Little Sister of Lady Justice
She toyed absently with the velvety petals of the roses she'd brought: enigmatic purple, other peachy blooms bordering them. Nothing too large or garish.
Cece looked downright miserable, surrounded with just deathly white lilies, the padded cushioning lining the inside of her coffin. It was so uncomfortable, standing over her as the modest gathering of people waited. Everyone was so solemn, decked in black mourning. Calisto felt out of her element without the usual bright blue and burgundy of the court, the somber color of her blazer alone weighing constrictively on her body with its lack of use.
The woman's hands were folded gracefully across her slender waist, skin pale, mouth delicate and lips parted slightly. The shadows around her closed eyes made them look heavy in their sockets. Wisps of dark hair fluttered delicately about her forehead and cheeks, teased by the soft wind.
This woman was not her sister, but Calisto had her own reasons for feeling how she did about her.
Everyone else had taken their places, standing quietly, save for the occasional whisper. They had already approached the coffin, left their offering, some giving a slight bow, others speaking a quiet prayer. No one really knew her very well: she'd had little family but distant relatives, and she spent much of her life either alone or devoted to work. It was this devotion to her work that had done her in, in the end. Those she worked with had expected she extend her devotion in other ways, and her resistance made her a threat.
They'd wanted so much from her, when her conscience couldn't give it.
In this respect, the only difference between her and Calisto was that Cece was free now, for having the good heart to know when to say no. A thorn of envy pricked her heart: part of her wants what Cece has, a clean soul, freedom, but another part insists that death holds no freedom at all.
Calisto doesn't want to confront the thought that maybe she's just too afraid to change her ways. She can't have her cake and eat it too, have both the purity of Cece and the life of Calisto. What she wants is too hard to fathom for even herself, heart and mind firmly at odds, but all they can do is agree on survival.
She slipped her hand into Cece's, brushing her thumb across the fingers before lifting it and slipping the small bundle of blossoms into her dead grasp. In her mind, Cece is becoming an excuse, rather than a person. An excuse to continue living the way she is. Because of what happened to her she can convince herself that she has no choice.
One hand rests tentatively on the oaken side of the casket, and she hesitates a moment, before her knuckles tighten with resolve. Leaning over, she touches her lips to the bridge of her nose, right between the eyes.
Such softness, such untarnished beauty, even in death.
The brief moment of intimacy ends as she straightens up and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, glancing out at everyone. There are a few people she recognizes, some of the law enforcement officials involved with the case, some of the ersatz individuals planted throughout, courtesy of the higher-ups in the smuggling operation. Even here, she can't escape them. They are the weeds amongst flowers, and their presence just feels dirty, like an invasion of privacy. She can't stand them seeing Cece so vulnerable.
With a twinge of guilt she remembers that she herself is a blemish on the face of Cece's life. She doesn't belong here either. And still she makes it so personal, but for the life of her she can't understand why.
There's also a prosecutor she knows to have been in charge of her sister's case, and the detective assigned to her personal security detail.
These last two cause her the most grief. But this is Cece's time now. She cleared her throat, unsure of how to start.
"Cece Yew. A beloved sister, as well as a remarkable woman who stood true to her beliefs until her final moments." All is quiet as the clouds overhead are gray and heavy, heavy like Calisto's heart. "Her death is a most heinous tragedy, staged by those who seek to blot out the light of truth to hide their own misdeeds." She swallowed, eyes sweeping over Cece's supine form, guilt creeping up on her again. Why is this so hard?
"Her dedication to what is right, rather than what is easy, is what some may remember her by." Is it this? Is this why she feels the way she does? Because she knows that no one can ever say these things about her? Even though she can see a sliver of herself, or rather, who she wants (does she?) to be in her.
That damned courage Calisto was missing was laying right in front of her, about to go six feet under.
A raindrop fell on her cheek, prompting her to move along with the eulogy. Breath shaking, she continued, but she began to improvise without meaning to.
"Cece Yew is...not my sister." A few in the crowd exchanged curious glances. "She is our sister, as a fellow ally to the truth, the truth she worked so hard to drag into the light. Her voice, her light, has been prematurely extinguished. From her passing, we are reminded to reach out to those with stifled voices. For those who want to do right, but are alone, with no way out and no one to turn to." Her mouth quivers, another fat raindrop hitting her cheek. She knows that at some point she'd stopped talking about Cece, the tightness in her chest almost too much.
She reaches into her pocket with trembling fingers, withdrawing the gold scale earrings and setting them in her ears carefully. "Let us take a moment to remember Cece Yew, our little sister of Lady Justice."
She watches as a lid is shifted over Cece, sealing her away, but she closes her eyes, unable to look on as she's lowered into the grave. In those moments, she really does resemble Lady Justice, blind on the outside, but certainly not inside, justice scales swaying gently in the breeze.
But this time, there's nothing she can do for either of them.
The raindrop rolls to Calisto's lips and she tastes salt and something thick and ink-like. In a daze, she opens her eyes, looks to the sky, and realizes it wasn't raining. Calisto touched her fingers to the wetness on her face and examined it.
Black.
She'd have to fix that, she thought. It took everything in her to not go fishing through her pocket for a fresh coat of mascara. Calisto hadn't had a chance to fix her make-up all day, and it was making her even more anxious and on-edge. She hadn't had a laugh either, for that matter. If laughter was the best medicine, she was sick to her core today.
It was too hard to stomach the sight of Cece sitting alone six feet down. Or perhaps she was using her as an excuse again. She apologized to no one in particular and briskly turned, heading inside the church hall where she could be alone and get herself together.
Once inside, she made her way down the rows of pews, not stopping until she was close to the front, but not the very front. Middle-front, non-committal, wishy-washy. Most of all, she avoided looking at the large memorial picture of Cece set up at the end of center aisle.
She took a seat and rummaged hastily through her pocket until she could get her fix of decent lashes and powdered cheeks, trying not to jab the brush into her eyes in her rush. Face fixed, she checked out her hair before tucking her compact away. Her hair was really windswept, but there was nothing she could do about it. She couldn't really bring herself to care.
The exhaustion of the day catches up with her all at once, and she lays herself down on the seat. It's the only part of the day so far she's thought of Cece without feeling such an acute stab inside. The pain is there, but it's numbing down because it's over and done with and she did what she had to, oh, god damn that infernal mantra she'd repeated to herself however many times before. Her unfocused gaze had been resting on the bibles lined up behind the seats in front of her.
Let's see what God has to say about my predicament, she thought sourly, plucking a book from its place and opening it at random.
Exodus 20:17.
"Thou shalt not covet..." Calisto whispered, and suddenly the pain was fresh again. Today, the world had stolen her laughter and thrown it back into her face, without ceremony. Actually, there had just been quite the ceremony. How about that.
The thought is comical enough to prompt a weak rasp of a laugh. It dies in moments as she hears the door opening. She contemplates staying hidden from her place in the pews, but it doesn't sound like the crowd has entered, so she lazily shifted into an upright position, unaware how badly her blood will start boiling when she sees
them.
The detective and the prosecutor alone have entered in search for her, and ah, she remembers now the spite she suppressed for Cece's sake, for herself.
If they'd succeeded Cece could still be alive.
If they'd succeeded she wouldn't be this afraid.
If they'd succeeded she wouldn't have had to bury the last glimmer of courage she wished she had today.
She acts on her first instinct and slaps them both when they are near enough, but then Cece's face is there at the front of the room, gentle eyes looking on with what she swears is pity, and it's so debilitating to her violent mood that her shoulders shake and she's doubled over and biting the hand that just did wrong in front of little sister, her thoughts are everywhere as she can't decide whether or not to let them see her cry. That beautiful honest face makes her feel as guilty and black as sin. Calisto is trapped like a rat in a hole, not the elegant doe in a woodsman's snare like Cece.
Hands steady her shoulders (they seem to have decided against saying anything about the slap) and one of them is holding a handkerchief out to her. She groans and shakes her head, still too proud. Them seeing the tears would be beneficial to her, but she wants them to not be so genuine. Things get dangerous when people see you at your most raw.
Again, heart and mind are at odds, but survival still wins out, and forces her to bury her dignity and straighten up, and when she sees the way they look at her she feels positively nauseous. It feels more violating than if they had seen her naked. It occurs to her that in doing this, she's sold herself fully to the cause, and resisting now would only hurt more. Again with that survival instinct.
Forlorn, she looked at Cece in something of a haze, silently apologizing for burying herself alongside her and crowding her grave. And then the prosecutor speaks.
"We'd like to make you an offer."
Justice was such a fickle mistress indeed.
A/N: Shameless Calisto fangirl that I am, I went ahead and filled a prompt on the PW kink meme for portraying her in a sympathetic light, which wasn't too much of a stretch for me, since it's already my headcanon that she's really good and had a reason for everything. XD I also was wanting to explore her reaction to Cece's death, and show how she could still have a connection even though they didn't know each other. I hope I've made you want to hug Calisto as much as I do. o u o Anyway, thanks so much for reading, and I'd love it if you felt like leaving a review~!