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Quiet.
At last, there was quiet.
Until now, there had been nothing but noise. Noise in his mind, from the confusion as he was dragged from a dirty, solitary flat to a dirtier, more solitary cell; noise in his ears, from the jeering shouts of other prisoners; noise in his heart, from the violent, angry blow that was another bloody corpse with another familiar face.
(How many more would he see, before he, too, joined them?)
But night had fallen at the detention centre, and even the cruellest of criminals had been taken by the seductive embrace of sleep. Shouts had turned to snores, mockery to mutters and mumbles, and soon Barok was left alone.
…Indeed, there was a downside to silence. For it forced him to reflect upon the reality in which he now lived.
A reality in which he would not live for much longer.
He’d been rather close with Gregson once, when things were better and the world was still light. He’d looked up to the inspector’s dedication to the law, and the kindness and affection he had in spades, poorly-hidden as it was behind an air of grumpy discontent. But after Genshin’s execution, the man he’d once seen as an indispensable family friend had begun to grow much more distant, and young Barok had been left wondering what he’d done to deserve it.
Eventually, though, he’d become sure that the man had simply seen the truth - that the Van Zieks family was cursed, and Barok most of all.
Of course he’d abandon him. It was the only way to save himself.
Yet Barok, with nothing to occupy his waning time but old, forgotten memories, found himself recalling an evening he’d spent with Gregson long ago.
It had been a discussion of case files, nothing more - nothing friendlier than what was required in a professional environment. Barok had reached for a folder of evidence to prove a point, only to wince as a fresh wound reopened, and blood began to seep through the fabric of his white shirt.
(A common thing, these days. The Reaper was despised, so the Reaper was attacked. Barok had long since grown used to it.)
Gregson had stared in silence as Barok rolled up his sleeve, revealing the deep gouge that would be another in a long line of pink puckered scars upon his skin. But before he could ready a bandage, the inspector had snatched the implements from his grip, binding the cut for him with quaking hands.
“I’m so sorry, kid,” he’d said, as tears ran down his cheeks. “God forgive me, I’m so sorry…”
Barok had thought it was merely a dramatic gesture of sympathy, then. Unusual for Gregson - alarmingly so. It was the first time he’d seen the man cry since Klint’s funeral.
But now he knew those tears were from guilt.
Gregson had been well aware that Barok was hunting him as of late, desperate for answers to the bloody question of the Reaper; but even so, he had still made more of an effort than most to be amicable toward him. He’d greeted him cordially whenever they crossed paths, and asked how he was faring, and sometimes left a little gift on his desk during the office Christmas festivities, which Barok was otherwise almost universally left out of. Once, he’d even seen the inspector tolerate some of his office bats, clearly curious about the nature of the man’s semi-frequent presence, alighting on his shoulders.
All very small things, but they were enough - enough to remind Barok that he was human on his emptiest days. Enough to make him doubt the blood on the man’s hands, for a fleeting moment.
And now Gregson was dead, and Barok would surely hang for it.
“L-Lord van Zieks?”
Before his cell stood a young prison guard Barok recognized as Mr. Warde, one of the most diligent and hardworking men in his field. They’d interacted numerous times when Barok had come to interrogate convicts and those awaiting trial; and Warde still showed shades of a fearful reverence toward him, despite his position on the opposite side of a barred steel door.
“…Yes?”
“A-A letter for you, sah. All the way from Germany.”
Barok’s breath caught in his throat.
“Says here it’s from…”
Please, not the police…!
Not law enforcement, not the papers, asking him in their accusatory tones if there was anything he knew about the Reaper’s curse - about the body they’d just found in an alley, a river, a laboratory -
“…an ‘Albert Harebrayne’?”
The panic that writhed within his stomach slowly shrivelled and died away.
“Thank God…”
Barok didn’t realise he’d said the words out loud until he witnessed the look of surprise on Mr. Warde’s face.
“Er… S-Something the matter, sah?”
Slowly, he shook his head. “…No, it’s nothing. I thank you for letting me know, Mr. Warde.”
The guard raised a puzzled eyebrow. “You don’t want to read it?”
“I was under the impression that it was strictly forbidden to give convicts such things without special permission from superiors.”
A permission Lord Stronghart would surely never give…
“Well, you aren’t convicted of anything yet, are you, My Lord? ‘Sides…” Mr. Warde extended the letter to him. “You’re the only superior of mine who treats me with any respect.”
He gave the prosecutor a nervous smile. “So maybe… I-I can look the other way for a bit, sah?”
Barok had expected many things upon admittance to his new prison. Ridicule, attempts at violence - and as anticipated, he’d received both. But he hadn’t expected kindness.
It was wasted on a dead man. Hardly worth risking the livelihood of a prison guard moved by pity. And yet… he had to know if Albert was all right.
The prosecutor gingerly reached for the letter, familiarly bent and rugged around its corners, and took it from the prison guard’s hands.
“…I am eternally grateful.”
Mr. Warde nodded, and set off to continue his rounds as Barok carefully tore open the envelope.
Barok had grown rusty when it came to interpreting the scatterbrained scrawl of his college companion, but in a way, he was grateful for it. It became a puzzle to pass the time - to distract him from the damp, frigid prison air, and the crushing weight of his impending demise.
He sat on his mouldering cot, and began to read.
Dearest Barok,
Hello again! I know we practically just saw each other, but you said to write you as soon as I touched down in Munich, so I did! (Though really, I’d have written you the moment I could regardless.) I’m writing this from my laboratory, having just fed Ermengarde and given her a good scratch behind the, well, it can’t be behind the ears, snakes don’t HAVE visible ears, members of the Serpentes suborder only have internal ears in fact and their frequency of hearing is so low that they actually can’t even hear themselves hiss! So I suppose I gave her a good scratch behind the head, then, while I was writing to you.
Anyway, I have to prepare for a lecture tomorrow, so this letter isn’t as long as I’d like it to be, but I am safe and sound, so you simply mustn’t worry about me! Really, I just wish I was back in London with you… Do tell me how things are going! Are you well? Are you safe? Are you enjoying yourself?? I heard the weather is lovely there today, so go out and see the sights for me, all right?? And if you go to the Great Exhibition, please take pictures! Lots of them!
I was going to continue but I just looked at the clock and it has somehow already become three in the morning so I have to stop writing you this very instant and go home and sleep. Goodbye!!
Your friend, Albert
P.S. We’ll meet again before you know it!
With trembling hands, Barok pressed the paper to his chest, as if holding it close enough would make him appear.
As if holding it could bring back the sun.
“A will, sah?”
“Indeed. As you can see, I have no legal defence. So it is a near certainty that I will not survive.”
Mr. Warde wrung his hands a bit at that. “I’m sure someone’ll come along for you…”
“And I will refuse them if they do.”
“Oh…” The guard looked unexpectedly downcast. “So you’ll be needing some paper, then.”
Barok nodded, and in a few short minutes, Warde returned with a slip of it, along with a little bowl of ink and a ragged feather quill.
It didn’t take long. Barok had known since the moment of his arrest what he wanted to write.
I leave all my worldly possessions - all that are not claimed by my family - in the care of Albert Harebrayne, my old friend.
It is the least I can do to thank him for all he has given me. I only wish our time together was not so bitterly short.
Go, and live in safety and peace. That is my one wish for you - my last request before I leave this life behind.
I’m so very grateful to have had you in my life.
Barok van Zieks
The prosecutor rolled the paper into a tight cylinder, and returned it and the ink-stained quill to the guard.
“Thank you, sah…” The guard wasn’t quite looking at him. “I’ll get it to the proper blokes if the time comes for it…”
When. Not if.
But if a stranger wanted to cling to the notion of his life, then Barok would not deny him that.
So he nodded instead, and turned away; and for endless minutes, hours uncountable, he read Albert’s letter, again, and again, and again.
We’ll meet again before you know it!
…If only that could be true.