#withdrawment

// ; tall siblings i wanna cr y that’s so cute

       Fatigue plagues waking mind, displayed openly in the shadows that cling to space ‘neath healer’s eyes and the light tremble of fingers whose actions are sustained by mere willpower, energy long since gone and body running on empty, each movement automatic, put into action by muscle memory rather than any real clear thought. The days have slipped away, time collapsing into knotted ball of minutes and hours that he has no way to keep track of ( has it been three days now — maybe four? when did he last eat? ) and makes no attempt to keep track of, even when clinic finally closes and body collapses onto nearby cot, finger pinching bridge of nose to dull the throb of a migraine that set in not long ago. He could sleep, he reasons, take the time for the rest he so often insists upon for others, particularly those in a state of recovery, or he could work on request forms for more ingredients for potions, potentially clean up, disinfect the area as well. Thought is given, briefly, and the latter is chosen; Justice approves with a dull hum in the back of his mind and he wonders when that became a sort of red flag that he was doing something potentially detrimental.

                                                                    Not that it matters much; he’ll wind up doing it anyhow. 

       Body sways when pushed to feet once more, too fast, world blurs, and mage does best to ignore it, aware that it will likely be a constant phenomenon for quite a while, should he take to moving quicker than is recommended for one with his levels of weariness ( and he will be doing that, of course, why wouldn’t he be; his own health comes as a far second — third, fourth, fifth? — to that of others, and what he tells others, after all ). Peripherals manage to catch blotches of color, out of place among the brows and greys, and it takes a moment, but focus comes, along with a registering of who has walked in; he’s too tired to attempt any degree of joviality or irritation ( nothing is easy to muster up, emotion or movement or thought ), fist rubbing at eyes and yawn stifled when woman is greeted.