Work Text:
the dose makes the poison
He wakes to the feeling of unfamiliar sheets against his skin and a dull, throbbing ache in his head.
As he blearily blinks his eyes open, clawing his way into the waking world, the magnitude of his mistake slowly trickles into his consciousness.
And the catalyst and proof is lying right there beside him. Unruly mop of blue hair, just barely peeking out the top of the bedcovers. Dozing away in deep sleep, oblivious to the world, to the mistake.
His mistake.
Oh no.
Oh, no no no no no.
“Oh, gods, what have I done, no no no, what have I done,” Ayn whispers, voice strangled, untangling himself from the sheets and nearly falling out of the bed in his haste to get away. His clothes, where are his clothes—scattered across the floor. Of course. Of course.
Muttering a streak of curses under his breath, he staggers about the room, haphazardly pulling on his clothes and glaring at the still-sleeping other all the while. His headache isn’t subsiding yet, either; just another bitter cherry atop the cake of his terrible, horrible mistake—Ayn barely stifles the near-hysterical bark of laughter threatening to spill from his lips. Gods, what an inane metaphor his muddled mind chose to provide him.
Why did he even…? Alcohol, he dimly remembers, liquor by the bottle. And him, naïve fool that he was, trying to chisel words of truth from the marquis’s marbled lies, of his affairs, of the black market, of Pere Noel? He should’ve known better.
An impromptu interrogation turned into a heated argument over glasses of wine, turned into something worse, so much worse. A night of regret… though he doubts Kaspar regrets this mistake of theirs. That scumbag of a husband probably doesn’t have the heart to regret anything, from the way he treated his own wife in front of him—
Oh, gods. Margarita.
He slept with a wife’s husband. A married man!
What kind of police officer is he?!
He holds a hand up to his head, fighting through the hangover to make his way to the door, swinging it open. Deep breaths; inhale-hold-exhale. But as unsteady on his feet as he is, emotions roiling turbulently in the chaos of his thoughts, Ayn trips and stumbles, eyes squeezing shut as the floor rushes up to meet him—were it not for a sudden tug on his arm, steadying his steps.
“Careful,” someone whispers, pulling him away from the direction of the staircase, “taking a tumble down there would spell death for you, officer.”
Woozy, he turns to give his gratitude to his saviour… but his breath stops cold in his throat when he sees just who it is that saved him. Margarita herself, staring up at him with those bright eyes of hers, as if seeing into—or maybe even through—his soul.
“I, uh, ahem,” he coughs, clears his throat, “I can… explain…?”
She cocks an eyebrow at that, pursing her lips as if about to admonish a child. “Now why would you need an explanation?” Margarita chides, gripping his arm tighter as she pulls him into another room. “It’s the same as always, isn’t it? Kaspar sees something he wants, so he takes. A prince is entitled to anything his heart desires. Wait here.”
Roughly pushing him into a chair, she bustles off to the opposite corner of the room, and soon Ayn hears the clink of glass and the pouring of liquid, his nausea threatening to return twicefold at the noises.
“Ah-ah-ah! Don’t get sick in my bedroom, it’ll be such a hassle to clean up.” Scolding him, Margarita returns to his side and shoves a glass of something into his hands, expression stern. At his confused expression, her frown deepens into a scowl. “Drink that. To remedy your booze-brain. A gift, from me to you.”
“Oh… thank you.” Feebly, he downs the thing in one go, a gusty sigh leaving him afterward. “What’s in it? My head feels clearer already.”
Something like surprise flickers in Margarita’s eyes, before her expression turns pleased. “A chemist doesn’t reveal her secrets,” she hums, sitting on the bed—the lone furniture in the room, Ayn silently notes, besides the chair he’s seated in and the table with her work equipment. “Nobody’s bothered to ask about my concoctions before, though. Not even father.”
There’s a note of sadness in her voice. Ayn considers the implications of her words, and it paints a sorrowful picture in his heart. Not for the first time, he pities the marchioness, wondering why fate had decided to play her, in his opinion, such a cruel and unfair hand.
“Well,” he starts, soft and gentle, “secret or not, I think it’s amazing that you have such skill. And… thank you for the gift, Mrs. Blankenheim. I appreciate it.”
Margarita stares, a blush rising to her cheeks, before abruptly turning her gaze downwards. Puzzled, Ayn follows her line of sight—and pulls his hand away from where it rests on hers, nearly falling out of his seat in his rush to do so.
Any frantic blubbering apology that would’ve come out of his mouth is cut short by the sly look Margarita gives him as she slowly reaches out, intertwining their fingers together. “So bold of you, officer,” she smiles; Ayn can practically feel the steam rushing out his ears, “and you haven’t even told me your name.”
“I… you… I mean, officer Ayn Anchor, at your service!” Snatching his hand out of hers, he raises it to his head in an instinctual salute—and flinches as the empty glass slips from his other hand, shattering into pieces upon impact with the floor. “Gods, I’m sorry…! First that, now this…”
“Hush, you.” Bending down to pick up the pieces with her bare hands, she shakes her head. “I don’t hold that against you. At least you and Eleanor are nice, unlike some of the others. And this,” having gathered up the shards, she deposits it on the table with a sigh, “I can do without. I can learn to do without it. I don’t need fancy things, or much of anything. I really don’t…”
Her reassurance only reminds Ayn of the state of her room, bare and cold. Anger flashes in his chest momentarily, cooling into pity and disdain. Pity for her, disdain for that useless good-for-nothing husband of hers.
“What do you even see in him?” He blurts out before he can stop himself, fingers curling into fists. “Why? You deserve so much better.”
Margarita startles at his outburst, her face falling like lightning to the earth. “…He’s my prince,” she mutters, keeping her tone carefully neutral, “do I need any more reason than that? Do I need a reason? Do I…”
Ayn blanches at her sudden change in disposition, a chill creeping up his spine. “I apologize. I’ve overstepped my boundaries—I’ll show myself the way out.” Rising from his seat, he gives the deathly still Margarita a short bow, moving towards the door. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Blankenheim… and your gift as well.”
The feeling of eyes on his retreating back doesn’t go away until he’s left the mansion far behind.
Shuddering, he resolves to never repeat his mistake, ever again.
So, why is he back at the mansion the very next day?
…He doesn’t have an answer for that.
“You again, officer?” Kaspar barks out a laugh at the sight of Ayn, arms crossed and face sullen, standing at the door. “What, can’t get enough of me? Fallen in love, have you? Sorry, but I’m taken!”
“Taken, you say. Then fucking act like it,” Ayn quietly seethes, bristling. He’s been temporarily suspended from duty, unable to hide his guilt from his superior, Hob, but Kaspar doesn’t necessarily need to know that. And Ayn’s determined to get to the bottom of his crimes, even if it means skirting the law a little. “I need to ask you a few more questions, Mr. Blankenheim.”
“Marquis Blankenheim.”
“…Excuse me?”
“It’s Marquis Blankenheim, Ayn Anchor.” There’s a predatory glint in Kaspar’s eyes now, a hint of honey and venom dripping from his lips. “Address me by my title, or not at all.”
“How do you know my—” Ayn takes a step back, eyes narrowed. “I never gave you my name.”
That gets a harsh huff of amusement from Kaspar, his grin growing wider. “You think I don’t have ears? You think I didn’t hear that conversation you had with my wife?” A fake, overblown swoon. “Oh, heroic white knight! Save the princess from the wicked heartbreaker! Come, kiss me in the forest!”
With every mocking word, Ayn feels his fury intensify. “You don’t deserve Margarita,” he growls, jaw clenching. “I don’t know what she sees in you.”
“A prince.” Smugly, Kaspar leans forward, hands on his hips. Their faces are inches apart now; Ayn can feel Kaspar’s breath on his cheek. “I’m her prince, and there’s nothing you can do to convince her otherwise.”
“You’re delusional!”
“Am I? Isn’t she the delusional one?” When did he get so close? They’re pressed flush against each other now, chest-to-chest. “I make her happy. Even if everyone else sees me as evil, I’m still her fairytale prince. Or are you jealous?” His expression turns thoughtful, his sly grin turns cruel. “You don’t want to save her; you just want me—"
It happens too suddenly; Ayn’s mind can’t keep up. Suddenly there’s lips on his, a hand roughly holding his jaw to tilt his head a better angle, a strong arm slinging itself around his torso, a heaviness pressing down on him, keeping him rooted in place. He’s trapped.
He feels his eyelids flutter, threatening to slip shut. But movement in his peripheral vision catches his attention; the subtle shifting of curtains in the window above them.
Margarita’s room.
Eyes flying wide open, he bites down hard, eliciting a pained gasp from Kaspar. Shoving the other man away, he covers his mouth with both hands, panting and heaving and barely resisting the urge to retch, empty his stomach right then and there. A groan from Kaspar draws his eyes back to the marquis’s face, just in time for him to see Kaspar touching a finger to his bloody lip.
“Ooh… that hurt,” Kaspar murmurs, as if dazed and, dare he say… just the slightest bit remorseful? But then his smirk returns full force as he locks eyes with Ayn and, slowly, deliberately licks the blood off his fingertip—
Flushing red to the tips of his ears, Ayn spins on his heel and briskly walks away, his heartbeat pounding in his ears along with the echo of Kaspar’s derisive laughter.
Apparently, he can’t stop himself from making stupid decisions, because here he is again, knocking on the door of the Blankenheim residence.
It’s Margarita who answers the door this time, thankfully. The surprise on her face quickly makes way for a warm smile as she ushers him inside, leading him upstairs and to her room before he has a chance to explain himself.
“I’m sorry for my actions last time, Mrs. Blankenheim.” The words leave him in a rush, once he’s seated in the same chair as last time. “A-and for what happened yesterday, I promise you, it won’t happen again!”
“What happened yesterday? Oh, you mean… the kiss?” If anything, he expects an admonishment, a frown of disapproval at the very least; instead, her impish laughter nearly knocks him off his feet. “Silly man, why would I begrudge you that? You make Kaspar happy, and that makes me happy.”
“Uh—what?!” Something about her glee rubs him the wrong way; the anger he’s used to directing at Kaspar suddenly finds itself a new target. “Is this planned? Are you two—are you trying to—”
Seeing him riled up, Margarita holds her hands up in a placating gesture, stifling a giggle. “Nothing so drastic as that, Ayn. Isn’t a princess supposed to wish for her prince’s happiness? And,” trailing off with a wistful sigh, she gazes at him with those bright eyes of hers, pulling him ever-so-slightly closer, “he might be my prince, but you can be my white knight if you want.”
Silence. Ayn doesn’t know what to say to that, his fledgling fury having evaporated into disbelief.
“…Isn’t that what you want?” There’s an edge of desperation to her voice now, her grip tightening almost imperceptibly around his hands. “You want to save me, don’t you?”
There’s an unspoken question there, something she can’t quite say and something he doesn’t quite want to hear. Not just yet. Still, it rings in their ears nonetheless, a bullet of unwanted clarity through the static of their thoughts.
You love me, don’t you?
Heidemarie’s stoic visage materializes in his thoughts; the ache of longing still fresh in his heart. But then Hanne appears beside her in his mind’s eye, bringing along with her the tales of his namesake. Of being a hero, of justice.
Of being a knight who protected the woman he loved, along with the one that she loved.
What a farce. This mess of affairs can’t even compare to that, not even close.
Even so, Ayn lowers himself to one knee, presses a kiss to the back of her hand.
“I do,” he whispers, and means it with his whole heart.
Margarita smiles.
Ayn wonders why he can’t bring himself to do the same.
They descend to the living room for tea and trauben tarts over small talk. Ayn considers asking Kaspar’s whereabouts, but dismisses the thought, more for his own sake than anything else. The rapid transition from the suffocating air of Margarita’s bare-bones bedroom to the lavishly decorated parlour reminds him of an inquiry he’s been meaning to ask.
“Mrs. Blankenheim—”
“Please, just call me Margarita. We’re close enough for that, aren’t we?”
He nearly chokes on a mouthful of jam. Margarita reaches over and rubs soothing circles on his back as he regains his bearings.
“Uh, alright. If you insist.” Coughing, Ayn brings his teacup to his lips, taking a sip and recoiling from the heat. “Ah, too hot… ahem. I don’t mean any offense, but why is your room so empty? Can’t your husband buy you some furniture?”
She shakes her head. “I did have nice furniture, but we sold them off. Besides, I don’t really need furniture.”
“Wha—you don’t even have a vanity, for gods’ sake!”
“The cigars and wine that Kaspar likes are rather expensive, unfortunately.” Here she gives him a side-eyed glance. “You should know, you’ve had some the other day.” That shuts him up nice and quick, any further complaints dying on his tongue. “And he likes to buy presents for the others. Sometimes I even help him wrap the gifts!”
It seems Margarita really has no qualms about her husband’s terrible behaviour. Ayn leans back in his chair. So, that lead’s a no-go; can’t press charges on a husband for philandering when his wife consents to it. What else…? Should he bring up Pere Noel and the black market? But he doubts Margarita would know anything about it, and without any evidence, it’s just a baseless accusation anyway.
…Unless.
“Whoa, let’s back up a bit.” Furrowing his brows, Ayn lowers his gaze, the gears of his brain ticking. “You said the cigars and wine Kaspar buys are expensive. And he buys things for his other mistresses.” He raises his head, as well as his voice. “I doubt selling just your furniture can cover the expenses. The rest of the house is still adorned with finery. Where does he get the money?”
Across him, Margarita’s expression is frozen in a placid smile, her fingertip tracing her teacup’s rim in a slow, steady motion. “…Hm. I never thought of that. Where does Kaspar get his money?”
Agitation building, Ayn sets his teacup down, willing himself not to explode, not to direct his anger at her. “Don’t fuck with me,” he snarls, rage boiling under his skin. “Where is he? Where is Kaspar?!”
Margarita’s eyes are locked on his now, blank green on burning red. “Why are you so angry, Ayn?” She asks, disturbingly cheerful despite the fury rolling off him in waves. “You’re so tense… so stressed out. I hear sleep’s the best medicine for that.” Her voice quivers, cracks like ice. “I wouldn’t know, though. I haven’t slept in a long, long time.”
She’s so sad. Pitiful. Like a broken doll.
So, why does he still feel so full of hate?
His fingers curl into fists, nails digging red crescents into his pale skin, but anything else he would’ve done is interrupted by the sound of voices coming from the direction of the stairs. Ascending from the basement, two figures appear in the living room, red and blue.
“What’s with all the ruckus?” Kaspar complains, before his gaze lands on Ayn and he lets out a wolf whistle at his aggravated state. “Oh, Margarita, why didn’t you tell me we have a guest? I would’ve come running.”
“You told me not to disturb you, dear.” Margarita answers, tilting her head aside. “You said you had important business to attend to.”
“That we did.” The woman in red mutters, appraising Ayn with a critical eye. “…Him? A cop, really?”
“I have my reasons.” An amused snort. “Besides, he’s not a cop right now. Isn’t that right, Ayn?”
“Fuck you.” Ayn hisses, though most of the steam has left him after his recognition of the red-clothed woman. “Mayor Julia? Pardon me, but what are you doing here?”
“Nothing much. Just checking up on these two, making sure that they’re upholding their part of the deal.” Putting emphasis on the words, Julia shoots a glare at Kaspar, who only shrugs it off in reply. “What about you, officer? What’s your reason for coming here, off-duty as you are?”
“I—"
“Ayn’s my friend!” Cutting in before he can get a word out, Margarita happily bounces in her seat. “I was telling him about how he needs to rest. Getting enough sleep is important for your health!”
“…That it is. You’re such a caring person, aren’t you? Good girl.” With a chuckle, Julia leans over to pat Margarita on the head; she preens under the mayor’s touch, enjoying the praise. “Ah, but look at the time; I must be off. Sorry I can’t stay any longer.”
“Aww, that’s okay. Here, let me escort you outside.”
Rising to her feet, Margarita latches onto Julia’s arm, leading her out like an excitable child. Ayn and Kaspar wordlessly watch them go, before their gazes turn to each other.
“I’m leaving, too.”
“Ah-ah-ah!” A resounding crash as the teacup in his hand clatters to the floor. Looming above him, Kaspar’s grin grows wide, baring his teeth and intentions for Ayn to see. “The only place you’re going to is my bedroom. Come, darling,” lowering his face next to Ayn’s, Kaspar darts his tongue out and licks a stripe of the skin on his cheek, earning a shudder in response, “let’s release all that pent-up emotion of yours and dance the night away, shall we?”
“Fuck you, fuck, you. Fuck. You.” Ayn chants the curses like a mantra, like it can protect him from the beast in front of him. From the beast beginning to burn inside of him. “Get off of me, you prick.”
“Hm? What’s that? Get me off?” Innocently batting his eyelashes, Kaspar lets out a howl of laughter as he evades Ayn’s punch. “Come up to bed with me and we’ll see about that.”
It’s too much. Blinded with anger, Ayn jumps up from his seat and claws wildly in Kaspar’s direction. Kaspar’s laughter only grows louder as he effortlessly dances around Ayn’s hands, stringing him along as he moves upstairs.
From the doorway, Margarita wordlessly watches them go, her lips once more set in that implacable smile.
This game of cat and mouse of theirs continues for a few days; love and hate mixing together into poison that fills his lungs and leaves him struggling to breathe. The mansion warps into something of a prison, a garden, both—and the cloying taste of the forbidden fruit keeps him coming back for more, even when the rest of him knows how much of a bad idea it is, screams for him to stop.
But he can’t stop. No… it’s more like he’s unable to stop, fallen deeply into this trap of theirs as he is.
The dose makes the poison, and he’s taken too much of it, let them spread their roots in him too deep. He’s addicted to them, to the love and hate they inspire in him. There’s no turning back from this.
More than once, he wonders if he’s become nothing but a pawn in this chess match between Kaspar and Margarita. But then Kaspar purrs at him with that sultry voice of his, or Margarita gives him another one of her tender smiles. And in their now-familiar dance, with him at night and with her in the morning, a waltz of one-two-three, the thought always slips his mind.
Leaving only an overflowing wrath.
“I know that, when she looks into my eyes, she sees someone else.”
“I know that, when I look into his eyes, I see someone else.”
“But there’s nothing you can do.”
“But there’s nothing you can do.”
“I’m still her beloved fairytale prince, even if you’re her white knight.”
“Despite everything, he’s still my prince, just as you are my white knight."
Even if I can save you both, who will save me in the end?
…Foolish, lonely man. You’re not a knight, nor a hero of justice.
You’ve been deceived by him and her and yourself.
Look. See how happy they are without you? How they’ve always been happy without you?
Kaspar doesn’t need you. He doesn’t even hate you the way you hate him. He’ll just find another.
Margarita doesn’t need you. She doesn’t even love you the way you love her. She’ll just find another.
To him and to her, you’re just another toy to share between them.
A challenge, a conquest, a puzzle to solve and then throw away.
Aren’t you angry? You should be.
You should be angry at Kaspar, for being a horrible person.
For playing with your body on a whim, and for treating Margarita so poorly and unfaithfully.
You should be angry at Margarita, for being a pitiful person.
For playing with your heart on a whim, and for turning a blind eye to Kaspar’s wrongdoings.
You should be angry at yourself, for being a foolish, lonely person.
For letting yourself be deceived, and deceiving yourself just for them.
If it’s not justice you can claim, then what else?
Tell me.
Take away your self-righteous anger, and what’s left?
…
Come.
Give it over.
Give it to me.
Give everything over to me.
And in return.
I will give you.
My wrath.
He wakes to the feeling of now-familiar sheets against his skin and a dull, throbbing ache in his head.
As he blearily blinks his eyes open, clawing his way into the waking world, the magnitude of his sin slowly trickles into his consciousness.
And the catalyst and proof is right there in his hands. A gleaming golden blade stained and dripping with blood, still warm to the touch. Lying still and unbreathing below him, Kaspar stares with wide eyes, his final expression twisted with shock and pain. As if he didn’t expect Ayn to kill him, to commit an unforgivable act.
A sin.
Oh no.
Oh, no no no no no.
“Oh, gods, what have I done, no no no, what have I done,” Ayn whispers, voice strangled, untangling himself from the sheets and nearly falling out of the bed in his haste to get away. His clothes, where are his clothes—still on him, now spattered with rusty red. Of course. Of course.
Muttering a streak of curses under his breath, he staggers about the room, careful not to stab himself with the knife that he still can’t bring himself to let go of. His headache isn’t subsiding yet, either; just another bitter pill to swallow along with his terrible, horrible wrath—Ayn doesn’t bother to stifle the hysterical bark of laughter spilling from his lips. Gods, what an inane metaphor his muddled mind chose to provide him. Almost the same as the one back then, too. When it all began.
How did he even…? A golden key, he dimly remembers, it was a golden key before. And Kaspar, he gave it to him, as a gift, a bribe, something else? A plan, a grand scheme of things he wasn’t privy to, still doesn’t know anything about. And he definitely didn’t expect Ayn to turn it against him.
An impromptu interrogation turned into a heated argument over the golden key’s purpose and the meaning behind Kaspar gifting it to him, turned into something worse, so much worse. A night of regret… painful, confusing, exhilarating, satisfying regret. That scumbag of a husband deserved to die, worthless trash that he was, along with his fool wife who let everything happen without doing anything to stop it—
Oh, yes. Margarita.
She hasn’t slept in a long time, has she?
He can finally grant her an eternal rest, in death.
There’s no turning back from this, the voice in his head says. End it now, with your own hands. Merciful white knight, hero of justice. With this, you can save them both. Kaspar and Margarita, the foolish, lonely pair who let themselves be deceived by the red-eyed snake.
But why stop there? This whole town, no, this whole country, no—this whole world is at fault, isn’t it? For letting this corruption fester and take root. For allowing such evil to exist in the first place.
And you will right that wrong. You are justice, are you not? You must purify everything. Burn it all down until there’s nothing left of this poison.
Perhaps, after that, you can finally save yourself. Let me guide your hand, o white knight, fallen hero, plaything of the gods!
You sinful man, the time has come. Now…
He holds a hand up to his head, fighting through his anger, syrupy-sweet as it is, to make his way to the door, swinging it open. Deep breaths; inhale-hold-exhale. But as unsteady on his feet as he is, emotions roiling turbulently in the chaos of his thoughts that aren’t his own, Ayn trips and stumbles, eyes squeezing shut as the floor rushes up to meet him—were it not for a sudden tug on his arm, steadying his steps.
“Careful,” someone whispers, pulling him away from the direction of the staircase, “taking a tumble down there would spell death for you, Ayn.”
Woozy, he turns to give his gratitude to his saviour… but his breath stops cold in his throat when he sees just who it is that saved him. Margarita herself, staring up at him with those bright eyes of hers, as if seeing into—or maybe even through—his soul.
Now, screams the demon digging its claws into his heart. Strike her down, now! Stab the blade right through her chest and let this joyous moment mark the beginning of the end!
She cocks an eyebrow at his strained silence and the blood on his clothes, pursing her lips as if about to admonish a child. “Did you at least kill him in his sleep? Pitiful man, the nightmares were getting to his head. Eternal repose is the least of what he deserves.” Margarita chides, gripping his arm tighter as she pulls him into her bedroom before he can even raise his weapon against her.
“And are you here to kill me too, you loathsome being? Realize something you don’t like, then push the blame on others. A holy knight deluded by visions of grandeur. Kill me, then. Let your blade aim true and bleed my heart dry!”
Roughly pushing him into a chair, she looms above him, her face framed in shadow. One hand rises, then the other, and both join to meet around the vulnerable flesh of his throat, squeezing hard but not tight enough to kill.
“Kill me!” She shrieks, even as he raises the golden knife high above her head in a shaking grip. “End me, with your own hands. Give me sleep, or give me death!”
Burning with wrath from within and without, Ayn thrusts his hand forward and—
Wait.
—Is brought to a sudden stop, as if his arm is stilled by another’s hand.
No… it can’t be…
Her anger, his anger, the demon’s anger, all revolve around each other and resounding in a dissonant capriccio, a lullaby of desolation.
Is that… you, my evening star?
Ayn opens his eyes, tears beading in the corners of his eyes. The disbelief and shock bubbling inside him incongruent, not his own. He’s dimly aware that he’s become nothing more than a puppet, being made to play a tragedy between higher beings.
Eve.
The illusion is shattered.
In front of him, a clockwork doll—Margarita—Eve laughs. His grip loosening, the key in his hand—when did it return to its original form?—clatters to the floor.
“Fool,” the doll spits in a voice dripping with honey and venom, “coward, foul weakling. Why do you hesitate? You’ve taken my prince from me, what more do you want?”
—Your heart, Ayn numbly thinks, bile rising in his throat, because you so easily stole mine. You and that false prince of yours. Why, Margarita Blankenheim? Why did you do this to me? No, rather… who are you, truly?
I’m sorry, the demon whispers in his head, though Ayn knows none of it is for him, I’m so sorry, my love, my evening star, forgive me, please, forgive me. I didn’t mean to ruin you. You deserve better than me, you deserve better than this foolish, lonely man—
Margarita lets out a laugh, growing louder in volume until it erupts in a piercing wail.
Ayn lies limply in his seat, tears dripping down his face. His strength has left him, the flames of wrath thoroughly extinguished. In his head, the demon languishes in despair, mourning something Ayn knows nothing about.
Broken, broken, broken. All of them.
At all once, Margarita’s outburst abruptly ceases, and she turns her gaze—human once more; where does the doll end and Margarita begin?—back to Ayn. She appraises him with a critical eye, like Julia had done before; he shudders under the weight of her blank gaze.
Seemingly coming to a conclusion, she bustles off to the opposite corner of the room, and soon Ayn hears the clink of glass and the pouring of liquid, his nausea threatening to return twicefold at the noises. Wordlessly, Margarita returns to his side and shoves a glass of something into his hands, her expression immeasurably fond and kind.
“Drink that. To end this nightmare. A final gift, from me to you.”
He stares down at the glass, unblinking. The smell of greeonion roses wafts through the room. A sleeping drug. Too much of it. A lethal poison.
A gift.
He’s tired, so, so tired, drained, empty. He’s gotten himself tangled in something far beyond his understanding, and it’s given him nothing but grief all this time. He wants this to end.
“Drink,” Margarita insists, her lips set in that implacable smile that makes his heart ache.
Drink, the demon repeats, and he can hear an echo of Kaspar’s mocking laughter in its voice.
“The dose makes the poison,” Ayn murmurs, and downs the thing in one go. Closing his eyes, he doesn’t even flinch as the empty glass slips from his hand, shattering into pieces upon impact with the floor.
Foolish, lonely man. This is where we part ways. May your pitiful soul rest in peace.
“How lovely,” Margarita whispers as she watches Ayn take his final breath, “a deep, dreamless sleep. I wish I could sleep. I haven’t slept in a long time. But not yet,” shaking her head, she bends down and picks the golden key up from where it lies among the broken shards of glass, “not just yet. My work isn’t finished. I must continue.”
Humming a lullaby she doesn’t quite remember, Margarita gives Ayn one last glance before moving to Kaspar’s bedroom and surveying his corpse in turn.
Her white knight and her prince, together in sleep and death.
A disgraced cop and an unrepentant criminal.
A love-hate affair ending in a murder-suicide.
A perfect alibi.
“How wonderful,” Margarita sighs, her ever-present smile finally fading, “a happy end to this fairytale. I must tell Elluka about this. Kaspar’s plan failed, but at least my beloved child continues to grow. Oh, such a wonderful gift. And I’ll have to give this to her soon.” Holding it up, she admires the golden key as it exudes warmth in her grasp, cradling it close to her chest.
“…Just a little bit more, my prince. Wait a little while longer, then come and kiss me in that forest.”