@gachahell: silence looms over the both of them. the vibrant pink hair that falls in the newest inmate's face identifies her before any paperwork could. baobhan sith, one of the youngest of his sisters— sits before him. she's bound, her arms tightly held behind her back. pale grey eyes stare into wriothesley's own, and she knows him.
" you went up in the world, huh? well, down. " despite her lack of freedom of movement, she still manages to flip her hair back over her shoulder. " this is kind of embarrassing. but knowing it's you down here, you'll totally lessen my sentence, won't you? "
she wants to cry. she wants to reach out and hug her older brother. she wants to beg him for safety and warmth. but that isn't what she's supposed to—— allowed to do. so her words are cold, blatantly manipulative, and filled with venom instead.
It is standard practice that all inmates thought to propose a risk - to others or themselves - upon entering the Fortress must first spend a period of time in isolation until they can be fully assessed. An uncomfortable, yet necessary, practice, the Duke long ago established a protocol where he, personally, would oversee the inmate and their transfer to the secure unit.
So, he is prepared for their newest resident long before she is brought before him. He has studied her arrest warrant already: Tristan Le Fey, wanted for several accounts of manslaughter, a rather notable list of crimes already attached to her name. He is setting the file down when the knock sounds at his door, and his guards bring the prisoner before him.
He is prepared to face a dangerous criminal. He is not prepared to face a ghost from his own past.
A cold fist closes tight around his heart, his throat, and squeezes. She has grown, of course, but little else has changed. A vivid memory lurches to the surface: she's sat on the floor in front of him, her vibrant hair within his hands as he delicately weaves it into braids whilst she regales him with some tale or other. Baobhan.
All at once he is consumed by a myriad of emotions that he struggles to control: grief, for the sister he thought lost; pain, for the memories previously long buried; and a rising sense of fear and panic at the realisation that he can no longer hide from who he was.
"Leave us." He barks to the guards who stand, dutifully, at either side of their prisoner. He sees them glance at one another, uncertain, because by the rules of the Fortress an inmate deemed potentially dangerous must always be accompanied by two or more guards. "That's an order."
There's a brief hesitation before they comply, not wishing to question the orders of their administrator. He is aware of one glancing back at him before slipping out of the office: no doubt the entire prison will be aware of an apparent connection between the Duke and their latest inmate before the day is out. It cannot be helped.
The moment they are alone, his gaze softens, saddens. "Baobhan..." He utters, dropping to one knee before her, their gazes now level. "I thought..." He didn't know which of his siblings had survived until he was in a position to look up his file. He knew there had been testimonies from some of the older children, intended for evidence in his defence, but they hadn't been permitted into the room for the trial, and their names were protected. When he hadn't seen her name amongst those recovered from the scene of the crime, he had made an understandable assumption.
Dead - or worse: sold to an even crueller fate.
He doesn't acknowledge her remarks, the question. All he can focus on is the ice in her tone, the frostiness to her gaze. She had once looked upon him with such love, such affection. She was his little sister, yet now they are no more than strangers. He does not know Tristan Le Fey no more than she knows Wriothesley.
"Of all the ghosts to haunt me, you were the last I expected."
