Step on the Glass, Staple Your Tongue [Semi-Open]

[hearthebell]

Who: L, Myr, Niles, and open to other CR
When: The night of the new moons
Where: Sleeping! In bed.
What: Dreamwalking. L's brain isn't a super friendly place following Niles' attack and feigned death, so with the new moons' amped-up effects on Witches, he's prone to nocturnal wandering. He's seeking more peaceful pastures and eventually stumbling upon one very significant and tantalizing discovery.
Warnings: Dream-violence? Will update as threads progress.



[Light as a feather, stiff as a board.

There are no safeguards, tonight, aside from his Bonded sleeping next to him. No harness or net or springy cushions protect against a nasty fall, and if the nightmares of the past several weeks are any kind of prophetic pattern, L will wish sorely for protection once he finally shakes the heavy burden of the insomniac. It should be rest and a reprieve; instead, it's only been a different kind of struggle.

The line between waking and dreams used to be more ambiguous as the shadows behind his eyes melted into color and images. These days, the second he can run his tongue smoothly over the roof of his mouth without pain, or he glances at a hand with long and familiar (if slightly translucent) fingers, L knows that he's securely under; unfortunately, that's where the "secure" part ends, lately, because what used to be solid ice beneath his bare feet is unstable, split, and streaked in red. Massive ridges and fins briefly surface through the breaks, lightning periodically cracks a starless sky, and getting away becomes, again, the primary objective. Stranded on his patch of ice that seems to grow smaller every night he makes it here in the first place, there's no option but to step off the edge into the restless, chilled water.

He sinks quickly. While the facsimile of fingers grace his hands, his brain is learning the slow and painful lesson of remembering not to count on their presence in any meaningful or material way. Water slips through them faster than any sieve, but the real danger in this dream isn't drowning. It's the shapes and shadows closer to the surface, tearing up the ice, shredding the other life in this lake to the point where there's almost more blood than water. He tastes the iron and the scales as he draws a deep, trusting lungful, and when he exhales and opens his eyes, he's either a guest, or an intruder.

It all depends on the dreamer.]

Comments

is other CR

[blankpieces]

[In Near's dreams, he isn't a monster. At least not physically. He sits as he always has, in a darkened room where he can't tell where the walls begin and end. He is the singular focus, a pool of light just big enough for him and the object in front of him to stand out.

He stares back at his reflection in an old TV monitor, some late 80s vintage model with antennae skewed on the top. It's a much clearer reflection than it has any right to be, given the surface it's on, but dreams don't pay as much attention to those sorts of restrictions. Near looks at himself free of scales and thinks perhaps there's something wrong, something missing. He reaches a hand out to touch the device and it comes alive with static, causing him to pull back. His reflection is gone.

Only when he can no longer see himself does he take the chance to look around the darkened room, but with nothing else to see his eyes soon return to the white noise. Will the screen clear up at any point? Is there something he's supposed to be seeing? Should he adjust the antennae?

He gets up on his knees, but that simple movement isn't as easy as it should be. His legs aren't cooperating beneath him. Still he keeps trying and after a couple attempts is able to raise himself high enough to take one of the antennae in his hands. When he moves it, however, nothing changes. The boy lets out a noise of frustration, and it leaves his lips in a hiss.]

[hearthebell]

[L hasn't spoken to Near since just after Mello's departure, and truly, perhaps that's for the best. He's well-aware that his similarities with Near have a tendency to encroach on comfort, causing more abrasion than harmony no matter how amiable the intentions might be on either side. Perhaps it was better for both of them to be allowed space to breathe, and space for the individuality that their close association with one another didn't always permit back home, even long after L's death.

In short... Near may not have heard of L's altercation with Niles, the resulting maiming, and Niles' (apparent) later death. Or some version may have traveled to him through the grapevine, if he was particularly keen on what news the guard let slip and spread or gossip had reached the toy shop. He tries to make no assumptions as he approaches the diminutive, white-haired figure in the dark room. He's easy to spot, fairly illuminated as though under his own spotlight with an older television, static and serpentine specters in the glass.

L is a lucid dreamer; there are moments of forgetfulness, of course, as one's mind shifts and melds depending on the demands of any specific dream, but a measure of control is prerequisite for traveling this way. Loss of control would be dangerous; it could equate to loss of self, and all sorts of troubling implications for the mind and body and the vital connection between the two of them. For now, though... L should determine if this is in fact Near's dream, and not merely someone else's containing him. After that... determining the level of awareness he has would be useful, since L intends to stay for a bit of time, take a breather from his own more turbulent night visions.]

Eli?

[He uses the name Near has chosen in Aefenglom. The first small test, and also the one that gently announces his presence in this most private of places.]

[blankpieces]

Eli? [Near's thoughts echo in the darkness, his mind opened now that L has stepped into it.] Ah. That's me.

[He straightens up the best he can where he's sitting, peering at the other man around the edge of the television.] This is my room, L. [He says of the dark nothing surrounding them.] It was never yours.

[The static on the television is slowly becoming audible. Near gives the top of the box a firm tap with his fist but that does little to clear it. If anything it only makes it worse. He doesn't try again. Even if it already appears to be broken he wouldn't want to mess it up further. It has to be important in some way.

L's presence is more bothersome. Even though he's still standing a distance away it feels as though Near's personal space has been broken into. Somewhere past this darkness is a line of caution tape that his former mentor has lifted and stepped under. Ignored. He knows far less of what the other man has been up to lately than he should, but L isn't a case to be studied. What he gets up to isn't Near's concern anymore.]

What do you want? [A thought again, unspoken as Near stares at static.]

[hearthebell]

[Near's answer is startling, if only because it seems so very prescient under these circumstances. L could be a creation of Near's dream, after all, rather than an intruder in it... but this is Aefenglom, and their very first encounter rather set the precedent for more like it. Paradoxically, it would almost be more logical to expect the more fantastical option. Often true, here, and probably a headache for both detectives' similar thought processes to grow accustomed to.]

I never wanted it.

[Mello would hear it as an insult, almost certainly, even a slap in the face. Near might hear reassurance, instead, that there is nothing here to be defended or fought for.]

I'm on the move, and I won't stay long...

[Promising a swift end to his presence, is becoming an established pattern in their rapport. Regardless of his sentiment's sincerity, however, he rather must stay for at least a little while, like something hunted taking breathless pause in an available refuge.]

Your television's not cooperating.

[Superfluous observation, with an implied offer for something L's not even certain he can do, yet.]

[blankpieces]

[It's not that Near recognizes L as an intruder in his dreamscape - or even that he's in a dream to begin with. Sometimes his dreams are lucid, but most of the time that's unclear to him. He says what he does to L on a general level. This is a space he recognizes as his own, whether it has the familiarity of the SPK headquarters or not, and his mentor doesn't belong. He should be free of that influence in this place.

So he's left uncomfortable, with only a vague notion of why.

He taps at the screen, and with each tap the static shuts off for a brief moment.]

The image isn't clear. [He mutters this out loud, possibly to himself, possibly to L, possibly it doesn't matter. The light around him dims slightly, flickers like a bulb about to go out. There is a scurrying sound in the darkness, something small running around just out of sight.]

I don't want to miss the show.

[He's not sure what show he's supposed to be watching, but the television has to be here for a reason.]

[hearthebell]

[L studies Near for a few moments, in this place that isn't is, where he isn't welcome and shouldn't be and still lingers. Fear of what's outside, as well as a desire to alleviate the palpable frustration in this room keep him here... as well as, by now, the morbid curiosity of what Near expects to see on that television.]

It would be a shame if you missed it. If you wanted, I could try to take a look.

[A hesitant step closer, because spooking his successor isn't his goal.]

I'll see what I can do, and then be on my way?

[An offer, a promise. A bargain.]

[blankpieces]

[For a moment, Near leans in closer and wraps his arms around the television as though L might try and take it from him. Then he seems to think better, embarrassed by those actions, and moves away - though he doesn't go far. His legs are still being unresponsive.]

What would you fix that I can't? [A thought again, hollow and breathless.]

[The scurrying sound has stopped, but in the darkness some distance behind and above Near, a single rectangular monitor screen appears. It hangs from nothing in the air, but comes to life with a single image of a fancy black letter L on a white background. Near doesn't seem to notice it.

At the other man's approach, the screen on the smaller television begins flickering rapidly.]

Don't break it.

[cyclopticsadist]

[Niles' dreams are not unilaterally horrifying, but unsettling and stressful is the best he can really hope for. Tonight he stands in a library. It's lit by wall mounted lanterns, and there's an oppressive, labyrinthine, endless feel to it. The shelves are all far too tall, and the books are stacked and shoved onto the shelves at cockeyed angles, leaving gaps where he can peer through to the adjacent aisles. There's sounds of quills on paper, unintelligible quiet murmuring of unseen scholars. The titles on the books shift and change, never when you're directly looking at them, but letters morph and warp in his periphery.

Under his left arm he carries a book. Encyclopedia Magica: L Volume IV. Leo needs this book. He'd asked for it hours ago, but which way was his study? What section of the castle library was he even in? Was Leo in his study, or was his lord pouring over a scribe's table somewhere in the back. He tries to read the spines of the books around him, orient himself, but nothing here is alphabetized. He's on edge and frustrated. The whispering begins to sound sinister to him, but then he glimpses the tail end of a cape passing by through the gaps in the books. Relief washes over him breifly and he sprints to the end of his aisle, turning rapidly down the next only to find it empty.]

Lord Leo I've brought...Milord?

[It happens again, and again. Sometimes he gets to see the back of Leo's head before the prince vanishes, and no amount of calling after him gets him to turn around or stop. The urge to just shove over an entire shelf and clear his line of sight is growing. But then, who would the books and shelves fall onto and crush if not his elusive master?]

[hearthebell]

[Strangely, of the scapes L's traveled through this evening, this is one of the least troubling ones, at least initially. He's at home among the winding, endless shelves; the books are comforting, the musty smell is one that speaks to his own memories of a new academic environment and the safety and seclusion that came with it. Even if it's not the neatest library he's ever seen, with books slanted and askew in the towering shelves, he could feel at home here. Especially comparatively; especially lately.

He hears a voice, skin-crawlingly familiar, among the whispers. He chooses a different path as it gets closer, for the moment, preferring to remain unseen. This could be someone else dreaming of that voice, after all, or...

...or.

His eyes narrow as he peers through the gaps in the books, watches the figure's fruitless pursuit. It shouldn't be possible but he mouths two words under his breath. Premature; still delicious.

Found you.]

[cyclopticsadist]

[Niles' right ear flicks back. One of the whispers? For just a second, had felt like a threat. Less ambient somehow. Being on his right side means he has to do a full pivot to try and look in that direction, and when he does the room goes quiet. At the far end of a long, crooked aisle is Leo, standing, waiting. Niles runs, the clack of hooves for some reason suddenly breaking the silence.

But when he finally comes close to the figure, it's just a massive chess piece, a familiar one. A pawn, black marble with gold accents. It's more humanoid that a standard pawn, but still recognizable, a kind of angled silhouette. He feels a harsh pang of longing, one of the few kinds of pain even he detested. This was a figure from the chess set he'd bought Leo for his last birthday. Would he ever lose at chess to his prince again? Had he permanently lost his chance to ever win against him?]

[hearthebell]

[L's feet are nimble on the floor, now, following along as he learns the book-lined corridors and where they're likely to go. Much like a discerning conversation, he can learn someone through their dreams, with their fears and frustrations on ever-clearer display in unexpected ways that always start to make sense, given time.

Because it's a dream, and because he's a Witch? The memory of fingers pales, in comparison to the power he's starting to hold here. There must be more chess pieces; each board comes with 32, after all.

Another piece, alabaster white with silver accents, glides along the floor in a long line, then turns ninety degrees to traverse a shorter one in a very distinctive, very significant letter's shape. The end of the journey brings the Knight directly behind the pawn, and the horse turns so that the humanoid rider grasps a fistful of the the pawn's hair, and begins methodically sawing at his neck. Detached, nearly tranquil; it's a necessary procedure, after all, one that brings him no joy but must be done.]

[cyclopticsadist]

[The pawn too is still and blank, but molten gold runs from the forming crack. He stares, mesmerized by the gorgeous brutality unfolding in front of him. When the pawn's head is finally severed, the trunk of the piece falls to the ground with an echoing crash. Niles jumps at the noise, but doesn't otherwise move, eye wide and alarmed fixed intently on the gold dripping onto the floor from the decapitated chunk of marble still held aloft by the knight. And then the rider swings his arm, tossing the solid stone head right at Niles' chest.

He tries to catch it, but his own right arm fails to react properly. It's motion is delayed and it jerks strangely when it finally does respond. The solid hunk of stone hits him in the chest, knocking the wind out of him. Reflexively he drops the book he's carrying, his left arm making up for what his right failed to do and catching it, cradling the heavy object against his smarting ribs.

The encyclopedia hits the floor on its spine. The covers part and across the floor an assortment of slender pale fingers roll, leaving overlapping trails of silver blood in their wake.]

[hearthebell]

[As L watches, overlarge eyes stretch wider, grow even rounder in his pale face. Because those look familiar; those are familiar, in a way that makes the ghostly facsimiles on his hands ache with recollection and fondness for what was lost. It comes back to him, periodically, in dreams: the notion that his self-concept and the reality of his physical form no longer align accurately, and there are reminders, adjustments, moments where his mind coaxes him toward accepting that those fingers have long since been eaten, or destroyed, or at the very least decayed down to bone.

To see them again challenges that. It's the only logical reaction to want them, now. There are more pieces; he can use this. The grinding of heavy marble is audible past the shelves, growing ever closer. There's a tall and imperious Bishop making its way toward Niles, eyes gleaming past the unevenly-placed books, full of judgment and pious contempt. The scepter in his hands glows at the tip, hot and dangerous, as he approaches.]

hello friend

[prayerwheel]

[ Azura's dreams vary wildly, but considering everything that's been going on, the one she's having tonight is a bit darker.

He'll find himself in attendance of a fun party, how nice. It's in a grand ballroom that has no ceiling, showing the night sky above. There's festive music being played live, though in no recognizable language, that the crowd is clapping and dancing to. In the middle of the crowd is the lady in question, dancing in a more ritualistic way.

Specifically, Azura is dancing with a man and a woman who both have white hair and no face. ]

<3

[hearthebell]

[Still wandering, L hasn't yet encountered Niles in a dream tonight. But he certainly thinks of the chimera; it's impossible not to associate him with Azura, considering the central focus on their mutual acquaintance when they'd spoken previously.

He looks very shabby for the setting, wearing clothes that align closest with his self-concept. A plain white t-shirt with long sleeves that is slightly too small, and a pair of baggy, faded blue jeans that are slightly too big and slide down a bit on his bony hips. His feet are bare on the ballroom's cool, hard floor, in some danger of being stepped on for the moment, but not if he makes an effort to get closer to the perimeter.

Or closer to the dreamer, herself. He makes that his goal, trying to glimpse the faces of the white-haired man and woman Azura's dancing with.]

[prayerwheel]

[ Lucky for him, none of the people in this dream have shoes on. None of them. Including Azura and her dance partners. She never wears shoes. Small world.

Well, they literally don't have faces, just blank skin where a face should be. Dream logic. Based on body type and other parts of his appearance, the man is probably Niles, but he's not a chimera at the moment, nor does he have an eyepatch. Normal human features. The woman has wavy hair and pointed ears. It's Corrin, if he's met her at all.

Azura catches a glimpse of a person in the crowd who's not wearing party attire and slows down her footwork. When she gets closer, she comes to a stop. ]

You aren't dressed for this, you know. You stand out like a sore thumb.

[hearthebell]

[L's eyes are cast downward, noticing the bare feet everywhere. It's probably not hygienic, but that's the advantage of being in a dream; such things are not a concern. Many things are not a concern; he almost revels in the beauty of the non-logic, even if it contradicts his nature.

When the dancing dreamer slows to a stop, L keeps a wary half-glance on her partners, but focuses most of his attention on Azura. How is she holding up, anyway, since Niles' apparent death? He offers a wry smile.]

A sore thumb sounds like a problem to envy, in truth.

[prayerwheel]

[ The faceless dancers don't do anything. They just stop and wait for Azura to give them some kind of cue.

She looks tired, actually. There's bags under her eyes, and she lets her shoulders slump now that she isn't moving. ]

Bigger problems to worry about at the moment?

[ She doesn't fully realize the implications of seeing him in her dream, right now. Weird things happen in dreams, still too deep inside it. Sometimes people you haven't spoken to in months just decide to pop in and take in the scenery with their ghostly fingers. ]

[hearthebell]

[It's interesting, sometimes, what stands out in dreams and what is relegated to the background more swiftly. L likes to take note of it, when he can, finding that it provides unique insight in regards to the dreamer.]

Bigger problems, or none at all, anymore.

[Niles is claimed dead, after all. L no longer has a thumb to hurt, or any other fingers for that matter. His life, outside of this dream, has grown dull and frustrating, with the gentle moments riddled with the guilt of not deserving them. He is a burden to Myr, now, after all.]

Have yours just begun, then?

[faithlikeaseed]

[By now, the feeling of Myr's dreams should be abundantly familiar to his Bonded, though the setting might be unfamiliar; it is not a sun-drenched memory of Hasmal Circle nor the wild and shifting planes of the Fade. There is no background storyline of adventure, no fluttering busyness as Myr practices at those skills requiring his sight.

There is no more than a great oak in a landscape made dark and indistinct by the logic of dreams. Candles ring it as a scant bastion against the surrounding gloom; offerings lie scattered among its world-gripping roots. Ribbons and written prayers, marigolds and bones--here a discarded sword hilt, there a pile of whited phalanges, it is a heaping-up of little oddments of piety with meanings hidden in each one.

Myr sits with his back to the painted trunk, legs stretched out before him and head canted back to gaze up at the foliage. There are birds there--there might be birds there, in intimations of feather or song--among other things with eyes that shine and wink in the darkness.

A song braids around the edges of hearing, shifting between voices as if a soft and unseen choir passed it amongst themselves. Now it's in a man's burred tenor like and unlike Myr's own; now it's in a boy's quavering soprano that sinks sometimes to an uncertain hum where the singer's forgotten the words. One twitching ear belies Myr's still detachment, shows he's listening to the music despite his impression of utter absence from his own dream.

It's been a long two months.]

[hearthebell]

[L doesn't realize where he is, at first, even if much about the atmosphere welcomes him with ease and familiarity. The darkness is new for this dreamer, and L makes his way toward the painted oak tree, stepping carefully past the relics and trinkets toward one who seems to be here seeking nothing but peace.

L could be here to partake in that peace, or to destroy it. It remains to be seen, but all pretense of weighing and considering it carefully melts away when he's reached Myr's side. At that point, there's only the overwhelming desire to sink to his knees beside his Bonded, hands intact, tongue undamaged and able.]

Now that I can speak to you... I'm struggling to think of something to say.

[The lack of any of their usual safeguards would probably be a good place to start. This is reckless, and dangerous; it also couldn't wait.]

I won't spoil the song, if you'd just prefer to listen.

[faithlikeaseed]

Then come sit with me 'til you've found words.

[--is Myr's reply, without uncertainty or hesitation. There's a heartbreaking relief in the look he turns on L; there are tears on his face, red-tinged, and a hollowness about his eyes that speaks almost of absence. Events have been sufficient to shake his own adamant self-presentation in dreams, but they haven't yet dimmed his affection.

He reaches for one of L's hands with his own, to touch and hold in ways they haven't been able. His eyes fall on the ghostly, glimmering fingers as he does and a noise half-sob lodges in his throat.

Then he's clasped them, twined his own through them.]

You wouldn't spoil it. [Not that L would be incapable, if he chose, but that Myr trusts he would not choose.] How are you, amatus? Truthfully.

[hearthebell]

[Myr's expression catches L off-guard; it's an arrangement of features and emotions that he hasn't seen a precise copy of, and he immediately wants to change it. Make it easier, more settled. His mind, more active these days than ever, grasps for something he could say or do to achieve that end, but it's possible (no, likely) that there's nothing that can take the sting from what's happened, the failure Myr perceives to have undone his own standards for honor.

His fingers feel solid enough, twined through Myr's own. At least, it's the case for now; that active, quick and pragmatic mind is also seeking to bring him around as gently as possible to his new reality. Eventually, what's no longer a part of him will be reflected as accurately here as in a mirror or his own eyesight... but for now, he can touch his Bonded, hold him back, meet a gaze that seems strangely hollow in Myr's anguished face.

He forces a smile, wills it to soften the strained edges of his own eyes.]

Better. In my reading, I've found methods and studies that could help, with...

[Being mute and useless]

...present difficulties. It passes the time; it's intricate enough to hold my focus.

[And also, at times, to leave him overwhelmed, exhausted, and frustrated. Myr must know; Myr would feel it, along with the spectrum of fury and grief that is at L's core, most days, in spite of the shroud of acceptance he tries to wear with some grace. It's probably why the qualifier truthfully had been invoked; Myr expects him to hide what's hurting him to the last.

An offering, then, to temper the helplessness that plagues the kindest creature L knows.]

There's something I need. Would you be willing to help me find a young monster a suitable Bond? It's not urgent, but... it could be, after much longer.

[faithlikeaseed]

[Better, L says; and Myr can feel what truth there is behind the word. He isn't unfamiliar himself with the gradations of better and how short the distance they could mark off in steps traveled away from the Void. His eyes flick briefly to L's hands again before he reaches for the other one, to try and draw the detective closer to him still. To rest at his side, or on his lap-- It is a move the Faun could make himself, had he not been hamstrung (blood soaking crimson into white fur) by the peculiar self-defeating logic of this dream.

(It is, also, something he could fix himself. But there is something, he is finding through slow and aching experience, to be had in giving in to that helplessness--to sit with it, experiencing the worst of its depths without flailing ineffectually against it. The stars and all their light remained.

In the waking world, where they lie tangled together in the same bed, Myr's embrace of his Bonded tightens.)]

So you've made it here to me, [without their usual precautions. It is hard to find himself much worried for his own sake, though the possibility L could become untethered from his mutilated body and go wandering forever... It frightens him if he dwells on it, but he must trust that however L feels about what's become of him (and oh, how familiar that anger and anguish), he would not let go.

He wouldn't leave that way, not if he could help it.

(So long as Myr can make it worthwhile to stay.)] I'd hear about what you've found--help, if I can. I'd, [breath,] --back home, I'd been working on ways to get around my own blindness.

[Different disabilities, but developing that sort of spellwork had been his sole focus for months. Perhaps some of his experience transferred.

The offer of something else he can do--oh, how well his Bonded reads him!--has his attention instantly.] You've only got to ask. Who is it?

[hearthebell]

[Like a parched fern straining toward a trickle of sunlight, L's easy enough to coax closer. He practically clings back at Myr's grasp, to the point where even in a dream, it might be painful... but in the waking world? He has nothing to cling with, to cause pain or give comfort. Limbs, perhaps, but only when sleep has melted away his shame and fear to the point where he can surrender to the urge. Myr wouldn't spurn him; the possibility still weighs on him, and feels more unsurvivable than all he's managed to come through so far.]

I'm sorry.

[The apology is soft and sincere, but no actual regret carries over tone or Bond. He needs to be here; regardless of what it took to make it to this point without their typical cautious practice, staying in his own dream was too horrifying a notion to entertain. Even if Myr's has taken on some of that horror in its own darkened ways, this is preferable; he's not alone, or worse, with one of the innumerable who make him feel alone.

His fingers squeeze a little tighter around Myr's as he nestles against the Faun's side, and Myr can perhaps feel the beginning of what he means. Threads of letters, the suggestion of a voice, the beginning stages of magical attempts to communicate words and concepts through a mental connection, alone. It's more specific than the broad emotions or stabs of epiphany that are more constant and normal, in a Bond, as delicate as the runes L used to approach so meticulously. It all weaves together to repaint what L remembers of Myr's gentler dreams, but only for a moment; lightning streaks across his own blood-red sky, and it unravels, masked again by the overbright smile L pastes to his pale, anxious features.]

He's a Naga, and goes by Eli.

[The implication is that, like L, he uses a name in Aefenglom that is not his true one.]

We're not related, but... he's like M.

[If more needs to be said, he can say it, doled out in measured pieces that can protect his successor while keeping his best interests at heart.]