(2022-05-07) Voice: The Aspenwood v Harbrooke Trial

Details

Author:	Athena
Summary:	The grand finale to the Fall of the House of Harbrooke: Samson Harbrooke is put on trial for his crimes. Please see content warnings.
Rating:	M for Mature 17+

Arc: The Fall of the House of Harbrooke

+ Show additional content warnings

graphic description of child abuse, references to child abuse, graphic description of violence, mentions of asphyxiation, mentions of drunkenness, person defending actions with drunken behavior, person defending abuse

Stormwind’s seat of judicial power is an imposing building, not only for the air of solemnity and purpose that permeates the gray stone, but for the sheer size and scope of it within the massive keep, the walls sweeping up in stark, undecorated lines, the ceiling raised high enough to make even the Draenei feel small as they walk through these halls. There are several smaller courtrooms, some of which may be familiar to those who have engaged in the minor disputes of society, contracts and petty crimes, but the room that seems to have garnered a significant crowd is the one that is due north past the decorative stonework of the center of the building: a courtroom meant for those who have committed crimes against the elite of Stormwind, a room frequently left empty that now buzzes with the sound of overlapping voices and rustling high quality fabrics.

There are two bailiffs in this room, looking imposing as they watch the crowd settle in, twice the usual amount, suggesting that some manner of disruption is expected.

The room is large, with nine rows on each side of two tables, and a wide area behind them for standing room. The rail that separates the audience and the tables is a standard size, but the materials feel expensive, and there is a faint sense of warding on them, as though there is an arcane rune that can be activated if necessary.

Near the judge’s bench, a man with dark black hair and dark brown eyes magnified to a near comical degree, sits chewing his lip as his fingers tap lightly on a metal, gnome-crafted stenographer device, as though he’s warming up his fingers for their eventual purpose.

At the right table, the table of the plaintiff, a woman whose face looks like she might be in her late teens, and whose demeanor suggests something approaching early-40s, stands next to the table, still organizing her paperwork, her hands moving with a nervous sort of skittering, although her expression seems relatively calm. Her Badlands dusty brown hair has been pulled into a tight, small bun at the nape of her neck, and her bright grayish-beige eyes blink repeatedly as she looks from paper to paper as though checking over and over that she has the right ones in the right places. Her dark blue suit does not do her sort of sallow complexion any favors, but it is well made and fits her exactly. Alwynneria “Winnie” Demasco closes her eyes briefly, and spreads her hands out in front of her for a moment, tapping the table soundlessly, as she moves to take a seat in the well-made, high-backed official chairs in Stormwind colors next to Mordecai. She exhales a harsh breath as she sets her shoulders back.

Mordecai, seated at the plaintiff's table, is wearing the nicest and most formal set of priest robes he owns. They are a pure white with numerous gold accents, and they make him look even more fragile and delicate than normal, almost angelic. His hair was probably neatly combed at some point this morning but has by now become its usual mess of unruly curls. He has a tight grip on the edge of the table, and he stares out into space at nothing in particular, his eyes vacant, like he's not really seeing anyone in the room.

When his lawyer sits down next to him, Mordecai seems to snap back into himself. He blinks, he gives her a tiny smile, and then he turns to scan the crowd for Colson.

Seated in the relatively nice chairs of the first rows of the audience courtroom one row behind and slightly to the right of Mordecai, in a place where all Mordecai would need to do is turn his head to look over his right shoulder, is Lord Colson Aspenwood, the fourth son of the House of Aspenwood, wearing a suit of white, gold, and deep, dark pink. It has been tailored exactly to him, and the inherent quality of the fabric is obvious even from a distance, masterfully made to a flattering style that brings out the breadth of his shoulders and the strength of his figure while softening the lines of the paladin’s military bearing into something more genteel, more Society perfect. His hair has been styled deliberately, the natural wave transformed into a flawless sweep back from his face to frame the high cheekbones that seem to catch the light of the room on them. His expression is unreadable, a mild polite mask of neutrality that suggests that Colson is there to observe nothing more remarkable than paint drying. He wears no gloves, and his hands rest one over the other, his left on top, showcasing a finely wrought gold and white gold wedding band, which he rests on his right knee. His posture is perfect, his bearing almost regal, and his manner suggests he could wait there forever. The moment Mordecai makes eye contact with him, his face softens, and his expression shifts into a faint smile more in his eyes than his lips.

On Colson's right is his sister, Lady Cressidha Aspenwood, wearing a deep short-sleeved maroon dress with gold accents. Her long hair is pinned up into a very tight bun. When Mordecai looks over at Colson, Cressidha smiles at him in a way that is meant to be reassuring, but it is unlikely that her brother-in-law is actually taking any notice of her.

On Colson's left is his mother, Lady Clara Aspenwood, sitting with all the dignity and bearing of a member of the House of Nobles. She wears a very fashionable and sleek gray women's pantsuit and she sits very still without the slightest need to fidget. Her eyes are fixed on the empty judge's bench as she waits.

Lord William Aspenwood has a front-row aisle seat, all the way on the right, in an excellent place to trip any entering or exiting members of the front row with his cane should he be so inclined. He has not done so, but he has likely considered it. Seated next to him is not his own wife but his daughter-in-law, Gardenia Aspenwood, the wife of his firstborn son. Gardenia has a softly-rounded face with a gentle smile that occasionally shifts into an expression of suppressed discomfort. One hand rests on her pregnant belly, covered by her deep green maternity gown.

On the left, at the defendants table, Lord Samson Harbrooke's jaw is clenched so tightly that it can't be good for his teeth. Those in attendance at the recent Aspenwood-Harbrooke wedding might recognize his once ill-fitting gray suit, which now seems to fit him better – he has lost a noticeable amount of weight in the last month. His beard is perfectly-trimmed. The punchability of his face has somehow increased. He sits with perfect posture in his chair.

Edwin Keely, Samson’s lawyer, looks like a man who has never had anything go wrong for him in his life – his long, patrician nose, the thin lips with a pencil mustache, and large, dark brown eyes with heavy lids are not classically handsome in the best of times, but the smugness that seems to be a permanent feature of his expressions does not do him any favors. He wears a pinstriped suit that likely cost as much as the entirety of the back row of the courtroom’s clothing combined. His hands are long, with perfectly manicured fingernails, and he taps out a soft beat of a rhythm on his papers, as he sits easily in his chair.

Stuck all the way in the back row is Lady Lucille Harbrooke née Moore, wearing a green vest over a nice white blouse and tan-colored pants that are slightly creased from storage. She is smiling like she’s here to watch a wonderful show and she doesn’t seem to mind that she has one of the worst seats in the room.

Elsewhere, in a room outside the courtroom, the witnesses wait to be called for the trial. This room is small, the ceiling less imposing, but relatively comfortable, with well made chairs. A woman whose arms suggest she could possibly lift a person in one of those chairs and bodily place them onto the witness stand, and whose face looks as though she is ready and willing to do exactly that if she is ordered to, stands near the door. There has already been an order given that none of the witnesses may speak with each other. The woman looks ready to enforce the rule however seems necessary.

Lady Lavinia Harbrooke sits on the very edge of her seat in one of the witnesses' chairs, toying with a small leather clutch purse in her gloved hands. She wears an elegant high-collared red gown with long sleeves and full skirts, and not a single inch of skin below her chin is visible. Her face is expressionless.

Doctor Constance Dupree appears to be somewhere in her late forties or early fifties, and she looks between the other witnesses with a critical, sharp expression that soon softens to a smile that she directs at everyone in the room except for Lady Lavinia. She is wearing a set of official-looking priest's robes that were probably washed specifically for this occasion, as well as very practical boots.

Therald is sitting down in the witness room, wearing a simple, somewhat formal outfit. Nothing fancy, just a white shirt and a brown vest, with black pants and the cleanest shoes he owns, which are his only pair of shoes, covered in red dirt from the Blasted Lands. His hair is in braids that are slightly tidier than usual, and his beard looks perfectly trimmed. He looks down at his feet, taking deep breaths, and mulling over and over again in his head what he saw, and how he should say it. He came prepared, repeated what he was going to say for the past few days, ready to talk as eloquently as possible.

Sitting in one of those chairs is a slim, attractive, and very elegant woman. Her red hair is swept up into a controlled twist, and she is wearing a rather simple stone gray dress. Or it would appear simple if not looking closely whereupon those who can translate these things would understand that it is the kind of simple that is very very expensive. It is perfectly tailored, the stitching so neat as to be nearly invisible. High necked with a keyhole cutout that stays respectably elevated above her bust, the brushed wool looks soft and falls around her ankles in picture perfect waves. Within the keyhole rests a pendant with a medium sized stone in a simple setting, matching droplet earrings hang from each ear. The stones perfectly match her bright green eyes, which is when it becomes clear that it is not a medium ‘stone’ but an incredibly large emerald. And so, wearing deceivingly simple items that all told may cost more than a townhouse in certain neighborhoods of Stormwind, the woman sits with ankles crossed reading a small book. She does not look up, she does not acknowledge anyone else in the room. She barely moves except to turn a page or occasionally to produce a pencil from somewhere to make notes in the margins of whatever she is reading. She sits, and she waits.

Melynda sits in one of these comfortable chairs, folding and refolding her hands nervously. A stout young woman with light brown skin and carefully braided dark hair, she is dressed in a simple, modest black dress.

---

At the exact hour, down to nearly the second, one of the bailiffs, a man who could be anywhere between 30 and 50, with blonde hair that might have some gray in it, and a body built like someone breathed life into a brick and gave it hands, steps forward. His voice is a clear baritone that carries without effort. “All rise for the Honorable Judge Sariah Merriweather.”

Sariah Merriweather enters the courtroom and the shift in the air is almost palpable, which seems strange given that on first glance this woman does not look as though she could command a room: deep lines of age have carved through her face and hands, and the impression one gets upon seeing her is that she could very possibly be old enough to have been a grandmother knitting booties for Anduin Lothar, her features gone almost frail and birdlike. There is no denying the aura she carries with her like a massive feathered cloak, however, as she walks to take her place at the center table – power collects around this woman like nagas around a ruin. Her white hair has been clipped short, and her dark eyes are of an indeterminate color far away, glittering like the waters off of Menethil at midnight, behind a set of silver framed glasses that take up nearly a third of her face. She sits primly, and examines her desk for a moment before she turns her attention to the room, looking first at Mordecai, then at Samson, her expression inscrutable.

After everyone is seated once more, Winnie rises, and addresses the Judge. When she speaks, her voice is high-pitched, girlish, and sounds very young, but there is a clarity in her tone, and her diction is flawless. “Your Honor, the defendant has been charged with repeated assault of a minor, and an assault against a Lord of Stormwind. You will hear testimony of several who were witness to these crimes, which were perpetuated for many years, hidden from discovery by the criminal use of forced healing by my client, and from the misuse of power by a noble house with intimidation. The evidence I shall present to you will demonstrate that the defendant knowingly and purposely abused my client, and the defendant covered up these heinous crimes by forcing my client to erase the evidence with his natural skill as a healer. However, despite my client’s abilities, the defendant’s crimes were witnessed nonetheless by others, all of whom feared coming forward with their knowledge independently, knowing that they faced a Lord of Stormwind. I shall prove today that the defendant acted as he did in part because he believed himself untouchable, and that his crimes could never be discovered, but that despite his beliefs, they are evident, and provable.” Winnie sits, if not perfectly gracefully, it is with confidence.

Edwin Keely smirks, and then puts on a serious expression, his voice a rich, smooth tenor that carries easily in the courtroom. He sounds as though he knows everything and anything, and that he definitely knows more than you do, and he knows it, but lucky you, he’s here to explain everything to you. “Your Honor, my client has pleaded not guilty to the charges levied against him, because he is exactly that – not guilty. During this trial, you will hear no real evidence against my client. You will hear speculation, supposition, and – dare I say – opportunistic accusations against him and his good name. My client’s natural predisposition as a private man has meant that while he has no witnesses for those early years, neither does the prosecution, for there are no longer any people still living beyond the my client and the plaintiff to speak as to what occurred behind closed doors. As for a recent incident, you will hear testimony that a family matter was taken wildly out of context, and has been used to discredit my client’s name, to take advantage of the difficult time his house finds itself in. My client has been an upstanding citizen and noble lord of Stormwind all his life, and I shall prove today that despite great efforts to slander his name, he remains exactly such.” Edwin sits with an easy grace, the twitches of his lips the only sign of the smugness trying to break through the serious expression he wears.

Judge Merriweather adjusts her glasses, and makes a slight hm sound, as she sets her hands on top of her desk, lacing her fingers together. “The prosecution may call its first witness for the charge of repeated assault of a minor, and assault of a Lord of Stormwind.”

“Thank you, Your Honor. The prosecution calls Mordecai Aspenwood to the stand.”

Mordecai takes a deep breath and moves to the stand. He looks into the audience for Colson, then back at Winnie.

Colson’s eyes are soft as he watches Mordecai take the stand, and he reaches over to Cressidha’s hand, the tension in his posture evident to anyone who knows him well.

Winnie stands, her voice carrying easily. “Mordecai, you have raised charges against Samson Harbooke for repeated assault of a minor. Can you, in your own words, describe what the nature of that assault was?”

Mordecai nods to Winnie, twisting a set of prayer beads around his fingers. He shuts his eyes and begins to speak in a voice that is only a little shaky. “He used to pick me up by my, my neck and choke me, sometimes until I fell unconscious. He used to slap me, punch me, drag me around by my arm or my hair, pick me up and throw me across the room. Sometimes he would - he would tell me to lie down and then he'd step on me. Set a foot down on my back, or my chest, or my neck, or my arm, and just press, until.” There doesn't seem to be an 'until' forthcoming. Mordecai's eyes are squeezed tightly shut.

“He used to call me into his study and tell me it was time to practice, and then he would. He would break my bones, with various implements he kept in the study for that purpose. Or he would make me break my own bones.”

Mordecai fidgets with the prayer beads, moving them around as quietly as he can. “He used to carve words into my skin with a knife, or he would tell me what to write and give me the knife and make me do it myself. He used to force me to burn myself using the Light.” Mordecai is shaking at this point, a full-body tremor.

“What was the cause of this abuse? Anger? Malice?” Winnie asks, her voice clear and even.

“Sometimes he was angry. Sometimes I think he just wanted to hurt me. To have someone weaker than him to hurt, who wouldn't fight back. He told me it was for my own good. The practice.”

“And what were you expected to do, during these ‘practice sessions?’”

“I had started training. To be a priest.” Mordecai opens his eyes and looks down at the prayer beads in his hand. “I was learning how to heal, and I found it… difficult, at first. To heal myself. So. I was expected to stand there, and let him hurt me, and then I would heal it. I wasn't allowed to leave the study until I was done. Eventually, he started making me hurt myself. And heal that, too. There was a… mirror. In the study. I couldn't leave until I looked 'normal'. If it took me too long, he would leave, and I had to stay there and finish healing. No matter how long it took. Hours, sometimes. Until you wouldn't be able to tell.”

“That would make things very difficult to prove. You never missed a bruise, or a bone that took longer to heal, something someone might have noticed?”

Mordecai looks up at Winnie, finally. “Never,” he says. “I had to – I had to make it perfect. I had to.”

“What did you believe the consequences of imperfection would be?” Winnie asks.

Keely’s voice rings out, “Objection, Your Honor. Speculation from a child is not evidence,” he says. Winnie’s face goes tight, but she looks at the Judge.

Judge Merriweather adjusts her glasses, looking at Mordecai for a long moment. “Overruled, if the plaintiff has specifics. You may rephrase, Miss Demasco.” With clear annoyance, Keely thanks the Judge.

Winnie turns her head back to Mordecai. “Thank you, Your Honor. Mordecai, what were you told the consequences would be, if you failed to heal yourself back to ‘normal’?”

“If I tried to leave the room before I was fully healed, he would lock me in. I wasn't permitted to eat before I was done. His, his usual threat was that he would 'make me regret' doing whatever it was he didn't want me to do, but he didn't specify how.”

Winnie looks down at her papers for a moment, as she considers, and then glances over at Keely before she clicks her tongue and then looks back at Mordecai.

“When did ‘practice’ sessions begin?”

This seems to be the easiest question Mordecai has been posed today, and he answers Winnie directly, looking straight at her with ease. “I was ten.”

“And when did they end?”

Something in Mordecai's posture goes tense, and he looks down, away from Winnie. “When I was eighteen, I signed on with the army as a chaplain. So. They stopped, then, because I was gone for a while.”

There's a pause, but before Winnie can ask another question, Mordecai continues. “I was twenty-four, close to twenty-five, when I returned home. He called me into his study and told me to show him what I had learned, and then he broke all of my fingers. I had to wait until. He was done breaking them. Before he let me heal them. I started too early, and he had to break my pinky and ring finger a second time.”

Mordecai looks over his right shoulder into the audience, directly at Colson. “I was twenty-five. The last time. The last time was shortly before Cobalt Company had me deployed to Nethergarde. He made me carve the word ‘selfish’ into my arm. And heal it.” He breaks off eye contact and looks down at the prayer beads again.

Colson’s face is unreadable behind the mask, but there is no disguising the Light that grows inside his eyes, as his right arm tenses, his grip going tight – definitely painfully tight – around Cressidha’s hand before Colson can relax the grip.

“Do you feel that the defendant intended these ‘practice’ sessions as a genuine attempt at instruction?”

Mordecai's attention snaps back to Winnie, and he speaks directly to her. “When I was very young, I wanted it to be true. That he was trying to help me. I wanted to believe that about him. But… no. No, it was never about him trying to make me into a better healer, or a better person. It was just him enjoying the power he had over me. An excuse to be cruel to a child who had been conditioned not to fight back. I was like a doll that he believed he had the right to break. And it was wrong.”

Mordecai is definitely shaking now, perhaps enough so to be seen by the audience. He unwinds the prayer beads from his fingers and holds them gently in one hand. “He forbade me from speaking of it. If I had, I would have learned that no, anyone, anyone in the Church that I asked would have found what he was doing to me completely abhorrent. But I couldn't tell anyone. He told me not to.”

“Is that why you did not come forward before?”

Mordecai nods. He's speaking to the witness stand and his prayer beads again. “I didn't know what he would do to me. If I even tried to tell anyone. And I was afraid… nobody would believe me. I healed everything. I don't have any scars. That was the point.”

“What has made you come forward now?”

“It was wrong. What he did. And he doesn't have power over me any more. I married into House Aspenwood. I moved out. I don't live with him, I don't have to answer to him ever again. I'm safe now.” He looks at Winnie with the tiniest hint of a smile.

In the audience, Colson closes his eyes, holding his breath for a long moment. When he opens them, his gaze is still on Mordecai’s face, the barest hint of a smile curving his lips.

“Thank you, Mordecai. I would like specifically to ask you about an incident that occurred later, on January 28th, Year 26. You were at Nethergarde Keep, working in the infirmary, correct?”

“I was.”

“Can you tell me what you remember happening that day?”

Mordecai nods and closes his eyes. He speaks in a clear, even voice as he describes his responsibilities for the day—tending to some of the longer-term patients, checking medicines on the rack for any that needed to be replaced, and treating anyone new who came in. “And then I heard his voice in the hall,” Mordecai says, and his voice immediately loses that particular military-like reporting cadence to it. “He was. Yelling for me. I remember that.” Mordecai shudders and clutches his prayer beads to his chest, his eyes shut. “I don't remember much else. I remember Doctor Constance bringing me tea in bed. For my throat. He was gone by then.”

“Is that usual for you, for there to be gaps in your memory?”

"It's not unusual. When I'm… scared, or in pain, sometimes I… go somewhere. In my head. To… wait for it to be over."

“You were a Chaplain in the Alliance Army, who used to work with trauma survivors? Can you explain that sort of reaction, please?”

Mordecai nods, takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. There's a long pause. When he opens his eyes, his posture has altered. With his back straight and his shoulders relaxed, he makes eye contact with Winnie and begins to explain the concept of dissociation. He lists symptoms, he cites two different textbooks, and he tells two different brief stories from his time working in the army, although he keeps the patients in question fully anonymous without any identifying details. He doesn't stutter. This is easily the most coherent and complete answer he's given and he delivers it with ease in a calm, confident voice.

“Do you remember anything after?”

Mordecai blinks a couple times. He seems to become aware of the courtroom and the audience again, and it takes him a good moment to process the question. He looks down at his prayer beads. “After the tea? Um. Doctor Constance said my father had been removed from Nethergarde Keep, and he wouldn't be allowed back.”

“Thank you, Mordecai. The prosecution has no further questions.” Winnie sits down, her shoulders still back, and she gives Mordecai a tiny smile before she drops her eyes down to her notes.

Edwin Keely stands, and brushes his hand down his dark, very expensive suit. “Lord Mordecai, you stated quite certainly that my client’s efforts to instruct you were not intended as such. However, I would like to ask you to clarify for the court, when did you begin your official training with the priesthood?”

“When I was ten years old,” Mordecai says to his prayer beads. He does not look at his father’s lawyer.

“These incidents you mention, that you refer to as ‘abuse,’ did they occur before, or after you learned that you were capable of calling the Light to heal?”

“After.” It's the truth, and Mordecai doesn't hesitate to clarify.

“So, at no point before you were able to heal yourself back to complete health, did my client engage in his efforts to advance your healing ability?” Keely asks.

“Objection, Your Honor,” Winnie says, her voice ringing out in the room. “Defense is leading the witness contrary to his own testimony.”

Judge Merriweather looks through her glasses at Keely, tilting her head down as she examines the lawyer. “Sustained, Mr. Keely. Rephrase.”

Winnie thanks the Judge, as does Mr. Keely, whose face now looks as though he’s eaten something sour. “Lord Mordecai, will you confirm that at no point before you were able to heal yourself back to complete health did my client physically harm you?”

“He always treated me roughly as a child, but never in a way that would leave any lasting marks. Not until I was able to heal them.”

“As I understand it, you are a veteran of Mt. Hyjal, from when you were, and correct me if I am wrong, 20-years-old?”

“That’s correct,” Mordecai says, and once again he looks out at the audience, searching for Colson.

Colson has not looked away. The Light has faded back, but the rigid mask of neutrality is still firmly affixed over any real expression.

“Can you say with complete honesty, and I will remind you that you are under oath Lord Mordecai, that you could have done what you did during that time if you had not had the experience you did throughout those ten years of regular, intensive sessions of healing yourself?”

Winnie looks as though she’s considering speaking, but says nothing, as she looks to Mordecai.

Mordecai hums thoughtfully. “There’s no way to know for certain, but I believe I could have, yes.” He is speaking directly to Colson in the audience now as he answers Keely. “Compared to healing myself, healing patients on the battlefield and in the infirmary always felt easy. Simple. I believe it to be the case that I felt significantly more compassion for others than for myself during my childhood and my years in the army, and as a result, my Light was always more effective in healing them than it was in healing myself.”

Colson’s face has softened, the mask falling from his eyes, and there is no way to mistake the love shining there, brighter than the Light.

It’s beyond the scope of the question, but Mordecai looks down at his prayer beads and adds, “If anything, my father made it harder for me to heal myself, not easier.”

Keely’s sour expression has increased the longer Mordecai talks, and he sets his hand on the table, looking at a paper. Winnie smiles to herself, as she glances at Mordecai.

“I would like to address the events of January 28th, Year 26,” Keely says smoothly, his demeanor shifting as he looks back up at Mordecai. “You have testified, by your admission, that you do not recall the incident well. Can you clarify, for the court, that you do not recall if you struck or insulted my client during that period of time when you ‘dissociated,’?”

Mordecai makes an incredulous noise. “I just remember him yelling at me,” he says. “I was trying not to listen to him. I don't recall taking any actions towards him, no.”

“You claim that my client harmed you, physically, before you abandoned your duties as a son of the house to fulfill a contract long held – “

“Objection, Your Honor!” Winnie’s voice is loud, almost a shout, as she stares at Keely, her lips almost disappearing into a thin line of anger. “Defense is argumentative.”

“Sustained,” Judge Merriweather says, immediately, and there is a hard, flinty look in her eyes as she stares down Keely. Winnie thanks her, her eyes still hot with anger as she looks at Keely.

Keely’s nostrils flare in repressed emotion, as he thanks the Judge. “You claim that my client harmed you, after you left to Nethergarde. Do you recall making any statements to him, to explain your perceived unwillingness to abide by the marital contract of your family?”

Mordecai flinches subtly as Winnie raises her voice, but he answers Keely's question with composure and dignity. “The marital contract my family had with House Aspenwood did not specify a time frame, and as I had every intention of honoring it, no, I did not make any statements of that kind. I was aware that my betrothed planned to pass through the Dark Portal, and I did not inform my family of this before she did so, which I suspect was the source of his anger.”

Keely lets that sit for a moment, and he looks at his papers again. Winnie’s smile grows, as she glances at Mordecai.

“No further questions, Your Honor,” Keely says, his voice clear and confident, as he sits.

Judge Merriweather looks steadily at Winnie. “The prosecution may call its next witness for the charge of Assault of a Peer of Stormwind.”

“The prosecution calls Therald Oakley to the stand.”

The stand is vacant, and Judge Merriweather adjusts her silver glasses as she examines Therald with a stern, even gaze, taking in his general demeanor in a single glance before she returns her attention to the papers in front of her, awaiting the information.

The woman standing in the witness room, calls Therald’s name, standing in front of him, ready to open the door and let him out, where the Bailiff stands waiting to escort him to the strand.

Therald almost doesn’t hear that he’s being called at first, he was too lost in thoughts, and it takes him a second to raise his head and see that people are looking at him. He gets up, accidentally kicking into his chair and making his entrance a lot noisier than it had to be. He walks up to the stand, adjusting his vest. He avoids looking at people, looking at people means he’s realizing that he’s about to talk in front of an audience, and it’s the last thing he wants to do.

“Please stand,” the brick-made-into-a-real-boy Bailiff intones, in the voice of someone who says this multiple times a day until the words have essentially lost meaning. “Do you vow that the testimony you shall give in this case shall be the truth, the whole truth, the Light as your witness to your words?”

Therald raises his head and looks at the people. He sees all those faces looking at him. He gulps. It takes him a few seconds to calm down, to breathe deeply. He has to do this right, he owes it to Colson.

“Yes, I do.”

Winnie stands up, and the nerves seem to fall away as she stands and addresses Therald. Her voice seems steady. “Mr. Oakley, what is your occupation?”

“I’m a guard, working with the Argent Dawn,” his voice slightly shaky.
He focuses on keeping his gaze on Winnie. They’re the only two people in this room, to him. No need to look at the others, they don’t exist.

Beads of sweat start forming on his forehead.

“And where were you stationed on January 28th, Year 26?”

Therald nods, taking a deep breath. He speaks slowly and articulates the few words he says, as to not get asked to repeat whatever it is he says.

“At the Dark Portal. But after work, I go to the Nethergarde Keep.”

“Do you recall seeing the defendant on that day?”

He nods, assuredly.

“Verbally, please, if you will, Mr. Oakley,” Winnie says, her high-pitched voice going slightly softer as she looks at Therald.

He nods assuredly again, but this time pronounces the “Yes” to go with it.

“May I ask, Mr. Oakley,” Winnie says, “that you give an account of what you recall when you saw the defendant, what he was doing?”

Therald takes a deep breath again, he wants to sponge the sweat off of his forehead but he knows that’d make him look suspicious, even though he’s not lying. Only suspicious people sweat because they have to talk.

“Didn’t see how it began. I had just returned from the Dark Portal when I heard the doctor calling for help, and me and a few colleagues went to check if our kind of help was needed.” he clears his throat. “The, uh, defendant. He was there, with his hands around…” he points at Mordecai. “Me and my colleagues had to pull him away. We escorted him out of there.”

“Please have the record note that Mr. Oakley has pointed at my client,” Winnie says in a soft voice to the clerk.

Therald takes another deep breath.

“The defendant, he… he wasn’t like today, he…” he makes a quick gesture as if he was drinking from a bottle. “Smelled like it, anyway.”

He looks in Mordecai’s direction but quickly looks back at Winnie again, finally mechanically wiping his forehead with his wrist.

“When I went to check in later, the, uh, the victim was passed out.”

“You personally witnessed the defendant, who you believe to have been intoxicated, with his hands around my client’s neck, squeezing hard enough to cause asphyxiation?” Winnie asks, her voice carrying easily in the courtroom.”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Keely interrupts, standing. “The witness is neither an expert on assessing inebriation or asphyxiation.”

Judge Merriweather looks down at Winnie for a long moment, and then taps her fingers lightly on the desk. “Sustained. Rephrase the question, Miss Demasco.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Keely says, directly a smug smile at Winnie.

Winnie’s lips tighten, but she nods. “Thank you, Your Honor,” she says. “Mr. Oakley, can you confirm that what you witnessed was the defendant who smelled strongly of alcohol, with his hands around my client’s neck, and can you add anything to the level of grip strength that you personally experienced when you removed the defendant’s hands from around my client’s neck?”

Therald watches the interaction between them, eyes wide open, somewhat glad that she was asked to reformulate her question, as he had no idea how to match her formality in his answer.

“Yes. The defendant smelled strongly of alcohol, and he had his hands around your client’s neck.” Therald pauses, scratching the side of his face. There is more sweat there, oh no. “I wasn’t the one who got his hands off of your client’s neck, my… my colleagues were. They… they reacted faster when we entered the room. I saw them struggle real hard to do so, though! And dragging him away wasn’t easy either for any of us. He fought back to escape and… finish whatever he was doing, I guess.”

“Mr. Oakley, did you at any time witness my client actively attempting to cause any harm to the defendant, either through physical or magical means?”

Therald shakes his head. He remembers to verbally give his answer too this time.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Thank you, Mr. Oakley. No further questions, Your Honor.” Winnie sits back and offers Mordecai a brief smile, before she turns her attention back to her notes, biting her lip slightly.

Edwin Keely stands at the desk, and directs his attention to Therald.

“Mr. Oakley, how long have you been a guard?”

Therald frowns slightly, in thought.

“For… for the Argent Dawn?”

“In any capacity, Mr. Oakley,” Keely says.

“Then… around 22 years. With a year break.”

“And what would you say, in your experience, has been the primary cause of most altercations between two people? Has it been only one sided, or have both parties been often equally at fault?”

“Ah… In… Most normal situations, yes, someone doesn’t start a fight… on a whim.” Therald takes a fast, deep breath. It’s a little noisier than he intended it to be. “But when there’s alcohol involved… then that’s not a normal situation. Then, fights start for any reason, even just looking in the other person’s direction for a brief second too long.”

“By your own admission, you were not present at the time in the room when the situation, shall we say, escalated to a physical confrontation. Can you say with certainty that my client was not provoked by his son, either that day, or earlier?”

Therald looks in Winnie’s direction as if she was supposed to help, here, in any way. What is he supposed to answer to that? He answers with a shaky voice that goes softer as he speaks. Winnie’s face is sympathetic, and there’s a sense that in another context she’d give a reassuring smile, but here, she drops her eyes to her paperwork, avoiding Therald’s gaze.

“No, I can’t, but most people… don’t just attack someone in their family like that because of provocations.” He clears his throat. “Our job as guards would never end if they did.”

“But you cannot say with any certainty that the plaintiff did not attack my client before you entered the room?”

“I… He didn’t look hur – ” He sighs, shaking his head, looking vaguely in Mordecai’s direction. “No, I cannot.”

“When you removed my client, a Lord of Stormwind, from the premises, were you aware that you used enough force to bruise my client?”

Therald’s breath gets shaky for a second at that question and at the mention of the title. He opens his mouth to answer, but no sounds come out for a few seconds. “I… No. We… we had to act… f — fast.” He clenches his fists. “We couldn’t let him strangle someone in the infirmary… just because of his title.”

Keely moves a paper on his desk, reads through something, and then looks back up at Therald. “How would you characterize your relationship with nobility, Mr. Oakley? Does a title mean nothing to you at all?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Winnie says, glaring at Keely. “How Mr. Oakley feels about nobility is irrelevant to the case.”

“On the contrary, Your Honor,” Keely says smoothly. “It speaks to his willingness to testify about my client, and may influence his account.”

Judge Merriweather steeples her fingers together, weighing the objection, as she looks at Therald. “Overruled. Answer the question, Mr. Oakley, please.”

Winnie thanks the Judge, glancing just once over at Therald, an apologetic look in her eyes.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Keely says, smiling smugly, as he raises his dark brows at Therald.

“I…don’t care about nobility. My family lost their title, and I couldn’t care less.” Therald frowns at the smug smile. He takes a few seconds to answer, trying to calm himself down. “Especially as a guard. A title means nothing. If someone puts others in danger, we have to stop them.” He breathes one time loudly through his nose, slowly unclenching his fists. “Should we let nobles assault or kill people in the streets because they own a title?”

Keely hesitates at the sound of murmurs from the crowd – they are few and quickly silenced, but there nonetheless. His lips move in a flash of a tight smile, as he makes a non-committal head gesture at Therald’s words. “No further questions, Your Honor,” Keely says, sitting down.

“The prosecution may call its next witness in the charge of an assault of a Lord of Stormwind.”

Winnie tucks back a strand of her hair from her face, smoothing it behind her ears. It makes her look very young, but the expression on her face does not. There is true grit in those eyes as she watches the door to the witness room. She doesn’t even need to glance at her paperwork. “The prosecution calls Constance Dupree to the stand,” she says, as she calls in Dr. Constance.

Dr. Constance Dupree makes her way briskly across the room to the witness stand.

“Please stand,” the brick-made-into-a-real-boy Bailiff intones, once more. This guy sounds exactly the same, every time. “Do you vow that the testimony you shall give in this case shall be the truth, the whole truth, the Light as your witness to your words?”

“I do.”

Winnie looks down at a paper briefly, and Judge Merriweather glances over at her. Winnie clears her throat, barely audibly to Mordecai, and looks back up at the Doctor.

“Doctor Constance, please state for the record your profession, and where you were stationed on the date of January 28th, Year 26.”

“I am a priest of the Light and a licensed practitioner of medicine. I was stationed at Nethergarde Keep, working in the infirmary.”

“Can you describe, in your own words, what you witnessed that day with my client?”

Dr. Constance has no difficulty with the presence of the audience, and she addresses Winnie directly in a matter-of-fact voice. “Mordecai and I were the only ones on shift that afternoon when Lord Harbrooke arrived. He was visibly intoxicated and yelling for his son. When he entered the room, Mordecai stopped what he was doing to run across the room to get as far away as he could from Lord Harbrooke. He was obviously terrified. Lord Harbrooke called his son a traitor, a liar, a coward, and a pig. He accused Mordecai of running away from his duty to his family. I asked Lord Harbrooke to leave the room at once, and he ignored me.”

“What occurred after he ignored you?”

“Lord Harbrooke backed Mordecai into a corner and started screaming at him and shaking him by the shoulders. Mordecai said nothing the entire time.”

“What made you leave the room to get help?”

“Lord Harbrooke’s behavior was severely inappropriate for an infirmary, and I was afraid he was going to escalate the situation into violence.” Dr. Constance sniffs.

“How long do you believe you were gone for?”

“Certainly no more than a minute.”

“What did you see when you returned?”

“Lord Harbrooke had his hands around Mordecai's neck and was crushing his windpipe while shouting profanities at his son. He had done significant damage by the time the guards were able to pull him away, and Mordecai was no longer conscious. He required immediate medical attention. I remained behind to heal him while the guards escorted Lord Harbrooke out of the infirmary.” There’s clear disapproval of Samson in Dr. Constance’s tone, and she glances at him with a stern look.

“Do you believe, in your professional medical opinion, as someone familiar with trauma and trauma responses, that this was a one time event from his father?”

“Objection, your Honor!” Keely says, his voice the same sharp prick of a quick blade in the dark. “That is speculation.”

Winnie turns to Judge Merriweather. “Dr. Constance is a trained professional, and this is seeking to establish her official assessment of what this response looked like.”

“It includes implications that my client was the one to perpetrate the offense, which the doctor cannot possibly know, and that even a fearful response cannot indicate, particularly in a veteran,” Keely says, and there is a smug edge to his words. Winnie’s lips thin slightly.

Judge Merriweather taps her fingers a few times, looking between the lawyers, before she looks back to Winnie. “Sustained. Rephrase your question, Miss Demasco.”

“Thank you, your Honor,” Keely says, his voice dismissive. “Thank you, Your Honor,” Winnie says, as she inhales and sets her shoulders again.

“Doctor Constance, in your professional medical opinion, do you believe that this was the first time my client had seen violence directed at him, from any source?”

“I am confident it was not the first time,” Dr. Constance says easily.

“To the best of your knowledge, do you recall my client mentioning or referring to his family in any way, particularly in a way that suggested he feared them?”

"Mordecai never spoke of himself or his life at home, before this incident. He seemed terrified the moment he heard his father's voice in the hall, and when he woke up he expressed concern for his own safety in Nethergarde Keep."

“Thank you, Dr. Constance. No further questions, your honor.” Winnie sits back down, her expression confident.

Keely shuffles his papers on the desk before he stands briefly. “No questions, Your Honor.” He sits again, as Samson looks back and forth between his lawyer and Dr. Constance. It’s clear Samson is about to speak, and Keely sets his hand on the table between them, shaking his head in clear negation before Samson can even finish opening his mouth. Samson sits back, crossing his arms, a thunderstorm of anger on his face.

“Prosecution may now call its next witness for the charge of a repeated assault of a minor,” Judge Merriweather says, her hand moving across a piece of paper, making some notation to herself.

“Prosecution calls Lavinia Harbrooke to the stand,” Winnie says, her high voice spoken with clear diction.

Lavinia sweeps on in and up to the witness stand like she owns the place. She scans the audience with her head held high.

“Please stand,” the brick-made-into-a-real-boy Bailiff intones. No one has checked to see if this guy is actually a golem with a recording, and frankly, it’s too late to ask. “Do you vow that the testimony you shall give in this case shall be the truth, the whole truth, the Light as your witness to your words?”

“I do.”

Winnie stands and directs her attention to Lavinia.

“Please state for the record, your relationship to the defendant and my client?”

Lavinia nods to Winnie. “The defendant, Samson, is my husband. Your client, Mordecai, is my son.”

“How would you, in your own words, characterize the relationship between my client and the defendant?”

“They were never close,” Lavinia says, which is technically true, if a great understatement. “Samson has always been… critical of Mordecai. And Mordecai, well, he was always a shy young man, and a quiet little boy even before that. He never spoke much to either of us.”

“Could you elaborate on how the defendant was ‘critical’ of my client?”

“Samson, I’m afraid, considered Mordecai… a bit of a disappointment.” Lavinia sighs, and she looks over at her son. Mordecai is staring straight downward. “Nate was brave, Mordred was clever, Gavin was charming, and Mordecai…” Lavinia gestures vaguely in his direction. “He was just quiet.”

“To the best of your memory, how did you come to learn of your son’s gift with the Light?”

“We sent him to study at the church in Lordaeron,” Lavinia says. “Mordecai told us they were teaching him how to use the Light. There was no sign of it before he began to study.”

“May I ask, why did you send him to the church?”

“It seemed like a suitable environment for a young boy, and certainly more appropriate for him than his… other hobbies.” Lavinia smiles sweetly.

In the audience, Colson’s aura shifts, even as his face remains implacable, his eyes still on Mordecai. There is a sense of the Light in the room for those who sit near him for a few heartbeats, before Colson pushes it back.

“Can you elaborate on that, what hobbies are you referring to?” Winnie asks, and her voice, girlish and high as it is, sounds cold, and her eyes meet Lavinia’s with a sharp edge in her expression.

“The boy wanted to be a pastry chef,” Lavinia says, and the ‘can you even imagine?’ is only implied. Winnie’s expression shifts a little, as she stares down Lavinia, but she moves her hand on the desk, tapping it once on a piece of paper.

“In Year 11, my client began training with the priesthood. Can you explain how the defendant reacted to this discovery of your son’s abilities?”

“I suppose that must have been when they started spending more time together,” Lavinia says, tapping her lips with one finger thoughtfully. “At first I thought perhaps he had finally taken an interest in raising his fourth son.”

“He had not shown an interest in my client until that point?”

“Not terribly much, no.”

“How did that interest in ‘raising’ my client manifest?”

Lavinia hums thoughtfully to herself. “Mordecai started spending a lot of time in his father’s study. To help out, I supposed, at the time. He was always a very diligent worker, my Mordecai.” She really does look and sound proud of him, and that might even have been a convincing lie if she had not just a few minutes ago described Mordecai as ‘just quiet’ without another defining positive trait.

“What do you believe occurred in these times when my client, as you say, ‘helped out’ with his father?”

“Objection, Your Honor, asked and answered,” Keely says, his voice sounding incredibly smug. Winnie pushes her shoulders back, her lips pursing together.

“Sustained,” Judge Merriweather states, in an even toned voice. “The witness has stated what she believed occurred.” Keely’s ‘thank you, Your Honor,’ sounds particularly smarmy, as Winnie says hers with a clear voice.

“Let me rephrase that, then, Lady Harbrooke. As per your son’s testimony, these ‘sessions’ within the study were to allow the defendant a space to deliberately harm my client, with the expectation that my client would heal the wound. Were you aware of these ‘practice’ sessions, as the defendant referred to them?”

Lavinia goes a shade paler. She looks at Mordecai, and then, for the first time, she looks directly at Samson.

Samson Harbrooke has been staring intently at his wife the entire time she's been speaking, waiting for her to look at him. His lips form the word Lavinia, soundlessly. It is as close to pleading as he gets, a silent cry for help to the one person in the room whose testimony is capable of single-handedly turning the tide.

Lavinia looks away. She turns towards the audience, and her eyes catch on Colson in the crowd.

Colson has not taken his eyes off of Mordecai since the trial began, but there is a cold, hard light in his eyes, and something in the way he sits that would suggest, perhaps, that he is listening to Lavinia closely. His hair seems brighter, as though Colson sits in a patch of sun, which he certainly does not in the windowless courtroom. He looks every inch a noble lord, in his perfect clothing, seated there between his sister and his mother, but the Holy Paladin is staring out from his eyes, waiting for Lavinia to make her decision.

“I was aware of them,” Lavinia says, and she faces Winnie. “Samson said he was helping Mordecai train for the priesthood. I… at the time, I didn’t realize what that meant. I trusted my husband, the fool that I was.”

Winnie shifts her weight. “You believed that Samson was training Mordecai for the priesthood during those times when you, at the time, believed Mordecai was, as you have testified, ‘helping’ his father?”

“I did. I used to.” Lavinia closes her eyes for a moment, and one hand comes up to touch her neck, fingers brushing against the high collar of her dress. “That’s what Samson told me.”

“What changed your mind, that you no longer believed that to be the case?”

Lavinia looks down, as if she cannot bear to say this directly to Winnie’s face. “There were signs, I just never put them all together until it was too late. I would hear Mordecai crying, sometimes, but he’d always been a bit of a crybaby as a young boy. Once in a while, he didn’t come down for dinner, he was still up there. There were a few times when I found the study door locked. Sometimes I heard…” Lavinia shudders, and she says, “Noises.” A brief pause. “I remember seeing a hammer on his desk, thinking that seemed a little odd.” Her face is doing all the right things - grief, horror, shame. “I didn’t know what any of it meant until Mordecai left for the army and Samson needed a new… target.”

“What changed after my client left for the army?”

“He began taking out his anger on me,” Lavinia says, and one hand curves around her throat. “Physically. Never in front of the children — Mordred and Gavin. But when we were alone, in the bedroom or in his study. That was when I…recognized the noises that Mordecai had once made.” Lavinia’s eyes flicker as some emotion passes over her, and it looks genuine. “I was the one making them.” She doesn’t look at Winnie again, but her eyes scan the audience once more, passing over Colson.

“You stated that you believed at the time that your husband had taken an interest in his son’s training, and rearing, that my client had been ‘helping’ your husband. Did you still believe that, after experiencing violence at the hand of the defendant?”

Lavinia lowers her hand from her throat to her lap, and there is a brief moment where she squeezes the fabric tight, and then smooths it out. “No, I no longer believed that. I realized he had been using Mordecai as an easy target all those years, and when my husband was deprived of it, he turned to the next person he believed he could hurt, who he would not experience any consequences for doing so.” Lavinia does not look at Samson, her eyes on some middle distance of the courtroom, but there is real frost in her voice, some of the perfect composure chipping away before she recalls it back.

Winnie lets the words hang in the air for a moment. “Thank you, Lady Harbrooke. No further questions, Your Honor.” Winnie’s voice is softer, as she sits down next to Mordecai, shifting a paper from the top pile to the side.

Keely rises, and it’s clear from his expression that he is utterly unsympathetic, his eyes locked onto Lavinia for a long moment.

“Lady Harbrooke, to the best of your knowledge, and I will remind you that you are under oath to speak only the truth, did you ever see the plaintiff harmed in front of you?”

Lavinia barely looks over at Keely. “No, I did not personally witness anything visually. I had not wanted to interfere with what I believed was quality time spent between a father and a son. Had I known, I would have done something, but I failed to realize what was in front of me, while I tried to honor that precious relationship.” She sounds completely sincere.

Judge Merriweather, at the words, narrows her eyes slightly.

“I understand you have been through something distressing, but whatever possible alleged crimes my client may have committed against you, that does not mean he perpetuated harm against the plaintiff. What makes you so certain that you have not simply projected your own personal feelings onto old memories?”

Lavinia draws herself up even straighter, and she pins Keely with a look. Her voice, when she speaks, is unchanged from her other answers. “The voice of experience, Mr. Keely, can be very instructive, in examination of past circumstances. It was not only realizing that I had heard such sounds before, assuming them to be nothing more than the naturally more lively and energetic activities a boy and his father might engage in. I began to recognize a look in my husband’s eyes and a change in his manner. He had once looked such before, and I had thought that by spending time with my dear Mordecai, always a very quiet little boy, that my husband had found him soothing to be around, and this was why he always emerged differently from their time together. I learned the truth the first time my husband waited until we were alone, away from my boys, to strike me. I understood what I had missed all those years ago, believing too strongly in my husband’s good character, and my son’s sweet nature.”

Keely’s expression has gone past sour and into something like anger, as he moves a paper on his desk. Samson looks between his lawyer and his wife, his eyes wide.

“No further questions, Your Honor,” Keely grinds out. Samson’s mouth opens in an expression of horror.

Judge Merriweather makes several notes before she speaks again. “Prosecution may call its next witness for the charge of a repeated assault of a minor,” she says, and there is some tone in her voice that was not there before.

“The prosecution calls Lady Zeldanna of the House of Ambergris to the stand.”

The stand is vacant, and Judge Merriweather looks to the witness door with interest, leaning forward, as she places both hands in front of her, lacing her fingers together.

Lady Ambergris enters, her posture straight, as she walks gracefully over to the witness stand. As she makes her way over she does not acknowledge the courtroom, she maintains eye contact only with Judge Merriweather aside from a brief glance to give a nod to the Bailiff. As she steps towards the chair awaiting her she quietly greets her, “Judge Merriweather, you are looking well.” Her voice is warm and smokey, quite the opposite of the coldness of her appearance and carriage.

“Please stand,” the brick-made-into-a-real-boy Bailiff intones, his voice not sounding any different than the other times he’s said it. “Do you vow that the testimony you shall give in this case shall be the truth, the whole truth, the Light as your witness to your words?”

Lady Ambergris turns to the Bailiff and repeats the expected, “I do,” before seating herself with a quick practiced twitch of her skirts to make sure they fall correctly.

Winnie’s shoulders are back, and her murky brown eyes regard Zeldanna evenly. “Lady Ambergris, you have claimed that you were a witness to an incident that occurred on what is expected to be on or around March 12th, Year 11, concerning the defendant and my client, who was ten-years-old at the time. Can you describe this incident in your own words?”

“Yes.” There is no shift before she starts speaking, she remains sitting straight up in the chair, hands folded in her lap exactly how she arranged herself when she first settled. “I was late to an evening at the Harbrooke townhome in Lordaeron. As I made my way through the house Samson Harbrooke was exiting his study, through the open door I could see young Mordecai in the final stages of healing a rather drastic injury to his shoulder. I could hear the defendant saying something about it being ‘a middling practice session’.”

“What led you to believe this was not a one time incident, or a simple accident?”

“Subsequently through other events and being in proximity to the defendant the phrase ‘practice session’ was used enough that, in addition to manner in which he interacted with his youngest son, made the meaning clear.“ Her expression remains fixed, it is impossible to tell how she feels about this information.

She briefly pauses before continuing, “And the reason I believed it was not an accident is that the injury was too severe. I am aware that young children can get themselves into the craziest predicaments, having since raised one through those ages and with another approaching them.” Her eyes warm slightly at the mention of her own children, but cool immediately as she continues speaking, “But even the wildest child could not damage themselves to that extreme in a closed room.”

“Can you elaborate on what you mean by the manner that the defendant interacted with my client? What sort of relationship did you witness them having, during the time you were within the same social situations with the Harbrookes?”

Lady Ambergris nods at the question, “Certainly, Samson Harbrooke was verbally abusive to his youngest. The kindest way to describe how he treated the boy is, with disdain.”

“What was your relationship with the defendant and his family at that time?”

“He and my late husband were friendly.” That’s it, one quick sentence and she falls silent. She remains the picture of the perfect Stormwind lady who may as well have been discussing the weather.

“Why did you not speak of this before, or take your suspicions to the court?”

She finally allows an expression through, and a slightly wry smile crosses her face before she answers, “At first because I don’t believe the court was even fully established in the new Stormwind, certainly not to a degree that it could handle a case this delicate. And then subsequently everything got a little hectic. World wars and demonic invasions will throw a wrench in anything. No matter how much one might wish to help a child.”

“What has changed to make you come forward now, so many years later?”

Up until this moment Lady Ambergris has kept her focus solidly on Alwynneria Demasco. As she starts to answer this question she shifts her gaze towards Colson, “Lord Colson Aspenwood approached me. When he informed me of this upcoming case it was clear that there was finally an opportunity for me to help.” She looks to Mordecai as she continues, “Something I wish I had been able to do much much earlier.”

“Thank you, Lady Ambergris. No further questions, your Honor.”

Edwin Keely rises to his feet, buttoning his jacket properly, as he aims a smarmy smile at Zeldanna, his eyes drifting just for a moment at the keyhole of her dress before he looks at her face.

“Lady Ambergris, by your own admission, you did not see my client harm the plaintiff?”

If Zeldanna was cold before she absolutely goes subarctic the minute the slimy man’s eyes wander. She responds with a curt, “That is correct.”

“So, in other words, your assertion that the injury was something no child could self-inflict is speculation, as you did not actually witness the event preceding it?”

Lady Ambergris slowly raises a single eyebrow before responding, “I’m sorry which part of that would you like me to respond to?”

“You did not witness the cause of the wound and were merely speculating as to its cause?” Keely repeats.

“Objection, Your Honor,” Winnie says, her voice high but confident. “Asked and answered,” she says.

“Sustained,” Judge Merriweather says, tilting her chin to Keely to peer at him through her glasses. “The witness has stated that she did not witness the cause.”

Winnie thanks the judge, and there’s a faint smile curving the ends of her lips as she examines one of her notes. Keely thanks the judge and looks at his own notes, the pencil mustache twitching as he reads in irritation.

“No further questions, Your Honor,” Keely says, and there’s a sense that he is grinding the words out from between his teeth as he sits down, scowling as he writes down a quick note on a paper, and crosses out a line.

“You may call your next witness, Miss Demasco,” Judge Merriweather says, her tone slightly distracted as she writes several notes to herself.

Winnie stands back up, her shoulders back and her posture straight as she calls out, “The prosecution calls Melynda Crowe to the stand.”

The woman in the room calls Melynda, opening the door, where the bailiff is waiting.

Melynda’s eyes grow wide as her gaze travels around the courtroom, at all these assembled important people. She walks meekly to the appointed location, and hesitantly takes a seat.

“Please stand,” the brick-made-into-a-real-boy Bailiff intones, and it sounds exactly the same as it has, down to the precise inflection. “Do you vow that the testimony you shall give in this case shall be the truth, the whole truth, the Light as your witness to your words?”

Melynda stands up abruptly at the instruction, as if she might have done something wrong by sitting without being instructed to. She nods earnestly, and says, “Light as my witness, yes.”

Winnie gets back to her feet, and despite the fact that the trial has been going for hours already, she looks exactly the way she did when it began, as she reaches a hand up to tuck a stray hair behind her ears. “Melynda, can you state for the record how you know the defendant and my client?”

“My mother worked for the Harbrookes, briefly. As a maid, ma’am. I was a bit too young at the time to properly work, but I helped sometimes. The last family we worked for didn’t mind if I was underfoot a bit, so I didn’t think nothing of being in the house with my mother.” Melynda takes a breath, trying to rein in her nervous rambling. “Th-that’s how I know Samson Harbrooke and Mordecai H-Har… Aspenwood. I don’t reckon they remember me, I was just a girl.”

Mordecai looks over at Melynda and smiles at her, very faintly.

“What years did your mother work for the Harbrookes?”

“Year 16, ma’am. Less than a year.”

“That is unusually brief. Can you describe, in your own words, what led to that employment ending?”

“It was my fault, in a way.” Mel’s face twists in distress at the unpleasant memory. “I was in the house, and I heard what I thought was… from my experience… signs of Mordecai Aspenw – or no, he was Harbrooke at the time – being harmed by his family. I told my mother, and I think she tried to do something about it. And then she didn’t work there any more.”

“Can you elaborate on those sounds, Melynda? What made you believe that what you heard was not merely a young man assisting his father in his study?” Winnie’s voice is soft in tone, even as the higher, girlish pitch carries easily in the courtroom.

“They were not happy sounds, ma’am,” Melynda says, wincing with sympathy at the memory. “The boy was crying, and not like a mildly sad crying. Like a hurt creature. And his… his father was shouting, angry and cursing and… I’d heard kids get yelled at like that before, and it’s not a normal thing. There’s reprimanding a kid and then there’s… there’s this. It’s not right.”

“Your mother was fired, but you were still aware of the potential that my client was being harmed. What stopped you from coming forward before now?” Winnie’s tone is gentle.

Melynda bites her lip. “Would it have made a difference, really? I was just a thirteen-year-old girl, and they were the Harbrookes. And…” she pauses, considering her next words carefully. “…and my mother died that day. She left me at home, said she was going to talk to somebody. The guard found her in a canal later, said she must’ve slipped when nobody was looking and bumped her head. I do not make any speculation, but the timing was enough to frighten a young girl.”

“What has changed, that you are now willing to speak out about what you heard during that time?”

Melynda looks a bit stricken and seems to have lost her voice for a moment. Then she says, “As I’m bound to tell the truth, it’s because I was told there was a bigger case, and there might be justice in it at the end. That and… and I’d be protected after, in case.”

“Thank you, Melynda. No further questions, Your Honor.” Winnie offers Melynda a small, brief smile as she takes her seat once more.

Edwin Keely stands up, and the sour look of his expression has intensified into a near glare at Melynda. He clears his throat, as he examines a piece of paper in front of him, moving his tongue along his teeth in a way that makes the pencil thin mustache almost dance over his lip.

“Miss Crowe, by your own admission, you were young when this occurred. And young girls can be prone to, shall we say, an active imagination –”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Winnie snaps out, and for the second time since the trial began, there is a sharp note of real anger in her voice, her nostrils flaring as she puts both hands on the desk. “Argumentative,” she says, glaring hard enough at Keely that if looks could kill, Keely would curl up into a ball and vanish from this plane of existence. He does not.

“Sustained, Mr. Keely,” Judge Meriweather says, her own eyes hard and cold as she regards the lawyer.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Winnie says, relaxing slightly. Keely thanks the judge and pauses for a moment before he continues.

“What makes you so certain you heard my client and his son in that room, Miss Crowe, and not, say, someone else entirely?”

Melynda looks at him, puzzled. “I had heard the family members speak before. And anyway, one of the other servants told me that the son was busy with his father in the study.”

“You testified that you ‘recognized the sounds’ from your ‘experience.’ As I understand it, the study was well insulated, and with heavy doors. Many sounds can resemble others, as I’m sure you are well aware, Miss Crowe,” Keely says, in a false sympathetic voice that slides like oil down a wall. “What did you hear, precisely?”

“Well, that kind of speaks to the severity, doesn’t it?” Melynda answers. “It was pretty well insulated, but the sound still came through. I’m not sure what more you want me to describe? Like, exact words? It was ten years ago, but I remember the general thread. It was not… nice stuff to repeat, though.”

“That is not necessary, Miss Crowe,” Keely says smoothly, as he shifts some papers on his desk. “By your own admission, you clearly do not remember them exactly, as it was, as you say, ten years ago.” The smugness has returned to Keely’s voice. “Of what you do recall, from that time, do you ever recall seeing my client physically harming the plaintiff, in any way?”

Melynda opens her mouth, and then closes it. Reluctantly, she says, “No, sir. I did not see your client physically harming the plaintiff.”

Keely nods, and the smugness intensifies as he looks to the Judge. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

Melynda is politely escorted from the witness stand.

“The defense may call its witness,” Judge Merriweather says, looking at Keely with dark, stone eyes, her fingers steepled together in front of her.

“The defense calls Samson Harbrooke to the stand,” Edwin Keely says.

Winnie smooths a hand over her hair, as she watches Samson make his way to the stand, her eyes looking grayer, colder in the light of the room.

Samson rises, buttoning the top button of his suit jacket, and moves to the stand.

Colson’s eyes do not move from Mordecai, but he holds onto Cressidha’s hand with a tight grip, his jaw periodically clenching hard enough to make a muscle jump.

“Please stand,” the brick-made-into-a-real-boy Bailiff, says and if there is any change in his voice, any alteration of inflection, likely no one but his very best friend in all the world can tell. “Do you vow that the testimony you shall give in this case shall be the truth, the whole truth, the Light as your witness to your words?”

“I do.”

Keely stands, and he looks at his paper for a moment. “Lord Harbrooke, how would you characterize your relationship with the plaintiff?”

“The first few years, I will admit, we had a troubled start. I had some difficulty understanding the boy,” Samson says, and Keely looks up, an expression on his face that looks as though there’s a warning in his eyes. “That is, Mordecai. He was very different from his brothers, and, well, I wasn’t sure how to relate to that, until we found him something we could both understand – the Light. It brought us together, and it became one of my favorite parts of our relationship,” Samson says. There’s an almost unnatural evenness to his voice, as though he is reading lines someone else has put in front of him.

Keely nods to himself. “How would you describe how you taught your son about the Light?”

“I did my best to give him every advantage our household could offer. As a nobleman, I had access to better materials than the Church could send him home with, and I never felt the abbey was right for him. He needed to be with his family,” Samson says. Keely’s mouth moves slightly, and the lawyer shifts some papers around until he finds what he’s looking for.

“How do you respond to the plaintiff’s accusations that there were other elements to this instruction?”

Samson spreads his hands in a way that feels a little too practiced to be genuine. “I cannot account for where the bo – Mordecai could have possibly come to the conclusion. I, of course, always encouraged him to heal himself when he hurt himself, but I never raised a hand to my son, or my wife,” Samson says, and the second part feels more vehement, as though he’s gone off-script. “I didn’t touch her.” Keely looks up and there’s something in his expression that stops Samson, who’s lips compress as he glares and forces himself to continue, in a dull sort of tone, “I made sure he was housed, and fed, and provided for, throughout everything. I picked up our lives and moved us to Lordaeron to ensure that he had the best possible resources at any time, and we left before the troubles began there. I have never harmed my son in any way, and I can only assume that his baseless accusations are a product of deep resentment for some imagined lack in his upbringing,” Samson says. There’s something under the words, but Samson speaks them smoothly. “I would never hurt my son.”

“When you went to speak to your son on January 28th, Year 26, what happened?”

Samson shakes his head in a way that is meant to convey sadness. “I tried to get him to understand that his family needed him. It went badly. Mordecai has always been stubborn, when he wishes to be, and I fear I over indulged his whims too often as a young man, to have him no longer believe himself to be beholden to his own house. In the end, he had that Doctor call the guard on me, rather than listen to his own father.”

“So, you had no intent to harm him?”

“Of course not,” Samson lies, with a near perfect tone. “But, the bo – Mordecai, well, he’s always been a little weak, a little frail. He must have fainted from being overwhelmed. I would never hurt my son,” Samson repeats. It has that same tone as before, almost down to the nuance, of a phrase that he’s clearly repeated many times.

Keely nods slowly. His face does not look triumphant. He looks resigned. “No further questions, Your Honor,” Keely says, and there’s a touch of hollowness to the words. Judge Merriweather nods sharply, and looks to Winnie.

Winnie takes a moment to stare at Samson, before she stands, her back perfectly straight, and says, in a clear tone, “Samson Harbrooke, can you describe, for the court, in your own words, what a ‘practice’ session was?”

“I would take the boy – Mordecai, I would take Mordecai – up to the study, so that we could spend time together, reading through the passages of the scriptures of the Holy Light, and study anatomical textbooks so that he could learn how to understand what he was healing more effectively. There were times that I might have demonstrated such anatomy, such as by touching his arms or legs to show where the bones and muscles underneath would be, or pointing out where his internal organs would be, but that is all.”

Winnie’s eyes are flat. “I will remind the witness that you are under oath, so let me ask more specifically, did you ever harm my client with the express purpose of using that harm to force him to heal it?”

Samson’s gaze is locked onto Winnie’s as he intones, “No, of course not. I would never hurt my son.” The lie sounds smooth, and practiced, and the intonation is the exact same as it has been, down to the stress on the words.

Judge Merriweather’s lips compress, forming a spider web of wrinkles around her mouth, as she leans back slightly in her chair, her eyes on Samson.

“Did you receive any training from the priesthood yourself?”

“No formal instruction,” Samson says, and this is true. “I had a good friend in the priesthood who I turned to for advice, when Mordecai entered the priesthood himself,” and this is still true, “for how I might best support him,” and there’s the blatant lie, delivered fluidly as part of the sentence. “Lord Julian Ambergris gave me the scriptures himself, as part of those efforts, and helped me understand how to encourage my son’s natural healing abilities by turning our minds to the Light.”

“You conducted these sessions, despite the fact that the Church of the Holy Light had already taken on my client’s instruction, with no experience of your own, when it would be within reasonable access to you to learn of the proper instruction?”

Samson spreads his hands out on the stand, still holding eye contact with Winnie. “I believed I was supporting my son’s learning, supplementing it as best I could, and providing him a safe place to practice his abilities where failure would be allowed,” Samson lies, the words sounding memorized, like lines in a play. “I was only trying to be a good father to my youngest son, finding a way to bond with him.”

Winnie breaks eye contact to look down at her paperwork, and her face looks older, as brackets form around her mouth, while she takes a moment to breathe before her next question. “You were seen leaving your study, with your son still behind you healing a wound of his own. Can you explain how that was part of ‘supporting your son’s learning?’”

“Miss Demasco, I understand that you are not a parent yourself, so I will forgive the obvious ignorance of the question,” Samson says, a faint sneer on his face, as Keely shakes his head slightly side to side. Samson, however, isn’t looking at Keely; he’s still looking at Winnie. “But, well, boys will be boys. Occasionally, Mordecai would get into some mischief or another, harm himself, and I would help him calm down and use the Light to heal it. When he was finished, well, there was no need for his father to hover about him like some woman who needs her son to cling to her apron strings.”

Judge Merriweather’s expression is flat as she regards Samson, her right hand moving slightly.

“You were overheard not by one but by two separate people on multiple occasions, where clear distress and harm was being perpetuated, and my client was seen healing himself from injuries no young boy should have. How do you explain that, Lord Harbrooke?”

Samson swallows, and shakes his head, his mouth turning down at the sides in a frown as his shoulders twitch. “I cannot fathom why my own wife would claim so, except to suspect some outside malice that has turned her against me, to toss such unfounded accusations against me. As for the other, a mere servant, well, what could she possibly have understood of the situation? The boy – Mordecai was always a little soft, and prone to hysterics when he struggled with learning something new. I cannot account for anything at all why someone would mistake the sounds of a young man struggling with personal, perceived failure with me harming him in any way.”

Winnie’s face flashes in a hard grimace, almost a smile as she shakes her head at Samson in what looks to be almost amazement at his brazenness.

“And what do you have to say on the matter of being accused of deliberately harming your son, and forcing him to heal it himself, given that this is not something a healer should need to be able to do at all?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Keely cries out, and Winnie’s hands clench at her sides. “Argumentative.”

Judge Merriweather regards Keely for a long moment, her face inscrutable as she blinks at him from behind her glasses. “I think we can all agree, Mr. Keely, that a healer has no reason to need instruction on self-harm. Overruled,” she says, her voice cold and sharp as a Dun Morogh morning. Winnie nods, thanks the judge, as Keely sucks his teeth, thanking the judge in a barely audible voice. “Answer the question, Lord Harbrooke,” Judge Merriweather says, staring at Samson with her dark, still-water midnight eyes.

“I never touched my son with any intent to harm him,” Samson lies, his voice sounding almost over-confident, and there is that note in his voice that resonates with rehearsal as he continues, “My son has always been prone to daydreaming, sometimes to the extreme, where he goes off into his own world, and there is simply no getting through to him when he is like that. You might as well be talking to the wall, and had I realized he had been fantasizing all these years that I had been putting him through such horrific experiences, I would have had him see a doctor far sooner.”

Winnie’s nostrils flare as she breathes in and out for a moment, then shifts paperwork on her desk, looking for something. She straightens and addresses Samson once more.

“So, you claim that your son has misremembered all the events that you stand accused of?”

“Yes, that is the truth,” Samson lies smoothly. “Had he lived, my good friend Julian could have corroborated such facts. But, unfortunately, my own wish to have quality time with my son has irrevocably altered my life, as I have left myself without a single witness to speak on my behalf.”

Winnie taps a hand on the table for a moment, then shifts her posture slightly.

“I would like to address the incident of January 28th, Year 26. What was your intent when you confronted my client in the infirmary?”

“My intent was simply to get the – Mordecai to come home. He left for that place without even telling us, his family, where he was going. I had returned home after a celebration with friends to find him simply gone. I admit, I had imbibed a few drinks in that celebration, but I was too worried about his safety to wait even a moment before I hired a gryphon at great expense to fly immediately to Nethergarde.”

“You were seen by multiple witnesses attacking my client. Can you explain your behavior?”

“I was distraught, and facing a young man who had been clearly ill affected and traumatized by his time in the military to consider his life expendable, working in close proximity to one of the most dangerous elements of Azeroth,” Samson says, his words coming out smooth and evenly, as though he’d practiced them exactly. “All I could think was that I simply needed to grab him and take my precious son back with me.”

“By his neck?” Winnie asks, her voice crackling with ice.

“I do not recall grabbing him by his neck at all,” Samson says, his eyes once again locked onto Winnie’s. “I grabbed him by his shoulders.”

“Witnesses recall prying your hands from his neck, Lord Harbrooke, and I would remind you that you are under oath to speak the truth.”

“I cannot speak to what they recall, Miss Demasco. Perhaps in the confusion and the struggle they mistook my hands placement. They are simple soldiers, and well, they cannot be blamed for not knowing simple anatomy.” Samson’s voice drips with condescension.

Winnie shakes her head slightly, as she looks around the courtroom, sighing slightly. “No further questions, Your Honor,” she says. “The prosecution rests.”

Edwin Keely rises to his feet, and what had once been a smug, self-confident lawyer is now a man who looks as though he is staring his doom in the face and it’s wearing something hideous. Keely regards his client. He opens his mouth, and looks at his papers, and then closes it. He shuts his eyes for a moment, and then turns to the judge. “The…the defense rests.”

The brick bailiff moves to escort Samson off the stand, as Judge Merriweather leans back fully in her chair, her expression unreadable. She examines several notes in front of her, her hands lingering over them, as she considers.

Winnie smiles, looking at her papers.

The closing arguments of the two lawyers could not sound more different, as Winnie outlines her position once more with confidence, and Keely says his with the remote, hollow voice of a man who recognizes when he has lost and hates every second of it, as he attempts to pull the doubt back into the room.

At the conclusion, Judge Merriweather steeples her hands together, looking over her desk, eyes going from Mordecai to Samson, and then back. “Ordinarily, I would take a recess,” Merriweather says, her voice calm. “However, despite the serious nature of this case, I believe I have heard enough to make a decision.” She directs her gaze to her desk, pulling a paper from one of the neat small piles there, as she adjusts her glasses for a moment. She picks up her gavel. “I have reached a verdict in the case of Aspenwood v. Harbrooke. Samson Harbrooke, I pronounce you guilty of the charge of assault against a Lord of Stormwind. You are sentenced to the maximum penalty of two years in prison.”

For the first time in this entire trial, Mordecai looks at Judge Merriweather, his eyes wide and full of hope.

Clara Aspenwood nods in approval. Cressidha smiles faintly and looks at her brother.

Colson squeezes Cressidha’s hand, as he stares at Mordecai, his face caught in a mask of neutral Colson obviously, to those who can read him, does not feel.

There is a pause, as Merriweather looks up, and says in a clear, unequivocal voice, “On the charge of repeated assault of a minor, I pronounce you guilty.”

Mordecai blinks rapidly and looks at Winnie, perhaps for confirmation that he heard that right.

Winnie looks over at Mordecai, and her grayish beige eyes shine with victory, as she fights a smile that looks almost like she might cry.

Colson exhales slowly, his grip on Cressidha’s hand relaxing, as he allows the verdict to settle on his shoulders, the sense of the Light dimming around him finally, completely, since the moment he’d walked into the courtroom.

Judge Merriweather bangs her gavel sharply. “I sentence you to life imprisonment for your crimes.”

There’s a fleeting, fragile smile that passes over Mordecai’s face as he leans back in his chair.

The brick bailiff steps forward, to escort Samson back to jail.

Samson’s eyes go wide, wide enough to show the whites around his irises, his mouth opening and closing like a faulty portal, only air escaping as he struggles to comprehend this outcome. He coughs as the bailiff’s hand encircles Samson’s arm in an implacable grip. “What – No – you can’t, I’m – “ is as far as he gets before there is a puff of dust around his head, and Samson falls asleep. The woman from the witness room steps away from Samson (how long had she been there? How did she get there? Who can say.), as the bailiff catches the Lord of the House of Harbrooke’s unconscious body and hauls him away.

Colson doesn’t even see it; there’s nothing on his face to even indicate he’s heard it. It’s as though Samson has already ceased to exist for Colson the moment the judge made her pronouncement. He’s looking at Mordecai still, his eyes shining a little too bright, a look of a delicate, finely spun hope on his stoic face.

Judge Merriweather exits the room in much the same manner that she entered it, and when she leaves, it is as though the entire energy of the room has changed, shifted, where a focal point once was, as though the sun had suddenly winked out, and left the planets to their own devices. The change is immediate, as the audience begins to shift, and talk among themselves.

Colson stands up, as people trickle out of the courtroom, his eyes still on Mordecai, his hand still holding onto Cress.

As the audience files out, Mordecai remains in his seat, clutching his prayer beads in both hands, eyes shut.

Winnie blows out a huge breath and seems to almost deflate two inches, as she sits down in her seat like her knees just went weak. She smiles up at Mordecai in a way that's meant to be encouraging, and then glances over at Colson.

Clara Aspenwood has been looking subtly pleased ever since the verdict was announced. "I'm going to see your father out," she tells the twins.

"Thank you," Colson says, to his mother as he gently squeezes Cress' hand, a faint sense of blessing in the motion. "We will be home soon," he says.

Cressidha squeezes Colson's hand and gets to her feet. "Do you want me to wait for you and Mordecai?"

Colson exhales slowly, still looking at Mordecai. "I think…I would, yes, but. I think he might need to not be…" Colson shrugs his right shoulder as if to suggest the way of being 'on' around other people.

Cressidha nods. "I'll wait until he's done… ah…" She gestures vaguely at whatever Mordecai is doing.

Mordecai mumbles, "Thank you," to Winnie. He might be in shock still.

Winnie smiles up at Mordecai, looking even younger than she naturally does. "You did so great. Really." She seems to mean the words genuinely, and she glances over at Colson again and fidgets with her bun. "Um. I should…go say hi to Colson."

Hearing Colson's name, Mordecai snaps to attention. "Oh." He gets right out of his chair and heads down towards the audience.

Colson smiles gently at Cress, looking over at her for a moment, turning in place to put his other hand over hers for a moment. "Thank you for being here."

"Where else would I be?" Cressidha smiles at him like he said something silly.

Winnie stands up and starts walking behind Mordecai. Possibly directly behind Mordecai. Is…is she hiding behind Mordecai? Possibly.

Mordecai walks directly into the railing separating the audience and the court.

Colson smiles wider, and then looks up as Mordecai gets closer, his smile growing softer as he holds out his left hand to Mordecai.

Mordecai blinks. He looks at Colson's hand, and then he looks down. There is a railing between him and Colson. Somehow this seems to be a surprise.

Winnie crashes into Mordecai from behind. She was not expecting a stop.

Cressidha releases Colson's hand and covers her mouth to hide a smile. "I'm going to head home," she says quietly.

Colson notices the change in Mordecai's body language immediately, and steps forward to potentially catch the dominos train before anything happens. "Yes, of course," he says in a distracted tone to Cress as he strides forward quickly.

Mordecai falls forward and catches himself on the railing. He looks up at Colson. "Ah."

Colson has a hand out to prevent it from getting any worse, one hand moving for the latch of the gate, and his other going to Mordecai's shoulder. Colson lifts the latch of the gate, opening it once Mordecai’s no longer using it to catch his balance. This is fine.

From behind Mordecai there is a soft, girlish voice that says, "Oh gosh. Sorry, sorry! Sorry."

Colson tilts slightly to one side to look behind Mordecai. "Ah. Winnie. Hello."

Mordecai blinks. The idea that the gate could be opened had not occurred to him. "I'm fine," he says to Winnie, and steps forward into Colson, immediately hiding his face against Colson's shoulder.

Colson wraps his arms around Mordecai in a tight embrace, likely just short of too tight for comfort. "Mordecai," Colson breathes out, pressing his lips against Mordecai's hair in not-quite-a-kiss.

Winnie stands by awkwardly, looking at everything except Colson and Mordecai. Wow, ceilings. Those are cool. Chairs. Neat. Good choices, decorators.

Mordecai stays right there for nearly a full minute. Sorry, Winnie.

Colson's voice is thick with emotion, at least to Mordecai, as he says, "I am so proud of you. I love you."

Winnie is examining the seat cushions of the chair next to her. Sure, it's a plain gray but you know. There are nuances of gray on gray threads there. She's fine. Just…checking out the gray.

Mordecai mumbles something that might be an 'I love you too' but is genuinely too muffled to make out.

Colson doesn't seem like he's inclined to move ever again, but some part of his brain is too polite to ignore poor Winnie forever. He exhales slightly and turns his attention to Winnie. He doesn't let go of Mordecai. "Winnie. Thank you," he says.

Winnie turns her attention from the chair, and starts to try to walk around Mordecai, realizes there's not enough room, then backs up and shuffles around Mordecai, dodging under the beautiful shoulder pieces of the priestly robes, as she makes her way to stand next to Colson. Her head comes up to around the Aspenwoods’ mid-chest region. "Oh, uh. Yeah. I was…I'm glad you. I was. I mean, I am. It's good to help. I was happy to help. I. Yes." She nods several times like those were all very coherent sentences.

Mordecai straightens up a tiny bit and angles slightly so that he can see both Colson and Winnie. He manages not to knock over another chair.

Colson inclines his head politely. "Yes, it was well done."

"Thank you so much," Mordecai says, earnestly. He is still well inside Colson's personal space bubble.

Winnie smiles at Mordecai, and then turns the smile on Colson where it becomes a little wobbly and shy and she stares at some place around his chin instead of his eyes. "You're very welcome. I'm really glad you let me take your case. I mean. When Colson came by and mentioned it, I was surprised. He." Winnie seems to realize Colson is still Right There. "You know. I mean, you know. I thought you would want a-a more. Lawyer." Winnie blushes at ‘more lawyer’ and takes a step back. She looks very young, and her voice is even higher pitched than before. "I mean, more um. I…don't usually represent adults."

Mordecai nods. "I don't really feel like one," he says. He is twenty-five years old. "You did wonderfully. Do you like dessert?"

Winnie nods and smiles at Mordecai again. "I do. I mean, I really like the candies Colson sends to the orphanage, but, um. I usually go for a batch of madeleines after a trial. Did…do you want to get some?"

Colson smiles faintly. "Mordecai is a baker," he says, his voice very soft.

Winnie looks back at Colson and blushes a bright red and looks down at her shoes. "Oh. OH. I.. yes. Oh."

"Just to, to send you something. Later." Mordecai blushes and hides his face against Colson's shoulder again.

Colson's grip on Mordecai relaxes ever so slightly, as he runs his hand gently against Mordecai's back, looking at Winnie. "Thank you for the offer, Winnie. Would you allow me to buy you the celebratory madeleines?"

Winnie makes an Expression like she really, really does not want that at all. "Oh. Uh. Yes…you can, um. I mean. If that's what you'd like. To do."

Mordecai tugs on Colson's sleeve.

Colson looks over at Mordecai, his brows raised faintly, one hand already moving off of Mordecai to go to a pouch at his waist.

Mordecai mumbles, "Home?"

Colson can't actually pull Mordecai closer, but his arm tightens around him. "Of course," Colson says. He digs through the pouch for an amount of money. Did he count it? Sure didn't. He holds out a hand to Winnie, who awkwardly scoots forward to accept.

"Thank you," Mordecai says in Winnie's general direction. "Goodbye." He is done with People.

Winnie's hands are a fraction the size of Colson's, and whatever jumble of gold and silver Colson picked up easily doesn't fit as easily in her hands. She winces and wrinkles her nose slightly as she steps back. "Uhm. Thanks. Colson. I'll um."

Colson nods at that. Good enough, as he moves to gather Mordecai's hand in his. "Good afternoon, Winnie," he says as farewell, as he lifts the chair out of the way to make more room to pass through, until he can tug Mordecai into the aisle.

Mordecai follows along, walking extremely close to Colson's side. Colson is probably responsible for making sure he doesn't walk into anything. Which is fine, because Colson excels at not walking into things. As soon as they're in open air, Colson inhales deeply.

Mordecai doesn't. He's holding Colson's hand very tightly.

Winnie exits the building behind them and awkwardly scoots out the other side in the direction of the nearest bakery.