#stevryn

Tap. 

Only sole tapping rung in the Judge’s ears despite many expressions of despair being formed right in front of his eyes. Next came the gratitude, often did the line between the two blur as visitors at his office hardly ever hid emotions for long.

The tapping wasn't stopping. Persistent between long pauses, now filling up his mind with questions that successfully drowned out the entire meticulously rehearsed speech, prepared for him alone to hear.

Tap.

Was it the tears falling onto his desk? The raggedy man on its other side failed to catch them all with an old and dirty, embroidered handkerchief. No. Among the paper vessels of freedom and downfall a single drop could never make as much noise. Not literally at least. Coldly analyzing the tear's path felt almost cruel towards the man currently pouring his heart out anew, much alike in the courtroom a few days earlier. The pesky liquid disrupting this meeting should be much thicker than this and quite an easy answer comes to mind, slithering like a snake until it roots itself at the core of welling up doubt. There was this nagging feeling that if they were to look for the source now there would be no words ready at hand that'd explain it to the commoner.

The Judge tried his best to ignore it yet by the time the next drop echoed he was once again back in the familiar frozen wilderness. Either howling winds muffling out the screams or the other way around, the memory could rarely decide on this detail. The sound repeated, now accompanying the vivid sight of his own, small and trembling hands soaked in pure crimson. The snow on a lifeless ironclad silhouette in front of his knees silenced out the sound of a dripping thick liquid.

As if stolen noise from a moment in the past, once lost to the snow was slowly catching up to him now.

And it was getting louder.

Tap.

“... M… Mr. Arbiter, please forgive me… Again I'm taking so much of your time!” The man must have gotten a wrong idea when his host slowly reached for his temple as if it could soothe the steadily picking up wave of weariness. “You already saved what's left of my life twice yet… I still act like such pest! Hah… Such is your price of being my village's lucky omen! …Sir!”

“... That's not the case, I promise.” With warmth and kindness capable of thawing any signs of winter the Judge looked up again. “I do admit, however, I have been lost in thoughts for a second… This… Handkerchief. With its embroidered message on it you could have used it as evidence. It’s clearly been gifted with intent and care known only between the deeply loved.” Unknowingly he started matching the noise’s rhythm now with a finger against his own temple as if an outlet for the gathering unsteadiness. Salvation in a scene that required focus, deep patience and understanding.

“I could have. But what do they do with evidence they deem unimportant? If that's all that's left from her I'd rather hold onto it in prison cell than trade it for measly chance of freedom!” Beloved item disappeared in tightly clutched fists. “Nobody else would believe me, sir!”

Tap. 

And would they believe me about what happened that day in the Northern wilderness? 

Arbiter nodded quietly repeating out loud his idealistic phrase about truth finding its way.

Was I truly in the right to survive?

Not a single word more from the conversation could be heard over the looming silence in-between the drops. Each of them drilling a hole in his thoughts to then fill with visions and doubts.

Even once the room was clear he still could not move an inch. 

His own deep breaths filled the silence.

Is it over?

It must have been just an odd side effect of all these private conversations with supposed convicts taking a toll on him.

Tap.

His heart stopped.

Now when finally alone he could freely look down at the source of this torment.

There was a wet trail over the front wall of his desk’s hidden compartment. Dark liquid soaking into the floor underneath.

His heart quickened alongside the breath. With trembling hands he reached towards the fearful omen. Delicate fingertips following the wet lead towards the source as if apologizing to the beautiful wood for the unholy taint on its surface. He involuntarily reached for the key in his robe’s inner pocket before realising the lock had in fact been broken.

Had he hesitated to rip out the cupboard he wouldn't open it any wider than it took to see but one glimpse.

A ritual knife from the northern exorcist clans and a bloody lump he would spend next years of nightmares trying to connect to a correct name. An ominously glistering handle of the dagger was decorated with a simple message, engraved in beautiful cursive. As if an invitation ripped straight out of the worst case scenarios.