[After talking with Shadow in the library but before he returns to his room, Erhard stops by Watanuki's room. This will probably be awkward, but if Watanuki yells at him or slams the door in his face, Erhard won't be offended. He's expecting at least a few people to hate him after this trial.
He knocks lightly, in case Watanuki is somehow sleeping. He doesn't want to wake the poor man.]
[Yeah, Erhard is instantly on guard. He doesn't expect Watanuki to kill him considering his role as a Piece, but there are other things a Witch could do to him. And with the loss of Syaoran and the doctor's apparent breakdown in the trial, he wouldn't be surprised if Watanuki is about to ream him out for what he's done.
But he steps into the room anyway, watching the other man with a neutral but intense gaze.]
Erhard mutters a very, very soft "scheisse" before he urges his feet to work, crossing over to a chair and sitting down. He's still watching Watanuki closely but now he's starting to get a look in his eyes reminiscent of a cornered stray dog.]
[Watanuki sits down as well, and he starts preparing the tea. He does it with a practiced hand, like he's gone through this routine thousands of times before.]
Relax, Erhard-san. You're not in trouble, or danger.
I do, yes. I've been able to feel it since the second trial, when I 'came back' with my full powers. There is a desire deep within your heart, one that would eventually lead you right to my shop under normal circumstances. But since these aren't normal circumstances...
[He gestures to the room around them. It's no wish shop, but it will do.]
[There are so many things he could wish for, but Watanuki either can't or won't grant most of them. Erhard knows he can't end the Game, or bring back those who have died, or even protect a single person of his choosing from any potential harm.
The only wish Watanuki can grant for him is a selfish one. He doesn't deserve it after everything he's put the others through.]
The price to fully restore my memory would likely be more than I could pay.
Before I can state the price, I need to know what memory you are requesting. I can guess what one it is, but for official purposes it has to be stated out loud.
[He closes his eyes for a moment, his chin resting on his clasped hands, as he thinks. Finding the right price is not easy, but he's done it enough times by now that he can sort through the checks and balances and eventually speak once more.]
The price for such knowledge comes in two parts. First, in exchange for gaining this knowledge, you will have to, at a future date, do an operation you personally will not want to do. Currently you have the choice in that matter, and will be able to affect the outcome. If you take this wish, however, the outcome will become set in stone.
Secondly, this knowledge is painful, and you will not be able to wish it away. You will have to remember it, even if the memory is too painful to bare.
If these terms are acceptable, then I will grant your wish.
[Erhard needs a moment to think. He finally picks up his teacup and sips, not caring if the liquid has cooled.
As a doctor, he can't pick and choose his patients. It's part of his oath. The wish is selfish, he knows, but then again if he refuses the price and then refuses to perform that future operation, isn't that selfish as well?
The second part is easier. He's lived with pain and self-doubt his whole life, was always able to bury it deep where it wouldn't trouble others. Even if he's a murderer, he'll know for sure. He won't have the uncertainty compounding the guilt.
[Then he reaches up to lightly brush his fingertips against Erhard's temple. If he allows the touch, his memories of the incident will be returned to him: who the true culprit is, and why Erhard couldn't remember the incident in the first place.]
[It crashes into him all at once: the people crying out in agony, bleeding everywhere, mottled bruises blooming across their skin before they drop around him. His heart's pounding because he knows those bruises, he saw the rats in the lab, but these aren't rats they're people, how could it be out here in the open?
There's a sharp sting in his arm, and before he can turn to look the world is blurring, fading, skewing as he tumbles to the floor. He tries to force his eyes to remain open even as his thoughts grow thick and muddled, barely comprehending the empty syringe clattering to the tiles inches from his face.
Dark loafers step in front of him, pause, and he cranes his neck to look up even as his lashes flutter heavily. The hem of a lab coat, dress slacks hastily pressed and freshly rumpled, mildly unkempt shirt and crooked tie.
A familiar voice, accented... French....
"Everything... is nothingness. You, too, one day...."
He knows.
The man turns and walks away.
"Wait! Wait, Professor Sartre...!"
Albert Sartre glances back once, a final memory of his careworn, unshaven face to be locked away behind chemical walls.
And he leaves his foster son there, sleeping in a field of death.]
Ah...!
[Erhard jolts out of the memory with a broken gasp, unaware of the tears running down his face.]
[This process always takes time, so Watanuki will wait patiently. He pulls his hand away once Erhard jerks back to the present, and instead wordlessly offers him a tissue to dry his face with.]
[It's... Erhard can't even begin to process the dichotomy of emotions produced by that one memory. He has his arms wrapped around his own torso, shaking as the full impact of it settles in.
He's innocent.
The person who condemned him to prison is his own foster father.
He takes the tissue from Watanuki, and for the first time in his life, Erhard openly sobs. Whether it's from relief, sorrow, or some terrible combination of both, he can't say.]
[The exact emotion behind the sob isn't as important, really. What matters is that Erhard has his answer, and now that he Knows he can start to move on with his life. That's why Watanuki is here, after all: he helps people move past their personal roadblocks.
[It takes a while, and by the time he calms down his head aches and his eyes burn. But Erhard wipes his eyes, blows his nose, and looks up at Watanuki.
And smiles.]
Thank you... I... the pain of knowing what Professor Sartre did to me is worth also knowing I didn't cause the biological attack.
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He knocks lightly, in case Watanuki is somehow sleeping. He doesn't want to wake the poor man.]
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His room has also been transformed into...a parlor of some sort? There's a table and two chairs, as well as a tray with the things to make tea on it.]
Step right in.
[He's...acting polite? And not upset and crying despite watching the most important person to him die horribly? Something is up, to be sure.]
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[Yeah, Erhard is instantly on guard. He doesn't expect Watanuki to kill him considering his role as a Piece, but there are other things a Witch could do to him. And with the loss of Syaoran and the doctor's apparent breakdown in the trial, he wouldn't be surprised if Watanuki is about to ream him out for what he's done.
But he steps into the room anyway, watching the other man with a neutral but intense gaze.]
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He'll indicate to the chairs, though.]
Come sit with me. We have much to discuss.
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Erhard mutters a very, very soft "scheisse" before he urges his feet to work, crossing over to a chair and sitting down. He's still watching Watanuki closely but now he's starting to get a look in his eyes reminiscent of a cornered stray dog.]
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Relax, Erhard-san. You're not in trouble, or danger.
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[He's not relaxing, but his eyes looks a bit less wary.]
But you know the truth, since I'm one of your Pieces. Am I correct?
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But you're not just a Piece. You're also a Customer, and so you deserve that respect.
[He sets one cup of tea down in front of Erhard, and takes the other for himself.]
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A Customer? What do you mean by--
[It hits him then. Witches grant wishes.]
You want to offer me a wish.
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[He gestures to the room around them. It's no wish shop, but it will do.]
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The only wish Watanuki can grant for him is a selfish one. He doesn't deserve it after everything he's put the others through.]
The price to fully restore my memory would likely be more than I could pay.
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However, the price to answer a single question is one you could afford in your current state.
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Could you restore a single memory for me?
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I have to remember who killed all those people, even if it was me.
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[He closes his eyes for a moment, his chin resting on his clasped hands, as he thinks. Finding the right price is not easy, but he's done it enough times by now that he can sort through the checks and balances and eventually speak once more.]
The price for such knowledge comes in two parts. First, in exchange for gaining this knowledge, you will have to, at a future date, do an operation you personally will not want to do. Currently you have the choice in that matter, and will be able to affect the outcome. If you take this wish, however, the outcome will become set in stone.
Secondly, this knowledge is painful, and you will not be able to wish it away. You will have to remember it, even if the memory is too painful to bare.
If these terms are acceptable, then I will grant your wish.
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As a doctor, he can't pick and choose his patients. It's part of his oath. The wish is selfish, he knows, but then again if he refuses the price and then refuses to perform that future operation, isn't that selfish as well?
The second part is easier. He's lived with pain and self-doubt his whole life, was always able to bury it deep where it wouldn't trouble others. Even if he's a murderer, he'll know for sure. He won't have the uncertainty compounding the guilt.
He sets down the teacup with a soft clink.]
I accept.
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[Then he reaches up to lightly brush his fingertips against Erhard's temple. If he allows the touch, his memories of the incident will be returned to him: who the true culprit is, and why Erhard couldn't remember the incident in the first place.]
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There's a sharp sting in his arm, and before he can turn to look the world is blurring, fading, skewing as he tumbles to the floor. He tries to force his eyes to remain open even as his thoughts grow thick and muddled, barely comprehending the empty syringe clattering to the tiles inches from his face.
Dark loafers step in front of him, pause, and he cranes his neck to look up even as his lashes flutter heavily. The hem of a lab coat, dress slacks hastily pressed and freshly rumpled, mildly unkempt shirt and crooked tie.
A familiar voice, accented... French....
"Everything... is nothingness. You, too, one day...."
He knows.
The man turns and walks away.
"Wait! Wait, Professor Sartre...!"
Albert Sartre glances back once, a final memory of his careworn, unshaven face to be locked away behind chemical walls.
And he leaves his foster son there, sleeping in a field of death.]
Ah...!
[Erhard jolts out of the memory with a broken gasp, unaware of the tears running down his face.]
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He's innocent.
The person who condemned him to prison is his own foster father.
He takes the tissue from Watanuki, and for the first time in his life, Erhard openly sobs. Whether it's from relief, sorrow, or some terrible combination of both, he can't say.]
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He will calmly sip his tea as he waits, though.]
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And smiles.]
Thank you... I... the pain of knowing what Professor Sartre did to me is worth also knowing I didn't cause the biological attack.
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