trace (vestiges)
The detention center is freezing. He does not know whether this is due to the fact that the February air is still crisper than the usual muggy LA air, or whether it is due to the fact that the air conditioning which bleats and whirs so loudly near the ceiling of the dark, dimly lit center is on full blast; or, perhaps this foreboding chill which is drowning out the ability to feel his fingertips comes from the fact that he can scarcely breathe, think, feel.
He is waiting. Larry yells at him about Phoenix almost dying, about Larry's career apparently going up in flames. He yells at Miles about anything and everything, clearly desperate to fill the silence which Miles himself cannot ease. Miles' thoughts are as far away from his ridiculous childhood friend as they can possibly be, though. All Miles can focus upon is the wait.
And the woman the wait shall bring.
When she does arrive, Miles finally feels once again. He feels a pit, so heavy he almost sinks to his knees, forming hard and jagged and unyielding in the bottom of his stomach. He feels it drag him downwards, its gravity forcing the air from his lungs, leaving the power in his limbs to fade away. He feels the imprints of Phoenix's badge carving into his palm, gripped so tightly that he cannot tell if the liquid pooling in his hand is skin or blood.
He feels loss.
This woman before him, seated across the glass with large, doe-like eyes that glitter with such earnestness that he cannot even fathom how the 'defendant' label has been affixed upon her, is beautiful. She is dressed in homely robes, the chastity of a priestess of the temple maintained to the utmost degree even in this wretched visitor's room; and yet, she wears these with an elegant, simple grace that makes them more splendid than Franziska's finest ensembles. Her straight, long black hair is thick and shining even underneath the fluorescent lights.
She does indeed look like the spitting image of Dahlia Hawthorne. Yet, there is something so utterly different about her demeanor. He finally understands what Phoenix had meant; something about this woman cannot be right, but she is certainly not the same monster Dahlia had been.
So… who is she?
As she waits for him to speak, her lips pout in a cherubic round that causes his heart to seize in shame. In response, Miles lifts his gaze from her eyes and onto his own reflection in the glass separating them. Miles is nothing like this petite, delicate woman.
Phoenix's eyes had shined in love. So this is what held his heart first.
His jaw clenches. He takes a deep, controlled breath. Then, he speaks.
There are no airs in his words. He is not here to play games- he simply needs her permission so that he may go up to Eagle Mountain. The search for Maya and Pearls needs aid and resources, and he will be damned if he does not investigate fully before the trial. So, he says his piece plain and true, holding up Phoenix's badge for her to see.
Her voice is musical. Sweetly, it filters through the air, shy and demure and anxious amidst his seemingly-cold taciturnity. She answers his questions without fail, explaining the situation and what she knows; whether or not he can believe her answers or not are a different story, however. After all, all of the talk about spiritual channeling is fine when he is listening to Maya rambling about waterfalls and whatnot, but Miles has never met anything that could possibly hint at the supernatural existing.
The closest thing to a spiritual or religious experience he can think of is the peace in Phoenix's face as he sleeps. Miles shall not share that thought. Looking at Iris, a small, petty part of him wants to, though.
Still, she talks and talks about routines at the temple which had led her to this predicament, responding to each of his queries without an ounce of hesitation; at least, until they appear. Dear gods, I do need sleep after all, he thinks blearily, watching the air crackle and burn as before his very eyes, the world itself seems to twist and crack apart until chains glitter in his vision. They appear around Iris, ethereal and ephemeral, yet painfully heavy and constricting, each thick link shimmering and yet so strangely transparent that it almost appears as if they are not-
Oh my lord, they're not real.
He blinks in awe at two giant red padlocks appearing to hang in the center of these chains, intricate gold trim and filigree shining horrifyingly with an almost effervescent shine, casting golden lights upon Iris' already-perfect complexion. The woman at the center of it all merely lifts her gaze, large eyes widening further as she notes his distinct shock and discomfort. Glancing down into his lap to avoid her stare, a strange laugh bubbles up and out of his throat as he almost cackles.
The jade Magatama which Phoenix had given him glows faintly in his shadowed lap. It glows, casting a sickly shadow onto his burgundy suit; however, as he lifts his eyes to examine those chains once more, he cannot help but groan in a mix of bitter shock and awe at the realization that the same green hue is cast from each metallic, see-through link as well.
This object allows people to read hearts, Phoenix had said. It does not seem real, but Iris does not react to the ebbing of gentle waves of cascading golden and crimson light coming from either side of her face.
He shakes his head. He can put it aside for now- the clock ticks, and his time runs short. He must do what he came here to do.
So, he mentions Phoenix. He cannot help it; Phoenix had been the one to ask for Miles' help in her defense, after all. Bringing the defense attorney's name into the picture would have been inevitable no matter what. The moment he does so, however, these strange, glowing, constricting vines which have trapped Iris' truths within her soul seem to dissipate, dissolving into naught but ash floating away on the wind. It is a strange sight, to be sure, but it is hardly what he is able to focus on.
How can he look at anything else when at the mere mention of Phoenix's name, Iris' face twists with such a gutting mix of regret and wallowing despair and adoration that Miles almost retches?
Sighing, Miles finally asks the question which has been haunting him since the moment Phoenix's eyes had lit up in that dusty hospital bed. "Do you know Wright?"
She is startled. Calmly, he explains his confusion alongside Phoenix's reactions. She merely responds by asking about their relationship, a troubled frown creasing thin, straight brows.
He is everything to me.
He wants to say this. He wants to stand up, to slam his hands on the counter before him and stare this woman down, declaring the truth. He wants to look her in the eyes and announce that Phoenix Wright is the very thing which has kept him going, the reason why he is the man he is today, the only one who could ever give Miles a reason to be better.
He cannot. In Iris' wide eyes is a mirror, a soul that bears so much resembling to Miles' own heart that he can no longer think. "…He is a very dear and indispensable friend."
She ponders on this. He does not know whether or not she believes him, but it does not matter; soon enough, she explains. It is hardly anything that makes sense, though.
Five years earlier, she had hurt Phoenix. Apparently, she had betrayed him.
Miles' skin crawls. Five years earlier had been the incident that had put Dahlia Hawthorne in prison. None of this make sense!
Still, the tears which well up in her eyes speak no lies. She is honest and genuine in her regret as she murmurs fervently, almost frantically, about how she wishes Phoenix had never had to suffer by seeing her again. She mutters about repenting in Hazakura Temple, her words growing more and more desperate as she begs Miles to understand without ever uttering a plea for help. Her voice grows weak, hoarse from biting back the sobs which cause the tears to roll down one cheek, a thin rivulet of her shame visible for the world to see.
Miles does not need to see more. He has heard these words pass his own lips. He has seen this grief cross his own face in the mirror, time and time again.
He had left Phoenix once, too. That year in Germany had been good for Miles' soul.
And just like Miles' first year in Germany after leaving Phoenix so cruelly, the scars from Iris' absence clearly still stain the patchwork covering Phoenix's heart.
Clearing his throat, Miles murmurs, "Well, if you ask me, Wright is still suffering. And until he learns the truth, I don't think he will ever be able to truly recover." The light admonishment, the gentle plea- they fall from his lips far too easily, the words which Frederik had provided him over and over again in his darkest moments coming to light without even a second thought as Iris' shoulders begin to shake, a true, unrelenting wave of shame clearly crashing into her as her entire face twists in grief from the weight of her confession. He speaks calmly and carefully, asking her to do only one thing.
"You should go to him. …Tell him the truth."
She looks away.
This is not a debate, though. Miles had seen the silent, yet almost manic grief which had peeked through Phoenix's normally-guarded walls, his defenses finally relaxed thanks to his sickness and delirium after the accident. He had seen Phoenix's heartache. It had been for but a few moments, but that had been enough.
He does not want Phoenix to ache anymore.
"I'll defend you," Miles murmurs, "but only if you agree to that one condition."
After what feels like a millennia, she relaxes, a determination that is almost intimidating filling her eyes.
And with just a few words, the deal is made. He shall get her acquitted. She shall speak to Phoenix.
And as Miles walks away, ready to head up Eagle Mountain to witness whatever catastrophe lays in wait, all he can do is fight back image after image of Phoenix holding a petite, lovely young woman in his arms, her body fitting into his better than Miles' ever could.