[ It was self defense. He'll say it again and again. Lynette was a capable, beautiful woman with skills that any worker in their little home could home to achieve. Working in the shadows, Lynette couldn't be matched... which is why they wanted to shine line to her. When they do, they corner her. Enemies to the House, fat rich cats from Sumeru moved into the city of Fontaine, with cabins sprinkled in the countryside.
It took Lyney two days to find her, stowed away in the mountains and it took two minutes for the cabin to burn to the ground and leave an enemy of the Fatui crawling out with his face melting off. Someone who wronged Father and the kindness she showed... they survive, but barely.
Months pass and soon, Lyney stands trial in an arson and attempted murder.
The trial was long, arduous and with the right evidence – he is cleared of one charge, but not the other. The arson had ruined a quarter mile of sacred forest, legally protected and thus...
Six months, minimum.
That is what was deemed appropriate.
The clang of metal pipes and smell of saltwater brings him back to the Fortress. Back to the Duke's graces. It takes a long time to get Lyney to talk, but when he does... he doesn't shut up. ]
Here. Two stacks this week.
[ Of envelopes, letters sent to his siblings. 14 for Lynette, 6 for Freminet. One for Father. ]
You're sure they're not going to be slow in delivery?
I'm in charge of Meropide, kid, not the postal service.
[ And with that in mind, he really ought to reiterate that Lyney can bring these to the mail room's drop box. But he has the feeling the instructions will fall on deaf ears: Lyney likely doesn't want his mail seen to by a faceless facet of Meropide's system and its unfamiliar staff of sorters, but by someone he can actually put a name to. He can have that. For the right amount of coupons.
Wriothesley sighs.
Forget the coupons for now--they shouldn't even be having this exchange, not after that meeting so many months back. Honestly. What happened to steering clear of here? Keeping his affairs away from this place? Wriothesley isn't one to dwell on the details--either you're here or you're not, and if you are, then get to work--but he's found himself inexplicably peeved by Lyney's return to the Fortress. He had first suspected this might be Arlecchino's doing again, that Lyney might not have had a choice in the matter, but a copy of the case file provided to him by Neuvillette suggests that's not remotely the situation at hand. Lyney is here on account of his own decisions. Bottom line. And Wriothesley isn't sure he likes that any better than he likes the dashed prospect of the Harbinger sending him this way. ]
[ He doesn’t care. He wasn’t suppose to be more than a magician yet here he was — wearing far too many hats and trying to live too many lives. Something caught up with him.
When Lyney shuts his eyes, he can remember the husk of a man crawling outwards of the fires he set, how even then… he reached for them. For her.
He didn’t want to do it, but he made a promise and that was its weight in gold. Untrustworthy as he was with his loyalty, he doesn’t turn back on that.
So, he grips the stacks of letters and slides them further across Wriothesley’s desk. ]
Please.
[ No snark, no amount of anything cocky — just… a plea. ]
I ask for nothing else than the mail to be delivered with care. I would say it was in your duties to ensure someone as dangerous as me isn’t sending suspicious letters. Read them, I don’t care, Your Grace.
[ He is wounded, a cat that is holding his pain inside and only letting a few flicks of annoyance show. Never complaining, never asking for more — just this once. ]
I’ll take double shifts to make up for our transactions every week.
[ There are a number of things that Wriothesley could point out here--first, that Lyney isn't remotely the most dangerous person the Fortress is home to; second, that he has more cause to worry about contraband making its way in rather than the contents of a letter on the way out; third, that this hardly falls within his duties--but he holds his tongue, gives Lyney a long, stony look. ]
I don't care to read your letters. [ He takes what's being handed to him, against all good sense. ] I want those Credit Coupons on my desk in three days. There are no favors in my prison, and your mail is no more important than anyone else's. If you fail, I extend your sentence. Do I make myself clear?
[ He's already breaching protocol by accepting these in advance, even with no intent to mail them until Lyney's made good on this deal. And what for? It makes no difference to him if Lyney's love letters find Lynette's hands. He should really order the kid out of his office, now. And brew a strong pot of tea. And run through some paperwork awaiting his attention--anything to avoid puzzling out why he's willing to toe a questionable line for a Fatuus with an attitude problem. ]
[ It doesn't matter. As long as his letters go out timely, that he can confirm his recipients have them soon – Lyney would do anything. He doesn't break his gaze, not when Wriothesley is so close to giving him what he wants. The payment doesn't matter. ]
Crystal.
[ He doesn't care – Wriothesley can say there's no favors but it doesn't stop it from being so. Life is made up on debt, favors a currency in their own. Lyney's no stranger to them. ]
You'll even find a tip for your service. [ He realizes how sharp his defense is, that tongue bit between his teeth as he looks down, pulling his hands back to his side. Lyney dials it back a bit. ] ...Thank you.
[ On another day, he might scoff at the notion of a tip. Lyney ought to know by now that he should hold fast to his resources in a place like Meropide. Today, Wriothesley doesn't have the good humor for it.
He ignores the thanks. Somehow, it makes things a touch worse. ]
You could be saving your earnings for better things, you know. [ This is territory he's more comfortable in--advising another, even when he's at odds with himself. ] Or being a model prisoner, rather than begging at my desk. They might well let you off with the minimum if you manage not to err.
Better things like a second brunch or sheets that don't feel like paper? [ He doesn't care. There's a roll of his shoulders, a roll of his eyes. ] The work will be done, my boxes will be checked complete, and I'll walk that tight-rope with the precision suitable for someone like me.
[ He does already have a plan, of course. Entertainment is limited here... and surely, that was worth the coupons. Lyney doesn't mind how quick the conversation moves on. ]
We'll see what happens in half a year, now won't we?
[ Where's all that confidence coming from? His prior sentence had been a slap on the wrist, so maybe it hasn't set in yet that half a year or more is a considerable amount of time to be spending at the bottom of the sea. ]
Ah, we will. And by that time you'll have long since learned not to roll your eyes at me.
[ ...He wants better for him. That's what makes this frustrating: Wriothesley wants better for all his inmates, wants them to be reborn beneath these waves even when they might not want that for themselves, but Lyney in particular strikes a dissonant cord in him that he isn't eager to try and explore. Call it deflection, but he turns his thoughts back to Lyney's nonchalance toward the system. What would it take to make him understand his place within these walls? Not accepting his stacks of envelopes, that's for sure. He frowns. Maybe it's Lyney's own way of coping with the reality--and whatever consequences might come of him being unavailable to the Fatui for at least six months. ]
If the man had perished instead of living a disfigured, cruel existence... he'd never see Lynette again. He'd never serve his Father again. Keep Freminet safe. There's a lot riding on this and the worst thing to do is ask a fire waiting to spread to not do just that. It's nearly impossible.
It's self-contained now, the things he wishes to do... all funneled into letters sent out. Wishes caught on shooting stars mean little under the surface of these waters.
He knows what will happen if he's gone – Lynette. Oh, his sweet Lynette... Father would eye her as his replacement. Run her into the ground, steal those precious smiles that only just begun to grace her lips. Lynette is capable of the life they live, but she deserves better.
He gladly accepted his role with Father, all so Lynette didn't have to.
Yet, Wriothesley's words hit home – he didn't even realize he rolled his eyes. ]
...You think I don't take this seriously. I accept the punishment for my crimes, not a single bit of defense. [ He doesn't feel regret, even if his supposed soulmate was so far from him. ] The things you do in this world have consequences. Yours have, I'm sure. Even down to what tea you choose to drink today...
[ Trailing off, his words are softer. ]
You'll have your coupons, you'll have no problems out of me – my tricks are quite limited here, anyway.
[ 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.
[ From the moment he felt cuffs dig into his wrist, the spotlight of a less grand trial only radiate against him instead of burn him alive... Lyney knew what he was sacrificing. He needed Lynette safe, he needed his family protected. Cooperating allowed just that, even for those bound to the Fatui. Any judge would ensure a verdict was given and those affected sought treatment.
He personally thanked Neuvillette, after all, and apologized for his ticket for the next show going to waste.
Now, he looks across to someone representing a justice system that was seemingly broken. People fall through the cracks, people fade into shadows, and those who sit guilty may never know true redemption.
Lyney cares less about it than one would admit, but he has been thinking about what this means inside the Fortress, not out of it. ]
Don't speak about her agony. [ Is the only warning he'll get. ] Being a good boy ensures my sentence is appropriately served. Lessons learned, justice prevails. The world spins on with or without me guilty. Without me justified in my actions. It didn't stop the verdict.
The world spins on, alright. But don't you wonder what the alternative could have been? You could have been at her side today--not begging me to send her letters she'll read from the overworld.
[ Wriothesley won't say he mourns what could have been, but he does think there can be no acceptance without consideration for the what-ifs. He does wish he had a better childhood. He does wonder what a life without Meropide could have looked like. Would he trade the man he is today for the man he could have been? Probably not--he's long since picked through those ruins and taken what he could from them.
He shouldn't let this get to him. By his own admission, these things take time--but to Wriothesley, it doesn't sound as if Lyney accepts his sin at all: it sounds as if he's accepted the concept of six months in the undertow, and an eventual return to form. Nothing more. ]
What-ifs don't feed bellies. What-ifs don't keep people safe when someone else wishes to harm them. What-ifs don't – do fucking anything.
[ Magic is one giant what-if – the only thing he can believe in. Action, however, is a catalyst for that magic. He uses it as freely as fire, as precise as a bow. Wriothesley can assume so much about the boy, but that crack... vulnerable and splintered was telling enough. ]
Lynette is safe. That's what matters. [ His admission was swallowed with his voice hollow as it was. ] A judge saw my punishment as suitable in this time, so I will see it through. Whatever happens during it... who can tell.
Best to rein it back in, he realizes. Cool as he normally keeps, even Wriothesley isn't above being seized by his passions. He can't force rebirth, or reflection, or much of anything that falls outside of Meropide's written rules. What he can do is remember that these things vary with each individual. That reckonings move on slow legs. That Lyney is his own person, no matter...
No matter how much this whole ordeal reminds Wriothesley of his own past.
That's all the motivation he needs to put the argument aside. He's traveled quite enough of that avenue today. The two stacks of envelopes sit like sentinels, suggesting what he'd rather not consider. ]
You're not wrong. [ Said bluntly, but gently, too. ] Wishes don't change what ultimately is. Mine never did. But they did help me see the scope of my sin. They didn't change the past--they cast it under new light.
[ He crosses his arms. Multiple truths can exist at once. Neither of them have to be wrong. ]
...Very well. You accomplished what you set out to do, and nothing changes that. So be it.
The only what-if there is... is if I killed him, Wriothesley. I'd still end up here.
[ There's no other – even with the flames of his hatred and protectiveness for Lynette burning like an inferno. Hellfire, the kind that would consume him if he isn't careful. Leaving him alive was not an option.
The room feels smaller, more somber. There's something lost in the way Lyney looks to him – as if expecting more scoldings on a trial no one asked him to partake in. It doesn't work out that way. Lyney stiffens his shoulders and pulls his hat off his head. He's so... young, eyes once bright a bit more clouded and hair unkept for once. Promise stands before Wriothesley, but so does determination.
Does it bother him he's so sure of his choice?
Lyney doesn't know. ]
So be it. I'll leave you to your tea, please send one of your subordinates to let me know when the letters are marked received.
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when there's smoke, there's a fire [PART TWO]
It took Lyney two days to find her, stowed away in the mountains and it took two minutes for the cabin to burn to the ground and leave an enemy of the Fatui crawling out with his face melting off. Someone who wronged Father and the kindness she showed... they survive, but barely.
Months pass and soon, Lyney stands trial in an arson and attempted murder.
The trial was long, arduous and with the right evidence – he is cleared of one charge, but not the other. The arson had ruined a quarter mile of sacred forest, legally protected and thus...
Six months, minimum.
That is what was deemed appropriate.
The clang of metal pipes and smell of saltwater brings him back to the Fortress. Back to the Duke's graces. It takes a long time to get Lyney to talk, but when he does... he doesn't shut up. ]
Here. Two stacks this week.
[ Of envelopes, letters sent to his siblings. 14 for Lynette, 6 for Freminet. One for Father. ]
You're sure they're not going to be slow in delivery?
no subject
[ And with that in mind, he really ought to reiterate that Lyney can bring these to the mail room's drop box. But he has the feeling the instructions will fall on deaf ears: Lyney likely doesn't want his mail seen to by a faceless facet of Meropide's system and its unfamiliar staff of sorters, but by someone he can actually put a name to. He can have that. For the right amount of coupons.
Wriothesley sighs.
Forget the coupons for now--they shouldn't even be having this exchange, not after that meeting so many months back. Honestly. What happened to steering clear of here? Keeping his affairs away from this place? Wriothesley isn't one to dwell on the details--either you're here or you're not, and if you are, then get to work--but he's found himself inexplicably peeved by Lyney's return to the Fortress. He had first suspected this might be Arlecchino's doing again, that Lyney might not have had a choice in the matter, but a copy of the case file provided to him by Neuvillette suggests that's not remotely the situation at hand. Lyney is here on account of his own decisions. Bottom line. And Wriothesley isn't sure he likes that any better than he likes the dashed prospect of the Harbinger sending him this way. ]
no subject
When Lyney shuts his eyes, he can remember the husk of a man crawling outwards of the fires he set, how even then… he reached for them. For her.
He didn’t want to do it, but he made a promise and that was its weight in gold. Untrustworthy as he was with his loyalty, he doesn’t turn back on that.
So, he grips the stacks of letters and slides them further across Wriothesley’s desk. ]
Please.
[ No snark, no amount of anything cocky — just… a plea. ]
I ask for nothing else than the mail to be delivered with care. I would say it was in your duties to ensure someone as dangerous as me isn’t sending suspicious letters. Read them, I don’t care, Your Grace.
[ He is wounded, a cat that is holding his pain inside and only letting a few flicks of annoyance show. Never complaining, never asking for more — just this once. ]
I’ll take double shifts to make up for our transactions every week.
no subject
I don't care to read your letters. [ He takes what's being handed to him, against all good sense. ] I want those Credit Coupons on my desk in three days. There are no favors in my prison, and your mail is no more important than anyone else's. If you fail, I extend your sentence. Do I make myself clear?
[ He's already breaching protocol by accepting these in advance, even with no intent to mail them until Lyney's made good on this deal. And what for? It makes no difference to him if Lyney's love letters find Lynette's hands. He should really order the kid out of his office, now. And brew a strong pot of tea. And run through some paperwork awaiting his attention--anything to avoid puzzling out why he's willing to toe a questionable line for a Fatuus with an attitude problem. ]
no subject
Crystal.
[ He doesn't care – Wriothesley can say there's no favors but it doesn't stop it from being so. Life is made up on debt, favors a currency in their own. Lyney's no stranger to them. ]
You'll even find a tip for your service. [ He realizes how sharp his defense is, that tongue bit between his teeth as he looks down, pulling his hands back to his side. Lyney dials it back a bit. ] ...Thank you.
no subject
He ignores the thanks. Somehow, it makes things a touch worse. ]
You could be saving your earnings for better things, you know. [ This is territory he's more comfortable in--advising another, even when he's at odds with himself. ] Or being a model prisoner, rather than begging at my desk. They might well let you off with the minimum if you manage not to err.
no subject
[ He does already have a plan, of course. Entertainment is limited here... and surely, that was worth the coupons. Lyney doesn't mind how quick the conversation moves on. ]
We'll see what happens in half a year, now won't we?
no subject
Ah, we will. And by that time you'll have long since learned not to roll your eyes at me.
[ ...He wants better for him. That's what makes this frustrating: Wriothesley wants better for all his inmates, wants them to be reborn beneath these waves even when they might not want that for themselves, but Lyney in particular strikes a dissonant cord in him that he isn't eager to try and explore. Call it deflection, but he turns his thoughts back to Lyney's nonchalance toward the system. What would it take to make him understand his place within these walls? Not accepting his stacks of envelopes, that's for sure. He frowns. Maybe it's Lyney's own way of coping with the reality--and whatever consequences might come of him being unavailable to the Fatui for at least six months. ]
no subject
If the man had perished instead of living a disfigured, cruel existence... he'd never see Lynette again. He'd never serve his Father again. Keep Freminet safe. There's a lot riding on this and the worst thing to do is ask a fire waiting to spread to not do just that. It's nearly impossible.
It's self-contained now, the things he wishes to do... all funneled into letters sent out. Wishes caught on shooting stars mean little under the surface of these waters.
He knows what will happen if he's gone – Lynette. Oh, his sweet Lynette... Father would eye her as his replacement. Run her into the ground, steal those precious smiles that only just begun to grace her lips. Lynette is capable of the life they live, but she deserves better.
He gladly accepted his role with Father, all so Lynette didn't have to.
Yet, Wriothesley's words hit home – he didn't even realize he rolled his eyes. ]
...You think I don't take this seriously. I accept the punishment for my crimes, not a single bit of defense. [ He doesn't feel regret, even if his supposed soulmate was so far from him. ] The things you do in this world have consequences. Yours have, I'm sure. Even down to what tea you choose to drink today...
[ Trailing off, his words are softer. ]
You'll have your coupons, you'll have no problems out of me – my tricks are quite limited here, anyway.
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.
no subject
He personally thanked Neuvillette, after all, and apologized for his ticket for the next show going to waste.
Now, he looks across to someone representing a justice system that was seemingly broken. People fall through the cracks, people fade into shadows, and those who sit guilty may never know true redemption.
Lyney cares less about it than one would admit, but he has been thinking about what this means inside the Fortress, not out of it. ]
Don't speak about her agony. [ Is the only warning he'll get. ] Being a good boy ensures my sentence is appropriately served. Lessons learned, justice prevails. The world spins on with or without me guilty. Without me justified in my actions. It didn't stop the verdict.
no subject
[ Wriothesley won't say he mourns what could have been, but he does think there can be no acceptance without consideration for the what-ifs. He does wish he had a better childhood. He does wonder what a life without Meropide could have looked like. Would he trade the man he is today for the man he could have been? Probably not--he's long since picked through those ruins and taken what he could from them.
He shouldn't let this get to him. By his own admission, these things take time--but to Wriothesley, it doesn't sound as if Lyney accepts his sin at all: it sounds as if he's accepted the concept of six months in the undertow, and an eventual return to form. Nothing more. ]
no subject
[ Magic is one giant what-if – the only thing he can believe in. Action, however, is a catalyst for that magic. He uses it as freely as fire, as precise as a bow. Wriothesley can assume so much about the boy, but that crack... vulnerable and splintered was telling enough. ]
Lynette is safe. That's what matters. [ His admission was swallowed with his voice hollow as it was. ] A judge saw my punishment as suitable in this time, so I will see it through. Whatever happens during it... who can tell.
no subject
Best to rein it back in, he realizes. Cool as he normally keeps, even Wriothesley isn't above being seized by his passions. He can't force rebirth, or reflection, or much of anything that falls outside of Meropide's written rules. What he can do is remember that these things vary with each individual. That reckonings move on slow legs. That Lyney is his own person, no matter...
No matter how much this whole ordeal reminds Wriothesley of his own past.
That's all the motivation he needs to put the argument aside. He's traveled quite enough of that avenue today. The two stacks of envelopes sit like sentinels, suggesting what he'd rather not consider. ]
You're not wrong. [ Said bluntly, but gently, too. ] Wishes don't change what ultimately is. Mine never did. But they did help me see the scope of my sin. They didn't change the past--they cast it under new light.
[ He crosses his arms. Multiple truths can exist at once. Neither of them have to be wrong. ]
...Very well. You accomplished what you set out to do, and nothing changes that. So be it.
no subject
[ There's no other – even with the flames of his hatred and protectiveness for Lynette burning like an inferno. Hellfire, the kind that would consume him if he isn't careful. Leaving him alive was not an option.
The room feels smaller, more somber. There's something lost in the way Lyney looks to him – as if expecting more scoldings on a trial no one asked him to partake in. It doesn't work out that way. Lyney stiffens his shoulders and pulls his hat off his head. He's so... young, eyes once bright a bit more clouded and hair unkept for once. Promise stands before Wriothesley, but so does determination.
Does it bother him he's so sure of his choice?
Lyney doesn't know. ]
So be it. I'll leave you to your tea, please send one of your subordinates to let me know when the letters are marked received.
[ A gentle request, if only for his heart. ]
Work awaits.