MINGLE - Post-Op(era) Recovery

[pumpkinhollow]

On this night we drink to the death of Sorrow.

After the Fall of Efrain With the Prince of Sorrow's Song dead and gone, the opera dissipates, spitting its victims out on the summit of Crane's Ridge where the Dance of Celestine was held some months before. It's getting late, and there is no one yet in town to run the train. Some will brave the trip home simply for the sake of collapsing into their own beds and achieving some sense of normalcy. Others will do so with the hope of returning with help. But many others will simply say "fuck it" and camp out on the mountain, still fitted with extra firewood from the festival and the means to build temporary structures in nearby storage sheds. The journey down will be safer in the morning, and there's solidarity to be had in a cool spring night spent under the stars.

Oh, look, there's even some non-perishable food and wine from the Dance. Combined with what can be hunted or foraged, as well as snacks and drinks stolen from the concession stand, there's plenty to go around. This might even be a little bit fun! Anyone up for another game of Never Have I Ever? Maybe a little Truth or Dare? Or perhaps you just want to chat and unwind with your friends. Whatever the case may be, have fun. This is your time. After darkness, there is a dawn. At the death of Sorrow, there is joy.

Comments

[tehilim127_1]

She still doesn't draw her hand back, carefully cradling his. No blood has been drawn, but she can see the pale indentations on his fingers where he's bitten himself, and for a moment the sorrow and anger swell up in her throat and she can't make a sound through them.

Then, carefully even: "May I try again, the calming spell I did last night?"

Even if all it gives is a little temporary peace, she feels she owes him that. If he wants it.

[lovethyneighb_or]

No, shrieks the part of him that refuses anything mood or mind-altering whatsoever. But there's still the rest of him.

"It can't hurt," he sighs, keeping his eyes down, watching where her hand holds his.

[tehilim127_1]

She focuses her heart and murmurs the ancient words again, shiviti v'domamti nafshi, concentrating on their meaning, wondering for a moment what translation he might know best.

"Psalms 131," she says, and looks up into his face.

[lovethyneighb_or]

He meets her eyes. He hears her words, and every brick of fear he's built into the walls around himself go crumbling to dust. Like last time, he chokes on the drop before he fully calms, a sob rippling out of him. The tumult passes. He wonders if the fact that he rarely ever feels this calm means anything.

"... Thank you," he sighs. The hand that isn't held fidgets with the edge of the table. "I... I apologize. I'd dare say I, ah... acted less appropriately than I'd like."

[tehilim127_1]

"It's all right," she says again, quieter than before. "I apologize too; I think I pretty clearly hit some bad spots I didn't know were there. Under the circumstances I think you behaved about as well as anyone could have."

[lovethyneighb_or]

He purses his lips. "Well, it isn't your fault alone. I admit that I steered you towards it. Of course, I wanted to explain myself to you, but I... I just want to talk about these things, too. It feels suffocating to hold onto it alone. But I don't think that I can do that without... panicking, and hurting someone or myself in the process."

He looks down.

[tehilim127_1]

"Well. You haven't hurt me. And ..." A touch of hesitation. "If it would be okay with you, I could try and heal your hands."

[lovethyneighb_or]

"... With a spell? I..."

(He remembers, a long time ago, another cleric doing the same for him: Jester, teaching his knuckles to knit themselves back together after he'd split them open on Powell.)

"... I would... like that very much, I think. Thank you."

[tehilim127_1]

She nods. And holds out both her own hands for his, palms up on the table.

(The thing about how Zivia casts spells is: each of them is a prayer, an invocation of her god, in combination of praise and plea. The specific words aren't as important as the act of saying them and meaning them. And for the healing of wounds, there are a positive abundance of applicable lines in the source she favors; she puts aside a few options in favor of the one that seems most right.)

"Haropheh l'shvurei-lev," she murmurs, gathering her will, "umekhabesh l'atzvotam."

[lovethyneighb_or]

It's not a language he's ever had the opportunity to learn, outside of some necessary prayers and blessings, the syllables and meanings of which he'd memorized separately. Still, it's undeniable the way which the old and holy words settle deep into his bones, warming them there.

It's as if his hands are remembering how they were. The indentations raise. The pain eases.

He doesn't take his hand out of hers. "I don't know how to thank you," he murmurs, and it's for more than just this.

[tehilim127_1]

Under ordinary circumstances, she'd have let go of his hands already. For right now ... she judges it more important that he not perceive her as pulling away from him.

"You can keep me in mind next time you pray," she suggests, her voice as quiet as his. "Or just, you know ... stick around, all right? Don't hide out if you can help it."

wrapping

[lovethyneighb_or]

There's a pang in his chest at the last words. He smiles, a little rueful.

"I'll certainly keep you in mind. And... well, I'll do my best. For now, words will have to do."

So with all the meaning he can muster into it, and all the gratitude of those who have been thrown a lifeline: "Thank you, Zivia."

*

[tehilim127_1]

"Anytime," she tells him, and means it.