[ It is something Spock will be following in a later vein, enveloped as he is at the moment by the weight of his own paranoia and his own fears. What is himself and what is the Gnosia is interwoven at the base, rot in the root of the foundation. What has been and will always be soft and vulnerable and lonely has been feasted upon by the beak of something both unmoored and insensate — it cares little for the positives and the gains. It knows only hunger, it knows only taste. Like fingers shoved through the bruised skins of stone fruits, what it holds now in the palm is the source of the ache. What it holds now is the boy who knew only his mother to guide him, knew only the brutality of his singular and exceptional existence.
Their risk was a selfless one. And this is how it is repaid: an absolute and unwavering stubbornness until Jim broadcasts that certainty that he is here. That he is near, the visual confirmation that Jim provides despite protestation quelling the cacophonous urges to take and steal — reclaim. His skin itches, sears. What remains of the arrows and poisons grind, shear.
And yet, the bond maintains. It remains, a driving force behind the inevitable way he appears to capitulate.
His hand withdraws.
He is not so foolish as to appear outside of cover entirely. The Gnosia sup upon the knowledge of her capabilities, limited though they may be in part. However, what is Spock twists against the restraint. Both require Jim, the bond too should prefer him. And it is these factors, that bring Spock to steer Peter partly into the open. Enough to show that he is alive, in better form than one may have suspected.
He is conscious, certainly. Roughed over in part, but no more than Spock is. If one were to make argument, his appearance from half-behind the cover of the monument would provide insight into his comparatively worse state of being. Despite the robes that drape his frame, he appears smaller these days. Pulled into his himself, the infection has stolen the stability of his posture and the firm line of his shoulders. It has taken from him any semblance of Humanity, the bronzing shadows beneath his dark of his eyes more a bruise that he bears than a fatigue.
It is difficult to gauge to scale of his own injuries from here, but there is a line of green blood that sluices off the curve of a wrist. It rests against Peter's shoulder, nails digging in just enough to hold him.
His fingers are placed precariously close to the division between fabric and skin.
He does not trust her, that much is certain. That much is obvious, his attentions burning through her and settling upon where Jim himself is. ]
Speak, [ he says, the word a low command. It is obvious, despite where it is his gaze fixes, that it is directed at Peter. ]
no subject
Their risk was a selfless one. And this is how it is repaid: an absolute and unwavering stubbornness until Jim broadcasts that certainty that he is here. That he is near, the visual confirmation that Jim provides despite protestation quelling the cacophonous urges to take and steal — reclaim. His skin itches, sears. What remains of the arrows and poisons grind, shear.
And yet, the bond maintains. It remains, a driving force behind the inevitable way he appears to capitulate.
His hand withdraws.
He is not so foolish as to appear outside of cover entirely. The Gnosia sup upon the knowledge of her capabilities, limited though they may be in part. However, what is Spock twists against the restraint. Both require Jim, the bond too should prefer him. And it is these factors, that bring Spock to steer Peter partly into the open. Enough to show that he is alive, in better form than one may have suspected.
He is conscious, certainly. Roughed over in part, but no more than Spock is. If one were to make argument, his appearance from half-behind the cover of the monument would provide insight into his comparatively worse state of being. Despite the robes that drape his frame, he appears smaller these days. Pulled into his himself, the infection has stolen the stability of his posture and the firm line of his shoulders. It has taken from him any semblance of Humanity, the bronzing shadows beneath his dark of his eyes more a bruise that he bears than a fatigue.
It is difficult to gauge to scale of his own injuries from here, but there is a line of green blood that sluices off the curve of a wrist. It rests against Peter's shoulder, nails digging in just enough to hold him.
His fingers are placed precariously close to the division between fabric and skin.
He does not trust her, that much is certain. That much is obvious, his attentions burning through her and settling upon where Jim himself is. ]
Speak, [ he says, the word a low command. It is obvious, despite where it is his gaze fixes, that it is directed at Peter. ]