Archive of Our Own

He's bleeding. This is not noteworthy. The day has been unkind to him already. What's a little blood to finish it off?

Rough paper towels scratch his skin, and he presses them firmer into the skin between his nose and upper lip, willing the bleeding stop in a reasonable amount of time. It would suit the day, though, to be trapped in the men's room for an abnormal length of time, bleeding and tired.

He tips his head down and pinches the bridge of his nose. The lights in the room prick his vision. They're so…intense. Ludicrous to say though it is, they almost hurt to be around, even more so in here than anywhere else in the building.

He sighs. His nose is still bleeding, and he fishes his phone out of his pocket to clumsily text the Chief Prosecutor that he won't be on-time to their weekly meeting.

Simon minds his business, is what. He doesn't care to know about his coworkers' neuroses, and he certainly doesn't care to detangle the snarls of trauma that are practically a job requirement in this office. Simon keeps his nose out of that, thank you.

Simon just isn't heartless, is the thing. Simon has too much awareness to avoid the warning bells Sad Monk Sahdmadhi is throwing up, and he's fairly certain nobody else in this office cares enough to pay attention, and Athena's talked ad nauseam about the exact behavior he's seeing.

The way he snaps his eyes shut for just a few moments at a time; the exhaustion and agitation that mar his face; the unnatural twitch of his shoulders; those are all, as Athena put it, very bad signs, Simon.

And normally, Simon would mind his business and not get involved, but an overstimulated Sad Monk is a snappy Sad Monk, and he's the only person in the office that has any sort of exposure to that. If it were just the apartment, he wouldn't care—Sahdmadhi keeps to his room by choice. But it's work, where avoiding people is not an option, and simply put, the risk of a duel between the Sad Monk and von Karma is not one he wants to factor into his day.

And now he's watching a very stubborn man display all the hallmarks of reaching sensory capacity in quite possibly the worst place to reach sensory capacity at. Not that the Sad Monk will admit it.

"Prosecutor Blackquill, is everything alright?" Edgeworth says, and Simon snaps out of his trance.

"Quite, with me. Thank you for your concern, Edgeworth-dono." Now, how to go about this…

"Might I ask you a question?"

"Certainly," Simon says, "you're standing in my office, are you not? Please, sit."

"Thank you," the Chief Prosecutor says, not sitting down. "I'll be brief: You live with Prosecutor Sahdmadhi, yes?"

"He's my roommate, yes."

Edgeworth puts a hand to his chin and mumbles something that Simon doesn't catch. When he turns back to Simon, his brow is furrowed. "Would you say you have an understanding of his typical behavior?"

Ah. That's what this is about. "I see I'm not the only one to notice."

"I do not think any others have thus far, but I am at a loss for what, if anything I can do. I do not…I struggle to understand him."

That makes two of them. "He's good at keeping it under wraps when he wants to. Though, he has moved here for the long-term, and there's only so long a person can go."

Edgeworth nods. "What do you suspect is happening, if you don't mind my asking. I'll not betray your confidence; I only wish to ensure his wellbeing…for both his sake and this office's."

"Ha! You amuse me, sir." Simon puts his feet up on his desk and stares out the window. "It's my professional opinion that this is a response to a new environment, and not anything more sinister. You've been to Khura'in, haven't you?"

"I have, indeed."

"And how was it there? Loud? Bright? Full of skyscrapers and flourescent lights?"

Edgeworth jerks back. "Quite the opposite. If it weren't for our situation, I'd have found it quite peaceful, to tell the truth."

"And that's your problem," Simon says, pointing a pen at Edgeowrth. "He's gone from a fairly calm, natural, non-technological environment to Los Angeles. Permanently. Anyone can tolerate the change for a week or two, rest in their home country, and be fine after, but he's not doing that. He hasn't acclimated to the lights or sounds here, and the numbskull is trying to white-knuckle his way through it."

"I see. I believe I know what you mean. Does he…is there anything we might do about this?"

Simon doesn't care. It's not his business. All he cares about is that Sahdmadhi keeps the common areas clean and pays his share of the rent on time. His health is no concern of Simon's, the same way he only cares what Gavin does with his time when it gets in the way of building a case.

And yet—

"Craft an excuse for him to leave early. Not force, he won't take it. If you tell him you're concerned for his health, he'll dismiss you with some hogwash about the Holy Mother. Don't let him take his work home if you can help it." Simon can clear out for a bit. Sahdmadhi's made himself scarce when Simon has had Athena and her brigade of friends over before. He supposes it's the rule of propriety that he returns the favor and give Sahdmadhi a chance to stew in the dark. "I'll handle the rest."

Dismissed early, on the flimsy grounds that he had no work to do and it was a holiday weekend anyway, Nahyuta can't help feeling a growing pressure in his head. It gets more intense with every little thing. The bus jostles over a speed bump, someone drops their bag, the lights flicker overhead, and each one makes his eye twitch. By the time he gets back to the apartment (after two delays and a traffic jam, no less), his head feels fit to burst, even though there's no real pain to go with the pressure.

He fumbles for the light switch as he takes his boots off. The moment the lights flicker on, he feels the pressure spike and his eyes squeeze shut against the brightness. He makes an absolutely pitiful noise to complement the whole nightmare and immediately turns the lights off again. Blackquill can deal with a little darkness; hasn't he been around it all his life anyway?

"O Holy Mother, grant me strength and clarity of mind," he tries to mutter, but it doesn't quite string together the way it's meant to, and he's left gasping for air at the end of the simple sentence. He repeats it, over and over in his head, but even his thoughts begin to struggle against the never-ending bloom of pressure.

He drags himself to the kitchen, divesting himself of his formal wear, which has become suffocating, in favor of something light and loose in the process. From there, he decides that the West has too many lights. The toaster does not need a light. The microwave should not double as a clock. There's no good reason for the kettle to have a blinking indicator.

He opens the freezer and has to turn away from the bright blue and white lights within. He blindly grabs for something, anything cold, and it's only the compress he keeps for stretching injuries that alleviates a fraction of the pressure. He closes the freezer and slumps down against it, finally able to breathe as the compress against his forehead leeches a chill into him. He still has to squeeze his eyes shut against the lights, but he's doing…better. He's so tired. So, so very—

BANG!

Simon has the tact to straighten the Sad Monk's boots from where they're haphazardly flung in the entryway. He also has the tact to do this by penlight and not turn on anything else. The curtains in the entire place are clearly drawn, lights and signs taped over or unplugged, and Simon's not that much of an ass.

BANG! POP! BANG!

Sad Monk Sahdmadhi really wasn't blessed with luck, was he? To have his overload coincide with the Fourth of July, of all days…

Simon takes off his shoes and moves through the house via the same penlight, quietly dropping his bag and work clothes in his room before changing into his least noisy loungewear. He's never minded fireworks. They're a nuisance, certainly, but he's not the sort to have a visceral reaction to the sound of gunfire or similar…

His phone rings, and he nearly drops it out of shock. The sound peals through the space, and he nearly hangs up in an effort to get the caller on the line. "What?" he hisses, heart rate still not returning to normal.

"Geez, Simon. Who pissed in your Cheerios?"

"Cykes-dono. Why are you calling me?"

"…" there's a long pause on the other end of the line. "Apollo and Prosecutor Sahdmadhi usually have a call this time every week, and he can't get him on the phone. Is he home?"

Oh, good heavens, how bad will this day get? Simon's actually starting to feel bad for the poor clergyman. "Yes, but he's resting."

"Through these fireworks? What I'd give to sleep that deeply…"

Simon doubts that, but Athena shouldn't have that information yet. "Regardless, he has made it clear he's not to be disturbed. He doesn't like to use his phone if he can help it; he might just be ignoring him."

"Yeah, maybe. It's just…Apollo mentioned something about the celebrations being a lot of noise, and I don't know about Prosecutor Sahdmadhi, but I'm one firework away from locking myself in the storage closet with a pair of earplugs. So…"

Simon sits down. Right. Athena's struggling today too. "Do whatever you need to. Wright-dono can tolerate you sitting in the backroom and filing old case reports or whatever it is you'd do. I'll…keep an eye on Sahdmadhi." Regrettably.

"Okay. I'll see you tomorrow? For soba?"

"Of course."

Athena hangs up the call, and Simon braves the hallway and knocks on Sahdmadhi's door. No response. It isn't even latched. The fireworks continue, as do cheers and whoops from the ground below, and Simon realizes it is way too bright and loud for someone in the Sad Monk's position to be okay. He texts Athena.

"When your hearing got really bad, where did you hide?

When we were still at gyaxa, I mean."

"…

gyaxa or not, i look for the quietest, darkest place I can find. mom had a linen closet I liked, but I use mr wright's guestroom closet a lot now

anywhere small and dark, basically"

"Thanks."

There's one room in the apartment that doesn't have windows, and it's the coat closet, which is tiny. It's not deep, but it's got a good bit of length, enough to fit winter and summer coats both. It isn't meant to house a person.

The faint noise of protest he hears doesn't come from the door. It comes from the body curled up in the corner.

Everything is so loud. He doesn't know how he got here. All he knows is that he is here, and he's been here, and the only comfort he has is the cold washcloth on the back of his neck and the barely there touch of his beads beneath his fingers.

It's just celebratory, he tells himself. It's how people celebrate here. It's happy, he insists to himself, but then a firework goes off and all he can think of are the times Dhurke shouted for him and Apollo to get to shelter, or the Divination Seances that invariably involved a pistol, or Mother stumbling back from the stand with a bloodstained dress. His breath catches, then catches again, then again, and again, and again until his vision starts to spot.

"Sad Mo…"

He knows there's another part to that word, but it's not connecting with the other pieces of his mind, the ones needed for verbal comprehension. Nothing is connecting. He feels like—like—like he's drowning again, like he—

"Sahdmadhi." The voice isn't the problem. The fireworks are the problem. They keep going off, and Mother gets shot every time. He can't breathe.

"Sahdmadhi!" Something closes around his wrists, firm and unyielding and awful. It's Ga'ran, it's Ga'ran again, it's her men making him acquiesce, and dragging him about, and—

The pressure on his wrists leaves, and something cool and damp takes its place. "Nahyuta. You are going to pass out if you keep on like this."

He's going to drown if he keeps on like this.

Something colder wraps around his forearm. "Breathe, Sahdmadhi. Like you're blowing out a candle. Try and push your stomach out with your breath…that's better. Keep doing that."

He tries. He does. He has to fight the urge to not, really, because every time the fireworks go off, he wants to inhale and inhale and inhale, and suck up all the oxygen so that none of the fires can even light. But he tries, and he feels dizzy, but not like he's drowning.

"That's it, Sahdmadhi. I'm going to pin your hair off your neck. It will help with the heat, okay?"

He mumbles something in the affirmative, and he feels hands reach up and around his neck to take his braid and secure it in a bun. "Keep breathing, Sad Monk."

Oh.

Nahyuta's willingness to trust a total stranger in such a state is shameful. He's fortunate that it was Simon, who lives here, but Nahyuta can't remember if he locked the door when he got home. Anyone could have entered, and what then? To find the Prince-regent of Khura'in like this…the possibilities are endless.

"None of that, Sahdmadhi. Breathe. Here." The cloth on his neck is replaced, and the cold feeling finally spreads. His shoulders slump, and he's so tired. "Give me your wrist." He obliges, not thinking. He has no space in his head for thinking. "Sahdmadhi. I'm going to keep cooling you with ice until you tell me otherwise. Okay?"

Nahyuta must nod, because Simon says okay and replaces the cool weight on his one wrist with a much colder one, and Nahyuta sighs in relief. "Thank you," he finally mumbles.

"Don't get used to it."

"Charming, Panda."

"You know me, always debonair. Can you look at me?"

Nahyuta dares to move his head from where it's resting on his knees. He has to squint into the total darkness, but he makes out that he's at one end of the coat closet, and the hulking shape at the other must be Blackquill.

"You don't need to glare at me, Your Resplendency. I just saved your hide."

Nahyuta snorts, and immediately regrets it as he coughs on his own breath. A hand finds his knee. "Hey. Breathe, Sad Monk. I don't want to get charged with regicide." This only makes Nahyuta want to laugh, and therefore gasp, even more.

"Seriously, though. I'd like to check your eyes, if you don't mind. It'll involve me shining a light, but I'd prefer to know if you have a brain injury."

Nahyuta could do with never seeing light again, but he still nods. "Go ahead."

A light comes on, pointed at the ceiling, and Nahyuta didn't realize that Simon was this concerned. He looks like he's seen a ghost, and he's peering at Nahyuta like he's about to drop dead. "Okay," he says after a moment. "Look straight on at me until I say otherwise."

Nahyuta nods and stares at Simon's nose. The light comes from all angles , and it hurts. He fights the urge to squint, but his eye still twitches. "Still overloaded," Simon mutters as he puts the flashlight back on the floor. "Follow my finger with your eyes."

Nahyuta does, in time and with no problems. He's just exhausted, and concentrating hurts.

"What month is it?"

"July."

Simon's expression changes. He looks…surprised? "In English, please."

"Ju…July." He grits his teeth and looks away. "I know what month it is. I just don't understand your pronunciation scheme."

"I believe you," Simon says. "What month comes next?"

"August."

"Touch your right index finger to the tip of your nose…okay. Now use the same hand to reach for my finger. Good. I'd like to get you standing, just to make sure your walking patterns aren't affected, but we don't have the space."

"No…" Nahyuta slurs. "Don't. Dizzy."

"I'd rather you be dizzy than concussed, quite frankly."

"I'd be concussed regardless, and I haven't hit my head recently."

"You'd lost a lot of oxygen by the time I found you, Sad Monk. I wasn't sure you hadn't already blacked out and come back."

Now that he mentions it, Nahyuta does remember a feeling of…blanking on the world. "You needn't worry," he says.

"Not a chance. You're curled up in a coat closet, and I'm not convinced you don't have brain damage."

"This wouldn't be what I got brain damage from, Panda."

"No, I suppose it would be your insufferable manner of writing that would do that."

"As though you're any better! Did nobody teach you legal writing in school, or did you learn that in prison too?"

"Watch it, Your Sublimity, or I'll drill holes in your mugs while you're at work."

"I'm going to unseam all of your dress shirts."

"I will make it my personal mission to replace your cutlery with the most unpleasant of spoons."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Wouldn't I?"

"Not if you don't want toothpicks snapped off in all your locks."

"Ha! Where'd you learn that one?"

"I once broke into a Justice Ministry office I wasn't meant to be in…I used the trick to stall for time. It took Inga a day and a half to replace them all. Holy Mother, he was livid."

"Didn't get caught, did you?"

"No, I'd be six feet under if I had."

Simon lets out a belly laugh, and Nahyuta winces. "Exceptional!"

"Ow."

"Apologies."

"Mm." Nahyuta lets his head rest against his knees again. There's no tension this time; he just can't keep it up. He wants to sleep. Simon doesn't say anything.

"I'm sorry," Nahyuta finally says, and his tongue moves without instruction from his brain. "For Miss Cykes."

Simon stills. He didn't think this is where the night would go. He was convinced Sahdmadhi was asleep until now.

"Are you, now?"

"Yes. For…all of my cases, really."

"How caring of you." Sahdmadhi has dashed his chances of forgiveness already. Lumping Athena in with the rest of his cases only serves to cheapen any apology.

"I didn't…" Sahdmadhi mumbles, head resting on his knees and eyes staring vacant at the baseboards, "…know."

"What do you mean, 'you didn't know?" Simon huffs.

"About Miss Cykes' hearing. It is common enough practice to use the emotions of the judge and gallery to your advantage. I attributed her attitude to inexperience, not psychological distress."

"You manipulated the trial to cause her pain."

"And you haven't?" Sahdmadhi asks, looking straight at him. "I do not intend to antagonize you, but have you not done the very same?"

"I didn't intend to hurt her."

"Neither did I." Sahdmadhi falls quiet for a moment. "I thought…"

"Oh, what did you think, Sad Monk?" he scoffs. He's not going to turn this around on Simon, not after tonight.

"I thought her quite confident, to tell you the truth. She was resolute to a fault…even when I ended up hurting her so grievously. I have always admired that; I think it to be one of her best qualities."

Simon doesn't know what to say to that. Nahyuta keeps the conversation going.

"I—I had to pretend I didn't know Apollo, that I hated him, that the Holy Mother mandated my hatred, because if I didn't, Ga'ran would know he was from Khura'in. And that meant I had to hate the people associated. Miss Cykes…is very like me, I fear."

"Athena isn't half so vicious."

"No. But she's equally stubborn, and as I understand it, our childhoods were not dissimilar."

"Yes, I'm sure you blamed yourself for your mother's murder at the tender age of eleven too." Simon rolls his eyes.

Sahdmadhi just…stares. "Yes. I did," he says, tone entirely earnest. "My sister's, too." Simon raises an eyebrow. "My mother was held hostage by my aunt until I was ten. My father helped her escape for a year. But…"

"Your aunt found you."

"Yes. My father and I escaped. Apollo was already with friends in America by then. My mother and sister…we thought they were dead for a very long time. Until Rayfa was two, I thought—I thought she was dead, and then Ga'ran publicly announced that she had an heir, and all I could see was my sister on the dais. But if I'd been more careful, or faster, or…better, they might have escaped. So, yes, when I meet a young woman with a horrid past insisting that she can save people with the law, I find my story quite similar."

"Athena didn't acquiesce," Simon hisses. "She didn't give up; you are not half so similar."

"Miss Cykes didn't have the weight of a country pinning her down! Do you understand what would have happened if I'd let myself go? Ga'ran would have killed my sister, and my father, Apollo, and anyone else she could reach with whatever information she gleaned from me, and then she'd have killed me too. You wonder why the death toll was so high, and I ask you to consider why it wasn't higher! I ran—I spent so many hours justifying lesser sentences and crafting ways to avoid looking at the supposed perpetrator, just so I could keep people from dying! I became an international prosecutor for the hope of avoiding such trials! I hate cities; I hate Los Angeles! I want to be in Khura'in, but I can't, because when I am in Khura'in, people get killed. Because I kill people, Simon."

Nahyuta takes a ragged breath in, and Simon can tell he's trying not to cry. "All I have done for my country is kill its people, and when I look at Miss Cykes I see the same determination to save those people from their fates. It is all I see. And I admire it, because I know she won't give in the way I did."

Simon watches Sahdmadhi regain his breath, easing as time goes on. He doesn't say anything for a long while. It makes sense that he'd think it. The parallels are there. Athena's got similar problems.

"She is…" Sahdmadhi says, very, very small, like he's physically shrinking, and Simon realizes this is far from the first time the monk has found himself curled up in a dark room terrified. "She is like Rayfa to me, in her devotion. And regardless—" Sahdmadhi's hands move, delicately catching the tears that must be beaded at his waterline. "It is Miss Cykes whose forgiveness I must seek, not yours. I only thought it a courtesy to inform you."

How is Simon supposed to be mad at this? This isn't fair. Sahdmadhi was supposed to be a one-time roommate to take over a lease, and it turns out he's a reasonable communicator who keeps to himself outside court and prays for the souls of bugs when he has to kill them and cares for the people he's hurt?? If Simon holds a grudge against that, he's just being a fool.

"Thank you, Sad Monk," he settles on. "In truth, I…I do not pretend your conduct was not cruel, but even in the trial, it was clear that you were fighting much greater opponents than us."

"Surely, I was not so—"

"Silence. You weren't, but I am a psychologist and she can hear emotional states as sounds. You could not have known how sensitive that was if you tried."

Sahdmadhi stares at him with a frown. Does he truly not know how he felt then? Has he repressed it? It's certainly possible.

"What are you talking about?"

"Athena could hear your true feelings, Sad Monk."

"And?"

"She said she could barely think for the screaming."

The cold on his neck becomes vicious and painful in an instant. "What?"

Blackquill stares at him with a concerned frown, none of the huff and smugness that just characterized him present. "I assumed it was your words that caused her grief, and that exacerbated it, but when I stepped in, she was practically begging me to take over so she could adjust the sensitivity of her devices. But again, you could not have known. Not that."

"No, I did not." If she could hear the pain Nahyuta had been in then…Holy Mother, the poor girl. He had doubly to apologize, to ensure he never caused her such pain again.

"You know," Blackquill says, nudging Nahyuta's knee with his foot. "You can't repress things with her. She'll still hear it. It makes it worse, actually."

"Worse? If it's concealed?"

"No, because you aren't concealing it. Have you ever had a soda?"

"Sure."

"Have you ever dropped a soda?"

"No. What does this have to do with emotions?"

"I'm getting to that. When you drop a soda, the force and movement the bottle goes through pressurizes the contents, and the soda foams up for a moment before it returns to looking like a normal soda. But the pressure is still there. A little pressure is good—keeps your soda from going flat, that's why you hear the hiss when you open it. But too much…and when you open it and the pressure can finally release…"

"…it explodes."

"Precisely. But you wouldn't know that from the outside. You can't know until it happens, unless you're a soda whisperer, which Athena is."

"I think your analogy has gotten out of hand, Blackquill."

"I—shush. Concealment is simply putting your soda away. Athena and I don't hold ill will towards one another outside the courtroom, for example. But if there was a problem…she'd be able to tell that something was festering, and the longer that went, the more pressure would build. the difference is, you and I would only notice the explosion. Athena would feel every bit of the pressure before it."

Nahyuta can understand that. "So, by your analogy…you and I are sodas, and we explode if we're too jostled, but Athena is…inside the soda bottle?"

He's pretty sure they've gotten themselves thoroughly confused here, but they can't quit now. Simon frowns. "Actually…yes, I think that's accurate."

Nahyuta can't help laughing. "You are very strange, Panda."

"You're telling me that?"

"Yes." He's entirely sincere. It should be obvious.

"Hah. Well, for what it's worth, you aren't the only one at fault. I spent seven years unable to protect the people I care about most in the world. I owe it to them now. That's why I was so insistent on having her take the trial, and joining her at the bench. I did it to keep her safe, but that doesn't mean I was able to prevent the pain she went through."

Nahyuta can't help thinking of Rayfa, who successfully channeled her first spirit last week, and Mother, who has practically smothered Apollo in affection (by Khura'inese standards, that means Justice Law Offices is bursting at the seams with fresh food and incenses), and how he spent five years sacrificing himself for the chance of safety for them. And…

"I understand that more than you may realize."

"Thought you might. How is she, your sister?"

Nahyuta stares into the shadows for a moment before he fully responds, parsing the best of the available answers. Nobody's asked him before, not out of real curiosity. "She's well. She's progressing remarkably in her studies now that—" He's said too much.

"Now that her aunt isn't holding a knife to her and forcing her into it? Yeah, kids tend to do better when they aren't being hunted for bloodsport."

"Yes, you could say that." He feels his mouth lift into a smile against his will. "Her progress now is beyond that of her predecessors. She may yet rival Mother. And Miss Fey has been so kind in offering her services."

"Has she?"

"Yes. She's stayed some time in Khura'in, and I suspect Rayfa has taken a shine to her teachings."

Simon lets out a gruff laugh and shifts into the light of the flashlight a touch more, enough for Nahyuta to properly make out one side of his face. "She's certainly wiser than when I met her, I'll give her that."

"You knew Miss Fey?"

"Before she was full-fledged spirit medium, yes. She was Wright-dono's assistant before he was disbarred. Very different then, flighty and prone to do whatever she pleased, with Wright-dono dragged along more than he was leading. Much like a certain Princess I know."

"As though Miss Cykes does not do the same."

"Well, what do you expect from her? How do you think that agency stays in business?"

"Mr. Wright's reputation as a madman, I presume. Or perhaps Apollo's notoriety now."

Simon snorts. "Ah, yes. You and your legally famous family. Rebel defense attorney father, royal Prosecutor mother, history maker Justice Minister Justice, up and coming prosecutorial princess, and internationally famous you. How do you bear it?"

Nahyuta's chest flares with pain at the mention of Dhurke, but it always does, really. "With a grin, as you say."

"You know that's not what I mean."

"You're trying to make me talk."

"You're doing that yourself." Simon nudges Nahyuta's foot with his own. "I'm just a dutiful listener."

"You are asking probing questions." Nahyuta nudges back. "Cross-examining me."

"I'd be much harsher if I were," Simon says, and kicks back even harder.

Kick. "You need not be harsh to cross-examine someone."

Kick. "Ah, but how else would I prove I wasn't crossing you?"

Kick. "By not asking me questions and removing the possibility of crossing me."

Kick. "But where's the fun in that?"

Kick. "There's no fun in any of this."

Kick. "And yet, you talk."

Kick. "Shut up, Panda."

Kick.

Kick.

Kick.

Kick. "Cease."

Kick. "No."

Kick. "Cease at once."

Kick. "Silence, Sad Monk."

Kick. "Shan't."

Kick.

Kick.

Kick. "Unhand me."

Kick. "I have not handed you."

Kick. "That word doesn't make sense in that sentence. You have not handed me?"

Kick. "Then how do you suppose I unhand you, if I never handed you in the first place?"

Kick. "You are child. An insolent child, at that."

Kick. "My, how kind of you. Tell me, do I receive a timeout or extra chores for that?"

Kick, kick, kick. "Eight hours of prayer. You are hardly the worst I've taught, you know. I regularly have to stop one of my students from breaking into the Residence; you do not come close to comparison."

"Is that student your sister?"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Does it not run in the family?"

"Why, you—"