9 [video]
[Vanessa is sitting with her back to a wall, a pile of books stacked up haphazardly next to her.]
The king sits idle on his golden throne, I told them. Our lives buy his glory, our labor his city and castle. And when the walls are built, when the last stone is laid, we're driven out from behind them, unpaid, abandoned, orphaned, left to fight or die within an arm's length of the safety we built, starving as he feasts on food stolen from our catches and crops.
Every word of it was true, and now I've seen it for myself. [She scoffs.] Lords and ladies, eating well off silver plates while outside the walls peasants beg and go hungry, no matter how picturesque they make it look in Ravin. Wearing gowns and gems worth a prince's ransom, useless armor, dull jeweled swords, while the rest of the country gives thanks for rags. Now I know what it's like to be a leech on the blood of the people.
And there is no excuse for it - there can be no excuse. A common man would be hanged or worse for less than theft or murder. But they think - I thought, there - nothing of exploiting the commoners, of ruling what they can and cannot do and where they must work and when, of taking the lion's share of their labor, of casting them off when they are used up. And why? Ignorance. Malice. Because they believe they have the right to do it, given by the Light or their birth or anything else but what matters.
Our misery is their wealth and our strength is something to be broken - at home, in Ravin, on Earth, here. For here we are, waiting on the "redemptions" and "second chances" we never asked for, in a prison where our freedoms and work are dictated to us, where parts of ourselves are stripped away as casually as breathing, where our masters come and go when they please, do as they will, hoard their little privileges, and call the occasional harsh word spoken in private holding themselves accountable.
And you, Zuko. When you go home, back to your palace and your fine things, what then? While you say your pretty words about an end to war, who will be doing the work of it? Who will be rebuilding the towns and cities that your family destroyed and who will be giving the orders and taking the credit?
Who will profit the most from your peace but you?
[Private to Ardent, text]
Before you left you said you'd show me more about the Dark.
The king sits idle on his golden throne, I told them. Our lives buy his glory, our labor his city and castle. And when the walls are built, when the last stone is laid, we're driven out from behind them, unpaid, abandoned, orphaned, left to fight or die within an arm's length of the safety we built, starving as he feasts on food stolen from our catches and crops.
Every word of it was true, and now I've seen it for myself. [She scoffs.] Lords and ladies, eating well off silver plates while outside the walls peasants beg and go hungry, no matter how picturesque they make it look in Ravin. Wearing gowns and gems worth a prince's ransom, useless armor, dull jeweled swords, while the rest of the country gives thanks for rags. Now I know what it's like to be a leech on the blood of the people.
And there is no excuse for it - there can be no excuse. A common man would be hanged or worse for less than theft or murder. But they think - I thought, there - nothing of exploiting the commoners, of ruling what they can and cannot do and where they must work and when, of taking the lion's share of their labor, of casting them off when they are used up. And why? Ignorance. Malice. Because they believe they have the right to do it, given by the Light or their birth or anything else but what matters.
Our misery is their wealth and our strength is something to be broken - at home, in Ravin, on Earth, here. For here we are, waiting on the "redemptions" and "second chances" we never asked for, in a prison where our freedoms and work are dictated to us, where parts of ourselves are stripped away as casually as breathing, where our masters come and go when they please, do as they will, hoard their little privileges, and call the occasional harsh word spoken in private holding themselves accountable.
And you, Zuko. When you go home, back to your palace and your fine things, what then? While you say your pretty words about an end to war, who will be doing the work of it? Who will be rebuilding the towns and cities that your family destroyed and who will be giving the orders and taking the credit?
Who will profit the most from your peace but you?
[Private to Ardent, text]
Before you left you said you'd show me more about the Dark.