I am currently watching through The Lord of the Rings again (as you do).
I love these movies. I will show them to my children (or nieces/nephews) and grand children and great grand children. There are quotes from these films that see me through dark days.
(Reason I can accept the flawed Hobbit films is that they too have quotes that stick around)
That said, as I watch with my parents and thier even older friend, I am listening to them react to Boromir the same way I did the first time I watched it. Knowing what I do now about the back ground of canonical Boromir, it hurts a little bit.
If you are a fan who has read the books, or even is involved with the online fandom- you know. Boromir is a good man- the best of men. He is supposed to be a shining example of the best of us, and his fall to the Ring is meant to show that it could happen to ANYONE. It is meant to be a message to us all that you are not your worst moment, or your worst fault.
And yet because of all the foreshadowing and arguing over choices to make during the quest, we the audience of the movie see him as someone just one step away from betraying everyone. His attempt to take the Ring is not a surprise, or even a tragedy, but a confirmation. The surprise is his redemption in death.
I think there is a version of “The Fellowship of the Rings” that I would have liked to see.
Indulge me:
Part of the problem is that Aragorn is falling into the spot Boromir could be filling. He’s just too epic to allow any other man next to him to look impressive. 🤴🏼
This not only does a disservice to Boromir, but to Aragorn himself, who could be having a much richer personal growth.
So, imagine this.
Strider leans more into his “Ranger in the Corner” persona. He is quiet, terse, filthy, mysterious, and comes across more like your traditional rogue than anything approaching Kingly.
Legolas is the only one to call him Aragorn, he does it exactly once when defending him to Boromir, and never again. Legolas himself is a little different- a few more sarcastic quips, more friendly and forward, the sunshine to Strider’s gloom. When they get to Lothlorian, the elves there acknowledge “Strider the Ranger” as someone known to them, but Legolas of the Woodland Realm does the negotiating. The vibe is “ah, yes… that human Elrond adopted. I suppose we should bid him welcome…” 🫤 (Obvious exception of Galadriel. She knows all. It just makes her seem more out there).
There are a couple less references to his lineage, and every time they do, the feeling from the audience should be- “Really? THAT guy?”
Arwen is clearly in a rebellious stage and looking for a bad boy. Him telling her to go very much has that angsty teen feel of “you could do better” and “I am poison to you.”
Elrond is clearly trying to get through to him, but do we think it is going to take? He remains quiet and moody. Was he the first to volunteer to go? Yes. But it was less a declaration and more of an ernest whisper meant for Frodo. Legolas’s immediate follow up is less “I am inspired” and more “My pet introvert will not survive without me, but I am so proud of you for asserting yourself.” 😂
Meanwhile- we have Boromir. Now, I love me some Sean Bean, but I need him at his most joyful. Most jovial. Give him a big old beard. Pad him out with thicker armor to give him a broader chest.
Boromir is supportive. Boromir is playful. Boromir is everyone’s big bro, ESPECIALLY the younger hobbits. I basically want every scene he has with Merry and Pippin expanded to everyone.
I want the sword drop to feel less like a stranger being disrespectful, and more like a himbo being clumsy.
I want him to talk about the path to Mordor of all the concern of the older sibling who has seen and been, and his dismissal of Aragorn to feel justified. “Yeah… sure, put that guy on the throne. Uh huh. I think we dodged an arrow there.” And I want the end of it to be a bit of a laugh and a clap on the back, and “no offense meant, Strider Ol’ chap, but you don’t seem the type!”
I want every disagreement with Gandalf or Gimli about which way to take to feel like him advocating for everyone’s safety.
I want him to slide into the role that Aragorn currently has, protecting everyone, especially Frodo, and to have Strider fall back into a quieter rear guard position, only to really speak up to sharply tell someone “don’t disturb the water” “Hide!” “get them up.”
Strider will speak on historical landmarks or lands we are entering, which always makes Legolas smile in support. “See, he knows cool things. I am telling you, you wanna be friends with my guy.”
Instead of Strider or Gandalf sending Gimli or Legolas chastising looks, we see Boromir, the peace keeper, laughing at both of them. “Come now master dwarf, the Elf will love trees as much as you love Rock, it is to be expected! I myself would be weary of being out in the open so often, and also loathe to spend as much time under ground as your kin, yet I have been known to be grateful for either tree or rock in a rough spot or two (chuckle) As I’m sure you would find the open forest or the dwellings of men far too open for your liking, but would not begrudge shelter in either when when the rain sets in. To each their own way, as my brother would say! You would like him (directed at Legolas) he speaks your poetry much better than I in any rate! (Aside to Gimli) I am more for the drinking songs myself. Speaking of, have you heard the hobbits tell you about their little place? Master Pippin- tell us, how do Hobbits live?” He just keeps cutting off rudeness with rambles about something his brother said or how the hobbits or men are like both of them, and really, do these fights between dwarves and elves matter when they have Sauron to face? Come! We are brothers in arms! There are moments they bask in it, and moments they are bonded by the annoyance of it. Either way he wins.
(In Lothlorien, they are bonded in grief, in appreciation of Galadriel, and in the strangeness of Boromir being too caught up in his own musings to try to fix them)
I want Galadriel’s speech to both Strider and Boromir to feel like a deepening of characters we are already starting to like, not confirmation of things we suspect. I want her to tell Frodo- “You know of who I speak” and have the audience to go “What?! WHO??? Who is this crazy woman talking about? Oh, she has those seer powers- what does she know?!”
I want every reference to Boromir starting to fall to the Ring to be less obvious foreshadowing, and more a sympathetic look behind the jovial curtain.
“What ails you Boromir?” “Oh- never mind me. My mind has gone back to my brother. I was meant to lead the armies you know.” Strained smile. “Now it falls on him. It is a heavy burden, but he is equal to the task. Probably better at it than me!” Laugh. “It will be well. When I see him again I will have to congratulate him on defending our people so well. And he will chastise me for being away so long to leave him to pick up the slack!”
Far away look. Any of the company gives him a questioning look. “We are not far from the borders of Gondor- she is just over that mountain.” Strained smile. “Forgive me, I have not before been so long from home. I did not realize I would yearn for it so. Perhaps that is why I keep trying to turn us that way- feet always point home, do they not?” (This would be poinant with Sam, Legolas, Gimli, or Strider)
At any of these moments, he glances at the ring. A glance. That is it.
If there are obvious moments of temptation, I want one for every single member of the Fellowship (the movie is long enough, there is room). Gimli admires its make, for all that it is wrought with evil. Dwarves know a thing or two about jewelry, you know. Very good craftsmen. Legolas speaks of the rings of the elves, How they never passed to his line- he isn’t surprised. Surprising bitter moment of saying his Father is one of the weakest of Elves. Gandalf interrupts his musing by talking about his ring. (Could be a moment of bonding with Gimli too) Strider tells Frodo he should preserve his strength- can he not put the Ring in a pocket or pass it to another hobbit? (He does not ask to take it, but music implies the question). Merry and Pippin keep talking about “I know it’s evil, but you have to admit, it has a nice shine to it, doesn’t it?” It is playful and flippant, but there none the less. Boromir might ONCE mention it’s use as a weapon, speaking of what Sauron was able to do with it “They say it was the Ring that allowed him to grow in size and strength- he could kill 8 warriors with one blow!” Only to back track when Strider or Gandalf give him a chastising look. “Forgive me,” he says with a laugh, “I am at heart a warrior, and see everything as a possible tactical advantage. Of course it would only do damage should anyone try to use it.” Gandalf turns away, mollified, Boromir whispers conspiratorially to Merry and Pippin “But imagine! Eight feet tall!” (Chuckles all around- foreshadowing to the two growing to be the tallest hobbits) The whole thing should be told around the fire at night like a good story- again, even in his weakness, we see him as an excellent big bro figure.
The point is, I want to get to Galadriel saying someone will take the Ring and the audience is suspicious of EVERYONE.
Then we arrive at the moment. We all have our suspicions. Strider has gone off to find Frodo. There are implications of everyone being out looking. We saw exactly one glance of Boromir’s shield. Out of everyone? The money is on the creepy mysterious Ranger who might have a heart under there but only seems to snap at people.
Then Boromir tries to take the Ring.
From this point on, EVERYTHING Is EXACTLY the AS THE ORIGINAL.
The context is wildly different.
The shock of Boromir taking the Ring has the gasp effect of Hans’ betrayal in Frozen.
Strider turning down the Ring has us all feeling guilty and weepy, because he’s just quiet and concerned damn it! He has always meant well!
Boromir suddenly realizing what he has done has us sobbing “He didn’t mean it! He didn’t mean it! It was the Ring!” And then he immediately turns to defend Merry and Pippin. There are no dry eyes.
We have seen Strider fight- he has precision and skill. But this fight suddenly feels like he is proving something. Like he is standing up for this man who cannot. That is Boromir, Prince of Gondor you struck down, and he is NOT undefended! Something has shifted. Strider is rising, and it shows in this fight against the leader of the Uruki.
Boromir’s final words to Strider, he calls him Aragorn. He calls him brother. He calls him king. It feels less like a shift in view to culminate a redemption, and more like placing a mantle, more like giving final support. Boromir would have been next to lead the people of Gondor- he is giving it to his friend. Vibes of : “You tried to hide, but I saw you. The elf was right. You will be a great King.” Even at the end, he is the Big Brother we all want.
The last moments of the movie when Legolas sees the hobbits across the river is a shift. “Aragorn!” He calls “they have reached the other side…. You mean not to follow them.” We suddenly realize that Legolas was never leading his quiet anxious introvert around, he was always (more subtly) following his lead. Aragorn (as he is called for the rest of the films) is standing tall, and assertive, and making a decision for the group. And they follow.
People rewatch the Fellowship 3 times its first week in theaters, just to catch the moments that warn us that Boromir will fall, and the moments that hint that Aragorn might rise. There are cries of “No spoilers! Let your friends and family find out for themselves!” People break scenes apart to analyze this dynamic for years to come.
Going forward:
Because of this shift in context in Fellowship, the rest of the Trilogy feels more like watching Aragorn come out of his shell and taking on bigger and bigger rolls.
Meeting the Rohiren is suddenly the first time Aragorn speaks for the group. He does so because these are men, and because his friends are being idiots. 😂
The rebuff of Eowyn’s affections feels like more of the same from his relationship with Arwen- he does not feel he deserves it, even now. She is a leader of her people, and he is not yet sure he can say the same. By the time he can, it is clear Arwen’s heart is with him and his with her. It also feels as if he is leaving Eowyn room to pursue her own destiny, to be a leader in her own right. Arwen is supportive, where Eowyn takes charge- perfect for a fully supportive Faramir. 👍
His approach to Theoden feels less like shrinking away, and more like feeling out when he should lead and when he should step back.
Disrespect from any character feels less like a fault of theirs and more like “I mean, I get it, he’s a bit grimy, but he knows what he’s talking about! You don’t know him! He could be a king!” Theoden’s refusal to listen to him feels more like a tragedy, because how else could it have gone?
The entire Two Towers plot becomes a discussion of leadership. Gandalf swoops in and out, and expects people to listen to him. Eomer is direct and aggressive, but only leads warriors, not a kingdom. Theoden has many under his protection, he must weigh risks and lean on older wisdoms. And then there is Aragorn, still figuring himself out, helping Eowyn to do the same. (With every step he takes, we wonder how Boromir would have fit into this discussion- would Eomer have recognized him? Would Theoden have listened more or less to the leader of Gondor’s armies? Would Boromir have stepped back as often? Would he have insisted, in his still jovial way, and would it have caused conflict? Would he inspire men in the same way? Would it have worked as well? We have no idea how he would have handled Eowyn, besides stepping in as a brother since her’s is out fighting. Suddenly this thought of Boromir is on Aragorn’s face with every decision) What Aragorn figures out is that he himself is honest, ernest, and relies on the support and help of others. The conclusion of The Two Towers is the understanding that Aragorn does not need to be a King to be a Leader. That has always been in him. Has he not lead his group this far? Does he not make friends everywhere he goes? Does he not inspire men and elves alike? (Gimli is but one dwarf, and we do not get further examples 😂) He is not Boromir, or Eomer, or Gandalf, or Theoden, but still, he leads.
The Return of the King is an obvious end to his journey, but it feels more fulfilling, since we have seen Aragorn come farther. The moment he claims his birthright with the ghosts under the mountain is a moment that elicits cheers. His speech at the Black Gate brings tears, not just because of his words, but because of how far he has come.
When he is crowned, his reunion with and acceptance of Arwen’s love means more. His moment of humility in front of the Hobbits make us all see how he HAD to be a Ranger to be the Great King he has become. Pride swells.
And we give credit to Aragorn’s growth to the leadership of Boromir in the first film.
We are also struck to the heart when Faramir announces himself as Boromir’s brother. THIS is the brother he spoke so highly of? Did Boromir that bias towards his own flesh and blood, to think THIS man, who captures hobbits and tortures Smeagle, is someone to be proud of? But by the end of Two Towers we are proud too.
At the end of Two Towers, Faramir has seen Frodo nearly fall to the Ring. Did he believe them when they said it drove Boromir mad? Of course not. We didn’t believe it. And we only had one movie with the guy. No one who knew him would buy that. But then there is Frodo, with a sword to Sam’s throat- “Don’t you recognize your Sam?” And there is a horrified recognition on Faramir’s face. Is it what he knows his Father may someday do with or without the Ring? Is it the recognition of how, even in the best of him, his brother could be like his Father? Is it a vision of himself in that position, his brother over him, because he came back with the Ring as their father asked? And does he admire Samwise that much more, because he handled the aftermath of that so much better than Faramir would in his place? (“Something worth fighting for” indeed- Boromir gave the speeches, not him. He must have LOVED this sunshiny little gardener)
When Sam tells him he is of the finest quality- it means more. They are passing on a message after all.
There may be another line from Frodo- “He spoke of you. He knew you would be a good commander. He was anxious to be home and congratulate you. I am sorry it is me here instead of him. He would be so proud.”
Maybe it is Pippin who mentions it. Maybe we get a flashback to another scene between the two of them. “You remind me of my brother- curious, adventurous, but educated, mannered. Much better mannered than I, as it has often been said!” Loud laughter. “The two of you would make for good friends, should you ever meet.”
“Don’t worry for him too much Merry. I have known one as curious as he. He just wanted to understand the world, as does your cousin. It has served him well- he out grew the recklessness of it, and there is no one I trust more.” “Your brother?” Laugh “How did you guess?”
I want us to love Faramir not only because he is good, but because Boromir loved him, and he loved Boromir. I want us to think of Boromir and what he would say to his brother every time he is on screen. I want us to see the love of Boromir direct all his actions.
The parallels of Eowyn and Faramir hint at thier future relationship more clearly in this version, because the connection between Boromir and Aragorn as different leaders of Gondor continues to shine through. Boromir’s brother could not defy his father’s wishes because he loved him and almost died for it. Aragorn’s student (she feels like a sister when he puts her to the side) does defy her father figure, again because she loves him, and is victorious in battle. Both thier fathers die in the battle. When we spot them together in the houses of healing it is not as much of a surprise. It feels right. They have much in common. Also… as Eowyn is seen to grown into a leader as Aragorn does, she also gets her supportive soft romantic partner.
I want Big Bro Boromir to be there in all but flesh throughout the entire thing. I want Boromir’s bracers on Aragorn’s arms to not only be the first thing we notice in Two Towers, but something to feel so right as to be obvious. I want “Then I shall die as one of them!” to feel like a chastisement to Legolas- “Boromir was human too, and he would want us here.” I want “Gondor will answer” to feel like a certainty, because Boromir would. I want Pippin’s rescue of Faramir to feel like a keeping of a promise to love Boromir’s brother as much as a rescue of a new friend. I want us to see the bracer on Aragorn’s arm as much as the sword in his hand when he says “I am Isildur’s Heir.” I want Theoden’s ride to Gondor to tie back not just to Aragorn, but further back to Boromir- a promise has been kept, and inspiration has come to bloom. I want us to see the white tree flags on the battle field of Mordor and feel like Boromir walked in after all. I want us to cry that Boromir is not there to greet Frodo as he wakes, as much as we cry for everyone else’s happy ending.
It’s just an image I had tonight. A beautiful image. Big Bro Jovial Boromir. Laughing down warmly at everyone from heaven. Making us proud to be of the race of men before Aragorn could.
Like I said- I love these movies. But ah, what could have been.
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Beneath the Ashes of Our Broken Oaths — Part Three
Pairing: Morrigan's Sister!Reader x Azriel
Summary: After abandoning the refuge of Velaris, you, Morrigan’s twin sister, returned to the forsaken Hewn City fueled by a vision for a better future. Now, your estranged family seeks your help when rumors of rebellion spread at a time of utmost inconvenience. Torn between your anger and a desire to protect the good, you begrudgingly agree and are forced to face memories of a past life and the unsettling presence of Azriel– the first man you ever loved.
Warnings: depictions of physical injuries, alcohol use, mention of drugs, Rhysand being a condescending prick, reader being shady
Word Count: 5.5k
← Part Two
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
Your nose was broken.
This you were sure of. So was your right leg. And your arm.
Your father was a thorough, thorough man.
There was a nauseating metallic taste in your mouth, a darkening in your vision. You couldn't see much. Eyes too fat, too swollen. Your mouth wasn't any better. Busted, bruised. You couldn't make out the silhouette in front of you--- but you smelled her.
"You shouldn't be here," Evadne said. "Why did you come back?"
You felt her hands on you, tender and soft, examining you, assessing the best way to help. Her hands were warm against your cold skin.
“For you,” you whispered. Your voice is ragged, broken. You weren't sure how you managed to speak. You continued. “I couldn't leave you.”
A heavy sigh. Her arms wrapped around you. A flickering sense of pain spreading throughout your body. You slumped against her.
"That heart of yours will get you killed," she murmured softly.
A cough. Liquid trickled from your lips. The taste of iron flooded your mouth. Blood. You leaned against her, heartbeat in your ears.
“Then I’m already dead.”
“Gods, you look like hell.”
You groaned, slowly lifting yourself up from your sprawled-out position on the worn leather couch. As you blinked away the remnants of sleep, your eyes struggled to adjust to the harsh glow of the day, slowly leaking in through the opened windows— Evadne’s work, you assumed. They were closed last you remembered.
Lifting your hand to shield your eyes, your gaze settled on your best friend who stood over you with her arms crossed over her chest, brows furrowed as she stared down at you.
“Did you sleep on your couch all night?”
Your eyes shuttered as you let your hand fall back down, a deep sense of exhaustion settling heavily upon you. “Maybe,” you said, your voice hoarse. “Yes.”
With a gentle shuffle, Evadne made her way around the piece of furniture, her footsteps muffled against the worn carpet. She tapped lightly at your legs, silently urging you to make room as she settled herself beside you. You complied, maneuvering yourself into an upright position as she took her place at your side.
Her brows furrowed, gaze sweeping over your disheveled appearance. She leaned in, soon pulling away with her nose wrinkled in disgust. "Did you drink a whole damn bar?”
It had only been a few days since Rhysand and Azriel visited you, a few days since you’d practically sold them out to your father. You couldn’t sleep, your mind plagued by visions of your family — of Azriel. At first, you welcomed them, embracing them as a refuge from your normal nightmares. But soon, those new images became worse, more volatile, more painful. You let out a sigh, slowly turning your head to look at Evadne.
“I had no mirthroot left.”
“Y/n.” She widened her eyes. “I just gave you that. It’s supposed to last you weeks.”
“Well, I’ve been under a lot of stress recently,” you retorted. Your tone was sharper than you intended, the stress of your situation festering into a reactionary annoyance. She let out a small sigh and a sense of guilt chewed at you for your flippant response. You deflated.
“I’m sorry,” you said, “I’m just on edge. I don’t mean to snap at you.”
Evadne shook her head gently. There was a moment of silence as she looked you over.
"How do we live in a city of decay and you're still the most depressing thing I've seen today?"
There was a glint of amusement in her dark brown eyes.
“Bite me,” you shot back, managing a weak smile in spite of yourself. The corners of your lips twitched upwards as you looked at her. A second passed. You both let out a small laugh.
Evadne had this effect on you, the ability to make you feel like you were in your body again, like your anger wasn’t consuming you the way you always felt it was. Headstrong, funny, kind… she was all the things you wanted to be – all the things your sister was, once upon a time.
Her smile softened into a smaller, more gentle expression. "Do you wanna talk about it?" she asked, her voice filled with a genuine care that made you want to cry— out of desperation, if anything. Out of a longing to be freed of the worries that now plagued you.
You shook your head. You didn’t have to look in a mirror to see what Evadne was worried about, to know why her eyes kept carefully scanning your face. The impact of everything, the lack of sleep, the stress, the alcohol, the mirthroot, it was all no doubt evident in every line etched into your face, in your sluggish movements.
“It’s all falling apart.”
“No,” she replied. “We planned for some complications.”
You let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow and empty in the quiet of the room. “Yeah, complications, not my nosy cousin and an even nosier spymaster,” you grumbled bitterly.
Evadne fixed you with a pointed look. “So we’re refusing to even say names now?”
You shot her a glare, annoyance boiling up inside you. The feeling quickly simmered when you met her gaze, patient and unwavering. It had gotten worse recently, your ability to keep your emotions in check. It was all the stress, all of this faith being put in you. It was smothering you. But you couldn’t admit it– after all, you’d brought it on yourself. Eventually, you let out a weary sigh, feeling the fight drain out of you as you slumped against the worn cushions of the couch.
"Fine," you muttered, the resignation evident in your voice. "We didn’t plan for Rhysand and Azriel."
Evadne mirrored you, falling back further into the couch. “Maybe it's time,” she said with a simple shrug.
You frowned, looking at her with knitted brows. “Time for what?”
“To confront that past of yours.”
Your reaction was instant, your body shooting upright, pointed and stiff. You rose from the couch, taking a moment to gather your thoughts.
“No,” you said sternly, turning around to look down at her. There was a deep sense of anger churning in your stomach, a sense of betrayal that had been unearthed from the depths of your being—you didn’t want to dwell on it, didn’t want to go deep diving into the black hole that was your family history.
Evadne didn’t back down, though, blinking slowly. She met your gaze with a calm resolve, eyebrows lifted ever so slightly as if she had anticipated your reaction, as if she viewed it as nothing more than a momentary outburst– a child throwing a tantrum. “Y/n,” she began.
“No,” You said again, your voice firm and resolute. “There's nothing I need to confront," you threw the word back at her emphasizing it with a shake of your head. "Don't treat me like I'm some child."
Evadne let out a heavy sigh, a sense of frustration rolling through her body as her shoulders sagged. She shook her head slightly. "Y/n," she began, "I'm not treating you like some child."
With a fluid motion, she rose from her seat, her movements graceful, purposeful. Meeting your gaze, she continued, "I've never seen you so rattled." She paused for a moment. "And you've dealt with a lot worse than two pretty boys."
You stood there, unmoving, lips pressed together into a thin line, your eyes fixed on the worn floorboards beneath your feet. With a subtle tilt of her head, Evadne attempted to catch your lowered gaze, her own expression still soft, still determined.
"This anger," she began, as you lifted your eyes to meet hers. She furrowed her brows, a flicker of sadness passing through her eyes, she continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "Your anger, it is killing you."
With a small exhale, you shook your head, a tightness in your jaw evident as you clenched your teeth. "No," you asserted, the word resonating with a sense of defiance. "It's fueling me." Your eyes bore into hers.
Evadne didn’t move, didn’t look away. Instead, she simply tilted her head, reaching forward to grab your hands in hers. The crease in her eyebrows deepened. “It is still killing you all the same.”
You stilled, your face falling at her words. She was right. She usually was. You’d spent so long harboring your grudges, holding onto them at night like they were warm bodies, like they were things that could comfort you, fill the holes of the people they used to be. But the grudges only made you bitter, made you angry— and you were the only person that felt that anger. Not them. Never them.
You looked down, your gaze falling to where her hands gently held yours. It was then you caught a glimpse of her arms under the long sleeves of her dress, wrists decorated with a plethora of gold bangles. You tilted your head, taking in the glimmering sheen of the metals. Evadne loved her jewelry— loved her gold. It made her feel like a queen, she had told you once, reminded her of her worth. But she was always very careful about parading such shiny things around. Shiny things were noticed in a city of gloom. Shiny things got you hurt.
You pulled her hands up to eye level, a fast and swift motion that had her letting out a small gasp, your name falling from her lips in protest. You ignored it, fingers pulling up her sleeve, pushing the bangles up her arm.
A surge of icy rage flooded through you, coursing through your veins like a bitter chill. The feeling mingled with a fiery anger that simmered in your stomach, a volatile concoction that left you breathless, left you seeing red. Clenching your jaw tightly, you lifted your gaze to meet Evadne's.
“I’ll kill him.”
She looked at you for a moment, holding your intense gaze. Her eyes then flickered down and she gently pulled her hands away from you. She observed them for a moment, the dark bruises that marred her delicate wrists, stark against the golden hue of her skin. Then, she carefully slid her bracelets to their original position, pulling down her sleeves to cover any evidence of her hurt.
“No,” she said calmly, “But I will, one day. Like we’ve planned.”
"Evadne..."
You looked at her, taking in the beauty of her features, illuminated by the soft glow filtering through the windows. She was beautiful, so beautiful. And she was trapped here, in this city of filth, of ruin. You imagined a different future for her, a future where she lived in a place full of life— a place in the Day Court, perhaps, filled with sunshine and fresh air. A life where she could wear jewelry for the sake of their beauty, where she could be treated like a queen. A life that she deserved. Another wave of rage hit you. Evadne noticed, instantly leaning in to catch your eyesight.
"Y/n, It’s okay," Her voice was calm, collected. She reached out, her hand resting gently on your arm. "You keep your family busy. I’ll stick with the plan."
You nodded your head slowly, taking a deep breath as the fiery storm of rage slowly subsided within you. "Okay, I can do that," you said, "Are you sure?"
You searched Evadne's eyes for any sign of doubt. But all you found was an unwavering resolve, a fierce determination mirrored in her gaze. She smiled, a small laugh escaping her lips. “Yes, I’m sure. We just need to buy time.”
Your fingers trembled slightly as you anxiously ran a hand through your hair, your head still nodding at her words. You made your way across the room to where your liquor collection sat, the bottles gleaming in the light.
“How many do you think we have for tonight?” You asked, throwing the question over your shoulder. You heard her let out a small breath, footsteps following as she walked towards you.
"Not a lot,” she admitted. “Less than half.”
You let out a sigh, the tension in your muscles releasing slightly as you poured yourself a drink. The amber liquid flowed smoothly into the glass.
“They’re scared. Rhysand visiting is enough to unnerve them, but visiting you?”
“I know.” You felt a sense of guilt nag at you, tightening your stomach. You grabbed the crystal class in your hands turning to face Evadne. She glanced at you, then at your glass, and frowned.
“Are you sure you’re okay for tonight?” you asked her, your gaze momentarily falling down to where she held her hands together.
She met your eyes with a flat look. "Of course I am,” she responded. “I always am.”
You wanted to press further, to ask what else her golden dress was concealing, what else he had done to her, but you held your tongue, storing away your anger for when it would be useful, for when it could be power.
There was a thickness in your throat that wouldn’t move. Instead of replying, you lifted your brows at her, pulling your cup to your lips. Evadne moved before you could blink, grabbing the cup from your hands.
“What the hell?” You asked with a pinched expression. She merely stared at you, head tilted, eyes narrowed.
“They need a leader tonight, not a drunk," she asserted, her gaze steady upon you.
You met her eyes with a tightening of your jaw, a subtle crease forming between your brows. "Fine," you muttered, begrudgingly.
Without hesitation, Evadne downed the cup’s contents before placing it back in your hands. "Pull yourself together," she said firmly, her voice leaving no room for argument. You kept her gaze for a moment, and then her eyes were softening, her lips curving upwards, corners of her mouth lifting in a tender yet somber expression.
“They are not worth you falling apart."
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
It was dark when you returned home, your cloak hanging heavily on your shoulders. Your limbs protested with every step, heavy and achy, beads of sweat along your brow. Tonight had given you a release, a time to channel all your energy into something useful. But even then, there were too many things to think about, too many new factors to take into account. It exhausted you— your mind had never been so active, so anxious. You let out a defeated sigh as you opened the door.
You paused in the doorway, your heart stiffening at the sight of him, all fatigue momentarily forgotten. You were too caught up in your thoughts, too distracted to notice the other presence in your home, the other scent that filled it.
Rhysand’s gaze fixed expectantly on you, sitting in a chair that faced the entrance of your home. There was an eerily calm sense to him, an unnerving comfort in his body language. If you didn’t know him, if you weren’t aware of your relationship, you could've mistaken him for a man in the comfort of his own home, sitting at his own table.
You looked at him for a moment, taking in his appearance— a picture of regal confidence, a relaxed posture that was still commanding, still poised. He was alone tonight, no figures hidden in darkness, no smooth slithering of shadows. Azriel wasn’t with him. There was a squeeze in your stomach.
"Do you ever knock?" you spat, your voice sharp with irritation as you closed the door behind you with a forceful thud.
He remained unphased by your display of frustration, watching as you moved across the room, settling to lean against the backside of your couch. You crossed your arms, glaring at him.
"I did," he replied, his voice smooth and unruffled. "You weren't home."
With a sharp exhale, you scoffed, the sound laced with annoyance. Every second spent facing him filled you with an itching irritation, an anger that seeped through your skin. Deep in the back of your mind, an aching appeared– a tiny part of you that longed for his company, that craved for some resolution. You shoved it away, breaking it apart into pieces.
"So what? You just let yourself in?"
"Yes," he replied, his tone nonchalant. "I didn't want to wait outside. It's dangerous. You should really find a new place to live."
The condensation in his tone flowed out smoothly, a habit that almost appeared like second nature. His casual demeanor only fueled your irritation, each word he spoke like a taunt– pompous, arrogant, asshole. You tightened your arms together.
"Did you have a reason for coming here, Rhysand?" you snarled, the words punctuated by a simmering rage. There was a clear disdain in your voice, pointed and sharp. "Or do you just find pleasure in being an arrogant prick?"
Rhysand's facade of confidence faltered for a moment, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his features before he composed himself once more. His shoulders sagged slightly, a movement so small you almost missed it. The air of authority around him diminished— as if he was transitioning from High Lord to something else, something smaller. He blinked, and then he let out a sigh.
"You're right. I'm so-" he began, but then stopped abruptly. You felt a prickling sensation crawl up your spine. There was a brief pause as Rhysand scanned you, his eyes falling from your head to your toes as he took in your appearance– sweat-dampened leathers, a cloak draped haphazardly over your shoulders. Your heart thudded anxiously in your chest. Rhys met your gaze once more, his brows furrowed now– in confusion, curiosity, or suspicion, you couldn’t tell. It unnerved you.
"Where were you?" he asked.
You felt a surge of defensiveness rise within you.
"I wasn't aware I needed to report my extracurricular activities to High Lords who break into homes," you shot back, the words dripping with sarcasm. You took a moment to break away from your outer layer, quickly throwing the cloth on the couch behind you.
Rhysand remained rooted in his seat, his posture stiffening before he eased back into the chair with a sigh. His movements were deliberate, calculated, betraying a sense of resignation beneath his surface. As he spoke, his hand gestured towards you.
"Is this really how it's going to be, Y/n?" he questioned, his voice laced with a hint of exasperation. "We don’t have to be uncivilized."
Your initial shock dissolved into a burst of incredulous laughter, your mouth falling open in disbelief. "You storm into my home uninvited– twice may I add," you emphasized, your voice rising slightly, "and then call me uncivil when I refuse to drop everything for you?"
Rhysand's tone shifted, his eyes narrowing. "Oh, please, Y/n," he said, "I didn't ask you to drop everything. I asked you to hear me out and you wouldn’t even do that."
His audacity cut into you like sharp knives. You almost winced at his tone; so condescending, so arrogant. It was hard to look at him, to attempt to find the boy that you used to know. Rhysand, your cousin Rhysand, would have hated the prick standing in front of you– would have despised his superiority complex. The thought made you sad— but only for a moment. It quickly faded.
"Has being a High Lord truly given you such a lack of class?" you challenged, your voice rising with indignation. You didn’t bother to hide your contempt, didn’t bother to collect yourself. "How dare you think I owe you anything, even the time of day?"
Rhysand met your gaze, violet eyes burning into yours. They were darker now than they were years ago, more fury in them. More broken.
"We are family, Y/n. I would think it's the least you owe me."
You recoiled at his words, a bitterness rising in your throat like bile. You’d spent so many of your days reminding yourself that your family didn’t care, spent so many nights wishing that they did. Here, sitting in front of you, was proof that the former was correct. You were only their 'family' when it was convenient for them— and you hadn't been convenient for centuries.
"There you go, using that word again like it should mean something.”
You were clenching your jaw so hard you could have sworn it was going to break, that a tooth would snap– that you would snap. Rhysand didn’t back down.
"It should," he insisted, his voice steady.
"It doesn't."
Your voice was cold and unyielding, to a point where Rhysand felt a wave of discomfort come over him. His jaw ticked and he let out a deep sigh, his chin falling slightly. There was a clear frustration in his body as he leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table and bringing a hand to his face. His fingers settled under his chin while the other hovered near his lips as he shook his head. A moment passed as you watched him, and then he turned to look at you again, his hand falling flat on the table.
"I don’t understand you, Y/n,” he said, “I just- I don’t understand.”
Because you’ve never made an effort to. The exhaustion on his face, the frustration that you could see– even smell, it made your stomach sink. The anger in your body felt like something else, like sadness, like grief. Maybe Evadne overestimated you, maybe you couldn’t handle being around your family. If being around Rhysand made you this emotional, you didn’t want to think about what it would be like to face all of them, to report to them.
"It shouldn't take you over 500 years to understand that people don't owe you anything," you stated, pushing yourself off the couch. You walked towards the front door of your home, reaching it as you spoke, "Get out of my home."
Rhysand's voice faltered, his expression softening with a touch of desperation. "Wait, Y/n, wait,” he said as he stood up.
There was a tinge of desperation in his voice, something you were sure he didn’t realize was showing. Maybe you recognized it because, once upon a time, you had known him– truly known him. Perhaps it was the lingering effects of that familial bond. Or, maybe, Rhysand was faltering in your presence because for the first time, he wasn’t being feared.
If Rhys was struggling to keep a calm facade, there was something deeply wrong going on — something with you, or something outside of this city. You thought back to his words from before, I'm dealing with a larger threat that has me on the defense. You furrowed your brows, eyes settling on him with a scrutinous gaze.
"Why do you need my help so bad?"
Rhysand hesitated for a moment before responding, his words measured. "I told you. There are rumors about an u—"
"An uprising. Yes, I remember," you interjected, cutting him off.
Rhysand's brows furrowed, his patience wearing thin as he searched your face for any hint of relenting. He found none. “Then why are you asking me?”
You met his gaze head-on. "Because there are always rumors here," you repeated, emphasizing each word with a pointed stare. "And every time, you, and now Feyre, swoop in to quash them with a well-timed visit, a show of power. So forgive me if I find it curious that this time, you're suddenly in need of my assistance."
A flicker of frustration crossed Rhysand's features, his jaw clenching briefly before he regained his composure. "Our methods may have been effective in the past," he conceded, "but this situation requires a more delicate touch."
There was no evidence of regret in his tone, no acknowledgement of the fear-mongering that he used with his people. You weren’t sure why you expected it, why you looked for it. Of course Rhysand wouldn’t show signs of guilt regarding his treatment of Hewn City. Why would he? He didn’t feel guilty, at all.
You raised an eyebrow skeptically. "And what exactly makes this situation so different?"
Rhysand's expression tightened at your insistence, his eyes darting away momentarily before meeting yours once more. "Nothing you have to concern yourself with," he hedged, his tone cautious.
There it was again, the sense of audacity he held, the superiority he wore like a cloak. There was something in his tone, in the way he spoke to you, that made you feel small, foolish. You hated it.
You narrowed your eyes, a sense of frustration bubbling within you. "If I'm going to stick my neck out for you, and potentially betray my people, I need to know why.”
Rhysand's discomfort flashed across his features. His lips parted, emitting a breathy laugh tinged with disbelief. "Your people," he repeated, a hint of mockery lacing his tone, as if the very idea amused him.
"Yes. My people.”
Rhysand's jaw tightened visibly. Finally, with a resigned sigh, he relented. "Koschei.”
You blinked.
Koschei, Koschei.
You recognized the name, memories of childhood tales flooding your mind. Koschei was a name thrown around, starring in stories whispered by mothers to keep their children in line, to warn them of the consequences of misbehaving. But you knew better– all adults did. Koschei wasn’t a real threat, he was somewhere far, somewhere unreachable.
However, the look on Rhysand's face told a different story—a story of genuine fear, of a threat far more tangible than mere folklore. The mighty High Lord of the Night Court was worried, on edge. It filled you with a sense of dread that momentarily wiped away any sadness, any anger. "Koschei?" you repeated, the name feeling heavy on your tongue
"He is taking steps to free himself," Rhysand said, "I'm working to ensure that doesn't happen."
You eyed him cautiously, scanning him for any sign of deceit. You found none. He took your silence as an invitation to keep talking, to explain further.
"That means I do not have time to sift around this city and find the origins of these rumors– to waste time discerning if they are legitimate.”
You paused for a moment, your mind racing now. Perhaps this was a stroke of luck. Koschei's looming threat could align perfectly with what you needed. You needed Rhysand distracted, needed him vulnerable enough for your father— needed your father to be vulnerable enough for you. Surely, Koschei wouldn’t be a lingering threat. Rhysand was right, it wasn’t something you needed to concern yourself with. Keep them busy, Evadne had said.
"Isn't this Azriel's specialty?" you asked, "The feared Spymaster?"
A tick in Rhysand’s jaw.
"Azriel's reach is limited," he explained. "These rumors may be quiet, but they are there."
He needed someone who wouldn’t call attention. Someone who knew how to work this city. Someone like you.
”Where is your guard dog, anyway?”
The words slipped out of your mouth before you had a chance to catch them. Rhysand stiffened at the question. He bit down the anger that formed in his throat.
”I thought it would be best to come alone.” He shifted on his feet. "In truth, my intentions were to come and offer an apology," he confessed, his voice carrying a weight you hadn't anticipated. Meeting his gaze, you found a flicker of vulnerability in the violet of his eyes, a softening in his features.
You weren’t sure if you should feel angry or touched. It certainly seemed like Rhysand expected the latter, his brows slightly furrowed, awaiting your response. But, instead, your reaction was disbelief, almost scoffing at his attempt at reconciliation. His intrusion into your home, his condescending demeanor, all of it burned into your skin. "Certainly didn't feel like one," you remarked, a bitterness lacing your words.
"I know,” he admitted, pushing his hands into his pockets. “I shouldn’t have approached the situation in the manner that I did. I apologize.”
His voice was genuine, filled with remorse— its presence was fainter that you would have hoped for, but it was there. Noticeable. While you appreciated the gesture, and your heart held onto the regret he showed, you said nothing in response, not wanting to give him the clear forgiveness he was hoping for.
“So, I’m coming to you again, properly. We need your help.” A pause. “I need your help.”
You sighed, running your tongue along your teeth. "Fine,” you relented, “What do I have to do?"
Rhysand visibly relaxed, a wave of relief washing over him. Then, he straightened his posture, dusting off his shoulders before he began walking towards you, towards the door. "Azriel will come to you. You both can work from there.”
The name made your stomach drop, and your eyes widened in response, brows furrowing.
"Azriel?"
Rhysand paused mid-stride, his gaze locking with yours. "Yes," he said, his eyebrows raising ever so slightly. "You said it yourself, this is his territory."
The crease between your brows deepened as you frowned.
"And you said he was unable to work with it. That's why you need me.”
Rhys narrowed his eyes, scanning over your face before letting out a small breath.
"We do need you,” he replied, “To work alongside Azriel."
Your stomach clenched further. To work alongside Azriel. Azriel, Azriel, Azriel.
“You didn’t say anything about working with Azriel.”
Rhysands eyebrows fell as he narrowed his eyes at you.
“Will that be a problem?”
Anger simmered beneath your skin. Rhysand's insistence on involving Azriel was a direct affront to your capabilities, a direct showing of distrust. You knew, logically, that you weren’t allowed to be so angry– he shouldn’t trust you. But the reality of it, a clear reminder of how far you’d drifted, hurt in a way you couldn’t ignore.
“Yes,” you responded, your voice firm, “I don’t need someone watching over me.”
He let out a deep sigh, his face scrunching in with annoyance.
“That is not wha-”
“Oh, please,” you replied, “It’s definitely part of it. You don’t trust me.”
Rhysand didn’t reply, didn’t even acknowledge your words. Instead he simply shrugged. The nonchalance of his movement only added fuel to the fire, and you clenched your jaw to suppress the rising frustration.
"Azriel is our court’s Spymaster. He knows what needs to be done," he stated dismissively.
A surge of frustration rose within you. The room felt stifling, suffocating. You could keep them busy, could work with Rhysand distracted, with him worried about Koschei. But having Azriel around, a looming presence, someone overseeing you, would make things more complicated. And it was Azriel. Even the thought of it made you feel sick, nausea forming from the mix of emotions in your chest.
Silence enveloped the room like a heavy fog. You remained still– jaw clenched, eyes still on Rhysand as he walked past you, hand reaching for the door. He stopped, falling still in his place. Then, he looked at you. The expression on his face wasn’t one you were familiar with– it seemed like one he used to wear when you knew him, a softer version of himself. Kind.
"I'm sorry about Caladan.”
It hit you like a punch to the gut. You weren’t sure what hit you harder, the apology, laced with a deep sincerity you hadn’t expected, or Caladan’s name– on Rhys’ lips, of all people. You hadn’t heard his name in so long; Evadne was always so careful. It was a pain you thought you had grown accustomed to, buried beneath layers of duty and obligation. But it was resurfacing, rising with a raw intensity that left your chest tight.
For a fleeting moment, you felt the urge to lash out, to reject Rhysand’s words and the sympathy they carried. But beneath the anger and resentment, there was a small flicker of something else— of gratitude. With a heavy heart, you met Rhysand's gaze. You couldn't move, couldn't speak.
"I meant to give you my condolences when I first came." Rhysand’s voice was soft. “I know he was special to you. I should have reached out when I heard."
Green eyes. “This is good, Y/n,” he smiled at you, a dimpled, soft smile. “It’s all coming together.”
You blinked the image away. After a beat of silence, you nodded slowly. "Thank you," you murmured. The anger was still there, the bitterness towards Rhysand, towards your family. But you accepted his words, letting them ease some of the sizzling resentment.
Rhysand bowed his head in acknowledgment. With one final glance, he turned and left.
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
a/n: guys i promise after this azzy will be in every chapter. now we begin the angsty forced proximity trope that i LOVEEE 🫶🏻🫶🏻
(i’m prewriting chapters rn so lemme know if there’s anything you’d love to see👀👀 always open to ideas)
taglist:
@kalulakunundrum @janebirkln @thelov3lybookworm @secretlyhers @nightcourt-daydreaming @sidthedollface2 @gorlillaglue25 @abysshaven @historygeekqueen @acourtofbatboydreams @justdreamstars @darling006 @inloveallthetime @dr4g0ngirl @makeagoodnamethen @kht1998 @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @rhysandorian @llovelydove @minnieoo @cassianswh0reeee @anuttellaa @hnyclover @sfhsgrad-blog @carlandonorri-s @gingerblood @inesven @emptyporsche @itsswritten @tele86
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The FTC has Big Pharma’s number
On November 27, I'm appearing at the Toronto Metro Reference Library with Facebook whistleblower Frances Haugen.
On November 29, I'm at NYC's Strand Books with my novel The Lost Cause, a solarpunk tale of hope and danger that Rebecca Solnit called "completely delightful."
The most consistent bright spot in the dark swirl of US politics is the competence of the Biden Administration's progressive enforcers: people like Rohit Chopra, Jonathan Kanter and Lina Khan, who keep demonstrating just how far a good administrator can go. Anyone can have a vision, but knowing how to execute is the difference between hot air and real change:
https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/23/getting-stuff-done/#praxis
Take a minute to contrast Biden's administrators with Trump's: Trump's administrators had an ideological vision just as surely as Biden's do, and Trump himself had a much more pronounced and explicit ideology than Biden, whose governance style is much more about balancing the Democratic Party's blocs than bringing about a specific set of policies:
https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/06/personnel-are-policy/#janice-eberly
But whatever clarity of vision the Trump administration brought to DC was completely undermined by its incompetence (thankfully!). Apart from one gigantic tax break, Trump couldn't get stuff done. He couldn't deliver, because he'd lose his temper or speak out of turn:
https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/14/when-youve-lost-the-fedsoc/#anti-buster-buster
And his administrators followed his lead. Scott Pruitt was appointed to run the EPA after a career spent suing the agency. It could have been the realization of his life's dream to dismantle environmental law in America and open the floodgates for unlimited, wildly profitable corporate pollution and pillaging. But the dream died because he kept getting embroiled in absurd scandals – like the time he sent his staffers out to drive around all night looking for a good deal on a used mattress:
https://www.nbcnews.com/politics/politics-news/epa-s-pruitt-told-aide-obtain-old-mattress-trump-hotel-n879836
Or his insistence on installing a CIA-style "Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility" (SCIF) so he could play super-spy while reading memos:
https://www.cnn.com/2018/04/26/politics/epa-administrator-scott-pruitt-sound-proof-booth-scif/index.html
Or the time he sent his security detail to the Ritz-Carlton to demand that they supply him lots of little bottles of his favorite hand-cream:
https://www.vox.com/2018/6/7/17439044/scott-pruitt-ritz-carlton-moisturizing-lotion
There were other examples in the Trump administration, but Priutt is such a good case-study. He's like a guy who spent his whole life training to compete in the Olympics, and finally got a shot, only to be disqualified for ordering too much room-service in the Olympic Village. Priutt was wildly ambitious, but he was profoundly undisciplined – and wildly incompetent.
Compare that with Biden's progressive enforcers and agency heads, who showed up on the first day of work with an encyclopedic knowledge of their administrative powers, and detailed plans for using them to transform the lives of the American people for the better:
https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/18/administrative-competence/#i-know-stuff
The Biden administration's competence translates into action, getting stuff done. Maybe that shouldn't surprise us, given the difference between the stories that reactionaries and progressives tell about where change comes from.
In reactionary science fiction, we enter the realm of the "Competent Man" story. Think of a Heinlein hero, who is "able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyse a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly."
In Competent Man stories, a unitary hero steps into the breach and solves the problem – if not single-handedly, then as the leader of others, whose lesser competence is a base metal that the Competent Man hammers into a tempered blade:
https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Creator/RobertAHeinlein
Contrast this with a progressive tale, like, say, Kim Stanley Robinson's Ministry For the Future, where the Competent Man is replaced by the Competent Administration, in which people of goodwill and technical competence figure out how to join forces to create population-scale architectures of participation that allow every person to contribute their skills and perspective:
https://pluralistic.net/2020/12/03/ministry-for-the-future/#ksr
The right's whole ideology insists that the world can only be saved by Competent Men. As Corey Robin writes in The Reactionary Mind, the unifying factor that binds together conservative factions from monarchists to racists to Christian Dominionists is the belief that a few of us are born to rule, and the rest to be ruled over:
https://pluralistic.net/2020/05/25/mafia-logic/#mafia-logic
The Reaganite insistence that governments are, by their very nature, incompetent and malign ("The nine most terrifying words in the English language are, 'I’m from the government, and I’m here to help'"), means that conservatives deny the possibility of a Competent Administration.
When conservatives take office and proceed to bungle the most basic elements of administration, they're fulfilling their own campaign narrative, which starts with "We must dismantle the government because it is bad at everything." Conservatives who govern badly prove their own point, which explains a lot about the UK Tory Party's long run of governmental failure and electoral success:
https://apnews.com/article/uk-suella-braverman-fired-cabinet-shuffle-7ea6c89306a427cc70fba75bc386be79
There's a small mercy in the fact that so many of the most ideologically odious and extreme conservative governments are so technically incompetent in governing, and thus accomplish so little of their agendas.
But the inverse – the incredible competence of the best progressive administrators – is nothing short of a delight to witness. Here's the latest example to cross my path: the FTC has intervened in a lawsuit over generic insulin pricing, on an issue that is incredibly technically specific and also fantastically important:
https://www.fiercepharma.com/pharma/ftc-blasts-pharmas-abuse-fda-patent-system-sanofi-mylans-insulin-monopoly-lawsuit
The underlying case is before the FDA, and it concerns the dirty tricks that pharma giant Sanofi used to keep Mylan from making a generic version of Mylan's Lantus insulin after its patent expired.
There's an explicit bargain in patents: inventors can enlist the government to punish their rivals for copying their ideas, but in exchange, the government demands that the inventor has to describe how the invention works in a detailed patent filing, and when the patent expires, 20 years later, rivals can use the patent application as instructions for freely copying and selling the invention. In other words: you get 20 years of exclusive rights in return for facilitating your competitors' copying and selling your invention when the 20 years are up.
Pharma doesn't like this, naturally: not content with 20 years of exclusivity, they want the government to step in and punish their competitors forever. In service to that end, pharma companies have perfected a process called evergreening, where they dribble out ancillary patents after their initial filing, covering minor reformulations, delivery systems, or new uses.
Evergreening got a moment in the public eye earlier this year, with John Green's viral campaign to shame Johnson & Johnson out of using evergreening to restrict poor countries' access to TB medication:
https://armandalegshow.com/episode/john-green-part-1/
The story of pharma is that it commands gigantic profits, but it invests those profits into medicines that save our lives. The reality is that most of the key underlying pharma research is publicly funded (by Competent Administrators who apportion funding to promising scientific inquiry). Pharma companies' most inventive genius is devoted to inventing new evergreening tactics:
https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/19/solid-tumors/#t-cell-receptors
That's where the FTC comes in, in this Sanofi-Mylan case. To facilitate the production of generic, off-patent drugs, the FDA maintains a database called the "Orange Book," where pharma companies are asked to enumerate all the ancillary patents associated with a product whose patent is expiring. That way, generics manufacturers who make their own version of these public domain drugs and therapeutics don't accidentally stumble over one of those later patents – say, by replicating a delivery system or special coating that is still in patent.
This is where the endless, satanic inventiveness of the pharma sector comes in. You see, US law provides for triple damages for "willful patent infringement." If you are a generics manufacturer eyeing up a drug whose patent is about to expire and you are notified that some other patents might be implicated in your plans, you must ensure that you don't accidentally infringe one of those patents, or face business-destroying statutory damages.
So pharma companies stuff the Orange Book full of irrelevant patent claims they say may be implicated in a generic manufacture program. Each of these claims has to be carefully evaluated, both by a scientific team and a legal team, because patents are deliberately obfuscated in the hopes of tricking an inattentive patent examiner into granting patents for unpatentable "inventions":
https://blueironip.com/patents-that-hide-the-ball/
What's more, when a pharma giant notifies the FDA that it has ancillary patents that are relevant to the Orange Book, this triggers a 30-month delay before a generic can be marketed – adding 2.5 years to the 20 year patent term. That delay is sometimes enough to cause a manufacturer to abandon plans to market a generic drug – so the delay isn't 2.5 years, it's infinite.
This is a highly technical, highly consequential form of evergreening. It's obscure as hell, and requires a deep understanding of patent obfuscation, ancillary patent filings, generic pharma industry practice, and the FDA's administrative procedures.
Sanofi's Orange Book entry for Lantus insulin listed 50 related patent claims. Of these, 48 were invalidated through "inter partes" review (basically the Patent Office decided they shouldn't have allowed these claims to be included on a patent). Neither of the remaining two claims were found to be relevant to the manufacture of generic Lantus.
This is where the FTC's filing comes in: their amicus brief doesn't take a position whether Sanofi's Orange Book entries were fraudulent, but they do ask the FDA to intervene to prevent Orange Book stuffing because "improper listings can cause significant harm to competition and consumers."
This is the kind of boring, technical, important stuff that excellent administrators can do. The FTC's brief is notice to the FDA that it should amend its procedures to ban (and punish) Orange Book abuse. That will make it possible for you, a person who needs medicine, to get that medicine more cheaply and quickly. In America's pay-for-use privatized healthcare hellscape, this could be a life-or-death matter.
There's plenty of things the Biden administration is getting very, very badly wrong, but we shouldn't lose sight of how its progressive wing is making real, lasting change for the better. Competent Administrations are the true peoples' champions. They beat Competent Men every time.
If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:
https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/23/everorangeing/#taste-the-rainbow
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