(Untitled)
L is browsing the stacks in the eighth-floor library. Row after row of books on ornate, dark wood shelving -- How long have they been here? -- surrounds him, but he can still see the far-away main entrance to the library from where he stands. He wrinkles his nose at the faint musty scent of the crumbling volumes.
[Thread is private to firm_detective and refractings.]
[Thread is private to firm_detective and refractings.]
He follows L into the room -- he more than half-expects the Mansion to present them with a trick room, given the circumstances, but it is for once cooperative -- and stands where L indicates, noting L's position, blocking his access to the heavy iron pokers by the fireplace. This is probably a smart move, but in all honesty, Light doesn't think he'll require any weapons, if he gets it into his head to attack L.
He glances across at the detective, at the way the light of the fire flickers over the musculature in his neck. The man looks terribly skinny, but not necessarily fragile. As Light remembers the white-and-blue blur from the tennis match, he thinks that L can probably take care of himself.
The fire crackles and flickers with a sort of indifferent cheerfulness. It would be easy to imagine the flames consuming anything (a log, a house, a person, a piece of paper) and continuing to burn, unfazed, self-possessed. Very simple, but Light isn't that whimsical, and he has other things on his mind. He holds out his hand, palm facing the fireplace. With his hand like this, grabbing the scrap will be more difficult, if he should decide to try for it.
His hand is close enough to the fire to feel its heat as more than just a benign warmth. The proximity is bearable for the moment. He glances up at L, then, in a nonverbal request, inhaling deeply in an attempt to calm his nerves.]
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*Then, the understanding comes to him: it's the first time he's likely to see the memories returning. He doesn't know exactly how Light will react; he may maintain self-control, or he may collapse, or he may go wild. L has gathered from Misa that the return of the memories is traumatic, but they were unpleasant for her -- shameful, to some extent -- and there is every chance that Light is not in the least ashamed of what he has done.*
*His gaze is locked on Light's face: a change should show there, first. His own expression is at its most focused, its most grave. He is full of resolve.*
*Holding the scrap between his first and second fingers, pressed together, he touches it to the back of Light's hand, and waits for a response.*
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Then the paper, so normal-looking, so deceptive, touches his skin.
So much floods Light's brain that for an instant he loses himself completely, becomes a creature purely of images and voices and churning, poisonous impulse. When he grabs ahold his identity again, it's almost not a relief because this hurts, this hurts, he can feel memory -- this is what it is, this is what he is doing, he is regaining himself he was so lost showed each other our notebooks at Aoyama so empty -- he can feel them filling those holes in his mind, forcing their way through his conscious mind to shove themselves Naomi Misora L do you know into crevices and cracks and where is he, this is not-- why is-- there are mental connections he can't make yet and there's still more, god, there's still more and he can hear his neurons screeching or maybe they will follow him I am L forever, wasn't made for humans, no -- yes I am Kira I--
Less than half a second has passed, but for all Light knows he's been frozen in place for hours, his gasp of surprise choked off and smothered. There's no room in his mind for physical sensation, but something deep in the animal part of his brain knows to scream, and so he does.]
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*There isn't the opportunity. The scream begins almost immediately after the gasp.*
*His gaze doesn't leave Light's face. Instead, his fingers open enough to let the scrap slip through them and fall into the fire, where it begins to burn in an instant, blackening and curling.*
*He finds that he has forgotten to breathe; he wonders if it will be necessary to run.*
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It's hopeless and he knows it but he grabs at them, clutching, digging in his claws, trying to focus on all of them at once.
They rip themselves from his grasp anyway. Images and scenes go dark one by one like someone's hit a series of light switches until after a long long instant
His head hurts terribly and he's screaming. Why is he screaming? He cuts himself off with a rasping gurgle he barely hears. It hurts his throat, but he hardly notices that either. The piece of notebook paper curls and blackens in the flames as he stumbles back and sideways, his thoughts clumsy and fumbling. What--]
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Please sit down.
*His pale skin stands out in the room's warm dimness; he points to a chair next to Light with his finger, a white arrow.*
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What happened? What did it -- ?
*How did it feel? He elects not to use that wording.*
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[He wants to hug his knees to his chest and huddle back into the embrace of the chair. He settles for wrapping his arms around himself and hunching his back. He's still staring, wide-eyed and unsure, although lucidity seems to be returning.]
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Yes. You began to, and then --
*His other hand gestures towards the fire.*
I dropped it in.
-- I think it can be considered conclusive.
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[He does pull his knees up to his torso now, as he turns to stare into the fire. His head is pounding incessantly. He feels sick and distantly horrified, and while he doesn't want to be alone, he finds that he wants L's company even less.]
Thank you. For your assistance.
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*He doesn't show any sign that he will be going anywhere. His hand remains poised on the back of the chair. His gaze shifts over to the fire, then back.*
It is hot in here, isn't it?
*He doesn't know if it's the fire that makes the room stuffy, or if the atmosphere feels airless because of what has just happened.*
-- What can you remember about what happened, just now?
*Something suggests to him that he should leave, for his own safety, but he may never again have the opportunity to hear about this immediately after the fact -- so he stays.*
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It... I think-- it hurt. [His words are halting, stumbling over each other, unsure.] The... recovery, not the loss. My head feels... emptier? Less cluttered, although why... Everything was rushing in, and before it had stopped moving it was going again...
[The impressions are vague, and fading rapidly; Light struggles to hold on to them with a desperation that surprises him. The last time he lost his memories, his memory-less self had had no concept of what was happening. The pain was rationalized away as the beginning of his headache, and the sensation of his mind clearing had seemed clearing of cobwebs, an awakening to his situation -- What am I doing here?
He raises his eyes as far as L's neck, but can't quite look the detective in the face. His expression is strangely vulnerable.] I don't remember anything else.
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