When he first comes into the world, he is christened Barok. The name sounds weighty in his father's mouth and strangely lyrical in his mother's, the hard edges softened and blurred.
He is called many other things too: sweetheart, little one, darling. He is petted and cosseted and fawned over, always surrounded by warm hugs and soft murmurs and indulgent smiles as if the world bends around him. Maybe he's a bit spoiled, but this bothers no one because he is a sweet, good-tempered child who is as eager to love as to be loved, all wide-eyed curiosity and sunny smiles and small hands reaching out.
After all, he is a minor miracle, a surprise gift to a family already established, appearing long after any hopes of welcoming a new member had faded away. He basks in the attention like a cat stretching contentedly in the sun, and in exchange, he clutches tight to his mother when she reaches for him and devotes long hours to perfecting his manners and lessons to make his father proud and admires his gallant older brother with fervent, starry-eyed hero-worship as he trots along behind him on small legs and tries to keep up.
He doesn't mind the pet names, even as he grows old enough to outgrow them, but his favorite is when Klint gives in to pleading and doe eyes, pats him on the head just enough to muss his hair, and says, "Oh, alright. Come along then, little brother. I won't mind the company."
He is the little darling of the family and he is Klint's little brother, and these titles mean as much to him as his name ever does. They tell him his place in the world, and he is content with his role. They define him somehow. He knows who he is. He likes who he is, and he is happy.
This idyllic state of affairs continues until his parents die in the kind of accident that makes people in the streets look at him and Klint with dewy eyes full of pity and whisper about terrible tragedies behind their hands before returning to their business and promptly forgetting all about it.
It's the first crack in a happy, comfortable world. He feels everything starting to tilt off kilter, feels the rumble of the earth threatening to open up beneath his feet and swallow him, feels everything changing. It's the first time he feels true fear and true grief, and he knows that nothing will ever be the same.
He cries until he can't breathe some nights and sleepwalks through the days, drifting along like a silent shadow at the edges of everyone's periphery.
Klint finds him curled up in their parents' bed one night, swaddled in the blankets like a child even though he's nearly grown now and dripping silent tears while he tries to breathe past the tightness in his chest.
"It's going to be alright," Klint says as he hugs him tight, pulls him close. "You're alright."
It doesn't quite soothe him, but it's a start, and he closes his eyes and huddles into Klint and tries not to think about how his mother will never hold him like this again.
"How do you know?" he rasps. "They're gone. It's not going to– They won't– I can't–"
Can't breathe. The panic is closing around his chest like jaws again, and he has to stutter to a stop and suck at the air.
"I've got you," Klint says, tightening his grip. "You're still mine."
"…Yours?"
"You're my little brother." Klint smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "You don't really think I'd let anything happen to you? We still have each other."
This helps, a little. He still belongs to someone. Still belongs here. The earthquake beneath his feet grumbles to an uneasy halt, waiting. The pressure isn't gone, but there's a chance now that the world will right itself again.
He has lost something—someone—very precious, and with it, he has lost something of himself. But he is still Klint's brother, still has a home and family. Not everything is lost.
Everything still hurts, but he trusts Klint wholeheartedly. If Klint says they'll be fine, then they will be.
Still, Klint's smile looks a little sad too. His eyes look very tired.
Just because things will be fine doesn't mean they won't be hard.
So he knows that tomorrow morning he will put on a brave face just like Klint. He will rejoin the world of the living and face his responsibilities and be on his best behavior. If he needs to cry, he will do it in his own room at night with his fist shoved into his mouth so that no one hears. His brother will look after him, but Klint is only human too.
He will make this as easy on Klint as possible. And in a few weeks or months, when the ache isn't quite so sharp, he expects he will be the same person he was before. The world might have been knocked off its axis, but it is still turning. Even when everything seems dark now, he knows he will see colors again. He will smile and laugh and be happy.
As long as he has Klint, he knows he will be alright.
He chooses to study prosecuting because it is his brother's profession and he would follow Klint anywhere, but he loves it all the same. He's good at it. He has a sharp, nimble mind that notices inconsistencies, a knack for building airtight arguments, and an insatiable need to uncover the truth. It's important work, and it makes him feel important. He is going to help take criminals off the streets and make London a little bit safer. He will make sure that justice is upheld and the laws are followed, and ensure that everyone gets a fair trial while doing it.
When he graduates to become a qualified prosecutor, he can feel his eyes shining even though he tries to keep any childish excitement off his face.
"It's a big accomplishment," Gregson says, nodding his approval. "You've done well. And now you'll have to work with the likes of me and the lads all the time."
"I'm very proud of you," Klint says, smiling.
He stands between them, Klint's hand on his shoulder, Gregson leaning in close, and smiles. Even without the commemorative photograph, he thinks he will remember this moment forever.
He fingers his new badge and looks to the future with starry eyes, already dreaming of all the things he can accomplish with Klint guiding him and Gregson at his side. Everything seems so bright, and if he has a dream, it's that he hopes to one day make the world a better place. It's not a big dream, truly. He doesn't have illusions of his own grandeur. But if he can leave the world even just a little bit better than he found it, he thinks that will probably be enough.
His least favorite name…
His least favorite comes just after he finds Klint dead and bleeding across the floor, when the wild grief and panic have finally melted into a dull shock. He stands off to the side, watching with empty eyes as the police swarm Klint's body. He is still covered in his brother's blood, left over from his desperate efforts to wake Klint back up, and it burns through his clothing and down to his skin like acid. He can feel himself teetering on a precipice, half a step from the edge. The grief and pain lie in wait just below, and he knows he will drown in them the second he moves even a single muscle and disturbs this fragile, hollow calm.
"Sir?" one of the detectives says hesitantly. "Er, that is… Lord van Zieks? Could we ask you a few questions?"
It hits him with enough weight to make him stagger and list heavily against the wall. Lord van Zieks was his brother's title, and his father's before that. He doesn't want it. He would rather have them. It drives a sharp, splintering pain through his chest like a knife, cracking open his ribcage and slicing his heart straight through. He has never felt more alone than in this moment when his own name feels like something so alien and painful.
He is the lord of the manor now. The head of the family. Now that there's nothing left. He is no one's little darling anymore. No one's little brother. He could dance in the rubble and call himself a king, if he wanted. He is the lord of a cemetery, of an estate of ash and bones. He is the only one left, the last one standing, and he is the lord of nothing at all.
If it weren't for Genshin, he would have died not long after his brother, slain in the streets by a small, vicious gang of sword-wielding thugs. It's careless not to carry a blade on him. He has never been a special target of such attacks, but Klint had faced them from time to time when he got too close to convicting too dangerous a criminal.
He supposes he should be more grateful that Genshin is there to fend the men off, but it reminds him too much of how Klint was stabbed and left bleeding on the floor, and that thought steals all his attention.
"Are you alright?" Genshin asks, looking him up and down.
"Fine," he says absently.
Genshin frowns at him as if he doesn't like what he sees. "Come on, then. I'll see you home. Make sure you don't run into any more trouble."
"You don't have to."
"Klint would never forgive me if I let something happen to you."
"Well, Klint is dead," he says with a hint of bite, and the brittle sharpness of his tone takes him by surprise. "I don't suppose it matters what he thinks anymore."
Genshin sighs and prods him along, wary gaze sweeping across the shadowed mouths of alleys as they go. "It matters to me. He was my friend, so I still care what he would think. And you're my friend too, and I don't want anything to happen to you."
That's nice, he supposes. It's not enough, of course. A friend isn't the same as family, as an older brother always watching out for you, but it's something. He could probably use a friend right now. It's something to hold on to, something to remind him that he's not entirely alone. Maybe he will write to Albert too once he feels up to it. A friend doesn't sound so bad.
"Be careful," he says. "Klint was… It wasn't like the other attacks. It might be that he was getting too close to the truth and needed to be stopped. And you work with him. You could be a target too."
Genshin turns his head away, the shadows falling across his face. "I don't suppose I'm noble enough to attract that kind of attention."
"But if–"
"I'll be careful."
Of course, there is another very good reason why Genshin isn't concerned about becoming the Professor's next victim.
It seems too ludicrous to be true. When he first hears the news, he doesn't believe it, but there's just enough evidence to point the finger.
"It has to be a mistake," he says when he visits Genshin in prison, wild-eyed and feverish. His voice sounds too small to be his. "…Right? You couldn't have killed him."
Genshin closes his eyes and leans away from the bars. "…I am afraid that I have committed the unforgivable sin of taking another man's life."
He can feel the world squeezing in around him, a tin can crushed by a giant, invisible fist. He had thought it was the end of everything when Klint died, but new fault lines are opening up again. He had thought he'd lost everything, but maybe there had still been something else left to lose.
"You were his friend," he says. "You were my friend. How could you–? How…?"
Genshin grimaces, his face crumpling in a strange way, and mouths, "I'm sorry."
But sorry doesn't mean anything anymore.
"I trusted you."
He knows right then that he will go to the prosecutor heading this case and beg to take it over and win justice for his brother.
"Stay away from that one," Klint had warned not a few weeks before, his murky eyes following Stronghart across the room. "Ambitious men never care who they step on, and they always want something."
But Klint is gone, and his disapproval with him.
For the sake of vengeance and justice, he is willing to strike a bargain.
He and Klint had welcomed Genshin into their home with open arms. They had trusted him implicitly and called him friend. But underneath those confident smiles and polite manners had lain a monster waiting to be freed.
He sees now that a friend is not someone to be trusted. A friend is someone who wriggles their way in close with smiles and charm in order to get a better angle to drive their knife into your back. A friend is something dangerous. It's a viper in the grass, a hidden drip of poison. If you let someone in close, lay your sword aside and let them past your guard, then they are perfectly positioned to strike at their leisure.
He's had many friends before. He's been a friend to many people before. He doesn't want to think that someone like himself or Albert could be a ticking time bomb too. Maybe it's only that the Japanese themselves have something duplicitous inside them that predisposes them to treachery.
He wants to believe that, but he knows he will never pen that letter to Albert now. He is finished with friends.
And when he rains fire and brimstone down on Genshin in court and watches his one-time friend marched off to his execution, he knows that he will never be a friend to anyone again either.
It doesn't take long to pick up a new moniker. He throws himself into prosecuting because it's the only thing he has left. The only thing that keeps him busy enough to hold his thoughts at bay, although he'll learn how to drown them in wine soon enough. He can take criminals off the street and make them pay, win justice for other people who have had their families stolen away. It's the way he can feel closest to Klint—following in his brother's footsteps, picking up his legacy, carrying on where he left off.
When he loses his first trial, he becomes a new kind of vengeance entirely. This is a new kind of justice, and he doesn't like it.
The first defendant to escape his clutches winds up dead. This could be a coincidence, but so does the second. The third, the fourth, the fifth…
He has never killed anyone, but he feels like an ill omen. Somehow, he has become the avenging angel of London without even realizing it, bloody hands and all.
They call him the Reaper. They call him other things too: murderer, monster, vigilante. They call him cursed, haunted, inhuman. They can't decide whether he's murdering criminals in the streets or has somehow conscripted his brother's ghost into doing it for him.
He doesn't believe in ghosts, and he doesn't believe Klint would lower himself to going on a murder spree even if it were possible. Still… He does feel haunted, in so many ways. The ridiculous gossip in the papers is keeping Klint's name in the public eye. Keeping it alive. It makes him feel closer sometimes.
At first, the hissed insults and fevered speculation sting. He tries to fend them off, but they aren't going anywhere. After a while, they don't bother him the same way anymore. He learns how to block them out and carry on. One day, he will find the real Reaper and bring them to justice too. But in the meantime, he can be London's scarecrow.
He's not proud of it. This is an indignity Klint would never have stooped to in his quest to make London a safer place. If there were any family left to suffer the backlash of their name being dragged through the mud, it would be different.
But they are all gone now. He is the only one left, and he can bear the fear and suspicion and hatred. It doesn't bother him anymore. And if it ever does… Whenever he feels the blood on his hands, too sticky to wash away, and tastes it filling his mouth until he gags on it, he downs a bottle of wine until he can't tell the difference and drowns in that instead.
Eventually, he has a nervous breakdown and retires. Everything is too much, and he's not enough. Maybe he's not strong enough to do it forever.
He realizes almost immediately that it's a mistake. The shadow of the Reaper still follows him, the whispers and rumors and occasional opportunistic assassination attempt. It's not as if he can outrun that. The only difference is that he's no longer a prosecutor either, and that is such a core piece of himself, the only thing that has kept him going these past years, that the loss of it feels like a small death. He wonders if Klint would be disappointed in him for giving it up. He is disappointed in himself.
The next few years are a messy wash of grays, some mire of heady wine and bleak isolation that sucks him down into the murk. He tries his hand at a few things, searching for a new purpose, but nothing sticks. No matter how much it broke him down, he wants to go back to the courtroom.
He doesn't. He's clinging to some small, sickly hope that if he absents himself from court, the Reaper will cease its murderous rampage.
It occurs to him, eventually, that such a dedicated vigilante is unlikely to give up so easily. Perhaps the Reaper has only taken on a new name and face to continue its grisly work more quietly, lying low and slinking through the shadows to avoid attracting attention.
When he hears that a Nipponese lawyer is due to arrive in London, it seems as good an excuse as any to make his return to court. He is afraid he will drag the Reaper back with him, but… Maybe there is a chance that the Reaper can be caught.
Taking up his badge again is a double-edged sword. He has his purpose back, something to drag him out of his spineless, wine-soaked haze and give him a reason to get up in the morning. He's missed this, the late nights spent hunched over case files and the pitting of wits against the opposing counsel and the dazzling array of puzzles to solve and criminals to catch.
It's miserable too. He's not sleeping or eating or stopping to breathe, always on the move. His colleagues gossip and take little needle jabs at him when they think they can get away with it, and Stronghart's eyes follow him with cold satisfaction. McGilded dies in a fiery conflagration, the Reaper's grand return, and now the papers and streets are full of speculation and fear-mongering once more. The attacks pick up again, unsavory men looking to cheat the Reaper's curse by cutting off its figurehead's head.
He has always hated this part, the paranoia and mistrust and constant attacks from all sides. And yet… Strangely, it still feels like home, of a sort. Maybe he's missed the misery of it all. Maybe he likes that kick in the face, that punch to the gut. Maybe it makes him feel alive.
He looks across the courtroom at the wide-eyed Nipponese lamb stumbling his way through the cross-examination and seethes. He hates the man for being Nipponese and untrustworthy. He hates him more for somehow always being right in even the most outlandish circumstances. He hates him the most because his eyes shine with such integrity and honest determination that it doesn't seem like a lie even though it has to be.
He doesn't think about it too closely, but Naruhodo reminds him a little bit of another young lawyer he knew once a long time ago, all passion and optimism and innocence. He hates that too.
You had better be careful, my learned friend, he thinks, watching with cold eyes. I wonder how long it will take for your eyes to go dark too.
It does not take long for him to come to the conclusion that the Reaper cannot be a single entity. It is likely a small network of people. Particularly, people who have detailed knowledge of the targets and sufficient means to pull off the assassinations.
It's not until after the Windibank trial that he puts his finger on Gregson. The detective's odd behavior during the trial is enough to catch his eye and make him look closer. Perhaps Gregson really is just panicking over government secrets and Stronghart's orders, or maybe there's something else there.
The closer he looks, the worse it gets. He has worked closely with Gregson for a decade, has relied on him during investigations, had even once trusted him without reservation. And all this time…
It's bad news that such a prominent, highly respected detective could be involved. Worse, Gregson might be the mastermind, but he doubts the detective is doing his own dirty work. There must be subordinate agents. There is a good chance that many of these agents have close ties to the justice system. As far as he knows, the entire system could be corrupt. And if so, what has he been fighting for all these years? He has devoted so much of himself to this world of law and order, and perhaps the entire thing is crooked. Maybe he is fighting to uphold a broken system full of corruption, while they repay him by scapegoating him for their crimes.
He takes off his badge and leaves it on his desk.
It's already dark when he leaves the office and wanders through the shadowy streets, aimless and drifting. He doesn't know where he's going. He doesn't know where else to go.
Eventually, his feet carry him all the way to the Thames, and he stands on the bank of the great river for a long time, staring out at the glassy black water and imagining it closing over his head, as if the suffocating crush of water could explain the tightness in his lungs that makes it hard to breathe.
He is sick and tired of it all. He should never have come back.
He doesn't want to face Gregson. He doesn't think he can bear to go back to business as usual and pretend he doesn't know, and he isn't sure he has the heart to confront the inspector with his findings. And depending on how deep this conspiracy goes… He can't take on the entire London justice system by himself. It would be easier to walk away now, while he still can. He has left this all behind before—he could do it again.
But then… If he doesn't figure out how to catch the Reaper, who will? Everyone thinks he is the Reaper, and he has played the part so well for so long that he can't blame them. Aside from occasional halfhearted investigations, no one really looks elsewhere. If he leaves, Gregson and his conspirators will be free to find new ways of enacting their vigilante justice, and no one will suspect them. People will keep getting hurt.
He debates with himself until the first streaks of dawn begin appearing in the sky, and then trudges wearily back to the office. He picks up his badge—Klint's badge, really, because he swapped them after his brother's death to keep a piece of him close—and weighs it in his hand. He wonders what Klint would say, and looks to the portrait dominating the far wall.
Klint stares down at him regally. You have a sacred duty to uphold the law and protect London to the best of your ability. Can you really close your eyes and walk away and pretend not to know what's happening?
"I know," he sighs. "But does it always have to be so hard?"
The portrait has no answer this time, which sounds like a resounding yes. He pins the badge back to his coat and sits down at his desk again, scrubs a tired hand across his face, and picks up his pen.
"Barok!" Albert says when they meet in the shadowy depths of the prison, heavy iron bars standing between them. Fevered excitement lights his eyes, layering over the panic and worry and guilt. "It's so good to see you again! I mean, these aren't the– the best of circumstances, but still…"
This hits with the force of a sledgehammer. He has spent a decade learning how to let the names people call him slide right off, but somehow this is the one that sneaks in through a chink in his defenses and slides between his ribs like a knife.
Look at me, he wants to say. Do I look like the Barok you knew? Can't you see what's become of me?
He delivers his warning that he will be heading the prosecution, and Albert agrees and thanks him and says he understands.
Albert does not understand anything and is not prepared for the creature of claws and fangs he meets in court. Who could be? No one is prepared to meet the Reaper for the first time.
He is perhaps harsher on Albert than he needs to be, but he has a reputation to maintain, after all. And maybe he needs to see that hurt on his old friend's face. He needs to prove he isn't that boy Albert remembers anymore. He is someone else now. Something else.
Do you understand yet? he thinks. Do you see what everyone else sees? You should be able to see better than anyone else how I've warped and twisted into this nightmare. How far I've fallen. Look me in the eyes and call me your friend one more time.
These are uncharitable thoughts, and he knows it. He is still very fond of Albert, despite the years stretching between them. But it catches him off guard how much it hurts to collide with someone from his past. Someone who remembers when he was a happy, smiling, better version of himself. He feels exposed when Albert looks at him. It's better to leave the past buried, and he doesn't like being reminded of a time when he liked himself a good deal more. It only makes him feel more wretched now.
At the first possible moment after the acquittal, he whisks Albert away, accompanying him as far as Dover to ensure he makes it safely out of the country. He is not going to take chances while the Reaper is hunting.
"I really wish I could have stayed longer," Albert says. "There's still so much to see at the Great Exhibition! And it's been so long… We have so much to catch up on. You'll stay in touch this time, won't you? We're still friends, aren't we?"
After everything, this seems ludicrous. Ever the optimist, Albert.
Then again, he was too once. A long time ago. He hasn't been anyone's friend in ages, but he bites his tongue this time. With Albert leaving the country once more, maybe there's no more point in trying to educate him on all the things he missed.
"Have a safe journey," he says, noncommittal.
"It was good to see you, even given the circumstances. Goodbye, Barok."
He watches his old friend go, taking his rose-colored glasses with him.
Yes, he thinks. Goodbye.
The Barok Albert knew is, in fact, gone. Has been gone for a long time, dead and buried. Even such a close brush with resurrection feels uncomfortable, and he is glad to let the opportunity pass him by and sink back into the bleakly comfortable complacency of the present.
He is the Reaper of the Bailey now, or at least the figurehead fronting the real shadow. The Reaper is a murderer, after all, and it claimed all his past selves first.
He does not know what to do with an apprentice, much less one with no face or voice or memories.
"I have no need of an apprentice," he tells Stronghart, eyeing the mute subject of their discussion with distaste.
"Well, we must do something with him," Stronghart says. "And you have a great deal of work to do. Perhaps you could use an assistant."
"I don't need–"
"Or I suppose I could find another use for him."
This is delivered in a flat, offhand tone, but it gives him pause. As much as he respects Stronghart, he knows how the man likes his games and the types of prices he extracts for favors and the kinds of uses he finds for people. Ambitious men are too important to care about who they step on during their climb.
"…I suppose I could look after him until he finds a more permanent position," he says reluctantly, and doesn't miss the way Stronghart's eyes smile behind his courteously blank expression.
It's an inconvenience he can ill afford. He has important work to do and little time to waste on teaching some mysterious apprentice. Worse, he has no idea where to even begin. He has never mentored anyone before. No one has looked up to him as a teacher or guide, and it feels suffocating. He wonders if this is how Klint felt too, smothered under the weight of his younger brother's expectant gaze and helpless reliance. Maybe Klint didn't always know what to do either and just pretended he had all the answers. It helps a little to think that perhaps no one really knows what they're doing when they first start off.
Whatever the case, he possesses no talent for mentoring. He begins by sending his new apprentice on errands to keep him out of the way, and then by allowing him to fill out simple paperwork to keep him busy. Finally, he realizes he has been teaching his apprentice nothing at all and reluctantly lets him tag along on his current cases. He teaches him bits and pieces along the way before finally drawing up proper lessons and giving him access to old case files and letting him try his hand at building practice cases. If nothing else, his apprentice is sharp and clever and eager to please.
The shadow haunting his office keeps him always on edge. He does not trust his apprentice, and it is exhausting to share such close quarters with a potential threat. It has not taken him long to realize there is something wrong with his apprentice, and it's not his silence.
There is something too sly and Nipponese about the man's gestures and habits. Worse, he has an inkling that there is some connection between the two of them, winding tight. Perhaps something that Stronghart has seen that prompted him to make this arrangement in the first place. Some game with unclear rules.
He tries to block out his suspicions. He can't think about it too hard, or he isn't sure he'll be able to stand having his apprentice in his office anymore. He doesn't ask questions he doesn't want to know the answers to.
Still, he isn't entirely surprised when Kazuma Asogi reveals himself. He had sensed a snake in the grass.
It feels eerily familiar when they face each other through the vertical slant of prison bars, except this time he's the one with his back to the wall.
"You're going to pay for what you did to my father," Asogi snarls, once-blank eyes full of fire and brimstone. "And for everyone else you ever hurt. I'll make sure of it."
It's a fine piece of irony. A delicate symmetry spanning a decade.
He looks at the apprentice he has reluctantly cared for and thinks, bitterly, that he should have known better.
He intends to face the music alone. It is all finally catching up to him: the Reaper, Genshin's ghost, the ill will of London. He has made many enemies while putting criminals behind bars and quietly bearing the scapegoating of the city, and now after all his fighting and running and maneuvering, he is finally cornered. Well. He has always expected to meet a premature, messy end.
It's rubbing salt in the wound that he is going to be officially branded a murderer in a court of law before finally being put out of his misery. At least if an assassin had managed to do the job first, there would be no official conviction. But this is the path he has chosen, or perhaps the path he was forced into choosing, and he will hold his head high to the bitter end.
He turns Naruhodo away when the defense attorney comes asking to represent him. It's laughable. After everything, there is no good reason why Naruhodo should want to help him. And anyway, he doesn't need anyone's help. Certainly not that of some upstart Nipponese whelp.
That should be the end of it, but Naruhodo comes back, this time waving a picture like a talisman.
He leans in despite himself, swallowing hard at the sight of Klint and Gregson from happier times, neither murdered nor murderer as yet. He swallows harder at the sight of himself, young and carefree and happy, blissfully ignorant. It's been so long that he's almost forgotten what it was like back then. The photograph reminds him of a time when things were different. When he was different. It's a soul-deep ache that catches him off guard.
It's impossible to go back to those times. It feels insurmountable to even try trusting the way he once trusted. But he's dying anyway, sinking into this mire of paranoia and isolation with no way out even if he could somehow escape the gallows. What does he have left to lose?
Against his better judgment, he reluctantly, haltingly, asks Naruhodo for help.
He has seen the ironclad integrity and burning resolve to uncover the truth shining in Naruhodo's eyes. He's only seen eyes like that a few times before. It reminds him not a little of Klint—and of Genshin. He's always put his faith in eyes like that before, but it's still a dangerous game. Those eyes have been worn by the person he trusted more than anything, but also by the one who betrayed him the most terribly. Naruhodo could be trying to trick him the same way Genshin did. But maybe he's not.
I don't trust you, he thinks. Not really. But God help me, I want to.
After his trial—that awful, thrice-damned trial—he is left lost and unmoored, adrift in a world turned upside down where nothing makes sense anymore. Klint has gained a new name and face after all this time, but thinking of him as the Professor is too difficult. Too painful. How could Klint—Klint!—have fallen too?
It's possible that he will never truly understand what became of his brother, but in a way, he does. After all, was the Professor ever really so different from the Reaper? And he understands the Reaper on a very visceral level, even if he was wrong about all the details. When he had decided to follow in Klint's footsteps, this wasn't what he had meant.
Maybe it doesn't matter anymore. He has had his own title stripped from him. He thinks it should be satisfying to be acquitted. To finally shake off the Reaper's shadow, even if it might take the city time to come to terms with his innocence.
Somehow, it's not satisfying at all. Maybe it's only because he's still too shaken by all the revelations about Klint and Genshin and Stronghart to properly appreciate what this means for him yet. Maybe his grief and guilt are too deep and raw and weeping for him to feel anything else past them.
Or maybe it's that for all he has ever hated being crowned the Reaper's figurehead, at least he understood the role and knew what was expected of him. He had to reshape himself to play this part, cut off and banish all his leftover soft, idealistic, hopelessly naïve pieces and learn how to be hard and cold and unyielding instead. He has sacrificed too much and worn the mask too well, until it has molded tight to his body like a second skin and he doesn't remember where it ends and he begins. Maybe they are one and the same thing now.
He has already given up the boy he used to be and the lord he should have been. The Reaper replaced those things…but what will replace this? There's not much left of him anymore outside this bloody prison he's built himself. Nothing else to grasp on to. He has no other goals or dreams or aspirations, nothing else he wants to be. Maybe he is only a hollow shell now. A puppet with its strings cut.
When he thinks of dropping those shackles and seizing his freedom at long last, he finds himself standing at the edge of a cliff, looking down into an empty void, and his head spins with vertigo until he doesn't know which way is up or what is real. The truth is, he doesn't know who he is if he's not the Reaper. He's afraid to find out. Mostly, he is afraid that if he goes looking, he will find out that there is nothing left of him. He is afraid to look in the mirror and find no reflection staring back at him. He is afraid that maybe he is no one at all anymore.
He is striding through the streets in the direction of the manor when he hears an unwelcome voice shouting after him.
"Ah, Mr. Reaper! There you are! Where are you off to in such a hurry?"
He glances back to see Sholmes darting towards him from across the street, Iris and the Nipponese contingent in tow. For a moment, he considers making a run for it. But he knows from experience that Sholmes is liable to chase him down, so he drags to a stop and crosses his arms over his chest and glares. The capitulation is definitely not due to the fact that his niece is there as well and he has a hard time not looking at her, searching for his brother in her face.
"What do you want?" he asks.
"Maybe we shouldn't call him that anymore," Iris says, and he is glad of the opportunity to look at her directly for a moment and drink in the sight of her. "Now that he's been acquitted and all."
"Oh?" Sholmes muses, face drawn in uncommonly thoughtful lines. "Very well. To answer your question, I was just saying hello, Barok."
This strikes a discordant note, an anachronism out of place in these foggy London streets.
"No one calls me that anymore," he snaps. Except for Albert, he supposes, but he'll suffer it from him out of respect for a past friendship.
Sholmes's eyebrows rise. "A dreadful state of affairs for a man to have no friends or family to call him by his name."
This has no right to sting as much as it does.
"Well, seeing as you are neither, perhaps you could restrain yourself."
"Hm…" says Sholmes. "What would you prefer, then?"
"Perhaps you could just call him Lord van Zieks," Mikotoba's daughter suggests in a low voice, exchanging an uneasy look with Naruhodo. "That is… That's how everyone else addresses him, isn't it?"
"Oh?" Sholmes says, his gaze never wavering from the increasingly uncomfortable object of his attention. "And here I had the feeling that you never much liked the title. It was your brother's title too, wasn't it?"
This stark observation lands heavily.
He flinches back, hands curling into fists at his sides. He has never voiced any such feeling to anyone before. There is no way Sholmes could know. The worst thing about London's self-proclaimed great detective is that he somehow knows all the things he shouldn't.
"It's been a decade," he says tightly. "Plenty of time to get used to it."
"Have you?" Sholmes asks politely, eyes sharp.
In a way, he has. He's heard his name often enough to make it second nature. It doesn't sting every single time like it did a few years ago. But he's never really warmed to it either, and maybe the old wound has opened up again after Klint's bones were dug up and examined in the light of new truths. Everything about Klint feels very tender and raw again.
Even after all these years… Whenever he hears someone calling 'Lord van Zieks!' behind him, he still half expects them to be calling for his brother. But of course, when he turns around, Klint is never there.
"Obviously," he says.
Sholmes's eyebrows rise even further, two ungainly caterpillars preparing to take a leap of faith off his forehead and into the sky. "What would you prefer to be called, then?"
And truthfully, he can't come up with a single thing.
"I don't care," he says, turning on his heel and stalking away. He's had enough of this inquisition. "Why don't you stick with Reaper? It suits me better than anything else these days."
He hasn't decided yet whether he will retain his position at the Prosecutor's Office or resign in light of recent revelations. He knows from experience that if he leaves, he will regret it. But at the same time, he isn't sure he has the heart to stay. How can he go back to fighting for justice when he knows now what Klint has done? What he has done? He has made terrible mistakes, unjust mistakes, and no longer quite trusts himself.
But until such time as he decides, he goes back to the office and picks up a new case to occupy himself.
He is busy going through the files when Asogi saunters in like he owns the place.
"What are you doing here?" he asks.
Asogi positions himself before the desk and squares his shoulders. "I wanted to ask you for a favor."
This is ludicrous.
Why should I do anything for you, you treacherous little snake? he thinks. I don't owe you anything. Certainly not any 'favors'.
"What?" he asks instead.
"I've decided that I want to continue training to become a prosecutor. Would you consider continuing my apprenticeship?"
He nearly laughs, incredulous. "Why on earth would you want to continue working under me?"
Asogi sets his jaw. "You're the best prosecutor in London. And you're a good mentor. We've already worked together, so… It seems easiest to carry on, I suppose."
This time, he does scoff. He is under no illusions about the quality of his slipshod mentoring, and he doesn't care for clumsy flattery.
"You hate me," he says. "You don't think that will interfere with the quality of your apprenticeship? There are half a dozen other perfectly good prosecutors you could partner with, and I expect you would do better working with any of them. I suppose I could write you a recommendation, if that's what you need."
He feels like this is a very generous offer, all things considered, but Asogi doesn't look pleased.
His erstwhile apprentice sighs and considers his words for a long moment before saying, "Your negligence helped get my father killed, but my negligence nearly got you killed. So maybe we're even."
His nostrils flare, and he tamps down the urge to rise to his own defense. It's still too fresh and raw to think about the mistakes he made while prosecuting Genshin. But he won't make excuses because he knows that whatever else, he was wrong and careless and let his grief and anger get the best of him.
But that doesn't mean he owes the younger Asogi anything.
It would be beyond foolish to take you back after you already betrayed me. It would be foolish to ever trust you when I know you're waiting for an opportunity to stick a knife in my back. How stupid do you think I am? I was wrong about your father, but he wasn't an innocent—and neither are you.
He doesn't blame Asogi, exactly. He had reacted with the same blinding drive for vengeance when his own family was murdered, and he recognized the look in his one-time apprentice's eyes. Maybe they aren't so different. He understands Asogi's reaction, and because of that, he knows exactly how dangerous it would be to welcome him back.
Still, that fiery look is gone from Asogi's eyes now, little more than smoldering embers. Whatever is replacing it is not as easy to read.
Naruhodo is trustworthy, and he trusts you.
He sighs and thinks about the day he sent Genshin off to the executioner. He is a mediocre mentor at best, but if there is anything he could perhaps guide his apprentice through, it is fighting back those demons they share. It would be a shame if Asogi turned out like him.
He thinks of the night Genshin saved his life after Klint's death. Genshin supposedly still cared what Klint had thought, what he would have wanted.
He tries to think of what Genshin would have thought. Probably, the man would have wanted someone to take his son under their wing.
Does it matter what Genshin would have wanted?
He doesn't know. But when he thinks back to that night when Genshin jumped to his defense, he has to wonder.
Why bother? You must have known I would hate you.
Then again, he had sheltered Genshin's son long after he'd begun suspecting something was amiss, and he had smelled betrayal even then. Maybe he does understand, at least a little.
He selects a sheaf of papers from his desk and holds it out. "Review this. We're due for a briefing at the Yard in an hour."
Asogi lets out a breath and takes the report. "…Thank you."
He has already gone back to reading his other documents and pretends not to hear, but the knot in his chest loosens ever so slightly.
He is constructing a diorama of their latest crime scene when Naruhodo comes sniffing around the office with his judicial assistant in tow.
Oh!" Naruhodo says as if surprised to find the owner of the office in residence. "Good morning! We were, ah…"
He spares them a glance and then goes back to carefully dabbing blood spatter across the miniature walls, checking the pattern against the photograph of the scene. "He's at the Yard exchanging information with the detectives and undoubtedly gossiping with Miss Lestrade. I expect he'll be a while yet. I would suggest you return in the afternoon."
"What, Kazuma?"
He looks back up at the man incredulously. "No, Mr. Sholmes."
"Mr. Sholmes?" Naruhodo repeats with evident surprise. "But we just saw him at Baker Street!"
His assistant clears her throat delicately. "I think that was a demonstration of sarcasm, Mr. Naruhodo."
Naruhodo blinks owlishly at the both of them, the gears turning behind his eyes. "Oh, I see. I suppose that was a bit silly."
It's so easy to muddle the man that it's almost indecent to bother.
He goes back to his model, sighing. "You will have better luck catching Mr. Asogi here in the afternoon."
"I see. Thank you." There is a long, awkward pause before Naruhodo says, "And… How are you doing?"
"The afternoon, Mr. Naruhodo. You needn't waste your time on small talk with me. I know why you're here."
"Oh. Alright, then. If you don't mind."
"I don't."
Still, Naruhodo hesitates. "Since you're here, though… Just so you know, I'll be returning to Japan in a few days. So… I guess you won't have to see me in court anymore."
This does catch his attention. He isn't quite sure how he feels about this. Naruhodo has been a colossal thorn in his side for nearly a year now, and things will be easier without him always lurking about. Still…
"I shall be sorry to see you go," he says solemnly, and he means it.
Naruhodo looks thoroughly gobsmacked. "Will you?"
"You have rendered me a great service, and it has been a long time since I've faced a worthy opponent in the courtroom." He frowns at the blood spatter, decides he is satisfied, and moves on to painstakingly outlining the shape of the body on the floor. "Goodbye, Mr. Naruhodo, Miss Mikotoba."
Finally, after an awkward farewell, his visitors depart. At the last moment, he has a change of heart.
"Mr. Naruhodo, a word of warning."
Naruhodo pauses in the doorway and looks back apprehensively. "Er… Yes?"
He considers for a long moment, wondering whether it's worth it to break character now. "I was a lot like you once," he says finally. "Bitter, angry people rarely start out that way. Be careful. The world is not always as kind a place as we wish it to be. When you are always looking for the best in everyone, sometimes you miss the dark parts. When you are always trying to help, sometimes people ask too much of you, and when you are always trying to do the right thing, sometimes you sacrifice too much of yourself along the way. People will take advantage of that. When you try to change the world, it changes you too. I…hope that you will not lose yourself. It would be a shame. If you start losing pieces of yourself, you can't always get them back."
Naruhodo chews on his lip uncertainly. "I think…that lost things can be found again, if you go looking in the right places. And… I think that things can always get better."
"I used to think that too," he says, shrugging. "Broken things are never the same again, and sometimes lost things stay lost. No matter how resilient you are, you aren't invincible. I would be sorry to hear that you found that out the hard way."
Naruhodo is quiet for a long time. "I think that even if someone can't go back to being the same as they were before, they can still change for the better. As long as they don't give up on themselves."
"…Back when I was young and idealistic, I would have agreed with you." He returns to the model, dismissing his guests. "Goodbye," he says with finality. "And good luck."
Thankfully, they're already gone by the time he carelessly knocks his elbow into the diorama and sends half the walls crashing down. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Even minor setbacks seem overwhelming these days when he has his hands full just trying to hold himself together. This would be a silly thing to get worked up over.
He thinks about Naruhodo's earnest eyes and heartfelt words and lets his breath back out. He isn't sure yet if he believes those hopelessly idealistic sentiments, but God help him, he wants to.
He picks up the fallen pieces and slowly, carefully, begins to rebuild.
It takes a few weeks, but he does eventually go to tea with his niece. He promised he would, once he's not on the edge of falling apart at every little thing. And truthfully, he's not sure he could stay away. In all the empty spaces that have opened up inside him, a fierce longing is taking root. He wants to meet the niece he never had. He wants to get to know her. Maybe it's a mistake, but it's not as if he has anything else to hold on to.
He wasn't there for her in the way Klint was always there for him, and this is a sharp, guilty pang in his chest. Looking the other way when he knows better now would be a terrible way to repay his brother's tireless care. It would be a terrible waste not to take the opportunity to meet the only family he has left. It would be terrible not to try.
"I'm so glad you could make it, Mr. Barry!" Iris says.
He hesitates in the doorway, staring at her.
She bites her lip. "Is…? Is that alright? I like coming up with nicknames, and I thought you should have one too."
It feels very strange. It's uncomfortable. Something too soft and nearly friendly, something he would be embarrassed for anyone to hear.
But on the other hand, it's something different. Something new. It's no name he's ever had before, and maybe that's a good thing since he's none of those people anymore anyway. Maybe it's not so bad for Iris to call him something entirely different, without any lingering baggage attached. After all, he is very new to being an uncle, and maybe this new chapter of his life, this new role he is tentatively, secretly testing out, deserves a fresh start. He finds that he doesn't really mind.
"Yes," he says, looking away. "It's alright."
Exactly one week after he takes tea at Baker Street, he issues a return invitation. It might be selfish of him not to keep his distance, he might not be the kind of person a child ought to associate with, but… Somehow, he can't help himself.
Iris looks small and out of place in the manor, but he thinks she could belong there, given time.
Over the next few months, they issue invitations back and forth, first for tea and then dinner and then the occasional outing. Sholmes often accompanies them, those hawk eyes of his always watching while he smiles, but that's alright. They are learning to get along better too.
Iris is an amazing girl in so many ways. She has a good deal of her father in her. She has a good deal of her mother in her too, and a very great deal of Sholmes, although thankfully the better parts. And in some ways, she is entirely herself, nothing he recognizes from the people who came before.
Their acquaintanceship is tentative at first. They are a little unsure around each other. But Iris is sweet and cheerful and shines so bright, and he does his best to reach back when she tries to make friends with him. The first time he manages to smile back at her, she looks so delighted that he makes it a priority to practice smiling at the things she says until the unfamiliar, stretched expression feels more comfortable on his face. She presents him with a charm she has made of a tiny cat wearing his clothes, and he brings her flowers and small gifts in return. Whenever he is not barricaded in the office working on a case, he is thinking about what he should do with her next.
After several months of this, he visits Sholmes privately.
"I want to tell her," he says without preamble. "I… I know that's selfish, that maybe she would be happier not knowing, but… She's the only family I have left, Mr. Sholmes. If you really didn't want me involved with her, then you should never have told me the truth."
"Hm," says Sholmes, expression inscrutable. "I suppose you've been making friends with her lately. It seems like you're hanging around every weekend now."
"I thought… I know I wasn't in any fit state to be an uncle to her when you first told me, but I've gotten to know her as a friend, so maybe… If I've put in the work to start building a relationship with her already, then maybe it won't be so jarring when she finds out the truth."
Sholmes tilts his head in consideration. "Why do you want to tell her? Truly?"
"Because…" He swallows hard at the sudden pressure wrapping around his chest and squeezing his heart. "Because I…"
"Because you what?"
"Because I love her." He pauses, dazzled by this blinding revelation. He's put a name to that warm ache in his chest, and he rolls it around for a moment like he's tasting the unfamiliar emotion. "Because I want to be a part of her life. I like being her friend, but I think I would rather be her uncle."
He has fallen in love with her so fast and so hard. She is his little darling. His little niece. There was a time he was the little sweetheart to be doted on and cosseted and loved, but those days are long gone and maybe it is Iris's turn now. He finds that he doesn't mind the thought of changing roles to be the one doing the caring this time.
One corner of Sholmes's mouth quirks upward. "Would you like to tell her yourself, or would you like me to do it?"
"I…"
The prospect seems suddenly more daunting now that it is within reach. What if he makes a mistake? Says something wrong? What if–?
"Right," says Sholmes. "I'll do it. Give me a few days."
Two days pass. He waits with bated breath, feeling sick to his stomach with more anxiety than he knew he still possessed the ability to feel. He is afraid that he has reached too high, gotten too greedy, and ruined everything.
Then, finally, an invitation to tea is delivered to the manor in a small pink envelope. He wants to be sick.
He lingers outside the Baker Street flat for a long time before working up the courage to ring the bell. Iris opens the door immediately.
They stare at each other for a long minute, and he wonders if his face shows as much uncertainty and anxiety and hope as hers does. He opens his mouth but fails to find the words he needs to say.
Iris clears her throat. "Thank you for coming," she says softly. "I'm glad you could make it, Uncle Barry."
And this—this—is his favorite name. He has been many things in his life, but 'uncle' is a new one. Maybe he doesn't know who he is anymore, but he wants to be this. This somehow seems more important than all the selves who have gone before. If he's going to learn how to become someone new, to drag all his broken, aching pieces together one more time, then he's going to do it for her.
When she reaches out, he takes her hand and steps over the threshold into the brand new world beyond. The vertigo doesn't seem as disorienting when those small fingers are laced with his, and this time when he falls over the edge of that cliff into the great unknown and plummets towards the ground far below, he thinks back to a time before his wings were clipped and remembers how to fly.