suddenly struck with thoughts about the devastating concept of Jason Todd
because he was good. because he had a bleeding heart despite every reason not to. he loved school and was good at it. he was the first to be adopted, with little pretense of guardianship. he did everything he could to be a perfect Robin and live up to an impossible ideal. he only ever wanted Bruce and Dick to like him.
because he met Bruce in the same place and on the same day that Bruce's parents died--the single defining moment of Batman's existence. and he made Batman laugh. he hit the Dark Knight, Terror of Gotham, with a tire iron. he wasn't afraid of the man who turned fear into a weapon.
because he couldn't save his mother from herself, but he tried. because he was too good not to try and save the woman who gave him up. too good to play the Joker's game. the crowbar didn't kill him, the bomb did. he died knowing he wouldn't make it and tried anyway. he died a hero.
because other Robins have died, but none of them put an irrevocable tear in the mythos of Batman. because Jason Todd always dies, in every universe. he dies for the sins of his father. he was put to death by popular vote, sacrificed by the crowd. doomed by the narrative and doomed by the audience. the boy who only ever tried to prove he was good enough--wasn't good enough.
because he has every reason to be angry. because he didn't ask to be murdered, didn't ask to be brought back, and when he did everyone acted like he was better off dead. Bruce tried to kill him and nearly succeeded. he's blamed for his own death and blamed for his resurrection. he can never come home because the house is haunted by his own ghost.
because he's been the hero, the victim, and the villain. because his family and his writers and his universe don't know what to make of him. they don't know how to look his tragedy in the eye. and how can you?
it hurts to look at the hero who cannot be good enough, the victim who will only ever be angry, the villain who can sometimes be right. the audience hates to feel complicit and, in this exceptional case, they are.
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Mote in your brother's eye (dp x dc)
Danyal Al Ghul was born part of a set. Twins were a blessing he’d heard people say, but Mother’s face said otherwise. And Danyal had started seeing why when he turned four. When their instructors started praising one over the other, favouring, comparing one against the other.
It hadn’t stopped there. As they grew, it seemed everyone had decided one twin was superior to the other and though Danyal knew it wasn’t true, and he knew it wasn’t fair, it seemed nobody cared. Damian and him tried, they really did, but there was nothing to do about it and the Twins turned into the Heir and the Spare.
And when one night, Mother’s spymaster came to report that Ra’s was looking for the spare, Danyal knew it was over. Mother was a flurry of controlled movement, and his own mind was whirling at breakneck speeds, but Damian was calm. And that broke Danyal’s heart.
"Put this on," Mother said, handing them identical robes. Danyal and Damian were always given different sets of clothes, to make them easily distinguishable. It seemed Mother was banking on their identical features for additional protection.
Danyal put it on, and Damian followed, albeit more slowly.
"Grandfather is only looking for one of us,". his twin said calmly.
"Damian," Mother said warningly.
"Mother, there is no choice, we hav-"
"I will not hear of it," she interrupted Damian ferociously. "Now, follow me."
Dayal looked to his twin’s hard features and pale face and his eyes began to burn. It wasn’t fair.
They followed after their mother’s, silent footsteps in the high hallways.
"We will not make it out," Damian said quietly to himself, "not like this."
Danyal took a deep, steadying breath, painfully aware his twin was right.
"Damian," he started and his twin turned to him to raise an imperious eyebrow. "Damian, I’m sorry."
His twin scoffed and turned away, hurrying towards their mother who was opening up a corner of the wall, which she had told them held a passageway leading to the outside of the compound.
"Quick," Mother said and gestured towards the hole in the wall.
Damian went in first, looking like he wanted to grumble but was too well-trained to do so.
Once he had disappeared into the darkness, Mother looked over at Danyal. But he did not move.
"Danyal," she started.
"Mother," he said and stared back and he saw the understanding in her eyes. Her eyes flashed.
"I will go," she said.
"You cannot."
"Danyal-"
"There is no time to argue," he said. "Grandfather is not a patient man."
She held his gaze for a second longer, before her shoulder lowered. She reached for Danyal’s nape and brought him in close to kiss his forehead.
"Be quick, dearest," she said as she stroked his hair. "Make me proud."
"I will," Danyal promised. He gave her a fragile smile. "Tell Damian I love him.’
"I will," she swore and then she was gone.
As Danyal walked towards his Grandfather’s quarters, there were people stepping out of his way in the halls. The boy ignored the stares as he fixed his eyes into the distance, his chin up and proud.
He arrived in front of his Grandfather’s intricately ornamented doors much sooner than he would’ve hoped and was let in immediately.
Grandfather was standing, his back to the door, standing in front of a desk.
"I had begun to believe you would not show, child" Grandfather said.
Danyal bowed his head deferential and did not answer.
"You are not a coward at the very least," the man said as he turned back, his piercing stare settling on Danyal. The latter had to stifle the urge to flinch.
Grandfather then turned back towards the table to grab a dagger off the desk and at this, Danyal stepped back, his own hand going to his knife.
The man smirked, seemingly amused. "Do you believe I will kill you?"
His hand still over his knife, Danyal shrugged carefully. "I do not know what to believe."
Grandfather let out a chuckle and then he moved and Danyal reacted, his hand going for his knife and in the same movement towards Grandfather’s neck when he was stopped dead by his grandfather’s dagger in his gut.
A pained grunt escaped him and he struggled to stay to his feet, but he was already unbalanced from the attack and he crumpled to the ground with a cry of pain as the dagger buried itself deeper.
"What a waste," Grandfather’s voice cut through the haze of pain. "You were a disappointment to the end, Damian."
"Get him out of my sight," was the last Danyal heard of it before he was lost to oblivion.
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What happens when a Jedi Initiate dies?
It cannot always be prevented, the galaxy is a dangerous place, especially for children, and the Jedi are still only mortal.
Accidents happen. Illnesses exist.
Tragedies do too.
The Crèchemasters are highly trained to prevent that, of course, but they too are only mortal. They too can fail.
The death of an Initiate is a heavy burden, for the entire Temple. It doesn't happen often, but when it does it is a heavy burden. It is from that burden that one of the Order's most sacred traditions stems from.
They may die an Initiate, but they will not join the Force without guidance.
When an Initiate dies, they automatically gain the rank of Padawan – no matter their age. They will posthumously be taken in by a Master and be gifted a braid and a lineage. If they already found their crystal and built their saber, these too will be taken care of by their new Master.
Some Masters of such Ghost-Padawans, especially those who had a bond before their passing, will live the following years as if they had a living student. They will not take on another until the Force or they themselves deems them ready, at which point the High Council will hold a honorary Knighting.
Because while the Order might lose an Initiate, no Initiate will ever be left alone.
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on the tragedy of love, fate, and family; the temults
Critical Role, “The Aurora Grows” (3x49) // Critical Role, “Divisive Portents” (3x89) // Franz Wright, “East Boston, 1996” // Allen Ginsberg, “Song” // Critical Role, “The Promises and The Price” (3x77) // Critical Role, “Broken Roads” (3x92) // Brandi Carlile, “Mama Werewolf” // Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray // Critical Role, “Gathering of Needs” (3x95) // Critical Role, “An Exit Most Fraught” (3x48) // Paramore, “Interlude: I’m Not Angry Anymore” // Critical Role, “Shadows New and Old” (3x96) // Critical Role, “Compulsions” (3x40) // Margaret Atwood, “We Are Hard on Each Other” // Critical Role, “True Heroism” (3x91) // Mary Oliver, “Leaves and Blossoms Along the Way” // Mitski, “I’m Your Man” // Cheryl Strayed, Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Love and Life from Dear Sugar // John Freeman, “Saudade” // John Mayer, “In the Blood”
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