T'Pol had tried the CES twice already; when she'd first encountered rain, she'd abandoned the escapade, adjusting her schedule to try later. She occasionally like meditating somewhere other than her room. But the second time she tried had been just as wet; though before she left again, she noted that there was something off about the weather.
So when she returned for the third time, it was with an umbrella (complete with Starfleet insignia), and her PADD. She wandered the area, taking what readings she could - the PADD wasn't a tricorder, and it was less adept in taking scans.
It was most likely luck that she found Merlin at all; the blood was the reason she didn't excuse herself. Making her way to his side, T'Pol crouched, turning the PADD on the young man instead of the environment around her. "Merlin."
Merlin just blanked on her completely for a moment, then blinked and let his rigid body relax a little. He wasn't really hurt at all - a few superficial wounds from his encounter with Loki, but nothing worse.
The PADD was tucked into a pocket in her jacket, so she could reach for his shoulder lightly. "How long have you been out here?" According to her scans, long enough to get himself sick. She was careful to keep the umbrella over him.
"A while," Merlin said lamely. "I was going to come back in soon."
He didn't really know how true that was. Usually he wasn't allowed to focus on his bad moods; he never had the opportunity to be alone for long enough for his mind to drift anywhere really dark. On the Barge, though...he had more than enough opportunity to run and hide. And without an Inmate to worry about, he didn't even really feel bad about it.
She'd never completely understand the human habit of sulking, though she'd come close to it. Sitting and brooding on what could not be helped was not logical; especially when there were other things to be done. T'Pol closed her hand on Merlin's shoulder, gently pushing him away from the tree.
"If you stay here any longer, you're likely to come down with hypothermia. You need to get to the infirmary."
Was he being pushed? He was miserable and being pushed. Arthur would be proud.
"I'm fine. They'll be busy, anyway. So many people with the death toll." His tone was brittle. The implication, to his mind, was clear: there were so many people with the death toll because of him. Because he hadn't acted quickly enough.
The implication was unclear to T'Pol, and she had no intention of leaving him here at this point. The pushing grew insistent; she'd haul him to his feet if she had to. "And you're likely to join them if you stay here. Please; I'll accompany you to the infirmary." She wasn't taking no for an answer.
That seemed briefly alright as a concept to him, which was a clear sign that he'd been left to his own devices for a bit too long. He shook his head fiercely, pulling away.
"I can't go in there! There are so many people I - " His voice was getting louder, frantic. He reined it in. "There are so many people I failed."
Well that certainly wasn't what she expected. Arching both eyebrows, T'Pol loosened her grip and let him pull away, not wanting him to feel trapped. "How did you fail them?"
T'Pol's hand dropped back to his arm, and she tugged again, more insistently. She was trying to get him on his feet and moving; better than sitting here and feeling sorry for himself. "Saving them wasn't your responsibility."
He got up, finally, but more out of fear that she was going to dislocate his arm than anything else. The idea that saving people wasn't his responsibility, that was - novel.
"Maybe it wasn't. Not to begin with. But I made it my responsibility and..." He put a hand over his mouth, staring out over the lake. "I don't know how to face them."
When people had died in Camelot, he'd mourned them. When they could come back and know that he had been almost completely ineffectual, that - that was something else.
Holding the umbrella over his head, T'Pol arched an eyebrow at him. She didn't let go of his arm, though, using it to try and steer him back toward the barge. "I don't know what happened," she started, "But if you did what you could - and I suspect you did - then you have no reason to feel sorry for yourself."
"I don't - " He tried to pull his arm out of her grip, but not so hard he risked hurting her. "I'm not feeling sorry for myself, I'm feeling sorry for them. They died and they didn't have to. Doesn't somebody have to feel bad about that?"
The risk seemed more in Merlin hurting himself, so she let him go when he pulled. But she didn't intend to let up. "Do they? It strikes me that they are currently alive, and that the one who caused their pain is being dealt with. Do you intend to mourn every life you cannot personally save?" She was being rational, though Vulcan rationality didn't always come across as they expected it to. Humans tended to find them cold, or cruel, and that thought gave T'Pol pause. "You have no reason to feel badly about what happened, Merlin."
He stumbled a few steps, and when the strength went from his legs there was a conveniently placed knee-high rock. He sat down and tried not to explode. The great destiny that the Dragon never shut up about, the responsibility he was meant to be taking onto his shoulders - all of Albion's future - would he ever be equal to it, when he was still messing up like he was?
The Dragon. He had freed the Dragon - the Doctor had let Coyolxauhqui summon down her brothers. But the dead of Camelot would never come back. His guilt spiralled, hopeless.
"If I had acted sooner, nobody would have been sacrificed." His voice was quiet, controlled. "That's - logical, isn't it?"
So when she returned for the third time, it was with an umbrella (complete with Starfleet insignia), and her PADD. She wandered the area, taking what readings she could - the PADD wasn't a tricorder, and it was less adept in taking scans.
It was most likely luck that she found Merlin at all; the blood was the reason she didn't excuse herself. Making her way to his side, T'Pol crouched, turning the PADD on the young man instead of the environment around her. "Merlin."
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"Hiya, T'Pol." Yeah, he can pronounce it now.
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He didn't really know how true that was. Usually he wasn't allowed to focus on his bad moods; he never had the opportunity to be alone for long enough for his mind to drift anywhere really dark. On the Barge, though...he had more than enough opportunity to run and hide. And without an Inmate to worry about, he didn't even really feel bad about it.
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"If you stay here any longer, you're likely to come down with hypothermia. You need to get to the infirmary."
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"I'm fine. They'll be busy, anyway. So many people with the death toll." His tone was brittle. The implication, to his mind, was clear: there were so many people with the death toll because of him. Because he hadn't acted quickly enough.
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"I can't go in there! There are so many people I - " His voice was getting louder, frantic. He reined it in. "There are so many people I failed."
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"Maybe it wasn't. Not to begin with. But I made it my responsibility and..." He put a hand over his mouth, staring out over the lake. "I don't know how to face them."
When people had died in Camelot, he'd mourned them. When they could come back and know that he had been almost completely ineffectual, that - that was something else.
Reply
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He stumbled a few steps, and when the strength went from his legs there was a conveniently placed knee-high rock. He sat down and tried not to explode. The great destiny that the Dragon never shut up about, the responsibility he was meant to be taking onto his shoulders - all of Albion's future - would he ever be equal to it, when he was still messing up like he was?
The Dragon. He had freed the Dragon - the Doctor had let Coyolxauhqui summon down her brothers. But the dead of Camelot would never come back. His guilt spiralled, hopeless.
"If I had acted sooner, nobody would have been sacrificed." His voice was quiet, controlled. "That's - logical, isn't it?"
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