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

[dalishious]

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.

Comments

later in the night

[dalishious]

At some point Merrick had exhausted himself and had passed out in Pel's arms. It became strangely tranquil after that, with the moonlight pouring in from the holes in the walls and ceiling, enough that the others might decide to rest in turns as the hours drag on.

It's in that lull that Merrick eventually wakes, and melts down onto the floor beside the bed. Though his formal clothes had been shed and his many daggers removed, he always has a knife somewhere-- and this one he grabs from inside the mattress, moving with the speed he's learned from Zevran's training to hitch up his nightshirt and drive the blade down over and over into his thigh.

They're short, shallow stabs, accompanied by ragged breaths and a whispered chant of "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you..."

[mythalenaste]

"No-no-no-no-no-no-no," Pel says gently as she wakes up. Instinctively, she places her arm over his thigh, palm down, because he'll be more hesitant to stab if it's her flesh and not his. That's if he's aware enough to see it's not his. If not, it doesn't matter. At least he won't be making minced meat out of his thigh.

[dalishious]

Merrick doesn't stab down at her, and instead reacts instinctively by swiping the knife in her direction. It catches the side of her face, leaving a shallow but substantial cut across her cheek.

[samahl]

Cyril was already up and near Pel when the slash happens. Quickly, he pulls Pel back, grabbing her gently by the arm to get her out of the way.

"Metaari, try to get that blade away from him," he says to the qunari. His voice is calm, because he doesn't want to freak Merrick out any more, but his eyes are alert and concerned. "Carefully." They needed to survive this night with Merrick's boyfriend intact, after all.

He tugs Pel towards his collection of oils where he has some healing poultice and the tend to her.

[metaari]

It's a familiar position that he's fallen asleep in: on the floor next to Merrick's bed, head pooled on the mattress, exhausted from worry. But it's a mercenary's instinct that has him awake but bone-weary, slowed enough to miss being able to get Pel out of the way before the blade strikes her.

He's up on one knee just a moment later, hauling himself onto the bed, arm coming out to once more wrap firmly around Merrick's middle so he can haul the slight frame to him. He has no fear of the blade itself, not with strength on his side, and the arm not holding Merrick comes up so he can wrap his hand around a too-thin wrist, firm but (hopefully) not crushing, keeping the arm locked and immobile. "Merrick. Open your fingers."

[mythalenaste]

Any time you're dealing with someone with a knife, you have to assume you will be cut. Pel can't remember who told her that first. But it's true, and that knowledge keeps her from being afraid. She holds up her hand against Cyril's attempts to drag her away, quietly going about healing Merrick's wounded thigh and the cut on her own cheek.

[dalishious]

Merrick struggles harder than he has all night. He twists his wrist in Metaari's grasp, likely bruising it as he uses all the strength he has to try and get away.

The sounds he makes are animalistic--snarling, spitting and growling--but for the anguished screams that continue to tear from his throat and lungs in turn.

[metaari]

As much as he wants to let go, to not hurt Merrick, he continues to hold on to him. Letting go now would just mean he could hurt himself even more, and it wouldn't give Pel the chance to heal him. His eyes flit up to Cyril and he gestures with his head. "I've got a firm grip, but if I shift it at all he'll break free. Can you pry his fingers open and get the knife?"

[samahl]

Cyril nods and comes closer. "It's all right, da'mi," he says. The cute nickname seems a little morbid given the fact that Merrick is literally brandishing a little blade, but it's still the best he can do. He reaches out for the hand to try and get the blade from him.

[mythalenaste]

Pel hates to do this, but getting the knife away from Merrick is the most important thing. She touches the handle of the knife and send a bitter chill through it, so cold that Merrick should be unable to keep holding it.

[dalishious]

Merrick lets out a cry and drops the knife, allowing Cyril to grab it and take it away. His cries continue, more and more anguished, dry sobs racking his lungs.