Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Within glass, dimly, one can always notice their reflection- through a mirror or window, one's reflection will always stare back at them, whether one likes it or not. Normally, it- the horrid reflection- is the one to sneak up on the unsuspecting person gazing into some glass surface, only to be ambushed by their reflection. Borm seeks his own out- the dim reflection from the windshield, stern-faced, wide-eyed, staring himself down to notice any impurities. The process of removal is not immediate- no, he deliberates over them, over every unkempt part of his appearance, the blood on his cravat and pendant, the streak of red on his forehead he foolishly placed there himself, the blood on his clothes in dark red splotches against pure white; it rouses some anger out of him, the disruption of the purity, the cleanliness, of his pristine outfit. Roughly, he grabs his cravat(careful not to touch any dampened areas) and yanks it off of his neck, the pendant following in tandem and unceremoniously falling to the floor of his car. The cravat is shoved into his glove box, buried with all of the other garbage he keeps inside there, and he gazes back to himself once more, hesitant to run a blood-soaked hand through his hair once more.

There's a river nearby- yes, that river, which separated this forest into two halves, the river he'd frequent so often as a child. He can wash off there, ignore the body of Ivory, leave his sins to flow down far, far away from Emberton. So his car is exited once more, and he tries not to stare at the body. The glaringly obvious body, the glaringly obvious sign of what he'd done, sprawled out on the floor. Borm can't help but pause and gawk at the sight, how nearly serene Ivory looks, like she's just in slumber and would wake up any moment and then, they will both drive to the station, and she will be imprisoned.

The more the detective repeats that to himself like a mantra the less he comes to believe it. It takes a little bit of effort, at least the first step does, but he does walk away from the sight, ultimately breaking into a sprint. 

He can't bear to look at her, he thinks, hanging his head as he runs. Her, that damned culprit, and her peaceful expression, like she's accepting, at ease. What criminal deserves to be at ease?! No criminal deserves to be as peaceful as she was! Every criminal must feel the weight of their sins on them, a permanent albatross around their neck, just as he feels! Yes, and he can see that gleaming river approaching soon, what he's feeling is Ivory's guilt. This is her cross to bear, her shame to be burdened with, her fear and pride and horror to be buried with her. 

To be, ultimately, washed away. 

The river stands before Borm as he briefly touches his neck, before kneeling and staring at his reflection some more. Already distorted by the ripples of moving water, the detective outright breaks it with the intrusion of his cupped hands- he notices a patch of the water become as crimson as his hands were, before it dilutes into the rest of the otherwise clear stream. It is cool upon his face, refreshing, calming- the initial wave hits, opening his eyes, and then the brisk fall chill settles in. He breathes(it’s more of a choked-out exhale), as if he were holding his breath the entire run here, savoring the moment, the held water in his hands slowly dripping out to rejoin the stream waiting to be used. His hands shake, nearly releasing the collected water, before he splashes his face another time. 

A third, and fourth, just to ensure he was awake, to shock him back into reality. This is where he is, and he has done something despicable(and perhaps he splashes his face a fifth time) and he can never escape this.

The process of recollecting himself after the fact is even more arduous. He allows his arms to fall back to his sides, taking deep, slow breaths, staring into what lies just beyond this patch of forest, on the fabled other end of the river. Truth be told, he'd only ever played around and explored this end, the one he's on, never wandering too far- never going beyond the boundaries. Never going where nobody would find him.

Never going where nobody would find him- the words ring in his mind, or perhaps it's the chill that allows his thoughts to echo, but he comes to a realization on where to hide his crime.

Nobody will find her. 

He'll ensure that.

By the time Borm comes to the conclusion of where to hide her, of where he’ll never return to, the sun has set and the small glimpses of the sky he can see within the breaks of leaf-covered branches shows a deep orange fading into purple. It’s that picturesque sunset he idolized so much, the type he’d stare out of his window for, ignore work(the careless, easily pleased detective he is) to catch even the smallest of glimpses of, but now, as it settles- this, the incoming darkness, the chill of night, it’s all a little ominous. Perhaps this is the sensation of sins crawling up his back, as horrid as the thought may be.

But even in the eeriness of it all, in the paranoia of someone stumbling onto the scene he had left, he doesn’t feel a rush. No, he feels oddly serene, not breaking from a slow, carefree walk back to his destination. There is a calm that rises in his chest, overpowering the paranoia he feels, swelling until it morphs into a wave of serendipity that washes over him. Borm’s actions, now, feel so light, so insignificant, so menial, that when he registers the sensation of lifting up Ivory’s body he has to snap himself back into reality to even remind himself what(or who) he’s carrying. Even when it does click, past the initial shock of what he’s done, that calm is yet overpowering.

At once he is but a drop of water being moved along in a wave, at ease with its motion, and though he may be dazed, though he may not be entirely aware of his surroundings(why must he? There is no threat to him here, no rush, so why must he pay attention and ground himself to such a harsh reality?) he nevertheless moves on.

When Borm finally approaches the river himself it’s somehow a little calmer, the water is deep and gentle and he can hear it whisper to him, no doubt a gift from the God that watches over him, to give her to it. Originally it would be simple for him to cross that river, dump her body in some overgrown patch of land, and leave– because nobody would come close to finding her. Maybe the smell of rotting flesh would draw them partially closer, but never to crossing the river, no. How had he glanced down and ignored the much, much easier option waiting for him? Any fingerprints, blood, washed away– any trace it was him, going down with wherever the water would take her. The moonlight shines, reflecting its source in the water, and Borm allows her body to sink into it and drift off. Where it takes her, where she ends up, he doesn’t care; for that is a matter in the hands of the Lord guiding him.

He stands there for a while, watching her sink, her face sinking into the water and being guided a little farther– and he sees his own face subtly reflected in the water, a wavering, flickering vision. His arms feel a little lighter, now, a weight being lifted off his shoulders– he doesn’t think he has any business here, not anymore. So he turns his heel and leaves.

As he reaches his vehicle again Borm settles into the driver’s seat, gripping the wheel, the car’s engine groaning after being roused from slumber. It’s a little annoying, the startup, but he’s not entirely bothered by the sound. He does, however, look back into the rear seats (perhaps she left something in there, she might’ve, she could’ve left a note or a pen or anything belonging to her) for a good few moments, inspecting anything he can in dim, near nonexistent lighting.

He comes to the conclusion that there’s nothing- and if there is something, he can’t see it, so it might as well not be there until he’s able to come to an area he can dispose of anything she's left. Sure; he'll go someplace dark, trash and break anything he can't burn to ash, and this can be left in the past- to drift in the air until it finds some secluded place to rot alongside Ivory.

There's nothing he needs to worry about.

He slams down on the gas pedal, heartbeat drumming in time with the jostling of the car as it hits the small bumps in the uneven dirt road– there's nothing he needs to worry about, Bormethius reminds himself. Nothing you need to worry about.

“Shut up,” he scowls, “enough out of You. I didn't do anything wrong.”

His head dips.

And his words fall from his mouth, “This isn't a sin if I kill a sinner! I'm doing Emberton a favor,”

Messy, warm streetlights smudge into the dull grey-maroon of the buildings that pass him and as he thinks he registers he's making a turn it occurs to him that the turns he makes feel distant. The world around him is an afterthought in light of that horrid sound, ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum, blocking out anything that isn't the sound of his heavy breathing and desperate murmurs that he's no sinner he's no sinner he's no sinner. He can't be a sinner, and the world around him is a grey-white-brown-maroon blurred mess as he tries to see the road in front of him and guide himself beyond muscle memory, perhaps it's all a screen he's looking at, every action he takes an input, not a decision, not something he'a consciously doing. “I'm doing You a favor.” All the while his heart beats in his chest- a heavy, weighty feeling he can't take without the numbing feeling of adrenaline.

Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.

His surroundings seem to melt together completely into some swirling grey blob, like the background of a painting he can't decipher the meaning of. It hurts his brain, the Voice speaking to him hurts his brain, the more he thinks the more his breath runs cold, harsh inhales making his sudden condition worse. “I can't repent if I'm a pure being. I- I didn't do anything wrong. I'm no sinner.”

I'm no sinner, he begs under his heavy, quick breath, I'm no sinner. I'm no sinner. I'm no sinner. I'm no sinner.

At once, his hands are drenched in the red he swore he washed off, or perhaps it's the lighting– his head raises as he tries to find meaning in that sudden red glow and all around him is that damn crimson dripping into the ground below, down the side of the windshield, of his car doors, leaking in through the cracks and staining the floor of it. Red, that's all he can register. Red. Is it on him? Red. Red, it's leaking in, it's on his shoes, it'll coat him and when he gets back to the station someone's bound to ask him what happened, red, it'll come up to his ankles, soak every inch of his body in it, he can't hide from this, can he? Is it retribution? Red, red, red–

Red.

Red.

Red.

Red.

Red…

It only stops once he can register the car has stopped and his head pathetically rests atop the surface of his steering wheel; his head aches as if it were dropped unceremoniously onto it. The metal and leather are smooth and cold against his forehead, and his eyes are half-closed, glossed over, tired. Worse his heart beats in his chest, that sickening constant ba-dum, ever more present. It feels like it'll burst from its confines any moment, a thought that terrifies him. But to move terrifies him more- so he lies there, head on his steering wheel, bearing that horrid sensation until it spares him even the slightest piece of mercy. At least in whatever that was, he had the mercy of being delirious.

The detective's breaths are slow and desperate. It hurts to do so. It hurts.

Hesitantly, Borm lifts his head, and he's not sure how long he's been parked there, but he's at the police station- it's familiar, inviting, at least to him. Somewhere he can rest for a little before he tackles what else has to be done. It takes a little more effort for him to physically lift it past a centimeter or two away from the surface of the steering wheel(and it turns into him leaning back against his seat, exhausted), or for him to bring his hand to the car door to push it open, but he manages it.

He can hear the soft buzzing of insects outside; anything to drown out the sound of running water, erase it from his mind. It causes him to begin to walk to the entrance of the station with some urgency– the light's on inside, of course. It's a peaceful night for everyone inside and he wouldn't be shocked if the person at the desk was fast asleep at their post.

“Welcome back.”

Borm’s greeted by a young officer, freshly hired, shockingly awake, just barely accustomed to the goings-on of the Emberton Police Department. He’s, perhaps, the one person that actually chooses to greet him as he comes in and leaves, either out of obligation or intimidation. Being a “senior”(how Borm hates that term; he’s only been with the police a few years, but still he’s being referred to as a senior– he’s not that old!) detective came with some perks, he assumes, although the perk of being able to command rookies with no hesitation on their part dissipates after about two months. The time he does spend with the power, however, is valuable. “You, uh…detective…”

The detective perks up as he idly checks his notepad to come across, as he guessed when he first fished it out of his pocket, absolutely nothing. It’s a ploy to look busy to avoid awkward idle chatter, to be able to pass by without saying anything at all and be able to scurry off to his office. It’s less a full turn and moreso a small vertical tilt of the head that he performs, but nevertheless, it is still some acknowledgement of his title being said. Yet it goes unnoticed; and upon the small bout of silence, to prevent an awkward repeat of his title, he raises a hand and waves it as if to wordlessly tell the rookie to continue on with the thought, I don’t have all night.

“Detective, you- you look terrible.” Perhaps the stuttering over his words is a consequence of how he’s acting. He’d hoped that his annoyance would ward off any idea of being conversed with, and unfortunately it works to his disadvantage.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, supposing that to be better than letting the rookie get away with that insult. “part of the job. What of it?”

An idea pops into his mind that he’d already been caught. It makes the hairs on the end of his neck stand up– if he were to be caught by a rookie, shamed for his idea of justice, and subsequently punished for his good deed, what would come of it- of him? He couldn’t tell of his crime- no, he’d wiped all evidence of it. He’s sure he did; and at the thought of a stray speck of blood being visible on his clothes or perhaps the gleaming silver of the knife he had used sticking out from his pocket causes a metallic, coppery taste to become apparent on his tongue. It’s either the taste of anxiety or the result of him biting his lip out of nervousness, and oh, right. The rookie was speaking, wasn’t he?

“I don’t care.” he decides upon, waving his hand again as the other works to unceremoniously shove the notepad back into the pocket it was kept within. “Don’t bother me, I’ll be in my office.” With that being his best avenue of escape for him to scrutinize his appearance without looking suspicious, he leaves– or at least attempts to.

Despite his best efforts he’s stopped again in the doorway by the rookie pulling on his collar and giving a polite murmur of please, uh, Bormethius, sir, wait a little, causing the detective to angrily glance at him from behind his shoulder.

“Let go.” he orders, and the rookie obeys, silently dropping his hands back to his side. “Don’t ever do that again.”

“Y-uh, yes, sir, just…wanted to tell you we, uh- the guys working graveyard brewed some extra coffee, and thought…well, I thought…”

This time Borm only registers that he left the rookie mid-sentence when he’s halfway up the stairwell, actively thinking about getting himself that coffee– no, he thinks. He doesn’t need it. He’ll go to sleep early tonight- he’s just coming here to dispose of some things, that’s all he’s doing, all he needs to do. And Emberton will rest easy after.

The sound of his office door slamming shut behind him assures him that nobody will see what he does in here, and for that, he can’t lie, he’s the tiniest bit thankful. It’s a reassuring sound, allowing him to breathe as he removes his coat from his body, rolling down his sleeves and noting the red that coats their ends. Enough rinsing, he thinks, glancing at them for a moment before rolling them back up in an effort to hide that red from his vision, enough rinsing and they’ll be at least an annoying, off-white stain. Nothing to worry about, he decides. He’s got nothing to worry about now that Emberton is safe from that damned murderer.

He takes a few short steps to peek over the other side of his desk, sides swamped with folders and files and loose crumpled balls of paper he’s yet to throw into an admittedly overfilled bin, reaching inside and digging out a few large folders. Their size comes not in the size of the folder itself, but rather the amount of photos and notes within them– ‘Whitepine Murder Case’, one has in neat lettering, and he peers into its contents and combs through them with his index and middle finger. He holds the photos within carefully, studying the autopsy, accounts, and everything else that even hints at the possibility of him ever incriminating that damned girl.

This line, he notes in his mind, and he doesn’t think twice to black it out. This photo; he’ll take a lighter to that. And these notes should be redacted. Granted, the things that should be redacted in this folder are few and far between, being the first he compiled in relation to this case; when he didn’t know all he does now, when everyone seemed like a valid suspect, before he got to interrogate the staff at the estate. There are only a few photos with Ivory in them, and even then, she’s buried in the background, hurrying off, away from his line of sight. Perhaps it is that she’d already realized the detective had begun to suspect her, perhaps she could feel his eyes on her– and had she scared her with the possibility of being caught so soon? If this was the case(and he knows it to be) he can’t help but have pride swell in his chest, staring at the discarded stack of photographs that still have her in them; he still has two more to sort through, though. He can’t be proud of work he hasn’t finished.

The second folder, marked as ‘Suspect List- Mystycat’ in slightly less neat handwriting, documents the identities of the few people he’d considered for the crime around the time he was able to interview the staff at Whitepine. A list of too many names to count shortened down to simply 4: the head butler, the newest hire, and two members of the Hemlocke family. The Hemlockes he had suspected seemed the least likely, so their profiles as documented inside were the briefest. The head butler had more information to work with, given his background as a former soldier(the murder could be the result of an episode, Borm briefly thought upon the possibility)-- which aided his investigation greatly.

And then he laid eyes upon her.

The newest hire.

Nervous, stuttering. The most inexperienced, deceptive murderer he'd ever seen. The other staff members had already found their place under her thumb, he noticed, them all singing her praises whenever she was mentioned. Oh, Ivory's sweet, oh, Ivory's quiet, oh, she's good at what she does, I've heard her playing, and it… the testimonials he gathered as to her mannerisms and how she presents herself play in his mind and he makes a note of yanking the paper from its spot in the folder, crumpling it down into a ball, and throwing it elsewhere for him to stomp on his way out– it collides against a wall of his office and bounces back sadly onto the floor, rolling to the side of his desk, as if pathetically begging for a second chance. Worse so was that he never got much information on her– according to herself, according to everyone else, one day she simply showed up. And a few days later, the staff found Mystycat dead at the base of a stairway. The body was fresh, he reflects, and Ivory was apparently sorting mail with the head butler– but he knows that's a lie.

There is a third folder relating to the case, one simply scrawled upon with ‘IVORY’. It is thick in content– notes, theories, photographs, all carelessly thrown in, making it bulge uncomfortably. It was his most valuable tool, if he were to be honest; her daily routine, the tasks she'd do, what room she slept in, and what times she and her roommate usually snuck out. Where they'd sneak out, why, so on and so forth, and they never suspected a thing. He'd watch them for hours, and yet, no suspicion arose! He could do as he pleased, photograph her as many times as he wanted, fill this folder to the brim with as many pieces of ‘evidence’ as he wanted, and–

He opens the thing briefly to fill it with everything else he'd accrued from the other folders, stuffing it until it can barely close shut– he forces it to with one of his hands. It still works, however, so he hoists the thing(it's uncomfortably heavy, he notes) under his arm, and rushes out his office.

The stairwell feels uncomfortably long as he goes through it. He stares down at the concrete steps and they seem to spiral down forever; he knows he's just panicking. He knows this is some childish hallucination, and so the detective takes one more step only for it to be a little steeper than he expected.

Odd, he notes, looking down, and steeper it is. He's hallucinating, he reminds himself- he knows how quickly he can descend these stairs but the more he hesitates and waits and stupidly contemplates over it the more someone, that damned rookie, might see him.

He's hallucinating.

He's hallucinating, he has to be.

When he finally descends another step, and then another, and more and more that gradually shrink in height, though, a voice in his mind whispers if it's real; a shiver crawls up his spine at that, settling on his shoulders, and he holds the folder tighter.

It might slip from him.

It can't slip from him.

There's a certain point reached where Bormethius cannot go down another step without essentially jumping down to it- he hesitates seeing the bottom of that point, where everything afterwards fades into some bottomless pit he has to brace if it means he can do what needs to be done, and it hits him that–

that Bormethius is afraid of heights.

–that he cannot blindly hope he'll survive this fall. It takes some courage, some effort to muster up the will to take a step forward into nothingness, but it is gathered. He takes it, then–

and prays to God that he doesn't want to die when he hits the bottom.

And it lands upon the hardwood floor of the base of the station. Borm blinks as he reaches it, looking to the stairwell confusedly, and perhaps for a moment his brain imagines it as that pit before he blinks and the steps are low, easy, the first things he thanked when he came into the police department that weren't his seniors. He's startled as he detects his shoe clacking down upon the surface, staring at it in utter disbelief for a brief moment before he realizes where he is, what he holds in his hands.

The police station's laid out so that personal offices are all gathered on the second floor, leaving the first to harbor as many cells as needed(there are 5, and no more than 3, he's noted, are ever occupied at once), along with a simple visitation room. It's small, rudimentary, and through one side room at the other end of the station is a lone door marked ‘EXIT’. It's not much of an exit, if he's being honest, it's more of a means to come to some small outdoor area where their dumpster is sadly the most prominent feature. It's rather grey and dark and wholly uninteresting otherwise, and when Borm does lay eyes upon the sight for the first time in weeks(he's not keeping track, but he rarely visits this place) he almost feels an obligation to wave at it.

Both of his hands cover the folder tucked beneath his arm- they grasp it tightly, making sure nothing falls out, that nothing will fall out as the detective makes his way around the dumpster, to one of its sides, setting down the large folder where it would be unseen by anyone just briefly entering the space. Sure, they might catch a glimpse if they approach, but that's a given, and he doesn't think much of it.

Borm reaches into his pocket, and out emerges a small lighter– it was a gift from family, something he's kept close to him for the sake of lighting cigarettes for himself or for colleagues. He flicks it open, ignites the flame, and squats down to bring it close to the surface of the folder. It only takes a few moments for it to catch part of it, and he almost guards it from any slight gust of wind that might extinguish it. It is warm against the surface of his hand, and soon spreads to the rest of the folder, no doubt burning the contents within.

He stands back up, looming over the sight, admiring the bright yellow-orange of the flame and the gentle, calming, crackling sound that emanates from it. It's not the most loud thing in the world, it's a rather pathetic flame all things considered, but it still burns. He watches it crawl over her name, overtaking every letter and making it some charred mess beneath it, more fuel to the very literal fire.

It's freeing, in a way. Nobody will know.

Nobody will ever know.

And he smiles down at the flame.