( closed ) as you push it up through the soil

[heelies]

CHARACTERS: Achilles and Koltira
WHEN: Sometime after the mission dossier is released
WARNINGS: Nothing, for once
SUMMARY: Braiding each other's hair and talking about cute boys. Okay, not really. Achilles comes to Koltira to ask that he repair his armor and shield. Insert symbolism about mending more than just that which is tangible.


[Time does not quite heal all wounds, but it does begin the mending process: and so, the deep scars that had once furrowed and slashed Achilles' pride, those scars which even Olivia's healing hands could not reach, which once festered for his shame, slowly turn pink and gummy. Yet these do not yet recede, as the scars upon his flesh had shortly sunk back into his bronze skin. He accepts his defeat by Koltira's blade, for there is nothing more he can do if even in the peak of his strength and preparation he could not lay low the death knight, yet still his heart is not fully at peace.

He recalls the restlessness that had plagued him even after he won his vengeance, casting Hector through the gates of Hades and thus prying from him the blood-price owed for his dear companion's suffering; round and round the bier where lay Patroclus' body he dragged the ruined corpse of Priam's noble son, and still he found but the cold shadow of satisfaction. He recalls too how, unable to sleep, he lay alone on the sand, and the shimmering shade of Patroclus knelt over him and begged for his burial, to be put to rest at last. Old Priam too had knelt before him, clutching and kissing the hands of he who slew his eldest son, pleading that he return Hector's body that the Trojan prince too may be granted all appropriate honors and rites.

In the end, it was mercy that released him from his rage and allowed him to put to rest the past.

It is with these memories pulling at his sore heart that he seeks the forge that Koltira had lately advertised. At the threshold he stands, not yet welcomed inside, although from here he can see the elf at work, the man who had filled him with black hatred and billowing fury such that once blinded him, and he waits for him to pause at his anvil ere he calls out in greeting, with words steady and sincere.]

Koltira, you who wield the godly blade that robs men of their strength, you who in war are nigh matchless - it is Achilles, son of Peleus, who comes to you as suppliant should you grant me entrance. Today I wield no weapon nor bear biting words against you. I have only a humble request for your aid.

Comments

[respired]

[ 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.

So -- ]

Tell me what you need.

[heelies]

[Koltira's speech, although brusque, he takes for an invitation to cross the threshold and draw closer. He walks with purpose as always he does, his broad shoulders square and his noble brow held high, but his countenance is not sharp with arrogance, veiled instead in solemnity as his fierce pride gives way to grace. Then he is before the death knight, and there does he sink to his knees in the ashes that dust the floor. The stones are harsh beneath his bare knees, clad as he is in his native garb, the rich colors and fine weave of which bespeak his princely station even as he humbles himself in the soot of another man's fires, grasping Koltira's knee in the traditional pose of supplication.

Neither man will forget that when Achilles last clasped his knee thus, blood smeared his hands and the specter of death rattled his words upon labored breaths, each one slipping reluctantly from his lips as if afraid to be the last.

At present he looks up with his gaze unwavering.]

I beseech you that you might repair my armor, that which was yours to claim for a trophy yet this right you left alone, as well as my splendid shield - both of which once shone splendidly but now sit tarnished and torn. Hephaestus who keeps his forge in the fiery belly of Mount Etna did craft these for me upon my mother's entreaties, and I know not who else but you might restore his craft to its former glory.

[No accusations leap from his words, which march forth in plain earnestness: already he has lingered too long over the past.]

Nor do I know what I might offer in return for your services. All I possess in my power is forgiveness for all that has passed between us - will you accept this, or shall we both rage one against the other forever more? Even the gods cannot long stay angry, and we are but men, after all.

[respired]

[ Koltira's eyes widen slightly as Achilles reaches for him. He had felt a rush of repulsive pity when last Achilles grasped his knee, a shock of uncertainty over what to do next, how to respond. He feels no less prepared for the correct answer now, despite how both of their tempers have cooled.

But as they are no longer locked in bloody combat, and as his mind is not clouded with hateful rage, Koltira can at least see the gesture for what it is: respect, insofar as Achilles defines it. Even so, he goes still, feeling awkward and undeserving. ]

Rise, Achilles. My anger towards you is spent.

[ Though he cannot forget Olivia's grief, he knows also that he has little power to affect it, and that she would not want Koltira's grudge to sustain itself, besides. So he regards Achilles warily, thinking on how he has thought so much about someone whom he knows so little. ]

I regret that your armor was shattered in our duel. I have gold and silver enough to repair it, and would gladly do so. You may consider it my apology.

[heelies]

[He rises from where he prostrates himself, the soot clinging to his knees as blood does dirty hands.]

I am most grateful for your generosity, and your apology I accept.

[There gathers a pause in which he studies Koltira's countenance, this face that he has so often seen gnarled by anger, this face upon which he had come to expect hatred wild and bright. None of this does he see at present. He sees instead the marks left by death's cold grip, his strong cheeks lined with a milliard tiny cracks as if he is a vessel that once was so carelessly dropped. For all the ire that had crackled in that first conversation they shared, fast consuming in flame the ground that lay between them, this strange story he still remembers: here stands one who was never allowed to be laid to rest.]

You did not wish to raise your blade against me, not for cowardice but for principle, and yet I forced you to fight nevertheless. Blackened as my heart was with fury for my sullied pride, I would not listen to reason - none could stop me that day but myself and the thoughts of my dear companion who in darkness returns to me always. And blinded as I was by the thick smoke of this rage, I could see you only as a murderer, a madman, and nothing more. Who you truly are I know not, but I am willing now to look.

[respired]

[ Koltira's very glad that the clinging to his knee part of the afternoon is over. He relaxes, visibly, once Achilles stands up again.

But the tension returns once he notices Achilles's appraising gaze. He does not like to be looked at for overlong; to his mind he is oppressively, unforgivably ugly, and he suffers under extended regard. After just a moment of Achilles's examination, Koltira looks away, allowing the pale curtain of his long hair to obscure the features of his face. ]

Indeed I am a murderer, for in my enslavement I brought great terror to many people. But I have struggled to atone for what I was forced to do ever since my miraculous freedom--a freedom which bought me my will, but did not release me from my hungering curse.

[ He runs his fingers over the hot anvil, frowning. ]

Your distaste was therefore not unfamiliar to me. But I reacted to it badly, and let my own ill-temper cloud my judgment from then on, besides. I ought not to have been so stubborn.

[ This is the part where he might extend his hand if he were a living man, but he is not. Instead, his eerily smooth voice simply sounds more resolute than before. ]

Let us begin anew, then.

[heelies]

[Where once might have swollen disgust for Koltira's death-marred appearance, for all that he is and all that he has done, now there rises pity, quiet like the mists that rise in a pall over the shore ere dawn's rosy fingers break them apart. He wonders what he might have looked like before he was cast through death's gates and dragged back out.]

I have known rage such that drove me to madness, when Menoetius' gallant son, Patroclus, my dear brother in arms, was slain by murderous Hector's spear. Harnessed in the glinting armor that you yourself have rent and shall repair, and armed with my father's spear of Pelian ash, I forgot all but mine own suffering and torment. No matter how my comrades begged me, I could neither eat of food nor drink of wine - I hungered only for the bloody jaws of battle, and lusted only for the dying groans of men. My spear drank the blood of scores of Trojans, a glut enough to sate even Ares, master of the war cry - yet still I was not satisfied. Not even when I slew Hector, son of Priam, robbing the life from his limbs and prying from his lips his last breath - not even then did my rage cease, not for all of my gloating and all of my exultation for having avenged my dear companion.

Consumed as I was by rage, I forgot myself. Round and round the bier where lay Patroclus, I dragged Priam's son, and so too round the high walls where watched old Priam himself and his queen, she who ushered into the world the life that I had hurled down into the House of Hades. I cared nothing for the laws of heaven, the burial rites that the gods protect. And still I could not rest, still I hungered.

[He falls into a brief spell of silence as he pulls himself from the darkness of the past and into the present.]

Even so...I cannot claim to understand the hunger and madness with which you are cursed. But I understand that I can no longer blame you for such an affliction for which none would wish.

[respired]

[ Believe it or not, Koltira was an even-tempered man when he was alive. Reasonable, virtuous, jovial. Given to laughter and (gentle) pranks. If he was angry, it was only in service to justice, to the righteous protection of his homeland and family. He was never brutal, he was not driven by revenge or hatred. He could not fathom such things until he was remade, and to think that Achilles felt even a fraction of Koltira's undying fury--as a living man--astonishes him.

He mutters, eyes widened slightly. ]

The curse of grief, perhaps. I cannot know if I would have done the same, had I survived the destruction of my homeland.

[ He shakes his head. ]

But I did not, and I was raised with rage ever burning in my chest. Quelling it is a battle I cannot always win, no matter how hard I try.

[ He starts moving about, gathering the tools he needs to make the necessary repairs to the armor. ]

But I do try. Tasks like these are a great help.

[ He pauses, and adds finally -- ]

Thank you for your understanding. Not many here offer it.

[ Nor does he expect them to, really. But he's grateful when it happens, nevertheless. ]

[heelies]

[His is a rage that breaks human bounds, a rage so tremendous and earth-shaking that the deathless gods feared it might overthrow Fate by toppling well-built Troy before its decreed day of doom. It is little wonder, then, that he invades the realm of those cursed by death undone, a realm which no living man ought to tread.]

There are many among this crew who refuse to see the world from where his fellow stands. This I too know well: you and I have both had our share of scorn.

[He watches as Koltira gathers his crafting tools, in shape like an ordinary man at work. One might forget the cracked ice of his skin, the blue fire of his eyes intent on the task before him.]

How strange it is that now I can scarce recall what it was that drove us to such loathing. How long ago was it that Nalanni who delights in volcanoes and wave-ruling Ryba faded from life as smoke dissipates upon the wind and tides go out to sea? I called you mad for purposing to slay the gods whom the Achaeans call deathless. How was I to know that they could suffer death as mortals do? Yet I called you mad, just as others have called me a fool for challenging you. For this I owe you an apology, as we let bygones be bygones. I wonder now how this might have gone had we met on a different day - do we truly disagree on so much, and agree on so little?

[respired]

[ Scorn he has suffered, and he has no doubt that there's even more in his future. But, perhaps unlike Achilles, he's accustomed to it; his kind are ostracized even among their own people, and to find any measure of acceptance at all is an unexpected surprise. No one bows to a death knight except out of fear.

He makes a 'tch' noise in his throat as he moves around the anvil. Nalawi is not a livid wound anymore, but the conflict still burns in his patchwork memory. How he was dismissed; disrespected. It galls him, even now, spurred as he is towards his base emotions. But it's also the past, and there's no point dwelling on it.

Besides, Achilles has a point. ]

I cannot say. I suppose we did not give each other enough time to find out.