daryslaytonramblings · 1 day ago
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*watches a pl vs aa playthrough for the 1000th time*
*gets to chapter 4*
*cries*
my poor baby :(
anyway here's luke crying all night because the game decided it was gonna tear my heart out smh
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shortdevil-sans · 2 years ago
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It's true...
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sheepwithspecs · 2 years ago
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Hatred
|| PLvsAA || Rated T ||
Ao3 Link
She hates him for all the right reasons. At least, that's what she keeps telling herself.
She hates him.
She complains to the Storyteller, but the old man pays her no mind. It’s folly to think he would—when has he ever taken her opinion into account? She is little better than a lackey, driven by a guilt she doesn’t understand. A guilt that wakes her up in the middle of the night with a scream, cold sweat clinging to her shaking form. A guilt that keeps her complacent enough to say ‘just once more’ to herself every time there is a new, ridiculous task to complete.
With no other outlet, she is left venting her frustrations to her father. He listens patiently enough, but he does not hear. He sips the tea she offers on these secret visits, staring blankly over the rim of his teacup. His drawn visage grows paler by the day; it’s as though he’s wasting away, leaving behind a pale shadow that creeps about the lonely old manor long after he’s returned to his alchemist’s cottage. It hurts to see him so distant. Unlike Espella, her memories were not suppressed; they glow from within, cozy with the warmth of her parents’ love.
Before, she would proudly declare to anyone that she was her father’s daughter. Now, those words seem little better than hollow lies. She is not her father’s daughter, not anymore. It’s as if he is a stranger: she no longer recognizes the man she once knew. The gulf only expands each time he insists that nothing is wrong, the smile no longer reaching his gentle eyes.
Whether anyone hears her or not, the fact remains the same: she hates him. She hates his hair, a seemingly visible metaphor of his flaming temper. He’s the first to dare raise his voice back to her, the first knight to toe out of line and meet her on her own terms, forcing her to look up whenever he draws himself to full height. Why the Teller thought he could be of use is beyond her—she has tried being gentle, tried saying that she needs no help in the office, but the man was shouldered in without a thought given to her feelings. And now they won’t agree to throw him back out again, nor will they give any clear reason as to why he needs to stay.
She hates him because he’s good at what he does. He’s not stupid—he finds out what’s expected of him, forms his own boundaries, and then throws himself headfirst into the fray with a zealous passion she’s never seen before on anyone, much less some nobody from the garrison. It’s almost a disappointment when she discovers he’s as mindless as any other Labyrinthian, accepting the lies fed to him without a blink.
After three weeks on the job, she knows that this new Inquisitor is more than capable of turning the entire project on its head. He’s too intelligent to be kept in the dark. But he keeps himself in the dark, and willingly at that. If something doesn’t add him, no matter how substantial the evidence, he thinks in corners instead of looking back to see the bigger picture.
It makes her hate him even more, because for a single moment she almost believed that he could help.
She hates him because he cares.
True, he’s eager to see the gilded surface of a utopian Labyrinthia, ignoring the rotten stench of slowly putrefying ‘good intentions’ lurking beneath the gleaming exterior. But he does nothing purely for his own gain. He cares about the city and its people, their welfare. He suffers through the Story’s darker chapters, and rejoices when things turn out well in the end. 
She watches him carefully on the city streets. The children clamber over his armor-clad form like a moving jungle gym, the women bat coy eyelashes with an inviting smile, the men laugh jovially at whatever wry joke passes his lips. He’s integrated himself amongst them in a way she never could. It makes his job that much easier, as they’re more willing to seek him out when trouble arises.
But for all its benefits, it makes his job that much harder, too. She attends his first public performance in the Witches Court, a hood concealing her features and making it easier to blend in with the bloodthirsty crowd. Even if she does hate him with a passion, she’s concerned about his debut. A lackluster performance will reflect poorly on her. It was her task to train him properly; the project is dependent on this night going well. She’d rather not be forced to hear the Teller’s croaking if things turn sour.
Thankfully, she need not worry. He plays to the audience, saving his stonier expressions for the accused once he publicly wrings the guilty confession from her trembling lips. The accused is an elderly woman, well-liked by all, who had somehow managed to hide her powers throughout the course of her life. She knows that the garrison often helped this woman with various tasks as part of their public service: mending her broken fence, helping with large packages. Sir Barnham once lent her his own cloak on a particularly blustery winter’s day.
It must wrench his heart, she thinks, to consign this woman to death.   
A part of her is thoroughly disgusted at the odd eagerness she feels, the curiosity bubbling up from within as she wonders what he must be thinking, feeling. It’s morbid, and cruel, but she can’t condemn herself entirely. After all, it’s not as if the grandmother will truly perish. The Great Witch already has a carefully chosen task prepared for her in the forest beyond the city walls. There will be others to chop wood, draw water, and cook meals. Her life as a Shade will be infinitely easier than her life as a citizen of Labyrinthia.
The Inquisitor overlooks blatant evidence that might spell doubt and freedom for the accused. Anger stirs within her as she watches, biting her lip while her gaze remains trained on his face. It’s nothing she wouldn’t do herself, per se, but…. Suddenly, she realizes what a parent must feel when watching their child make careless mistakes. Helpless, frustrated, irritated, and yet—
He must learn.
He will learn, if she has any say in it. The smallest seed of a plan is buried in the back of her mind, one that she constantly nurtures in the hopes of a grand scheme blossoming from its roots. She hates him, yes, but not enough to keep them all stuck in a fairie tale of lies. 
The trial is over, the verdict spoken. The accused is sentenced to immediate immolation, as is tradition. A cheer erupts through the domed room; revulsion runs through her veins as the people around her—good people—eagerly scream for the death of a harmless old woman. She has to be helped up the stairs leading to the cage, her weathered hand carefully braced on the knight’s metal gauntlet. If she feels fear, injustice or despair, she does well not to show it. Her face is tranquil as the knight closes the cage around her.
Her only son sobs like a child, his wife watching in abject horror; her hands cover their little daughter’s eyes, shielding her from the sight of her grandmother’s execution. With the pull of a lever, she is gone in a burst of flame. The sounds of their grief are drowned by the ferocious bedlam echoing in the rafters.
She hates him, but his saving grace comes from his expression. He winces when the first of the flames leap from the hellish pit. The doomed soul is surrounded in a fiery embrace, but he turns instead towards the shadows flickering along the walls. The audience, perhaps sensing that he needs encouragement, begins to chant his name in unison. He looks around the gallery with wide eyes, the tips of his ears glowing red with modest embarrassment.
She slips away in the tumult, knowing that the Shades will soon be in need of their mistress. The new Inquisitor is best left to his overwhelming acceptance.
It’s only a matter of time, she knows, before that wince will be gone forever.
She hates him, because she can no longer tell if he is hinderance or help.
She was doing perfectly well before he came along, and even now she resents that the Teller made her share her office space with a meathead. He’s turned her once-beautiful den of an organized workspace into a disgusting hovel. After only a fortnight she insists they break the room into two halves, divided evenly in the center by the statue of justice.
Her side of the room is neat and orderly, with a place for every object and room for modest decoration. There is a stand for her cloak, and her favorite painting hangs on the wall behind her polished, gleaming desk. His space, on the other hand, is a veritable eyesore. This is not the difference in sexes—her father, after all, does not keep things in such disarray. This is him.
Half the time, she can’t see his head over the papers piled in crumbling mountains on the desk; it would be a blessing, if he could manage to keep them in better order. Any time she asks for a report, at least three minor earthquakes shake the mountains before he can pull a crumpled sheet of parchment from the remains of what was once a second Kilimanjaro. When they grow tall enough that an errant breeze scatters them easily, he simply puts something heavier on top as a paperweight: dumbbells, tomes, his own gauntlets.
At first she is willing to banish him to the coldest corner of the office, so that she might have some semblance of cleanliness that even his grimy, calloused fingers can’t ruin. Then, on advice from her father that she halfheartedly takes, she makes an honest attempt to help him stay organized. She lends him her corkboard, hanging it above his desk and showing him how to pin notes in neat order. In no time at all, the board is covered as haphazardly as the desk. There is even a portrait of him with a little white dog, though she was certain he hated dogs.
She gives up with a sigh and a roll of her eyes, making it clear that any report of his had better be in pristine condition by the time it reaches her desk. As time passes, he learns how to separate the notes and the reports so that the latter only crumples a bit at the corners. He bangs and clangs at his desk so often that it chips and splinters, the heavy dumbbells at the corners serving less as paperweights and to keep the structure from leaning sideways. He even manages a stand for his own cloak, after she complains loudly about it being draped over the back of his chair.
But there still things he cannot help, and these are what drives her insane. She hates when he comes to the office after training in the garrison, bringing a stale odor of sweat and horses and men that permeates the room. She hates when he does things his own way, a way that is messy, scatterbrained, and annoying, and she hates when it works just as well as hers in the end. She hates when she’s constantly having to remind him that reports are due, that follow-ups are necessary to document, that any shortcuts he takes make it twice as hard on her in the end. She hates when she can hear him interrogating suspects, the sounds echoing through the dungeons until she can hear them even with the door shut.
“You’ll grow used to things in time,” the Storyteller claims. His eyes never leave the leather-bound volume he’s taken to carrying with him around the clock. The scarred, ruined one, milky and pale, follows the path of his quill as though it can still see the ink drying on the page. “And isn’t it nice to have help around the office?” 
No, it’s not! she wants to protest. I hate him. He looks like a plucked bird with his gaudy plumed helmet, riding at the head of the Parade. Every time she looks at him, she wants to grab the Storybook, throw it, and knock the helmet from his fat head. Even if he were less of a hassle, even if she didn’t end up having to run around fixing his messes and doublechecking his work, even if he made her life easier rather than harder—no, she still would not want him for a workmate. Anyone else, perhaps, but not him.  
He has a way of getting underneath her skin with nothing more than a raised eyebrow, or exhaling just so to let his unspoken protests be known. He still stands up to her, arguing about one thing or another until she fantasizes throwing him headfirst into the coldest, dampest dungeon cell. She might even make him a Shade, purely out of spite. But a dungeon would not dampen that fiery spirit, and even as a Shade he’d find some way of crossing swords with her.
She hates him because he is the only Labyrinthian who’s managed to work his way into her life through sheer willpower. No longer do his days in Court disgust her—rather, they are a testament to his intelligence and sharp wit. She’s constantly surprised at how quickly he picks up on things, molding his mindset in order to adapt to any situation, and always coming out on top. He no longer cringes when metal meets flame, but neither does he preen in self-congratulation. Instead, his expression is somber. He is down to earth and—she hates to admit—genuinely likable. It fuels her ire like nothing else.
She hates him for being observant. His eyes are like a falcon’s, narrowing in on her and watching carefully whenever they’re together. Those are the eyes that pick out an accused’s weaknesses with lightning speed before pouncing. It’s almost terrifying to think what might happen should he find her weaknesses. He’s witty, with the ability to pick apart even the toughest, most layered of conversations. It would be nothing for him to home in on something she lets slip in error.
Oh yes, she would definitely hate him more as a Shade.
She hates his kindness.
Her mind, fogged with senseless grief, refuses to work at normal efficiency. The Storyteller does not let her see the body until it’s been cleaned for burial and placed in its well-crafted casket. She is left alone to grieve, but she cannot bring herself to weep. Her tears were spent in the Legendary Fire, dried by the flames that claimed the life she once knew. She can only look at the familiar visage, eerily still in its repose, and feel the despair that wracks her every limb.
There is an empty casket in the Labyrinthian lichyard for the alchemist Belduke, who is buried with quiet ceremony. She is forced to leave with the others who come to pay their respects. High Inquisitor Darklaw has no real ties to Sir Belduke, and there is still a murder to ‘solve’. She cannot, however, bring herself to visit the crime scene. Instead she wanders aimlessly through the city streets, staring without seeing, hearing without listening, the way he once had.
Waking from her stupor, she finds herself standing in front of the Courthouse. Her feet must have taken the path by habit; there is no reason to be here. She stares up at the building in the gray dusk, trying to find answers in the stained bricks.
Why? Of all the deaths he could have chosen for himself, why a poison that would ensure his last moments were of unbearable agony? Why die at all? Had he not spared her a single thought at the end? Or… or had their fight, and the subsequent rejections, been the catalyst to break a mind already weakened by so much sorrow? Is it… my fault?
She has not eaten in days, nor has she slept more than an hour or two since being told the dreadful news. Her head aches, awhirl with thoughts that won’t cease, memories that refuse to be pushed aside. It’s impossible to concentrate; in her weakened state, her limbs are like jelly. The smallest push—of breeze or errant human—is enough to send her stumbling onto the Courthouse steps. Her empty stomach flips, a wave of nausea rising in her throat, and then she falls into blessed silence.
When she comes to she finds herself in the Audience Room, reclined on the Storyteller’s throne. A long, shuddering exhale escapes her lips, and with it goes all the remaining strength in her limbs. She is alone with her emotions at last, as well as the start of a pounding migraine. Still, the tears do not come.
The Storyteller comes, a steaming cup held carefully in both hands. She stares at him, her face expressionless. Inside, a heated fury unlike any she has ever known sweeps through her from head to foot, cleansing fire that temporarily purges the pain. This was all his fault—his and that damned Story. Everything—her family, her title, her name—had been sacrificed for someone who all but refused to acknowledge her own father’s existence.
What would she lose next? When would it end? It had to end at some point, did it not? How could he not see the pain his Story was causing?
“Eve? Are you alright?” Despite her rage, her heart gives a lurch at the sound of her true name. No one, save her father, ever bothered to use her name. And now he was gone. Never again would she hear his soft, kind voice. They hadn’t spoken in months. How long had it been since she’d last told him she loved him? The pain threatens to consume her entirely.
“Lady Darklaw. You need to drink.” The Storyteller’s tone changes as he presses the cup—tea, she realized—into her hands. Mr. Cantabella’s well-intentioned, rather simple gaze is lost in the façade, an unyielding ruler once more. She has an overwhelming urge to throw the hot tea in his face.
“What are you giving her?” At the sound of Sir Barnham’s voice, she struggles to sit upright. Her head protests with a violent throbbing that took her breath away, stars twinkling in her vision. She sinks back to the cushions, gripping the cup with all her strength as her body sways on the spot.
“An herbal concoction, nothing more. There’s no need to concern yourself,” he adds, turning to where the Inquisitor stands in the doorway to the Audience Room. “Our High Inquisitor is not ill, merely exhausted. A good night’s rest is often the best cure in these cases.” He looks at her pointedly, waiting until she takes an obliging sip. “You have overworked yourself,” he scolds, as though he does not know the real reason behind her current state. ���You’re lucky Sir Barnham found you on the Courthouse steps before the dew fell. You might have easily caught cold.”
“But….” She fuzzily remembers being at the Courthouse, falling to the steps, resting her spinning head for a moment on the railing. “How did—?”
“He carried you here, of course.” The Storyteller turns away, hiding his face from them both. “Due to… current circumstances… he thought the fastest way to ensure your recovered health would be to have it written into the Story. Thankfully, ‘tis not as serious as first feared.”
“Forgive my haste.” Sir Barnham steps forward, hands stiff at his sides. He still wears his armor, hair mussed and face ruddy from the cold night air. How had he managed to carry both the armor and her? The thought of being carried anywhere like an invalid—especially by him—is utterly humiliating. She quickly takes another drink from the cup, pretending it is the steam, rather than her own embarrassment, that burns red on her cheeks. “You are not hurt?” Genuine concern shines from his eyes, causing her heart to twist in a not-quite-painful way behind her sternum. 
“I am not.” Clearing her throat, she takes another, slower sip. “I’m fine.” Whether she wants him to or not, he cares for her in the same way that he cares for the rest of them. Perhaps more. She can’t imagine him carrying anyone else to the Storyteller and practically begging for their health. The realization does not sit well with her.
He’s growing far too close for comfort.
She hates his deference.
It’s all too easy to pretend that her plotting is another part of her personal investigation surrounding the bell tower. It’s hard to keep her distance when they share an office, but she somehow manages it well enough. She barely pays him any mind, ignoring him in favor of working out how she can best take her revenge on the man she hates more than him. He gives her space, watching with those damned falcon eyes that see everything and nothing.
It’s better this way, she assures herself. The last thing she needs is an excuse to start liking him, or—at the very least—to stop hating him. He takes everything she throws at him in stride, shouldering the brunt of the witch sightings without a word of complaint. There are times where he impresses her enough that it’s hard to dislike him, even a little. But a quarrel always arises soon after and they part once more, only to come back time and time again.
A curious change overtakes her as the months march along. She finds that she hates him for different reasons than when she met him the first time, so long ago. She hates his smiles, all of them: the smug one he reserves for Court, the toothy one that follows a bad joke, the guarded one for the Storyteller’s praise, and the crooked, close-lipped one that’s purely genuine. That last one, the crooked one that makes her heart beat a little faster each time she sees it... that’s the one she hates the most.
She hates the way he runs his hands through his hair when he’s puzzled or stressed, messy strands sticking out in every direction. It looks so thick and soft, and she hates how she can imagine her fingers sinking into its plushness, combing out the tangles. She hates the way he works out when filing reports, writing with one hand and flexing with the other. She hates how tall he is, how she has no choice but to look up even when she wears her largest heels.    
One day, he requests to bring a Constantine to work, promising on his honor that the lad won’t cause trouble. She can’t place the name to any of the faceless squires that roam the garrison in their free hours, but she’s heard him mention the name before in passing. He must be a young knight, perhaps a pageboy in training.
“As long as he dresses the part,” she gives permission. A very small part of her hates him for making her want to speak on friendlier terms, rather than her usual aloof demeanor. Since the day he carried her to the Audience Room, she cannot help but feel that he’s trying to be her friend. She would… not hate having him as a friend. But she is the High Inquisitor Darklaw, and he her subordinate, and there can be no amicable ties between them. Not when her plan for vengeance is already underway.
The next day, she expects a child. What she finds is an errant fluffball in a toy knight’s helmet. She recognizes the dog from the portrait still tacked onto the corkboard behind Sir Barnham’s desk. It takes one look at her and advances, growling fiercely despite its small size. One stern glare from her is enough to send it skidding to a stop on the flagstone.
“What is this mutt doing in my office?” she manages to stammer, eyes locked with the walking lint.
“You said he might come, if he looked the part.” He bends to pick up the dog in a single, practiced motion. The dog—or puppy, rather—is nearly small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. Its curled tail begins to wag as it pants happily, squat legs wiggling in the air. “Constantine, you must behave in a manner befitting your status,” he warns, speaking as solemnly as he might to any of the garrison pages. “You may not growl at the High Inquisitor. She is a lady.” She wonders if he believes the dog understands.
“But what is it wearing?” she asks, rubbing the bridge of her nose. It’s only a quarter till eight, and yet she already feels a stress-related headache throbbing to life behind her eyes.
“His armor, of course.” It’s an absurd answer, spoken in a tone that’s nothing if not matter-of-fact. She’s laughing before she can stop herself. Real, genuine laughter, the kind that hasn’t passed her lips since her father’s death. He laughs with her, the sound both warm and heartening. She laughs, and he laughs, and suddenly they’re sharing a moment all their own, the dog squirming with playful energy in his arms.
She can’t remember the last time she’s laughed so hard. It makes it that much harder to stop, to push Eve away and become Lady Darklaw once more. 
“He had better not make a mess.” Her expression is stern, her eyes piercing. He sobers immediately, bowing from the shoulders. Once again they are two inquisitors at work, rather than two not-quite-friends laughing over an innocent comment. The distinction hurts in a way she can’t easily describe, an ache that’s partly physical.
“He’s well-trained—a dog of highest caliber. You won’t know he’s in the room.”
She silently declares that she hates him for bringing the laughter. For making her feel something more than rage and regret. Her focus should not be on friends and friendly encounters. She hates him for the distraction he causes.
Later, alone in the darkness of her bedroom, she wonders if she means it.
She hates him for daring to suspect her.
It’s the baker’s fault, really—him, and the annoying ball of energy that calls herself an ace assistant. She hadn’t planned for either of them, but once they found Espella’s copy of the Historia Labyrinthia she’d had no choice but to bring them along for the ride. She wrote them into the Story as bakers, allowing them to stay near Espella.
They had, after all, watched over her far better than she could have ever dreamed. She had been prepared to make a plea deal, paying the daughter’s way with the father’s money, but Mr. Wright had been able to prove that Espella was not the culprit.
Professor Layton and his young charge had been part of her plan, thankfully, though she’d admittedly never expected that retrieving them from London would be such a hassle. Together with Mr. Wright and Ms. Fey, they managed to turn her best inquisitor on his head. They’d introduced him to logic that defies magic, forced him to open his eyes and see the world for what it was.
And now he suspects her.
Rather, he suspects something, but duty and obligation serve well to keep him in his rightful place beneath her thumb. She’s spent a great deal of effort hammering the workplace hierarchy into his brain, and it seems to have paid off. His careful eyes follow her movements, waiting for her to slip up, but she merely laughs in secret. At this point, she’s had years of practice dancing circles around him, all without a single misstep. He will not find her out so easily, despite whatever he might think.
She quickly becomes accustomed to feeling eyes on her back. He hides in the shadows, gliding seamlessly from place to place as she goes about her daily business. He must, she thinks to herself as she pretends to take notes on the bell tower, wonder about me. She herself wonders what he sees when he looks at her. The High Inquisitor Darklaw is cold, calculated, stern. But he has partook of her laughter, seen glimpses of the woman beneath the mask. Which does he take to be her true nature?
He has never seen the Great Witch, of course, but she expects that will remedy itself in due time. He is dutiful, to be sure, but he is not complacent. If there is a way to learn the truth, he will find it. And if he truly wishes to know… she will not stop him.
While the foreigners search Labyrinthia for their own answers, he remains in place. She hates him now for suspecting her and doing nothing about it, even when there are multiple opportunities to strike. Does he think she cannot feel the way he looks at her? Always he is respectful, but with that respect comes a measure of caution. It is no longer a hierarchy dispute, she decides. He simply lacks resolve.
If he did find substantial, irrefutable evidence, would he follow through with his own plans?  She doubts it, doubts him, and it fuels her hatred to burn all the brighter.
But once her Shades reveal that he’s been lurking around the forest, she feels the same thrill she once felt when watching him persecute his first accused. She hates that she can no longer feign disinterest in him. He’s become her personal experiment, her prodigal knight. She almost wants to make a foolish mistake, just to see what he might do.
The time draws nigh when he will find out the truth: she is the Great Witch. Not Bezella, mind, but the Great Witch. Better yet—a witch. A witch who he’s learned to care for as a fellow inquisitor, a coworker, a helpmeet… a friend. What might he say? How will he act? Her respect for him hangs in the balance.
She hates the respect, too.
She hates his silence.
He, who is always loud and boisterous, his zeal for life overflowing into every aspect of it. Now he is silent as he is marched, flanked by his own knights, to the Courthouse dungeons. They remain in the corridor as she leads him to the furthest cell; she does not spare him a glance until the door is shut and tightly bolted. Only then does she dare meet his eyes.
He stands just on the other side, his expression saying more than words ever could. She hates his silence. Anyone else would have immediately accused her of the greatest crime known to Labyrinthians: witchcraft. By denying nothing, she has said more than enough. But he does not protest his innocence. He does not condemn her with angry words. He merely… stares.
He looks into her eyes, and for the first time she wonders just how far down he can see. Is it possible that her icy expression no longer holds any sway over him? Does he glimpse her true self beneath its shadowy surface? Is that what he’s really been searching for?
Her fingers twitch. She wants to put her hand through the bars and—and what? Slap the scar from his knitted brow? Touch his skin with her bare hands, so that he might feel the cold hatred seeping from her fingertips? As she watches, his fingers slowly slide up the bars. He glances to where the knights await her at the end of the corridor.
“Have you not a trial to attend, High Inquisitor?” His voice is eerily like her own, devoid of the warmth she’s come to expect from him. It cuts her to the core, a painful shock that sits in the pit of her stomach. She feels strangely queasy, no longer able to look him in the eye.
“Yes.” She turns on her heel without another word, shoulders straight and chin held high. As she walks towards the glowing lights at the end of the corridor, something deep inside pleads for her to turn around, to try and explain that it was never him she meant to wound thus. Even if she did—no, does—hate him.
That would be folly, a useless gesture. This is an irreparable damage, and they both know it. She has lost the one chance she might have had at true friendship. His trust in her is gone, shattered into countless fragments; no amount of apologizing can mend what has been broken so thoroughly. She has hurt him in a way that cannot be forgiven.
She swallows down the lump in her throat, pushing aside the pain in preparation for the night ahead. This is the way of things. This is how it must be. 
This is the true price of her betrayal.
She hates him for listening, for hearing her out.  
When all is said and done, she has forgotten all about the man in the dungeons. She looks around, trying to spot a glimpse of bright hair in the early dawn, and finds nothing. Startled, she finds the Storyteller where he stands with Espella, explaining in hushed tones where they can find him.
Somehow she manages to detangle herself from the crowding townsfolk, losing both Espella and their new friends as she disappears into the forest at the city’s edge. Using an old Shade’s shortcut, she reaches the Courthouse in time to lie in wait. Time slows to a crawl as she waits for him to emerge from the building, her body pressed against the gnarled trunk of an oak tree. She isn’t quite sure what it is that she’s waiting for, with every nerve screaming for sleep. She is exhausted, emotionally drained, and in desperate need of a reprieve from the night’s revelations.
Still, she waits. She has to see him. She has to know.
He bursts from the Courthouse in a flurry of activity, running both hands through his hair in a gesture that’s all too familiar. Although she’s too far away to hear any particulars, it’s clear that he does not believe whatever he’s being told. He stops short on the path, gaping wide-eyed at the machinery he can now see looming over the city’s rooves. His men surround him, clamoring over one another as they try to fill him in on all the night’s happenings.
The Storyteller stands on the steps, hand clutching his side. Shaking himself free of the knights, he strides up the stairs to stand nose to nose with the old man. Every muscle in his body is tensed as he speaks in hushed tones to the man whom he thought wrote the stars themselves into the heavens. The Storyteller nods wearily, motioning to the city as he replies.
With an angry shout he turns away, racing down the stairs and crashing through the underbrush like a man possessed. The knights look at one another, trying to decide if they should follow, but the Storyteller stops them with another wave of his hand. He shakes his head, and she does not have to be close in order to understand.
Leave him alone. Give him time.
She watches from her hiding place as they follow the path back to the city, their footsteps faint beneath the leaves stirring in the morning breeze. When they are gone she emerges from the forest, standing still at the Courthouse steps. She looks up at the building the same way she had on the day they mourned the alchemist. If she fainted again—not that she meant to—would he carry her to the Audience Room again? Or would he leave her to the mercy of the elements?
She sits on the steps with a sigh, wrapping her arms around her knees. Nothing about this night had gone to plan. Her vengeance had come to naught. The guilt she’d carried all these years was not for Espella, but for herself. She had been the one to… the one who’d….
I wish Papa was here. She hugs her knees closer, resting her chin on her forearms. She does not want the Cantabellas reassurance, no matter how well-meant it is. The voice she yearns for is the one she will never hear again, no matter how much she needs to. It doesn’t matter now. It’s all my fault.
How could she have let her anger get so out of hand? She’d done far worse than reveal the secrets of a town on the cusp of ruination: she’d nearly caused an innocent girl to commit suicide. Not to mention her father’s suicide note—she squeezes her eyes shut, blocking the thought before it can become fully realized. Even worse, she had alienated herself from those who cared about her. She’d purposefully pushed away the one person who’d showed concern for her, who’d tried to befriend her despite… despite everything.
He’ll never forgive me.
It isn’t until she wakes, jolting upright, that she realizes she’s fallen into a doze. Rubbing her eyes with weary hands, she looks straight across the clearing… and into the startled gaze of the man she’d jailed the night before. They both freeze, each sizing up the other before turning away in embarrassment.
“I was just—heading—” He gestures vaguely towards the markets, then back to the Courthouse, his eyes searching for a place to land and finding none. “I’ve taken a walk,” he said unnecessarily, rubbing the back of his head with a sheepish sound. His hair looks absolutely wild, standing all over the place. “I’ll go.”
“Sir Barnham, I—” She stands quickly, prepared to offer an apology she know won’t be accepted. She doesn’t deserve for him to listen to her, but it must be said, for her own peace of mind if nothing else. Her boots are muddy, her hair is a mess, her uniform is wrinkled, and her eyes are bloodshot from lack of sleep. No one has ever seen the High Inquisitor so unkempt, but she is no longer the High Inquisitor.
She is just a woman. She is Eve. 
“I… I….” She doesn’t fully recognize the choked, timid voice that emerges from her parched throat. “I—” A hiccough, a pause, and then without warning the tears spill from her tired eyes. They drip from her chin, wet trails on her mottled cheeks. “I—!” Still she tries to salvage the apology, ashamed of crying in front of anyone… especially him.
“I’m sorry!” The words burst from her as she buries her face in her hands, humiliated beyond belief and yet unable to stop the flow of tears. Everything she’s held back for over ten years comes forth all at once in a series of gut-wrenching sobs. Tears on her lips, on her nose and cheeks, salty drops staining her uniform as the weight of the High Inquisitor’s burden finally lifts from her shoulders.
If her lucky stars were kind and favorable, they would allow the earth to open up and swallow her whole. She hopes beyond hope that he will go away, leave her alone in the clearing and pretend that he saw nothing. Unfortunately, that does not happen. She tenses as arms clad in heavy, bulky armor wrap around her trembling frame in a way that is more professional than personal—not intimate, but not cold. There is just enough tenderness in his touch that she falls into a fresh wave of tears, this time against his shoulder.
He holds her full weight as she sags against him, resting his chin shyly on her head as he pats her back in a way that, though forceful, is clearly meant to be comforting. His armor is cool against her flushed cheeks, her tears sliding down the polished surface like raindrops.
“I am—sorry—I did not mean—it was not supposed to—” He says nothing as she gives up trying to speak, holding her patiently until tremorous sobs give way to shuddering breaths, then sniffles, then silence. When she finally pushes him away, trying to preserve what little is left of her dignity, his arms tighten around her for a split-second. It’s over before she can blink, ending as he steps back to put space between them once more.
She wipes her eyes the best she can, fishing in her uniform for a rumpled handkerchief. The expression he wears is a calm mask, offering her no clues as to his own emotions. He waits as she tries to compose herself, wiping her cheeks and nose before clearing her throat.
“I don’t expect your forgiveness.” He nods, once, and she braces herself for the killing blow.
“I forgive you.”
Her limbs feel like ice, but her cheeks burn. The words take a moment to sink in. He does not move, the mask still in place.
“I do,” he insists, and she knows it’s true. She tries to hate him for his forgiveness, for giving her what she does not deserve, but she can’t. She’s far too tired.
She hates how he makes her feel. 
The professor is again in London, and the attorneys have flown home. Labyrinthia continues to grow, thriving as the seasons change in their endless circle. For most adults, there are now two people inhabiting a single body: the person they were, who they willingly left behind, and the person they’ve become. For many, the former is a mixed bag of memories both good and bad; the latter, a puzzle they are slowly solving.
“I think… I think I have always loved working with children,” Ms. Primstone muses to the former Judge as they watch the little ones enjoy their new playground. The primary school has remained, though older students now attend a secondary school nearer to the garrison.
“I’ve always enjoyed carving things,” Cutter says to Rouge, whistling happily as he files paperwork to join the carpenter’s guild as a trade apprentice. “I guess you could say I was one of them—what’re they called again? Starving artists?”
“You’ll be starving if you don’t sweep those shavings you left upstairs,” Rouge advises him curtly, twirling her dagger between her first three fingers. “But if you’re happy with  being a tradesman, it’s no skin off my nose. Maybe now this place will stop looking like it’s about to fall in on itself.”
“I think I’ve always liked machines,” Barnham tells her one day, testing out the controls on a forklift. “Listen to the sound it makes!” She can’t help but agree. Whenever he finds something new to tinker with—the boat, the crane, the island’s sole lawnmower—he looks like a child on Christmas morning.
“I hear it,” she calls back, raising her voice to be heard over the dull roar of the engine. Perhaps it isn’t the safest idea to stand beside him on the power equipment, but it’s far easier than screaming and waving at one another when trying to work. Any modifications they need to make to the reconstruction plans can be agreed upon in the moment, rather than waiting for him to turn off the machine and find her. She didn’t find the same enjoyment in them that he did, but she had to admit it was more fun to ride above everyone’s heads than it was to walk in the dusty construction sites.
But it was dangerous. The seats were only made for one person, meaning that she was left holding onto whatever handhold she could find on the frame. Whenever she inevitably stumbled, he was there to catch her with a sturdy grip on her arm, or around her waist. The first time their hands touched, without the barrier of gloves or armor, what a thrill had run through her! It’d had nothing to do with the near fall, but it frightened her far more than breaking her head on the cobbles ever would.
He still watched her, his eyes following her long after they parted ways at the crossroads each evening. Any animosity that might have been left from that awful night was long forgotten, or at least never spoken of. Nor did they ever mention that next morning, when her tears painted his cuirass in the pale dawn. Whatever emotions had passed between them that day had been enough.
Now it is merely a matter of learning how to live as herself: as Eve. It’s such a relief to be herself, in public, for the first time in years. No longer do her emotions have to be kept a closely-guarded secret. When she is happy, she can be happy. The Great Witch and High Inquisitor Darklaw still exist, of course, but they are shadows that arise to protect her when she is angry, embarrassed, or frightened.
Before she knows it, she has amassed a small group of friends. When they were children, Espella was her best friend. Although she spent her life protecting Espella, a watchful older sister from the shadows, they are still veritable strangers. Part of the fun is relearning one another, finding with satisfaction that their tastes are still aligned. They are quickly growing close once more, though she cannot say that Espella is her best friend.
If anyone were to hold that position—for the moment, at least—it would be Barnham. He is the one who understands her in a way no one else can, having worked for so long as her fellow inquisitor. He continues to work at her side on the reconstruction project, and its rare that they do not spend at least part of the day together. It’s he who can read between the lines, parsing her true feelings from the jumble of large words and lengthy explanations.
She watches him in turn, noticing how he bridges the gap between them. They are no longer superior and subordinate—they are equals. Friends. As he grows more comfortable with the idea, he moves from standing at a polite distance to crowding up against her side. He seems to think nothing of slinging a careless arm over her shoulder, or dragging her onto the machinery with one hand. He treats her in the same way he treats his friends at the tavern, smiles and laughter and a love language that’s wholly physical. At times, his exuberant greetings remind her of the way Constantine bounces around her ankles.  
While she’s glad he’s comfortable enough around her to be himself, at the same time there is a tension she doesn’t quite understand. He sometimes holds on for a beat too long, or their faces come too close, or her fingers squeeze a little too tightly when he yanks her back onto the forklift for the fifth time that morning. Then they’re caught in a space all of their own making; no one else seems to notice how heavy the air is, or how quickly they rush to separate. Their awkward laughter serves to dispel the tension, but it doesn’t explain it.
She finds herself blushing at odd times, distracted by the broad length of his shoulders as he works. When he swings around in his seat to reverse, his hair tickles her forearm and it sends a tingling rush straight to her heart. At least she isn’t the only one; more than once she’s looked up just in time to see him turn in a less-than-subtle attempt to cover his face. It doesn’t work—even if he does manage to hide his cheeks, nothing stops her from seeing how red his ears are.
Long ago, she said that she hated his smiles. But there is one special one he reserves just for her, and she can’t help but find it charming. She still hates how he messes up his hair, but only because it reminds her of her own cowardice. She will never be bold enough to reach out and touch it. She’s grown so used to his messy paperwork that the sight no longer bothers her.
Why had she ever disliked him so?
When she pauses to think about it, she remembers that he was forced upon her by the Storyteller. She hadn’t liked the change; she still doesn’t like it. Maybe it is the reconstruction, or maybe it’s the temperament of the city itself, but there is a feeling of change that hangs over the island like a fog. It clings to everyone, even him, and the thought itself is terrifying. She does not want him to change, ever.
They were friends now. If something were to change… that might change, too. He wouldn’t be her friend any longer. She would hate to lose him.
She hates that he made her wait… for an éclair.
Well… perhaps hate is a strong word for a birthday gift. But he had made her stand for an hour—an hour!—in their cold office. For an éclair. A sadly wrapped one at that, the box crushed at one corner from how tightly he gripped it.
She looks down at it, and then at him. The expression he made when he saw her reaction had sickened her. Crestfallen, absolutely crestfallen. He had worked for months on something, planning for who knows how long, only to have it go wrong in the end. She knew that feeling all too well.
They’d both laughed it off with the others, and then they’d had a grand time at the Fire Festival—though over half the participants of the Bezella pageant ended up being men, for some reason. It wasn’t until she was home, comfortably dressed and relaxing before bed, that she remembered something Espella told her privately.
“At the bakery, Luke said he thought Mr. Barnham had a soft spot for you!” Espella had been giggling at the face Mr. Wright was making as he tried—albeit unsuccessfully—to be a teenage witch. She was too busy laughing to pay attention to the chord those words had struck within her friend.
The thought won’t leave her alone, no matter how hard she tries to forget. In bed. A soft spot for you. Washing her face. A soft spot. Walking the winding path to the Courthouse. For you. He’s already there, smiling at her as he waits beneath the sign at the crossroads. A soft spot. For you. She tastes éclair on her tongue, pulse pounding in her ears. 
For… for me?
“Good morrow, Miss Eve.” He is as cheerful as ever, a morning person if there ever was. “’Tis another sunny day, from the looks of it.” She watches him shield his eyes with his hand, staring up at the cloudless sky visible through the trees. No. Not for me.
Luke had to have been mistaken. Now that her birthday was over, he was the same Barnham that he’d been the day before. Whatever had possessed him to stand for an hour with his eyes closed was gone. A passing folly.
“Yes, it does seem that way. I hope you’re ready to work,” she teases lightly, smiling to hide the pang in her chest. Indigestion, perhaps, from her breakfast. “I saw you drinking quite a bit last night.” They fall into step, heading towards the construction site.
“’Twas not ale, though I wish it had been.” He flashes one of his special grins, the one that makes her heart skip a beat. “That daft fool Boistrum bet twenty quid that he could drink more tomato juice than I could. Now I’m twenty richer and I’ve got bragging rights.”
“T-tomato juice?” A note of alarm creeps into her voice. “Do you realize how acidic that is? You will be alright, won’t you?” He throws an arm around her shoulders in a gesture that’s quickly becoming habitual. It’s all she can do not to stumble, the pang coming more sharply. Soft spot….
“Not to worry, we Barnhams have stomachs of iron!”
She hates him for being so casual with her, casual enough to make others see something that doesn’t exist.
She hates him for changing, though change is inevitable.
The reconstruction effort is over; the city is beautiful and brand new, a staggering mix of modern convenience and old world charm. The Shade hamlet is a proper neighborhood just beyond the city walls, catering to those who wish to live away from the hustle and bustle of town life. The Courthouse is now a theatre, the Archives a proper library, the garrison a hub for civil service.
People, too, have changed. Jean Greyerl studies correspondence courses, working hard to earn a proper PhD in medicine. Espella pours over brochures for universities in her spare time, following in her parents’ footsteps with a business degree. Barnham remained at the bakery following her birthday, taking on the duties of a proper apprenticeship under Mrs. Eclaire’s tutelage.
 A baker has no need to share an office that once belonged to inquisitors.
She watches the knights struggle to pull his battered desk from the room, the mountains of paper missing from its scuffed surface, and is unable to understand the thick lump in her throat. Wasn’t this what she wanted? It was certainly what was best for everyone. Now that reconstruction was over, Barnham divided his time equally between the garrison and the bakery. He had no need for the space.
She, on the other hand, had taken on extra work with Labrelum in an effort to keep herself busy and stave off boredom. With his things gone there would be room to add more filing cabinets, a PC teleconference system, shelves for books and folders. All that extra space, just waiting to be utilized in an effort to create her ideal remote office setup.
Now that it was happening, she wasn’t sure that she wanted it to. Watching his things go out the door seems so… final. The stand for his cloak is missing, and she remembers how he used to throw the heavy fabric across the desk after a Parade. Constantine carries out his own chew toy, and she thinks about the first day she saw him, and the laughter that followed. The dumbbells are hoisted onto the wiry shoulders of his squire, and her heart sinks lower when she realizes she’ll never watch him pump iron at his desk again. 
“You’ll be wanting this back?” Barnham yanks the corkboard from the wall. It’s still covered in things that are no longer needed: old memos from the witch trials, the portrait of him and Constantine, an old scribble on the back of an empty report that he made to spite her.
“No. Take it to the bakery with you.” It was his board now, in her mind. It would never be hers again. “I don’t need it. Everything’s digital now, anyway.” He holds it in both hands, head tilted questioningly as he hears the sorrow in her voice. She clears her throat quickly, reaching down to yank the ugly drawing off the lower edge. “But don’t take this!” she jokes halfheartedly, folding the parchment in half.
“I can always draw another,” he offers with a sly grin. “If you were to anger me again, that is.”
“And I’ll shout just as loudly as I did back then.”
“I’ll allow it, so long as you stab the paper instead of me.” She remembers, then, that she had been the one to drive the dagger in so deeply. Had he never removed it? Suddenly she feels confused and lonely, memories of her office—their office—pouring over her all at once. She manages a hoarse chuckle and shrugs, folding the parchment again and tucking the square into her pocket.
“Do you need me to help move anything?” Looking around, she sees that his half of the room is entirely empty. It looks too big now, and she can’t remember why she’d ever thought it small.
“No, I—I’ll do it later.” He nods, smiling her special, crooked smile, and she recalls thinking once that she would have rather worked with anyone else, so long as it wasn’t him. It’s much the opposite now. He is the one she’d choose over any other, even Espella. She doesn’t want him to leave. “You’ll visit, from time to time?” It sounds embarrassingly hopeful.
“Of course. You’d work yourself into an early grave if I didn’t.” He tucks the corkboard beneath his arm so that it will fit through the door. “I’ll leave you to get settled. Text me if you need help.” She waits until he is on the stairs before shutting the door quietly. He never closed the door quietly, always with a loud bang that rattled the hinges. A shuddering, muffled sound from the foyer only proves her thoughts as the Courthouse door swings shut behind him.
She walks slowly to her desk, looking around at the empty expanse of bright, freshly mopped flagstone. Opening up the uppermost drawer, she unfolds the caricature and tapes it to the bottom as though it were a piece of lining. The scribble is truly hideous: her eyes are mismatched, her teeth jagged points, her hair accessories jutting from her lopsided skull like devil’s horns. It looks more like a child’s rendition of a monster than a grown man’s drawing.
‘Tis what you resemble! The memory echoes in the empty room. A smile rises, unbidden, to her lips. That had been quite the anger-fueled day. Sighing, she looks around the half-furnished office once more before letting her forehead slump to the desk. She hates him, in a way, for making the decision to leave.
Never has a room felt quite so cold.
She hates him because he’d once made someone think he had a soft spot for her.
They are still friends, of course, but the past eight months have been lonely. She’s buried up to her neck in meetings and appointments, he’s working long hours at the bakery. On the evenings she’s able to visit Espella, he is often relaxing at the tavern with his former garrison mates. Their schedules are staggered so that often a week or more passes without them seeing one another face to face. Their daily conversations are reduced to texts and the occasional infrequent call.
He handles the change as cheerfully as ever, always asking about her job—which she enjoys—and her larger office—which she still hates. Never once does he show any signs of that supposed soft spot, the one that everyone apart from her seems to think exists.
In reality, she is the one with a soft spot for him. It encompasses her whole heart, which aches constantly at the thought that she will never be more than a friend to him. He publicly scoffs at the idea of romance, of beaus either real or imagined, and the unsubtle hints from Mrs. Eclaire that he ought to be settling down now that he’s inching ever closer to thirty. He has never flirted with her. He hasn’t even tried to hold her hand. The tension between them remains, but it arises rarely and dissipates just as quickly.
She’s starting to think he might not feel it anymore.
The thought tears her apart at the seams, because every time they meet she’s stuck waiting for that spark, something to prove that she’s more than a friend in his eyes. He treats her like a sister, like she’s Rouge or Espella. He is still physically affectionate, of course, but that’s part of his nature.
Perhaps, she muses, it’s time to move on. Surely there are others who could make her just as happy. Many found the former Lady Darklaw beautiful, and would be more than happy to have a hand in courting her. She can choose from any number of would-be suitors. But they wouldn’t be him, and it seems unfair to get their hopes up for nothing. He is the one she wants.
The months seem to fly by, and the city feels like it’s bearing down on her. The walls loom high above her, blocking her view of the horizon, and with each passing day she feels more trapped. She hates her office, large and spacious as it is, because it’s a reminder that he was once there. She hates the bakery, comforting and cozy, because it’s a symbol of false hope. She hates the Square, full of memories where they sat and talked, festivals where they drank and danced. She hates him, too, for making her feel this way, for making her care this much with all his touches and smiles and ‘Miss Eves’.
Arthur notices the change in her, as does Espella. The latter can’t possibly understand what the matter might be, but the former either knows or assumes enough to see the warning signs of depression. She spends less time around her friends, distancing herself once more from the society she used to crave. Messages go unanswered, calls ignored. She brushes everyone aside, using work and the lack of time as a ready excuse. They take her at her word, giving her the space she claims to desire. But it only makes the heartbreak all that much worse.
That autumn, the Storyteller finally retires from his position as CEO. With no one to immediately take his place, he offers to send her to London for six months to act in his stead for a probationary period—an offer, he admits, which can easily go fulltime whenever she wishes. London is a far cry from quiet island life, but that might be exactly what she needs. A new job in a new city… a new start. And if she didn’t like it? Well, it was only six months.
They work out the final details: housing, transportation, what she’ll need from home and what will remain in the care of the servants that stay behind. The date is scheduled, and suddenly everything is set in stone. All that’s left is to break the news. She waits until an evening roughly two weeks before her departure, when her closest friends are gathered together at the bakery for a quiet supper.
Espella takes the news as well as can be imagined, hiding her tears in her cloak and choking out promises to come and visit. Mrs. Eclaire offers her heartiest congratulations, along with recommendations for local bakeries in the area. Barnham… stares, fork poised over his half-empty plate. After a moment he swallows and, with one of his usual bright smiles, proclaims his happiness.  
“’Tis a prominent position—one that you’re deserving of, after all of your hard work for the company.”
It’s not what she wants him to say.
In the following weeks, she gets no work done. The rumor mill churns at full force, and before three days pass she finds herself sounding like a broken record. Yes, I am leaving. No, it’s only for half a year. Yes, it’s still under the Teller—call him Mr. Cantabella, won’t you?  Espella seems determined to cram the next six months’ worth of conversation into a fortnight. Every time she visits the bakery Mrs. Eclaire has a new recipe to lend her, something so that ‘she won’t go hungry’. She doesn’t have the heart to explain that a private chef would be cooking the majority of her meals.
Barnham is hardly there at all. She sees him only once before her departure, and can’t stop herself from dragging out what should have been a five minute conversation into a fifteen minute slog. It ends with both of them standing awkwardly on the path until he excuses himself with a bow.
Something about him has changed, but she can’t place her finger on what, exactly, it is. He seems like his usual self, still going about his daily business with a smile and a whistle. The women still flock to him, the men still laugh at his bad jokes, and the children still climb all over him in search of sweetcakes. But just as easily as he can discern her moods, she can’t help but notice a marked shift in his cadence, the way he holds himself when he thinks no one is looking. Something isn’t right.
The answer does not come to her until the day she leaves.
She meets him at daybreak in front of the bakery with only a small parcel; her other belongings have already been sent ahead in the care of her lady’s maid, leaving her to carry only what she’ll need on the long ride. Barnham was to drive her to the pier where she can then catch a bus to the station that will, ultimately, bring her to London. The morning air is chilly, the roads empty and houses dark on either side of the broad lanes. But he is there, waiting for her with his hands in the pockets of his thick coat.
“Morrow, Miss Eve.” His voice is subdued, rough with lack of sleep. There are bags beneath his eyes. “If you’re not in a hurry, I’ve something to give you before we leave.” He opens the bakery door, releasing a rush of warm air as he invites her inside. She follows in confusion, looking around at the bare shelves and banked fire. “Upstairs,” he mumbles, gesturing towards the door that leads to the living area.
“Are the others still sleeping?” she ventures, one hand on the wall to prevent herself from tripping down the steep staircase.
“They aren’t here.” The answer shocks her; she had wanted to say her final goodbyes before leaving for the mainland. “They had urgent business to attend,” he explains, leading the way to his bedroom. More urgent than me? she complains inwardly, immediately squashing the sentiment as it arises.
His bedroom is small, cut in half by the sloped ceiling that forms the bakery roof. His bed is shoved beneath the shuttered window, bedclothes pulled over the pillow with a military precision. There is a battered lamp standing atop an equally battered nightstand, and an old, corded trunk wedged in the corner where the roof met the weathered floorboards. A small bookshelf holds various things he’s collected over the years, as well as a handful of books on loan from the Archives.
The corkboard adorns the wall above his headboard. Rather than memos, it now hosts a variety of pictures. He digs around in the nightstand’s drawer, leaving her to peruse the board with interest. There is a picture of himself, Mrs. Eclaire, and Espella in front of the renovated bakery; they look like a family, a mother and her two children grown. In another, he sits beside Rouge at the tavern’s grand reopening, a tankard in his hand.
More pictures show aspects of his life that she is not privy towards. He stands side by side with a knight she knows by sight, rather than name; they hold a large trout between them, clearly pleased with themselves at the catch. He grasps the shoulder of his newly knighted squire, glowing with joy and pride as the boy—now a young man—smiles bashfully. There are a few candid shots of Constantine, and more of cat Eve. The portrait of himself and Constantine takes precedence in the right corner, the same way it had when it hung in their office. In the left corner is a picture of… them.
She steps even closer, leaning over the bed to take a better look. She stands beside him in the frame, his arm around her shoulders, his cheek against hers. Her small, calm smile is at odds with his boyish grin. She remembers the occasion, a festival day in honor of the reconstruction. They were all celebrating years of hard work paying off. Only now did she notice that the shade of her bodice matched the color of his eyes.
What stands out most is the way the pair of them seem so… happy. Laughter sparkles in her eyes, her cheek pressed willingly to his without prompting. Her heart beats an agonizing rhythm in her chest and she turns to see him watching her, a small square of in his hand.
“It’s a nice photo,” she stammers shyly, ears burning at being caught. It was one of the few photos not covered up by others on the board. Did that mean it was special to him, somehow? Did he cherish it?
“I’m pleased you like it.” He offers her the glossy paper in his hands. “It’s what I wanted to give you. A like image.” The tips of their fingers brush as he pulls away quickly, stuffing his hand back into his coat pocket. I see. That’s why it was uncovered. Her heart sinks. He recently had it removed so that a copy could be made.
“Thank you, I… I don’t quite know what to say.” She holds it loosely in her hands, feeling an icy grip close around her heart.
“I wanted you to have something to remember me by.” The smile does not quite reach his eyes. “In London.” For a moment, she’s reminded of her father, sitting in the parlor with his cup of tea. Nothing is wrong. Was he also attempting to cover his own sorrow with that empty smile?
Of course he’s upset! She berates herself sharply. You’re his friend and you’re leaving! And this, she adds stubbornly, is exactly the reason why. I’m reading far too much into these things.
“Are you ready?” he asks, when she makes no attempt to respond. “We should probably be on our way. You won’t want to miss the bus.”
“Yes… right.” She tucks the photograph into her parcel, patting it once it’s safely in place. “Let’s be off, then.”
The walk to the island docks is silent, save for their footsteps and the occasional birdsong. More than once she notices the Cantabellas pet owl hovering above them, but there was no cause for concern. Hoot often roamed the skies in the early hours of the morning, searching for the odd field mouse or stoat. Her fingers press against the photograph through the fabric of her parcel, taking a small comfort in its presence. She resolved to consider it a gift from a dear friend, a way to remember the good times instead of her heartache.
When they reach the bottom of the winding steps leading from the island to the docks, she finds herself frozen in surprise. She stops in her tracks, eyes widening as she looks at the gathered faces in the early morning light.
“What… what’s this?” Nearly everyone she knows in Labyrinthia is here, from knights and former Shades to the Cantabellas and Mrs. Eclaire. Her puzzled smile is tight on her face, lips bloodless as they press against her teeth.
“It’s your farewell party,” Espella explains in a watery voice. Tears swim in her large blue eyes, her nose red from the handkerchief bunched in her fist. “We kept trying to think of the best day to throw you one, but nothing seemed right. So we decided to do it before you left.”
“Did you really think we’d let you go without a proper sendoff?” Rouge crosses her arms, a mischievous twinkle in her eye.
“Aye! What she said!” the Vigilantes cry as one, nearly knocking their captain into the water as they raise their gauntlets towards the pale sky.
“Maybe we never acknowledged it,” Lettie Mailer shouts over their cheers, “but High Inquisitor Darklaw always made our lives much better! Even if there weren’t any witches in the end, you still worked so hard to keep us all safe and happy. Labyrinthia wouldn’t be what it is today without you!”
“What she said!”
“Quiet, you lot!” Boistrum thunders, clinging to a dock post for dear life.
“They can’t imagine a Labyrinthia without you.” Barnham’s voice seems small, even though he stood right behind her. “The Storyteller and the High Inquisitor were always staples of the Story.”
“Not to mention all those years you helped to rebuild everything from the ground up.” Rouge nods sagely. “You definitely left your mark.”
“They’re right.” Arthur clears his throat, attempting to subtly offer Espella a clean handkerchief. “I don’t know what would have happened, had you not thought to bring the professor here. It’s thanks to you that the city is thriving once more. It is…” He swallows thickly. “A debt without measure. It can never be repaid.”
“Oh, Eve!” Espella wraps her in a tight embrace, all but sobbing against her neck. “I’m going to miss you so much! Promise that you’ll come home sometime, even if it’s only for a little while!” She weeps bitterly, clinging to the lapels of Eve’s dove gray jacket.
“I—of course I will.” Eve pats her shoulder awkwardly, a lump forming in her throat as she looked at the people who cared enough to come and stand in the cold sea air to wish her a fond farewell. Until this moment, she’s never realized exactly how many lives she’d touched through her actions, both as Lady Darklaw and as Eve Belduke. In her mind Barnham was always the more popular inquisitor, the town celebrity. But… they like her, too.
“Now, now.” Espella is quickly replaced by Mrs. Eclaire, who throws her arms around her with a warm, motherly squeeze. “You did make a promise to eat well,” she reminds her, black eyes twinkling beneath her kerchief. “Three square meals a day, alright?”
“A-Alright.” All too quickly, a line of people forms on the dock. One by one they wish her well, shaking her hand for good measure—save for Rouge, who winks and punches her arm hard enough to bruise. The Vigilantes go through twice with their usual aplomb, Foxy even offering to leave an imprint on her spine with the heel of her stilettos.
Constantine sits on the end of the dock, guarding the boat from curious children. His beady gaze watches her calmly, tail thumping against the dock as she approaches. He’s no longer a puppy, having reached his full size and grown twice as fluffy in the interim. She remembers Barnham warning her that he must respect her as a lady, and a smile passes her face before she can hold it in. She bends down to pat his head, adjusting the scarf around his neck, and silently recants every time she called him a ‘mutt’.
“Good dog,” she murmurs. His pink tongue laps at the scar on her palm before he pads off to jump into the boat’s large backseat.
“You should get started.” Arthur checks his wristwatch before turning to look at the rising sun. “If you don’t make the first bus, you’ll be stuck there for an hour at the least.” He watches as she steps nimbly into the boat, climbing over into the passenger seat and tucking the parcel safely between her ankles. “Take care, Eve. Make sure to let us know when you arrive safely.”
“I will.” He frowns, watching Barnham fish for his keys in the pocket of his trousers.
“You make sure she’s on the bus before you even think of returning, young man.” Barnham looks up, clearly shocked.
“As if you need to remind me!” he scowls. Eve bites back a laugh, the sound escaping through her nose instead. “A man of knightly honor would never leave a lady unattended in a strange place!”
“See to it,” Arthur warns in a fatherly manner. The stern expression is lost with the way his bangs fall across his face, hiding the bulk of his scar. He jolts as Barnham leaps from the dock, landing on the boat with enough force to rock it. “And be careful yourself!” he snaps, shaking his head. “Young folk….”
Barnham ignores him, his face stony as he all but jabs the key into the ignition. The boat roars to life, drowning the crowd as it pulls away from the dock in a rush of water and cold air. Eve turns to look back at the island, watching the faces slowly blur as they move farther and farther from shore. Espella runs to the end of the docks, nearly tripping face first into the icy water. She stands on tiptoe, waving both arms as hard as she can.
“Goodbye, Eve! Goodbye!”
“Goodbye! Take care! Come back soon!” The Labyrinthians’ well wishes follow them out to sea, soon replaced by the rhythmic hum of the motor and the shrill call of seagulls. Constantine barks at them, his ears flapping in the wind as he stands on his hind legs in the back. The salty wind whips the hair from her loose braid, drawing tears from her eyes and sending shivers down her spine. She pushes her hands into her sleeves, hunkering down in the seat.
“Here.” Barnham digs behind him, eventually passing her a rumpled blanket. “It’s not very warm, but it should keep most of the wind off.” He drives onehanded, as one might an automobile, not really looking at her and yet not looking away. She takes the blanket gratefully, tucking it across her lap.
“Thank you.” She watches the waves rush past, the water tinged gray to match the clouds high above. “It was nice of everyone. To show up, I mean.”  
“They’re going to miss you.” His voice is quiet, contemplative, but he smiles when he catches her eye. “Don’t worry. You already know your way around London, so you’ll fit right in.” He laughs, a strangely hollow sound—or is she imagining things again? “A new job, new friends… we’ll be forgotten in a fortnight.”
“I highly doubt that.” He doesn’t reply. She looks down at her lap, picking a stray dog hair from the blanket’s threadbare fabric. Was he worried about being forgotten? Or…? She traces the faded pattern as it winds its way over her thighs. That’s why I’m leaving, isn’t it? To forget?
She knows how many miles it takes to reach the mainland, and yet it seems like no time at all before Barnham is paying the toll and pulling up to the pier. He takes the blanket from her, folding it hastily before tossing it into the back.
“Stay, boy.” Constantine sits obediently, nose wriggling as he looks around with interest at the fishermen walking past. Barnham steps onto the dock, turning to reach down and offer a hand. For a single heartbeat she’s falling from a forklift, and he’s yanking her back up with laughter in his eyes. Then it’s over, his hand falling away as she takes her first step onto the gray boards.
“I’ll walk you to the station,” he offers. She wonders, briefly, what he’d do if she said no.
“Don’t worry—I’ll make sure Arthur knows, so you won’t be thrown to the flames,” she teases lightly. He chuckles, but this time it’s definitely not her imagination: there’s no real laughter in it. The pier is nearly empty, with darkened shops and quiet boats bobbing in the swirling waters. A lazy cat or two is sprawled beneath the ancient wooden benches, while fisherman cough and wheeze as they sip black coffee from paper cups.
The bus station is lit with buzzing fluorescent lights, moths batting at the white-hot bulbs. A bored attendant turns the pages of a magazine with a bleary-eyed yawn. A little old lady with a large nose and larger hat sits on the lone bench beneath the bus schedule, knitting rapidly from a skein of multicolored yarn.
Well, here we are. The lump in her throat is back with a vengeance, choking her as she turns to face her companion. His vibrant hair seems to be all shades of red at once, copper and amber and crimson catching the rising sun. The light casts his face in half-shadow, the long scar on his brow thrown into contrast with the rest of his dark skin. Now that it’s time to say her last farewell, she’s not entirely sure that she can go through with it. At the same time it would be utterly foolish to not go through with it, after all the prepping and planning they’ve done over the past month.
“So. Miss Eve.” He swallows hard, hands shoved as far down in his pockets as they’ll go. He doesn’t look at her, instead staring out across the shimmering ocean. “I’ve, er… I’ve never had to say good-bye to someone I’ve known as long as you.” He toes the ground, the steel tip of his boot thumping against the boards. “I’m not sure how to say it, even now.”
“You say whatever’s in your heart. Whatever you like, I mean,” she amends quickly, blushing at how cheesy it sounds when said aloud. “Sometimes, the common way is best.” Clearing her throat, she throws out her hand with a forced smile. “Goodbye, Zacharias Barnham. And thank you again for the photo. I’ll treasure it, always.” Calm, casual, amicable eve. Her voice didn’t shake once. She’s proud of herself.  
“What’s in my heart?” He looks at her outstretched hand with an unfathomable expression, reaching out slowly and taking it in his own. His large fingers encompass hers completely as he shakes it, gripping just tightly enough to feel the warmth surging in his palm. Before she can pull away he adjusts their position, pressing a chaste kiss to her knuckles.  
“Don’t go.” The words are barely more than a whisper, his lips brushing her fingers with every syllable. It freezes the breath in her lungs.
“What?” His eyes widen. Though she can’t seem to draw in a full breath, she somehow finds enough air to speak. “What did you say?” As if she didn’t know. As if she didn’t feel it.
“I—I’m sorry. Excuse me.” Clearly distraught, he practically throws her hand away as he turns to storm back towards the boat.
“Zacharias? Zacharias!” The bus has not arrived yet, so nothing stops her from chasing him. Her heels ring on the boardwalk as she runs after him, panting when she grabs his wrist. “Wait!” she demands, tugging until he slows to a stop.
“It’s nothing,” he mumbles, purposefully keeping his head turned. “Forget it.”
“Why?” He yanks his wrist from her grasp in a move that’s almost violent, running both hands through his hair with a growl.
“I promised myself I wouldn’t do this.” He shoves them back into his coat pockets, jaw clenched. She looks around, but there’s no one to notice his outburst; the fishermen are too far away, the attendant absorbed in their magazine, the old woman focused on her knitting. “Forget it!” he repeats, louder this time.
“Why?” she asks again in turn, hand clutching her parcel tightly enough that the blood leaves her fingers.
“Because you’re supposed to be happy!” It’s his Court voice, the one made for ringing in the rafters of the domed ceiling. Its echoes are lost on the empty pier.
“B-Because I… what?” She shakes her head, completely at a loss. “What on earth are you talking about?”  
“You deserve happiness,” he explains tersely, kicking at a loose piece of gravel that has somehow gotten itself wedged between the boards. “And… and if you’re happy in London, then I should be happy that you’re happy. But I’m not, no matter how I try to convince myself of it.” He hisses out a breath between his teeth, shoulders slumping. “Damn it all.”
“Zacharias….” It’s rare to hear him curse outside of the tavern, rarer so for him to say in her hearing without an accompanying apology. But this despondent man isn’t the stalwart knight, at least not at the moment. He’s just… a man, upset and out of his element.
“I never meant to tell you any of this. You were supposed to get on the bus and leave. You were supposed to… to be happy,” he shrugs. His brow is more furrowed than usual, mouth twisted in an expression that plucks at her heartstrings. “I thought—I hoped that if I avoided you, this feeling would diminish with time. But now I’ve gone and wasted the time we had left. Stupid…” he mutters, the insult directed at himself.
“It’s only for six months,” she whispers, unsure of why she feels the need to keep her voice down with no one around to hear them.
“Six months is a long time.” He squints, turning to avoid the sunlight bouncing off the rolling waves. “I overheard Mrs. Eclaire speaking with the Tell—with Arthur. If you’re happy at Labrelum, you can become the CEO permanently. No one could make you return to Labyrinthia if you didn’t want to. I—we might not ever see you again.”
“I will come back, though.” She stepped in front of him, willing him to look at her and hear the earnest fervor in her tone. “I will.”
“You won’t.” He smiles sadly. “It’s your Story, isn’t it? You’ll have a new job, and meet new people… you might even find love. And you’ll want to stay there, with them, instead of coming home to m—to us.” There is a genuine anguish in his eyes, proving that he wholeheartedly believes every word that’s been said. Taking her stunned silence for acceptance, he continues.
“If that’s what will make you truly happy, Miss Eve, then it should be enough to make me happy, too. It must be. Because you seemed so glad to be leaving, when you weren’t before.” The pieces suddenly click into place. He had been worried about her, seeing her melancholy, and had put his own feelings aside to ensure her happiness. Not once had he ever suspected that he was the reason she’d been depressed in the first place.
“But what if that’s not the Story I want for myself!?” she snaps. “Did you ever stop and think to ask me what I wanted, instead of assuming you already knew?”
“I… no.” He blinks down at her. “What is it that you want, then? What will make you happy?” I didn’t mean for you to ask me now! Belatedly, she realizes that there’s probably no better time to ask. What was that old adage? Better late than never?  
“I want so much more for myself than that.” She hugs herself, the parcel digging into her side through her jacket. “I want something I can’t have. That’s why I was upset. That’s why I wanted to leave so badly.”
“Something you can’t have?” She can’t blame him for being incredulous. As a Belduke, she’s one of the few who can have whatever she pleases, within the realm of reason. She takes his arm, resting her forehead against his shoulder and wondering how she could have ever hated him.
“If I told you right now that the thing I want most is here—” She presses her face against his upper arm, wishing that there were some way to stop her lips from trembling. “If I said that, would you still want me to be happy?”
“I—I’m admittedly puzzled.” There is a curious tremor in his words as well. “You stated yourself that the thing you wanted most was something you could not have. But if what you say is true….” He fidgets restlessly, forcing her to pull away. She keeps a tight hold of his forearm, a small part of her irrationally afraid that he might run if she happened to let go. “Should it be true,” he tries again, scratching his cheek with his free hand, “then you, um— you’ve have that for quite some time.”
“I… I have?” He nods, cheeks burning.
“Aye. For several years, even.”
“But—then—why didn’t you say anything!?” He jumps at the shrill pitch of her voice, cowering beneath her glare with a nervous laugh.
“Well, ‘tis only that you never seemed to notice my particular regard for you, much less return my feelings.” There is an age-old hope in his eyes, one that mirrors what still burns deep within her breast.
“I’m not the one who claims romance is useless on a battlefield!”
“Romance has no place on the battlefield—”
“Whatever.” She surges against him, arms wrapped tightly around his middle. His coat buttons press against her cheek, heart pounding beneath her ear. “Shut up,” she grumbles, squeezing him as tightly as Espella squeezed her earlier. If she could have lifted him off the ground, she would have. “I return them, okay?” Her face is on fire, the prickling sensation made worse by the chill in the air. “Okay, Zacharias?”
“I—I understand.” His arms slowly encompass her, hands flat against her spine. “Is it alright if you—that is, you know that you can call me Zack?” The question rumbles in his chest, vibrating against her through the padding of his coat. “If you want to.”  
“Only if you can manage an Eve without the Miss in front of it.” She leans into him, finding that she’s unable to stop smiling. “Zack.” It’s easy for her to forget that he possesses an enormous amount of strength. While she may not be able to lift him, he can lift her—and does, all too easily. Her stomach flips, balance off-kilter, and she finds herself nose to nose in his arms.
“Eve,” he says, firmly. His eyes sparkle with mischief, the ghost of a playful smile at the corners of his mouth. Behind them, the familiar hiss of hydraulics signals the bus’s arrival. She ignores it for the moment, grabbing his cheeks in both hands and pulling him forward. Their lips brush in a fleeting kiss, too fast for him to even close his eyes. He nearly drops her in his shock, jaw unhinging as she wiggles free of his arms.
“I have to go.” She tucks her parcel beneath her arm, patting it once to ensure the photo is still there. It is, tucked safely in the side where she left it. Her pulse thrums wildly, emotions bubbling up within her in a cacophony of feeling. Joy. Sadness. Hope.
A bittersweet parting, she decides, is far better than one that is simply bitter.  
“Promise me you’ll come home.” He still looks dazed, but his eyes follow hers to the bus and back.
“I promise. A thousand times over, if I must.”
“And you will write to me?”
“I’ll do better than that: I’ll call. Every week.” She glances over her shoulder, sees the bus driver speaking to the attendant. There is time yet to grab his hand, squeezing it in both of her own. “Six months isn’t so long. Less than thirty weeks.”
“Aye.” He lingers, stepping back until her fingers slide from his. Letting her go. His hand squeezes into a fist, trapping the feeling in his palm. “Go. The bus won’t wait for long.”  
“Six months. You’ll be back for me then.” She puts on her best Darklaw scowl. “You had better be here when I get back.”
“I will.” Two words, holding the solemn weight of an unspoken oath.
There’s nothing more to say. Turning on one heel, she hurries to board the bus before the doors close on her. Handing over her ticket, she nods to the driver and then takes the last available seat beside the knitting woman. She can see him through the window across the aisle, fulfilling his promise to Arthur. The bus would leave before he did.  
“It’s always hard when young lovers have to part,” the old woman remarks, her hat nodding back and forth as she knits. The resulting blush is part embarrassment, part giddy excitement. Young lovers…. “Are you engaged?” she asks nosily, narrowed eyes sweeping over her hands for any sign of a ring. Eve shakes her head quickly.
“No, we’re just—” She catches herself, not quite sure what they are. “We’re just going to miss each other,” she explains instead, making a mental note to ask him the moment she’s able to call. “I’m leaving home for a while; I didn’t realize how much he would miss me.”  
“Oh, men have a certain way about them.” The old woman cackles. “That one looks like he wears his heart on his sleeve.”
“Yes.” Eve sighs, hands resting in her lap. She curls her fingers around one another, trying to hold in what little heat might be left from his palm; the bus, despite being modern, feels more like an icebox. “The problem is that I never look at the right sleeve.” The old woman cackles again.
“Well, well. That takes practice, my dear. So,” she says, leaning back in the seat, “tell me, child: do you like puzzles?”
“Well—”  
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neonglowxx · 2 months ago
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MAYA NO
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generalherasyndulla · 1 month ago
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The latest ace attorney video in a nutshell
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smashtoons · 11 months ago
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Don't ask the Professor for the story behind his hat.
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moss-on-a-pebble · 3 months ago
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So I’ve never actually played the crossover game but I feel like this would be their dynamic
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peachducy · 6 months ago
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SPELLBREAKER
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hhhhomnom · 6 months ago
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so im playing professor layton v phoenix wright
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aceattorneyanonymous · 1 year ago
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If you haven’t played PLvsAA the most important thing you need to know is that Phoenix has a cunty little stance:
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doydoune · 11 months ago
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it's the year of our lord 2023 and I'm only now learning about Phoenix's and Maya's baker era
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pov: you're living your best life making bread and a Lego figurine bursts into your bakery and now you have to prevent a girl from being burned alive as a witch
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cat-shouty-13 · 7 months ago
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and an important amendment suggested by my good friend @sleepnos
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ALSO YOU BETTER APPRECATE THAT MAYA SPRITE I HAD TO ADD THAT FACE MYSELF !!!!!
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shortdevil-sans · 2 years ago
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Lol 🤣 Phoenix hair getting eaten
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sheepwithspecs · 2 years ago
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Paramour
|| PLvsAA || Rated T ||
Ao3 Link
When fighting is just an outlet for other emotions, something's bound to break eventually.
Their first kiss was entirely unintentional.
It had been a fight, one of the rare fights that went beyond the scope of their duties as Inquisitors, devolving into petty name-calling and well-aimed insults. She'd been on a role, having more than enough fodder from the 'Wild Ride' to insult not only his current place as the town laughingstock, but also his horsemanship. It always delighted her to no end to see his face flushing deep red with mingled anger and humiliation, to almost hear the grinding of his teeth by the motion of his jaw alone, the subtle clanking of his armor as his limbs shook with fury under her verbal assault. It was normally by this point that he'd make an exit, refusing to listen to her 'pointless, unfounded comments on his person'.
But he didn't.
The first second his mouth was on hers, she felt nothing but shock. Her arguments died in an undignified squawk, her mind racing to figure how he could move across the room so quickly, her ears bereft of her own shouting as well as his. Then, as the shock became kindling for her indignation, he seemed to understand the position he was in, the short length from her knee to his groin, from her claws to his face. He pulled away, his face equal parts staggered and unremorseful.
For a long moment, they merely squared off in silence, his unrepentant eyes locked in an impromptu staring match with her blazing ones. It was only broken when her hand—gloved, not clawed, to her own dissatisfaction—came up of its own accord and met his cheek with enough force to knock his head sideways. He blinked, tongue working in his mouth, and she wondered if she'd made him cut his cheek. Serves him right.
"What—how dare—who do you think you are?!"
"I had to make you shut up somehow…" He was breathing just as hard as she. "'Twas all I could think to do." Something about those words, spoken so matter-of-factly, only roused her ire more. Her hand came up to repeat the slap, but he was on his guard this time; he caught her wrist in an iron grip, holding her arm at bay while she struggled to land another blow.
"How dare you touch me," she hissed, only angrier by the fact that he was stronger than her, and had no reason to keep from flaunting said strength. "Give me one good reason that I shouldn't have you thrown the dungeons for harassment!"
"Verbal abuse from one's superior." His smirk was infuriating. "If you file a complaint, I'll be next in line behind you. I'm sure the Storyteller will be surprised at such vile words from a lady as professional as the High Inquisitor."
"You would use a lowly tactic like blackmail?" she spat, still working on wrenching her arm from his grasp. "When you accosted me? When you're accosting me right now?" He let go of her abruptly, and she nearly tumbled to the stone floor.
"Prove it." He raised his hands in a mocking manner. "Prove that I laid my hands upon you. Bring forth witnesses." They both knew she couldn't, that it was only his words against hers. That even with such a tight grip, he wouldn't have pressed hard enough to bruise her. His hand rose, one finger pointing to his face. "I, however, have a better case." Already, she could see the bright red of her handprint against his cheek.
"You deserved it," she scowled; turning away to hide her clenched fists. How dare he try to usurp her in such a manner! And… that was to be her first kiss?! She wasn't the most maidenly of women, but even she wanted something more than an angry gesture meant to keep her silent! She wanted to spit, even though it was only his lips against hers, nothing more.
"I never claimed otherwise, milady."
She hated the thought, but she wanted him.
It was her to kiss him next, many moons later when he just wouldn't shut up and her frustration levels were already at maximum capacity thanks to the old man's insane workloads. She realized on that day how quickly it could happen, how easy it was to stop the flow of words in a way that was almost guaranteed success.
He didn't slap her, though he did push her away. And he was angry, rightly so. But that didn't stop her from sneering down at him, nor did it stop his hands from yanking her back towards him a moment later.
After that, their fighting became charged in different ways. Their arguments, normally clipped and borderline spiteful, eased until they were throwing barely hidden innuendos and playful banter instead of snide comments. It got to the point that all she had to do was look him over, her eyes alight with glee as she pointed out how easily he managed to work his way up the ladder of the knights, hinting at how she knew some of them were not at all interested in the opposite sex. He was not above the same treatment, staring blatantly at her chest while he wondered aloud if she wore such tight clothes on Parade days for some secret, exhibitionist pleasure.
She-devil, tin man, harpy, hothead, kitten, pageboy. Even their insults lacked a certain bite these days.
"You two seem to be getting used to each other," The Storyteller remarked once, while praising her for the peace that permeated the Courthouse with the lack of tense screaming-matches from the Inquisitor's Hall.
"I suppose you could say that."
"Nitwit."
"Hardhead."
"Stubborn git."
"Immovable…woman."
"That place is a stain upon the town, and you know it." She fought the urge to cross her arms; such a tell would show defensiveness, a sign that he could wheedle his way through her resolve. It was fruitless—her mind was made up.
"'Tis a harmless place, with hardly any criminal activity. I'm more worried about the tree lines, where the witches keep popping up like mushrooms after a rain." He was as determined as ever. Though their fighting hadn't reached the pitches that it used to, these low-toned sparring matches were as exasperating as if they were shouting and gesticulating for all they were worth. It was fruitless, in a way—they were both as stubborn as a pair of mules in a farmer's field. Neither could outdo the other, and neither would stand down and let compromise take the lead.
"It's a fine thing when they're mourning the dead and we say "Ah, but look! There are no witches at the tree line; never mind the thieves that stole your purse and stabbed your father.""
"I rarely get reports of illicit activity there," he countered obstinately, lips pursed. He loomed over her, even with her high heeled boots. But her eyes being at the same level as his chin never deterred her from trying to stand over him. He respected her as the High Inquisitor; that much she knew. It was just in his nature to argue, the same as hers.
"Because it's an illicit place." She stepped close, scowling up at him. "There's no rhyme or reason to filing reports when you'll be arrested along with the rest of the criminals."
"'Tis not."
"'Tis so."
"'Tis not."
"'Tis so, and I've half a mind to incite you for suspicious activity. One would think you're harboring the criminals, rather then—" She stopped when he leaned down without pretense. Her mind harkened back to earlier arguments, where they always ended up with swollen mouths and nothing resolved. "Don't try to end it this way," she warned harshly, though she made no movement to back away and he wasn't crowding her in with his hands.
"Don't tempt me—"
"Don't you dare." Their noses brushed. "I'll arrest you this time, I swear it," He chuckled, the sound vibrating through her.
"You're full of hot air."
"Coward." Her lips brushed his as she whispered the word. She knew what was coming. Even so, she wasn't prepared for his teeth to catch her bottom lip teasingly. "Y-you—" He leaned back just enough that they could eye each other, his expression both guarded and heated.
"Leave the tavern to me," he murmured, eyes half-lidded as he bent towards her lips once more. She leaned back, bumping against the front edge of her desk as she evaded him.
"Sir Barnham." Her hand groped at her desk for something, some weapon, something. This whatever-it-was wasn't really teasing, not their status quo of bickering and mockery. This was different, a new outlet of emotion that left heat pooling in her gut and in her cheeks, which left her breathless as his parted lips brushed against her cheekbone. "S-Sir Barnham," she tried again, her voice pleading—but for what? For him to stop? Or… to keep going?
"Leave it to me," he repeated, his breath warm against her ear. "Don't worry about such paltry things, when you're needed for larger jobs. I can handle any criminals in that district."
"You won't convince me this way," she protested, though her shaky tone was saying otherwise. His hand rose to brush at one of the curls resting against her shoulder—surely it was just the cold metal of his gauntlet that made her skin so hot, the discomfort of it was the reason she lifted her head, not to give him better access to parts of her he shouldn't be touching in the first place…. "What are you doing?"
He pulled away, his eyes falling to the rapid rise and fall of her breast. This time, however, it wasn't for joking or petty jabs at a 'perverse nature'. He seemed to soak in the sight, gnawing at the inside of his lip while his hand fell to her shoulder, and then her waist. She stiffened, but to her own surprise she didn't stop him as he seemed to measure its span with his hand, fingers slowly drifting up towards her chest and tracing the seam of buttons on the front of her coat.
"I… I don't know," he admitted honestly, gauntlet gleaming in the light as it played against the darker fabric of her uniform. They both fell silent, watching the slow trek of his hand up her side. He didn't seem inclined to stop, and for the life of her she couldn't think of a good reason to stop him. They were coworkers and things were bound to be awkward later, yes, but it didn't override the fact that deep down, she had wanted to feel that metallic touch for a long time.
There was a telltale clang of iron footsteps in the hall that finally spurred him into action, his hand flying from her torso as though burned. He retreated towards the relative safety of his desk, staring at his open palm before clearing his throat and turning towards the door to great whoever had come to knock at it. She peeled herself from the desk, walking around to sit in her chair and busy herself—or pretend to busy herself—with the never-ending stacks of paperwork.
It would be a good three days before they could look each other in the eye.
"Lady Darklaw, I thought I told you to leave this district to me."
She froze, silently cursing. Why was he here? Making sure her face was schooled before she turned, she graced him with a longsuffering look.
"So you did. And lucky for you, I'm just heading home." It's not a lie; the Shades have contacted her about a problem in the woods, which she planned to see about. This was the easiest route to take. But now that she said aloud… it sounds suspicious. "Not encroaching on your territory," she half-joked with her usual sneer, hoping to throw him off the scent.
"You live this way?" He looked around at the dingy, derelict buildings. His mouth opened, but whatever he meant to say must have been deemed unworthy, or too rude. Perhaps a question about her pay?
"I-I'm taking a longer route home. I like to…." Any excuse her brain came up with seemed less than stellar. He waited, one brow arching when she took too long. Finally she sighed, making up a little white lie to please him. "Pssh. If you must know, I was giving two men the slip. I thought they might have been following me, but it seems I was mistaken. Or perhaps I merely walked faster than I thought I could."
"Two men?" His sharp eyes peered over her head at the dancing shadows in the alleys, the sky too clouded for the moon to offer more than a faint glow. "I'll walk you home, then. It may not be safe." His fingers twitched at his side, reaching for his sword. D-damn! He couldn't do that; her home was in a place that technically didn't exist!
"I'm fine," she excused herself quickly. "Trust me. You should go make sure any other young ladies don't get manhandled." She thought of his adoring 'fans', something like jealousy twisting her stomach. She pushed it back with a frown. "I'm sure they'll be grateful for it."
"Alright." She breathed a soft sigh of relief, hoping he didn't hear. "But I'll see you home first."
"That's not necessary!" Even in the dim lighting, she could see his eyes widen. Too loud! Now you really look shifty! "Er, that is—I can take care of myself." She envisioned her Shades, waiting in the dark and wondering where their mistress was. Why she hadn't come to them yet. "Really. I don't need—" She faltered when he stepped close, his eyes alternating between watching the shadows and her face.
"Lady Darklaw, it would make me feel better if I could see you safely to your door. I don't like thinking about… anyone trying to take advantage of you in the dark." She shook her head, motioning to the dagger she wore around her waist.
"I'm prepared for scenarios like that. And was I not able to outmaneuver them? I can easily find my way back home from here. I'd be more concerned about unarmed women walking these streets so late." Her voice was steady, assured.
"Still—" His brows furrowed, but her confidence seemed to work. "If you insist. But promise that you let me know anytime you feel unsafe."
"With pleasure." She nodded her assent. "Now, if you don't mind, it grows later by the minute. Good evening, Sir Barnham."
"Good evening, Lady Darklaw." She felt his eyes on her until she turned the corner. Walking quickly, she snuck to one of the Shades 'hidden' emergency bins, reaching in the dark and finding the spare Cloak of Invisibility that was kept there.
I'll find a way to carry one on me at all times now. It won't do to have him snooping around.
Damn it, damn it,  damn  it,  damn it !
It was easy to see how he'd snuck into the house, dressed up in a Shade cloak that seemed a little baggy for him. Her anger was not at him, though, but at herself. She watched him close the door quietly, the lock catching with a soft click as his eyes never left hers… or her eye, at least. She had to lend her Cloak of Invisibility to a new Shade who had lost his, along with a stern warning that he should find it sooner rather than later. She could have gotten a spare one on the way home, but she'd let herself be lulled into a false sense of security these past few months.
She should have known he'd find a way to follow her, even into the Woods.
"So… it's you, then." Her mouth opened to refute his statement, but she was struck dumb by the thought that he would recognize her voice, even as the Great Witch. He stepped forward and she stood, frozen by shock and horror from where she'd jumped from her throne when he pulled back the hood.
"Did you not think that I'd recognize this body?" he murmured, his hand reaching out and brushing up her waist. "Or these?" he continued, taking one of her clawed gauntlets in each hand. She stiffened as the air around them changed, charged with adrenaline. He was wary, his eyes checking the corners of the room. Looking for my Talea Magica, are you? His hands tightened around her wrists and she met his eyes through her mask, her lips parting.
It was a fight.
She managed to break free after a fierce, but almost silent struggle. He grunted as the force of her own muscles, however slight, were enough to throw him off-balance. She swung out, no longer caring if she cut him with her claws, but he ducked the blow and pushed, both hands pressing into her stomach with enough force to knock her back into the chair. She banged her head against the gilded edge, hissing in pain before kicking as he fought to get her dangerous gauntlets off her hands. He managed the left one, pinning her down with his shoulder as he worked on the right. She felt the heat of his body, saw the bare hands wrestling with her metal gloves, and realized—he's not armored.
Her teeth sank into his shoulder through the cloak, smiling as she heard his sharp yelp of surprise and pain. She fought against him, still kicking as she worked her left arm free. Spitting out the woolen taste of the cloak, she twisted her fingers in his hair and yanked backwards for all she was worth, tufts of hair coming out as he clenched his jaw and fought. Her right gauntlet came free and he threw it out of reach, momentarily caught off guard by the scar of fire on her hand.
Her only way was to escape. Throwing all her body weight on him, they tumbled out of the chair and onto the floor with a crash. Despite her bare hands being less of a match against him, she still slapped and punched and scratched until he rolled off of her. Scrambling to her feet, she ran for the secret door, only to fall hard on her face when he grabbed the end of her long dress and tripped her. Panting, she kicked at his hand, only to be tackled back to the floor and return to her previous bite-scratch-smack method. He managed to pin her arms to the floor, his heavy body weighting hers down so that no amount of bucking could offset him. He leaned in close, a red welt under his eye at odds with the scar on his brow.
Unable to think of anything else, she head-butted him.
They both let out a shout of pain, and then they were rolling on the ground with the sole intent of pinning the other long enough to catch their breath and gain an upper hand. While he was stronger and larger, she was lither and had enough adrenaline to at least match him, if not best him.
"Mistress? Venerable Mistress?" There was a bang out the door, the lock rattling as the Shade on the other side tried to open it. They both froze, him on top with one hand pinned and the other's fingers laced with her own, trying to arm-wrestle her away from his face. She took a breath and then his mouth was over her own, muffling her shout.
"Don't you do it," he snarled when he was sure she was out of breath. "Tell them everything's alright."
"Not a chance—" Again his mouth slanted over hers roughly.
"I can do this all day and the door's locked." Her hand trembled with the force of keeping it off the ground, lest he have her properly pinned once more. "Your call."
"V-Venerable Mistress? Have you taken a fall?" There was a panicked fidgeting. "Shall I call the others? Can you hear me?"
"I—I am well! Don't worry!" His fingers tightened, crushing hers between them. "Damn you," she spat in an undertone.
"I'm not the damned one," he answered harshly, eyes narrowed. "Take off the mask."
"No."
"Take it off." She heard the shuffling footsteps of the Shade as it left.
"N-o!" Her knees slid up faster than he could react, pushing him up and away as she kicked the breath out of him. He choked, sliding to the side and loosening his grip; she used the moment to her advantage, trying to stand and yank the tails of her dress out from under him and adjust her mask at the same time. Turning again to run to the escape door, she managed to get it halfway open before arms circled her waist and lifted her off the floor, away from the door. She gasped, grabbing his hair again and yanking up, this time taking a good handful before he dropped her. They grappled, shoving against walls and ripping curtains, cursing and growling like animals. Then, when she turned to slam her side against him, not realizing his hand was caught up in her veil, she heard a rip and felt the air on her upper face.
Her mask had torn in two, fluttering away from her and drifting towards the ground in a graceful mess of gossamer and dark cloth. Life seemed to slow down to a crawl as she felt her hair, unbound while wrapped up in her mask, come free and fall down around her. Her bangs fell over her eyes and she staggered back, pushing them away with bruised hands. They stood, the two halves of the mask between them as they panted and watched each other's movements. She waited for him to throw himself at her again, but without the mask he seemed more hesitant. She licked her lips, feeling the sweat dripping down her back as she took the time to push her hair into some semblance of neatness.
"So… all this time… you've been lying to m—to us. To the town." His breathing was labored, and when she looked back she saw his shoulders slumped, a look of pain on his face. "You've pretended to be helping us, when really this entire time you were one of them." His jaw twitched, hands fisting. "A… a w—a witch." He turned, kicking the chair with an exclamation of fury before running his hands through his hair.
"Sir Barnham, calm yourself." The words left her mouth before she could think about them, more from force of habit than anything else. He turned on her, eyes wild, before stalking up and slamming a hand against the wall. She flinched, shifting her eyes from the quivering curtain to his own, too close to her face as he glowered.
"Are. You. A. Witch." His voice held the hard edge of an interrogator, but his eyes… his eyes begged her to tell him no. She looked at the door where the Shade had been, knowing his gaze would follow.
"I am their witch," she admitted softly. This answer didn't seem to pacify him as much as it did her.
"But can you do—where's your Talea Magica?" She shook her head wordlessly. "Where."
"I don't have it."
"Where did you put it?"
"I… I never had one," she said honestly, her back beginning to ache as she pressed harder against the wall. He hesitated, stormy eyes watching her carefully.
"Can you do magic?" His hands tensed, fingers curling into the curtain. She knew what he was getting at. The only one who doesn't need a Talea Magica… the witch who can makes spells happen without the magical gems… technically, I am that witch. But—
"I am not Bezella," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
"Promise me." His lips trembled. "Promise me that you're not…" She kissed him properly this time, for once feeling like her reasoning was a good one.
"I'm not," she murmured against his lips. "I promise." He surged against her, pushing her further against the wall as he kissed her back. She smoothed her lips over the marks she'd made on his face, shivering as his hands found her waist and slid up to the golden chain, undoing the clasp and letting it fall between them with a sharp clank. "Zacharias…"
"Milady," he breathed back, working now on the ribbon that held her collar to her neck. She let him untie it, making a little sound when he drew it from her shoulders and let it fall to meet the chain as well.
"N-no, my name…" He didn't answer, his fingers pushing back the stiff collar, the remnants of her mask, and her hair until her neck was bared. He leaned down, pressing soft open-mouthed kisses against her rapid pulse.
"Hmm?" he finally grunted, worrying the sensitive skin with his teeth.
"I mean…" she pushed his head back, grateful that he didn't try to fight. Licking her lips, she took a deep breath. "My name. My real name."
"Lady Dar—" She shook her head.
"No. It's… Eve. My name is Eve."
"Eve." She couldn't help the involuntary jerk when she heard it repeated back to her. "I like it. It suits you."
"D-does it?" She felt like she couldn't think straight, her mind awhirl as he resumed his work on her neck, hips pushing against hers in a blatant invitation. She shivered again, taking a selfish moment to feel his hair instead of trying to rip it out by the roots. I've got to stop this. "Zacharias… we can't. I can't." It hurt to hear those words spoken aloud, no matter how rational. "You can't… you've got to forget this."
"Eve." She gasped when his hand ran over her breast, resting atop her heart before running back down to palm the weight of it. She closed her eyes against the blush that spread over her cheeks, trying to reign in her urge to push him to the ground and let him do what he pleased. "Whatever you do… whatever you're about to do… don't."
"W-what—"
"I won't tell." His other hand slowly, slowly rose to cup her right breast, waiting for her to push him off. It occurred to her that she could shout and scream now, to call for help, and it would catch him off guard. But she couldn't, not when he was staring at her so sadly. "Eve, I—I want to—I've never felt like this for anyone else before. I want to protect you. Even if… even if." He looked at the room, at the tattered halves of her mask. "Please. Let me stay and help you. I'll make sure no one finds you out. I'll give you alibis if people begin to get suspicious." He rested his head in the crook of her neck. "I'll take care of you."
For a moment she held him, thinking about the offer he'd made. Could he? Could he become a helpmate, an extra set of hands making sure this utopian society the Storyteller dreamed for his pet town stayed a reality? Were her days of loneliness over? Could she really be allowed a shoulder to rest her head on at the end of the day, a ear to listen to her troubles, a warm, calloused set of hands to shower her with affection when she was in need of it?
Foolish little Shade, little witch, thinking that it would be so easy.
"Zacharias." He lifted his head and she cupped his jaw, thumb running over the faint welt still left behind by her nails. She kissed him, again and again, soaking up everything he could offer for a time when he wouldn't be around. "You're going to forget all of this."
"W-what?" She looked into his eyes, at the unhidden desire burning there, desire not only for her body, but for her love, for her assertion that he could be her bodyguard, her helper, her lover. A tear slipped down her cheek.
"This is all a dream: a crazy, wild, amazingly detailed dream. None of it is true." She breathed in the air, the air heady with the scent of ink, wet ink. Susceptible ink. Ink she was immune to. But not him. "You're going to wake up in your own bed, and you won't even remember my name. It'll be as if you never set foot in these woods. None of this exists." True, the ink worked better with general statements. But a dream was a dream, right? And it was already working, he was nodding along even as his brow crinkled in apparent confusion.
"Eve?"
"Shh…" She kissed him again, one final time, her free hand searching for the cold silver she knew was in the pocket of her skirt lining. "Shh…. Just go to sleep." The tinkling sounded as terrible as a death knell, his lips sliding from hers as he slumped down on her in a dead faint. She clutched him to her, even as she fell to the ground, burying her face in his chest and letting her hot tears stain the Shade cloak while she muffled her cries. She stopped as quickly as she could, losing no time before unlocking the door and calling for her servants.
"Venerable Mistress! I'm so glad—what's the matter?"
"Take this man to the barracks and make sure he's in bed. Don't forget to take the cloak from him."
"Y-yes, Milady, only—" She waved a hand impatiently, trying to wipe her eyes as discreetly as possible.
"I've already dealt with his memories. Just make sure he wakes up in his own bed."
"Yes, milady."
"What happened to you?" Her breath caught in her throat, but she hoped she managed an even stare all the same. Barnham scratched sheepishly at a bruise on his arm.
"I think I got into a fight last night, but I must have been…" he trailed off, holding his head.
"I told you that tavern was no good," she remarked wryly, bending to her work.
"'Tis… ah, well." He yawned. "It didn't help that I had a strange dream."
"Oh?" He blushed, looking pointedly away from her.
"A-aye…erm—Milady, it occurred to me this morning that I don't know your first name."
"Why would you need to?" She eyed him sharply. "I don't need my subordinates getting too friendly with me, and I know you can't keep a secret to save your life."
"Urk! N-never mind!" He hurriedly disappeared behind his mountains of paper with another yawn. "Only… Eve?"
"W-what!?" Her hand froze mid-sentence.
"Did I guess it?" He crowed happily. "It was Eve, wasn't it? I must be physic!"
"Or bewitched!" The smile slipped from his face. "You tell anyone else and I'll personally see to it that you get a new office in the coldest dungeon cell."
"Y-yes, Lady Darklaw! I mean no!" She glared at him until he vanished once again, one hand reaching for his dumbbell as he began to write reports.
At least you have him this way. It was a small consolation, for what might have been had she been brave enough to allow it. But no matter. She went back to her own papers, letting the comfortable silence between them grow.
The Great Witch was far too busy for a paramour.
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mooseghost · 10 months ago
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(Spoilers for the setup of the first case of each Ace Attorney game)
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s0f1kka · 1 month ago
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Layton is full of himself
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