[By the time the healers arrive, Myr has made it to a space of fragile peace where he can let go. Not even in the merely physical sense--though they hardly have to pry him from L's arm; it's a duty he gives up with shaken relief to those better-equipped to handle it--but an emotional, a spiritual sense as well.
This has spiraled (once again) beyond the abilities of a lone sheltered Circle mage. It isn't--maybe never was--his to control, for all his struggling, and even his endurance has limits. And there is something deeply seductive in what the healers offer, in taking all responsibilities beyond a simple accounting of himself entirely out of his hands. It feels safe. It feels like home and Hasmal's high encircling walls, with Templars to demarcate the boundaries of his world and tell him when he's gone as far as is permitted, as far as he's trained for.
They need nothing from him. They ask only questions he can answer without thinking.
So, like a swimmer gone beyond any hope of shore, he lets himself be pulled under the current of their regard.
He is quiet, pliant. Lets himself be reassured and told what they'd surmised; gives back what he knows of the situation. Answers questions, has his few answers. Submits to be scrubbed free of blood and, at last, left at the kitchen table with two potions to hand to tide him over until L awakens.
After a little deliberation on the late hour, he takes the one to bring on sleep and pillows his head on his arms right there where he sits.
Waking is thus a cramped affair but a convenient one for finding breakfast. Bread, jam, and butter are all things he can locate and set on the table with his head still in a gray fog from last night.
He's sitting in front of this cold repast when L finds him, food still untouched and hands folded before him on the table as in prayer. (The absent drifting of thought and emotion through their Bond shows him to be anything but praying; that is a focused activity, this is avoidance.)]
L.
[Wrong name. Myr feels the first little prickle of anxiety he has in a long time and gives a drowsy shake of his head.]
no subject
This has spiraled (once again) beyond the abilities of a lone sheltered Circle mage. It isn't--maybe never was--his to control, for all his struggling, and even his endurance has limits. And there is something deeply seductive in what the healers offer, in taking all responsibilities beyond a simple accounting of himself entirely out of his hands. It feels safe. It feels like home and Hasmal's high encircling walls, with Templars to demarcate the boundaries of his world and tell him when he's gone as far as is permitted, as far as he's trained for.
They need nothing from him. They ask only questions he can answer without thinking.
So, like a swimmer gone beyond any hope of shore, he lets himself be pulled under the current of their regard.
He is quiet, pliant. Lets himself be reassured and told what they'd surmised; gives back what he knows of the situation. Answers questions, has his few answers. Submits to be scrubbed free of blood and, at last, left at the kitchen table with two potions to hand to tide him over until L awakens.
After a little deliberation on the late hour, he takes the one to bring on sleep and pillows his head on his arms right there where he sits.
Waking is thus a cramped affair but a convenient one for finding breakfast. Bread, jam, and butter are all things he can locate and set on the table with his head still in a gray fog from last night.
He's sitting in front of this cold repast when L finds him, food still untouched and hands folded before him on the table as in prayer. (The absent drifting of thought and emotion through their Bond shows him to be anything but praying; that is a focused activity, this is avoidance.)]
L.
[Wrong name. Myr feels the first little prickle of anxiety he has in a long time and gives a drowsy shake of his head.]
How's the arm?