[That bubble of hope is, unfortunately, met with guilt. Shame. Disgust.]
Yeah.
[A pause after that stellar explanation. He tries again. Fear lodges itself in his chest, though even he recognizes it as unjustified. She won't push him away, no matter how much she should. It's all the more reason he has to keep her safe. He has to keep her safe. He has to keep her safe.]
A couple of times now, over these past months, I've... been so hungry, I lost myself. Lost myself to it. Did some things. Became something worse.
[She lets out a sad, upset chirrup.] I have felt your hunger. [And felt his fear.] I wish to feed you. It can only help. [She won't claim to be able to fix it, to sate his hunger entirely, but... it should help.]
And what if I don't? What if I'm just- stuck like that? I wander back to town, find someone else, do something monstrous and can't stop, can't hear myself or anyone else, and I gotta- they would...
[Unused to talking so much, he runs out of steam, burying his face in his hands.]
[She swallows down her first words: it would serve them right. Those words are not helpful. And while she believes there are many in the city who deserve to be eaten, who will be most useful as fuel for those she cares about, Pom does not feel the same.] I would stop you. And then bring you to friends. We would care for you and ensure you find yourself once more.
Your self-healing is strong. Even if I must freeze and sever your extremities, you would survive and regain their use in little time.
[There's comfort in her words, as strange as some would find it. He's been given reassurances by others, told he wouldn't lose himself. It's difficult for him to believe that when it keeps happening, and none of them have stopped him, put him down the way he would were it a monster back home attacking a village, feeding on people.
And yet, there's something equally haunting about the image she paints for him: a beast caged not by bars, but mutilation. He closes his eyes behind his hands, and can see himself tied down, scales and claws and entire limbs removed, and yet he's still alive, angry, desperate. He saw far too many monsters like that in the Pens - ones he'd helped put there to be used as resources until there was nothing left.
His stomach lurches suddenly, and he's on his feet in an instant, his face pale, limbs shaking as he heads for the mirror without another word.]
Pom? [She asks as he pales, but he can't hear her. She's sure of it, their bond suddenly filled with... fear. The kind of fear that nearly has a taste it's so instinctual, so primal.] Pom! [She darts after him, clinging to his clothing once more.]
[Pom can't hear Northly through the sound of memory, so loud and clear and horrifying that it instills fresh panic in him. The groan of beasts reverberates around him, and he sees creatures kept and tormented for the profit their parts could bring; he recalls their labored breaths, their desperate cries, their death throes as he carved them. They weren't living things, a part of the world around him; they were only money to be made. When he was young, he'd been proud of being called a monster himself, but now, as he sees himself among them, still locked in the cage where he was kept when he couldn't be controlled... it terrifies him.
And for a moment, he can't help but consider that maybe he belongs there.
Pom wrenches himself from Northly's grasp, her confusion battering against his terror as he steps through the mirror and back into his room. He almost stops, his eyes lingering on Purl's doll on the bed - his most precious possession. He can't stay, can't think for another moment on her, lest he ponder how ashamed she might be with him now. As his mind paints him a picture, he makes for the window, sliding out of it, skidding down the wall to the street below - and then, he starts running.]
[She flies after him, shifting to keep up, her clothing discarded with no time to rearrange her inventory.
His new soul is faster than she is, but she tries to keep up. Coating the ground under his feet with slick ice, she hauls the water in his body back towards her. Through her own rising distress, she tries to send reassurance and calm towards him, certainty that he is whole and he is a person, not a monster.]
[As his two feet nearly slide out from under him, Pom Shifts wildly, the addition of two more giving him enough grip to stay upright. Despite the pull against him — within him — he lunges forward with unearthly speed, appearing to blink out of existence for split-seconds at a time as he tears his way through the streets and toward the woods. He doesn't know where he's going, or what he'll do, or even why he's still running; he just knows he needs to get away from everything, everyone, even himself.
Unfortunately, weeks of hunger have taken a toll on not just his temperament and self-control, but on his energy and stamina, as well: as soon as the treeline thickens enough to hide him from above, he slows to half his pace, then to nothing at all, wheezing as his legs collapse beneath him.
He still feels sick, though he can't tell what it's from any longer: the hunger, or the images still flashing in his mind as he closes his eyes.]
[Those split seconds are nothing she hasn't seen before and though it takes effort to stay calm and reorient herself, she does, sending as much love and calm as she can manage while tearing after him.
What helps in the end is the soft glow of his souls. The three of them in one body is hard to mistake, particularly not outside of the city. Still, she's nearly as rundown as he is by the time he stops. She drops on top of him, her many skittering legs clutching for his fur.]
[Pom barely registers that she's clinging to him, but when he does, he makes the effort to stand again. He doesn't recognize her Shift, and it only adds to his disorientation as he shakes, trying to dislodge her.
Unfortunately, with as much as he's trembling, said shake is fairly weak. He tries his voice, but his words are as unsteady as the rest of him.]
[With eight — ten? more? — legs, he'd have to do a lot better than that to dislodge her. Plus, she's been overcoming his attempts to make her fall practically since she got here, this is easy mode. She peeps sharply.] You have not eaten. Of course you feel sick. [But despite the sharpness of her tone, she resumes her push of comfort and warmth through their connection.]
[Well, it's not entirely that, but she's not wrong: the fact he hasn't eaten well in ages is a part of what's making him ill. His form collapses, figuratively and physically, as he Shifts back into his normal form - well, what counts for normal these days. He's still pale, still sweating, still shaking, but at least he's not running anymore.
Not that the desire isn't there. He swallows hard, catching his breath little by little.]
[That he shifts back and is still filled with fear worries her. She stays shifted, but presses herself into his arms, being as delicate as she can manage with the talons at the end of her legs, hoping he will take comfort in her fluffy feathers. He does like to touch birds, after all.]
I will not do anything you do not wish me to do. [Unless it's for his own good. But that isn't the reassurance he needs in this moment.]
[He does like birds, but all the legs she has now... not so much. Slowly but surely, his breaths even out. He still hasn't gotten to his feet; he instead lies back down on his side, one arm wrapped around Northly while the other buries itself in the grass. The images are still there, memories that were already painful now gaping wounds, reopened from the loss of his form, his identity, what life he'd managed to scrape together. The more monstrous he becomes, the more uncertain he is of everything he does.
He told Northly don't, but gave no explanation as to what that means, nor one for why he ran in the first place. She deserves something, even if he doesn't want to talk about it. She deserves so much better than the panic and the silence.
Pom sighs, wondering if this is what she feels when he presses her for answers. She's never outright run from him, though. That's a shame unique to him thus far. He thought he was stronger than this, but maybe he isn't, maybe he never has been without Purl.]
When I was young, they used to put me in the Pens, where we kept the monsters. I ever tell you that? What we did with them?
[That's the short of it. His eyes land on his own arm for a second before he closes them; he doesn't want to draw any more attention to the spots where he's pulled his own scales off, the bandages torn from them when he Shifted. His legs have similar spots, patches where the skin is healing, places that wouldn't normally be visible. They're all laid bare in the dim light of the morning, even in the long shadows of the trees.]
I didn't care when I was a kid. As I got older, I realized there wasn't a lot of difference between them and me. That the knives I'd used on them could end up in my back just as easily. When they threw me in there as an adult, I—
[He barely remembers that night, but what he can recall through the haze of the tranquilizers they pumped into him is enough. He didn't want to be there anymore. It was Purl who made sure he lived that night; even his own brother had told him he deserved to be in there.
His voice cracks.]
Don't- don't lock me up like that. Sever my limbs. I'd heal, but... would I?
Your body would recover, yes. I can tell. [Magic perks.] But such things take their toll on the mind. Some are able to weather damage and recover as with commonplace injuries, others suffer in ways that go unseen.
[Her water sense means she isn't surprised by the sight of the healing patches. She is aware of every heartbeat, pushing his blood through his body — how could they go unnoticed by her? But she didn't mention them, didn't realise...
She presses herself closer to him, rubbing her beak on his chest. ]
I will keep you whole. But I will do what is needed if you are lost to your natural souls.
[Pom exhales; the breath is heavy, and seems to take what energy he had with it. Northly's right, as she so often is: some wounds aren't shown in skin and bone.]
... Okay.
[That reassurance will have to do. He pulls her tighter to him, still for a moment more as his adrenaline winds down.]
You said you'd help me. Afraid as I am to take you up on it, I... don't think I got much of a choice. Should've done it sooner, but I couldn't. I couldn't risk you. I couldn't do that. You—
I am not harmed so easily. [She shifts back to her usual form. For Pom's comfort, she equips one of his shirts, stashed in her inventory to prevent him from stealing it (back,) and equips another to him.] You will return this.
[He's almost surprised by the shirt that appears on him suddenly, but exhaustion dulls his reaction as much as it does his senses: he instead sighs as appreciatively as possible. The shirt is long enough to cover all the uncomfortable bits, but he still would prefer to be wearing underpants.]
Sure.
[Whether that's about Northly fortitude, or whether or not he'll return the shirt (which, yes, is very much his), Pom doesn't say. He finally lets go of her, easing upward so he can sit before getting to his feet.]
Don't suppose you keep any of my bottoms in there.
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Yeah.
[A pause after that stellar explanation. He tries again. Fear lodges itself in his chest, though even he recognizes it as unjustified. She won't push him away, no matter how much she should. It's all the more reason he has to keep her safe. He has to keep her safe. He has to keep her safe.]
A couple of times now, over these past months, I've... been so hungry, I lost myself. Lost myself to it. Did some things. Became something worse.
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[He says that worriedly, bordering on panic; it's something that's happened before, something that's a genuine concern.]
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[Or swim, depending where they are.]
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[Unused to talking so much, he runs out of steam, burying his face in his hands.]
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Your self-healing is strong. Even if I must freeze and sever your extremities, you would survive and regain their use in little time.
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And yet, there's something equally haunting about the image she paints for him: a beast caged not by bars, but mutilation. He closes his eyes behind his hands, and can see himself tied down, scales and claws and entire limbs removed, and yet he's still alive, angry, desperate. He saw far too many monsters like that in the Pens - ones he'd helped put there to be used as resources until there was nothing left.
His stomach lurches suddenly, and he's on his feet in an instant, his face pale, limbs shaking as he heads for the mirror without another word.]
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And for a moment, he can't help but consider that maybe he belongs there.
Pom wrenches himself from Northly's grasp, her confusion battering against his terror as he steps through the mirror and back into his room. He almost stops, his eyes lingering on Purl's doll on the bed - his most precious possession. He can't stay, can't think for another moment on her, lest he ponder how ashamed she might be with him now. As his mind paints him a picture, he makes for the window, sliding out of it, skidding down the wall to the street below - and then, he starts running.]
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His new soul is faster than she is, but she tries to keep up. Coating the ground under his feet with slick ice, she hauls the water in his body back towards her. Through her own rising distress, she tries to send reassurance and calm towards him, certainty that he is whole and he is a person, not a monster.]
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Unfortunately, weeks of hunger have taken a toll on not just his temperament and self-control, but on his energy and stamina, as well: as soon as the treeline thickens enough to hide him from above, he slows to half his pace, then to nothing at all, wheezing as his legs collapse beneath him.
He still feels sick, though he can't tell what it's from any longer: the hunger, or the images still flashing in his mind as he closes his eyes.]
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What helps in the end is the soft glow of his souls. The three of them in one body is hard to mistake, particularly not outside of the city. Still, she's nearly as rundown as he is by the time he stops. She drops on top of him, her many skittering legs clutching for his fur.]
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Unfortunately, with as much as he's trembling, said shake is fairly weak. He tries his voice, but his words are as unsteady as the rest of him.]
I feel sick.
[At least he's talking again.]
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[Well, it's not entirely that, but she's not wrong: the fact he hasn't eaten well in ages is a part of what's making him ill. His form collapses, figuratively and physically, as he Shifts back into his normal form - well, what counts for normal these days. He's still pale, still sweating, still shaking, but at least he's not running anymore.
Not that the desire isn't there. He swallows hard, catching his breath little by little.]
Don't... don't.
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I will not do anything you do not wish me to do. [Unless it's for his own good. But that isn't the reassurance he needs in this moment.]
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He told Northly don't, but gave no explanation as to what that means, nor one for why he ran in the first place. She deserves something, even if he doesn't want to talk about it. She deserves so much better than the panic and the silence.
Pom sighs, wondering if this is what she feels when he presses her for answers. She's never outright run from him, though. That's a shame unique to him thus far. He thought he was stronger than this, but maybe he isn't, maybe he never has been without Purl.]
When I was young, they used to put me in the Pens, where we kept the monsters. I ever tell you that? What we did with them?
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You farmed them...
cw: allusions to self-harm, abuse
[That's the short of it. His eyes land on his own arm for a second before he closes them; he doesn't want to draw any more attention to the spots where he's pulled his own scales off, the bandages torn from them when he Shifted. His legs have similar spots, patches where the skin is healing, places that wouldn't normally be visible. They're all laid bare in the dim light of the morning, even in the long shadows of the trees.]
I didn't care when I was a kid. As I got older, I realized there wasn't a lot of difference between them and me. That the knives I'd used on them could end up in my back just as easily. When they threw me in there as an adult, I—
[He barely remembers that night, but what he can recall through the haze of the tranquilizers they pumped into him is enough. He didn't want to be there anymore. It was Purl who made sure he lived that night; even his own brother had told him he deserved to be in there.
His voice cracks.]
Don't- don't lock me up like that. Sever my limbs. I'd heal, but... would I?
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[Her water sense means she isn't surprised by the sight of the healing patches. She is aware of every heartbeat, pushing his blood through his body — how could they go unnoticed by her? But she didn't mention them, didn't realise...
She presses herself closer to him, rubbing her beak on his chest. ]
I will keep you whole. But I will do what is needed if you are lost to your natural souls.
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... Okay.
[That reassurance will have to do. He pulls her tighter to him, still for a moment more as his adrenaline winds down.]
Sorry I ran.
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[He catches that gentle rebuke.]
You said you'd help me. Afraid as I am to take you up on it, I... don't think I got much of a choice. Should've done it sooner, but I couldn't. I couldn't risk you. I couldn't do that. You—
[Oh, he's shaking again.]
You mean so much to me.
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Sure.
[Whether that's about Northly fortitude, or whether or not he'll return the shirt (which, yes, is very much his), Pom doesn't say. He finally lets go of her, easing upward so he can sit before getting to his feet.]
Don't suppose you keep any of my bottoms in there.
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cw: more self-harm
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cw: harm to an animal
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cw: boy howdy allusion to cannibalism
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