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Everything comes back to Emile in bits and pieces at first. The breeze filtering through from the backdoor left ajar on its hinges, the sea of broken glass and wood splinters all around, the silver dagger at his feet, the stench of blood and mildew and rot that hangs in the air and forces its way down his throat. His lungs flip inside out and he coughs and gags and nearly vomits into his lap, just barely holding it back as the taste of bile claws its way up.
There’s red in every direction—splattered on the walls, streaked across the floor and infiltrating every last grain of the hardwood, hanging heavy in the stagnant air. A mess of blonde hair crusted with dried blood lays only a few feet away, half-hidden behind the flipped over kitchen table. It’s still as a ghost, everything is.
Emile draws his limbs in closer, every hair standing on end as he buries his face into his knees. He opens his mouth, maybe to scream, or maybe to defend himself against an accuser that’s nowhere to be seen—It wasn’t me. I didn’t do it.—but all that comes out in its stead is a bubbling sob.
He’s not sure of how long he sits there, nestled in between the mess of trampled furniture and blood and sinew, trying to hide away from the cruel reality all around him, before someone finally finds him. His stomach aches and gnaws at him, his limbs feel stiff and brittle, it becomes a constant battle to keep his burning eyes open. When he finally gathers the courage to look up, to set his gaze upon the gruesome scene again, there’s two strangers standing in front of him. A young woman with platinum colored hair that makes his heart ache so bad he claws at his chest uselessly, fingernails scraping and tearing against the fabric. And beside her is a slightly older man, though still younger than Emile himself if he had to guess, looking down at him with piercing green eyes like he’s staring straight past him.
There’s tears running down his face, he realizes belatedly, and he can’t take his eyes off of the girl in front of him with her hand outstretched like she’s offering an olive branch. There is no horror or despair behind her gaze like she’s always made her home amongst the carnage.
He moves to accept her hand, shaky and weak from exhaustion, but falls short. She meets him halfway, warm palms wrapping around his blood-soaked skin. He imagines this is what forgiveness would feel like.
“You are Emile Von Bartels, are you not? The heir to House Bartels.”
His mouth falls open again and he tastes his sweat mingling with his own tears before it snaps shut again.
“If you are unable to find the words, a simple nod will suffice,” she says, all too understanding.
He nods, feeling like a condemned man confessing to his sins as he does.
The man at her side shoots her a sideways glance. “Lady Edelgard, you know that I would never question your judgment, but I believe more consideration is req-”
The young woman, Edelgard, removes one of her hands from Emile’s and holds it in the air. “Hubert, I am quite sure on this matter.”
Hubert bows deeply to her and takes a step back. “Understood.”
“I’m going to have to ask you to come with us,” she says calmly, almost detached like a judge sentencing a criminal to the gallows.
Emile starts to shake, his chest heaves and bubbles up with an awful swirling mass inside him. “I didn’t do it,” his voice comes out shaky and weak—he’s almost forgotten what it sounds like.
There’s a clipped humorless laugh in front of him, but for a moment neither of the strangers dare to speak.
“I didn’t do it,” Emile repeats again, coming out stronger this time, more fervent like he’s believed this more than anything else in his life. “It wasn’t me.”
“Regardless, we will need you to come with us,” it’s the man that speaks this time, “It is in your best interest to cooperate.”
Emile feels his body move, feels his limbs uncurl and his bones creak as he places weight on them again, but it isn’t him that makes the first step.
—
When they arrive at their destination, Emile is bathed and provided with clothing that isn’t in tatters and only hanging on by a few threads. He scrubs at his skin until the wash basin runs red and then dark brown and even after that he continues to scrub, the harsh bristles of the provided brush burning into him. No matter how hard he scrubs, even if he scraped away all of his skin tarnished by bloodshed, he would never be clean again.
When he’s done and clothed, he waits silently, motionlessly in the room they provided for him for someone to come collect him. Maybe to stand trial or maybe to be brought to the gallows. He doesn’t have to try the door to know that it’s locked.
Found surrounded by the corpses of all of his family members and then forced to come along with two strangers… Emile knows he should be scared, but he isn’t. His life is over. The thought comes so easily, so painlessly like he’s always known this fact. The sky is blue, it’s sunny outside, Emile Von Bartels’ life is over.
And so he waits, watching the shadows move and grow across the stone wall in front of him as minutes turn into hours.
He almost doesn’t register it when the door finally opens and the sinister looking man from before enters.
Hubert takes a seat opposite of where Emile is sitting curled up on the cot in the corner of the room, casually like he’s sitting down with a longtime friend. There’s not a single trace of fear behind that stony expression, only contempt.
“Lady Edelgard believes that you could be an asset to the Empire given a little… supervision,” he says, folding gloved hands in his lap, “I, on the other hand, am yet to be convinced. I believe you are nothing more than a dangerous liability.”
Emile lets out a shaky breath, feeling his lungs rattle in his chest. The words die in his throat.
“I suggest that you convince me of your usefulness before I must report to Lady Edelgard with great sadness that you took your own life out of guilt over your crimes.”
“I didn’t-!”
“You were found covered in blood at the scene of the crime. With the murder weapon at your feet, no less. So please, spare me the sob story. I have very little patience for liars, especially exceptionally poor liars such as yourself.”
Emile looks anywhere in the room besides Hubert and his accusing glare, the eyes that look through him, the eyes that say I know exactly what you are, I know exactly what you did.
“You… You don’t understand,” he settles on saying when denying his guilt will get him nowhere, “You couldn’t possibly understand.”
Hubert lets out a quiet breath that comes out more as a sigh and folds one leg over the other. “Then help me understand. Explain it to me.”
His fingers clench painfully into his palms, fingernails breaking skin. Something dark burns through his veins. “He was going to hurt them… hurt her. I knew that I had to protect them, but I wasn’t- wasn’t strong enough—only he was. That’s why he killed them.”
There’s a beat of silence as Hubert watches him carefully, scrutinizing every detail, every minute piece of body language as if Emile is nothing more than a bug with its wings pinned to the wall. Every second of silence that passes is agony. He feels ripped open and gutted, a vivisection for all to see.
“I couldn’t-... Couldn’t stop him. He’s still here, even now.”
“Who is this he you’re talking about?”
Thoughts that don’t belong to him come all at once, like a dam breaking and washing away everything that was once Emile Von Bartels. He looks through Emile’s eyes, watches the man in front of him like a cat circling a bird, just waiting for the right time to snap its neck. The man is tall and thin, all harsh lines and abrasive edges. He wonders how easy it would be to break his bones, how long he would have to hold his knee over his neck before crushing his windpipe.
“He wants to kill you, too,” Emile says. It’s not an answer, at least not the one Hubert wants, but it’s the best he can think of when his head is reeling and his eyes are blurry with tears. “But I’m stopping him. I don’t want him to.”
“For a moment, I’ll pretend I understand the complete nonsense spewing from your mouth,” Hubert shifts, becoming more guarded and closed off, like he’s anticipating a strike at any moment, “Who is it that ‘he’ was trying to protect?”
Emile shakes his head violently, sending waves of dizziness through him. For a moment, he sees stars. “No! No, not him! He wasn’t trying to protect them! I was!”
“You were trying to protect them and ‘he’ is simply the arbiter of your desires? Am I correct in my assessment?”
“Yes! He… He knew that- that I couldn’t do it… that I wasn’t strong enough.”
“Who? Who were you trying to protect?” he asks again.
The thought makes his head pound and his chest boil over. Father was going to hurt them. It had to be done. There was no other option.
“Mother… Mother and Sister.”
Hubert straightens, placing both feet back on the cold concrete floor again. “Of all of the bodies in House Bartels, two family members were unaccounted for. Mrs. Bartels and one of the daughters adopted into the household. Where are they?”
“It wasn’t safe for them there. They wanted to… take me with them, but I begged them to leave me there. Father found them again. He was going to hurt them.”
“So it had to be done, hmm?”
“I wanted to protect them,” Emile doesn’t know if he’s trying to convince Hubert or himself of it anymore, “Don’t you understand that? Haven’t you ever had anyone you’d do anything to protect!?” His voice comes out weak, almost pleading, begging for him to understand.
For a moment, Hubert doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he says when he regains his composure, practiced and controlled, “Emile Von Bartels is never going to be seen or heard from again. House Bartels and all of its associated lands will be inherited to a distant relative. And you will be placed in House Hrym as an heir under a new name and identity where you will hone your skills to be used in the Imperial Army. We will ensure that your crime is wiped from the annals of history in exchange for your full cooperation. Do I make myself clear?”
Emile stares forward, unseeing for a moment. His body moves again, peeling himself off from the linen sheets on the cot and towards the cold ground. His bruised fingers grope blindly for Hubert’s hand, clinging onto him like he’s the last lifeline Emile has.
“Th…Thank you!”
Hubert stands and shakes Emile’s grip off of him like he’s swatting a particularly annoying fly. “Do not thank me. Thank Lady Edelgard. It is because of her and her infinite empathy that you are not rotting in a cell right now.”
Emile nods and wipes away at his eyes.
“Someone will be around to collect you tomorrow,” Hubert says, “Until then, rest. You will have a long journey ahead of you.”