[His question brings her own gaze, bright emerald darkened by memory and regret, down to the page, to the photograph in question that is held between them. That man...]
... That is Patroclus, son of Menoetius.
[He is dead.
She did not need to say that, she knows. His fate had been death, and not even ALASTAIR could, or perhaps would change that. Just as they hadn't changed Achilles'. She had held his limp arm in Woodhurst, listened vaguely for a pulse... and then she had held that same arm, reduced to flame-charred bone in a pile of ashes, before consigning it to urn.
Unbidden, her vision begins to waver slightly, with tears she resolves not to spill. This isn't about her.]
Perhaps you have heard of his exploits before the bloody gates of Troy?
no subject
... That is Patroclus, son of Menoetius.
[He is dead.
She did not need to say that, she knows. His fate had been death, and not even ALASTAIR could, or perhaps would change that. Just as they hadn't changed Achilles'. She had held his limp arm in Woodhurst, listened vaguely for a pulse... and then she had held that same arm, reduced to flame-charred bone in a pile of ashes, before consigning it to urn.
Unbidden, her vision begins to waver slightly, with tears she resolves not to spill. This isn't about her.]
Perhaps you have heard of his exploits before the bloody gates of Troy?