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middaeg2021-01-04 09:58 pm
hearthebell) wrote in middaeg2021-01-04 09:58 pm
Entry tags:
First Week of January Catchall
Who: L Lawliet (Linden Tailor) and YOU
When: First week of Ieneur
Where: Various places
What: Catchall, for old and new CR
Warnings: None to speak of yet, will update if that changes
I. The Orphanage
[Even thrill-chasers can be happier when their lives settle into some kind of routine. For a time, that was true for L, and it’s served as an anchor for him through the festivities of Modranicht when so many are with their loved ones exchanging thoughtfully selected gifts and homemade food. Now that the orphanage has achieved some kind of substantial funding, it’s the first time many of the children have experienced any level of wonder associated with the season, and the staff all did their part to contribute to it, keeping fairly busy.
Regarding the staff, of course, there’s always been a vague sense that L doesn’t fit in. The children appreciate that he’s not like all the other adults and has a different and creative way of thinking about things, of course. His colleagues appreciate that about him, too, but there’s also the sense that they think of him, at times, almost as one of the children. It comes out in small ways; surprise when he shows interest in volunteering or partaking in something, awkward fumbling to explain when he overhears that there are after-work plans excluding him.
Hands not being broken, he would have been able to help wrap Modranicht gifts if he’d been told they were all collaborating to do it. While it’s likely he would decline, he notices never being invited to join the staff for drinks biweekly. While he runs his classes with relative freedom to cover the subject matter and approach it as he sees fit, he often finds out about schedule or policy changes right along with the kids, instead of at the meetings committed to deciding those changes. It’s confirmation of something he’s always actually known, that he lacks charisma and social skills and general likability, but the more involved in the micro-community of the orphanage he gets, the reminder gets a little heavier each day.
Having never needed to try, before, there was no shame in failing. Now that he’s trying, and failing, he’s stopped looking forward to work, and started looking forward to when he can go home, or any number of places along the way.
Maybe you’re here dropping off a donation. Maybe you’re volunteering your time, or you’re actually employed here, like “Linden.” Either way, the lanky, pale man with a mop of shaggy hair treats you a bit warily, whether or not you’ve met before.]
Did you need something?
[Brusque. Not quite hostile, but the day is almost over. His reserves are almost spent, and it’s difficult to be pleasant on empty.]
II. The Entertainment District
[L cuts through this district every day after work. Essentially at the city’s center, it makes for a fairly straight cut to the Haven, and sometimes he goes straight home. Sometimes, he strays a bit, looking for a performer doing something impressive and difficult that requires a steady hand and years of practice, or failing that, a quiet and discreet drink in a dark bar to take the edge off a difficult day.
Never enough to truly dull it, of course. Never enough to hint to the Bonded he’s connected to that he actually needs it, and besides, a shot of cheap liquor on an empty stomach goes a long way, for the money and the burn.
Maybe you’re a performer, or watching one right along with him. Maybe you’re also enjoying a discreet drink in a dive bar on your way home. Maybe you’ve caught him in between points and you work in this district and you’re selling a good or service you hope to ply him with. Either way, there’s a hollow-eyed witch who seems like any diversion is worth changing the tone of his life, at least for a little while.]
Tell me...
[It’s the question at the front of his mind, for the performer or the audience, the incidental companion drinker or the bartender, and the seller of your ware or service, all the same.]
Are you exactly where you intended to go, at present, or creating an extra step to avoid getting there sooner than you must?
III. The Coven
[Sometimes, early before work or on the weekends, L puts in extra time studying at the Coven. He likes the academic setting, the quiet corners, the hundreds of books he can burn through with his fast and ferocious wit.
Myr’s Modranicht gift was thoughtful, kind, and useful. L’s foregone his hodgepodge of other tools for the new set, matching and elegant and tailored to his specific technique for casting magic that leans heavily on etching and engraving runes. He doesn’t fail to notice that the blade in the kit is wrapped in golden ribbon, sealed at the ends with beeswax as if to gently discourage him from using it to bite into his own convenient store of witch’s blood. He doesn’t unravel it today, for at least the reason that his skipped meals and over-caffeinated state of hyperfocus don’t lend well to even small amounts of blood loss, though there’s probably more to it. There usually is, where Myr is concerned; as a rule, L actively tries to avoid displeasing or disappointing Myr, however certain he is that he will fail. There comes a point, after all, when one has reached the limit of what he can give, or do, or become. Efforts come to yield smaller returns, until there’s a plateau, or even a decline.
He sits in one one of the classes for advanced illusion, breaking in his new tools, taking heart at least in the fact that he can rely on his penchant for acquiring and applying knowledge. He hasn’t peaked, or plateaued, or declined in this regard; there’s more he can show Light, and neither of them will grow bored. The pair of illusory cockroaches on the table in front of him, maneuvering in intricate and perfect tandem, really do seem limited only by what his mind can do, and in truth, that’s the set of limitations that he prefers, even if he detests roaches.
If you’re in class together, he’ll notice if you’re struggling, and offer to help you get the hang of it. Having flawed technique and having to settle for mediocrity is unbearable; he knows that better than anyone.]
[IV. Dream (for Bonded knowledge and/or interaction)]
This particular dream started when Light arrived. Since then, it’s grown more frequent and vivid, to the point where even on nights L doesn’t clearly remember his dreams, he’s nearly positive that he had the same one, again, old paths doggedly retraced.
A brilliant, warm sun has melted the snow and brought an entire ecosystem’s cacophony with it, cycles of life and death mingling hidden in the bordering forest’s dense branches. There are distant suggestions of cracking eggshells, rattling serpents and rodent shrieks alike; predator and prey engaged in an endless and entrancing dance.
Not that L has the time to listen, or investigate, or muse, or even notice if one of his Bonded has ended up here with him. He’s too busy kneeling at the edge of the lake, which seems to have gotten both larger and murkier. He’s attempting, always, to repair the shrinking ice floats and re-glaze the surface of a lake where dead fish float to the surface, unable to adapt to water that just isn’t as cold and clean as it used to be. The ice almost seems to melt faster than he can create it, though, or at least just fast enough that his efforts are largely in vain in spite of the tremendous and exhausting strain. His rests are infrequent but desperately needed, and sorely bought; the Leviathan hasn’t gone anywhere, won’t die seemingly out of spite, and finds this whole process very agitating. Its scaly ridges suggesting only a sliver of its total mass surface periodically, and sometimes L has to move quickly to avoid whatever bit of ground he’s standing on crumbling out from under him as a result of the beast’s jaws or thrashing. As it chips away at the grass and soil surrounding the lake, the amount of ground remaining to stand on diminishes, pushing anyone who doesn’t want to end up in the water back toward the dense and deafening forest.
It’s small wonder, really, that he wakes up these days feeling as though he hasn’t slept at all, putting on a pot of coffee for the strongest possible start.]
[V. Wildcard]
[Don’t see it? Want it? Have at it! Throw a prompt my way or hit me up on discord at ladylazarus#2235 to plot something out with me.]
When: First week of Ieneur
Where: Various places
What: Catchall, for old and new CR
Warnings: None to speak of yet, will update if that changes
I. The Orphanage
[Even thrill-chasers can be happier when their lives settle into some kind of routine. For a time, that was true for L, and it’s served as an anchor for him through the festivities of Modranicht when so many are with their loved ones exchanging thoughtfully selected gifts and homemade food. Now that the orphanage has achieved some kind of substantial funding, it’s the first time many of the children have experienced any level of wonder associated with the season, and the staff all did their part to contribute to it, keeping fairly busy.
Regarding the staff, of course, there’s always been a vague sense that L doesn’t fit in. The children appreciate that he’s not like all the other adults and has a different and creative way of thinking about things, of course. His colleagues appreciate that about him, too, but there’s also the sense that they think of him, at times, almost as one of the children. It comes out in small ways; surprise when he shows interest in volunteering or partaking in something, awkward fumbling to explain when he overhears that there are after-work plans excluding him.
Hands not being broken, he would have been able to help wrap Modranicht gifts if he’d been told they were all collaborating to do it. While it’s likely he would decline, he notices never being invited to join the staff for drinks biweekly. While he runs his classes with relative freedom to cover the subject matter and approach it as he sees fit, he often finds out about schedule or policy changes right along with the kids, instead of at the meetings committed to deciding those changes. It’s confirmation of something he’s always actually known, that he lacks charisma and social skills and general likability, but the more involved in the micro-community of the orphanage he gets, the reminder gets a little heavier each day.
Having never needed to try, before, there was no shame in failing. Now that he’s trying, and failing, he’s stopped looking forward to work, and started looking forward to when he can go home, or any number of places along the way.
Maybe you’re here dropping off a donation. Maybe you’re volunteering your time, or you’re actually employed here, like “Linden.” Either way, the lanky, pale man with a mop of shaggy hair treats you a bit warily, whether or not you’ve met before.]
Did you need something?
[Brusque. Not quite hostile, but the day is almost over. His reserves are almost spent, and it’s difficult to be pleasant on empty.]
II. The Entertainment District
[L cuts through this district every day after work. Essentially at the city’s center, it makes for a fairly straight cut to the Haven, and sometimes he goes straight home. Sometimes, he strays a bit, looking for a performer doing something impressive and difficult that requires a steady hand and years of practice, or failing that, a quiet and discreet drink in a dark bar to take the edge off a difficult day.
Never enough to truly dull it, of course. Never enough to hint to the Bonded he’s connected to that he actually needs it, and besides, a shot of cheap liquor on an empty stomach goes a long way, for the money and the burn.
Maybe you’re a performer, or watching one right along with him. Maybe you’re also enjoying a discreet drink in a dive bar on your way home. Maybe you’ve caught him in between points and you work in this district and you’re selling a good or service you hope to ply him with. Either way, there’s a hollow-eyed witch who seems like any diversion is worth changing the tone of his life, at least for a little while.]
Tell me...
[It’s the question at the front of his mind, for the performer or the audience, the incidental companion drinker or the bartender, and the seller of your ware or service, all the same.]
Are you exactly where you intended to go, at present, or creating an extra step to avoid getting there sooner than you must?
III. The Coven
[Sometimes, early before work or on the weekends, L puts in extra time studying at the Coven. He likes the academic setting, the quiet corners, the hundreds of books he can burn through with his fast and ferocious wit.
Myr’s Modranicht gift was thoughtful, kind, and useful. L’s foregone his hodgepodge of other tools for the new set, matching and elegant and tailored to his specific technique for casting magic that leans heavily on etching and engraving runes. He doesn’t fail to notice that the blade in the kit is wrapped in golden ribbon, sealed at the ends with beeswax as if to gently discourage him from using it to bite into his own convenient store of witch’s blood. He doesn’t unravel it today, for at least the reason that his skipped meals and over-caffeinated state of hyperfocus don’t lend well to even small amounts of blood loss, though there’s probably more to it. There usually is, where Myr is concerned; as a rule, L actively tries to avoid displeasing or disappointing Myr, however certain he is that he will fail. There comes a point, after all, when one has reached the limit of what he can give, or do, or become. Efforts come to yield smaller returns, until there’s a plateau, or even a decline.
He sits in one one of the classes for advanced illusion, breaking in his new tools, taking heart at least in the fact that he can rely on his penchant for acquiring and applying knowledge. He hasn’t peaked, or plateaued, or declined in this regard; there’s more he can show Light, and neither of them will grow bored. The pair of illusory cockroaches on the table in front of him, maneuvering in intricate and perfect tandem, really do seem limited only by what his mind can do, and in truth, that’s the set of limitations that he prefers, even if he detests roaches.
If you’re in class together, he’ll notice if you’re struggling, and offer to help you get the hang of it. Having flawed technique and having to settle for mediocrity is unbearable; he knows that better than anyone.]
[IV. Dream (for Bonded knowledge and/or interaction)]
This particular dream started when Light arrived. Since then, it’s grown more frequent and vivid, to the point where even on nights L doesn’t clearly remember his dreams, he’s nearly positive that he had the same one, again, old paths doggedly retraced.
A brilliant, warm sun has melted the snow and brought an entire ecosystem’s cacophony with it, cycles of life and death mingling hidden in the bordering forest’s dense branches. There are distant suggestions of cracking eggshells, rattling serpents and rodent shrieks alike; predator and prey engaged in an endless and entrancing dance.
Not that L has the time to listen, or investigate, or muse, or even notice if one of his Bonded has ended up here with him. He’s too busy kneeling at the edge of the lake, which seems to have gotten both larger and murkier. He’s attempting, always, to repair the shrinking ice floats and re-glaze the surface of a lake where dead fish float to the surface, unable to adapt to water that just isn’t as cold and clean as it used to be. The ice almost seems to melt faster than he can create it, though, or at least just fast enough that his efforts are largely in vain in spite of the tremendous and exhausting strain. His rests are infrequent but desperately needed, and sorely bought; the Leviathan hasn’t gone anywhere, won’t die seemingly out of spite, and finds this whole process very agitating. Its scaly ridges suggesting only a sliver of its total mass surface periodically, and sometimes L has to move quickly to avoid whatever bit of ground he’s standing on crumbling out from under him as a result of the beast’s jaws or thrashing. As it chips away at the grass and soil surrounding the lake, the amount of ground remaining to stand on diminishes, pushing anyone who doesn’t want to end up in the water back toward the dense and deafening forest.
It’s small wonder, really, that he wakes up these days feeling as though he hasn’t slept at all, putting on a pot of coffee for the strongest possible start.]
[V. Wildcard]
[Don’t see it? Want it? Have at it! Throw a prompt my way or hit me up on discord at ladylazarus#2235 to plot something out with me.]
<3
The spiny ridges are offshore for the moment, engaged in the aquatic version of pacing. It gives L a moment to pull himself back up the increasingly slippery bank, pressing his chilled fingers close to his mouth and breathing against them. He takes a moment at Myr's question to gesture, vaguely and stiffly, at the visible parts of the beast.]
It's just...
[He pulls himself up, pushing against Myr to herd him away from the water's edge. For reasons both obvious and inexplicable, he's unhappy when Myr looks for too long at this thing that lives in his head, that doesn't leave and doesn't die and doesn't change in spite of all that evolves and grows around it. It's a source of bewilderment and shame for him; it would only be more so if the thing hurt Myr.]
It's throwing a tantrum and I'm not sure why. I have every reason to be happy right now.
<3!
Then he dips his head to take L's collar in his teeth and steady his Bonded over a spot of treacherous ground. His mental voice is, absurdly, muffled but not obscured for the mouthful:]
That doesn't mean you must be happy if something else is out of joint in your life.
[He lets go of the piece of cloth, lifting his head enough to regard his Witch with one slot-pupiled hazel eye.]
Its world has gotten much larger all of a sudden. Filled up with things it's never seen before that might be anything from distractions to threats. All of its patterns are broken--and even the largest predators suffer for being disturbed that way.
[It would be very easy to lay all the blame on Light for these changes. It's only knowing he might miss something obvious in that rush to cry guilt that's keeping Myr from doing just that...
But it would be very easy.]
Has something happened?
no subject
He chews his lip. He wouldn't mind if it did suffer, if it meant leaving this lake alone... but that would mean something else, too. For all that L despises his demons, his gifts share the same dwelling. If a hook or harpoon went through the beast's lip, his own would bleed. Myr understood that before he did, recognized that there was no vanquishing the Leviathan. Only living with it, in the ways that are acceptable, equal parts soothing and chiding.
He tilts his head, listening to the forest's dense cacophony. It's alive, the way a swarm of angry bees is alive. It's warm, in the way a fever is warm. His blood is pumping and his lungs are cycling breath after breath, but his exhaustion doesn't come with a side of pleasure or accomplishment.]
No...
[He's surprised by his own answer to Myr's question.]
Nothing's happened. He's good to me... that's not a problem.
[That surprises him, too.]
But... nothing's happened, or changed, in a long time.
[And that, actually, might be a problem. There's no sport or sustenance for the monster in the lake in those sickly floating fish carcasses.]
no subject
Nothing's happened: Light hadn't hurt L, not by lifted hand or lifted voice or unleashed spell. But nothing's happened: L's life is stultifying, unsatisfied.
Myr shifts his weight between his front hooves, looking around them again and really seeing beyond his initial delight in a forest. This riotous overgrowth is not--or not merely--a mawkish metaphor for a life desiccated by sorrow and privation returning to a fulness of human feeling. (This isn't a romance; this isn't The Gardener of Montsimmard where the antihero's little patch stands as symbol and signifier for his love life.) This is--noise, and empty friction, and ceaseless toil without challenge; this is too much stimulation without any signal in the noise. Of course the Leviathan frets and thrashes: The forest walls close in on it and promise no change, no hunting.
This is a change, yes, and growth, but not all in the right direction.
(And the greatest bulk of it did not start with Myr.)
This is the manifest anxiety that gnaws L's sleep to shreds and leaves him staggering of mornings: That things have grown to sameness around him.
(Except he has his own Witch now, a source of delight and challenge and endless fascination. That is what brought light and warmth and color this world, melted the ice, freed the beast.
Myr examines the implications of that for a moment and puts it away in trust for later.)
The Faun shortly turns his attention back to his Witch and--impulsively--sheds deer-shape for man-shape to offer L an arm. (An anchoring touch.)]
You've fallen into a rut, you think? Your studies--your work at the orphanage?
no subject
He reaches back when Myr offers an arm. He lets the contact ground and warm him, instead of apologizing for the chill in his hands, which he would have done a year ago, and still remains his impulse.]
I tried to walk away from here. It was the first thing I tried.
[His eyes dart toward the forest, with all its noise and threatening life.]
It tried to pull itself out and follow me. And I can only make the ice so thick, and so...
[Yes; a rut is a good way to put it.]
I've overstayed my welcome and my necessity. I won't be the last to notice it.
no subject
He hums a thoughtful note at his Witch's analysis of the situation; forebears from looking over his shoulder toward the lake again, though the thought of the beast climbing out to pursue them on land puts his fur on end. What is it? echoes again in the Bond, as loud as if he'd voiced it.
He hasn't, yet, but it's more a matter of time and topic than courtesy.]
I doubt, [he says aloud, voice wry,] you've overstayed your necessity, unless they've had a much wealthier patron fall into their lap since last week. [Someone rich and civic-minded enough to afford the wages of a dozen aristocratic tutors would do.]
But your welcome? [The lowering of his ears matches the dip in his mood as he considers that.] You feel you're not getting along with them.
[There are many reasons that could be. Imagining potential answers evokes a complicated swirl of emotion in the Faun, though protectiveness is foremost. As it ever is, even knowing his Bonded's habits--yes, L could be difficult and standoffish and deliberately cruel but damn it he knows his Witch does try!]
no subject
Even without the tearing efforts of the Leviathan to pursue him, his steps that direction have drenched his sheets in sweat, turned his stomach sour, usually woken him from the sleep he desperately needs to organize his mind and rest and repair his body.]
I'm disliked. I don't care, truly...
[Defiantly, he doesn't.]
It's just the difference between knowing you're misunderstood, and knowing that's something you can't blame, anymore.
[The staff at the orphanage, and the children themselves, see the parts of him that stayed strategically hidden back home, and the things that the kind owners of Runetchers shielded him from by letting him work alone in the back of the shop.]
I got reprimanded, today. For the last three weeks, I've had to hear about the upcoming schedule and changes along with the children. Things the rest of the staff knew about, so... I had one of the boys fake an injury so I could just take the upcoming itinerary from the Headmaster's office, myself.
no subject
Myr huffs a breath out into the hot, humid air at his Witch's explanation; there is a species of resigned humor in the noise and echoing through the Bond. Of course L would have enough of a rapport with the children to be able to request such behavior...but not enough, the reprimand implies, to keep them silent out of loyalty.
Oh, amatus. You would. His hand tightens on L's, and then--in full view of Leviathan and the jungle--he turns to face his Witch full-on and wrap the other arm around the taller man's waist. It is a silent declaration of his own fidelity, despite the chiding tone he takes aloud,] As if petty theft would endear them more, amatus. No--I know that wasn't your aim,
[L was not often motivated by endearing himself to anyone,]
but it does go some way to soften persistent misunderstandings.
[That took aching work, though, and it wasn't often rewarded; simple human interaction was not a pleasure to his Witch, not when it meant painstakingly explaining each bounding leap of that agile mind to those who seemed almost maliciously unable to understand. They were working on grace, and tolerance, and charity for the less-gifted--and even now Myr is reminded of his own pride in how far L's come--but imagining the weight of having to work at those every day...
Softly, gently,] What do you intend to do about the situation? You did ask them before to keep you updated, I assume?
no subject
He doesn't want to endear himself to anyone. He is no friend to failure; he is happier when he can see the paths to avoid it. Success and failure aren't so clear-cut, in communities of any size. It's a constant parade of pluses and minuses, chipping and padding reputations endlessly, and "Linden Tailor" was never meant to weather that process for this long.
He has, though. It means something, that he has, however small and insignificant it may feel. Myr's arm is supportive around him, even as his question momentarily steals his breath to silence.]
...I hadn't.
[Soft, shaken, humiliated by the obviousness of it all in hindsight.
Then, doubling down, fiercely]
I shouldn't have to beg for the basic courtesy the others receive.
no subject
Even it that illusory respite lasted only until L found a bottle to crawl into on his way home from work.
L's not the only one who'd overlooked something obvious here.]
You shouldn't, but we're all stuck with an awful lot of shouldn'ts in our lives. Some more than most, depending on how folk see us.
[A city elven mage; a child genius grown into a sheltered savant. They were both outsiders to huge swathes of the world--though L's inside was ever more minuscule than Myr's and expanded only slowly.]
Sometimes there's not but to bear with them, but it's as often the case those around us pile on indignities assuming we don't mind them.
[And that suffices for a lecture. L never needed beating with a point. (Well--almost never.)]
What will you do? [It's a question as small as "what will you do next time you're there?" and large as "what's your next job if you leave?". Despite his own instincts to shape and prod... He is really trying to let his Witch make his own decisions, whatever the consequences may be.]
no subject
Neither is fully true, and L knows that Myr can relate better than most. The analogs are enough that he has sincere empathy, and his affection for the detective is enough that he can perhaps see through where L's range and experience leave him bitter and wanting. The lecture, as much as such a gentle thing can be, is weathered with grace enough.]
I'll think of something.
[Dogged, vague. He has no idea. Typically, he does find a solution temporarily at the bottom of a bottle. It's crept into the territory of a habit again, and a secretive one that keeps him longer from all his Bonded. It's a miserable way to live, and an unsustainable one. Eventually, something will give, and it will probably mean quitting. Even as L bargains, the decision is as good as made, as sure as the Leviathan will pursue escape attempts into a forest that L finds equally threatening.]
no subject
(He tries not to worry when it seems, now and again, that everything is growing blurry and indistinct around the edges; that shapes are perceived less as what they are and more as his memory of what they should be.)]
Quitting is an option, you know. Or stepping back from the work. You could keep on with only your advanced students and not even have to be there every day.
[It's a solution he is sure L would eventually hit on, if only by running himself out of options. Voicing it is a way to say he is not disappointed by this conclusion--and perhaps they can forestall a couple of months' agonizing over it like this.]
no subject
Here, in Aefenglom, it's usually the first thing people notice. L likes the watches, as communicating over audio and text is generally the way he's taken the most seriously, able to conduct himself as a self-concept only hindered by physical form.
Maybe looking at him, now, and thinking of how he's viewed at the orphanage, is the reason for Myr's suggestion. Regardless, it comes as an overwhelming relief to the detective. Maybe he tried, as long as he did, because he fears Myr's disappointment, but... no, this is permission, from one whose thoughts on such things matter.]
I... suppose it is.
[He does, now. It was probably a different story before he fell asleep.]
I did try. I gave it what I could.
[And reached a limit he hates to admit to. He can't stand admitting it, but Myr makes it just a bit easier.]
no subject
Something unvoiced in the Bond makes Myr tip his head to one side with ears lifted as L draws his conclusions. That...is something rare to hear, he recognizes, from someone so accustomed to immediate perfection as his brilliant Bonded. Admitting their were limits at all, one, and admitting that an imperfect attempt was enough, for two...
The Faun considers a moment longer, before leaning in to kiss the corner of his Witch's mouth. Pure Faunnish instinct to move with the impulse in the moment. That, for the idea I don't like looking at you.]
Earnest effort, [he murmurs,] is all that's ever asked of us, amatus. You Made yourself something greater than you had been.
[It was what they were all here for, as he is so often saying: To Make themselves anew from what they'd been given to start. This was a worthy effort, even if it had ended, and he won't sully it by worrying about what L's going to replace it with.
Not now.]
no subject
It's a weight, and an effort, and it paralyzes. Then Myr leans in like it's nothing, pressing his lips like a blessing so close to L's, and is that what it is to be a Faun? Offering blessings freely and carelessly, or...
He's close to moving like a fish who has bumped against a glimmering lure, but- ah, Myr speaks. L nods, swiftly, as though he hadn't been ready to melt into the contact and accept an offer he might actually have imagined.]
I...
[Better? Low bar, by these standards... and I have so many stories about being the best. Stories a latent braggart streak wants Myr to know about, when this feels so pale and paltry in comparison.]
...thank you for saying so, Myrobalan.
[It's exhausting to be better.]
no subject
Oh.
There is...no mistaking that when he actually sees it in action, no telling himself he'd misread whatever he was feeling across the Bond simply because he is a Faun and inclined to think as a Faun does about anyone's need for touch and comfort. He's always known L isn't sexless, but ever since Mello it had seemed better to not entertain any ideas either of them came up with.
The risk of harm seemed far too great to justify any indulgence, when he knew too well that his Witch's consent could be coerced by a strong-enough need.
Yet he does not pull away as he--so belatedly--ought, instead staring at L through L's thanks and the wave of L's exhaustion.
Work on the soul is heavy, and sweaty, and too-often felt unrewarding. There are rewards that could be offered, and that very Faunish thought makes Myr shudder abruptly, the fur on his neck briefly fluffed.]
Will that quiet it? [he asks suddenly, to distract them both. It, the Leviathan in the lake, which he gestures past L's shoulder toward.] And the forest--will it become easier here, in your dreams, if you don't have that?
Can you rest?
no subject
I think so.
[He kneels, picking through the mud and sand for smooth stones with a good, solid weight.]
I'll have a talk with it, lay down some terms. If that doesn't help, then... I'll call out of work tomorrow, and send Light to the apothecary so I can get some proper rest.
[The decision's been locked in; he says if, but he's not going to work tomorrow, regardless. He starts to wade into the shallows, tucking the stones into his pockets.]
no subject
He can't watch that. He can't see L go through those actions and not see in it the echo of a future where he fails as vouchsafe against the Void's call. (Never fear, you have help, wars in his thoughts with the frigid fact that help had murdered L and was still somehow a more compelling bar against suicide than--it feels--Myr had ever been.)]
Amatus!
[His tone is sharper than he means to be; he struggles to moderate it as he wades in after L.]
You didn't answer me before. What is it?
no subject
It's always been here... it won't leave, and it won't die.
[Brokenly, as though that is an answer, at least the best he can manage to come up with.
He wades back toward Myr, silt and fish entrails clinging to the soaking clothes that are what he wore every day back home, and not more typically in Aefenglom.]
I'll be OK, Myr. This is how it's done, but... I think you should wake up.
[The witch reaches out a hand, brushing Myr's forehead with his fingertips, meaning to prompt just that.]
no subject
L, plea-
[And then he's awake to a world of utter absence, his hooves tangled in the sheets and arms still around his Bonded. Safe, despite Myr's hammering pulse; safe and still breathing. The Faun makes a little noise of frustrated discontent and buries his face against L's arm.
Then he quits the bed for his shrine, to kneel there and pray until the sounds of dawn interrupt him.]