[A couple of inkspots appear on the page, as if the owner of the journal is pondering what to write. Then a short pause, and it switches over to voice. Or perhaps "voice." After a minute of nothing but the wind and the faint sound of the river, the entry is cut off by the sound of the journal closing.
... Or is it?
About a half-hour later, there is a muffled thump and the sound of pages flapping through the air before another soft whump. Did someone... punch something over? Faintly, there's a note on a flute. Another, another... an... ear-piercing shrill.] I don't understand why this is so- [Soft grumbling. If one listens closely, they can pick out the occasional word. Something about some "Veros" character, and several shocking allegations about questionable portions of his anatomy. Yet another pause, and then...
SHREEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
Shortly followed by a small splash.
...
And then hurried footsteps and a much larger one.]
... Or is it?
About a half-hour later, there is a muffled thump and the sound of pages flapping through the air before another soft whump. Did someone... punch something over? Faintly, there's a note on a flute. Another, another... an... ear-piercing shrill.] I don't understand why this is so- [Soft grumbling. If one listens closely, they can pick out the occasional word. Something about some "Veros" character, and several shocking allegations about questionable portions of his anatomy. Yet another pause, and then...
SHREEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
Shortly followed by a small splash.
...
And then hurried footsteps and a much larger one.]
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chasethestars
chasethestars
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Do you wish to be alone, my lord? I can take care of those who are bothering you at once!
[He's serious, too. He is a horrible threadjacker for his lord's sake.]
[There's a long pause, and then, in a flat, despondent voice that's really only distinguishable from any of Sigmund's other flat voices through long association-]
I threw it in the river.
Oh god, why did he-]
Where might I find you?
[This is not a conversation for the open journals.]
Past the bridge behind the house.
...You rescued it, my lord. Before it was lost in the current.
The flute, perhaps.
[He knows it too, even if he's too ashamed to share it. He may not have destroyed a country, but... people are so easily killed when facing vermiforms. And who knows how many could have died if Capell and the others hadn't stopped him?]
So you've forgiven Leonid.
Of course not. You shouldn't forgive someone who's never shown a shred of regret.
What good is regret?
Without it, we're just monsters.
The man who pities himself for his own misdeeds is as much a monster as the man who doesn't. In either case, forgiveness cannot change his nature.
M-my lord- I changed, didn't I? [...he did, right? He's better! Honest!]
People may change, but the past does not.
...My lord... I told you that Capell was here with us during our first time in Luceti, didn't I?
Sigmund watches Edward for a moment before his eyes narrow. Not out of anger, out of... something else. He turns away again, his head and torso this time.]
He learned of your past here, and accepted you- was even happy. He called you father. He wanted it. Even if you can't change what happened, isn't it more important to look ahead?
[He's a little deceased, Edward. That could be a complication on the whole "look to the future" thing.]
[Which... is kind of unlikely, all things considered.]