ORIGIN - chromatic aberration

in which navy realizes he hasn't gotten a single success for menkhe,
and remembers that he has a great window of opportunity

set after THE MOON IS DEAD and IS IT LORE OR BULLSHIT?
you'll see why, despite TMID having exactly one post in it—

generalized cw for mild

death

mentions and somewhat intense anxiety in this thread
Hm. How long ago had it been since she'd left?

He thought that he could still feel the push and pull of clawed fingers against his scalp; the gnarling of joints tugging sharply at the coarse fibers and clinging for dear life to pebbly scales. Hot tears, burning like acid, slipping down skin that buzzed buzzed buzzed with the residual seethe of the Chaos-infested air. Bile on breath, sinking into his nostrils, adding to the sickening grey-out of his vision, of the proximity-induced sickness coiling through him. Oh, oh, and the grief.

Oh, the grief.

She'd had wrung it out of herself, clawed her own throat to shreds with just one cry of the banshee, guilt-stricken and driven halfway to self-destruction by the loss—and at least that was indication enough for him to know that she'd not done such a horrible, horrible thing like he initially thought. (How could he have come to any other conclusion? How could he dare to come to one such as that? Surely she'd cared for and loved Pollen. Surely surely surelysurelysurely—)

Crimson eyes peeled open, crackling at the edges with a saline crust. Pupils blurred, slowly focusing in as retinas and unseen irises adjusted the lenses and— ah, there was the fluttering animal in his chest again. Terror and anxiety all together, unraveling into a terrible mess at a scale much like his surroundings. Does the library seethe as much as whatever's in my chest? Menkheperre hazarded a guess: Yes.

Hideous beasts lurked in the corners, haunting the shadows-that-danced and reaching for him, for him— Oh, too loud.

The Valkhound curled tighter into his fetal position beneath the desk, limbs compressed and wound-up far too tightly, claws and fingers gripping onto himself in a mock-hug. He couldn't recall making his way underneath here, but perhaps the Menkheperre of the past thought he'd had the cleverest idea slinking underneath here. His present self appreciated it, (thank you) as much as his mind clamored and shouted, as much as the shut-away imps and lesser demons rattled the bars of their cage.

Think of something else. A song, came the subconscious introjection. What? Listen to my heart. All right.

And there it was, set to the hummingbird flight rhythm of his heart's thrumming: a chiming melody like the ornaments in the gardens. Crystalline, high-pitched, but still with just that hint of a bass line in the flow of magicka and blood from Oilstone to lungs and spine and arms and legs and mouth and teeth—all that was essential to keeping him alive, to reminding him that he existed in the present that his Past had created, and that he would be all right.

He would be all right.

She'd left twenty minutes ago.

She wouldn't be coming back.

Menkheperre... thought not, anyways. Her strides had been purposeful, devoid of what staggering pace had carried her through such a destructive path and left him to gaze at the wreckage. From his vantage point, he could see another desk, the overturned candle and spilled wax coating an old book. The spine cracked and bowed from thousands of years' use, lettering long-worn to the embossing of the leather; and yet, he knew its name. He'd been studying it before the impact of... something truly wicked-seeming.

The name evaded him, but the figures in the dark refused to bow out.

Was this his first encounter with fear? That which goes bump! in the night? He couldn't help but to think of how childish it was, being afraid of the darkness the library had succumbed to now that night had fallen and the candles had gone unlit; how childish it was that he worried something else would jump at him, do far worse than just cling to him. That he shook like a leaf in a winter's storm and that his stomach refused anything but a tumultuous curl and boil.

At least the song helped.

If he could just banish even a small part of what frightened him so terribly—made him choke down his sobs and whimpers—then... then he could light the candles and get to work on putting everything back together, continuing to unravel the puzzle that was the Purpose of Living. He'd been studying that of great philosophers, letting the concept of eudaimonia sear into his skull. For Khavur, for Khavur, for... business as usual. A chrysalis still meant life, everything would be all right.

Menkheperre reached for the light. It unfurled into being like a flower might from a long-awaiting bulb. Bright and pure as the unknown sun, its rays reached far into the depths of the shelves. Motes of dust spiraled in their illuminated dance, parting just for him as he peeled himself upward on shaking limbs. A tongue swept across his too-dry lips, the teeth just barely beginning to jut out past them, and he managed the smallest smile.

It didn't quite reach his eyes, but it wasn't too bad as long as he could bask in the blanket of illusory warmth thrown about his shoulders.