[TW: Violence; sad, sad violence]
She leaned more heavily on her staff than she would have, in earlier years. Her gait was crabbed against the prosthetic foot, her features careworn and wizened with weather and worry. Her hair was lined with grey, still bound neatly at the nape of her neck, her eyes still amber in the flickering candlelight even if crow’s feet marked their corners. At fifty two years, Arbiter Wheeler cut a more imposing figure than she had at twenty five, holding herself with a rigidity that the younger Acolyte had never known - a physical capacity that she could never have foreseen, now drilled into her like years of rain sculpted a stone.
“- Arbiter, he’s going to break, he has to; if you would just give us more time -- look, I know what the man means to you, and we will get him back, you don’t need to do this…”
Lisbet stopped, her chin lifted to a commanding angle, her expression calm but implacable. “I will not have him forced, Sergeant.” Her voice was quiet, but there was a conviction in her spine, a firmness in her gaze that left no room for question.
In her right hand rested a pistol, beyond an antique at this point; it was old and patina’d with disuse, though it had been lovingly restored by a member of the Historical society. He’d gone on and on about how archaic it was, about how you just didn’t see pieces like this one anymore - Lisbet had allowed him his enthusiasm, only insisting that it function. Purpose. Terrible purpose. It was what he would have wanted, in better times than this.
The Sergeant searched her face, falling back a step. She didn’t so much as spare a second glance at the man, steeling herself for what was to come - reaching for the door with a hand that shook, barely perceptible. She could feel it, though. It had never been as steady, after that terrible night…
“Whatever is to come, it will be his choice. I cannot make him choose to be righteous, or the choice itself is a falsehood in masquerade.” The words were soft, edged with bitterness, as she turned the handle and slipped into the room.
Arbiter Wheeler let the door close behind her, firm, and lifted her eyes to meet those of the man chained to the chair.
Ludovick von Diehl had accumulated more scars in the time since they’d met; one of his arms had been replaced by Light-bound metal, holy magic animating its motions. His torso was riddled with pocked acid scarring, his face bore a long pale mark from cheek to ear - a bullet’s path, silvery and barren against an overgrown beard. He was leaner, rangier, more brittle than when she’d met him; his skin seemed more papery, though the densely packed muscle spoke measures of his commitment to his regimen. He looked his sixty years of age, the deep brown of his hair now gone completely grey, his beard near white, his eyes sunken --
It was his eyes, though, which had changed the most in the years intervening.
Always a man of intensity and dour wit, if his stare had been unsettling before, now it was like looking into an open wound; there was nothing hidden, nothing obscured, as he watched her. He hated her for what she had become. His expression was utterly cold, detached, calculated, but Lisbet knew; she could read the violence within him. She knew the longing he felt, to free his hands, to wrap his long fingers about her dark throat and squeeze until the Light burned away her skin, dissolved into the soft tissues, left scorchmarks upon her bones. She knew, because she’d seen it.
He’d shown it to her, the last time they’d spoken. Had systematically pulled at the strands of her sentimentality, until he’d breached her mind’s defenses - and who else could do it but him? Hadn’t he shown her how to build them in the first place-? She’d felt him within her, and if she’d the capabilities to keep him from forcing her hand, he’d shown her exactly what he’d do, given the opportunity.
His voice, low and snarling, his eyes glittering feverishly in the darkness, blood pulsing from his nose - “It is a shame you chose to defy the Light, Lisbet,” he’d whispered savagely. “I made a promise; I intend to keep it. Soon, sweetheart. Let me free of these chains. We will end this charade.”
It had been what was needed, in order for her to see clearly.
They could not break him. They could not force him to become the man he’d been; all the pleading in the world, all the gentleness - and its opposite. She had allowed him to be tortured, in the hopes that it would bring him back. She had wielded the flame herself, when he’d grown too dangerous for others to be allowed near, and had still hoped…
It meant nothing. She knew that now. When he’d finally broken into her thoughts, had seared within her mind like a burning brand, had showed her so clearly what he had become - she’d known. The echoes of that terrible promise had stirred, resonant within her.
But never had come to pass. The man before her was no longer the man she’d loved so desperately, had become the monster he’d feared most in those moments. She remembered the touch of his brow against her breastbone as he’d sagged against her. She could feel, clearly, the tremor to his voice when he’d promised her. Never.
"I would kill you," he’d said, voice a near-whisper, filled with iron certainty. "I love you."
She’d sworn, too. They’d been near strangers, then -- tempered by combat, only just beginning to know one another, but by the Light itself they had placed their faith in each other, in what had grown between them, so solid a foundation. To be seen had been a kindness, a blessing and a gift. To be safe from the worst was an oath, was something deeper and darker and just as necessary.
“... Ludovick,” she whispered, her voice betraying her in its softness. “Please. Come back to me. Don’t make me do this.”
The man in the chair stared at her coolly, his eyes intent upon her. Even then, she could feel his mind against hers, scrabbling like something small and unseen in the walls, trying to find purchase in her defenses. She searched his features, trying in vain to find something familiar, some sign that she could still save him, but he offered nothing. Only cold, silent conviction. Only the force of his will, like a stone wall set against her, so Light damn sure in his righteousness that she wanted to be wrong, she yearned to let him free --
No. That thought was not her own. He was testing her, had slipped within her thoughts. Subtle. He’d always been better at subtle than she had, it had always been a strength for him. Her posture grew straighter, her expression utterly still, no trace of pleading left in her eye as she pushed him out. Lisbet watched as his body rippled lazily in the chair, his teeth baring in a mockery of a smile, a trickle of blood beginning to wend its way through his beard.
“You will not do it, Arbiter. You know I am righteous. You see it. Let me go -- join me, turn to the Light. It is not too late for you. You can be redeemed! Lisbet. Please. I promised. I swore to you --”
His voice became louder, more strident, insisting and demanding that she see reason, but her will was iron and his efforts did not move her. When she lifted the gun -- when he felt its muzzle press coolly to his temple, her features resolute -- Ludovick at last sucked in a sharp breath, spine pulling straighter, his eyes meeting her as his mind pulled away, ceasing its attempts to break her will.
The anger in him fell away, at last revealing its core. “I am sorry,” he whispered, voice hoarse. In that moment, he looked as though every year of his life weighed more heavily on him than the one before it. He was old and tired and broken, and he knew his failure. “I am so sorry. I should have done better for you.”
Lisbet bowed her head. “I love you, Ludovick. For the man you were. For the man you worked so hard to be.” She pulled back the hammer with an audible click. He closed his eyes, head sagging helplessly.
“You are damned, sweetheart. I cannot save you. It is not your fault.”
She forced herself to watch his face, taking a deep breath. “No. You are redeemed, because I love you - because I will not allow you to become the least of yourself.” She drew in a deep breath, and pulled the trigger.
One moment, he was living, breathing, worn but present.
The next, his skull came apart like an overripe melon, viscera and bits of bone exploding outward. His body jerked and fell still, his head absent; she could feel soggy chunks against her face, knew she was covered in him, as her hand began to shake violently, the pistol still smoking.
In a choked voice, Lisbet whispered, her final benediction --
It was over. It was done.
