Achilles, son of Peleus (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
heelies) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
epidemiology2017-02-27 09:59 pm
heelies) wrote in epidemiology2017-02-27 09:59 pm
( 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.]
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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Their stint at the hospital was an absolute bust. One would think after risking potential arrest and their lives, they'd have turned up with something. His mind has gone alight with accusations; perhaps the hospital caught wind that there were people sneaking around, trying to get to the bottom of things. Asher and Jin have now parted ways from Lucina and Miles and are on their way home.
Unfortunately, due to an attack in the area, they've been forced to make a little detour.]
Shit, shit, shit.
[He pulls fabric from his hoodie over his mouth.]
I hate this shit, man-
[He steps over debris and broken glass. The side street they're scurrying through is empty for now, but there is evidence that a fight went down.
The stench of rotting flesh hits his nostrils first. While it's hard to ignore the splatters of blood on the brick nearby, that is the worst thing.
Or well, the second worst.]
Oh my god.
[A body lies in the lurch, just one, and the sight of it so horrifying that he has to stop, despite it not being the rational thing to do.
At first all he can focus on is the gore, the way the man lies with his limbs bent in ways that shouldn't be humanly possible, and how the clothes he'd worn had been torn into. A hiss escapes Asher's throat when he notices that one of the arms has been severed clean off, and he takes one step back as he covers his mouth to keep himself from vomiting.
Oh the bone, the colors of human flesh exposed. A few measly flies sit atop the corpse or flutter about it, making the best of this horrible situation.]
Did they just leave him here?
[Without even finishing the meal?
What a mess.]
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[The sharp odor of death hits Jin, too, and he reaches to take Asher's arm as the sight draws his gaze, too. Certainly, he's not a stranger to death and gore, but it's never an enjoyable sight. Even if it's a stranger.] I know it's tough to leave, but if the body's infected, we sh--
[The glint of a bit of jewelry clutched in the hand of the man's remaining arm catches Jin's eye. Anyone could hang onto a spare necklace or bracelet or earring or whatever, but with the man's fingers closed so tightly around it...
Is it truly a stranger?
Jin's hand finally takes hold on Asher's forearm, squeezing him.] Shit.
[There's a dark, dark sense of foreboding that settles in the pit of Jin's stomach. They will turn the body over, and it will be a stranger, he prays, ignoring the significance of the maybe-magitek, the hunch that this may well be someone he's known. There have been no Audentes casualties, he assures himself. There should not be one. Not for this.]
Asher, tell me I'm imagining what that looks like.
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No, no, no, no, no-
[Asher pulls out a pair of gloves from his back pocket, covering his hands in latex. Amidst the faux-tussle at the hospital, the group had managed to steal an unopened box and had split it amongst themselves.
Each syllable leaves his mouth with spit as he tugs each glove over his hands. He is not a slight fellow, and the overwhelming anxiety he's experiencing propels him to the ground as he falls, practically, knee making contact with hard pavement. Gingerly, he grasps at the shoulders, careful not to touch any blood even though he's managed to cover up.
Turn, turn, turn-]
Oh my god, no-
[The face is one he recognizes, even though it's fairly new.
They've spent a lot of time together, planning a birthday party and mulling over silly things like modern slang and kitchen appliances. Why, just this past week, the man had spent a good hour or two in their apartment.
To make sure, Asher shakes his sleeve so that the watch on his wrist is visible. If he were to track this particular person, he would show up on the monitor.]
It's him.
[There's a match.
They've lost one of their own.]
Somebody's fucking dead, dude.
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The result, of course, is everything he'd feared. And he feels his heart sink like a stone as the hard, bitter reality sets in.]
It can't be.
[He'd liked Patroclus. No one would deserve a death like this, but far less a man such as Patroclus. He hadn't been close to the man, but he'd been kind enough; a friend of a friend. Although not so much a friend as a partner, now, a name that Jin himself had placed upon their relationship with his well wishes merely weeks before.
His thoughts rush, quick as to cause whiplash, to one man. How on earth are they going to tell Achilles that the man he has loved for decades is lost?]
Elder gods have mercy...
[Everything is different now, with a teammate dead. Jin's mind races and he swallows the lump in his throat, holds his breath not for the smell of blood on the air alone, as he turns to stare at Asher with eyes wide in horror.]
A healer. Can we get a healer? Or--
[Fuck. He's already dead.]
...Koltira?
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A gesture as simple as an invitation was enough to win his eager and lonely heart, and he can't help but let confusion wash over him. It would be cruel and frankly out of character for the law student to wish death on any of his team members, but why oh why had the grim reaper stopped to pry this kind man's soul from his dead body?
He turns on the audio function, voice shaky as he manages to will the device on.]
Help. Um...
We need your help.
[Losing any single person in a world so small is enough to shake him to the very core, although this is one hell of a wake up call, is it not?
This could have been any one of them.
God, is Miles home? Did Lucina make it back okay?]
Are you there?
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What is it? Where are you?
[ He doesn't miss the urgency, or the tremor in Asher's tone; however, his first assumption is that Asher (being a delicate flesh bag) is under siege and needs help before he's captured and eaten. ]
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Shutting his eyes, a hand darts to his forehead as he finally continues to speak.]
Someone's dead, I think.
[Not the most eloquent way to share the news, but brief, if anything.]
You can bring people back, right?
Sometimes.
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Where are you?
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[This is what happens when Miles "I stalk all my friends" Upshur has been driving you around for the past few weeks.]
We're on the corner of-
[Here he mumbles the address of their apartment building. It looks as though they will have enough time to carry the body inside, as the kind of magic Koltira is going to perform probably shouldn't be carried out where civilians can see, or where infected could catch them in the open.]
Call me when you get here and...
[A deep sigh.]
One of us'll let you in.
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He's on the way, though. ]
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It sounds like he's on his way...
[In this moment, he realizes that he is spoiled. Mortality is something he's barely had to consider before becoming a part of this team, and here it is, staring him right in the face.]
I guess that means we'll have to move him.
[His shoulders and arms freeze as he lets his eyes dart to the corpse again, holding in the urge to vomit.]
I hope this works.
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Resurrection isn't unheard of where he is from: how many people has he heard of who've cheated death, and more than once? Surely this shouldn't be any different, even if the dread in his gut speaks otherwise. They've got to believe that it will work.]
It should. [He leans over to rifle through Asher's bags for another pair of hospital gloves.] It's got to.
Let's focus on getting somewhere safe.
[At least he knows the two of them are strong enough to move him.]
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Jin, son of Kung! Tell me - have you any news of my Patroclus? When I call, he answers not, and all of that which I most fear darkens my mind and heart.
[He sees his dear friend bloodied, his naked flesh torn by Hector's spear and flayed by the stones over which he was tugged in the war for his body. His skin dirtied, his lips choked with dust. His eyes fallen shut, never again to open. Like the tide rushing to fill the shore when the moon tightens its hold, so rise the memories around him until he can scarce breathe.]
Yet if my fears have come to pass, my prayers rejected once again - O, then do not yet disclose this to me! For once I should learn that all happiness has fled from my grasp and all beauty from my gaze, my legs shall buckle beneath so great a weight and no more can I run.
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He anticipates the worry. He does not, however, expect my Patroclus, a deceptively simple epithet, to cut him most keenly.]
Achilles?
[He can't tell him this over the jewelcomm. To take that which Achilles had lost once already from him, a second crueler time-- and not to his face? That would be a disservice. (Gentle-hearted Patroclus; my dear companion; my life partner he shall be.)
Jin casts a glance at the body, then at Asher, who hovers nervously nearby. He screws his eyes tightly shut and inhales, aiming to stabilize himself. It's too shallow a breath to hide the true meaning of his words from his voice.]
Our... our door's unlocked. I think you should come inside.
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One shoulder leans haphazardly against the wall, and while he's tempted to say something, he holds his tongue.
The Greek warrior hates him enough already. He doesn't need to be the bearer of bad news.]
I'm sorry, dude.
[A whisper, barely audible.]
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And still he runs, although his feet shall carry him not away from that which frightens him most, but right for it.
When he pours through the door, already his tears smite his eyes and glisten upon his cheeks. He sees not Jin, nor does he see Asher: his gaze falls presently to the form shrouded in sheets that make a funeral pall. The black cloud of grief that has gathered over Achilles now breaks open. His feet, so quick and nimble in battle, turn clumsy as he comes to his companion's side, and his legs are bled of strength. There he sinks to the floor, overpowered in all his power. From his lips heaves a groan more beast than man. With his fingers he tears at his hair and face, caring nothing for beauty when all that is good and true is so fleeting. If there were a hearth by which stones would gather soot, he would pour this over his head, filth enough that upon it he might asphyxiate. The hunting knife that waits in his jacket pocket seems in this moment the swiftest comfort, a temptation to his trembling hands.
He clutches the body instead, curling over him as he has done a thousand times before, this beautiful man he has loved so thoroughly and yet has loved not enough. Then through his sobs come the first coherent words he can manage, no longer broken shards of his beloved companion's name and unfinished pleas to gods who watch not this land.]
Why lies he here upon the floor? Is this how the dead are honored? O, that Fate could be so callous as to claim Patroclus once more - the man I loved beyond all of my comrades, loved as my own life - while here I am abandoned! Almighty Zeus, you who wield the great bronze scales in which men's lots are weighed - will you not claim me too? A full year have I lived past Priam's son Hector, he whose defeat sounded mine own death knell - how much longer must I wait to find my dear Patroclus on the Acheron's far shore? Once I thought that I could suffer no greater grief than to lose my second self, but now I am proved wrong. This grief I must bear a second time, no lighter to me for its familiarity, and no duller either. What man has ever before been made to endure such agony as this?
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Should we have put him on the table?
[But he still, in some regards, seems to be missing the point entirely.]
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He shoots Asher a helpless look and shakes his head. They'll deal with the logistics later on. (He wasn't so hot on leaving him on the floor, either, but he was also not especially excited to leave a possibly infected body on the spot where he slept...) Right now, there's a sobbing man on the floor of their apartment and a Deathweaver on his way-- one who, he prays, can save Patroclus before it's too late.
He crouches down to Achilles' level, grabbing both of his shoulders in an attempt to stabilize him.]
Achilles-- Achilles-- there's still time! Asher already called Koltira: if his powers work, then... we might be able to bring Patroclus back. He may not yet be lost.
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Seized now by the desire to gaze upon Patroclus, he reaches for the edge of the sheet where it drapes over the dead man's head. Once before he has beheld his beloved's lifeless form, yet not even this could prepare him for what he finds once he lifts the sheet.
Across his pallid cheek and down his neck scream red marks, furrows left by fingernails, too shallow and dull to have been the fury of any beast. Achilles traces the curve of his cheeks, his lips, the same lips he had kissed just hours before, all cold and stony beneath his trembling touch when this morning they bore such soft warmth. It suddenly seems a lifetime ago that he lay in a lazy bed with Patroclus curled by his side, and he kept him from breakfast with tender words and tempting touch. Stay just a moment more, he had implored. There is time enough.]
Return to my side...else I shall be the one who soon finds the way to yours...
[Then as he peels the sheet back to reveal more, his stomach heaves and a thin cry rises from his throat. Here the flesh is reddened by blood, his shoulder and chest raw as though picked apart by carrion birds. His shirt is torn, the tatters melded to his skin by his congealed blood. Where ought to be his arm sits a stump of flesh flayed and ruined, and from it protrudes the bone plucked nearly clean of meat. Only his hand remains whole. The noise that claws past Achilles' lips is inhuman: it is the wailing of a lioness who stubbornly guards her cub when already it is too late and the lifeblood reddens the nourishing earth. He seizes his dear companion's hand, from the side undesecrated, and this he clutches to his chest.]
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Step away, Achilles.
[ His voice is toneless. Already, shadows gather in the small space; the runes inscribed on Byfrost's blade glow dark purple, shifting to the shape of skulls. The icy glow burns in Koltira's lantern eyes. ]
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Firmly, he grips the warrior's arm, jerking his head in a direction that points away from the corpse.]
Come on, dude.
We gotta let the big man do his thing.
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Jin nods to Koltira in silent, appreciative acknowledgment. They'll handle the shuffling Achilles away bit. With Asher to help, he takes Achilles by the other arm, urging him some steps away, if only for a little while.]
Let's go.
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His gaze seeks the death knight and like wine from a broken vessel his plea spills from his lips.]
I beg of you...you who have the power to beat back the hungry jaws of death...please restore the life to Patroclus' limbs and the breath to his lips - return him to my side, Koltira, I beg of you.
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I will do what I can.
[ He can't offer guarantees. Life and death don't work that way, no matter how powerful the magic. Still, he is willing to try.
He lifts his sword. Shadows gather more rapidly, thickening into a miasma that darkens the whole of the apartment. Purplish-black magic coalesces above Patroclus's body, then engulfs it. The skull runes on Byfrost's blade shimmer as Koltira speaks in a guttural, horrible language--incantations of the Scourge, brutal and ugly.
The shadows seep into Patroclus's corpse, writhing, hissing. His flesh seems to burn, but in truth it mends itself; the pulped meat of his injuries soon turning instead to smooth, new flesh over seamlessly reconstructed bone and sinew. As this process goes on, Koltira continues his chanting, his smooth voice low and harsh, his tongue curling around the jagged syllables of the language of the dead. The power gathers. A sickly sweet scent fills the air.
And then -- nothing.
Silence.
Koltira shakes his head. ]
Too late.
[ The shadows thin and flee. Light and air return to the room. Patroclus's corpse is restored, but it is still only a corpse.
Koltira lowers his sword. ]
I am sorry.
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He does not remember crawling to the death-darkened man's side, his knees dragging over the floor, but all at once he is there again. His hands seek Patroclus and his face he buries in his chest as if there might be found the fleeting warmth of comfort in a cold body whose limbs cannot complete his embrace.]
So it was too late, and already you have slipped away to the house of death. Once more you heeded not my words to return to my side, my dear Patroclus - once more the gods rejected my pleas for your protection. Whichever deathless gods watch over this land, they too are bound by Fate's designs, no different from Zeus who bears the aegis. While I stay in the company of the living, the bravest of the Myrmidons shall fall...so my mother spoke, and so it has come to pass once more.
[What further words he might speak are choked by the sobs that heave his broad shoulders and find no escape but for by clawing out of his throat.]
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He thinks momentarily about the timelines they are trying to save, before pushing those negative thoughts to the wayside.
ALASTAIR, and this team... They can and will do good. That he has to believe.
It is awkward, to watch Achilles grieve over a face that had once been familiar. This whole situation, in fact, is awkward, and so he feels the need to keep cordiality in check, stepping forward and bowing his head to Koltira with a somber expression.]
Thank you. For everything, for trying...
[He hails yet another sigh.]
Soooo, this fucking sucks! Buuut-
[Asher shoves a hand into his pocket, the other flopping around uselessly.]
I guess that means we'll take it from here.
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[Jin doesn't even know if he should move to comfort Achilles again. To lose the partner to his soul so violently: it's a weight no one should ever have to bear, and it is one that Achilles has taken upon himself twice, now. The proud warrior's sobs are an unnerving reminder of how tenuous their control over the entire situation in Woodhurst has been. But none of this is over. Not yet-- not until they've found the source of this whole epidemic and dealt with it. Or with them.
He doesn't move when Asher does, simply resting his forehead in his hand. They can't leave Achilles alone like this. How are they supposed to send the man back to an cold, empty--]
Shit. [He sits upright suddenly.] Sieglinde.
[The two of them had been living with the young witch, hadn't they? She deserves to know what's happened here too.]
Achilles-- [If the man can even hear him, or even wants to hear him, lost in his grief as he is.] I'm going to call for Sieglinde. Is... is there anyone else we should call?
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But he is not without compassion; he is not pitiless. If anything, he feels these things more deeply in death, tied as they are to sorrow, to misery. He looks upon Achilles, wracked by sobs, and he knows that the best thing he can now--for any of them--is to leave.
He bows his head slightly. ]
This is not my place. Take care.
[ He turns, reactivates the illusory cloak, and heads out the door. ]
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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.]
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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.
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[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.
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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.]
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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?
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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.]
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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!
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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.]
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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.
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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...
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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.
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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.]