Post by мαdαм on Sept 11, 2011 13:49:24 GMT -5
Title: Silent Tears
Fandom: Kuroshitsuji
Rating: Teen
Theme: Memories, Angst
___________________________
Autumn leaves rustled around the same old stone walkway, caressing with the whisper of their scratchy cry. They continued their dance, vibrant shades of red and orange twisting and turning in the wind. They reminded her of that night— so long ago. When she had stood on these stones, and watched the last few pieces of her life burn away. Where once had stood massive estate of architectural brilliance now stood a memorial to the darkest moment of Angelina Durless’ life.
Behind her, a massive carriage would wait until her feet drew her back to its door. Instead those clicking heels were leading up over the walkway and towards the collapsed estate. She brushed aside the front door, pushing it open and welcoming the musty smell of rotting wood and earth that reached toward her. Small rays of sunlight reached through the broken ceiling above her, and scarlet eyes trailed upwards to watch the birds nesting in the rafters shift nervously at her entrance. Her eyes drew towards master stairwell that ascended into the heart of the mansion, its red-carpet tattered and its cherry wood tarnished and sooty. Glass crushed under her feet, and Angelina drew her eyes to the chandelier that had crashed to the floor and slowly became home for the fingers of moss that grew through its crystal shards and metallic arms. How everything had changed.
She could remember it all so clearly, like it had been yesterday’s breath. Her bright eyed nephew would come running down the stair case when ever she visited— the frantic eyes of her sister coming to the railing as the boy took the steps two at a time. But the soft patter of a child’s loafers would never grace her ears again. She would never catch that dark haired boy in her arms as he launched himself off of that third to last step and spin him around. Rachel would never come down the stairs to chastise them both, and yet smile at the end of her berating tone. Angelina lifted a hand to cover her lips, eyes tearing up slowly. The woman pulled herself away from the foyer, leaving behind the tears that had fallen off of her chin and stained the dusty floor.
Floor boards creaked loudly under her feet, and Angelina stiffened as something scuttled away from her approach. Tiny eyes peered out at from the shadows, blinking lightly at the strange creature invading its quiet home. Relaxing at the sight of a twitching nose, and perked ears— she knew no harm would come from a family of rabbits. She left the soft creatures to their own activities and continued through the mansion. The deeper she traveled, the darker the old manor became. Cloth still clinging to the old window frames and blocking out the afternoon light from aiding her. She straightened pictures along the walls as she walked, busying her self with righting small vases that had been knocked over by some creature or another. Despite her taking her time— she would eventually come to her destination. Before her loomed two solid oak doors that had served as a guarding eye against intruders to Vincent’s private study. She stood before them for a long moment, studying the sturdy barriers that seemed to challenge her to break through them. But the woman would not need force. Angelina slipped a chain from another her neck, and wrapped its small gold links in her fingers. A key on its end grasped between her fingers as she slid it into the hole. The door ‘clicked’ softly, and she paused. Like so many times in the past, her breath caught on her lips. The doors welcomed her like they had the master of the house, and she pushed them open slowly.
Scarlet eyes drew over the room slowly, catching every detail like it was the first time. The towering cases that had housed empowering titles along the back wall, with a massive wooden desk the center of the room. Running along the longest wall opposite to the door was a line of old glass-plane windows. Drapes hanging in torn pieces from the rods attached to the ceiling. Her foot steps left marks in the dust— matching the ones from her last visit. She circled the old leather chair still pushed back from the desk where Vincent had left it. Her hands trembled slightly as she brushed over the back of the chair, imaging that the proud man that had owned this room still sat there. Her eyes slid closed slowly, and she tilted her head. Red strands of her hair caressed over the worn leather as her forehead was nestled into the headrest. His scent had long since worn off of the chair, but she could still remember the distinct aroma of musk and spices. Angelina remained where she was for the longest moment, letting her tears slid over the worn leather and leave a streak of moist mourning in its wake.
She could still envision his gentle smile, with the light quirk of his left brow that would let you know he was teasing. The light crease that pulled the corner of his lips downward when he was displeased—but did not want to show it. Those liquid silver eyes, such a warm shade of grey that just his gaze alone could cause her body to weaken. Angelina pulled back from the chair slowly, letting a gentle sob pass through her painted lips. Her slender frame would sink into that old worn chair, and she would pull her legs up into her chest. Turning her head to rest it into the chair as her body shook gently with her grief.
He had always been a gentleman. In his first and final breath, she imagined he maintained that polite demeanour until he was forced to break it. The first time she had laid eyes on him he had been so young. Such a naive young man with dreams and plans to take the world by storm. Vincent had laid out everything in his life at first. He had married the perfect wife, she lamented. Her sister had been sweet, quiet, and very modest. Too humble to question the long hours the man worked and too trusting to think anything of her sister’s continuous visits. Angelina had watched his perfect life slowly develop complicated levels of secrets and deceit. The woman regretted remaining as quiet about it as she did— but she had just been another one of those secrets. It had not been her place to tell Vincent how to live his life- despite how much she had wanted to protect and guard him from everything.
Slowly Angelina’s tears dried and she found her self strong enough to turn to look over his desk. Dust had settled over it since her last visit, clinging to the lamp and mounds of papers that yellowed with age. The ink along their worn pages too faint for reading now. How many long hours had Vincent spent bend over this old surface? How many hours had she spent bent over it with him? The woman chuckled softly, letting a light blush darken her cheeks as she slid her fingers out over the desk. Drawing lines through the dust as she smiled. Somewhere along its surface, her nails had torn through the varnish and it had only been hours later that Vincent would find it. Trying multiple things to cover up the tell-tail sign— that had been the last time he had made the mistake of loving her in his study. Much to her own sadness— for she had enjoyed stealing his attention from his work when he had been ignoring her for too many days. Instead, he had started to visit her while she worked— as if returning the favour. But it had not been for adulterous behaviour he visited. She had spent many hours on her knees beside her sofa, stitching up his wounds and cleaning the gore from his body. By the last few months of his life— Vincent had become apart of something horrid. Dealing with supernatural things that Angelina had only the aftermath to clean up. Vincent had come to her— and time and time again she would pull him from death’s grasp and patch him back together.
She blamed her self for making the man feel immortal. For using the advancements of science to believe he could survive anything. She could have prevented his death, or prolonged his time on this earth by being stern with him and explaining that one of those days he would kill himself. And that she could not save him from the grave. Angelina realised then that her words probably wouldn’t have mattered— he had been fighting for a cause bigger them himself or his family. He had been under command of their Queen— a loyal little puppet to do her bidding.
But that queen had used him for every last breath he had. Angelina had hunted long and hard in her life to discover what had torn her little world apart. What she discovered was alarming, and soured her greatly. Vincent’s work attracted forces that even he could not protect his family from. The accident that had hospitalized her, and killed her husband was no accident. More of an assassination attempt to remove Angelina from Vincent’s life—to not only cripple him with the loss of his mistress, but to leave him without a skilled medical professional at his beck-and-call. They had failed to kill her , but they had removed her long enough to get to Vincent with out her there.
But to burn the Mansion and its occupants, to crush the life out of the man’s son to ensure nothing of the Phantomhive line remained? To ensure no more hunters would take the family name? A pleasant notion for the underworld. If I had only worked. Angelina had lost many things in the span of three months. She has lost her husband, her sister, and her nephew. But most importantly? She had lost her best friend, her lover, and her place of solance. Vincent had become an important center in her life over the years she had served him. But over those years there had been so much she had wanted to tell him, to explain to him. So much she had longed to do with him. But she was foolish in believing he could live forever. The man had died with out knowing many of her secrets, while she had known nearly all of his. He would never know she wore red every waking breath for him. He would never know she had spent fifteen years of her life yearning for him, before that fateful night he had shown up at her office nearly bleeding to death. He would never know the extent of her love for him—while, he may have known she loved him Angelina truly doubted he understood just how much he meant to her. He had been everything to her, and living without him was living with half of herself missing. It wasn’t living at all—it was an eternal torture.
________________________
This is just a portion of the first chapter n3n
Fandom: Kuroshitsuji
Rating: Teen
Theme: Memories, Angst
___________________________
Autumn leaves rustled around the same old stone walkway, caressing with the whisper of their scratchy cry. They continued their dance, vibrant shades of red and orange twisting and turning in the wind. They reminded her of that night— so long ago. When she had stood on these stones, and watched the last few pieces of her life burn away. Where once had stood massive estate of architectural brilliance now stood a memorial to the darkest moment of Angelina Durless’ life.
Behind her, a massive carriage would wait until her feet drew her back to its door. Instead those clicking heels were leading up over the walkway and towards the collapsed estate. She brushed aside the front door, pushing it open and welcoming the musty smell of rotting wood and earth that reached toward her. Small rays of sunlight reached through the broken ceiling above her, and scarlet eyes trailed upwards to watch the birds nesting in the rafters shift nervously at her entrance. Her eyes drew towards master stairwell that ascended into the heart of the mansion, its red-carpet tattered and its cherry wood tarnished and sooty. Glass crushed under her feet, and Angelina drew her eyes to the chandelier that had crashed to the floor and slowly became home for the fingers of moss that grew through its crystal shards and metallic arms. How everything had changed.
She could remember it all so clearly, like it had been yesterday’s breath. Her bright eyed nephew would come running down the stair case when ever she visited— the frantic eyes of her sister coming to the railing as the boy took the steps two at a time. But the soft patter of a child’s loafers would never grace her ears again. She would never catch that dark haired boy in her arms as he launched himself off of that third to last step and spin him around. Rachel would never come down the stairs to chastise them both, and yet smile at the end of her berating tone. Angelina lifted a hand to cover her lips, eyes tearing up slowly. The woman pulled herself away from the foyer, leaving behind the tears that had fallen off of her chin and stained the dusty floor.
Floor boards creaked loudly under her feet, and Angelina stiffened as something scuttled away from her approach. Tiny eyes peered out at from the shadows, blinking lightly at the strange creature invading its quiet home. Relaxing at the sight of a twitching nose, and perked ears— she knew no harm would come from a family of rabbits. She left the soft creatures to their own activities and continued through the mansion. The deeper she traveled, the darker the old manor became. Cloth still clinging to the old window frames and blocking out the afternoon light from aiding her. She straightened pictures along the walls as she walked, busying her self with righting small vases that had been knocked over by some creature or another. Despite her taking her time— she would eventually come to her destination. Before her loomed two solid oak doors that had served as a guarding eye against intruders to Vincent’s private study. She stood before them for a long moment, studying the sturdy barriers that seemed to challenge her to break through them. But the woman would not need force. Angelina slipped a chain from another her neck, and wrapped its small gold links in her fingers. A key on its end grasped between her fingers as she slid it into the hole. The door ‘clicked’ softly, and she paused. Like so many times in the past, her breath caught on her lips. The doors welcomed her like they had the master of the house, and she pushed them open slowly.
Scarlet eyes drew over the room slowly, catching every detail like it was the first time. The towering cases that had housed empowering titles along the back wall, with a massive wooden desk the center of the room. Running along the longest wall opposite to the door was a line of old glass-plane windows. Drapes hanging in torn pieces from the rods attached to the ceiling. Her foot steps left marks in the dust— matching the ones from her last visit. She circled the old leather chair still pushed back from the desk where Vincent had left it. Her hands trembled slightly as she brushed over the back of the chair, imaging that the proud man that had owned this room still sat there. Her eyes slid closed slowly, and she tilted her head. Red strands of her hair caressed over the worn leather as her forehead was nestled into the headrest. His scent had long since worn off of the chair, but she could still remember the distinct aroma of musk and spices. Angelina remained where she was for the longest moment, letting her tears slid over the worn leather and leave a streak of moist mourning in its wake.
She could still envision his gentle smile, with the light quirk of his left brow that would let you know he was teasing. The light crease that pulled the corner of his lips downward when he was displeased—but did not want to show it. Those liquid silver eyes, such a warm shade of grey that just his gaze alone could cause her body to weaken. Angelina pulled back from the chair slowly, letting a gentle sob pass through her painted lips. Her slender frame would sink into that old worn chair, and she would pull her legs up into her chest. Turning her head to rest it into the chair as her body shook gently with her grief.
He had always been a gentleman. In his first and final breath, she imagined he maintained that polite demeanour until he was forced to break it. The first time she had laid eyes on him he had been so young. Such a naive young man with dreams and plans to take the world by storm. Vincent had laid out everything in his life at first. He had married the perfect wife, she lamented. Her sister had been sweet, quiet, and very modest. Too humble to question the long hours the man worked and too trusting to think anything of her sister’s continuous visits. Angelina had watched his perfect life slowly develop complicated levels of secrets and deceit. The woman regretted remaining as quiet about it as she did— but she had just been another one of those secrets. It had not been her place to tell Vincent how to live his life- despite how much she had wanted to protect and guard him from everything.
Slowly Angelina’s tears dried and she found her self strong enough to turn to look over his desk. Dust had settled over it since her last visit, clinging to the lamp and mounds of papers that yellowed with age. The ink along their worn pages too faint for reading now. How many long hours had Vincent spent bend over this old surface? How many hours had she spent bent over it with him? The woman chuckled softly, letting a light blush darken her cheeks as she slid her fingers out over the desk. Drawing lines through the dust as she smiled. Somewhere along its surface, her nails had torn through the varnish and it had only been hours later that Vincent would find it. Trying multiple things to cover up the tell-tail sign— that had been the last time he had made the mistake of loving her in his study. Much to her own sadness— for she had enjoyed stealing his attention from his work when he had been ignoring her for too many days. Instead, he had started to visit her while she worked— as if returning the favour. But it had not been for adulterous behaviour he visited. She had spent many hours on her knees beside her sofa, stitching up his wounds and cleaning the gore from his body. By the last few months of his life— Vincent had become apart of something horrid. Dealing with supernatural things that Angelina had only the aftermath to clean up. Vincent had come to her— and time and time again she would pull him from death’s grasp and patch him back together.
She blamed her self for making the man feel immortal. For using the advancements of science to believe he could survive anything. She could have prevented his death, or prolonged his time on this earth by being stern with him and explaining that one of those days he would kill himself. And that she could not save him from the grave. Angelina realised then that her words probably wouldn’t have mattered— he had been fighting for a cause bigger them himself or his family. He had been under command of their Queen— a loyal little puppet to do her bidding.
But that queen had used him for every last breath he had. Angelina had hunted long and hard in her life to discover what had torn her little world apart. What she discovered was alarming, and soured her greatly. Vincent’s work attracted forces that even he could not protect his family from. The accident that had hospitalized her, and killed her husband was no accident. More of an assassination attempt to remove Angelina from Vincent’s life—to not only cripple him with the loss of his mistress, but to leave him without a skilled medical professional at his beck-and-call. They had failed to kill her , but they had removed her long enough to get to Vincent with out her there.
But to burn the Mansion and its occupants, to crush the life out of the man’s son to ensure nothing of the Phantomhive line remained? To ensure no more hunters would take the family name? A pleasant notion for the underworld. If I had only worked. Angelina had lost many things in the span of three months. She has lost her husband, her sister, and her nephew. But most importantly? She had lost her best friend, her lover, and her place of solance. Vincent had become an important center in her life over the years she had served him. But over those years there had been so much she had wanted to tell him, to explain to him. So much she had longed to do with him. But she was foolish in believing he could live forever. The man had died with out knowing many of her secrets, while she had known nearly all of his. He would never know she wore red every waking breath for him. He would never know she had spent fifteen years of her life yearning for him, before that fateful night he had shown up at her office nearly bleeding to death. He would never know the extent of her love for him—while, he may have known she loved him Angelina truly doubted he understood just how much he meant to her. He had been everything to her, and living without him was living with half of herself missing. It wasn’t living at all—it was an eternal torture.
________________________
This is just a portion of the first chapter n3n
