[ OPEN ] these hands are growing cold

[londonbound]

WHO: Rhy Maresh and OPEN
WHAT: shortly after being summoned, Rhy is having a Rough Time of it. wandering around the halls in Castle Thorne like a very sad specter, getting drunk because coping with feelings is hard, and trying to practice magic as a distraction.
WHEN: early to mid-December
WHERE: Castle Thorne
WARNINGS: alcohol abuse, self harm, terrible coping mechanisms all around. also uh, major spoilers for A Darker Shade of Magic, sorry. nsfw marked.



I; arrival & loss.
cw: self harm

[ The words wash over him like the dull roar of a faraway ocean. Names, reassurances, a welcome. Mages. A kingdom he has never heard of, in need of his help, for some reason that makes no sense at all. The answers to his questions all nonsensical, pointless, useless. The only thing he truly wants to know, they have no response to.

Where is Kell? Where is my brother?

Not here.

Rhy imagines he can still feel the echo of Kell's pain. It had been so bright just moments ago (it seems like only moments ago), when it had ripped through him, boiling in his veins, splashing blood on the orchard ground beneath him as he fell. Pain. And then darkness. And then... here. Alone. Where he can no longer feel Kell's pain at all.

It could be hours or days later, after he is shown to a room with more beds than he'd expected. He sits on the edge his mattress, a nightly ritual throughout the first week or so of his stay here. With his tunic off, crumpled on the bed beside him, Rhy's shoulders and chest are left bare, the distinct scar forming two concentric circles over his heart starkly visible against his dark skin. He is a well-muscled man, built like a statue, the sort of prince who would cut a fine figure for a portrait -- if his back were straight, if he'd been smiling, if he'd been any of the things Prince Rhy is supposed to be.

He is none of those things now.

Rhy slumps, head down, cradling his left arm in his lap. There are angry red marks on the inside of his forearm, deep scratches barely scabbed over: s o r r y. He has not allowed the castle's healers to tend to the wound. Each night, he opens one of the letters again, one at a time, with a sharp pin.

Each night, he wraps the bandage back over the bloody scratches and waits for a man who will probably never come. ]


II; sleepless in the castle.


[ Rhy hasn't slept well since he died.

The nightmares plague him, the guilt, the worry, the anger, the fear. It all comes out at night, the monsters that lurk in the shadows by day slinking out to sink their claws into his lungs whenever he lies down. Here, he doesn't have the draughts Head Priest Tieren had given him back home (one for calm, two for quiet, three for sleep) and he hasn't wanted to ask the mages of the castle, in part due to lack of trust but also because it seems like far too much effort. Too much shame.

And so, in the small hours of the night, Rhy wanders. Sometimes, he moves in a daze through the castle until someone stops him, redirecting his steps if his way is barred. He walks in circles, makes his way through the ornate halls like a ghost, hoping that eventually his body will tire enough to let his mind go quiet.

Sometimes, he goes down into the dining areas, seeking out other draughts -- of the alcoholic rather than prescription variety. In the middle of the night, he might be found raiding the kitchen cabinets for liquor (if the castle guard do not stop him), or carrying a bottle with him in the hall. When he finds a place to sit by a window overlooking the city and the unfamiliar stars, he perches there, drinking directly from the bottle, watching the streets below.

If anyone approaches, another sleepless soul like him, he might just wave them over and offer a swig. Or several. ]


III; magic studies.

[ Rhy has never been any good at magic. The only thing he ever showed even an inkling of a ghost of a talent for is fire.

So that's where he starts. He sits at a table now, a small bowl of oil which he cups his hands around, muttering to it in Arnesian as he tries to coax a spark to light. Just like Kell taught him, even though here he's been told it's not necessary, Rhy has drawn a circle in chalk around the bowl, a binding to keep the fire from spreading. ]

Come on, little flame... [ he tries again, slipping into the common tongue, brow furrowed and nose all scrunched up with the effort. ]

Please--

[ And, suddenly, there it is.

The oil sparks, then bursts into a flame the size of a fist, consuming everything in the bowl. And staying there, to Rhy's shock. Growing, in fact, the flames flicking up to lap at his palm.

With a gasp of pain, Rhy stumbles back from the table on instinct, moving his hands away and the flame with them. ]

No, no, no-- dispel! Go away! Fuck!


( ooc; hmu via PM or plurk if you want to plot out something else! or just. wildcard at me, i'm down to clown. )

Comments

iii

[sorser]

[The flicker of newborn firelight blooms from across the room. Stephen notes it with ease, and senses the faint coiling of magic just as easily, but it’s nothing of consequence, not in this kingdom rooted in the practice of the craft. So it’s just a blip on his radar, and he’s keen to ignore it and move on, until that blip flares a little and wrings out a protest from someone nearby.

A voice he recognizes first and foremost, but he would have crossed over to meet it even if it wasn’t, hearing that what can only be a disaster in the making.

He’s not wholly wrong. The flame looks like it wants to eat Rhy’s fingertips, which is probably not what he was aiming for.]

Don’t panic. [Stephen’s voice cuts through, stern but not terribly alarmed. His hand raises and his fingers twist a little — unseen magic snuffs out the flame as though it were suffocated from oxygen. Wry—] A few third-degree burns never hurt anyone.

[londonbound]

[ The firmness of that voice -- and the twinge of familiarity at it, even if it as a new type of familiarity -- helps to ground Rhy momentarily. It is enough to steady his hands and give Stephen the moment he needs to assist him in dispelling the magic.

The flame vanishes, and Rhy breathes a sigh that is equal parts relief and frustration. His hands drop to his sides, and then he moves to right the chair he'd knocked down with a clatter. ]

Thank you.

It... got away from me, just a bit.

[sorser]

I can see that.

[He levies a glance at the set-up Rhy’s been working with, fairly straightforward for what he assumes is a fairly straightforward spell. Little more than a bowl that must have held something to fuel the conflagration.]

But it’s still progress, isn’t it? Thought you said you didn’t have any skill for magic.

[It’s clear his metric for success is not necessarily dependent upon whether or not one has almost caught themselves on fire.]

[londonbound]

[ Rhy shakes his head, still unnerved, and more than a little confused. ]

I said that because I didn't.

Fire is the only element I can coax anything out of, but even so, it tends to be barely a spark.

[ He hesitates a moment, rubbing his singed palm and considering the bowl, the binding circle that hadn't helped, even though he'd been very careful not to smudge it. ]

The magicians in this castle tell me that all those who have been Summoned through the well have a connection to their Singularity. They mentioned I should practice, and that we should all have magical aptitude so close to this source.

I did not believe them.

[sorser]

[If Stephen looks and sounds dubious upon hearing all that, it’s probably because he is. He takes a moment, though, to circle around to the bowl, running a finger along the binding circle’s boundary, picking up a faint residue on his fingertip and inspecting it with idle curiosity. He then rubs his forefinger and thumb together, glancing back at the young man.]

And why not? You’ve just proven their point. It wasn’t exactly a spark that I had to put out just now.

[But Rhy’s doubt reminds him a little of himself, struggling with spellwork in his first days at Kamar-Taj. When the other sorcerers could summon perfect portals, their edges gleaming with a golden glow… and all he could manage were a few miserable sparks sputtering mid-air. He recalls those moments weighed down with frustration, with the constant questioning of What am I doing here?, and he wonders if the other feels similarly.]

I mentioned it before, but I’ve been where you’re at now. That feeling of getting nowhere. And I can give you a few pieces of advice. One — keep at it, and take what little victories you can get, until those little victories eventually add up into something bigger. And two — you’re probably overthinking it.

I.

[everyrosehas]

[Shionne is in a similar state, left without even the slightest amount of reassurance from all the assurances the mages of this castle have given her. Nothing fits together. Nothing... she is not meant to be here. She cannot be here, and yet the castle rises around her, the hallways cold, the people strangers. She has only just found the strength to accept the hands of another, and now they have been ripped out of her grasp.

She moves through the halls like a distracted ghost, ignoring the other company that moves around Thorne, staring at her hand. Nothing appears different. Her skin still smooth. Unharmed. Though she feels this deep well of dark, the thorns do not shudder and strike across her body.

Not yet.

A single sentence from the man who pulled her from the water (from who touched her) rings dimly in her head, over and over. It comes to mind as she pushes food into her mouth. It's there in the hallways, an unfamiliar voice, an unfamiliar concept. It will return within a week.

If she was to believe it. Which she doesn't. Impossible. It isn't the way it works. The Great Spirit would not...

Shionne doesn't really pay attention to what room she goes into. She settles into a state she had when she first came to Dahna: the most basic of necessities to take care of. Food: energy. Sleep: conserved energy. There is something coming, because there must be, and she will need to sleep.

There is no rhyme to the room she picks; those men basically offered her pick. Though the choice matters not -- it's a roof, and a bed, the basics for a good night of sleep. (And it will be empty, without the companionship of Law's snores, or Alphen's sneezes; the rustle of Hootle's feathers or Rinwell tossing another stick onto the fire. The quiet whisper of Dohalim reading aloud to himself, nearly a mumble under his breath, and then Kisara scolding him.)

The door closes behind her. She stops, looking up, as a figure turns towards her. Shionne's eyes grow wider.] O-oh. Sorry. I thought the room was empty --

[She pauses there, offering no further explanation. There's a scent in the room, acrid, sour. His arm is splayed out and she can see the edge of bandages, and a stain of blood.] You're hurt. [Where she had been reaching to exit the room a moment before, she now steps further in, crossing her arms across her chest. Realizing her tight posture, she pulls one arm back out, the hand hovering between them.] Hold it out.

[Again, there's no elaboration on the order.]

[londonbound]

[ Rhy isn't asleep. (Rhy is almost never asleep.) He looks up when he hears the door open, and his foolish traitorous absolutely asinine heart has the audacity to jump in his chest with unwarranted expectation.

It needs to stop doing this. He doesn't know how to keep patching it again and again after every disappointment.

The young woman who enters receives a slow blink at first. Then, a tired smile. ]

There are plenty of beds, if this is where you've been told there is room to stay.

[ He kind of hopes she doesn't. He kind of hopes she does. They are different kinds of loneliness. ]

Kind of you to worry, but it's quite all right. Only a scratch.

[ The way he cradles his arm closer, as if to protect it from her, says more. ]

[everyrosehas]

[Different kinds of loneliness really hits the mark.

She tilts her head. The majority of her hair, braided tightly down the length of her back, swings with the movement. Where her offering was innocent (and unstated), she now appears to be looking him over from head to feet with slightly narrowed eyes. Scrutinizing.

It doesn't need to mean anything. It could be a simple misunderstanding, as she is a stranger barging into a room to offer. This.

If she has to be here, she'd rather be doing something. Anything.]

I'm not worried, I'm saying I can heal it. There's no point in sitting around in pain. It doesn't make you stronger.

[The words come so easily, they may as well be rehearsed. As if she's said them, in that order, specifically. So many times before.]

[londonbound]

[ This, stated so frankly, almost makes Rhy laugh. The sound that escapes him is quiet, a breathy sort of grunt, and the amusement doesn't sound exactly mirthful.

The pain is exactly the point.

Slowly, Rhy shakes his head. The smile is more genuine than the unsteady laugh, and also much sadder. The kindness warms his heart, a gentle reminder of the capacity for good still left in the world (worlds). Despite the fact he has no intention of taking that particular offer, Rhy makes one of his own, deciding that he doesn't want to be alone, after all. ]

The pain does not bother me. But I admit I don't prefer the quiet.

You should stay.

II

[souille]

[ Abigail is wandering the halls too, plagued by her own nightmares. She'd managed to keep them at bay both as a prisoner here in Thorne and when she was on the streets of Nott, simply because she was focusing on staying alive, but now that she feels relatively secure she's let her guard down a little. Now every time she drifts off to sleep the unforgiving stares of her father's victims follow her in her dreams. She's better off staying awake, though right now it's an effort not to close her eyes.

She sees Rhy in the hall and nearly jumps out of her skin, assuming he's a guard come to escort her back to bed, or even back to the cells, for snooping around in the small hours. When she realises he's another of the Summoned, she lets out a nervous but relieved laugh. ]

Sorry, I thought I was the only one up.

[londonbound]

[ Rhy is similarly startled in a nearly comical fashion as they both see one another when he rounds a corner and jump. He blinks, bleary-eyed with drink and sleeplessness. Then smiles, a bit lopsided. ]

Nothing to apologize for! [ Perhaps he's forgotten it's the middle of the night; he is not quiet. ] Hello, who have we here?

Care to join me for a nightcap?

[ He lifts the bottle in his hand, wiggling it around. It sloshes, half empty. Heavens knows how he managed to pilfer it, but for a prince, Rhy has very quick fingers and similarly little regard for rules. At least silly ones like keeping the kitchens closed at night. ]

[souille]

[ Abigail raises a brow at the pilfered liquor, both impressed and a little worried that someone will come looking for it, if not for them. But she's not about to question it, especially as she figures the alcohol might calm her nerves a bit. ]

Absolutely. If you're sure you don't mind.

[londonbound]

Oh, you silly thing. I'm the one who offered.

[ Rhy presses the bottle into her hands, apparently doubling down on his offer right here and now in the middle of the hallway. He hasn't found a place to sit and drink yet, most of the rooms closed for the night, and his own occupied with his sleeping roommate. ]

And I especially would never say no to company so easy on the eyes. Have you a name?

horizon; for jaskier.

[londonbound]

[ There is a lovely splash of green on the horizon. It calls to him, bright and sunny, shiny fat grapes hanging off the vines visible from meters away, the gentle breeze rustling through the leaves coming up to tousle his hair and caress his brow as he approaches. Rhy wanders through the vineyard for some time, enjoying the atmosphere, occasionally helping himself to some grapes. He hums as he walks, no tune he could name but something familiar (though he does not know what familiar even means) and easy.

To his surprise, Rhy notices an... answering(?) voice, floating out from somewhere nearby. He cannot see the owner yet, but it's unmistakably singing. And as he approaches, he is struck by the loveliness of the voice, eager to find out to whom it belongs. ]

[cointosser]

[It is far from the first time someone has stumbled onto his domain, now that it has extended past the caravan he'd once traveled on. He likes to think it's because it's such an attractive, calm place; the edges of Toussaint he misses from years ago. The sweet spring grasses, and turquoise skies. Puffs of white clouds, warm springs. He could travel again... and a part of him misses it.

Missed it. After the last few weeks, he wants to be still. He needs it. Perhaps stillness can grant him a measure of calm.

As a new month descends on Cadens, he spends even more time in his domain. The trellises have been weeded carefully, and he's been adding new flowers, dotted randomly as if they are wild and free. And as he works, he sings. He sings to himself, and for the simple joy of it. In the Horizon, his arm never hurts, his throat never tightens. The notes come easily and free, and every so often, Hector's bird raises its head from the shed's roof and offers a deeper note to match.

Only when the bird shifts and offers a different note does Jaskier lift his head, eyes shaded under a farmer's straw hat. (Look. They're not fashionable, but they are comfortable.) He blinks, and then smiles, finding a new treasure has come to his domain. Company -- new company, a face he doesn't recognize.

And handsome to boot. Always a good sign.]

Well, hello there! To what do I owe the pleasure? [Ah. He sees he's already made himself rather welcome to the grapes. Luckily Jaskier has already become quite accustomed, considering... well, mainly Himeka.] Worry not, friend. You're more than welcome here.

[londonbound]

[ The man who approaches is dressed in vibrant red and gold, richly embroidered brocades and silks that hug his solid frame with perfectly tailored seams. The sign of The Lovers glints in gold thread at his lapel on one side; on the other, a crest, a chalice and a rising sun. Atop his head sits a circlet of gold, and across his face a brilliant smile.

Rhy stops before the stranger in the straw hat, spreading his arms to gesture at everything around them. ]

It would seem the pleasure is mine, or at the very least, shared.

Is this vineyard yours? I sampled the grapes. They are superb.

[cointosser]

[Friend, indeed. Though Jaskier is dressed down when he works on his vineyard, both the grapes and the flowers that are beginning to abound, he can more than appreciate noble finery and their bright, beautiful colors. (Red and gold. Classic, and a favorite.) As the stranger comes closer, Jaskier lets his eyes wander.

The Lovers. Interesting.]

It is, indeed, the fruits of my labor. Ah. Literally. [He smiles, wiping his hands clean on a dirtied apron, which disappears into nothing. If only handsome men were even more inclined to stumble upon his domain. However, for a second, his smile falls. If it's a face he doesn't recognize, and he is here in the Horizon, then... it is another soul pulled to this world against his will.

Jaskier steps closer, giving him a polite bow.] You flatter me, my lord. [He has to joke. Look at the circlet! What sort of person imagines that sort of thing here?] Jaskier, at your service. [He straightens up.] You know, you don't look the sort to go about sampling one's grapes. [He tilts his head, putting a hand on his hip.] May I ask where you're from?

the dimming; for ronan & kylo ren.

[londonbound]

[ The castle is abuzz with this whole Dimming business. The Singularity, the mission, the festivals outside in the city. Rhy should have been far more interested. He should have at least sought a distraction outside the castle walls, inquired about the traditions and the history, gone out to ask around and mingle. Sure, he's not entirely felt himself since arriving. Every day is difficult, waking up to a strange ceiling in a strange world so far from the people he loves. But this--

This is different. It's not the usual weight in his heart, the kind he's had to get increasingly used to. No, this is something... new. Something tense and thrumming under his skin, gnawing at his bones. The loneliness, he's come to expect. This is another thing entirely.

Agitated and brimming with growing frustration, Rhy spends the days by himself, knowing he is bad company (and he hates being bad company). He ventures out only once or twice, but finds himself snappish and mean. He drinks a lot (but that, by itself, is not unusual). He is angry and empty, and he cannot stay in his room, not when it makes him want to smash his glass against the wall and dig the feeling out of his veins with it.

Back home, he'd go to High Priest Tieren for calming draughts. Here, he'll settle for the next best thing.

Rhy sweeps into the baths already beginning to let his coat slip down his shoulders, with the air of a man who is used to going wherever he likes. He clearly does not expect the place occupied at this hour. ]

[nightwash]

[ Ronan and Kylo don't expect the place to be occupied at this hour, either, which is exactly why this is the hour they're here. Though they're often in each other's company, their relationship — such as it is — remains a mystery to most. They've been roommates since they arrived and Ronan is one of Kylo's many students, but that's all the public is meant to know. They don't embrace or walk hand-in-hand down the corridors and they've certainly never kissed before witnesses.

The bath, however, is a ritual they share every night. It's common enough for men to bathe together here in the castle, and at night the chamber is dark and quiet, as private as anywhere else. They've been doing this for so long that Ronan has let his guard down. He doesn't listen for footsteps or keep an eye on the shadows. His attention — all of it — is devoted to Kylo.

He has his back to the entrance, tattoo on full display, as he's pressed in close against Kylo's broad chest. With one hand submerged in the water and the other tangled in Kylo's wet hair, Ronan drags slow and hungry kisses down his throat. This Ronan, needy and reverent, is nearly unrecognizable as the same Ronan who stalks through the castle by day, glaring and sneering. This is a Ronan no one else is allowed to see, and he exists in this moment only because he still hasn't noticed they're not alone. ]

[photophobic]

[If Ronan weren't so perfectly distracting, Kylo might have noticed Rhy's approach before his entrance— maybe with enough time to warn Ronan, too— but Kylo comes from a life of touch-starved loneliness, and Ronan is spectacularly good at pouring himself into remedy. Frankly, the only reason Rhy's presence breaks through Kylo's reverie at all is the irritable air of frustration he carries with him, a discordant note sounding against the thrumming symphony of satisfaction Ronan is lavishing upon him.

His eyes flicker open.

It isn't shame that has him shifting to alert Ronan to their audience and give him a chance to adjust himself, exactly, but he is well aware that Ronan hadn't intended to put on a show. And, presumably, Rhy...

Well. Rhy hadn't expected company either. Kylo clears his throat. The colour rising under his skin could well be due to heat of the bath itself, the temperature carefully maintained to keep the stirring waters rich and fragrant. Definitely inviting. It's possible there wasn't much of their entanglement to see through the lazy curls of steam rising from the surface anyway.

And climbing out of the bath right now is not an option.]

I didn't know anyone else was awake at this hour.

[He comments. Ominously, if not intentionally so. He doesn't intend to stare at Rhy either, but there is... something wrong with him. Isn't there. A new imbalance of sorts, an unnatural hunger. Even now, he can't help but notice.]

nsfw;

[londonbound]

[ Rhy stops, coat folded over his arm. It'd been the only thing covering him apart from some loose trousers; on his bare chest, a strangely shaped scar stands out, a paler outline against his dark skin.

There is another, adjacent room for dressing nearby, but he'd decided it didn't matter in the middle of the night. He could simply shed his clothes wherever he pleased. But apparently, he is not the only one with an idea to take a late dip. Among... other things. Rhy's head tips, and for a few moments, he watches without saying anything, caught up in the unexpected rush of want that makes his breath catch, his hands tighten in the cloth. He exhales slowly, pushing the air out through his nose like it might release the feeling too, let out the scratching, pacing beast inside that's somehow been awakened over the last couple of days.

When Kylo speaks, Rhy only shrugs. ]

I am often awake at this hour.

Don't let me interrupt you.

[ He should leave. Rhy knows he should leave. He is not wanted here, in this private moment, not invited--

Instead, he strides forward, tossing his coat across one of the stone benches for cooling off or washing on, and beginning to unlace his trousers.

If they want to leave, they can. He is not willing to give up this small comfort he's decided he needs right now. And if they do not want to leave, then... well. Then, that is something else entirely. ]

pre-dimming;

[sorser]

[It's the usual scene for a daily session of daytime study. A table large enough to contain the spread of piled books, or ones splayed open with their texts at the ready; small accoutrements needed to aid in the art of casting more minor spells, little cantrips; a working space rimmed by the tall bookshelves of the castle's library, a makeshift boundary they've claimed as their own; and Stephen himself, who thumbs through every tome with such precision that the information hidden within might as well rise to the surface to save itself the effort.

Every day, after lunchtime as agreed, his bouts of study with Rhy are routine in process and scope. Doctor or sorcerer, he has always tackled the assimilation of new information the same way, a methodical approach that examines each variable and step before moving on to the next. It makes the moment when all pieces come together smoother, more satisfying to see the work turn into more than a collection of trial and error. Though they've begun small-scale, none too ambitiously, there is nothing to describe the feeling of magic when it actually works as intended.

Stephen's guidance is acute but patient. Room for error is expected, as long as the error is accompanied by the drive to get it right. Eventually. And though the rhythm of mentorship is new to him—and he'd be the first to argue that he's not suited for it anyway—he's fallen into an easy familiarity with this new routine. He can guess at what to expect and how to extend or truncate their efforts based on their previous attempts. That's the miracle of diligent study, after all: a sense of control over any and all knowledge gathered. The steadiness of growth.

But today's different.

Today, he can't quite get his companion to focus, and either he's offended him with the rhetoric from this particular source of spells, or Rhy's found something else to disgruntle him. It's all in the body language. It's all in the way he feels like he's just an inconvenience, standing here, blurting out processes as though he's doing it just for fun.]

There's plenty of prep work needed for this one, but the end result… [He has a hand extended, palm-up, tiny flickers of luminescence glowing at his fingertips to herald the spellwork. But he isn't watching that so much as he's watching Rhy, eyes narrowing a little. Is he listening?]

…will set this entire library ablaze so we can toast s'mores by the resulting bonfire.

[—hello? If that doesn't earn a bigger response, then he's definitely just wasting his breath.]

[londonbound]

[ Over the course of the last few weeks, with their lessons occurring diligently nearly every day, with the occasional break on one or the other's behest, Stephen will have learned a bit about the normal outbursts and bouts of frustration the prince succumbs to on a semi-regular basis. It's fitting, in a way, that fire is the element that draws him most; it's a good match for his personality, between his hotheaded short temper and the honest, sunny warmth he so naturally exudes on the good days.

Today, Rhy seems to have cause for none of his many moods. Where he often grows frustrated and angry with himself if he fails to achieve the desired result too many times in a row, it's unheard of that he doesn't even try. He's put in very little effort this afternoon, but he is agitated and stiff, fingers twitchy, foot tapping impatiently as if he's got somewhere else to be (he hasn't).

With his mind wandering again and again to half-formed thoughts and memories he can't quite reach, Rhy finds himself staring off at one of the bookshelves past Stephen's head, barely catching any of the words leaving the magician's mouth. He's not even looking at Stephen's outstretched hand.

There is a beat of silence. Rhy seems to, belatedly, realize something requires his response.

His eyes flick back to Stephen's palm. He missed it. What was he supposed to have noticed here? Is Stephen waiting for him to look more closely before he demonstrates the spell? Rhy tries to pretend like he's paying attention, affecting a slow, pensive nod. ]

Yes. Right. Go ahead, then.

[sorser]

[Stephen stares at Rhy flatly for a moment, saying nothing. He doesn’t even bother to point out that he just agreed to torch the library with the same enthusiasm of a man told to do the laundry for the umpteenth time. Finally, with no small amount of exasperation, the sorcerer drops his hands to his side.]

You’re not even listening. I feel like I’m talking to a statue today.

[He cannot imagine how anyone back at Kamar-Taj has the patience to do this every day, with students whose motivations may fluctuate as often as the phases of the moon. This is surely why he was never cut out to teach, why the other sorcerers were much more suited to wringing out a newbie’s bad habits than him.

Except this is a first — though his companion is given to bouts of frustration, never has he not put in the effort like today. Logically, it means something has happened. Reasonably, it means Stephen should probably ask what that something is.

He supposes.]

Is something bothering you? Did something happen?

[londonbound]

I'm listening. [ Rhy snaps back defensively, even though it's a blatant untruth. He wrinkles his nose up at Stephen, a bit childishly--

Then sighs, and seems to deflate. His arms cross over the table he's sitting at, shoulders hunching. ]

No.

Yes.

I don't know. Something is wrong. Then again-- everything is wrong, when you think about it. Fucking everything about this whole situation, being here, all of it.

It makes me want to scream.