"Is there anything else you wish to add?" asks the judge. "Remember, you are under the influence of an enchantment that prevents you from knowingly lying to the court."

He swallows.

"I killed my father. I -- I wasn't sure of that, until now, but I can remember that day more clearly now, and -- it must have been me, I'd managed to wrestle away the constable's weapon, he was too delirious to have taken it back--"

He closes his eyes. He can't even mention the Speak with Dead, apparently, which -- isn't surprising, now that he thinks about it, he knew he couldn't trust what his father's corpse said, he was just lying to himself because he didn't want to admit he was no better than the people he had executed. "I killed my father and I let an innocent man take the blame for it. I -- none of your arguments matter, I deserve to go to Hell for that."

He looks away. 

He supposes that settles it. He's been sentenced to Hell for killing his father. It's hard to get more deserving than that.

The line moves forward.

Eventually he starts spending as little time as possible in the not-on-fire patches.

The torments of Hell are not, at this stage of processing, particularly customized. No one stops him.

Sometimes, the paving stones leak blood and tears under his feet.

The suffering of the wicked is just. (His suffering is just.)

Sometimes, one of the other petitioners tries to let the fire burn them up entirely, or fling themselves on the weapons of the devil-guards, or run off into a lake of magma.

It doesn't work, of course. Hell's petitioners are not so easily destroyed.

Whenever one of the devils guarding the line notices, they're taken away, presumably to be crushed into paving stones.

He's better than that. He's better than that. He's better than that.

The line moves forward.

Another petitioner cries out to Iomedae to save her.

Iomedae is a Good goddess. Asmodeus may be her enemy, but that doesn't mean they don't share common cause in the punishment of the damned.

Eventually she gives up and tries to immolate herself. It doesn't work, of course.

He is too busy being on fire to particularly keep track of other petitioners from moment to moment, or day to day. (It's hard to tell which.)

The line moves forward, less one woman who's been escorted away to her new life as a brick.

Someone in line strongly resembles a paladin, if he's seen any of those.

He has. He -- never particularly liked talking to them.

What with all the fire it takes him a while to recognize the symbol the petitioner has inexplicably carved into his shoulder.

Theoretically it is possible that he was maledicted, but it's also possible that he's an oathbreaker, or a blasphemer, or an eccentric. It would be absurd to feel pity for someone just because of the possibility that they're here unjustly.

(Do maledictions even send you to the line? He wouldn't be sure even without the fire; his court definitely didn't have enough resources to maledict every murderer just in case, even if they could find a cleric to do it, so he's never particularly looked into the matter.)

The line moves forward.

Occasionally there are large enough patches of fire-free ground that he can't avoid them.

He recalls the partial memory of his trial, over and over. It's almost a relief to be on fire again.

(Not only is he a murderer, he's too much of a coward to be properly willing to face that fact. No wonder he's in Hell.)

Eventually he reaches the front of the line.

It feels like the devil standing before him is tearing his head in two. 

"Father," he says, because that's what the man who's adopted him likes to be called, "I've been reviewing the files for the Doritian case, and I really think he's been wrongly accused--"

Menas Karam slaps him, hard. "You're making a fool of yourself, boy. Our job is to protect people from criminals like Doritian, and to preserve our reputations as court-assistants, not to tie ourselves into knots about the possibility of a false accusation."

He squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath. "My father taught me--"

"Your father was naive at best. If he had his way, people like the man who killed him would go free." 

But he went free anyways, he doesn't say, even though it's true no matter what you think happened.

"I'm not saying you're wrong, Caracies," says a guardsman, "it's just that -- well, there are some irregularities, you know, with the witnesses--"

He frowns. "I'll speak to the witnesses, then. This really ought to be a clear-cut case."

"...Understood."

Milites sits in his office. It's well past the time he was planning to be home, but at this point the time he was planning to be home is little more than a polite fiction.

He could turn himself in, for -- what? For having nightmares? He'd be laughed out of court.

They're probably just nightmares.

They're probably just nightmares.

They're probably just nightmares.

He digs his nails into the palm of his hand, hard. He needs to stay focused on his work.

"And it is your recommendation that we should not use a Zone of Truth on this one?" 

Milites looks the judge in the eye. "Correct. The evidence is conclusive on its own."

"There must be some mistake," says the accused. "I didn't do it, I swear to Desna--"

"Your protestations are irrelevant," says Milites. "Not when your clothing was found at the scene of the murder."

"That's impossible," says the witness. "I was never even there--"

"It's your decision," says Milites, raising his voice to be heard over the witness's complaints.

"Very well," says the judge. "I find Vors of Oppara guilty of murder and sentence him to execution, to be carried out at the earliest opportunity."

"I heard in Osirion they're sending some of their criminals to monasteries," says another court-assistant conversationally. "Give them the chance to make Axis rather than being stuck in the Abyss. --Course, I heard that from my cousin, and he likes to tell tales, but -- it's interesting, don't you think?"

"That's ridiculous," says Milites. "Why would they want to keep murderers out of the Abyss?"

Well, it's clearly shapeable. Maybe it isn't completely useless.

The devil brands a mark on the petitioner's arm and ushers it through the gates.