[ Harold's satisfied with that concession, and curious about this sister he mentions sometimes, but curious about something else, too. ]
There must be others as well? [ he comments, a note of question in his voice. ] How large is your outfit altogether?
[ He won't rescind his offer, but Harold does sorely hope he didn't just agree to potentially take on something like thirty violent and traumatized apocalypse survivors. ]
[ Oh. That must be why Carver never mentions them more explicitly. That's... ]
That's awful, [ Harold says quietly, truly pained to hear it. His own grief resonates empathetically, like a chime striking a familiar tone. ] I'm so sorry.
... Although, being deceased doesn't mean they can't show up here. In which case they deserve whatever we can offer them.
[ He means that, even without knowing them; it's not a platitude. ]
[ Carver works his jaw, forcing himself to breathe past that anger. It doesn't serve now. There's nothing to point it at. ]
We got hit. And they got the gate open.
[ What happened next was almost inevitable. ]
Enemy got me on the ground, [ he adds, without much emotion at all. ] I heard gunshots, but I didn't see my sister fall. And if I didn't see it, then she made it.
[ This doesn't totally fit the conversational flow, spilling out of Carver like he'd needed to say it, pus from an infected wound seeping out. Harold lapses into silence, respecting that there's nothing he can say to make it better. That isn't even what Carver is looking for, he's sure.
It just needs to be out in the air, facing the disinfectant of sunlight. ]
Nathan died because I wouldn't listen to him, [ he finally says, plainly. No attempt to mitigate the blame. ] In a very real way, he died in my place. [ Because he was the face, because he always let Harold hide. He took on all the risk. ]
Even the chance that she survived is precious. Hold onto that.
[ Carver stays quiet for a long time after that, watching a spot just beyond Harold’s shoulder but not really seeing him. In the beginning, when they first started this alliance, Carver called it convenient. A halfway familiar shape he could squeeze himself into, useful for a time but nothing he could ever trust. It never occurred to him that they might understand. And it occurs to Carver now that there’s something wrong with him, possibly very wrong, because he swears he can see black uniforms in the corner just past Harold’s shoulder. Waiting for them.
That isn’t right, is it? ]
Would’ve been okay if I’d died for her, [ Carver explains softly, a little unfocused. ] But I didn’t.
[ And Harold Finch knows the weight of that far better than most. ]
Sorry you lost him. [ He twitches, trying to refocus. ] It means a lot, that you’d take my people in.
[ The comment causes Harold to twitch, and he looks over at Carver irritably. ]
Okay for you, maybe, [ he says in a pointed tone. But he doesn't press it; Harold Finch indeed knows the weight of that better than most. He isn't trying to win an argument, just indicate that the death itself would not be inherently okay on its face.
He straightens up and tucks the photograph into his inner jacket pocket. ]
Nathan said something to me before he died: everyone is relevant to someone. I've taken it as a dictum, that there's no one whose loss wouldn't be missed. I count your people, as you put it, among that number.
[ In a different time, from a different man, that tone would've gotten Carver's hackles up. Made him brace for correction. Maybe he's too tired for that here, too heartsick and stuck with his ghosts, but he just watches Harold and doesn't balk. People die all the time, Carver doesn't say. Usually, they don't die for much.
It would've been good, and right, to die for Leah Shaw. But he didn't. ]
Relevant, [ Carver repeats softly. ] Yeah.
[ To someone. Even if they're all monsters like him. He's quiet for a long time again, quietly grateful to a man he's never met and never will, a man who influenced the shape of Harold Finch's world enough that this moment could be possible. It's a strange sensation to wonder at someone else's ghost, to honor them or at least want to. Maybe he'll light a candle for Nathan. Maybe he'll even tell Harold about it.
Then Carver breathes out and takes a small polaroid out of his jacket pocket with great, exacting care. He offers it out to Harold without really looking at him. ]
This is Leah.
[ He doesn't name the little boy held in her arms. ]
[ He doesn't make the obvious joke about her sharing a name with Shaw. He doesn't ask about the little boy. Harold takes the picture carefully, with palpable respect, examining it before offering it back, not looking to hold onto it for long.
He thinks about Carver's reaction to their conversation about the death of a child, and he doesn't ask about that either. It feels too precarious to talk about the Machine, when he still thinks most people wouldn't understand -- no one here except Accelerator, maybe -- but he feels something resonate that is alike, a hollow sadness where there was a pure innocence that was cut short.
And he thinks about Nathan, and how he'd always been Harold's lifeline to other people, to society, and he thinks that him remaining in that role is the truest homage he can ever pay him. ]
I'll remember. [ A moment of answering silence, Harold not pushing the conversation to progress just yet. ]
... How do you remember her? If I may ask. I told you how I remember Nathan.
[ He means not in the literal sense of what are the memories, but how do you honor the memory itself. ]
[ In the end, Harold doesn't ask the obvious questions. Doesn't pounce on the throat that Carver's just bared and try to take advantage. He just examines the photograph and then he hands it back with a quiet sort of care.
Carver tucks the polaroid away. He shouldn't carry something so delicate in his jacket, he knows, but he's afraid to lose it if he doesn't. ]
I light candles, [ Carver explains, a little distantly. ] I cut their names into trees and walls, and I leave offerings for their souls.
[ This is the sort of mercy Harold expects, and demands, from himself. Not just the mercy of a quick death but the mercy of a softer life, where people are allowed vulnerabilities that aren't exploited.
He notices the they, that Carver refers to the child too, that he accepts that Leah might already be dead. That his forms of remembrance are somewhat religious in nature, things Harold wouldn't think to do. ]
It feels a poor repayment for their lives, [ he says, ] but we can at least remember them, can't we?
When I was little [ Carver explains softly, ] my grandma said the dead aren't really gone so long as we remember them. And if we honor them, if we leave altars, then they can find us again on Day of the Dead.
[ He honors them as best he can. The lost. His family. All of them. ]
[ Harold's never believed that, and he doesn't really believe that now. There's something about God in there that he can't quite credit. But he also won't belittle what someone else has decided about how to go on living, how to rationalize to themselves man's inhumanity to man, which is what all these tragedies usually boil down to.
He won't light any candles. The dead won't ever find him again. But instead: ]
That's what the Machine said, too, before she died. That what she'd learned from a lifetime of watching people die is that if even one person remembers us, maybe it isn't the end at all.
[ A pause. ]
It doesn't comfort me. It doesn't make up for their death. [ That feels impossible, an abdication of the magnitude of the event. ] But I've never really learned how to move on, have I, [ he muses. ]
I don’t think it makes up for their deaths, [ Carver replies softly. He won’t believe Leah’s dead but she is gone from him, as inevitably as Matthew and Pope are now. Maybe one day they’ll see each other again. It haunts him to have that in common with Harold’s machine, whatever the reason, but he believes this to be true and so he honors it however he can.
Death, often violent death, is inevitable in both their worlds. He watches Harold, feeling suddenly tired. ]
It is something, [ he agrees, quiet, respecting that tiredness that he can see drawn across his features. It's not enough for Harold, he can't possibly move on, has never been able to. He gets stuck in the loss and can't see his way out.
But remembering is something, and he can hardly forget, so at least there's that. ]
Thank you for returning my photograph, Mr. Carver. And for sharing yours.
[ Nathan always liked the attention. And it does mean something to Harold to imagine there's someone else, even if just one other person, here in Etraya that remembers Nathan once existed.
Maybe that's what the Machine and Root were really getting at.
It's the point in the conversation when Harold would normally make an excuse or say goodbye and then walk away, but now he hesitates. ] I did invite you bird watching. Would you like to observe the chocobos with me? They're awful, but they are from another world.
[ He's torn between distaste of their smelly loudness and fascination. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Maybe it could be different with Leah as commander, though. He wonders.
He wonders.
Carver takes a breath in, then lets it go. ]
I understand. I'll tell them, if any of them come here.
[ He's quiet for a long time. Then: ]
My sister would listen, I think. If she's still commander now.
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There must be others as well? [ he comments, a note of question in his voice. ] How large is your outfit altogether?
[ He won't rescind his offer, but Harold does sorely hope he didn't just agree to potentially take on something like thirty violent and traumatized apocalypse survivors. ]
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There were twenty-five of us. But I think most of them are dead now.
[ A lot of that is his fault. He lost control. Lost perspective. He didn't kill a man when he should have. ]
Leah was the second in command. Pope died, she took over. I'm her second now. I don't know if any of the others made it. I saw a lot of bodies.
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That's awful, [ Harold says quietly, truly pained to hear it. His own grief resonates empathetically, like a chime striking a familiar tone. ] I'm so sorry.
... Although, being deceased doesn't mean they can't show up here. In which case they deserve whatever we can offer them.
[ He means that, even without knowing them; it's not a platitude. ]
no subject
We got hit. And they got the gate open.
[ What happened next was almost inevitable. ]
Enemy got me on the ground, [ he adds, without much emotion at all. ] I heard gunshots, but I didn't see my sister fall. And if I didn't see it, then she made it.
no subject
It just needs to be out in the air, facing the disinfectant of sunlight. ]
Nathan died because I wouldn't listen to him, [ he finally says, plainly. No attempt to mitigate the blame. ] In a very real way, he died in my place. [ Because he was the face, because he always let Harold hide. He took on all the risk. ]
Even the chance that she survived is precious. Hold onto that.
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That isn’t right, is it? ]
Would’ve been okay if I’d died for her, [ Carver explains softly, a little unfocused. ] But I didn’t.
[ And Harold Finch knows the weight of that far better than most. ]
Sorry you lost him. [ He twitches, trying to refocus. ] It means a lot, that you’d take my people in.
no subject
Okay for you, maybe, [ he says in a pointed tone. But he doesn't press it; Harold Finch indeed knows the weight of that better than most. He isn't trying to win an argument, just indicate that the death itself would not be inherently okay on its face.
He straightens up and tucks the photograph into his inner jacket pocket. ]
Nathan said something to me before he died: everyone is relevant to someone. I've taken it as a dictum, that there's no one whose loss wouldn't be missed. I count your people, as you put it, among that number.
If I can provide for them here, I will.
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It would've been good, and right, to die for Leah Shaw. But he didn't. ]
Relevant, [ Carver repeats softly. ] Yeah.
[ To someone. Even if they're all monsters like him. He's quiet for a long time again, quietly grateful to a man he's never met and never will, a man who influenced the shape of Harold Finch's world enough that this moment could be possible. It's a strange sensation to wonder at someone else's ghost, to honor them or at least want to. Maybe he'll light a candle for Nathan. Maybe he'll even tell Harold about it.
Then Carver breathes out and takes a small polaroid out of his jacket pocket with great, exacting care. He offers it out to Harold without really looking at him. ]
This is Leah.
[ He doesn't name the little boy held in her arms. ]
In case you see her one day.
no subject
He thinks about Carver's reaction to their conversation about the death of a child, and he doesn't ask about that either. It feels too precarious to talk about the Machine, when he still thinks most people wouldn't understand -- no one here except Accelerator, maybe -- but he feels something resonate that is alike, a hollow sadness where there was a pure innocence that was cut short.
And he thinks about Nathan, and how he'd always been Harold's lifeline to other people, to society, and he thinks that him remaining in that role is the truest homage he can ever pay him. ]
I'll remember. [ A moment of answering silence, Harold not pushing the conversation to progress just yet. ]
... How do you remember her? If I may ask. I told you how I remember Nathan.
[ He means not in the literal sense of what are the memories, but how do you honor the memory itself. ]
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Carver tucks the polaroid away. He shouldn't carry something so delicate in his jacket, he knows, but he's afraid to lose it if he doesn't. ]
I light candles, [ Carver explains, a little distantly. ] I cut their names into trees and walls, and I leave offerings for their souls.
no subject
He notices the they, that Carver refers to the child too, that he accepts that Leah might already be dead. That his forms of remembrance are somewhat religious in nature, things Harold wouldn't think to do. ]
It feels a poor repayment for their lives, [ he says, ] but we can at least remember them, can't we?
[ He has so many more to add to that list now. ]
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[ He honors them as best he can. The lost. His family. All of them. ]
I'll light a candle for Nathan.
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He won't light any candles. The dead won't ever find him again. But instead: ]
That's what the Machine said, too, before she died. That what she'd learned from a lifetime of watching people die is that if even one person remembers us, maybe it isn't the end at all.
[ A pause. ]
It doesn't comfort me. It doesn't make up for their death. [ That feels impossible, an abdication of the magnitude of the event. ] But I've never really learned how to move on, have I, [ he muses. ]
I still think they shouldn't have died at all.
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Death, often violent death, is inevitable in both their worlds. He watches Harold, feeling suddenly tired. ]
But it’s something.
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But remembering is something, and he can hardly forget, so at least there's that. ]
Thank you for returning my photograph, Mr. Carver. And for sharing yours.
no subject
[ He watches Harold a moment longer, sober and quiet, and then looks away. What else is there to say? ]
I'll light a candle for him, if you want.
maybe handwave the rest of this?
[ Nathan always liked the attention. And it does mean something to Harold to imagine there's someone else, even if just one other person, here in Etraya that remembers Nathan once existed.
Maybe that's what the Machine and Root were really getting at.
It's the point in the conversation when Harold would normally make an excuse or say goodbye and then walk away, but now he hesitates. ] I did invite you bird watching. Would you like to observe the chocobos with me? They're awful, but they are from another world.
[ He's torn between distaste of their smelly loudness and fascination. ]