[ It takes more willpower than he'd like to admit not to pinch his own brow then and there.
Does he actually accept what he did? The words bring Wriothesley back to his own sin. He had cooperated completely with the investigation back then, admitted to what was apparent, filled in blanks where things weren't. Lyney's case file indicates the same. A guilty plea, albeit one his attorney underscored with notions of extenuating circumstances. Different, but so very close to the hallmarks of his own trial. Self-defense, his attorney had called it. The exhibits they'd entered--every proof of the abuse that helped him decide his path--live in perpetual haze within his mind.
Not a single bit of defense.
To Wriothesley, accepting what one did is more than doing one's time. It's not about appreciating the law, or any noble ideas of justice. It's not about being sorry, either--he's never once been sorry, never regretted the two lives he took that day. But acceptance is knowing how much those two lives weigh, no matter the harm you pit them against; acceptance is knowing the hurt felt by the ones left behind, every loose end, every aching memory with no resolution to match.
There's a Lyney-shaped space in Lynette's and Freminet's lives. A man sits somewhere permanently disfigured by fire; if he ever wants to repent for his own share of sin, some will reject him on appearance alone. Six months of Lyney's young life will be lost to the sea. And so on.
He speaks of consequence, but what does someone so young actually know? It took Wriothesley more years than he can say to grasp the gravity of his own crime. There are days where he realizes something anew, and knows the time is long since past where anything can be done about it. By his measure, Lyney hasn't accepted anything. He can't have. Not so soon. ]
I know I'll have no problems out of you. [ That much isn't for Lyney to decide. ] But I wonder if you know what it means to take this seriously. I'm sure that without you, every day is agony for Lynette.
no subject
Does he actually accept what he did? The words bring Wriothesley back to his own sin. He had cooperated completely with the investigation back then, admitted to what was apparent, filled in blanks where things weren't. Lyney's case file indicates the same. A guilty plea, albeit one his attorney underscored with notions of extenuating circumstances. Different, but so very close to the hallmarks of his own trial. Self-defense, his attorney had called it. The exhibits they'd entered--every proof of the abuse that helped him decide his path--live in perpetual haze within his mind.
Not a single bit of defense.
To Wriothesley, accepting what one did is more than doing one's time. It's not about appreciating the law, or any noble ideas of justice. It's not about being sorry, either--he's never once been sorry, never regretted the two lives he took that day. But acceptance is knowing how much those two lives weigh, no matter the harm you pit them against; acceptance is knowing the hurt felt by the ones left behind, every loose end, every aching memory with no resolution to match.
There's a Lyney-shaped space in Lynette's and Freminet's lives. A man sits somewhere permanently disfigured by fire; if he ever wants to repent for his own share of sin, some will reject him on appearance alone. Six months of Lyney's young life will be lost to the sea. And so on.
He speaks of consequence, but what does someone so young actually know? It took Wriothesley more years than he can say to grasp the gravity of his own crime. There are days where he realizes something anew, and knows the time is long since past where anything can be done about it. By his measure, Lyney hasn't accepted anything. He can't have. Not so soon. ]
I know I'll have no problems out of you. [ That much isn't for Lyney to decide. ] But I wonder if you know what it means to take this seriously. I'm sure that without you, every day is agony for Lynette.