[Trained as he is in assessing how others move in combat, Myr--or some subconscious part of him--has taken note of something a little odd in how L's conducting himself, a strangeness beyond his Bonded's typical. But it goes unremarked for now, subsumed beneath his other concerns--
(Empathetic, listening heart he is, Myr does not realize how his hands avoid L's arms and the evidence of blood magic, not through the faun's volition but his Witch's.)
--much as L's physical hurts distress Myr, they are ultimately symptoms of the widespread damage to the detective's very soul. The unwinding threads of that story--and, oh, the feelings and thoughts that come with them--capture his attention wholly. He sets the diminished ball of soap down, dipping his hands to rinse them of suds in a motion purely automatic.
This is familiar. So much of it is familiar, at a slant; and just enough of it is strange that it comes at Myr with an edge sharp enough to scythe through the thick mat of justification he'd woven around the necessity of his own imprisoned childhood. Not deliberately crippled, no, but stunted all the same because the place the world ordained for them was small and safe and hedged about by fear.
It's the Void's own realization to hit him out of ambush when he's already open and vulnerable. Vandelin would crow at the concession, then turn immediately conciliatory when Myr hunched like he does now--like he's been punched in the gut.
This isn't about you, Myrobalan. It's not about the Circles. Suck up and keep moving.]
That presumed, [staggering's movement, right? Saying these words with a voice made hollow as his insides is better than shocky silence,] he'd always be there. That your Circle would last and you'd remain safely inside it--
[But they don't, do they? Witness the both of them out here on their own, the one more adapted and adaptable than the other but still tripping over all he'd never been given the chance to learn.
Myr takes a breath, and another.] --but they don't. Nothing like that can remain forever, not in justice.
You are gifted beyond reason, intimus. But how much better it would be if they hadn't set your, [our,] gifts at odds with the world. With kindness, with patience--you, [we,] can live alongside humans as well as anyone.
[After a slow breath out--deliberate, prolonged, so it's not a mawkish self-indulging sob over his own clutching grief,] The Tranquil are what comes of man's fear of magic, and mages' fear of demons.
[Ask him. He'll speak of them, but it's not to be done as an interjection. The subject's too heavy for that.]
no subject
(Empathetic, listening heart he is, Myr does not realize how his hands avoid L's arms and the evidence of blood magic, not through the faun's volition but his Witch's.)
--much as L's physical hurts distress Myr, they are ultimately symptoms of the widespread damage to the detective's very soul. The unwinding threads of that story--and, oh, the feelings and thoughts that come with them--capture his attention wholly. He sets the diminished ball of soap down, dipping his hands to rinse them of suds in a motion purely automatic.
This is familiar. So much of it is familiar, at a slant; and just enough of it is strange that it comes at Myr with an edge sharp enough to scythe through the thick mat of justification he'd woven around the necessity of his own imprisoned childhood. Not deliberately crippled, no, but stunted all the same because the place the world ordained for them was small and safe and hedged about by fear.
It's the Void's own realization to hit him out of ambush when he's already open and vulnerable. Vandelin would crow at the concession, then turn immediately conciliatory when Myr hunched like he does now--like he's been punched in the gut.
This isn't about you, Myrobalan. It's not about the Circles. Suck up and keep moving.]
That presumed, [staggering's movement, right? Saying these words with a voice made hollow as his insides is better than shocky silence,] he'd always be there. That your Circle would last and you'd remain safely inside it--
[But they don't, do they? Witness the both of them out here on their own, the one more adapted and adaptable than the other but still tripping over all he'd never been given the chance to learn.
Myr takes a breath, and another.] --but they don't. Nothing like that can remain forever, not in justice.
You are gifted beyond reason, intimus. But how much better it would be if they hadn't set your, [our,] gifts at odds with the world. With kindness, with patience--you, [we,] can live alongside humans as well as anyone.
[After a slow breath out--deliberate, prolonged, so it's not a mawkish self-indulging sob over his own clutching grief,] The Tranquil are what comes of man's fear of magic, and mages' fear of demons.
[Ask him. He'll speak of them, but it's not to be done as an interjection. The subject's too heavy for that.]