Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Robin wiped the blood off him alone in silence, tucked in the corner of the safe room. He focused  on the rag's motion, scrubbing hardened  grime and blood like mud stubbornly clinging to his skin. But his mind screamed and his thoughts stuck with the same rigor; That after a lifetime spent in constant dread of not belonging, he was now truly alone. 

There would never be answers from Griffin’s unspoken meanings, nor Victoire’s, quiet, hopeful sentiments. Ramy was dead. Ramy . The tears wouldn't come and the grief had grown so vast he had lost the will to express it.

A long moment after he had cleaned himself, he began scouring the room for any “help” Griffin had told him to find. The safe room, he recognized, was uncannily familiar but it took him a couple of opened drawers to realize why. The desk beneath the grated window, the cot tucked neatly in the corner, the double bookshelves on the opposite wall —was a precise match of the dormitories he occupied in Magpie lane. 

Griffin, it seemed, had tried to relive his college days. Robin pushed the thought away, afraid that once he entertained an idea of him, he would need to face the harsh reality. He moved mechanically, following only through his dead brother’s words without a thought. He unearthed coded names, addresses, and mostly cryptic messages but after storming a mess in the room, he found nothing of the supposed contacts which he assumed was a list of Hermes members or safe houses. 

It was only when a loud clatter  echoed in the room— he had hit a shelf and caused something to fall off— that he found it by accident. A lantern, and beneath it were words engraved in silver. 燎. Liáo. In Mandarin it could mean ‘to burn’ or ‘to illuminate’. And a smaller silver bar on top of it. Bēacen .

Robin raised a candle on the lamp. It flickered, then bursted into a foot long flame that danced wildly, waiting for something. He uttered the match-pair phrase but had no clue as to how it worked. He could only guess it was for delivering messages. He thought of the burn on his brother’s hand, his timely rescue. But Robin had no words left to compose. What was he supposed to deliver? He could not see anything beyond the future. No tomorrow could ever be as bright as yesterday— when he had his cohort to rely on, when Ramy still lived. He hugged the lantern, unable to push back his tears. Their deaths repeated in his mind.

“Go” Griffin had muttered, but he refused, stubborn to save someone for once. To snatch a life back he felt had been unfairly taken. But the blood blooming on Griffin’s shoulder pooled in defiance. The wound tried to knit itself closed, but the bullet kept it open, lodged deep enough to tear free. The silver didn’t work. 

“Someone’s coming.” Victoire had pulled him back. 

“Wuxing” he whispered in a shaking breath, gripping the silver bar as if to pray. “formless”  but something had gone wrong. He was too slow. Or maybe the sight of Griffin, bleeding—dying in the cold, grounded him. Stopped him from reaching the word. He only realized this when the three constables came running down the square; 

“Christ,” someone said, “It’s Sterling Jones.”

“There’s someone there” Someone pointed at them, gun raised. 

“Don't—They’re—”

Then, a thunder of gunfire.

 Victoire slumped next to Griffin. Robin felt sure he had been hit too, but his body had already been fading out of view, Immaterial and removed from the world, and everything felt like a dream. He doubled over, choking on a scream that gripped his throat. His agony was silent, his grief formless, and none could hear his cry. 

He couldn’t remember Griffin's face at the end, only the  muttered coordinates, the breathless, shaking urgency in his voice; Run . But he had not run, not until the constables stood over Griffin and jabbed a gun towards his skull. 

“Martyr,” Ramy had once said, “You always make yourself to be a martyr, as if sacrificing yourself would be enough to atone for your wrongs” 

But he hadn’t died, others had. Why? Why was it always him that was spared. It was unfair. A cruel joke played too many times. No one was left to laugh and silence became too much to bear.

In the coming days, Robin had remained still in the same small room, and waited just as he had before in the same hot, paralysing air of his humble squat in Canton. Suddenly, he was a child again. The same boy that hobbled over his mother, waiting for her eyes to open, waiting for her to stir awake. But they didn’t. No one did. And now, it was a race between the constables and the growing pain of hunger, and dehydration that would escort him to his release. 

He drifted between sleep and pain. The ringing on his ear had grown to follow a white pain of headaches. Sometimes he felt his head had become light as the air, his consciousness drifting like he stood at the very edge of a cliff. Then, he’d see Ramy. Over the wooden table, seated with his legs crossed,  peering down at him. 

Selfish, Ramy’s voice rang, You don't get to take the easy way out.  

Griffin would be scouring for letters in the drawers and cabinets. Victoire leaning on him. All of them were silent, Accusing. It was only when the door to the room barged open that Robin had fully realized he was awake, that he had not been dreaming. 

The constables forced him on his feet, the sudden movement rattling him with vertigo. They screamed orders at him, but didn’t wait for obedience. They dragged him out of Griffin’s hideout in cuffs, and tore the lantern out of his grasp. He barely recognized he had already been walking, that they had gone out of the woods already,  until one of the constables shoved him forward. 

“Move faster” They said, annoyed. 

By some cruel design or chance, their route had passed by the Old Library as if they meant to deliver a message; You failed, the silence seemed to say as they slowed down around its perimeter. But the effect had been the opposite. Robin had seen the gaping wound that exposed the library; the pale arm, half buried beneath the fallen bricks; A shoe buckle attached to a charred shin; The mass of hair, black, covered in dust. Blood, dried and matted on bricks and pages.

They hadn’t carted them to the morgue. Hadn’t even covered them. They’d left the dead where they’d fallen,, only stepping around them to excavate the library as if they were among the debris. Was this their own way of extracting revenge? No. They simply didn’t care.

Something in him stirred. A hot, heavy thing that filled the hollow of his grief. It burned and twisted, and grew. The constables shoved him forward. The ringing in his head increased in a crescendo. Then, he screamed, raw, guttural, inhuman. And it didn’t stop.

Robin lunged and threw all of his weight on the constable beside him. He brought down  his cuffed hands in a brutal arc, again and again, until something cracked, a wet final crunch as the face caved in. The others tried to grab him but Robin elbowed and pummeled them away . Now they saw what they always believed;  that  foreign men were simply barbarians, animals with no logic. But he had passed the point of caring. 

  The world has to break, He thought. Someone has to answer. Someone has to bleed.

Someone reached for a gun and fired,  the bullet slammed on his shoulder and pitched him sideways. The pain did not sink, but was enough to snap him out of stupor. Enough for him to see the mangled face beneath his feet.

Another shot was fired and he ran, swiping the dead man’s revolver and the beacon on his hands. Bullets grazed his torso and bit his left ear. But the pain paled in comparison to the wild thumping of his heart, the heat coiling in his veins. He ran past the trees, riverbanks, and into the silent narrow streets.

Pain seized him as he slumped over a wall. His shoulder burned and blood trickled down his arms. He felt around the wound and found a bullet lodged. Should he scoop it out? Robin searched through his memories, stories of adventures that seemed plausible in theory. There was no time to think.

He closed his eyes and scooped the bullet, a scream tearing out of his throat. More blood dribbled down. Cold sweat ran down his temples as he panted, saliva pooling at the corner of his mouth. His vision blurred and he clasped a hand onto his wound as if to tether himself from slipping. The pain pulsed,  but after the  last few days of drifting, of waiting for death, a purpose finally burned in his mind. 

“Operation divine fury” Griffin’s voice manifested.

 Robin glared on Babel as if it would topple over if he willed it enough.

“Babel is the crux. We’ve only got to seize it.”

Chapter Text

“What do you think of Shakespeare’s writing?” Robin muttered, eyes skimming through a paperback. 

It had been hours now since they had done their assigned readings and all of them unceremoniously settled in silence; Letty decided to sleep, insisting her focus needed a quality rest before she could resume her work; Victoire leafed through some French classic with enviable serenity; And Robin, unable to sit still, took a random book in one of the shelves.

“I have not read a single word from him, birdie.” Ramy raised a brow and continued, his voice dipping into a theatrical awe. “What was it again? Ah— yes, the “greatest” literary genius.” 

Robin hummed a reply, unable to focus on a single word or thought. He would have joined Letty to sleep,  but he felt that if he so much as closed his eyes, the whole night would slip away. Then, Ramy’s voice cut through the haze again,

“You’d make a good hamlet, though” 

Robin looked at him over the pages but he couldn’t meet his eyes. Ramy looked at him as if he were a piece of art, a literary piece to be translated, and he mused at every detail that he could see. He leaned closer to the table as if to attain a good view. The air, Robin felt, stilled and electrified, because how else would he describe a sudden tingle at the back of his neck? 

“Brooding. Handsome, and just enough existential crisis.” Ramy said, now looking him in the eye.

Victoire coughed and Letty stirred to her sides, mumbling in her dreams. The moment hung, no words could hold its weight. No silence could hold its fragility. Robin hoped to encapsulate this moment, and indeed, he would do so by reminiscing these memories often that it etched itself in his dreams. 

Robin cleared his throat, throwing his focus back on what he was supposed to read and caught a random passage. These Violent delights have violent ends. In most languages, the word violent had been loosely used interchangeably with intense ardor. Vehemens, in Latin could mean violent but also a word for passion. Robin found it ironic that such words could describe this delicate moment. 

He didn’t realize his eyes had almost lulled themselves to sleep until Victoire poked him on his shoulder.

“You’d want to stay awake, we don’t have much time.”

Robin awoke to darkness and  a sharp pain that burned on his shoulder. His hands flew instinctively on the makeshift bandage he’d fashioned from his ripped clothing. Soaked and warm, a sickly heat bloomed beneath his palm— he had done a terrible job. 

He pushed himself up from the cold stone, and leaned on the walls of the alley. Around him were posters bearing his face, a faded resemblance to his previous life, a life of decadence when he still wore his uniform with pride. No one found him. Though it had been a space where beggars and the wretched convene, he’d half expected someone to notice. It had been a gamble, a test of his conviction ,and the world answered. 

He must see through it.

He had no sense of time but the sky had long darkened, and the streets lay in silence. He sat, breath ragged, and reached for the Beacon. Unfolding a piece of paper and a pen in hand, he set out to write a message he should’ve done before. He still had no clear words but what he had now was a feeling, a steady thump against his ear that the pain on his shoulder couldn’t snuff out. And he translated this into a simple directive; A call to arms, and the promise of seizing the tower.

“Liáo,” He muttered. “ Burn”

There was no need for any candle; a tentative spark began, then a fire stretched over a foot tall, a crimson tongue lashed out against the dark night, casting his long shadows on the wall. Robin had no clue how it worked and he hoped the second match-pair was there to endure in effect. He tried several things; Poking a stick on the fire to produce a morse code of his message, reciting in front of it word for word, and finally, tossing the paper into its crimson jaw.

It responded with a sudden burst of flames, now towering over him as tendrils of fire  wrapped around the paper. It didn’t burn, instead, it endured. Robin watched in awe as it dimmed, and along with it— his message disappeared. If someone had read it, he didn’t care; The message was only a declaration, he’d already set his mind on this. Then, before the alley was submerged back to darkness, he saw their shadows, faces in brief seconds of light. A trick of the eyes, maybe, or madness had already crept up on him. 

Furor, he thought, could mean insanity or fury in Latin. And he knew then that it wasn’t hope that kept him running with a bleeding arm, not fear as he pummeled that constable in certain death.  It was rage, fury. And he’d deliver it.

Hours before the sun rose, Robin walked the silent King’s street to Magpie Lane, trying his best to keep himself in the shadows. He ruled out using the Tunnels after the incursion, he thought that Oxford policemen would surely guard the passage. But he was no Griffin and certainly not a seasoned Hermes operative; He’d stumbled on drunkards and bumped into several students along the way, though most of them only shot him an irritated look, one of the students roused suspicion with his bloodied arm. 

“Are you alright with that arm?” A tall student asked, eyes searching on Robin’s face. 

“Y-yes…I'm quite fine, thank you.” He said, trying to pass a confident smile though it must have looked like he was in pain because the student furrowed his brow in worry. Robin glanced around for an escape. The servant’s annex wasn’t far from here. He tightened his hold on the lantern. 

Robin fled before any more questions could arise, and if the student had somehow recognized him and alerted the constables, he’d simply hurry and run. But the student did none of the sort and instead, grabbed him by his arm. 

Robin flinched, his hand instinctively reached out for the revolver on his coat, but before he could draw it out the student’s worried expression made the smallest thing in him halt. And he shuddered, the thump in his ears silent, when did he resort to firing a gun as his first course of action?

“You really ought to get that look on,” The student said, studying the blood-soaked clothing on his shoulder. “Come on” 

Perplexed by his own thoughts and the unabashed insistence of the student, Robin let himself be dragged towards the servant’s annex. The establishment itself was no bigger compared to the college’s structures but inside was the most activity Robin had seen in any of the departments. This, he realized, was where the quieter gears of Babel turned. Servants flocked the corridors, hushed conversations slipping between the creak of wooden beams, and the faint smell of oil mixed with something tangibly sweet permeated the air.

“There’s a medic on duty. They’ll patch you up” His voice was steady, almost gentle, but his eyes didn’t waver on Robin’s shoulder. 

“I’m afraid of doctors.” The words felt silly as it left Robin’s mouth. 

The student eyed him, and Robin braced himself, expecting the boy to bolt out of the door and come back with constables on foot, but instead, his blue eyes softened and he nodded. Robin felt something in him break, how could someone be so trusting?

“Of course, then…I’ll go borrow some and we can patch you up.”

“Where?”

“At the back, there’s a space they reserved for storage. Don’t worry about anything, I’ll help you.” 

Robin didn’t know why he had followed But the pain in his shoulder had suddenly demanded his attention—No, in lack of better words, he admitted that he needed help, and he’ll take his chances with this one. When they reached a small room at the back of the annex, the student borrowed a sewing kit and began knitting Robin’s wound. 

“Don’t worry, I know the basics of dealing with a n open wound.” Said the student as he undid the wrapped bandage.

”You’re a surgeon?” Robin asked

”No, its just one of the interests I picked during my time here. This won't do, its infected! we’ll at least need to clean the wound after, and some medicine”

Robin didn’t reject the proposal. And in the following days, they fell into a routine; The Student dropped by occasionally to hand medical supplies and he would sit and planned his siege. He still had not asked his name, in fact, they had not spoken since their first encounter. Words felt heavy, too dangerous. And Robin preferred to be a stranger; to give names is to implicate each other.

One night, distant shouts echoed through the corridors above him, followed by hurried footsteps. When Robin inquired what it was, the student would tell him to focus on resting, but his eyes would sharpen along with the loud noises as if he was ready to bolt. 

“They’re looking for me aren’t they?” Asked Robin, searching the student’s face for an answer and his pale face and silent reply gave him enough clue; Yes, They knew he was here.

“Giving you to them would also include me.” the student said and they waited until the danger died out.

On another afternoon, Robin mustered enough courage to ask for alternate routes towards Babel and he would find the student later that day poring over a map, tracing routes and markings with a finger. For a brief moment during these discussions, their eyes would meet and Robin saw something flicker—fear? Hope? He couldn’t tell.

There were restless nights too, when the burden of what he planned on doing dawned upon him and the pain in his shoulder was too great to bear, he would have nightmares disguised  in his own memories. Most of them were Griffin, and the constable he had killed. 

“I never thought you had it in you, brother,” Griffin said. Then he would see the mangled corpse of the constable beneath him, and Professor Lovell. “It felt good, Admit it.” His brother’s voice hovered. He would wake up, retching but could not vomit anything from his empty stomach.

One night, the student asked him to wait and left before Robin could say anything. A small lantern lit the compact space filled by barrels, clothing and furnishings that had been either too broken for use or abandoned all together. The lively buzz of servants didn’t reach the room and only the occasional creak of footsteps on the upper floor broke the silence.

It all seemed too familiar and Robin had the urge to run. What is he doing?  Ramy and Victoire pressed on both his sides, waiting. In any moment, the door could open and Letty, gun in hand, would announce their death with gunfire. Robin closed his eyes, the ringing in his ears filling  the silence. 

Ramy’s voice cut through the ringing. “Let’s barricade the doors.” 

Then a gunshot. The door swung open. Robin reached for his gun and aimed. Except there was no letty, the shot only lived in his head, and the door beheld only the student’s figure. The boy jumped, raising a hand as the medical supplies dropped on the ground. 

“Easy,” He said. “I’m here to help.”

“But why? Why help me?” He asked, gripping the revolver. 

A pause and for a moment the student furrowed his brow before sighing. “I dont know…” 

The silence between them thickened and Robin finally realized what had bothered him about the student. It gnawed at him quietly. It was his posture, the gentle slope of his shoulders—No, it was the tentative but genuine light in his eyes. The familiarity made his stomach twist. 

He lowered the gun, the metal suddenly heavy on his hands. The student crouched, gathering the scattered supplies; gauze, cloth, and some tonics. 

The student worked in silence, his movements were full and deliberate. Robin watched as he wrapped the gauze around his shoulder, the blood had gone and the wound had practically been knit shut. The pain pulsed but he needed that, it reminded him that this short moment of peace would not hold for long, and that he would keep his promises of burning Babel down. 

“Thank you,” He muttered.

It was time to go.

Chapter Text

'Where are you going?’ The student asked.

Robin stared at him and for a long while, the answer was lost in his throat. But as he opened his mouth to breathe out the words, the answer came in surprise even to him. ‘Home. I'm going home.’ 

He didn’t know how he looked when he said it but the student frowned at him, the worry evident in the creasing of his brow ‘And where’s home?’

The fear in the student’s eyes made him recoil, it’s as if he were looking in a mirror. A lie. The person who lived two lives, the babbler, Lovell’s son  stared back at him. And Robin, who finally had chosen his answer, pushed him out of the door and shut it closed. 

 ‘Just go.’

He felt the boy linger a moment longer before he heard his feet shuffle and fizzle out in the distance. Robin clutched the lantern, casting one final glance at the small haven they made in that tiny room. Rami tapped his shoulder and for once—even in his delusions—he couldn’t make out his expression. 

He lit the lantern with a candle and threw it towards the stack of clothes. 

‘Burn’

—-

Black smoke billowed out across the broad street, blotting out the sun and casting an ominous shadow over Babel. Robin wove his way through the chaos as police and firemen rushed to the burning annex. He traced the path mapped out by the student, memory guiding him through the shadow of constables and civilians. Unseen, he managed to reach Radcliffe library and adjusted the black gown the student secured for him.It wasn’t the same as his previous uniform, but it would let him pass without a second glance. 

Robin breathed, feeling the gun in the gown’s inner pockets. The only power he’d need to execute this plan of his. And just as any other day, before Lovell's heart was exposed to the world, before the gunfire, the prison. He walked through the Babel’s door as if it were his first. The open field was empty, void of any police who would have rounded the perimeter. 

None noticed or batted an eye on him as he reached the lobby of the tower until he climbed over the table and fired his first shot towards the ceiling. The loud gunfire fell down like a raised voice demanding silence, and they obeyed. All eyes looked on him. Professor Playfair hurled himself on the railings, his eyes bulging in surprise. He felt his head spin as hundreds of faces turned up to him, the words he practiced stuck on his throat. 

“Robin? What on earth are you doing here?”

Robin ignored him, swallowed the last of his fears, and channeled the words his dead brother had cited in his maddened dreams. “There’s a war. Parliament is debating military action on Canton. They’re forcing opium on the Chinese at a gunpoint, and made a whole fiasco of diplomacy using my cohort’s voyage as their excuse.” 

A murmur rippled through the crowd, their impatience easing into confusion and curiosity. Their voices swam idly in Robin’s head, someone asked a question but he couldn’t register the words. He resumed his ultimatum, forcing his voice to sound passionate but all he mustered was to raise his volume. 

“The British empire does nothing with our help.” He shouted. “We write the bars that laid the foundation of their power. Their tools for domination. Their treaties. If we withdraw our help, the parliament can’t move on China.”

Someone voiced another question but it was Playfair’s voice that rose through the noise. “He’s Insane. He’s with the band of rioting thieves. Someone, summon the constables, he ought to be in prison.” He pointed at Robin with a dramatic finger. Does he see everything as a mere show? Robin looked at him coolly. 

“Tell me, Professor, what did they do to Anthony Ribben, Vimal Srinivisan, Ilse Dejima, and Cathy O’Nell.” He said each name with an increasing ferocity in his voice. The anger flickering once more in his throat, daring to burst. Playfair only looked at him. Robin didn’t wait for a reply and he found, his voice didn't belong to him anymore. “Killed. Killed because they worked and tried to stop it.” 

“Anthony Ribben died at sea.” Professor Craft said more so to convince herself than prove a fact. 

Robin stifled a small laugh. Griffin possessed him, his voice erupting in a cold melody in Robin’s throat. “Go up to Jericho, behind the old building and pass the bridge. See it for yourselves.”

“Then tell us what you did to Professor Richard Lovell.” Playfair’s voice boomed, trying to regain an upperhand. “What happened to—”

“I killed him.” The words slid smoothly on his tongue. He didn’t feel himself anymore. He had grown tired of this conversation, of everything. He could scream, rage, and try to make them understand. He could let the last of his fury fly, unhinge himself completely. And the idea of pulling the trigger— that had never felt more gratifying.  He swallowed the fantasy. Victoire looked at him amidst the sea of faces that stared at him. 

The crowd fell deathly silent, their eyes finally settling on the gun in his hand—shattering the illusion that this was mere hysteria, revealing something far more real.. He searched through the hundreds of faces and when he couldn’t find the one he wished to see, he continued. 

“He designed this war, our visit in Canton was a means for him to collect intelligence from the spies the empire had planted, He’s—”

“But that's ridiculous,” Professor Craft said. “That can’t be true—”

“There are papers proving his involvement. Others too, you can simply go about his office and you’ll know.” He lied, the papers had likely been confiscated and burned, but it didn’t matter, their faith in the empire was not fool proof as many would think. They believed him. He raised his voice a little louder before Playfair could retort. 

“We go on strike. No one will create, sell, or maintain silver bars. We will withdraw all of our services until Britain capitulates—and they will because we are the limbs of this Empire, they’d be nothing without us. They need us.” He looked at the students that crept towards the entrance. 

He raised the gun in his hand. “And I will not be rejected.” 

He squeezed the trigger, the shot came down in a loud echo. The student reaching for the door gripped his own hip and screamed, choking on his own pain as he slumped on the wall. The whole lobby followed with their own screams of panic. They started to shove each other, looking for a corner to hide themselves, others were not too keen on his message earlier and went for the door. He fired a couple more until the bloody examples were ingrained in their head. Playfair shouted something and another gunfire teared through the noise. Somehow, Professor Playfair found a gun.

Robin turned towards the Professor, now suppressed in the ground by Professor Chakravarti. 

“Received your message.” Professor Chakravarti said. “Very well done.”

The tower had been seized, he delivered his promise. He let the unwilling to leave the tower in peace and with them, the last of his mercy. Only few remained but Robin couldn't bother to know who, he could only guess that most of them were part of Hermes already. He had done it. What now? 

When one of the remaining students asked the question, he would reply with a rehearsed answer. “We do nothing.”

Much of it was true, after the tower had fallen into their hands. The determination that propelled Robin to this end had withered along with the exchange of gunfire. He expected more of it; A bloodied scene, a glorified duel, and perhaps—maybe, a proper confrontation to his last remaining “friend”. Except she wasn’t there, and no one was brave enough to fight.Robin did nothing and had shut himself in the fourth floor where the empty halls and rooms of literature became his personal territory. No one spoke to him, save for the few instances where they had to share the news from the outside. It was always the same article: The parliament had not yielded. And he stopped hoping. 

He laid on the floor, gazing at the literature that littered the shelves. His eyes would often brush past some works of Shakespeare, translated in several languages except his own. He would close his eyes, and oftentimes, hear Ramy’s voice. 

“Get up birdie, we have much to do. These texts won't translate themselves” 

And in some twisted hope he would reply, keeping his  eyes closed. 

“Just a minute more.” 

The Magdalen tower fell the next few days, shaking the earth as the bells rang in a loud crescendo as if it were screaming in agony. Robin watched the tower break from the tall windows of the literature halls. Maybe in another time, he would have relished in its destruction. It was not enough, he felt, there ought to be more than a mere tower to topple. 

The others had grown too weary and finally dared to approach his quarters. They demanded answers, and mostly anything they could do to distract themselves from the looming consequences. The letters and broadcasts offering amnesty had ceased, and they resorted to the most effective way of persuasion: Threatening them with soldiers that would march in front of the tower. The inky letters blotched out the entire paper as if to shout.

“What now?” They asked him, more afraid this time. 

Robin answered just as the idea came into his mind at that moment. “We retaliate.”

“What are you doing!” Professor Chakravati screamed.

A loud crash echoed across the eight floor as towering heaps of silver rods toppled. Robin struck one with another, breaking their rigid form into clatter of loud ringing metal. He paid the professors no heed, he let out all of his energy as he swatted the last of it. 

“Jesus Christ, Robin.” Professor Chakravati said. “What have you done?”

“This is how we force them into a decision, Professor.” He said, dropping the rod in his hand, panting. “I’m only accelerating the process.” He lied, he had no more hope that the parliament would bend nor listen. He just wanted to strike back as much as he could, to cause as much damage.

“You’ve only backed them into a corner.” Professor Craft said, her eyes still wide in horror. 

“It’s done.” Robin said, ending any further conversation as he strode away from the room. He could see the apprehension in their eyes, they backed away from him as he reached for the exit. 

Indeed, this was not much of a rebellion as it is a reckless tantrum. A personal vendetta that benefitted no one. Most of them had realized this and left the tower one by one. Some of them stayed, of course, they feared that they passed the point of no return and leaving would mean falling into the graves they dug. 

Ibrahim, in horrid acceptance of their fate or just genuine curiosity, approached him in one of rare moments he took up a space in the balcony. Ibrahim held a leatherbound book and as if picking up on the question when Robin caught the sight of a pen in his hand, he smiled weakly.

“Something to record what happened inside the tower. Someone ought to fight against the eventual alteration the archives would paint us.” He said. 

“What would you ask of me, then?” He said, staring over the darkened streets of Oxford. 

“Anything.” 

The two of them stood in silence, and Robin who tried to voice everything at once remained still. The words died in his tongue when he tried to articulate them. Where would he even begin? The Hermes? Or the fact this whole thing started the moment he killed Professor Lovell. No. It started way back. 

“I just…I miss home.”

The backlash came in the form of the British battalion, their guns glinting dangerously on the rising sun. They dotted the streets of Oxford in rigid, practiced lines. They did not move, stopping  before they could reach the Radcliffe Library. A commanding figure stood before them but, he too, remained on his post inquiring the citizens that greeted them in cheers. Their jeers were loud, distracting, and a noise that disrupted Robin’s mind. He found them annoying, as if all what they had done was a mere joke, a trivial prank. 

“Why aren't they moving?” One of the students asked him but he only shook his head.

At noon, another figure came forward. Blonde hair whisked through the dull colors of the army, waving a white flag that furled in the wind. Robin breathed, several  violent scenarios raced through his mind as he gripped the revolver on his side. One bullet remained. He watched as Letty approached Babel.

“Robin, there’s someone in—-”

“Let her in.” He commanded. 

He envisioned what he would do at this very moment. Shoot her. Bash her with the gun. Or simply pummel her to death just as he did to that guard. All of the ideas he had, no matter how the thought of her burned his veins with violence, vanished as Letty emerged from the door of the lobby.

She looked defeated; Her eyes had sunk deep into their sockets, her frame had gone more frail, and she hunched over, flinching at the slightest of sound and movement. Robin met her eyes and the only urge that overwhelmed him was to hug her. She was the only remaining proof that, yes, he once had friends he could call his family. And he hated it. How could he see Letty and still think of her as a friend? She killed them.  

“Hello, Letty." Robin said, unsure of what voice he would use. 

“Hello…” said Letty. “Thank you for letting me in.”

“Here to surrender?” He glanced at the white flag that now fell limp in her hand. 

“No,” She said, looking at the floor. “I’m here to negotiate, that’s all.”

For a moment, the two of them stood in silence. This arrangement felt wrong, they always stood in pairs—as a cohort. Victoire would stand near Letty, and Ramy with Robin. That was the shape of them.. He couldn’t imagine approaching Letty without the both of them, they were always the bridge. But now that they are gone, what was Letty to him now?

“Why?” Robin blurted, searching her face for an answer. 

Letty flinched . “I had to.” She croaked. “It’s  all I could have done. I-I couldn’t betray my country.”

“What’s this then?” Robin muttered but he wasn’t interested in any of her answers. He only watched as she went on to explain how the Empire  had enough and that they were planning to seize the tower. 

Robin looked at her frail form and wondered if this was all just a bad dream. He thought of his  early days in Oxford. The scent of biscuits, tea and paper. Sleepless nights they spent on readings. Their shrill laughter and the banters that would make Letty red in anger. Victoire mediating between. Ramy smiling. 

When she realized he wasn’t answering, nor anywhere listening. She stopped. 

“Oh, birdie.” Letty said, finally looking at him as she cupped his hands to hers. “I’m trying to save you, believe me. I’m your last chance to safety.”

He looked at her and saw how much it pained her to even look at him. He had so many questions. Why Ramy? Did she truly believe she was saving them? Why couldn’t she understand? But all these questions, all of his thoughts became too much. He couldn’t breathe. No words could describe what he wanted to say. 

He hugged her, surprising Letty who tentatively returned the gesture. 

“We can go back.” Letty said.

Robin couldn’t hear her. He saw Ramy, Victoire, and Griffin and the thousand memories that came with them. 

“Home? Well aside from the fact we were torn out from our land. I think the only thing I would call home is where you feel you could belong. ” Ramy said as he stood from the grass. 

“Do you feel at home?” Robin had asked, looking over the setting sun. 

Rammy ruffled Robin’s hair. His gaze set on the two girls that approached from a distance. “I belong here, with you. To all of you”

He saw his mother, reaching for him. She was smiling, beckoning him to come home. He thought of the stories, the brief moments of happiness in his mother’s face as he read his first book. 

“Robin, it hurts.” Letty squirmed at his embrace. 

Robin leaned his head over her shoulders. “Let’s go home.” 

He reached for the gun on his side and pressed its nozzle to the side of Letty’s head. The cold metal against her skull turned her squirms into a violent struggle. She clawed at his chest, punched him at his side but Robin remained still. 

“N-no!” Letty gasped. “Robin pleas—”

He squeezed the trigger, and for once, he didn’t hear how loud the gunfire was. He heard his mother, calling out to his name.