— he is the scales cut from their chains with the brutality of the sword, interest in the defence annulled like law and creed itself in the apocalypse’s wake. the defence pleads, but no matter their call, he hears nothing. execution brims on his tongue; he merely waits for the stutter in repose, the breath that catches in their throats when they see he is nothing but exact law and mercy does not glimmer in his eyes. the fire provides light and burns for the victims, but not heat. the spirit of justice seizes all warmth. it is not greedy, for it does not lap the coals in the hearth for flame, nor does it snuff out torches in cold winds. the warmth is simply swallowed.
light without warmth. burning flesh with only the burns. her words are a beacon that he must destroy.
the crowd parts for the arrow, for the pointed sword, for the — archon of justice that pushes on narrow shoulders and enraptured figures breathing in gasoline, fumes light in their lungs like the forty year old mass grave of the cult’s people rose to witness her prophetic suicide. the char that floats off in the fire’s rising heat flutters down upon him. it catches on his glasses.
"cult activities are forbidden in this district," he does not say, for it is a lie, and lying ties another noose around your throat. she can see it in him, if not his eyes than his character. the eyes of the seer came from the infection that crawled inside her and festered a devotion until it drained her veins of life’s desire and left her desolate. pin-cushion heart that ran out of room. the wood sighs underneath his feet as crowd voices rise in astonishment, whispers of the sky and the utterance of the ground coming together to swallow the trembling atmosphere whole.
justice is cruel. justice is unkind.
he grabs her hands. they’re lined with sweat and gasoline and they’re too cold, and she is not afraid, and she is certain, and so is he.
her wrists are thin, curve of wrist bone pressing into the crook of his fingers, he pins them together with both of his hands as he speaks to her alone, voice steady like a mountain’s base and absolute like the hellfire that rises behind them. "the law isn’t deciding your fate tonight. your death isn’t a courtroom fate, i’ve come to realize. it’s been a long time coming,” he repeats, voice cut like a cord, and he wonders what the crowd is thinking, if it’s rehearsed, if it’s planned, if it’s an interruption, if she has never met this burnt man before on her life and her demeanour tricked them into believing she knew, she knew all along, she knew that this paragon would come but she truly never did, and one of those hands finds her shoulder. the fire roars when she’s swallowed whole. justice is absolute.
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