Chapter Text
He hopes to retire without much fuss or fanfare.
He tenders his resignation to the newly appointed Lord Chief Justice, and requests that the man tell no one except those needed for the paperwork to go through. He would rather it not become a spectacle, though he’s sure it will leak to the press soon enough. It has been a year since his trial, and his name has yet to leave the mouths of gossips in the streets.
He knows he will have to tell Asogi, before he reads it in the morning paper. He owes his apprentice that much (and so much more that he will never be able to reach).
He's not sure how to tell him, or when to do it. It never feels like the right time, and the words stay trapped in his throat. Asogi spares him furtive glances, something unreadable in his eyes. Barok stays silent.
He spends his nights at the manor that he has never been able to call home, sitting in empty rooms and walking along empty halls. He oft finds himself in the library, waiting amongst the shelves. Waiting for what, he's never been sure; perhaps, he waits for any of the many novels lining the walls to strike his fancy, though they never do. He used to love to read.
Tonight, he finds himself in front of Klint's old room. He's not sure why his nightly walk has led him here, a place he has left locked for years. The moment the investigation had concluded, and Genshin Asogi's execution had been reported, he had sealed the door and never come back.
The key sits in the palm of his hand, the metal cool in the night's chill. It slips easily into the lock, the soft chink of metal sliding into place. He sets his chalice in the hall outside before stepping through the door.
The room smells of dust and age, and he can't help but cough at the thickness of the air. It sits exactly as he left it, down to the pot of scarlet ink that rests open on the desk. The ink has crusted as it dried.
He finds himself walking towards the bed, made neatly ever since the morning of Klint's death. There's a splatter of blood at the hem. He swallows. The dust is bitter.
He remembers being a child in this room, though the memory is distant. Klint would pile blankets and pillows on the floor for him to sleep on. He called it camping, even though they weren't outside. Klint would sneak chocolates from the kitchen for them to share, telling stories of the cases he’d worked that week.
He doesn't remember the last time they had one of their pseudo camping nights, but he knows they ended soon before he became a teenager. Childish things were not becoming of young nobles like them.
He's not sure what urges him to pull the neatly tucked sheets and quilts from the bed, but he does so without a moment's thought. He bundles them carefully on the hardwood floor, arranging a makeshift bed for himself.
He's still dressed in his day clothes, but he pays that no mind as he slowly crawls into the mess of quilts and pillows and closes his eyes. The sheets reek with an odour of mothballs, but if he curls himself tight enough, he can almost pretend he's a child again, and his brother is sleeping soundly in the nearby bed.
When he opens his eyes, there is nothing. The bedcovers lie tucked under his body, and Klint is dead.
The manor is empty. No one hears him weep.