miles baines: riff-raff! street rat! (mimicks) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-08-26 12:02:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, evander finch, miles baines |
no, i didn't come to see you hanging from the gallows pole.
Who: People of Emillion v. Miles Baines, feat. special guest.
What: The end.
Where: The Royal Courts of Justice
When: Today
Rating: Tame
Status: Complete
He learned to block out the sounds of the crowd, staring fixedly forward as he marched up the stairs towards the Royal Court, hands cuffed behind his back and ringed by officers. Their presence made a laugh curdle in the back of his throat: it wasn’t like he was bloody dangerous (not like that cultist, rounded up by the Knights of the Peace last year, not like the mad sage put down in her tower), but their attention was bitterly flattering nonetheless. From the sounds of disgruntled irritation around the trial, it was as if he’d killed people… when the main people put at risk from his schemes were his own damned women. But then again, to the nobles, perhaps their gil was their blood. And he could see the stony expressions on their eyes, the hatred as he was yanked up and dragged to the trial. This reminded him of countless apprehensions as a child and teenager, too, feet sliding down the corridors of the local EKP guildhall—but this time the memstones were on him, and the audience was larger. He had a role to play. So Miles Baines walked with chin held high, stubble etched into his face from days and days in custody. The only message received from the guild had been a disheartening one, the implication clear: you’ve made your bed, now lie in it. They could pull strings to release members for petty theft, simple larceny, but this had been the Royal Bank of Ivalice. Examples had to be made. It was going to be a fucking spectacle, and he knew it. There was the scrape of chairs as law-abiding citizens sat as one, and Miles took his place at his own seat. The deliberations had gone on for ages while he sat behind bars, with no word or impression of how it was going. But when he saw the identity of the Judge in crisp lettering on the nameplate, a laugh did ripple loose, Miles unable to contain his own body’s reactions for once in his damned life. His Faram-damned luck. The door at the side of the courtroom opened. “All rise for His Honour, Evander Finch,” a guard intoned, and Miles stood with the rest of them, staring at a point in the middle distance. The judge strode in, each step of rattling metal to announce his arrival. Judge Finch was one of the few of his kind (if justice and not crime was his kind) who smiled with warmth, but what mercy he was known for outside the courtroom dissipated when he wore his armour. Today he entered with a curt, stiff smile, his face lightening to a sickly shade, the circles around his eyes like pollution around water. No time for sleep in the weeks past. As the judge took his place behind the bench, the air stilled. Time seemed to slow as he stared down into the face of his colleague. Friend. What was the word? (Evander caught a glimpse of uniformed court officer, then glanced back at the defendant. Only one word came to mind: brother.) "Please be seated." The guard's voice cut through wandering thoughts. "Calling the case of People of Emillion v. Miles Baines. Are both sides ready?" The set of lawyers nodded, and somewhere Miles managed to jerk his head into some semblance of a nod as well, though his body was no longer cooperating; his movements felt like random twitches and spasmodic flares of neurons, all his usually-vaunted self control gone. His defense counsel was not of the Thieves Guild; he’d had to pay for it himself, left on his own, essentially swinging in the breeze. (And with a jolt of unflattering terror, he wondered if that image might become more literal than not. Surely, the punishment wouldn’t be too severe. Surely, it would be a rap on the knuckles.) “Your Honour,” the bailiff demurred, and everyone’s attention in the room honed in on the Judge. It was the size of one collective breath, the entire court holding its lungs and watching and listening, while Miles felt his fate spinning in the air. “Pursuant to the Sentencing Reform Act of 1984,” the judge began, restraining emotion in his chest lest it reach his voice for the court to witness, “it is the judgement of this Court that the defendant, Miles Baines, is sentenced to fifteen years and a day in custody in His Majesty’s prison. I order this sentence imposed as stated.” The gavel punctuated his words like thunder in a storm, and he a lighthouse keeper dimming the beacon before abandoning a ship-prisoner in the ocean, blue like any Finches' eyes (equal in welcome, treachery). One collective breath was let out and the world remembered to breathe again, the few people in the audience whooping and shouting: while Miles felt the world tilting, tilting underfoot, like the sea lurching beneath his feet. The thief had been staring stonily off into space, but now he finally looked up to meet the other man’s eyes, while something cracked in Miles’ face. Betrayal lurched in his eyes, anger brewed in his heart, grief in his clenched hands. Are you bloody serious? he wanted to shout, wanted to surge forward against his chains. Fifteen fucking years? But all fight had ebbed out of the mime; Miles slumped in his seat, staring at the worn tabletop as his ears rang and the audience murmured and buzzed, and he could almost hear the roar outside the courtroom as the gavel echoed and echoed. |