Work Text:
He has been in England for at least two months now. A man without a name or a face. He does have a face; it’s just that he must keep it hidden from everyone. He doesn’t have a name; whatever they chose to call him on the ships he traded labour for passage on was good enough until he reached British shores. He is allowed to speak to a select few individuals but that number is very limited. All in all he is a nameless, faceless, Japanese man on foreign shores, seemingly for the sole purpose of practicing law. It’s an odd situation, even he can admit.
“Does he at least have a name?”
The pale prosecutor had asked of Lord Stronghart when he’d first been presented to the man. Lord Stronghart had brushed the query aside and simply sent him off with his new mentor.
“What should I call you then?”
He’d shrugged for lack of a better option and watched his new mentor sigh in exasperation.
In the end he’d gone through a series of names since he couldn’t proffer one himself. Every morning they tried out a new one to see if that would suit. He’s been Christian, and Sebastian, Thomas, Ludwig, Pieter, Charles and Alexi. He hadn’t minded being Charles; it had felt like a good English name for a prosecutor.
“You don’t quite look like that name fits.”
He’d reached up and touched his mask just to check it was still there. Even his mentor hasn’t seen his face as per instructions from Lord Stronghart. Nevertheless they had carried on trying out various names and practicing law. His reports back to Lord Stronghart are anything but interesting but the Lord Chief Justice seems to scrutinise him nonetheless. He also seems fond of discussing what seem to be unrelated tangents from at least a decade ago but at least there’s nothing required there than to listen.
He’d been housed in a room in his mentor’s grand house in Grosvenor Square which, he had come to learn, was quite a prestigious locale. He’d been provided with everything that he required and his mentor had directed the servants to always knock on his door and wait for permission to enter so as to preserve his identity. He’d been extremely grateful for that because it meant that he didn’t have to constantly remain on edge, anticipating the need to grab his mask, at any hour of the day.
Hiding his face becomes second nature to him, though he does tend to dine alone in his room, so that he doesn’t have to worry about ensuring his face is covered while he eats. He does speak, infrequently, and only to a select few as directed but within the confines of his mentor’s house he speaks up more often than not, asking, questioning, seeking to understand. And somehow, in between questions about British culture and law, he finds himself wanting more. He may not have a name or a face but he is still a man after all.
When he actually expresses something more than the appropriate respect it is after a small scuffle on the streets. When they return home and matters are seemingly settled, he barges into his mentor’s room to find the man lying on top of the coverlet, still dressed, and staring up at the canopy above the bed. He climbs up onto the bed, straddling his mentor and stares silently.
“What-“
He leans forward, sliding one hand around the back of his mentor’s neck and using the other to lower himself down on top of him. For the longest moment there is no response to the press of his lips and then he finds that he can slide his tongue past that barrier with ease. His mentor’s hands grip his shoulders and then, suddenly, he’s pushed away.
“We can’t do this.”
“Why?”
“Do you need to ask? You can’t even remember your own name.”
“So?”
“You have no idea who you are and I… I haven’t even seen your face!”
He reaches up to his mask but hesitates; Lord Stronghart’s admonishment rings in his ears.
“No, not now at least.”
“Then when?”
His mentor sighs.
“We can revisit this conversation once your memories return.”
“I will remember that.”
And he leaves, mask still in place.
When his memories return he is conflicted. On one hand he now recalls why he so desperately needed to get to Britain but on the other the one thought that dominates his mind is a promise to revisit the nature of his desire. It is that overriding thought that obliterates any other sense to be made of the matter. So, the obvious solution is to yield to that promise, that temptation. Once done with that Kazuma is certain that he can push aside the distraction and make sense of the whirlwind of his thoughts. He is not thinking, will not think, about all the pieces of unrelated information that the Lord Chief Justice had unwittingly shared. He will deal with this first and then... the rest will follow.
Of course it’s not quite so straightforward as all that. Barok stares at him as if Kazuma has grown a second head and Kazuma reaches up instinctively to see if he’s somehow, mysteriously, still wearing his mask.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Why not?”
“Asougi, you just sliced a waxwork in half in the courtroom and-“
Kazuma once again takes the initiative and rests a knee on Barok’s chair, between the other man’s legs, and leans forward.
“And?”
“And that has to mean something.”
“So?”
“We can’t….”
Barok turns his head to the side and the words come out much more quietly than expected. Any strength or determination to argue or resist seems to have vanished at Kazuma’s close proximity, and Kazuma knows to press his advantage. He doesn’t question the sudden stillness and timidity that seems to wash over Barok as he grips Barok’s chin and turns that pale face back towards him. His intentions are clear; he will have what he wants and nothing else matters.
“We can’t….”
It’s barely a whisper when repeated; hardly a protest at all. It’s easy to ignore as Kazuma presses their mouth’s together and forces his tongue past slack lips. This is what he wants, has wanted for some time now, and he intends to have his way. Barok is surprisingly passive beneath him, hands clutching at Kazuma’s arms but showing little other sign of resistance. Pulling back, Kazuma looks down at him; Barok looks dazed, reddened lips parted, cheeks faintly flushed. He looks… helpless, which strikes Kazuma as a completely unexpected outcome. It sparks something within him; a sense of power, of conquest. He knows what he means to do and he doesn’t care if he has his prize on the floor or in a bed.
It’s Barok who breaks away, pushing ineffectively at Kazuma, looking more than a little distressed.
“What?”
“Not here.”
Kazuma growls.
“The servants-“
“I don’t care.”
Blue eyes widen and Kazuma finds himself strangely gratified to see a flash of fear. He is vaguely aware that he probably shouldn’t enjoy that as much as he does.
“Please.”
Kazuma takes a long moment to decide, relishing his power over this man, and then steps back.
“Well?”
Barok swallows nervously and stands up slowly. He looks even more frightened now than a moment ago.
“Upstairs.”
Kazuma nods and indicates that Barok should lead the way.
Following Barok through the house and up the stairs it doesn’t feel like a tantalisingly secret assignation with a lover. Instead Kazuma feels more like he is forcing his advantage and making his prey comply. And he finds that the thought thrills him. This is better than he could ever have expected, more fitting. He doesn’t challenge the thought as it crosses his mind and tells himself that he will address this sudden urge to be vengeful later.
In the bedroom he practically tears the clothing from Barok’s body and delights in each shocked gasp and cry. He has definitely managed to tear some of the fabric at least. Pushing Barok down onto the bed Kazuma looms over him and then pauses.
“There is….”
Barok manages to indicate the bedside table with a slight turn of his head and Kazuma quickly finds what he is looking for. It is a small, flat, tub of what is probably meant to be some kind of salve for light injuries but will do as a lubricant for the moment. Kazuma digs his fingers into the contents and the smooth, jelly-like, texture against his skin assures him that it will suit his needs. He doesn’t want to make Barok bleed just yet; the thought flashes across his mind and he quickly pushes it aside to return to the matter in hand. He doesn’t bother to look up at Barok’s face as he forces his fingers against, and then through, that tight ring of muscle. He is not particularly rough but he is also not particularly kind. There is a gasp and a few pained cries but Kazuma isn’t listening. He twists his fingers sharply and then decides that he has waited long enough, and is quick to fumble open his trousers and make a quick swipe of this makeshift lubricant down his length. That’s as much thought to preparation as he gives before he is on top of Barok and forcing himself inside. Barok is anything but compliant; it’s as if his body is trying to resist in every way possible, even though he makes no overt move to refuse this, and when Kazuma finally looks up he sees that Barok’s eyes are screwed tightly shut and that there are tears tracking down his cheeks. For some reason that annoys Kazuma more than anything and he uses his annoyance to fuel the rough thrust that finally breaches that tight hole. Beneath him, Barok sobs, and, infuriated, Kazuma slaps him. The sobs are muffled after that, apart from a few distressed cries that escape but Kazuma pays them no mind as he seeks his own pleasure.
Afterwards, Kazuma lies back on the bed to catch his breath. He turns to look at his companion and finds that Barok has his hands over his face and seems to be trying desperately to hold in any sounds of anguish. Lying there, watching, knowing that he has done this Kazuma tries to tell himself that he should feel some regret over the situation but then again, so he decides, he has every reason to suspect that this man has something to do with his father’s death so any discomfort Kazuma might cause him is well earned. Tugging up his trousers, Kazuma rolls off the bed and puts his clothes in order. Looking back Barok hasn’t moved so Kazuma straightens his back and simply leaves the room. He tells himself that he hasn’t noticed a few spots of blood on the sheets or that, when he closes the door behind him, he hasn’t heard a sob.
It’s easy to carry on like that while Kazuma undertakes his own investigations. He returns home each night and takes what he is owed. They never speak of it again and Kazuma uses that to his advantage; after all, Barok cannot refuse something he won’t even acknowledge. It seems fitting that this is something beyond his control. For all the Reaper’s conceit, his confidence in a courtroom, he is a snivelling, terrified, mess once Kazuma has him alone.
Now that he is himself once again Kazuma’s thoughts focus on piecing together the scant information he has gleaned from Lord Stronghart and digging through case reports. He reads through every old file pertaining to the professor; Klint van Zieks’ autopsy report, the wittiness statements from the servants who accused his father of murder, the court records of the trial itself. He can leave nothing uncovered if he is to have his revenge. Revenge; he can at last acknowledge that that is what he is seeking.
Occasionally Kazuma has odd moments where he ponders the justice of what he is doing, at least in private. He is still investigating his father’s trial and the evidence presented, he has no real proof that Barok has done anything wrong and yet, still, he is determined to punish him. And without the veneer of a prosecutor stood in court, without the notoriety of being the Reaper of the Bailey, Barok seems unable to do anything to save himself. All he does is hide his face and weep. Occasionally Kazuma is certain he should feel bad about that but then he forces himself to remember that his cause is just. Without his actions there will be no punishment for the ignominious death his father suffered, or at least so he keeps telling himself.
And then, at last, Kazuma has something definitive. He confronts Inspector Gregson and lets the man live, even if he is irritated at the refusal to give him all the answers he needs, even under the threat of a blade. He notices the chipped end of Karuma when he is finally alone that evening in the boarding house in Dunkirk and tries to tell himself that it doesn’t feel like an ill omen. Karuma; the sacred blade that cleaves truth from lies. He’s never heard anything about the sword judging it’s wielder but the thought nags at him nonetheless. But he has come this far, he has gathered his evidence, evaluated all his options, and he knows now that somehow he must bring it all to light in a way that cannot be denied. He just isn’t sure how to accomplish that yet.
Then fate grants him a boon and the Reaper is charged with the murder of Inspector Gregson. All the pieces are falling into place and Kazuma is certain that his father’s spirit must be looking favourably down upon him. Here is the perfect opportunity now to expose the truth and to deliver the justice that has eluded him for the past ten years. He will be victorious; there is no doubt about it. And with that thought in mind he easily pushes aside any regrets he might have even vaguely entertained about his own particular brand of intimate cruelty. He has done nothing more than what Barok van Zieks deserved; he is justified, he is righteous and nothing can shake that truth.
The trial goes horribly. Suddenly all the things he knew as certainties are gone and every action that he has taken in this matter becomes less virtuous by the second. Those small, private, atrocities he has committed haunt him now and he knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he is a monster. Looking across the courtroom, Ryunosuke glares furiously at him and Susato just looks so very disappointed. And Lord van Zieks… there is nothing but a cold and terrifying fury in his gaze. Those clear blue eyes, so often filled with apprehension and such utter sadness, now fix him with a look of such utter distain that Kazuma is sure that he can feel ice creeping up his neck. In fact, as things progress, he swears he can feel cold fingers at the back of his neck, a presence walking close behind him giving off a terrible chill, and then, in a brief moment of silence in the courtroom, a low, terrifying, chuckle behind him. If Klint van Zieks were to ever truly return from the grave to wreak vengeance for his brother then it would be now.
There even comes a point where Kazuma is almost certain that Ryunosuke will accuse him of murdering Inspector Gregson. Looking into Ryunosuke’s eyes the possibility of ending this farce seems to lurk there; all he needs to do is to agree with Judge Jigoku that Kazuma was responsible and it will all be over. For a moment Ryunosuke hesitates and though he does actually accuse Judge Jigoku out loud Kazuma can see that this is the last dying flame of their fraternity. From now on he is on his own. And yet, so he tells himself, he must pursue the truth. He clings to that cause now with a certain desperation.
“I must say I’m surprised by quite how tenaciously you appear to want to besmirch my name.”
And Kazuma flounders under that scornful gaze. He’s been looked at with hatred before, curiosity, even sympathy here in Great Britain. He’s seen a hopeless yearning in those eyes before, a plea for kindness, understanding. He recalls now a trembling hand reaching out to him and a broken voice pleading with him to stay, and underneath those words an entreaty for the merest kindness. He could have gone back then, he should have; in his mind’s eye he can see an alternative ending, a world where he wiped away those tears and, on his knees, begged for a forgiveness that he didn’t deserve. A world where they had re-learned what it was to live, together; to put aside the foolish notions of revenge that had taken up most of their lives. But that wasn’t the path he had chosen and there is no going back.
He hears Lord Stronghart bring the court to order over the buzzing in his ears. He can’t seem to frame any thoughts or words; everything is hazy now. He hears Lord Stronghart declare an acquittal, he hears Susato call out after Ryunosuke, he supposes he must also hear the sound of the courtroom emptying. He can feel the weight of Karuma at his side and suddenly knows that the blade will no longer be effective in his hands. He can hear laughter, he feels a cold hand wrap around his throat, he thinks he hears the sound of Karuma shattering and then it all goes dark. When he comes back to himself he is slumped over the prosecutor’s bench and the courtroom is empty.
He has to do something, he must. He races for the antechamber; he has done so much wrong, he has caused so much harm, there is no way to make any of this right but he has to try. He has to. If he ever believed that the spirits of his ancestors could intercede for him he hopes it is now.
He reaches the antechamber in time to see Ryunosuke leaving with Susato at his side. He almost calls out but then he sees Susato look back at him and sadly shake her head. He knows that Ryunosuke will never trust him again; there will be no second chance now. He has lost his dearest and truest friend, the one person who never doubted him, who believed in him against all odds. There is no going back.
The only other, scant, hope then is Lord van Zieks. But he isn’t here. Kazuma looks around in confusion for a few minutes before he realises that Lord van Zieks has probably gone back to the judge’s chambers with Lord Stronghart; it will be a humiliation to apologise in front of Lord Stronghart as well but that’s the least of his worries right now.
He gets lost a few times as he makes his way down the intricate corridors but eventually he finds his way. The door of one of the offices is slightly open, as if deliberately so, and Kazuma glances warily inside. Lord van Zieks is sitting in a chair, eyes red, clearly from weeping, holding a handkerchief limply in his hand. Lord Stronghart is leaning against the desk looking down at him.
“I… shouldn’t have doubted you.”
Lord van Zieks says it quietly and Kazuma strains to hear.
“I thought…. I’ve made the same mistake twice now. You ought to laugh at me.”
Stronghart hooks his bizarrely carved gavel under Lord van Zieks’ chin, tilting his face upwards.
“There is nothing laughable about how you have been treated, by either Asougi.”
Tears begin to slide down Lord van Zieks’ cheeks again. And Stronghart sets his odd gavel aside and then kneels in front of his weeping companion. He takes Lord van Zieks’ hands in his own and presses a kiss to the back of each hand.
“I… I’m ruined. I’m not worth-“
“My dove, I have waited for you all these years. I fought your brother’s disapproval, I tried to keep Genshin Asougi away from you and… this, now, this is my failure. I couldn’t protect you.”
“I always refused to listen to your guidance.”
“So you did.”
Stronghart’s expression is full of gentle sympathy.
“I wish it had been you. Not Genshin.”
“Hush now, my sweet dove.”
“I….”
“Will you listen to me this time?”
“Yes.”
“Then that is all that matters. Let me guide you, protect you. So, will you be mine?”
“Yes. If you still want me.”
“Always.”
Kazuma backs away as the pair lean in close. He somehow manages to make his way down the darkened corridors until he finds himself in complete silence and isolation, and slides down the wall until he is slumped on the cold marble floor. There is no one around and he’s probably lost but that doesn’t matter. The revelation that he has only done what his father before did, has only carried on the cruelty that he now knows must have occurred…. Everything he believed in, about himself, about his father, is overturned. He is a monster. His father was a monster as well. And all he has done in his pointless quest for revenge is inflict a greater hurt than there had been before. Some part of him, he supposes, had always wondered why, despite his violence, his cruelty, Lord van Zieks had accepted everything that Kazuma had done to him; now he knows and the answer is enough to break him.
In a daze he finds that he has been moved out of Grosvenor Square when the house steward greets him on the steps with a suitcase of his belongings. Kazuma just about manages to grasp the money that is pressed into his hand and move himself in the direction of the boarding house that the steward mentions. And there he sits, alone in his room, his suitcase open on the floor, both swords laid down on the small table provided. He is numb, broken and he doesn’t know at all now what to do with himself. There is, of course, an honourable way out; as much as it terrifies him. It’s rather hard to disembowel one’s self without the reassurance of a comrade standing by to sever your head after the first cut.
With shaking hands he reaches out to grasp Karuma and draw the sword from its sheath. He can’t seem to keep his hands steady and he barely has the strength to draw the blade. But he will do this; this is what he deserves. Finally he pulls sharply at the sheath, drawing it away from the blade and sees, to his horror, that the chip taken out of the tip of the sword has turned into a fracture. The crack reaches half way down the blade and, even as he holds it, seems to travel further. Suddenly the hilt feels icy cold and he drops the sword in shock. And there, in front of him, on the floor lies the legacy of his clan, the sacred sword of his ancestors; broken into several pieces.
A day later he is summoned to the Lord Chief Justice’s office and he hopes that it is so that Lord Stronghart can declare that he is to be sent back to Japan. Regardless of the shame he cannot remain here in Britain.
“My lord, after everything I’ve done-“
“Oh no, Asougi. You will remain here and you will continue to serve the purpose to which you were assigned.”
“As a prosecutor?”
“Goodness, no. You are entirely unsuitable for such a vaunted position. No, you will carry out the essential task of ridding our fine city of it’s’ undesirables.”
“No!”
Lord Stronghart laughs.
“You have absolutely no choice in the matter.”
And Kazuma has to face the fact that this is most likely true.
“And one last thing; you will never see your homeland again.”
“You can’t-“
“Oh, but I can. You must pay for your crimes after all.”
“What crimes?”
Kazuma snaps out the retort before realising what Lord Stronghart means. The expression on Lord Stronghart’s face tells him that they both have the same ‘crimes’ in mind. And they are such terrible crimes that Kazuma can do nothing other than accept the Lord Chief Justice’s verdict. There is nothing else for him to do now other than acknowledge the awful truth that, in the end, in his futile quest for revenge, he has destroyed himself entirely.
And if he were ever to forget that he was the architect of his own destruction then the shattered remains of Karuma will be an ever-present reminder.