[She resents Patroclus so in this moment, that even dead he would be worth more to his lover than anyone else, and regrets that bitter thought immensely in the next. Patroclus had been nothing but kind to her, a father in Woodhurst as much as Achilles had been, until he had been a corpse, and then ashes, and then bones in her hands.
So what is she to do, besides let him go? It wasn't as if she could stop him even if she tried, nor could she convince him to remain- nor should she. She knew that. Even if it hurt, (even if it hurt every time), she knew that. No matter how close persons could become in ALASTAIR... they were of different worlds.]
Then, at least-
[Sieglinde pulls her hand away from his before the hold gets any tighter, wipes her cheeks with the edge of her sleeve and turns away- a pointless gesture, when the tears weren't yet done, slipping from her seat and moving to her dresser, crouching down in a flurry of skirts to pull a small book out and bring it back with her to the table, shoving food aside.
When she opens it, though, it isn't filled with words, nor drawings. It's photographs from her birthday party.
Here is Asher, flashing some sort of weird symbols with his fingers towards the camera. Here is Ban, dragging her around the skating ring. Here are Sonia and Haise, smiling. Here is Urahara, draping over her gifts like a fool. Here is Olivia, eating pizza. Here Sieglinde poses with Ahad, holding a bottle of wine. And here are group photos- all the result of Sieglinde's request that Haise put the camera he was good at using to work.
Here is Sieglinde, sitting in her chair at the head of the table behind a cake with lit candles, smiling self-consciously if not happily, flanked by the two men who had played her fathers, surrounded by guests.
Carefully, she pulls the photo out of the album and offers it up.]
If they take your memories, they may also easily take that which you own. But-
[As she leafs through the photo album, his eyes linger over the faces that have grown familiar to him, remembering as they flutter by how he had honed his magic craft under Urahara, how he had danced with Sonia at the winter ball, how Asher had kept watch over him in the wake of Patroclus' death, how he had shared a life in miniature with Olivia. He accepts the photo, slowly tracing with his finger the figures of those present, Patroclus first, then Sieglinde, as if by doing so he might receive some essence of them that shall be stored within his skin, his bones, his heart. When he speaks, he murmurs softly.]
Thank you - this I shall count among my greatest treasures. How astonished my friends among the Achaeans shall be when they see how true to life the picture is!
[After a moment more of gazing upon it, he carefully tucks the photograph into the broad belt that girds his tunic.]
I had meant to wait until after our meal before bestowing upon you this small token of kinship, but perhaps now is the time.
[So speaking, he produces from the folds of fabric what appears to be a bundle of paper rolled together in a sort of scroll, which he offers to Sieglinde. Once she unfurls the pages, she will find first a note written in Achilles' own careful and upright hand: side by side stand the English words, Strength Wisdom Courage, and below, Achilles. The next several pages are cut neatly from the book of lore gold-clad Gilgamesh had once gifted him: here is the story of Achilles.
The beautifully illustrated pages tell of his boyhood in Phthia and his education upon sacred Mount Pelion; of his two-fold fate, the impending war that would doom him, and his hiding place on Scyros; of his setting sail and all his trials and tribulations en route to Troy; and of his heroic deeds in the bloody jaws of battle, ending where all stories end, with his death. Tucked between the moments of glory are the quieter moments, as shadow follows brilliant light: his friendship with Patroclus, his love for the forsaken Deidamia, his compassion for the doomed Iphigenia, his cutting sorrow for his dear companion's death. He has been godlike, at once more than human and less than human, but he has too been simply human.]
[How astonished they will be... if they ever get to see it. What would become of him, when he returned to his home? Would he be stripped of his memories and possessions, returned to the very moment he had gone with nary a thought otherwise? Would he be as a man returned from a long journey, weary and laden with the spoils of his travels, ready to speak what would surely seem like madness to his fellows? Would ALASTAIR at least leave him the things that were not so incongruous to his land? Would the amulet she had given him remain, just a heavy silver piece bereft of significance or function she had bestowed it?
Not knowing haunts her, and she can do nothing about it.
She can only accept the pages she is offered, tears welling up anew to see his hand, the words he had written so carefully. How long and ancient seem the days she had spent in Oska's library with him, Patroclus, and Graham, preaching the importance of letters and guiding their learning. Would he lose even this?
Here was the story of Achilles- one she knew well. She had used it in her studies as a child, comparing Greek and Latin and German copies of the tale to learn her languages... but there is far more to this one. If only she would look at it a week from now and find the story changed. Find a passage that hadn't been there before, that spoke of Achilles returning as if delivered by spirits of the air to regale his disbelieving comrades of the adventures of a group called Audentes.
In a week from now she will be too terrified to look, but for now... she chokes down her emotions as best she could, folding the scroll back and clutching it to her chest.]
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no subject
So what is she to do, besides let him go? It wasn't as if she could stop him even if she tried, nor could she convince him to remain- nor should she. She knew that. Even if it hurt, (even if it hurt every time), she knew that. No matter how close persons could become in ALASTAIR... they were of different worlds.]
Then, at least-
[Sieglinde pulls her hand away from his before the hold gets any tighter, wipes her cheeks with the edge of her sleeve and turns away- a pointless gesture, when the tears weren't yet done, slipping from her seat and moving to her dresser, crouching down in a flurry of skirts to pull a small book out and bring it back with her to the table, shoving food aside.
When she opens it, though, it isn't filled with words, nor drawings. It's photographs from her birthday party.
Here is Asher, flashing some sort of weird symbols with his fingers towards the camera. Here is Ban, dragging her around the skating ring. Here are Sonia and Haise, smiling. Here is Urahara, draping over her gifts like a fool. Here is Olivia, eating pizza. Here Sieglinde poses with Ahad, holding a bottle of wine. And here are group photos- all the result of Sieglinde's request that Haise put the camera he was good at using to work.
Here is Sieglinde, sitting in her chair at the head of the table behind a cake with lit candles, smiling self-consciously if not happily, flanked by the two men who had played her fathers, surrounded by guests.
Carefully, she pulls the photo out of the album and offers it up.]
If they take your memories, they may also easily take that which you own. But-
[This was the only, futile gesture she had left.]
no subject
Thank you - this I shall count among my greatest treasures. How astonished my friends among the Achaeans shall be when they see how true to life the picture is!
[After a moment more of gazing upon it, he carefully tucks the photograph into the broad belt that girds his tunic.]
I had meant to wait until after our meal before bestowing upon you this small token of kinship, but perhaps now is the time.
[So speaking, he produces from the folds of fabric what appears to be a bundle of paper rolled together in a sort of scroll, which he offers to Sieglinde. Once she unfurls the pages, she will find first a note written in Achilles' own careful and upright hand: side by side stand the English words, Strength Wisdom Courage, and below, Achilles. The next several pages are cut neatly from the book of lore gold-clad Gilgamesh had once gifted him: here is the story of Achilles.
The beautifully illustrated pages tell of his boyhood in Phthia and his education upon sacred Mount Pelion; of his two-fold fate, the impending war that would doom him, and his hiding place on Scyros; of his setting sail and all his trials and tribulations en route to Troy; and of his heroic deeds in the bloody jaws of battle, ending where all stories end, with his death. Tucked between the moments of glory are the quieter moments, as shadow follows brilliant light: his friendship with Patroclus, his love for the forsaken Deidamia, his compassion for the doomed Iphigenia, his cutting sorrow for his dear companion's death. He has been godlike, at once more than human and less than human, but he has too been simply human.]
no subject
Not knowing haunts her, and she can do nothing about it.
She can only accept the pages she is offered, tears welling up anew to see his hand, the words he had written so carefully. How long and ancient seem the days she had spent in Oska's library with him, Patroclus, and Graham, preaching the importance of letters and guiding their learning. Would he lose even this?
Here was the story of Achilles- one she knew well. She had used it in her studies as a child, comparing Greek and Latin and German copies of the tale to learn her languages... but there is far more to this one. If only she would look at it a week from now and find the story changed. Find a passage that hadn't been there before, that spoke of Achilles returning as if delivered by spirits of the air to regale his disbelieving comrades of the adventures of a group called Audentes.
In a week from now she will be too terrified to look, but for now... she chokes down her emotions as best she could, folding the scroll back and clutching it to her chest.]
Thank you.
[For everything.]