#pandora hearts gilbert

Hereditary Loyalty 

Fandom:Pandora Hearts 

Summary:Do demon’s reside in the left hand after all? If so, Gilbert’s in need of an exorcism. || Exploring some of Gilbert’s internal monologue in chapter 78, and how current events relate to Break’s warning earlier in the series.

Notes:This was written for @phmonth2021​‘s prompt for Golden Trio week, Day 2: Obsession. (Sorry it’s late!)

I’ve always wanted to explore what Break said about his loyalty being an obsession at this point, so that’s what this prompt made me think of. 

I will likely need to edit and/or add to this, so forgive me for any little typos!

Your comments and reblogs mean the absolute world to me, especially for less-well known series like this one! So I’d really appreciate if you’d leave me one!!

*

As Gilbert lay, half asleep on the bed, the sound of a bullet ricocheted off the walls of his mind. It echoed, growling louder, gaining momentum, as it traveled back and forth.

“I’ve always wanted to ask you this…How can you be so devoted to your master? That loyalty of yours…No, should I call it your obsession? Saying it’s whole hearted might sound pleasant to the ears, but the way I see it, it’s simply abnormal.”

“Believe whatever you want. Regardless of what you say I—!”

“Let me give you a word of advice. A loyalty that holds fast will become a blade…and will someday pierce those you hold dear. Open both eyes wide. That is, if you don’t want to end up like me.”

Those cursed words. The whispers of the bullet on its merry go round.

He’d taken them as an insult, then. Told himself Break wasn’t completely sane, after all. His devotion was indeed wholehearted, pure, and he wasn’t going to lose anything else.

They were a warning. A prayer for his well being. Not some misunderstanding or otherwise creepy proclamation. Break was too sane for any of their good.

Gilbert understood now. And he hated himself for understanding. Hated Break for being right. Hated himself for not listening. Hated Break for giving him something to not listen to. Hated the truth most of all, for just how nightmarish it was. All this had no right being real.

The gunshot rebounded again, and he dug his nails into his palm. His left palm. Always the left. Always the pain. Always the truth. The horrible memory. Though it would have been true without the memory.

Do the demons reside in the left hand after all?

He’d fired many bullets in his lifetime. Too many, perhaps. Some at targets. Some at Chains. Some at people. Some at the Baskervilles, who were somewhere in between. And he wasn’t always sure the decision to fire was right.

But those shots—even those situations a bit too ambiguous to be sure—didn’t echo for longer than a night.

This one. This one he knew would echo throughout his whole life if he wasn’t careful, or was simply a little too careless.

But there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing at all. He was bound and broken to Glen Baskerville, because that’s what he was: a Baskerville. Etched into his name, the fabric of his flesh, his being. So here he was, spending the night on the dark side.

Not Oz. No. Never. Never. Never Oz.

“Shoot him.”

His left palm was bleeding now.

His Master. His best friend. His dear light. He’d swallow and bathe in dark if only for a sliver of light. He’d never, never, never hurt his precious—

“A loyalty that holds fast will become a blade…and will someday pierce those you hold dear.”

Oh but it wasn’t a blade, was it? It was a bullet. There is a difference, yes. Blades are quiet. Far less risk of tainted memory.

Loyalty. But it wasn’t his loyalty to Oz that became the bullet, it was that towards Glen.

“Is the one you need really Oz Vessalius?”

Damn him. Damn him for trying to help. Damn Gilbert himself for thinking him nothing but a useless clown.

How can I know if I’m not with him?

He loved Glen, once. Looked up to him. Idolized him. Cut and polished as his successor, his copy. And, once upon a time, he didn’t mind.

This loyalty was more than pure and blind devotion. He knew that now. It was something far more deeply ingrained. Something that branded and stained, and may just maim. He loved Glen from the start, yes. He was kind. A good king. Even as a child Gilbert could tell that.

But at some point he couldn’t tell what was his true feelings, and what was the magic curving its way inside him like puppet strings.

Where was the oath written again?

No prince should be permitted to disobey his king, after all. Even those whose relation was bloodless. Hereditary loyalty.

Couldn’t we do this without anything attached? Can’t we let our bodies move according to the request of our souls?

So his loyalty towards Oz…was it something pure, or something that immured him? He always thought it his most honorable quality. He was his steadfast servant, his chivalrous knight. But perhaps he only latched on because he was puppeteered and programmed to be a creature of service.

“That loyalty of yours…No, should I call it your obsession?”

Maybe this was how things were supposed to be after all. There was no such thing as love or fate, or dreams. Just the strings, the spiderwebs. We’re all cocooned, waiting for the poison to kick in.

What was he thinking? How could he think he didn’t really care for Oz? How could their adventures, their time together really mean nothing?

He loved Glen too once. And he couldn’t tell if even that was real anymore.

Glen’s successor, his copy, his soul, his left hand, his wings—

Raven.

The one thing he stole from him. The contract half-fulfilled then. Promises broken. Promised that couldn’t help but be fulfilled. The one thing that would ever belong to him. A chain half-connected. The ship might just drift out to sea that way.

Raven, whose seal lay in his left hand. His ever cursed left hand. His symbol of Glen, still.

“You will be bound by your left hand again.”

He felt like his face might break as he tried to keep both the tears and laughter that simmered beneath the surface from boiling over.

Break wasn’t the only one who’d tried to warn him.

He hadn’t understood then. Hadn’t understood anything at all.

Raven. One of Glen’s four black-winged Chains. The first. The first drop of four poured into the vessel. A ceremony cut in half by the sound of screaming, and the smell of smoke.

Raven who he created his legal contract with because he thought he could save his master. Raven whose seal saved his master’s life and sanity. Raven who took them from Cheshire’s dimension, who protected him and Break from the Baskervilles.

Raven, who had only helped since he’d made his contract with him. Raven who he shared a connection with. Raven whose name he even took at times. A name he took once to save himself the pain of his master knowing who he really was.

Raven who perhaps could be of some good now.

He sat up.

Oz wasn’t merely the reflection of Jack. And Gilbert wasn’t merely the reflection of Glen.

Maybe Raven wasn’t a symbol of Glen’s tyranny either. Maybe he was just the opposite. Maybe Raven belonged to him. Maybe Raven’s fire was exactly what he needed to break the unbreakable.

And there is at least one benefit to being a Baskerville.

He looked at his left hand.

“Open both eyes wide. That is, if you don’t want to end up like me.”

He smiled, half mad. He had kept his eyes closed for far too long, and he knew even before he walked into the rain that he might just end up like Break after all.

Premonitions 

Fandom:Pandora Hearts

Character Focus: Glen (Oswald) Baskervlle, Jack Vessalius, Vincent Nightray, Gilbert Nightray, Kevin Regnard, Oz Vessalius 

Summary: Jack, Glen, Vincent, and Gilbert thought they were going on a relaxing vacation in the mountains, but a creature from The Abyss has a bit of an adventure in store…or is it a warning? 

(Written for the Phmonth19 Tragedy Trio prompts “Wolf,” “Ruins,” and “Winter.”)

(For those who’d like some Glen, Jack, Vince, and Gil cuteness. There’s at least a little of that here, which was super fun to write. )

Notes: If you can believe it, this is actually a fic for Phmonth19! It was for the Tragedy Trio prompts “Wolf,” “Ruins,” and “Winter." 

I liked a lot of the prompts during Phmonth19, and wanted to find a way to use multiple simultaneously. I liked the idea, but ended up struggling with where I wanted to go with it, and having too much to do during Phmonth19, so it didn’t get written then. But I liked it enough to continue it and return to it eventually.

I hope you enjoy it even so!! Please know that when you comment you are both making my entire week, and motivating me to keep writing more fics like this one!!

Premonitions

A young boy weaved in and out of the crumbling artifices, hopping down from a half-broken wall to a mossy ledge on a lower level of the ruins. It was probably a room in the past. It wasn’t now.

They’d warned him not to go in here. But if forbidding something was incentive for most kids, it was practically a command to him.

They told him it was dangerous, unsafe, that anything could fall and crush him, or crumble beneath him, not to mention that there was a sort of energy here: it infected people, made them into madmen and monsters, and if said monstrosities didn’t attack and kill you…you might just become one yourself.

As if he needed a better invitation.

Most regretfully, he hadn’t found any horrifying monstrosities yet. Just a bunch of cracked stones and sewer rats looking for corpses to clean off. Occasionally something shimmered in the dirt, but more often than not it was just a rusted piece of metal, or cracked bit of glass.

He kicked up a board to see a dagger laying there. He frowned, considering it, before picking it up, examining the details on the hilt. Might make a nice souvenir if he could manage to clean the rust off.

He couldn’t help but wonder what happened here. People said this place was dropped into the Abyss, that it had become a hole to swallow all that dared to enter. But what exactly did that mean? He’d heard of the Abyss, and the Chains that lived within, but never of anything other than sinners being dropped into it. What kind of atrocities had everyone there committed to warrant the whole city being dropped into the Abyss?

He kicked another rock, before glancing up, his red eyes widening.

A wolf sat in front of him.

He hadn’t even heard its footsteps. It just sat there on the wall above him, swishing its tail. He took a few steps back.

It was gold and ethereal, its tail long and wispy, like a gust of wind frozen into flesh. Said tail flicked back and forth. White eyes left trails in the air—like slits in a mask, only letting the golden light inside it break through the eyes—yet they held no mal intent—(he’d learned to be able to see that, to feel it, almost). It seemed intelligent.

Was this one of the monstrosities they warned him about?

His hand tightened around the dagger.

The wolf stood, but after it took a few steps forward it looked over its shoulder as if to ask “Are you coming?”

The boy took a step forward himself, to run after its disappearing tail, compelled by some inclination; he knew he ought to follow it, that it wanted to show him something.

“Kevin!Kevin!” A familiar voice called from far away. “I’ll not have you sullying the Regnard name with another one of your insolent games! If you get eaten by some Chain you’ll only have yourself to blame!”

When Kevin looked back the wolf was gone.

*****

Jack breathed deeply through his nose, as he entered the cabin, then breathed out just as noisily.

“Smell that mountain air! I just love the snow, don’t you? I always feel like something’ amazing is going to happen!”

Glen rolled his eyes, dropping their bags—(which Jack had made him carry inside, citing the fact that he was carrying Vincent).

“Say, Jack…” the boy sitting on his shoulders spoke, “do you think we’ll see the northern lights up here?”

“I don’t know! …What do you think, Glen?”

“Probably not.”

“Aww!” Vincent pouted, bumping his fist on Jack’s head.

“Ow!” Jack reacted in an over exaggerated way.

“Eh! I’m sorry!”

When Jack had found out about the cabin the Baskervilles owned in the mountains he knew it would be the perfect place to spend a few days relaxing and playing in the snow—and what better way to remember how to have fun than to bring Gilbert and Vincent along?

When Jack brought up this idea, Glen had blatantly refused. Ever the responsible leader, Glen didn’t take vacations from his duties. But lately he had started having conversations with the rose bushes, and everyone agreed he could stand a few days off.

Glen was just starting to unpack their stuff when—

“You guys want to go sledding?” This was Jack’s voice, of course.

It was a resounding “yes,” from the kids, complete with jumping up and down and shouting.

“We just arrived,” Glen grunted. “Wasn’t the point of this trip to relax?”

“And what better way to relax then hurling yourself down a snowy mountain on a thin piece of wood?”

Glen blinked. “Reading.”

Jack grabbed his arm, pulling him out into the snow. “Don’t be such a fuddy duddy. Come on!”

Glen glared at his friend as he promptly dragged him off into the snow.

Soon they were flying up to the tallest hill they could find on Raven, then, after they successfully reached the top, they proceeded to push each other down it on sleds, with much giggling and whooping (from everyone except Glen). When they reached the bottom, they would fly back up on Glen’s chains—(who seemed to enjoy the show).

At one point, a little while into the festivities, Vincent was waiting for his turn when something in the corner of his eye flickered. He turned to see in the woods, behind a tree, a creature.

Vincent froze when he met the wolf’s gaze, a shiver running up his spine, more than just the cold, his face twisting in fear.

“What’s wrong, Vince?” Jack put a hand on his shoulder, glancing from the terrified boy to the empty air he was fixating on.

The wolf ran in a figure eight around two of the trees, brushing up against them, its form leaving tracks in the air. Then it paused again to stare at the boy with white, smoky eyes.

It didn’t look completely there.

Vincent pointed shakily towards it.

Jack put a hand on his shoulder. “…Where?”

He pointed more emphatically.

“I’m sorry Vince, I…I don’t see anything.”

“What’s going on?” Glen asked, hopping off Raven and landing beside them with Gilbert in a flurry of black wings.

Vincent just kept pointing, his finger a vibrating signal.

Glen’s eyes widened.

“What is it?” Jack demanded.

“It’s a wolf. Or at least…” he paused, noticing the strange color, and misty nature of the creature.

“I don’t see it,” Gilbert said softly.

“That’s okay,” Jack crouched down by him, “Neither can I.” He stood back up to his full height, reasoning with Glen, “If you two can see it, and we can’t…”

Glen nodded at him, before taking a few steps forward, and finishing the thought:

“I think, more likely than not, its something from the Abyss.” He squinted at it, watching it playfully thread the trees. “I think it wants us to follow it.”

Vincent tensed at the idea.

Glen looked over his shoulder, his eyes flicking to the boy. “I can always go after it by myself if you’d like to return to the cabin.”

“Oh it’ll be fine! Don’t worry!” Jack took the hands of both boys. “With Master Glen with us, nothing’s going to hurt us!”

Glen rolled his eyes, but Jack’s words seemed to comfort them.

Un-summoning Raven, Glen walked in front, the other three following a short distance behind.

When the spectral wolf saw they were going to heed its call, it moved further into the forest, always dancing around the trees as it waited for them to catch up.

They followed it quite some ways—(especially since they were tired from all the sledding)—until the trees stopped abruptly in a cliff edge. Jack had to put his arms out in front of the boys to keep them from walking any further.

As they raised their eyes, they saw across the gorge a plateau.

“I-Is it still there?” Gilbert asked softly, looking all around them.

Vincent and Oswald looked around but the wolf wasn’t anywhere close to them.

“There!” Vince pointed after a moment. The wolf was across the gorge, weaving in and out of a stone ruin on the plateau.

“Are you sure that’s safe?” Gilbert asked nervously. “Maybe we’ve followed it far enough…”

Glen had already summoned Jabberwocky, and was currently climbing on its back.

“You coming?” He asked the group flatly, holding out his hand.

The three glanced at each other, before Jack helped the kids onto its back, and hopped on himself. Jack hugged the boys tightly, as Gilbert held just as tightly to Glen’s coat.

The wind was cold and biting as they flew through the air, but the ride was very brief, and they landed moments later in a puff of dust in the center of the ruins.

“What is this place?” Jack asked the air, and no one answered.

They ventured cautiously into the ruins, at first sticking together, but soon curiosity overtook them, and they each wandered in separate directions, captivated by different rooms. The place wasn’t too vast though, and thus didn’t allow them to stray too far from each other.

Glen found the throne room, or where it most likely once was; a huge empty room in the center of the ruins, empty, save for the collapsing chair, backed by the skeleton of a large window, holding broken pieces of colored glass. He slowly marched up to it, running his fingers along the ghost of the chair, looking out the window at the now frozen water far below, wondering what sort of king ruled here.

When he turned around, the wolf was sitting in the center of the room, swishing its tail at him. Glen was sure it wanted him to understand something, but he couldn’t quite discern what.

He noticed at the side of the room there was a large structure. At first he mistook it for a collapsed bit of wall, but upon closer inspection, he realized it was a piano. He set his fingers on a few of the notes, but they only gave a croak.

It’d been too long.

He lifted his head and raised his voice to ask the wolf about the place, and learn if it could respond, but it had moved on.

Gilbert found the old kitchen, the food there long since turned to compost for rats and roots. Then he found the servants’ quarters not too far from there, full of rotting bedframes and hungry mice, wondering what sort of servants were here, and if their king was as noble as Glen-sama.

He didn’t see the wolf pass beneath the doorframe behind him.

Vincent found a room that likely belonged to a child. It was faded, but there was paint on the walls: designs of flowers and vines. He almost stepped on a clay sculpting of a bird that may have served as a toy, once.

On a broken dresser he found a box which, once opened, turned out to play music, the notes discordant after years of rust and neglect.

He thought he saw something else, and lifted up the half-bug-eaten board. He immediately dropped it, wishing he hadn’t, the something that was there making him cover his mouth in shock and horror.

He felt a nudge at his back, and almost screamed, whirling around to see the wolf behind him. Fear glued his lips, welled his eyes with tears.

The wolf cocked its head to the side, as if confused by his fear. It licked his hand, and Vincent drew back, though it felt like a brush of wind.

“W-W-What do you want?!” He stammered.

But he could not understand the wolf’s words.

Jack descended a staircase a bit further out of the way and found—more in tact than much of the buildings—a dungeon.

It was a large stone room, lined with cells, sectioned off by rusting bars. He pressed one open with a creak and found an empty room, and a skeleton. He continued on until he found one without a skeleton, whose bars were bent, as if the person within had managed to escape through them. He entered through to find there was a journal in this one. He picked it up, brushed and blew off the dust and frost, the pages just as creaky and unwilling to budge as the doors.

He sat on the floor where he found it and began to read. Many of the pages were too damaged by time to read, the ink fading, the pages crinkling and crumbling, but he could make out at least bits of the story. It seemed the writer was in love with a girl, but, due to her being the ruler of this kingdom’s queen, they could never be together. As the pages continued, the writer seemed to grow more and more obsessed with her; his phrases containing less and less sense and sanity. Jack couldn’t tell exactly how he ended up in the dungeon, nor how he apparently broke out—if the bends weren’t made by weather or time—but in his not-quite-sane state, he must have done something very stupid. Maybe a lot of things.

When the final pages became too illegible, he looked up and saw in the waning sunlight, the tally marks on the wall. As he began to dust and defrost them, he realized the whole wall was covered in them. He ran his hand over the grooves, thinking of how long this person must have been left alone inside himself, and what that might do to a person.

He couldn’t see the wolf pacing around his feet, reading over his shoulder, couldn’t feel the wolf trying to nudge him, nor hear the wolf try to ask him voicelessly: “Do you understand? Do you understand?”

“There you are.” A deep voice broke the silence, almost making him jump.

Glen was standing in the doorway, Vincent and Gilbert at either side of him—(Vincent clinging to his coattails rather tightly).

“Did you find anything interesting?”

Jack set the journal on the floor beside him, standing and stretching, yawning the words: “Not really, no.”

Upon noticing the pink light cast on the floor through the small window, Jack asked, “Do you think we should head back?”

Glen gave a curt nod, turning around to leave, and Jack ran to catch up.

*****

A young boy with golden hair and green eyes stood in the midst of a ruin; a caved in part of the city—or what once was the city.

After putting his hand to his chin in thought, and a good dose of looking around, he pulled a watch out of his pocket. When he flipped it open it began to play the soft tinkling notes of a somewhat sad song.

“I still don’t know what exactly happened here,” Oz muttered softly to himself, “but…I’m going to do everything I can to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

He didn’t see the wolf poking its head out from around a wall behind him, didn’t see its ears perk up, nor, now that someone had finally heard and headed its warning, hear its satisfied howl;

“Thank you, Dear Rabbit.”