She points at the castle. "Um, it's in the — they've put him in the dungeons, I think —"

The castle--Nico lives in the castle--

(Lived in the castle? Was Nico among the victims-- please, no-- but that's selfish, it's not like it's okay to murder anyone else--)

"Okay-- let's go-- I'm so sorry--"

"I — I actually need to go tell the city guards — but you can find it yourself, right — "

(of course he can, it's visible from a mile away.)

"Yes-- will they let me in if I'm alone--"

(Almost certainly, but he doesn't know for sure what their emergency procedures are like; they might be refusing anyone entry, just in case.)

"I... don't see why not? Why would you keep a shamer out when something horrible like that has just happened?"

(She's a cook, she's never needed to know any emergency protocols beyond "do what the guards say". But why would they keep out a shamer.)

"I'll be there as fast as I can."

He takes off towards the castle, doing his best to dodge anyone else on the streets.

The gate is closed. Two guards stand outside it, both trying to look just as authoritative as they would on any other day. They can't let people know, not yet, not when they don't even know who rules the city.

As Timon approaches, one raises his voice. "Halt! State your purpose."

"I-- someone said to come here-- I think she was from here-- I'm a Shamer--"

"Oh." He glances at the other guard. "Yeah, we definitely need you, then."

He opens the door. "Come with me."

The first thing he does when they enter the courtyard is find someone else to take his place at the gate, but then he leads Timon into the main building and down the stairs.

He follows the guard.

The dungeons are dark, lit only by a few small windowholes high in the walls. Most cells are empty, and the place stinks of vomit. A guard looks confusedly at Timon and his companion, who explains in low tones that this shamer showed up at the gate, wanting to help. 

"He's over there," the dungeon guard says as he points to a cell. In it, someone is lying down, curled up on the floor, facing away from the door. In the low light, it might take a few moments to notice that their previously white shirt is spattered with blood.

He peers into the cell. From where he's standing, he can just make out some of the person's features. He's going to need to get closer.

He takes a few steps towards the cell.

It's Nico, oh gods, it's Nico--

why--

--Nico--

He draws in his breath sharply and barely manages to stop himself from saying Nico's name.

(He'd seemed so nice when Timon had met him--

--but he'd known Timon was a shamer, and Timon had said he would be staying a few more days, and maybe the sort of person who would-- the person from the castle had said "they all" were dead but he doesn't know who's included in that "all"-- maybe the sort of person to murder their entire family is also the sort of person to befriend the nearest shamer beforehand and pretend not to be that sort of person at all--

--it's not like he'd necessarily be able to tell if someone were lying to him, not when he can't even make eye contact--

--only one way to find out.)

"You're going to need to turn around so I can see you properly." No need for anything stronger than that yet.

They're dead. They're dead and he did it. The scene is burnt into his mind's eye, the way his father was slumped over his desk covered in half-dried blood from his gut his side his neck, the way Adela laid on the floor, curled up as if to protect the baby that’d never be born, now, her face smashed — and Bian —

And their blood is on his hands. And his arms. And all over his shirt.

And even now, he's too weak to even handle having seen it — he's thrown up in the cell corner twice already — he's too weak to handle having seen it but he did it, wasn't too weak for that — his stomach lurches again, a little.

Someone walks in. A shamer, he hears the guard say. Of course. That's what you do with… monsters like him… you get a shamer so they know what they did. Before they're led to the great square, their head laid on a block. A small part of him is scared of the prospect. But he deserves it, of course.

And then the shamer talks, and Nico flinches as he recognizes the voice. It's Timon. Kind, compassionate Timon who would never hurt anybody, not even the guilty, not even when his own livelihood was on the line… Nico doesn't deserve to even look at him. He stays put.

He doesn't want to do this, but if Nico is going to be uncooperative, he doesn't have much choice.

(Why, it doesn't make sense, he can't seriously think that refusing to look is going to work.)

He positions himself carefully, so that the guard won't be able to see into his eyes without a fair amount of effort. There's no need to hurt him.

"Turn around. Look into my eyes."

His body moves on its own accord, compelled by the magic laced in Timon's voice. He raises his head.

It hurts, of course, but it's not so much worse than what he was already feeling.

He doesn't break eye contact.

Nico's memories start playing in both their minds.

There’s nothing special about the day Nico gives up. No grand inciting incident. Just a slightly younger version of Nico who’s tired to the bone of bending and breaking himself to fit his father’s expectations. His father makes his usual remarks about how lucky it is that Dunark has Erasmos, about how quickly Dunark would get invaded demolished turned into anarchy if Nico ever were to sit on the throne, and there’s nothing special about today except that Nico responds. 

“I… I don’t think I can do it. Not ever. I can’t learn to kill.”

The scene changes. It’s a few hours later, and Nico is standing in a room every surface of which is covered in books and vials and alchemy notes. He’s just finished recounting the argument to an older man sitting at a desk. The man looks up at Nico, his face looking heavy. “Nico, kid... I know it's hard to hear, but he isn't wrong, exactly.”

Nico looks deeply hurt as he tries and fails to come up with a response, and the man continues, looking earnest and caring and deeply, deeply serious. “I'm sorry, Nico, but you're the only good person in that rotten family, the country needs you —”

“But I can't, though, that's what I'm trying to say, I can't do it, Marlin —“

“Yes you can, Nico, I know you can, you are so much stronger than you think, you just need to try —”

“I've been trying my whole life! Trying to hold my tongue when he makes those awful comments, trying to work hard at training even though the swordmaster is awful, trying to be the son my father wanted, trying to be a perfect copy of Erasmos —“

“I'm sorry, I know you're working hard, but you just need to —“

“You don't know anything! Or you wouldn't have said — you're free to sit in your tower and do whatever you fucking want, you don't know what it's like, I try so hard every fucking day and you say I need to try harder and I can't, Marlin, I fucking can't!

“Nico…” He reaches out his hand.

“No!” Nico steps back, out of reach. “You don't get to do that, you don't get to hug me and then everything's alright again, that's not how this works, you want me to try even harder when I'm already —”

Nico's voice shakes as he says, so quietly it's almost a whisper, "I don't want to try anymore." And then he turns around and leaves the room, leaving the old man looking lost.

That certainly doesn't look like Nico murdering people. In fact, it looks like the exact opposite of that.

But he has to be sure. 

(And if he had decided to become a murderer, then it would sort of make sense for refusal to do so to be the first memory.)

He keeps looking.

There's a blur of people around him as Nico spends way too much of his time in taverns all over the city, doing stupid dares with Carmian and whoever else isn't too scared of him, the alcohol making his memories jumbled and confused and eventually nonexistent as each night goes on — 

 — all while knowing that he's wasting his life, wasting the influence he could have, wasting all of Dunark's money to pay for his drinks — not that it'd be spent on good things otherwise, probably, is what he tells himself to feel better — 

( — he must've brought Carmian's life in danger dozens of times, if death is what happens when he's drunk and sufficiently mad at someone — )

These memories also do not seem to involve any murder.

One possible explanation for this is that Nico did not, in fact, murder anyone; it's not impossible, and he'd certainly like it to be true. But perhaps that's just wishful thinking. Nico is, after all, sitting in a jail cell covered in blood, and he wasn't willing to meet his eyes.

He keeps looking.

There's the several months when he was 15 and had a giant crush on Adela just because she was nice to him that one time, that's pretty awful too, she's his brother's wife — Was. Was his brother's wife.

And then, finally, there's his father's words last night and the way the memory gets jumbled and confused and fades out even though he was trying to be responsible. And then there's being woken up by a scream and seeing Bian and Adela and his father, sliced up and bloody, still and unmoving. Nothing in between but an obvious conclusion. 

There's blood on his hands. That fact fills a memory all on its own.

Okay.

Okay.

(No, it's not okay, people are dead--)

It's really weird how there don't seem to be any memories of the murder.

He's not actually positive what would happen if you forgot about murdering someone. Maybe this is it. 

At the very least, he seemed horrified to have realized what happened, which suggests this wasn't some sort of elaborate, planned scheme.

(what sort of monster murders a three-year-old, it's not like murdering adults is okay but he can at least sort of understand why someone might want to--)

(this doesn't make sense, nothing about this makes sense--

--or maybe it makes perfect sense and he just doesn't want to admit how easy it is for someone to become a murderer--

--if Nico was willing to murder someone on so little provocation what would it take to push him--

--but maybe Nico didn't--

--or maybe he was only sort of misrepresenting himself--

--or maybe it really is so easy to become a murderer--)

Maybe the memory of the murder will be later. Maybe if he keeps looking through Nico's memories, he'll be able to figure it out. 

(maybe he already has, he just doesn't want to admit it)

(why doesn't Nico remember it)

He keeps looking.

There's a 13-year-old Nico throwing his sword into one of Dunark's canals. It's a futile attempt at rebellion that achieved nothing except destroying something objectively valuable. There's the voice of his father, later, thundering "you are nothing without your sword!"

There's the time he and Carmian were trying to climb the city buildings and his foot went through someone's roof, and in the moment running away seemed like the easiest solution and the next day he wanted to pay for the damages, of course, but he couldn't find the place again. 

There's an even younger Nico, just seven or eight years old, who dislikes his new swordmaster even though she's the best dueler in Dunark. He'd even gotten Marlin involved, not that it'd worked, his father wouldn't dream of firing someone so talented. Drakan had come up to him, after, and angrily explained how he'd do anything to get a teacher like that, how Nico had so many more opportunities and it wasn't fair, and the least he could do was appreciate them.