Heritage

i. the eyes of survivors


1875, 21st of December

Beneath a roof wearing away with time, under the glow of a gas lamp, a tired Angelina Durless hid behind a mountain of medical texts that had accumulated in seven nights. Presently, she was not a coquette of high society; her skin was tender where rouge had smeared from careless scrubbing and rough where she had found less time to attend. Pursing her dry lips, she leaned further into the small print, for there was something to be said about greater clarity in a closer look.

Soon, her will began to shudder, scattering into December's frosted air. She shut the book, cupped her eyes, and flinched at the chill of her fingers. Seven nights had passed since that day. Perhaps it was time to accept her nephew's birth, for he brought out a strange new tenderness in that man's eyes. It was a look lovelier than any he had shown to her sister, but the sourness in her stomach churned the small victory into a jealous poison that crept to her fingertips.

What right had that child to her sister and that man? What right had he to share their love? Their beauty? Their happiness?

Fueled by green flames, her hands slithered towards a book of incurable illnesses. Three soft knocks caught her in her tracks. "…Come in," she answered, shoving her hands under the table, away from the book's binding. The door swung open to a severe frown.

"Oh, good evening, mother," she relaxed her shoulders. The relief numbed the hurricane tossing in her abdomen.

"My goodness," the matron clucked, eyeing the jumble of texts. "You really must do something about that mess, Angelina. If, by chance, an eligible guest stumbles across this study, what would become of your reputation? Surely you understand that this," she gestured rather generally about the room, "is most unbecoming of a lady. And how long have you been up reading tonight? You will ruin your lovely complexion. Really, I have no idea what has possessed you since your nephew's birth, but you should understand—"

"Nothing's wrong with me, mother. And I've been up here since the party ended." Angelina rolled her eyes at the 'I knew it'. "Really, mother, there's nothing to worry about. It's enough to look presentable in the presence of company, and there's nothing scandalous enough in here to do lasting damage."

"Except you," her mother muttered. "Alright, alright, I suppose I can let you go for now…but only because you are far too tired to absorb anything I say. And do get yourself cleaned up. Whatever fondness you possess for your cosmetics, sleeping in powder and rouge is never wise. "

Angelina rubbed her cheek and smiled. Standing, she peeked at the book, expecting a menacing gleam in return. It remained lifeless, while vestiges of green flames settled in her depths, in wait of another time. Dismissing her mother's clucking about posture, she stretched her back and sauntered out of the room. If she had looked back, she would have seen the lady hover over the table with an arm raised to sweep the books onto the ground.

But the arm paused. Dropped. Throwing one last sigh at the collection, the lady left.

xxxxxxx

1878, 18th of October

Angelina Durless stood before a door, head bowed, hand wavering between forming a fist and lying limp by her side. There was no sign of life from the other side. Once or twice the wind whistling outdoors disturbed the silence, but her thoughts did not budge from her dilemma. After some moments of raising and lowering knuckles, she decided to delay her entrance, pressing an ear to the crevice in hopes of catching a stray cough.

The reassurance never did come. Mustering up her resolve, she checked her posture, patted her skirt, and rapped the door slowly, hesitating a second after the first knock. For a moment, the corridor was silent.

"…Come in," a voice croaked from the other side of the door. Angelina swallowed, placed a firm hand on the knob, and turned.

"Oh, Ann. Come in. Shut the door behind you."

"Hello, mother," she greeted the darkness. "I…I've been talking. To the doctors."

"Ah, the doctors. Of course." The words, polished with resent, were sharp. "Outrageous things, doctors. They only know how to lie. Saying all that…rubbish…" A cough erupted from her chest and resonated through the room. Within seconds, it multiplied into a hacking fit.

"Mother!" Angelina cried, running to bedside. A bump against furniture reminded her of the lamp and water jug before her. Deciding that adequate lighting was needed, she clambered for the fixture, but was halted by the source of her concern.

"Stop!" The matron ordered. She had regained control of her vocal cords, and the power that came with her voice stopped her daughter in her tracks. "I'm alright. And for heaven's sake, don't listen to those doctors. I still have a few decades left in me, you know! You really must get away from those people …"

"No, mother," Angelina cleared her throat and clasped her hands behind her back. She could make out the thin form lying on the bed, frail yet commanding. "I…Today, I have come to discuss an…important issue. I wish…I wish to obtain a doctor's license, mother. To become a doc—"

"No!" the matron's cry was so fierce that her daughter recoiled with her hands before her. "Absolutely out of…the…"—cough—"…question! How many times must I make this clear, Angelina? You cannot …" Once again, she lapsed into a fit, her coughs shaking the bed with their ferocity. Angelina immediately clutched her mother's shoulders, but her hands were shoved away as soon as they made contact. "NO! No, no…say no more. Please. I beg you. Now is no time for silly dreams, Angelina, never…"

A chill shot through Angelina's spine. Silly dreams? There was nothing silly about becoming a doctor. Nor was it just a dream! It was the only constant in her life, the last thing that was hers and hers alone—

"Ann is so lovely, and you're smart. So you should have more confidence in yourself!"

Her sister—

"Ann's red hair is really beautiful, just like the colour of red spider lilies in their full bloom. Red really suits you. You should have more confidence in yourself."

That man—

"Ah, you're here! Ann, I have some good news to tell you."

Her sister and that man—

"His nose is just like 'that man's'."

Their son

"NO!" Angelina cried, a chilly flame rising from her depths. Her breathing was ragged. Her palms were damp on her face. Her powder was smudging. Sweat. She could not bring herself to remove her hands.

All those dreams had been robbed from her. Surely it was fair to keep just this one?

Just this once?

"Mother—"

"…Get out." Her mother hissed. A trembling finger rose. "GET OUT!"

It was hopeless, Angelina realized. She bit her lip to suppress the words clawing at her throat. Stepping back, she found that walking away was not so painful, and strode across the room. But before she left, she turned. The light from the corridor grazed her mother's bony limbs, drooping lines and pale skin. There was blood on her papery lips and tears (dust) in her eyes. Her hair, once a brilliant shade of amber, was a grey that blended in the shadows.

Eyes traveling to the water jug, Angelina opened her mouth, but the finality of the raised finger forced her to turn away.

The door snapped shut.

Silence. The lady lowered her arm and returned to her pillow. "I have always made the right choices," she whispered, her eyes and lips glazed with wetness. "So where did I go wrong with her…?"

"It is not entirely your fault, you know."

"Oh! Goodness." She blinked away her tears and looked to the curtains. "I hadn't known—When on earth did you come in? And why, for that matter, are you here? Don't you have clients to attend to?"

"Well," the voice ruminated. "I had wanted to visit my ill wife, but found her asleep, so I remained until she awoke. I am worried for your health, you know."

The lady's sigh rang through the room. Gathering her strength, she pushed herself upright. "Could you pour me a glass of water, dear? It's…"—cough—"…too much trouble to ring for Margaret."

"Oh, of course." There was a rustle of fabric, and the curtains parted to reveal a portly red-haired man in his morning dress. He shifted the curtains to allow brightness into the room. Lady Durless averted her eyes, the sunlight provoking further tears. When she was suitably adjusted to the glare, a glass of water had been poured, waiting by her side.

"Thank you, my lord."

"You're welcome," he replied, twiddling his thumbs. "Unusually bright day out…"

She tipped the last drops of water into her mouth and returned the glass to her bedside. "So, when are you returning to your business? I hardly expect you to idle around all day."

The earl slowly looked up from his fingers. His gaze faltered under her curious eyes.

"Ah, yes, about that," he cleared his throat, and fixed his eyes upon a wall. "There is a matter I must discuss with you. A very pressing matter."

The chill of Déjà vu trickled down her spine. "Surely nothing so pressing that you must consult with me first?"

Lord Durless looked around for a chair. Spotting one, he pulled it to the bedside and sat, so that his eyes were level with hers. He gazed at her with furrowed brows and thin lips, as if to convey the graveness of the matter, but his fidgeting fingers betrayed his anxiety.

"What is it?" Lady Durless whispered, gripping her covers tightly. An urge to release the pressure in her chest clawed at her, but she shoved it away.

"It," he whispered, "is Phantomhive. We are close to a compromise. Very close. All he needs is your word of silence."

There was a silence.

"No." Her eyes darted left and right as she came to terms with the resurfacing nightmare. "No. No!" She leaned toward the man and clutched his shoulders. "Malcolm! Surely you have considered—you cannot have—you mustn't carry out the deed!"

He gazed at her.

"Malcolm! Listen to me!" She shrieked through her teeth. "What has possessed you? Why have…how…when did you begin to entertain that vile man's—"

He already has them, what more does he want to take—

"The earl has been kind enough to grant us three days' grace," he looked away. "You may give me your final answer then. Of course, I hope to return to him with a satisfactory response, so do consider your choice carefully." He stood up and headed for the door, but his footsteps were slow and deliberate, waiting for her intervention.

"My choice is irrelevant when you are not leaving me one to begin with," the lady hissed. "And you! I have no words left for you. He is your brother, Malcolm! Another one of your flesh and blood! Why" No. "Just what are you selling him for?"

His chin jerked in her direction, but his eyes, now narrowed, remained on the door. "And I suppose it has never occurred to you that our bond may be why I have made this choice? Why I can make this choice?"

"What—"

"Do you sympathize with him?" More than you sympathize with me?

Her lips parted to silence.

Now brisk and short, his footsteps resumed. "I must attend to my clients now." There was a click of a pocket watch. Malcolm Durless shuffled his waistcoat and tugged at his coat before resting a hand on the doorknob. "I await your answer in three days."

Halfway to the corridor he was caught in his tracks. "But it is so unfair," her voice cracked. "To his wife. His son. It is so unfair to take him from them." You selfish man.

"And it is fair to have you taken away from me?" His chest pinched. "No, don't you dare protest. Angelina has not been the only one talking to the doctors, you know. There…" he twitched his nose to suppress the burn, "…there is no way. No time. Please. Before we part…" he took a deep breath, "…Grant me this last favour. Goodbye."

The door shut.

Lady Durless stared after his shadow. Weighed down by defeat, regret, and pity, the scream climbed no further than her throat. And as sudden and turbulent as the whirlpool of emotions rising from her abdomen, a cough tore past her lips. It was followed with so many more of its kind that between them and the coppery substance that drowned her tongue, she fell prey to unconsciousness.


3 days later; 1878, 21st of October

"I'm sorry," the doctor bowed his condolences.

The lord refused to blink, but allowed his eyes to fasten upon the spectacle. Her skin, like a freshly withered rose, was stained with patches of scarlet that bled into brown. Her eyes stared straight forward, unyielding to the living. Upon her sheets lay a wrinkled piece of parchment and a red-tipped quill. Ignoring the chill that coiled around his spine, Malcolm Durless plucked it from his lady's side and smoothed it with trembling hands.

The sole writing on the page was a barely legible 'N', decorated with splotches the colour of dead leaves.

His breath stopped.

"My lord?" The doctor offered a sterile hand.

Malcolm Durless breathed in deeply. He folded the parchment with furtive haste and slid it into a pocket. With the feeling of being watched lingering over his head, he forced himself to step away from the body's eerie—the body.

She's gone, he told himself, repeating it like a mantra, but the feeling remained.

"My lord?" The doctor repeated. "Shall…shall I take the body away?"

"Hm?" He jerked his head. "Ah…ah, yes. Please. Just…do it." The feeling curled around his arms, his torso and his legs, rooting him to the spot. Then the reality of her departure set in, and the dam between his eyes collapsed from a sudden jolt of pressure.

"Yes, my lord."

She's gone.


1878, 22nd October

"Is that your final answer?"

"Yes, father. I will obtain my doctor's license. I," a trembling pause, "…I must."

"You insolent child," Lord Durless hissed. His face was as red as his hair, but his eyes were averted so they could not betray why. "Do you…do you have any idea how ashamed your mother would be? How disappointed?"

Angelina squeezed her fingers into sweaty fists. "It will not be the first time."

"You—!"

"She's gone, father," she whispered. She lifted her eyes from the floor, but found that the soreness within her nose only increased the further and higher she saw. "She…I…S-she…I…I cannot be held back any longer!"

When there is nothing truly in my way.

Her voice broke.

"SILENCE!" The lord roared. His heart hammered against a chilly cage, gripped by a familiar rush of turmoil. White. When he caught his breath, his eyes fell shut. Red. "Alright, then! Get out." Hand. "Get out." Judgment. "You are no LONGER MY DAUGHTER!"

Angelina breathed sharply. Her gaze dropped to the floor, paused, and traveled back up, never quite meeting the other's eyes. The will in her eyes did not waver after his proclamation, but her lips, once anxiously taut, were now loose with inevitability.

"Well?" The lord rumbled. "What are you waiting for?"

Gazing at his raised finger, Angelina wondered if there would ever be a place where she was truly wanted, and disappeared in a rustle of her mourning dress.

Lord Durless listened to the silence. His fury began to chill. After the moment passed, he sat, the sore pressure of dread climbing his veins. He sighed with closed eyes, and procured a pen and scrap of parchment.

'My Lord Phantomhive,' he began, ink spilling over the last alphabet,

'I regret to have delayed our correspondence; circumstances beyond my domain have held me from swift reply. Your kind patience has been welcome. I inform you with a weary heart the passing of my lady, whom you had sought to convince of our views.

The loss, you understand, has left those in my environment in a state unfit to carry out the activities we negotiated beforehand. The matter of funeral arrangements too weighs upon me. I thus request a brief postponement…'


1881, December 27th

There were shadows of firelight in Lord Phantomhive's eyes as he slid into the armchair, one long leg upon the other, leather tips pointing at the balding man before him. Lord Durless carried neither the imperial air nor the rich belly of three years ago. His weary eyes had changed little, though they now held a blankness that hid all promise and lie.

"Now that our pleasantries are done with," Vincent Phantomhive let his words dangle, raising two encouraging eyebrows.

Malcolm Durless dragged his head up a beat too late. "…What business has brought you to this decrepit old man?" He said, looking to the hearth.

"Come, now!" Vincent laughed. "It has been three years, dear father. Your reprieve has been spent. Long—spent." Pushing off his armchair, he sauntered towards the other man. "Sometimes I do wonder when your will began to waver. Do you remember," he hovered behind him, voice light, "how your lady, dear mother, used to comment on our unfaltering determination? Oh, what a charming woman she was, and most shrewd, too. But I wonder, now—"

"She was lovely."

"Yes. It is a shame Ciel will never get to know the charming woman his grandmother was," Vincent shook his head, smiling. "After all, she is—"

"Just tell me what you want."

He let a smile flit by his lips. "Must you really ask?"

There was a silence broken on occasion by the crackle of firewood. Under the pressure of memory and the present, Malcolm Durless felt three long years of avoidance crumble into infertile dust, and his mouth began to shape the words his heart could not say.

"Do it. Tonight."

"Of course." There was a snap of a pocket watch as arrangements began to form in Vincent's mind. "You will be informed when the transactions occur. Now, if you don't mind," gesturing at the time, he smiled apologetically, and turned on his heel, eyes trained on the door.

"…Tell Ciel I wish him a happy birthday."

Vincent stopped at his son's name, but soon resumed a pace and a smile he threw behind. "I will not fail you."


"Father! Father!" Little Astor Durless stumbled onto the rug, polished blade in hand. "You won't believe what Harold just taught me! Come, look! Look!"

"Quiet," Stephen Durless scrutinized his documents. "Lau from the Chinese Foreign Trade…paperwork in order, as usual." Without looking up, he reached for his stamp, but grasped air instead. A prod to his side drew his eyes to a blond boy, who was examining the ink-drenched block with red fingertips. "Astor! Put that down!" he yanked the stamp from his son's grip. "And what have I said about weapons in rooms? To the corner, now!"

There was a rustle of fabric as the lady of the house, in all her golden-haired and blue-eyed glory, swept into the scene. "Why hello, darling, Astor! Have I missed something?"

"Nothing important." Stephen Durless shook his head. "And how many times must I ask you to keep Astor out of the weapon hold! Mark my words; one day he will tear through all the tapestries and china, and when he does, don't expect me to be there to stop him!"

"Nonsense!" said his lady, closely echoed by their son, who jabbed the air with all the victory he could muster. "Astor won't even scratch the furniture. You know he is not a clumsy boy. He takes after the Middlefords. Don't you, Astor?"

"Yes, Mother!"

Stephen Durless pursed his lips until there was only ashy skin against bone. He looked at his wife, vibrant in her prime. Astor took after her in the way he lowered his shoulders but kept his eyes high in face of adversary. Yet while his eyes were bold, hers were hard. She understood a world women were sheltered from. Her cuts and calluses did not come from hours of female crafts, but from years of handling men's dangers.

Swords. Gunpowder. Death. All because she was a Middleford girl when they needed a Middleford man.

And when the true heir was born, when they wanted a lady, they cast her away. That was how he found her, the firstborn fallen from favor, the awkward blade of grass carved from a rose, left to wither while they tended to their oak. She was a grass that bent to the winds of fate, and they carried her to him.

He watched her caress Astor's head. His golden locks, a shade purer than her own, slipped through her fingers like water that ran too fast. Then the fingers tensed.

"There's someone outside," she said. Stephen swiveled toward the door, anticipating an attack he had not expected in three years, while she snatched the sword from Astor's hands.

"Astor, hide," and with her entire will she looked into her son's eyes. They were frightened, confused. Pure. "Whatever happens, do not get killed. You must stay alive. Understand?"

Astor stared at the sword in her hands and the fire in her eyes. "I—I understand, Mother," he said, though he did not. This was not the mother he knew. At the moment she seemed even stronger than father, who had nothing in his hands but a small red stamp.

The door burst open. Remembering his mother's words, Astor swallowed his scream and dove under the desk, where he saw nothing but heard everything.

"Lord Durless. What a pleasure to be in your company tonight. And—ah." There was a swish of fabric, then a slow creeping of footsteps. Tap. Tap. Tap. "This must be." Tap. "Lady Durless."

Another swish of fabric, then: "Who are you and what business do you have with our household?"

"Oh, aren't we being a little—rushed—here," the stranger laughed. "Why don't we sit down and have a cup of tea?" There were still more footsteps. Astor pressed his ears to the crack between the desk and the ground. Closing his eyes, he focused on the air. There were two people breathing. He paused, and listened harder. Weren't there supposed to be three?

Then, just barely, he heard the sound of metal against metal. A sword was being drawn. Shing.

No, his ears perked.

Shing.

Shing-Shing.

Shing Shing Shing Shing Shing Shing —

His eyes flew open. Twenty swords. Did Mother hear them too?

"…Alright," No. She was letting her guard down, Astor realized with a chill. "Sit there. But I want answers."

No—Mother, they're hiding!

"Don't worry, you'll have them. Soon." the breath-less voice laughed. "And I apologize, but I've changed my mind." Tap. Tap. Tap. Astor sat very still and listened for the swords. "I don't feel quite up for tea. It calms me down, you see. Dulls the intent." A pause, and the final sword was drawn. This time, everyone heard it. "To kill."

Then there was a blur of metal against metal and fabric ripping and it was chaos with the promise of death. But Astor found that if he focused, he could pick out the moves by their sounds. There were only two swords moving. Father was taking slow steps towards the windows. Was he going to run away and leave Mother behind?

It can't be, Astor frowned, and focused harder. The air hissed twenty times in Father's direction. Then he realized—

Danger!

Glass shattered—something had been flung out the window. A bare millisecond later—so fast that Astor barely heard it—twenty swords cut through the air.

Nonononono Please God No—

Thud.

"STEPHEN!"

"FATHER!"

Astor pushed the desk away and ran to the body by the window, tears blurring his sight. He wiped his eyes, looked at his father, and screamed.

Blood so much blood red blood twenty swords why is his arm there—

"ASTOR!" his mother barked. He looked away, shaking. She was shaking too, but her eyes were as hard as ever.

"Astor," she repeated, looking straight into him. Then he finally understood.

Survive, Astor. For we are survivors.

Turning to the breath-less man, he saw nothing but shadows moving under a cloak. Not even a face. Was this what killed his father? This nameless entity that breathed death and moved like shadow?

Who?

Or perhaps, 'what'?

Closing his eyes, Astor plucked a sword from the body lying before him. His hands dripped red. Then he saw no more. Nothing but swords, gunpowder, and death.


1881, December 28th

THE TIMES

FIRE BURNS DOWN DURLESS MANSION, HEIR MISSING

A great fire at the mansion of the Earl of Durless devastated the entire grounds last night, leaving no survivors. Witnesses report hearing explosions at the site before it was enveloped in "balls of flame" that "spread rapidly through the grounds". The cause of the fire remains unknown, but investigations are currently underway. A search for survivors yielded the bodies of Lord and Lady Durless, and various servants, in the main study, bloodied and heavily charred. They are currently being investigated for signs of foul play. The heir, meanwhile, is reported to be missing. It is unknown whether he was involved in foul play surrounding the incident.

Meanwhile, the fate of The Durless Import and Export Company remains murky. It is unclear whether the Duke of Durless will take over his late brother's operations, or, in the case that the missing heir is found and proven innocent, pass them on to the heir. Due to the significant role the Company plays in the trade economy of Britain, Her Majesty The Queen has ordered daily operations to be resumed under the temporary direction of the Earl of Phantomhive.


4 years later

For the second time in the month, Dr. Angelina Durless found herself sitting before a coffin, waiting for a funeral procession to end. It was neither long nor tearful. There was no one left to mourn her father but herself, and her tears for him had long dried. She felt as empty as the church.

Mother, dead. Father, dead. Husband, dead. Sister, dead. Nephew, dead. That man, dead.

So why am I still alive?

A clacking of heels roused her from her darkness. She turned and saw a man—no, a boy, a youth, with hair the purest shade of gold. He walked like he carried burdens much heavier than youth. Under the shadows of the church, his eyes were dark and unblinking. They were familiar. Then he looked at her with those hard green eyes and she recoiled.

She saw those eyes whenever she looked into a mirror. She would see them in her nephew when he returned, carrying with him the burdens of men.

"Was he your father?" The golden-haired stranger asked, looking straight into her. Without breaking eye contact, she nodded.

"Ah," he said, and bowed his head. "I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for. He was murdered."

"I know. That is why I am sorry."

Angelina looked at him, again, but differently. Oh, she whispered in her head, though she still did not understand. But he carried himself so heavily, so like the way she carried herself, that she felt she could understand a least a part of it.

So she repeated: "You have nothing to be sorry for."

We cannot be sorry for surviving.

When I go up through the mowing field,

The headless aftermath,

Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,

Half closes the garden path.

And when I come to the garden ground,

The whir of sober birds

Up from the tangle of withered weeds

Is sadder than any words

A tree beside the wall stands bare,

But a leaf that lingered brown,

Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,

Comes softly rattling down.

I end not far from my going forth

By picking the faded blue

Of the last remaining aster flower

To carry again to you.


Okay so it took me forever to churn this thing out. As in, FOREVER. (as in more than a year. I blame alot of things, procrastination being one of them.)

But now that it's out…please leave a review? :P

PS if there is anything that is confusing now (such as the wtf 20 swords no breath thing), it will be clarified in later chapters. Promise.