#writedisaster

Haven tosses a shopping bag full of snacks onto the table. "You got any Kleenex?"

For Lip!

I marked clever, because they are, but they certainly don't think of themself as clever.

... On that note, do I have to un-mark “self-aware” if they're mainly just self-aware of their negative traits?

Ffff they’re two of a kind on the type of self awareness front I guess. :’D Self aware in this case is most importantly that Diamond can get deeply annoyed when people seem to be following their impulses without any reflection (even afterwards) on the consequences for other people.

(Someone who is Aware of what they’re doing and why and yet makes no changes might or might not be someone he likes, but he’ll still be less frustrated. 😂 Largely because he can sympathize ssfhjklf)

Diamond would probably like Lip! Though I think it’d depend on the circumstances of their meeting what flavor that liking would take.

writedisaster:

        Lip doesn’t have anything to say in response to the physician’s continued denial.  He just stares, as if he’s not quite sure whether Ithadel had been speaking to him or to someone else, someone in a different place, someone who can afford to hear no.  It’s Phyllis who first seems to understand.  She hides her face while Lip keeps staring.         The question makes Lip flinch.  The physician’s voice sounds low and taut; he sounds like someone they want to please.  But they can’t answer.  They can’t.  They’ve already fucked this up so badly.  They lift their chin, trying to look like Phoebe, act like Phoebe.  They’ll say something harsh about how it’s not his place to ask, and they’ll-         His hands look like their father’s hands.  Their head stops working again.         “Our… hosts,"  they hear themself say instead.  Their voice is clear enough, but it sounds like it’s taking a great effort to speak that clearly.  "It would be… rude… to refuse our hosts.”         Phyllis is crying.  She’s trying to hide it, but she isn’t as good at that as Lip is.  She’s young.  She hasn’t had his years of practice.  As quiet as it is, the sound makes Lip move again.  He wraps her in his arms, cradling her golden head against his shoulder as she shakes.  He forces himself to breathe in, and then to speak.         “It’ll be alright, Liss.  It’ll be alright.  We’ll be-  you’ll-  I’ll just ask the prince for help.”         The thing about being secondborn is you don’t really need to be smart.  Secondborn children don’t need the steadiness of the firstborn child, or the cleverness of the youngest.  It is to everyone’s good fortune that Prince Lip was born second.  And it’s a joke that he’s the one sitting here now, talking about this.         Phyllis stops crying, as much from surprise as anything else.  “The prince?"  she repeats, in a whisper.  "But he’s-”         “-so wise and so kind,"  Lip interrupts fervently, before Phyllis can say anything she shouldn’t.  "I’m sure he’ll be able to help us.”         He takes Phyllis’s hands in his own, gives her a light squeeze and a warm smile.  Despite the sleepless eyes and uncombed hair, he looks for a moment like the prince who waves to the tournament crowds.  Bright and lovely and unhurt.  “I’ll ask Harriet to bring ice for your ankle, and then tonight I’ll speak to the prince.  It’ll all be alright.”         He knows Phyllis is young, but she’s smart.  Smarter than him, probably.  Smart enough to know a bad idea when she hears one.  But she’s young and she’s hurt and he’s her big brother, and she wants to believe that he has the right answers for this.  He can’t blame her for that.  He kisses her forehead and draws back.  Things to do.         He pulls the bell-rope that will alert Harriet, and slowly, unsteadily gets to his feet.  “I’ll talk to her,"  he mumbles, looking at no one.  "If you have anything else that could help with the pain…”         The sentence trails off as he focuses on walking, leaving Ithadel and Phyllis to sort out the remainder.  He doesn’t know Harriet as well as he knows Anna; better to meet her in the hall than to have her come in and see Ithadel here.  When she shows up, he’s leaning against the doorframe outside; he relays Ithadel’s instructions on ice and care, then sends her on her way.  Once she’s gone, he leans back into the room.          “Are you ready?"  He asks listlessly, pulling at the clasp of his cloak.  "I’ll walk with you to the door.”

Ithadel’s ringing panic eases as Lip neither censures him nor accuses the monarchs, but it still takes him longer than it should to process the reply, watching the royals comfort each other with wide, wary eyes.

At least part of his difficulty is because what Lip is saying doesn’t make sense.

Hosts? If anyone should be the host it would be the royal family; this is their castle and he doesn’t know of recent travel. And… it’s hard to picture Lip asking his brother for help with this. Is another royal family visiting? Ithadel doesn’t pay much mind to public going-ons in that vein, but usually there’s some sort of public spectacle or chatter from his patients that he can’t avoid.

As the prince steps away, Ithadel speaks to the princess in a low, conspiratorial murmur. “Are you worried that you will still have to dance, or worried about disappointing your… your ‘hosts’?”

But the princess just shakes her head. Ithadel clenches his jaw and stares down at the bed – slowly notices his hands, and carefully unclenches those, smoothing apologetically at the bedding until it lies smooth once more. (Except it doesn’t. Pressed wrinkles remain, faint but accusatory.)

This. This is why. It wasn’t just his family, it’s any structure with people that have complete authority like this, isn’t it? All it takes is one unreasonable person in power and suddenly everyone else is forced to act out a nightmare.

…that thought is probably treasonous, in this context.

…but Earth and Sky, this isn’t his nation, he doesn’t have a home anymore, and he really, really didn’t want to ever have to do this dance again —

(You think these children are any happier with it?)

Ithadel closes his eyes. He breathes out a slow breath; draws it in steady, by sheer force of will if not true calm.

Do the work. No trick. No choice. He can’t fix the world, but he can do his job, and that’s all it has ever really come down to. So Ithadel numbly considers his options and begins to plan what little mitigation he can offer. Nothing about what he’s witnessed here so far has inclined him towards optimism; better to plan for the worst case.

When Lip leans back in, it’s to find that Ithadel has partially unwrapped Phyllis’s ankle and is rearranging and reinforcing the splinting to provide more support. He doesn’t look up from his work as the prince speaks. His lips are pressed thin and pale.

“I’m starting to think,” Ithadel says, a bit distantly, “that the advice I’ve given you so far may not be well-tailored to your current situation.” And then he adds the dangerous part: “If I knew more about that situation, I might have different suggestions.”

Ithadel finishes with the princess’s leg, sets it back on the cushion, and dares a brief glance up at the prince to try to judge his reaction before turning back to his bag, measuring out a dose of pain tonic for the princess.

“Either way, my… your…” How on Earth am I supposed to address royalty– “Prince Lip, I would appreciate the opportunity to tend to your feet as well. Burst blisters present the risk of infection.”

It’s an assumption, but an assumption in which Ithadel is confident. The prince’s movements are ginger in the extreme. Ithadel swallows and offers the medication to Phyllis, avoiding eye contact and doing his best to minimize his overall presence.

her stomach turns at the comment, and the haze over her mind she maintains such a careful awareness of ripples in response. i wish this was vodka. the condensation rolls down the glass in fat drops and pools on the coaster, and she tries to focus on that more than her wants--- a cigarette too, classic pairing with vodka. the feeling sets her teeth on edge as she keeps her left hand planted firmly in her lap, out of sight but not out of mind. a buzzing thing that flits around the edges of the haze. so long she's practiced to try to keep people out of her mind, but it's all for naught as her still gloved hand reaches for the glass. her jaw sets, then softens slightly. of the many things she wants, having this conversation is not one of them, and she lifts the water, letting it hover over the table as she tries to sort out the best way to phrase this.

WHEN THE CREATURE AWAKENS FROM THE FIRST SLEEP HE HAS EVER FALL INTO, he lets out a frightened howl. he does not know why everything vanished and does not remember when it did.

the lights buzz and brighten with strain before the bulb overhead cracks and bursts into tiny fragments. the sound is that of a thousand dead things sinking their claws into the last dregs of life, enough to trickle blood down his own ears.  he drags in a breath ( he swallows down air in and out that makes his chest rise and fall ) with the intention to scream again, when he sees the lovely stranger— the one with the dark curls and the kindest eyes in the whole world.

loki hates to kill them, but with their church collapsed, it’s so fucking easy—truth be told, what she hates the most about ripping the life out of those who champion the dark is that the smell of blood is far too often replaced with that horrific stench of brackish water. there’s something less satisfying to it, something that doesn’t please the beast lurking under skin. 

the lack of satisfaction only makes it hungrier, of course. she’ll manage to tear through this frightened little sect within the week. they thought they could hide from the eye’s careful watch in a blackout, and were sorely mistaken; if they think they can evade the razor claws and teeth that the watcher has sent after them for his justice, then they only die in shame.

night’s covered this little borough like a thick, woolen blanket. the only light here is the animal reflection of loki’s eye, sickly gold wrought from the green, intent on the cultist beneath her as she slowly pulls its throat open, black water erupting over her hands, the gurgling of its pleading long gone quiet. the hunt thrums and sings in her, sharpens her in all ways, the shining knife in the hand of jonah magnus, so proud in this moment to be wielded for his purpose. at the perfect nexus of power now to perceive approach before it’s too close: the darkness hones her hearing. the hunt pricks the fine hair on her arms, the back of her neck. the eye knows.

Okay, it's been a long day. There's a bit of a headache forming- it's going to be a bad one, judging by the way it reaches into his skull like a drill- and his body is aching. He hasn't done anything like that before. Nothing that big, nothing that effective. Oh, he could giggle, but that's probably the adrenaline and- well, it's not a thought he wants to follow.

Man, it's been a long day.

Jay jumps off the roof, feet and body and arms hanging in the air for a precious, glorious second. Sometimes he wishes he could fly. Wind in the hair- nothing but open space- unlimited freedom- what more could a girl ask for? He hits the roof of the next building easily, fall breaking with a well practiced roll.

Jay runs a few steps, then turns so fast he almost gives himself whiplash. There was something- someone! That's important to remember. These are people, still- someone in the alley, and that is exactly the kinda thing he's looking for. He hops down, fingers catching on the concrete sills, on the bricks and pipes until his feet his the ground.

Fine, yeah it's not the smoothest landing- Jay stumbles slightly when he gets to the bottom. He's really tired and his body is just now realizing that. And yeah, you know, he did sorta just jump into some garbage. Great first impression there, Jay.