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fontaine’s skies wept yet again,
the cold, unforgiving rain ran heavily through the empty streets — flowing down the carefully sculpted marble steps, pooling in the small cracks that blemished the otherwise pristine stone like tears too long restrained.
neuvillette stood lost in thought, idly staring at the downpour that had now turned into a melancholic drizzle, his white hair slightly damped from the short walk to his house. he hadn’t meant to summon the rain — not purposefully anyway. but fontaine always listened to his heart. It heard the tremble in his conviction, the fracture in his usually calm nature, the sorrow pulsing through his fatigued body.
it was your silence that hurt him most.
you hadn’t even looked at him after the trial.
not as he delivered the verdict — guilty — not as the convicted was taken away, and not as the audience dispersed excitedly.
he had found himself glancing over at you trying to catch the rare emotion in your eye.
it hadn’t been anger. or disbelief.
it had been disappointment,
pure disappointment.
he knew that trial had been personal for you. the accused being someone you had known well, a man you claimed had kindness etched in his every motion, whose guilt was not absolute —circumstantial at best. you had pleaded in private, asking neuvillette to wait, to reconsider, insisting that there was doubt in the opposing sides evidence.
but doubt, in the ludex’s eyes, was not enough. not this time.
and so he watched as you left the courtroom without a glance back. cold. distant.
he’d hoped you would come to him, shout at him, argue like you always did. but hours passed by and nothing came. not even a knock.
he had to fix this.
the rain became heavier with every step he took, walking to the one place he knew he could find you, would you accept what he has to say, would you forgive him? what could even be said to make things right —
he had chosen the law over his own heart and now it ached painfully, a cruel punishment for his mistakes.
you didn’t look up when he approached. but you didn’t move away either.
“you’re upset..” he said finally, voice low, careful.
“your observation skills are as brilliant as always” you replied a faint sarcasm lacing your words, not bitter — but detached. you sighed before continuing,
“he didn’t deserve that sentence.”
neuvillette swallowed, a guilt encompassing his already strained heart. “the evidence was—”
“I already know what the evidence said. but I also know what it didn’t say.”
you turned to him at last, eyes rimmed red, clear tears of frustration and hurt threatening to spill “and so do you.”
he flinched. a rare, subtle motion, but equally hard to miss.
you looked at him then, not as the chief justice, not as the Iudex,
but as the man you’d come to care for. the man who read poetry to you in the quiet mornings. the man who listened intently as you rambled about trivial things that shouldn’t concern someone as busy as the ludex. the man who now looked as if he hated himself for hurting you.
the rain worsened.
“you always follow the law so rigidly,” you whispered. “but how can you see justice as just black and white, it doesnt always have to be in your set of rules — it can be mercy, sympathy. sometimes even just compassion.”
he stepped closer. longing and sadness seeped into his voice . “I know.”
The words hung between you, fragile and raw. A silence settles as you look deeper into his eyes — trying to find something, anything to indicate his thoughts.
you release another sigh before continuing,
“I saw your face after the verdict.” you say with a hushed voice “why didn’t you look victorious…? why didn’t you look happy…?“
neuvillette’s voice was quiet, but full of ache. “I upheld the law today, but I lost your trust. that is a weight I was not prepared for.” he confessed.
you blinked, your breath caught in your throat as you stared at him in amazement.
“I am not infallible,” he said, eyes meeting yours, “and though I serve justice, I am beginning to realize that I must learn to serve it with humanity. you are.. teaching me that, even if it hurts.”
You stepped forward. carefully. slowly. talking his hand and resting your head on his chest.
“I’m still angry,” you murmured lightly.
“I know.”
“but I don’t want to stay angry.”
he held your gaze, as if to decipher if you were telling him the truth. a flicker of relief breaking through his stormy expression as he realises you are being serious,
“then let me try,” he said. “to be better. not just for fontaine. but for you..”
you exhale shakily, then lean into his chest. his arms snake around you slowly, hesitantly, then with full certainty, as if holding you anchored him to something real—something warm.
the skies finally begin to clear, the sun shining through the now docile clouds — radiating warmth onto the streets yet again.