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Thin clouds of steam rolled by, dim lights flickering in, and unbearable tension set in like thick air hard to swallow. The hollow metal echoes with the clinks of heels. Belonging to a known fighter whose figure is stiff, following behind the big thumbs of heavy boots that march forward. Clorinde tailed Wriothesley through the Fortress of Meropide.
Her resolve teetered whether she should visit his grace or not. Weighing more on waiting for him to ask, than for her to walk to his front doorsteps. But after hearing about recent events it compelled her to drop by.
He wasn't as enthused when she arrived. Confused as to why the Champion Duelist paid a visit. Until she told him why, he then dragged her to his office. When they arrived at the double doors and heard a loud clunk, she took the opportunity to discuss.
"You look peeved." She began.
The Duke, halfway up the stairs, confronted her. "Peeved?"
He sounded a lot more irritated than she thought. It's probable that "peeved" wasn't the right word she was going for. Her lips thinned, thinking."You look...upset. I can understand why. I want to know how I can help."
He sighed, crossing his arms as he ascended to his desk. Clorinde, again, followed to watch the duke fiddle with a disc. He flipped it in his hands before putting it on the turn table and letting the stylus settle on the record. Soon a melody occupies the space, a slow, melancholic piano with each key lasting a longer pitch than the other.
Then, he crossed over to a table. Wriothesley held a kettle and tipped it into his cup. She continued to stay silent, making herself comfortable as she sat on the cushions of his couch.
She would rather back off for now. Even though there was this agonizing pressure on her shoulders. The silence wasn't making it better as she anticipated the worse to happen. Prepared or not.
Clorinde would be lying if she had seen Wriothesley angry. She has witnessed the administrator commit deplorable acts within reason. Every time he does such acts, he consistently is composed. Even when his enemies felt a portion of his wrath, a smug smile never left his face.
But what she is seeing is an emotion seeping out of him. The distance between them was enough and even she could feel this edge on him. A boiling point ready to topple over but she doesn't know what could push him over the breaking point. She wouldn't dare try either.
With all of that in mind, she continues to stay silent. Waiting. Hearing the soft clink of a spoon against a teacup. It became repetitive at a leisurely pace. On beat to the sound that was coming from the gramophone.
"Like you've said," he spoke, his eyes not leaving his cup. "There is something wrong. I am sure you have heard about the Beret Society. I was under suspicion of their methods of redemption when their members suddenly switched like a flip of a coin. I wasn't under the impression how far Dougier would go."
He set the cup down. "Goodness was not born but made. It should apply to evil then. If the corrupt were influenced then should we give them the benefit of the doubt? Should we understand that their stories made them who they are? Or watch as they burn from their actions? After all, they could change if they wanted to."
Wriothesley exhales, leaning on the table to be his anchor. "But I sound ignorant. Circumstance makes the person and even when you pull them out of that situation, would they change? If not, should we still forgive them, years later, because 'they didn't know any better'?"
She hummed at the realization of his dilemma. From what rumors had spread to the surface, the Duke had not taken what Dougier did kindly. Instead, he gave him a punishment suiting his actions. Forgiveness was never an option.
But how Wriothesley explained it, it seemed more personal for her to describe. Clorinde had never seen this person in doubt. Skeptical on a few occasions, but never fully backtracked to what he said or believed. It makes her wonder what he is alluding to.
"Are those questions rhetorical?" She asked. "Or do you want my opinion?"
She saw how his fists gripped the table. "Do as you like."
"Then, should I assume you are bringing me here to scold you, or-" Her eyes slit while watching the duke's reaction. "-or to console you?"
There wasn't a response from him. No taunt. No jest. He just deflated, like a balloon that has slowly decompressed. She was expecting more from him. Her eyebrows frowned when his grace faced her.
He meets her violet eyes with disgrace. No longer did he feel unapproachable and menacing, but defeated. Like a beaten-down dog that has to limb back to his master. "I don't know."
She nodded. Confusion about the situation in general, but she could grasp what was bothering him. Either way, it seems like something she can't say to ease him. Her words weren't enough to calm a storm the brew behind his eyes. This led her to be quiet and regard him in his pitiful state. What can she do?
The duelist thought about it. She recalled memories she buried since her girlhood, hoping it would advise her in her current predicament. But all she could recall were gentle fingers stroking her hair, as she was in her slumber. All she remembered of how soothing it felt. Calming, like the soft waves crashing onto the sands.
She focused on the duke again and lightly patted her lap. "Come. Lay down."
Wriothesley raised an eyebrow. "Lay down?"
"Yes," she made her point apparent as she slowly tapped her thigh. "Lay down. Here."
He squints, whether it is hesitation or bewilderment, he walks toward her. When he sat down, he gradually fell onto her lap. Adjusting so it won't be uncomfortable for both of them. He hasn't looked up at her yet.
"My tea will get cold." He murmured.
Clorinde humed. "Do you want me to feed you?"
His eyebrows raised when he gazed at her. She could see the suggestion scared him more than what had bothered him for the past week. She was amused but primarily relieved he was less stiff. Even his jaw was unclutched when looking at her.
"You wouldn't think twice about drowning me."
"Please," She scoffed, "There will be a riot outside my office if I attempt to kill you."
He laughs, lightly. "How reassuring."
Clorinde daringly ran her fingers through his hair. It amazed her how the dark strands flowed and parted. Like she is mending waves in her palms. It distracted her enough that she didn't notice Wriothesley's usable flushed face.
"Alright, alright," he grabbed her wrist, "Go slower. I'm afraid you'll rip my hair off."
"I never saw you bald." It sounded like a suggestion he should go for a new look.
"And you never will." He huffed, letting go so she could proceed with her fiddling.
The Champion took the duke's advice and put her finger through his mane. Tenderly scraping his scalp, or pulling back his hair, she saw how it affected him. He closed his eyes, his breaths were slower, and his body went limp. If she continued, she wouldn't doubt he would fall asleep.
Now that things have calmed down, she thought over what kept the duke worried. Ethically speaking, it wasn't easy for the administrator. His entire gig was to make the fortress I new home for the inmates. To those who are deserving and to those who can rot in their cells. Having this crisis of not knowing how to decipher the two made her pause.
Clorinde recalled the Opera House. How those who attempt to reclaim their honor have fallen to her blade. Each opponent was different, their motivations varied from their stories. But she only heard a summary or nothing at all when entering battle. Whether it is for her judgment not to be clouded or not, she does not know.
There was a special case. Only one who desired to end their story in the ring. And her understanding always muddled her brain, but the outcome was her doing. Being stuck in a cycle of guilt, weighed her options to commit an act that haunted her. She believed she fulfilled a promise, more in thought, she understood it was not simple. And that confession made her throat dry and her stomach ache. For a renowned fighter whose name made people either tremble or have a sense of prosperity, she had a deep regret.
"This place," Wriothesley began, his voice soft and alluring it brought her from her thoughts. "Withholds thieves, liars, smugglers, murderers, rapists, and many others. Everything they've committed is punished to a reasonable extent. And I overwatch their sentences.
"But should the damn continue to be damned? Or have I given them salvation?"-He chuckles-"I wondered for myself. And the more I think of it, I think of the possibility of not becoming the prison warden."
Clorinde raised a brow and he sighed in response. "To summarize, what led me here was when my hands were coated in red. It's only because I got comfortable when I decided to take over."
"But that slow realization that I never felt at home until I was home. I guess the title and role were more natural for me to take."
His eyes were transparent, but a light shade of blue than reflected in hers. It did not show the witty and charismatic warden the guards and employees respect. It showed someone who ripped themselves open to be judged. Either knowing the consequence in fear or accepting the damnation. What he expressed wasn't simple, but what he wanted was a straightforward answer. "Should I be forgiven?"
Her response was quick. "Do you regret it?"
"No."
And that was all she needed to hear. "So it's not out of guilt. You put yourself on a pedestal compared to others."
He closed his eyes. "I just think they have a chance."
"But you know the difference. I know you do." She pointed. "Otherwise I wouldn't come here thinking it was not safe."
His mouth was open for a response, but she cut him off. "I believe you understand this better than I do, so I will cut this short. Those who want to be redeemed understand their faults. Rather than pushing onto someone, or ignoring them, they accept it. And with that acceptance, comes reflection. And with reflection, comes-"
She didn't finish. Because it was echoing to her, loud and clear. Her guilt that had shackled her for years and it perplexed her if-
Was she forgiven?
Navia had invited her for dinner. As awkward as it was, they cleared up their feud. But a voice, now louder when reciting these words, had made her come to terms with a truth.
She swallowed. "If you put pride aside, you'll know. But it doesn't mean it's the end. It's only the end when you empathize."
Clorinde would never understand what Wriothesley had been through. But she could share the bit of humanity she had developed. "You could've turned me away, but you kept me around. That alone shows your understanding of who you are willing to hear."
Her palms felt damp and she jolted. Looking down, she sees tears tumbling down his cheeks. She blinked and started to wipe them away. In an attempt to dry his face but to occupy herself from the thousands upon thousands of thoughts running through her head.
"Why are you crying, Wriothesley?"
He sniffs. "You weren't going to."
Should she feel sad for herself? Was that what it had led up to? But if she didn't , someone would, and she guessed it was him.
She blinked. "How-"
"Doesn't matter," he sighs, reaching to pluck her hat off her head. "But, thank you. You and I are like, but different. I appreciate hearing your side of the matter. It did help."
The hat covered his face as he crossed his arms. "However, I'm saddened I won't be able to drink my tea."
"If it makes you feel any better, when you wake up, I can make you a new one."
"I would love that."
No other words were exchanged as Clorinde messed with the duke's hair as he slept. The music has stopped playing in the background and neither bothered to change it. Accepting their new reality in a place filled with the wicked and both are no different. Let the damn be damned for those who know their suffering was worth it after all.