[Eventually, Crookytail settles from her fretting. Myr has left her before, though rarely without explanation; he always comes back. Simple faith in that has her curling into L's touch, pillowing her head on his lap once more. Her breathing drifts gradually into the easy rhythms of sleep.
Another few minutes pass. The Looking-glass House settles into itself, as if keeping vigil with L.
But he does not have to keep it until dawn.
Something in the quality of the hall's dim light changes--something in the texture of the unbroken Bond linking Myr and L adjusts itself. As abruptly as the mirror stole Myr away, it returns him, gone one second and there the next.
He stands exactly as he was when he left, fingers outstretched against glass, except--
[There's peace in what he already knows to be true. What's inevitable, unavoidable. The minutes start to stretch and contract on a relative level, and the most grounding presence is just Crookytail, faithful companion, slumbering in his extremely uncomfortable lap.
He doesn't doze, himself. Somehow, the minutes seem important. A scarcity complex?
His breaths are shallow, already practicing for the deep water, perhaps.
He stares at the mirror without looking into it. He doesn't want to see his pale face, hollow eyes, wild hair, scrawny narrow body. Just a place to look, some middle distance, a place to meditate before morning.
Maybe he's hallucinating. In fact, that would be the logical solution; that would be what he might assume. Or he's dreaming? Is there harm in treating it like a good dream, the sweet kind, before...?
A touch, maybe more, before he wakes. It's his own mind, doing what it does, creating kind lies for him to cope. He's grateful.
He stands carefully, not waking Crookytail as he dislodges her gently. Myr seems smaller, more diminutive. Not a faun any longer, more human-shaped, even though that's not technically what he is. It makes it easier for L to move in close, skeletal and bleeding but still warm, grasping for a last chance at comfort. It's safe now, free from judgment, free from rejection. He can embrace, press close, and the scent and skin seem so real.
Thank you for this. I didn't expect it to be so complete, so vivid. It's what I'd choose, for the last time.
He starts to turn Myr, press him back against the glass with the scant mass of his thin body. His lips and one hand goes toward the elf's face, the other down past his hip, because he could wake at any moment, see the Sun cresting, know it's time.]
[He's pliant as a dream to that first touch, still half-awake, but an instant later Myr's awake and oriented with his usual fierce rapidity. Surprise in all the red-shaded hues of dawn floods their Bond as L's lips find his; not unpleasant surprise, far from it, but this isn't the time or place or manner he'd expected--he did not think to be the one manhandled into a wall, and oh, Maker, they'd drawn a line for a reason...
Line or not, he feels the broad strokes of L's numbing grief; caught up in his own adrenal surge of a grief avoided and goodbyes postponed, he responds in eager kind--catching the detective's hand with his own and kissing back for several long seconds.
It could go so much further than that. The potential's there, the urge, the need--but something's false in the pretenses, and he's not a Faun any longer to be seduced, and that line's important, damn it. So soon enough he breaks off with a gasp, muttering,] You must've really thought me gone, amatus, for a welcome like that one.
[It's so seamless, for a time, what's begotten for the steep price paid. L practically expects it, for as much as he's willing to bleed, and as much as he already has.
A soft sigh, against Myr's lips. Pressing closer, as though his slight weight has any purchase, as though any promise has been made, any reasonable expectation for an extinguished future he aches for.
The hand is not unexpected. The answering lips are not, because it's his dream, isn't it, and of all times, this is the time to feel a wish realized?
The breaking off is his first, blissful, horrifying implication that it is not a wish realized. He is a ghost, seeing a ghost, and he moves hastily backwards at Myr's words, stumbling against Crookytail, falling on his ass harsh.
His breath comes uneven. His eyelids blink fast and aching, his chest hurts.]
I...
[Shuddering, it hurts, it all hurts so much.
I thought it was a dream, before...
[Myr knows. He must.
L wants to curl and cry for hours. Instead, he does what he can gather and present, all that there is, a blessed front for what is collapsing.]
Thank goodness you're still here.
[Overbright, ignorant of the whiplash, the darkness he was ready to retreat into. What if it's just an especially vivid dream? What if he's going to wake up, and go where he intended to anyway?
He's shaking, violently. All of his limbs, brain like pudding, the sense that all of him is just someone's compost impudently upright.]
[Ever and always his first impulse is to reach after his Bonded as L steps away--a gesture more urgent as he hears his Witch trip, and Crookytail's wheezing exhale of protest,]
Shit,
[but he's too late, grabbing only empty air and wincing at the sound of bone on wood.] Maker's breath, are you--
[All right, dies on his lips, unsaid, because it would take someone blinder than Myr to miss that L is the furthest thing from. Grief, he had caught and expected; sorrow to mirror his own at losing his Bonded, but not this utter disintegration shivering through half his soul. It hurts so keenly his first impulse is to sit down right then and there to cry with L, tearless and wretched.
He does not do that. He does stumble to his Bonded's side--his own feet betraying him; he's years out of practice walking on the soles--and slides down to sit with him, arms outstretched in an open invitation.]
That's right, [he manages, half-choked.] I am still here. I will be. As long as you'll have me.
[The horror of what L contemplates has not registered on a conscious level but oh, it lurks, it lies. To know his beloved's lifespan was measured against his own... ]
[Barely, a close shave. Keep it surface level, pretend it isn't so... as though Myr had stepped out for pipe weed and returned, as expected, a bad feeling gone by.]
It's... fine. Better!
[How much can Myr feel through the Bond? What did L let through, what should he have kept concealed? With all defenses down, a Bond departed but not yet broken, he'd been reckless, and stupid. What anyone supposed to respect him would think if they knew, but he's too relieved to dwell on the pretense, too overjoyed that Myr has saved him by staying.
He raises himself, putting the future bruises from his mind. He stays close to the ground, apelike, creeping forward so he can see. Myr's warm; Myr's real. Myr's not a dream, though L's can feel so convincing and vivid they've fooled him on occasion.]
You're a witch, now.
[He says it feeling no doubt, not even considering that Myr could just be a month or so away from beginning to turn into a monster again. He knows because of the change that's crept over their Bond, seeming to ignite it, a burn in his veins that is tolerable but only because he has a monster to anchor him and keep his magic cycled. It's strange; once, Near needed him to keep from losing itself, and seemingly, the tables have turned.]
You... feel alright? What do you remember about going through?
[Though he hasn't a stag's ears any longer to set low in disbelief, Myr's expression (to say nothing of their Bond) is eloquent on how just how fine he believes L to be.
They cannot address the deeper thing, the nameless thing Myr doesn't yet have his arms around (the monstrous realization he will take to Near in all its chilling clarity once the Naga gives him an opening); it would go as well as every time Myr's tried to face Leviathan head-on, because L will not, will never let him near it. Not with his usual tactics, anyway--though a foray into the shallows might have more success.
At least, for both their sakes, he's also better composed when next he speaks.]
Take a moment, amatus. You needn't be fine all at once for me after a nasty shock like that.
[Though it is terribly tempting to ignore entirely what he had felt, not say anything at all, and progress to L's questions--to bury himself entirely in the wash of his Witch's relief--it isn't in Myr to do so. It isn't in Myr any longer; he's not a Faun, to shy and tiptoe around danger or else charge it to prove he isn't frightened.
He is a Witch now, as L says, and that wins a brief rueful laugh from him.]
So I am. And I do feel all right--largely, though everything seems duller and quieter than it had been. [A Faun's senses beat an elf's. He'd miss that.
He'd miss a lot of things about being a Monster, he realizes, and that sends its own painful note of grief twisting through their Bond. He reaches a hand in L's direction, seeking contact to quiet it.]
I'll need a Monster of my own, it seems. And I don't remember getting here, except the vaguest details, [kinder perhaps not to say which details those were that had broken through his dream,] though I did dream the whole time.
[There are so many little signs, features and tells that L grew accustomed to when Myr was a faun. Comfortable to the point of attraction, even. Watching him now is like seeing a dancer under a bright light casting no shadow, a tree blowing against the wind instead of with it.
He'll get used to it, he's sure. He's already mauled what he assumed imaginary with clinging kisses, after all. His stolen taste of intimacy before oblivion, unlike the faun-isms Myr suddenly lacks, had felt extremely and properly right, so much that his cheeks still burn.
He notices, during the moment Myr urges him to take. He also notices the way his heart beats, seeming to skip out of time and rhythm. Slower, heavier, aching.
Deep breaths.
Myr doesn't just manage to reach a hand. L settles his body close as he twines their fingers, to one shorter and more compact than his. Not as hairy, now; still sleek and toned.]
We'll get you a monster. Whatever you need, and... magic will come quickly to you, given your background.
[Was that the nature of his dream? L wonders, as he promises with no limits in his heart, anythingyou need, whatever you can think of, just stay. Just stay.]
[Propriety would demand Myr not lean into what L implicitly offers by snuggling close to him, and he ignores that notion, too. Without antlers it's easy to fit his head onto the other man's shoulder, resting it there in silent acceptance. There is much between them that's unsettled again, but yes, he will stay; he has always meant to stay.]
I pray it does. I'm months behind, [behind who?] as it is.
[He squeezes L's hand, then, and smiles wanly off into the dark of the Looking-glass Hall.] Is it odd to say I'm not looking forward to that prospect--finding a new Bond?
[If Viren had only stayed, it would be unnecessary. He doesn't want to feel like he's replacing his Dragon, necessity be damned.] I can take a familiar straight off, at least. Crookytail--
[--which is when it occurs to him that the lack of hearing her muttered complaints is because he can't any longer, not that she miraculously wasn't bothered by L tripping on her. He winces to himself.] --here, come here, sweeting. I don't know how well you understand me anymore but I can't hear you any longer.
[At the sound of her name, the wormipede leaves off snuffling in a corner and waddles toward the Witch pair. She stops just outside of Myr's reach, lifting her head and waving her antennae in apparent puzzlement. Where has her Faun gone?]
No matter. You can catch up. You have no shortage of help, you only have to ask.
[Everything seems possible right now. A stark contrast, from nothing at all seeming possible a few minutes ago, not even a future. L's already thinking of the ways he can make the transition easier for his Bonded, pitch in with the responsibilities left by others, offer his particular gift for explaining very complex academic subjects with gentle clarity.]
Not odd... it's daunting, at the best of times. There's no rush, especially if the notion of a familiar suits you.
[He speaks more quickly than he usually does, nestled in this safe warm place, because now that he's here, he feels a pressing need to actively keep what he has. Any slip, any misstep, and it could all dissolve into mist. Fill the silence; chase the shadows with a high beam, drive the doubt and fear back to their teeming corners.
He watches Crookytail's approach, instinctively making space for her to reunite with Myr. The fact that she's nonplussed is palpable; she doesn't understand, does she? And Myr's not used to that.]
You can learn to divine her meaning. You'll see... magic represents an end to so many limitations.
[Not all; L is living proof that one can be an accomplished witch and still struggle. But doesn't he spend enough of his time performing miracles to excuse an equally violent backswing?]
Don't think I won't, [Myr retorts into L's shoulder, a rueful smile curling one half of his mouth.] Now that I've an opportunity to monopolize those teaching skills I've heard so much of?
[He'll take it, and gladly, for more reasons than just the pull of the Bond between their chests and how it beats with the echo of L's need for him. The tether might be an imbalanced one now and Myr might no longer have a Faun's flocking instinct, but old habits are hard to break; a display of his own need is unspoken reassurance he does not intend to go anywhere.
Nothing exaggerated about that need, either. Crookytail's hesitance really is distressing, though not crushing, and L's reassurance that the break in communication is only temporary visibly bolsters Myr's spirits. The elf keeps his hand out toward his wormipede, letting her investigate at her own pace, even as he breathes out his own worries in a sigh.]
"I'll see," [he echoes,] and I suppose I might, at that, if I get good enough at it. Wouldn't that be something?
[It hadn't been so long ago he'd been discussing his own refusal to seek magical help for his blindness with Lahabrea; such a cure had felt sacrilegious for more reasons than Myr could properly articulate in the face of the Ascian's insistent probing. Now, though, in this liminal space and charged with a mission to remain in Aefenglom for who-knew-how-long, with his restored magic to help him... It might be worth re-evaluating those reasons, mightn't it?
Or maybe that was just the borrowed euphoria speaking. Crookytail finally decides that this is, somehow, still her Faun and presses her hand into Myr's outstretched fingers, getting a headscratch in return for her troubles.]
Though that's one to worry about much later, I think--there you are, see? It's still me. You still know me. --Right now, we probably ought to get back to bed.
And you patched up. I do remember smelling blood, back there.
[Staggering and limping, the future is beginning to materialize once more. He nods, delirious in his relief, willing to commit hours of his week towards lessons and practice sessions. He'd promise anything, right now, if it meant that the future could look solid and reassuring and safe again in a way that no mirror could take away from him on a whim.
Bed sounds reasonable, doable, even if he doubts his mind can repose enough to sleep anytime soon. He'll stay awake, watching and guarding, until he's sure they're past the danger. Will he ever feel that way again?]
It's not so bad.
[He can see the bloody strength of his jaw through the pressure of each human tooth. He blinks, and imprinted on the back of his eyelids in a flash is the brief image of a jackal gnawing off its own limb to escape some fate more painful.]
We're still getting it patched up. You're not the one who has to take the bloody sheets to the laundress.
[A breathing pause falls after the words, as Myr doesn't move to stand. He keeps his head on L's shoulder, keeps one hand on Crookytail's head and the other securely on his Bonded.
There are some things that cannot be faced directly between them, and yet,]
And I've just gotten you back after I thought we'd be saying farewell forever. I can't stand the thought of you hurt now, if I ever could.
[He lets the sentiment sink in for a minute or two in early morning silence of the House before pushing himself--carefully--to his feet.]
It is different, but it won't take so long to get back in practice. Should be able to make it home. [A beat.] With help, if you'd not mind.
[It is, perhaps, more important than ever to model certain things his stubborn pride would otherwise prevent him from doing.]
[There's a long silence as Myr doesn't move to stand, saying something that is uncomfortably true. L is here, exhausted with relief, because Myr didn't say farewell forever. Myr speaks of a loss he was also spared from. It's as heavy as it is deeply moving, to think that their devotion could be reciprocal this way, even if L is left feeling as though something is unbalanced, and an apology is owed from his side for the shuddering darkness that still reels on the edges of this improbable second chance they've been granted.
I almost did something terrible; I almost wounded you so deeply.
He reaches out swiftly, offering his bare-limbed, scrawny strength, such as it is, to help Myr stand. Compared to some things, this is mercifully easy. Acts of service have always been a very reliable love language for him to communicate with.]
I can't make it all the way, but I can teleport a good part of the distance.
[He's never carried three total beings, which it would be, counting Crookytail. That shaves additional distance off of what he's willing to risk.]
From there, we can do our best to keep to softer ground...
[He staggered over that ground recklessly barefoot. His own feet are not wholly undamaged from the endeavor, dirty and scraped in places. That bodes poorly, but they'll be more careful. They're not moving with panic in their hearts, on the journey home.]
[It is an apology Myr aches to hear without knowing it--not for the redress it would provide, but because they would be speaking about that black thing at all instead of facing away from it.
In time, perhaps. Perhaps that too was embedded as a promise in his own return through the mirrors, that the unfinished work he needed a Witch's power for encompassed saving his beloved from himself.
Maker and Lady, might it be so.
He gives L's hand a squeeze once they're both standing, reluctant still to let go.]
That should do. We're not in any hurry, after all. In fact-- [Something once withered and dormant shivers back to life in him, a dried dead flower uncurling at magic's touch into bright and joyous life. Myr's tone is almost shy, with the force of that sudden joy behind it.] --I know it's not ideal, given the hour--but would you mind explaining the spell as you do it?
[Teleportation would be beyond him for a while yet. Might not even be possible, without sight. But at least he could try now. At least he had the way to learn. The channel between him and Talam's magic is there, sure as his connection to the Fade had once been and nearly as familiar.
[L aches to give voice to his remorse, at least as much as Myr aches to hear it. But it would be a confession, too, and he clings like a coward to his plausible deniability. The darkness is always there, he'd claim fiercely, always his to hold and mutually haunt. It meant nothing particular tonight, nothing concerning, nothing devastating.
It's tame, after all. To open the cage would be to soundly disprove as much, and there would be no putting it back inside once it was out. There would be no refuge in the embrace of its secret oblivion ever again, however poorly kept.
He chases the shadows with an overbright smile that Myr can certainly hear, even if he can't see it. Though L hasn't ever made study of necromancy, seeing no reason and cultivating no particular interest, he feels a disturbing connection to the art tonight. He's moving and speaking in spite of everything, isn't he? It's unnatural, maybe even profane, for him to stand and hold someone's hand and smile, some kind of freakish puppet show for some kind of demented farce.
Is the farce touching Myr? Daring to love him, but managing it like treacle, the sweetness offset by the way it clings and eats holes in teeth that could otherwise be strong and healthy?]
I'm glad to explain.
[Relieved as hell, actually, to have a process, to give his voice to explanation instead of despair or defense.]
It's a universal spell, so likely one of the first you'll learn, and endlessly useful. Runes were important when I first learned, and incantations... they help tighten the focus and prevent landing somewhere you don't intend. But as you practice, and learn the extradimensional path as well as the roads and routes you might travel by foot, it's as normal and reflexive as taking a step forward. It's taxing based on how much matter you're taking with you- a satchel won't exhaust you as much as a companion- and how much distance you're covering. You can build strength and stamina over time, but everyone has a limit they probably can't grow beyond, just like everyone will only ever be able to lift so much, or run so far without collapsing.
I don't need them, but... I can show you the runes that'll help to start with.
[He guides Myr's hand, tracing shapes in his own palm with a fingertip. The combination of flesh and magic is warm.]
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Another few minutes pass. The Looking-glass House settles into itself, as if keeping vigil with L.
But he does not have to keep it until dawn.
Something in the quality of the hall's dim light changes--something in the texture of the unbroken Bond linking Myr and L adjusts itself. As abruptly as the mirror stole Myr away, it returns him, gone one second and there the next.
He stands exactly as he was when he left, fingers outstretched against glass, except--
Except he's no longer a Faun.]
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He doesn't doze, himself. Somehow, the minutes seem important. A scarcity complex?
His breaths are shallow, already practicing for the deep water, perhaps.
He stares at the mirror without looking into it. He doesn't want to see his pale face, hollow eyes, wild hair, scrawny narrow body. Just a place to look, some middle distance, a place to meditate before morning.
Maybe he's hallucinating. In fact, that would be the logical solution; that would be what he might assume. Or he's dreaming? Is there harm in treating it like a good dream, the sweet kind, before...?
A touch, maybe more, before he wakes. It's his own mind, doing what it does, creating kind lies for him to cope. He's grateful.
He stands carefully, not waking Crookytail as he dislodges her gently. Myr seems smaller, more diminutive. Not a faun any longer, more human-shaped, even though that's not technically what he is. It makes it easier for L to move in close, skeletal and bleeding but still warm, grasping for a last chance at comfort. It's safe now, free from judgment, free from rejection. He can embrace, press close, and the scent and skin seem so real.
Thank you for this. I didn't expect it to be so complete, so vivid. It's what I'd choose, for the last time.
He starts to turn Myr, press him back against the glass with the scant mass of his thin body. His lips and one hand goes toward the elf's face, the other down past his hip, because he could wake at any moment, see the Sun cresting, know it's time.]
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Line or not, he feels the broad strokes of L's numbing grief; caught up in his own adrenal surge of a grief avoided and goodbyes postponed, he responds in eager kind--catching the detective's hand with his own and kissing back for several long seconds.
It could go so much further than that. The potential's there, the urge, the need--but something's false in the pretenses, and he's not a Faun any longer to be seduced, and that line's important, damn it. So soon enough he breaks off with a gasp, muttering,] You must've really thought me gone, amatus, for a welcome like that one.
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A soft sigh, against Myr's lips. Pressing closer, as though his slight weight has any purchase, as though any promise has been made, any reasonable expectation for an extinguished future he aches for.
The hand is not unexpected. The answering lips are not, because it's his dream, isn't it, and of all times, this is the time to feel a wish realized?
The breaking off is his first, blissful, horrifying implication that it is not a wish realized. He is a ghost, seeing a ghost, and he moves hastily backwards at Myr's words, stumbling against Crookytail, falling on his ass harsh.
His breath comes uneven. His eyelids blink fast and aching, his chest hurts.]
I...
[Shuddering, it hurts, it all hurts so much.
I thought it was a dream, before...
[Myr knows. He must.
L wants to curl and cry for hours. Instead, he does what he can gather and present, all that there is, a blessed front for what is collapsing.]
Thank goodness you're still here.
[Overbright, ignorant of the whiplash, the darkness he was ready to retreat into. What if it's just an especially vivid dream? What if he's going to wake up, and go where he intended to anyway?
He's shaking, violently. All of his limbs, brain like pudding, the sense that all of him is just someone's compost impudently upright.]
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Shit,
[but he's too late, grabbing only empty air and wincing at the sound of bone on wood.] Maker's breath, are you--
[All right, dies on his lips, unsaid, because it would take someone blinder than Myr to miss that L is the furthest thing from. Grief, he had caught and expected; sorrow to mirror his own at losing his Bonded, but not this utter disintegration shivering through half his soul. It hurts so keenly his first impulse is to sit down right then and there to cry with L, tearless and wretched.
He does not do that. He does stumble to his Bonded's side--his own feet betraying him; he's years out of practice walking on the soles--and slides down to sit with him, arms outstretched in an open invitation.]
That's right, [he manages, half-choked.] I am still here. I will be. As long as you'll have me.
[The horror of what L contemplates has not registered on a conscious level but oh, it lurks, it lies. To know his beloved's lifespan was measured against his own... ]
Come check for yourself, amatus. I'm here.
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I'm fine!
[Barely, a close shave. Keep it surface level, pretend it isn't so... as though Myr had stepped out for pipe weed and returned, as expected, a bad feeling gone by.]
It's... fine. Better!
[How much can Myr feel through the Bond? What did L let through, what should he have kept concealed? With all defenses down, a Bond departed but not yet broken, he'd been reckless, and stupid. What anyone supposed to respect him would think if they knew, but he's too relieved to dwell on the pretense, too overjoyed that Myr has saved him by staying.
He raises himself, putting the future bruises from his mind. He stays close to the ground, apelike, creeping forward so he can see. Myr's warm; Myr's real. Myr's not a dream, though L's can feel so convincing and vivid they've fooled him on occasion.]
You're a witch, now.
[He says it feeling no doubt, not even considering that Myr could just be a month or so away from beginning to turn into a monster again. He knows because of the change that's crept over their Bond, seeming to ignite it, a burn in his veins that is tolerable but only because he has a monster to anchor him and keep his magic cycled. It's strange; once, Near needed him to keep from losing itself, and seemingly, the tables have turned.]
You... feel alright? What do you remember about going through?
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They cannot address the deeper thing, the nameless thing Myr doesn't yet have his arms around (the monstrous realization he will take to Near in all its chilling clarity once the Naga gives him an opening); it would go as well as every time Myr's tried to face Leviathan head-on, because L will not, will never let him near it. Not with his usual tactics, anyway--though a foray into the shallows might have more success.
At least, for both their sakes, he's also better composed when next he speaks.]
Take a moment, amatus. You needn't be fine all at once for me after a nasty shock like that.
[Though it is terribly tempting to ignore entirely what he had felt, not say anything at all, and progress to L's questions--to bury himself entirely in the wash of his Witch's relief--it isn't in Myr to do so. It isn't in Myr any longer; he's not a Faun, to shy and tiptoe around danger or else charge it to prove he isn't frightened.
He is a Witch now, as L says, and that wins a brief rueful laugh from him.]
So I am. And I do feel all right--largely, though everything seems duller and quieter than it had been. [A Faun's senses beat an elf's. He'd miss that.
He'd miss a lot of things about being a Monster, he realizes, and that sends its own painful note of grief twisting through their Bond. He reaches a hand in L's direction, seeking contact to quiet it.]
I'll need a Monster of my own, it seems. And I don't remember getting here, except the vaguest details, [kinder perhaps not to say which details those were that had broken through his dream,] though I did dream the whole time.
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He'll get used to it, he's sure. He's already mauled what he assumed imaginary with clinging kisses, after all. His stolen taste of intimacy before oblivion, unlike the faun-isms Myr suddenly lacks, had felt extremely and properly right, so much that his cheeks still burn.
He notices, during the moment Myr urges him to take. He also notices the way his heart beats, seeming to skip out of time and rhythm. Slower, heavier, aching.
Deep breaths.
Myr doesn't just manage to reach a hand. L settles his body close as he twines their fingers, to one shorter and more compact than his. Not as hairy, now; still sleek and toned.]
We'll get you a monster. Whatever you need, and... magic will come quickly to you, given your background.
[Was that the nature of his dream? L wonders, as he promises with no limits in his heart, anything you need, whatever you can think of, just stay. Just stay.]
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I pray it does. I'm months behind, [behind who?] as it is.
[He squeezes L's hand, then, and smiles wanly off into the dark of the Looking-glass Hall.] Is it odd to say I'm not looking forward to that prospect--finding a new Bond?
[If Viren had only stayed, it would be unnecessary. He doesn't want to feel like he's replacing his Dragon, necessity be damned.] I can take a familiar straight off, at least. Crookytail--
[--which is when it occurs to him that the lack of hearing her muttered complaints is because he can't any longer, not that she miraculously wasn't bothered by L tripping on her. He winces to himself.] --here, come here, sweeting. I don't know how well you understand me anymore but I can't hear you any longer.
[At the sound of her name, the wormipede leaves off snuffling in a corner and waddles toward the Witch pair. She stops just outside of Myr's reach, lifting her head and waving her antennae in apparent puzzlement. Where has her Faun gone?]
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[Everything seems possible right now. A stark contrast, from nothing at all seeming possible a few minutes ago, not even a future. L's already thinking of the ways he can make the transition easier for his Bonded, pitch in with the responsibilities left by others, offer his particular gift for explaining very complex academic subjects with gentle clarity.]
Not odd... it's daunting, at the best of times. There's no rush, especially if the notion of a familiar suits you.
[He speaks more quickly than he usually does, nestled in this safe warm place, because now that he's here, he feels a pressing need to actively keep what he has. Any slip, any misstep, and it could all dissolve into mist. Fill the silence; chase the shadows with a high beam, drive the doubt and fear back to their teeming corners.
He watches Crookytail's approach, instinctively making space for her to reunite with Myr. The fact that she's nonplussed is palpable; she doesn't understand, does she? And Myr's not used to that.]
You can learn to divine her meaning. You'll see... magic represents an end to so many limitations.
[Not all; L is living proof that one can be an accomplished witch and still struggle. But doesn't he spend enough of his time performing miracles to excuse an equally violent backswing?]
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[He'll take it, and gladly, for more reasons than just the pull of the Bond between their chests and how it beats with the echo of L's need for him. The tether might be an imbalanced one now and Myr might no longer have a Faun's flocking instinct, but old habits are hard to break; a display of his own need is unspoken reassurance he does not intend to go anywhere.
Nothing exaggerated about that need, either. Crookytail's hesitance really is distressing, though not crushing, and L's reassurance that the break in communication is only temporary visibly bolsters Myr's spirits. The elf keeps his hand out toward his wormipede, letting her investigate at her own pace, even as he breathes out his own worries in a sigh.]
"I'll see," [he echoes,] and I suppose I might, at that, if I get good enough at it. Wouldn't that be something?
[It hadn't been so long ago he'd been discussing his own refusal to seek magical help for his blindness with Lahabrea; such a cure had felt sacrilegious for more reasons than Myr could properly articulate in the face of the Ascian's insistent probing. Now, though, in this liminal space and charged with a mission to remain in Aefenglom for who-knew-how-long, with his restored magic to help him... It might be worth re-evaluating those reasons, mightn't it?
Or maybe that was just the borrowed euphoria speaking. Crookytail finally decides that this is, somehow, still her Faun and presses her hand into Myr's outstretched fingers, getting a headscratch in return for her troubles.]
Though that's one to worry about much later, I think--there you are, see? It's still me. You still know me. --Right now, we probably ought to get back to bed.
And you patched up. I do remember smelling blood, back there.
[That had gotten through the dream somehow.]
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Bed sounds reasonable, doable, even if he doubts his mind can repose enough to sleep anytime soon. He'll stay awake, watching and guarding, until he's sure they're past the danger. Will he ever feel that way again?]
It's not so bad.
[He can see the bloody strength of his jaw through the pressure of each human tooth. He blinks, and imprinted on the back of his eyelids in a flash is the brief image of a jackal gnawing off its own limb to escape some fate more painful.]
You can walk? It's... different, it has to be.
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[A breathing pause falls after the words, as Myr doesn't move to stand. He keeps his head on L's shoulder, keeps one hand on Crookytail's head and the other securely on his Bonded.
There are some things that cannot be faced directly between them, and yet,]
And I've just gotten you back after I thought we'd be saying farewell forever. I can't stand the thought of you hurt now, if I ever could.
[He lets the sentiment sink in for a minute or two in early morning silence of the House before pushing himself--carefully--to his feet.]
It is different, but it won't take so long to get back in practice. Should be able to make it home. [A beat.] With help, if you'd not mind.
[It is, perhaps, more important than ever to model certain things his stubborn pride would otherwise prevent him from doing.]
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I almost did something terrible; I almost wounded you so deeply.
He reaches out swiftly, offering his bare-limbed, scrawny strength, such as it is, to help Myr stand. Compared to some things, this is mercifully easy. Acts of service have always been a very reliable love language for him to communicate with.]
I can't make it all the way, but I can teleport a good part of the distance.
[He's never carried three total beings, which it would be, counting Crookytail. That shaves additional distance off of what he's willing to risk.]
From there, we can do our best to keep to softer ground...
[He staggered over that ground recklessly barefoot. His own feet are not wholly undamaged from the endeavor, dirty and scraped in places. That bodes poorly, but they'll be more careful. They're not moving with panic in their hearts, on the journey home.]
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In time, perhaps. Perhaps that too was embedded as a promise in his own return through the mirrors, that the unfinished work he needed a Witch's power for encompassed saving his beloved from himself.
Maker and Lady, might it be so.
He gives L's hand a squeeze once they're both standing, reluctant still to let go.]
That should do. We're not in any hurry, after all. In fact-- [Something once withered and dormant shivers back to life in him, a dried dead flower uncurling at magic's touch into bright and joyous life. Myr's tone is almost shy, with the force of that sudden joy behind it.] --I know it's not ideal, given the hour--but would you mind explaining the spell as you do it?
[Teleportation would be beyond him for a while yet. Might not even be possible, without sight. But at least he could try now. At least he had the way to learn. The channel between him and Talam's magic is there, sure as his connection to the Fade had once been and nearly as familiar.
He is a mage again.]
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It's tame, after all. To open the cage would be to soundly disprove as much, and there would be no putting it back inside once it was out. There would be no refuge in the embrace of its secret oblivion ever again, however poorly kept.
He chases the shadows with an overbright smile that Myr can certainly hear, even if he can't see it. Though L hasn't ever made study of necromancy, seeing no reason and cultivating no particular interest, he feels a disturbing connection to the art tonight. He's moving and speaking in spite of everything, isn't he? It's unnatural, maybe even profane, for him to stand and hold someone's hand and smile, some kind of freakish puppet show for some kind of demented farce.
Is the farce touching Myr? Daring to love him, but managing it like treacle, the sweetness offset by the way it clings and eats holes in teeth that could otherwise be strong and healthy?]
I'm glad to explain.
[Relieved as hell, actually, to have a process, to give his voice to explanation instead of despair or defense.]
It's a universal spell, so likely one of the first you'll learn, and endlessly useful. Runes were important when I first learned, and incantations... they help tighten the focus and prevent landing somewhere you don't intend. But as you practice, and learn the extradimensional path as well as the roads and routes you might travel by foot, it's as normal and reflexive as taking a step forward. It's taxing based on how much matter you're taking with you- a satchel won't exhaust you as much as a companion- and how much distance you're covering. You can build strength and stamina over time, but everyone has a limit they probably can't grow beyond, just like everyone will only ever be able to lift so much, or run so far without collapsing.
I don't need them, but... I can show you the runes that'll help to start with.
[He guides Myr's hand, tracing shapes in his own palm with a fingertip. The combination of flesh and magic is warm.]