Work Text:
Vincent Edgeworth's first funeral was a high-profile one. Accompanied by the noise of the trial, which did not have enough time to die down, the coffin was immersed in the grave. The ceremony was attended by all kinds of people: onlookers who had heard about the Cyborg Incident, activists who raised their “Down with Myers” banners up to the sky, colleagues and acquaintances who were absolutely shocked by what had happened, and random passers-by gawking at the crowd that huddled at the entrance to the cemetery. There were subtle sobs, stifled by the protestors’ shouting. The protestors were silenced by the wind’s gentle rustling. There was Monsieur Myers himself, reading a speech written by someone else’s hand. There was an orchestra playing the saddest song of them all.
It was impossible to prove it, but when the discordant chorus of voices fell silent for just a slight moment, everyone knew there was nothing but a lie, carefully crafted by hands unaccustomed to work, in the coffin. The poor fellows who knew Edgeworth were whispering, the righteous supporters of justice were shouting, the silence was deafening.
Then the rain fell, washing away the endless string of footprints that spread like a dark web, leaving trails of trampled grass across the cemetery. The memories of the public got blurred over time. The inscription on the stone was smeared. At some point, the protests subsided, people gave up, forgot, got over it. The grave of the best lawyer of G4 district was sometimes surrounded like it was a landmark, but never a monument. “The guy was married to his job, died embracing it,” people chuckled as they walked by. "And rightfully so. There is still some justice in the world!" their companions responded. When the weather was calm enough, the bells’ ringing could be heard all across the cemetery. Walking to the beat of its melody, the silhouette of a grief-stricken man was imprinted on the peaceful landscape.
Then, Vincent Edgeworth was buried for the second time. It was completely silent. His coffin was the metal frame of his chest, broken by careless devotion. This time there was no one to read the speeches: the only participant of the procession could hardly breathe, let alone form coherent sentences. Yet still, he made sure that the stubborn Edgeworth, damaged beyond recognition, had no reason to be dissatisfied. His tombstone became the first one in a new burial site, hidden in the shadow of the coastal forest so that not a single soul could disturb his peace. He was not to be bothered by a sound, and so was the quiet harmony of branches tightly intertwined with fate. The blurred silhouette of the man sat near the grave, shaken by tears of desperate pleading. Vincent would have still found something to complain about, wouldn't he?
Along with last people, for whom the name on the stone mattered, left their strength. Soon, another grave appeared near the first one; a smaller, not so well-groomed and neat grave. An unnamed hand left a daisy on it, an unnamed shadow froze for a minute where the silhouette usually stood for hours. Then three more tombstones appeared; they remained unengraved. The burial turned into a little cemetery, the deafening silence turned into a silent scream.
Gravestones tend to fracture and crack, especially those that were placed based on heart’s desire, not clear evidence. Vincent Edgeworth's stone kept avoiding such fate by pure luck. It stood proudly above the snowdrifts, and, with ease unknown to the expensive marble tomb chosen by Myers, faced the minor tests of time. When it was dug up in the morning, two small snowdrops emerged from under the loose snow.
When he was alive, Vincent always expected to be stabbed in the back, so he kept it straight and strong as to not miss a knife. He met his first death scared and tired, then frenetic and wretched. Both times it came from where he least expected; Vincent stared death in the eye and couldn't believe his reflection in them. It looked too much like a mirror, and mirrors were notorious liars.
His tireless, futile work was buried under two meters of dirt and two infinities of ambition. A diligent student, a great lawyer, and a perfect hypocrite—all of them lay in an unnaturally white box with golden patterns and red velvet upholstery. The coffin lid was sealed with a monogram of a corporation that hid its main asset deep down in the dark. Inside, the coffin smelled of money and impunity.
Phantom moments of peace winded like threads of fate between the delicate wires and gears, covered in dusty soil. Once upon a time, the free wind and the young sun played in Vincent's hair. Now there was only dirt and blissful thoughtlessness in his head. The process of calculating potential threats and outcomes had finally stopped, and a new one began in its place: counting down the days since Vincent had been honest with himself. At least he wasn’t the only one that died that day: at the same moment, the truth, that was held back for years by a carefully built façade, tragically perished on his lips.
Myers was famous for his generosity; he granted a lot of chances—to make up for mistakes, to prove a point, to show oneself. Vincent received a chance to fulfill his dream on credit; the payment was his honor and morals. Myers was famous for his methods of liability forgiveness as well, but it wasn’t a topic up for discussion. The ghosts of redeemed debts wandered around the corporation and echoed with the clatter of keyboards. Vincent had always been an exception. His debts were announced a dozen times louder: with the screeching of tires, the panicked hysteria of the horn, the explosion of glass and the roar of sirens. It was said that Myers took care to inlay the coffin with a hint of stained glass, a window into the world of the living. The glass was awfully greasy and did not allow any light – not even a glimpse of the pale lawyer’s face! – to pass through.
The price tag didn't seem enough to Myers, and he took Edgeworth’s ability to dream. However, rules and regulations were created for those who didn’t know how to make their own decisions, and Vincent never failed at finding loopholes in laws. He rebuilt the body rebuilt by Myers, nurtured his thirst for revenge stronger than any dream and surer than any righteous aspiration, and forgot his childish doubt. In the thick roots of the mighty tree, his unavenged flesh cried out to any living creature who dared to approach it, branded, cursed by the burnt schemes.
And yet, in his final seconds, Vincent wished to be in that first grave. To lie with his head on the soft scarlet upholstery instead of the cold, blood-stained floor of Myers Corporation. To have a sense of accomplishment in his lungs, not the shameful gnashing of loose screws. To be the subject of people’s thoughts and discussions. To be a part of something bigger. To be accepted.
The only person who had fully accepted him took care of the snowdrops and brushed the dust off the tombstone, carefully wiping each letter. Vincent hadn't had such spark in him in a long time. He would have loved it.
He would have loved the fact that at the second funeral he was more human than ever. Imperfect, unmasked, real, with his morals lower than ever. But one shouldn’t speak badly of the deceased—besides, he didn’t even have hands left to check for maroon stains—nor should one judge the winners. The conflict made a dead loop and returned to a forgotten starting point, with one party dead and the other in pursuit of Myers.
When the snow melted, rumors spread about the first grave cracking completely. Forgotten, covered with last year's leaves, not having seen guests for many months, it was lost among hundreds of other tombstones as befits the statement of death. People passed by, not looking at the words drawn by the graceful hand of the sculptor; others did not even pay attention to what was under their feet.
The grave in the forest remained well-kept for many years. Vincent's name once again basked in the golden rays, even if it was just the sunshine, not rays of glory. His room was still in his peculiar order, diaries and notes were right where he preferred them to be. His costumes were perfectly ironed and awaited their chance to shine. It was only Vincent Edgeworth's favorite tie that was missing, but it, as a testimony of undying love, was there to keep the frozen metal heart of its owner warm. The melody of the bells could not reach this grave, but the the ringing silence of Vincent’s only guest’s missed breaths was enough.
One day, he didn’t come back. A large tombstone and four smaller ones that were slowly sinking into the ground impatiently glanced at each other’s reflections in puddles that had appeared after a thunderstorm. Still, neither the dark silhouette nor the sixth slab appeared. The unnamed shadow no longer visited them either.
Vincent Edgeworth, lying in the shade of the young treetops, did not remember his death at all—it flashed with a gas pedal pressed to the floor, winked with a scalpel’s blade, echoed with a sound of torn paper. It faded, dissolved into memory.
Nightingales flocked to Vincent's grave one day, sung their sweet trills, saluted the dawn, and flew away, leaving only the serene silence behind. The nature slowly took back everything that belonged to it, entangling the rough stone with soft stems of grass, finding its way with the roots between the broken, almost human ribs. There was a distant ship whistle—a statement of life.
Vincent Edgeworth was calm.