Work Text:
She used to love mirrors. She’d love meeting that steel cold gaze, watching the curve of those lips into a menacing smile, the kind of smile that would send a shiver down the spine of witnesses and defence attorneys alike, the last thing a criminal saw as they were carted away to meet their fate. With a firm grip, she would tie the finest bow this side of Potsdam, and pin onto it a broach polished to the point that it gleamed as bright as her ambition. Now, the hands that tie her bow shake and tremble, and she can’t quite get the ruffles to sit right. She looks down when she brushes her teeth, careful to avoid glancing at even her reflection in the reflective surface of the tap. She brushes her hair away from the mirror. If she has to use it, she looks down, looks at her knees, her ankles, her feet.
She is scared of seeing someone else looking back at her.
She wonders, did his scar look like hers? Sunk in the middle, puckered towards the edges, fainter each passing day. A broach, like his. That same, unwavering glare and aura of smug confidence. His nose, straight and narrow. She has a fuller face, a softer face, which makes it all more jarring, more wrong, more obvious.
It’s the same. Everything is the same. She can’t change it. She doesn’t want it, she doesn’t want to be the same, she doesn’t want to be him but she is, she is, she is. She sees him in the way she crosses her “f”’s, she hears him in the way her voice cracks on softer vowels, and he watches her with that steel gaze whenever she brings her shaking eyes towards the mirror’s surface, whenever she walks through corridors and catches a glance of herself in windows and polished banisters.
She feels ridiculous even considering the notion that she is afraid, but she is. It’s a terrible fear, a fear unlike any other that rots away at her core and gnaws at her insides and tears every muscle, every ligament, every fibre of her being apart.
It’s not a fear of becoming him. It’s the sickening realisation that maybe that’s who she always was.
She wonders when she decided actions spoke louder than words. She thinks that, under her gloves, her fingers are becoming crooked, bent out of shape. She’s taken to twisting things around them; her hair, her clothes, her whip. Thick cord tightly wound around fragile, trembling hands that don’t have the strength to grip as they once did. Useless. Useless sticks of flesh stripped of everything they once clinged to and now have no need for grasping. They have grown lazy.
She doesn’t consider that perhaps they need a break from clinging, from grasping, from clawing and digging into harsh surfaces that have no ledges, no ridges, nowhere for them to rest. Her bones are tired, aching, screaming for some kind of release, but she won’t consider it. She won’t let them rest. So, with a wrist that jitters she pulls the cord from where it had entwined itself with her fingers, and she raises her arm and whips. A sharp sting across ignorant skin. Another fool she’s crushed under her heels. Another who fell as easily as the others.
Those bones still creak and yearn for the end. Her skin feels too tight, her ribs feel like eggshells and her heart is hatching, cracking and breaking through them. Breathing is difficult, sometimes, when she thinks of him. Always when she thinks of him. The air is too heavy; there's something dragging it down, talons inside of her lungs that won’t relinquish their hold and let her breathe out.
She doesn’t cry. She can’t cry. There’s no sadness. Just anger. Misplaced anger and fear, a constant, pressing fear, like an animal, resting on her chest. Her trembling gets worse. She’s too ashamed to see anyone, to be seen by anyone who even vaguely recognises her. She supposes they won’t recognise her, though, for who could mistake this wreck of a human being, with screaming bones and mistied bows and feelings that could be labelled “fear” or “regret” as the daughter of Manfred von Karma?
Miles Edgeworth says, “It’s been three weeks since you last accepted a case.”
She freezes. Her heart begins to race. She thinks of standing where he once stood, of acting in the ways he acted and doing what he did, of the Judges who remember him fondly from years ago, who have known her since she was a child, of the comments on her resemblance to him, of the pressure, the pressure, the pressure. Pressure to be like him, to act like him, to uphold his name. She thinks of his name - her name - their records, their work, of everything she sacrificed to get here, of the years of studying and working and she chokes back a frustrated yell because there is no way to communicate all of these feelings, all of this bitterness, in a way that doesn’t make her seem weak or childish. And she refuses to be a child in front of Miles Edgeworth.
She says, coldly, “None of them were worth my time.”
There are things that must be said. Things that she must say.
Miles Edgeworth is in her home. She has put on her face - the face of Manfred von Karma’s daughter - and she has spoken with his sharp, silver tongue, and she has hated every second of it. But Manfred von Karma’s daughter is the only person she knows how to be, the only person she can be, until she has said the things she must. Until she has atoned.
She is alone, in her living room. Miles Edgeworth is making coffee, or perhaps tea, she doesn’t know and will not drink either. Not tonight. His bag lies discarded on the floor, propped up against his seat, and she has flocked to it, eager, a child ripping through the paper of a parcel. There is hunger in her movement and her breathing. Her shoulders are shaking. Her body betrays her mind, which is calm, methodical. She has a plan, after all.
Her hands sift through paperwork and case files and brush past his keys, his wallet, his glasses case, until finally they close around his phone. Trembling, she pulls it out. She unlocks it. Of course, the contact she needs is not there - she wasn’t expecting them to be. She searches through the names and numbers of people she doesn’t recognise and doesn’t need to, until her desperate gaze settles on the one she needs to call.
PHOENIX WRIGHT
Her thumb hovers over the call button. She takes a deep breath, and pushes down. Her thumb does not follow. She glances to it, horrified. Every cell in her body is fighting her. Her brain screams for them to stop, for them to work with her, but they will not stop their rebellion. She is not in control anymore. She is paralysed. She’s not afraid - at least, she cannot register any fear.
For a moment, she wonders if her body is stopping her because she is not ready, because she is too much Manfred von Karma’s daughter and not enough Franziska. She dispels that thought as quickly as it came, and with a flick of her wrist, throws Miles Edgeworth’s phone to the ground.
She collapses in a series of angry breaths. Rattling breaths she can control even less than her previous, hungry ones. Her body is numb, heavy, locked. Miles Edgeworth is back in the room, is with her, but she can’t hear what he is saying. She is too weighed down with the thoughts of her own uselessness, her father’s uselessness, with thoughts of her father.
She stares at the floor. Miles Edgeworth has bought a new pair of shoes, well tailored, a darker shade than his last. Much nicer to look at, to think of, than her father, than what her father did, what she has done.
He is trying to comfort her, she thinks, but by the time it registers she is too numb for his comfort to reach her. On some level, she knows Manfred von Karma’s daughter hates this. She wants to push him off, force him away, and grab herself by the shoulders. She must stop acting like such a child. She must stop this foolish nonsense. A von Karma does not fail in these ways. A von Karma is perfect.
She has no idea how Franziska feels about being comforted. Maybe Franziska hates this as well. But she cannot find the energy to push him away.
She is sat on her bed. Her whip is at her side, curled upon itself like a wounded animal, resting. She cannot rest. Her boots lay across her floor, somewhere. She is staring at her toes through the opaque material of her tights.
She is a mess.
She pushes back her fringe, then lays on her side. She rolls herself up, defensive. There is nothing for her to shield herself from, but the position is comforting, oddly. Reassuring, in some ways.
Not for the first time, she considers contacting her mother, her sister. She thinks she has a niece now, a branch of her family she does not know, she hasn’t had time to know. But the words come to her in a voice like her own, only stronger, firmer. They reassure her that her mother wants nothing to do with her. After all, if she left her father, what love would she find for the girl he sculpted in his image?
None. She would not be wanted.
She stretches out her legs, moving on to her back. Her ceiling has become a close friend, recently, for she cannot sleep. Her evenings are spent watching it, studying it, understanding it. At this point, she feels she knows her ceiling more than she knows herself.
Maya Fey says, “If I’d known you were coming, I would have told you to bring warmer clothes. Kurain is freezing this time of year.”
She is sat on the floor of a guest room. Franziska sits across from her. The two are kneeling. Maya very kindly provided her with acolyte robes, to keep the chill out, and Franziska is bunching them, playing with them anxiously. They are a little too big, but warm. She does not have the heart to complain. Pearl Fey watches them through the gap in the screen door. Franziska can feel her gaze searing into the back of her skull, but cannot bring herself to turn and face the girl. She can barely bring herself to look at Maya.
“You know, we figured you’d come back,” Maya is smiling, but her eyes are dull, nervous, “you know, after you heard about the debarring. We thought you’d hear about it and come to poke fun or something.”
Franziska licks her lips, and looks down. “I am not here for fun, Ms Fey-”
“That’s Mystic Fey, to you,” comes Pearl’s voice, harsh and cutting. Franziska lets out a pained breath, as if the words had winded her, opens her mouth and closes her eyes. The words do not come. She closes her mouth.
“Pearly, don’t you have a waterfall to stand under?” Maya calls over Franziska’s shoulder. “The big girls are talking now.”
There is a huff. Franziska looks, cautiously, over her shoulder. As she expects, Pearl Fey is staring at her, her lower lip protruding stubbornly. Her brows are furrowed, her stare determined, angry, protective. Franziska turns back to Maya, a pit in her stomach. She has wronged this child. She closes her eyes.
There are things she has to say. She will say them.
Pearl mumbles, “Yes, Mystic Maya. I’ll see you at dinner. I will let the others know you will not be joining us.”
Maya nods, smiling, and the screen door is pulled shut. Franziska can hear Pearl’s footsteps. She is cold again, despite the warm robes. It’s as though there is a frost in her heart, and it is being pumped through her veins. It stings as it does; a biting throb that courses freezing through her body. Maya has stopped smiling. Her gaze is stone. Such an expression is not befitting of the medium, Franziska thinks. Those eyes, which had seen on-edge throughout their meeting, finally match her soft lips.
“No,” she states.
The frost becomes ice, and Franziska’s blood stops cold. “No?”
“I know why you are here,” Maya adjusts her position and smooths a crease in her skirt, “and I won’t do it. I won’t channel him.”
Franziska slowly brings her hands to her mouth. She thinks she might vomit. “No,” she blurts, “no, no!” And suddenly everything is a garbled mess of German and English because she hadn’t thought - hadn’t even considered - hadn’t realised she could do this. It never occurred to her that he could come back. That people would think she wanted him back. Her head is reeling and her ears are ringing and she can feel her eyes throbbing in their sockets with exhaustion and anger. She’s doubled over with the pain of breathing, and soon breathing is sobbing and each sob is an anguished shriek and all the times she should have cried, all the times she should have let herself feel, come pouring out from her. Her chest feels weak and cannot handle the force with which she chokes out her tears, and her throat stings as if the air itself is attacking it with a thousand tiny stinging whips. She feels a hand on her back, Maya’s hand, and she is clinging to the front of Maya’s robes before she knows it, her head buried into her shoulder, covering her cardigan with snot and tears and God knows what else, but Franziska von Karma, for the first time, cannot bring herself to care about her name or her state or what she must keep upstanding. All she feels is pain. Anger. Fear. The bitter sting of knowing what her father did, what he did willing, what she was taught was right and did willingly. She hurt people. Innocent people. She hurt innocent people just like he did, just like he hurt her. There’s no end in sight; she is going to be bitter and resentful forever. She is howling now, and Maya is whispering kind words as if she was petting a child, but Franziska does not deserve those words. Franziska does not deserve to be treated in this way.
She pulls away from Maya, rubs her nose on her sleeves, and fights the urge to vomit. She feels something (acid? Or fear?) begin to rise in her throat, but to her amazement, she does not throw up. Instead, she somehow manages to say, “I am not him. I am not him and I will never be him!”
And then she is in Maya’s arms again, and she cannot stop crying long enough to catch her breath, but must eventually tire herself out, and collapse, exhausted from the worry and the sleepless nights, because she wakes up the next morning wrapped in the blankets the mediums had prepared for her.
Amazingly, Maya is there too, leaning against the wall, asleep.
Franziska looks down. She’s not too sure, but it looks like, from the position she woke in, the two of them might have been holding hands.
She falls asleep again. When she wakes up, Maya is gone.
Pearl escorts her to breakfast, but checks her robes before she goes in. Resentfully, she says, “I do not like you, Ms von Karma, but I know how hard it can be to tie your robes, and some of the other mediums are meaner than even you. You can sit with me, if you like. Mystic Maya has to sit in a special seat, so you can’t see her.”
Franziska nods, but her throat is dry. She is nervous. She does not know what to say to her. Her eyes are heavy, and she does not feel like she can keep them open, but Pearl leads her into the dining hall, and makes small talk - which she is unnaturally good at for a small child - and does not give Franziska room to speak, or even think, which... is nice. She hadn’t realised how hard it was getting, just to be in her head.
She makes eye contact with Maya Fey only once. The medium smiles at her, and this time it is a real smile, with gleaming eyes, and Franziska looks away, blushing furiously. Pearl does not pass a comment, but it is clear from the tone that she uses to ask Franziska to pass the milk that she noticed.
Maya does not bring up what happened that first night Franziska stayed in Kurain. Franziska appreciates that. She doesn’t think she is ready to sit down and explain it. Not yet.
She feels different. She sleeps well in Kurain. She is shaking less.
Maybe - and it feels foolish to think - but maybe her father was wrong. Discussing feelings, having feelings, doesn’t make someone weak. It is in their ability to share, to trust, that they find strength, in particular, the strength to fight their own demons.
She wants to dismiss the thought. It’s ridiculous. Emotions. Sharing your vulnerability with others. Wrong, wrong, wrong! But she can’t argue with the facts, and the facts at that point suggested that the only time she had stopped being consumed with spite and anger long enough to truly address and face the problem, she was with Maya Fey, and she was crying.
There are things she needs to say. Maya Fey is the person she needs to say them too.
“I owe you an apology,” Maya’s voice is soft, gentle. “I... may have assumed some things that were incorrect.”
They are in Franziska’s room again. There is no Pearl. The screen door is closed. Maya is standing, and without the help of Franziska’s usual heels, she’s just a little taller. But Franziska doesn’t have time to think or compare. She is shocked. She whispers, in a voice far from her usual confident tone, “You- You’re apologising to me?”
Maya plays with the beads in her hair nervously. “Well... Yeah. Because I messed up. I just... I don’t know. I didn’t see any other reason why you would be visiting me, if it wasn’t to try to speak to your dead dad, you know? Which I, uh, now understand was completely wrong. And not what you’re here for at all.” Franziska begins to speak, but Maya quickly gushes, “Only, I get it! I get it completely. Second child of a well-known name, family legacy to upkeep, amazingly talented sibling to compete with. I lived that too. But... I didn’t live it with your dad. If I knew someone was willing to channel my mom? I’d be with them in a second. I’d ask her if she was proud. But I’d lose it to, you know? Like, she never came back for me, even if she was always watching over me. I think that’s the reason I’ve never asked anyone to channel her. I’d probably yell. A lot. And I just kind of... forced my situation on you. I always have. I’ve always thought you were who I could be if I had been stronger. So I just assumed that you were here to, uh, speak to your dad. Because I would speak to my mom. Probably.” She rubs the back of her neck. “I’m not even making sense anymore, am I?”
Franziska looks down. “You make perfect sense. But you are wrong about a lot of things, Ms Fey. I am not stronger than you.”
“Sure you are!” Maya beams, and pokes Franziska’s arm lightly. “You’re incredible!”
“Ms Fey, I think it is time I told you why I am here,” Franziska brushes her hair from her eyes. “I have things to say, to you, in particular.”
Maya’s eyes widen, and she presses her lips together and puffs out her cheeks. “Like what?”
“Like... An apology,” Franziska’s tongue is heavy, and her lips are buzzing. She has planned this over and over inside of her head. She has thought about it while she lays awake at night. She has whispered it to herself in the mirror. She has prepared herself. She thinks. “I... I have made a lot of mistakes. It is wrong to blame my father entirely for them, and until I admit to them and take responsibility, I do not think I will ever move away from them. I was... very cruel to you, when we first met, Ms Fey. I cared only about win records and revenge and... and you were just something in the way of that. Of me accomplishing that.”
“Yeah but,” Maya’s looking at her with an expression she can’t quite place, but thinks may be fondness, “you saved me as well. Don’t forget that, Frannie.”
She snorts. “My name, Ms Fey, is Franziska von Karma.”
“And mine is Maya,” she takes her hand, and Franziska feels the strength she had prepared leave her body. “It would be nice if you started calling me by it.”
“You know, you could stay.”
Franziska shakes her head. “I can’t. I cannot stay here. As much as I would love to.”
“Of course,” Maya chuckles. “You have an international prosecuting career to return to.” She tugs Franziska towards her, and holds her close.
“I’ll always know where to find you,” Franziska murmurs.
“I’ll be here,” Maya giggles. “Oh, and if you’ll forgive me for being super cheesy,” she taps Franziska’s chest, lightly, “I’ll be here too. In your heart.”
Franziska’s face is warm. She feels like she’s made from bubbles, all of which Maya Fey is slowly popping. But popping isn’t a bad thing. Popping is a wonderful sensation, like a soft hum, like being made from the sound of a flute, like being the very top of a waterfall, where the water curves before dropping. She rolls her eyes. “I can excuse a foolish comment like that, Maya Fey, just this once.”
Maya’s playful expression drops. “Are you sure you’re ready to go back? There’s still a lot we haven’t talked about, a lot we haven’t dealt with...”
“I think, Maya, that the only way I can deal with those things is back there,” she mumbles. “It is my home. And I will not be chased from it by fear, or anger, or sadness anymore.”
“This could be your home,” Maya sighs. “But I understand.”
Franziska shakes her head. “Maya Fey, you have done more for me than I could ever say, or thank you for. But... the rest is up to me, I am afraid. I... wish I had the words to tell you, to thank you, for everything-”
“You do,” Maya interrupts. “You do have the words. “They’re ‘I love you’.”
Franziska buries her head in Maya’s shoulder, and says, softly, in words that have sounded hollow in her voice for so many years, “Ich liebe dich.”
She stands in the hall where it all began. She hears her footsteps. She walks up her steps to her room and she looks in her mirror, and she admires how well she has tied her bow. She twists a strand of hair around her finger, and smiles. It is her smile, which is below her nose, which is below her eyes, which gleam with an eager excitement, and, for the first time in a very long while, hope.
She is not her father. She is not Manfred von Karma, and she never will be.