sageguidance | sieg catchall

[Oblivious to the week's effect, Sieghart casually strolls up to Alphinaud outside of the mansion.]

I wasn't expecting to find you out here.

[In retrospect, it isn't that surprising. One can only stay cooped inside for so long.]

[ He is indeed out here, seated on the lawn! Today is apparently casual Monday, because he's in something other than his jrpg bullshit today (it needs to hit the laundry, anyway), and his hair is in a loose ponytail rather than its usual braid. He's working on a cup of tea, but when he looks over his shoulder toward Sieghart... Alphinaud looks heckin' exhausted. It's a mystery if he's slept much at all. ]

Good morning, Sieghart. I thought I could use for some air.

[ He might also spot a carbuncle sniffing at random flowers in the garden. ]

It's not good to stay indoors all day.

[Nodding, Sieghart drops down to sit cross-legged nearby. He cranes his neck toward Carbuncle. There really are lifeforms of all types out there.]

It was a little stuffy inside. [ He sips at his tea. ] Or... that may just be me.

[ carby is out here just havin' a good time. maybe eating a flower petal. ]

[Don't eat anything poisonous.]

No, you're right. Not only is it stuffy, it's old. The only reason it's as clean as it is now is because of Souji.

[Sieghart is shamelessly quick to admit that he has done nothing for the upkeep of the mansion.]

[ Carbuncle is a rock, it's fine. ]

Mm, yes. Though I imagine he has not been wanting for time to do so... It must have been quite quiet here in these short few weeks.

I wouldn't say tha . . .

[ . . . t, because they have to suffer Virgo's volume, he means to say before he's interrupted by a shower of stardust that comes out of seemingly nowhere:]

In all the years you've fought monsters and demons alike, you have never seen so much blood.

The ashen smoke and stench of burning flesh assail your senses as you navigate the burning ruins that you once called your home. What was once a warm refuge attended by your brothers is now a hellish purgatory with their bodies strewn everywhere. Nary a one utters so much as a cry while the fire claims their limbs, burning all evidence of their once immortal existences away. Every step you take lands your feet in a puddle of their blood, welled in the cracks of the stone floor, and your gait grows increasingly desperate the farther in you go.

Hoping against hope for a response, you rattle off as many of their names as you can and shake the ones who are still relatively intact by their shoulders, ignoring how weak your voice sounds against the roaring of the flames.

You cough into an excoriated arm that was damaged by a collapsing pillar you passed earlier. The divine blood coursing through your body patches the excoriation until there's naught but a faint scar to indicate that it was ever there. Your wide-eyed gaze snaps to a pile of your brothers' unresponsive bodies. You don't understand. Why haven't they healed like you yet? Why won't they get up? Why won't they wake up?

Finally, your breath hitches when you come upon Graham, crumpled on the ground, with the fire raging all around him. Throwing yourself onto your knees, you gather his body in your arms and shield him from the scorching heat, only to find that his chest neither rises nor falls like all the rest.

"N-no!" Your vision blurs and voice cracks as you give him a despairing shake. "Get up! Wake up! Please!"

But Graham doesn't open his eyes. Your dearest friend, who saved your life with nothing but kindness in his eyes when he found you, a lonesome stranger on the verge of death, is gone. Everyone is gone; the fire is just meant to bury what's left of them. Now all that's left is you.

The unbearable pain that pricks your eyes, chokes your throat, and sears your skin falls to the wayside as you hold Graham's corpse close and wail in a terrible combination of grief and rage.

Who could've killed the Highlanders? The question rattles harshly in your mind, piercing the deafening howl of the flames. Whoever it was, you'll kill them. You'll tear them apart. You will get revenge.

If only you hadn't been so careless.

Your chest tightens. Although you scream yourself hoarse, it does nothing for the agony that splits your heart as you weep at once. You can't breathe. You don't think you can even live with yourself. The grief, the rage, the guilt—they hurt. They hurt so much that you think you may just go mad from it all.

This is your fault.

If only they had never saved you that day. If only you'd died right then and there, alone . . .

All of this is your fault.

It's your fault. Your fault. Your fault, yourfault,yourfaultyourfaultYOURFAULT—

[ Out of nowhere, the memory flashes through Alphinaud's mind. Like any memory, it's quick, yet in the moment what he sees and feels is so real, enough that he could swear it was his own.

He tenses, hand gripped tightly around the cup, processing... everything. It takes a long moment to manage the words, and even then it's simply just: ]

Wh- what... what was...?

[The abrupt return to a relaxed body from a tense memory creates a sensation not unlike whiplash in Sieghart, who remains so silent and still that he almost forgets to breathe. Remembering is one thing; reliving is another. A moment passes without a response to Alphinaud before he takes in a shuddering breath, his vision blurred by tears that trickle down his face.

It's easy to get swept up by old memories made fresh—especially right now—but he mustn't forget that Alphinaud is here. Staring at the ground in front of him, Sieghart answers tonelessly:]

Those were . . . my brothers.

[Some hundred of them.]

[ The hurt and agony runs deep, but ultimately... it isn't his own. Alphinaud exhales a slow breath, as if easing himself after a bad dream, yet he looks up to see a considerably more shaken Sieghart.

(... Are those tears? Alphinaud never thought he'd see the sort from a man like him.)

Sieghart answers, and it belatedly occurs to Alphinaud what this is—a shared memory of past events. Ah... So this is happening again. ]

And they... [ He trails off, frowning. ] No—no, pray, forgive me. I should not have seen that.

[That seems to orient the last of his awareness. The ache passes, leaving something more nebulous in its wake. Sieghart straightens and reaches up to wipe his face; to flow like this, tears really are timeless.]

No. [He swallows, clearing his throat of the lump nestled there.] It's not your fault.

[If anything, a part of him is ashamed that he subjected Alphinaud to the experience.]

Well... no.

[ ... ]

But I shall apologize, regardless. Were it your decision to make, I imagine I would have no knowledge of these events.

[Sieghart stares at Alphinaud, expression slack. Were it his decision to make, he wouldn't have made the mistake that started it all in the first place. But that's too wishful, isn't it?

He lets that thought go, and the tension in his body with it. His shoulders hunch forward accordingly while his forearms rest against his thighs—casual as ever.]

You know what this means, don't you? If it happened with my memory, it's bound to happen with yours.

[ He's right. Alphinaud falls silent, briefly, before he responds. ]

Yes, it will—that I know from experience. I suppose I will need to brace myself to take what ever is to be exposed with grace.

[A wry smile teases Sieghart's lips in perhaps understanding.]

Should I keep my distance?

[ With a shake of his head: ]

No, you may stay. Though I have mine own mistakes and regrets, and have been witness to terrible things, the bad does not outweigh the good.

[His lips stretch into a fuller smile.]

That's a fine way to look at it. Then I'd like to see something good when it happens.

sieg catchall

Week 3: Monday

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