Who: Fever, Helena, and those threading with them What:January non-event things. When: All month. Where: Across the isle. Warning(s): To be noted in threads individually
Pretty much the second he read the note that came with Fever's Givingstide gift, Radar leapt for his sending stone to holler YES I WANNA LEARN TEACH ME WHEN CAN WE START. And now the day's here! It's happening! He's gonna finally know how to do magic!!
...This did not stop him from occupying himself before Fever arrived, so she finds him by the chicken coop, balanced on a stepstool, hammering a couple thin planks over a spot on its roof. He waves so enthusiastically he almost loses his balance, and has to catch himself against the coop with a laugh. "I'm just fixing up a gap in the coop's roof. It ain't that big but it was letting the snow in. How's it going?"
The chickens clustered around the base of the coop, because they have no concept of loud noises now mean less cold air later, don't look nearly as chipper as Radar. A few of them let out perturbed clucks as they fluff up their feathers against the cold.
"I've decided I've experienced enough of winter to determine that I like it. Sure, it's cold and the daylight leaves quicker, but it has its own charm, even if we're all waiting for spring."
One of the chickens has decided to come investigate the newcomer, examining her boots and pecking at the mud as if it will yield what is being sought. Fever looks down at the chicken, and then back up to Radar.
"Yeah." Radar draws his scarf a little more snugly around himself. "I like it when it's warmer, but it always gets so pretty in the winter, you know? As soon as the snow comes down and everything gets real quiet..." A small laugh. "Even the 4077th'd look pretty."
Until the next round of jeeps came through and broke the spell, anyway.
"And sure, you can go ahead, that one don't mind it at all. She likes people. She's even tried climbing into my lap when I'm sitting down sometimes."
With permission, then, Fever bends down to the bird. It's still a little nervewracking - what if she holds them wrong, and they want to get away from her? - but the chicken is placid, feathered and quiet, and scooping her up feels like no more effort than picking up a pillow. Warm, soft, and weighing so little she can be supported on one arm alone, while the other cautiously pets her.
It's okay. It's actually okay. Nothing's happening, no twitches in her hands, no shrieking thoughts, nothing beyond her and the moment. Something fragile in her hands, and all she feels pulled to do is to stroke soft feathers while the bird chooses to remain. Incredible. So this is what it's like.
It sounds like a single note held and echoing, spreading far beyond the reach of whatever instrument played it. A great unfolding, like flowers in spring. Sometimes Radar doesn't have the right words for what he hears, but that's the best way he can think to describe it. More space to stretch, to breathe. Relief.
He's smiling, quiet and fond, as he props his elbow on the coop's roof and his chin in his hand. All he does is watch Fever pet the chicken for a little bit.
"You sound a lot happier," he finally offers, soft.
"Mortanne and Father and me - we came together, and we wove a great spell, and we found the part of me I was trying so hard to stop and control. And we tore it out, Radar. We got it out."
The joy of it fills her, as she impulsively presses her cheek to the hen in her arms just to feel the softness of the feathers there. Her mind will always be chaos, she will always know the allure of violence, she will always have thoughts - but her hands are her own. Her choices are her own. It's what she wanted all this time.
"I'm free. I don't have to worry that something else is going to take over. I don't have to hurt anyone if I don't want to anymore."
Quick as a flash, Radar vaults off the stepstool and practically hurls himself at Fever, crushing her -- and, by extension, the chicken -- in an embrace. The chicken lets out a muffled squawk, but settles into the group hug with good-natured, avian resignation pretty quick.
"Fever! You got it out!" He's outright bouncing on his toes in excitement. "You did it, you fixed it! Oh, wow, I can't believe it -- !"
She laughs, hugging him with her free arm and trying to not squish the chicken too much in the embrace. Happiness is clear and bright, nigh musical in its truth, and she's grinning enough that she feels it in her face.
"As much as it can be fixed, yes. It's...I'm safer, now. You're safe. Everyone else is safe."
And she can breathe, and she can feel closer to her own skin, and she can touch other living beings without the flickering doubts that inhabited her. She thinks he'll understand - that one can take the shrapnel out, the infected organ, reset the bone - but the mind is a place where no surgeon's knife can go. That takes time, and care, and being out of whatever sort of war one is in.
Because that's just as important, if not more so. Korea taught him that safety can be relative. Sure, it's a relief that he never has to worry about some awful compulsion overriding his friend and hurting him or people he loves in the process, of course it is -- but Radar thinks of how much she's been hurting, carrying around that weight, and hears how she sings now that she's let it go. No wonder her mind sounds like a wide open field and a newborn horse ready to run.
"Oh, I'm so glad." He hugs her even tighter for a second before he finally pulls back, beaming. "Boy that must've been a pretty huge spell if your dad and Miss Mortanne got involved, huh? But if anybody was gonna be able to do it it'd be you three."
"It was, but fortunately, what I'm teaching you today is much, much smaller in scale. No extra help needed to carry this off."
The chicken is allowed to return to the earth, and Fever's now free hands go to her hips. She's not refusing further questions, but she realizes that if she goes too far down this road, they're going to lose track of her original reason for showing up in the first place.
"In fact, I think you'll take to it quite handily."
If Radar still had access to a drum set, that'd earn a badum-tss.
As it stands, he just snickers, clearly pleased he caught Fever's terrible pun. (He's also close to bouncing on his toes in excitement again.) "You think so? Not gonna be, uh..." A sly look. "That hard to grasp?"
Totally doesn't count. Besides, Radar would still insist it was his own dumb fault for getting scared so easy!
He dissolves into snickering. "'Course not, ma'am," he says, abandoning the pun war for everyone's sake, and happily trots after her. Behind them, the chickens waddle back indoors, relieved the noise seems to be over for now.
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."
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.
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."
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.
"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.
"You'll find that the words aren't necessary, after a while. When you're used to how it feels to put yourself in that space, then you'll be able to skip straight to incantations."
She's glad to hear it.
"Now that you know it's awake, time to put it into practice. I'll show you the motions first, and then you can pair it together."
It's a simple movement, something that he's probably seen her do at work before, but she takes care to be precise right now, focused instead of the way that cuts corners.
"The incantation for this is voco. But just motion and words don't make a spell. With that intent you have, and the spell components there, we've almost got all the pieces in place. But what's missing?"
"You need to know what you want to do with all of that! And with this spell, you know you're making another hand. Left or right, it doesn't matter - whichever one you know best."
And to complete the explanation, she does the motion again.
"Voco."
A flash of light passes over her eyes, and then there - the ghostly blue replica of her right hand, floating before them. Which she uses to wave at him, before sending it out to pick up a bucket. Just like that.
Wow, he guessed right! He's definitely gonna get a good grade in magic.
Radar beams and waves back at the ghostly hand without really thinking; sure, he's seen Fever conjure it up dozens of times at Town Hall, but now he's got reason to pay extra-close attention to how all the pieces fit together. Voice, motion, will, and focus. He watches the extra hand zip away to pick up the bucket, then bounces on his toes a couple times and shakes out his arms like he's about to do a relay race around the entire ranch.
Okay. He's got this. Just like riding a bike up easy street.
"Voco."
...Okay, maybe he doesn't got this. Frowning, Radar tries again. He swears he's doing everything right, but the pieces don't seem to be connecting into one fluid whole like they should.
"I can still feel it, " he says, "but it's like -- oh, I don't know." He tries again. "Like it's slipping out before I can catch it."
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Pretty much the second he read the note that came with Fever's Givingstide gift, Radar leapt for his sending stone to holler YES I WANNA LEARN TEACH ME WHEN CAN WE START. And now the day's here! It's happening! He's gonna finally know how to do magic!!
...This did not stop him from occupying himself before Fever arrived, so she finds him by the chicken coop, balanced on a stepstool, hammering a couple thin planks over a spot on its roof. He waves so enthusiastically he almost loses his balance, and has to catch himself against the coop with a laugh. "I'm just fixing up a gap in the coop's roof. It ain't that big but it was letting the snow in. How's it going?"
The chickens clustered around the base of the coop, because they have no concept of loud noises now mean less cold air later, don't look nearly as chipper as Radar. A few of them let out perturbed clucks as they fluff up their feathers against the cold.
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One of the chickens has decided to come investigate the newcomer, examining her boots and pecking at the mud as if it will yield what is being sought. Fever looks down at the chicken, and then back up to Radar.
"Do they mind being picked up?"
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Until the next round of jeeps came through and broke the spell, anyway.
"And sure, you can go ahead, that one don't mind it at all. She likes people. She's even tried climbing into my lap when I'm sitting down sometimes."
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It's okay. It's actually okay. Nothing's happening, no twitches in her hands, no shrieking thoughts, nothing beyond her and the moment. Something fragile in her hands, and all she feels pulled to do is to stroke soft feathers while the bird chooses to remain. Incredible. So this is what it's like.
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He's smiling, quiet and fond, as he props his elbow on the coop's roof and his chin in his hand. All he does is watch Fever pet the chicken for a little bit.
"You sound a lot happier," he finally offers, soft.
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Of course he can. She isn't trying to hide it, after all. Fever doesn't think she even could.
"There's been some changes. Or well, one big change."
She should just tell him, but she can't resist a little leadup.
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Eagerly: "Yeah? What is it?"
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The joy of it fills her, as she impulsively presses her cheek to the hen in her arms just to feel the softness of the feathers there. Her mind will always be chaos, she will always know the allure of violence, she will always have thoughts - but her hands are her own. Her choices are her own. It's what she wanted all this time.
"I'm free. I don't have to worry that something else is going to take over. I don't have to hurt anyone if I don't want to anymore."
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Quick as a flash, Radar vaults off the stepstool and practically hurls himself at Fever, crushing her -- and, by extension, the chicken -- in an embrace. The chicken lets out a muffled squawk, but settles into the group hug with good-natured, avian resignation pretty quick.
"Fever! You got it out!" He's outright bouncing on his toes in excitement. "You did it, you fixed it! Oh, wow, I can't believe it -- !"
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"As much as it can be fixed, yes. It's...I'm safer, now. You're safe. Everyone else is safe."
And she can breathe, and she can feel closer to her own skin, and she can touch other living beings without the flickering doubts that inhabited her. She thinks he'll understand - that one can take the shrapnel out, the infected organ, reset the bone - but the mind is a place where no surgeon's knife can go. That takes time, and care, and being out of whatever sort of war one is in.
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Because that's just as important, if not more so. Korea taught him that safety can be relative. Sure, it's a relief that he never has to worry about some awful compulsion overriding his friend and hurting him or people he loves in the process, of course it is -- but Radar thinks of how much she's been hurting, carrying around that weight, and hears how she sings now that she's let it go. No wonder her mind sounds like a wide open field and a newborn horse ready to run.
"Oh, I'm so glad." He hugs her even tighter for a second before he finally pulls back, beaming. "Boy that must've been a pretty huge spell if your dad and Miss Mortanne got involved, huh? But if anybody was gonna be able to do it it'd be you three."
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The chicken is allowed to return to the earth, and Fever's now free hands go to her hips. She's not refusing further questions, but she realizes that if she goes too far down this road, they're going to lose track of her original reason for showing up in the first place.
"In fact, I think you'll take to it quite handily."
Get it. Since it's an extra hand.
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As it stands, he just snickers, clearly pleased he caught Fever's terrible pun. (He's also close to bouncing on his toes in excitement again.) "You think so? Not gonna be, uh..." A sly look. "That hard to grasp?"
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"Radar, have I ever put you a situation you couldn't handle?"
The House of Cards doesn't count, and she beckons him to follow her if he's done with the coop for the time being.
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He dissolves into snickering. "'Course not, ma'am," he says, abandoning the pun war for everyone's sake, and happily trots after her. Behind them, the chickens waddle back indoors, relieved the noise seems to be over for now.
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"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."
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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.
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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?
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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."
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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.
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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.
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She's glad to hear it.
"Now that you know it's awake, time to put it into practice. I'll show you the motions first, and then you can pair it together."
It's a simple movement, something that he's probably seen her do at work before, but she takes care to be precise right now, focused instead of the way that cuts corners.
"The incantation for this is voco. But just motion and words don't make a spell. With that intent you have, and the spell components there, we've almost got all the pieces in place. But what's missing?"
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"Thinking real hard about what exactly you want it to do?" he ventures.
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He's great at this. A perfect natural.
"You need to know what you want to do with all of that! And with this spell, you know you're making another hand. Left or right, it doesn't matter - whichever one you know best."
And to complete the explanation, she does the motion again.
"Voco."
A flash of light passes over her eyes, and then there - the ghostly blue replica of her right hand, floating before them. Which she uses to wave at him, before sending it out to pick up a bucket. Just like that.
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Radar beams and waves back at the ghostly hand without really thinking; sure, he's seen Fever conjure it up dozens of times at Town Hall, but now he's got reason to pay extra-close attention to how all the pieces fit together. Voice, motion, will, and focus. He watches the extra hand zip away to pick up the bucket, then bounces on his toes a couple times and shakes out his arms like he's about to do a relay race around the entire ranch.
Okay. He's got this. Just like riding a bike up easy street.
"Voco."
...Okay, maybe he doesn't got this. Frowning, Radar tries again. He swears he's doing everything right, but the pieces don't seem to be connecting into one fluid whole like they should.
"I can still feel it, " he says, "but it's like -- oh, I don't know." He tries again. "Like it's slipping out before I can catch it."
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gmail taking a tag snack i see
gdi gmail, tags are not a tasty treat >:(
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