epidemiology | ( closed ) since it falls unto my lot

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( closed ) since it falls unto my lot

CHARACTERS: Achilles, Jin, and Asher, ft. Koltira and Sieglinde
DATE: Shortly after the hospital investigation
WARNINGS: Death, blood, and gore; allusions to suicide
SUMMARY: "While you stay in the company of the living, the bravest of the Myrmidons shall fall." So spoke his deathless mother, and the will of Zeus must move ever toward its end. Now serving carne a-sad-a with a side of pico de cry-o.

[Midway along the afternoon, when the sun has reached its cold zenith in the sky and thus can only descend, Achilles is struck by a premonition sinking deep into his gut. He is no seer, untouched by Phoebus Apollo's gifts, but he has an abiding faith in the signs sent by the gods and thus finds evil in the bird he had seen on his way home - flying to the left in a sky empty of wingfall.

He had bidden Patroclus good bye some hours ago. In this time of shapeless chaos, they are stretched thin as is the whole of the city: he was to escort bright-eyed Sieglinde while his dear friend replenished what supplies he could for their storeroom. Unbidden the memory comes, that which is seared into his remembrance, of waiting by his hollow ships while the sky fills with black smoke, the fury of burning ships, and far off on the plains clash the bronze-clad Achaeans and Trojans. Then he had known in his heart that never would he see his beloved companion return to him with Peleus' burnished armor upon his back and victory reddening his spear.

With his heart fast sinking like a stone plunged into a pond, Achilles sends a message. Surely, he thinks, I shall see Patroclus striding up the path just shortly, and he will have with him food enough for our stores. If he has suffered wounds, then I shall soothe him with salve and bandages - but I beg of you, O gods who over this land keep watch, please see that he comes home. A thousand prayers shall I give and a thousand offerings too should you grant me only this. No response does he receive, and outside the window the street is still. A minute passes, long and rasping like a last breath. Again he speaks, begging that his dear friend answer - but the silence stretches around him, unbearably heavy upon his shoulders.

Like a gale lashed onward by Zeus who marshals clouds, swift-footed Achilles then sails out the door and down the drive. His mind is frothing frantic as when the salt-green sea is whipped by wind, but he has pulled up on his jewelry the map that shall guide him to Menoetius' gallant son: to this his every thought turns, all lesser matters thus eclipsed. Yet however fast he flies, he fears that which he might find at the end of this chase.]

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[He little notices when Koltira takes his leave and little comprehends the words that fall from Jin's and Asher's lips: all but Patroclus are pushed to the hazy outskirts of his thoughts. In his grasp and against his cheek lies the whole of his world, silent and still and utterly barren. It seems at first that Achilles will give no answer, but after a shuddering moment he speaks, his voice weakened by tears and muffled against his fallen friend's chest.]

I can think of none but dear Sieglinde... Who else shall mourn my beloved brother in arms? Who loves him in this land so far from fertile Phthia, so far from all of our comrades?

[A thousand men had borne him unto his pyre by the Hellespont, comrades who respected him, friends who cherished him, all eyes bearing the burden of tears, all voices carrying a dirge. Here he can honor Patroclus with nothing so grand. So continues his weeping unabated, rolling through him like a storm lashed on by Zeus who marshals clouds.]

[Koltira's gone without further ado, and with him follows that slender hope of Patroclus' return.

The desperation in Achilles' voice had been enough, but his words unnerve Jin. Slain without fanfare or heroism, nearly anonymous, so far from home: even he barely knew the man, for his part in all of this. He could count the conversations they'd had on one hand.

To die, and to die alone. The thought shakes him at his core.

Jin swallows hard, and looks to Asher for some sign of reassurance. He can't find the words to say to Achilles when all comforting gestures seem as shallow platitudes. Instead, he exhales a sigh, and searches through the magitek's internal directory for the Green Witch.]

Sieglinde? It's Kung Jin.

[He sends their coordinates through the magitek's tracking app.]

There's been--

[Achilles' sobs in the background of the audio feed should be enough indication of what has happened, should they not?]

Something terrible's happened.

If you can make it here, please do. As soon as you can.

Dude! Are you for real, right now?

[Asher, why could you not just say "prepubescent."

Although, to be fair-]

She's hella young, ma.

[And while she's pretty dang smart, he knows for a fact that she can barely defend herself.]

Like, pre-pube status.

[JUST SAY PREPUBESCENT-]

Ask her if she needs a ride.

[There are three messages, unseen, sitting in Achilles' inbox.

mm/dd/yyyy, XX:15
Have you located Patroclus? Perhaps he returned to the place of his business to ascertain its condition after the riot?

mm/dd/yyyy, XX:20
Do tell me when you are returning home. I believe I have mastered the "shish-q-bob" and shall try to time its preparedness to your arrival.

mm/dd/yyyy, XX:57
Achilles? Is everything alright?

But it wasn't. The person who calls her isn't who she'd been expecting, waiting for word from, wasn't one of the two men who had taken roles as her adopted fathers in this farcical Woodhurst scenario. The two men who had given her a chance to feel, in a way, what having a father might be like for she who had never known one.

It's Kung Jin... with Asher, was that his voice in the background? And something terrible has happened. There's another sound, a deep, guttural expression of grief she takes a moment to identify because she has simply never heard it so low, from a man such as that before.

Someone is crying, and no one is telling her to bring her medical supplies, or her spells, the things you would tell a person first thing if you were calling for an injured person, frantic to save a life. It isn't that sort of call... is it. The dawning realization of the most likely scenario makes her knees give out at first, catching herself on a chair, dead silence on the line before,]

I will be there shortly.

[She can't do this over the network. This sort of thing, (if it's that sort of thing, please don't be that), shouldn't be done that way. She should be there, in person, and even though she fears it's futile she still grabs her medical bags, (a backpack, in Woodhurst), whistling for Isengrim only to realize her throat has gone dry and she can't make the sound.

But the familiar is located, his Woodhurst-style disguise of a large house dog ripped away when Sieglinde pulls his collar off to reveal the hulking familiar beneath, larger than a wolf with a face of bare ivory skull in place of fur and blood. Before she'd unbound her feet she had ridden astride Isengrim when the need called for it, and even now it was still the faster way for her to travel.

Blending in wasn't a concern at the moment.

She urges the beast in as fast as she can, clinging tightly to the thick fur at its neck as it lopes through suburban streets, leaps white picket fences, and crashes through a hedge or two, unable to do anything, even think yet, mind frozen and hands white-knuckled. She doesn't go unnoticed, either, there a roaming lone infected that can't keep up with her lupine pet, a man who peeks out his second floor window at the wrong time- let him just think he saw a ghost, skull dog and girl flying across his lawn. Thankfully her caller doesn't live across town, merely in a different housing area, and soon she's there.

In her rush she trips when she dismounts, nerve-dead feet betraying her to a small dip in the concrete and she goes sprawling onto the pavement with a muffled whimper. Maybe if she stayed here, she would soon realize she was dreaming, she had fallen asleep in the armchair and when she woke up dinner would be ready-

But that's foolish, that is a child's denial, and she is- she's the Green Witch.

She pulls herself up with a grit of teeth, skinned palms and knees ignored, to make it to the door. To get it open, to see what terrible thing had happen, color draining from her face and stopped in her tracks by the sight that greets her. Her throat bobs, trembles, fighting for a sound but nothing comes out until,]

Patroclus... ?

[Oh, no.]

Whoa, whoa, whoa!

Careful.

[Asher hears the crash first, as the volume of the sound is enough to make him rush to open the door. There are too many people in this cramped little room, however, and she makes it there first. What he does notice is how the color drains from her face and that her chin is red, scuffed or something like that, causing him to stop midway as he lets out a miserable huff of his own.

Looking her in the eye is too difficult, so he merely reaches for a chair from their makeshift dining table setup and pulls it outwards, closer to her.]

What happened to-

[He gestures vaguely to his own (butt)chin, only to drop the inquiry quickly, replacing it with a more important question.]

Do you need help?

[Asher's right. One of them should've gone to fetch her, but it's too late now. In no time at all, Sieglinde's stumbling-- quite literally-- into the dreadful scene. Jin's close at Asher's heels when he's helping the Green Witch into a chair, and this time, it's his turn to feel that weighty, looming uncertainty.

At his best, Jin solves problems. (Even if he's created them in the first place.) He can weather most things, so long as a solution lies somewhere down the road, but here they are now, having borne the news of death twice in a day. And Achilles, Sieglinde-- they're teammates and on reasonably pleasant terms, certainly, but it isn't as if he'd known either them particularly well.

For all the good intent in his heart, Kung Jin's out of his depth.

How do you, a near stranger, even begin to approach comforting them?

He's a friend. But only just. Empty words of sympathy mean nothing when Achilles, broken, crouches beside Patroclus' corpse. He knows Sieglinde even less: what, too, does he do to help the young witch, looking more her age than ever with scraped knees and hands? He opens his mouth, as if to speak; any sentiments he's about to express fall by the wayside, because none of them will do, really. He shakes his head, unable to meet her eyes, either.]

If-- if there's anything at all that we can do to help... [even if it's to stay out of the way.

He steps aside, allowing her, whenever she's ready, to proceed onto Achilles, still lost within his grief.]

[Their words register, in a small, distant part of her mind, but they don't seem important. They don't contain anything she wishes to hear, no explanations, nothing to tell her how this came to be. Sieglinde takes a shaky step forward, words still trapped in her throat as she uselessly struggles to say something, anything, another step, another, thoughtlessly pushing past the chair Asher offers and instead collapsing in a heap to her hands and knees a few feet from Patroclus' body, a choked sound, word half aborted, the only thing she can get out.

The thing about being raised in a fake world is that no one ever left you, and no one ever died. Of course, she has seen death since the lie unraveled, since joining Audentes. She remembers all too clearly the way the bullet had burst out the front of Hilde's skull. Remembers the crushed, charred bodies in Chantes, the drowned in Nalawi, the bloodied corpses of Perdition's Rest...

But it had never been anyone she knew. Not anyone she cared about.

She continues to the body at a crawl, knowing it was pointless but still reaching out with shaking fingers to take his pulse, holding Patroclus' limp hand and color draining from her face as she received the response she both feared and expected-

Nothing.]

How-

[The words finally break through the dam of her shock, looking uselessly between those assembled, heart thundering in her own chest and feeling a tight, new restricting feel in her chest that made everything seem so narrow and airless.]

How did this happen? Where did you find him? How- How long has he been like this?

[Been... dead. Her voice breaks, too loudly, higher pitched than she intended over the low sound of Achilles' grief. Unaware, the words keep spilling out.]

If it has not been long, then call Koltira, quickly!

[He seeks neither comfort nor condolences from the present company. Mourning is an art among the Achaeans. Grief was not meant to be salved and sealed by bandages: it was meant to be purged, let like poison from blood, to pour forth freely and wildly until the mourners are bled dry. Then, empty and clean, they are allowed to recover. But not until then can they heal, and so all the kind words in all the world's languages are as nothing.

Achilles does not lift his head when he feels Sieglinde sink beside him. He is not shutting her out but welcoming her to join him in grief. His words tremble forth like a wounded creature unable to lift itself up.]

It was too late, dear Sieglinde...already his shade had passed through the vile gates of Hades, where even Koltira cannot reach. He did all that he could, but no man can overturn Fate...no man can bargain with it.

[It is thanks to Koltira that Sieglinde is spared the gruesome sight that first greeted Achilles when he lifted the sheet. At present there is room enough in his heart only for sorrow, but there will come a time when he is overwhelmed with gratitude for Koltira's craft that restored his dear companion from the gnawed meal that was left in the alleyway. For now, he clutches Patroclus' hands, cold and stiff but whole and unbloodied too, a small miracle that shines in all this murky gloom.]

[Asher looks to Jin in this moment, ignoring the undercurrent of anxiety and frustration barreling within his gut.

This is why he had been so suspicious in the first place. Magic or not, what they're doing is dangerous. Patroclus wasn't some bozo who didn't know how to handle himself, he was a warrior- And a good one at that.

He redirects his focus at what is now the mourning party, voice low, gentle.]

It's cool if you guys wanna crash here for a little while, y'know.

[While they figure out what to do with the body and how to plan the funeral.]

I know we don't have that much space, but...

I don't think it's a good idea for either of you to be goin' anywhere just about now.

Yeah. [Jin contributes, though the words feel lame off his lips, as much a halfway option, a balm, as Koltira's spell had been.

He'd known grief, of course, but never the whole of it. (Lao had not counted, as much as his loss had impacted him; he'd been a child, hadn't known him as more than a distant figure on a pedestal.) There really are no words of comfort with which to assuage them, so he casts his eyes downward, to echo Asher.]

Our home is yours. For however long you'll need it. [And, certainly, they will. Achilles worries him, in this nigh-hysterical state.] We'll... think about what comes next later. [what must, necessarily, be done with the remains; what the loss of a teammate means for the rest of Audentes.

Jin opens his mouth to add something else reassuring, but there's nothing much left to say. His dark eyes look upon Patroclus' cold, pale hands, clasped tightly in those of Achilles: warm, yet white-knuckled.

And he breaks the gaze, lips pressed together tightly, to move-- because activity will make him feel like he's doing something, anything to productively help. His hand reaches for Asher's and barely misses; his fingers skim above the vein in his wrist, still thrumming, pumping blood, under his skin. Jin's fingertips graze his partner's palm for a fraction of a second before he is gone, heading for the closet and the first-aid kit in the hallway.]

We've, um. We've got bandages if you need those, too...

[Asher says nothing, he doesn't need to.

Before Jin can get very far, he reaches back, fingers slipping and sliding over rough hands, clasping tightly. The gesture is oddly firm for a man who so soft at the very core, but this is his way of dealing with things, of quieting the alarm bells in his head that have been ringing for quite some time. His touch is far less subtle, as he intentionally lingers while tracing the lines of those palms, rubbing circles into them with a thumb, silently easing the other's nerves. It's an affectionate gesture, but their sad friends are probably too overcome by grief to notice.

Making eye contact, he shakes his head quickly.]

Uh-uh.

[This is not the time for that, for bandages or for dinner. Sieglinde and Achilles must be allowed to weep and say their goodbyes.

If Jin is paying close attention, he may find something about Asher's gaze unsettling. The law student looks on with unwavering certainty, almost as he he knew that this would happen.]

Not right now.

[... Koltira has already come. The spiraling arms of her thoughts, chasing down each possible outcome and what could be done about it come to a grinding halt with Achilles' words and the realization that it was too late. She wasn't the first one they'd called. He'd already been here. And if he had been dead long enough that Koltira's necromantic spells could not pull him back into the life, then nothing she could do in the realm of physical medicine would do anything.

He was dead.

Truly dead.

Numb, her fingers slip from Patroclus' neck and its absence of thrumming heartbeat pulse, and Sieglinde stares blankly, only vaguely aware of Jin and Asher's presence, let alone picking up actual words. Just speech, something, trying to-

Her attempts at words break into a hiccup instead, and though Sieglinde despises allowing others see her cry, displaying any weakness that others would condemn as evidence of her youth or childishness, she cannot help the wail that builds even as she curls over what is now merely a corpse. She cuts a figure whose stature and grief both cannot begin to compare to Achilles', but who adds to the mourning despite, tears falling hot onto Patroclus' cooling shoulder as her own shake with sobs.

Not now.

... Not for a while.]

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( closed ) since it falls unto my lot

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