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The crowd had hurriedly left already.
In the silence of another dark night, the sound of heels hitting the marble floors echoed throughout the halls of the Opera Epiclese. The liveliest building of Fontaine’s nation went cold - dead - and yet its soul remained full of energy, calling out to anyone that would hear.
He could hear Her loud and clear. The beating heart, the expanding lungs, the flowing blood of the guilty and the innocent. A choir of voices singing, their tone stuck between comfort and chaos. A machinery made of purely human counterparts. Those were the sounds of Justice.
The smell of marcottes flowed through the open windows, mixing with the fragrance of old books and melted candle wax. It was the smell of integrity. Of faith, trust and respect, that no man could ever break.
With a deep inhale, the man pushed the doors open gently. The main hall stood there in all its glory, along with its victims’ shadows. The air grew thicker, and his steps faster as he tore his way through the invisible fog.
He could feel the vibrations in his bones, tearing through his clothing and skin, as if those human barriers had no power in the courtroom. And that much was correct - they didn’t. Even though he was no man at all, he felt his body follow that pattern. He was not above Her after all. Nobody, human or not, was.
“I didn’t do it, I swear! I never- No!”
Whose wails were those?
“Lock her up!”
“Such a brutal murder, and she won’t even admit her faults!”
“Send her away!”
“What a monster!”
The screaming, sobbing and begging followed the chorus of stirred voices.
“We shall now turn to The Oratrice Mecanique d’Analyse Cardinale.”
Memories of the clanking of metal cogs turning shook him to his very core.
“Guilty.”
A round of applause drowned out the sounds of agony coming from the soon-to-be prisoner.
“I knew she was guilty.”
“Of course, have you seen the way she cried? I’ve never seen faker tears!”
“Justice has been served once again!”
If justice had been served that night, why did it feel so wrong?
His head, as loud as it got, blurred out the slam of doors behind him.
“Neuvillette!”
He ceased the stroll, as if frozen in place. There, in the centre of the courtroom, he could be seen clearly for all that he was. Vulnerable, naked, regretful. Grieving.
“Neuvillette…”
The voice grew softer, just like the man’s expression. “Your Grace… Why have you come here?”
Silence fell between both men.
Footsteps grew closer, until they stopped completely as a hand landed on the man’s shoulder.
The other let out a long breath, pant-like. As if he had been running for a long time before bursting into the Opera.
“It’s raining.”