Oh Mai Moar Memories!
Twenty three. That's how old he was now. Soon to be taking up the mantle of Bookman proper, if the death-rattle in the old man's chest was anything to go by.
"Samuil." The redhead glanced up, taller now than he had been five years ago, more filled out and even muscular; solid and strong instead of lanky and thin like he'd been as a teen.
"What now, old man?" He couldn't be serious right now; if he was he might crack and the bitterness and grief and fear would all come spilling out and he couldn't handle that. Being playful was his best mask, let him distance himself from all the darker emotions he kept in check as a Bookman's apprentice. His mentor always told him it was a weakness but right now that didn't matter, better to show that one shortcoming than all the others he vividly knew he still had.
The old man grabbed his shirt collar, pulling him down closer. He looked him in the eye with eyes that, even now, showed no fear. Only a sense of duty and- no, not grief or concern. The old man never showed emotion. He turned away to cough violently and then met Samuil's eye again.
"Don't fuck this up."
As far as last words go it wasn't much, but he hadn't expected anything more. The old man let go of his collar and lay back down, closing his eyes and breathing shakily for a minute more before he ceased to do so completely.
Samuil- Bookman, now- ran his face over his hands and stood, leaving the room to inform the nuns the old man had finally passed on. He didn't cry, not then and not the next day when he helped bury the old man's body. Not the day after that, either. Weeks passed without a tear. In fact it wasn't until he met with one Minister Kamelot with a piece of unsynchronized Innocence in tow that he felt the stirrings of true bereavement, not until the Noah took Heaven's Compass and destroyed the last mark the old man had on this world that he felt what was left of his heart stir with emotion.
He did cry that night, silently and with sense of shame that made him curl his fingers into his hair and pull, pull until his scalp burned and he whimpered from the pain. Pain was good, though. Pain meant he was working to improve, meant he would do better. The worse it hurt, the closer it meant he was coming to doing right by Bookman tradition and finally killing off his heart.