FAREWELL LOG
Set from October 24th onwards:
( -To absent friends, lost loves, old gods, and the season of mists; and may each and every one of us always give the devil his due. )
( -To absent friends, lost loves, old gods, and the season of mists; and may each and every one of us always give the devil his due. )
There was a flicker of movement the instant before contact, as if the couple drops of blood on his thumb had started to move. Then the distance was closed, and Luke was almost leaning in as the sense of focus came back, not quite the same.
It did indeed have that acidic feeling of skin getting eaten at unevenly. It wasn't strong enough to hurt, quite, but it wasn't far off, and there was a sort of radiating effect coming off it. Maybe that was just the pressure.
Then, a distinct sense of something splitting off from him, sinking in, spreading - not far, not yet anyway, maybe just a few square centimeters beneath a layer of skin. Luke let out a breath and pulled back.
His thumb wasn't clean, but it didn't quite look bloody now, either. There was a residue. There was a bloody thumbprint on Cephiro's chest, not as bright a red as it had been. A sensation remained, fainter now and warm against each heartbeat.
"There we go," Luke said. He wasn't out of breath, but breathing a little more emphatically than before. "All right?"
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"Are you?"
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When Cephiro let go, Luke took up his mug again and took a deep pull before responding.
"I'll be okay- I am okay. It's all right." He wiped chocolate from his lips and nodded at Cephiro's mug. "You can finish now, if you want. If you can fix this in your mind, all of this-" his gesture took in the fall garden behind Wellspring Clinic, the little fire still going to the side of them, the two of them themselves. -"it will make calling on me easier."
The sights, the sounds, the feel of it, the smells, of course the taste... Luke hadn't picked this place and made these preparations at random. He himself, what he'd done, might work for whatever other senses Cephiro used, but it was good to make an impression with every sense. Ideally there would be an emotion, too, but he had an idea for that.
Luke steepled his mismatched hands around his mug, fingertips meeting fingertips and thumb touching thumb. He couldn't remember if this was something he already knew or not, but he had to ask. "Do you meditate, Cephiro?"
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"Every day," the mage replied, nodding. That was one of those things - he had really started doing that well before he had realized that he was a mage, and even before he took up martial arts. It must have been an old habit.
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He didn't get more specific. This was the kind of thing it was better to figure out for oneself. "I don't think it will work perfectly every time. It won't always be like this, like I'm physically with you. It won't even always be like speaking plainly to me. But if you call on me, I will know." He said it softly, but with great certainty.
What was left of the blood had dried enough, he decided, and drained the mug before setting it to the side again. Slowly, Luke unfolded his crossed legs to get his boots on the ground, and stood, gesturing for Cephiro to do the same.
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His tone implied a lot more confidence than the words themselves did. He stood, then, setting the mug aside, and looked up at Luke questioningly.
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"It won't hurt." Luke stepped forwards and just folded Cephiro into his arms, pulling and holding him close.
He was strong - stronger than he looked - but gentle. Murmuring down into the other's neck, he said, "It's okay to miss me. I know what it's like. But I'll be right here, when you need me."
Luke smelled like clean laundry and human, with touches of machine lube and woodsmoke and chocolate, and just a faint undertone of something like the ground after rain.
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