[ He shouldn't take his eyes from the necromancer. He does anyway, at Sypha's scream, and it's only a blessing that he's quick enough to realise that they're not a danger to her not to lash out at them with his whip.
No, it's not just a blessing. He couldn't strike them if he tried, because even without the way they wear their hair, even with the robes torn and stained and blue instead of white, he knows full well what they are. He couldn't have done a thing to them even had they meant harm. ]
Chimeras. [ He provides, probably not entirely helpfully. It's more than clear what they are, and putting a name to them doesn't change a thing.
The next hand isn't lanced through with ice. Instead, the white smoke gathers together into a hand of its own, pale and softly glowing and outstretched. It catches the shadow, wrapping its fingers around it and holding it. There's no violence in it - Trevor knows the movements it's making. It's the way they would take people's hands to ground them during painful treatment or delivering bad news. But it holds the hand still. The shadow doesn't break apart this time, and so the fragments of it don't return to their master.
The next one, then, is smaller. There is less to work with. And again, it is caught and held, and that hold is soft and comforting, almost, but also uncompromising. They would not forego painful treatment and allow someone to die. They would not keep a man ignorant of terrible news. There's comfort in it, but no escape. It continues, until all of the smoke in the room is gathered into those glowing hands and there are no shadows left to use.
There is just a broken man in the middle of the room. A broken man with the consequences of his actions, and the people he hurt most giving him what comfort they can. Holding his hands, all of his hands, through the pain of whatever comes next. ]
no subject
No, it's not just a blessing. He couldn't strike them if he tried, because even without the way they wear their hair, even with the robes torn and stained and blue instead of white, he knows full well what they are. He couldn't have done a thing to them even had they meant harm. ]
Chimeras. [ He provides, probably not entirely helpfully. It's more than clear what they are, and putting a name to them doesn't change a thing.
The next hand isn't lanced through with ice. Instead, the white smoke gathers together into a hand of its own, pale and softly glowing and outstretched. It catches the shadow, wrapping its fingers around it and holding it. There's no violence in it - Trevor knows the movements it's making. It's the way they would take people's hands to ground them during painful treatment or delivering bad news. But it holds the hand still. The shadow doesn't break apart this time, and so the fragments of it don't return to their master.
The next one, then, is smaller. There is less to work with. And again, it is caught and held, and that hold is soft and comforting, almost, but also uncompromising. They would not forego painful treatment and allow someone to die. They would not keep a man ignorant of terrible news. There's comfort in it, but no escape. It continues, until all of the smoke in the room is gathered into those glowing hands and there are no shadows left to use.
There is just a broken man in the middle of the room. A broken man with the consequences of his actions, and the people he hurt most giving him what comfort they can. Holding his hands, all of his hands, through the pain of whatever comes next. ]