—AU of my other fic, Cracked Porcelain, in which Vincent survived alongside Kagome.
Reading Cracked Porcelain may be recommended, to understand some of Kagome's backstory, but isn't strictly required as it will all be covered later in this story. The basic synopsis for Kagome's history is; things went wrong, she tried to return home wounded and broken-hearted but somehow ended up in the wrong era. She fell in the hands of a slave trader because of her pretty appearance and eventually ended up in the Phantomhive's custody.
warnings: heavy yandere undertones, character/children deaths, (lots of) angst, mentions of abuse, gores, and language.
This is all unbeta'd.
prologue—burned
Fire. The inferno, it roared and pursued the sky. Its greed knew no bounds, consuming everything in its path. It all burned.
It was so dazzling, that it brightened the gloomy sky. Blindingly bright, but it did not stop the stinging sadness in her beating heart. Limping toward the rumbling sun, she hitched a sob. Tears cleaned paths through the mask of dirt, bruises, and blood.
She failed.
She failed her duties.
She deserved to be dragged through Hell, to be stripped of her skin and organs until there was nothing left of her in this blazing flame. Not even the bones would remain, only the blackened ashes to prove her existence. It is her punishment. This is her fate, for all her failures. There is no more desire to live, but to embrace Death and face her rightful Judgment.
Yet, her shoes scuffled to stop. The fire licked and burned her face, as she stared into the gateway to Hell. She can't. The splinters bit into her brittle hands, the pitchfork she used to slaughter her lord's enemies and to walk her weakened, pathetic self home, it caved so easily to her strength. She can't.
I can't, she mouthed and collapsed to the soil. I can't. Burning herself alive, seemed so pathetic. She deserved a pathetic death. But, some parts of her willed herself to stay her hand.
As blood continued to pour from her gaping wounds, the skin on her face wrinkling and boiling from the fire, she bowed her head. Closing her aching eyes with acceptance, she rejected the broken pitchfork and lowered her body to the ground. The fire will come to her and consume her whole. If not, she'll die from her wounds. She dies either way.
Forgive me, my lord. Forgive me, my lady. Forgive me, my young masters.
She sobbed, apologizing over and over for her incompetence. Her whispers didn't stop until the cold sleep overcame her. The fire did not come for her and instead, within hours, it perished where it burned and leaving nothing but ashes and charcoal behind.
When she woke up, she recalled staring at the ceiling. There was nothing remarkable about it, it was plain and white, but she was fixated on it. Fixated on how one of her eyes seemed to have blurred, even her visual world was already distorted. Self-hatred crept in quietly, blending within the stream of consciousness and memories in her mind. Did she die?
By the stench of bleach, sickness, and rot, she did not. Then came the anger. Flinging the tubes from the insides of her elbows and tossing the thin blanket aside, she ran away. She pushed open the window and ran.
She kept running until her white gauze bled red and her flesh was shredded apart by the stitches. Pain meant nothing to her, it hadn't in years. She marched through the woods, hobbling, to her final destination.
She was not meant to rot in an asylum nor a hospital. Or even on the Royal Family's ground. No, she was destined to perish alongside her wicked lord. Her gentle lady. Her beloved masters. She promised them that.
Hours passed, she found a winding dirt path. The path, to the place where she found and lost her everything. She marched on, dragging a battered foot behind her.
The long journey both felt like an eternity yet passed in mere minutes when she found herself standing in front of what remained of her home. There was nothing left. As if in mourning, no sound would whistle through the wind. No bird dared to chirp. No more chatter. There was nothing left.
Glass shards were strewn among the front steps. She ascended, not caring that the fragments were slicing into her already brittle feet, leaving behind a path of scarlet blood in her wake. They glittered on the shattered diamonds, mocking the dreary weather. It was fitting, that the sun would not shine. The skies were grey, swelling with incoming tears to grieve with her.
She paced herself to the center of what used to be the entrance room, not looking back.
It was magnificent, with priceless ornaments adorning every nook and cranny, and they were all burned to ashes. She remembered how frequently her young masters would play here. A slow smile formed at the happy memories, of countless rounds of hiding and seek they had played together. They considered her an excellent hider.
That crooked smile fell.
There would be no more game to play.
Her lady would frequently drag her to the dance floor, to spin together. Their skirts would span wide, a harmony of soft and dark colors meshing to the beat of her lady's music. Tall heels would click and clack on the marbled tiles, as her lady would giggle and laugh and she would smile one of her rare smiles. In her lady's silken pairs, her hands were so calloused in comparison. Holding those feeble hands seemed strange, when her lady never knew a hard day of working while she had seen many. Her cherished lady, on the other hand, would insist she go without gloves, so they could tangle their fingers together.
Tears streamed down her cheeks.
Her lord scantly danced and liked to watch his wife and her dance together instead. He'd laugh often and compliment their dancing while sipping his favorite scotch. He liked to play them piano, too, and would crackle over the tune at their struggles and her lady's sulking, sometimes playing practical jokes to see how fast she and her lady could go. Every now and then, though, he'd take one of their positions and dance with them.
She never understood why her lord would sometimes dance with her instead of his beloved wife. She was not used to seeing his beautiful smile up close, feeling his warm breaths in her hair, or having his stark cologne swimming up her nose. Her lady never seemed to mind though, her eyes twinkling with absolute delight as she applauded their footwork.
Sobs cracked from her coarse throat.
She fell to her knees among the wreckage and wailed at the rumbling sky.
This home will be her coffin. Her final resting place.
He shouldn't have lived. He had no right to live.
Facing the remnants of what once was his home, he folded his hands tightly. So tightly his split nails cut through the skin of his palm and bled. It was raining, pummeling in a torrential downpour. The clouds were dark and thunder was distant, and he was grateful that it obscured his tears. The umbrella that his butler raised above his head provided little protection from the weather.
He didn't care though. Nothing mattered anymore but his pure unadulterated rage. The maddening, insatiable need to exact revenge. "Push me onward." He commanded the butler. He didn't know why he felt compelled to get closer, but he did.
"Yes, milord," came the husky reply.
The chair wheeled closer to the charred remains, cutting twin lines through the mud. The push was laborious, unpleasant to experience on the wet earth. Yet he paid nothing any mind and instead, he stared. He could still hear their screaming.
His family. His wife. His boys.
…her.
The last time he saw her, someone had cracked her head and momentarily blinded her. Using her sudden weakness against herself, she was then stabbed in her abdomen and was dragged away on the floor. Only God knows what they planned to do to her. Torture, perhaps, for all she did to their acquaintances, or a fate worse than death. She fought with fury, but her fury wasn't enough to take so many men while guarding her lord.
He couldn't help her, surrounded by his enemies to have tried. Every single day since then, he had been blaming himself for being useless. Useless!
He was told his wife burned alongside their sons. There were no bodies to bury. They were innocent! Their sons' birthday became the day of their death. The irony didn't escape him.
Her body was never found and it was theorized that she had been disposed of elsewhere, to be picked clean by scavengers. It was a better fate than he'd initially feared. He might be able to locate her body and give her a proper burial, to allow her soul to rest in peace. There was no doubt in his mind that he would set her next to his family's graves—she deserved at least that honor.
That was all he was told when he woke up in the hospital. He had nothing left now. He had no time to shed tears. There was work to be done.
Biting his lips, he cut his teeth on his bottom lip so hard that it bled and was washed away in the battering rain. He glared at the blackened piles of bricks and charcoal until he could no longer bear the awful sight. He averted his gaze and barked, "We go. Now."
The butler hesitated, "Milord…" he said slowly.
"What is it?" He said, irritably.
"There is," he gestured with a hand to where the door used to be, "someone there."
"What sort of fool would've lingered here!?" He snarled, slashing his flaming eyes across his property. There was nothing left, even for petty thieves! As if beckoned by his harsh tone, the thunder boomed and cast a blinding white light.
…he thought he saw an angel.
"It is," his butler situated himself next to his lord, "a woman."
A woman? Why would there be a—
A voice so soft it disappeared under the raging storm, but he heard it as clear as the day, "M-milord?" As the figure scuffled and limbered closer, his eyes widened. For the first time since he woke up weeks prior, he was filled with hope.
He dared to hope.
He sprang to his feet and lurched up the short flight of stairs, ignoring his butler's urgent request that he remains in his wheelchair, "Is it you?" He grappled on the corroded iron railing, which was quite coarse on his bleeding palm, and leaned. "Please," he begged, wincing and hissing through the stinging pain in his hip, "tell me it's you, dear songbird. Kagome."
"I—" she stumbled from the shadows, limping into his blurry vision. The small thing buckled her knees and sobbed as she saw him, "milord!" Her ruined face twisted, "You—you lived!"
He wanted to collapse right then and grabbed her small body in his deathly embrace. Sinking to his knees, he wrapped her body and held her. He did not notice the bleeding scars on her face, arms, chest, legs, nor did he feel her warm blood run down his wet skin—he only saw Kagome. She was alive. She survived.
Against all odds, she lived.
Kagome moaned in his arms, "Milord, milord," she crumbled, breaking her persona in front of her lord and sobbed, "forgive me, forgive me—I," her words went in an inane mumble.
He kept her tighter and shook his head, "There is nothing to forgive, dear songbird—I pray for your forgiveness for my inability to protect you and—" a shudder. He broke into a sob. For the first time, he was finally able to grieve.
The aged butler stood in the background, watching. Amused by their antics, he spun his umbrella and walked forward to join his lord and the woman. He covered them from the storm by raising the umbrella above their heads. The thunder roared, followed by a blinding flash of lightning, washing everything in white for a brief moment, "Milord," he said after a moment of silence, to allow them peace to grieve together, "I think we should take her to the hospital. She's in quite an awful shape."
Warmth slithered down his thin shirt. He stiffened at the realization. He rebounded backward and grappled her small shoulders with his hands. He stared, horrified by her state, "Y-you," Kagome bled everywhere, her skin black and blue, limbs wrapped in red-soaked cotton gauze, her once beautiful black hair was jagged and cut short, and her face…both sides of her face were burned, "right fool."
Kagome wailed, "Milord…Vincent, I—" She was plastered to his chest and sobbed in his arms.
"You're a right fool." Vincent mumbled, burying his face in her hair and caressing the back of her head. He didn't care that she was staining his white clothes red. His heart twinged. It came alive, thudding beats to Kagome's cries.
She never cried like this.
She didn't cry at all.
She was the Phantomhive's pretty doll, the loyal guard dog in his shadow. Smiles were rare, but Kagome was not rigid. Her heart was not frozen, but she guarded it closely and scantly opened it to a special few. It was already brittle from her previous life and she recovered gradually with his sons' perseverance. Kagome had been smiling a little more frequently lately, too.
Now, Vincent shuddered to imagine what she'd be like after.
a/n: uhhh, hi, so uhhh been a hot minute since I've posted anything. Yet, here I am, with one more wip to my endless piles of unfinished fics lol. Iunno when I'll update, but I do have several chapters done so hopefully sooner than later. Big thanks to KibaSin for being supportive and kicking my ass to pick up writing again. As always, please leave a review and stay safe out there!
Edited as of Oct 12 2021 using quillbot and basic grammarly! Iunno if these apps improved the reading any so lmk your thoughts!