Chapter Text
It was the middle of the night, the moon bright in the sky and the wind howling loudly in his ears. He was cold, so very cold, and he did not even have a name to tell himself to endure it. Endure it he had to, nonetheless.
He was trying to read the paper in the dim light of the moon and the few tendril of lamplight from the nearby streets, when a shiver ran across his spine. Not one from cold, one from an instinct he’s honed in the last years. He looked around with a sharp gaze and taunt muscles. The corner he had tucked himself in should have been safe, he had chosen it carefully. Hidden from the eyes of the passersby of the perpendicular street, with a good view on all entry points. The only door in the alley gave to the appartement of an old couple who could do him no harm.
The wind screamed louder still, the faint sounds of the numerous fountains of Fontaine were a constant background, and then, a faint rustle.
He slipped his right hand under the threadbare bag beside him (his left one was sore, trembling, bleeding still from a confrontation earlier) and took his makeshift glove. He hoped that, this time, the nails would fire properly.
“Show yourself,” he said, his voice broken and quiet, “I know you’re here.”
The fountains. The wind. Another rustle. Then, a little voice.
“Ah, I’m sorry. Don’t be afraid. I didn’t want to spook you.”
He relaxed the grip he had on his glove, he knew those intonations and high-pitched notes. A Melusine.
“I am not afraid. You can come if you want,” he invited, discreetly adjusting his stained shirt. Ah, at least most of the blood on the sleeves wasn’t his, and he knew a Melusine wouldn’t bat an eye. For such gentle beings, they sure could be casual about violence.
From the corner of the alley, a blue Melusine with a neat uniform and carrying a pot walked forth. She had a pink ribbon on her left arm, and droopy eyelids which made her seem harmless. But he knew better than to underestimate the perceptiveness of her specie.
“I was on my way to deliver some soup to Monsieur Neuvillette, since his light is still on at the Palais,” she said, sitting in front of him and setting down the fuming pot, “but...it was ascertained that you would need it more. It’s so cold tonight.”
He looked at her, surprised. The warm scent which reached him made him ignore her strange turn of phrase. Some of his formal education came forth by reflex, even though he could feel the pain in his stomach acutely. He had not eaten for at least a day and a half.
“You must be joking. Surely, I can’t take the food of the magnificent Iudex himself,” he gave the thought a second more of reflexion, shook his head, “I would bet there’s some law about it.”
The Melusine laughed, covering her mouth in glee.
“Maybe! But fath-I mean, Monsieur Neuvillette would not mind, and certainly would not press charge! Go ahead. I made it myself, it’s a fish soup.”
He could not remember the taste of a fish that was not on the verge of being inedible. He didn’t even feel shame when she opened the lid, and his eyes found themselves unable to divert from the golden liquid. When was the last time he ate something warm?
“I…” it felt surreal, to be offered something destined for the highest personality in Fontaine. Someone no one could touch, let alone meet, let alone eat something from. He was just an orphan with both the best and worst luck, with a dream of vengeance and nothing beyond it. “Are you sure? If anything, you’re nourishing a corpse. Surely he deserves better than that.”
The Melusine looked at him. Silent, for a moment. His eyes sill couldn’t leave the soup.
“I assure you,” she said at last, with a tone as serious as a Melusine’s could be, “if he knew you could have eaten it in his place and didn’t, he would feel incredibly sad. No one wants Monsieur Neuvillette to be sad. Especially not on such a cold night.”
Eh. Listening to the Melusines, Monsieur Neuvillette was always the kindest, most beautiful, most selfless, and perfect man in the world. A poor kid with blood on his sleeves couldn’t relate, but he finally found that his pretense at politeness was reaching its end. If she insisted so much, well…he would oblige.
Besides, if the mighty Iudex ended up finding offense, wouldn’t the dish taste sweeter? He just had to die before law could catch him.
“In this case, I humbly accept,” he smiled at the Melusine, feeling that it made the cut near is mouth bleed a little again, “wouldn’t want the Iudex to be sad, as you put it, Miss…?”
“Ah! Sorry! Fleur, my name is Fleur. And you are?” she answered, visibly excited that he finally agreed. She handed him the pot, which he took.
Goodness, the warmth on his tired hands made him shiver with relief.
“No one. Not yet. Maybe not ever,” he answered, amused at the confused frown it gave her, “Thank you kindly for the soup, Miss Fleur.”
And without further ado, he slurped a big gulp right up.
Only to cough violently after.
“Ah!” she exclaimed in alarm, “don’t drink it so quickly! It’s hot!”
His laugh made the cough more painful. It took him a while to calm down.
“Haha, sorry, I forgot that warmth has a way of reminding one of the cold,” some soup had spilled on his hands, the temperature contrast was nearly painful, but he was accustomed to ignoring pain, “let me try again.”
“Be careful,” she reminded him, obviously worried.
He tried again, slowly, slurping a little. The taste was…honestly terrible. No salt, no seasoning, just the earthy taste of leeks and the bland mush of overcooked fish. Thankfully, hunger made him eat far worse things in the past.
“It’s delicious,” he lied with much aplomb and absolutely no shame, “I can see how the Iudex would love this.”
Fleur visibly puffed up with pride, her hands on her hips.
“Thank you! Yes, Monsieur Neuvillette told me I was a real chef. He bought me a pan for my birthday!”
And that was how this cold orphan found out that the Iudex either had no taste or was as much of a liar as he was. The second option was so amusing and delightful, he could not help his smile as he slurped more of the least tasty soup ever made.
“Well, seems he and I would at least agree on something,” he answered.
--
He rubbed his cuffed hands, wondering why the stain of blood wouldn’t leave even though they were clean.
It’s probably in my head, he thought, get a grip, Wriothesley.
For it was his name now. A name he didn’t really know how to pronounce, none of the syllables belonging to fontanian. So far, everyone (the nurses, the guards, the journalist, the Melusines) gave him a different pronunciation, with slight frowns most of the time. Ah, it was useful already. He had chosen well.
Now that he miraculously had a whole life to live in front of him, he could allow himself some measure of excitement for the confusion his name would unleash upon the people he met.
“Are you sure he has no lawyer?” someone said behind him, “But he’s a kid!”
In front of Wriothesley, the door that would lead him to the balcony of the accused would soon open. Today was the day of his trial, and he had no idea how he felt about it. Excitement, a little, for this new and unique experience he had heard of since forever. An enduring fatigue, now that his goal in life have been achieved (it was messy, and bloody, and Mother would -just! -not! -die!) and that he found himself with the task to recount things that were obvious to him, with as much details as possible.
And hope. Hope that it would free something in him. Give him a sense of accomplishment.
However, although young, Wriothesley was not naïve. And he knew from the very day he had set revenge as a goal for himself that it would never satisfy him, nor bring comfort, nor bring relief. It was just what he had to do.
As such, mostly, he found himself hopeful that his trial wouldn’t be too long, that people wouldn’t gasp too loudly and that the Iudex was as calm as the Melusines described him. Curiosity, then: how will it feel, to meet justice in flesh?
“Kid,” a man told him, reaching for his shoulder. Wriothesley jerked away before the touch connected, looking at him with as much passivity as he could. He had endured the touches of the nurses, but he would endure no more.
The man looked taken aback, but calmly let his hands fall along his body.
“Are you sure you want to go there alone? I can help you. I am an official state-mandated lawyer, with a speciality in children’s and teenagers’ cases,” he ruffled through his pocket, produced a visit card that Wriothesley took and evaluated in silence, “it’s of course free of charge. I read your file: what you did was brave. We may be able to get you a very reduced sentence.”
Fate handed him a bad hand, but Wriothesley forgot to be pessimistic: he was glad for the kindness of the man, but not surprised with it. Every evil had its goodness, he knew.
“Thank you,” he answered thus. His bandaged throat hurt despite the medicines the nurses gave him, but he knew he was about to talk a long while. Better get used to it. “Truly, I am grateful. But I don’t fear my sentence. I want it in full. For myself.”
The man’s green eyes looked at him then, really looked at him. He seemed smart, and Wriothesley knew then that they may reach an understanding. The lawyer looked far over fifty after all, he must have seen many kids in many mental states.
“Very well, I really admire your spirit,” the man said, inclining his head, “I wish you the best.”
“You too,” Wriothesley answered, hearing the loud taps of a cane from the other side of the door. The trial was about to begin, “Maybe I’ll contact you someday.”
The man smiled, “Please do. I’ll be in the room then.”
Wriothesley pocketed the visit card. The guards posted nearby stepped forward to open the door while the lawyer walked away. With a little surprise, Wriothesley found out that the pulsing sound in his ears came from the loud beating of his heart. Maybe he was not that unaffected, after all. How normal of him.
The doors opened. He felt his breath stop for a moment.
Then, overwhelming lights and information befell him as he stepped onto the balcony. The opera was luscious, grand, much bigger than it needed be. His gaze helplessly tried to take it all in: the buzzing and full audience (of course, his case was so outrageous after all), the throne of their archon and the blue hat he could see up there, the lights and the prosecution balcony in front of him.
And, lastly, the chair above the scene. A man in white and blue, standing straight, looking at him.
For all he heard about the man fontanians loved and admired above their own archon, Wriothesley had to admit to himself that for once rumours didn’t exaggerate the truth beyond recognition. The gaze of the Iudex was a physical touch, numbing his senses and holding his thoughts in place on this singular focal point. The piercing eyes which, despite the distance, did not seem human for a second. The utter elegance of form he presented; one the gaze could not help but follow until every curve proved perfect. The power and authority Wriothesley had never seen both so consciously muted and raw.
And Wriothesley knew a lot about power.
Finally, after an eternity, the gaze of the Iudex left him to look forward. Ah, Wriothesley restrained a smile. It couldn’t have been more than seconds.
“The court is now in session,” the Iudex said, his voice both commanding and calm. How could he make it resonate so much, with such clarity, without seeming like he forced it at all? That was something Wriothesley wanted to learn, “The prosecution is now permitted to speak, to present the case as factually as possible, and lay out the accusations befalling the accused.”
On those words, and while the prosecution began their speech, the Iudex sat down, crossing his legs into a posture that made Wriothesley clench his fist. How perfect it was, this limit between appearing unaffected and focused, emotionally distant and aware, commanding and letting the law do its deed. No wonder this took place in an Opera: the body language of the Iudex was so refined no actor could ever pull it off better. As always, Wriothesley endeavoured to learn as much as he could. No one could ever hope to be the Iudex of Fontaine, or anything close to it, but one could try and see in nature the essence of the things that made the fontanians feel reflexive respect, deference, a sense of authority.
After all, Wriothesley himself found himself caught by it despite his more rebellious intentions, and he was smart enough to know that the Iudex was probably not authoritarian, but had shaped through centuries Fontaine’s definition of authority instead. Where to learn best, but the source?
Also, he could not wait to know how his name was to be pronounced. The Iudex, he decided, would be the judge in the matter.
--
In his long years, Neuvillette had seen a lot of people stand in the balcony of the accused. And yet, those years being finite, he never could say he saw it all. He will never be able to.
From outrage to acceptance, innocence to guilt, he knew human emotions and entanglements with justice were a spectrum and not a switch. So, of course, he regularly discovered new shades. But it was not often that he discovered new colours entirely.
Wriothesley was such a case.
Of course, it was grim to see one so young wear scars adults would be afraid of, clothes unfitting and a story so twisted it should have belonged to fictional novels. But he found out it was not such a sad story Wriothesley told, after all. It was a regretful one instead.
“On September 14th of my seventh year with them, I found hidden correspondence in Monsieur Lavillier’s desk. Three letters, addressed to…”
“I escaped during the lunch hour at school, pretending to help throw the trash as I had made an habit of. I did not take much, to not seem suspicious. Just a knife, a loaf of bread and my clothes. It was raining, and…”
“Monsieur Lavillier died when I slammed his head on the cupboard for the third time. I do not know if the impact or the haemorrhage from the knife in his ribs did him in first, but he did not move afterward. Madame Lavillier came in the room just after, probably because of the noise. She was smart, so it was my impression that she immediately understood the situation. She had brought her dagger and the little rake from the garden.”
It was rare, preciously rare, to see a grey trait so marked, so pure in a human. Neither good, nor bad, just whole and blinding in its intensity.
Wriothesley, Neuvillette found out, was ruthlessness incarnated.
He saw the perfect line between cause and consequences, between what happened and what was about to happen, what needed to happen. And, in front of the beauty of it, he had sufficient strength to either carry it out, following the limit, cutting his fingers on it, or deviate it, bending it with either words or blows.
Such understanding of human nature, of things in the world, for someone so young and so human. So yes, it was not a sad story. Such decisiveness and feat of vision and ruse did not deserve condolences or pity. At the very least, it deserved acknowledgment, and Neuvillette found out he had nothing to say during this trial that could have been better, that could pinpoint the truth with such accuracy.
Not a sad story, but such regret. Regret for the life he would have deserved: a happy childhood, a bright future. It would have been so easy, for someone so clear-minded, to not get tricked by life. To find happiness, peace, contentment with discernment most found much later in age.
And yet, was he really born with such a keen mind, or did his life make him so? Those kinds of questions had no answer, Neuvillette was sure of it after much pondering, so reality was the only option left.
“As such, I plead guilty to all charges levelled against me, and will accept my sentence as fully dictated by the law.”
On those words, Neuvillette saw Furina leave from the corner of his eyes, not even bothering to make a comment about how bored she was. Either the tale was too much to bear, or she was sincerely not interested in a case where guilt was claimed. It was bittersweet for the Iudex. It both meant this was a trial really worth having, and yet that his presence as Chief Justice was merely a formality, when the accused was such a good judge of himself.
So, out of respect, and despite the public clamouring for a lighter sentence, emotional as it were in front of the atrocities perpetuated by the victims -despite the calm of the accused-, Neuvillette only had one thing to do.
He ended the trial as swiftly and succinctly as possible. It deserved nothing less.
Besides, while he tried most of the time to not send minors to Meropide, he was not about to refuse to Wriothesley this clear path he had set for himself, this straight line he wanted to follow to the bitter end. This was no crime made in the heat of emotions, this was no self-defence neither. It was an act carefully premeditated through the years by someone who had had many opportunities to go away and never come back. To resolve the situation in a million other ways but death and violence. This was someone who had been dreadfully let down by the system, and chose to fight back, all teeth barred.
Neuvillette had no doubt that, if such a life did not break Wriothesley’s spirit so far, the fortress would never do neither.
Instead, as people left the Opera under a light rain, he thought with hope that maybe this kind of ruthlessness would change the fortress itself. Reality bended to those with such clear eyes and steady hands.