Obligation and Empathy A Society Bound by Justice Through Servitude

The system here is as bewildering as it is audacious. It’s not every day you encounter a societal structure rooted in unflinching proximity between wrongdoers and their victims. Yet, this odd justice system seems to have become the backbone of social order, lending a peculiar harmony—and no small amount of tension—to daily life. The *Servitia Pact*, as the locals call it, mandates that offenders must repay their crimes not monetarily, not through incarceration, but through service. Whether you stole a loaf of bread or gutted someone’s prize-winning carp in a fit of pond rage, you can expect to find yourself dusting their shelves, filling their calendars, or—God forbid—hearing about their cousin’s chronic gout as part of this arrangement. This is Versailles in 1870, but not quite the Versailles I know.

Take Gertrude, a sharp-featured baker I encountered this morning. She was recounting her frustrations as one of her assistants balanced a tray of éclairs with the begrudging grace of a man doomed to butter croissants for eternity. Her helper, it appears, had once attempted to abscond with several freshly baked baguettes, only to trip on a cobblestone mid-escape. A scene so French it could be immortalized on porcelain. Now, he spends his days bent over dough and trays, sweating more than the bread itself. Yet there was an odd warmth in her exasperation. Between her bursts of colorful complaints, she would slip in tales of his life, almost fondly, as if his penitence had crept into her heart alongside the heat of the oven.

Not all tales of the *Servitia Pact* are dramatic or violent, though. Later, at the market, I purchased figs from a woman who began airing her grievances about a young seamstress she “inherited” from her sister—who had passed unexpectedly mid-retribution. Apparently, the seamstress’s crime had been botching important gowns for a royal event, sewing mismatched panels in what the locals still whisperingly refer to as “the great stitching scandal.” Now, relegated to domestic chores, the young woman endures weekly lectures about what shades of lavender "truly befit society." Listening to the vendor drone on about the horrors of clashing attire, I wondered if the greatest punishment wasn’t mending garments but enduring her employer.

More preposterous still are the rumored punishments tied to ancestral obligations. A carriage attendant recounted a tale in whispers to his colleagues: a nobleman punished not for his sins but for those of a distant cousin who had embezzled funds meant for wartime defenses. The nobleman, through no fault of his own, now spends half his waking hours trimming hedges into absurd geometrical patterns for an irate baron, all in penance. His failings? None, save for having the misfortune of a shared bloodline. The servants seemed both bewildered and amused by the tale; one laughingly suggested that the only way to avoid lifelong servitude here was to either never marry—or never anger a gardener.

Despite the awkward nuances, I must admit, the system has a way of discouraging repeat offenses. The thought of folding a thousand linens for someone you once insulted at a dinner party is apparently enough to set even the most impetuous on their best behavior. Still, it’s hard to ignore the faint air of bitterness lingering everywhere. Even relationships formed through years of enforced “reconciliation” carry the residue of unspoken recrimination. I watched one such pair cross paths at a tavern in the evening—ostensibly settled debts in their history but exchanging no greeting save for a barely perceptible tilt of the head. They sat at opposite ends of the room as if the distance might finally erase years of reluctant proximity.

By the end of the day, my curiosity outweighed my unease; I decided to peruse the law books held at the town’s small library to better understand the finer nuances of this strange judicial system. Imagine my surprise when I discovered a fascinating loophole: the *Servitia Pact* includes a clause where mutual agreements between victim and offender can dissolve the bond. Looking around me, however, I saw none who seemed eager to invoke this particular clause. Imagine that—choosing to hold onto your guilty butler or bumbling baker, perhaps out of some perverse obligation, or maybe even a strange attachment that transcends rationality.

As I strolled back to my room, I tripped over a rock and narrowly avoided colliding with a passing gentleman. He glared and muttered a sharp "watch yourself" before hurrying off. Absurdly, it occurred to me that in this world, such a misstep could spell servitude if interpreted as my fault. I made a mental note to tread more carefully here than usual—not something I’d ever thought I’d need practice in while journeying across time. A society where dropping one’s hat in someone’s way could lead to years of hat-polishing. And yet, somehow, this may not even crack my top five strangest cultural systems.