Hatred

VIII.

She hates him for listening, for hearing her out.

When all is said and done, she has forgotten all about the man in the dungeons. She looks around, trying to spot a glimpse of bright hair in the early dawn, and finds nothing. Startled, she finds the Storyteller where he stands with Espella, explaining in hushed tones where they can find him.

Somehow she manages to detangle herself from the crowding townsfolk, losing both Espella and their new friends as she disappears into the forest at the city's edge. Using an old Shade's shortcut, she reaches the Courthouse in time to lie in wait. Time slows to a crawl as she waits for him to emerge from the building, her body pressed against the gnarled trunk of an oak tree. She isn't quite sure what it is that she's waiting for, with every nerve screaming for sleep. She is exhausted, emotionally drained, and in desperate need of a reprieve from the night's revelations.

Still, she waits. She has to see him. She has to know.

He bursts from the Courthouse in a flurry of activity, running both hands through his hair in a gesture that's all too familiar. Although she's too far away to hear any particulars, it's clear that he does not believe whatever he's being told. He stops short on the path, gaping wide-eyed at the machinery he can now see looming over the city's rooves. His men surround him, clamoring over one another as they try to fill him in on all the night's happenings.

The Storyteller stands on the steps, hand clutching his side. Shaking himself free of the knights, he strides up the stairs to stand nose to nose with the old man. Every muscle in his body is tensed as he speaks in hushed tones to the man whom he thought wrote the stars themselves into the heavens. The Storyteller nods wearily, motioning to the city as he replies.

With an angry shout he turns away, racing down the stairs and crashing through the underbrush like a man possessed. The knights look at one another, trying to decide if they should follow, but the Storyteller stops them with another wave of his hand. He shakes his head, and she does not have to be close in order to understand.

Leave him alone. Give him time.

She watches from her hiding place as they follow the path back to the city, their footsteps faint beneath the leaves stirring in the morning breeze. When they are gone she emerges from the forest, standing still at the Courthouse steps. She looks up at the building the same way she had on the day they mourned the alchemist. If she fainted again—not that she meant to—would he carry her to the Audience Room again? Or would he leave her to the mercy of the elements?

She sits on the steps with a sigh, wrapping her arms around her knees. Nothing about this night had gone to plan. Her vengeance had come to naught. The guilt she'd carried all these years was not for Espella, but for herself. She had been the one to... the one who'd....

I wish Papa was here. She hugs her knees closer, resting her chin on her forearms. She does not want the Cantabellas reassurance, no matter how well-meant it is. The voice she yearns for is the one she will never hear again, no matter how much she needs to. It doesn't matter now. It's all my fault.

How could she have let her anger get so out of hand? She'd done far worse than reveal the secrets of a town on the cusp of ruination: she'd nearly caused an innocent girl to commit suicide. Not to mention her father's suicide note—she squeezes her eyes shut, blocking the thought before it can become fully realized. Even worse, she had alienated herself from those who cared about her. She'd purposefully pushed away the one person who'd showed concern for her, who'd tried to befriend her despite... despite everything.

He'll never forgive me.

It isn't until she wakes, jolting upright, that she realizes she's fallen into a doze. Rubbing her eyes with weary hands, she looks straight across the clearing... and into the startled gaze of the man she'd jailed the night before. They both freeze, each sizing up the other before turning away in embarrassment.

"I was just—heading—" He gestures vaguely towards the markets, then back to the Courthouse, his eyes searching for a place to land and finding none. "I've taken a walk," he said unnecessarily, rubbing the back of his head with a sheepish sound. His hair looks absolutely wild, standing all over the place. "I'll go."

"Sir Barnham, I—" She stands quickly, prepared to offer an apology she know won't be accepted. She doesn't deserve for him to listen to her, but it must be said, for her own peace of mind if nothing else. Her boots are muddy, her hair is a mess, her uniform is wrinkled, and her eyes are bloodshot from lack of sleep. No one has ever seen the High Inquisitor so unkempt, but she is no longer the High Inquisitor.

She is just a woman. She is Eve.

"I... I...." She doesn't fully recognize the choked, timid voice that emerges from her parched throat. "I—" A hiccough, a pause, and then without warning the tears spill from her tired eyes. They drip from her chin, wet trails on her mottled cheeks. "I—!" Still she tries to salvage the apology, ashamed of crying in front of anyone... especially him.

"I'm sorry!" The words burst from her as she buries her face in her hands, humiliated beyond belief and yet unable to stop the flow of tears. Everything she's held back for over ten years comes forth all at once in a series of gut-wrenching sobs. Tears on her lips, on her nose and cheeks, salty drops staining her uniform as the weight of the High Inquisitor's burden finally lifts from her shoulders.

If her lucky stars were kind and favorable, they would allow the earth to open up and swallow her whole. She hopes beyond hope that he will go away, leave her alone in the clearing and pretend that he saw nothing. Unfortunately, that does not happen. She tenses as arms clad in heavy, bulky armor wrap around her trembling frame in a way that is more professional than personal—not intimate, but not cold. There is just enough tenderness in his touch that she falls into a fresh wave of tears, this time against his shoulder.

He holds her full weight as she sags against him, resting his chin shyly on her head as he pats her back in a way that, though forceful, is clearly meant to be comforting. His armor is cool against her flushed cheeks, her tears sliding down the polished surface like raindrops.

"I am—sorry—I did not mean—it was not supposed to—" He says nothing as she gives up trying to speak, holding her patiently until tremorous sobs give way to shuddering breaths, then sniffles, then silence. When she finally pushes him away, trying to preserve what little is left of her dignity, his arms tighten around her for a split-second. It's over before she can blink, ending as he steps back to put space between them once more.

She wipes her eyes the best she can, fishing in her uniform for a rumpled handkerchief. The expression he wears is a calm mask, offering her no clues as to his own emotions. He waits as she tries to compose herself, wiping her cheeks and nose before clearing her throat.

"I don't expect your forgiveness." He nods, once, and she braces herself for the killing blow.

"I forgive you."

Her limbs feel like ice, but her cheeks burn. The words take a moment to sink in. He does not move, the mask still in place.

"I do," he insists, and she knows it's true. She tries to hate him for his forgiveness, for giving her what she does not deserve, but she can't. She's far too tired.