside it than out. Still, it would keep the beat of rain from his shoulders and give him a work space to make a paste from the weeds. Shielding his face-- a little pointlessly, he was willing to admit-- with the soaked sleeve of his coat, Sebastian hurried to the ruins, eager for some semblance of dry air.

[spideralois]

three enter the web;

m a r i d e t t e

o h - t i l l - d e a t h

r a d i a n - s h o

♔ ⊰— 

             ”New face, huh? I wonder if I should be grateful at all.”