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.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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I'm glad I could help. But the rest from here on out- what you do now that you have this knowledge- that's up to you.