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derbildhauer*The door he had just opened should have led to the law section of the prison library. In the past three months it had become as familiar to him as the door of his study in the house in Germany.
It had become his sanctuary, somewhere that he could make his final arrangements and write his appeals. Not for clemency, but for the speedy conclusion of his sentence - for the needle in his vein that was the only acceptable penalty for failure.
But this is not the library... his eyes dart around, although he remains perfectly composed. He notes absently that he is once more wearing his own clothing - the silk against his throat a welcome contrast to the rough denim to which he had become accustomed. He notes the people, recognises some, although they don't notice him.
His eyes light on a picture that hangs on the wall, and his brow furrows slightly as he moves closer.
Two granite headstones - empty of decoration, free of tributes - standing like smears of grey against the white of snow. Behind, the bare branches of the trees making ominous shapes against the moonlit sky.
Without looking away, he reaches into his breast pocket for his monocle. Holding it to his right eye, he peers closer at the picture.
"Gregory Edgeworth, Loving Father of Miles"
"Miles Edgeworth, Patris est Filius"
He places the eyeglass back in his pocket, staring at the picture impassively.
Then, with a slow smile that is meant for no-one but himself, he turns on his heel and exits the room.*
It had become his sanctuary, somewhere that he could make his final arrangements and write his appeals. Not for clemency, but for the speedy conclusion of his sentence - for the needle in his vein that was the only acceptable penalty for failure.
But this is not the library... his eyes dart around, although he remains perfectly composed. He notes absently that he is once more wearing his own clothing - the silk against his throat a welcome contrast to the rough denim to which he had become accustomed. He notes the people, recognises some, although they don't notice him.
His eyes light on a picture that hangs on the wall, and his brow furrows slightly as he moves closer.
Two granite headstones - empty of decoration, free of tributes - standing like smears of grey against the white of snow. Behind, the bare branches of the trees making ominous shapes against the moonlit sky.
Without looking away, he reaches into his breast pocket for his monocle. Holding it to his right eye, he peers closer at the picture.
"Gregory Edgeworth, Loving Father of Miles"
"Miles Edgeworth, Patris est Filius"
He places the eyeglass back in his pocket, staring at the picture impassively.
Then, with a slow smile that is meant for no-one but himself, he turns on his heel and exits the room.*
