Quietus

Life is what happens to you when you're busy making other plans.

John Lennon

Lord Phantomhive was a title. A moniker that asserted both nobility and evil. It was the word that preceded every eldest boy in his family lineage. It was something that he had coveted, had made his own—something that he had made feared. Sure, his family had always dabbled in 'justice' and 'serving' the Queen had been beaten into him at a young age. Vincent had gone beyond that. He did the one thing his predecessors had never dared to do.

He got his hands dirty. Every case that he's ever touched, all of the criminals' he'd ever pardoned, and every vow he'd abided to—they all benefitted him, just as much as they'd benefitted their Queen.

Vincent wasn't a traitor, goodness no, but he refused to be no more than a simple pawn in a monarch's everchanging kingdom. He was no fool. Vincent was well aware of the Queen's whimsy. He had been but a boy himself when he learned of his father's demise. The masses spoke their theories: criminal, internal dispute, whore. Yet only he, and a select few, knew the truth.

Foul play.

Most likely carried out by the Queen's hand under her direct command.

It wasn't the first death from his bloodline, nor was it the last. That is why he did what he did. Some might call it treasonous, other's might call him a snake, but he knew he was simply cunning and wary; a trait that would save his life.

And… with any luck, his family's, too.

If his planning came to fruition, then he was fine with carrying their hatred. Perhaps he'd entertain certain thoughts late at night, or rather early morning, when he was content to lie back in his bed, wife at his side, and everyone in his manor accounted for. Odd things like opening the great few windows that decorated his estate. Or even taking his wife—yes, even his bastard, too—out on the lake. He's sure they would enjoy such an activity.

Before they could achieve such a thing, Vincent had to build his numbers. He had collected many pieces over his reign as Head Phantomhive. Numerous trained yet faceless staff, an honorable swordsman by the name of Tanaka, and a handful of trustworthy informants spanning the nations. Now, he had a new piece to polish. A young girl that he sired. Worthless now—and conceived via both illicit and devious means—but crucial to his future plans.

(—He ignored the fact that he was using his own daughter. That he tricked a child, his child—)

Vincent could build her up, make her better than what she was. What she was meant to be. What her mother became. He'd strip her down to her bone and sinew—reinforce it with stronger material, make her something worth investing in. Something that could protect his children when he was unable. She was eager enough to do so, desperate for approval, and he'd be a fool not to make a claim on such a willing pawn.

He had studied the girl, thoroughly, noting down her interactions with his staff and her particular violent tendencies. Her abundance of energy and wild disposition. The hunger she held as she devoured each book placed in front of her. A weakness in math, but a strong sense of perception. He could work with that.

It was tedious work, tailoring a schedule that would both play to her talents whilst introducing new and critical skills that would assist in protecting his legacy. He was tempted to cut out the basic mathematics altogether considering her overall deficiency in the subject but having an extra set of eyes overlooking a pocketbook wouldn't be amiss. He'd increase the difficulty of her English studies by putting more emphasis on deductions and problem-solving. Fencing, or rather swordplay in general, was a Phantomhive staple that would have to be taught. Maybe by doing so, Francis would not be as dismissive of the girl, she couldn't be—not if he planned to accept the child into the fold. He'd allow her to continue her silly dance, if only so she could blend in when required. Vocal lessons, too. A simple art that was greatly appreciated in nobility. Vincent thumbed his ring. It was a risky move. Introducing her to society. She was light enough that her skin could be passed as a tan—unseemly, but acceptable all the same—or he could continue to shelf her, and greatly reduce her availability in societal circumstances.

Perhaps he could find a way to do both.

Rachel had already taken the girl on as a ward; he saw no reason why he could not do the same.

It would also increase his charitability. Make him appeal in the eye of the masses, surely, he could play her off as a cousin of sorts. A lost relative, sun kissed by the southern lands and without protectors, only a monster would turn such a soul away.

(—He'd let in a certain few, allow them to spread her influence further, vie for her hand in an attempt to gain ground in the Phantomhive birthright.)

He could count on Angelina to spread the word. To confirm his claim. A fine woman, she was. A finer one, perchance, if she'd agree to his request. He saw no harm in allowing her free roam of his estate, in fact, he only felt content. He'd have a doctor on hand, Rachel a sister, Shabine a teacher. Anne would get the company she craved, the affection she wanted, and a hefty sum to accompany it. It was a mutually benefitable deal and a fair one to boot. She'd be a fool to dismiss it.

And he'd be daft to continue ignoring her. Yes, he was aware she had been watching him for some time; her frame slunk seductively along the doorframe. Her ruby red nails tapping a slow and soft beat against the firm material of her corset. He loved that look in her eyes, faintly angry, and begging for his attention. She always carried an air of intelligence, no nonsense. It made him wild. He could speak hours with this woman. Angelina was well educated and with a sharp tongue to boot. The way the fire flickered and made her hair come to life helped the burn in his loins by no means.

"Are you tiring, Vincent?"

"Never, my dear. I think, not even with the passing of my own life, will I ever tire of what lay next." He intoned, his eyes sweeping over to the free seat across from him. He gestured vaguely, and a servant appeared, handing him a spare cup and filling it with a liquid that matched perfectly with the woman's attire. "A drink?"

"Thank you." She hummed, taking both the drink and a seat in a graceful curtsey. "You are too kind, my Lord. Though I wonder," She locked eyes with him, and he burned, "what encourages your kindness?"

"My love," he spoke calmly, "for my darling sister, whom I would be terribly bored without."

"Well spoken, Vincent." She smirked, the façade falling as soon as it was birthed. "You have a response for everything, don't you? Such a quick thinker. Or do you plan these discussions? Spend hours awake wondering your next battle? Paranoid, you are."

"Ah," he set his own glass down, "paranoid to some, maybe. Thoughtful to others. I simply prefer cautious. After all, an enemy cannot back one into a corner when they are expecting it, hm?"

He watched her tongue swipe away at her fading lipstick. "Are you calling me an enemy, brother mine?"

"Never." He chortled, "I know you Anne, you are one of the few I trust with my life." A lie, not that she needed to know, but to be fair, he trusted no one but himself. "You'd never wish misfortune upon me."

She looked love struck, the way her eyes softened, and her lips quivered and not for the first time, he reminded himself he was a married man. "I wouldn't," she agreed. "I'd never dare hurt my sister's precious husband." She spoke, so soft, so yearning, so venomous.

Such bitter words from a beautiful woman. He rested his chin on his knuckles, "Indeed." He replied, clipped, "So why don't you agree? Stay here with us. With me." He purposefully tilted his head, making sure she couldn't escape his gaze, "We need you here."

"I can't give everything up for you." Angelina whispered, her jaw tightening and Vincent wished he could soothe away the stress that burrowed under her fair skin, "Please don't expect me to."

"Would you deny a child in need?" Vincent sniped, feeling frustration and lust twining together, "We would give you everything."

"I want nothing." She hissed. Vincent's chair clattered to the ground as he all but sprung across his desk; his hands clenched tight around the arm rests of her seat. This close to her he could see the faint freckles, the vivid russet eyes, the way her chest heaved with every breath. He found it terribly attractive. His hair combined with her own, his nose brushing against her cheek, and then finally, finally, his lips found the shell of her ear. He relished in the way her breathing faltered.

He'd never repeat what he said that day and he knew she'd never tell a soul.

All that mattered was that by the end of the night, Anne had sent word to her family household informing them of her decision, and in a few short weeks she'd be calling the Phantomhive estate home.

Francis gave birth to a healthy baby girl. A tiny thing with pale skin and pale blonde hair. A spitting image of her mother. Of their mother. It left a foul taste in his mouth. Nonetheless he still reached out, a letter not enough to sate his masochism. She refused to allow him passage into her home. She'd come to him, she informed him. He understood why she did it of course, too many eyes, they both knew it. That didn't mean he had to like that he was acting under her knowledge, not his own.

(—Or maybe she just didn't want a mixed-blood tainting her doorstep?)

Either way, he was more than prepared for a family affair. All of them were dressed to the nines and Francis didn't disappoint. There was a standoff as he greeted her, Angelina to his right, and Rachel to his left. Shabine a mere step behind her. The act was not lost on his sister.

Similarly, her husband stood to her left, her son on her right and her newborn in her arms. There was a thick current in the air, a power play only the tow of them knew. She might have had the high grounds, but the manor was no longer her home. She did not control the house anymore.

Rachel did, and what Rachel decided as Lady Phantomhive was law. Shabine was, by that technicality, more welcomed than his own niece. Being both a Daughter and a Ward meant that her place was secured in spades, whereas Elizabeth's was null in face of her own diluted Phantomhive blood.

(—It was a little humbling acknowledging that Shabine was theoretically his heir.)

"Lord Phantomhive." Francis nodded, her motion stiff and angered.

Two could play that game, "Marchioness Midford." How silly his sister had become; when did she start believing that she could get away at slighting him? It didn't work that way. She could not deny their connect, he would not let her. But he would allow her to play her game, allow her to feel vindicated in face of her anguish.

"Lady Phantomhive, Lady Angelina." She droned unswervingly though he did not miss her lack of eye-contact. How cowardly. "It's been ages." Saving face, was she?

"Yes," Angelina crooned, and though it was improper than she spoke out before Rachel, he dismissed the fluke in the wake of her own righteous fury. "Far too long. When you stopped correspondence, I feared the worst. You should know such a thing makes one think awful things. My! I was beside my wit when my dear sister informed me of your state. For a lady of your standing to simply… disappear from the spotlight, makes one think, doesn't it?" She opened her fan dramatically, "Several of my colleagues have inquired about you as well, they've kept an eye out and now I can finally put their worries to rest."

I've been watching you, Anne said, and so have others. What do you plan to say? He applauded her conniving. Angelina, and by proxy Vincent himself, would know the moment she opened her lips amongst the inner circle. Anything said could and would be taken as a moment of madness. A plight that would forever scar her reputation.

"Let's save some of this chatter for dinner, shall we?" Rachel beamed, "It's so nice to have company you know, we shan't spoil it so soon. Why, I don't think I've met this handsome young man nor this lovely lady." Ever the gracious hostess, Rachel shifted the atmosphere to something far more enjoyable.

"I—" Francis stuttered at the verbal whiplash, "Yes, I suppose you haven't. My eldest, Edward and my daughter, Elizabeth. My boy was too preoccupied with his studies to attend our last gathering, he is a very studious child." She almost smiled, looking all the world to be a proud mother, "A tad raucous, but what child isn't?" Her arms shifted minutely, "I am thankful that my Eliza is cheerful and mild-mannered."

"A beautiful temperament for a beautiful girl," Marquess Midford cooed, "I'll be hard pressed to deny her, that's for sure."

"I understand the sentiment," Rachel dipped her head demurely and touched a slender head to Shabine's curls, "a charming girl, she is. Smart and energetic, too. She makes my day brighter just by smiling." Rachel was glowing. Every word she said, she believed. Her free hand then slid over her still lean abdomen. "I can't wait to have another to share the day with."

"I pray for a safe delivery, my Lady." The Marquess murmured looking enchanted. Vincent understood the sentimentality. His sister's husband was a soft-hearted man, and Vincent couldn't hate him for it.

"Thank you." She giggled, "Now, enough prattle, Tanaka will be disheartened if we keep him waiting."

"Well said." Vincent agreed and tucked his wife beneath his arm. Ann followed toting an abnormally quiet Shabine on her hip. Once in the dining hall the two men split. Vincent taking a seat at the head of the table and Alexis Leon took the other. There was a brief discourse between the noble and his wife, but ultimately Francis followed his lead and sat to his left. She was officially handing over the reigns to her husband. Shame. He'd have love to see her take center-seat, but he knew that would present a bad image and she'd die before she shamed herself.

Francis acted every bit of the high-born lady she was and yet, Vincent felt dissatisfied. He wanted her to be angry at him like he couldn't afford to be himself. He wanted to tire her out in a battle of wills until he could convince the both of them, he knew better, just like old times. But looking at her now, he knew those days were long gone. Knew since he bested her in her own sport. She was not his anymore. She was a wife, a mother, and most importantly a Midford.

Vincent refused to look at her for the rest of the meal. And when they retired into the guest study, he knew his hesitance, his fondness, could last no longer.

Elizabeth had long since tired. She had been spirited away by Margaret, Tanaka's wife, to take a nap in the nursery. Young Edward remained, as had Shabine. The two of them looked over each other uneasily; Edward's perception of the girl had most likely ended up poisoned as a result of his sister's tongue and Shabine, who's last interaction with a child her age turned sour, looked in no rush to greet him.

There were a few ways to mend the growing distance between the two of them. Not that she'd like any of them. He'd wait and consider her words before he made peace with his decision.

Rachel saw the stalemate just as he had and decided to act on it in the way she knew how, "Shabine love, it's not polite to stare. Say hello to your aunt, uncle, and cousin."

The girl bowed, a trait taken from Tanaka, of all things. Indecorous for a girl of her position but polite even so. "Hi. It is nice to meet you." Shabine stood straight and propelled her pudgy hand in Edward's face. Vincent did his best not to laugh, "I'm Shabine."

The boy batted her hand away and then grabbed it once it was at a much more respectful business; he then proceeded to shake it vigorously, "Edward. Why are you brown?" He could hear Francis wheeze at his lacking tact. Marquess Midford looked both chagrined and apologetic.

"Don't know," she shrugged, "why are you pink?"

He looked confused, then awed, and finally told her, "No clue." Then, like most children do, he proceeded to latch onto her, specifically her hair, "I like your hair. We should play." Straight-forward, just like his father.

"Okay, I have books." Shabine offered uncaring of the various eyes on them. "We can read."

"Ew." Edward griped back, "That's not fun at all. Come on, I'll show you how to play right."

Not much more context was given, Edward flung himself out into the hall, his hand tight around his daughter's wrist and her skirts flaring just outside of the doorway. He signed to the shadows, instructing a watch to be placed on the two of them. Satisfied that they'd be fine alone for a few hours, he turned back to his company and prepared for a long evening.

"Such an energetic boy," Angelina addressed as she sipped her beverage. "Quite the flirt too, he must get it from yourself, Marquess Midford." The man in question blushed and looked to his agitated wife.

Divide and Conquer was the name of the game, was it?

"Had to have." Vincent chortled, "it would take a man with perseverance and a silver tongue to win over Francis. Why I do remember…"

"Enough." Marchioness Midford commanded. "We aren't here to speak about my marriage."

The room dropped several degrees. Such a frosty woman this Marchioness was. He dearly missed the playful girl his sister used to be. Such was the sacrifice of nobility, he supposed. Vincent knew she wouldn't be satisfied until she exposed every piece of dirty laundry he harbored. Only then, once she thought she had him cornered, would she act. He was fairly certain of what she wanted, and—despite the notion of having the deal proposed on such unpromising terms—it was something he himself had been willing to offer before Shabine and the whore that sired her appeared on his doorstep.

Yes, it was plain to see, Francis wanted control of the Phantomhive communications. She'd never liked knowing that she was simply a bargaining chip; a way to expand the reach their family influence could hold. By marrying away, she had accomplished her singular goal. She was now a worthless bishop. She gained the ground needed and then was forced to relinquish control to a man who albeit wanted not just her happiness but her obedience as well.

Francis wanted to be relevant and he couldn't hate her for it. By all means, she was smart to make a move like the one in play. By offering up her infant daughter to a marriage contract to his—supposed—unborn son, she would solidify her place in the Phantomhive family. Through Elizabeth she would have the control needed to sway her nephew, the next Phantomhive head, accordingly. He had no doubt that she would groom Elizabeth to be the perfect Phantomhive wife. Efficient, deadly, and loyal.

With any luck his heir would be able to sway the girl to his side and make her ignorant of her mother's teachings. Loyalty to one's husband came before loyalty to one's family. Francis understood that well and yet, she continued to plan despite the gamble.

Well, he couldn't let Francis win the pot by his inaction, could he? No, he couldn't. He'd go all in, bargaining all his chips on the chance that young Elizabeth would genuinely love his son. She would be hard-pressed to not do so, not with his charm and Rachel's genuine compassion.

Vincent had made up his mind. The scheme would turn in his favor; he knew it would, and— if not—then Shabine was a piece that was coming along nicely with his firm hand applying the polish. She would eliminate any threat to his legacy before they had a chance to act.

"Sister mine," He addressed Francis directly for the first time in hours, "we both know what you want and I'm willing to be amicable. Such petty squabbles are beneath us; don't you think? Yes, I do believe so. Mother would be ashamed at our display." He tacked on, knowing that their late mother was a force to be reckoned with. There was no one they respected greater than the deceased Phantomhive Matriarch.

Francis seemed to deflate at the mention. The steel lining her shoulders crumbling under her still-healing grief and anger. "I thought we agreed, Brother mine, to let sleeping dogs lie?" On the eve of their parent's death they had bonded over the shared knowledge of deceit shrouding the monarchy. It was a topic that Francis hated to touch; was afraid to even, and she was right to be so. Every wall had ears and they were both too deep to be removed from the game now. When the time came to topple the Queen, it would be carried out in such a manner that even the best detectives hired for the case would be puzzled. Vincent himself included.

"I apologize, Francis." He amended. "However, I had to remind you that this senseless infighting will do us no good in the long run. Not when we are fighting for a common cause."

Fighting. Humans were always fighting. Struggling to remain in a favorable position to control the board and Phantomhive's were much the same. He fought to keep his family safe, and so did his sister, in her own way. It had been much too long since they were last on the same page; maybe, in his paranoid state, it was best to trust his sister again. No one would be able to understand him—what he fought for—better than the girl born to be a leader in a society that wished otherwise.

Vincent was, if anything, willing to give her a chance.

"…You are correct. I apologize for my behavior—"

"—And I, mine." He smoothly deigned.

She looked just like their mother when she smiled, "As your sister, I, Marchioness Midford, wife to Alexis-Leon Midford, mother to Edward and Elizabeth Midford, would like to offer a contract of marriage in the form of my daughter, Elizabeth. With the combining of our families for yet the second time, I wish for patience, fortune, and equal opportunity."

Rachel smiled as he stood, looking all the world pleased by the outcome of their spat. "I, Earl Phantomhive, humbly accept your kind offer." Vincent grinned, unable to resist teasing, "May our cups never spill, our fire burn brilliantly, and our pockets never empty, Sister mine." He was warmed by the soft huff she allowed him to hear. Vincent welcomed her into his arms, content that despite it all, his sister would once more be that, his sister. He had far too many enemies to make another. Much less one that shared his blood—shared his knowledge.

Short chapter because of Hurricane Delta, which looks like its fixing to wipe the area where I live off the map for a week or two. With any luck power and internet will remain up but Hurricanes do be like that sometimes. Sorry Vincent's perspective had to be cut short. Would you prefer I pick it back up once my connection stabilizes, or should I just continue into Rachel's perspective?*

Also, what do you guys think Vincent told Angelina that made her decide to stay with the Phantomhives?

I hope what Vincent plans to do with Shabine satisfies you guys. A little bit of parental, a lot of toxic, and a dash of regretful. Now, onto the reviews:

To Sarcastic Raven and Shadowing: Thank you guys so much! It means the world to receive feedback

Swiggs: There's going to be a lot of dark and really not okay undertones to this fic. I'm not saying it'll never be comedic or light-hearted but it's primarily centered on Vincent's fuck-ups, the nature of Shabine's birth and color, and Sabastian, once he appears. Shabine and Vincent are going to have a… weird, relationship to put it lightly. He will come to see her as a daughter, a partner, but he will also see traces of her mother in her too. There will probably be no illicit relationship between them, but it certainly won't be pure, either. The sibling relationship however, oh boy that's a doozy. Especially with our Fake!Canon!Ciel.

TruRebellion: Oh vincents a real piece of work alright. It's hard writing him and finding a good character balance honestly. Is he a caring father? A corrupt noble? Or a worried husband? A bit of all of the above honestly. Hopefully his introspection helped define who I think he is in this fic though. As mentioned above, her relationship with the twins is going to be a riot to write. I'm looking forward to it. I will give a hint and say, she feels strongly about them. If that's in a good or bad way is up to you. Thank you for the kind words!

Thank you all for reviewing! I hope you enjoyed.

Edit: 10/18/2020

*Added onto chapter length and completed Vincent Perspective.

Changed Baron to Marquess, in effort to correct my mistake on Alexis-Leon Midford's title.

Similarly corrected Angelina Dalles title to Lady, rather than Baroness.

Fixed grammar, spelling, and comprehension issues. Hopefully.

Previous Arc: Childhood

Current Arc: Family

Chapter: 1/ ?