( 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.