of dead ash and regrowth
-One pale hand brushes gently over a stemful of soft purple heather-flowers; he is careful not to bruise or break the plants as he touches them. Instead, their color slowly brightens from a faded, dull shade to something vibrant and fully alive--he smiles softly at the change, but when his fingertips leave them, they return to their normal state. This disappoints him, but it is still an improvement on what he's been able to do to the room so far.-
-Edgeworth rises to his feet, brushing dirt from his trousers, and walks along the small, winding path that has formed out of the barest beginnings of hedges; it is impossible to lose his way, as he can see over the tops of the walls, and in any case he's traveled the way so often over the last few months that he knows it by heart. This is his room, now; he alone takes care of it--him, and no other. It is a penance of sorts, and he means to see it through.-
-He corrects problems as he passes them--a crumbling bit of stone here, a rotten bit of wood there--careful to spend as much time as necessary on the efforts. Time doesn't really seem to matter to him when he's here, and it isn't as though he hasn't got all of it to spare anyway, as the dressing room seems determined to keep him captive until-- -
(--Until what?)
-Edgeworth shakes his head, clearing the thought out of it, and attends to the ivies that have over time crawled partway up the trellis at the entrance of the maze. They are tenacious, clinging to any hold they can, and though he has guided most of their progress there is still a wild sort of element to them; he likes them a great deal.-
-It occurs to him for what must be the hundredth time that he should keep the door to the room locked, but he reminds himself that there is a large red X painted on it, and although there are many fools in the dressing room he is fairly certain that none of them are quite foolish enough to re-enter a place that had proved so traumatizing for so many. Ignoring the idea, he sits underneath the trellis, leaned up against the side of it, and closes his eyes to rest.-
-Edgeworth rises to his feet, brushing dirt from his trousers, and walks along the small, winding path that has formed out of the barest beginnings of hedges; it is impossible to lose his way, as he can see over the tops of the walls, and in any case he's traveled the way so often over the last few months that he knows it by heart. This is his room, now; he alone takes care of it--him, and no other. It is a penance of sorts, and he means to see it through.-
-He corrects problems as he passes them--a crumbling bit of stone here, a rotten bit of wood there--careful to spend as much time as necessary on the efforts. Time doesn't really seem to matter to him when he's here, and it isn't as though he hasn't got all of it to spare anyway, as the dressing room seems determined to keep him captive until-- -
(--Until what?)
-Edgeworth shakes his head, clearing the thought out of it, and attends to the ivies that have over time crawled partway up the trellis at the entrance of the maze. They are tenacious, clinging to any hold they can, and though he has guided most of their progress there is still a wild sort of element to them; he likes them a great deal.-
-It occurs to him for what must be the hundredth time that he should keep the door to the room locked, but he reminds himself that there is a large red X painted on it, and although there are many fools in the dressing room he is fairly certain that none of them are quite foolish enough to re-enter a place that had proved so traumatizing for so many. Ignoring the idea, he sits underneath the trellis, leaned up against the side of it, and closes his eyes to rest.-