faderift | [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 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.

He does look at her, and his eyes are big and frightened and pleading. No tears fall; he'd cried out the last of them twelve years ago.

"Pel," he says, reaffirming it to himself but also begging her for an answer she cannot give.

"Yes. Pel, ma vhenan. Now. What is your name?"

These little things help establish reality.

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

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