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Anani settles in Fever's lap, continuing to purr softly and knead her legs with his paws, pleased to be receiving attention. Valdis strokes his head once and then settles closer to Fever, bringing her tea to her lips to take a slow sip.
Hopefully it is a relief we will never need to feel.
She leans her head against Fever's, falling silent in both thought and body, happy to just sit here with her partner and her pets.
Hopefully it is a relief we will never need to feel.
She leans her head against Fever's, falling silent in both thought and body, happy to just sit here with her partner and her pets.
When she stops, they've got some room, not too close to the animals - she expects the sudden magic might spook them, and when practicing grabbing things, one should try inanimate first.
"Right. Okay, first things first. I want you to take a deep breath. Feel centered in this moment, right here. You're you. All this is, it's already in you. You're just giving it some shape."
"Right. Okay, first things first. I want you to take a deep breath. Feel centered in this moment, right here. You're you. All this is, it's already in you. You're just giving it some shape."
A mew of affirmation to Max, as she adjusts her grip on his shoulder and settles, with small claws anchoring her to where she wants to be. From here, she can observe everything, while also feeling safe in an elevated spot. Right now, she's guessing at kitten behavior, hoping it's convincing. The fact that her tail (and it's still such a wonder, having a tail) flicks idly as she rests lends credence to the illusion.
Maybe Max has already guessed. Maybe he'll guess by the time they leave. Maybe it'll just be a strange and wonderful occurrence in his life, and Fever can never let this happen in front of him again lest she be caught out when she's trying to be sneaky.
The world really has strange new perceptions from up here.
Maybe Max has already guessed. Maybe he'll guess by the time they leave. Maybe it'll just be a strange and wonderful occurrence in his life, and Fever can never let this happen in front of him again lest she be caught out when she's trying to be sneaky.
The world really has strange new perceptions from up here.
"Okay."
Radar obediently takes a deep breath and shuts his eyes. Around him, the constant free-floating noise whispers in its usual ebb and flow. It tugs him away from himself like an insistent phone ringing, his mind leaping into its usual filing clerk mode to keep it all in check. When you can hear so much of everybody else, it's kinda hard to just let yourself be you.
But he tries. Cautious, like Sheogorath's been teaching him, he reaches inside himself to turn down the dial. Not all the way -- that just freaks him out, like someone's slapped a blindfold over his eyes -- but enough to let his ears relax a little. Enough that he can hear himself loud and clear over the noise.
Radar obediently takes a deep breath and shuts his eyes. Around him, the constant free-floating noise whispers in its usual ebb and flow. It tugs him away from himself like an insistent phone ringing, his mind leaping into its usual filing clerk mode to keep it all in check. When you can hear so much of everybody else, it's kinda hard to just let yourself be you.
But he tries. Cautious, like Sheogorath's been teaching him, he reaches inside himself to turn down the dial. Not all the way -- that just freaks him out, like someone's slapped a blindfold over his eyes -- but enough to let his ears relax a little. Enough that he can hear himself loud and clear over the noise.
"Good. Now open, and follow my lead."
Setting herself into a neutral stance, she goes through a gesture slowly, letting him see how her hands move. Turning, bringing together, and then pulling apart, opening up.
"Imagine that your hands are outlining the shape of what you want. Calling up a spark, and coaxing it into life. Breathe in, and as you breathe out, you say, this is my will. You would have this exist."
And if he's doing it right, then there will be a sensation across the back of his shoulders. Like a kind touch mixed with a good word, something comforting and encouraging to push him along. Something that's been there - because he's there, after all, why should it be foreign?
Setting herself into a neutral stance, she goes through a gesture slowly, letting him see how her hands move. Turning, bringing together, and then pulling apart, opening up.
"Imagine that your hands are outlining the shape of what you want. Calling up a spark, and coaxing it into life. Breathe in, and as you breathe out, you say, this is my will. You would have this exist."
And if he's doing it right, then there will be a sensation across the back of his shoulders. Like a kind touch mixed with a good word, something comforting and encouraging to push him along. Something that's been there - because he's there, after all, why should it be foreign?
Radar nods. He takes another long breath as he imitates the movement of her hands. Turn, together, apart. One, two, three. It feels awkward as anything at first, and he keeps forgetting to match it to his breathing, let alone say the words out loud. Turn, together, apart. Breathe in, breathe out. Is this really all it takes to do something as big as magic?
Coordinate it like you're doing CPR, he thinks. That's just a couple of gestures, too -- but sometimes it's all it takes to make a whole entire heart start beating again.
"This is my will," he whispers. The shape of the movements are falling into place. "This is my will. This..."
Oh, that doesn't sound like him at all. He sighs out, frustrated, and tries again. Turn, together, apart; breathe in. "This is what I wanna do."
And he almost yelps as something brushes across his back.
Except whatever it is feels so warm and caring, too. It's not a chill like something frightening or unwanted. It's almost like, for a second, his mom touched the spot right between his shoulder blades and whispered: I'm here, Walter. He doesn't know if he's gonna laugh or cry.
Breathless, he looks up at Fever. "I think I felt something."
Coordinate it like you're doing CPR, he thinks. That's just a couple of gestures, too -- but sometimes it's all it takes to make a whole entire heart start beating again.
"This is my will," he whispers. The shape of the movements are falling into place. "This is my will. This..."
Oh, that doesn't sound like him at all. He sighs out, frustrated, and tries again. Turn, together, apart; breathe in. "This is what I wanna do."
And he almost yelps as something brushes across his back.
Except whatever it is feels so warm and caring, too. It's not a chill like something frightening or unwanted. It's almost like, for a second, his mom touched the spot right between his shoulder blades and whispered: I'm here, Walter. He doesn't know if he's gonna laugh or cry.
Breathless, he looks up at Fever. "I think I felt something."
He doesn't have to verbally say it, she thinks, but it's on her for not being clear enough, and if words work for him, it's what it is. She isn't going to rush him, isn't going to step in unless he wants her to. All the movement, the centering - that's just to get him in the right mindset, something she knows like her own breathing but understands that he doesn't.
That moment, that shift in the air, it's something she knows happened by his reaction, and she smiles when she looks at him.
"Something you know, right? It's not a stranger, even if we're doing new things."
Her oldest friend, leaping to her instinct and willpower, intertwined with her so closely. Something she reached for, and found it reaching back. There are those who see it more mechanically, she knows, but Fever has never not felt it when she casts.
That moment, that shift in the air, it's something she knows happened by his reaction, and she smiles when she looks at him.
"Something you know, right? It's not a stranger, even if we're doing new things."
Her oldest friend, leaping to her instinct and willpower, intertwined with her so closely. Something she reached for, and found it reaching back. There are those who see it more mechanically, she knows, but Fever has never not felt it when she casts.
"Aww, hello to you too," he answers back. It's so cute when animals do that. If these two aren't carful, Max is going to try to adopt them. (If Anani would allow it.)
"Okay, fishy time for kitties. That includes you too, Anani, if you keep being a good boy." Anani is easily bribed, it seems, because that gets him to stop circling Max's legs like a shark. If new arrivals means unscheduled food breaks, then maybe it's not so bad.
Max is none the wiser yet, but even if he knew, he wouldn't be upset. He's been guilty, himself, of running up to people in his dog shape to beg for belly rubs and scraps. He's got no stones to throw.
"Here we go!" Two bowls of shredded and deboned fish are set down on the floor for Anani and 'momma cat', while Max holds the third bowl up over his shoulder for the kitten. "Not too fast now, don't choke."
"Okay, fishy time for kitties. That includes you too, Anani, if you keep being a good boy." Anani is easily bribed, it seems, because that gets him to stop circling Max's legs like a shark. If new arrivals means unscheduled food breaks, then maybe it's not so bad.
Max is none the wiser yet, but even if he knew, he wouldn't be upset. He's been guilty, himself, of running up to people in his dog shape to beg for belly rubs and scraps. He's got no stones to throw.
"Here we go!" Two bowls of shredded and deboned fish are set down on the floor for Anani and 'momma cat', while Max holds the third bowl up over his shoulder for the kitten. "Not too fast now, don't choke."
He sets down his mug of tea before crossing his arms over his chest.
"You realize you owe me nothing, yes?" Artemy says, and it's so painfully honest of him, "You clearly are not that person, and do not wish to be that person anymore. What you do going forward matters more than the past."
The irony of him speaking of the past being irrelevant isn't lost on him, as someone who feels chained to his own past. He hopes she won't point out his blatant hypocrisy.
"... Do you just need someone to share in your guilt, to hold it with you?" Artemy asks sincerely. That's something he can do, at the very least.
"You realize you owe me nothing, yes?" Artemy says, and it's so painfully honest of him, "You clearly are not that person, and do not wish to be that person anymore. What you do going forward matters more than the past."
The irony of him speaking of the past being irrelevant isn't lost on him, as someone who feels chained to his own past. He hopes she won't point out his blatant hypocrisy.
"... Do you just need someone to share in your guilt, to hold it with you?" Artemy asks sincerely. That's something he can do, at the very least.
"Yeah." He laughs, a little watery. "Kinda like my mom was here for a second."
Known, and beloved. Never a stranger for an instant.
"Wow." Looking down at his hands, he makes the gesture again, mouthing this is what I wanna do instead of whispering it, just to see if it'll still work no matter how loud he says the words. And there it is again, that wisp of feeling across his back that makes him break into another disbelieving giggle.
Known, and beloved. Never a stranger for an instant.
"Wow." Looking down at his hands, he makes the gesture again, mouthing this is what I wanna do instead of whispering it, just to see if it'll still work no matter how loud he says the words. And there it is again, that wisp of feeling across his back that makes him break into another disbelieving giggle.
"No." That answer is easy, at least, and she shakes her head while trying to figure out how to say it. "What I've done, it's mine to carry. That's the agreement I made with myself. I've forgotten enough - I can't forget this."
She can't forget, because it can never happen again. She can't forget, because it defines her. Because in the end, she's just something pretending to be a person - something people are indulging, being kind to, but she knows the truth of it. For some reason, none of them see it, even when she holds it up for them to see. Even when she's all but begging them to.
"It just...can't be that simple, Artemy. Deciding to live differently doesn't make someone better. Someone's owed something."
She can't forget, because it can never happen again. She can't forget, because it defines her. Because in the end, she's just something pretending to be a person - something people are indulging, being kind to, but she knows the truth of it. For some reason, none of them see it, even when she holds it up for them to see. Even when she's all but begging them to.
"It just...can't be that simple, Artemy. Deciding to live differently doesn't make someone better. Someone's owed something."
"And who would you pay it back to?" Artemy asks, and he's being so serious with this, "Typically, the dead stay dead, there's no reconciling there. Reaching out to the families affected might work, but they aren't here. And even if you could, can you imagine what the reaction would be?"
Artemy certainly can. He doesn't think it'd be the forgiveness that all parties could benefit from to move on.
"Honestly, it'd probably be salt in the wound." He concludes, "Living your life well and with virtue may not be enough depending on who you ask, but it has to be. From where I'm sitting, it's about the only option you have."
Artemy certainly can. He doesn't think it'd be the forgiveness that all parties could benefit from to move on.
"Honestly, it'd probably be salt in the wound." He concludes, "Living your life well and with virtue may not be enough depending on who you ask, but it has to be. From where I'm sitting, it's about the only option you have."
She wants to respond with something witty, something sharp, something that makes her seem like she doesn't care. Something that dismisses what he's saying, because it isn't enough. If she's not bleeding for it, if it doesn't hurt, if it isn't some kind of sacrifice, how can it be sufficient?
But this damnable feeling rises back up in her, chokes up her throat - and she wishes, fervently, that it never got removed from where it was hiding, that she could just keep it all in her chest again. Oh, it's stressful when she does. But it's better than feeling like she's on the verge of falling to pieces. Tears are more trouble than they're worth, Fever's finding.
Subtly, one of her hands on her lap tightens, so that she might dig her nails into her palm and focus on the pain of that rather than anything else. Glance away, so there's no obvious tells in her eyes.
"Who defines that virtue, then? What counts as living your life well?"
Good. Her voice is still steady. That annoying urge is being forced back down. She can make it out of this.
But this damnable feeling rises back up in her, chokes up her throat - and she wishes, fervently, that it never got removed from where it was hiding, that she could just keep it all in her chest again. Oh, it's stressful when she does. But it's better than feeling like she's on the verge of falling to pieces. Tears are more trouble than they're worth, Fever's finding.
Subtly, one of her hands on her lap tightens, so that she might dig her nails into her palm and focus on the pain of that rather than anything else. Glance away, so there's no obvious tells in her eyes.
"Who defines that virtue, then? What counts as living your life well?"
Good. Her voice is still steady. That annoying urge is being forced back down. She can make it out of this.
Yeah, she's not really fooling Artemy. But he's keeping his distance, for now, he knows the look of someone who's trying to keep it together. Perhaps the kinder thing is to let Fever think that she has him fooled.
"I think philosophers could argue for decades about that very question." Artemy says, "I suppose you're the only one who can decide that, if we're talking about soothing your own wounds. Only you can be satisfied with the result."
"I think philosophers could argue for decades about that very question." Artemy says, "I suppose you're the only one who can decide that, if we're talking about soothing your own wounds. Only you can be satisfied with the result."
"My wounds? I don't have those." She scoffs, trying to center her mind around the ache in her hand. "The wounds that need to be soothed are the ones I inflicted, the ones I inevitably inflict. That's the bare minimum."
"The heart is just as much an organ of your body as the rest of you." He retorts quickly, in appropriate Pathologic fashion.
His meaning is obvious. Her suffering is deeper than skin deep, but is still important, considering she's showed up to his doorstep to begin with.
His meaning is obvious. Her suffering is deeper than skin deep, but is still important, considering she's showed up to his doorstep to begin with.
"If I have such a thing, it is black, shriveled, and rotten. Not the sort of thing to worry about, I promise."
She gets what he's after, but to admit anything is to crawl over broken glass, stripping any vestige of strength. Who is she, if she's not fearsome, if she can't protect herself? Not even this imitation being.
She gets what he's after, but to admit anything is to crawl over broken glass, stripping any vestige of strength. Who is she, if she's not fearsome, if she can't protect herself? Not even this imitation being.
"I could pick up one of your blades and show you the truth of the matter, but I'm afraid it'd make a mess of your clinic."
Whatever she feels, it doesn't matter. Or that it matters less than the fact that she has to, that she needs to do better, live differently - her emotions don't come into play with that, beyond the sincerity to see it changed.
Whatever she feels, it doesn't matter. Or that it matters less than the fact that she has to, that she needs to do better, live differently - her emotions don't come into play with that, beyond the sincerity to see it changed.
"Is that so."
Her eyes stay on his face, focused and careful, before she sets the tea down and reaches behind her to draw out a thin dagger made of iron. It's a little strange, patterned after a feather as it is, but it's in exceptional condition.
"I could always use this blade instead."
Would he let her, is the question.
Her eyes stay on his face, focused and careful, before she sets the tea down and reaches behind her to draw out a thin dagger made of iron. It's a little strange, patterned after a feather as it is, but it's in exceptional condition.
"I could always use this blade instead."
Would he let her, is the question.
He didn't actually expect her to take it that far. And he doesn't want her to. Really, what could would it do? How would it help?
"And what good will that do?" He replies, voice measured and calm despite an insane situation, "I can show you my heart, and you show me yours, but I'm certain I'd see beauty where you do not."
"And what good will that do?" He replies, voice measured and calm despite an insane situation, "I can show you my heart, and you show me yours, but I'm certain I'd see beauty where you do not."
"What makes you so sure of that?"
It's out, but she is absent any intent about the knife. Merely holds it, a device to make her point instead of severing flesh. Almost an accessory rather than a weapon. A knife on its own cannot harm anyone.
It's out, but she is absent any intent about the knife. Merely holds it, a device to make her point instead of severing flesh. Almost an accessory rather than a weapon. A knife on its own cannot harm anyone.
"What makes you want to hurt so badly?" Artemy retorts back, "Do you really think that will help? Furthermore, is that why you came here? To be rejected by me?"
Yes, he's really going there.
"If so, picking a butcher to condemn another butcher was a poor choice."
Yes, he's really going there.
"If so, picking a butcher to condemn another butcher was a poor choice."
She has no answer to that, no good response, and she feels an awareness creeping back into her - the sensation that she might have gone too far again, let her inner thoughts speak when perhaps they should have remained in. Answering his questions seems more difficult than facing off against a whole host of mindflayers, and the only mercy that can be found is that everything's not being shouted down by the desire to kill, cut her way out of the situation.
(As if she could cut herself open with this knife in particular. It's like her fate would stay her hand.)
"...why do you call yourself a butcher?"
Easier to ask than to answer.
(As if she could cut herself open with this knife in particular. It's like her fate would stay her hand.)
"...why do you call yourself a butcher?"
Easier to ask than to answer.
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