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queenlucythevaliant · 6 months

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Clad in Justice and Worth

Written for the Inklings Challenge 2023 (@inklings-challenge). Inspired by the lives of Jeanne d'Albret and Marguerite de Navarre, although numerous liberties have been taken with the history in the name of introducing fantastical elements and telling a good story. The anglicization of names (Jeanne to Joan and Marguerite to Margaret) is meant to reflect the fictionalization of these figures.

The heat was unbearable, and it would grow only hotter as they descended into the lowlands. It was fortunate, Joan decided, that Navarre was a mountain country. It was temperate, even cold there in September. It would be sweltering by the sea.

The greater issue ought to have been the presence of Monluc, who would cut Joan’s party off at the Garonne River most like. The soldiers with whom she traveled were fierce, but Monluc had an entire division at the Garrone. Joan would be a prisoner of war if Providence did not see her through. Henry, perhaps, might suffer worse. He might be married to a Catholic princess.

Yet Joan was accustomed to peril. She had cut her teeth on it. Her first act as queen, some twenty years ago, had been to orchestrate the defense of her kingdom, and she was accustomed to slipping through nets and past assassins. The same could not be said of the infernal heat, which assaulted her without respite. Joan wore sensible travel clothing, but the layers of her skirts were always heavy with sweat. A perpetual tightness sat in her chest, the remnant of an old bout with consumption, and however much she coughed it would not leave.

All the same, it would not do to seem less than strong, so she hid the coughing whenever she could. The hovering of her aides was an irritant and she often wished she could just dismiss them all.

“How fare you in the heat, Majesty?”

“I have war in my gut, Clemont,” Joan snapped. “Worry not for me. If you must pester someone, pester Henry.”

He nodded, chastened. “A messenger is here from Navarre. Sent, I suspect, to induce you to return hence.”

“I would not listen to his birdcalls.”

“Young Henry said much the same.”

Joan stuffed down her irritation that Clemont had gone to Henry before he’d come to her. She was still queen, even if her son was rapidly nearing his majority. “Tell him that if the Huguenot leaders are to be plucked, I think it better that we all go together. Tell him that I would rather my son and I stand with our brothers than await soldiers and assassins in our little kingdom.”

Her aide gave a stiff nod. “At once, your Majesty.”

She would breathe easier when they reached the host at La Rochelle. Yet then, there would be more and greater work to do. There would be war, and Joan would be at the head of it.

When she awoke in the night, Joan knew at once that something was awry. It was cool. Gone was the blistering heat that had plagued them all day. Perhaps one of the kidnapping plots had finally succeeded.

Certainly, it seemed that way. She was in a cell, cool and dank and no more than six paces square. And yet—how strange! —the door was open.

Rising unsteadily to her feet, Joan crept towards the shaft of moonlight that fell through it. She glanced about for guards, but saw only a single prisoner in dirty clothes standing just beyond the threshold. He was blinking rapidly, as though the very existence of light bewildered him. Then, as Joan watched, he crept forward towards the gate of the jailhouse and out into the free air beyond. Joan listened for a long moment, trying to hear if there was any commotion at the prisoner’s emergence. When she could perceive none, she followed him out into the cool night air.

A lantern blazed. “Come quickly,” a voice hissed. “Our friend the Princess is waiting.”

The prisoner answered in a voice too quiet for Joan to hear. Then, quite suddenly, she heard his companion say, “Who is it that there behind you?”

The prisoner turned round, and Joan’s fingers itched towards her hidden knife. But much to her astonishment, he exclaimed, “Why, it is the lady herself! Margaret!”

But Joan had no opportunity to reply. Voices sounded outside her pavilion and she awoke to the oppressive heat of the day before. Coughing hard, Joan rolled ungracefully from her bed and tried to put away the grasping tendrils of her dream.

“The river is dry, Majesty” her attendant informed her as soon as she emerged from her pavilion, arrayed once again in sensible riding clothes. “The heat has devoured it. We can bypass Monluc without trouble, I deem.”

“Well then,” Joan replied, stifling another cough. “Glory to God for the heat.”

They did indeed pass Monluc the next day, within three fingers of his nose. Joan celebrated with Henry and the rest, yet all the while her mind was half taken up with her dream from the night before. Never, in all her life, had her mind conjured so vivid a sensory illusion. It had really felt cool in that jail cell, and the moonlight beyond it had been silver and true. Stranger still, the prisoner and his accomplice had called Joan by her mother’s name.

Joan had known her mother only a little. At the age of five, she had been detained at the French court while her mother returned to Navarre. This was largely on account of her mother’s religious convictions. Margaret of Angoulême had meddled too closely with Protestantism, so her brother the king had seen fit to deprive her of her daughter and raise her a Catholic princess.

His successor had likewise stolen Henry from Joan, for despite the king’s best efforts she was as Protestant as her mother. Yet unlike Margaret, Joan had gone back for her child. Two years ago, she had secretly swept Henry away from Paris on horseback. She’d galloped the horses nearly to death, but she’d gotten him to the armed force waiting at the border, and then at last home to Navarre. Sometimes, Joan wondered why her own mother had not gone to such lengths to rescue her. But Margaret’s best weapons had been tears, it was said, and tears could not do the work of sharp swords.

The Navarre party arrived at La Rochelle just before dusk on the twenty-eighth of September. The heat had faltered a little, to everyone’s great relief, but the air by the sea was still heavy with moisture. The tightness in Joan’s chest persisted.

“There will be much celebration now that you have come, Your Majesty,” said the boy seeing to her accommodations. “There’s talk of giving you the key to the city, and more besides.”

Sure enough, Joan was greeted with applause when she entered the Huguenot council. “I and my son are here to promote the success of our great cause or to share in its disaster,” she said when the council quieted. “I have been reproached for leaving my lands open to invasion by Spain, but I put my confidence in God who will not suffer a hair of our heads to perish. How could I stay while my fellow believers were being massacred? To let a man drown is to commit murder.”

Sometimes it seemed that the men only played at war. The Duke of Conde, who led the Huguenot forces, treated it as a game of chivalry between gentlemen. Others, like Monluc, regarded it as a business; the mercenaries he hired robbed and raped and brutalized, and though be bemoaned the cruelty he did nothing to curtail it.

There were sixty-thousand refugees pouring into the city. Joan was not playing at war. When she rose in the mornings, she put poultices on her chest, then went to her office after breaking her fast. There was much to do. She administered the city, attended councils of war, and advised the synod. In addition, she was still queen of Navarre, and was required to govern her own kingdom from afar.

In the afternoons, she often met with Beza to discuss matters of the church, or else with Conde, to discuss military matters. Joan worked on the city’s fortifications, and in the evenings she would ride out to observe them. Henry often joined her on these rides; he was learning the art of war, and he seemed to have a knack for it.

“A knack is not sufficient,” Joan told him. “Anyone can learn to fortify a port. I have learned, and I am a woman.”

“I know it is not sufficient,” the boy replied. “I must commit myself entirely to the cause of our people, and of Our Lord. Is that not what you were going to tell me?”

“Ah, Henry, you know me too well. I am glad of it. I am glad to see you bear with strength the great and terrible charge which sits upon your shoulders.”

“How can I help being strong? I have you for a mother.”

At night, Joan fell into bed too exhausted for dreams.

Yet one night, she woke once again to find her chest loose and her breathing comfortable. She stood in a hallway which she recognized at once. She was at the Château de Fontainebleau, the place of her birth, just beyond the door to the king’s private chambers.

“Oh please, Francis, please. You cannot really mean to send him to the stake!” The voice on the other side of the door was female, and it did not belong to the queen.

A heavy sigh answered it. “I mean to do just that, ma mignonne. He is a damned heretic, and a rabble-rouser besides. Now, sister, don’t cry. If there’s one thing I cannot bear, it is your weeping.”

At those words, a surge of giddiness, like lightning, came over Joan’s whole body. It was her own mother speaking to the king. She was but a few steps away and they were separated only by a single wooden door.

“He is my friend, Francis. Do you say I should not weep for my friends?”

A loud harumph. “A strange thing, Margaret. Your own companions told me that you have never met the man.”

“Does such a triviality preclude friendship? He is my brother in Our Lord.”

“And I am your true brother, and your king besides.”

“And as you are my brother—” here, Margaret’s voice cracked with overburdening emotion. She was crying again, Joan was certain. “As you are my brother, you must grant me this boon. Do not harm those I love, Francis.”

The king did not respond, so Joan drew nearer to the door. A minute later, she leapt backwards when it opened. There stood her mother, not old and sick as Joan had last seen her twenty years before, but younger even than Joan herself.

“If you’ve time to stand about listening at doors, then you are not otherwise employed,” Margaret said, wiping her tears from her face with the back of her hand. “I am going to visit a friend. You shall accompany me.”

Looking down at herself, Joan realized that her mother must have mistaken her for one of Fountainbleu’s many ladies-in-waiting. She was in her night clothes, which was really a simple day dress such as a woman might wear to a provincial market. Joan did not sleep in anything which would hinder her from acting immediately, should the city be attacked in the middle of the night.

“As you wish, Majesty,” Joan replied with a curtsey. Margaret raised an eyebrow, and instantly Joan corrected herself: “Your Highness.”

Margaret stopped at her own rooms to wrap herself in a plain, hooded cloak. “What is your name?” she asked.

“Joan, your Highness.”

“Well, Joan. As penance for eavesdropping, you shall keep your own counsel with regards to our errand. Is that clear?”

“Yes, your Highness,” Joan replied stiffly. Any fool could see what friend Margaret intended to visit, and Joan wished she could think of a way to cut through the pretense.

When Margaret arrived at the jail with Joan in tow, the warden greeted her almost like a friend. “You are here to see the heretic, Princess? Shall I fetch you a chair?”

“Yes, Phillip. And a lantern, if you would.”

The cell was nearly identical to the one which Joan had dreamed on the road to La Rochelle. Inside sat a man with sparse gray hair covering his chin. Margaret’s chair was placed just outside the cell, but she brushed past it. She handed the lantern to Joan and knelt down in the cell beside the prisoner.

“I was told that I had a secret friend in the court,” he said. “I see now that she is an angel.”

“No angel, monsieur Faber. I am Margaret, and this is my lady, Joan. I have come to see to your welfare, as best I am able.”

Now, Margaret’s hood fell back, and all at once she looked every inch the Princess of France. Yet her voice was small and choked when she said, “Will you do me the honor of praying with me?”

Margaret was already on her knees, but she lowered herself further. She rested one hand lightly on Faber’s knee, and after a moment, he took it. Her eyes fluttered closed. In the dim light, Joan thought she saw tears starting down her mother’s cheek.

When she woke in the morning, Joan could still remember her mother’s face. There were tears in her hazelnut eyes, and a weeping quiver in her voice.

Winter came, and Joan’s coughing grew worse. There was blood in it now, and occasionally bits of feathery flesh that got caught in her throat and made her gag. She hid it in her handkerchief.

“Winter battles are ugly,” Conde remarked one morning as Christmas was drawing near. “If the enemy is anything like gentlemen, they will not attack until spring. And yet, I think, we must stand at readiness.”

“By all means,” Joan replied. “Anything less than readiness would be negligence.”

Conde chuckled, not unkindly. “For all your strength and skill, madame, it is obvious that you were not bred for command. No force can be always at readiness. It would kill the men as surely as the sword. ‘Tis not negligence to celebrate the birth of Our Lord, for instance.”

Joan nodded curtly, but did not reply.

As the new year began, the city was increasingly on edge. There was frequent unrest among the refugees, and the soldiers Joan met when she rode the fortifications nearly always remarked that an attack would come soon.

Then, as February melted into March, word came from Admiral Coligny that his position along the Guirlande Stream had been compromised. The Catholic vanguard was swift approaching, and more Huguenot forces were needed. By the time word reached Joan in the form of a breathless young page outside her office, Conde was already assembling the cavalry. Joan made for the Navarre quarter at once, as fast as her lungs and her skirts would let her.

The battle was an unmitigated disaster. The Huguenots arrived late, and in insufficient numbers. Their horses were scattered and their infantry routed, and the bulk of their force was forced back to Cognac to regroup. As wounded came pouring in, Joan went to the surgical tents to make herself useful.

The commander La Noue’s left arm had been shattered and required amputation. Steeling herself, Joan thought of Margaret’s tearstained cheeks as she knelt beside Faber. “Commander La Noue,” she murmured, “Would it comfort you if I held your other hand?”

“That it would, Your Majesty,” the commander replied. So, as the surgeon brandished his saw, Joan gripped the commander’s hand tight and began to pray. She let go only once, to cover her mouth as she hacked blood into her palm. It blended in easily with the carnage of the field hospital.

Yet it was not till after the battle was over that Joan learned the worst of it. “His Grace, General Conde is dead,” her captain told her in her tent that evening. “He was unseated in the battle. They took him captive, and then they shot him. Unarmed and under guard! Why, as I speak these words, they are parading his corpse through the streets of Jarnac.”

“So much for chivalry,” murmured Joan, trying to ignore the memories of Conde’s pleasant face chuckling, calling her skilled and strong.

“We will need to find another Prince of the Blood to champion our cause,” her captain continued. “Else the army will crumble. If there’s to be any hope for Protestantism in France, we had better produce one with haste. Admiral Coligny will not serve. He’s tried to rally the men, to no avail. In fact, he has bid me request that you make an attempt on the morn.”

“Henry will lead.”

“Henry? Why, he’s only a boy!”

Joan shook her head. “He is nearly a man, Captain, and he’s a keen knack for military matters. He trained with Conde himself, and he saw to the fortification of La Rochelle at my side. He is strong, which matters most of all. If it’s a Prince of the Blood the army requires, Henry will serve.”

“As you say, Majesty,” said her captain with a bow. “But it’s not me you will have to convince.”

Joan settled in for a sleepless night. Her captain was correct that she would need to persuade the Huguenot forces well, if they were to swear themselves to Henry. So, she would speak. Joan would rally their courage, and then she would present them with her son and see if they would follow him.

Page after page she wrote, none of it any good. Eloquence alone would not suffice; Joan’s words had to burn in men’s chests. She needed such words as she had never spoken before, and she needed them by morning.

By three o’clock, Joan’s pages were painted with blood. Her lungs were tearing themselves to shreds in her chest, and the proof was there on the paper beside all her insufficient words. She almost hated herself then. Now, when circumstance required of her greater strength than ever before, all Joan’s frame was weakness and frailty.

An hour later, she fell asleep.

When Joan’s eyes fluttered open, she knew at once where she was. Why, these were her own rooms at home in Navarre! Sunlight flooded through her own open windows and drew ladders of light across Joan’s very own floor. Her bed sat in the corner, curtains open. Her dressing room and closet were just there, and her own writing desk—

There was a figure at Joan’s writing desk. Margaret. She looked up.

“My Joan,” she said. It started as a sigh, but it turned into a sob by the end. “My very own Joan, all grown up. How tired you look.”

The words seemed larger than themselves somehow. They were Truth and Beauty in capital letters, illuminated red and gold. Something in Joan’s chest seized; something other than her lungs.

“How do you know me, mother?”

“How could I not? I have been parted from you of late, yet your face is more precious to me than all the kingdoms of the earth.”

“Oh.” And then, because she could not think of anything else to say, Joan asked, “What were you writing, before I came in?”’

“Poetry.” Joan made a noise in her throat. “You disapprove?” asked her mother.

“No, not at all. Would that I had time for such sweet pursuits. I have worn myself out this night writing a war speech. It cannot be poetry, mother. It must be wine. It must–” then, without preamble, Joan collapsed into a fit of coughing. At once, her mother was on her feet, handkerchief in hand. She pressed it to Joan’s mouth, all the while rubbing circles on her back as she coughed and gagged. When the handkerchief came away at last, it was stained red.

“What a courageous woman you are,” Margaret whispered into her hair. “Words like wine for the soldiers, and yourself spitting blood. Will you wear pearls or armor when you address them?”

“I will address them on horseback in the field,” answered Joan with a rasp. “I would have them see my strength.”

Her mother’s dark eyes flickered then. Margaret looked at her daughter, come miraculously home to her against the will of the king and the very flow of time itself. She was not a large woman, but she held herself well. She stood brave and tall, though no one had asked it of her.

Her own dear daughter did not have time for poetry. Margaret regretted that small fact so much that it came welling up in her eyes. “And what of your weakness, child? Will you let anyone see that?”

Joan reached out and caught her mother’s tears. Her fingertips were harder than Margaret’s were. They scratched across the sensitive skin below her eyes.

“Did I not meet you like this once before? You are the same Joan who came with me to the jail in Paris once. I did not know you then. I had not yet borne you.”

“Yes, the very same. We visited a Monsieur Faber, I believe. What became of that poor man?”

Margaret sighed. She crossed back over to the desk to fall back into her seat, and in a smaller voice she said, “My brother released him, for a time. And then, when I was next absent from Paris, he was arrested again and sent to the stake before I could return.”

“I saw you save another man, once. I do not know his name. How many prisoners did you save, mother?”

“Many. Not near enough. Not as many as those with whom I wept by lantern light.”

“Did the weeping do any good, I wonder.”

“Those who lived were saved by weeping. Those who died may have been comforted by it. It was the only thing I could give them, and so I must believe that Our Lord made good use of it.”

Joan shook her head. She almost wanted to cry too, then. The feeling surprised her. Joan detested crying.

“All those men freed from prison, yet you never came for me. Why?”

“Francis was determined. A choice between following Christ and keeping you near was no choice at all, though it broke my heart to make it.”

If Joan shut her eyes, she could still remember the terror of the night she had rescued Henry. “You could have come with soldiers. You could have stolen me away in the night.”

Margaret did not answer. The tears came faster now and her fair, queenly skin blossomed red. So many years would pass between the dear little girl she’d left in Paris and the stalwart woman now before her. She did not have time for poetry, but if Margaret had been allowed to keep her that would have been different. Joan should have had every poem under the sun.

“Will you read it?” she asked, taking the parchment from her desk and pressing it into her daughter’s hands. “Will you grant me that boon?”

Slowly, almost numbly, Joan nodded. To Margaret’s surprise, she read aloud.

“God has predestined His own

That they should be sons and heirs.

Drawn by gentle constraint

A zeal consuming is theirs.

They shall inherit the earth

Clad in justice and worth.”

“Clad in justice and worth,” she repeated, handing back the parchment. “It’s a good poem.”

“It isn’t finished,” replied her mother.

Joan laughed. “Neither is my speech. It must be almost morning now.”

As loving arms closed around her again, Joan wished to God that she could remain in Navarre with her mother. She knew that she and Margaret did not share a heart: her mother was tender like Joan could never be. Yet all the same, she wanted to believe that they had been forged by the same Christian hope and conviction. She wanted to believe that she, Joan, could free the prisoners too.

She shut her eyes against her mother’s shoulder. When she opened them, she was back in her tent, with morning sun streaming in.

She came before the army mounted on a horse with Henry beside her. Her words were like wine when she spoke.

“When I, the queen, hope still, is it for you to fear? Because Conde is dead, is all therefore lost? Does our cause cease to be just and holy? No; God, who has already rescued you from perils innumerable, has raised up brothers-in-arms to succeed Conde.

Soldiers, I offer you everything in my power to bestow–my dominions, my treasures, my life, and that which is dearer to me than all, my son. I make here a solemn oath before you all, and you know me too well to doubt my word: I swear to defend to my last sigh the holy cause which now unites us, which is that of honor and truth.”

When she finished speaking, Joan coughed red into her hands. There was quiet for a long moment, and then a loud hurrah! went up along the lines. Joan looked out at the soldiers, and from the front she saw her mother standing there, with tears in her eyes.

#inklingschallenge #inklings challenge #team tolkien #genre: time travel #theme: visiting the imprisoned #with a tiny little hint of #theme: visiting the sick #story: complete #so i like to read about the reformation in october when i can #when the teams were announced i was burning through a book on the women of the reformation and these two really reached out and grabbed me #Jeanne in particular. i was like 'it is so insane that this person is not more widely known.'#Protestantism has its very own badass Jeanne/Joan. as far as i'm concerned she should be as famous as Joan of Arc #so that was the basis for this story #somewhere along the line it evolved into a study on different kinds of feminine power #and also illness worked itself in there. go me #anyway. hopefully my catholic friends will give me a shot here in spite of the protestantism inherant in the premise #i didn't necessarily mean to go with something this strongly protestant as a result of the Catholic works of mercy themes #but i'm rather tickled that it worked out that way #on the other hand i know that i have people following me that know way more about the French Wars of Religion and the Huguenots than i do #hopefully there's enough verisimilitude here that it won't irritate you when i inevitably get things wrong #i think that covers all my bases #i am still not 100% content with how this turned out but i am at least happy enough to post it #and get in right under the wire. it's a couple hours before midnight still in my time zone #pontifications and creations #leah stories #i enjoy being a girl #the unquenchable fire

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the-judicial-assistants-notebook · 1 year

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*KICKS THE DOOR DOWN* WWWAIT FREYA I HAVE MIXED FEELINGS ON FANDOMS VIEW OF THIS SHIP I NEED TO KNOW UR OPINION. HOMUMIKU???

WKSHJSHJDBJHAHAHAH HIIIII, GRACE!!!! ❤️💕💞💝💗💖💘💓💕💞💖💞💘

Homumiko (HUGE spoilers for DGS after the bingo sheet):

I have been waiting to get into this ship properly, because I have THOUGHTS and I need to be forced to get them out coherently.

Let's get into the basic ship itself. Honestly? No comment. I think hmmk cheats a bit by relying on the literal decades people have spent shipping Holmes and Watson together, and I doubt that they would be half as popular without this history; but, as someone who has never had strong feelings about HolmesWatson either way, I don't have that bias! Even if we're just going off of DGS and looking at how they complement and trust each other, and are obviously more comfortable around one another than most other people, I don't really have a strong opinion on them. I do think they're close, but whether that bond is platonic, romantic, sexual or some mix of the two is just not something I particularly care about. You know who I do care about, though?

Susato-san.

OKAY, SIT DOWN, EVERYONE BECAUSE THE SHIP BINGO PART OF THIS IS OVER, AND NOW WE'RE GOING TO TALK ABOUT THE PARTS OF HMMK I DO CARE ABOUT AND WHY THAT ACTUALLY HAS VERY LITTLE TO DO WITH THEM AND EVERYTHING TO DO WITH HER.

Let's get this out of the way first. Based on my very modern sensibilities, I take a rather harsh stance on Mikotoba's parenting.

Do I think he loves his daughter? Sure. But which parts of his daughter? Because it's very easy to love a child who is always obedient, elegant and the literal embodiment of idealised Japanese womanhood without knowing or truly even looking at her. I think Susato made it easy for him to love her, because she believed she had to earn it. Her father left when she was born, consumed by grief over her mother's death -- her mother, whom she killed. I know the game tries to justify this by saying it was Jigoku who dragged him away (and I do think him leaving was good for him, because I doubt he would have been a good father even if he'd stayed due to his grief), but the point is that he still left. For six years. And when he returned, he didn't even return because of her (whether she knew that from the moment she met him or not is debatable, but I think, at least on a subconscious level, she knew. And, of course, it's also debatable whether he could have returned sooner because of his commitment as a transfer student, but the Mikotobas are a powerful family, and, if Soseki could return before his period of learning was fully up, I think he would have been able to pull strings to return home if he wanted to).

This falls under speculation, so I understand not agreeing with it, but I don't think Mikotoba ever properly spoke to Susato when she was a child, especially not about what he did in England. I believe that a part of the reason why Susato started reading the Sherlock Holmes stories to begin with was because they featured a doctor in London, like her father had been, and she wanted to feel closer to him through those stories. And it probably worked! Her father probably did start engaging with her more after after she picked them up, because it was an easy way to connect with her. That's why I believe she was so insistent on the existence of John H. Watson, as a doctor, when she met Iris and learnt the truth.

There's this distance between Susato and her father which glimpse in moments in the game, like how he remarks on her lack of composure in court (suggesting that he isn't used to seeing her yamato nadeshiko mask slip), how he less requests her trust and more orders or expects it forthright, and how he seems reluctant to face the parts of her that inconvenience him (like how he asks her to play the koto when he isn't home and how, when faced by her real anger, he looks to Holmes to explain the situation rather than actually attempt to himself).

HOWEVER, in the setting of the game (Meiji-era Japan), I will concede that Mikotoba is a fantastic father. He may not have been very present in her life growing up, but men largely weren't expected to be. Their jobs were to provide for their children, not nurture them. And Mikotoba went well beyond his duty in that regard. Add to that the fact that he had her properly educated, ensured she knew how to defend herself, and allowed her to pursue her studies overseas at a level that was on par with any man, and you can see that he's really quite a great father; which is why I don't think he sees his absence as a flaw or even notices he was absent. Susato, though, does.

Now, Susato is obviously a product of her time, too, so I believe she'd be insulted if anyone was to suggest that her father or childhood was lacking in some way. That being said, I do believe she is aware of the distance between them in a way he is not. I think her affection for him is founded on a sense of duty and filial piety rather than pure love (although, obviously, she does love him), and, as she grew older, she stopped vying for his affection; hence why she's obsessed with the Great Detective more so than anyone else when we meet her. I also think that this distance contributed to her becoming so attached to Kazuma, in spite of the fact that he kept her at arm's length, too; he may not have allowed her very close, but he was always there, and he saw her for who she truly was. When she leaves at the end of the first game, Susato is not so much anxious that her father is ill as she is shaken -- she seems more upset that she's leaving her Baker Street family rather than that her actual father might be dying, and I think that's because she knows how to live without him. This distance between them, I believe, becomes all the more apparent to her when she goes to London and sees the deep bond held between Iris and Holmes.

And, speaking of, you know who else I think is aware of the distance between them and the part he played in creating that distance? The Great Detective himself, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

See, I think Holmes has always known about Susato. I'm quite sure that, from the moment they met, he knew that Mikotoba was running away from something and that he had left an infant daughter back home. He just didn't care.

We don't know what Holmes was like when he was younger, but I believe he was a lot closer to how he appears in a lot of modern adaptations and how Watson describes him in some of the Sherlock Holmes stories: the 'cold, calculating computer' character. I don't think it's a stretch to think that Holmes viewed marriage and children as mere distractions and interferences to the mind; and Mikotoba was, presumably, his first real friend. He wasn't going to let something pesky like a baby back home detract from his friend's obviously sterling character and brain! After all, it's a lot easier to ignore this nebulous, abstract entity when you simply consider its existence, and thus its abandonment, unimportant. It's a lot easier when you don't know what it's like to be a father yourself. It's a lot easier when you don't know her.

Here's the thing: I believe Holmes's image of and relation to Mikotoba began changing from the time he started raising Iris. Suddenly, that inconsequential baby seemed to bear quite a bit of consequence, actually. But it was still all right to keep dismissing her, because maybe Mikotoba's baby wasn't special the way Iris was. Maybe she was a brat or an idiot, and really not worth much time at all! Maybe she could've lived without him and been perfectly fine, regardless...? As time went on, I believe the excuses he made for Mikotoba's decision all those years ago became increasingly flimsy, but he was still able to hold onto them because The Daughter was still an indistinct figure in his mind. She wasn't quite real.

That is, until he met her.

In the game, Holmes tends to keep a certain width between himself and Susato. He very rarely initiates conversation with her the way he does Ryuunosuke, and from a Doylist (ha) perspective, this is obviously because Ryuunosuke is... the main character. Looking at it from a narrative perspective, though, I think he was afraid of hurting more than he already has and must.

Holmes is a very resolute man. He sticks by his decisions regardless of what anyone else thinks, so I don't think he ever regretted what he did. However, I do think he felt guilty. Certainly, he didn't quite take her father away from her, but he did play a role in keeping him from her for so long. I think there was a part of him that consciously guided Mikotoba away from thinking about Japan while they lived together, because, well... he didn't want him to leave.

There's an interesting layer to the separation that Holmes creates with Susato, because, beyond the distance he maintains between her and himself, he also keeps her identity separate from her father's. Contrary to how he refers to Ryuunosuke by his last name, Holmes only ever calls Susato "Miss Susato" or "my dear (madame)", and never "Miss Mikotoba". I view this is his way of, perhaps subconsciously, dividing from that little girl he once decided did not matter. And it's interesting because, to an extent, he tries to do with her and Kazuma, too.

In the SS Burya case, despite meeting Susato first and seeing how affected she is by Kazuma's "death", Holmes largely ignores her in favour of focusing on Ryuunosuke and his bond with Kazuma. He calls Kazuma Ryuunosuke's "dear companion" and pretty much only interacts with Susato when he has little other choice... until he sees her cry.

See, I believe that when Holmes found out Susato was going to England and was about to be wrapped up in the whole messy affair, he was fully committed to Not Giving a Damn about Her. Sure, he would let her and Kazuma live with him, but by no means was he going to allow himself to grow attached to her because, again, he values his relationship and history with Mikotoba too much for it to get complicated in this way. Susato's relative composure throughout the case helps him hold on to this resolution; however, when he catches that final conversation between her and Ryuunosuke in the cabin, he is finally forced to see and acknowledge the amount of pain she is truly in. It forces him to at last face the fact that he can't avoid or fake aloofness around her any longer, because she is not some nebulous, distant entity he can continue to ignore. She is an actual girl with a fiercely strong spirit, a brilliant mind and real, human emotions. A girl whom he's hurt twice-over now and must continue hurting until all his lies finally come to light.

When he makes that decision to enter the cabin and console her the only way he knows how, he throws away any hope he had of feeling anything but apathy towards her. In truth, he probably didn't have much hope of that to begin with, because at his core, Sherlock Holmes is a good man, and he cares.

He cares for her, too, even though he may have no right to. How could he not, when she loves him so openly, trusts him so readily, saves his life? How could he not, when she comes to him in the middle of the night with a secret she can't tell anyone else because his judgement is the only one she wholly trusts and believes in? How could he not, when she refuses to accept he lied despite the living, breathing evidence he did until he admits it himself? How could he not, when after everything he has done, she still looks at him the way she always has and says that she's proud that her father is the assistant of "the Great Detective"?

How could anyone not? How could Mikotoba not... love her the second he laid eyes on her?

And of course this doesn't shatter his love for Mikotoba -- he has no right to these feelings in the first place: no matter how indignant or guilty he may feel, it doesn't change the fact that he has been lying to and manipulating her the entire time they've known one another. He can't even bring himself to tell her that he's been lying; he has to go through Ryuunosuke instead, because, even after all this time, he still can't face the woman whom he's done nothing but cause pain for from the moment she was born. When he can't even give her that ounce of respect, who is he to judge Mikotoba?

So he doesn't. Till the end of the game, he keeps Susato at a distance and pretends that everything between him and Mikotoba is as it was from the start. But, inside, I think he knows it isn't. Because I think Holmes can see that Mikotoba doesn't feel half as guilty about what they've done as he does, and that he doesn't view the fact that he left Susato 16 years ago as a real problem. And while he doesn't judge Mikotoba for that, I don't think he can look past it anymore. That final investigation and dance of deduction, to me, is less an assurance that they are still the same partners they were before, and more a final farewell to their old, uncomplicated bond -- the one that did exist before they grew to love other people and understand what love truly meant to both of them.

Going back to the ship itself, I think shipping them pre-DGS works perfectly well. They both had a huge impact on each other's life and changed one another for the better; Holmes by drawing Mikotoba out from his grief, and Mikotoba by pulling Holmes from his life of solitude and loneliness. They needed each other, but it is also because of these reasons that I think there was an issue of codependency between them, hence the semi-horrible for each other box I gave them. With Mikotoba, it's clear cut. Holmes helped him run away from his very real issues at home and allowed him to live like he was a bachelor with zero familial obligations again. With Holmes, it gets a bit more foggy, but I believe that Mikotoba basically allowed him to live believing he was the only person Holmes would ever truly connect with and properly befriend. Holmes is obviously his own person and whatnot, but I do think there was a bit of unhealthy attachment there on his end if not both.

During DGS and post-DGS is where their ship gets more complicated for me, because, while Susato is still very much there at the beginning of their relationship, her role in their lives and what they did to her becomes impossible to ignore once she and Holmes actually meet. I don't believe that they can just pick up from where they left off because there is now (imo) a fundamental disagreement in how they view their actions and how it affected her. So, even if they do go back to being lovers or whatever afterwards, I feel that there should be this chasm or weight between them that they simply don't talk about or acknowledge in any way. Because I don't think they'd discuss it. Holmes because it isn't his place, Mikotoba because he sees it as a non-issue (maybe he doesnt even notice this distance), and both because sweeping unpleasantness under the rug is so ingrained into their cultures.

My main issue with the way this ship is often portrayed post-DGS (why they got a 50-50 on the I would erase them from existence box) is that it ignores what happened with Susato. The few times I've seen the concern that she might have an issue with their relationship even brought up in hmmk works is always because they're gay. Which, like!! Fair!!! It's the 1800s, I get it, but!!!! You're ignoring the actual, very big issue for why she might be hurt and that's because DGS ends with her finding out that three of the men she's closest to have been lying and using her for their own means her entire life!!!!!!!! And she just has to take it!!!!!!!

Which brings me to the second most popular interpretation of this ship which doesn't just put Iris and Susato in a box somewhere unseen, and that's the one where all four of them are a peaceful happy family with 0 issues! And this one bothers me because it seems like it's taking what Susato said at the end of the reveal as what she 100% sincerely meant down to her core, rather than something she had to say because (1) it is her duty to honour her father no matter what, and (2) because Iris was there. When she learns the entire truth, I don't think Susato knows what she truly thinks or feels about any of it; but she sees Iris, and she sees this little girl who was abandoned through her circumstances as a baby, named after her mother, and forced to grow up much sooner than she should have been, and she sees a girl who is more her sister than anyone else. So she does what she always has and tucks away her own emotions so she might tend to someone else's. She has been the perfect daughter her whole life; she can be the perfect sister.

Even if you don't subscribe to the, admittedly, harsh view of Mikotoba's parenting that I do, I don't see how you can get away from the fact that they still lied to her for a significant portion of time. Especially from Holmes, whom she trusted and believed in more than anyone else! In the face of his shoddy deductions, she still held onto her unwavering belief that he was a genius and a good man, and then it comes out that he's just been lying to her from the first day he met her. I just can't extract the ship from their treatment of Susato, so when I say that I would erase the ship from existence, it's mainly about these two bits. As with Asoryuu, the primary reason why I don't ship them personally is because I can't do that to her.

And, obviously, it's just shipping and fun and games, and everyone should feel free to ship whoever in whatever way they want bUT IN A SPECIAL WORLD MADE PERFECTLY FOR ME. iris would be perfectly oblivious, and susato would have tossed both holmes and mikotoba into the thames and left them to figure it out. In a world that must still vaguely make sense with the canon of the game, though, then Holmes would have given Mikotoba the boot and taken the kids; because he may be a coward, but at least I can see that he knows he fucked up, and he allows Susato to set the terms of their relationship, just like he does Iris.

Anyway, I'm so sorry for how long, convoluted and only tangentially-related to the ask this is, but thank you so much for it, Grace!!!! I don't think I quite got down what I meant precisely, but it's the closest to coherency I've ever gotten so. Thank you 💖💕💗💓💕💘💕

#this one's getting TAGGED bc i spent TIME on it & bc ive been trying to articulate my thoughts on holmes & susato for ages #homumiko #susato mikotoba #dgs sherlock holmes #yujin mikotoba #dai gyakuten saiban #the great ace attorney #dgs #tgaa #honestly i feel like i still didnt quite say what i wanted to but this is the best ive got so far. i like the way their relationships are #handled and depicted in canon but the fanon ones just never sat right with me #i feel like i came across as very harsh to yuujin here wjsjdgak i think he's a good man and he did his best!! grief gets the best of us #sometimes. but i cant get over how he seems to show 0 compunction for leaving susato behind as a baby and openly saying without a hint of #'oh i was also ready to be with my daughter finally' that he was FORCED out of london. like???? ALSO the way he says he wants ryuu to go #back with him & leaves susato out to dry??? i know he says it's respecting her freedom and whatnot but doesnt that seem a LITTLE neglectful #in a way? like it can very easily be read as 'oh i dont need you with me' or 'i cant be bothered to worry about you right now' especially #when he's already abandoned her once like. !!!!! and even if you dont view it that way doesnt it seem a bit dismissive of her role in those #cases? susato was crucial to all the cases ryuunosuke won (and he would attest to that) but yuujin makes it seem like it was all ryuu and #just disregards how important susato was there and i. i dont like that.#some might say that i am unfairly biased towards holmes and that's fair. i kind of am wjsdh but the reason why i dont bash on his parenting #as much is because he never pushes iris to love or respect him as her father. he very much leaves that up to her so when iris asserts at #the end that holmes IS her father you know that there is a real sense of love between them. that's why that scene is so important and #that's what validates their father-daughter relationship #ofc u could still argue im biased bc he did leave a 10 y/o to go on a cruise for who knows how long so. yea. valid WKASGAKSH #anyway. thank you SO much and im so sorry i completely went off the rails there. i hope anyone who read everything got... something from it #💕💘💓💖💖💘💖💕❤️💝💞💗💘💞💞💕💓💞💕💖💖💖💖💖💕#sorrry again grace 😔 i hope i came a little close to giving you what you wanted #mikotoba susato #mikotoba yuujin #dgs spoilers

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