#I still think that life in prison is a worse punishment than the death penalty

[lightdancer1]

Third part of the scene from the Ba Sing Se AU:

Mai bit back a sigh and no small amount of anger when Dowager Queen Ursa, Great Eye and Ear of the Fire Lord, asked to speak to her in private. The two had never really gotten along since her return. She had little in the way of good thoughts about either parent of her dead friend or her living husband. Ursa had done them all a favor of breaking an attempted coup by her predecessor and doing so in a manner that purged the Fire Nation of a hulking mass of flesh with a predilection for over-fancy uniforms in the process.

For that she was rewarded with the thing Mai had not wanted her to have and had successfully thwarted. Mai expected Ursa to step in and to gloat with triumph, wearing the uniform that left her briefly wondering if Zuko might not be more right than she thought about where the Fire Nation had been. With the silver boots and the dark uniform Ursa looked like one of the spirits of the nastier realms of Lord Yama.

She had a strange look on her face and took out a scroll and handed it to Mai. She took it with wariness, dreading some report and Ursa flaunting that she'd been insufferably right and then her eyes widened with horrified, awed fascination at the handwriting and she dropped it with shaking hands.

"How?"

Ursa did two things. First she made sure the door was locked, then she stood and folded her hands in front of her chest, the bright red-blue sash on her like a gash across her body or a river of blood and that eerily familiar cerulean hue.

"Her handmaidens saved her diary and some of her personal effects," Ursa said quietly, after looking at her in silence for a time. "I've made a point to read them, to remember who she was as a person."

Mai could have told her about that day and where things ended. She.....also could have spoken about the girl who was her closest friend and how much they'd loved each other as friends. The emotions that prickled through her at the memories were not ones of hatred so much as love suborned by the cold cruelties in their own ways of Ozai and Ursa (very much in that order. The father had done far the worse things, the mother's errors were subtler and more devastating in the mind sense but not in a direct way). She did not dwell on them and instead bent down to pick up the scroll and let herself read.

It was from the missing time when she and Ty Lee had been in prison. The first words made her wince. They had taken steps that more than justified the death penalty. Treason, of the direst sort. Azula had pushed everything that far, much further than the incident in the circus (and that had been one thing and it had fallen by the wayside in the war and how easy it had been to say that she didn't think it could repeat until it had in that horrifying fashion). Now she knew the price paid for her and for Ty Lee to get so mild a punishment for it.

For a moment her hands trembled again but she let them stay still, relying on the iron mask.

Then her vision did swim at the last characters.

"Father said I did nothing wrong, that I've done nothing wrong. That I proved myself a good daughter in not crying out when he burned my arms to remind me not to allow traitors into my life. I didn't allow them, I love them and they are my friends. What did that get them? Or me? The words "I'm sorry" aren't nearly enough for what I made us do. I made myself a monster, the way my mother always thought I was.

All that time of insisting that I wasn't and that's where it was. I know it isn't enough but if I saw them I would say it. And if they hated me it is their right. Pushing someone to the brink of both of us trying to murder someone cannot be forgiven.

I have everything I could want, Father tells me. He promised something great"-the journal-scroll almost fell again-"but what good does it mean if my best friends aren't there and we will never be friends again? It's all my fault and I'm told to see this is a victory.

A few more such victories and the Fire Nation will be in ashes."

The journal scroll fell again and Mai stood up and turned away from Ursa, closing her eyes. She did not let her mask fall outside of Zuko now and it could not here. Ty Lee was far away and spoke of her new friend Lu in that obnoxiously cheerful way. She could find new friends and make the best of going native. Mai would not let herself show what she thought but the clenching of her fists and her slight trembling spoke volumes.

She said nothing and Ursa said nothing, waiting with the patience of a tiger lurking beyond firelight for Mai to finally turn.

Her words were quiet ones.

"She heard me call her a monster for the stupidest possible reason as a child and thinks that I would have agreed with it now."

Ursa shook her head.

"I know what happened with all of you at the Boiling Rock. I understand if you hate her, for what can be more deadly than a great love of friends turned to hate by the actions of one?"

Mai said nothing.

"She was changing, Mai." Ursa's voice was a quiet, haunted one.

"She never got the chance to see where that change could have gone."

Mai looked at the scroll.

"You have all of these?" Her words were just as quiet as she stooped to pick them up.

"And her old architectural designs."

Mai froze then.

"And what do you make of them?"

Ursa's words were quieter still. "That she could build as much as she could burn. You all deserved that chance. Zuko changing the curriculum at the Academy for girls to make women leaders, not soldiers, was the wisest thing he ever did."

Mai huffed but said nothing else.

And then said one thing.

"Yes, she could have, and we all could have. But that wasn't what the Fire Nation asked of us." It was the very first time in her life that Mai had ever questioned one of the set of beliefs she held so sincerely.

#atla aus #ba sing se au

[look-at-the-stars-tonight]

I’m pretty late but I just learned about those four assholes who FINALLY got what they deserved 

#tw rape #Nirbhaya #that one line in b99 where Jake goes 'guess who just got MURDERED' keeps going through my head #I'm never gonna not be annoyed that the 17 year old #got out in 3 years #he knew EXACTLY what he was doing and should have been tried as an adult and also hanged #I still think that life in prison is a worse punishment than the death penalty #but I think that's what her family wanted #and at least hanging is more painful than the lethal injection

[gch1995]

The question would rather be, would Padme forgive Anakin?? Even in an AU where he doesn't choke her, and she gets to him before Sidious, she'd still have to live with the fact her husband murdered countless people, inculding children. That's harder to forgive than what Obi-Wan does imo.

Yes, I think she would be willing to forgive Anakin for his crimes, and I do think he would have snapped out of his psychosis and turned back to the light, if Obi Wan hadn’t shown up right in that moment on the ship to kill him. Would it be something that I would forgive someone for doing in real life? No, but the Jedi Order of adults, not including the younglings, weren’t innocent either. While not as bad as the Sith, nor deserving of being wiped out, we could still list child abuse, child conscription, child endangerment, child neglect, cultism, enablement of a Republic that allowed slavery on the outer rims, raiding, usage of the clones as slaves, plotting to overthrow the government, treason, and other war crimes, including endangerment, mass murder, and murder whatever innocent people or races of people who got in the way of their mission to “the greater good.” This is a space opera fantasy tragedy in which most of the characters are very flawed in one way or another, so, even if Anakin is one of the darkest shades of gray on the morality spectrum, I can rest assured that he did not singlehandedly cause the fall of the Jedi Order/Republic. It was falling apart even before he came along and it still would have fallen apart without him. Maybe not as badly as it did with him becoming Vader, but it would still be a corrupt mess.

Even if Anakin hadn’t killed those kids for Sidious, they still would have died, or their chances for survival would have still been severely compromised, anyway. Not that that makes Anakin killing those kids okay for Sidious at all. It was wrong, and Anakin knew it. However, Order 66 was still going to happen, with or without him. Anakin made the decision to become an active weapon and tool in Order 66 for Palpatine/Sidious in his desperation to avoid potential abandonment from his wife, and then he became psychotic on the high of the dark side, which was awful. He is responsible for picking Palpatine over Mace in that moment and for carrying out the crimes asked of him against the Jedi Order/Republic. He was absolutely selfish in his desperation. He did deserve punishment for those crimes, not as badly as the one he got, but like a clean and quick death penalty when Obi Wan got the high ground on Mustafar, or a long term prison sentence with lots of proper therapy. However, he’s not responsible for creating the plan of Order 66. Palpatine and Dooku had been plotting this for 14 years beforehand. Anakin only found out he was wanted as a weapon by Sidious like two days before his execution of Order 66. Palpatine already had all the troops ready to shoot down that temple of kids.

Yeah, the Jedi Order probably would have been better equipped to take down Palpatine if Anakin hadn’t joined him, but those kids would still be in danger from Order 66 in that temple either way.

I still don’t think that Padme would easily forgive Obi Wan for cutting off Anakin’s limbs and leaving him to burn alive, though. Yes, objectively speaking, at this point, Anakin’s crimes were worse than Obi Wan’s. You could argue for a clean death penalty or a long term prison sentence. However, think about which pain would cause more long-lasting suffering. For all of his crimes against innocents, inexcusable as they are, at least none of the victims Anakin killed had to live through injuries that were so awful, crippling, and painful that it would be better off if they were dead because they can no longer eat normally, speak normally, or survive without a life support system with a built in voice synthesizer and respirator, and get physically, and emotionally, psychologically, and physically chained to their abuser for the rest of their life. Yes, Anakin is complicit in his crimes because he has more agency than he thinks, and he can feel guilt. However, his chances of escape from his abuser are pretty limited to non-existent after he’s put in that suit.

Padme is someone who looks at how people she cares about are affected by pain and suffering in the immediate sense of how they’re living on a day to day basis, though. Obviously, she is against Anakin turning to the dark side, murdering Jedi kids, murdering the Council, and murdering Separatist leaders. She had absolutely every right to hate him and want nothing to do with Anakin ever again after he committed all those crimes and blindly and recklessly force choked her in his anger and fear of potential abandonment. Sure, the intent wasn’t conscious murder, he’d never laid a hand on her before in the movies, and he was high on the dark side for the first time. However, that still doesn’t make it acceptable at all.

Therefore, if she had survived childbirth, she found out what Obi Wan did to her husband, she talked to Anakin, and she saw him again in that life support suit, I think she absolutely would have trouble forgiving Obi Wan. She’d be ready to start her relationship over with Anakin again tentatively, the moment he acknowledged he fucked up, begged for her forgiveness, and expressed a desire to turn back to the light for her and their kids. I think if she had survived after Mustafar, Anakin would be willing to turn back for Padme. With what Obi Wan did to Anakin by leaving him to burn alive, though, she’d see that Anakin physically suffered more than any human being deserved to as punishment for his crimes. It would break her heart and make her very angry with Obi Wan because she’d see that Anakin suffered a fate that was worse than death after being left to burn alive. I also think she’d be angry that Obi Wan tried to kill Anakin when she specifically asked him not to, rather than trying to talk to him first.

It’s not necessarily logical, but Padme is Anakin’s biggest fan. If she knew that Obi Wan left her husband to a fate worse than death by cutting off his limbs and leaving him to burn alive, and she saw how much Anakin suffered because of that for the rest of his life, she would definitely hold some deep seeded anger and resentment towards Obi Wan for some time. It’s not like he just lost all his limbs, could get some prosthetics, and then be good to go again after a few days to weeks recovery. Anakin’s entire body was burned and damaged, both internally and externally. He had to live in a life support suit. He had to have his internal organs replaced with mechanical ones. He had to eat bland flavored food as paste from a squeeze tube! If Padme survived after he got put into that suit, they could never make love again because Anakin couldn’t survive without that suit on, and even if he could, the pain from the injuries would make such a thing feel unbearable, which means they could never have kids again either. He’d have to be sponge bathed.

If she had survived, Padme would absolutely be pissed off that Obi Wan did this to Anakin because he would have to live that way for the rest of the his life in that suit. She would hate having to see her husband deal with a horribly painful fate like that, no matter his crimes.

#star wars anon #anakin sywalker #darth vader #padme amidala #anidala #yes Padme is a forgiving person and she had absolutely every reason to hate Anakin and not want him back after he turned to the dark side #but Padme is Anakin’s biggest stan #which is why I think she would be pissed off if she knew Obi wan left him to burn alive #no the kids didn’t deserve to be murdered nor the entire Order #but aside from the younglings in spite of their good intentions the Jedi adults were not innocent

[robininthelabyrinth]

Lan Qiren is in Qinghe for whatever reason, and hears JGY playing for NMJ. He recognizes the melody, but now what? They just came out of a war, the Lans are still weakened. He cannot go against the Jins alone, he learned that his nephews are as stubborn as their fatheir in their love and doesn't want LXC stuck in the middle, the Jiangs are still weak and recovering. There's only one person who can help him save his nephew's brother/boyfriend/soulmate/fiance/something? LQR visits Yiling.

Lan Qiren had once wanted to be a travelling musician, before his elder brother ruined both their lives.

He’d always been sensitive to music, even more so than most of his clan. When he was very young, he’d told his mother about the music he could hear all the time, in his head, the good music and the bad, the harmonious and the discordant, and she’d gently stroked his forehead and told him that one day he would learn to play something so beautiful that he could drown it all out.

He never had.

She was gone now, his mother, heart-broken and aged faster than she should have – another casualty of his brother’s selfishness, that he called love. Lan Qiren never denied that his brother’s song was a love song, the pure notes of the xiao calling out to a dream lover, beckoning but never summoned in return; it was only that long before his brother had met his wife he had already heard the way the high treble of his song was unstable, straining, powerful but without foundation. The direction of the music was the wrong way around, however beautiful: too many high notes, untethered to reality – untethered to anything, really.

Not to family, not to duty, nothing.

He didn’t care about anything, his brother. Only himself.

Lan Qiren still played, of course. He’d never been especially good at fighting – that had been the specialty of the mighty Qingheng-jun, noble and above it all – and it turned out he was a fairly good teacher, of music and cultivation and morality. That worked out for everyone: it meant he could stay home, where it was safe, and govern the affairs of the Lan sect to ensure that there was something there for his nephews to inherit.

He was never allowed to go travelling.

Still, it wasn’t all bad. Even if his brother renounced the world, he had given Lan Qiren his nephews. Beautiful children, both of them: the simple song of cleansing for Lan Xichen, the child who smiled as lightly as the breeze; the complex chords of Inquiry for Lan Wangji, the serious child who thought too much.

Lan Qiren tried to do his best by them both, however clumsily: he tried to teach them duty, to teach them the importance of family, he tried to teach them compassion – he tried to try to stamp out his brother’s instability and inability to recognize the damage his actions could do, and did, to others. His brother had been a genius, and his children inherited his talent, but Lan Qiren would not let them become arrogant, as he had become, to think that because of their talent the road before them would always be smooth – such that the first stumble would be enough to cast them down into the abyss.

The war, and their father’s death, taught them that better than he could ever have.

Lan Qiren was not a very good fighter, and an even worse general, but he did whatever he could. He had prepared Lan Xichen as much as possible for the position of sect leader, though he’d thought there would still be years and years before his nephew would have to take it up; in the end, Lan Xichen inherited it too early but still excelled, keeping his head and remembering to think things through.

Lan Wangji was earnest and hardworking, as Lan Qiren had once been; he protected what he could, did what he could, and never sought fame instead of helping the helpless.

Lan Qiren was very proud of both of them.

He only hoped he had done enough for them.

It was usually Lan Wangji he worried about, both in the past and today: he had the family stubbornness, their tendency towards blind faith, and he too often associated with bad company, which made Lan Qiren afraid.

His brother had loved a murderess, and sought to help her escape her punishment no matter what justice required – how dare you pardon her, he’d screamed at his brother all those years ago, don’t you remember that the man she murdered was my teacher too, that I loved him, that his wife grieves for him, that his children are orphaned, who cares if you love her, she still needs to pay for what she’s done, and his brother had shrugged it all off and said I have decided and because he was sect leader there was nothing Lan Qiren could do about it – and Lan Wangji is altogether too fond of Wei Wuxian.

Wei Wuxian, the Yiling Patriarch, who reminded Lan Qiren very much of her.

Lan Qiren had taught himself over the years not to hate her, his brother’s beloved with blood on her hands, for the death of his dreams and the cage of duty that had come down around him; those could only be ascribed to his brother. He still felt justified in hating her for the death of his teacher, who had been kind and strict and perhaps a little silly, overly moral, a stickler – he had only tried to stop wrongdoing, as he always had, and she had killed him in the defense someone she had believed was in the right without a shred of evidence, based on nothing but her belief that they wouldn’t lie to her.

Foolish.

That was the true tragedy of it. For all the damage she ultimately wrought upon his life, she was in the end little more than a stupid little girl who was, in her own way, deceived by love.

Friendship, too, was love.

Lan Qiren had brought her the signed confession of her dear friend, the woman she’d called her sister, the proof that that ‘sister’ of hers had in fact committed the crimes that the teacher had accused her of and that her counter-accusation against him had been fabricated purely as a distraction – you killed an innocent man, he had told her, voice cold, because you couldn’t be bothered to think for yourself – and that had been the thing that had made her finally realize that she would spend the rest of her life in a prison for what she had done. That there was no rescue, no reprieve; that this was the consequence of what she had done, the penalty she would have to pay, and she might as well make the best of it.

He’d finally had a nephew, the year after that.

It had been the only thing he could think to do for his brother, who despite everything he loved to the bone. They were all fools for love, in his family.

At least Lan Xichen had found himself a good love.

His childhood friend, who was as honest and upright as he was: Nie Mingjue was solemn and sincere, in need of someone to cheer him up, and Lan Xichen had no greater pleasure in life than trying to coax out his rare smiles.

Lan Qiren enjoyed ‘accidentally’ bumping into the Nie boy whenever he snuck out of the hanshi at odd hours, if only because it consistently made the other man look as though he was regretting being born. They were so shy about it, even though Lan Qiren had made it clear that he wouldn’t stand in their way as long as they did their duties to their respective families in regards to children.

Perhaps it wasn’t him that they were worried about. The rest of the world might not be so understanding; he couldn’t blame them for treasuring their love between them as if it were a tender flame that might blow out if exposed to the fierce wind.

He still enjoyed teasing them both.

This evening, though, it had been different.

Nie Mingjue’s face had been flushed red, as it always was, and he made his excuses as if they pained him – he’d never enjoyed hiding, would tell the world if Lan Xichen would let him – and that was all quite normal, but there was something wrong with his song. It was usually a steady beat, militant and powerful and inspiring, but it was oddly out of tune, another melody forcing its way in.

It wasn’t the gentle strains of two songs merging, each one yielding to the other, two songs joining together in harmony to become one – this was a clash, one melody suppressing the other and knocking it out of joint. Dangerous, disharmonic –

It sounded like poison.

It sounded like – Lan Xichen?

Lan Qiren bid Nie Mingjue a hasty farewell, forgoing his usual gentle mockery, and retreated to his own home, breathing hard. It was impossible, what he had heard, utterly impossible.

Lan Xichen would never – he loved Nie Mingjue.

Though – he loved Jin Guangyao, too, who presented himself as polite and gentle but whose inner tune was always a step off beat, sometimes too slow, at other times too frenzied. With such uneven music in his heart, it was always a surprise to Lan Qiren that Jin Guangyao could play instruments as well as he could, manipulating them with his clever fingers until they did what he wanted them to.

Lan Xichen loved Jin Guangyao, and Nie Mingjue did not, and…

There were always ways to resolve that sort of thing.

No. Lan Qiren knew his nephew, or thought he did. Lan Xichen was sincere in his affections, honest and righteous, and more than that he was caring – he would never, never, never murder one lover to more easily replace him with another.

And yet.

Lan Qiren recognized the song that was stealing into Nie Mingjue’s body, leeching away his self-control and pushing him slowly towards an agonizing death. It was Clarity, a song he had taught Lan Xichen with his own two hands, and the invading song was Turmoil, a collection in the Forbidden Library that no one but the sect elders could access – though such a restriction did not apply to the sect leader.

He hadn’t thought Lan Xichen had looked at those songs, but he had been the one who had taken their collection of books with him when he fled the Cloud Recesses. There would have been plenty of time to look over them, to learn them, to –

No.

Lan Qiren couldn’t believe it. He wouldn’t believe it. Even if the portions of the song that were Clarity sounded like a perfect replica of the way Lan Xichen played the melody, each pause and each start characteristic of his nephew – he would not believe it, not for nothing.

Not until there was proof.

He’d spent so long trying to save his nephews from his brother’s mistake – he would not now allow them to fall into their mother’s: of being too quick to judge, too trusting, too blind.

He would find out what happened first, and only then decide.

But how could he investigate? Lan Qiren knew himself: he did not have the power to take the journeys that would undoubtedly be necessary to find out what had happened, still healing as he was from the wounds of war; the strain on his heart would likely kill him. Lan Wangji had the musical talent to do it, and do it well, but it would break his heart even to ask him to consider his brother a suspect. But there was no one else so skilled in music, who lived with it day in and day out, who used it even above a sword –

There was one.

He wants to bring someone back to Gusu, uncle, to hide them, Lan Xichen had told him, his eyes troubled; they had both known without saying who that person was. I don’t know what to do. The things they are saying about him…

At that time, Lan Qiren had opposed any attempt to reach out to Wei Wuxian, that troublesome brat. He had still hoped that by putting distance between them, Lan Wangji would eventually learn to forget or at least learn to think clearly, but that was clearly not working.

He would write a letter, he decided, and send it off at once. There was no need for an introduction: Lan Qiren had been the boy’s teacher once – a teacher for a day, a father for a lifetime, no matter that they’d never one gotten along – and anyway, Wei Wuxian had been planning on leaving his mountain soon in order to attend his nephew’s first month’s party, to which he had been invited.

Lan Qiren would ask him to come to Gusu first, instead of heading to Lanling directly through the Qiongi Path. He would offer him the protection of the Lan sect in the event that someone in the Jin clan thought to make trouble, a safe harbor to go to Lanling and to return unscathed, and in return he would ask Wei Wuxian to help him figure out what had happened.

He would prove his nephew’s innocence, even if only to himself.

And perhaps he could even use the same occasion to explain to Wei Wuxian why he should let Lan Wangji go, or at minimum why he should exercise the greatest caution in the future, knowing that if he dragged himself down he would be dragging down another with him…

Yes, that was what he would do.

#mdzs #nielan #nie mingjue #lan xichen #lan qiren #wangxian #lan wangji #wei wuxian #my fic #my fics #you know that feeling when you're indifferent about a character and then you write them and suddenly you have feelings? #that's this fic #amethystshipper #polyphonic

[hyena-frog]

I personally don't understand people who think that Virginia 'can't win on her own'. As if she has to prove herself or she is 'too nice' and has to learn 'how to violence'. Just because Sevro's solution for everything is cutting some fingers or worse, doesn't mean he is always right or that Mustang's work to keep that balance and play within the designated lines is not badass or interesting. She is the only demokratic ruler and her own people gave her absolute power of decision making to end the war at any cost. What's not great about that!?

If Virginia was indeed 'too nice', she would have perished long ago - last absolute cinnamon roll we saw was Julian and we all know what Society thinks about people like him. Just because she plays by the rules, doesn't mean she has no claws - she wiped a terrorist's memories away for fuck's sake. Now that the rules have been extended, you can bet your ass that she'll take more than one page out of Nero's playbook. After all, she said it herself, she tamed herself, but it's fun to let the lion out.

Agreed 110%! I don't understand people who give Virginia shit in general tbh. I mean, how do you not fall in love with her immediately? How are you not ride or die for her from the get-go? It boggles the mind.

Those arguments, being "too nice" or being unable to win on her own, are reaching and easily debunkable. The lack of reading comprehension. 😒 If you don't like her, then whatever. I may not understand how that’s possible, but it really isn’t necessary to make shit up, you know?

Virginia can't win on her own, huh. The nerve! Where would Darrow be without her? Dead. Many times over. He would have bled out after Cassius stabbed him if Virginia hadn't helped him. And it was Virginia who brought the Howlers back from the Rim weeks in advance of Darrow actually needing them, just in case. So many things would have gone wrong in Morning Star if she wasn't at Darrow's side (and if Ragnar hadn't gone out of his way to make sure she'd be there, the absolute legend).

Perhaps it's Darrow who can't win on his own? But that sounds ridiculous, doesn't it? All of his successes were achieved through teamwork. Darrow acknowledges this many times. It's the same for Virginia. While it's simply not true that she can't win on her own, it’s also untrue that the inability to win on your own is a bad thing. The whole argument doesn’t make any sense.

The idea Virginia still needs to “prove” herself despite doing so plenty of times already throughout the series is frustrating. The fact of the matter is, the success of the Rising relies just as heavily on Virginia's intelligence as it does Darrow's battle skills. The Solar Republic simply wouldn't exist without her. Fitchner never had a clear vision of what "after the Society" would look like and neither did Darrow for a long time. The war effort needs a conscience and a vision for the future, otherwise it's just endless bloodshed. Virginia helps Darrow see beyond the bloodshed. Plus, Darrow has no interest in politics. He'd be the first to admit he’s not good at the slow game of political maneuvering. But Virginia thrives in that environment. In Dark Age, Darrow even admits his current predicament is a consequence of not trusting his wife's way of running the Republic, and he vows never to do that again.

Sure, Virginia doesn't get into physical fights often, especially now that she is Sovereign. But politics is no less perilous a battlefield. I feel like because the political battlefield isn't as flashy and fast paced as a literal one, people forget the constant danger she is in, even before the Senate's betrayal. Silenius' Stiletto is a delicate tightrope act she has to perform every day to drag progress forward while keeping her opponents in check. This requires a level of self-restraint, clear-headedness, and badassery, that no other character can achieve.

Virginia is not "too nice." She is practical. And often, is it practical to play nice. Not every confrontation is best solved through violence Sevro. We all know the line: Virginia is the mustang that nuzzles the hand; people know they can work with her. That’s why the people chose her consistently for ten years, over literally everyone else in the solar system, to run this new government. And her steadfast resolve to gain Imperium legally, to not force her will on the people, proved to them again that she won’t abuse this ultimate power to end the war.

No, Virginia may be reasonable but that doesn't mean she is too nice. If she was too nice, she wouldn't have used her relationship with Cassius to protect her family. She wouldn't have shot Cassius in the throat with an arrow. She wouldn't have promised Ephraim he would "die shitting in a foreign bed" if he skipped about on their bargain to return the kids. She wouldn't have zapped the Duke of Hands' entire personality from his head. Like you said, she never would have made it this far if she was truly toothless. She's practical, and sometimes the practical solution doesn't require violence, but creative thinking.

Speaking of creative thinking, one thing Virginia doesn’t get nearly enough credit for is abolishing the death penalty immediately after Adrius was hanged. That wasn't her being "too nice" or too lenient on her caste. Yes, she feels life in prison is the moral option over the death penalty. But she knows her people. The punishment for the worst criminals in Deepgrave is a Gold's worst nightmare. Life in prison denies a Gold their desire for a glorious death, to be remembered through the ages for their deeds in battle. The Republic's justice system sends a clear message: "Mess with us, and you won't get your notoriety or fame, you'll only get obscurity and shame and sucking algae through a tube until you die naturally of old age." That to me is crueler than hanging.

Virginia’s mind is her greatest weapon, but more than that, her greatest strength is how she applies her intelligence. Her ability to read people, and to communicate, is greatly underappreciated imo. These skills require nonviolent interaction yet they yield great results. There are many examples of this. She used her natural charisma to gain Octavia's trust. She brokered an alliance with the Rim when she thought Darrow was dead. She held the Republic together for ten years despite constant, increasing animosity from the Vox. She refused to torture Lyria and was able to see she was not lying about being an unwitting pawn in the kidnapping scheme and was rewarded with information and a new ally. She figured out exactly what Sefi was planning for Cimmeria, even manipulating the situation to her advantage without Sefi realizing it. She knew Victra was going to bargain with Sefi for the kids, without being told. In her own words, this is simply what she does.

There is a quote in Iron Gold that caught my eye: "Communication is the soul of civilization." (532) Now, this line has nothing directly to do with Virginia. This is Ephraim trying to get a rise out of Gorgo. But it fits Virginia perfectly, doesn’t it? The Republic is able to exist as a civilization because it has such an amazing communicator at its center.

Virginia is such an excellent communicator that she is even able to get parties who refuse to communicate with her initially to reciprocate communication eventually. She convinces Sevro, Dancer, and even Victra to stop freezing her out and work together. She does this by speaking their "language." She knows exactly what to say or what to do to get them to finally listen to her. Revealing she already knows exactly what is going on works for Sevro, providing hard evidence of conspiracy works for Dancer, and proving her actions (showing her scars) works for Victra. This isn't to say she never makes mistakes. She shouldn't have called the Wardens on Darrow, for example, just as Darrow shouldn't have kept the meeting with the Society "diplomats" a secret from her and the Senate. But more often than not, her nonviolent communication skills yield valuable results.

As for Virginia apparently needing to learn how to use violence… While Victra and Sevro’s feelings were justified, their actions at the end of Iron Gold and the beginning of Dark Age were just wrong, wrong, wrong imo. Freezing out Virginia did nothing but delay the return of the kids. It's frustrating to think how much heartbreak could have been avoided if they'd just put their heads together from the moment the kids disappeared. And what exactly did Sevro's rampage through Luna's underground accomplish? Some dead Syndicate thorns, sure. But that tantrum put a huge target on Sevro's back. As Virginia said, one lucky sniper and boom, no more Sevro. What would Victra have done then?

While it may feel like Virginia would have achieved more if she just beheaded some people, she has a responsibility as Sovereign to consider the bigger picture. She has to consider the Stiletto. If the Vox saw her offing some fools it would have added credibility to their smear campaign. The people would have lost faith in her and think she turned into another Octavia. Whoever replaced her could use her actions to justify their own dictatorship. Violence was simply not practical for her until she legally gained Imperium. Now though… 😈

Virginia's over here playing 3D chess while everyone else is playing Connect Four, but this still isn’t enough for some people. After the clone gets the better of her, she gets flack for not being an omniscient god and just knowing her twin brother laid out a plan to clone himself ten years ago. Tut, tut, should have seen that one coming, despite the lack of evidence. If only she’d punched some people. (Can you see I hate this argument with every fiber of my being?)

In Dark Age, Ozgard says this about Electra and Pax: "She is better fighter. He is more dangerous human." (184) Well, Pax gets it from his momma. Pax and Virginia may not be able to throw devastating punches but in many ways, their intellect is what makes them the greater threat to their enemies.

Thank you for the ask!

#virginia au augustus #red rising #iron gold #dark age #iron gold trilogy #dark age spoilers #astreamikaelson13 #sorry I disappeared for like a week #I'm back writing unnecessarily long posts #my post

[anakinisvaderisanakin]

Ablaze - aka Obi-Wan learns the truth about what happened to Anakin post Mustafar Oneshot

Whatever Obi-Wan had hoped for, it wasn’t this.

He had been convinced when he turned his back on his past, tears blurring his vision as he left Anakin - his brother - behind by the molten lava lake of Mustafar, that that would be the end of it. He had known the twins once born must be hidden, concealed from the Empire and Palpatine. He had held them in his arms, as he watched Padmé’s life leave tear filled her eyes. As he watched her succumb to a broken heart, as her time ran out.

Obi-Wan had hoped that in spite of everything Anakin had done, every deed committed out of some sort of misplaced idea of justice to save his wife, he’d have passed on to find peace. There was the guilt, crippling and heart wrenching as it weighed heavy on his shoulders, looming over him every waking moment. Like a phantom, he wandered lost with only one purpose. One foot on the ground, one already in the grave as he watched over Luke faithfully. It was his only mission, as heeded the Lars’ warnings of not coming too close. Of not getting to know Luke personally. He watched as the boy grew to resemble his father more with each day, bringing back still painful memories of Anakin as a padawan, of Anakin questioning him, initiating arguments yet always returning for comfort and solace.

He had prayed that, much as it had destroyed him, Anakin was finally free from the demons that had plagued him so.

Anakin; who had been lured and manipulated into becoming a disciple of the Dark Side. Anakin; who had always been good, and kind, and just. Anakin; who loved so deeply, so truly that he stifled the air in Obi-Wan’s lungs. His brother, his son, his best friend - all in one. Anakin; whose final resting place lay among ashes, fire and brimstone. Obi-Wan considered it his cross to bear, and perhaps one day, he might have the courage to tell Luke the truth. Once Luke was old enough to understand, and to feign for himself. With the truth, danger would be sure to follow. The eyes of Emperor Palpatine were everywhere.

He had been wrong.

The first time caught wind of rumours regarding some mysterious empirical Enforcer cloaked in black, purging the remaining Jedi from the Galaxy on behalf of the Emperor - he felt sick to the stomach. Nauseous and dazed, losing focus the world became a blur as he casually continued to eavesdrop. He'd caught whiff of the grim news by accident from some bounty hunters normally located off planet, on one of his rare trips to the Cantina of Mos Eisley. At first, he told himself he must have misheard them. But the more he listened, the more he heard, the further the claws of dread sank into him. Suffocating him.

A menace clad all in black, face concealed. A Force wielder, one of the bounty hunters had professed. The other denied the existence of such a thing, but did affirm she too had heard some tall tales from a couple of drunk Imperial cadets, matching the description.

A regular smuggler was quick to chime in, in a foreboding low voice, that speaking of the devil might as well conjure him forward. Obi-Wan should have asked, then. But he couldn’t bear it. He’d prefer being unwise, uncertain as to the identity of this cloaked assassin. Deliberately ignorant by omission. Still, a voice at the back of his mind screamed at him to trust his gut feeling.

So, for a few more months, he buried it. He ignored the inquisitive part of himself, the one wanting desperately to pry and find out more. The one wanting to either reaffirm, or deny, what he was already suspecting. Eventually it got the upper hand. Hood pulled over his head, one night he surrendered to the urge. Travelling by land speeder with the intentions of visiting that same Cantina, back to the same area.

While it was not likely he’d be approaching the same crowd - bounty hunters never stayed long without Jabba the Hutt personally acquiescing - there might be other visitors willing to share their knowledge. Or perhaps suitable victim to coax information out of, via mind control. Against better judgment, Obi Wan found himself considering kidnapping, or at the very least stunning an unsuspecting stormtrooper, simply to pull the soldier away from public eyes for interrogation.

As luck would have it, he needn’t have worried. Ears perked, senses keenly attuned to his surroundings, he was quick to pick up on a rushed, impatient tone. There was a note of distress, of distinct dread radiating from the person speaking. Letting the Force guide him, Obi-Wan found himself drawing near to a small, scrappy docking area on the outskirts of the small city. Three ships anchored neatly aligned, all in beat up condition from bad to worse. The vessels would fly, but not much more. Pacing back and forth by the cargo holder of a battered YT-freighter, was a young twi’lek male. Lekku twitching, sharpened teeth bared. His company consisted only of a human woman, who looked about the same age but less antsy.

“How can you be so sure he won’t find us?”

“Because rumour has it this planet is off his radar,” said the woman, with clear disinterest. “We’ll have time to repair the ships. Turk'll gather up some credits, and then we'll go undercover. The Empi--”

“We’re not talking about the Empire, Oma!” hissed the twi’lek, and Obi-Wan felt the tension of anticipation pouring into his bones, as he pressed his back closely to the wreckage of what was once another clay building.

“It’s all the same, he is no different. He can’t be everywhere at once, surely he must have more important clientele to keep up with. We’re only possible associates at best, and even then he has no evidence.”

“You don’t understand!” the twi’lek raised his voice, before catching himself. "He doesn't need a justifiable reason to give chase!"

In an instant, the man's wide eyed stare darted madly around the location. Obi-Wan waited patiently, seeking aid from the Force to remain unseen and concealed. He had perfected the expert craft of hiding his Force signature, all to stay alert out of sight and mind from the Empire. For four years, it had worked to his favour. Still, he pulled his robes tight around himself, nodding in greeting as a random stranger - a Rodian - passed by in the opposite direction. Obi-Wan was considering wiping the encounter from her memory, but the woman disappeared into the night and it seemed an unnecessary endeavour.

With a hushed tone, the twi’lek piped up again as he inched closer to Oma, his female companion.

“He knows we aided that young Jedi. He knows we docked on I’qka, we’re in the Imperial records. The kid told us himself he was being hunted! Don’t you figure if there’s a kid on a planet that rarely ever receives visits from outside travelers, and this kid disappears with the one ship that has been knowingly recorded, that’s going to raise suspicion?”

“Which is why we’re going to make repairs only on The Japor, and trade this ship in for something more inconspicuous,” said Oma, still as unbothered as before. “You think too much about it, if anyone’s gonna raise suspicion, it’s you with your fidgeting. Pretend you never met the kid, and it’s gonna work out a hell of a lot better for us.”

“No one’s gonna want this junkyard of a ship,” the twi’lek huffed, glancing with a doubtful expression back at their vessel.

“There’s a constant demand for functioning scrap parts here, we’re gonna make a fortune if we pick it apart. Might even trade some parts off to the Jawas. You get in their good graces, and they’ll find you whatever you need.”

“Better be. I just don’t understand… aren’t you afraid of him?”

“It doesn’t matter whether I’m afraid or not, what matters is that we keep running. It’s only a problem if he catches us, and as long as we’re one step ahead, he’s no threat.”

Oma sounded calm and collected, but Obi-Wan could sense a fleeting tinge of dread through the living Force of her bloodstream. He could sense her palpitated heartbeats, sense her shortness of breath. He must condone their bravery however; hiding and assisting a Jedi fugitive under the Empire’s nose was high treason, punishable only by death penalty. Helping a Jedi was just as bad as being one, and the two must have been aware of that when they decided to act out of compassion. He couldn’t do much to aid their flight or ensure their safety, given the risk of blowing his own cover and subsequently Luke’s, but he was going to ask the Force be with and guide them. He hoped it’d be enough. Perhaps the Jedi was someone he knew, so he would wish him too a safe haven.

“So, we just keep running forever and hope he never catches us?”

The twi’lek sounded dejected, his lekku twitching in distress as he padded over to slump down to sit on the lowered landing pad. Obi-Wan felt his sadness as clearly as were it his own, even as Oma placed a hand on his shoulder to offer what appeared to be a supportive squeeze.

“Isn’t that what we do best? Let’s just hope the kid will get by and find a safe place to stay. That would make it all worth it, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, but if… if he comes after us, at least we’ll know he probably hasn’t found the kid. He’d need us alive, right?”

“Right,” Oma nodded, although that possibility didn’t seem to particularly put her at ease.

Obi-Wan sighed softly.

If the rumours of the Empire’s treatment of traitors was anything to go by, he’d presume a swift death was to prefer. More than one person had whispered of torture, and torment to force an approved testimony out of prisoners. It was frightening, how low the morals of those in power had stooped in such a short amount of time, since the fall of the Galactic Republic.

He had fought bravely in The Clone Wars for freedom, for justice. Was this his reward? Was this what the Jedi and their troops had laid down their lives to preserve? Then, on the other hand, Anakin too had been adamant to protect freedom. Had been adamant to end slavery, never able to overcome his own traumatic childhood raised on this burning sand planet as a slave to Watto. Mournfully, Obi-Wan regretted that he had never taken the time to speak about that experience in depth with Anakin. Regretted that he had not trusted Anakin’s visions of Shmi’s death. Perhaps, if his mother had lived, he would have resisted Palpatine’s lure.

It all came back to Anakin.

Every waking moment, Obi-Wan's mind would wander aimlessly until memories of familiar, mischievous blue eyes flashed before his inner vision. When he slept; nightmares of Mustafar, the stench of burning flesh and shrieks of anguish haunted him. Pleas for help, begging for him to come back. Begging him to stay. Every time, Obi-Wan tried to will himself to stay. Longing to turn back around, to hurry to Anakin’s side. To hold him in his arms, as they both perished in a burst of flames and embers. Instead, he had no control of his own limbs as he walked away. The sound of Anakin’s pained howls, and the gurgling noise that replaced them as the heat withered away his esophagus ringing in his ears.

“Are you afraid?”

Obi-Wan startled, at first convinced that the voice had spoken directly to him. He blinked his eyes, looking up only to realize it was Oma who had broken the silence. The twi’lek craned his neck to glance up at her, her dark eyes unreadable in the distant light spilling out of the freighter they called home. The twi’lek exhaled heavily; only to offer a sharp nod, eyes once more scanning their surroundings as if he’d been reminded of their vulnerable state.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“If he was so intent on killing a kid, what’s to say he’d hesitate to kill us just out of spite? I...” he paused momentarily, tone almost inaudible as he spoke again and if Obi-Wan hadn’t been so attuned to their conversation, he would have missed it.” I know people opposed to the Empire. They’re… attempting to align. To form some sort of resistance. Either way, a childhood friend of mine, M’naaka, works in close contact with their organizations.”

Oma only nodded to confirm she was listening, but he expression spoke of curiosity. It was clear she had never heard of this before.

“So, M’naaka has never met him directly, but--” the young twi’lek’s head shot up abruptly, his entire body strung out like a prey animal sensing the close proximity of a predator.

When nothing happened, no ambush forthcoming - Oma herself beginning to look increasingly uneasy - he settled back down into his tale.

“But she’s heard from her companions. They say that if Vader’s got reason to keep you in his sight, you’ve already lost.”

‘Henceforth, you shall be down as Darth… Vader.’

No.

No.

“Vader has bigger problems to cater to, if what you’re telling me about your friend’s contacts is true.”

Vader.

The name left Obi-Wan cold - the same sickness of that first mention of an assassin of the Empire cloaked in shadow had brought forth. The nausea returning, head spinning. He had pleaded with Master Yoda years ago, as they rid the ransacked and destroyed Jedi Temple of clone intruders, pressing that he must watch the holographic surveillance recordings. That he must see who had massacred their peers; the people he had grown up with, the only family he had ever known. The only life he knew, laid to waste. Children chopped to pieces, young men and women cut down in their prime. Whoever he had imagined to be the perpetrator, it was not Anakin.

Even now, he couldn’t believe Anakin could be capable of such vile acts. Yet, the holograms didn’t lie.

Now the sinking feeling Obi-Wan had experienced in that horrifying moment - as he'd watched Anakin kneel obediently before the now revealed true identity of Sith Lord, Darth Sidious - had returned tenfold. The sorrow.

He'd watched Anakin take on the mantle of Darth Vader; apprentice and second in command only to Palpatine himself. He'd watched all his hopes for his former padawan as a young Jedi crumble to ashes, scattered to the wind. Molding to become one with the sand dunes of Tatooine nightfall as he was brought back to present day. The bitter cold of the air was matched only by the block of ice forming in his chest cavity. He shut his eyes, swallowing against the lump in his throat.

The memory was still fresh, still vivid and tangible. Anakin, body set ablaze. Eyes a sickly yellow; bloodshot and animalistic as he poured the full intensity of his rage, his hate, his fear into the already heavy, charged air of Mustafar. His clothes, his hair, his skin aflame. Obi-Wan could not bear to watch the man he had loved as his own brother succumb. He abandoned him. Had left it up to the Force. He had assumed that the Force would take pity on Anakin - the man who was supposed to be The Chosen One - despite the monster he had become.

There were so many question, nothing made sense anymore.

How?

How had Anakin lived? Why? What must he look like? What agony must he be in? How might anyone survive being set afire? Obi-Wan had assumed that Maul was alone in his conviction, his ability to feed off of the Dark Side to sustain himself despite his mortal wounds. Had Anakin relied on similar tactics? Where was he now? Was there anything left of the man Obi Wan had raised and mentored? Did he know where to find his former master? Was he coming for him?

Vader. Of course.

Who else would be so consumed by spite, as to hunt innocent Jedi children to purge? Who else could be so petty, so insidious, so self absorbed? Anakin had been good, at heart. He’d been flawed, he’d been human. He’d been lying, he’d bent the rules, he’d become too attached. But he’d been well meaning, he’d been gentle and loyal and caring.

The shadow that had taken his place seemed to feed off of death, as if the blood on his hands made no difference to him. And why would it? Obi-Wan had seen the children lying lifeless on the cold stone floors of the Temple halls. In that moment, he had known there was no saving Anakin. He had refused to kill Anakin, had been adamant Master Yoda go in his stead. Anything at all, but that. In the end, he was left with no choice. Left with a naive belief, that maybe he could help Padmé bring Anakin back to sanity. Help him see reason. In the end, it was all for naught. In the end, Padmé faded away to become one with the Force. Leaving behind Anakin's estranged children; children he must never be made aware of.

Anakin died that day.

The Anakin Skywalker Obi-Wan had known, burned to dust upon shores of ash. The man reemerging in his place was changed; twisted, evil and unrecognizable. The man who had taken his place was but a pawn of the Emperor, serving his master’s bidding at his beck and call as a slave. There could be no other explanation. The man in Anakin's place had nothing left to live for, no one left to save.

Why hadn’t Anakin told him about Padmé? He must have known it was an open secret. He must have known Obi-Wan had already suspected it for several years. How could he hesitate? How could he stubbornly go on, wrestling in silence with his own fears and the expectations placed upon him by outside forces? How could he find Palpatine a better confidant?

Padmé had died, and Anakin with her. And with Anakin’s death followed a part of Obi-Wan.

As he swallowed down the stone cold terror of truth welling up in his chest, biting back an inexplicable urge to weep over the pitiful fate that had befallen his brother in arms - Obi-Wan somehow found enough strength for his legs to carry him back to his land speeder. Enough energy to take him home; home to safety and solace, where he may still serve his purpose of guiding and watching over Luke.

A man like Vader would not hesitate to twist Anakin’s son into something as cruel, and vicious, and unyielding as himself. But despite the fact that Obi-Wan refused to acknowledge Vader as Anakin, refused to believe Anakin had ever possessed the ability to overstep the line so grievously - deep down, in his heart, he knew it was a poor man's comfort. But if he dared set it the truth free, dared allow himself to dwell upon it, he feared he too would lose his mind.

Deep down, he knew that the love he had harbored for the boy had never been enough. It seemed, he had never really known Anakin at all.

------------

I always did want to write something like this, a piece where Obi Wan tackles the realization that Anakin is still alive under the mantle of Darth Vader. Here's my take, until canon inevitably offers us an official version, of a possible look at that. I had fun writing Obi Wan though, and his denial of Anakin's true self as a juxtaposition to Ahsoka's acceptance of the truth.

If you ship Obikin, you can always look at it that way too. It is written to be canon compliant, however!

Enjoy!

Link below to the Ao3 post, and subsequently my account:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/25636756

Lose Companion to Lifeline:

https://stuffilikeipostno2.tumblr.com/post/634787175881474048/lifeline-ahsoka-reaching-out-for-anakin-post

https://archiveofourown.org/works/25578304

#obi-wan kenobi #obi wan kenobi #obi-wan #obi wan #obi #kenobi #ben kenobi #star wars #sw #revenge of the sith #post rots #anakin skywalker #anakin #skywalker #darth vader #vader #lord vader #tatooine #luke skywalker #canon compliant #ewan mcgregor #james arnold taylor #sir alec guinness #ot #pt #prequels #originals #swr #rebels #anakin and obi wan

[askultimateluckytrash]

    They pulled him out of the Neo World Program abruptly.

    For a second, smashed back into his own body against his will, dazed and confused, he staggered and swayed and had no idea where he was or who he was. For a blissful moment, he was nameless with no past and no present. But the illusion was shattered soon enough.

     They berated him, but he didn't even hear it. Their words pummeled against his ears, swollen and distorted like he was underwater. He didn't remember what they said. Why did he care? He felt so horrible already. Surely these people who he didn't like and didn't know couldn't possibly make him feel any worse.

     They took him to a hospital bed and made a full examination. For the most part, aside from the big bump on his head, he was unharmed. A full recovery. No adverse side-effects, mentally or physically. What bad luck.

     They made him wait in the hospital for a while. Then they pulled him from the room and made him wait in a lobby. Then they took him to a therapist, who asked him a bunch of questions, and he gave the best answers he could, dazed as he still was. They took him to a different lobby. He awaited punishment.

     Part of him hoped that they would simply put him back in the Neo World Program, though he knew that wasn't likely. What else could they do? Would he have to stay here for another 6 months of therapy, like before? He wouldn't mind that too much. The island was beautiful, and therapy at least gave him something to do every day, if nothing else. Or would he go to prison this time? Was his clemency finally at its limit? Prison wouldn't be so bad either. He would get chores to do every day, and be distracted with a strict schedule.

     Either way, he would still be gone. That was what he wanted. That was what they didn't understand. He wanted to be gone. Anything they did to him, so long as they didn't send him back home, would still feed into his goals.

     He wanted to be gone. He wanted to be completely severed from his life and his identity, his friends, his past, his disappointing future, his expectations, his responsibilities, his crimes, his guilt, all the people he was hurting, all the things they expected of him, his name and personality, his memories...everything about his life. He wanted it gone.

     The easiest way to do that, of course, was dying. But he couldn't do that. He had made so many promises to so many people-- which was something else that he wanted to escape. Why was there so much pressure on him to live?

      But he hated his life, and all he wanted was to end it. If he couldn't die, he could still end his own life, right? If he severed himself from it completely. Gave up everything, broke it all off, and ran away from everything that made up 'his life'. At least he wouldn't have to deal with the pain of living it anymore, even if he couldn't completely erase it from his mind.

      If they sent him to prison, he wouldn't have to be 'Nagito Komaeda' anymore. He would just be another faceless criminal, with his sole life being harmless jail chores and a rigid schedule. Nothing about Despair, or the Neo World Program, or the 77th class, or Hajime Hinata. And if he stayed here, well...this place might still be connected to his old life, but at least he wouldn't have to see his classmates here, or see Hajime, or be forced to think about his miserable future and be forced to do work to take the steps to make it there. As if a future that tortuous could possibly be worth even sticking around to see, let alone doing so much work for. It was so tiring, and all for what? For more torture. More pain. At least if he didn't go home, he didn't have to face the future.

       He waited. The more he thought about his punishments, the more his head cleared a bit. Either of those was a good option. Already, he was planning how to make himself at home in prison or here. Planning what to do afterwards. Move someplace else, buy a small house, and live out the rest of his days in bored, lonely obscurity? With no one knowing who he was or where their annoying, hated classmate Nagito Komaeda had gone. The idea of the misery gave him pleasure. This will be your punishment, so you can stop feeling so guilty. You'll be truly miserable, but at least this time, you won't get your hopes up just to have them shattered. At least this time, you won't have to see all the faces of all the people you hurt, and love them knowing that they hate you.

      Or maybe they would give him the death penalty, and he could die without knowing that he was letting everybody down.

      When they delivered the final verdict to him, he nearly fainted.

      "What?" He mumbled, his voice numb with disbelief.

      They repeated their instructions, but he still couldn't register it.

      "What do you mean?" He shook his head, getting to his feet a little unsteadily.

       "We'll send someone to the hotel to pack your things for you, and then meet us at the airport for your flight home." The employee explained, glancing at a clipboard he was holding.

     Nagito blinked again. "Home?" He stalled a little and his voice cracked. "You're just...sending me home?"

     Maybe he didn't sound as thrilled as he should have. The two employees exchanged confused glances. "Yes. It will be good for you."

     "No." He disagreed calmly, shaking his head. "I don't want to go back."

     "You have to." They insisted. "The Future Foundation thinks this will be the safest--"

     "I don't want to go home." He said firmly, shaking his head again. "Don't make me go back home. Send me somewhere else. I'll pay for it." He clasped his hands together, crushing his palm between his fingers. The idea of going back home was suffocating.

    "This is where the Future Foundation wants you." The employee matched his tone. "That's where you have to go."

    He grimaced a little. The idea of going back there-- it made his stomach turn. That place is a prison. Don't make me go back there. He could feel his hands starting to shake, so he squished them harder. "I don't...want to." That was the only argument he could give them. How could they possibly understand in any form of words what it felt like to be at home? But he knew that wouldn't be enough. They wouldn't listen to him. They would pack him up and ship him back anyway...He'd rather have gone to prison. Would it have been much different?

    The employee shook his head, making it clear that Nagito wasn't going to get his way. "We're sending someone to pack up your things right now. We'll meet them at the airport." He put a hand on Nagito's arm and began to pull him forward.

     Nagito wanted to resist. He started to pull away feebly, out of instinct, and let off a nearly - silent whimper, but he knew there was no getting out of it. He had no right to get out of it. Didn't he have to face the consequences of his horrible actions just like everyone else? He stumbled forward numbly, slipping into a daze again as the employee tugged him along.

     The thought of going home was suffocating. Going back to that place, that house, with all those wonderful memories that were past and gone. Seeing the rooms where he used to be so happy with his family and knowing he would never have that again. He would never have a family, or be safe, or be loved. And seeing Hajime again was equally crushing. He'd be angry and disappointed and hurt, and he'd take it all out on Nagito with his withering looks, his telling silences, a few well-placed comments here and there. Nagito would have to look at the face of the person who used to be his best friend and his hope and know that what he dreamed of was never coming true. Just like with his house. Remember all the good times with Hajime, when it seemed like it could be possible for them to be friends. Remember when they used to talk. When maybe, possibly, Hajime might've loved him. Remember all the dreams he had of then being together, and how happy he would be, only to find out that it wasn't true. His dreams were...stupid and ridiculous. Hajime would never love him. And even if they were together, Nagito still wouldn't be happy. Hajime was never around. He never talked to him. He never spent time with him. There was no relationship there at all anymore.

    Home really was a prison. He was stuck there all day, every day. With no friends to distract him or take him out. No boyfriend present at all. Alone only with the thoughts of all the things he missed and all the things he dreamed of that he would never get. Knowing that nothing would ever get better and that he had nothing left in his future but suffering. It was...helpless, suffocating, stifling, claustrophobic. Like being stuck in a straight-jacket. Constantly alone, with no one to talk to and no way out. Going home was the worst punishment he could ever get.

     He froze in his spot, so abruptly that the employee jerked and glared back at him.

     That was the point. Of course! How had he not realized it sooner? Ahaha! How stupid and blind he had been! Of course this was the worst punishment. Of course that was the one he would get. Obviously. This was punishment. That was the point. This was the punishment he deserved. He deserved the worst possible punishment in the world for what he'd done. He deserved to have everything he wanted dangled in his face, held just out of his reach forever. And if he ever got closer, his hopes would get further away. What a cruel, fitting punishment! What a deserved torture for someone as worthless as him! He should know better than to dare to hope. Hope was for people better than him.

     He cracked a smile and let off a tiny laugh. All at once it hit him how ridiculous he was being. It wasn't his lot to complain about his life. He had no right. What happened to the version of him from the killing game? The one who could take any punishment, any misery, any despair and still smile. Still keep going, perfectly happy, content in his deserved suffering. Why was he being such a baby now?

     Had he spent too much time around Hajime, and allowed his resolve to weaken? That must be it. He had grown too used to being happy. He had been basking in hope so much that he couldn't handle despair anymore. But that wasn't him. His lot in life was despair, forever, until the day he died.

        And he shouldn't be complaining about that! This was a good thing. He was getting the punishment that he deserved. Hope was prevailing. Good was prevailing. He should rejoice in knowing that, in seeing that fact played out every day before his eyes. Every bit of suffering he went through just meant that hope was still winning. Every time he suffered, it should renew his faith in hope. A worthless piece of garbage like him was being punished. And he could take pride in his punishment and resolve. Take pride in going through all this despair for the sake of hope. Because didn't that prove his devotion? And his strength, what little of it he had? And if he got punished for all his horrible crimes, wasn't that a relief? Didn't that ease the guilt? He might have done bad things, but at least he was suffering for them. This punishment was a blessing!

     He should revel in every bit of misery he got. Be proud of every horrible feeling and every instance of bad luck. It was time to be strong again. To stop complaining. To stop being so spoiled. It was time to stop expecting more than he deserved. To go back to being happy and content with his despair. His worthlessness. His misery. And he would go to the airport quietly, and they would see if Hajime would be late to pick him up, or if he would even bother to show up at all.

     Time to smile at despair in the name of hope.

#updates #event: rebirth #event: end #its finally finished luckily just in time #but I have more unfortunte news that I'll post about

[rebelbyrdie]

Swan Queen Fic:  The Looking Glass (1 of 3)

This is a story that I’ve had in my head for years.  I have no time to fully flesh it out.  I still think I would like to share it though.  I lovingly call this bullshit writing because I do it between major projects to keep my brain going but it usually doesn’t amount to much.

So this is a combination of several concepts, inspirations and tropes.  It is Parallel Universe time!  This is pretty raw writing.  No editing.  No beta.  

The Looking Glass (Part 1 of 3)

Once Upon a Time, an Evil Queen was prepared to cast the darkest curse ever created.  She had the spell in her hands and revenge in her heart.  All magic comes with a price, though.  For this queen and this curse, the price was too high.  She could not cast her curse.  She was not the only one who had desired the curse, though.  The Dark One became enraged at her decision and betrayed his former apprentice to her greatest enemies. 

“Regina.”  Snow White stared at the chained and bound woman.  “Your father and others-”  Her eyes narrowed as she spoke, as if she hated even thinking about the people she spoke about.  “-have begged for mercy on your behalf.”

Regina, disgraced queen and sorceress, was gagged but she held her head high, her shoulders were squared and her eyes were hot and angry.  She met Snow’s eyes without flinching, daring her to do her worst.  Gag or not, she would never beg.

“I will show you exactly the same amount of mercy that you showed my father and my people.”  Snow White steepled her fingers under her chin.  “Which is none.”

“Your Majesty, please!”  Lord Henry, a rotund and care-worn man, tried to pull away from the knights that held him in place.  “We will go home, never to return.  As royalty banishment is the traditional penalty for-”

“Silence!”  Snow White cut him off.  Her words were ice cold and her mouth was set in a hard line.  “Your groveling is pointless.  My decision has been made.”  She looked around the throne room, at the gathered crowd.  “The Evil Queen’s punishment is not to die.”

Henry breathed out a sigh of relief and tried to reach for his daughter.

“Regina’s punishment is far worse then death.  She shall live, forever-”

Regina’s head jerked back and her dark eyes went wide.

“-in the Eternal Tower.”

Henry went white.  “No.  Your Majesty, no!”  

Snow smiled.  It was wide, bright and predatory.  “Take her to the mirror.”

The four knights who held Regina’s chains pulled her away.  She didn’t fight them or shed a tear.  She walked tall and proud, to her inescapable fate.

The Eternal Tower was a magical place, a magical spire from a dead kingdom.  There were no doors and the single window had been bricked up.  The only way in or out was via a magic mirror.  She was dragged to the highest room of the castles tallest tower where that mirror waited for her.  

The Dark One waited at the mirror, a smile on his glittering face. 

“Hello Dearie.”  He smirked.  “So nice to see you again.”  

Rumplestiltskin waved his hand over the mirror’s shining surface and it rippled like a quicksilver pool.  

“The Eternal Tower is magical.  While you are there you will not hunger, thirst or require sleep.  It’s magics are ancient, arcane and far more powerful than yours.  You won’t be able to cast the smallest spell there.  You will be alone.”

He leaned closer and his smile widened grotesquely.  It twisted his face and made him appear more monstrous than ever. “Forever.”

The knights unshackled her hands, feet and waist and pushed her into the mirror, hard.  She fell through the portal and onto the hard stone floor of the Eternal Tower.  She scrambled to her feet and ripped the gag out of her mouth.  Regina glared at the Dark One.

“I’ll destroy you for this, Imp.”

“Shut up!”  One of the armored men hit the mirror with his fist.  “Or we’ll cover the damn mirror.”  He held up a heavy damask clothe.  The mirror, or more accurately the window that it was pointed at, was the only source of light in her prison.  If the mirror was covered she would be cast into permanent darkness.

Regina stepped back from the mirror and looked around her new abode.  She ignored the men as they left the room on the other side of the mirror and when she was alone, she finally screamed.

***

In a world with no Dark Curse, Princess Emma grew up in a glorious castle with two loving parents and was beloved by the kingdom.  She was fair, intelligent and could wield true love magic.  She grew in grace, strength and beauty every day.  

The morning of her twentieth birthday dawned bright and early.  Emma was already out of bed and sneaking out the window long before the servants awoke.  She made her way across the castle’s roof and swung into the narrow window of a lesser used corridor.  

She was sick and tired of being a princess.  She hated the politics, etiquette and endless expectations.  She wasn’t what her mother wanted her to be.  She never would be.  Her mother, Queen Snow, wanted a perfect princess.  Emma was anything but.  She was more comfortable in breeches and on horseback then she was in a dress and on the throne.  

Not to mention the Balls.  She hated the over-the-top Balls.  She would be shown off like a horse at an auction for princes and kings to gawk at.  Her parents had married for True Love.  She had to marry to fill up the kingdom’s coffers.

She wandered the North wing’s long and empty corridors and started climbing a steep and narrow set of stairs.  She didn’t recognize the tower, but the early morning light and shadows might be playing tricks on her.  After what seemed like a million steps, Emma found herself at a door that she didn’t recognize.  

“Unusual.”  She muttered to herself.  Even more unusual was that the door was locked with three huge iron padlocks.  

Now Emma had to know what was behind the door.  She leaned out the landing’s single window and smirked.  There was another window less than three feet away, on the other side of the door.  It was all to easy to pop out one window and into another, especially since her magic would protect her from any fall.

The room on the other side of the door was small and empty except for a tall gilded mirror. 

“Lame.”

She was about to leave when something caught her eye.  She did not see her reflection in the glass.  She saw someone else.  Somewhere else.

“What the hell?”  

She walked closer to the glass.  

“Who are you?”

The woman on the other side of the mirror jumped.  She twisted around, away from her loom and stared right at Emma.  Her dark eyes were wide and her lush mouth, accented by a scar, dropped open.

“Wh-”  Her voice was raspy, like a door hinge that had rusted shut a long time ago finally moving again.  “Who are you?”

***

“So it is Midwinter.”  Emma sat in front of the mirror with her legs folded over each other. She was comfortable on the floor, inches away from the glass.  

Regina sat on her side with her knees drawn to her chest.  She was braiding her long dark hair with fast and agile fingers.  She loved listening to Emma.  Not just because she was the only voice she’d heard in years either.  The blonde was smart, funny, irreverent and she made Regina smile.  She didn’t judge her as the Evil Queen or a prisoner.  They were friends.

“And there is about four feet of snow on the ground. 

“You should be wearing a cloak.  That tower room must be freezing.”  Regina was always worried about her.  Emma was careless with her own safety, so bold and brazen.  Too caught up in the moment to think ahead.

“I’m fine.  I want to see your progress!”  

Regina smiled and shook her head, amused.  “Of course.”  She stood and turned her mirror around a bit so Emma could see her loom.

The loom had been one of the only things in her prison.  It was left over from the tower’s last resident.  She had never learned how to weave as a child, as it had not been something that a queen needed to know.  Since she’d had nothing but time, she had taught herself.  It had been the one thing that kept her from going mad.

She spent endless hours weaving.  She didn’t always know what the pattern was as she worked.  The images often surprised her.  Emma praised her work, and swore that it was the best she’d ever seen.

“I don’t know what it is yet.  I’ve never seen anything like it.  A town, I think.  With a strange tower.”

She pulled the completed length up so Emma could see it.  

“Wow!  It is amazing!  You’re amazing, Regina!”

No.  Emma was the amazing one.  Regina sat the almost-finished tapestry back to the side and went back to the mirror.

“If you could have anything for a Midwinter gift, what would it be?”

Regina raised a brow.  Emma was already the best gift she’d ever received.  She was sunshine personified.  She reminded Regina of Daniel. When she was with Emma she could feel her long dead heart stir in her chest.

She didn’t dare say any of that, though.  It was pointless, a fever dream.  They could never be together, no matter how much she wanted to reach out and touch Emma.  To hold her hand.  To kiss her.

“An apple.  My father planted a tree when I was born.  I tended it for my entire life until-”  She shook her head.  “I want to taste an apple again.”

Emma nodded.  “I want the tapestry you did last Spring.  The one of the horses and sheep in the field.  It reminds me of summer when I was a child.  I like to think that the little girl and man are my father and me.  Like you were standing right there painting a portrait.”

If she could give it to her, Regina would.  She’d give anything and everything she wanted.

“Well, actually, that is just an excuse.  To get the tapestry, I would have to meet you and that would be the real gift.”  

Emma pressed her hand against the mirror.  “I feel like you’re the only person that sees me.”  

Regina pressed her hand to the mirror too and wished she could feel the heat of Emma’s palm against her own.  

“You are the only person who sees me.”

Emma’s lips quirked into a small smile.  “That makes me the luckiest woman in the world.”

Years past.  Emma spent every minute she could with Regina. She ignored suitors and skipped out of Balls.  She fought in tournaments, but never wore a token.  She always fought for Regina, even if she couldn’t say so.  When she was days away from turning twenty-five, everything changed.

Emma showed up for dinner, almost on time.  There were various dignitaries in attendance tonight.  She never paid attention to who.  The faces changed but the boring political stuff always stayed the same.  She sat down on her mother’s left, beside Red.  

“And here is my daughter, Princess Emma.”

Snow’s voice sounded strained, angry.  Emma knew that she had broken countless rules.  She was late.  She was wearing breeches.  She had her sword on her belt.  Her hair was tied in a sloppy braid.  There was dust smeared on her shirt.  Basically she was not fit for a royal dinner table.  

“Your Highness.”  

A guy, expensive clothes, an unfamiliar accent and gold circlet told Emma everything she needed to know.  He was yet another prince trying to buy her hand in marriage.  Great.

“I am Prince Killian of the Kingdom of-”

Emma drifted off, uninterested.  She had heard it all before.  He would go through his entire family history, and all his so-called achievements.  Like all that was supposed to impress her.  

She missed Regina.  She would never bore her at dinner.  She would also never try to buy her.  Regina had been there and done that and it had destroyed her.  She constantly worried about Emma being betrothed against her will.

It was hard to imagine Regina being here.  Sitting as a Queen dealing with politics and stuff.  Forced to sit and pretend she cared.  Worse, forced to pretend to be happy as a forced-wife and faux-mother.  Then again, compared to the tower, dinner didn’t seem so bad.

Red’s elbow dug into her ribs and Emma jerked her attention back to the Prince.

“Welcome, Prince Killian.  I am pleased to meet you.”  

She wasn’t.

“The pleasure is all mine.  Our betrothal is a blessing on both us and our kingdoms.”

Wait.  Emma’s head snapped to the side to look at her mother.  What!

Snow nodded.  “It is a wonderful match, dear.  You will love Killian and live Happily Ever After.”

No.

Emma’s entire body burned fire hot and went ice cold simultaneously.  She could feel screams coiling up in her chest.  This could not happen.

“The wedding will be on your birthday.  Isn’t that wonderful?”

Wonderful?  Emma would rather die.

Red put a hand on her leg under the table.  To comfort her?  To hold her in place?  To warn her to behave?  Emma didn’t know.  She couldn’t move.  Couldn’t speak.  Could barely think anything other than no.

She sat, silent, and somehow got through the dinner.  Killian asked for a walk through the garden (escorted by their parents of course) but Emma declined.  She was far too weary to walk.  Her mother frowned but allowed it.  Probably a reward for not flipping out at the table.

Emma ran right to Regina.  She poured out her fears and wept her tears to the woman in the mirror.  Regina pressed close to the glass.  Her hands and cheek were flat against it.  

“Don’t give in Emma.”  Regina’s voice was sad and soft.  It carried the weight of her past and experiences.  Her regrets.  Her love.  “But don’t fight either. Run.  Leave.  Go.  Leave Snow to her Empire.  There are other kingdoms, other worlds.  I’ve seen them.  Weaved them into my tapestries.  You can still have a life, happiness.”

Emma looked up and pressed her face against the mirror.  “Not without you.”  She smacked the glass between them.  “How can I be happy without you?”

Regina touched the glass where Emma rested.  She traced the lines of her cheeks and forehead.  “You will be happy, My Love.”  She smiled despite the tears sliding down her cheeks.  “We are together, you know.  In one of those other worlds, there is a you and a me that are happy and free together.”

“I would give anything to be with you.”  Emma was crying now too.  “Anything.”

Regina shook her head.  “I would never curse you like this.  To this tower.”

Emma sighed.  “Sometimes I wish you had cast that damn curse.  Anything, anywhere, has to be better then this.”

They lay on either side of their mirror, together  but forever apart.  They would have stayed that way all night.  Forever if they could.

Emma jerked up.  “Someones coming!”  She could hear the heavy locks being turned.  There was no time to escape.  The tower’s door swung open, rusted hinges squeaked and groaned from years of neglect.

“Emma!”  Snow White stood at the door.  Rumplestiltskin stood at her right shoulder.  Prince Killian at her left.

“Mom!” 

Snow looked at the mirror.  “Regina!”

Both Emma and Regina got to their feet.

“How could you do this?”  Snow glared at the mirror.  “When Rumplestiltskin told me I didn’t believe it.  Couldn’t!  You’ve corrupted my daughter!  Right under my nose!”

Emma launched at her mother, fists swinging.

“Don’t you dare!”  

Her father came in and grabbed Emma, held her back.

“She hasn’t corrupted me!”  Emma jutted her chin out.  “I love her!  I will not marry him.”  She pointed at Killian.  “Or any man you sell me to.  I love her!”

Snow looked from her daughter to the mirror.

The reflection showed Regina, The Evil Queen, on her knees.

“Please.  Snow.  Please.  Don’t do this to her.  It will destroy her.  Don’t do to Emma what my mother did to me.  Don’t make her marry.  Let her love.  You got your Charming.  Let her find love.”  

“You?  You think this is your escape?  Your great revenge?  No!  I won’t let you destroy Emma like you did my father and our kingdom.”  She turned to one of the guards. 

“Break it.”

Emma screamed and fought, she was too late, though.  By the time she escaped her father’s grasp, the magic mirror lay shattered on the stone floor and Regina was cast into eternal darkness.

#fanfic #wip #swanqueen

[canary-prince]

My Therapist: Self-hatred and self-harm are not productive.

Me: Okay but what if I have actual evidence that I'm a terrible and unlovable person who will never improve?

My Therapist: That's still not productive! How does hurting yourself help?

Me: It's not about 'help' it's not about 'improve'. It's about suffering. I am BAD I am WRONG I am FLAWED and my self-hatred is my atonement. I am obligated to suffer for my wrong doings and my failures. I am obligated to suffer.

My Therapist: Says who? Your mother? God? You?

Me: It doesn't matter who says it. It's true and I know it.

My Therapist: Can't you just change? Can't you just become better?

Me: I can't. It's too hard and I'm too weak. I was damaged in my early years and I will never function like I should. If I can't redeem myself, I owe it the world to suffer for my sins.

My Therapist: Who have you hurt in your life? What did you do to deserve this?

Me: It doesn't matter what I did.

My Therapist: If it doesn't matter, can't you tell me?

Me: I don't know what I did.

My Therapist: You're condemning yourself to suffer in a prison of your own mind, for all eternity, and deny yourself life's joys...for a sin you can't remember committing?

Me: I clearly did something. And I'm too stupid to know what it is. So I have to suffer for everything.

My Therapist: You don't support the death penalty or corporal punishment...but you put yourself through THIS? For no reason other than formless guilt?

Me: I have to do this. I have to atone. Even if I don't know what for, or for how long, or who is judging my soul. I have to do this. Because not doing this is worse.

My Therapist: Why? Why is it worse? What happens if you stop and let yourself be happy?

Me: Because bad people shouldn't be happy. And I'm bad, I know I'm bad.

My Therapist: What happens if you let yourself be happy?

Me: I can't be happy, I'm not allowed.

My Therapist: Says WHO? WHY? Where is this coming from, what is the source of this conviction that you have to torture yourself mentally every day?

Me: Because...because I want to be good. And good people don't like themselves. Good people aren't proud of themselves. Good people feel guilt and remorse and regret and good people hate themselves for all the bad things they've done. If I like myself, if I'm happy, if I stop thinking I'm Bad, then I will be bad. I'll be bad forever if I ever stop punishing myself for even a second...I'll be Bad.

My Therapist: Who told you that?

Me: I did. Because it's true.

My Therapist: This is going in circles.

Me: Of course it is. You're not real. I made you up so I wouldn't have to tell the truth.

My Therapist: You don't want to heal because you think you don't deserve it.

Me: I'd rather be wrong about my badness and suffer needlessly than be wrong about my goodness and receive happiness I don't deserve.

My Therapist: Aren't you tired?

Me: Yes. I am. That's the whole point.

#the monster speaks

[loopy777]

Hm. Lately I’ve been feeling conflicted. I would usually say that even if Azula did become good, she would still need to be punished for the horrible things she had done (being in prison is a punishment for sure). But then I would think about how that should be applied to Zuko, Mai, and Ty Lee. Like yeah, they did decided to be good (arguable “good” with Mai & Ty Lee) in the end, but it didn’t really erase the terrible actions that they had done. (1/2)

But I’m attached to these characters. I understood why they did they things they did, why they acted like they did, and how they become who they are. And I don’t want them to be in harms way after knowing about their past, trauma, and issues that they had to worked through. But then I’m being a hypocrite since I wasn’t the same with Azula. And if Azula got punished for her past wrongs, I suppose the others should too? I don’t know... Should they have been punished? (2/2)

This gets into the purpose of punishment in general, which turns out to be a very personal thing.

I, coming from a Catholic Christian background, don’t see any purpose to punishment beyond an attempt (and we’ll touch on this word again later) to correct bad behavior. I used to be a fairly angry little kid (Raphael was my favorite Ninja Turtle for a reason) and I liked to wish misfortune (usually destruction of property, like a car dying) on the people I was mad at. So my mom used to quote me the famous bit from St Paul’s letter to the Romans: “’Vengeance is mine, I will repay,’ says the Lord.” So I was always taught that trying to pay people back for their evil deeds, purely as an act of justice, is cosmically wrong. On the other hand, I was given time-outs when my behavior was bad and also told I did not have to subject myself to the company of bullies, so clearly the lesson isn’t just to let people be bad and not worry about it.

There are people and cultures, though, that demand retaliation. This is just their worldview, and leaving bad things unaddressed would be an active injustice.

Pragmatically speaking, a punishment’s value to society at large is to discourage bad behavior. You do a bad thing, you get an appropriate punishment, and so you decide you don’t want to do the bad thing again in order to avoid future punishments. Ideally, the very threat of punishment is a preventative. Punishments are scaled to the crime to prevent inflation; if every bad act merited the death penalty, then you might as well commit premeditated murder against someone you dislike instead of just calling them a rude name.

However, as I alluded to above, punishments are an attempt to prevent or correct bad behavior, but are not necessarily effective. Rewards are the opposite side of the coin, a system of encouraging good behavior. There’s all kinds of studies on these things, how effective they are, whether and how they can be mixed, the effectiveness of certain types of punishments and rewards, etc. So I’m not going to get into the nitty-gritty of all that here. This is just foundation for answering your question.

So, with my background in mind, I don’t see any reason why Zuko, Mai, and Ty Lee should be punishment because they have already done the following things:

Admitted they were wrong.

Suffered for their bad behavior.

Attempted to redress or mitigate the consequences of their actions.

Changed themselves so that they are now, based on the recognition of the badness of their previous selves, forces for good.

Again, to bring up my Catholicism, this is exactly the process by which forgiveness of Sin is achieved (maybe minus the suffering depending on how old-school or hardcore the Catholicism is, but narratively the suffering usually makes for a better story), so as far as I’m concerned, there’s no need for punishment or hell for Zuko, Mai, and Ty Lee. Some people, though, might not see their experiences and changes as enough; they might want the victims to judge Zuko, Mai, and Ty Lee and pronounce some form of punishment or restitution. Arguably, though, this kind of already happened, with the Kyoshi Warriors accepting Ty Lee and Aang accepting Zuko as his Firebending teacher and Suki accepting Mai as a Pai Sho opponent (hey, they can’t all be dramatized on-screen). But some people might want a formal process.

Azula, on the other hand, is keeping up her bad behavior. Now, “redemption” is another one of those words that can mean different things to different people and cultures. Going by my own definition above, Azula has not admitted that her behavior was wrong- last we saw her, she was still trying to teach Zuko that fear is more powerful than love, and she’s still delighting in petty cruelties. She has suffered, but as I noted, this part is optional and not terribly important, anyway. She has not tried to fix the harm she’s caused other people. And she has certainly not even attempted to change herself to become better- just more effective at living up to her old standards.

So, arguably, Azula thus deserves a punishment as part of her path to Redemption.

However, let’s get back to discussing the effectiveness of punishment. As I noted, Azula has suffered. What punishment is going to be worse than her experiences in the finale, being left behind by her father to stew in her paranoia until she is defeated by her enemies and loses all self-control? Is throwing her in jail going to make her better? Is scarring her going to have more of an impact than what she’s already been through?

(Of course, if she doesn’t change, then jail is certainly appropriate to keep her from harming others, which she keeps actively attempting.)

This now gets into the modern debates about crime and punishment, and that our modern criminal justice system is not particularly effective at rehabilitation. Again, there’s stuff out there to learn from, but I’m going to focus on Azula’s narrative. She can certainly experience a story where she is not actively punished but nevertheless transforms into a better person through experiences that truly teach the rewards of being a good person. Azula might more effectively and believably embrace the power of love through rehabilitative experiences instead of punishments.

But would her story be as rewarding if there’s no transformational suffering? Would we feel her Redemption has been earned?

Like I said, this gets personal. I don’t think there are solid answers, hence why my own focus for telling stories about Azula isn’t “redemption.” I think there’s interesting stories to tell about her coming into mental and emotional balance, and that’s what I focus my narratives and themes on supporting. The end result might be a Redemption Fic, but I reached it through character work rather than judgement and justice. As Gandalf once said, “Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgement. For even the very wise cannot see all ends.” This seems to most directly address the idea of capital punishment, but I think it speaks to the inherent lack of ‘justice’ in life. There’s no undoing bad things or crimes, so no true justice can be done. What remains is simply how we ourselves react to it all.

So I don’t know if made my philosophical case, but I at least hope I explained why Azula is currently in a different class than Zuko, Mai, and Ty Lee.

I am, of course, completely ignoring that the AtLA comics consistently portray Zuko as someone who tries to murder his friends whenever he disagrees with him. Because that Zuko totally needs a time-out.

#Anonymous

[problematic-nova]

I'm having a crisis and you're the Roy-person so I'm asking for your thoughts, though I'm not sure how active you are in fma anymore. Riza talks about Roy wanting to put the ishval war heroes on trial. Does this ever happen? Does Roy get executed? SHOULD Roy get executed?? Like, I love him to bits. He's my favourite character out of literally any character in anything. I want him to have a happy ending. But also...war crimes. Penny for your thoughts?

Oh, I'm the Roy person, that's so sweet, thank you! I'm not much in FMA these days (sadly- I'm always trying to get back into it, I have fics I REALLY want to finish) but I've always had opinions on this, so I can answer anyway! This is rather long-winded, because I've got many feelings on it, I'm a long-winded person, and it's been long enough that my thoughts aren't organized super coherently, so bear with me :D

My answer is no: I don't think they were executed. If you're asking purely what happened in canon, we never got an answer either way, but just for what my predictions/extrapolations would be, I don't think that they were. Or, at least, I don't think that they should be.

My answer is colored, of course, by Roy and Maes being my absolute favorites, and also by me being 100% against the death penalty irl. But I have two different reasons for this having always been my headcanon, and they also go hand in hand with another somewhat unpopular headcanon of mine, being that Roy /should/ have used the stone to restore his sight and /did/ get his sight back.

My first reason is asking - what good would this actually accomplish? Like I've said, I'm very much against the death penalty in real life, and firmly wish prison could be solely for rehabilitation and keeping the public safe, not punishment. It's a line of distinction that often simply isn't possible to do in real life, but as long as we're talking about a fictional ideal, here- looking at the Ishvallan genocide, the Amestrian soldiers that we know of who'd still probably be a danger to the Ishvallans, or who actually fully supported the genocide, are already dead. Basque Grand, Kimbley, Bradley, Envy. Killing or imprisoning Roy and Riza, rather than allowing them to continue rebuilding Ishval, accomplishes exactly nothing positive. It does, however, permanently remove two very important and politically powerful voices from any further restoration efforts, and stops them from continuing to work on rebuilding what they destroyed.

I like to parallel it with Scar. While we don't actually see Scar kill anyone innocent, I believe, we do see him try to with Ed and Al, so we can make the assumption that he did kill innocent people, not just soldiers from the genocide. The man was an actual serial killer, yet at the end of the series, we see him returned back to Ishval, smiling, healing, looking forward to helping to make the future a better place. Why? Because out of an imperfect situation, that's the best way forward that he has. He helped make the world a worse place, and while he can't take that back, the only thing he can do going forward is to actively try and make it a better place, instead. That's hard work. That's /work/, period, and you can't do that work if you're dead. Redemption by death is lazy and side-steps the actual redemption of working to right the wrongs that you caused. Roy and Riza both say they don't deserve to be redeemed? Okay. Redemption isn't about /you/, it's about the people that you hurt. And the people that get hurt if Roy and Riza are removed from the restoration of Ishval are the Ishvallans themselves.

(This isn't the same thing as saying they need to be /recognized/ for that redemption, in canon. The surviving families of Scar's victims are under no obligation whatsoever to forgive him, just as the surviving Ishvallans are under absolutely no obligation to forgive Roy, Riza, or Amestris. They're under no obligation to treat them kindly and would have every right to want them the hell out of their country, and Roy should respect those wishes wherever remotely possible.)

My second reason I like to think is more realistic, in that I just genuinely think, politically, it would be... a bad idea. There aren't many examples in history that I'm aware of, so it's mostly my own speculation. But Roy's plan is to spend decades endearing himself to the public eye, and transforming Amestris to a democracy, in what would probably make him the most popular fuhrer to prime minister imaginable in this fledgling, new, still unstable country - and then hold a very public trial where he and many other very important figures in the government are villainized and then executed.

This is a TERRIBLE idea. That is /begging/ for the country to be taken over again by a military dictatorship, because you can be damn sure there will be generals just waiting for the chance. It leaves a dangerous power vacuum at worst, and makes the new government horribly unstable and vulnerable at best. Back to my answer of what good would it accomplish? Well, I don't think it would accomplish much good at all, but I definitely can see many ways how it could lead to something potentially horrible.

I think that Roy spent decades working to accomplish his plan, because that is something that would take thirty, forty years: becoming Fuhrer, turning a very resistant military dictatorship into a democracy, working to restore rights to Ishval and start solid rebuilding efforts, overseeing those efforts to make sure they're more than just words on a page. That's the actual hard work it would take to even start to see real improvements that couldn't just as easily be taken back by a corrupt next president. There's no point where he's done "enough", where he's helped Ishval "enough" that it overwrites what he did wrong, it's okay, he can stop trying. But, by this point, he's probably in his sixties, seventies, after a very high-stress lifetime spent breathing in a lot of smoke. The life expectancy of men in 1950 in the US was 65.6 years. I really do think that he worked to restore Ishval until he died, and Riza with him.

#fma #roy mustang #riza hawkeye #ishvallan genocide #my opinions are also colored in that the perspective i'm least able to see things from #is the i want justice for these crimes that were done to me one #i've been a victim of a violent crime myself #and never wanted to see justice/prison result from it #so i struggle to see things from the point of view of an ishvallan #who just genuinely wants justice #which is a fair thing to want! #but anyway these are my two cents #i give you blanket permission to envision a happy ending for your favorite character anon

[ncfan-1]

“death,” “life,” and “love” for the WIP meme please :D

Death:

Here, Elrond could have paced the day away, could have paced until Ithil turned the walls to milky white and Gil-galad’s fair face was shaped into a ghastly death mask by the harsh shadows that poured in through the seams in the floor and the walls. He could have done that, and short of needing him to leave to admit someone else, he thought that Gil-galad might have let him.

“’Rodnor, we do not execute our criminals. To send the man away would be as good as sending him to his death; it would be the same as executing him, except his death would be slower. We have no prisons in which to hold him. This is not a rich-enough community to make a payment of restitution to Celebrimbor a sensible measure. And forcing the man to serve Celebrimbor in his forge for any length of time would not be sensible, either, for if the man still harbors rage in his heart, it may be Celebrimbor’s cooling corpse we find the next time. I do not like leaving criminals to live their lives with no punishment for their crimes, but there is nothing I can do that would not make the problem worse. So leave it alone, and give Celebrimbor no grief when you go to him for your lessons.’”

Even to those who were ambivalent on the subject of Elrond, himself, the blood of Elu Thingol and Melian the Queen counted for something, and to lose the last carrier of that blood in Ennor who was yet counted among the Eldar, when the carrier of that blood was in the service of the High King of the Ñoldor, well… Elrond supposed that Gil-galad’s concerns were at least comprehensible. In this Second Age of Anor, it had been mutually and silently agreed upon that the Edhil were not going to go to war with each other over any sort of insult anymore, be it the perceived theft of a treasure or the death of a person deemed important to one faction or another. It had been agreed upon that now that the… instigators were gone, there could be nothing that could even be construed as a justification for kinslaying, on anyone’s parts (Though most people tended to look at the nearest Ñoldo when they made that particular remark).

I’m putting the rest of this under a cut, because it’s going to get long.

But here, here there was a forest, and there was sunlight like water dripping off of the branches of a long-dead tree, a tree whose death had been the cause of so much sorrow. Here, there was a tangle of blackberry bushes, and the tart juice of a blackberry Elrond had popped into his mouth stinging on his lips. Here, there was the two of them, and if there had been any Laegrim living in this forest, Elrond thought that even the shiest of them would have come out of their hiding places by now, if only to tell Elrond and Celebrimbor to get off of their property and stop eating their blackberries.

Running was something that had not sat well with all parties concerned. As he had sped towards manhood, Elros had liked it less and less. It was not that he longed for death, or so Elrond hoped—though sometimes, these days, certain past events taken into account, Elrond had to wonder—but he knew his brother, and knew that his brother had felt helpless, and that fighting would have made him feel a little less helpless, and thus, Elrond had a good idea of why Elros had always spoiled for a fight, even when the odds were hopelessly against them.

Life:

For all his life, Elrond had had a title that counted for very little. In the refugee camp in the Lisgardh, he and Elros had been the twin princes of the Iathrim, sons of Queen Elwing and Lord Eärendil. Or, if you were to talk to the Gondolindrim instead of the Iathrim, sons of Queen Elwing and Prince Eärendil. Or, depending on certain other people you could have spoken to, Princess Elwing and any title you cared to stick to Eärendil that did not ignore the fact that his mother was, even if absent, still living, and most people had by then decided that really, the fact that Idril was never considered her father’s heir had been a perhaps unwise decision on the parts of everyone who had decided that it would be so, and also of everyone who had then allowed Idril to go on not being her father’s heir.

On the shores of the Sea in Eriador, there were many who counted Elrond a prince as well, and had decided that this made him a person of some importance. In this Second Age of Anor, Elrond was considered far more important by the world at large than he had been in the First Age of Anor, and when he was trying to live his life and do his job, the fact that there were many people who considered him important? Well, it was quite frankly a complete and total hassle.

And getting out and swimming there, even at this time of year, was more likely than not to end with Elrond explaining to the Doomsman exactly why he had considered this venture a good idea. The Doomsman being the sort of judge that he was, he would probably have ruled that Elrond had ended his life through his own devices and assign him a harsher penalty as a result. Elrond wasn’t terribly interested in getting out of the Timeless Halls around the same time the Valar decided they were letting Fëanor out. Honestly, he wasn’t interested in spending time in the Timeless Halls at all. So, yes, he would concede—not happily, but he would concede—that he needed someone manning the ship he was to take to reach Tol Himling.

Celebrimbor, for his part, blinked blankly back, though given the barely-evident stiffening of his back, Elrond could guess that this was not the first time they were having such a conversation. Given that it was Celeborn, and given the way Celeborn seemed to regard Celebrimbor, Elrond supposed it would be safe money to assume that this was absolutely not the first time they were having this conversation. Nor the second. Possibly not even the third, depending on what time of day yesterday Celeborn had found out that Celebrimbor was going on this assignment. “Celeborn, I spent many years of my life within the bounds of that fortress. It holds no secrets for me.” Dropping his voice, he added gently, “I think I am among the most qualified here to make such an expedition. I will be in no danger there.”

You did not expect his choice. You did not expect him to go away to be a king of a distant land and leave you on the ragged edge of your lost lands, staring out at the water and knowing that drowned beneath the waves are lands where you once walked, lands where you were born. You did not expect him to leave you for his new land, did not expect him to leave you to stare out at the water and know that where your birthplace was, now there is only water, and there is no proof for your existence but a life that could be snuffed out at any moment. Perhaps you did not know him as well as all that.

Elrond did not dare contemplate what it was he wanted above all other things, but you know, his life would be much easier if people would stop defining him as the child who had been kidnapped by the raiders who had sacked the refugee camp in the Lisgardh. His life would be much easier if those who surrounded him in the court would allow him to forge a reputation for himself that did not begin and end with something that had happened to him as a child. His reputation was built around passivity, and that was the worst of it: so long as his reputation was centered around passivity, Elrond suspected that the inertia holding his reputation where it was would be… considerable.

Love:

Elrond had no great love of combat, but he had grown up in turbulent times (that were especially turbulent for him and for Elros), and he had no desire to be caught flat-footed if the need for combat came upon him, so he did spend a fair amount of time every day in the training grounds. But Celebrimbor kept different hours than him, and from what Elrond had gathered, Celebrimbor had even less love for combat than he did—the man forged weapons that served the mightiest warriors in the land very well, but he was considerably less likely to be found wielding those weapons himself. (And there were those who muttered that Celebrimbor ought not to be allowed to bear any weapons at all.)

#Wip meme #Guessing game meme #Fic meme #Writing meme #Saudade #chidorinnnnn

[sinsiriuslyemo]

Happy new year, dearest readers! Let’s start off the new year with a little Rabastian!

10. 2014

DECEMBER 30,  2013

“That was hilarious,” Sebastian said with a grin as he and Rafael walked out of the Walter Kerr theater. 

After he’d gotten out of yet another pretrial motion filed by William Lewis’ lawyer, Rafael had been anxious to go see a show with the pianist that had been on his mind the entire day. He’d gone home to change and walked to Sebastian’s apartment. Upon seeing the musician, Rafael instantly felt the day’s tension leave his shoulders. 

“Jefferson Mays has never disappointed me,” he said as Sebastian’s hand naturally found his and laced their fingers together.

“I know, he is so amazing, I’d watch him in just about anything,” the pianist replied. “And the fact that he played all those roles--”

“--Oh, I know, he was brilliant,” Rafael said, holding up a hand to hail a cab. 

“Thanks again for bringing me,” Sebastian replied, gently squeezing the other man’s hand and dropping a kiss on his lips. 

“It was my pleasure,” Rafael said with a smile as they got into a cab.

“You hungry?”

“Yes, actually,” Rafael answered.

"What do you think, Italian?" Sebastian looked over at Rafael, who had slightly curled his top lip as he tilted his head to one side. "Okay, sushi?" The musician laughed at the grin of approval that graced the prosecutor's lips before he turned to the driver and gave him an address. He looked back to Rafael. "You're adorable when you speak with your expressions, you know that?" 

"You're adorable, period," Rafael answered, sliding his gloved fingers between Sebastian's.

Ever since their first sexual experience together Christmas Day-night, he'd found himself thinking more and more about he and Sebastian planning a future together. He would often picture coming home to the musician working at his piano while a roast cooked in the oven. Or waking up to the feel of the other man's lips against his neck. He was well into a fantasy of he and Sebastian taking a trip around the world together when the pianist spoke again.

"Hey, listen, I was wondering...you spending New Years Eve with your family?" the musician asked, pulling him from his fantasies.

"No, I usually just spend it at home," Rafael answered. "Why?"

"Well, Casper and I usually spend it at his place and since Katie's living there now, I was hoping that maybe you would want to come too." The pianists eyes shifted nervously to their joined hands before coming back up to meet his own.

A slow smile came to Rafael's face as he shifted slightly to look at Sebastian. "You want me to spend New Years Eve with you?"

"Yeah, I-I know it's kinda last minute...I wasn't even sure if I should ask you, I mean...we've only been seeing each other a short--"

"--Stop," Rafael said softly, his easy smile stretching his lips. "I'd love to ring in the new year with you, Sebastian."

The pianist mirrored his grin and leaned forward to press a chaste kiss to his lips as the cab stopped at their destination. Paying for the cab, Sebastian tugged on Rafael's hand and they walked into the sushi bar together.

"You really spend New Years Eve by yourself?" he asked Rafael in a gentle voice after they'd been seated by the hostess. 

The prosecutor bobbed his shoulders, opening the menu. "I usually have work to keep me busy. My mom has always said I could come with her to my aunt's house but...crime never sleeps, apparently. And my aunt lives in Kew Gardens, my mom usually spends the night. I have to work the following day, so…"

"Well, this year, you'll only be a few blocks away from home. No excuse. And no work either. We can leave early if need be, if you really need to get some work done, but while we're at Casper and Katie's, I want you to relax and have fun, deal?"

Rafael's lips stretched into a closed-mouth smile as he nodded. "Deal."

"Good."

"So Casper and Katie live together? How long have they been dating?"

Sebastian rolled his eyes. "Ugh, don't get me started on that. According to Casper, they're 'roommates'." He brought his fingers up to make air quotes as he again rolled his eyes. "And yet they've been sleeping in the same room and fucking for the last seven months. Oh and Katie definitely wants more. Casper's the neanderthal."

"Ugh," Rafael answered in a grimace.

"I know."

"Why hasn't he--"

"--I don't know," Sebastian replied with a chuckle, shaking his head as he looked down at the menu. "I told him he's a commitment-phobe. It's a shame, too, Katie's a good woman."

"Well, to be patient with that arrangement, I'd say she's a downright saint."

"Tell me about it," Sebastian said. "I told him last week he needs to shit or get off the pot. It's time, and the girl's earned the girlfriend title by now."

"I agree with that," Rafael replied. "Speaking of friends, I finally talked to Liv about the dinner party thing."

Sebastian looked up, setting his menu down. "And?"

"She said she didn't think I would go with all the other detectives there, and she apologized for making the assumption."

"See? I bet you feel better after talking to her," Sebastian said.

"I do actually. You were right," Rafael answered, smirking at the pianist.

"I'm glad. She seems nice. She doing any better after the...thing you were talking about?"

"She is...but the trial's coming up next week, I'm not sure she's ready to face him."

"Trial? What happened to her?" Sebastian asked. "Was she…"

Rafael sighed as he shook his head, brows raised on his forehead. "She says no, but I...I honestly don't know. I think she would've told me if he had. But even if he didn't, he still abducted her for three days...tortured her…he would've killed if she hadn't--" 

His jaw clenched as he thought about the photos of Liv from the hospital, sleep-deprived, beaten and traumatized. He shook his head, trying to keep those images from tainting his evening with Sebastian. As if on cue, the musician reached across the table and placed a hand over his. 

"Sounds to me like the guy deserves to fry," Sebastian said. "And I don't even believe in the death penalty."

"You don't?" Rafael replied indignantly, looking up at the pianist with his brows in waves.

Sebastian was a little taken back by his response, inching away from him slightly. "No...does that bother you?"

"For animals like William Lewis, I wish a firing squad were still an option," Rafael answered. "Some people deserve to die."

"That may be true, but who the hell are we to decide who lives and dies? The death penalty makes us just as bad as they are. Worse, actually...we bring in people to watch it go down."

"Your own mother was murdered, you wouldn't want to see the guy responsible pay for what he did?" Rafael asked, biting down on his tongue after the words had escaped his lips. The musician pulled his hand away and leaned back against his chair as Rafael shook his head and lowered his eyes, mouth hanging open. "I'm sorry, that was...outta line, I'm sor--"

"--You're right, it was outta line," the pianist replied.

Rafael could see a mixture of hurt and anger swirling in the blue of the other man's eyes and he lowered his own gaze, silently cursing his big mouth. He supposed it was only a matter of time before his words would work against him. It certainly hadn't been the first time he'd said something he immediately regretted thereafter. His tongue, however sharp and effective in a courtroom, may very well have just ruined the one good thing in his life. 

Swallowing the lump that had begun to form in his throat, he inhaled silently and deeply, pursing his lips before he again reached across the table and looked up Sebastian, who now appeared to either be holding back tears or trying to keep himself from throttling the prosecutor. Maybe both.

"Sebastian, I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking, I..." The lawyer shook his head and bit down on his bottom lip, a small form of punishment, which paled in comparison to the offense. "I never should've said that."

The musician simply continued to stare at him as their server came to take their orders. It was then that Sebastian broke eye contact and looked up at her with a small smile before he gave her his order. Rafael followed suit, though instead of a polite smile he looked more like a child who'd been caught misbehaving. Only after she'd left did Sebastian speak again, this time directing his words to Rafael.

"I need to know you're not gonna use that against me every time we disagree," he said.

"No," Rafael answered immediately, shaking his head for good measure. "I promise you, it'll never happen again. I'm so sorry, Sebastian."

Sebastian nodded. "Okay," he whispered. "And just for the record, I never said that I wouldn't want my mother's killer to pay. It's just that my idea of vengeance is a lot darker than just a needle in the arm."

"It's justice, not vengeance," Rafael said with a frown. 

Sebastian shook his head. "It's a quick fix for us and giving them the easy way out. I'd want to know that every morning I get to wake up, free as a bird, while he rots in a cell for the rest of his life. I'd want the option to be able to go to whatever prison he's in and watch him rot. Watch him suffer knowing he'll never see daylight again. The man who killed my mom doesn't get to rest in peace. I'd want him to live a long, miserable life in a four by four cell with nothing but time to think about everyone he ever hurt."

Rafael regarded the pianist with soft eyes as he picked up his water and took a sip while his eyes roamed their surroundings.

"They changed the lighting in here, I think," he said as his eyes once again settled on Rafael. 

Smiling softly, the ADA reached across the table and laid a hand over the musician's forearm until he met Rafael's gaze.

"You're such a good man," he said.

Sebastian snorted softly. "I'm a good man because I want some piece of shit to suffer?"

"A piece of shit who would deserve to suffer. A piece of shit who took something from you that can never be replaced...but still you would spare his life. That's what makes you a good man. Most people would let him die. Want him to die."

Smirk tugging at his lips, Sebastian shrugged. "I'm not most people."

"I know," Rafael replied, using his thumb to stroke over the musician's hair-covered forearm.

"I think we just had our first fight," Sebastian said after a moment.

"Yeah, thanks to my big mouth," Rafael answered, lowering his eyes again.

"I love your mouth," the pianist said, turning his palm to face the ceiling, waiting for the lawyer's hand to slide over it. "Most of the time," he added with a teasing smirk.

Grinning back, Rafael brought the pianist hand up to place a firm kiss on his knuckles as in his mind he answered, I think I love you.

DECEMBER 31, 2013

Sebastian checked himself over in the mirror one last time after he heard the short rapping on the door, which he assumed was Rafael. They'd decided to meet up at Sebastian's and then go to Casper and Katie's together. Taking a deep breath, he tried to slow his racing heart by focusing on his breathing. Why was he so nervous? He and Rafael had been seeing each other for almost five months, they'd been on countless dates together, but never had they hung out with other people for an evening, least of all another couple and close friends of Sebastian's to boot. 

It'll be fine, you idiot. Just open the door so he doesn't think you ditched him.

Clearing his throat, he took long strides to his front door and opened it to find Rafael in a pink polo shirt under a tan jacket and jeans, carrying a bottle of expensive-looking champagne. The musician couldn't help the grin that formed on his face as his eyes drank in the sight of the ADA over and over again. 

"Wow. You look so good," he finally said, stepping aside to let the other man in as he gestured to the bottle. "You didn't have to bring anything."

"My mother taught me to never show up at someone's home without something in your hand," Rafael answered, closing the space between them to plant a kiss on the pianist's lips. "You look handsome, too."

Looking down at his fitted white thermal and dark stained jeans, Sebastian smoothed a hand over his shirt before his eyes came back up to meet Rafael's. "I may just say fuck it and keep you all to myself tonight."

"Well, you'll have me all to yourself later," the prosecutor replied, smirking suggestively as he laid another kiss on Sebastian's pout. 

"Oh, no work this year?" the pianist teased.

"I had a reason to get it all done this afternoon," Rafael said.

There was no stopping the warmth that crept up Sebastian's neck at the thought of Rafael making sure to clear his evening just for him. As if he hadn't already had thoughts of Rafael coming home to him after a hard day in court, now he was fighting the urge to mentally plan their wedding. 

"Should we go?" Sebastian asked, grabbing his jacket and putting it on. 

"Yes," Rafael replied. "So is this the first holiday Katie and Casper are spending together, too?"

"They were...whatever they are for this past 4th of July, so, not exactly. But it is coming up on nine months they've been fucking." Sebastian locked the door behind him and followed Rafael downstairs and onto the sidewalk.

"You should just call it what it is," Rafael replied with a smirk. "They're dating. Who knows, maybe if you say it enough times, Casper will finally start referring to her as his girlfriend."

The pianist laughed as his fingers naturally laced with those of Rafael's while they walked up the street towards Casper and Katie's apartment building. The streets were relatively clear, the large majority of the city either at a New Years Eve party or in the restaurants that were scattered around The Village. No true New Yorker ever went near Times Square when they could have a far more comfortable view of the Rockin Eve festivities from their couch or on a rooftop.

"That's not a bad idea," Sebastian said. "Who knows, he may not even notice."

"How long have you known him?"

"Since we were, like, twelve. He lived in the building across the street from mine," Sebastian replied. "How about you and Olivia? How long have you guys known each other?"

"A little over a year now. Basically from the time I started working with Manhattan SVU. She's probably the closest thing I have to a friend left. The only other person that I would still consider a friend is...going through some things. I'm not sure if things will ever be the same between us," Rafael replied.

"What happened?"

Rafael sighed heavily, forcing a smile on his face as he looked over at Sebastian. "Alex Muñoz happened."

"That whole thing that went down a couple months back?"

Rafael nodded as they both came to a stop at the corner of the block. "We were all friends as kids. Alex had the looks, Eddie was the muscle and I was the mouth, of course."

"Course you were," Sebastian answered with a smirk, gently bumping the ADA's hip with his own. 

Snorting softly, Rafael rolled his eyes just as the white figure appeared on the light across the street, indicating they could safely cross. "Eddie and I always had a special bond. A kind of unspoken connection...and we both always followed Alex. Until I went off to Harvard, Eddie stayed with Alex in the South Bronx, even became his bodyguard when he got into politics."

"So he was probably privy to a lot of the not so kosher shit Alex was doing."

Rafael nodded. "He was. He almost went to prison because of Alex."

"Why didn't he?"

"Because I convinced him to make a deal," Rafael answered in a barely audible voice. "He has a son, a mother to look after. Single dad, he's their only income. And I have no idea what he's gonna do now that Alex has been indicted. That whole ordeal just...it made me feel like a bad friend for leaving him."

Sebastian's thumb idly stroked over the glove covered skin between Rafael's knuckles. "You helped him stay outta prison, Raf. That sounds like a pretty great friend to me."

The corner of Rafael's lips curled upward slightly, his eyes lowered towards the sidewalk. He had never seen the prosecutor look so sad as when he talked about his childhood friends, and all Sebastian wanted to do at that moment was kiss every bad memory away.

"You should invite him to the club some night," he suggested, giving Rafael's hand a squeeze. 

"I don't know," the ADA answered in a sigh.

"If he took your advice, that means he values your opinion...and with Alex gone, I'm sure he could use a friend he knows he can count on," Sebastian said as he streered them towards the entrance of a six story building. "Think about it."

Nodding gently, Rafael smiled at Sebastian as they walked to the elevator and waited for the doors to open. "I will."

"Good," the pianist answered, pulling his hand out of Rafael's to wind the arm around his waist. "Because I can't tell you just how badly I wanna hear all about what you were like as a kid."

Rafael laughed, letting his head fall back as he leaned into the other man's frame. "I can tell you. I was a nerd. Older kids in the neighborhood used to beat me up, take my lunch money. Eddie put a stop to that."

"Well then he sounds like a pretty great friend, too."

"He is," Rafael replied.

They stepped into the elevator  and Sebastian hit the button for the fourth floor. "We're supposed to be getting a lot of snow in the next couple days."

"Yeah, I am not looking forward to that," Rafael replied in a sigh. "The commute to work is gonna be a nightmare."

"I can't say I envy you," Sebastian answered with a smirk. "That's probably the easiest part about my job, short commute."

"Your job must be nice. You get to play music all night, relaxed setting."

"It's got its difficulties like any other job. Mostly just people who drink a little too much and make asses of themselves. Doesn't happen too often, but still. Plus, it can get a little difficult to keep the sets fresh every night. There are only so many songs that are compatible with a piano arrangement."

"I, for one, wouldn't care if you played the same song on a loop every night. Your voice is so beautiful," Rafael answered, leaning his forehead against Sebastian's temple.

Turning his head to stare into the prosecutor's emerald eyes, Sebastian grinned and closed the space between them just as the elevator dinged softly and the doors began to slide open again.

"THEY'RE HERE!" he heard Katie yell. 

Breaking their kiss, Sebastian turned his head to see the petite brunette standing in the hallway with a beer.

"Jesus Christ, woman. What the hell are you doing?" he asked. "You started without us?" He gestured to the bottle in her hand as he and Rafael got out of the elevator and walked towards her.

"Casper didn't think you guys would make it. I knew you would," she answered, leading them both inside.

"Shit," Casper muttered when he saw the two men walk in behind Katie. 

"What a way to greet your guests, you animal," Sebastian mused as he took off his winter gear.

"I thought for sure you guys were gonna end up staying at your place so you could bang, if I'm being honest," Casper said with a bob of his shoulders. "I mean, you know, New Years Eve, fireworks and shit."

"Whoa, fancy," Katie said, her eyes on the bottle in Rafael's hand.

"Oh, yes, here. I brought this for us to toast to a new year," the prosecutor said, handing the bottle to Katie.

"Wow! Champagne," Katie replied with a grin. "Thank you, that's so nice. I'll go put it in the kitchen."

"Champagne, huh?" Casper chimed, nodding as the corners of his mouth turned down in appreciation. He looked up at Sebastian. "I like him."

Rafael chuckled as he, too, took off his winter coat, gloves and scarf.

"So what have you two lovebirds been doing?" Sebastian teased.

Casper rolled his eyes as Katie answered, "Oh just hanging around. By the way," she turned her gaze to Casper as she came back into the living room, "you owe me ten bucks."

"Yeah, yeah," Casper replied, reaching into his pocket and digging a ten dollar bill out of his wallet.

"He bet you guys would end up cancelling and staying at your place to bone," she explained to Rafael and Sebastian.

The pianist turned to look at the prosecutor. "See? What'd I tell you? Animal."

Rafael laughed softly before he looked back at Katie. "He means thank you for inviting us over."

"Aw, you're doing that thing where these two act like total idiots," she gestured to Sebastian and Casper, "but you and I are totally on the same page." 

"We're standing right here," Casper said with furrowed brows.

Katoe paid him no mind. "Do you guys want some snacks? We've got some cheese I can cut up and crackers."

"Sure," Sebastian answered.

"Do you want some help?" Rafael asked.

Katie's eyes lit up. "I would love some help, thank you, Rafael."

Sebastian watched Katie and the ADA walk into the kitchen as he and Casper sat down on the couch, the latter reaching into a small cooler for a bottle of beer to hand off to Sebastian. The pianist couldn’t help but chuckle as he took the offering. “Something wrong with your fridge?”

“No, this is just easier, I don’t have to get up. So, this is getting pretty serious between you two, huh?” the scrawny man asked, leaning back against the cushions.

“I don’t know if I would say that just yet, but things are going really well,” Sebastian answered. “How about you and your girlfriend?” he asked with a smirk, remembering the conversation with Rafael on the way over to their apartment.

“Oh, I mean, same ole. She really liked the bathrobe, you were right,” Casper replied. “Think I’m gonna--wait a sec, did you call her my girlfriend? She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Right,” Sebastian mumbled, taking a sip of his beer. “So she liked the bathrobe?”

“Yeah.”

“I told you she would,” Sebastian said, grinning. “Hey, I’ve been thinking...I think I wanna take Raf to meet Edna. What do you think?”

“Five months in?”

“No, not right away, but I was thinking maybe for Valentine’s Day we could stop Uptown to see her and he could meet her then,” Sebastian replied.

“And you say it’s not getting serious.” Casper smirked, rolling his eyes and taking a sip from his beer. “Have you met anyone from his world yet?”

“Yeah, I met one of his coworkers one night while we were out.”

“Did you meet her there or did you just happen to run into her?” Casper asked.

“We just ran into her, but Raf still introduced me.”

“I don’t know, man,” Casper mumbled.

“What? He just happened to meet you guys down at the piano bar. That wasn’t planned.”

Casper tilted his head to one side. “That’s true.” 

Katie and Rafael came back into the living room with a platter of cheese and crackers, laughing at one thing or another as they set the platter and small plates on the coffee table. For a moment, Sebastian could imagine that the four of them had been together for years and that this was their tradition every New Years. It was a nice thought, especially when accompanied by the image of him and Rafael going home together, falling asleep together.

“So how was the show last night, guys?” Katie asked as she sat down next to Casper, who instinctively put an arm around her shoulders.

“Oh God, it was amazing,” Rafael answered, looking to Sebastian as he too sat down.

“Yeah, Jefferson Mays knocked it out of the park, as usual. You guys should go see it if you get a chance to, it was so good,” the pianist agreed.

“Well, I wanna go see it, but you know Mr. I-Don’t-Watch-Theatre over here,” she answered, as she pointed to Casper with her thumb.

“I just don’t like the crowds,” Casper said, shoulders bobbing.

“This is a really small theatre, so it’s actually perfect for someone who prefers smaller crowds,” Rafael offered, leaning against Sebastian when the musician draped an arm over the back of the sofa behind him.

Casper seemed to consider it for a moment before he idly nodded. “Yeah, okay. Maybe we’ll go then.”

Katie looked pleasantly surprised. “We gotta keep you around Rafael. I never thought it would be that easy to convince him to go see a show.”

“Happy to help,” the ADA answered. 

“Hey, let’s play a game!” Katie suggested, handing Rafael a beer from the cooler. “I got Cards Against Humanity from my grandma and I think we might have Jenga somewhere.”

“That sounds great,” Rafael chimed.

“I’ll go get them!” Katie replied, shooting up from her seat excitedly and disappearing down the hall.

For the next couple of hours, they played games while waiting for the time to tick closer to midnight, and Sebastian couldn’t shake the feeling of it all being so...normal. As if they’d been doing this for years with Casper and Katie. Every so often they would meet eyes and share a smile at one another and Sebastian couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so happy. He hoped it would last for the rest of their lives.

Eleven fifty-five came in no time at all it seemed, and Casper suggested they all go to the rooftop to watch the ball drop, just as he and the pianist had done every year. Opening the bottle of champagne that Rafael had brought, they poured four glasses out and began to make their way to the top of the building.

“I can’t believe you can actually see the ball from here,” Katie mused as Casper propped open the emergency exit that led to the roof.

“I mean, it’s not a perfect view, but you can see it as it reaches five seconds left,” Casper answered, leading them to the perfect spot for the best vantage point. Looking down at his watch, he started off the countdown. “Ten, nine, eight…”

“Thank you for inviting me,” Rafael mumbled into Sebastian’s ear before he planted a gentle kiss on the skin beneath the lobe.

“Thanks for coming,” Sebastian mumbled back with a warm smile.

“Three, two, one...HAPPY NEW YEAR!”

With his heart filled to brim with joy, Sebastian closed the space between them and pressed his lips against those of the ADA’s, keeping their foreheads pressed together when, after a few moments of bliss, their lip lock broke. From the corner of his eye, he could see a bright flash and turned to look at Katie, who was holding up her cellphone, pointed at the two of them.

"Sorry, you guys are just so cute together, I literally want to put you both in a frame and keep you always," Katie said.

"When would they pee?" Casper asked, earning a chuckle from Sebastian and Rafael.

“Katie, would you send that to me, please?” Rafael asked.

“Yeah, of course!” Katie answered.

Sebastian couldn’t have helped it if he wanted to, and he definitely didn’t want to stop himself from falling, long and hard for the ADA at that very moment. And he didn’t even care that it might’ve been too soon to feel that way.

#rafael barba #rafael barba x male #thelawyerandthepianobar #rabastian

[curlyhairedbibliophile]

Just Mercy & The Sun Does Shine || Book Reviews

I usually try to read books before a movie or TV adaptation, but in cases like this with nonfiction titles, switching it around helps to expand on what I’d just watched. As great as the story was, there were a few things I had questions about or wanted to get more insight on while watching so I was glad to get that through these reads.

REVIEWS 

Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption | Bryan Stevenson | 5🌟

This book is about getting closer to mass incarceration and extreme punishment in America. It is about how easily we condemn people in this country and the injustice we create when we allow fear, anger, and distance to shape the way we treat the most vulnerable among us. It’s also about a dramatic period in our recent history, a period that indelibly marked the lives of millions of Americans - of all races, ages, and sexes - and the American psyche as a whole.

Since I went into this almost immediately after seeing the movie, most of the events recounted here were familiar. I didn’t know much about the death penalty and execution process so both gave me a lot of insight into how things happen - this slightly more because it was as limited for time. I was somewhat aware of the time period and the location that most of this took place so I wasn’t too surprised at the extremity of the racism here, but I can’t help but wonder if I’d feel the same way had this taken place in present day (the beginning, that is). It all just felt so familiar to what we see now on the news that it’s saddening to realize it’s always been this way.

I appreciated the look into his beginnings and involvement in other cases aside from the Walter McMillian case that was the primary focus of the film. There were details that were more fleshed out from what was I’d seen, which brought a lot of emotions in regards to the level of wrongdoings in the ongoing outcomes of these cases. As capital murder cases are not something I frequently keep up with due to the varying natures of the crimes, I was a little surprised to read about his involvement with sentences involving women clients. I guess I shouldn’t assume that everyone on death row is male, but it was a little disheartening to read his accounts on these innocent women who were going back and forth in court in fear of execution - especially the mothers. Having a follow-up on Walter beyond the ending of the film was also nice. It broke my heart a little to see how his experience weighed on him far beyond his release, but it was good to know that he had support all the way through.

Aside from the details of the cases and how they traveled between courts, I did enjoy reading about Stevenson and his journey growing the Equal Justice Initiative into what it is today. Although he encountered many obstacles along the way, it was really inspiring to see how he continued to push through for the benefit and wellbeing of his clients, no matter the final outcome. If I could take anything away from this, it would be the power of mercy and how we decide who receives it. There’s still plenty of prejudice in this world, maybe more-so now than ever, but if we actually took the time out to see the humanity in people, maybe we wouldn’t be so quick to judge based on our biases.

The Sun Does Shine: How I Found Life and Freedom on Death Row | Anthony Ray Hinton | 5🌟

But justice is a funny thing, and in Alabama, justice isn’t blind. She knows the color of your skin, your education level, and how much money you have in the bank. I may not have had any money, but I had enough education to understand exactly how justice was working in this trial and exactly how it was going to turn out. The good old boys had traded in their white robes for black robes, but it was still a lynching.

Since the film was more focused on Walter McMillian’s case, I was glad to read this for more insight on one of the others that caught my attention, Anthony Ray Hinton. Just the small details that were mentioned had me intrigued, and this gave me so much more about his life and the circumstances of his case that let me know just how far some are willing to go, both back then and now, to make someone’s life difficult.

Similar to Walter McMillan, the initial ruling on Anthony Ray Hinton’s case was full of loopholes. I thought Walter’s issues were bad, but Ray’s were much worse. It made me sad and angry to read the accounts of how much the ordeal broke him down and the effects it had on his family and friends, especially the toll it took on his mother. He had some really dark moments, and it seemed as if every setback knocked him down even further, but I was glad to see him find some resemblance of an escape to just simply survive. I really admired that he was able to keep aspects of himself and provide some comfort to the other men on death row,  matter how small it may have seemed. It was such an emotional rollercoaster at the end when the truth was finally out - I was so happy for him to be out and live the rest of his life outside prison walls, but sad that the lingering effects of his ordeal were so strong that he experienced fear and anxiety over the smallest things.

As if that wasn’t enough, in the afterword, Hinton includes a list of all of the men and women on death row as of the date of publication, which really put things into perspective considering the statistic that one of every ten is actually innocent. I never knew the list was that long and after reading this as a follow-up to Just Mercy, I’m wondering just how many of them involved as many inconsistencies and setbacks as these two - in fear of possible execution when they know deep down that they’re innocent and were tried biased and/or unfairly. Similar to the list of victims of police brutality at the end of The Hate U Give, there was a mixture of sadness and anger in reading each name, but still a small hint of hope that at least something is being done - even if it doesn’t seem like enough at the moment.

Overall, these were two great reads. I learned a lot about capital murder cases and the death penalty, which given the details of the cases featured in both titles, really made me stop and think about my own feelings and if I’ve changed my mind on my position after the details or these accounts. It definitely put things  into perspective that not all cases are black and white, especially when there may be some foul play behind the scenes, so I’m glad that I not only had the side of a lawyer, but also that of someone in danger of execution to really see how it is on either side. Although there’s still work to do, it’s nice to know there’s even the slightest bit of change and people willing to fight for more.

#just mercy #just mercy: a story of justice and redemption #bryan stevenson #the sun does shine #the sun does shine: how i found life and freedom on death row #anthony ray hinton #capital murder #death penalty #death row #equal justice initiative #booklr #bookblr #book review #black authors

[vateacancameos]

Chapters: 1/1 Words:1629 Fandom: Sherlock (TV) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Mrs. Hudson Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Mrs. Hudson (Sherlock Holmes) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, vague depictions of domestic abuse, Domestic Violence, Friendship, Tattoos, Healing Series: Part 2 of Tattoo My Name On Your Heart Summary:

Prequel to Secrets Are Mine to Keep. 

Martha Hudson needs to heal after leaving an abusive situation. She stumbles upon a Sherlock at the beginning of his tattooing career. He helps cover more than scars.

This can be read as a stand-alone, but works best when read in conjunction with the previous story in this series. If reading this before Secrets Are Mine to Keep, just know that Sherlock is a tattoo artist instead of a detective.

(CW for mentions of domestic abuse)

-----------------------------------------

Martha Hudson married young, but that didn’t make her stupid. She knew the likelihood of Frank being The One was highly unlikely, but she was in love and he had a great car and a gorgeous body.

There might have been a chance at some long-term happiness if they’d stayed in England, but Florida did her husband no favors. It started with a bad crowd and moved to late-night drug deals and a few people being permanently hushed. But Martha liked an exciting life, so she went along with it, if a little uneasily.

Even then, she might have loved Frank until the end, except that he decided that running a drug empire meant he should start testing the product himself, and like Florida, drugs did her husband no favors. The first time he hit her, she passed it off as a one-time thing. He’d been stressed already, and then she’d nagged him about some chore he’d forgot to do. It wouldn’t happen again, though. They loved each other.

Except that it did. Not often, and nothing so bad that a little makeup or a long-sleeved shirt wouldn’t hide it, but a couple of times a year, it did happen. And yet she stayed. Because Frank needed her. Because where could she go? Because their friends would side with Frank. Because she had no formal education and no skills beyond book keeping for a drug lord.

In the end, fate got Martha out of the bad situation she had found herself in. Frank learned about the warrant for his arrest two hours before the cops arrived. It was enough time to accuse Martha of tipping them off. Two hours later, he left in a cop car with blood on his hands. Martha left in an ambulance with blood on her back.

***

read the rest of the story after the cut or on ao3. 

When Martha met Sherlock Holmes five years later, she saw in his eyes the moment he understood what had happened to her. She walked into the shop on a whim because she wanted to cover the scars. Sherlock was finishing his apprenticeship and was given the walk-ins. He’d been stiff in his greeting, and Martha almost walked back out again. But then he’d looked, and he’d seen her, so she stayed.

After his knowing look, he asked only one question, very softly. “What did you wish for?”

A thousand regrets clamored in her head. There were so many moments she could have ended it. But what came out of her mouth was “I wish I’d flown away.” It was a silly, childish wish and not at all what she’d been thinking, but Sherlock only nodded.

“I need to see them.” They were in a private room, but Sherlock was a young man and Martha was from an era where you didn’t just strip off your shirt in mixed company (unless in specific situations involving exotic dancing). But she was doing this to learn to be brave and to forget her past, so she took a breath, turned to face away from him, and lifted her shirt.

Sherlock’s hands were gentle and warm. He was a perfect gentlemen as he measured her and asked a few questions about placement.

“I need time to work on some ideas,” he finally said, and her heart dropped. She didn’t know if she’d be brave enough to do this if it was drawn out. But then he continued. “Come back tomorrow at noon.”

She settled her shirt back in place and turned to face this solemn young artist she’d been assigned. Looking at him, she could tell his past was no rosier than hers. Despite their differences, she felt a kindred spirit, and her courage came back.

“Alright.”

***

The sound of smashing ceramic and an angry shout almost had her bolting back out of the door, but she took a breath, straightened her shoulders, and walked into the shop. The young man behind the counter rolled his eyes. “Ignore the freak,” he said, pointing to the room where Martha had met Sherlock the day before. “He’s a toddler sometimes.”

“Oh. I have an appointment with him …” She fiddled with the strap of her purse and frowned at the man’s words. ‘Freak’ was a little harsh. These creative types were always overemotional. You’d think people working in a tattoo shop would be used to that sort.

The man sighed again just as Sherlock stomped into the front area. His fierce walk stuttered to a stop when he saw Martha. “Ah, yes. Just a minor setback. Let’s … um, go out.” He exited as quickly as he’d entered, but he was back a moment later wearing a dramatic coat and carrying a sketchpad. He nodded for the front door, holding it open for her (such a gentlemen) as they exited.

“I’m afraid I’m having … difficulties visualizing your art,” he explained after they’d found a nearby café and sat with their drink. He frowned down at the cover of his sketchpad. “Normally …” He shook his head and scrubbed a hand through his wild curls.

“Everyone gets … what’s writer’s block but with art? Artist’s block?” She patted his hand. “It’s alright.” Funny that she was the one comforting him. She did that a lot.

Sherlock scowled. “Not to me. I see a person, and then I visualize their tattoo. It’s what I do. My process has never failed me before.”

“Can I help?”

“What? No. How could you help?”

Martha shrugged. “What else do you need to know? Should I tell you my favorite colors or my childhood dreams?”

He waved a hand dismissively. “Purple and dancing. That’s no use.”

She sat back, startled. “Oh. Well. That is impressive.”

He raised his eyes from where they’d been focused on his cup. “You’re not scared I’m some sort of stalker?”

She laughed. “Oh pish. No. You’re observant is all. You said so yourself. So. Tell me what you need to know so you can design my tattoo.”

He sighed dramatically. Oh, yes, this boy would be a handful.

She smiled. “Fine. I’ll just start talking until you tell me to shut up.”

And she did. She told him about her childhood best friend, the stray cat she took in right after she got married, how the weather in Florida always felt wrong. She talked about her wedding day, her older sister, the uncle sent to prison for making moonshine during American Prohibition. She talked and talked, and Sherlock never stopped her. She wasn’t sure he was always listening, but she could see that his brain was working, so she figured she was doing something right.

“And then, they ended up arresting Frank on tax fraud, of all things! He shot a man’s head off and there wasn’t a word, but the moment the government wasn’t getting its due, they raised a fuss. Oh, America. Such a strange country.” Odd how she could talk about that without feeling a thing. And it really was funny, when you thought about how it all went down, minus the hospital visit.

Sherlock’s head shot up. “They have the death penalty in Florida, correct?”

“Oh yes, but not for tax fraud.”

“But for shooting a man’s head off, they would.”

She nodded half-heartedly. “They can’t charge him for that, though. He’s very good at what he does, my Frank.”

“So am I,” Sherlock replied slowly.

“Well that remains to be seen. Seeing as you’ve reneged on our deal to have a sketch ready by today.”

“No, the other thing. I help the police with cases sometimes.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh really.” It was sort of sweet how he tried to talk himself up. The poor boy must not have received enough love growing up. Her heart broke for him. He needed someone in his corner.

“Fine, I’ve helped a policeman. Once. And I was sort of high at the time.” He waved a hand. “But that doesn’t matter. I am capable of doing what the detectives do. And far better.” Sherlock grinned. “I’m going to put your husband on death row.”

She stilled. Despite the glib tone, she knew he was serious. At least serious about trying. And yes, they were talking about death, which should never be mentioned lightly. But really, if Frank was put on death row, it was only his own fault for not following American laws. He should be bound by those punishments, shouldn’t he? But it was Frank, and no matter what he’d done, she did love him still, in a way. But …

“I can’t afford to pay for both a tattoo and a detective …” she began slowly.

He leveled a disbelieving look at her. “You took care of his books for years. As if you didn’t squirrel away some money of your own or find a way take the bulk of his fortune after he, well, after.”

“Well, I never.” But she was smiling. He really was very good at his job. Well, one of his jobs, it seemed. She could do worse than to believe in him.

***

In the end, it took less time to find the necessary information to put Frank away for good than it did for Sherlock to design Martha’s tattoo. Still, she couldn’t complain. Her freedom was worth more than some pesky scars she only rarely saw. More than that, Sherlock made her feel comfortable with herself again. The poor boy needed someone looking after and believing in him. And she needed to keep busy.

By the time he’d come up with the final draft of the tattoo, they’d become business partners, opened a little tattoo shop, and Sherlock had moved in upstairs. And truly, the tattoo was worth the wait. She might not be able to fly, but the wings on her back made her feel like she could do anything.

#sherlock #mrs. hudson #fanfic #ao3 #meagan writes #domestic abuse #tattoos #friendship

[bookandcover]

[Note: Most of this post was written in July/August 2020.]

The second book my family read for our Anti-Racism Book Club, Just Mercy, details decades of Black attorney Bryan Stevenson’s fight for criminal justice reform, particularly focused on the sentencing and treatment of prisoners on Alabama’s death row. Stevenson’s experiences seem like those of a military doctor—harrowing, horrifying, and addressing at breakneck speed each horrible emergency in case-after-case immediately before him. While his organization, Equal Justice Initiative, continues to bring about policy change and positive impact in diverse ways, I was struck, repeatedly, by how often this book matter-of-factly captured and expressed the challenges of a tremendous uphill battle—Bryan Stevenson looked like one person (or one of a small group) trying desperately to hold back an overwhelming tide. The book captures being “on the ground,” “in the field,” “in the heart of battle,” in the cruel, immediate fight for racial justice and human dignity. 

The novel’s structure reflects this proximity to the fight. Each chapter, while addressing a different element of criminal justice reform (women’s experiences, children charged as adults, mental illness and the death penalty) chooses as its central focus a specific case or few cases Stevenson worked on. By telling the stories of these cases—which Stevenson does with a sharp eye for detail—our author reveals the humanity and individuality inseparable from each case. I loved this. Stevenson knows that, in making policies and laws, we tend to talk about statistics, numbers, and averages. We build “systems” for justice (ideally, that is...acknowledging that we’ve mostly built systems for injustice). But it’s the specific cases, and the specific people (such as innocent Walter McMillian, who spent six years on death row and returned to a life completely obliterated by the process of his wrongful conviction, multiple trials, imprisonment, and overwhelming press coverage of his case), that reveal the miscarriages of justice that show where our systems (and our hearts) need a lot of work. 

The structure of this book around the stories of specific people achieves several things central to both Stevenson’s mission and worldview. First of all, it puts humans first. Stevenson is a lawyer. He knows the law and he believes in it. But he also knows it exists (or should) to serve and to protect people. He maintains incredible humanity when faced with diverse people and perspectives. “We’re more than the worst thing any of us has ever done,” he writes. Even with those who stand in his way, who express cruel and racist viewpoints, Stevenson is always looking for positive change, is always aware of the capacity of humans to grow through receiving mercy. Stevenson talks about the poorly-trained and ill-prepared workers who are given the job of delivering lethal injections because doctors cannot do so under the Hippocratic Oath. He is sympathetic for these workers. He includes the guard at one of his client’s prisons who gives him a very hard time when he comes to visit. The Confederate-flag-toting, blatantly racist guard, trumped up on his own power, is given the opportunity, and the grace, to change. Stevenson even acknowledges change in the man who stood strongest against Walter’s retrial. 

Stevenson’s capacity for mercy seemed, to me, superhuman. I cannot imagine displaying the grace he did in so many situations. [Later, I also pondered whether other Black writers I’ve read this year would agree with Stevenson’s approach? Did his grace in the face of racism present an unrealistic bar? Did it school his tone and his approach into one that others would view as too non-confrontational, too loving? I’m not sure. I will try to do some research about how other Black writers and activists have responded to his book.] At the same time, I did feel incredibly moved by Stevenson. I believe him, believe in his conviction and poignant insistence that we, as humans, have incredible capacity for mercy and that mercy is the tool that can reshape our systems of injustice. As he turns his capacity for mercy on the criminal justice system, which enacts harsh punishments on people, even when correctly “judged” (if such a thing is possible) to be criminals, he shows how quick we can be to disregard human life. Why do we—any of us—think we have the capacity to judge another’s life? To enact a punishment as final as the death penalty? 

In addition to humanizing the systematic criminal justice process and focusing on the humanity of criminals, Stevenson’s narrative structure in this book highlights the overwhelming scope of the problems in criminal justice that are in desperate need of reform. This could be a different book if it focused on political science or on legal policy—more systematic, more big picture. Instead, it makes a connection with our hearts. It shows how, as I’ve mentioned, Stevenson struggles to get through the bare minimum of what he’d like to achieve. He helps the people with the closest execution dates first. He cannot take on every case. Over and over he fights for a stay of execution. In many ways, this work is like putting a band-aid on a gushing wound. 

But Stevenson more than justifies this work through his narrative focus on individual humans. One significant impact of the structure of this book—of its focus on individual people as people, humans, real and complex—is that it pits the weight of EVEN ONE human life against the whole criminal justice system. Even one failure of justice, even one wrongful sentencing, becomes a crime weighing on all of us as human beings. Because how can we sit, complacent in our own homes and lives, while any one of the situations Bryan Stevenson describes occurs? We, through our own willfulness or our own blunder, condemn other people to the situations described in this novel—brutal execution by failing electric chair of a mentally-ill young man, repeated rape of a child tried as an adult and sent to an adult prison, imprisonment for years of a completely innocent individual—these are crimes that have no reckoning. How do we answer for them? Should we ever, this book asks, have this kind of power over another human being? The power to condemn another person to death, to choose extreme punishment over mercy? 

And, yet, we do these things, and we exert this power. We have imperfect systems and the idea that we have systems at all keeps us in complacency, complicit. Of course, this is the world and not utopia—any justice system designed by humans, even with superhuman attempts at fairness and racial equity, will be imperfect. But some systems could, certainly, be much better than others depending on who designs them and for whom they are designed. Stevenson’s central focus on humanity—on the experiences and cases of individuals made real and concrete to us through his depictions—reveals a worldview focused on the idea that any improvement of an imperfect system has incredible significance. Because each human life is worthy of every iota of effort. One life saved, one innocent man freed—the improved, the better system that saves only one more person than the slightly less good system—this is not a slight difference at all. This is a human life. Something that should never be traded in casually nor played around with. Any miscarriage of justice, Stevenson shows us, ought to rest heavily on all of our souls. 

[Here I am, again, looking back at and editing writing I did about racism and racial justice six months ago. I can see the ways in which my thinking has evolved in this span of time. I feel like, with each piece of reading and thinking and talking and acting that I do about race, I am more aware of how far I have to go. I’m alarmed by huge blunders I’ve made in the past. But what I should feel worse about was all that time, before now, of ignorance. I’ve been ignorant enough to not see my racism. I still am, I’m sure. I’ve got to keep going. 

Also, I write these book reviews for myself. But I put them on the internet. If anyone who reads this wants to talk to me about anything I have written here, I hope that you feel you can. Thank you.]

#just mercy #bryan stevenson #tw: death penalty #law and legality #criminal justice reform #tw: discussions of racism #anti-racism reading #important reading