I stood before the three Arbiters.
I felt I’d been standing for months. Before the Arbiters. Before the Speakers. Before the wreckage and smoke.
The Arbiters had sifted each grain, each minute and moment, looking for what they called evidence or motive. Blame is what they sought.
I had sifted through more, through our life and my life before that. Moments in the dark, at my bench in the foundations of Abbey Spire. Moments alone together, when we retreated to the farthest corners of the house. Days in the long grass beside the lake water, building towers out of sticks and woven grass. The day we met.
I held my answers tightly. Blame was theirs, to paint as they wished. The rest was mine.
The Arbiter in the middle, sitting in the largest chair, leaned forward. His scalp, devoid of hair or eyebrows, reflected the lights from above. His lips moved little when he spoke, his body beneath the black robe not at all.
“We have heard your story.”
“Have you understood it?” I asked. Some would have called it rash, others bold. It was reflex.
“We have heard your story,” he repeated, the ceremony inviolable.
I knew my part and did not speak again.
“You are Unforgiven.”
My eyes widened. I had expected their disfavor. I had not expected this.
“It was an accident!” I cried out, again. Again, no one listened.
Two men at my shoulders seized my arms. I fell from my shackled feet when they pulled me, and they took my weight. They dragged me, still facing the three Arbiters, to the doors.
As the wreckage of our life receded, one thought consumed me: I have to go back.