#and a piece of evidence showing that people were very much willing to sympathise with him

[boyfridged]

this is perhaps completely obvious, but the comparison of pre-crisis vs post-crisis jason runs is such a poignant illustration of how the intentions of the writers make a world of difference.

pre-crisis jay was, ironically, at the beginning of his career much more of a thrill-seeker and much less serious about his motivations behind his desire to be a sidekick than post-crisis jay ever was. he was also much more reckless. he said, for instance, that studying crime was even worse than doing homework, and what interested him was going after "action." he didn't like the thought of not being credited for his actions. but he was still a character written with so much sympathy and enthusiasm – with so much open and continuous consideration for his youth, his past, his feelings. and the readers saw that! so many of them loved him! when you look at the back pages of these issues, issues in which jay often committed mistakes during patrols, in which he was at times petty and moody, you see with how much compassion they looked at him. there were letters that started with hate about the art or the storytelling, and ended with warm and attentive analyses of jay's character.

and the thing is, reactions to post-crisis might have been worse, but i don't think it was ever a matter of people disliking any iteration of jason todd from the start (even if some were certainly prejudiced as dick grayson fans. and as bigots); it's simply that post-crisis jay has never been written with a similar amount of care. o'neil saying that "people really hated jason" and that "he didn't know why" is absurd because (well, first of all, i don't think that he was ever that hated, and second of all) he was specifically written in a way that prevented a lot of casual readers to connect with him. pre-crisis, we see jay's perspective all the time, also beyond the patrols. he's much meaner than post-crisis jay a lot of times! for example, he tells julia (alfred's daughter), who is at the time staying at the manor, that he saw new flat listings, insinuating that she should move out because he is bothered by her presence. and that's rude. that's a reason why someone could think that he is a spoilt child (which imo pre-crisis jay actually very much is. i don't think it's a bad thing). but we also see him in his bed later, wondering "how could i have said something like that to her?" so naturally we see it from his side too.

on the contrary, when it comes to post-crisis jay, we have almost no insight into his head up until a death in the family. and of course, starlin admitted that he did want to make him unlikable; so suddenly everything jay does, including acting against orders, is written to make him seem like a difficult, unpleasant kid. but something you really have to understand is that the same attitude, when previously displayed by pre-crisis jay or even dick (!) was seen as endearing; a sign of bravery and an honest heart. in the first issues by collins, as well as barr's detective comics run, there's a semblance of recognition for that. beyond that, the whole narrative of his (very short) published history gets hostile. and starlin might not have written any of that outright, but you see that shift. all of a sudden a decision that would make you go "aww" if moench or barr wrote it, makes you displeased. i think one thing to take away from that is asking if it were depicted in the same tone if dick or tim did the same thing, for example. it's content that requires a much more critical attitude from the reader, that's for sure.

#i love saying things that are completely obvious for everyone. #pre-crisis #<- i have to start tagging. eh #i have not mentioned ntt because jay is written with much more love there which is quite obv because the titans office did care #about the mantle #and this was more about the batman office #also not mentioning the cult because frankly speaking while it has good plot #it doesn't really offer much in terms of jay's characterisation #anyway there's this one letter about pre-crisis jay that i adore #where the reader said that jay's “occasional brilliance” intertwined with horrible mistake can be explained by a sports analogy #where young talented players might have lower success rate than older mid players #bc they need to grow into their talent with experience #it was genuinely such a lovely comment. #and a piece of evidence showing that people were very much willing to sympathise with him #jay.zip #jay.txt #jason todd #core texts #robin days

[upstartpoodle]

Moving Forward (Prologue)

Rating: T

Relationships: Dwight & George, George & Ross, George & Cary, past George/Elizabeth

Summary: When George saves Ross' life from the French General, Hanson decides to take immediate revenge. Stuck at Nampara, seriously injured, he and the Poldarks must learn to get along as he recovers in order to eliminate the threat that Hanson and his brother pose for good.

@harry-leroy, @forcebros, @ticketybooser I’ve finally decided to start posting the post s5 AU, if only to encourage me to get on and write the rest of it ha.

AO3

***

“Well, gentlemen, now that this…inconvenient matter is being dealt with, I think it is time that I take my leave.”

Sir George Warleggan forced his knee to stop bobbing nervously up and down as the loathsome Mr Merceron stood from his seat in Trenwith’s parlour, the smug, self-satisfied look on his weathered face quite horrible to behold. His mind was in a whirl at the sight—had been ever since the man had suggested passing on proof of Ross Poldark’s attempt at espionage to General Toussaint, thereby likely seeing his longstanding rival killed and the report of the proposed French invasion of the south west suppressed. He had not, at first, quite believed that such a thing was being said to him. As unscrupulous as he had often been in his own business dealings, a scheme which would leave a man, however disliked, dead by collaborating with one who meant both his home county and his country at large great harm was going a little too far even for him. And yet, it seemed as if Merceron and his horrid brother were quite satisfied to use the French to rid themselves of a nuisance to them, consequences be damned, and it had left George without the slightest idea of what to say or do in response to their plots.

“Will you not stay for another drink?” his uncle asked, eyebrow raised. George glanced over at him, trying for what seemed like the hundredth time that evening to gauge his feelings with regards to the night’s rather alarming proceedings. Cary did not appear to be overtly concerned—he was of a kind with Merceron when it came to ruthlessness, in ways that had made his nephew uncomfortable in the past on a number of occasions—but not so long ago he had agreed that some distance from the two men would be preferable, for the sake of their own reputations if nothing else. For what, then, did he wish now?

Merceron seemed about to reply to the offer, but whether it had been to accept or deny it, they never found out, for George cut across him as politely as he could.

“Uncle, I am sure Mr Merceron is tired after the day’s events,” he said. “It is very late, and he shall no doubt wish to return to his lodgings in Truro.”

Despite his courteous words, his tone brooked no argument. There was a short pause, before Merceron inclined his head in George’s direction. There was a slight smile upon his face, but the twist of his lips greater resembled a grimace, his eyes cold, like two pieces of hard flint set deep beneath the ridge of his cruel brow.

“You are quite right,” he agreed, and though his tone was mild, George sensed that he was not entirely pleased. “I must return to Truro. Mr Warleggan—(he nodded to Cary)—when we next meet, I hope that our…little problem will be no more, and our reputations shall be restored. Sir George, if you would perhaps be so kind as to show me to the door? There is a matter I wish to discuss with you.”

“By all means.” The request was not quite polite, and George would have very much liked to refuse, but the look in Merceron’s eye told him that he would not leave until he got what he wanted. With that in mind, he pushed himself out of his seat and followed out through the door and into the hall.

“I sense, Sir George,” Merceron remarked once the door to the parlour had been closed behind him with a soft click, “that you are not entirely comfortable with this plan.”

George opened his mouth to deny it, but Merceron held up a hand to silence him. He glared at the man, wishing to make it abundantly clear that he did not appreciate being shushed like a contrary child.

“I understand why you might be concerned—(George had to bite his tongue to stop himself from retorting “that, I very much doubt”)—but I assure you, none of this shall ever be attached to your name. If all goes well, nobody will even know that anyone was involved at all, save for Poldark and the General, of course. Enys might suspect something, but who would listen to his word over mine?”

George was sorely tempted to point out that as the Enyses had, in spreading the word about Merceron’s mistreatment of his prisoners, managed to do some severe damage to the man’s reputation, it was quite possible that Dwight’s testimony would be taken very seriously, if not by various official persons, then by the court of public opinion. Still, he did not think it wise to rile the man, nor to remind him of the fact that Ross was not his sole enemy in Cornwall, and so he quashed the urge before he could make any imprudent observations.

“And if all does not go well?,” he said instead. “If your brother is caught, if his part in this scheme is discovered, it will not take long for your name to be connected to the whole business as well.”

Merceron smiled then, that cold, cold smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He looked like a shark, George thought, cruel and emotionless.

“Oh, there shall be no risk of that, Sir George,” he replied. “If my half-brother should be so foolish as to be caught in the act, so to speak, I shall be the first to condemn him for his deplorable plots. I am well-known amongst those who matter as a man dedicated to the service of His Majesty and this country against the Jacobins and their sympathisers, and Ralph and I have never been…close. Naturally, no suspicion shall be attached to me.”

What you are is a traitor, George thought. A filthy, cruel, horrid traitor and an arrogant hypocrite, prepared to torture those you deem Jacobin criminals whilst using those of the same sympathies to rid yourself of a man whom you have deemed troublesome to you, who would be willing—even happy—to abandon your family, loathsome though he is, to the consequences of your shared scheme, just as long as you remain unscathed. It was then that he realised that he could not simply sit at Trenwith, hoping that this whole mess would somehow resolve itself. He would have to do something, would have to intervene. But how?

“I see,” he returned, trying to keep the coldness out of his voice. If he wished for Merceron to leave, he would have to let him believe that he had succeeded in persuading him not to protest the plan. “Well, please do not let me keep you, Mr Merceron. The roads here can be dangerous so late at night, and I should not wish to delay your return to Truro.”

Merceron did not move, staring at him narrowly.

“I should be pleased to hear that I have set your mind at ease on the matter,” he said. “It is unwise for allies to disagree when one wishes for one’s plans to succeed.”

George swallowed, mind racing. He needed to think of a plan of his own, needed to get rid of Merceron before it became too late to act.

“I see that there is little risk of the reputations of my family and myself being harmed by tonight’s events, whatever they may be” he lied through his teeth. “And if you feel that Mr Hanson’s actions, no matter how successful they are, shall not reflect on either of our…sympathies, I have no further objections to offer you.”

Merceron nodded, brisk and satisfied.

“Good, good,” he said. “Well, Sir George, I shall take my leave of you. If you do not object, I will take the liberty of calling upon you in the morning, where I hope to bring you good news.”

With those words, he turned on his heel and left through the heavy front door, without waiting to hear any potential objections to his visiting the next day that might have been issued. His departure did little to ease George’s mind, however. He had wasted too much time dithering, and he needed to act at once. A vague plan was beginning to form in his mind, but did he have the nerve or the daring to carry it out?

“Trigg!,” he called into the shadows once he was entirely sure that Merceron was gone. “Trigg!”

“Sir?” The footman stepped silently out into the candlelight, livery immaculate and face expressionless underneath his powdered wig.

“Trigg, would you be so good as to fetch me a pistol?,” he said, then, remembering that Hanson had been armed when he left Trenwith, amended his request. “Actually, it might be best if you bring me two.”

Trigg, who was usually so poised and professional, seemed to choose that moment to forget all the training he had ever received. He stared openly at his employer, utterly baffled.

“Two…pistols, sir?,” he asked, dumbfounded. “But whatever might you do with two pistols?”

His confusion was understandable—George had never been a shooting man, and even if he were, it was hardly likely that he would be inclined to shoot pheasant or whatever it was that such people hunted in pitch darkness—but the urgency of the situation had lead him to be, perhaps unfairly, a little short with the man.

“What one usually does with pistols, I imagine,” he replied, a bite of impatience in his voice. “I certainly don’t intend to dance the gavotte with them.”

Unfortunately, this only served to make Trigg more baffled.

“Should I call for Dr Enys, sir?”

George fought the urge to throw up his hands in frustration. Would this be his lot in life now—condemned to have his staff finding evidence that he was deranged in every out of the ordinary request he ever made? He heard the grandfather clock in the parlour begin to chime. No time, no time.

“For goodness’ sake, man,” he snapped. “I assure you I am not suffering under some unexpected fit of lunacy. Now please, make haste. I must go to Nampara, and as it is likely currently inhabited by an angry French General and a man with two pistols and no morals to speak of, it would be imprudent of me to arrive there unarmed.”

Some measure of comprehension began to dawn on Trigg’s face, clearly possessed of some inclination of what the two half-brothers had been planning, and, for once, George thanked God and the Devil for servants who listened at doors. If he wished to protest the prospect of his master flinging himself into imminent danger, he quickly masked any sign of it, and with a polite “of course, sir”, we went about his task with all possible swiftness. George felt himself relax only marginally.

“George!” Any relief that he had felt at Trigg obeying his orders was stamped out as his uncle stepped suddenly out through the parlour door to join him in the hall, a dark, angry look on his sour face. “What the devil are you doing?!”

George could only presume that Cary had overheard the last part of his exchange with Trigg, and from his expression, had been none too pleased with its contents. He swallowed nervously. The footman was one thing, but how on earth was he going to persuade his uncle?

“I am going to Nampara,” he said as calmly as he could. “This plan… Uncle, surely you see that they have gone too far?”

“It is perhaps a little…,” Cary conceded, just barely, working his jaw in displeasure. “But that is no reason for you to put yourself in danger! You—”

“But do you not see?!,” George exclaimed in exasperation. He needed to go, before it was too late. “These ‘Merceron devils’, as you term them, will put us all in danger if their scheme succeeds. What do you suppose General Toussard shall do should his plans remain undiscovered? You know he harbours ill intentions towards Cornwall, and to England, and I cannot in good conscience allow knowledge of his dealings to be suppressed.”

Cary threw up his hands in frustration.

“But why must it be you?!,” he barked. “What possible—?”

“Who else will intervene? Merceron has ensured well enough that nobody else will know of it.”

His uncle looked as if he were about to say something, but at that moment, Trigg returned with two loaded pistols in his hands. George moved to take them, but Cary’s hand shot out to seize his upper arm, stopping him in his tracks. He fought back a wince as the bony fingers dug into his flesh.

“I will not permit this” the man growled, eyes flashing, giving him a little shake to emphasise his words. George sent him a defiant look, tugging his arm sharply out of his grip.

“It is not for you to permit me anything,” he replied caustically. “I am no longer a child that you may scold into submission. Or do you perhaps mean to become my jailer once more? You will not find that so easy whilst I have all my wits about me.”

He had not forgotten the man’s role in subjecting him to the awful treatments of Dr Penrose, and apparently, neither had his uncle, for an uncomfortable look that seemed ill-suited to his dour countenance stole across his face, effectively silencing his protests. George sent him one last glare, before taking the pistols from Trigg, who had been standing silently to the side, pretending not to notice that his two employers were arguing fiercely in front of him. It seemed that Cary was not completely finished, however, for, before George could reach the door, he spoke once more.

“For God’s sake, nephew, do not do this!,” he cried. “Not for the sake of a man like Poldark!”

George turned back to meet his gaze, one hand resting against the heavy wooden door.

“It is not for his sake that I am doing this.”

And with that, he stepped through the doorway and out into the cold night air, without looking back.

***

He rode as fast as he could, glad of the full moon that hung high in the night sky—he wouldn’t have fancied his chances of arriving on time without it, at least not without running the risk of plummeting straight over a cliff in the dark. As it was, he made good time to Nampara, only allowing his horse to slow when the shambling old house came into sight. He thought he could just about make out a light in the window as he dismounted, but as he approached, nervously adjusting his grip on the two pistols Trigg had given him, he saw that something was wrong. Even though there was a low fire crackling in the grate of the parlour, there was nobody in the room. Nor could he hear any kind of movement from the house. Was he already too late? There didn’t seem to be any sign of a struggle, but nevertheless neither Ross nor Hanson were there. In that case, where could they be?

It was then that he noticed the faint sound of metal clashing upon metal drifting on the wind from a nearby barn. Was that…? He strained his ears, and again and again he heard it, clearer and more distinct now that he was listening for it. He crept forward cautiously, his grip on the two pistols white-knuckled, and, careful not to be heard or seen, slipped through the doorway and into the cavernous darkness, lit only by the thin beams of moonlight shining through the slats of the worn roof.

Well, he thought as he took in the scene that lay before him. You wanted to find both Ross and Hanson, and now you have. The reason behind that sound of clashing metal had become apparently clear the moment he had stepped into the barn—Ross was engaged in a fierce duel with a man whom George could only presume was General Toussaint, blades flashing as they danced furiously in the faint moonlight. Beyond them stood Hanson and—much to his surprise—Demelza, who looked pale and drawn and worried. Hanson still had one of his pistols, he saw, and was watching the two men fight with the calculating precision of a snake waiting to strike.

All of a sudden, it seemed as if Ross were about to overpower the General, and it was then that Hanson uncoiled, levelling his pistol directly between the man’s shoulders. George knew that he could no longer afford to wait. Almost without thinking, he raised the first pistol and pulled the trigger.

The bang was deafening, and so startled by it were the other inhabitants of the barn that they barely seemed to notice as General Toussaint crumpled into a heap on the floor like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Ross staggered forward as his opponent collapsed, searching about him for the source of the noise. His expression of wide-eyed astonishment, so out of place on his usually scowling countenance, would have amused George in any other situation, but a movement out of the corner of his eye, past the other man’s shoulder, had caught his attention. Hanson. The man had floundered at the sight of him, stunned by the sudden turn of events, but as the General crumpled down upon the floor, and he came to understand exactly what it was that had happened, his expression turned black with rage. The movement which had caught George’s eye, he realised, was the pistol meant for Ross having found a new target. In a split second, he knew what the man was about to do. Eyes wide and alarmed, he pointed his second gun towards his would-be assailant and, forcing down the instinct to hesitate, pulled the trigger.

In the chaos of the moment, it was unclear which of them had fired first. Sparks flew, and George felt the smell of gunpowder sting in his nose, Hanson’s yell of pain echoing in his ears amid the reverberations of the shots. Other people were shouting as well, he thought, but it all seemed strangely distant as he noticed a sudden, sharp pain in his side. The pistols slipped from his hand as the world tilted alarmingly, but there was no accompanying thud to the ground, as if someone had caught him from behind. More shouting, desperate and urgent, but his world had narrowed entirely to that pain, a strange darkness beginning to encroach on his vision. There was a reason why he should try to fight it, he thought, but he could not remember why. Yes, why?

Well, at least I might see Elizabeth again, was the last thing he thought before he allowed the blackness to swallow him whole.

#poldark #poldark fic #george warleggan #cary warleggan #joseph merceron #ross poldark #ralph hanson #general toussaint #poldark au #poldark s5 #moving forward #post s5 au #mine #fic #my fic