[ Koltira had meant what he said. As far as he was concerned, matters between them were at rest. That did not suggest any promise of friendship between them, or even of understanding--merely that they had come to an accord, and would trouble the team with their enmity no longer.
Koltira had seen Achilles brought low. Shamefully low. His rage had turned to confusion and pity in that moment, then curdled into a guilt that still dogs at him now. He cannot imagine how he would have felt if he'd struck the killing blow. His power to restore life doesn't soothe him--it can fail, such spells can always fail. And it wouldn't change the reality of a life taken, of anger unbridled.
Requesting the forge, in fact, was in part a way for him to get away from these circular thoughts. Too much time to himself is dangerous to Koltira; he thinks and he dwells and he burns with self-loathing. Having a focus, a task, keeps him grounded. Lucid.
But he's still not sure what to do with Achilles arrives at the forge.
He looks up, hammer in hand, mid-strike. He pauses, straightening slowly. He could answer in a hundred different ways. He could order Achilles out. He could demand extravagant recompense. He could snap, and snarl, and bare his teeth.
But what would he gain? He is here to leech poison from his mind, not add to the well.
no subject
Koltira had seen Achilles brought low. Shamefully low. His rage had turned to confusion and pity in that moment, then curdled into a guilt that still dogs at him now. He cannot imagine how he would have felt if he'd struck the killing blow. His power to restore life doesn't soothe him--it can fail, such spells can always fail. And it wouldn't change the reality of a life taken, of anger unbridled.
Requesting the forge, in fact, was in part a way for him to get away from these circular thoughts. Too much time to himself is dangerous to Koltira; he thinks and he dwells and he burns with self-loathing. Having a focus, a task, keeps him grounded. Lucid.
But he's still not sure what to do with Achilles arrives at the forge.
He looks up, hammer in hand, mid-strike. He pauses, straightening slowly. He could answer in a hundred different ways. He could order Achilles out. He could demand extravagant recompense. He could snap, and snarl, and bare his teeth.
But what would he gain? He is here to leech poison from his mind, not add to the well.
So -- ]
Tell me what you need.