[There'd been a part of Myr that expected L not to answer, or to answer but turn him away. He knows well enough the heart his Bonded so zealously guards to know the tactics used in its defense, the clever evasions or offenses given that let L avoid what he could not confront. An outside chance, true, but one Myr could not entirely discount--not until L affirms he'd find a room, and the Faun lets out the breath he'd been holding against disappointment.]
I'll be there shortly.
[And he is as he says, prompt but not unseemly in his haste, a model of composure as he stops in the doorway to thank his Coven guide for leading him to the room. He steps across the threshold then with a click of hooves and staff, letting the door fall shut behind him with a solid thump that promises an undisturbed, unobserved conversation. But where to begin that... Ah, that's the difficult part, isn't it?
For Myr's outward seeming of poise is only half-realized in the Bond, mingled with and overlaid on that loneliness that's only more sharp for proximity. With it is a kind of frustrated want, a platonic desire held in check by main force alone; and feathering out from those, wavering exhaustion and the shocky ragged edges of trauma's ongoing low-grade nightmare.
It has been two weeks since they last spoke, but Myr has spent at least one of those weeks abed and hiding from the world, and the other only half-connected to it. For that, and for reasons he hasn't learned the words to frame nor concepts to describe, it may as well have only been two days where the Faun's concerned. Resumption from that point seems only natural, if it's the halting shambling sort of natural of a broken leg.]
Maker grant we never have another dream like that one, [he says, suddenly and fervently as prayer, before picking his careful way to where L is sitting.] How are you?
--> action;
I'll be there shortly.
[And he is as he says, prompt but not unseemly in his haste, a model of composure as he stops in the doorway to thank his Coven guide for leading him to the room. He steps across the threshold then with a click of hooves and staff, letting the door fall shut behind him with a solid thump that promises an undisturbed, unobserved conversation. But where to begin that... Ah, that's the difficult part, isn't it?
For Myr's outward seeming of poise is only half-realized in the Bond, mingled with and overlaid on that loneliness that's only more sharp for proximity. With it is a kind of frustrated want, a platonic desire held in check by main force alone; and feathering out from those, wavering exhaustion and the shocky ragged edges of trauma's ongoing low-grade nightmare.
It has been two weeks since they last spoke, but Myr has spent at least one of those weeks abed and hiding from the world, and the other only half-connected to it. For that, and for reasons he hasn't learned the words to frame nor concepts to describe, it may as well have only been two days where the Faun's concerned. Resumption from that point seems only natural, if it's the halting shambling sort of natural of a broken leg.]
Maker grant we never have another dream like that one, [he says, suddenly and fervently as prayer, before picking his careful way to where L is sitting.] How are you?
[I should have asked far sooner, I know.]