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[He says:]

I should say I have no right to.

[But he drops his eyes as he does; his face remains still stubborn, with lines about his mouth, but the lie is clear in his eyes. And, after a moment, he says:]

By the laws of my system, Shahrizai, you've the right to hand me over as a rapist.

Oh, but you don't want to. [Mavros snorts.]

For your trials and judges and juries of peers, yes? Then you'll be condemned and nothing comes from it.

It doesn't matter whether or not something would come of it.

[He looks up again.]

Do you deny that I've wronged you, Mr. Shahrizai? Yet you alone should pay penance for your crime?

Ah, Elua...

[He draws a hand through his loose hair.]

This is a mess.

[Well, at least it's a response that doesn't consist of bitter recrimination for his monstrous crime. So his fierce expression fades just a bit, and he repeats himself, this time more a genuine question:]

Don't you feel I wronged you?

[His hand goes back to his cheek and he looks at Edgeworth plainly.

And says just as plainly:

Yes.

[Edgeworth flinches as though he's been slapped. In spite of all of it - he wanted desperately to hear no.

He drops his gaze again. Quietly:]

Then I ask that you hand me over for judgment for my crimes.

[He has no right to take pleasure in that flinch. None. At all. And still he does.]

If I throw you to them - [He nods out towards the window and Ariel.] - they'll just put you in re-education and we'll be in the same mess once again.

I want nothing of that.

[He shakes his head - then swallows as a more painful thought still occurs to him. He clenches his fists, then says:]

Then declaim me for the criminal I am. So that all might know.

Is that what you want? [He is not staring, but watching carefully. Tracing cracks...]

[No, he wants to say, and he wants to say it furiously, powerfully, but instead:]

What I want is of no consequence. A criminal has no say in his sentencing.

And here we are, criminals both. Ah, and I a heretic on top.

I have deferred to your laws in the past, messire. Perhaps this time you should take on mine.

[He closes his eyes - squeezes them shut - and says:]

I'll pay the penance you want me to pay, Mr. Shahrizai. But I do not see the justice in that penance being making you suffer.

Kushiel's justice ends with his mercy.

And with it forgiveness. [Which he desperately needs to have so he does not go mad.] You cannot earn it without suffering.

...you might find it goes both ways.

[He looks up, and, eternal pessimist, assumes that what goes both ways is - ]

Suffering?

[Oh, Edgeworth.

Mavros laughs and there's a flicker of amusement not so trodden in there.]

Forgiveness, messire.

Though the suffering is there no matter what.

[He looks up, then. There's not much comfort taken in the man's amusement, but...It's observed.]

But as I've said, I see nothing to forgive in your acts.

[Still...]

So what will it consist of? Am I to strike you, then?

Aside from those violations. [Or not even those?]

[Mavros' amusement fades. Here, he's pushed for this but he has no stomach to dictate or even suggest more whips and more chains.

He cannot dictate that anyway. His amusement is fleeting.]

That is for you to decide however you wish, in whatever way that you think just punishment for the injury I placed on you.

[He closes his eyes and takes a breath. Perhaps this is penance indeed, then: he'll do this, go forward with this, make himself feel a monster again. If it will bring Mavros some comfort.]

What form does it usually take?

[His lips thin and he has to take a breath of his own.] I can only speak to what goes on in Kushiel's temples for those seeking atonement.

And that is scourging.

Tied to a post and lashed with a flogger of braided leather and tipped with metal. Then follows confession and then salt water is poured over one's flesh to give one last wash of pain to end it all.

[His eyes widen just a touch; his lips turn down further still. His voice is harsh.]

I am not doing that. I am sorry if it does not - But I am not going to do that.

You did ask, messire. [Mavros shrugs. He'll happily live without having his back ruined again. He's finally healed from the first time.]

[He runs his hand over his mouth, closes his eyes - a small acknowledgment that he did indeed. After a moment:]

For your peace of mind, do you want something that brutal? Or would you be content if I do...not?

I cannot simply tell you how you should extract retribution. [Unhelpful but honestly...]

What do you want to do? [He challenges.] Something's crossed your mind, I know it.

[What he wants to do? Nothing, he says to himself, strongly, fiercely, and yet -

He remembers going home, both times, and standing in the shower, eyes closed, breathing hard, his back pressed against the wall of the stall. He'd gripped at his arms, and thought of the shamelessness - the whorishness he'd shown, the way he'd then been pushed down into the couch having uttered his call for freedom twice, ignored both times. He'd just thought - God, if Mavros had just listened to him, had just listened, and what sort of man claimed something "sacred" but then ignored it merely because of his -

No. He bears no grudge against him. There's no desire for any retribution. No.]

I wish to convince you of your lack of culpability.

[But he looks away. Doesn't meet his eyes.]

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