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middaeg2020-10-11 02:59 pm
hearthebell) wrote in middaeg2020-10-11 02:59 pm
Entry tags:
Don't Let the Dead Bite [Closed]
Who: L, Myr, Niles, and Henry
When: Backdated slightly to September 26
Where: The Outpost
What: Necromancy and finger reattachment
Warnings: Little bit of blood? Maybe some profanity.
[At first, it had sounded too good to believe. So much that L had initially dismissed it as a cruel and insulting lie fed to him through one too trusting and optimistic to see it for what it was. As evidence had mounted that it was, in fact, believable, L's scoffing derision had given way to disturbed silence, heavy with uneasy speculation.
You're telling me, seriously, that he gave them to a necromancer who has had them this whole time?
It would be a lie to say that he's not disgusted by the notion, more than he would be if animals had gnawed them down to sun-bleached bone. It would be an equal lie to claim that he doesn't want them back, and as elegantly as Hiccup's prosthetics have served him, he simply can't refuse the peace offering. It's conditional on Myr being there, of course, because he's not foolish enough to meet with Niles or his associate alone, even after the establishment of some kind of truce. There's also a chance that it's been too long and even his native flesh won't rejoin what's mended and scarred and callused over the months they've been separated. He anticipates pain, while being reluctant to kill it with something that would also dull his mind when he feels he needs all his wits about him.
Hope is no indicator of trust, after all, and every shred of trust he possesses rests with his Bonded. Their appearance at the Outpost is sudden, teleported to the agreed-upon location, and L is tense, prepared for an ambush, wondering if it was foolish to come even with a companion. The air around him carries a charge and the faint scent of ozone along with it, a hint that he will tear the nearest molecules with lightning if anyone present intends to make a fool of him.]
When: Backdated slightly to September 26
Where: The Outpost
What: Necromancy and finger reattachment
Warnings: Little bit of blood? Maybe some profanity.
[At first, it had sounded too good to believe. So much that L had initially dismissed it as a cruel and insulting lie fed to him through one too trusting and optimistic to see it for what it was. As evidence had mounted that it was, in fact, believable, L's scoffing derision had given way to disturbed silence, heavy with uneasy speculation.
You're telling me, seriously, that he gave them to a necromancer who has had them this whole time?
It would be a lie to say that he's not disgusted by the notion, more than he would be if animals had gnawed them down to sun-bleached bone. It would be an equal lie to claim that he doesn't want them back, and as elegantly as Hiccup's prosthetics have served him, he simply can't refuse the peace offering. It's conditional on Myr being there, of course, because he's not foolish enough to meet with Niles or his associate alone, even after the establishment of some kind of truce. There's also a chance that it's been too long and even his native flesh won't rejoin what's mended and scarred and callused over the months they've been separated. He anticipates pain, while being reluctant to kill it with something that would also dull his mind when he feels he needs all his wits about him.
Hope is no indicator of trust, after all, and every shred of trust he possesses rests with his Bonded. Their appearance at the Outpost is sudden, teleported to the agreed-upon location, and L is tense, prepared for an ambush, wondering if it was foolish to come even with a companion. The air around him carries a charge and the faint scent of ozone along with it, a hint that he will tear the nearest molecules with lightning if anyone present intends to make a fool of him.]
no subject
It was a good idea to bring his faun. He'll find a way to say thank you later, because it doesn't always come to L immediately or naturally, to voice gentle things even if he feels them fully.
Once inside, he nearly balks again at a setup that seems primed to elicit a negative reaction from him. The scent of the plastic, sterilization measures, even the sound of the occasional draft crinkling the tarps and plastic, churns his stomach and turns up the adrenaline already taking his overstressed heart to task. He doesn't even notice that the chair is more comfortable or lacking restraint, it's the insult of it that eclipses the practicality of the precautions. Shaking, he's about to turn an accusation onto Niles, whose own lack of aggression is reading as more condescending than kind with every passing moment...
...but he has to put the brakes on it (like so much), because there's a newcomer, who requires more focus and attention. He swallows down the anger and the bile, trying to balance his exasperation with the lighthearted flippancy Henry presents and his still-incubating comprehension that his fingers are here, and he can be whole again, thanks to... well, apparently this man. Gratitude is in order, if this is legitimate. If it's not? Other things will be in order, of course. He'll have no problem delivering if that's the case, but in the meantime...]
Henry? It's Linden.
[Brusque, curt. He's been on-and-off considering the implications of someone else keeping parts of his body around and alive. Was it merely a happily successful experiment, or something more invasive and mean-spirited? L is just meeting Henry now, but what if he's familiar with L's fingers on a level the detective never would have consented to? Has Henry been using him, disembodied as the presentation might be, for something base and perverted? Did they stay warm through all of it?
Either he's right on the money, or there's something extremely wrong with L. He tries to push the notions from his head; right now, there is one objective, one goal, and everything else can wait until his digits aren't clacking metal prosthetics with a harsher grip than he can always reliably regulate.]
Tell me what you need, from me, and I'd prefer to get on with it, if it's all the same to you.
[Pre-surgery jitters manifest in different ways. L's unmedicated, and hardly unaffected.]
no subject
Henry takes stock of these two strangers, assigns the name Linden to L with a short nod, and makes an immediate judgement about whose fingers these belong to. He doesn't need to make that judgement, considering Myr's visible fingers upon L's shoulder, all digits in good form, but it's hard to ever tell where the smiling mage is looking. The dark doesn't help.]
So you're the one who forked over his phalanges. [He points directly at L while he unabashedly crosses the room to unite with Niles.] Don't worry! They've been in good hands. Hands that were a few fingers richer for a few months! Nya ha ha! I crack myself up.
[The animosity between all parties is about the only thing Henry can detect, having a good sense for some of these things, but not on a very complex level. Standing at the Chimera's side, Henry's arms seem swallowed by the full-circle cape that seems more suited for the thick of Winter than it does for early Autumn. He's a desert-dwelling dark mage who runs a little chilly, for reasons only partially related to necromancy.]
Any necromancer worth his salt in this realm's gonna be a healer, too... So a lot of what I need's for you to try to sit still, 'cause things are about to get bloody before I can stitch any fingers back on. I like a bloody spatter as much as the next blood enthusiast, but usually only on the battlefield, so sitting still's a good idea. A tourniquet will hurt, but it couldn't HURT, if you catch my drift. We'll get there.
[If L's insistent about getting on with it, one of Henry's hands emerges from the cloak as he points to the chair, indicating for the other Witch to sit. Some of the necromancer's own fingers are banded and striped in black — it's hard to say whether it's intentional or necrotic in nature.]
I don't know why Niles only has ONE chair, [This is where he casts a sort of puzzled look in Niles' direction;] but I figure it's best for you to sit, 'cause you're gonna be the one whose knees'll buckle if something goes horribly wrong! But I'll try to make it as painless as possible. Oh! I have a potion that'll knock you out COLD, if you'd rather do it that way! Only I'm not a great alchemist, so it has the risk of making you hallucinate for a three days straight instead... I'm working on it.
[Maybe not his specialty, and maybe not a great option. Especially if unmedicated is L's preference. Henry's just treating this like a check-up at the dentist.]
no subject
Henry's chatter pulls a smile from Niles in spite of the gravity of the risk they were taking, and after locking the door he strides past both L and the setup to stand next to Henry wearing a far more genuine smile than L's ever seen on him.]
I had a stool to use, but you're so short I figured you could just bend over. [As if to make his point clear he leans in and gives the top of Henry's head a quick kiss. Then he heads to a wide couch that was pushed up against a wall to get it out of the splash zone. He curls his tail around himself and gets comfortable.] Don't sell yourself short Henry, that potion worked perfectly, and the hallucinations were more entertaining than ghastly. [He jerks his head in the direction of a doorway opposite the entrance of the house.] What furniture that fit I put in the hall rather than finding more tarps.
no subject
Except. While under any other condition the banter between Niles and his Bonded Witch would be endearing--humanizing--it rakes across Myr's nerves now. He opens his mouth, reconsiders, and bites his tongue for a solid ten seconds until he has something useful to say.]
If you could find that stool, serah Niles, [he manages at length, crisp and dispassionate; too bad the Chimera's already walked away from them and plunked himself down on something,] I'd like to stay at my Bonded's side.
[If the price of L remaining lucid for this is Myr also being at risk of weak-kneed collapse, well. Better to prepare for it.]
no subject
Right, right, sorry.
[He doesn't dawdle, and does in fact bring back two chairs. Along with a book from a table that's back there too. He definitely won't be doing much reading tonight, but he has to have something to at least pretend to do with his hands, or he'll end up picking at his scars or his nails. He retreats but lingers at the edge of the room, not actually offering any more assistance, but not willing to commit to sitting down until he's sure no one is going to ask.]
no subject
But the next interaction has the sorcerer humming. It's difficult to tell where he looks in a room, but his gaze flits from Niles, to Myr; to Niles, then Myr once more, looking for something he can't see, apparently. His smile is statuesque.
But with more chairs conveniently provided (and even one for him, despite his perfectly average height), Henry pats one of them invitingly for Myr and L.]
Well, guess we've got some fingers to reattach. And if you're his Bonded, that's some good thinking, mister. [A nod to Myr. Poor guy.] It COULD get ugly... I guess. I'm not much of a Bonds expert, though, so don't ask me about sympathetic pain. Feels like just yesterday I got one of my own.
[And yet, he's been here long enough to learn this much necromancy... It'd be pretty obvious to understand that Henry's just one of those Witches who would've been content exploding, probably.]
Whenever you're ready, I'm ALWAYS ready for a little bloody magic. It's kind of a hobby.
no subject
Well. The diminutive necromancer has an air of one who prepared for a party and arrived at a wake, doesn't he? An appropriate place for a necromancer, certainly, just minus the reverence and decorum. Perhaps L expected something different, living as one who has felt dead, but even as Henry cheerfully alludes to the "ugly" possibilities, his resolve won't be shaken.
There's just one regret and doubt, and that's the fact that Myr is likely to feel what seeps through their Bond on some level, no matter how stoic L remains or how well he controls his reactions to it. He might have been considerate enough at least for a shot or two of whiskey for the faun's sake, even if he didn't wish to opt for Henry's offered potion and its undesirable side effects. Maybe that's a decision he'll regret shortly; maybe restraints would have ironically been the better and kinder choice.
He remains close to Myr, almost cleaves to his Bonded's side, but addresses Henry.]
I'm sure you've been told this, at some point already, but your bedside manner could stand a reconsidered approach.
[He isn't actually asking for comfort or sympathy. There's a sense of control that comes with criticizing, and control is what he craves beyond any anesthetic.
He takes his seat, seeming uncomfortable and rigid in any chair he can't curl into his typical "safe" posture, waiting for Myr to do the same. For the first time, he reveals his hands fully, along with the fact that he's left his prosthetics at home. As a precious last resort, he couldn't risk bringing them or allowing them to be taken by one who has expressed an interest in crippling him.
The damage has healed, even callused, given the friction the set of clockwork fingers had placed on the knuckles at the site of their neat amputations. Pale and bony, with clearly defined tendons, it's at least clear that those spindly fingers match this man. He glances at Myr, reaching through the Bond, the only softness he allows himself to display at this incredibly exposed and uncomfortable moment.
I'm sorry. I'll block what I can from you so you don't have to feel it.
Whether Myr would gladly take on that burden isn't the issue. If L can selfishly hoard it away from the one who has already given him so much...
He's a still and compliant patient, but his gaze always at least keeps Niles in the periphery. He's still not entirely convinced that the chimera won't try something once he's cut, knowing that L's magic flows generously and often violently along with his blood.]
I don't care about "ugly." I care that this works.
no subject
Though he is learning, bit by bit, that there is merit in trusting his Bonded's discretion on when to share those burdens.]
Thank you, [he says, to Niles and to Henry, as the chair's brought over and he takes a seat at L's side. He sets his staff down where he can keep a hoof in contact with it before reaching out and patting the air until he finds his Bonded's thigh, there to rest his hand. It's a breath, and then another breath, before he can straighten out of his own curl-shouldered hunch, put a pleasant expression on his face, and find in himself something other than worry and dismay. Gratitude--gratitude even for a necromancer who fits none of Myr's Nevarran-informed preconceptions of the breed--is a good place to start.]
He is my Bonded, and we're both grateful to you for doing this, serah Henry. [Firmly ignoring the mention of any kind of magic involving blood; it's a requirement for healing here that he still cannot bring himself to accept.] And appreciate the risk you're both taking in it.