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“How are you so sure Moriarty’s dead?” Casey Selmore murmurs, eyes distant. The window’s shut, the crowd has dispersed, and any triumph has faded. All she feels is utterly exhausted.
“Why, what do you mean? You leapt off the cliff together, and we only found you and his cape. Surely he would never leave that behind? No offence to you, of course, detective, but you likely only survived thanks to your mastery of water,” a confused nurse replies, hands busy checking bandages and replacing pillows.
And Casey would have believed the nurse. She would have verified it, of course, but it’s not too impossible to think that at the last moment, she had commanded the water to catch her, while that man had crashed into the pool at the bottom of the waterfall.
But she remembers a voice, achingly gentle, whispering into her ear that she’s won, that justice has persevered, that she can rest. She remembers a silhouette by a bonfire, and gentle hands laying a cape onto her body.
Her memory has never tricked her thus far.
“You said you found his cape?” she finally forces out, voice cracking slightly.
“Ah, yes! If you want, you can keep it as a trophy, although I can’t imagine why you’d want anything to do with-“
”I’ll take it.”
The nurse stares at her with wide eyes, blinking rapidly, before shrugging.
“Sure, I’ll have someone deliver it to you once you’re given the all clear. Can’t imagine what you’d do with it.”
“Thanks.”
Casey returns to staring out the window, wondering. Has that man already left? Or is he hiding still, biding his time to-
What would he even do? Damn it, why had he left the cape behind in the first place? Pity? A last shred of sympathy in his cold heart? He had told Casey that she won, that justice won, but what kind of justice is it when the mastermind still walks the earth, unshackled?
I’ll bring you to justice, Moriarty. I’ll make you understand and face consequences, even if I really do die doing it.
___
The cape is oddly soft, Casey notes. She’s not sure what she expected. After all, Moriarty was always so poised and elegant, it only made sense his clothes were of the best quality as well. Even so, the cape was so silky smooth Casey would have buried her face in it if not for who it used to belong to.
She folds the cape carefully, tucking in the edges until it’s a perfect square, at odds with the scattered papers and dirty clothes littering the rest of the room (Moriarty had always tutted at her disorganization, drily remarking that any room she had entered was akin to the disaster zone of a tornado). The black bundle is tucked into the depth of her closets, right above a broken quill, far fancier than her usual utensils, that she had thrown in anger (She had never truly seen the man angry, even when she drowned his paperwork and sat on his desk. Was he angry that day, when she saw through his plans?). Another one of his gifts, from when she had thought she found someone who understood her, understood that loneliness is all that came from standing at the top (He had told her her goal to fix everything wasn’t stupid, so why would he go and tear it all down-).
Part of her wishes that she hadn’t broken the quill. Another part of her screams to tear up the fabric of the cape, shred it, until she can cast it out of her memory.
She does neither, closing the door instead, burying those formerly cherished moments under piles of paperwork.
The door opens behind her, a blond girl poking her head in.
“Casey, why is there a bag of blood in the pantry?”
She startles slightly, jolted out of that blankness accompanied with thoughts of him. Betty stares at her, a confused frown on her face. Casey had almost forgotten about the automaton she picked up from the lab, so occupied with her mind. A wave of guilt rushes over her, as she realised she had completely forgotten to fill Betty in about, well, everything.
“It’s the evidence for a recent case. I’m running some experiments to check the congelation properties of blood in specific environments, but I hadn’t gotten around to it with everything that’s happened lately.”
“What’s happened lately?”
Right, an automaton who woke up two days ago wouldn’t know what’s been happening, even if she was an experiment of the criminals. Perhaps the only success, even if her name implies the existence of an “Alpha”.
“You know how you were made, right? I supposedly killed the head of the entire organization a while back, after a cross-country chase.”
Despite her young appearance, Betty is certainly sharp, and immediately catches the implications.
“Supposedly?” she questions, gingerly picking her way across the mess.
“I have reason to believe he’s not dead.” Casey leaves it at that, and desperately hopes that Betty was programmed with enough understanding of human interactions not to ask further.
“What reasons?” Apparently not.
Casey sighs, slumping.
“Just some memories. I’m working on it,” she answers evasively, ignoring the murmur of “You’ve won.” replaying in her head.
Betty opens her mouth again, but seems to think better of it on seeing Casey’s morose expression. Instead, she turns her attention to the floor.
“Goodness, Casey, are you living in a pigsty? An organized room is important for an organized mind!” Betty prattles, folding clothes and picking up books. Casey lets herself fade away once more, her mind unable to move past all the questions she has. She adds one more to the list: James Moriarty, where are you right now?
___
Casey had never planned on taking out the cape again. It was supposed to be a reminder, so Casey would never forget why she still fought.
And then, she falls asleep one night, and wakes up screaming, everyone she hadn’t saved playing like a broken record in her mind, and those glacial eyes staring at her-
“You’re a disappointment, Casey Selmore. I can’t believe I ever believed in you.”
No, no! She shouldn’t even care about what he says, or his opinion. He’s a villain. He killed a child, and all those policemen, and destroyed so much of Delica.
And, maybe deep, deep down, she knows that he wouldn’t say that. As cold as he is, he had still saved her at the end, and made sure she would be found.
But the chill still lingers in her bones, something logic can’t drive out, something that screams at her that she failed, and no one’s safe, and all she is is a stupid girl who doesn’t know what she’s doing.
She tries to keep her eyes closed for another hour, before the adrenaline in her veins and the pounding in her skull is just too much to take. She sits up, intending to perhaps check for new cases, or reread the news again. Then, her eyes fall on the closet. Earlier, she had shoved her outfit into it haphazardly, leaving the door half-open, at the perfect angle to see a black bundle of cloth in the corner.
Casey hesitates, but she moves towards the closet anyways, as if in a trance. Slowly, she picks up the cloth, running her hands over it again and again, imagining the man who once wore it proudly, imagining that little office that she had spent more time in than her own apartment.
She unfolds it carefully, wrapping it around her own shoulders. Moriarty is far taller than she is, and she practically drowns in the cape.
It’s like a hug, almost. Like that final battle, where she had thought they would say their goodbyes to the world together, where tears had fallen freely from her eyes even as she smiled, because it would all be worth it.
She wondered, then, if they would fly together too, to the afterlife. If they would be doomed to hell together, for the blood on his hands that she couldn’t clean, even with all her control over water.
She can still remember vividly, the way she tackled him off of that waterfall, the way he wrapped his arms around her and they flew, the way he had tucked his own cape over her shoulders. She clutches the cape all the tighter, because it’s the last thing, the only thing she still has left, even if she wishes she didn’t have anything because it would hurt less.
Because those moments had been real to her, and she thinks they had been real for him, too. It’s another one in a long list of reasons why she doesn’t understand James Moriarty, because if he cared, why had he thrown it all away? The word “inconsequential” repeats in her mind, a glowing blue eye in a mass of black and red, but she refuses to believe that’s it, because she had seen him pouring his all into those students, and the sparkle in his eyes when they debated philosophy, and she refused to believe that was all inconsequential. She refuses, even though she knows it’s entirely illogical and misplaced blind faith.
The cape flutters lightly, as she pads back to the bed, curling into a ball and muffling her head with black silk.
She sleeps soundly for the rest of the night. And eventually, it becomes a habit, wrapping herself in that black cloth on the worst nights, shutting off any logic, and only thinking about the warmth. In the day, she can obsess over his tracks, and study carefully each crime he’s committed, and curse him out for being so slippery. In the day, she can hate him for everything he’s done, everything he’ll still do if she doesn’t catch him.
But when the moon’s up, she can’t help but find the shadows more comforting.
___
She chases after him for three years, always a step too late to stop him. He doesn’t do anything particularly heinous, at least nothing she can find. He spends some time copying her, to her outrage. He does a good job of it, good enough that she wonders why he didn’t simply accompany her, next to her side or even in front of her, instead of orchestrating so much death.
She doesn’t want to think too much about it. Instead, she throws herself into talking to those he’s met, learning bits and pieces, trying to piece together the puzzle.
It starts with a little boy in a little town, between Delica and Yuta. He’s younger than the one that had laid dead at his feet that fateful night. She’s careful with the kid, gentling her words and with a piece of candy ready.
“Oh, that mister? Yeah, he gave us all candy, and found Aisha’s mother after she went poof,” the kid volunteers, sucking on a lollipop. Casey contemplates asking more, but the boy’s already running off, unconcerned about anything except for his next meal.
Why did you help them, when you killed the citizens in Delica? Casey isn’t sure she’ll ever find the answer, but she’s determined to finish gathering the pieces.
And on and on she travels, following his trail as carefully as she can, even when duties call her back occasionally and she takes detours to help people. She meets the workers under a now-dead noble, who curse their former boss openly and defend Moriarty, then known as Iago. She meets the children of that same noble, too young to understand, only knowing that Father never loved them and they’re so, so glad he’s gone. She meets a group of women working in a lively inn, given the funds to free themselves from a cruel brothel owner. One of them is branded, born as an illegitimate child to a family obsessed with Lumensis. Casey listens to their description of a saviour, and thinks about the line that’s been soaked in water and left until it’s a blur of ink on a page, utterly indecipherable.
She sees so much good, and she wonders why he hadn’t been able to find that same good when he wasn’t on the run.
At one point, two years into the journey, Casey holds the cape close and wonders if she’s had it for longer than he had ever worn it. She wonders why he could so easily leave it behind, yet she couldn’t bear to let go.
What is real? The James Moriarty who had nearly brought Delica to ruins, the Abraham van Helsing who had saved the Kingdom of Durman from ruin, or a few months later Machiavelli, fiercely supporting a queen just because he saw a burning spirit in her?
“People can have many sides, Casey. We’re human. No one’s truly good, or truly bad.” Even now, her grandfather’s words play loudly in her head, reminding her to always look closer.
But grandfather, at what point can a shade of grey no longer be rescued with white? And why does black stain so easily, while white is so easily stained?
Casey wonders, and wonders, and holds that fabric close like the shadows can answer her questions. Perhaps they can, but she just doesn’t know the right questions to ask.
She spends the last few months of the three years talking to the soldiers who had fought at Yuta, listening, thinking.
And then, a fire demon appears at Ceoren, and an auction is hosted at Lietherbelk. For the first time in a long while, Casey laughs until she cries, because she’s got you now, Moriarty, you can’t run this time.
“Betty! We’re going to Ceoren!” she calls out, shoving all manner of files into her suitcase, ignoring the questions Betty asks.
Right before she leaves, she pauses. And then, she retrieves a square of black cloth, somewhat worn, and tucks it into her bag carefully.
“You better not run this time.”
___
Ludger Cherish is the new star of Ceoren Academy. Casey runs into him during the festival, and is immediately on alert. The way he carries himself, that dry wit, and those cold blue eyes all form a familiar image in Casey’s head. And just like the genius contributions Moriarty had made to math as a whole back at Ordo Academy, now Ludger Cherish breaks conceptions about magic that have lasted for decades, if not longer. Source code, if it’s truly all it’s been described as, is revolutionary.
Casey does not scowl at how much the man has improved in the past years. She does not. She’s gotten far stronger too, of course, earning the Cerulean title, but she hasn’t come up with something that changed magic as they knew it.
She’ll never admit it, but a part of her aches when those eyes look through her, with no recognition. She wants to rage right there, scream his identity out loud for the world to hear, yell that he’s a villain who destroyed everything and then moved on like nothing’s wrong.
She wants to take him by the shoulders and shake until he makes sense, until the world stops flip-flopping every other day and taking everything she’s built with it.
But she can’t do any of those things, not without doing more harm than good to her relationship with Ceoren. So instead, she settles for teaming up with him to take out the newest organization, Black Dawn, and pushes down the hurt every time she doesn’t receive a response to her questions.
Even now, she doesn’t want to disappoint him. Even as she snaps at him, she wonders what he would say, if he saw everything she’s done these past few years. Would he be surprised, if he saw all that Casey has pieced together? Would he scoff, if he sees how Casey has tailed him for years, just to receive answers?
Maybe he wouldn’t react at all. Maybe he’s already expecting all of this. The thought is oddly comforting, knowing that someone out there sees Casey.
___
The new magic tower comes up with little pieces of paper that can induce a memory storm. It’s a little bit difficult, but Casey gets her hands on one, and enough mana from Moriarty to settle into her bed, cape wrapped around her shoulders, the strip of paper glowing bright blue. And then, she’s swimming through a rushing river of memories, that only part for her, gently guiding her to the spot where a branch rushes downhill, where it all starts.
It’s… disconcerting. Casey had gotten so used to that freezing gaze appearing in her memories, that she had almost forgotten about the gentle hands guiding students through problems, the mild panic when an experiment went wrong, and the affection.
Because Casey feels what he feels. She feels the care directed at that little boy called Arte, the pride when his students perform brilliantly, and the warmth directed at her. Oh, sure, there’s annoyance and frustration, especially that one memorable time she had kidnapped his documents in her water bubbles, and accidentally brought him along with them, leading to water everywhere and one soaked adult man. But she also feels the amusement at some of her antics, the joy at a particularly detailed debate on the morality of a new law, and the warmth that one time she overworked herself on a new case and fell asleep on his desk.
It’s too much. It’s not enough. Casey is just a viewer, an audience to this show, but she wishes she was tangible so she can ask him why. If he cared for her, for his students, then why did he betray them? What would suddenly push him to fall off that cliff of rationality, of good, until he had blood on his hands?
The water runs out, and Casey is thrown back into the real world, understanding even less than before. She goes to sleep muffling sobs, begging for answers from herself, from him, from the gods that orchestrated this entire tragedy. Before, when she felt herself caring too much, when she entertained terrible thoughts of reconciliation, she could at least force herself back to reality by reminding her mind that it was all a lie, that she was just a tool, a fool being manipulated.
Now she doesn’t even have that. All she has is the memory of so much love it feels like her heart will burst, a gentle warmth that burns as much as it heals.
Casey wants to drown the paper, and dump it into a river to never think about it again, so she can delude herself into thinking it was all a bad hallucination and those frosty eyes and hands stained by blood are the truth.
But that would mean she’s hiding from the truth. And as much as she may have done it unconsciously, she promised herself that she would never back down from the truth a decade ago. It’s not a promise she intends to break.
And so, Casey carefully plans, until the paper’s glowing blue again, and she has time on her hands. She runs into the professor a few more times, but can’t bear to look him in the eye, constantly wondering what she’s missed. He’s a little confused, Casey can still read that much, but the agony that night is a familiar visitor to her dreams and looking at the one who started it all leaves her shaking.
All she allows herself is that familiar black silk, pulled around her shoulders almost every night now. It’s perhaps the dreams of a child, but Casey feels safe buried in the fabric, almost like having the worst shadow on her back could drive away all else.
But she has nothing to do tonight, and no valid reason to delay rushing into that river again. The smooth fabric still tied around her shoulders, she reaches out a shaking hand, and activates the circle. The waves lap at her feet endlessly, but she finds the path again, the water gladly showing her the way.
It’s just as odd as it was a month ago. As the days count down and the kernels fall into the bottom of the sandglass, nothing changes in James Moriarty’s life. Casey’s bewildered, because how was he behind everything if he never communicates with any of them? A spark of hope that she had thought was fully stomped out that night revives itself once again, whispering in her ears. She tries to drown it out, but with every day that passes with nothing new, it gets louder and louder until it creates a burning bonfire of desperate hope, waiting to burn her to the ground.
A short few days before everything collapses, Casey watches as Arte collapses into the professor’s shirt sobbing, begging for the professor to find his sister. Casey looks on as the professor promises, and in turn asks the boy to promise to stay, to stick to the innkeeper.
Something inside of her twists. Or perhaps it’s something inside of Moriarty that’s screaming danger, warning, stop now? Casey can’t quite tell anymore. All she knows is that the pain is hers.
But she continues floating as a bystander as Moriarty talks to one of his allies, revealing a seemingly abandoned factory. She follows along, not quite fully present as he realizes Arte is gone, as he charges into the factory and sees-
A child’s dead body, so familiar to her, burned into her eyes the same way she now knows it was burned into his. Bruises and blood and “I’m sorry, professor” and “Will you save my sister?” as a man behind them charges with a pipe.
If Casey was there, perhaps there would have been a hurricane. She knows she can’t interact with the world, but her horror and despair and grief all intertwine with Moriarty’s until the pain is theirs to share, and she feels like a tsunami has risen inside of her heart, destroying everything she is.
But she is not there. Moriarty is, and black tendrils suck the life out of the soldiers, leaving gaping holes in their chests and blood staining the floor. In the center of it all, that little boy still lies, unbreathing, tranquil. And detached from it all, Casey watches Moriarty crumple, tears dripping onto a corpse and shoulders shaking, interspersed with broken pleas to “Wake up, Arte, teacher’s here.”
The Casey Selmore of that time enters, and now Casey watches the entire scene from a different perspective, feeling the cold hole opening inside of her, the despair and grief and self-hatred sucking everything in. How much of it is hers, and how much of it is Moriarty’s? Another question she’ll never get an answer to.
The rest of the viewing is a foggy haze, with only short moments registering, like the meeting in an abandoned warehouse and the letter sent to the old version of herself and the final fall, down that cliff, for both of them. An endless fall, it seems, until the grapple shoots through the air and she is deposited gently onto the ground, bittersweetness and affection choking Casey even as it soothes her spirit.
Casey wakes up the same way she did a month ago, trembling and gasping for breath. But a month ago, she had sobbed for a life that was gone. Now, all she can do is stare blankly into the distance, wondering if in the end, she had still failed everyone around her.
How can she call herself a great detective if she can’t even read the one person that had become so dear to her?
The cape had been so comforting yesterday, but now it feels almost as if it’s strangling her, trapping her into the shadows the same way she had trapped its owner three years ago, reminding both of them that they can never move on, that something in them was broken that night.
Except, he had taken the opportunity to rebuild himself, expanding his genius and sharpening his mind. All Casey had done was break, shatter, collapse into a thousand tiny pieces she doesn’t think she can make whole again.
I’m sorry.
But the one she should apologize to is far away, and all she has is a cape.
___
Ludger is a little concerned, honestly. Casey Selmore was one of his biggest opponents, knowing more about him than even the First Princess. But recently, especially during the trip to the capital, something had been off. Barbs didn’t land, suggestions were actually followed instead of being dismissed and used as fuel for her rage, and something odd, almost sad was in her eyes every time she looked at him.
He’s not sure what it means, but upon hearing that she’s sick and has been for a while, he frowns and decides to visit. Her assistant, Betty, shoves an armful of flowers at him, and he treads into the room carefully. It’s an absolute mess, and he sighs, resigned to having her ignore everything he said those years ago.
Casey looks quite uncomfortable. Ludger walks a bit closer, taking the cloth and basin of water left on the nightstand, and gently wiping off the sweat that had accumulated on her forehead. It’s almost reminiscent of those months spent bantering in his study. Once or twice, she had simply been so exhausted she dozed off halfway through a conversation, head thumping onto the desk. Looking at her now, Ludger can almost imagine they were back to those days at Ordo Academy, where he had looked forward to every new day and she had feared nothing in the world.
As he places the basin back onto the nightstand, Ludger can’t help but notice a piece of black fabric poking out from under the blanket. Blinking, he reaches out to tug at it, and exposes a familiar gold design on soft silk.
Why does she have this? Ludger frantically goes over his memories, trying to figure out when she had broken into his house. And then, he realizes. Wasn’t this cape the one he had laid over her all those years ago, next to the bonfire, both suffering from mana exhaustion?
She had kept it, all these years. Even slept with it, apparently. The thought does something a little funny to Ludger’s chest, not quite pain but not quite joy either. He reaches out to tug at it more, but Casey’s brows furrow, and she pulls it back.
“You can’t… take that. It’s his…” she murmurs, pulling weakly, tears slipping down her cheeks. Ludger can’t help but be surprised that she would hold on so desperately to something left by her worst enemy, the villain she had devoted years of her life to catching and bringing to justice.
“I’m sorry… So sorry… It’s because of me that you have to carry all this…” Ludger’s mouth opens, surprised by the apology and the admitted words. He doesn’t know how Casey found out, but she can’t be talking about anything else.
He could simply say that it was his choice, because it was. He’s the one who used her again and again, to fulfill his own goals. He left her with a betrayal and the expectations of a nation.
But would that really help?
He sighs. Thinks, ruminates over the words, and decides not to complicate matters.
“I forgive you, Detective. So don’t be so worried anymore, okay?”
She’s clearly unconscious still, but her brows lose their tension. Ludger carefully wipes her cheeks free of water, and a tiny little smile tugs at her lips, as she truly fades to sleep.
“Goodbye, Casey. I’ll see you later.” And with that final whisper, Ludger departs as quietly as he came, leaving behind nothing but a pot of red flowers.
It’s okay. This time, when Casey wakes up alone in her bed, she knows where to find him.