The mask of coldness slipped, for just a moment. His eyes were cast downward, and just faintly in his expression, there was a distant, but deep sadness. He had tried to push the memory far away, but it was things like this that reminded him. He could hear Lia telling him, "don't go," as she died. Lia had received no mercy in her death. It was all he could do to offer it to other innocent people.

The momentary grief slipped away, and Robespierre once again focused on Oliver as he drew his sword.

"I can," he said simply. Robespierre held the sword out before him, the tip seemingly pointed at Oliver, but he did not step forward to use it. He moved the sword quickly, with the trained expertise of a (former) knight of France, but words made of light appeared as he wrote them.



The words hovered in the air for a moment before simply falling to the ground. Robespierre sheathed his sword as he stepped forward. He gave a final glance to the small number of people gathered there before the words on the ground suddenly ran together, making a ring that turned black in the dirt. And suddenly, there was nothing to see beyond that circle. It was just a black void, infinite and silent. For the spectators, it was quite similar.

"I am sorry," he said with emotion and sincerity that was rare to him, "but when you are ready, Monsieur."