In This Hell ( V i o l e t ) [Kuroshitsuji 2] {Completed}

Alpha, Violet

It's dark in the room.

He can't recall having to wait this long for something since his interview for Weston. He remembered that day so well — he was the only eleven year old boy in the hall that day that didn't seem to be particularly nervous.

"That boy, Edgar — he's the nephew of the Viscout of Druitt!"

"He's as beautiful as his uncle, it seems."

"And that one, Gordon Ashphell— his father is some sort of explosives expert. His family have been going here for decades. He has three younger brothers — he's the first of his generation."

Nobody spoke about Violet, and Violet was fine with that.

When they called his name — 'Gregory Alexander Violet, to the vice-principal's office, please —" He stood, pushing his ink-stained hands into his pockets, and walked. Walked from one end of the hall to the other, his hard-soled boots creating an echo in the large hall full of chattering boys. Violet found it very difficult to silence anyone, and that day was no exception. He was short in stature and thin, incredibly thin for even a boy of eleven. But still, he walked. And as he entered the vice-principal's office, leaving the large swell of boys behind, something in his sharp mind clicked, making him realize that he was probably destined to live out most of his life with unexceptional incident.

And Violet was fine with that.

He had grown, the handful of years he'd spent ageing displaying themselves on his pale face, glittering in his lilac eyes, dripping in his over-long hair that was tied loosely down his back with ribbon. He shaded himself with his thick grey hood as he stepped into the pitch, crumbling building. It hadn't been used for quite some time. It had aged, but was old — unlike him, with his precious youth and his intelligent gaze.

Greenhill had been physically strong; the obvious protector. Redmond was beautiful, with his angular features and silken blond hair; a fine trophy husband for any heiress. Bluewer possessed his remarkable intellect; he would make a fortune in the business world some day.

All that Violet had, that was truly, truly standout amongst the group of talented four, was his art.

So why, he wondered, did Undertaker call upon him, out of them all?

A soft giggle cut through the shadows. "Gregory Violet. It's been quite some time since I saw you last."

"Shinigami." He addressed the man in front of him, removing his top hat from his head and bowing. The summer heat affected the black liner around his distinctive eyes, the shadow of grey on his lips, and it was sticky, almost painful to try and move. "You sent a letter."

"I did." As the man in the chair leaned forward, his bared his pointed teeth in an amused smile. "I need your help."

"You need... my help?" Violet was very rarely surprised, but this was one of those scarce occurrences.

"Ah, yes, I do. You remember, our deal?"

The deal that the four prefects had unwittingly entered into when they contacted that godforsaken doctor, yes. He nodded.

"I do."

Undertaker giggled, folding his hands together, being careful so as not to let his pointed nails collide. His robes were draped lazily in the crooks of his elbows — it seemed even Death Gods were affected by the warmth. "Wonderful. Listen closely, Gregory Violet. Because the task I have for you is not the most savory, for a noble such as yourself. It requires getting your hands... dirty, shall we say." Another soft chuckle.

Violet listened. Violet took the envelope he was given, containing physical and aristocratical criteria. Violet tucked it under his arm, and he stood once more, to bid adieu to the funeral director, if only for a moment.

But when her turned back, Undertaker was gone. For the moment, anyway.

And Violet was fine with that.