Remember when I said 150 at the least? I'm starting to think 200 isn't gonna cut it either...
SuperSaiyajin4Vegeta, thanks for leaving me a review! I'll take 'ominous' as a compliment :D
Mikasa-Chan, welcome back and thank you for your review! This has kinda become a 'Jellal character development story' but oh well :D
Hope you enjoy! Always appreciate feedback, especially on my non-specialities like this arc and excitement and adventure and pretty much everything that isn't fluff.
The first thing he became aware of was darkness. Darkness and… perfume?
There was a cloth around his eyes, one over his mouth, and his legs as well as arms did not feel as if he would be all that free to move them around. The air was cool, the faint smell of concrete hinting at a cellar or souterrain. Light filtered in from the side, indicating a window or a lamp – just what time was it?
All of these impressions were things he would most definitely register under normal circumstances, but right now… right now, he was being held hostage. A shudder went down his spine, and he did not dare so much as swallow lest he alert someone – anyone – to pay attention to him. For all he knew, he might not have been alone and could very soon be very dead if he breathed any louder than his current mild-panicked rasping.
Hostage. Tied up, blindfolded, gagged, the whole shebang. He had heard plenty of stories, retellings, real happenings and exaggerated tales, yet nothing compared to the actual situation he currently found himself in. He was not bound tightly or in a particularly discomfortable way, tortured, questioned, beaten; anything justifying his surge of fear that coursed through his veins in white-hot panic while at the same time soaking his skin with cold sweat.
Still, Ambrose was terrified.
'There were hostages' reports would say. 'There were rescued', 'the culprits were arrested', 'there were no injured among the victims', yet where was the mention of psychological scars? Of terror and anxieties and the possible heart attack he was expecting to deliver him any moment now; him and his poor frantically drumming heart.
He understood the boy too well now, suddenly afraid to learn what had traumatised the mute child enough to cling to a strange woman day and night. How he envied that possibility right now, almost wishing to trade places.
He blinked. Then he stopped. It was still pitch-black and he was still a hostage and he realised that he must have momentarily passed out due to sheer shock.
He tried to think of his wife – the way she would encourage him, kick his bony behind into sticking it out like a man (or woman; she would have fared so much better in his predicament than him). He tried to think of his son, imagine him disappointed at his old man for the cowardice and quite possibly wetted trousers – thank goodness he had not insisted on that late afternoon tea.
The heart attack was still a possibility though, and Ambrose started weighing his chances of the quick and painless – most of all panic-less – death he preferred. Heart attack? Stroke? Hyperventilation? The latter already threatened to ensue, his lungs burning up into his dried-out throat, ribcage aching more than his rear on the hard floor, yet he fancied suffocation of his own incapability of remaining calm to a bullet through his brains.
The thought struck him like a bolt of lightning, a quaking rushing through his body as searing as lava. What if they had guns?
The faintest of streaks of light to the side flickered, but it was the lack of oxygen in his brain rather than the dreaded weapon or tormentor. He winced when there was a crash. It was not inside the room he was in, at least it did not sound like it, but it had been there. There were no crashes in his head – only fear and fear galore. If he was not going to be killed today, perhaps it was time to quit this job that risked becoming a bloody hostage.
Another crash, then a thud. A thud against wood. The door? Was there a door?
Rustling sounded right next to Ambrose. He jumped, nearly out of his skin, his heart feeling as if actually having jumped right alongside him and up against his windpipe. There was someone right next to him.
The rustling continued, a male voice cursing sluggishly, somewhat sleepily, his steps crossing the room. Another few words came, this time from other people, other men, all in the same room. Ambrose remembered none of the information exchanged, everything gone the second the sonic waves faded. His senses were heightening while at the same time they seemed to wither and die out.
A creak of what must have been hinges announced the opening door, its handle banging into the wall as it was thrown open. The men shouted angrily. A lever clicked, and Ambrose knew it was going to be the death of him – whether from the sudden shot or the bullet did not matter. But the shot never came. The voices did, groaning, gasping. As if in pain, stunned or hit without so much as a step taken by the intruder. There was a light, bright enough to creep over the rim of the blindfold, weave through its fabric, not yet blinding but garish. Holy almost.
And then the voice. His voice.
"Pleiades!" More light flooded the room, at least three impacts against the opposite wall telling of the fallen foes' defeat. There was a wooden cracking noise, glass shattering, and a susurration appropriate for thick paper. No more groans followed, hardly a pressed breath; nothing but striding steps, muffled by what must have been a carpet.
Jellal bent down with a sigh of relief, detaching the gag, then the blindfold in two swift, painless motions. Unable to see anything but white for an instant, Ambrose blinked repeatedly. It did not look as if he was underground; rather in a deserted, sparsely furnished room with wallpaper-less concrete walls. There was a sofa, a table – now tumbled over, playing cards scattered alongside a bottle of whiskey – and the three men, knocked out and disarmed.
It was an odd feeling – the overwhelming relief, lingering fear with its tight, icy grasp around his aching lungs, all mixed with the numbness to reality while at the same time thrashing of impressions from all sides. Looking at Jellal – that face having fought battles by far more severe, seeming concerned yet not considerably fazed by anything other than his colleague's safety – was almost as much of a smack up the head as the entire rollercoaster of a night had been.
Ambrose realised just how many things were left out not only in reports, but narrations, too.
An account focused on the hero, but even they must have been afraid at some point. Helpless, yes, perhaps out of options for a while, but never this… mortally terrified. They never focused on the victims, on the lasting effects of agony and the strong urge to disgorge the contents of one's stomach – something Ambrose did not mention aloud, but was fairly proud not to have done yet.
To be sure, Jellal was proving to be by far humbler than he already appeared to be. He was collected, relaxed even, the frown creasing his brow nothing but worry for his co-worker, perhaps merely pondering as to how to deal with his freshly caught prey. Hardly a trace of adrenaline could have been pictured to be running through his veins. He was tilting his head at the unconscious men as if trying to solve a Rubik's Cube, rather than hosting any uncertainty whatsoever.
"They didn't injure you, did they?" He asked, a spark of anger glinting in his eyes as they darted from Ambrose to the men. He had to wait another minute for his friend to catch his breath.
"No," Ambrose finally managed, finding his voice, "not that I know of," he rubbed his freed wrists. "I must have passed out – fortunately," he coughed, "otherwise I might remember more than just now," he shook his head to overplay the overall quaking of his body. If Jellal noticed, he said nothing.
"That's a relief," he nodded. "I was afraid they'd ship you off somewhere harder to find," he conceded. "We're in the mansion – the same mansion we searched not 48 hours prior, so I ordered it to be combed through once more; this time with surveillance outside," he retold. Ambrose could hardly concentrate on such vital clues. Afraid, it rang in his head. Clearly, Jellal's 'afraid' and that of Ambrose did not quite match after all – at least not in every circumstance.
He would have been fascinated would he not still have tried to get his body to stop shaking like a leaf.
"How about we get out of here for now?" Jellal proposed. Having noticed his colleague's ongoing distress, he went to offer his support. Feeling like an old, frail man in need of assistance was nothing in comparison to the downright anguish Ambrose felt to be abating only slowly, so he accepted gratefully.
"I would appreciate something to drink – and a bathroom," Ambrose said, not yet stable enough to curse his light stutter. Standing face to face with murderers, convicting delinquents from an arm's length, seeing the mighty Titania slice granite in half like a loaf of cheese – all that was not even a fraction of the real world of crime, he concluded.
But this man – this young, tormented man; the one whose hands had shook and whose voice had quivered with shame, embarrassment and fright of something as natural as becoming a father – this man now stood tall, almost unaffected with his life on the line and his only means of defence residing within himself.
How was this the same person failing to inspire confidence in himself?
"Of course," Jellal reassured. "This is quite the convenient place of capture for all necessities – tea or water?" He gave a smile, leading them out the door and into a long hallway.
"I think I'll have some of what they were having," Ambrose pointed a thumb over his shoulder without turning. Never turning, he told himself, too haunted by what he had not even been able to catch proper glimpses of. Jellal affirmed, then remained quiet for a heartbeat.
He hesitated before speaking up.
"I sent out the Rune Knights – I'm sure they already found your wife and son," he tried to soothe.
"Oh," Ambrose finally dared to swallow. His mouth was painfully dry, and his throat still scratched as if claws had descended down his windpipe.
"I think it would be best to get back to the mansion now – after the bathroom and water," Jellal spoke as if treading on ice. "We'll eat something and take the day off – Jura already knows; it's fine. Erza's home to stand guard while I come back here to look for your family," he promised. "I'll find them if the Runes Knights haven't already-"
"You really don't have to," Ambrose interrupted.
"They're priority, don't worry; we can't have you return to an empty house, so we'll search until-"
"Jellal, my boy, my wife and son are both deceased," Ambrose cut in. He could not yet think clearly enough to phrase it any more gently, and he did not notice at that moment anyway.
Jellal stopped short. Eyes wide, he stared blankly for a moment. Sympathy welled up in his previously piercingly determined gaze.
"I'm so sorry," he breathed. Ambrose shook his head. More than glad that his body did not quake and falter alongside the motion, he took his last steps out of the mansion on his own, Jellal close by his side, if a step behind. The mansion's safely sounded even more appealing than a bathroom or any liquor in the world.
"Don't look at me like that – it's been years; there's no harm in mentioning them," Ambrose appeased.
They got into the carriage waiting out on the street, and Jellal dismissed the Rune Knight's investigation, having a few of them stationed to keep anyone from re-entering or exiting the building again. It was still pitch-black, the night not yet drawing to a close but edging its way towards sunrise.
The ride back to the mansion was quiet, though increasingly serene as Ambrose had some time to collect himself and digest his shock. He doubted it would leave him entirely any time soon, but he was more than glad to be staying with two very capable warriors instead or returning to his own, long-empty house.
"An hour at the most," Erza said. She looked terribly unhappy. Jellal nodded in understanding, not least pity.
"I'll be back sooner than you, though that depends on how quickly I find it – I think I dropped my notes somewhere in the office of the villa," he retold. "He'll be fine," he then insisted, closing the door to his office behind them.
Inside on the couch remained the boy – unable to leave during the day due to policies – a stuffed animal in his arms that they had brought from his bedroom. Tears had sprung to his eyes when Erza had announced that she had to leave, if for a short time. Jellal needing his notes to continue working did not help either, not the child's calm, nor Erza's.
"It'll be alright," Jellal wound his arm around her waist as they walked down the corridor. "We'll hurry, and this is still the Magic Council. Plus, without a guard posted, no one will suspect him to be deserted," he reassured in hushed tones. Tugging her closer, he kept from giving a kiss when his nose urged him to snuffle. "But I can tell one of the guards downstairs to come and watch the door if it'll make you feel better," he proposed. She shook her head, heaving a sigh.
"No, you're right," she said, just as quietly, "let's just be quick." They continued down the hall, turning a corner, then another until reaching the first flight of stairs.
With their staps fading, however, a figure crept out from a narrow side corridor.
On silent feet, he snuck to the office door. It opened without any resistance whatsoever. A small smile of triumph at the easy entrance edged onto the inspector's lips, fading the second he entered the room. The lock clicked behind him, and he continued to move silently, as if from shadow to shadow despite the high windows and the midday sun streaking the room in golden rays.
His face showed nothing but unyielding darkness.
The walk up to the gateway between the walls of shelves was a short one. The boy was already cowering behind the armrest of the sofa, not daring to peek while his feet unfortunately betrayed him to the inspector. The latter made quick work of announcing his presence, as well as his knowledge of the hiding target, towering over the boy who in response whimpered in fear. He was holding a pillow over his head, as if to shield himself from an attack.
Glancing out the window from the corner of his eye, the inspector detected two dots on their way to descend the massive mountain the Council's building was perched on. His gaze wandered back to the boy, agonisingly slowly, drilling down, almost through the downs and fabric of the pillow. With a forceful swipe, he grabbed it.
Shrieking, the boy held his head. There was a noise outside the office – a researcher, he assumed – so he waited, harked, until any disturbance had disappeared. Looking at the shaking child, he almost seemed pensive, contemplating his options. Outside the window, there was no one to be seen – nothing but a pair of pigeons enduring the chilly breeze.
His blue eyes turned cold, icier than any blizzard as he firmly took the pillow in both hands. Plunging down, he pressed the pillow to the child's face. The scream was muffled, but continued, frantic flailing of arms and legs futile when the inspector pushed down his weapon of choice, saving him the evidence of clawing hands around the little neck.
He released the pressure abruptly when his body froze. The temperature remained the same, but somehow, his muscles, nerves, bones – nothing obeyed. It was as if his body was pulled on, the centre of gravity right at his own core. A pulse shuddered through his body, and he felt as if momentarily ripped from the earth's surface as control returned to him.
Stumbling back, the inspector gasped. The boy had stopped screaming, panting now, huddled as closely into the corner as he could, tears gushing from his eyes. Before either was able to comprehend even a fraction of what had just happened, the floor shook.
The floorboards wobbled, and out came two branches, forged from the same wood, coming alive, growing quickly. They unforgivingly wrapped around each wrist of the inspector, effectively trapping him to the spot. He stared on, breathless.
"That's quite enough," a voice came from atop the balcony. Throwing his head back, the inspector was greeted with four faces – the currently reigning Four Gods of Ishgar.
"If nothing else, this proved as sufficient evidence for attempted murder," Wolfheim agreed. Vampire Magic, it dawned on their captive – something scarcely anybody had ever witnessed. Feeling it take over the own nervous system, almost the mind itself was bone-chilling at the memory alone.
"You heard it," Jura raised a small device up between his fellow Council members. Titania's name was written on the screen, the call ongoing. Not the split of a second later, the door flew open.
She had not yet rounded the shelves completely when the boy sprang to his feet. Scrambling more than walking, he hasted into her arms. Falling to her knees, pressing him to her torso where she remained upright, Erza wrapped her arms around him protectively.
The Council leisurely made its way down the stairs. Jellal entered behind his wife, and Ambrose, remaining further behind, caught sight of the two decoy guards returning to their posts in front of the entrance.
Snuffing rather than huffing, the inspector glared at his primary enemy with the branded face – the one having forged their trickery and lured him into a false sense of security of being unobserved.
"I was wondering about that runny nose of yours," Jellal said, positioning himself in front of his wife and her protégé. "The way you were affected by the dust at the scene of the crime when not even my dust-allergic colleague was in need of a handkerchief – it took me a while to find out where you would get a cold in spring, until I saw my dispersed tissues that I distinctly remembered to have dropped right above my concept notes," he clicked his tongue.
The inspector's eyes narrowed, the wiggle of his nose a means of suppressing the approaching sniffle.
He nearly recoiled out of his inescapable shackles when Erza's menacing glare cut straight through him like a spear plunged, then twisted in his throbbing heart. She was livid. Not just with him, but the Council, too, Jellal knew. How they had dared to let it come as far as the poor child actually coming to harm. But they had needed the evidence, she knew that. Had they stopped too early, they might have never gotten another chance with their cover blown.
"I'm sure you heard me talk about my missing research notes, and I presume you know as well as I that I will never find them where I dropped them," Jellal stepped forward. The inspector did not move a muscle despite his ability to do so apart from his wrists, binding him to the spot.
His eyes were all that followed, rolling from front to side as Jellal took the liberty of reaching for the man's coat.
"Curiously enough, I saw them disappear right in here," he gingerly dove into the coat's inner pocket, lifting out a small, battered notebook with two fingers. "And would you look at that," he patted the cover, letting it sink. "To be frank, I was convinced it was you from the very beginning – stealing my annotations was only adding to my suspicion.
"I saw you take them, and we all saw you intimidate the sole witness to the case the other day. You knew your way around the villa and did everything in your power to most conveniently distract off facts and solid evidence.
"You made several mistakes along the way – most of which cannot ever be proven, I predict," the last words made the man's eyes spark up, but Jellal continued regardless. "It was just as much of a pain to go through the lord of the family's documents, where nothing seemed to add up. However, quite literally, our calculations did not add up. In other words: bank fraud," he accused. "Millions of Jewels schemed out of the bank's assets. All of a sudden, there was a new suspect, someone committing the single most dire mistake he could have," Jellal drew a breath.
Holding it, the tension in the room was almost tangible. No snuffle, no cough and no respiration interrupted for even a heartbeat.
Planting his feet right in front of the inspector, Jellal's eyes darkened balefully.
"He made the mistake of going after my friends," he growled, "declaring war while at the same time checkmating himself." The room remained quiet, any shred of hope from the captive's eyes gone where it had flickered at the change of target. But Jellal's wrath was unmistakably placed where mistrust had lingered from the very beginning.
Folding his hands behind his back, he in- and exhaled sharply as not to punch the man into oblivion or have an asteroid sear his scalp off his skull. Taking a step back, he paced around the inspector.
"It was almost funny when the men hired to keep watch over the hostage bore the same faces that had stared at me earlier on the servant applications of the house," he hit bull's eye when the inspector gave a choking gasp. "Hired and well-paid by the head of the family – I'm sure the same applies for their current occupation," Jellal shot the man a glare from the side. "Another thing that helped us greatly was the smell of perfume in the house, so we had a couple of detection dogs come and look for the criminal's missing wife-"
"Mama!" The boy yelled. Digging his head out from Erza's chest, he turned, eyes huge, pleading at Jellal. "Where's Mama? Did you find her? Is she here?" He all but shouted. Jellal's eyes saddened, and Erza kept her embrace around the helplessly sobbing child.
Jellal sighed through his nose, nearly noiselessly.
"We haven't found her yet, but the traces were fresh, and the dogs are looking for her as we speak," he explained. "We will find her," he firmly stated, gaze hardening again. He turned when there was a thump. The inspector had slumped onto the floor, legs crossed, head hanging. His hands still kept within the vines, Warrod allowed them to sink into their owner's lap.
One hand pinching the bridge of his nose, he gritted his teeth as if cursing at himself.
The boy was still sobbing, holding on to Erza's arms around him, wiping his nose on the back of his hand while everyone's eyes remained on the suspect, one more spiteful than the other. When the inspector finally spoke up, his voice came as a sigh of defeat.
"She's fine; they brought her to the outskirts," he confessed. "To the west – you'll find the magic runes surrounding the area," he said.
"Mama…" the boy breathed, hiccupping with another sob. Erza tightened her arms, pressing her cheek to the side of his head.
"She's fine," she repeated mellowly for only him to hear.
"She knew too much, didn't she? About the bank fraud," Jellal went back to standing between the man and his wife. "And the servants were promised enough money to betray their mistress and the young lord," he deduced.
Instead of answering, the man raised his head. His eyes were not penetrating anymore, an odd mixture of confusion, dispersing fury and regret weaving through his gaze. The latter most of all.
"Alistair," he said, and they realised it was the boy's name. "I'm sorry," he admitted, "I'm sorry, please come here, come to Papa," he reached out his hand, the branch around it reluctantly glowing alongside the motion.
Erza's arms tightened protectively, and if gazes could kill, she would have already ripped the man to shreds from the inside out. Alistair stayed where he was. Not reacting on his father's wishes, he tugged on her sleeve.
"Where is Mama?" He asked, his voice a pitiful squeak. Eyes softening sympathetically, Erza shuffled him closer against her, turning him to face her so she could cup his face in her hands.
"We'll find her – we're going to find her today, I promise," she swore, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "I can detect magic," she said. His eyes lit up, and when nothing but a sob left his mouth, she nodded anyway. Picking him up, she balanced him on her hip, turning to leave. "I will find her for you, don't worry," she repeated. She looked back over her shoulder once before opening the door. "Jellal?"
"Right," he nodded, following. Both stopped when the man raised his voice again.
"Tell her I'm sorry," he asked, meeting Jellal's eyes. But they remained hard, and Jellal merely took one step back into the divided room to glare down at the perpetrator with coldness.
"Whatever she wants to hear and whether she will ever want to see you again is up to her. Your reign of terror ends here – you have no more authority over anyone," he huffed, then turned to leave.
Ambrose gave him a nod on the way out, and Jellal put a hand on his colleague's shoulder.
"Can I leave the rest to you?" He asked, knowing their evidence was not all too easy to grasp without the complex documents tied to it. Not to mention he wanted him to stay around the Council – those who were guaranteed to protect him should any more accomplices try their hand at another kidnapping.
Nodding once more, Ambrose consented. To both the resolution of the case as well as the defensive measures.
For now, the most important thing left to do was find Alistair's mother, and hopefully as unharmed as she was said to be.