Tell me please "all is forgiven"
It's been four months since the attack, and since then he's had four months to angst ignore adjust to the giant scar snaking across his chest. He's mostly gotten over it, though he hasn't really gone shirtless since -- and on a tropical island, that's a difficult and often hot and sweaty endeavor. He knows he'll have to brave it sometime, but in the meantime... well, he didn't like swimming anyway. He keeps repeating that to himself as if it might actually be helpful, but it's only so consoling.
So he sits, disgruntled and a little cranky as he watches Aeneas pounce on some bug in the sand, the waves rolling in onto the beach in the distance. Maybe he's lucky too that his dog is too small and too afraid of the water to think about even getting near it. He smiles to himself as Aeneas lets out a small bark and skitters over to him, leaping onto his lap and scattering sand across Melchior's shorts. He sets his paws on Melchior's chest and Melchior doesn't wince; it occurs to him grimly that that's progress.
Giving a soft sigh, he collects Aeneas in one hand and stands, brushing the sand off his shorts. "Gehen wir, mein Bürschchen."
He nearly trips over it there, near the path on the way back to the Compound. His toe still hurts, throbbing dully, and his first thought when he sees the familiar shape of a gravestone in the sand isn't of anyone he knows. It's a strange place for a gravestone, here in the sand, and he's surprised someone would have put one there at all; the beach is sure to erode it.
Curious, he gets to his knees and, still holding Aeneas, uses his free hand to brush the sand away from the grave.
Here rests in God
WENDLA BERGMANN
Born 5th May 1878
Died of Anemia in 27 October 1892
Blessed are the pure in heart
Seeing it for the second time is no less devastating than the first. His mind wheels backward through time, to the first time he was on his knees here before her grave.
And I am her murderer. --I am her murderer! --Nothing is left but despair. --I mustn't cry here. I must get away--away--
And then Moritz and Wendla's ghosts, ice cold hands nearly pulling the knife from his own hands, stopping him from taking his own life.
It's too sudden, too strange to think of Wendla's gravestone here while Melchior can still hear the waves in the distance, can feel Aeneas's fur brushing against his neck as he struggles in the grip that's changed now. He doesn't understand why it's here, or how it's here, but that isn't important right now; all he can think of is a tree nymph, a young girl with beautiful hair and a beautiful smile and so much sincerity in her eyes as she pulled Melchior's head to her chest and ran her fingers through his hair and whispered all forgiven.
"Nein," he whispers, giving his head a shake as he sets Aeneas down and settles both hands on either side of her gravestone. "Nein!" And here the sobs start, shaking his body as he lets out a soft cry and drops his head. "Es tut mir Leid! Vergib mir..."
OOC: Gehen wir, mein Bürschchen - Let's go, my little fellow.
Es tut mir Leid! Vergib mir... - I'm sorry! Forgive me...
Find Melchior near the path to the Compound leading from the beach with a small gravestone for a very young girl whose death he had a hand in. Not exactly the best time to meet him.
So he sits, disgruntled and a little cranky as he watches Aeneas pounce on some bug in the sand, the waves rolling in onto the beach in the distance. Maybe he's lucky too that his dog is too small and too afraid of the water to think about even getting near it. He smiles to himself as Aeneas lets out a small bark and skitters over to him, leaping onto his lap and scattering sand across Melchior's shorts. He sets his paws on Melchior's chest and Melchior doesn't wince; it occurs to him grimly that that's progress.
Giving a soft sigh, he collects Aeneas in one hand and stands, brushing the sand off his shorts. "Gehen wir, mein Bürschchen."
He nearly trips over it there, near the path on the way back to the Compound. His toe still hurts, throbbing dully, and his first thought when he sees the familiar shape of a gravestone in the sand isn't of anyone he knows. It's a strange place for a gravestone, here in the sand, and he's surprised someone would have put one there at all; the beach is sure to erode it.
Curious, he gets to his knees and, still holding Aeneas, uses his free hand to brush the sand away from the grave.
Here rests in God
WENDLA BERGMANN
Born 5th May 1878
Died of Anemia in 27 October 1892
Blessed are the pure in heart
Seeing it for the second time is no less devastating than the first. His mind wheels backward through time, to the first time he was on his knees here before her grave.
And I am her murderer. --I am her murderer! --Nothing is left but despair. --I mustn't cry here. I must get away--away--
And then Moritz and Wendla's ghosts, ice cold hands nearly pulling the knife from his own hands, stopping him from taking his own life.
It's too sudden, too strange to think of Wendla's gravestone here while Melchior can still hear the waves in the distance, can feel Aeneas's fur brushing against his neck as he struggles in the grip that's changed now. He doesn't understand why it's here, or how it's here, but that isn't important right now; all he can think of is a tree nymph, a young girl with beautiful hair and a beautiful smile and so much sincerity in her eyes as she pulled Melchior's head to her chest and ran her fingers through his hair and whispered all forgiven.
"Nein," he whispers, giving his head a shake as he sets Aeneas down and settles both hands on either side of her gravestone. "Nein!" And here the sobs start, shaking his body as he lets out a soft cry and drops his head. "Es tut mir Leid! Vergib mir..."
OOC: Gehen wir, mein Bürschchen - Let's go, my little fellow.
Es tut mir Leid! Vergib mir... - I'm sorry! Forgive me...
Find Melchior near the path to the Compound leading from the beach with a small gravestone for a very young girl whose death he had a hand in. Not exactly the best time to meet him.