[This whole time, L has not noticed the Emperor here. Perhaps he should have known that he would be coming, since Paul came to save him, and there's only so much a Paleblood without rapid healing abilities can do in a situation like this. He droops against Paul, wondering if it would be better to ask before lying down, or just keep on drooping until he makes it there, anyway.
He assumes that Paul is saying he's sorry because Paul understands he's at the limit of his strength, that it's too late and L will have to be reborn before he makes good on his promise of an apology for stealing the book.
When Paul turns his head toward the doorway, L's forehead drops against his shoulder. For a moment he's pressed inside a black and warm cocoon that shrouds his eyes, though they remain half-open, and the pain begins to recede and become a memory that belongs to a distant, closed chapter.
Not yet, announces a fleshy thunderclap, a haughty voice using different words but ultimately saying the same, smug thing. The darkness ebbs away, and though he'd thought he was past fear (past-tense), the flare and flicker of it lights up his limbs. Uncoordinated as they are, they make an earnest effort to get away, and if he can break away from Paul with the sudden rallying explosion of motion, he'll do what he can to keep the couch between them (while conveniently using it for support he can't remain upright without, just now.)]
You brought him here...
[It's more of a numb, hollow realization than a venomous accusation. Paul would have done what he thought was best, meaning no harm, but L's "choice of location" has always been his armor. The secret and anonymity and constant changing between abandoned and condemned properties is a punishing grind and highly inconvenient, but he persists with it because he earnestly believes it protects him from situations like this.
Paul believes he's brought a medic to one wounded. L knows he's brought a monster instead, one who is relishing holding his life in his hands with the knowledge that it can be relinquished or refused at his whim.
Lycka remains where she is as the Emperor passes, a hulking dark shape who resembles a storm cloud more than a gentle and protective orca matriarch. Her sleeper is dying and she blames him; with his survival as a priority, she recognizes the best shot he has. With his survival as a priority, she would rather see him humbled than watch him choose pride over life.
no subject
He assumes that Paul is saying he's sorry because Paul understands he's at the limit of his strength, that it's too late and L will have to be reborn before he makes good on his promise of an apology for stealing the book.
When Paul turns his head toward the doorway, L's forehead drops against his shoulder. For a moment he's pressed inside a black and warm cocoon that shrouds his eyes, though they remain half-open, and the pain begins to recede and become a memory that belongs to a distant, closed chapter.
Not yet, announces a fleshy thunderclap, a haughty voice using different words but ultimately saying the same, smug thing. The darkness ebbs away, and though he'd thought he was past fear (past-tense), the flare and flicker of it lights up his limbs. Uncoordinated as they are, they make an earnest effort to get away, and if he can break away from Paul with the sudden rallying explosion of motion, he'll do what he can to keep the couch between them (while conveniently using it for support he can't remain upright without, just now.)]
You brought him here...
[It's more of a numb, hollow realization than a venomous accusation. Paul would have done what he thought was best, meaning no harm, but L's "choice of location" has always been his armor. The secret and anonymity and constant changing between abandoned and condemned properties is a punishing grind and highly inconvenient, but he persists with it because he earnestly believes it protects him from situations like this.
Paul believes he's brought a medic to one wounded. L knows he's brought a monster instead, one who is relishing holding his life in his hands with the knowledge that it can be relinquished or refused at his whim.
Lycka remains where she is as the Emperor passes, a hulking dark shape who resembles a storm cloud more than a gentle and protective orca matriarch. Her sleeper is dying and she blames him; with his survival as a priority, she recognizes the best shot he has. With his survival as a priority, she would rather see him humbled than watch him choose pride over life.
A bit of a mess, indeed.]