Chapter Text
Darkness surrounded the van Zieks manor. A cold but quiet night, stirring with a thick mist. All the servants were asleep, yet Barok continued to hunch over his desk, straining his eyes in the light of his oil lamp. He was drawing near to the end of his studies and determined to excel. And so, naturally, such late sessions had become something of a habit in the past fortnight.
Yet no one could study forever. Barok realised with a small jolt that the words he read were no longer meeting with his comprehension. He blinked repeatedly, a bleary film overtaking his eyes. It seemed fatigue had stolen over him quite suddenly, despite the rapid pace of his thoughts. How each one cycled over the other, drowning each other. Perhaps it was time to settle himself for bed.
Barok organised the desk into the arrangement he liked best, then lifted his oil lamp and wended his way through the halls of the manor, towards the stairs.
Something unexpected stirred in the stillness. Barok stopped, straining to listen. A faint echo of a boot’s tread. The susurration of movement. A bolt sliding back. Barok hurried towards the sounds.
“Klint?”
The light in Barok’s hand cast a circle of illumination upon the front door. Or rather, the figure standing before the front door. Back turned, gloved hand lifted towards the handles. Klint, dressed in the attire he most favoured for hunting, although he held no rifle, and a dark coat was drawn around his shoulders. He glanced over at Barok, face half-turned and smooth in the orange glow. Perhaps it was simply an oddity of the hour, considering how deep the night was, but Barok thought there was something strangely flat about his older brother’s gaze.
“Oh. You are awake,” Klint said. His voice was as flat and smooth as his countenance.
“I must devote as much time as I can manage to my studies. I will be graduating soon,” Barok said.
Klint inclined his head in a faint nod then faced the doors fully again.
“It is more of a shock that you are still not abed,” Barok said.
“…I simply need some air. Sleep is distant from me tonight,” Klint said, cadence halting and measured. He sounded troubled. In fact, Klint had seemed rather bleak and agitated as of late. And Barok knew that Lord Stapleton’s ball had done nothing to help Klint’s nerves.
Lord Stapleton was a truly reprehensible member of the House of Lords. His ball had been a stunning affair, a mode to flaunt his wealth and disparage another lord who was also in attendance. More than that, it was clear he had done something to knife at Klint during the party.
“May I join you?” Barok said.
“Should you not be devoting yourself to sleep? Since you are finished with your studies for the night,” Klint said.
“I am quite fatigued, but my nerves are hardly set for rest. Perhaps the fresh air will prove effective assistance in silencing my thoughts,” Barok said.
Klint’s breath left him in a dull chuckle. “I am all too familiar with such disordered nerves. Yet, as your caretaker, I must insist you get proper rest.”
“I have governed my time entirely on my own for the past several years,” Barok said. “Besides, it would be nice to have a moment in your company. I have hardly seen you since Christmas.”
Klint muttered something below his breath. Then gave a terse nod. He pushed open the doors immediately, leaving Barok little time to prepare to leave. He would have to forego his coat, despite January’s fangs.
Damp mist greeted them, so thick one could hardly see more than a few metres before their face. It made the night feel very dark, indeed, sewn up in deep folds of emptiness. Like nothing surrounded the manor at all.
Balmung barked somewhere in the distance. The only sound other than the brothers’ footsteps as they trod across the frozen earth, tracing a circuitous path through the manor’s expansive grounds.
Klint sighed. Barok glanced at him. Klint was glaring straight ahead, his posture rigid. “You study too much,” he said, his voice scarcely above a growl.
“I must excel,” Barok said.
“Must? Yes, I suppose we all have things we must do. Even if it is an inconvenience to someone else,” Klint mumbled.
“…Have I caused you offense?”
Klint’s jaw tightened. He averted his face, the set of his brow wavering. “There is no need to drive yourself to such lengths. That is merely all I intend to say.”
“There is every need,” Barok said evenly, refusing to give into the notes of agitation that were starting to sound within his own being. His tiredness and Klint’s mood were an acerbic combination. “It would be an unforgiveable offense were I unable to uphold our family’s reputation, and be far removed from your own brilliance.”
“All the brilliance in the world cannot ensure justice,” Klint muttered.
“But without the requisite skills and tenacity, the truth will never be found.”
“I do not wish for philosophical debate.”
“Nor do I. I merely wished to walk about the grounds with my brother,” Barok said.
“…You make me sound a monster,” Klint said, rubbing his forehead as he only did when truly struggling against some ill thought or emotion.
Barok frowned. He stared at the frost shining on the ground and said nothing.
“...What do you hope to achieve as a prosecutor, Barok?”
Barok stirred, a bit taken aback by the question. “Justice, naturally.”
“And what is justice? How do you achieve it?”
“Through a fair system, that ensures punishment is given only to the guilty.”
“A textbook answer,” Klint said, and the bitterness in his voice stung deeply.
“You are displeased with me.”
“Yes.” Klint stopped walking suddenly. “There I go again. Forgive me. I seem to be in a…violent humour tonight.”
Barok nodded, his desire to speak drying up in his throat. Klint was acting so strangely, and it seemed everything Barok said only served to worsen his current state.
“…I need to know something. You must answer me plainly and with the utmost honesty,” Klint said. “Just…tell me, if you can…what the purpose of a prosecutor truly is…when the guilty can twist the judiciary to placate their whims?”
“To persist,” Barok said. It was a matter he had thought about a great deal, seeing Klint’s anger when justice was circumvented. Barok was well aware of the corruption coursing through London, and, in particular, through their own class: the aristocracy. It was a wound that throbbed in him just as surely as it devastated Klint. “Regardless of how others may trample upon the very name of justice, we must continue to uphold what is right. It is the job of a prosecutor to seek the truth and to protect the public. And if our attempts fail…there is no other course but to safeguard what we can, and await our next chance to ensure the safety of those in need and the due earthly punishment of those who would harm others.”
“…Father would have agreed with you. Truly, you would have made him proud. You will make him proud. Once you are a prosecutor,” Klint said.
Barok smiled, a touch of sadness stirring along with the warmth that entered his chest. “I cannot hope to aspire to the levels of pride you would have given Father.”
Klint harrumphed and started walking again.
“It is the truth. Not only have you revived the foreign legal programmes he first created, reopening the study tour for our Japanese friends and extending his work elsewhere…but you have also been a greater influence to me than anyone. Even more than Father,” Barok said.
Klint lost his footing for a moment, then pushed through the fog. “Is…is that so?”
“My sister-in-law would be most displeased with me for enflaming your ego in such a way…but you truly are the one I look to for guidance. It is my wish to be a prosecutor worthy of your deeds.” In truth, although Barok would not say it, he scarcely remembered much about his father. It had been so many years since their parents had passed away. The image of his father was hazy in his mind, like sun striking fog and setting the white to blinding flint. And then when the glow waned, it was Klint who he saw. A father and brother both.
“Oh, my foolish little brother. How wrong you are about my quality,” Klint said. His face twitched. Barok was uncertain what emotion lurked beneath the surface, but suddenly Klint’s entire demeanour seemed entirely changed from the beginning of their walk.
“However do you mean?” Barok said.
Klint rubbed his forehead again, a look of pure despondency stealing briefly over his features. Then he turned his head away. “If only father could see me now. He would be so bitterly disappointed.”
“I do not understand.”
“I do not wish for you to,” Klint said. He let out a long breath. “It is enough for you to be informed that you are a stronger man than I. And I pray that does not change.”
“…Something is wrong,” Barok said.
“Not yet. But it will be. And when…when I actually…” Klint let out a snarling breath. “The fog is lifting. I am…I am in need of rest. The hour is too late now.”
Barok furrowed his brows.
Klint looked him in the face and smiled, but it felt hollow. “If you do not do something about that brow of yours, brother, you are going to end up looking like old Lord Buxton.”
Barok stared at him.
Klint let out a dull laugh. “Well…let us return. It would not do for my beloved wife to wake and find me absent. You know full well the kind of lecture I would receive come morning.”
Barok nodded.
The two brothers waded through the mist, back towards the manor.
***
Come the morning, Klint’s wife, Lady Baskerville, was indeed in a state. Although it had nothing to do with Klint’s sojourn through the frigid midnight realm. She refused to remain in her chair for the entirety of breakfast, and had hopped to her feet before she had even finished half of her cup of tea. The lady was pacing, wringing her hands together, her pretty pink lips twitching as she mumbled something to herself.
“Love? Whatever is the matter?” Klint said, setting down his toast.
Barok watched them quietly, his brows knitted.
“You are making Barok look like ancient Lord Buxton again. Not to mention the trench you are bound to wear into the floor,” Klint continued.
Lady Baskerville dropped her hands to her sides. “You must both come with me right this instant! I have news I simply cannot wait to share!”
“You do not want a scone first?” Klint said.
“No! I cannot bear to wait a moment longer!” Lady Baskerville said, and turned sharply on her heel. She stalked out of the room.
The brothers exchanged a look of pure confusion then both leapt from their chairs.
“My darling? What is it? Is something wrong? Are you feeling ill?” Klint said as he sprinted after his wife.
Lady Baskerville was in the drawing room, pacing in front of her favourite armchair. Once again, she was muttering to herself, while Klint stared at her with unmistakable alarm.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” Klint demanded. “If you have something to say, then say it!”
Lady Baskerville halted. When she lifted her head and looked directly at Klint, it was a great shock to Barok that she was not glaring, considering the uncharacteristically snappish way Klint had just spoken to her. Instead, her cheeks were full of colour and her eyes were bright.
“It’s wonderful news!” she declared.
“So then say it!” Klint said.
“Oh, you are in no mood to hear it. So I shall have to tell it to your far better mannered brother. Barok,” Lady Baskerville said, turning her bright gaze upon him. “Do you feel quite ready to be an uncle?”
Barok blinked. “…An uncle?”
“You are still dull from waking, I see. Well then, I shall have to tell you directly, my dear husband,” Lady Baskerville said, turning her attentions upon Klint once more. “You are going to be a father. I am going to be a mother. We are going to have a child!”
Klint drew in an audible breath. “You…You are certain? You are certain we are going to have a child?”
“Yes!” Lady Baskerville said, placing her hand on her stomach. “Surely you have noticed a change in me? This is not simply the result of eating too much sponge cake.”
“No I—I had not,” Klint said. “You are…you are truly…you are truly with child?”
“Yes! Oh yes! We have a little one growing right at this very instant!” Lady Baskerville said, clasping her hands together and beaming.
Joy surged through Barok, caught in his throat. He watched as Klint hesitated then embraced Lady Baskerville. She was smiling so radiantly, tears trailing down her cheeks. Klint buried his face in her neck. He appeared to be trembling.
Barok smiled. All their prayers were finally answered. The precious light of a new life was about to enter their home. In only a few months, their family would grow and he would be holding a breathing gift in his arms. He would see his beloved brother and sister-in-law have the happiness of raising the child they had yearned to have for so long.
Thoughts of his studies unpeeled from his mind, the strangeness from the night before vanishing in the light of such blessed news. The warmth would remain within Barok for the entirety of the day, despite the difficult classes he would attend in only a few hours.
He could not wait to meet his niece or nephew.
***
Only a day later, however, Barok found himself utterly startled by a completely different kind of news. He discovered Klint waiting for him in the study when he returned home from University, his books tucked under his arms, his mind fraught with the subject matter he most needed to review. Barok stopped abruptly when he saw Klint frowning at the desk, his chin lowered.
“I ask only for a moment of your time. Before you begin your studies,” Klint said. When he looked at Barok there was a heaviness in his eyes, a truly dismal hue to their depths. Yet something about his gaze seemed clearer than it had looked for weeks.
Barok felt apprehension worm towards his heart. He stared at Klint, waited for him to continue.
“…This may come as…quite the shock. It is…not a decision I have made with any degree of lightness. I have agonised over it. However, it simply must be done. For the sake of my soul,” Klint said.
Barok’s brows furrowed. The sake of his soul? The apprehension burrowed in deeply, changed its shape to alarm, and sent Barok’s heart pounding painfully.
“There is truly no easy way to say this. I only ask that you understand it is what must be done. No, I also ask that you do not question me on this. Nor must you try to persuade me otherwise,” Klint said. He drew in a breath and met Barok’s anxious stare firmly. “I am quitting the prosecutor’s office.”
The books fell from Barok’s arms and struck the floor.
“Now that I am to be a father…I simply cannot continue. There is…too much at risk, if I remain on this path. I have come to see your finding me the other night and my wife’s timely announcement as acts of Providence. I will be leaving before you graduate,” Klint said.
Barok couldn’t even think. This was far too unexpected. He could not understand it at all. How could Klint abandon his office? How could he leave so suddenly? Why would he ever stop fighting for justice? Why?
“…Do not look at me so, brother,” Klint said, his brow furrowed and a sad smile tugging at his lips. “I do regret that I will not be there to oversee the beginning of your career directly. Nor will I be able to mentor you as I had promised. Please forgive me.”
“…You are Director of Prosecutions,” Barok said, voice drifting past his numb lips.
“I must step down. I must. I cannot take it anymore, Barok. That is the truth. My spirit is not as strong as you think it is,” Klint said with such a sudden seriousness and vehemence it silenced Barok’s protests before he could even finish forming them in his mind.
Barok stared at the floor, hurt welling up past the shock. His guiding light was turning his back on their family’s legacy. On the defense of justice. Barok could not fathom this at all. Yet he knew he had to accept it. There was no other choice. He would have to accept Klint’s decision and continue on in his stead.
“…What will you do?” Barok said.
“Oh, yes, that matter. Well, I have been speaking to my benefactor,” Klint began.
Ah, the Lord Chief Justice. Klint’s mentor and dear family friend, Lord Knightley. A good man, a principled man.
“We discussed the matter at some length. He has agreed to my hasty departure and will assist me in speeding along the process. He has also agreed to mentor you. Lord Stronghart will be mentoring you as well. They will guide you rightly,” Klint continued.
Barok nodded. Lord Stronghart was a good man as well and passionate about justice. Barok knew he would certainly not want for capable mentors.
“And I…Well, I think I might just become a professor. How does that sound? Professor van Zieks? I already raised you. I could raise a whole school’s worth of talented members of the judiciary,” Klint said.
“They…would benefit greatly from your principles and guidance,” Barok said, his heart still so very heavy in his chest.
“Not as much as the judiciary will benefit from your principles,” Klint said and he clapped Barok’s shoulder. “Now, you had best study hard. I will be assessing your technique more harshly in the days to come. I will be a professor, after all.”
Barok nodded, but did not raise his eyes from the floor.
“Trust me. This is…truly for the best.”
“That is what you said about the renovations to the West Wing,” Barok said.
Klint grimaced. “We do not speak of that. But of this I know. You cannot change my mind.”
“If that is what you so wish,” Barok said.
“Very gracious of you. Or perhaps merely diplomatic. No matter. Shall we duel? That way all your hidden anger towards me can be fully expressed,” Klint said.
“I thought I must study hard. You have a frightening notion of what is required of your students if you think it permissible for me to waste my time duelling an inferior opponent,” Barok said.
“Ah! Such words. I simply cannot allow this immense insult to pass unchallenged! Now we must duel, for the sake of my honour. And as a means of correcting that wretched tongue of yours,” Klint said.
“Then you chase after folly. For you know you are the lesser swordsman. Genshin can confirm my assertions.”
“Genshin is not here at the moment. So you will have to fight to prove your so-called assertions with steel,” Klint said.
“If you insist on such humiliation…then I gladly accept,” Barok said.
Klint grinned. Barok could not help but smile himself, despite the shock of the afternoon. But he knew there was no changing Klint’s mind and that it would be wrong to attempt to do so.
There was only one thing to do: work hard. And become the prosecutor London truly needed.