[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
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.]