and I've only got my brittle bones to break the fall
"It is," he agrees, though something about it makes him feel a little uncomfortable. What does he know, truly? It's been three hundred years—she might've changed more than he can imagine (because he can't imagine three hundred years; he feels impossibly old at nearly fifty). The Voice he remembers might not be The Voice who nurtures them now.He doesn't know what else to say though, merely nods with a bit of a hum. But when he speaks of his past, there's something in the silence, and when he sees the expression spreading on the face he blinks a couple of times, as if confused. Then again—three hundred years. Of course none of them had known her. His confusion gives way to a soft smile.
"I think so," he says after a moment, looking down at the rag in his hand again. "Of course—when she became the Voice, she.. changed. You can't become a God and not change. But I am quite sure she still remembers me, that I meant something to her in the past, even after all these years." He looks back up again, leans his clean, Infirmary-robed butt against the windowsill. Smiles slightly. "She was human then. That's honestly the best way to describe the difference. She loved the research she was doing, and if you asked and just listened it was infectious. That—that's kind of how I got to know her, I guess." He pauses for a moment, focuses his blue eyes on her. "In some ways, you remind me of her."
Slowly, his head tilts to the side. He hesitates. Asks anyway. "What.. what is she like, now?"
Aamu
