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ba sing se glows at night. faraway windows shine golden onto the earth kingdom's green tapestries. it is when the tea shop is empty and they look out of their own little window that iroh plants a delicate flower. like the moon flower, it requires partial shade. the comfortable quiet of night. ❛ hard to imagine so many lives playing out below. ❜ he pours another cup for zuko, and leans his elbows on the windowsill.

❛ sharing tea with a fascinating stranger is one of life's true delights. ❜ he smiles then, a flash of teeth and the scent of jasmine tea curling in the air, poured by thick, wizened hands.

❛ see if you can get me another biscuit, ah ? ❜ this he whispers, only the side of his mouth moving. the gregarious old man is enjoying it, too -- his role as serious face to the stern authority, and his role as smiling co-conspirator to his real ally here. the angry beaurocrat re-enters the room, scowling. uncle inclines his head, already dancing to a self-serious tune, all the more playful because of how sombre he pretends to be. he blows on his tea and hums along to whatever this latest bore has to say. his partner scurries away.

but what greets him is not an assassin sent to burn away the last bits of good in zuko's soul. zuko sits, pure of heart, and begs for forgiveness. he was not lost. iroh did not need to worry for his nephew's soul. zuko had figured all of it out.

“Oh, indeed I could, Heisenberg. I have no shortage of servants.”  An important little reminder: she was a noblewoman who commanded many, and he ought alter his tone accordingly. Of course, he never would. Alcina grimaces, eyes narrowing, and she looks down upon Heisenberg the way one might look down at shit in a gutter. “But the question is - will I?  And the answer, you abominable fool, is no.   Go to the meeting room. ” 

  ❛  that’s a   perfectly good   dinner.  ❜     maybe it’s not the most attractive looking she’s ever made, but it’s nutritious and so on, so on.  honestly, the wine she’s used to cook it maybe have been a bit stronger than anticipated, and her few sips have numbed her to good taste.   but it’s unlikely! 

                    ❛    There was a barber and his wife . . .    ❜       he drifts off. The words seem so heavy now.       ❛    And she was beautiful.   ❜     Sweeney’s eyes go to the window caving over his head, a tsunami of what it is that he has become. In a moment, he can remember being in this very spot, Johanna gurgling, and Lucy reading. The shop is not damp, as cold and warped as himself. No. It is full of light, and life, and over there in the corner is a baby’s bed that one day he imagines his first born playing in, crawling out of, growing taller than, and in those golden yellow days he would teach her anything he knew. Anything she wanted to know. He’d show her how to play childhood games. Never would she go hungry, or be made to feel unsafe   -    not by him, not by them. The world is a strange place still in these golden yellow days, but it is not a bad place. It is full of laughter and wonder and inexplicable things, brilliant, new marvels. In the golden yellow days, he stands by her side at her wedding and cries silly, fat tears because he is proud. Lucy is as beautiful aged as she is young, and he tells her always. No matter the demands Johanna grows to have of the world or herself, he helps her. She has a mind as bright and naive as his, and as beautiful and clever as her mothers. The love he gives has been sown and he reaps it daily in the happiness of the women he adores. The family he keeps safe.                              BUT THESE ARE NOT THE GOLDEN YELLOW DAYS.  Those days, full of joy and laughter and safety    ------    they never came. Not for any of them. The only thing he reaps now is souls, in lieu of the one man responsible for this tragedy. Responsible for the coarse thread he feels binding his jaw and throat shut to the girl he fathered. There is one man responsible, and it is    J U D G E   T U R P I N .      He has been silent for a long stretch now.  With new life and purpose, Sweeney Todd finds his legs, standing erect. Swift as a spider. He rounds on the girl    -    not just a girl, on Johanna   -    and with no trace of joy or hope he says:       ❛    F’give me. I  ---   ❜   his voice catches, throat tightening. He mustn’t give away anything too revealing until he discusses this situation with Lovett. She has a head for this stuff   -    he knows he cannot believably tell her he is her father, and not have her suspect him of murder whenever it is that the judge finally submits to his blade.  In a moment or less, he must think of something that explains his upset.    ❛    I sailed with Anthony Hope.  I know not of how to welcome people, because I’ve spent long years in Australia, head cracked against the splitting sun and rock.  ❜     He kicks the razor on the floor away, a sign of peace, eyes steady and hand out before him for a shake.                           ❛    I knew your mother.  ❜      He stops again, eyes threatening once more to overwhelm him.       ❛    You are so very like her.   ❜