Cylus 5, 718
"By the Seven, there's no need to rough him up." Caius growled above the slamming of doors, darkened irises focused on the particular pleasure the Purifier in front of him was taking in twisting the dark-haired young man's arm behind him, "You can get the fuck back outside if you'd like to watch someone suffer, Ser Eren."
The Courthouse wasn't the official jail, no, for Low-town had the honor of that disgusting place, but for the sake of holding prisoners for trial and as a temporary place of incarceration for lighter crimes such as public drunkenness and indecency, the lower level of the Courthouse was possessed of several cells. For the execution, these had been emptied, both to keep Sarah isolated as well as to actually keep those convicted of a non-magical crime safe. It was into one of these cells the Purifiers dragged Hart, one of them—Ser Eren the Lord Arbiter had called him by name —pausing to bind his hands without an ounce of gentleness or concern for his discomfort. If anything, the armored older man took particular enjoyment out of this part of his employment, though he did his best to keep it from view.
Since the dark-haired man's hands appeared to be part of the problem, the other Purifier had the presence of mind to tug a beautifully embroidered kerchief from behind his breastplate and cover Hart's hands with it before the first had finished his too-tight binding, both of them depositing Hart roughly onto the stone bench that probably also played at being a horribly uncomfortable bed if necessary. Comfort was clearly not a priority.
Behind them, the somewhat delirious Knight was brought into an adjacent cell. He didn't appear injured. To Caius, honestly, the man may as well have been high—the young Gawyne far from unaware of how that looked or even what that felt like given his life experiences and his wife—but clearly this was something different, something else entirely.
Magic had been used, brazenly in the glare of the flames, either by Sarah herself or someone else, either this man or someone they'd missed entirely. The not knowing ate away at the Lord Arbiter's already melting insides, visions of executions past teasing the edges of his waking sight and fanning the fire in the cavity of his chest given how everything had unraveled beyond the doors behind him—Sarah dead at the hand of someone he'd made himself responsible for. One hand strayed to press the heel of his palm against the icy scar that lay hidden under the fine fabric of his clothes, reminding himself of Ziell's Favor, of his deeply rooted desire to be some semblance of peace despite the chaos, even though the price for that peace seemed so sarding expensive and bloody lately.
It was suddenly oppressively warm inside for the northern noble, for the Ezere. The biting wind gone and left with only the stale, still air of the Courthouse holding cells, smoke and ashes clinging to everyone's nostrils with the scent of burning flesh. The Purifiers moved, snapping the young Gawyne back to the task at hand, Ser Eren stepping past him to head back out and fetch the mage hunter Caius had asked for, the Lord Arbiter aware of his own limitations when it came to properly assessing a mage. He could have asked for any Detective, honestly, but at the same time, in this moment, he had his preferences, if only because the man before him's actions simply didn't feel familiar after all the magic he'd witnessed since Vhalar.
Clearing his throat, Caius realized he needed to speak to the dark-haired young man before him in the meantime. Hand straying from his chest to curl ink-stained fingers around the hilt of the saber he'd returned to his hip, he tucked away the fear and nervousness at being in such a small space with someone potentially so dangerous and summoned the authoritative air expected of his lineage and title,
"In case you haven't figured it out, you're under arrest for suspicion of magic." He felt the need to state the obvious, perhaps to give himself a moment to focus, irises shifting in hue from a dark grey to an almost icy, pale blue while he spoke, tone of voice firm, "By the King's decree, you're hereby given the right to a fair trial to prove otherwise, so instead of wasting my sarding time driveling on whether you are or aren't one or whether you are or aren't innocent—since we'll all know soon enough—let's start with what in Warren's name you did to that girl's mother and a Knight of the Crown, shall we? Oh, and your name. That's probably useful, too."
Caius didn't bother with his own introduction or a lengthy sort of sentence, instead choosing to watch the other man carefully as if looking for something, anything important. He managed to mask the fear hidden behind his words, the nervousness that clawed at his insides like the reanimated claws of an undead bear. Perhaps he should have waited for assistance or perhaps he should have left the dark-haired young man to DuKette alone, well aware of the mess he'd left outside. Chances are, however, Elizabet or another Sword would step in and handle what he'd abandoned for the issue in front of him.
So long as it didn't dissolve into further chaos, the young Gawyne could still manage to catch the boat to Bellesoir later that trial—he had much more pleasant, personal matters awaiting him if he could sarding manage to survive this first.
The Courthouse wasn't the official jail, no, for Low-town had the honor of that disgusting place, but for the sake of holding prisoners for trial and as a temporary place of incarceration for lighter crimes such as public drunkenness and indecency, the lower level of the Courthouse was possessed of several cells. For the execution, these had been emptied, both to keep Sarah isolated as well as to actually keep those convicted of a non-magical crime safe. It was into one of these cells the Purifiers dragged Hart, one of them—Ser Eren the Lord Arbiter had called him by name —pausing to bind his hands without an ounce of gentleness or concern for his discomfort. If anything, the armored older man took particular enjoyment out of this part of his employment, though he did his best to keep it from view.
Since the dark-haired man's hands appeared to be part of the problem, the other Purifier had the presence of mind to tug a beautifully embroidered kerchief from behind his breastplate and cover Hart's hands with it before the first had finished his too-tight binding, both of them depositing Hart roughly onto the stone bench that probably also played at being a horribly uncomfortable bed if necessary. Comfort was clearly not a priority.
Behind them, the somewhat delirious Knight was brought into an adjacent cell. He didn't appear injured. To Caius, honestly, the man may as well have been high—the young Gawyne far from unaware of how that looked or even what that felt like given his life experiences and his wife—but clearly this was something different, something else entirely.
Magic had been used, brazenly in the glare of the flames, either by Sarah herself or someone else, either this man or someone they'd missed entirely. The not knowing ate away at the Lord Arbiter's already melting insides, visions of executions past teasing the edges of his waking sight and fanning the fire in the cavity of his chest given how everything had unraveled beyond the doors behind him—Sarah dead at the hand of someone he'd made himself responsible for. One hand strayed to press the heel of his palm against the icy scar that lay hidden under the fine fabric of his clothes, reminding himself of Ziell's Favor, of his deeply rooted desire to be some semblance of peace despite the chaos, even though the price for that peace seemed so sarding expensive and bloody lately.
It was suddenly oppressively warm inside for the northern noble, for the Ezere. The biting wind gone and left with only the stale, still air of the Courthouse holding cells, smoke and ashes clinging to everyone's nostrils with the scent of burning flesh. The Purifiers moved, snapping the young Gawyne back to the task at hand, Ser Eren stepping past him to head back out and fetch the mage hunter Caius had asked for, the Lord Arbiter aware of his own limitations when it came to properly assessing a mage. He could have asked for any Detective, honestly, but at the same time, in this moment, he had his preferences, if only because the man before him's actions simply didn't feel familiar after all the magic he'd witnessed since Vhalar.
Clearing his throat, Caius realized he needed to speak to the dark-haired young man before him in the meantime. Hand straying from his chest to curl ink-stained fingers around the hilt of the saber he'd returned to his hip, he tucked away the fear and nervousness at being in such a small space with someone potentially so dangerous and summoned the authoritative air expected of his lineage and title,
"In case you haven't figured it out, you're under arrest for suspicion of magic." He felt the need to state the obvious, perhaps to give himself a moment to focus, irises shifting in hue from a dark grey to an almost icy, pale blue while he spoke, tone of voice firm, "By the King's decree, you're hereby given the right to a fair trial to prove otherwise, so instead of wasting my sarding time driveling on whether you are or aren't one or whether you are or aren't innocent—since we'll all know soon enough—let's start with what in Warren's name you did to that girl's mother and a Knight of the Crown, shall we? Oh, and your name. That's probably useful, too."
Caius didn't bother with his own introduction or a lengthy sort of sentence, instead choosing to watch the other man carefully as if looking for something, anything important. He managed to mask the fear hidden behind his words, the nervousness that clawed at his insides like the reanimated claws of an undead bear. Perhaps he should have waited for assistance or perhaps he should have left the dark-haired young man to DuKette alone, well aware of the mess he'd left outside. Chances are, however, Elizabet or another Sword would step in and handle what he'd abandoned for the issue in front of him.
So long as it didn't dissolve into further chaos, the young Gawyne could still manage to catch the boat to Bellesoir later that trial—he had much more pleasant, personal matters awaiting him if he could sarding manage to survive this first.
❦
