moth to a flame, her healing hands find home in his head, not before moments of horrified contemplation. he tumbles and collapses, his heart heavy with something, his head in disarray: the problem ? it hurts, physically to be around him. with her condition, that exalted awareness and mirror of another’s heart, its as if she owns his grief. the knife of death stabs itself down her chest, deep, seeking the stomach. she feels like puking, or crying, she feels like its her fault, and that she should suffer these harrowing feelings as penance. she cannot name his loss, she has in fact very little context. she is merely a vessel to feeling, his feelings, she has shaped herself in the shape of his misery and its hard to do her job as healer when she’s owning his pain so tightly against her viscera. this is the problem of being a team, of being friends. his soul is inexplicably closer to her own than any passerby. it hurts the most, and she feels shame to be so incapacitated to help him when he's the one enduring.
she collapses by him, slowly, hand reaching weakly towards his face. the bond between them may not be unbroken, she will soothe him, even if it destroys her. ‘ roy, ’ black tears dance across her cheek as her fingers find his own, seeking his eyes, those eyes that are innundated lost in images that are not real, but real all the same. the empath takes a little, only a little of his distortion, wincing, naked knees bruising against the concrete. its as if gravity pulled them in, deeper into the earth's core. the feeling is similar to when she lost azarath. whatever he is seeing, it must be as devastating as the end of the world.
‘ roy, listen to me, ’ her voice is firm and strained, ‘ come back, hear… hear me, ’ she breathes, she will conquer this for him, she will endure his pain, she will find his way back to reality, ‘ what is my name, roy ? who am i ? ’
