[It's one of the things L not only likes, but admires about Myr, feeling deep affection for his tendency to consider the way life catalyzes and interacts with other life. It's perpetual and lovely, from the outside; even, at times, when the context itself is a strange or uncomfortable one.
He doesn't fully let go of the quilt until it's fully around Myr's shoulders and secured by the faun's hand, where L's lingers for a moment before drawing away.]
I know... I know.
[Said in a different tone, it could sound flippant and dismissive, but his words are soft, somber. Myr is tired; he can sense it, bone-deep, in a way that natural empathy rarely affords him insight into the plights of others.]
So rest. Right here... envision your staff, and give it to me, and you'll be safe while I work, OK?
[The sand, after all, is enough of an expanse that he has ample space to work. He's so talented with runes, and maybe more so, on one of the rare occasions that Myr can actually witness him etching.]
[Touch soothes, and Myr is so inclined to lean into it that a sigh can't help but escape him when L pulls his hand away. He almost wants to beg his Witch to put aside everything else he's come here for and simply sit with him a while, but--this is important work, and mere cuddling isn't going to fix any of what's gone wrong with Myr.
At least L isn't asking anything difficult of him to carry on with it. He lifts his chin in acknowledgment of the request and reaches back as if to draw his staff from its usual place on his back, and does through the logic of dreams.]
Here, [he says, proffering it. Once L's taken it from him he takes a step back toward his solid wall, putting his back to it and sliding down to sit on the sand. It is a profoundly defeated posture--but there's at least a little glimmer of interest, of hope, in the Faun's eyes as he waits to see what L will do.]
[L's inclination to lean back is existent. Like so much of what he wishes for, it feels taboo, like something he was audacious to even desire. Sitting with Myr awhile is for others, those kinder, gentler, and nobler. L leaves the quilt and takes the staff; L will focus, and consider, and slowly, the unnecessary weight will fall away, and he'll be left with his perfect, elegant runes.
He steps away, starts slowly, gaining confidence as he goes and realizes the ease and beauty of etching in sand. The desert is vast, but at the very least, it's assured that when L traces symbols around any cluster of red-rimmed eyes, they will close, if not vanish outright.
His skill is not yet perfect. He's not a witch with the benefit of a lifetime to study one discipline, but he's whip-smart, actually brilliant. There's hope for people like him, in their particular situation. He can still be worthy of something, in spite of what he brings to the table paltry and underwhelming. There's some kind of productive recourse even if he lacks and languishes, and is no kind of man.
The lines are steady, precise, and careful. No one could find an error in these runes, traced under Myr's moonlight. No one could call them selfish, or aggrieved, or deadened. They're for Myr, offered the way a man incapable of loving might present them.]
[As a student of Creation magic, Myr himself had spent long hours practicing at drawing glyphs. It is an exacting form of spellcraft, and not one he was immediately suited for, given his propensity for enthusiasm over rigor. But he had become proficient in time, and so it's with a fellow-mage's eyes he watches L set out his runes. The forms and arrays are alien, but the particular nuances of placing them have a universal appeal. In this context, illuminated by the stars and writing upon the sand with sure grace, L is breathtaking.
Even the acute distress of seeing the eyes pop open beneath the sand is muted by L's motions; they are a focus and distraction Myr gladly devours with the deer's sharp eyesight. He does not know what spell it is L's casting--he knows only a handful of runes, and those only by touch--but even now his head's begun to feel a little clearer, the intrusive onus of his thoughts less burdensome.
Exhausted as he is, even that little bit of reprieve is enough to push him toward sleep. His eyes flutter and his chin dips toward his chest--only for him to jerk alert a moment later. This is a rare opportunity L is giving him and he wants (wants in excess of what meager emotions he has lately) to see it through.]
[L's eyes are drawn skyward, more often than not. The touch of rain, glance of starlight and yawning silence of questions unanswered all come from that source, home to comfort and yearning alike.
His earthly form, and the one that appears in dreams, isn't capable of flight, and cannot vanish into vapor even if his edges seem uncertain, wispy, and translucent. Grounded, with narrow shoulders hunched according to the laws of a forward-curved spine, L seems made instead to look at the earth, the details in the dirt and dust that others might miss. He's good at it, of course, both discerning and creating; as the staff moves in the sand, what he knows, and owns, it comes together in meticulous and graceful characters. They're combined uniquely and elegantly, and though blood would make them stronger, Myr can watch, here, and it's therefore out of the question.
Just more care, and time, and precision will have to make up for it.
He writes until Myr is asleep, and then after, until every eye is closed. They are still present, as well as the wounds and flesh, but they seem softer and soothed as though spread in balm. It's beyond his current skill to heal, or cover completely, but he believes that won't always be the case. He's always studying, always working, always growing, even if his form is lopsided and stunted in places. He has some faith that his infinite potential in one narrow arena can help Myr, even if all the rest has never enamored anyone.]
[Eventually, the time comes when Myr cannot fight the creeping exhaustion any longer--even for all the novelty and awe of watching L at his craft. He struggles for it like a child trying to sit vigil the night before Satinalia, knowing that even though sleep will hasten morning's arrival, there's a certain magic in sitting up to greet the dawn.
But he will not, tonight, for the first time in many nights; as L promised, he'll sleep better than he has in weeks. His imagined-self's own eyes slide closed as the desert quiets and its colors fade in their intensity. (All but the eyes, reliably and startlingly green; they remain vivid until L shuts the last of them.)
In the waking world, the Faun relaxes, still leaning into the hand on his temple, his hand fallen to rest on his Bonded's knee and his expression--at last--one of slack peace. The sunbeam he'd been sitting in fades with the evening's onset, leaving the cottage in a dim gloom that seems, now, more restful than dismal.]
[L had promised his Bonded sleep, and the satisfaction of delivering feels well-earned when he lays the staff down beside the dream representation of his slumbering Bonded, then opens his eyes to where, in the soft glow of a setting sun and wrapped in a quilt, Myr is breathing softly in his chair, still wrapped in his quilt and with a hand on one of L's bony knees.
He reaches out cautiously to rest one of his atop Myr's knuckles, and he lingers for twenty minutes or so while realizing that he can't stay, not fully or truly. Like the fading golden hour outside, he, too, should depart while he is still wanted and welcome.
Telekinetically, he draws two plump throw pillows over, propping one under Myr's head and using the other as a placeholder once he's extricated from his own chair.]
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faithlikeaseed) wrote2019-08-01 12:00 am
no subject
He doesn't fully let go of the quilt until it's fully around Myr's shoulders and secured by the faun's hand, where L's lingers for a moment before drawing away.]
I know... I know.
[Said in a different tone, it could sound flippant and dismissive, but his words are soft, somber. Myr is tired; he can sense it, bone-deep, in a way that natural empathy rarely affords him insight into the plights of others.]
So rest. Right here... envision your staff, and give it to me, and you'll be safe while I work, OK?
[The sand, after all, is enough of an expanse that he has ample space to work. He's so talented with runes, and maybe more so, on one of the rare occasions that Myr can actually witness him etching.]
no subject
At least L isn't asking anything difficult of him to carry on with it. He lifts his chin in acknowledgment of the request and reaches back as if to draw his staff from its usual place on his back, and does through the logic of dreams.]
Here, [he says, proffering it. Once L's taken it from him he takes a step back toward his solid wall, putting his back to it and sliding down to sit on the sand. It is a profoundly defeated posture--but there's at least a little glimmer of interest, of hope, in the Faun's eyes as he waits to see what L will do.]
no subject
He steps away, starts slowly, gaining confidence as he goes and realizes the ease and beauty of etching in sand. The desert is vast, but at the very least, it's assured that when L traces symbols around any cluster of red-rimmed eyes, they will close, if not vanish outright.
His skill is not yet perfect. He's not a witch with the benefit of a lifetime to study one discipline, but he's whip-smart, actually brilliant. There's hope for people like him, in their particular situation. He can still be worthy of something, in spite of what he brings to the table paltry and underwhelming. There's some kind of productive recourse even if he lacks and languishes, and is no kind of man.
The lines are steady, precise, and careful. No one could find an error in these runes, traced under Myr's moonlight. No one could call them selfish, or aggrieved, or deadened. They're for Myr, offered the way a man incapable of loving might present them.]
no subject
Even the acute distress of seeing the eyes pop open beneath the sand is muted by L's motions; they are a focus and distraction Myr gladly devours with the deer's sharp eyesight. He does not know what spell it is L's casting--he knows only a handful of runes, and those only by touch--but even now his head's begun to feel a little clearer, the intrusive onus of his thoughts less burdensome.
Exhausted as he is, even that little bit of reprieve is enough to push him toward sleep. His eyes flutter and his chin dips toward his chest--only for him to jerk alert a moment later. This is a rare opportunity L is giving him and he wants (wants in excess of what meager emotions he has lately) to see it through.]
no subject
His earthly form, and the one that appears in dreams, isn't capable of flight, and cannot vanish into vapor even if his edges seem uncertain, wispy, and translucent. Grounded, with narrow shoulders hunched according to the laws of a forward-curved spine, L seems made instead to look at the earth, the details in the dirt and dust that others might miss. He's good at it, of course, both discerning and creating; as the staff moves in the sand, what he knows, and owns, it comes together in meticulous and graceful characters. They're combined uniquely and elegantly, and though blood would make them stronger, Myr can watch, here, and it's therefore out of the question.
Just more care, and time, and precision will have to make up for it.
He writes until Myr is asleep, and then after, until every eye is closed. They are still present, as well as the wounds and flesh, but they seem softer and soothed as though spread in balm. It's beyond his current skill to heal, or cover completely, but he believes that won't always be the case. He's always studying, always working, always growing, even if his form is lopsided and stunted in places. He has some faith that his infinite potential in one narrow arena can help Myr, even if all the rest has never enamored anyone.]
no subject
But he will not, tonight, for the first time in many nights; as L promised, he'll sleep better than he has in weeks. His imagined-self's own eyes slide closed as the desert quiets and its colors fade in their intensity. (All but the eyes, reliably and startlingly green; they remain vivid until L shuts the last of them.)
In the waking world, the Faun relaxes, still leaning into the hand on his temple, his hand fallen to rest on his Bonded's knee and his expression--at last--one of slack peace. The sunbeam he'd been sitting in fades with the evening's onset, leaving the cottage in a dim gloom that seems, now, more restful than dismal.]
no subject
He reaches out cautiously to rest one of his atop Myr's knuckles, and he lingers for twenty minutes or so while realizing that he can't stay, not fully or truly. Like the fading golden hour outside, he, too, should depart while he is still wanted and welcome.
Telekinetically, he draws two plump throw pillows over, propping one under Myr's head and using the other as a placeholder once he's extricated from his own chair.]