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The only thing he could think when he opened his eyes to heat and flame was that he should have seen it coming. It didn't surprise him, but he didn't see it coming, and it was too damn late now.
He woke her up, anyway, shook her more roughly than he'd ever wanted to, and picked her up in his arms when she didn't rouse fast enough. He searched the room for any way out, but the door was barricaded from the outside, and the window was blocked by a pillar of flaming furniture.
Every wall had fire creeping up it like ivy. Ciel was nowhere to be seen.
Despite himself, despite everything, Vincent could feel the panic rising inside him. He wasn't sure which was a more horrifying prospect: being unable to free Rachel, or being unable to find Ciel.
"Vincent!" Her voice was barely audible over the roar and crackle of their impending mortality, but he heard the coughing clearly.
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The smoke was crawling in her lungs, choking her. She knelt by the chair she'd woken up in. When he placed a hand on her back, he could feel her laboured breathing. She was in pain.
This was it, then. So many years of defending his Queen, his country, his family, and it came down to this - Vincent Phantomhive, hands tied, unable to defend even himself. The fire was coming more and more quickly, eating its voracious way through expensive carpeting and lapping at the feet of the coffee table.
There was only one thing left for him to do, and it wasn't enough, but by God, he would do it, and he would die doing it.
He lifted Rachel in his arms again and took her to the center of the room, as far away from the oppressive heat on every side as he could manage.
Kneeling there, he held her in his lap, in his arms, and kept her close, though feeling her every ragged breath against his chest was as painful to him as it was to her. He stroked her hair, twisted it in his fingers, and breathed deep. The smoke couldn't quite mask the scent of white tea and amber.
When he was sure he could speak, he brought his lips close to her ear. "Ciel isn't here," he said. "He's safe somewhere, and our sisters will take good care of him." Merely mentioning their sisters was almost too much for him. He had to stop to breathe, to control a deep and instinctual despair that was growing as quickly as the flames. It was too easy to picture them at the funeral - a decorated wake, with tiger lilies and white roses - Angelina awash in tears and bereavement that would consume her whole self, as delicate as she was; and Frances, jaw set and shoulders square, eyes bright with tears she would never shed until she was alone. Between them, dear God, he hoped, was a tiny slip of a boy just barely ten years old, who would grow up fondly remembering his parents and how happy they were together with him.
But he knew better. This fire was no accident, and the boy was not safe. He would take it to his grave before he'd break Rachel's heart with the truth.
The fire licked at his back, and Vincent fought down a wave of terror. This was an enemy he couldn't fight, and it would eat them both alive. The thought of burning to death was an unbearable one, but there wasn't a way out for him - only for Rachel.
He said her name softly, because he couldn't trust his voice to stay steady if he raised it. He tightened his arms around her and felt something inside of him wrench itself tight. "I love you," he said, and the words broke as his heart did. "I love you, and I'm sorry. I love you." She couldn't breathe enough air to even answer him, but her eyes, when they opened, said all she needed to. She loved him, and she understood.
No number of apologies could ease the sheer agony of what he was about to do, and no number of 'I love you's would keep her alive. After just one more, trembling, against her cheek, Vincent turned his wife in his arms and wrapped his hands around her head, one above and one below. It took everything he had in him.
The snap was familiar and more sickening than ever, and her limp, warm weight against him was the last duty he had to fulfill. All of the abject fear that had been threatening to overcome him since he awoke was suddenly nothing. It surrendered in the wake of absolute, unspeakable grief. Vincent lay his head down on Rachel's, drew her closer, and waited for the tears to stop.
The only thing he could think when he opened his eyes to. (2019, Dec 14). Retrieved from https://studymoose.com/the-only-thing-he-could-think-when-he-opened-his-eyes-to-example-essay
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