faderift | [closed] 2 feet below the surface I can still make out your wavy face

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[closed] 2 feet below the surface I can still make out your wavy face

WHO: Merrick, Metaari, Pel and Cyril
WHAT: The three of them try to calm Merrick down. It's going to be a long, long night.
WHEN: Right after this.
WHERE: From Cade's quarters to Cy and Merrick's
NOTES: PTSD symptoms, self-harm, probably more. Also like flashbacks of suicide and stuff it's not gonna be a pleasant log ok

From the moment his fist had connected with Cade's face, Merrick had stopped being Merrick-- at least, the Merrick that exists right now. He's a child, scrambling to make sense of the ragged emotions tearing through his tiny body, frantically reaching out for something he can never have again. He's a creature made of grief and helplessness and hate, hate so terrible and hot and thick and burning through his skin and sinew and down to his skeleton--

He's crushed against Metaari's chest, and he claws at the qunari's jacket, letting out keening noises and ragged moans as he is carried away. He has no sense of where he is anymore. He is somewhere else entirely.

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Cyril had left the party the moment he had gotten the message. His first desire was to go where Merrick was, but Metaari had control of that situation, and Merrick needed somewhere safe to be. That meant going to his room and getting it ready for what might be a very long night. He had also made sure Pel was with him.

When he hears Metaari he opens the door and instantly tries to check out Merrick, see just how bad he is. The sight of him clawing and muttering is enough to make Cyril's face tighten. "Fenedhis," he mutters. "He's already gone," he adds in a stronger voice meant to be heard by Pel behind him. There's no shock in his voice. He knows exactly what it is and he's resigned to sticking with Merrick for as long as it takes.

He steps aside to let Metaari in. "Settle on the bed, see if he'll let you let go."

Edited 2016-04-18 04:05 (UTC)

Pel is the image of dead calm--not serenity, just utter, alert composure. She is in her element, fulfilling her life's purpose. How else should she be?

"Just transfer him to me; he'll be fine." She sits on the edge of bed and holds out her arms to receive him.

She and Merrick have been in this state of mind together for thirteen years; him experiencing it, her carrying him. She was the first to guide him through this. And every time, she rejoins him in the woods, with his father's head at their feet. These are the only times she can face that moment and own it without fear. Mythal gives her the strength when she needs it, and not a minute before.

It's quiet for now, just heaving and muttering, his body rigid. It's almost enough to fool everyone that it's a small one, that it'll be over soon. He's curled his body up tightly, wrists twisting up and fingers hooked, and he's chewed through his bottom lip.

Metaari nods slightly as he steps into the room, cradling Merrick carefully against his body. He takes a seat on the bed next to Pel, his arms loosening slightly as he looks over toward her. He hadn't wanted to just let go while standing, in case Merrick wasn't so keen on letting go of him.

His eyes glance down and he turns to face her, opening his arms carefully. "Here..." He doesn't want to actually let him go, fears what might happen, but-- well, she's better equipped for this and he can recognize that fact.

As soon as the hold around him loosens Merrick tears away, stumbling briefly before bolting for the door.

Cyril is still by the door and he moves carefully. "Whoa, Merrick. Don't." Sometimes Merrick will hear him or Pel and respond to their voices, other times he doesn't even realize that they're there, but at least Cyril locked the door to give them privacy.

"Metaari." It's a command, uttered calmly but urgently, for him to head Merrick off.

"You're safe, da'len. We're home."

It isn't even necessary. Metaari had worried he'd try to run, would try to get out. The stumble is enough for him to recover from his surprise and he gets halfway out of the bed, a long arm coming out to hook around Merrick's waist. He sits back, hauling the elf with him, and he brings his other to wrap around him again as well.

"Come on, Merrick..."

"No-- No!"

Screams start to tear from his throat, strangled and wretched as he fights to free himself from Metaari's grasp. He has to go back. Has to hurry before he's gone, kill him while he has a chance--

"Let go! Let go, let go, let go--"

Cyril is grateful that Metaari is there because he gives them a strength and solid presence they've never had before. He can hold on and take hits in a way much better than Pel and Cyril might have. It used to take the two of them to stop him from hurting himself.

"Merrick, listen. It's Metaari. You are safe. You're with me and Pel and Metaari."

Pel maneuvers around Merrick so she can see his face. She has been hit so many times during these fits that she doesn't even hesitate. It's just how these things work. She slides her neck handkerchief off and uses it to daub the sweat from his face--a soothing gesture from the touch of silk, but also it carries her scent. Her other hand cups his other cheek.

"Can you hear me, da'len? We are safe. We're waiting for you to come back to us. Can you follow the sound of my voice? Just listen, and don't listen to anything else. Can you feel me touching you, my hand on your cheek? Can you feel that, da'len?"

Metaari holds him tighter; the more Merrick struggles, the stronger his grasp gets. He watches Pel from over his shoulder, how careful and cautious she is but with a certain level of firmness behind her voice. It's as though he's studying her, learning, trying to remember how to do this should there ever be a moment where these two can't be found.

His eyes flicker up toward Cyril briefly, worry sparking across them before he looks down again, letting out a slow breath. He closes his eyes and tilts his head forward, resting his forehead against the back of Merrick's head.

"No," Merrick continues to repeat, his chest heaving desperately as if something is constricting his lungs. "No, no, no, no..."

Cool, soft hands are holding his face, which is still bloody from the fight and shining with cold sweat. His formal outfit is completely ruined, the flower against his breast crushed and dotted with blood.

The cravat is tight around his throat. He can't breathe. But-- Pel is there. Pel. She's trying to hold him tight so he can't see.

"I hate him," he informs her in a wavering voice. She has to know. "Hate him..."

Cyril comes up next to Pel and notices the way that Merrick's eyes focus on Pel. He can tell that he sees her, which is a good step. He places a hand on Metaari's arm to get him to let up just a little. It's good to have a strong grip, but not enough that Merrick feels he's having trouble breathing.

It's also just a sign of reassurance. A, we know this is hard you're doing fine.

"We know," he says. "We know, but it's okay. He's not around. You're safe, da'mi."

"It's a mess, vhenan." She smooths back his hair, heedless of blood, her tone musical. "A right mess, but we've come out all right. Your feet are back on the ground already. Keep hold of me, and come sit down so I can get a good look at you. You've got mud all over you."

It's a bedside tone she uses, mainly with him. Making everything sound like the worst is long past, and now it's just a matter of cleaning up the mud.

Metaari glances up and nods, releasing his hold bit by bit, loosening enough to not squeeze the life out of him, but still gripping enough that he can reaffirm his hold if he needs to. A part of him just wants to pull Merrick closer, wrap a gentle arm around him and just hold, but words are clearly needed--it's just a shame he's only good at them when he isn't thinking.

This is twice in as many months that he's felt mostly useless, only able to help so far. He's going to have to sit down with these two later, he thinks, and get their advice. Well, probably start with Cyril. He's already easier for him to talk to.

Not yet cognizant of who else is in the room, Merrick reaches for Pel, leaning forward so he can lie across her lap. His arms wrap around her waist and he trembles against her, releasing dry sobs against her gown.

The blood all over him stains the beautiful fabric. The flower is crushed between them. Many things have been ruined tonight.

Once Merrick has left Metaari's arms, Cyril crosses over to make sure Pel is comfortable as they settle down. He gives her the pillows she'll need to brace herself for a while, no telling how long Merrick will be against her. He strokes Merrick's hair lightly before pulling up.

"Got him?" he asks. "I was thinking I'd take Metaari to get some water and any supplies I don't have here, but if you think you need us to stay a while longer, I'll stay." These nights just don't put Merrick back through the terrible events of his life, they put Pel right in those flashbacks too. He can't abandon her for too long because it's like leaving her there.

That said, they do need some more water and Metaari probably needs to understand what he's in for.

The dress will be taken apart for scraps after this. It hardly matters, because it would be considered uncouth for her to be seen in it again. Pel doesn't flinch to see it ruined, though later she might quietly mourn it. She looked beautiful tonight.

"Go now," she directs calmly. "It'll probably take till you come back for him to calm down, anyway. At the soonest."

She collects Merrick and begins to rock him, singing quietly in the elven tongue.

Merrick grips her tight as if he's sinking down, down into the depths of the Fallow Mire with the corpse's arm around his throat. He has devolved into keening and whimpering again, trembling wildly in the circle of her arms.

"Pel," he whines. "Where's Papa? Where's Papa..."

"Gone for a while," Pel says tiredly. It's this old routine again. It's always excruciating and it never gets better. "Don't you worry yourself, my love. I'm here forever."

And ever.

"I can hear scratching in my head," Merrick whimpers, curling tighter in her arms. "Make it stop..."

"The scratching is Mythal cleaning out your head for kinder thoughts." She rocks and rocks him. "You hear her dragon-claws defending you from evil. But if it worries you, I will sing.

Elgara vallas, da'len
Melava somniar
Mala taren aravas
Ara ma'desen melar "

It's a moment among countless others, a pattern they'd been repeating for many years. Merrick is exhausted, his head throbbing, body aching, drunk and filthy and bleeding. He curls in Pel's arms and stays there, hides there, trying to run away from his mind.

He wants it to just leave him alone. He wants to sleep. He wants all of this to be over.

"Stop, stop," he whispers, though he isn't speaking to Pel. "Go away..."

"Look at me." Pel touches his chin, trying to tip his head up to look at her. Look at her, not the memories, not the demons.

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dalishious - 2016-05-04 01:23 (UTC) - Expand

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mythalenaste - 2016-05-31 23:04 (UTC) - Expand

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