Crime butchers innocence to secure a throne, and innocence struggles with all its might against the attempts of crime.
Maximilien Robespierre - French politician & revolutionary (1758 - 1794)
The weather cast the day in a dismal gray. The winter held its firm grasp, blowing a bitter and biting wind over the lands. The new dusting of snow crunched under each measured footstep, breaking the weighty silence and marking the man's passage across the cemetery grounds.
Footsteps came to a stop in front of a small cluster of marble headstones, set in a neat row between a pair of mature rowan trees. A wreath was laid at the base of each marker, bearing the same name. The lone figure stood silently in front of the last headstone with his hands tucked in his pockets. No emotions were betrayed on his features. No words fell from his lips. There wasn't even a light shift of weight from foot to foot. Were it not for the visible rise of his warm breath hitting the cold air and the sullen sway of the coat hem around his calves, a passerby might have thought it was an odd statue that was set out of place in front of the grave.
The grave of an innocent.
The grave of an infant.
The grave of a baby boy, whose short life was irreverently extinguished along with his family's in a twisted game of unspeakable brutality. The child's only sin?his family lived next door to the Empress and his brother had been playmates with Jewell's children.
Cold rain began to fall, marking the headstones with slushy splattering of ice and water. It was as if the heavens wept cold tears born of a heart chilled by the unconscionable extermination of an innocent.
The muted crunch of the snow underfoot rose over the blanketing hush of the landscape as the barrister uprooted himself and moved to the headstone marking the baby's grave. A gloved hand brushed over the top of it, wiping away heaven's icy tears.
The weather cast the day in a dismal gray. The winter held its firm grasp, blowing a bitter and biting wind over the lands. The new dusting of snow crunched under each measured footstep, breaking the weighty silence and marking the man's passage across the cemetery grounds.
Footsteps came to a stop in front of a small cluster of marble headstones, set in a neat row between a pair of mature rowan trees. A wreath was laid at the base of each marker, bearing the same name. The lone figure stood silently in front of the last headstone with his hands tucked in his pockets. No emotions were betrayed on his features. No words fell from his lips. There wasn't even a light shift of weight from foot to foot. Were it not for the visible rise of his warm breath hitting the cold air and the sullen sway of the coat hem around his calves, a passerby might have thought it was an odd statue that was set out of place in front of the grave.
The grave of an innocent.
The grave of an infant.
The grave of a baby boy, whose short life was irreverently extinguished along with his family's in a twisted game of unspeakable brutality. The child's only sin?his family lived next door to the Empress and his brother had been playmates with Jewell's children.
Cold rain began to fall, marking the headstones with slushy splattering of ice and water. It was as if the heavens wept cold tears born of a heart chilled by the unconscionable extermination of an innocent.
The muted crunch of the snow underfoot rose over the blanketing hush of the landscape as the barrister uprooted himself and moved to the headstone marking the baby's grave. A gloved hand brushed over the top of it, wiping away heaven's icy tears.