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The door opened with a creak, and the detention centre’s damp, musty scent, so familiar to those in the legal profession, flooded Barok van Zieks’s nostrils.
Inside, by the door, was a desk; and behind that desk sat the guard for this shift - young, more boy than man, wearing a threadbare uniform and an expression much more alert than would be expected at this ugly hour of the night. His name was Mr. Warde, and his dedication combined with his unpleasant assigned shifts meant that the pair crossed paths somewhat often.
The sound of entry startled him from his seat, and he moved rapidly to stand in the doorway.
“Excuse me, sah! Sorry to say so, but visiting hours are over - “
“I’m not here to visit.”
“O-Oh! Lord van Zieks…”
The guard, so firm and resolute in his initial declaration, now cowered slightly under Barok’s gaze. “A-Are you here on some special business I haven’t been told about, or…?”
“…In a way.”
“Then, ah…” The young man made an effort to straighten his back. “…Is there anything I can do to help, sah?”
“I…”
This was a mistake.
Barok was a damned fool for coming here, and he knew it. This went against everything he’d ever believed in about justice and due process, no matter how faulty it so often turned out to be.
But he had no other choice.
Slowly, he put out his hand.
“…Please give me the key.”
“Huh? Give you the…?” Mr. Warde glanced down at his keyring, then back at Barok with a great deal of confusion. “With all due respect, My Lord, you know I can’t give you that… ”
“I know you’re just doing your job, and you have always done it well.” Barok took a breath, but it wasn’t enough to prevent his voice from wavering. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
There was always a trace of fear on the faces of the people Barok interacted with. Sometimes it was mixed with suspicion, or forced politeness, but it was there nonetheless, lurking in the features.
“But I… I have to get that key one way or another. Even if that means I have to take it by force.”
Only rarely before had he seen that trace change so dramatically into absolute terror.
(He wouldn’t harm him. Even if the key wasn’t given willingly - even if he had to take it - he refused to harm this man. He’d incapacitate him at the absolute worst. But Warde didn’t know that.)
The guard looked up at him, trembling like a leaf, and quietly asked, “Wh-What are you going to do with it, Lord van Zieks…?”
Barok held his gaze, hoping it was stronger and less fragile than he felt.
“…I’m not letting Albert hang.”
Drip, drip, drip.
It was cold, in that cell, though Albert was used to that. A small, slender-bodied man whose temperature always ran on the low end of average… indeed, to be cold was his destiny.
Before, it had been easier to distract himself from that creeping damp - when the trial was still pending, and his fate remained up in the air. A kindly guard had given him chalk, and he’d busied himself with his autobiography. But after the verdict had been decided, they’d taken it away from him; and now Albert was left with nothing to occupy him but the knowledge that he was soon to die.
Drip, drip, drip.
Well, he supposed that wasn’t entirely true. He did have the sound of leaking groundwater to focus on. It was comforting, in a way - the knowledge that physics, the water cycle, and the world at large would continue on, even though Albert would not.
(But other times, that rhythmic drip, drip, drip was the sound of his own tears.)
Something was different now, though. For between the drips were footsteps; slow and heavy, but very nearly as regular as the water. Strangely, the boots didn’t sound like those of the guards - they had more weight, and sounded as if they were perhaps made of a different material… similar to a set of footsteps he’d heard only a day or two before. But he didn’t dare to hope for such a thing, after his conviction. It was far too late for that -
“Albert.”
- or perhaps it wasn’t.
For in front of his cell stood Barok van Zieks, carrying a lantern, shadows obscuring his face.
“Barok?!”
And to Albert’s utter shock, his old friend produced the gaoler’s key and turned it in the door. Before it could swing open of its own accord, Barok caught it, carefully pushing it ajar to muffle its rusty creak.
Slowly, he extended his other hand.
“Come with me.”
Albert stared at him in astonishment. Barok didn’t move. Just… kept holding out his hand.
(He’d always been so patient with Albert, hadn’t he?)
“What?! I-I… Did the jury change their minds? D-Did the judge alter my verdict??”
Barok turned away from him. “…No.”
There was a tremor in his voice that worried Albert beyond words.
“Then…”
If Albert’s verdict remained guilty, then there was nothing waiting for him save for the gallows. His old friend had to be taking him there - accompanying him one last time, on his way to die.
What a cruel thing to do to him…
(But selfishly, Albert would be happy if Barok was the last person he saw before he died. He wouldn’t want it to be anyone else.)
“...Where are you going to take me, Barok?” he finished, and braced himself for the answer.
The prosecutor bowed his head. “…As far away from here as I can get you.”
That couldn’t be right.
No, he must have misunderstood what Barok had just said.
“You can’t - ! Y-You don’t mean - ?!”
“I do.” Shame was etched into every corner of his face, but the determination in his eyes was single-minded. “...I’m going to aid in your escape.
Albert didn’t know how long he stared at him. Agape. Aghast. Maybe even the slightest bit agog.
So often, his brain was filled with words. No matter how many escaped his lips, no matter if anyone cared to listen to them… and yet now, Albert had only one.
“...Why?”
The fact that he’d asked at all seemed to deepen the sadness in Barok’s eyes.
“Albert,” he whispered, “you are all I have left.”
His voice was raw with desperation, and the professor knew at once that what he said was true.
It was illegal, of course. And probably quite undeserved. Albert hadn’t purposely killed anyone, he knew that, but… it was his own actions, his mistakes that had caused a man to die, hadn’t they? Wasn’t it only logical that he should join him in death?
But Barok had always been so terribly stubborn when it came to keeping him safe. So stubborn that it showed in his posture, and his face, and the very aura that surrounded him; so stubborn that Albert knew he would accept no avenue of protest.
It was familiar enough that in any other circumstance, the professor would have smiled.
“...I’m so sorry, Barok,” he murmured, and took his old friend’s hand.
“...As am I.”
Slowly, hesitantly, the pair walked past cell after cell, hoping beyond hope not to rouse any slumbering prisoners. Every time one appeared to wake, and be aware of the lantern’s flickering glow, Barok would shift and obscure Albert in long shadows, or bury the light in the folds of his mantle; and at long last, they reached the end of that endless corridor.
Barok opened the door for him, ever the gentleman; and Albert, still scarcely able to process the unfolding events, walked through.
Mr. Warde still stood at his desk, stiff and shaken, but unhurt, looking up at them with fearful eyes.
“...You’re really sure, then, aren’t you, My Lord?”
“Yes,” said Barok in a distant monotone. “I am.”
“Then…” The guard was clearly agitated, though whether it was for his own sake or the prosecutor’s was unclear. “...Then I have to pull the alarm, sah. They’ll… they’ll s-sack me if I don’t. Or worse.”
Barok responded with a solemn nod. “Do it, Mr. Warde.”
The guard blinked up at him in shock. “Y-You know my name??”
“And when your superiors come to interrogate you… tell them I tricked you. Threatened you and your family. Whatever you need to say to avoid punishment.”
“But Lord van Zieks…”
“I have no desire to put your livelihood at risk,” was the prosecutor’s firm reply. “Besides, I doubt they’ll know it’s a lie. Most of them will likely believe it.”
Mr. Warde lowered his head. “…It just isn’t fair to you, sah.”
If Barok had any response to that, he didn’t say it. Instead, he turned to look at the professor with concern.
“How fast can you run?”
“Very fast! But only in very short bursts.” Albert looked up at Barok in puzzlement. “You know that!”
“I wasn’t sure if something had changed in the past decade. …Perhaps you’d acquired an affinity for marathons.”
It was faint, so much fainter than he remembered, but…
…That almost sounded like a joke!
He’d missed that.
Perhaps that emotion had showed on his face, because Barok’s eyes widened for the briefest of moments, before looking away.
“You have no reason to, but… just this once, will you trust me?”
Albert thought back to the trial - thought back to when he was afraid the man he knew was gone. The accusations, the unkind words… it had been enough to make him wonder if Mr. Naruhodo had been right to question his belief in Barok.
But…
He remembered the desperation in his lawyer’s eyes as he pleaded for the trial to continue, only to be drowned out by the judge’s gavel and the jury’s fury. Mr. Naruhodo had looked across the courtroom as a last resort, imploring the man across from him for aid. Aid, from the prosecutor meant to be his enemy.
Albert had followed his eyes to Barok’s, and in that silver he’d seen no triumph, no glory, no pleasure in victory. Nothing to mark him as the monster the papers painted him as.
He’d only seen a broken man, bearing witness to the end of the world.
Barok had spoken up, then. He’d fought alongside Mr. Naruhodo for the judge’s favour - to continue the trial at any cost, based on any sliver of a ghost of an imagined contradiction. But His Honour had simply shaken his head, and told Barok to remember himself - not to cloud his judgement with personal bias. The words had murdered his defiance, and made him shrink into nothing at all.
The gavel had fallen once more, and that had been the end of it.
And Albert had watched those broken eyes stare vacantly at him as the bailiff took him away.
“…Of course, Barok,” Albert said, putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Of course I trust you.”
His old friend flinched at the words, as if dodging something thrown; and his response came out as a murmur beneath his breath.
“Then…”
Without warning, Albert felt arms wrap around his waist -
“Wha - ?! ”
- and before he could react, Barok had lifted him off the ground, throwing him over one shoulder.
“…hold on tight.”
The prosecutor looked back at Mr. Warde, whose hand was gripping the rope attached to the alarm bell, and gave him a short nod; and with a rather melancholy expression, the young guard rang it.
All at once, they were off like a shot - tearing down the hallway at a speed Albert had scarcely thought possible - and left with no other recourse, the professor settled in for the ride.
The guards were expecting a riot - a sea of prisoners pouring from their cells, desperate for freedom at any cost. It wouldn’t be the first time it had happened. It wouldn’t be the last. So they were armed, angry, attentive, and more than a little afraid. Prepared for anything - or so they thought.
Because they were entirely unprepared for the Reaper of the Bailey barreling toward them with the wrath of God in his eyes and a single inmate held gently, yet firmly, in his arms.
Half the guards carried pistols, but not a single one of them fired. Some reached for them, but couldn’t draw them fast enough, while others didn’t even bother; and the single guard brave enough to take aim did so with hands trembling too much to lay a finger on the trigger. A few other guards rushed them, attempted to tackle them, but Barok dodged them effortlessly, pulling Albert closer to his chest as he did; and every time they attempted to strike the escaping professor, Barok would twist his torso to shield him, blocking the blows of their billy sticks with his shoulders, his legs, his back. As if they didn’t even hurt him - as if they were nothing at all.
(But they did hurt him. Albert felt it in the way his muscles grew tense, and the sharp intakes of breath every time his friend was hit - grunts of pain bitten back behind clenched teeth. It scarcely even seemed like a conscious effort at suppressing his reaction; rather, it seemed reflexive, innate, practised to perfection. The sign of a man accustomed to wounds, and even more accustomed to hiding weakness.
The thought made Albert want to cry.)
At last, they reached a door, which Barok slammed through shoulder-first, and they found themselves at the foot of a long flight of stairs, which the prosecutor scaled without even slowing his pace; until finally, they reached another door, and pushed through it, and they were out into the cold air beneath the moon.
But Barok still didn’t stop running, not for minutes, not for several. Not even as his chest heaved, and his arms began to shake; not even as sweat dripped from his hair, and his skin, and seeped into his clothes until he shivered. Not until they left downtown, and found themselves in Whitechapel, and Barok came to a heavy stop in front of a dingy old hotel at the corner of the street. There, he gently set Albert down on his feet - and immediately collapsed to his knees in a fit of coughs and ragged breaths.
“We’re… far enough away… carriage coming here soon… already sent for it - ”
“What is going on?!”
What little strength his friend had remaining in his body caused him to jump at Albert’s words - at the fearful desperation that cracked and seared his throat.
“Barok, what’s - what’s happened to you?? What have people done to you since I left?!”
He avoided the professor’s gaze. “Albert, it’s not - ”
“They were hurting you, Barok! But you didn’t shout, you didn’t even yell, and you’re ” - Albert was hyperventilating, his voice tight, hot tears streaming from his eyes - “and look at you, you can barely walk, you can barely breathe, and - ”
- and his words were cut short, for Barok had pulled him into his arms.
The action stopped the professor’s lips, though it didn’t stop the words from forming behind them - the panic, the terror, the helpless rage, the knowledge that Albert had never, ever been able to do anything good or right or helpful to the person he cared for most in the world. But it stopped them from coming out as sentences, and changed them into sobs, buried deep into the crook of Barok’s shoulder.
When was the last time they’d embraced like this?
At the port, before I sailed away to Germany…
In many ways, it felt the same as it had then - the warm, strong arms around his shoulders, the secure comfort that came from his body and his touch. Unchanging, despite the world’s descent into the dark.
“You’re all right, Albert…” Barok murmured into his ear, still not letting him go. “You’re okay…”
The professor thought he was just trying to calm him at first, and assure him of his safety. But as his friend repeated them over and over, a mumbled mantra into the folds of his white coat, Albert realised the words were as much for Barok as they were for himself.
He squeezed Barok tight, as if to prove to them both that he was tangible and real, only to feel him wince in his arms. So Albert loosened his grip, and tucked his face into his friend’s neck, and did his best to embrace him in the few, few places that hadn’t bruised.
“…I am, Barok. I am.”
It was a strange, surreal journey.
After they’d made their escape, the carriage had first taken Albert to his hotel, a rather nice establishment which had been paid for by Mr. Asman in what he could now only assume had been a play at engendering a false sense of friendship and charity. He’d dashed in to gather his things, stopping only to inform the rather surprised hotel clerk that yes, everything in the trial had gone just fine, his ship out from Britain was just at quite an early hour, and knew that by the time the clerk saw Albert’s true verdict in the morning paper, he’d be long gone.
Now, that same carriage took him to Dover under the cover of night, stars twinkling brightly in the sky as the gentle trot of the horses carried them out toward the sea; and Albert wondered what it was that he was supposed to say.
Should he fill the silence with small talk, as a distraction? Or should he let the quiet remain, and use it to pretend that everything really had gone just fine, and his old friend was merely helping him back from a trip instead of smuggling an escaped inmate overseas?
“Well, at least we’ve got lovely weather…” Albert said, in a poor attempt at finding a silver lining.
When his attempt was met with the same silence as before, he feared Barok was upset with him; but when Albert looked over at his old friend, he found that he’d fallen fast asleep.
This was of course rather logical. He’d looked awfully exhausted when he’d come to see him so late, and with everything that had happened in the period of time that followed, he’d not had time to rest at all. But it was the first time since they’d reunited that Barok looked anywhere near peaceful; and for a moment he could believe that they were ten years in the past, returning to their dorm rooms after a night out together of food and wine and companionship.
(Of course, the scar on Barok’s face shattered that illusion, and being forced to deal with the reality instead felt like a vise crushing Albert’s chest.)
At last, they arrived at the seaport, brisk and foggy from the crisp morning air; and with the help of Barok and his driver, Albert unloaded his small quantity of luggage from the trunk of the carriage, blowing on his frigid hands.
It’s times like these that make me wonder if I truly am a warm-blooded creature…
“Albert.”
“H-Huh?”
In lieu of an immediate verbal response, the professor felt Barok drape his cloak over his back.
“You’re shivering.”
Albert supposed he couldn’t deny that.
He tugged it taut around his shoulders, the mass of cloth dwarfing his thin frame as it began to block out the cold, and murmured, “Thank you, Barok.”
His companion turned away. “...There is nothing worth thanking me for.”
The professor nearly choked. “Wh-What do you mean, nothing?! You… You’ve saved my life! Even though I don’t deserve it…”
“A man who rescues you from a danger he caused is a poor saviour indeed.” His voice was empty, and hollow. “And whatever the courts may say, I know that you were not to blame.”
“...So it’s true, then.”
Despite everything, Albert smiled.
“You really did believe in me.”
“Of course,” came Barok’s soft reply. “I promised.”
He had. Years ago, in university. Albert had thought he’d forgotten.
They fell into silence, again, and he wondered if Barok was reminiscing, too.
“...Don’t come back to England, Albert,” the prosecutor said at last. “Stay far away.”
There was a disturbing finality to his words - one that forced Albert to ask the question he knew they’d both been avoiding.
“But… What will happen to you?”
His friend was still hiding his face. Still refusing to look at him.
“...I think you already know the answer to that.”
No…!
The thought - the mere thought - seemed to leaden the air, make his breathing rapid, and his stomach rot and burn, and he couldn’t let them catch him, he couldn’t -
“- Then come with me, Barok!”
The prosecutor blinked at him in surprise, apparently not prepared for the request.
“I-I’ll show you around all of my favourite places, and - and I can teach you German! My flat isn’t terribly large, but there’s just enough room to share it, and…”
Without realising it, he’d taken hold of Barok’s wrists.
“…we could catch up, Barok. On all of the things we’ve missed about each other.”
It was a… happy idea, almost. Even if they were both fugitives, at least they’d be running away together. It would be okay.
He’d make it okay.
“I’ll take care of everything, so… come back with me to Germany, all right?”
Albert gripped Barok’s hands tightly, with all the strength he could muster, and gave a pleading look up into those grey eyes he knew so well.
“…Please.”
It almost worked.
Albert could tell it did. Barok’s expressions were often subtle, but to an experienced observer, they were completely obvious; and Barok’s only living experienced observer watched the way every little muscle in his face changed to something painful, and lonely, and wanting.
But it all collapsed into despair before Albert could catch it - a little silver butterfly, too small for his net.
“…I can’t.”
He spoke the words like a man hated by God.
“I’ve burdened you enough, old friend. I’ll do nothing more.”
“You are not a burden!”
Albert had tried to keep quiet - tried to stay hushed, and reasonable, so they’d stay out of the public eye - but he’d never been good at silence, and how could he be, how could he, and his rebuttal burst from his lungs at a volume that turned heads across the port.
“And you’ve never been one, and you never will be, because no matter what happens, I’ll always - !”
- love you, Barok.
He caught himself, before those damning words could leave his lips. But by the look on his friend’s face - his wide eyes, his parted mouth - it was no different than if he’d said them aloud.
How long had he wished to tell Barok this secret?
How monstrous, that he only knew it now.
Barok was silent, for a while - long enough for Albert to fear that he’d destroyed all they had in a single moment - and just as he was about to release his grip and whisper apologies, he felt movement in his friend’s hands.
Long, trembling fingers tangled in his own, careful and tentative, wounded and starved for touch; and warm, callused thumbs brushed Albert’s knuckles, as gentle as a kiss.
And Albert was made aware of the unbearable truth that Barok loved him, too.
“Have a good life, Albert,” he murmured softly. “I only wish I could have spent more of it with you.”
“You still can…” the professor protested weakly, hopeless as it was.
“No.” His companion shook his head. “You deserve more than I could ever give you.”
Just as he was about to counter him yet again, the bellow of the foghorn sent vibrations through the air, and Albert realised he was still wearing his friend’s most tangible gift.
“Barok, your cloak - !”
“Keep it.”
“But - ”
“…I won’t need it where I’m going.”
Albert wanted to protest, he had to, but another voice swallowed his own before he could even open his mouth.
“There he is! Get him!”
Multiple carriages opened their doors, and soon the street was teeming with bobbies, terrifying travellers and port workers alike - though none looked more terrified than the bobbies themselves.
“Stop right there, Lord van Zieks!”
Barok didn’t even run.
“Go,” he urged, blocking Albert from view with his body.
“I can’t - !”
“Please.”
…and Albert was useless.
Useless, as Barok left him with those pleading words, and turned to the crowd that despised him. Useless, as they grabbed him, cuffed him, threw him into the carriage with all their combined strength, and drove away.
Useless, as he was shoved onto the safety of the ship by frightened, complaining fellow travellers; as he was guided to his cabin by a sailor with worried eyes; as he stood in the room Barok had bought for him, still wrapped in the warmth of Barok’s cloak, and the smell of his aftershave.
Living the life Barok had given his own to save.
The last I heard, Lord van Zieks had been arrested for instigating a prison break.
It had come as a great shock to the people of London - why would the man feared for his supernatural vigilantism willfully set criminals free? To go on a killing spree and feed his own ego? No one knew… but if anyone were to actually read beyond the headline, they’d find that he aided in only one inmate’s escape.
…I didn’t even need to be told which inmate it had been. That much was obvious.
Should I be happy, now that I won’t have to face the Reaper in court again…?
How can I be, when I know that all of this is my fault?
I was rusty, too rusty, but I took the case regardless… and now the only reason my client isn’t being punished for my mistakes is because of another man’s sacrifice.
What will become of Lord van Zieks, I don’t know… but I don’t imagine that prosecutors do well in prison. Least of all Reapers.
All I can do is say…
…that I’m sorry.