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The estate is empty.
It has been empty for a long time. Eaves, buttresses and arched windows that have witnessed the life and love of generations now look down upon nothing at all; at least, nothing worth viewing.
In their gray stoicism, each and every bit of brick and mortar continues to watch in oppressive silence as if lying in wait for the day in which it may reclaim the grandeur towards which it once was lent. Archways sit still and silent like the bones of a hollow rib cage, grounds and gardens spilling outwards in well-maintained but lifeless sprawls utterly devoid of any former beauty.
Up winding capillary pathways towards the entrance, a sound begins to echo. Footfall, rhythmic and clipping, as boots meet stone.
The estate’s final breath has arrived home; still, it remains empty.
Any life that continues to thrum throughout the manor has never made a significant difference to the perception of Barok van Zieks. That of servants, those old and trustworthy enough to be kept in service once inherited, is all that keeps the place from crumbling completely. There is little to be done, almost no one to attend to, and it is the estate itself which warrants most of their care as it refuses to surrender to the throes of death.
That of himself is inconsequential.
For it is not through the grounds and halls of his home as it stands now, a cold and intimidating stranger, but through those of memory.
In childhood, these grounds were brighter, if only as a result of being viewed through the warmly tinted veil of nostalgia. Flowers bloomed bright throughout gardens in the spring, and winters brought with them heaps of soft snow, perfect for playing.
Summer grass stained clothing if one was not careful, and children rarely were. Not wishing to be scolded, young Barok tried his best, but enthusiasm often took him over and caused legs still clumsy with unfinished growth to tangle beneath him.
On some occasions, a worse fate awaited than grass stains. How strange for a bright memory to be stained with blood, albeit only a small amount from a knee gone on to stain torn stockings.
“I – I’m sorry,” sniffling more from pain and shock than true pain, the child fought to hold back tears while looking down, wide-eyed, towards his injury. “I should have been more careful. I was just – just trying to –”
“There, now, none of that.” A confident voice shushed him as steady hands cleaned and bandaged the scrape. “All patched up, see? You haven’t a thing to worry about.”
“B-but – but Klint –”
The older van Zieks, crouched on a knee in front of the boy still tearfully clutching a wooden sword, merely needed to shake his head in order to silence him. “None of that, I said. You did all right, aside from allowing your confidence to get the best of you. You’ll do well to practice the basics a bit more before trying any of that fancy footwork.”
The assurances didn’t appear to help, and Barok’s eyes lowered in shame as his brows knit tightly together. “I’m not any good, am I?” he murmured. “I’ll never be as good as you.”
Taken aback, Klint hesitated, pausing for a few moments and taking a deep breath. A faint smile on his lips, he watched as his dog approached his brother and sniffed, worried, at the side of his face before licking a rosy cheek.
“Well . . .” he finally began, scratching the back of his neck. “You never know. You were doing really well before you slipped, actually – one day, you might be even better than I am.”
“Better. . . than you?” Barok was looking back up again, this time with a completely incredulous expression as he searched Klint’s face for signs of dishonesty. Balmung’s presence had cheered him up, and he wasted little time in wrapping his arms loosely around the dog’s neck.
“That’s right.” His job finished, Klint rose to his feet, smile still in place as he reached down to offer the child a hand. “If you keep working hard, that is. And never lose sight of what is important.”
What is important. . .
What is important, now? A legacy in ruins and a house full of ghosts, born not out of supernatural belief but of the memories of those which should have continued to live within its walls?
They greet van Zieks as he enters the manor and is met with resounding silence, so thick it seems to echo off the dark, grand walls. It is with monotonous movements, far smaller than any of the dramatics he performs in court, that he settles down for a night alone.
What is important . . .
His brother’s words return to him as if the ghost of rumor has truly followed him home, as he so often seems to do. They have echoed in his ears all day, since the conclusion of today’s case, where just as in every other in recent memory he has found himself questioning just how important his actions truly are.
There was a time he had prided himself upon nobility – that of his brother which Barok had initially tried with such desperation to mimic. Now, the days of high-stakes cases against certain monsters long behind him, Barok has found that such dreams have become naught more than another spirit.
He wonders, steps echoing through empty halls, what his brother would think of him now.
It isn’t the first time the thought has come, and it will not be the last. By this time, Barok is numb to it – as he is to most things – and does little more than sigh as his mind begins to wander, bringing with it further visions of the past.
A hearth now empty – soon to be stoked by a well-meaning maid – once crackled and roared with life. Before that blaze, a family had gathered once, sharing tea, pleasant conversation, or merely one another’s quiet company as attention was turned towards a book.
A younger Barok once sat in the chair by that fire, pretending to be engrossed in his reading. In truth, his eyes flickered every few moments to the people on the sette across from him, where two people sat. The woman’s hands were folded in her lap, her eyes cast to the side and sparkling, and a smile twitched across her lips.
Another well-meaning but clumsy remark. Barok couldn’t help a small smile of his own, try as he might to refrain, as he watches regret and exasperation overcome Klint’s expression. He knew, perhaps in a naive sense, what his brother dreamed of – Klint had told him directly once, and while the news had blindsided him, his excitement had never quite faded.
As if sensing the thoughts that ran through his mind, Klint spared a brief look in Barok’s direction, momentarily conveying something akin to a plea for help. It was he who had requested Barok join them, though he had yet to fathom why – it wasn’t as if he were much help, and he held nothing but absolute confidence that his brother and the Lady Baskerville were the sort of people like those in stories who were simply meant for one another. There wasn’t a way to mess that sort of thing up.
Clearing his throat, Barok rose to his feet, book tucked under his arm. A chest skinny with adolescence was puffed out proudly as he announced “I believe I’m going to retire for the evening. I wish you both good night.”
The way Klint’s eyes widened wasn’t lost upon him, but Barok merely bit back another smile before he slipped away. Klint was always far more confident than him, and while amusing to see him falter for a moment, Barok was certain it wouldn’t last long. It was best to give them privacy . . .
Barok does not pause, now, before retiring. He has no patience for trivialities, and no company to entertain. Leaving the visions behind, he continues onward into the house, which swallows as much as welcomes him as he moves deeper into an interior that seems to remain dark no matter any attempt towards illumination.
Ghosts continue to follow him; not only that of Klint, if indeed said ghost does exist at all, but those of himself at much happier ages. Eyes shining, he once followed his brother down these very stairs he now slowly ascends with a hand creeping along the banister. That had been his first day observing Klint in court, and the back before him seemed wider, prouder, more impressive than anything he could have fathomed.
Through these halls, they had moved endless times, his brother speaking at length – as he always did, with Barok an eager listener – about the people in the portraits that hung upon the walls as they passed them.
Barok does not look at them now. His attention is dedicated to one portrait alone, and it does not hang here. Klint has another, of course, down the hall towards his bedroom.
Barok does not pass in that direction; in fact, he has not done so in years. That part of the house belongs to itself, alone, save for any unpleasant memories which have stained its floors and walls along with the spilling of noble blood.
Rather than retiring to his chambers as intended, however, Barok finds his progress arrested, the rhythm of his steps slowing before he even realizes why. Fingers brushing along the edge of a wall, he shakes his head and turns, for the first time in a long while truly looking at the building around him.
The house, and all of its memories, look back, and Barok wonders what they see.
“It’s all right, you know.”
Barok had paused with his hand upon the door, and swallowed while looking back over his shoulder to meet his brother’s reassuring but weary smile. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t have any reason to be frightened,” Klint continued, eyebrows raised. “I know that look of yours, and there isn’t any reason for it. I’m close.”
“To catching him, you mean? The Professor?” Barok spoke quietly, as if uttering the name aloud might call the killer to materialize before them.
Klint paused for a moment, then nodded. “Of course. That, and physically – I’m just off down the hall, Barok. If anyone tries to get to you, they’re going to have to contend with me very quickly, and I know very well the Professor is far too much of a coward to bother.”
Still smiling, he laid a heavy hand upon one of Barok’s shoulders. “You’re safe.”
Barok had believed him, then gone to bed; he hadn’t known better.
He hadn’t known how soon he’d be opening that same door to the face of, not his brother, but of a haunted Genshin Asougi.
This particular memory is one which returns often, each as unpleasant as the last. Each time, Barok wonders what might have happened had he been a different kind of person. Braver, stronger, more convincing – less blinded by misguided belief that his brother was infallible.
Standing there, haunted, in the center of a house he regards as empty, Barok is only just beginning to become aware of how misguided and ignorant he remains.
This day, Barok has come home to face the ghosts within the van Zieks estate, and each time he continues to do so over the next year he will continue to find more. Each time older, each time wiser, each time bringing with him a greater amount of light that will soon expose the secrets hidden within these walls.
One day – one he cannot now imagine – he will come home once more, and bring with him his brother’s true memory. No longer followed by a ghost, he will carry his family’s heavy burden for the final time to hang it upon the wall where it belongs.
And as he does so, fingers trailing along the edges of a portrait no longer looming over his life, he will pause. He will meet his brother’s painted eyes and feel, for the first time ever, that he can see what may have truly been behind them.
And he will whisper to whatever part of Klint may listen, world no longer empty and mind no longer clouded:
“Welcome home.”