In that instant, when the spirit hears the name it's shaped itself to and echoes back warmth, Myr understands with sudden clarity what bonds spirit healers to their partners. It's not knowledge he's ever wanted or sought and it sits uncomfortably in his chest: That, that feeling of acceptance of what was and surety in the object of belief--things he's felt only in extended supplication to the Maker-- It's there any time one might want, with a spirit.

He does not trust it, isn't sure he likes it for all he's glad of it in this moment. But for all that the spirit that echoes Sarenrae doesn't set his teeth on edge the way others do--

Because it's brought a look to Six's face he hasn't ever seen before; because with her, the spirit's presence seems wholly, deeply right. He looks between the two of them once more before touching hand to heart in the spirit's direction. "She is lovely--and fits well at your side."

There is a flicker of movement in the stacks. Myr makes the mistake of letting his eye be drawn and glances over just as a wet and smacking entity, like a living cancerous pile of viscera, pours itself down the shelves in a sickening tide. He flinches with his whole body, averting his gaze and fisting his hands in his robe to keep them occupied.