Likely because it would've upset you. [There's no processing of that thought; the response is automatic, spoken more to L's feelings--the look on L's face he remembered from that shared nightmare weeks ago and the fluttering confusion in the Bond from an unconsidered kiss--than the question asked. He doesn't know who it was he didn't sleep with or why but he knows himself well enough to know he'd avoid hurting his amatus, and that is enough in this instant of profound dislocation.
(A lurching, dizzying static between them as he tries to reorient himself on the interrogation. They'd just been talking about people he'd met in the last week, was that it? Met and slept with, or so L seems to be accusing. Was this an issue of infidelity?)
He lifts a hand to scrub it through the hair around one antler, frowning now.] I do know how you feel, you know. I'm not--I'm sorry I've been far slower in picking up on it than I should've been, but it's not an issue of my being repelled.
I simply don't want to hurt you further, when I don't know where your edges are. [After Mello. That had been a horrifying revelation, one to kill even a Faun's libido.
Quietly, then,] Though if it is hurting you that I'd sleep with someone else casually--that I'd even think of it--if that's what all this about, [the accusations of lying, that he'd forgotten something important that L couldn't tell him about,] I won't. I'd not be so unfair to you, amatus.
[There are true things in what Myr says... but blended, distorted, distressing. If Myr's intention had been to derail the clinical interrogation, that was perhaps the fastest and most effective way to manage it, and for a moment, L's only answer is blank silence, absent even of the typical background scraping and shuffling of preparing new tacks and strategies. It's just a moment of supreme, eerie stillness, the kind of quiet that's only so complete before an eruption of intense and primal violence.]
It's... no, it isn't about--
[Does Myr think he's so jealous and petty? What if he is? Is it obvious, does he look like a fool? Is Myr mocking what's obvious by pointing it out to him, now? Did he hear about what L had said, from Hector? The footing is slippery; the quiet still hasn't erupted, and as a result there's a vice-grip around his chest just waiting for it.
Recenter, recalibrate, reset.]
You're not responsible for anything I've come to feel. I'm not owed, or entitled, and I'm only asking about any of this because it's relevant.
[That's a lot of words, to say "I swear I'm not pathetic, please believe me." Too bad you can't unring this bell; too bad you can't manipulate your way into the kinds of things that just come naturally to those who are really and truly good.]
I'd call and consider it your business, except... there's a part of your mind that looks like a long string of operations canceling each other out in an ongoing attempt to balance something that doesn't add up, and I'm... trying to figure out why. I think a person was the deliberate catalyst, and so... I'm asking about people, who may have had access to you when your guard was down.
[The instinct to fight or flee is powerful. The stillness still hasn't broken; his ribs are a claustrophobic cage holding pure dense adrenaline, heavy enough to sink through the floor. He wouldn't dare to ever ask, and it's important that Myr realize that. It's so terribly important that Myr understand he's not been scheming and conniving and trying to figure out a way to possess what he has no right or claim to.]
[What does not show in L transmits itself to his Bonded, transmutes to an uneasy ruffling in the Faun's fur and the flagging of his tail. The sudden impulse to flee is unmistakeable as the stag struggles to overcome the man and get them both (get them all, because it's L's fear as much as it is his own) out of here. The fear's dragged him far enough out of his momentary fog to remember it is fog, that his mind is a chancy thing right now and he could at any moment slip into further madness if pushed wrong.
(And what would he mutilate this time--)
It's the sheer force of a mage's will that keeps Myr kneeling where he is and keeps his hands down despite the urge to grasp at his Witch and reassurance. But he is trembling as he does it, visibly, and his fingers knot in the fabric of his sleeves as he curls them there.
Breathe. BREATHE.
It's not working. It's not working but he needs to answer L's line of questioning, or offer some kind of reassurance, but he can't--]
Amatus. [A shallow breath in, pulling against a constriction fit to crush lungs and heart.] L, [and he would not use that name, were this not deadly serious,]
I can't hear you over your own fear.
[I don't know what to do and I'm terrified I can't be strong for both of us. Help me--]
[The Bond is hemorrhaging across neat partitions and divides. Maybe even Near and Light feel something of this, and that makes all of this so much worse. Weak and pitiful, hungry for things that shouldn’t matter to him, the warm gentle fiction and the stupid crush he occasionally takes comfort in is stripped and exposed.
He thought he’d hidden it well. He thought he’d done a good job keeping it from burdening one who deserved better. Is it out, is it on land now...?
He realizes that Myr is correct. His fear is deafening; he’s ruining what was good, because he got greedy.]
Sorry... I’m sorry. S—-
[An apology both excessive and half-formed. He’s got a job to do, and he’s failing; some part of him believed he stood a chance when it shouldn’t even have been a fantasy. He dropped the ball utterly on keeping Myr safe from something he can’t kill, and this time he can’t kick Myr from a dream that is here and horrible.
The door is tempting. The impulse to rifle through a medicine cabinet for some semblance of control is overwhelming. But even if he should be muzzled, he knows it’s wrong to leave his blinded, confounded Bonded this way.]
I’ll turn it off. I’m going to help you...
[He could be sick; he could use the chance to see what’s in the cabinets in Myr’s home away from him.]
Let me fix this.
[He needs help. Any help; already a plan is forming to find a problem solver, somewhere, so that he can solve a problem.
A problem remains, though: he can’t walk away from that look on his faun’s face.]
[Don't apologize, he wants to say, and cannot find the words around the feeling of drowning in something he does and doesn't understand.
Does: Because he's known what it is to want something, someone forbidden and having to bury that deep to avoid shattering a friendship. Has known, too, what it is to fail at that quarantine and lose something precious because of it.
Doesn't: Because for all his own self-image has suffered in the past few years, he remembers to his bones what it is to be instantly desirable to others. He was handsome once (still is, he's been reassured over and over again); even if he feels undesirable now, the notion of his own desire having always been an intolerable imposition on others is as foreign a feeling as breathing water.
He's in no place to try and sort through the knots and skeins of this right now. He doesn't even realize half of it, what points of their history align (or don't) to make this moment both profoundly sympathetic and profoundly discordant. He only knows that they both hurt, they are both afraid and nearly ill with that fear, and both want to be anywhere but confronting this thing that they can only stay and confront together.
Myr dimly registers how his fingers ache as he unknots them from his sleeves and reaches both hands up in supplication to his Witch. It's a gesture with a powerful longing beneath it, a need to draw L to him and hide his face against his Bonded and erase every other sensation in his awareness (scent-touch-sound-Bond) of the other man.
Let him fix this.]
Please. [Very quietly.] I trust you to.
[Even if he is gashed inside and still bleeding, still confused. He trusts the hurt was incidental.
[Trust is a form of grace. In L's world, and in his particular sphere, it's a profound thing to give it to someone, and in spite of the fact that they are Bonded, that they have been for over a year and were friends even before that point, it hasn't lost its weight or significance.
In L's mind, there's no if; there's no maybe or hopefully. He'll fix this; it's as certain as if it's already done, and the only thing he has to worry about is what connects the intention with the result, a simple tether tied between two stakes driven firmly into the ground.
Such certainty has a way of quieting fear, at least momentarily. His breathing is shallow and soft as Myr reaches for his bony shoulders, drawing him close, pressing against him like he's any source of strength or security and not an outright mess of a human being who can't help but damage even what he means not to.]
I'm sorry I accused you of lying.
[It's easier to say it over Myr's shoulder with a face that's hidden against his own. His own hand hovers, not quite touching the faun's back.]
When reconciling what my heart knows, with what the evidence seems to say, I don't always know where to place my own trust. Especially since...
[That whole Kira thing; that whole dying thing, which is why in his mind, and his dreams and his attitudes toward the future, he is a pale drowned man who just happens to still move and speak.]
[This is better. The storm across their Bond is quieting; Myr has his Witch in his arms and can reassure himself through contact that L wasn't about to slip away from him. That L hadn't judged him faulty, mad, dangerous and worth abandoning.
Myr's Witch is a source of strength to him, even if it's often the sort of strength one must dig up to protect another. Right now, though, the detective's conviction--and physical presence--are a more straightforward support. Which is why--
I'm sorry I accused you of lying.
--the Faun's embrace tightens; he pushes his face further against L's shirt and shudders in a soundless sob. It's ordinarily so easy for him to forgive, to understand the strange twists his Bonded's mind takes and know whatever offense was given wasn't meant. It's ordinarily easy but right now it isn't despite how desperately he needs his Witch's help. Guilt writhes in the pit of his stomach at the contradiction and at his own utter weakness in this moment, born of old curdled terror and new fear and exhaustion.
I knew you weren't lying.
What does one say through all of that?]
I understand, [he mutters, cloth-muted, into L's shoulder.
(He does. But put aside what's been revealed about Light, for later. If they make it to later. When they make it there.)
A moment, a breath. Myr swallows hard and pulls back enough to be heard; it puts his lips nearer his Witch's ear.] I do understand.
[But.]
I rely on you. You're my Witch. My partner. [Helpmeet. Beloved.] And that--hurt.
[It still hurts.
His voice drops to a whisper, guilt and guilt and guilt in their Bond that he has to ask, has to make his own forgiveness conditional:] Please don't do that again.
[If being faulty, mad, or dangerous were enough to render someone worthy of abandonment, even if L believed those about his faun, making that judgment would be hilariously rich coming from him, wouldn't it? L can be a hypocrite, but in the places he recognizes where cognitive dissonance or double standards exist, he can at least try not to be ridiculously obvious about it.
He curls his shoulders, head hanging lower as Myr's embrace tightens. His hovering hand makes careful contact with his Bonded's back at the sound and sensation of that soft sob, and he can feel the guilt rolling off of him in sick waves. He holds, until Myr pulls away to better be heard.
Does he understand? L nods, wondering if his meaning came through, if his meaning is something he himself can even fully parse.]
...of course.
[The fear is still suppressed, but it wants to rise again. L's intuition, or what he feels in his heart and his gut, is good, almost preternaturally so... or at least, it was. His final case and difficult time adapting to Aefenglom had taught him to doubt and dread that innate certainty.
He'd dropped the key to his apartment down a storm drain after the SQUIP left. He'd abandoned all his paychecks in a dresser drawer in Mello's spare room. He'd had his "talk" with the Leviathan, committed to the cold and dark, pledging to the often-contradictory paradoxes that often precluded an elusive, secure truth.
Truth can be beautiful, worth the long and grueling chase. It can cause the world to make perfect sense for just a few moments. It can also wound deeply... and grow more tangled than objective facts and deliberate untruths.]
I won't.
[He's not lying now. He believes, as certainly as he believes he will fix things for Myr, that this will come to pass. His intentions are as gleaming as the key, as plentiful as his paychecks, as earnest as the notion that walking into dark waters is an acceptable sacrifice to confront what they hide.
His intentions are frail, in the face of the doubt and distrust he has come to feel for his own heart. It's good for making a fool of him lately, it seems, and precious little else.]
I can't stay long.
[He has to get started on this. He's anxious to throw his process behind something that will yield results he can stand on solidly.]
But I'll stay, if you want me to. For a little while.
[Whatever the strength L's intentions will prove to be in this instance, it is enough right now that he intends--that he will try. Myr gives a fractional nod, leaning in once more to rest his face against his Witch. The tension's fled from him, leaving behind it a shaky storm-washed ache in his heart--empty of the passionate fear that had filled it to overflowing, but so suddenly that the vacuum's painful.
Hearing L say he's got to leave wakes a new tendril of it, quickly wrestled down. You're not a child, Myrobalan. Whatever's wrong won't get worse while he's gone.
Yet:]
A little longer, [he mutters. And then, quieter still:] Is there anything else you can do for it?
[The absence in his head. The one he can't think of without losing it.
He'll certainly understand if there is not; he's still mage enough in training if not actual power to realize there are problems magic can't solve.
[Tired and vaguely humiliated by the fact that Myr had blithely called out affections he'd believed were subtle, it would be easier for L to leave, perhaps. He could go somewhere quiet and dark and nurse his shame, alone or at least anonymously.
What's easy has never impressed Myr. He sighs shallowly, reaching a hand once more to rest against his faun's temple.
He withdraws it almost immediately, with a short, impatient exhalation.]
It's like it was before. I haven't seen something like this... it's not even like when Light and I looked into matters for Lora Hastings.
[And given the timing, he rather expected it to be.]
I can get started. Faster than a little longer, if you want.
[It all depends on where Myr believes he'd be the most useful, at this moment in time. If that's researching, he'll go; if that's comforting, he'll be substandard, but remain.]
[They will need to talk about it later, that shame, and the feelings behind it Myr had been oh-so-careful around up until confusion and worry robbed him of pretense.
There are many things they need to talk about later. Later, after his mind is his own again--which it sounds will be a matter of days, at least, and not hours.
He slumps a little as L withdraws his hand and pronounces his diagnosis. Too much to hope for, then; better to let his Witch be about researching the cause of his distress.
The urge to hold L to him lingers, anyway. Myr draws in a deep, deep breath to steady himself and releases his hold on the other man--though he does reach in passing to catch L's hand and press a kiss to the palm.]
Maker walk with you and guide you, then, amatus. You'll know where to find me.
[Because making another appointment right now seems...fraught, if he might forget them at any time.
(He does not want to be here alone with his own thoughts.
He does not want to be any more of burden on the one who's suddenly had to shoulder him.)]
[Once this has passed, later, L will have to reexamine what was safely and comfortably guarded, and what's been drawn reluctantly out into a far more open and vulnerable position. In the meantime, however, he has a purpose, and purpose is his refuge. Purpose promises to be a distraction for matters of the mind and the heart alike, and it's the only guide he needs.
He'll still take that blessing, and that kiss. His fingers curl against Myr's cheek, a caress that also just happens to close his palm.]
I'll know. In the meantime... I'm going to talk to some people.
[Monsters that can affect the mind, those closest to him. More witch's power that can do the same. Tomes in the dustiest corners of the library, experiments in the most shatterproof practice rooms.]
Change nothing, OK? Just for now. Unless it's to let yourself worry less.
[He's got this. Myr's witch might be riddled with frailties, but his strengths are diamond-tough.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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(A lurching, dizzying static between them as he tries to reorient himself on the interrogation. They'd just been talking about people he'd met in the last week, was that it? Met and slept with, or so L seems to be accusing. Was this an issue of infidelity?)
He lifts a hand to scrub it through the hair around one antler, frowning now.] I do know how you feel, you know. I'm not--I'm sorry I've been far slower in picking up on it than I should've been, but it's not an issue of my being repelled.
I simply don't want to hurt you further, when I don't know where your edges are. [After Mello. That had been a horrifying revelation, one to kill even a Faun's libido.
Quietly, then,] Though if it is hurting you that I'd sleep with someone else casually--that I'd even think of it--if that's what all this about, [the accusations of lying, that he'd forgotten something important that L couldn't tell him about,] I won't. I'd not be so unfair to you, amatus.
[
it's a real shitshow inside his skull
]send help, L
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It's... no, it isn't about--
[Does Myr think he's so jealous and petty? What if he is? Is it obvious, does he look like a fool? Is Myr mocking what's obvious by pointing it out to him, now? Did he hear about what L had said, from Hector? The footing is slippery; the quiet still hasn't erupted, and as a result there's a vice-grip around his chest just waiting for it.
Recenter, recalibrate, reset.]
You're not responsible for anything I've come to feel. I'm not owed, or entitled, and I'm only asking about any of this because it's relevant.
[That's a lot of words, to say "I swear I'm not pathetic, please believe me." Too bad you can't unring this bell; too bad you can't manipulate your way into the kinds of things that just come naturally to those who are really and truly good.]
I'd call and consider it your business, except... there's a part of your mind that looks like a long string of operations canceling each other out in an ongoing attempt to balance something that doesn't add up, and I'm... trying to figure out why. I think a person was the deliberate catalyst, and so... I'm asking about people, who may have had access to you when your guard was down.
[The instinct to fight or flee is powerful. The stillness still hasn't broken; his ribs are a claustrophobic cage holding pure dense adrenaline, heavy enough to sink through the floor. He wouldn't dare to ever ask, and it's important that Myr realize that. It's so terribly important that Myr understand he's not been scheming and conniving and trying to figure out a way to possess what he has no right or claim to.]
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(And what would he mutilate this time--)
It's the sheer force of a mage's will that keeps Myr kneeling where he is and keeps his hands down despite the urge to grasp at his Witch and reassurance. But he is trembling as he does it, visibly, and his fingers knot in the fabric of his sleeves as he curls them there.
Breathe. BREATHE.
It's not working. It's not working but he needs to answer L's line of questioning, or offer some kind of reassurance, but he can't--]
Amatus. [A shallow breath in, pulling against a constriction fit to crush lungs and heart.] L, [and he would not use that name, were this not deadly serious,]
I can't hear you over your own fear.
[I don't know what to do and I'm terrified I can't be strong for both of us. Help me--]
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He thought he’d hidden it well. He thought he’d done a good job keeping it from burdening one who deserved better. Is it out, is it on land now...?
He realizes that Myr is correct. His fear is deafening; he’s ruining what was good, because he got greedy.]
Sorry... I’m sorry. S—-
[An apology both excessive and half-formed. He’s got a job to do, and he’s failing; some part of him believed he stood a chance when it shouldn’t even have been a fantasy. He dropped the ball utterly on keeping Myr safe from something he can’t kill, and this time he can’t kick Myr from a dream that is here and horrible.
The door is tempting. The impulse to rifle through a medicine cabinet for some semblance of control is overwhelming. But even if he should be muzzled, he knows it’s wrong to leave his blinded, confounded Bonded this way.]
I’ll turn it off. I’m going to help you...
[He could be sick; he could use the chance to see what’s in the cabinets in Myr’s home away from him.]
Let me fix this.
[He needs help. Any help; already a plan is forming to find a problem solver, somewhere, so that he can solve a problem.
A problem remains, though: he can’t walk away from that look on his faun’s face.]
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Does: Because he's known what it is to want something, someone forbidden and having to bury that deep to avoid shattering a friendship. Has known, too, what it is to fail at that quarantine and lose something precious because of it.
Doesn't: Because for all his own self-image has suffered in the past few years, he remembers to his bones what it is to be instantly desirable to others. He was handsome once (still is, he's been reassured over and over again); even if he feels undesirable now, the notion of his own desire having always been an intolerable imposition on others is as foreign a feeling as breathing water.
He's in no place to try and sort through the knots and skeins of this right now. He doesn't even realize half of it, what points of their history align (or don't) to make this moment both profoundly sympathetic and profoundly discordant. He only knows that they both hurt, they are both afraid and nearly ill with that fear, and both want to be anywhere but confronting this thing that they can only stay and confront together.
Myr dimly registers how his fingers ache as he unknots them from his sleeves and reaches both hands up in supplication to his Witch. It's a gesture with a powerful longing beneath it, a need to draw L to him and hide his face against his Bonded and erase every other sensation in his awareness (scent-touch-sound-Bond) of the other man.
Let him fix this.]
Please. [Very quietly.] I trust you to.
[Even if he is gashed inside and still bleeding, still confused. He trusts the hurt was incidental.
He absolutely trusts that L can help.]
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In L's mind, there's no if; there's no maybe or hopefully. He'll fix this; it's as certain as if it's already done, and the only thing he has to worry about is what connects the intention with the result, a simple tether tied between two stakes driven firmly into the ground.
Such certainty has a way of quieting fear, at least momentarily. His breathing is shallow and soft as Myr reaches for his bony shoulders, drawing him close, pressing against him like he's any source of strength or security and not an outright mess of a human being who can't help but damage even what he means not to.]
I'm sorry I accused you of lying.
[It's easier to say it over Myr's shoulder with a face that's hidden against his own. His own hand hovers, not quite touching the faun's back.]
When reconciling what my heart knows, with what the evidence seems to say, I don't always know where to place my own trust. Especially since...
[That whole Kira thing; that whole dying thing, which is why in his mind, and his dreams and his attitudes toward the future, he is a pale drowned man who just happens to still move and speak.]
I knew you weren't lying.
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Myr's Witch is a source of strength to him, even if it's often the sort of strength one must dig up to protect another. Right now, though, the detective's conviction--and physical presence--are a more straightforward support. Which is why--
I'm sorry I accused you of lying.
--the Faun's embrace tightens; he pushes his face further against L's shirt and shudders in a soundless sob. It's ordinarily so easy for him to forgive, to understand the strange twists his Bonded's mind takes and know whatever offense was given wasn't meant. It's ordinarily easy but right now it isn't despite how desperately he needs his Witch's help. Guilt writhes in the pit of his stomach at the contradiction and at his own utter weakness in this moment, born of old curdled terror and new fear and exhaustion.
I knew you weren't lying.
What does one say through all of that?]
I understand, [he mutters, cloth-muted, into L's shoulder.
(He does. But put aside what's been revealed about Light, for later. If they make it to later. When they make it there.)
A moment, a breath. Myr swallows hard and pulls back enough to be heard; it puts his lips nearer his Witch's ear.] I do understand.
[But.]
I rely on you. You're my Witch. My partner. [Helpmeet. Beloved.] And that--hurt.
[It still hurts.
His voice drops to a whisper, guilt and guilt and guilt in their Bond that he has to ask, has to make his own forgiveness conditional:] Please don't do that again.
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He curls his shoulders, head hanging lower as Myr's embrace tightens. His hovering hand makes careful contact with his Bonded's back at the sound and sensation of that soft sob, and he can feel the guilt rolling off of him in sick waves. He holds, until Myr pulls away to better be heard.
Does he understand? L nods, wondering if his meaning came through, if his meaning is something he himself can even fully parse.]
...of course.
[The fear is still suppressed, but it wants to rise again. L's intuition, or what he feels in his heart and his gut, is good, almost preternaturally so... or at least, it was. His final case and difficult time adapting to Aefenglom had taught him to doubt and dread that innate certainty.
He'd dropped the key to his apartment down a storm drain after the SQUIP left. He'd abandoned all his paychecks in a dresser drawer in Mello's spare room. He'd had his "talk" with the Leviathan, committed to the cold and dark, pledging to the often-contradictory paradoxes that often precluded an elusive, secure truth.
Truth can be beautiful, worth the long and grueling chase. It can cause the world to make perfect sense for just a few moments. It can also wound deeply... and grow more tangled than objective facts and deliberate untruths.]
I won't.
[He's not lying now. He believes, as certainly as he believes he will fix things for Myr, that this will come to pass. His intentions are as gleaming as the key, as plentiful as his paychecks, as earnest as the notion that walking into dark waters is an acceptable sacrifice to confront what they hide.
His intentions are frail, in the face of the doubt and distrust he has come to feel for his own heart. It's good for making a fool of him lately, it seems, and precious little else.]
I can't stay long.
[He has to get started on this. He's anxious to throw his process behind something that will yield results he can stand on solidly.]
But I'll stay, if you want me to. For a little while.
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Hearing L say he's got to leave wakes a new tendril of it, quickly wrestled down. You're not a child, Myrobalan. Whatever's wrong won't get worse while he's gone.
Yet:]
A little longer, [he mutters. And then, quieter still:] Is there anything else you can do for it?
[The absence in his head. The one he can't think of without losing it.
He'll certainly understand if there is not; he's still mage enough in training if not actual power to realize there are problems magic can't solve.
But oh, he wishes...]
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What's easy has never impressed Myr. He sighs shallowly, reaching a hand once more to rest against his faun's temple.
He withdraws it almost immediately, with a short, impatient exhalation.]
It's like it was before. I haven't seen something like this... it's not even like when Light and I looked into matters for Lora Hastings.
[And given the timing, he rather expected it to be.]
I can get started. Faster than a little longer, if you want.
[It all depends on where Myr believes he'd be the most useful, at this moment in time. If that's researching, he'll go; if that's comforting, he'll be substandard, but remain.]
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There are many things they need to talk about later. Later, after his mind is his own again--which it sounds will be a matter of days, at least, and not hours.
He slumps a little as L withdraws his hand and pronounces his diagnosis. Too much to hope for, then; better to let his Witch be about researching the cause of his distress.
The urge to hold L to him lingers, anyway. Myr draws in a deep, deep breath to steady himself and releases his hold on the other man--though he does reach in passing to catch L's hand and press a kiss to the palm.]
Maker walk with you and guide you, then, amatus. You'll know where to find me.
[Because making another appointment right now seems...fraught, if he might forget them at any time.
(He does not want to be here alone with his own thoughts.
He does not want to be any more of burden on the one who's suddenly had to shoulder him.)]
no subject
He'll still take that blessing, and that kiss. His fingers curl against Myr's cheek, a caress that also just happens to close his palm.]
I'll know. In the meantime... I'm going to talk to some people.
[Monsters that can affect the mind, those closest to him. More witch's power that can do the same. Tomes in the dustiest corners of the library, experiments in the most shatterproof practice rooms.]
Change nothing, OK? Just for now. Unless it's to let yourself worry less.
[He's got this. Myr's witch might be riddled with frailties, but his strengths are diamond-tough.]