Myrobalan Shivana (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
faithlikeaseed) wrote2019-08-01 12:00 am
faithlikeaseed) wrote2019-08-01 12:00 am
[This indignant noise is genuine, and sounds not unlike a short angry feline hiss.]
Tchk! There's orders of magnitude of difference here.
Tchk! There's orders of magnitude of difference here.
[Myr's laugh is bleak but not without humor.]
I know. You're vastly to be preferred.
But you'll both hurt him. [So rather than choose the lesser of two evils, he's refusing to choose evil at all.
Maybe that's a kind of cowardice.]
I know. You're vastly to be preferred.
But you'll both hurt him. [So rather than choose the lesser of two evils, he's refusing to choose evil at all.
Maybe that's a kind of cowardice.]
[Can't deny that, and won't continue to insult Myr by pretending what he has planned isn't that bad.]
Well, consider it an open invitation to collaborate.
[Just in case he grows a spine at some point.]
Well, consider it an open invitation to collaborate.
[Just in case he grows a spine at some point.]
I'll keep it in mind.
[Who knew. If Mello became a more imminent threat, it might be wise to take Niles up on the offer--
But for now Myr's drawn his line.]
[Who knew. If Mello became a more imminent threat, it might be wise to take Niles up on the offer--
But for now Myr's drawn his line.]
this embarrassing two-day gap brought to you by me musing over what a beehive would name itself
faithlikeaseed
2020-04-17 05:34 pm (UTC)(link)
Precisely. [There's a mix of pride and awe in Myr's tone; bees really are miracles.] I hadn't known quite how much until now, but it's really a wonder how they organize it.
[He is distracted a moment by the scent of the something delicious that Hector's brought and takes a deep appreciative breath of it before continuing.]
You want the whole thing? [His grin widens.] It's not tidy to put into words. Something like-- "The Hive That Is Twenty Seconds Flying From the Honeysuckle Along the Line of the Sun's Axis and One Minute Flying Sunward to the Apple Tree and--"
[He goes on in this vein for at least thirty seconds, naming everything a bee would be interested in foraging from in at least a mile's radius. Bees, man.
Apparently they're also getting after the sugar at a nearby bakery, if "Ten Minutes' Flying From Crystal Honey In the Stone House" is anything to go on.]
[He is distracted a moment by the scent of the something delicious that Hector's brought and takes a deep appreciative breath of it before continuing.]
You want the whole thing? [His grin widens.] It's not tidy to put into words. Something like-- "The Hive That Is Twenty Seconds Flying From the Honeysuckle Along the Line of the Sun's Axis and One Minute Flying Sunward to the Apple Tree and--"
[He goes on in this vein for at least thirty seconds, naming everything a bee would be interested in foraging from in at least a mile's radius. Bees, man.
Apparently they're also getting after the sugar at a nearby bakery, if "Ten Minutes' Flying From Crystal Honey In the Stone House" is anything to go on.]
Edited 2020-04-17 17:36 (UTC)
[Hector listens to the ridiculous name of the hive. He snorts, and it turns into a chuckle. Myr probably doesn't know yet what a rarity it is, hearing Hector laugh.]
That's... simultaneously the most rational and least practical name I've ever heard.
[He shakes his head and lets out a long breath. The tin, he brings over toward Myr.]
Here. These are for you, if you want them. They're soaked in honey-syrup, so they're sticky.
[Since Myr can't see them, he figures a warning is merited before the other faun reaches for one and finds out for himself.]
That's... simultaneously the most rational and least practical name I've ever heard.
[He shakes his head and lets out a long breath. The tin, he brings over toward Myr.]
Here. These are for you, if you want them. They're soaked in honey-syrup, so they're sticky.
[Since Myr can't see them, he figures a warning is merited before the other faun reaches for one and finds out for himself.]
[Myr doesn't know the rarity of that laugh, but he's clearly pleased to have garnered it anyway. It's always a lovely thing to make someone he likes laugh.]
Isn't it? Though I've done them a disservice in the translation; it doesn't take nearly so long for them to relate it as it does me.
[His ears lift as Hector makes his offer, and he reaches with cautious fingers to feel for the tin and take a piece of the baklava.]
Thank you, [for both the treat and the warning; they are awfully sticky, and Myr's quick to get his free hand under the piece he's taken before it can drip anything.] They smell marvelous--what d'you call them? And have you had any yet yourself?
[Because as much as Myr loves being gifted food, he loves sharing it even more.]
Isn't it? Though I've done them a disservice in the translation; it doesn't take nearly so long for them to relate it as it does me.
[His ears lift as Hector makes his offer, and he reaches with cautious fingers to feel for the tin and take a piece of the baklava.]
Thank you, [for both the treat and the warning; they are awfully sticky, and Myr's quick to get his free hand under the piece he's taken before it can drip anything.] They smell marvelous--what d'you call them? And have you had any yet yourself?
[Because as much as Myr loves being gifted food, he loves sharing it even more.]
They're called baklava. It's phyllo...uh, a thin layered pastry...with chopped nuts and honey. [Hector's not sure if phyllo dough is a thing on Myr's world, though he was pleased he was able to find it here. It's a pain to make from scratch.]
I tried it at home, to make sure I made it right. Honey is precious, so I'm glad I didn't ruin it.
[He'd like to think his attempt didn't come out half-bad.]
I don't care for many sweets, but this one is a favorite of mine.
I tried it at home, to make sure I made it right. Honey is precious, so I'm glad I didn't ruin it.
[He'd like to think his attempt didn't come out half-bad.]
I don't care for many sweets, but this one is a favorite of mine.
[A life without dreams--even the limited, crippled sort that everyone must dream, who hasn't a Fade beyond the edge of their waking world--holds a special horror for Myr, being as it is a hallmark of the Tranquil. It therefore doesn't come as a surprise--though maybe it should, and maybe it should worry him--to know his Bonded's experience in the realm is limited. But then, L doesn't sleep nearly as much as he ought, either, and that too was poison to dreams.
Really, knowing that dreamwalking practice would make the detective rest more, even if it's only his body and not his fever-bright mind would almost be inducement enough to do it.]
I'm certain, [he affirms.] I trust you--and Maker, Linden, it's not as if I've not been at risk from my dreams every night of my life. [Except for those months of it he's spent on Talam, where there weren't demons to be had.
It's foolhardy, he knows, to dismiss the risks of an unknown magic entirely out of hand. But they're ones he's well-prepared to take, and not so foreign to be frightening.]
Let's get you that experience. Is there aught I can do to make it less of a risk to you?
[Even if he doesn't find himself in the Fade every night, he's still a lucid dreamer--and when one's dreams came entirely out of oneself, that resulted in something nigh on a Somniari's powers. Too bad he'd such a small space to flex them in...]
Really, knowing that dreamwalking practice would make the detective rest more, even if it's only his body and not his fever-bright mind would almost be inducement enough to do it.]
I'm certain, [he affirms.] I trust you--and Maker, Linden, it's not as if I've not been at risk from my dreams every night of my life. [Except for those months of it he's spent on Talam, where there weren't demons to be had.
It's foolhardy, he knows, to dismiss the risks of an unknown magic entirely out of hand. But they're ones he's well-prepared to take, and not so foreign to be frightening.]
Let's get you that experience. Is there aught I can do to make it less of a risk to you?
[Even if he doesn't find himself in the Fade every night, he's still a lucid dreamer--and when one's dreams came entirely out of oneself, that resulted in something nigh on a Somniari's powers. Too bad he'd such a small space to flex them in...]
Oh! There's a layered cake we've got like that back home, [the Tevinter word Myr uses is placenta so, thanks, translation spell, for not making this awkward,] though it's got cheese in it.
[He takes a healthy bite of the piece he's holding and chews it with rapt concentration. Definitely better than half-bad, if his expression's anything to go on.]
Oh, that is good. I'm giving you more honey. And you ought to have more--
[The look on his face is mostly sly but also a little sad.] If we were really Faunish about it I'd feed it to you, but then we'd get it everywhere.
[Hard to do that with someone you can't see and don't know well physically--yet.] And that would be a waste and a tragedy. [He munches down the last bite of his piece and licks his fingers by way of emphasis.]
[He takes a healthy bite of the piece he's holding and chews it with rapt concentration. Definitely better than half-bad, if his expression's anything to go on.]
Oh, that is good. I'm giving you more honey. And you ought to have more--
[The look on his face is mostly sly but also a little sad.] If we were really Faunish about it I'd feed it to you, but then we'd get it everywhere.
[Hard to do that with someone you can't see and don't know well physically--yet.] And that would be a waste and a tragedy. [He munches down the last bite of his piece and licks his fingers by way of emphasis.]
[Hector hums at Myr's description. He's heard of sweet baked tarts with cheese in them, so a cake isn't too far of a stretch for him.]
You like it? [He's pleased, and it shows on his face and in his voice. For so long, he was rejected and alone. Making people happy isn't something he ever imagined he could do, and when he manages it, it's always a victorious moment.]
I could feed it to you... [Hector offers, a little uncertain if Myr will want it, but also distracted by the sight of that tongue licking at his fingers. Those could be Hector's fingers there, if Myr wanted. If they're feeling...faunish.]
You like it? [He's pleased, and it shows on his face and in his voice. For so long, he was rejected and alone. Making people happy isn't something he ever imagined he could do, and when he manages it, it's always a victorious moment.]
I could feed it to you... [Hector offers, a little uncertain if Myr will want it, but also distracted by the sight of that tongue licking at his fingers. Those could be Hector's fingers there, if Myr wanted. If they're feeling...faunish.]
[L nods, with the same sort of tempered cautiousness he originally posed the possibility. Because the types of dangers Myr has faced in dreams, and the kind that dreamwalking might pose to their minds and their Bonds, are not necessarily unequal, but certainly different.
He laughs again, the same sort, as one who never quite learned the right or natural way to express something so gentle and sincere. It's an unknown valley between humor and empathy, neither of which come easily to the detective.]
Whatever you would do, to prevent a nightmare. If you dream of a tidal wave, I could be crushed... in a dream of a hungry pack of wolves, I could be eaten. Death in a dream accessed this way doesn't bode well.
[He leaves that hanging, preferring not to go into detail, but he's heard of witches who have died of horrible injuries that no medical examination of their body can detect, no physical healing effort can reach.]
I also cannot overstate the importance of sleeping soundly.
He laughs again, the same sort, as one who never quite learned the right or natural way to express something so gentle and sincere. It's an unknown valley between humor and empathy, neither of which come easily to the detective.]
Whatever you would do, to prevent a nightmare. If you dream of a tidal wave, I could be crushed... in a dream of a hungry pack of wolves, I could be eaten. Death in a dream accessed this way doesn't bode well.
[He leaves that hanging, preferring not to go into detail, but he's heard of witches who have died of horrible injuries that no medical examination of their body can detect, no physical healing effort can reach.]
I also cannot overstate the importance of sleeping soundly.
["You like it?"
Myr doesn't know all Hector's story--or much beyond a tiny, tiny fraction of it--but there is enough of a hint of awkward melancholy about him that that question stirs something protective in the deer's breast.
(Everett's so fond of Hector, too; and as Myr well knows, the diplomat's affections are strongest for those most in need of them.)]
I do like it, [Myr affirms, and hesitates just a breath before adding,] and I'd like that, too.
[Whatever a Faun's instincts, and whatever renewed confidence Myr's found in his more amorous pursuits since coming to Aefenglom, there's still something fraught and tender in these first moments of courtship. Just don't think about how it could go wrong--]
You are quite good with your hands.
Myr doesn't know all Hector's story--or much beyond a tiny, tiny fraction of it--but there is enough of a hint of awkward melancholy about him that that question stirs something protective in the deer's breast.
(Everett's so fond of Hector, too; and as Myr well knows, the diplomat's affections are strongest for those most in need of them.)]
I do like it, [Myr affirms, and hesitates just a breath before adding,] and I'd like that, too.
[Whatever a Faun's instincts, and whatever renewed confidence Myr's found in his more amorous pursuits since coming to Aefenglom, there's still something fraught and tender in these first moments of courtship. Just don't think about how it could go wrong--]
You are quite good with your hands.
[When Myr agrees, Hector hesitates over the tin, seeking out the perfect bite-sized morsel to offer up to the deer. The flirtation he tacks on have him awkwardly clearing his throat. A reminder of Hector's completely uninhibited petting of Myr's sleek fur...and his ears, until Myr had gently cautioned him to pause.
There's a small comfort in the fact that Myr can't see him blush. He takes a breath, and forces himself to settle on a piece. He lifts it, lets it drip a droplet of honey back into the tin, and brings it slowly to Myr's lips.]
Open. [He prompts, though he doubts Myr needs the prompting when they're leaned in close like this, with the honeyed treat just barely grazing against his lips.]
I, um, recall that you had a talent yourself.
[Hector wasn't the only one petting that night, at least.]
There's a small comfort in the fact that Myr can't see him blush. He takes a breath, and forces himself to settle on a piece. He lifts it, lets it drip a droplet of honey back into the tin, and brings it slowly to Myr's lips.]
Open. [He prompts, though he doubts Myr needs the prompting when they're leaned in close like this, with the honeyed treat just barely grazing against his lips.]
I, um, recall that you had a talent yourself.
[Hector wasn't the only one petting that night, at least.]
This isn't a dream: It's a memory.
A dream is mutable if one has the will for it; even nightmares might be rewritten with sufficient volition. Where only the Somniari might wrest the Fade on Thedas, Talam's dreamworld is easier to grasp, and the little crippled dreams that lived solely in the dreamer's own mind were easier still. Dreams could be rewritten.
But this isn't a dream; it's a memory, and nothing in Myr's power will let him undo the past.
Even that certain knowledge hasn't stopped him from trying, sweating and struggling under the punishing desert sun to lever rubble off the trapped mages beneath, abrading his hoary fingertips to bleeding in the crooked shadow of Hasmal Circle's damaged tower. His friends are down there, he knows; his family (herd) is down there, though they have long since fallen silent, and still he digs.
Nothing else lives or breathes on the untidy pile of broken stone. This memory has long since run its course, the past-echo of Myr collapsed somewhere from exhaustion and despair. The sun has not even continued its descent where it sits fat and lambent on the far horizon.
None of the lines are right, none of the edges sharp. This is nothing he had seen, the scree-slope of the shattered tower reconstructed from imagination and touch. There are lacunae in the scene, soft-edged black voids gaping wide where he had neither heard nor touched anything in the past.
It is stomach-churning to look at. It is a reminder of what he had done to himself. He does not look; he digs, expression slack of anything but a faint despair.
Nothing he is doing matters. You cannot change a memory.
But it hasn't stopped him yet.
A dream is mutable if one has the will for it; even nightmares might be rewritten with sufficient volition. Where only the Somniari might wrest the Fade on Thedas, Talam's dreamworld is easier to grasp, and the little crippled dreams that lived solely in the dreamer's own mind were easier still. Dreams could be rewritten.
But this isn't a dream; it's a memory, and nothing in Myr's power will let him undo the past.
Even that certain knowledge hasn't stopped him from trying, sweating and struggling under the punishing desert sun to lever rubble off the trapped mages beneath, abrading his hoary fingertips to bleeding in the crooked shadow of Hasmal Circle's damaged tower. His friends are down there, he knows; his family (herd) is down there, though they have long since fallen silent, and still he digs.
Nothing else lives or breathes on the untidy pile of broken stone. This memory has long since run its course, the past-echo of Myr collapsed somewhere from exhaustion and despair. The sun has not even continued its descent where it sits fat and lambent on the far horizon.
None of the lines are right, none of the edges sharp. This is nothing he had seen, the scree-slope of the shattered tower reconstructed from imagination and touch. There are lacunae in the scene, soft-edged black voids gaping wide where he had neither heard nor touched anything in the past.
It is stomach-churning to look at. It is a reminder of what he had done to himself. He does not look; he digs, expression slack of anything but a faint despair.
Nothing he is doing matters. You cannot change a memory.
But it hasn't stopped him yet.
[It's a little uncanny, that laughter, but it's an uncanniness that's of a piece with the rest of Myr's Bonded and so does little to unnerve him at this point. L is his, beloved and brilliant, for all his faults.
The tacit warning and the implicit information the Bond provides on what might happen, should L be caught in the flux of a fatal nightmare, gets a wide-eyed look out of Myr. Here he'd just been thinking of--]
Maker's breath, so I'd really be one of the Somniari, [Dreamers, the spell translates,] at least so far's a visitor's concerned.
[He is not sure he likes having that power; in one way, he'd always held life and death in his hands as a mage (though he'd been kept so hedged and mazed in rules to never consider it that way before he had the sense to not use it), but knowing he could crush out someone's life in a dream and leave them never to wake... That's a different sort of thing again. An inexperienced dreamwalker would be helpless against it.
It isn't fair, is the problem.]
Good thing I've never seen much of the ocean, then, nor'm I much inclined to inviting in wolves. But--point taken. [Sleeping soundly might actually be the harder part, come to think, given his own irregular sleep schedule. But there were potions for that, weren't there? ...Come to think,]
How soundly, exactly? Does it matter if it's drugged?
[He knows himself well enough to mistrust his own impulses when he wants something this badly, to check himself before running off on assumptions. If he were the only one at risk, he might not, but...]
The tacit warning and the implicit information the Bond provides on what might happen, should L be caught in the flux of a fatal nightmare, gets a wide-eyed look out of Myr. Here he'd just been thinking of--]
Maker's breath, so I'd really be one of the Somniari, [Dreamers, the spell translates,] at least so far's a visitor's concerned.
[He is not sure he likes having that power; in one way, he'd always held life and death in his hands as a mage (though he'd been kept so hedged and mazed in rules to never consider it that way before he had the sense to not use it), but knowing he could crush out someone's life in a dream and leave them never to wake... That's a different sort of thing again. An inexperienced dreamwalker would be helpless against it.
It isn't fair, is the problem.]
Good thing I've never seen much of the ocean, then, nor'm I much inclined to inviting in wolves. But--point taken. [Sleeping soundly might actually be the harder part, come to think, given his own irregular sleep schedule. But there were potions for that, weren't there? ...Come to think,]
How soundly, exactly? Does it matter if it's drugged?
[He knows himself well enough to mistrust his own impulses when he wants something this badly, to check himself before running off on assumptions. If he were the only one at risk, he might not, but...]
[L cants his head at the unfamiliar term and strange translation that doesn't quite seem to fit, as with a few of the things Myr has imported from his own world and attempts to invoke in such a melting pot of cultures and backgrounds. Would he be frustrated, if he knew? L nods, choosing to trust context in this case; he knows some of Myr's relationship with dreams, and the unique danger they could pose to mages in the Circle.
The point is more important than the details, as they both know. L nods, face remaining drawn and somber even though his eyes are alive with the prospect, nearly eager.]
Soundly enough so you know you won't be waking. Drugged is... how it's normally done, for all but those who have a great deal of control over these matters. When it comes to mixing potions a fair amount of accuracy is assured.
The point is more important than the details, as they both know. L nods, face remaining drawn and somber even though his eyes are alive with the prospect, nearly eager.]
Soundly enough so you know you won't be waking. Drugged is... how it's normally done, for all but those who have a great deal of control over these matters. When it comes to mixing potions a fair amount of accuracy is assured.
He doesn't understand the mirrors well enough yet to know whether it's a dream, a memory, a hypothetical, a present reality, or anything in between. He'd only been looking for a way home.
But like everything about this elf so far, the way he reminds Simon of home is very, very much a double-edged sword. If before he had been blooming with life and good humor and the kind of magic that would be at home in the Emerald Dream, this, then, is the Dream's horrible mirror, and he dodges one of those hungry fuzzy-edged voids the way he would any manifestation of the Nightmare. It doesn't occur to him that they're merely a reflection of Myr's blindness.
He doesn't know where these ruins are supposed to be, or how he got here, or what they mean to his new elven friend. But he knows, somehow, with soul-deep certainty that wrenches at his stomach, that the digging is futile. There's nobody alive under that debris.
"Myr--" His voice is gentle, apprehensive.
But like everything about this elf so far, the way he reminds Simon of home is very, very much a double-edged sword. If before he had been blooming with life and good humor and the kind of magic that would be at home in the Emerald Dream, this, then, is the Dream's horrible mirror, and he dodges one of those hungry fuzzy-edged voids the way he would any manifestation of the Nightmare. It doesn't occur to him that they're merely a reflection of Myr's blindness.
He doesn't know where these ruins are supposed to be, or how he got here, or what they mean to his new elven friend. But he knows, somehow, with soul-deep certainty that wrenches at his stomach, that the digging is futile. There's nobody alive under that debris.
"Myr--" His voice is gentle, apprehensive.
"Help me."
Myr doesn't--can't bring himself to--look up from where he's trying to lift a stone block that must weigh nearly as much as he does. He can't get a grip on it for all he tries, nor firm footing to lift from as his hooves slip against the wreckage.
"Please, Simon--I can't get to them alone--" The sheer desolation in his tone says he knows very well there's no them left but he cannot, cannot give up until he's seen it himself. Until the dimensions of his failure and incapacity are made real.
He leans back from the task only long enough to reset his footing before bracing his shoulder against the stone again, shoving almost so as his heart would give out from the effort if grief didn't get him first.
Myr doesn't--can't bring himself to--look up from where he's trying to lift a stone block that must weigh nearly as much as he does. He can't get a grip on it for all he tries, nor firm footing to lift from as his hooves slip against the wreckage.
"Please, Simon--I can't get to them alone--" The sheer desolation in his tone says he knows very well there's no them left but he cannot, cannot give up until he's seen it himself. Until the dimensions of his failure and incapacity are made real.
He leans back from the task only long enough to reset his footing before bracing his shoulder against the stone again, shoving almost so as his heart would give out from the effort if grief didn't get him first.
He doesn't know what's going on, and yet at the same time it's agonizingly clear, familiar as the screech of tortured muscles after battle. He knows where that desolation comes from.
"Is that--she can't be--the bitch is calling retreat! They're leaving us!"
"They're what? Fucking--we can't hold the line like this! We can't do it without the Horde!"
"Look at them! They're gone, we have to go, there's too many--"
"But the Highlord! The Highlord, he's still...I'm not going without Fordring, I won't do it--"
"If we don't go now, there won't be a Crusade left for him to lead."
He reaches for Myr's shoulder, fearful for his health in body and soul, and holds it tight.
"It isn't failing them if you let go of the ones beyond help, friend. But you don't help anything if you wear out all your strength so you have none left for the living. They're the ones who need you. These ones--all that can help them now is prayer."
It's a speech he's given more times than he can count, on that interminable journey back from the Broken Shore.
"Is that--she can't be--the bitch is calling retreat! They're leaving us!"
"They're what? Fucking--we can't hold the line like this! We can't do it without the Horde!"
"Look at them! They're gone, we have to go, there's too many--"
"But the Highlord! The Highlord, he's still...I'm not going without Fordring, I won't do it--"
"If we don't go now, there won't be a Crusade left for him to lead."
He reaches for Myr's shoulder, fearful for his health in body and soul, and holds it tight.
"It isn't failing them if you let go of the ones beyond help, friend. But you don't help anything if you wear out all your strength so you have none left for the living. They're the ones who need you. These ones--all that can help them now is prayer."
It's a speech he's given more times than he can count, on that interminable journey back from the Broken Shore.
It's a speech Myr needs to hear, for all he was in no state for it when this was no memory but a moment of his life, nor were there any to give it him.
"Maker damn the rebellious little beasts to the Void! We'd have had a chance if they hadn't destroyed the phylacteries!"
"We'd have had a chance if we weren't reduced to invalids and cripples for mages; you saw how Shivana did."
"We all saw what Shivana did to himself; he should never have been let out of the infirmary, whatever he thought he could do. A mage like that--"
He stills as Simon's hand closes on his shoulder, a noise starting low in his throat and building to a keen of denial. "No--no, I have to--I have to help them because I can now, I can and couldn't then--and the living didn't want me anyway!"
He doesn't deserve the comfort he's being offered. He lurches to standing, tries to disengage, but muscles cramped from hours of futile digging and shoving betray him at last and all he manages is a graceless staggering collapse against Simon.
"Maker damn the rebellious little beasts to the Void! We'd have had a chance if they hadn't destroyed the phylacteries!"
"We'd have had a chance if we weren't reduced to invalids and cripples for mages; you saw how Shivana did."
"We all saw what Shivana did to himself; he should never have been let out of the infirmary, whatever he thought he could do. A mage like that--"
He stills as Simon's hand closes on his shoulder, a noise starting low in his throat and building to a keen of denial. "No--no, I have to--I have to help them because I can now, I can and couldn't then--and the living didn't want me anyway!"
He doesn't deserve the comfort he's being offered. He lurches to standing, tries to disengage, but muscles cramped from hours of futile digging and shoving betray him at last and all he manages is a graceless staggering collapse against Simon.
Edited 2020-05-25 04:43 (UTC)
Fortunately, this is precisely what a brick wall with arms is best for, and Simon catches him without thinking, holds him first for steadiness and then for comfort, gentle and firm. It's slightly difficult, unaccustomed as he is to having to avoid a faceful of magnificent antler, but in a situation that so clearly and urgently calls for a hug, he will make it work.
"But you can't help them like this now," he says softly. Not 'can't help them' period; it would be cruel to be so blunt. "Not by hurting yourself, or by tending to their bodies alone. And whatever happened then--whatever people said--it isn't true anymore. I know the living care for you now and want your help. I'm living, aren't I?"
He's just one man, and a new acquaintance at that, but already he knows the faun well enough to know how well-liked he must be among the other Mirrorbound. How could he not be?
"But you can't help them like this now," he says softly. Not 'can't help them' period; it would be cruel to be so blunt. "Not by hurting yourself, or by tending to their bodies alone. And whatever happened then--whatever people said--it isn't true anymore. I know the living care for you now and want your help. I'm living, aren't I?"
He's just one man, and a new acquaintance at that, but already he knows the faun well enough to know how well-liked he must be among the other Mirrorbound. How could he not be?
Brief though their acquaintance has been, there's something about Simon that struck Myr as stone-stable. It's something the faun can instinctively trust even when he can hardly think for grief and fear; it makes him freeze rather than fight when the paladin wraps him up in a hug.
It pulls another wretched noise from somewhere deep within him to be reminded the living care. "They wouldn't, if they'd seen what I'd done. No one did, after. A l-liability," he manages. "A danger. Please--"
He doesn't have strength for more than an abortive pull away from Simon, before he's sagging against that solid wall of him with his face against one broad shoulder. "Please," he echoes. "I have to save them. It has to work, if I try enough; it has to change,"
Exactly how many times has he been through this without it altering in one detail? Too many.
But surely he could fix the next one.
It pulls another wretched noise from somewhere deep within him to be reminded the living care. "They wouldn't, if they'd seen what I'd done. No one did, after. A l-liability," he manages. "A danger. Please--"
He doesn't have strength for more than an abortive pull away from Simon, before he's sagging against that solid wall of him with his face against one broad shoulder. "Please," he echoes. "I have to save them. It has to work, if I try enough; it has to change,"
Exactly how many times has he been through this without it altering in one detail? Too many.
But surely he could fix the next one.
Simon doesn't know how this tower came to lie in ruins, and the mental picture he's beginning to build from Myr's words involves the faun singlehandedly wrecking the place with what must have been an incredibly powerful spell gone awry. Surely, from the way he's talking, the collapse must have been his doing--but equally obviously, he can't have meant to.
He rubs at Myr's back with one large hand as his friend relents and leans on him, and after a long moment, tries to steer him gently to a place where they can sit and rest.
"What is it that happened, exactly? That you think people would condemn you for?"
He rubs at Myr's back with one large hand as his friend relents and leans on him, and after a long moment, tries to steer him gently to a place where they can sit and rest.
"What is it that happened, exactly? That you think people would condemn you for?"
Perversely, it may have been easier for Myr to bear if he'd had a hand in the destruction around them. Intentional or otherwise it would have warranted opprobrium and exile; it would have deserved the treatment he received (he thought he received) in way he understood. For what he had done--
He consents, in his numb and nerveless way, to be led a space away from where he'd been digging; there are ample seats among the upthrust rubble. He has eyes only for the slab he'd been digging futilely at; he doesn't hear Simon's questions at first for the force of his attention. When it does register that he's being spoken to--he stiffens, the fur about his neck and shoulders standing up.
"I--" His eyes go to Simon's face--back to the slab--then to the nearest void in the memory, his pupils widening as he realizes what that means. At what's obvious, to someone who already knew what had happened (that Simon doesn't and can't does not occur to him, not when his logic's snarled up in knots by emotion).
What is it that happened, exactly? The memory of that is too close at hand for proper distance and it sits on his chest like a sudden weight. He tries to draw a breath but it is juddering, jagged, does nothing to calm. "--I can't--I d, don't, I don't want to remember that," but there's hardly any helping it when everything conspires to remind him.
He takes an unsteady step back, away from the paladin, like he'd run--if he weren't trembling so to make it nearly impossible.
He consents, in his numb and nerveless way, to be led a space away from where he'd been digging; there are ample seats among the upthrust rubble. He has eyes only for the slab he'd been digging futilely at; he doesn't hear Simon's questions at first for the force of his attention. When it does register that he's being spoken to--he stiffens, the fur about his neck and shoulders standing up.
"I--" His eyes go to Simon's face--back to the slab--then to the nearest void in the memory, his pupils widening as he realizes what that means. At what's obvious, to someone who already knew what had happened (that Simon doesn't and can't does not occur to him, not when his logic's snarled up in knots by emotion).
What is it that happened, exactly? The memory of that is too close at hand for proper distance and it sits on his chest like a sudden weight. He tries to draw a breath but it is juddering, jagged, does nothing to calm. "--I can't--I d, don't, I don't want to remember that," but there's hardly any helping it when everything conspires to remind him.
He takes an unsteady step back, away from the paladin, like he'd run--if he weren't trembling so to make it nearly impossible.
Edited 2020-05-31 04:00 (UTC)
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