Leaving the Nest
AN: Here's my entry for this contest (because I'm hopeless and greedy). The prompt was a story centered around Gilbert and the theme of "family." This is my first attempt at a fan fiction contest and sadly, as I am a very slow writer, this was not beta-read. I still hope you enjoy it. Good luck to all contestants!
Fandom: Pandora Hearts
Rating: T
Warnings: SPOILERS up to Retrace 83. Child abuse. Slight gore.
Disclaimer: All characters were created by the mangaka Jun Mochizuki and are the property of Square Enix.
Summary: From living in the streets to finding and losing foster families, Gilbert only became an adult after three failed attempts.
"If you were to say a parent is the one who produces life, then is a parent also the one who creates a reason for living?"
(Alice, "Retrace 10: Malediction," from Jun Mochizuki's Pandora Hearts, volume 3)
Gilbert’s earliest memory was made of foul smelling straw and thick iron bars.
The rest was fuzzy at best; sudden recollections like crumbling dirt in his hands, each fragment falling to pieces before it could start to make sense. They felt and smelt like coagulated blood as the man searched the ground with shaky fingers to try and preserve them, to hold them close while they were within reach.
Like the severed head in his arms.
Nothing remained of his blood parents: neither a face, nor a name. The man was left with nothing but the confused impressions of a caged toddler.
For an endless second, this past Gilbert had spent years running away from almost felt like a haven from the present.
He couldn’t walk or talk. The voices around him didn’t make much sense, although the boy could tell they weren’t friendly. Occasionally there would be food: a dirty bowl of milk and floating breadcrumbs. The distance between the straw mattress and the bowl seemed endless.
He was little more than an animal then. Looking back, Gilbert might very well have stayed that way had he been on his own.
There was someone else hiding in the straw. It was a scrawny child, smaller than Gilbert, who hardly ever made a sound. Gilbert had to lean in very close to make sure the other toddler was still breathing.
Every morning upon waking up, Gilbert would half-drag, half-lean on his companion, and together they would crawl across centimetres of dust, dirt and excrement until they reached the bowl. Most of the food went to waste as the toddlers kept knocking the bowl over and trying to catch bits of soaked crumbs with clumsy fingers. When Gilbert could handle the tasteless mess no more, he would try to fit fistfuls of leftovers into the other child’s mouth and paint his cheeks brown with dirty milk.
Vincent was screaming, uninjured but terrified, the cries piercing Gilbert’s eardrums, his nails like claws as they dug into his shoulder.
“Brother” was the first word Gilbert learnt.
That was what everyone called them. "Feed the brothers." "One brother is sick." "Come and see the brothers." The words “child of misfortune” were often heard as well, but these were hard to pronounce. It took Gilbert years to learn how to say them, and longer still to understand their meaning. On the other hand, Gilbert knew what a “brother” was long before he heard the word.
The other child was with him at all times. They ate together, learnt how to walk by leaning on the iron bars and each other, cuddled together under the straw at night to keep warm. Sometimes they fought, mostly over food. Gilbert always won.
Once, the other boy stayed motionless long after Gilbert was done eating. It took an entire day for the man behind the bars to notice something was wrong and take the sick boy out of the cage. Gilbert hadn’t stopped crying until his sibling was brought back, still weak but healthy enough to eat again. The older boy never hit his brother again.
His undershirt was damp and heavy with blood. The pain came in fits and starts. Each flash cast a blinding light on the memories and painted them in vivid colours.
Gilbert was four years old when he first attempted to run away. It had been over in a flash. Sharp gravels biting his bare feet, a hairy hand grabbing him by the scruff of his neck, flying through the putrid air, bloodshot eyes, angry shouts, tears of pain and fear, his brother’s distressed cries in the distance.
The siblings noticed a pattern between the men bringing heavy buckets of water and the door of their cage being open; it had to be washed every month.
When was it?
This time, when Gilbert bolted out of the cage, his brother was old enough to follow.
The older sibling ran straight ahead, as fast as his short legs could carry him, until he collapsed in an exhausted heap. He took in a lungful of air that shook his whole frame and made his sweaty skin feel like it was on fire. When Gilbert found the strength to open his eyes, his brother was right beside him. His tiny hands were fisting Gilbert’s filthy clothes like a lifeline as he panted for breath, his mismatched eyes wide with fright.
Vincent had the same haunted eyes. It was like no time had passed at all.
As soon as his strength returned, Gilbert got up and resumed running. Only this time he could distinctly hear his brother’s faltered steps right behind him.
The passage of time was meaningless. The Abyss distorted everything.
They had been hiding from prying eyes their entire lives. Under their straw mattress back in the cage, under dirty rags that were too big for them when they slept in the streets, behind heavy curtains and sheets that were too soft to be trusted when the siblings found a house to take them in. One such foster family named them; they weren’t just “brothers” anymore, but Gilbert and Vincent. They stayed until their benefactors discovered Vincent’s secret.
Vincent learnt how to steal. Gilbert learnt how to fight. The former was quiet and resourceful, the latter fierce and determined. Life passed in a blur; running, hiding, stealing, pleasing, fighting, running.... People spat and threw rocks at them. The children had to deal with hateful words, the biting cold and hunger and the darkness of the night; but they always had someone to share it with. Every night, there would be another growling stomach to greet your own, a skinny body to hold: a family to return to. It was all they had. Gilbert would protect it or die trying.
Blood didn’t mean anything to the Abyss. The Baskervilles were a family regardless of birth. His master taught him this long ago:
“We belong together because the Abyss chose us. We are different from ordinary people.”
Jack had been different. Oz had been different. Lord Oscar had been different. He had come to the siblings’ rescue without prompting, because he wanted to. He was kind and generous, always joyful, and loved to play.
Only Jack praised Vincent's red eye instead of fearing it. He was the one who took Gilbert to his family; to the people who would wait centuries for the moment to find their kin.
Lord Glen had taken the freak siblings in and told them to make themselves at home. He made Gilbert feel at home for the first time in his life. His master’s voice was deep and soothing, every word and gesture somehow imposing and gentle all at once. Gilbert had met noblemen before, but this person was the only one who seemed to fit the description.
Gilbert lowered the severed head of Glen Baskerville to the ground. Flames, blood and smoke everywhere, his master nowhere to be found. His master’s blood was on his hands. Gilbert had to protect him. Glen was dead by his fault. A plea to stop fighting, a sharp pain across his back, Jack betrayed them and used Gilbert to create an opening.
His master had been dealt a fatal blow right before the child’s eyes.
His hand reached for the gun.
________________________________________
“Raven?”
Gilbert started awake, immediately alert. His eyes opened to complete darkness.
There was a creaking sound close-by, like a door opening or bedsprings coming loose. The faint scent of clean laundry was hanging in the air. Gilbert's remaining arm was resting on the double bed Oz and Alice shared for the night. The smooth, polished parquet flooring of prestigious Lutwidge Academy felt hard and concrete under Gilbert's lanky legs.
The man pricked up his ears. He could hear Oz’s heavy breathing over Alice’s confused grumbles. His young master was fast asleep. Gilbert breathed a long sigh of relief.
“You were making weird noises,” Alice yawned. “You okay?”
The servant widened his eyes in an attempt to get a glimpse of her in the dark, but the effort was fruitless. He could barely make out her movements from the whispers of her long hair against the sheets. Her sleepy voice was laced with more curiosity than concern.
All the same, Gilbert felt a need to talk to her. He was tired, but the phantom pain in his stump kept nagging at him. The wound wouldn’t let him go back to sleep so easily.
“I'm fine,” he said. “I just… I finally remember my past. It’s a lot to take in. I’m still getting used to it....”
For a while, the silence stretched between them. It was surreally peaceful. Gilbert became keenly aware of their collective weight on the big mattress. The man felt an overwhelming urge to get up from the floor and lay in bed with his two friends in his arms.
He didn’t move. That would wake Oz.
“Me too,” Alice said at last. “I didn’t think I would remember so much at once. But I'm glad I did.”
Seemingly satisfied, she snuggled back beside Oz. The sound reminded Gilbert of many nights in foster beds with only his brother for company. His stomach clenched at the thought. He hoped that Vincent was okay.
“You shouldn’t think too hard,” Alice muttered into her pillow. “It’ll make your seaweed head hurt.”
Gilbert grumbled a half-hearted protest. He felt inwardly tempted to agree.
He and his brother could no longer depend solely on each other. Gilbert had made his choice, and Vincent had refused to follow him. Gilbert respected his decision. From now on, he knew that he had to trust his little brother to find his own way. Oz and Alice were the ones who needed him, and the ones Gilbert needed.
Yes, Gilbert told himself, I am fine. Even though he knew that his former master was beyond saving now, gone mad from Jack's betrayal, even though he knew that, for all their bravery and kindness, Elliot and Lord Oscar were never coming back… Gilbert could move forward.
“Say, Alice,” Gilbert whispered. “Do you still want to know? About parents?”
There was no immediate answer. Gilbert idly wondered if the little girl had fallen asleep. The man rested his cheek in the hollow of his arm. Oz's even breathing was lulling him to sleep. Alice’s voice eventually rose in a lazy drawl, yet the man could have sworn he heard a smug smile:
"I figured it out."
Fandom: Pandora Hearts
Rating: T
Warnings: SPOILERS up to Retrace 83. Child abuse. Slight gore.
Disclaimer: All characters were created by the mangaka Jun Mochizuki and are the property of Square Enix.
Summary: From living in the streets to finding and losing foster families, Gilbert only became an adult after three failed attempts.
Leaving the Nest
"If you were to say a parent is the one who produces life, then is a parent also the one who creates a reason for living?"
(Alice, "Retrace 10: Malediction," from Jun Mochizuki's Pandora Hearts, volume 3)
Gilbert’s earliest memory was made of foul smelling straw and thick iron bars.
The rest was fuzzy at best; sudden recollections like crumbling dirt in his hands, each fragment falling to pieces before it could start to make sense. They felt and smelt like coagulated blood as the man searched the ground with shaky fingers to try and preserve them, to hold them close while they were within reach.
Like the severed head in his arms.
Nothing remained of his blood parents: neither a face, nor a name. The man was left with nothing but the confused impressions of a caged toddler.
For an endless second, this past Gilbert had spent years running away from almost felt like a haven from the present.
He couldn’t walk or talk. The voices around him didn’t make much sense, although the boy could tell they weren’t friendly. Occasionally there would be food: a dirty bowl of milk and floating breadcrumbs. The distance between the straw mattress and the bowl seemed endless.
He was little more than an animal then. Looking back, Gilbert might very well have stayed that way had he been on his own.
There was someone else hiding in the straw. It was a scrawny child, smaller than Gilbert, who hardly ever made a sound. Gilbert had to lean in very close to make sure the other toddler was still breathing.
Every morning upon waking up, Gilbert would half-drag, half-lean on his companion, and together they would crawl across centimetres of dust, dirt and excrement until they reached the bowl. Most of the food went to waste as the toddlers kept knocking the bowl over and trying to catch bits of soaked crumbs with clumsy fingers. When Gilbert could handle the tasteless mess no more, he would try to fit fistfuls of leftovers into the other child’s mouth and paint his cheeks brown with dirty milk.
Vincent was screaming, uninjured but terrified, the cries piercing Gilbert’s eardrums, his nails like claws as they dug into his shoulder.
“Brother” was the first word Gilbert learnt.
That was what everyone called them. "Feed the brothers." "One brother is sick." "Come and see the brothers." The words “child of misfortune” were often heard as well, but these were hard to pronounce. It took Gilbert years to learn how to say them, and longer still to understand their meaning. On the other hand, Gilbert knew what a “brother” was long before he heard the word.
The other child was with him at all times. They ate together, learnt how to walk by leaning on the iron bars and each other, cuddled together under the straw at night to keep warm. Sometimes they fought, mostly over food. Gilbert always won.
Once, the other boy stayed motionless long after Gilbert was done eating. It took an entire day for the man behind the bars to notice something was wrong and take the sick boy out of the cage. Gilbert hadn’t stopped crying until his sibling was brought back, still weak but healthy enough to eat again. The older boy never hit his brother again.
His undershirt was damp and heavy with blood. The pain came in fits and starts. Each flash cast a blinding light on the memories and painted them in vivid colours.
Gilbert was four years old when he first attempted to run away. It had been over in a flash. Sharp gravels biting his bare feet, a hairy hand grabbing him by the scruff of his neck, flying through the putrid air, bloodshot eyes, angry shouts, tears of pain and fear, his brother’s distressed cries in the distance.
The siblings noticed a pattern between the men bringing heavy buckets of water and the door of their cage being open; it had to be washed every month.
When was it?
This time, when Gilbert bolted out of the cage, his brother was old enough to follow.
The older sibling ran straight ahead, as fast as his short legs could carry him, until he collapsed in an exhausted heap. He took in a lungful of air that shook his whole frame and made his sweaty skin feel like it was on fire. When Gilbert found the strength to open his eyes, his brother was right beside him. His tiny hands were fisting Gilbert’s filthy clothes like a lifeline as he panted for breath, his mismatched eyes wide with fright.
Vincent had the same haunted eyes. It was like no time had passed at all.
As soon as his strength returned, Gilbert got up and resumed running. Only this time he could distinctly hear his brother’s faltered steps right behind him.
The passage of time was meaningless. The Abyss distorted everything.
They had been hiding from prying eyes their entire lives. Under their straw mattress back in the cage, under dirty rags that were too big for them when they slept in the streets, behind heavy curtains and sheets that were too soft to be trusted when the siblings found a house to take them in. One such foster family named them; they weren’t just “brothers” anymore, but Gilbert and Vincent. They stayed until their benefactors discovered Vincent’s secret.
Vincent learnt how to steal. Gilbert learnt how to fight. The former was quiet and resourceful, the latter fierce and determined. Life passed in a blur; running, hiding, stealing, pleasing, fighting, running.... People spat and threw rocks at them. The children had to deal with hateful words, the biting cold and hunger and the darkness of the night; but they always had someone to share it with. Every night, there would be another growling stomach to greet your own, a skinny body to hold: a family to return to. It was all they had. Gilbert would protect it or die trying.
Blood didn’t mean anything to the Abyss. The Baskervilles were a family regardless of birth. His master taught him this long ago:
“We belong together because the Abyss chose us. We are different from ordinary people.”
Jack had been different. Oz had been different. Lord Oscar had been different. He had come to the siblings’ rescue without prompting, because he wanted to. He was kind and generous, always joyful, and loved to play.
Only Jack praised Vincent's red eye instead of fearing it. He was the one who took Gilbert to his family; to the people who would wait centuries for the moment to find their kin.
Lord Glen had taken the freak siblings in and told them to make themselves at home. He made Gilbert feel at home for the first time in his life. His master’s voice was deep and soothing, every word and gesture somehow imposing and gentle all at once. Gilbert had met noblemen before, but this person was the only one who seemed to fit the description.
Gilbert lowered the severed head of Glen Baskerville to the ground. Flames, blood and smoke everywhere, his master nowhere to be found. His master’s blood was on his hands. Gilbert had to protect him. Glen was dead by his fault. A plea to stop fighting, a sharp pain across his back, Jack betrayed them and used Gilbert to create an opening.
His master had been dealt a fatal blow right before the child’s eyes.
His hand reached for the gun.
________________________________________
“Raven?”
Gilbert started awake, immediately alert. His eyes opened to complete darkness.
There was a creaking sound close-by, like a door opening or bedsprings coming loose. The faint scent of clean laundry was hanging in the air. Gilbert's remaining arm was resting on the double bed Oz and Alice shared for the night. The smooth, polished parquet flooring of prestigious Lutwidge Academy felt hard and concrete under Gilbert's lanky legs.
The man pricked up his ears. He could hear Oz’s heavy breathing over Alice’s confused grumbles. His young master was fast asleep. Gilbert breathed a long sigh of relief.
“You were making weird noises,” Alice yawned. “You okay?”
The servant widened his eyes in an attempt to get a glimpse of her in the dark, but the effort was fruitless. He could barely make out her movements from the whispers of her long hair against the sheets. Her sleepy voice was laced with more curiosity than concern.
All the same, Gilbert felt a need to talk to her. He was tired, but the phantom pain in his stump kept nagging at him. The wound wouldn’t let him go back to sleep so easily.
“I'm fine,” he said. “I just… I finally remember my past. It’s a lot to take in. I’m still getting used to it....”
For a while, the silence stretched between them. It was surreally peaceful. Gilbert became keenly aware of their collective weight on the big mattress. The man felt an overwhelming urge to get up from the floor and lay in bed with his two friends in his arms.
He didn’t move. That would wake Oz.
“Me too,” Alice said at last. “I didn’t think I would remember so much at once. But I'm glad I did.”
Seemingly satisfied, she snuggled back beside Oz. The sound reminded Gilbert of many nights in foster beds with only his brother for company. His stomach clenched at the thought. He hoped that Vincent was okay.
“You shouldn’t think too hard,” Alice muttered into her pillow. “It’ll make your seaweed head hurt.”
Gilbert grumbled a half-hearted protest. He felt inwardly tempted to agree.
He and his brother could no longer depend solely on each other. Gilbert had made his choice, and Vincent had refused to follow him. Gilbert respected his decision. From now on, he knew that he had to trust his little brother to find his own way. Oz and Alice were the ones who needed him, and the ones Gilbert needed.
Yes, Gilbert told himself, I am fine. Even though he knew that his former master was beyond saving now, gone mad from Jack's betrayal, even though he knew that, for all their bravery and kindness, Elliot and Lord Oscar were never coming back… Gilbert could move forward.
“Say, Alice,” Gilbert whispered. “Do you still want to know? About parents?”
There was no immediate answer. Gilbert idly wondered if the little girl had fallen asleep. The man rested his cheek in the hollow of his arm. Oz's even breathing was lulling him to sleep. Alice’s voice eventually rose in a lazy drawl, yet the man could have sworn he heard a smug smile:
"I figured it out."