Andrea did not fancy herself enough of a special snowflake to think that she was above accountability. Even so, having one's own faults brought to light was never a pleasant experience. If it was, then a lot more people would be going to therapy willingly.

"It would make me the bad guy." She replied after much hesitation. "But... I did what I thought was right... at least at the time." She added with a discomforted wince, realizing that those words did not belong to her; they belonged to horrible people who justified their awful deeds by claiming to have a noble goal.

What is the price of revolution?

A mother lost in the fight to salvage a future for a generation beyond her reach; detention cards for acting out in an attempt to right injustice with a violent swing; a thundering cry of rebellion in rock-n-roll succession, dashed as soon as it could even come; the technicolor banners of a manifesto the great majority scorn in the interest of self-capital and comfortability; to give your heart and then some more to the abstract dream of freedom and liberty and the American dream on its tombstone until there's nothing left to give—

To enter the heart of the enemy in bold confidence they won't shoot first.

"Garnier, I've never felt forced to pick a damn choice with you in my life."

Somewhere in the distance, the lanterns continue to drift to their highest peak.

Thian leans into the kiss, it's something Val's wanted for the past few months, ever since their first, but upon thinking about it —

Val pulls away from Thian, eyes wide. His expression is panicked. "Wait— hold on— I forgot how...!" he says, and it's very evident by the look on his face that he's very serious about forgetting how to kiss someone.

Smooth, Garnier.

Very smooth.

"but i would never readily sacrifice our people to a war when the cause of it was something of our own making. i don't think i'm a coward for thinking of what is the blood running through the veins of this kingdom first."

For now, though, the new daimyo of Shimoyama stands at the edge of the shrines as the rest of the province gives their closure, her heart heavy in her chest and her sorrow an empty song within her ribcage, and waits in the background until her work begins.

She will mourn her family when it is no longer a spectacle and the world is no longer watching.

Nothing but the words she continued to gnaw upon until blood dominated her palate existed presently. As if the strings of fate urged her forward, Tanith surged forward - a curious mixture of contrasting worlds, and halted closely to the Ivory Guard, sensation of peril steadily blossoming. The taunt directed itself at one individual solely: the progeny of the forsaken Meager King.

She leaves unspoken the words of worry that if he scorned her she was unsure of how she would react – the whispers of madness spoke different each day. Some days they soothed and calmed, others they riled. Today she sat on the precipice of the unknown, and they quivered with anticipation.

Alcohol wasn't his first choice when it came to beating that sharp wistfulness from his mind, but it was a close second. The first was violence — picking fights with people much larger and stronger than him. Asking and goading for more until he could hardly think past the adrenaline lashing through his veins and the pain seeped deep into his muscles and bones. Bruises, split lips, stab wounds, and fractures — all those familiar, physical hurts — were far preferable to the sick, ugly gnawing that could coil within. Those aches ate at him from the inside out, unable to be pointed to and patched up. Couldn't be laughed about and prodded at. Every time he got beaten to a bloody pulp, those wounds — no matter how ugly or severe — eventually healed. Would become just another scar. They were nothing. But those other, nameless pinpricks of ache never seemed to mend. Could only be chased away and distracted from. Shoved aside and forcibly forgotten about until something inevitably tore them back open; made them raw and angry again.