#pandora hearts oz

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.

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