#all he knows is how to fix doors and water the exiled assassin

[sadcatjae]

Whumpee who is actually a conditioned cold-blooded villain and a dangerous obedient weapon, discarded like a broken toy, so they live the rest of their lonesome life in agony and delirium. And Caretaker, who actually wants to survive the encounter with “Whumpee”, but also desperately trying to help and save them 🥺🥺🥺

Ahhh yesyesyesyes so much yes that i actually wrote a thing?????? What the--

Erm and it's awkwardly written and has too much lore but i wrote a thing and I'm very happy that I wrote AT ALL so yay! Thank you for your amazing prompt!! And sorry I didn't respond until now ;u; <;3

Also - I knoooow Kasin is like, caring for someone who literally tried to kill him one second ago, but he's a himbo and a Good Boy (tm) and has no idea if Mercy is legit dying or what sooooooo V_V

-

CW: Mentions of murder/hanging, PTSD/flashbacks, panic attack, dissociation, scarring, mentions of torture, self harm, knife wounds, dehydration.

-

“You picked a helluva time to sign up, mulch,” is the first thing Senior Officer Tophel says when they meet. 

“How do you figure?” Kasin grins, taking the proffered sword and admiring the Blue Guards’ sigil in the glinting silver hilt. 

The older man glances over his new recruit’s perfectly pressed uniform and gives a begrudging nod of approval. “Mercy’s coming to Everlost.”

“Mercy?”

“Ain’t you ever heard of Mercy? The Emperor’s Arbiter and Royal Steward. Apparently he got himself exiled. Though for what, I ain’t privy to. All I know is he’s coming here.” Tophel huffs and shakes his head, fingers twisting the ends of his walrus moustache. “Fact that his head’s not on a pike is no small wonder.”

Kasin twists his mouth to the side as he sheathes his new sword. “What did this Mercy do, to warrant such a gruesome end?”

Tophel sweeps up the loose papers on his desk into a neat pile, his expression one of sheer disdain. “No-one visited by Mercy is left intact. That’s all you have to know. Just keep out of his way and if you can’t - aim to kill, because there won’t be anything left by the time he’s done with you.”

The younger man frowns, uncertain how much one civilian can do against an armed guard. Then again, bluebloods in the Imperial City are known to be well versed in combat, having the best training from a young age. Maybe Kasin should err on the side of caution. Just this once. 

“I assume you’re telling me about this man for a reason,” Kasin says, raising a brow. 

“Looks like we have ourselves a mulch with brains,” Tophel scoffs, sticking his pipe into the corner of his mouth. “It’s what the Captain wants. A simple assignment to watch over our newest resident. No contact, no interference. Just watch. You’ll be on a rotating twelve hour shift with Dazer and you’ll both be assessed for other duties in a month. Any questions, mulch?”

“Why ‘mulch’?” Kasin isn’t stupid, but he asks anyway. Tophel’s greying at his temples. He’s sun weathered and rigid; got a mean, stubborn lock to his jaw. He doesn’t look like he enjoys challenging the status quo - so it’s probably best if Kasin plays his part.

“It’s what you’re gonna be by summer’s end. If you don’t like it, then prove me wrong. Anything else?”

“Am I to disguise myself while on assignment?”

Tophel smiles around his pipe, but it’s more like a leer. “No. Captain wants you in full uniform and full view at all times.”

-

Mercy’s place of residence could only be described as a hovel. It’s a shack on the edge of the forest, with swathes of spoiled land on either side. The nearest neighbour is the Sudbury Farm to the east and the dumping grounds to the west. The trees here grow black and twisted. By all rights, they shouldn’t be growing at all - but the roots have stubbornly taken hold of the arid land and the branches contort upwards, greedily drinking in every drop of rain and glimmer of sun to feed their wasted bodies.

The biggest and ugliest of these trees grows in front of Mercy’s shack, not thirty feet away. This is where Kasin stations himself, standing in his sky blue uniform, just under the gnarled black branches. He stands out in this desolate landscape, like a vibrant drop of paint on a blank white canvas. The restless movement in the dust-caked windows attests to his bold presence. 

Mercy is nervous. Aware. He peeks out the window every few minutes, but never lingers long enough for Kasin to get a proper look. 

Mercy is just a flitting shadow. No more than a ghost. 

It’s like this for three days. From morning to dusk, Kasin stands under that black tree, dutifully watching those grimy windows. Nervous shadows and obscured motions greet him like clockwork. And then Dazer, the other new recruit, shambles up (long past dusk) to take his shift. 

On the fourth day, he arrives to an angry crowd of civilians swarming Dazer with a variety of makeshift weapons in hand. 

“We want him gone, Dazer!” One of them shakes his pitchfork at the hassled guard. “I know in my gut that he’s the one stealing my chickens and cured meats!”

Dazer laughs nervously and pats the air. “Now, now, Mister Sudbury. I don’t have any say in his stayin’ or leavin’–”

“I caught him going through my trash!” another shrills, red-faced like her equally enraged comrades. “I don’t care if he’s a toff from the Imperial City, I want him out of my town!”

“Miss Daisy, going through trash isn’t technically against the law–”

“Oh, Jim's told me all about that ghastly beast you're defending. He's killed hundreds of innocent people to sate his perverse cravings, and hides behind His Majesty's goodwill."

Another voice shrieks, "He’s a demon that wears the skin of man!”

The crowd surges in volume and fury, inundating poor Dazer until Kasin finally reaches his side. The townsfolk pause for a moment, recognising this young man who has, in his twenty-five years, garnered a strong reputation in Everlost as a reliable, kind, and moral character.

“If anyone has grievances to be heard, please send a missive to Captain Locke,” Kasin announces over the discontented grumble. “Dazer and I have been ordered to keep watch of the situation. You can be rest assured that nothing will elude our attention - so please. Return to your fields and businesses and homes. Should there be any cause for concern, you will be informed.”

For a moment, Kasin’s reassurances seem to have worked. The townsfolk relax, their makeshift weapons drop to their sides, and they consider his words. But then Sudbury, always the inciter, raises his pitchfork and bullrushes the shack, hollering, “DEATH TO THE DEMON OF MIDOTHAL!”

Two other burly men split off from the re-ignited crowd, following Sudbury to the front door. Before Kasin can even react, they��ve kicked down the flimsy wood and dragged out a hooded figure from the gloomy interior. 

One word comes to Kasin’s mind when he lays eyes upon the fearsome Mercy for the very first time. 

Fragile. 

The figure enshrouded by a tattered grey cloak isn’t by any means frail. In fact, they are imposingly tall and there is evidence of a wiry, athletic figure. However, Mercy stands stooped over like his crooked black trees, hooded head cast down, and his limbs shaking as though it were mid-winter instead of summer. 

His bare feet, filthy and as grey as his cloak, stumble every second step. Kasin suspects that if he weren’t being dragged by Sudbury’s men, he would have collapsed not one foot out the door. 

Kasin yanks his sheathed sword free from his belt and rushes to Mercy’s side. The latter’s thrown to the dirt, crumpled and silent. 

“Stand down Powle, Richard, Bolt.” The young guard points his sheathed sword at the three men in turn. His oaken stare, intense and penetrating. Something in his eyes has them hesitating, their righteous anger withering to dust. “While we may know each other as well as family, I will not hesitate to arrest you should you enact your own justice. This is a land of law. Which means we abide by the law and entrust the administration of justice by the court of law. As a citizen of Everlost, this is the contract you have agreed to.” Kasin pauses, gaze sharpening. “Do you agree?”

The three men exchange wary glances and begrudgingly respond.

“Aye.”

“Yes.”

“I s’pose it is.”

“Very well,” Kasin says, his stern expression relaxing. Though he does smile, his gaze remain severe. “It is not our place to question His Majesty’s decision to exile this man to our humble town. Nor is it our place to judge this man. Return to your lives and invest your concerns in your own matters. In this drought, there will be many, I’m sure.”

He doesn’t lower his sword until the last fires of outrage are doused. Only reluctant acquiescence remains, and eventually, the crowd disperses in terse clumps. Sudbury and his men are the last to leave, and they don’t do so without parting words. Words that promise later retribution. 

“I better report this to Tophel,” Dazer sighs, wiping sweat from his brow. “Thanks for saving my ass, Kasin. I really thought I’d have run old Daisy through for a moment there.”

Kasin sends him a wry smile. “I think she would have run you through first.”

“Eh. You’re probably right.”

Kasin watches Dazer set off in a trot up the dirt road before turning his attention to Mercy. 

The hooded figure picks himself up unsteadily, legs quaking from the effort. Now that they are alone, Mercy finally raises his head. There’s a glimmer of pale skin and well defined features - a sharp jawline sweeping into the shadow of the hood, and a pair of cracked, bloodless lips pressed into a tight grimace. Odd marks mar the pallid skin, but it’s difficult to tell from this distance.

Kasin, who had always considered himself to be quite tall, feels a little intimidated by the other’s imposing height. Mercy must stand at least a foot above, and the young guard has to angle his head back a tad to address him. 

“Mister Mercy, I presume?” Kasin says, politely. “I must apologise. They aren’t normally this…angry. They are all good people, truly. I promise you this was an anomalous event that will never happen again. You are safe here. I will ensure it.”

Mercy’s lips twitch into a faint sneer. “How.” His voice is hoarse, grating, as though unused for many months. 

The guard blinks. “I am an officer of the Blue Guards. It is my duty to ensure your safety as a resident of Everlost. And - as you are well aware by now - I have been ordered to keep watch over you. Along with Officer Dazer. Between the two of us, we will prevent any future aggressions.”

Mercy is silent for a time. Kasin has the distinct feeling that he’s being stared at. So he stares into the shade of the hood, directly where he assumes the other’s eyes are. 

Eventually, Mercy turns his head to the side. “You are not watching me for my safety,” he says, impassively.

“I don’t know my Captain’s intent,” Kasin says, evenly. “But I can tell you that I care for the wellbeing of all townsfolk. Exiled or not.” There’s a teasing lilt to the last three words which seems to agitate the other man. 

Without another word, Mercy unsteadily returns to his shack. Kasin slips his sheathed sword back into his belt, uncertain whether to follow him or not. His decision is made for him when Mercy trips over the broken pieces of his door and staggers into something with a tremendous crash. 

-

Mercy seethes and kicks the broken cot into the wall. And just like that, he’s lost his bed. His cot was the only comfort he’d bought for himself with the little coin he’d had left. And now it’s gone. 

Just like everything else.

‘Exile’ means being exiled in all sense of the word. Meaning, he was exiled not only from his home, his work, his title, but also his land and wealth. Whatever coin he’d had on his person when he was informed of his new status, is all he was allowed to carry into his next life. 

The ex-Arbiter clutches his throbbing leg, allowing himself a moment of weakness, before Kasin appears in his doorway like an irritating gnat. He straightens up, every muscle tensing as his abode is so rudely trespassed. 

“Ah…your door…” The guard crouches down and picks up a large piece of broken wood. He gives Mercy a guileless smile. “Sorry about that. I’m a pretty good carpenter if you’d like me to fix it up for you.”

“Leave,” is all Mercy can spit out. His heart’s pounding near out of his chest and his hands are shaking, shaking, because this creature is in his house. He’s touching his things. He’s talking to him. He’s smiling, smiling like Mercy’s just another person, just another townsfolk who has a face and a future.

But Kasin isn’t listening. He’s walking further into his house, looking at his meagre possessions, casually commenting on the state of his broken furniture. “I can fix this too - no problem. But is this cot big enough for you? With your height, I’d imagine it’s quite a squeeze every night. Maybe I could extend the end a bit, so that you can stretch out? I have a lot wood back home that’s going to waste. And there’ll be no charge - consider it compensation for today–”

Mercy feels it. The Hollow. It slithers in like a snake, starving for prey, and sending venom straight into his veins. It unfurls, uncoils, until he’s no longer in possession of himself. There’s only the Hollow that knows only consumption. He loses himself to blissful domination and there’s its voice, its cloying voice, which commands him to do what he does best. 

-

The broken halves of the cot drop to his feet in a clatter. Kasin freezes. Hands gone numb. His eyes staring blindly at the swollen, mouldy wall in front of him. 

The sharp prick in his back is unmistakable.

“What are you doing, Mister Mercy?” He keeps his tone calm, friendly even, but his insides tumble about like loose rocks. 

The prick turns to real pain. He feels his skin snap and flesh give. Blood wells. It’s only an inch, but it’s enough to make Mercy’s intent clear. 

“Mister Mercy? Did I say something wrong?”

“Yes.” 

Kasin feels a chill run down his spine. That voice is void of emotion. Near inhuman. Is this man really a killer? 

“Ah. I apologise. I tend to speak without thinking. It’s a terrible habit, really. Can’t seem to shake it. Look, I'll apologise properly, but you'll need to lower your weapon. Can you do that for me, Mister Mercy?”

“No.”

Kasin’s heart sinks. He pulls in a shallow breath. Tries again. “I understand. You wish to protect yourself, but you must know that I mean you no harm–”

There’s a steely grip on his shoulder which tightens and jerks him around. It plants a blow on his chest, sending him staggering back into the wall. The cot cracks and splinters further under his clumsy feet. 

A dagger of beautiful yet simplistic design, pokes a new shallow hole in his stomach. He winces but maintains his smile. Even when he finally lays eyes on Mercy’s face. 

The hood must have fallen away at some point, for the mien before him is exposed to his scrutiny. Mercy’s features are sharp and handsome - his eyes shaped like petals, delicate and soft, if not for the flint-like coldness they hold. Not a flicker of recognisable emotion or thought can be seen in these callous eyes, and unlike his name, they speak of no mercy. 

Black, greasy hair, matted with dirt and perhaps dried blood, gathers upon his shoulders, overgrown and impossibly tangled. But the most striking feature of Mercy’s visage are the heavy scores etched deep into his flesh. 

At first, they appear to be freshly scarred wounds from random slashes of a knife. Reminisce of a clawed attack from a bear. But then, as eyes adjust, one can see a single word taking shape - carved into the entirety of Mercy’s face, from forehead to jaw, in big vicious letters: AMOS. 

Amos. As in, Crown Prince Amos, the Emperor’s eldest son. 

Bile surges up Kasin’s gullet which he swallows with difficulty. As frightened he is of the knife sticking into his gut, he’s also greatly pained by the man’s scars. What kind of torture had Mercy been subjected to? Kasin suspects that there’s more to see beyond those cruel letters. 

A part of him is in disbelief. The Crown Prince is known for his heroic and generous deeds. Many espouse his virtues and compare him to his father, Emperor Midothal who ends wars without ever raising his sword. After all, isn’t Mercy’s exile proof of his forgiving nature? If Mercy is truly a deviant, indulging in his wicked appetite behind the docile mask of Midothal’s loyal Arbiter and Steward, then he by all rights should be sentenced to death. However, His Majesty had instead chosen to spare Mercy’s life and exile him instead. Why would he do such a thing, if he was the type of man to allow this torture?

Kasin licks his dry lips, nervously. Never mind all that, he thinks. There’s a knife pointed at his stomach - that should take first priority. “Mister Mercy,” he begins, slowly, amicably. “I can see that you are not quite yourself. Perhaps a conversation between friends could ease your burdens? How about a shared meal? There's a tavern close by that does a wonderful meat pie. Come, friend. There need be no bloodshed today.”

The taller man simply stares at him, hollow eyed, detached. His shaking has dissipated entirely. And his stance is lean and centered. Kasin knows that whoever this is, it’s not the same man from moments ago. 

There’s no getting out of this. Not with words alone. 

Kasin lets his training kick in. In one fast motion, he simultaneously grabs the blade and Mercy’s wrist, and twists the latter to a painful degree. The knife, he wrenches free and tosses to the side. 

There’s no reaction to the sprained wrist. Mercy whips into action, attacking the guard with a flurry of perfectly executed blows. Kasin meets them with his own, and they fight like this for many minutes, neither tiring or relenting to the other. Not once does Kasin pull his sword. It’s not his intention to kill this man after all - despite Tophel’s warning.

Finally, Mercy sweeps Kasin’s legs from under him and pins him to the ground with his foot, pushing his weight into that single crushing point. His other foot pins down the guard’s right hand, preventing him from going for his sword.

Kasin groans and chokes, agony spreading through his upper trunk like spilled lava. “Mer…cy…!” He’s not sure if he’s asking for mercy or calling his name, but it’s fruitless either way. 

The man simply isn’t here. 

Kasin flails. He strikes. He yanks and pulls and kicks. But Mercy’s like a steel column, unyielding, unmoving. 

With every compounding inch of pressure upon Kasin’s chest, the less air he’s able to suck in. His vision begins to darken around the edges. His ribs are on the verge of snapping. He knows he has only a few precious seconds of consciousness left. If he doesn’t do anything - he will die. 

So as he squints up at the stony, impassive face looming overhead - he takes one final shot in the dark. “A…mos..!”

The pressure stops. A sliver of air seeps through. 

He squeezes the word out again. “Amos–!”

Suddenly, as though struck by a powerful force, Mercy violently recoils. His body crashes into the wall, causing the entire structure to judder. Clawed hands desperately scrabble at his hood, attempting to cover his head - or rather, his face. 

Kasin raises himself upright, clutching his aching chest and gasping for air. He feels the creeping fingers of regret upon seeing Mercy’s powerful reaction, but for now, he’s alive - and regret momentarily takes a backseat. 

-

Amos.

Mercy clutches the side of his head, dragging the hood further down. Darkness sweeps him up into its comforting embrace - but he’s yet to feel at all assured. 

Pants seep through clenched teeth as he slams his head into the wall, trying to knock the scattered fragments of his mind back into place. The swirling, discordant noise knocks him askew. He’s both here and there and nowhere at all, and it takes every shred of his cognisance to keep from falling apart. 

Amos burns. 

It burns like he’s sinking into him again. Like he’s back in that place, that dark and enduring place, and he bites down on his hand to keep from crying out. This pain is real. Grounding. But the burn is soul-deep. Impossible to ignore. 

“Mister Mercy?”

A voice. Firm. Concerned. It reminds him of the dusk. 

“Leave.” He’s enough mind to utter a single word. Not a demand. Not a suggestion. A plea. 

Please. Please leave. Leave so I can stop fighting. Leave so I can rest.

“Please.” Another plea. Not his own. “Please, Mister Mercy. Tell me what ails you. Is there anything I can do? Are you in pain?”

“Leave–!” The word cracks midway. Wavers. Mercy claws at the wall, smashes himself into it like he can phase right through. He’s shaking now, and chilled right to the bone despite the summer heat. He can smell metal. Copper. His face burns. 

Amos burns. 

“Mercy. Tell me what’s wrong.” There’s a hand now, touching his face. Gentle fingers pushing his matted hair to the side. Sunlight sneaks in as his hood’s nudged back. He panics. 

He’s touching him. He’s pulling off his hood. He’s here, he’s here, he’s here–

Mercy scrambles to his feet, holding onto the wall for support. He holds out a trembling hand, ready to shove Kasin away should he venture too close. But the guard keeps his distance. 

Mercy pants through his panic, his eyes wild and face a shock-white. The world spins, lurches, and his legs buckle and bow. The noise reaches an agonising crescendo, drowning out every scattered thought in his brain.

Kasin steps forward, reaching out, alarmed. This time, Mercy relinquishes. He accepts. He exchanges the wall for the guard and collapses into his sturdy arms. All sense of self-preservation dissipates. He’s purely in survival mode. There’s desperation for an end to this suffering, this chaos, like a primal keen. 

Amos burns.

Kasin lowers him to the ground and kneels beside him, keeping a firm grasp of his upper arms. “Keep still. Don’t try to move. Here, have some water.”

A flask’s brought to his lips, but he can’t do more than wet his cracked lips. He’s breathing too hard, too fast, rocking in the guard’s arms like he’s trying to escape his own skin - but he can’t, he’s trapped, so he just rocks. 

And all the while, his face burns. 

Kasin presses his palm against Mercy’s forehead. It’s a light touch but the latter flinches like he’s been scorched. 

“Sorry, sorry–” the guard hastily apologises. “But you’re hot, like you’ve a fever, and you're not sweating. When’s the last time you drank water?”

“Burns…” Mercy rasps, on the edge of delirium. 

“What does?”

“Amos…Amos burns…” 

Somewhere far away, or maybe not far at all, Mercy hears the trickle of water. Murmured words, not quite for his ears. And then a cool, damp cloth pressed gently upon his forehead. The burn lulls. Subsides. The damp cloth dabs across his brow, to his left temple, down his cheek. In the wake of Kasin’s ministrative touch, Mercy - impossibly - finds relief. 

His panicked breath slows, lightens. The noise quietens in his head. Mercy sits there, eyes closed, swaying and trembling, as the young guard, this stranger, dabs his burning wounds. These ugly, jagged scars that laid waste to his flesh. Like a soothing rain dousing the blazing, destructive wildfire, Mercy finds a kind of peace in that touch. 

Another’s touch is never good. But this touch…this touch is good. 

An anomalous event that will never happen again. 

When Mercy finally comes to, Kasin has once more doused the cloth - his handkerchief - with water from his flask. The guard’s propped Mercy against the wall to free his hands, and he’s crouched before him, brows furrowed deeply in concern. 

Kasin raises the handkerchief to Mercy’s temple, and stills. Oaken eyes, swirling with deep, unfathomable emotion, lock onto a hazy coal-black stare. 

“Mercy? Have you returned to your senses?”

Mercy feels drained. Hollowed out like a gutted animal carcass. He wants nothing more than to curl up on his - broken - cot and sleep the day out of existence. 

He grabs Kasin’s wrist and yanks it from his face. The guard loses his balance and falls onto his rear. 

“Don’t touch me,” Mercy croaks. Should this guard return with a platoon to have him hanged, then so be it. He’s tired of fighting. “I need…” Mercy pauses. Shivers. He feels raw. Weak. And in truth, he is. It only took a single touch to draw out the Hollow. And a single word to break him. “I need you to leave.”

For once, the young guard doesn’t protest. He simply nods, climbs to his feet, and brushes himself off. He leaves his flask and handkerchief on the only standing piece of furniture in the shack - a rickety table salvaged from the dumping ground. 

“Try to drink some water,” Kasin says, quietly. “I’ll be outside, keeping watch, so call out if you need anything. I'll...keep your dagger safe. For the moment. A fair exchange, I think, for almost taking my life.” He turns to leave. A pause in the doorway.  “I am sorry about what I said. I shouldn't have...I didn't realise you would--" He bites his tongue. Smiles tightly. "I’ll fix you a new door and bring it by tomorrow.” And then he’s gone, off to take up his usual post under the gnarled black tree, with the dagger tucked securely in his belt. 

Mercy doesn’t move. He just stares at the naked doorway, lost in the memory of another doorless cell, and the utter incomprehension of simply leaving.

.

Part 2

[royaltealovingkookiness]

I thought for my 500th post on this blog, I’d do something self-indulgent and write down my thoughts about the parallels and contrasts of these two scenes, even though so much has already been said about them. Strap in, it’s long.

The parallels and contrasts between Zuko being reunited with Ozai and Iroh abound. 

The lead up already, as he feels conflicted both on the boat back to the Fire Nation and when he decides to find Iroh. I’ve written about the parallels of the scenes with Mai and Katara before the actual reunification scenes.

1. The anticipation. Zuko seems apprehensive / afraid both times. 

With Ozai his fear is clearly stated; his father won’t take him back because he didn’t capture the Avatar. He didn’t meet the conditions to his acceptance.

With Iroh; I’ve read some metas that Zuko is afraid that Iroh would hurt him the way Ozai did. I don’t think so. While Zuko is deeply traumatized, he knows Iroh too well, who never raised a hand to him no matter how rude, insolent, disobedient he was. It’s not how Iroh rolls. But I think Zuko is afraid that Iroh would not want to do anything with him anymore after the betrayal. And ironically, Zuko only realized what Iroh was to him (his “real father”), once they were ripped apart. So he’s afraid that he threw away the love and approval of the person who matters to him more than anyone.

It’s also interesting that returning “home” in the case of Ozai means the Fire Nation palace (the place that ceased to be home on the day Ursa left and Ozai became Fire Lord), but in the case of Iroh, means Ba Sing Se; the place where for a little while, Zuko and Iroh lived like a normal family, and for a brief moment seemed happier than they have ever been. It’s Iroh’s place of destiny, the place of his biggest failure and greatest self-sacrifice, the biggest loss and the promise of peace and a new beginning. 

With Ozai, Zuko has to wait for an invitation, in contrast Iroh’s door is always open to him.

2. The setting. 

Ozai greets Zuko in his throne room. The formality is suffocating. The physical distance is enormous between them, Ozai is on the elevation to symbolize the power imbalance. They are divided by fire (their relationship is forged by the destructive side of fire). Zuko is foremost a subject of the Fire Lord, a tool to his will and only secondly Ozai’s son. 

With Iroh, Zuko is on his knees as well, but not because he has to, only because he chooses to. Iroh is close, there are no defenses around him, he doesn’t try to intimidate with his power. The situation is achingly familiar, a throwback to the informality of their relationship. The scene is not lit by fire, but by the rising sun and the warm light of a lantern (their relationship is characterized by the nurturing, protective side of fire).

3.  The first words

It’s Ozai who speaks first. “You have been away for a long time. I see the weight of your travels has changed you. You have redeemed yourself my son. Welcome home.” Zuko’s feelings or experience don’t matter, only Ozai’s perception of it. It is only important that he behaved the way Ozai expects him. Ozai grants Zuko his redemption, it doesn’t matter whether he actually feels redeemed. Interestingly, it’s the first time we hear Ozai call Zuko “his son”. In the Agni kai, he calls him “Prince Zuko” and when he orders Azula to bring him back, he calls him “your brother”. Even though he walks towards Zuko, he stays towering over him and doesn’t touch him. Zuko may be his son in words, but it certainly doesn’t feel like it.

By contrast, Iroh's first words are silence and for a moment it looks like Zuko’s worst fears have come true; Iroh hates him and doesn’t want him there. But actually, Iroh listens - like he always has. He reached out to Zuko from the prison even, but now it’s Zuko’s turn. And Zuko’s heartfelt apology highlights so well the depth of their relationship and the mutuality of their bond. 

“Uncle, I know you must have mixed feelings about seeing me. But I want you to know, I'm so so sorry, Uncle.  I'm so sorry and ashamed of what I did. I don't know how I can ever make it up to you but I'll...”

It matters what Zuko feels (he’s sorry and he’s ashamed), but it also matters to Zuko how Iroh feels and whether there is a chance to fix their relationship. Iroh listens quietly, and he doesn’t interrupt Zuko with words, but with a hug, completely at the level of Zuko, showing him with action that he is loved, wanted, forgiven. 

And he interrupts him before Zuko has a chance to vow to do whatever grueling task Iroh has for him to earn the forgiveness. His love is unconditional. Zuko doesn’t need to capture the Avatar to be taken back.

4. The Forgiveness

This is my favourite bit, and one that doesn’t get nearly as much attention as the other parallels. 

Ozai explains as he circles around the still kneeling Zuko his reasons:

Ozai: I am proud of you, Prince Zuko. I am proud because your sister conquered Ba Sing Se. I am proud because, when your loyalty was tested by your treacherous uncle, you did the right thing, and captured the traitor. And I am proudest of all of your most legendary accomplishment. You slayed the Avatar.

That’s super interesting. What is Ozai exactly proud of?

-Azula conquering Ba Sing Se (the first thing he mentions isn’t about Zuko, but something Azula who always comes first in Ozai’s book did that Iroh failed to do)

- Zuko turning against Iroh. (The single thing Zuko feels the worst about. And for Ozai, again ,this isn’t about Zuko, it’s about Zuko choosing Ozai over Iroh, it’s about proving that fear is more reliable than love, it’s one more way Ozai is beating Iroh. Familiar? Self-worth based on being “better than”?)

- You killed the Avatar (The third thing is a blatant lie, something Zuko didn’t do - but is he willing to to earn Ozai’s acceptance?)

Now let’s compare it with the dialogue with what Iroh says: 

Zuko: How can you forgive me so easily? I thought you would be furious with me. Iroh: I was never angry with you. I was sad because I was afraid you lost your way. 

These are Iroh’s first words. “I was never angry with you.” For Iroh, it is not about himself. Nor about Ozai or Azula. It’s about Zuko and his love for him. He doesn’t expect Zuko to carry out any agenda for him. He doesn’t want to make him the poster boy of the White Lotus. All he wants for Zuko is to find his way. His own path to redemption and happiness. Iroh doesn’t own Zuko, he’s not a tool. He doesn’t pretend he can give Zuko his redemption or honor. Zuko is his own man and he has to decide what he wants for himself in life and Iroh, like a good father, steps back and hopes that all he taught the boy will help him become who he is meant to be.

5. The resolution

Now the ending. 

For the first time, Zuko speaks to Ozai.

Zuko: What did you hear? Ozai: Azula told me everything. She said she was amazed and impressed with your power and ferocity at the moment of truth.  

Again. Ozai is not interested in Zuko’s version of the story. Azula (better than Zuko) vouched for him - the forgiveness is built on a lie and not only on Ozai’s whim, but Azula’s as well. The attributes expected of him are power and ferocity. Aggression. Proving that he’s cruel enough to belong to this family. 

Zuko closes his eyes, clearly left in a really bad place, conflicted, tormented by doubt and fear that his acceptance home is conditional on being his absolute worst self. There is no feeling of catharsis after three years of suffering and doing his best, there is no love and he doesn’t feel honorable.

Even though he’s home, it feels like he is surrounded by people who can and will destroy him when it suits them.

(And in light of this meeting, his actions in The Headband become more understandable [even if still ooc] - he unleashes his rage on Iroh and hires an assassin. Because what did Ozai say? It’s about Iroh’s supposed treachery and killing the Avatar. All that suffering, all the exile becomes useless if Zuko can’t make the lie true somehow.)

With Iroh though, there is catharsis - Zuko is crying from both eyes for the first time since he was burnt. His own tears are the spirit water that can heal his scar. His feelings are laid out all raw, and Iroh reciprocates with the same honesty. 

Zuko:  I did lose my way. 

Iroh: But you found it again.  And you did it by yourself. And I am so happy you found your way here. 

Zuko: It wasn't that hard, Uncle. You have a pretty strong scent.

Iroh can’t give redemption or honour to Zuko (he can only do that by himself), but he can give him something even more powerful: love and acceptance. All his scars and mistakes and stumbling on his path included. Iroh loves him for who he is and supports him on his path. But it’s Zuko’s path.

Finally, Zuko is home - because home is not a place. It’s not a fancy palace, not even a favourite summer house. It’s a place where people who love and accept each other come together, wherever in the world they pitched their tent. 

[driftwork]

honeymoon - 3rd person...

They had  broken the rituals that had bound them into their lives within their respective worlds. The solid structures they had lived in, the concrete  had become erratic streams in which only their being together remained, and even this was really an ongoing experiment. And so here we have two people who are  together [...] 

His wife  had felt tired and unwell, she was about six months pregnant with their first child at the time and they had rushed back to the hotel room, where she had laid down, tired, shivering and feeling sick.  They didn't want to ask the hotel for a doctor immediately because they had only been married a few days and they were on their honeymoon, and on a honeymoon you do not really want the interference of strange doctors. And after all she was probably just tired, being pregnant and having overdone it during the previous week after their wedding, before travelling by train to Paris the day before.  They were staying in an expensive hotel sheltered from the traffic by deep pavements and the square in front of the hotel. She fell asleep almost immediately as soon as he had helped her undress and he had helped her put on a teeshirt to sleep in and covered her with the duvet. He didn't want to do anything that could disturb her sleep so he went and sat on the balcony with the book he was reading in his hand, the balcony door slightly ajar so he could listen for her,  instead of reading he was watching people walk around and across the square. The people of paris, how they walked and dressed, their voices could be heard like a soft murmur, traffic sounding like the sea in the distance, cyclists running through like drunken molecules, bounce, bounce, bounce. He looked out and sighed wondering if they were right to have come even for the few days. He looked out without really seeing anything, it felt like one of those days at work when he was trying to decide whether to arrest some pitiful criminal or not. How did it become like that he wondered, knowing that it was because of the asleep woman on the bed,  how did everything become about context? They had  broken the rituals that had bound them into their homes within their respective worlds. The solid structures they had lived in, the houses of concrete  had become fluid in which only their being together was becoming fixed, and even this was really an ongoing experiment. Was it simply that he had become a more serious criminal than than most of the people he arrested ? Over the past few years since carrying her bag across the city all that had remained stable was her. That one person who had remade him as a person, a becoming ethical was with him. They had become married, he smiled at the phrase as he thought it, for political reasons, to convince others that they were staying in place, unmoving in exile. Together. He looked down and identified the uneven distribution of men in suits, picking out the man in a dark suit who unlike everyone else was simply standing, motionless looking forward at the hotel. The man was about thirty, a white shirt neath his suit jacket, dark shoes. Perhaps he was waiting for someone ?  He decided he was waiting for something, someone, who? After a few minutes he answered his phone and walked in a circle as he spoke and listened. Another man walked over and handed him a bag, before leaving the square. it was a large black bag which he held in his left hand, the shoulder strap hanging down towards the path.  He walked over to a bench made up of four planks of dark wood bolted onto a metal frame that was facingtowards  the hotel. He sat on the bench after adjusting his clothes to be more comfortable, his left shoulder seemed slightly out of alignment and he stretched slightly to loosen his posture.

It was growing dark and the fading light made the man on the bench seem more solitary, more isolated and  more obviously waiting for something, an instruction perhaps. Whatever it never arrived.  He started reading his book in the light from the window as the anti-photons began to absorb the light from the square, the street lights came one. Illuminating the bench that the man was sitting on. Sitting on the balcony he was reading a novel by Antonio Tabucchi The Missing Head of Damasceno Monteiro.  He listens to her  turning over in her sleep. He relaxes into his chair listening and reading pages of the novel, between pages he looks down. Sometimes he saw people approach the man on the bench but he dismissed them with a wave of his arm.  Eventually another man sat down next to him and they started talking about something, poetry perhaps, their wives or most likely work he thought. The man looked up and seemed to be looking at him on the balcony for the first time. Their eyes crossed, the man looking up at him saw he was lit from behind. He didn't know anyone in Paris, apart from his pregnant wife in bed behind him. He could hear her moving in the room behind him pouring a glass of water, looking at him through the window before going back to bed.  What were the men on the bench waiting for he wondered. He was casually watching the cafe on the corner when a man left it carrying a bag of food and some cartons, he was walking slowly a little unsteadily when he realized it was a woman dressed in dark suit with black ankle boots and a brown teeshirt like garment underneath the jacket. She stopped by the bench and handed them the drink cartons, coffee he thought and some trays of food, tapas or bento boxes he thought. He watched them talk for a while. They became more animated,  perhaps because of the woman he thought, gestures of appropriation and perhaps something akin to recognition.  There was some gesturing towards the hotel they were staying in. Some of the gestures from the woman seemed to suggest bravado as if to affirm that they could do it... Look they are up there, there are only two of them we should do this now. He imagined she was saying. The original man made a grasping gesture telling them to calm down. Perhaps to wait until the square was darker. Shrouded in anti-photons, sufficient to hide their actions from the surveillance systems in the square.

Hey, she said behind him from the bed.  He stands up and goes into the room, she is sitting up and looking a little less pale now. She is smiling, and says she is feeling better now. Still a little tired, her hand resting on her swollen stomach. She doesn't look sick any longer just pregnant. It's ok he tells her, do you want to sleep some more ? I think I'll have a shower, and we can eat something downstairs afterwards. He goes over and touches her shoulder, her hair. Handing her the bathrobe from the sofa. The sound of running water, whoosh. whoosh. She thought about how they had become these people, surrounded by the institutions of the state, originally she'd imagined it as a binary system (state -- war machine) and that she had left her place in the state machine and become a war machine with him, but it was plain now that so many competing interests surveilled them, that it required a more complex model, she drew the triangular model on the bathroom mirror with lipstick. From within the stream of the rain shower she looked at the diagram and tried to remember what she had been like as a warrior for the sovereign or had she been an assassin for the producer ? She wasn't sure that in any sense she could know her old self, she wondered as she stroked her pregnancy in the hot water.  The triangular model does work better than the binary adaption. She thought of him in the bedroom, with the usual moment of desire. Only he generates that sense of desire, because only he exists in the war machine with me. These days too many people would have to die if I went out of exile. Fortunately nobody in the world could see her expression...

He went out onto the balcony and looked down at the street, recognizing one of the Thursday men walking down the street besides the hotel.  The man waved making a grasping gesture, a hello sign, not of friendship but of recognition. He waved at him leaning over the balcony and noticed the bench was now empty. The three people vanished. Picked up his book from the chair and went back into the room. Pulling the shutters  closed behind him, leaving the doors pen to let the cool air through the slats. The noise of the city in the growing dark echoing in. The thought of having to tell his wife about the people he'd seen slightly annoyed him. They were on their honeymoon after all, and you just want to left alone with your partner, with space and time to be alone with them. The sound of the hairdryer running from the bathroom. He sighed and remembered that they were never alone anymore,  that something or a person was always surveilling them.  She came out of the bathroom, naked beneath the open bathrobe her hair dry. She got dressed and suggested they go downstairs to eat.

[They went downstairs in the lift, she held his hand, her face as bleak and observant as always. He thought he was probably smiling enough for both of them. She liked the Yoshi dress, it was a soft grey fabric with a red satin lightening bolt shape from her left shoulder down to her right hip, mirrored on the back.  In the lift as she adjusted her leather short coat.  She looked  so desirable he thought that he might die.  She shook her head.  “ Really you are hopeless.” “I don’t understand what it is. Not really.”  She was still hugging him when the lift doors opened on the first floor/mezzanine. “ I do so it doesn’t matter...”  They were alone amongst the surveillance.]

After they ordered some food she got up from the table and went to the bar, talking with the barman and ordered something for him and walked back to the table.  I almost wish this dress wasn’t a pregnancy dress it’s so nice. She told him and continues talking with him about being so tired this afternoon. Perhaps we shouldn’t have come, it's probably all too much. She smiles, I don't know, I like the hotel. It’s nice here and we can only  travel because we cannot run at the moment. Her hand touching her stomach. People were looking at them as guests in hotels do. The woman stretched, her arms emerging from the sleeves of the dress.  A Japanese man, who had spent the week expecting and receiving obsequious behavior from the hotel staff, froze on seeing her as he was sitting down at his table with the other people on his negotiating team.  Hesitantly he straightened up and walked over to her table and bowed to her.  She scarcely even looked at him,  gestured dismissively, looked at him and told him to go away. He looked horrified and hurried back to his table. The people at his table asked him if he was all right. After a few seconds one of the other Japanese men who were sitting together in a booth by the bar left his two colleagues and walked over to the man and spoke to him quietly.  “He is the son of a friend of my father.” She explained to her husband. “ I have learnt not to be polite to them since living with you...” “I think we will be terrible parents...” He said to her.  She shook her head. “I don't think so, I dream of killing my father so compared to mine I think we’ll be like angels. It's an experimental activity after all. ”  "Änd him?" He asked as the drinks she had ordered arrived.  "Not a criminal, one of the sons of an oligarchic business friends... " The man who'd gone over to the table to speak to the man,  nodded to them as he passed. They talked about the wedding, and began to talk about what they were going to do next week and when the baby arrived. They decided that they would return home early, the day after tomorrow...

They stayed in Paris another night before traveling back on the train. 

[chaosmagetwin]

The Stroke of a Pen

Chapter List: http://chaosmagetwin.tumblr.com/post/159499715775/dark-wizardess-chapter-master-list

I stood in the hallway, surrounded by people as I dripped water. Around my feet was mud that had dripped off my bare feet and shins. Ahead of me was an even larger crowd, surrounding the Princess, Kayla, I reminded myself, pleading with her. They wanted to know what she was going to do to Lord Arithya. Some wanted his head. Others wanted his entire families head. A few just wanted him exiled, and even fewer wanted clemency. They had turned on him quickly. 

I was ignored, thankfully. No one wants to be stuck in the middle of an angry crowd. Guards were pushing people back,but there weren’t enough. My own guards, who’d been following me at a distance all day, had moved in to protect the princess. It was odd. I’d barely seen them at all, since she’d told me that i’d be followed by them a week ago. Now that I got a good look at them, dressed as they were in dark clothes and scuffed armor, they looked more like assassins than guards. Meanwhile, the princes herself looked frustrated. Finally, she shouted with a spell enhancement. 

“Enough!” Her voice boomed in the great hall of the castle. “Lord Arithya will be sentenced tonight! The sentence will be passed by me then. If you wish to see it, you can be there, but you must be SILENT. Exit the castle and get to your fields. There is much work to be done.” There was an almost audible groan, but the crowd complied, except for a few hanger-ons. Annoyed Rabble Rousers, servants, and a few too slow to know better. The guards pushed them out, and the ones who protected the princess almost did the same to me,until my own stopped them. I gave a short curtsy to them, smirking. I got a glare in return. 

“Penny, go get changed.” She snapped a finger to a servant. “Bring... oh, I don’t know... a tailor with a set of dresses for a short petite woman to her room.” She sighed as the servant rushed off. “Apparently, this is going to be an event...” She muttered to herself.

I moved for the stairs, only to find it blocked by an angry looking servant. She glared at me, then looked pointedly at my feet. “Is there a wash basin I could use, mistress?” I asked her as politely as I could. Her face brightened and softened in the same moment, and she nodded. 

“A’cour’, M’Lady. Righ’ thi’ way.” She led me to a room just off from the great hall, near the entrance. “Any time you nee’ tah clean your feet, jus’ step righ’ in here. There alway’ a ba’in here.” Indeed, there was a basin, several in fact, sitting next to the wall nearest to the door, each filled with clear water. Short stools sat in front of each basin.“’Pologie for my peakin’, I lo’t ome teeth not too long ago.” I looked up at her from the washbasin, an eyebrow raised. She shook her head. “Not ayin’ to what, m’lady.”

I made a face at her. “C’mere. I have some magic that might help. You’ll have to tell me what happened though.” I motioned to a stool. “Otherwise, the spell might not stick.”

She grimaced, and sat down. “Well, it’ ju’t... my hu’band....” I already knew what she would say. She noticed the look on my face. “But it’ only when he drink! I ‘wear! He don’t drink often, ju’t when the field be going bad.... He don’t mean it. He’ a good man, work hard all day. He love’ me.”

I schooled my face into blank emotion. It wasn’t my place to judge. Not yet. “I can regrow your teeth for you. What is your name?” I asked carefully. 

“I am known by Tallie ‘mith, M’lady.” Now that she was closer, I could see the old bruises. I rinsed my hands in the basin water for a moment, then carefully touched them with the tips of my fingers. She didn’t flinch, and stared at me directly in the eyes. “I gave a’ good a’ I got. It’ only fair. He ‘pologi’ed the net day.” I smiled at her. She wasn’t meek. 

“I’m not the courts of law, Tallie. Hold still, or else these will grow in crooked.” I closed my eyes. I’d never done this spell before. If i did it wrong, I could leave her disfigured. I sent out a tiny pulse of magic, and memorized how her skull and teeth reflected back to me. Several were terribly rotten. Some were loose, a few were stuck. No wonder she had such a hard time speaking. Her jaw had to be killing her. A careful healing spell flowed into the rotted teeth, clearing out the rot first. She twitched in pain beneath my fingers. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling. A spell of regrowth came next, healing those teeth back into good shape, and putting them into their correct places. Making new teeth would be more difficult. I stole and replaced a seed for each new tooth from some of her existing ones, and grew them until they were the proper size, making sure the roots took to her jaw. I opened my eyes a few moments later, and she was already feeling her jaw, a look of astonishment on her face. 

“It’s fizzed! I mean fixed! I can speak again! And it doesn’t hurt! Thank you, My lady!” She spoke each word carefully, delight on her face as she was able to enunciate each syllable. She stood up and almost burst into dance. 

“Wait, I have one more spell for you.” A quick pat on the stool got her to sit down, though she was barely able to contain her excitement. I tapped her forehead, and let a small burst of magic forth, creating a diagram that disappeared into her skin. It was one I was very familiar with. “This is a defensive spell. Anyone who hits you will feel it as if they hit themselves. However, it also goes for you. Anyone YOU hit, YOU will feel. Ah! Don’t speak. Tell your husband to stop drinking so much, or you both will suffer for it.” Her face suddenly aghast. “I believe in fairness, Mistress Smith. Show each other some restraint. You’ll both be better for it.” I turned back to the basin and focused on my feet as she darted out of the room. I sighed. She wouldn’t appreciate that spell, but the honest truth was that I didn’t know who was in the wrong, if either was an instigator. Ultimately, the spell could only help, right? 

I flinched as the familiar bells rung. “Could only help? Are you sure about that?” I looked around, frustrated. Of course, nothing was visible. “What if her husband gets blindingly drunk and beats her until she dies, because he is feeling pain?”

“You know, you’re a real pain in the ass. Always showing up and making me question my sanity. If he does that, then he’ll wind up beating himself to death too.” I scrubbed the mud off my shins, watching as the water changed color. 

“And what if a gang of people beat her? or bandits show up?”

I glared at the water, and let out an exasperated sigh. “Then, I guess it doesn’t help. But it doesn’t hurt!”

“Unless she defends herself.” I froze. I hadn’t considered that, actually. “Ah, the great wizardess realizes the flaw in her master plan. Normally, I’d be more subtle, but, really.” Was it.. angry?

“Why do you care? You weren’t around before I was captured to give me moral advice.”

“No, I wasn’t. A shame, really. What is your grand plan, anyways? Working with the princess forever? Surely, you aren’t satisfied in playing second fiddle.” I stepped out of the muddy water, and shrugged. “And what of the time when the princess tires of you and your games? When she has no more use for you? A criminal.”

I sighed as I stepped up the stairs, ignoring the spell diagram’s voice that refused to leave me. A ghost of a spell. The whisperings of insanity. 

“Ignore me if you like. You’re only ignoring your own conscience after all.”

I pulled at the itchy cotton dress, feeling like I was being suffocated. No surprise, since it was a child’s dress, and didn’t account for breasts. It was the only one I had liked, though, of the three brought to me; a black kirtle and white smock. I felt like a child, and looked like one too. It didn’t help that I was steaming in the heavy garments.

Meanwhile, Kayla stood at the top of the Dais, wearing a royal purple gown with gold and silver accessories, her Tiara once again adorning her blonde hair. I’d seen the dress and tiara once before, when I’d fought the princess the first time. The gown itself was actually capable of being discarded with a simple push of a button, to showing pants beneath that she could fight in. For a few short moments, I wished fervently for my old skirt and blouse. They were far more comfortable than this unfamiliar and illfitted sack of a dress. 

I stood at the front of a crowd of people, on either side of me my guards, though they were dressed in simpler clothes. If they wore armor, it was hidden, but for the first time I could see their faces; a woman stood on my left, tall and bulky with muscle. On my right was a thin man, scars breaking across the right of his pinched face, giving him a lopsided look. Beyond them, a sea of peasants that filled out the entirety of the great hall. Kneeling on the dais, his eye closed shut tightly and his lips moving in a blazing fast prayer, was Lord Arithya, his hands tied behind his back. His wife and children stood to the side of the hall, their faces red with weeping. Only the wife held a stoic look, her face calm, though her hands were clenched so tightly in front of her they had turned white, and blood dripped from one hand, where nails had dug in, no doubt. 

The tension in the room was electric and oppressive. What had once seemed like a well-sized and lit great hall now felt like a dimly lit cave, oil lamps burning as brightly as they could to stave off the grim fog. All eyes were on the princess, her face unreadable, her feet planted proudly, eyes looking above everyone haughtily. She looked as queenly as could be. 

“Tonight, we are gathered to hear the sentence of Lord Arithya.” Her voice echoed in the silent hall, though she spoke quietly. “He is accused and guilty of lying to the crown and wasting crown funds and food. He has let his castle fall into disrepair, and insulted the crown.” The woman on my right reached for her hip, then clenched her hand. A reflexive move. “For the crime of lying to the crown, the sentence is death. I ask you, the people in service to Castle Arithya, what do you plead?”

A murmur swept through the crowd, then came a shout. “Guilty! Death to the traitor! Let him hang!” Several shouted in agreement. 

“No! Clemency, your highness! He has been a good lord. We have not suffered beneath him!” There was a murmur of agreement. 

“If I may speak, Your highness. I know I am biased...” It was the wife to Lord Arithya. “I am Lady Arithya and Tursen. My husband is guilty, it is true, but not intentionally. He is not an organized or intelligent man, but I love him nonetheless. I ask you, please... clemency. As a noble, as a woman who loves him!”

Kayla waited for silence. “For the crime of wasting Crown Funds and Food from Our granaries, the punishment is death. Our country is in need of food in many places. Yet he throws a feast. How do you plead?”

“Death!” came several shouts again. A few shouted otherwise.

Lady Arithya looked ready to speak again, until the princess glared at her. “You have spoken your mind once. I will assume your bias continues for each.” She looked back at the crowd, her eyes watching each person like a hawk as they argued. “Silence!” She said after nearly thirty seconds of listening. “To the third count, he has let his castle fall into disrepair. The punishment for this is a fine and a warning. The fourth is to insulting the crown, the punishment for which is death. However, I forgive him that.” I raised an eyebrow at her. “People of Arithya, I have heard your desires. But, I must tell you that I had come to a decision before asking you. There is protocol to be followed, and principles to be upheld. There is precedent for only one outcome, and that is death.” A few gasps sounded from behind me, and I watched as Lady Arithya closed her eyes tight. Her children cried softly. The oldest couldn’t have been older than eight. 

“Lord Arithya. Please stand.” He stood, his face pale white, his body shaking. He held his chin high.

“I am ready to die, Your Highness.” He said carefully. I stared at him in shock. I hadn’t been expecting that. “I am sorry for what happened. I wish I were a smarter, more capable man.” He gulped, trying to hold something back. 

The princess made no move, her expression flat. “Lord Arithya, you have failed this country as a noble. Your people suffered beneath your rule, though some might say otherwise. You lied to the crown. What excuses do you have?”

“None, Your highness. I haveonly to say that I did what I thought best for my poeple. I limited the food available to them so that we could last through the winter and spring, and have some left for the next year. I lied to the crown for that end.”

There was murmuring in the crowd. “Silence!” The princess said sharply. “Lord Arithya, I grant you clemency today.” There was a gasp from the crowd. “Know that the crown is displeased with you. There will be fines to your personal accounts. Your orders are simple. You are to make your castle stronger by this time next year. Not simply repaired, but strengthened. Next time, do not lie to the crown. Just make your requests simply. We do not take kindly to being misled.”

“But he’s lied to the crown! I thought he was going to be put to death!” A voice called from the crowd. They sounded angry.

“The country is in desperate need of nobles who think of their people.” She said calmly. “After much debate and research into his actions, I was able to make the decision last night. If you came here tonight, expecting to be entertained with an execution, you may leave and find your entertainment elsewhere. “

The crowd muttered, and dispersed as the Princess and the nobles left the room. I followed, hiking up the dress to step quickly. “Hey!” It was the woman guard. 

“Oh, what, you’re going to stop me?” I smirked at her as she followed, and she glared at me. “Please. There are things that need to be done.” I hurried after the princess and found the group in the hall She was staring down Lady Arithya.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice that. I let it go, because I knew how it would end, but if you ever pull out black magic again, I will end you.” The ladies face was pale, but she stood resolute. 

“The life of the man I love was in danger, anyone would have done the same. I apologize for my fear getting the better of me.”

“You are lucky I knew that, or you would be nothing but a charred streak on the wall,” I said casually. They all looked over at and I gave them a smug smirk. 

“You noticed it, Penny?”

“Of course. I learn fast.” I looked the noble mother up and down, and shrugged.

She returned the favor, then glared at me. “You’re nothing but a peasant. You wouldn’t dare.” I stared at her and burst out laughing. Her jaw clenched. “Just because the princess favors you does not mean you can get away with anything you want.”

Kayla sighed, and rubbed the bridge of her nose in annoyance. “Lady Arithya, this is Penny. My Wizardess. The one who tried to kill me a month ago.” They looked at me in new light, and I gave them a sharks smile. 

“I take care of the Princesses magical defense these days.” It was a lie, but they wouldn’t call me out on it. They either knew the princess could take care of herself, or they would think that I would do it for her. 

Kayla shook her head. “I am going to bed. Arithya, you can expect a Royal Eye in one month. They had better report good things by then. Lady Arithya, use you magic for something other than looking pretty. Go spend it on making the lives of your people better. Hire some mages from the Mages Guild to get some work done.” 

We walked up the stairs, leaving the family behind. She looked over at me, and raised an eyebrow. “Why are you wearing that?”