[He pauses a few steps away, his posture deliberate, shoulders squared, helmet tucked under one arm. Char studies Solomon with a careful, measured gaze, noting the bandaged hand and the subtle tension in his stance.]
You're awfully quiet.
[The words are neither accusatory nor prying, simply an acknowledgment. He lets the silence stretch, giving Solomon space to choose whether to respond.]
It seems you're having a rough time.
[Char shifts to lean his weight against the stone archway. Even in his usual restraint, there's a quiet gravity to his presenceβ steady, patient, offering conversation without intrusion.]
You can spare me your concern. Is this truly so simple that you believe you can resolve it alone? Are you stubborn from pride, or do you think the truth might somehow wound me?
I can't. But I also can't say I'm a fan of sending you into a next of vipers that I myself may have very well helped to make. And that is the last thing I would like to add to your regrets.
[Sentence finished. Paper folded. He moves onto the next strip.]
[Is he really that vulnerable in Solomon's eyes? Almost insulting, but Char lets it slide. A snake fears no other snake. After this, he'll be diving straight into the nest. This really is a matter of necessity, a means to avoid further tragedy.]
You're remarkable in how unhelpful you are. I'll be sure not to rely on you for any straightforward answers.
[Turning his attention to the papersβ]
Will you be just as evasive with your little writings?
[They can both appreciate leaving certain topics untouched, though Char would have preferred something more direct. In any case, he intends to press Fandaniel himself later, but for now...]
...Then tell me more about the nature of these notes. If they're something you need help with, I'll offer what I can.
[Not that it's surprising β Solomon is far from an unthoughtful man β but still...]
It's a shame we can't strike at the root of the problem and end it there.
[Testing the waters. He doubts many would openly disagree that Father is their greatest obstacle, but it's hard to know whose ears might hear them, talking out in the open like this.]
Anyone here, dead or alive, that you have memories of. It does not matter how you word it. Remember their names, and remember how you felt about them, or for them.
If you cannot do as much, then perhaps write it about yourself instead, so someone else may hold it tight.
[The other pen is withdrawn from his coat as he attempts to take over his own attempts. But no mark is left behind. He sighs, instead taking to twirling it against his fingers.]
Out of ink, of course. That's fine. I'll find another.
[The pen glimmers faintly in the light, a vessel that was never meant to hold ink. Decorative, not practicalβ beautiful, but hollow. Char stares at it as if the sight alone might loosen his own tongue. Some truths can't be written. Some names can't be consigned to paper without losing their weight.
Still, when Solomon speaks of memory, when he suggests a name be recorded... only one comes to mind, though she is far from dead and gone. The name presses against the back of his throat like a secret aching to escape. He doubts even ink could hold what it means to him.]
If I were to write a name, it would be hers. That much I know.
[His gaze doesn't waver, even if his chest tightens. To admit as much is no small thing. A soldier learns to bury his truths, to guard them as closely as his own heartbeat. Yet here, with Solomon's words, he finds himself admitting it all the same.]
If not a promise, then perhaps a poem. A picture, a verse, a phrase from their tongue. An image that strikes fondly in you, and reminds you of them.
[It's a delicate matter for some, he knows. To let the moments of the heart stay locked up tight where nothing can hurt them. It's a challenge, to try and reach a soul like this.]
What stays precious with you will die with you, unless the joy and pain of them is shared with another. However vague and thin it must be stretched.
[The pen sits awkward in his grip. He keeps it simple, detached, like recounting someone else's story and not his own. The words come slow, each one carefully measured.]
Ash in her breath. Light bent through ruin. A thousand wings, broken, but still beating.
[He leaves it at that. Plain. Unadorned. Folding the paper once, he holds it tucked against his palm. The weight of what isn't written hangs as heavy as what is.]
This feels like something that should be left to the wind to carry. Do you intend to keep yours close?
[He nods, accepting Solomon's answers on its face. They strive for a common goal, ultimately... which may have been a fine thing to realize sooner, but on that noteβ]
Let me ask you something, Solomon. How did you come into possession of that pen? The one with the iridescent stone.
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You're awfully quiet.
[The words are neither accusatory nor prying, simply an acknowledgment. He lets the silence stretch, giving Solomon space to choose whether to respond.]
It seems you're having a rough time.
[Char shifts to lean his weight against the stone archway. Even in his usual restraint, there's a quiet gravity to his presenceβ steady, patient, offering conversation without intrusion.]
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Coincidence. Always coincidence. It didn't matter.
...]
...
Danya.
It's for the best if you don't speak with me.
[Quiet. Very, very quiet.]
I don't know who's watching. And I don't want you to get hurt.
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[He's far from incapable. Besides, Solomon's warning brings to mind one figure in particular:]
If you're worried about Fandaniel, don't be. He won't harm me.
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As long as you're certain. It will keep at least one weight off my mind.
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Tell me what happened. I need the full story, Solomon, so I can determine how to handle this.
[This is, at least in part, his fault, so it falls on him to fix it.]
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[Smiling, easy, as he pulls out the blue pen he carries on him, popping off the lid with his thumb and starting to write.]
Just be careful, Danya. That's all I ask.
I don't recommend being seen with me. But if you had other questions, I'll try to keep it brief.
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[Sentence finished. Paper folded. He moves onto the next strip.]
I'm sad you think I'm so untrustworthy.
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You're remarkable in how unhelpful you are. I'll be sure not to rely on you for any straightforward answers.
[Turning his attention to the papersβ]
Will you be just as evasive with your little writings?
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[Not even looking up as he says that.
Sorry, Char. Something has clearly happened and it has his walls up much higher than usual.]
I'd prefer not to be. I would like to remember the people I'm around, after all, regardless of whether they're living or recently dead.
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...Then tell me more about the nature of these notes. If they're something you need help with, I'll offer what I can.
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[That, at least, gets him to turn towards Char a little. Acknowledgement, at least.]
I'd highly suggest it. If we lose memory of Annette and Noelle as quickly as we did the others, I would not be caught so off guard this time.
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[Not that it's surprising β Solomon is far from an unthoughtful man β but still...]
It's a shame we can't strike at the root of the problem and end it there.
[Testing the waters. He doubts many would openly disagree that Father is their greatest obstacle, but it's hard to know whose ears might hear them, talking out in the open like this.]
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[He'll hold up the blue pen for Char to take, if he so chooses. If you wanna help, man, sit your ass down.]
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You'll have to provide me with instructions. This isn't something I typically do.
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If you cannot do as much, then perhaps write it about yourself instead, so someone else may hold it tight.
[The other pen is withdrawn from his coat as he attempts to take over his own attempts. But no mark is left behind. He sighs, instead taking to twirling it against his fingers.]
Out of ink, of course. That's fine. I'll find another.
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Still, when Solomon speaks of memory, when he suggests a name be recorded... only one comes to mind, though she is far from dead and gone. The name presses against the back of his throat like a secret aching to escape. He doubts even ink could hold what it means to him.]
If I were to write a name, it would be hers. That much I know.
[His gaze doesn't waver, even if his chest tightens. To admit as much is no small thing. A soldier learns to bury his truths, to guard them as closely as his own heartbeat. Yet here, with Solomon's words, he finds himself admitting it all the same.]
But some promises aren't meant for paper.
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If not a promise, then perhaps a poem. A picture, a verse, a phrase from their tongue. An image that strikes fondly in you, and reminds you of them.
[It's a delicate matter for some, he knows. To let the moments of the heart stay locked up tight where nothing can hurt them. It's a challenge, to try and reach a soul like this.]
What stays precious with you will die with you, unless the joy and pain of them is shared with another. However vague and thin it must be stretched.
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Ash in her breath. Light bent through ruin. A thousand wings, broken, but still beating.
[He leaves it at that. Plain. Unadorned. Folding the paper once, he holds it tucked against his palm. The weight of what isn't written hangs as heavy as what is.]
This feels like something that should be left to the wind to carry. Do you intend to keep yours close?
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[Not for everything. Not for every statement he's written down.]
Saving as many here as I can will always be my priority. Whatever I can do, I will do. Even if is something as simple as this.
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Let me ask you something, Solomon. How did you come into possession of that pen? The one with the iridescent stone.
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[He flicks it against his fingers idly.]
Your first guess at the trial was correct.
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[Sika... Just what are you thinking?]
Then you should have no problem explaining yourself clearly now. Go on.
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