ace attorney; empty chairs
TITLE: Empty Chairs
CHARACTERS: Miles Edgeworth, Gregory Edgeworth (vague hints towards Miles Edgeworth/Phoenix Wright, mentions of other characters)
RATING: PG
WORD COUNT: 2,050
SUMMARY: Twenty-two years after the earthquake, Edgeworth pays a visit to the Channelling Chamber.
NOTES: And now for something completely different.
*
Miles Edgeworth has been made to feel like a fool many times during the course of his life, but he never imagined that he could feel quite as ridiculous as he does today, sat cross-legged in Kurain Village's Channelling Chamber. We're just taking a break, Wright had told him, voice a fraction of a note too high. He always does that, always gives it away with his tone when he isn't telling the whole truth, and though Edgeworth argued against the impromptu trip, he did not do nearly enough to protest.
That much is evident, considering where he is. They had been allowed to stay at the Fey Manor, of course, had been taken care of, well fed and entertained, and every time he wandered past the Channelling Chamber, he didn't so much as glance at it. Still, he'd been curious. He'd used the magatama in the past, had seen the chains and locks encasing people's hearts, and knew well enough the trouble that had been caused by Dahlia Hawthorne, one month dead. Curious enough to buckle under Maya's insistence, apparently, and now he is so unbelievably angry with himself that he expects the candles to flicker out and die around him, extinguished by the force of his own mangled scepticism.
He grasps at the sleeve of his suit jacket. The expensive fabric crumples between his fingers, completely out of place in this secluded world, high up in the mountains. His shirt collar is too tight, the air too stuffy, and though he tries, he cannot lift his eyes from the one spot his gaze has been boring into.
Edgeworth isn't certain why he's so paralysed. Isn't certain whether it's because he's convinced himself that this is all a cruel joke, and that he will be met with laughter if he looks up, or if he's so utter terrified that it'll work, and that he'll see the man who's been gone longer than he was ever in his life before him.
The candles around him cast tall, dark shadows in the already dim room, and it's the silence Edgeworth can't stand. If there was some sort of noise, some sort of distraction, then he would happily cling to it, would happily relish in the utterly banality of being irritated; but as it is, there is nothing. There's no movement in the room other than that of dozens upon dozens of tiny lights, and Edgeworth heaves a sigh. The single sound reminds him of what he's been ignoring all this time, for the four minutes and thirty-seven seconds he's been sat there.
He wants to look up.
It's all easier said than done, however. He takes a deep breath, and the room smells of something he can't place. Jasmine, lavender, vanilla, pine, sandalwood; he cycles through them all in his head, but nothing seems to fit. Not knowing irritates him, causes him to grit his teeth, and then before he knows it, his eyes have wandered, and he's staring at who's in front of him.
It certainly isn't Maya Fey.
Edgeworth almost wants to laugh. She knew who she was channelling beforehand, naturally, and so she went to the effort of dressing appropriately. Well, when it came to size, that was. In front of him, there sits Gregory Edgeworth, esteemed defence attorney, dressed in the garb of an acolyte, all soft purples and blues, beads around his neck. And Edgeworth would laugh, would laugh until his sides split, if it wasn't for the persistent burning sensation in the corner of each eye.
“Miles,” his father says, and his voice is his own, even through Maya's shell. Edgeworth has heard this voice whenever his nightmares would permit him to, has repeated his father's lectures a thousand times in the back of his head, but now there is such a weight to it, such a warm roughness around the edges that Edgeworth cannot help but feel like a boy again, inspired beyond words to seek out the truth. “How have you been?”
It's such a simple question, one that Edgeworth should be able to answer perfectly, but there are too many layers to it, too much that he's reminded to be ashamed of. What does he tell this man who hasn't seen him since he was a school boy? That he is a prosecutor now, once known throughout the legal world as a demon, as someone who cared more about his perfect win record than uncovering what was true? That he spent a decade and a half with the audacity to believe that he was really the one who sent his father to the other side? Or that he is happy now, after being ashamed for so long, happy with Wright and the mismatched group of friends he's somehow come to collect?
No. He can't do that. He can't talk about himself yet.
“I...” Edgeworth glances away, but does not allow his gaze to falter for long. “I have a sister now.”
“A sister?” Gregory asks, genuinely caught off-guard. He can't mask the surprise in his voice, and no awkwardness comes out with his words. He tilts his head to the side, a bemused smile on his face, as if the definition of sister could've possibly changed in the last twenty-two years.
“Not by blood, of course,” Edgeworth explains, and his father nods. His father nods, he reminds himself, and that is such a bizarre thought that he almost believes himself to be asleep and dreaming. “She is younger than I am by some years, and we have had our troubles in the past. Franziska. That's her name.”
His words are stilted, awkward, and feel unnatural in his throat. He knows there isn't any worth in mentioning the von Karma name to his father, of all people.
“I see. That's - I'm glad to hear it, Miles. I always knew you were well suited to the role of a big brother,” Gregory says and smiles, highlighting the wrinkles around his lips. In spite of that, his father looks impossibly younger than he remembered him being, if only because he himself is so much older. They are equal now, if only in height alone, and it is a strange thing to realise that he is at eye-level with his father.
This time it's his turn to say something. Edgeworth knows that.
“Do you remember Wright?” he asks, because he is not certain how being a spirit works, down to the technical details. He doesn't know if time has passed for his father as it has for him, if he's had time enough to forget anything; he does not even know where his father has been all these years. Maya has told him more than once that it's better they don't know, that they entertain themselves with their own theories and hopes.
“Wright?” A pause, and then a glimmer of recognition in his eyes. “Of course I do, Miles. You mean your friend Phoenix Wright, don't you?”
Edgeworth nods, considering his words carefully.
“I realise I always told you that I intended on following in your footsteps, but it seems that my plans were fruitless. I sit before you today as a prosecutor. But Wright - it seems that he has become the defence attorney I couldn't. I've faced him many times in court, and I...” Edgeworth pauses, strong until this point. It's almost easy to talk, when he pretends it's about work. Almost. “I believe you would be proud of him. He's the sort of lawyer with the same moral code and energy as you.”
All of a sudden, there's movement. Gregory reaches forward, hands coming to rest against the back of Edgeworth's. Edgeworth can do nothing but stare down, still with the shock of it all. He's amazed that he doesn't tear his hands away, and what's more, that he doesn't throw the whole of himself across the room. They aren't Maya's hands. They are larger, rougher, dried and aged, but there is as much warmth there as he would expect from her.
His father squeezes his hands. Edgeworth's brain immediately races back to the last time that it happened, and, oh, his own hands were so much smaller then.
“I'm proud of the both of you,” Gregory says, and even Edgeworth cannot miss the gentle ache of his words.
Edgeworth lowers his head all the more. Once again, he can't find it within himself to laugh.
“The DL-6 incident,” Edgeworth begins, but then shakes his head, correcting himself. “The day you died. The day you were killed. For so long I- That is, I imagined that-”
He can't get the words out. He isn't pressed to continue; Gregory merely lets go of his hands, sitting back, understanding what he's trying to ask well enough.
“We were all deprived of oxygen, Miles. I've imagined an awful lot of things, but I never once stopped believing in you.”
Edgeworth hates it. Hates the way his throat closes tight, the way his whole body seems to shake without his strict permission. He breathes in, breathes out, and tries to place it, tries to work out what that godforsaken scent is. Mulberry, cinnamon, gardenia, frankincense, musk; none of it fits.
“I will have you know, father, that I don't believe in any of this. I don't believe that the dead have a place in this world, or that we are free to contact them so easily.” He's talking without thinking it through, now. It's dangerous territory, he knows that, but he will not force himself to fall silent. “The mere thought of being here makes me outstandingly uncomfortable. There is no sense here, nothing logical I can grasp onto. You have been-I had not seen you in a long time, and that was something I was in the process of accepting. This has interrupted all of this. I am... angry at myself, I suppose. Angry that it has taken me all of these years to feel that I was at least worthy of sitting face-to-face with you again, and yet I can barely speak, as if I do not take the stand most days, as if I do not argue my case, determining the fate of the accused. I-”
He doesn't ever go anywhere with that point. He knows he can't, for saying those few short sentences has done enough to exhaust him, to make him feel as if he has worked his fingers to the bone. Closing his eyes, he fights off an encroaching headache, arms folded uncomfortably across his chest. After all that has happened, after the life that he has led, he cannot even tell his father a hundredth of the things he has seen without his words deserting him. He thinks himself pathetic.
“One step at a time, son. One step at a time.”
There is a hand on his shoulder from a brief moment, and then that welcomed weight is gone. He keeps his eyes closed, and hears the sound of fabric rustle, of somebody getting to their feet, and will not open them again until he is quite certain that he is alone. For a moment, he appreciates the silence he protested against so thoroughly minutes before.
And that's all it's been, really. Minutes. Minutes that, after twenty-two long years, seem to have spanned a lifetime. He gets to his feet, brushing the dust from his knees and straightening his collar, and then blows the candles out in the Channelling Chamber, one by one. There is a soft, slight smile across his lips, and he brings his fingertips to his mouth, as if checking that it's truly there.
He thinks that he would do well to wait until it fades before talking to Wright, for the man is almost insufferably cheerful when it turns out that he's correct about things. No matter what feelings have been draw to the surface, no matter how raw they may be, he's grateful for them all.
CHARACTERS: Miles Edgeworth, Gregory Edgeworth (vague hints towards Miles Edgeworth/Phoenix Wright, mentions of other characters)
RATING: PG
WORD COUNT: 2,050
SUMMARY: Twenty-two years after the earthquake, Edgeworth pays a visit to the Channelling Chamber.
NOTES: And now for something completely different.
*
Miles Edgeworth has been made to feel like a fool many times during the course of his life, but he never imagined that he could feel quite as ridiculous as he does today, sat cross-legged in Kurain Village's Channelling Chamber. We're just taking a break, Wright had told him, voice a fraction of a note too high. He always does that, always gives it away with his tone when he isn't telling the whole truth, and though Edgeworth argued against the impromptu trip, he did not do nearly enough to protest.
That much is evident, considering where he is. They had been allowed to stay at the Fey Manor, of course, had been taken care of, well fed and entertained, and every time he wandered past the Channelling Chamber, he didn't so much as glance at it. Still, he'd been curious. He'd used the magatama in the past, had seen the chains and locks encasing people's hearts, and knew well enough the trouble that had been caused by Dahlia Hawthorne, one month dead. Curious enough to buckle under Maya's insistence, apparently, and now he is so unbelievably angry with himself that he expects the candles to flicker out and die around him, extinguished by the force of his own mangled scepticism.
He grasps at the sleeve of his suit jacket. The expensive fabric crumples between his fingers, completely out of place in this secluded world, high up in the mountains. His shirt collar is too tight, the air too stuffy, and though he tries, he cannot lift his eyes from the one spot his gaze has been boring into.
Edgeworth isn't certain why he's so paralysed. Isn't certain whether it's because he's convinced himself that this is all a cruel joke, and that he will be met with laughter if he looks up, or if he's so utter terrified that it'll work, and that he'll see the man who's been gone longer than he was ever in his life before him.
The candles around him cast tall, dark shadows in the already dim room, and it's the silence Edgeworth can't stand. If there was some sort of noise, some sort of distraction, then he would happily cling to it, would happily relish in the utterly banality of being irritated; but as it is, there is nothing. There's no movement in the room other than that of dozens upon dozens of tiny lights, and Edgeworth heaves a sigh. The single sound reminds him of what he's been ignoring all this time, for the four minutes and thirty-seven seconds he's been sat there.
He wants to look up.
It's all easier said than done, however. He takes a deep breath, and the room smells of something he can't place. Jasmine, lavender, vanilla, pine, sandalwood; he cycles through them all in his head, but nothing seems to fit. Not knowing irritates him, causes him to grit his teeth, and then before he knows it, his eyes have wandered, and he's staring at who's in front of him.
It certainly isn't Maya Fey.
Edgeworth almost wants to laugh. She knew who she was channelling beforehand, naturally, and so she went to the effort of dressing appropriately. Well, when it came to size, that was. In front of him, there sits Gregory Edgeworth, esteemed defence attorney, dressed in the garb of an acolyte, all soft purples and blues, beads around his neck. And Edgeworth would laugh, would laugh until his sides split, if it wasn't for the persistent burning sensation in the corner of each eye.
“Miles,” his father says, and his voice is his own, even through Maya's shell. Edgeworth has heard this voice whenever his nightmares would permit him to, has repeated his father's lectures a thousand times in the back of his head, but now there is such a weight to it, such a warm roughness around the edges that Edgeworth cannot help but feel like a boy again, inspired beyond words to seek out the truth. “How have you been?”
It's such a simple question, one that Edgeworth should be able to answer perfectly, but there are too many layers to it, too much that he's reminded to be ashamed of. What does he tell this man who hasn't seen him since he was a school boy? That he is a prosecutor now, once known throughout the legal world as a demon, as someone who cared more about his perfect win record than uncovering what was true? That he spent a decade and a half with the audacity to believe that he was really the one who sent his father to the other side? Or that he is happy now, after being ashamed for so long, happy with Wright and the mismatched group of friends he's somehow come to collect?
No. He can't do that. He can't talk about himself yet.
“I...” Edgeworth glances away, but does not allow his gaze to falter for long. “I have a sister now.”
“A sister?” Gregory asks, genuinely caught off-guard. He can't mask the surprise in his voice, and no awkwardness comes out with his words. He tilts his head to the side, a bemused smile on his face, as if the definition of sister could've possibly changed in the last twenty-two years.
“Not by blood, of course,” Edgeworth explains, and his father nods. His father nods, he reminds himself, and that is such a bizarre thought that he almost believes himself to be asleep and dreaming. “She is younger than I am by some years, and we have had our troubles in the past. Franziska. That's her name.”
His words are stilted, awkward, and feel unnatural in his throat. He knows there isn't any worth in mentioning the von Karma name to his father, of all people.
“I see. That's - I'm glad to hear it, Miles. I always knew you were well suited to the role of a big brother,” Gregory says and smiles, highlighting the wrinkles around his lips. In spite of that, his father looks impossibly younger than he remembered him being, if only because he himself is so much older. They are equal now, if only in height alone, and it is a strange thing to realise that he is at eye-level with his father.
This time it's his turn to say something. Edgeworth knows that.
“Do you remember Wright?” he asks, because he is not certain how being a spirit works, down to the technical details. He doesn't know if time has passed for his father as it has for him, if he's had time enough to forget anything; he does not even know where his father has been all these years. Maya has told him more than once that it's better they don't know, that they entertain themselves with their own theories and hopes.
“Wright?” A pause, and then a glimmer of recognition in his eyes. “Of course I do, Miles. You mean your friend Phoenix Wright, don't you?”
Edgeworth nods, considering his words carefully.
“I realise I always told you that I intended on following in your footsteps, but it seems that my plans were fruitless. I sit before you today as a prosecutor. But Wright - it seems that he has become the defence attorney I couldn't. I've faced him many times in court, and I...” Edgeworth pauses, strong until this point. It's almost easy to talk, when he pretends it's about work. Almost. “I believe you would be proud of him. He's the sort of lawyer with the same moral code and energy as you.”
All of a sudden, there's movement. Gregory reaches forward, hands coming to rest against the back of Edgeworth's. Edgeworth can do nothing but stare down, still with the shock of it all. He's amazed that he doesn't tear his hands away, and what's more, that he doesn't throw the whole of himself across the room. They aren't Maya's hands. They are larger, rougher, dried and aged, but there is as much warmth there as he would expect from her.
His father squeezes his hands. Edgeworth's brain immediately races back to the last time that it happened, and, oh, his own hands were so much smaller then.
“I'm proud of the both of you,” Gregory says, and even Edgeworth cannot miss the gentle ache of his words.
Edgeworth lowers his head all the more. Once again, he can't find it within himself to laugh.
“The DL-6 incident,” Edgeworth begins, but then shakes his head, correcting himself. “The day you died. The day you were killed. For so long I- That is, I imagined that-”
He can't get the words out. He isn't pressed to continue; Gregory merely lets go of his hands, sitting back, understanding what he's trying to ask well enough.
“We were all deprived of oxygen, Miles. I've imagined an awful lot of things, but I never once stopped believing in you.”
Edgeworth hates it. Hates the way his throat closes tight, the way his whole body seems to shake without his strict permission. He breathes in, breathes out, and tries to place it, tries to work out what that godforsaken scent is. Mulberry, cinnamon, gardenia, frankincense, musk; none of it fits.
“I will have you know, father, that I don't believe in any of this. I don't believe that the dead have a place in this world, or that we are free to contact them so easily.” He's talking without thinking it through, now. It's dangerous territory, he knows that, but he will not force himself to fall silent. “The mere thought of being here makes me outstandingly uncomfortable. There is no sense here, nothing logical I can grasp onto. You have been-I had not seen you in a long time, and that was something I was in the process of accepting. This has interrupted all of this. I am... angry at myself, I suppose. Angry that it has taken me all of these years to feel that I was at least worthy of sitting face-to-face with you again, and yet I can barely speak, as if I do not take the stand most days, as if I do not argue my case, determining the fate of the accused. I-”
He doesn't ever go anywhere with that point. He knows he can't, for saying those few short sentences has done enough to exhaust him, to make him feel as if he has worked his fingers to the bone. Closing his eyes, he fights off an encroaching headache, arms folded uncomfortably across his chest. After all that has happened, after the life that he has led, he cannot even tell his father a hundredth of the things he has seen without his words deserting him. He thinks himself pathetic.
“One step at a time, son. One step at a time.”
There is a hand on his shoulder from a brief moment, and then that welcomed weight is gone. He keeps his eyes closed, and hears the sound of fabric rustle, of somebody getting to their feet, and will not open them again until he is quite certain that he is alone. For a moment, he appreciates the silence he protested against so thoroughly minutes before.
And that's all it's been, really. Minutes. Minutes that, after twenty-two long years, seem to have spanned a lifetime. He gets to his feet, brushing the dust from his knees and straightening his collar, and then blows the candles out in the Channelling Chamber, one by one. There is a soft, slight smile across his lips, and he brings his fingertips to his mouth, as if checking that it's truly there.
He thinks that he would do well to wait until it fades before talking to Wright, for the man is almost insufferably cheerful when it turns out that he's correct about things. No matter what feelings have been draw to the surface, no matter how raw they may be, he's grateful for them all.