What is justice?
When I was young, I used to think that justice was punishing evil. It was simple. If you did something wrong, you were punished. It was that simple. You could lie to your guardian, perhaps, but if you were found out you had to pay double the price. It was very black and white.
When I grew older, I understood what desperation was. I understood what poverty was, and how it could drive somebody to steal. If you did something wrong, perhaps there was a good reason; if your judge was compassionate, perhaps you could get away with it. It felt right to waive or at least lessen punishment for the repentant and those whose hand had been forced; it felt right, too, to harshly punish the wicked and the haughty. Without realizing it, my justice had started to bend and waver. It was no longer black and white. It never was, actually, but my own perceptions, my own bias, did not help blur and smudge the gray band in between.
Later on, I received the position of housecarl. I understood what discipline was, how it showed no mercy to officer nor grunt alike. The law was rigid, unfeeling, and straight. It had to be; everyone was to be measured against it. There was a small leeway, but it was hardly a relief; if a man could not meet the consequences of his actions, his debt was transferred to his kin. No man is above the law. It ruled all under it with its weight, its circumstance - if the fear of punishment did not restrain you, then the punishment itself would.
As time passed, I understood what corruption was, how the Thalmor, for all the grandeur and pomp of their legal system, could bend and wriggle their way out of paying the price. The rich and powerful got away with crimes; the poor and weak without the capital to bribe were hanged. This was a perversion of justice.
Somehow, at some point in time, I had decided that to counter this perversion, another perversion, a bias toward the weak and the poor, was a good idea. My justice was no longer a matter of solely punishment, but of equality - I wanted to help the helpless, or rather, those who could not help themselves. Perhaps it was at that point where my justice ceased to be justice; or perhaps it was earlier than that.
As the war brewed on, I understood what need was, how exacting a man to an unfeeling standard without consideration for his state was unreasonable. Nicking potions for not having enough money to buy medicine for a sick wife. Stealing grain to feed one's family of six. Mugging, soiling one's hands so that the bellies of their loved ones could be filled for just one more day. To some I paid heed. To others I closed an eye. I have always had compassion for beggars, but nothing but contempt for bandits - it is almost laughable how little of my original justice remained. How wavering I was in my thoughts. True, I could not understand the circumstances behind every crime. True, not every crime is excusable - no, rather, it should be said that no crime is excusable. And yet I thought there was. The beggar was not harming anybody, but what about the orphan who stole an apple? Then what of the young man who stole goods to sell for his mother? Or the husband turned thief for his wife? We take it for granted so readily the choices we have, the options we have, to be able to choose to obey the law. Did these people have a choice? Perhaps they did. Perhaps they did not.
When I met the Dragonborn, I realized just how far gone I was.
I never acknowledged it, of course, but I suppose, in the deepest reaches of my heart, I knew.
I was a filthy hypocrite.
The man whose stolen loot I carried, the man whom I watched and even assisted to murder and plunder and pillage, I defended, because he was the chosen one.
Does justice reward, or does it simply punish?
Does the measure of good of one's actions truly cancel out the guilt of one's crimes?
Is it not horrendously ridiculous for someone who calls herself a defender of justice to turn a blind eye to atrocities simply because the one committing them is her friend?
And yet... if all that justice do is punish, then perhaps... perhaps I do not want it after all.
When I was caught for stealing coins from the pockets of pilgrims at the age of fifteen, I understood mercy. The captain of the guard, Mareiah, had mercy on me. Forgave me, paid my debt, took me under his wing and into his household. Trained me in the way of the sword. Perverted justice for my sake, because he saw it fit based on my circumstances.
He died when a pack of wolves attacked him during one of his visits to the hermit living in the woods.
We slayed them with our eyes burning with tears, and our hearts filled with rage, as ironic as it is, and yet it was the right thing to do. There was no alternative. It was our obligation, no, duty to avenge him. Not to exact justice, and definitely not to exact mercy, but to ravage them with the fire of vengeance.
In a way, it really does depend on one's fortune, doesn't it? Whether or not one finds a judge with compassion. Whether or not one's circumstances are enough to bend the rules. Whether or not one receives mercy.
Yes, fortune...
In the same way it was my fortune to meet the Dragonborn, and it was my fortune to enter this world, and to leave it, fortune governs life and transcends justice. Justice is nothing without its reinforcement. Fortune, however, affects that and more.
Perhaps it might not be wrong to go as far as to say that fortune is justice.
And I, I am - what am - what are you doing - stop - you there, what do you think you're doing, wait -
