[The shuddering of shoulders makes way for the slow crescendo of laughter, high and boyish and full of surprisingly earnest mirth. More tears spring into his eyes, in part from humor but mostly from pain — a hand moves to his aching, jolting shoulder, but he continues to laugh. If you'd have seen the track marks of tears, you would have never thought they were from a terrible sadness earlier.]
Ow — ow, ow, ow...! Y-you — ha —
Ow, ow.
Such a love for stories...! You would have been banned from the oratory by the abbot, too; it's like looking into a mirror. [He leans in a little more, rubbing the edge of his palm over the corners of his eyes. Fear may be a deep ugly wound in him right now, but there's some sort of salve in just how harmless the eager rambling is, and it almost helps confirm Quentin's repaired demeanor more than the apology did.] How many books are there? Do you have them all?
[ Oh. Quentin blinks rapidly, absolutely caught off guard the way Diarmuid laughs. At first he thinks it's at him, and he can feel the flush of embarrassment creep up on the back of his neck.
Okay. Okay, this isn't so bad. He'll take the little monk dude laughing at him over being scared of him any day. It's not the first time, and so Quentin tentatively smiles back, tainted with only a little bit of confusion. Just a bit. Until, of course, the other reveals that he was essentially blocked from telling stories. All that embarrassment and confusion is gone, and it's instantly replaced with familiarity. If he hadn't hated himself as much as he did when he was that age, if he wasn't constantly checking himself into hospitals, he would have probably been banned from whatever an Oratorium was, too. Or the modern Earth equivalent. Or the non-religious equivalent. Whatever.
He doesn't feel as bad now. Probably because not only has Diarmuid forgiven him (hadn't he done that as he was being attacked?) but because they found a little bit of common ground. He leans forward, far less nervous, and starts pouring more tea for the both of them. ]
There are five, yeah, and a sixth one that was never actually published. [ And that had been a mess. ] Hey--speaking of Fillory, I know this is going to sound crazy, but how good are you with animals?
[He blinks at that, eyes red-rimmed but somewhat less guarded.]
I — Well enough, I suppose. I helped with the livestock on the monastery grounds.
In Kilmannán. Chickens and goats... horses... creatures of that kind. Brother Darragh was a farrier before he was a monk, so he taught me how to file hooves and... things of that nature...
[He trails off, feeling a little foolish in his ramblings.
Quentin probably isn't asking about that sort of skill in animal care.]
[ It's an impulse. Something left over from the Cottage in Fillory, he thinks--Quentin grabs an extra napkin and wordlessly slides it to Diarmuid, just in case he wants to wipe his face or compose himself. His eyes had looked pretty red, probably with emotion. Now that things have eased between them, Quentin's guilt is slow being eclipsed by his Dad instincts. Sure, Diarmuid's not a little kid, but he is significantly younger than him. ]
What about rabbits? Eliot and I were thinking that if something like this happens again and you need help, we want to be there for you. There's a way you can call us for help no matter what, but it means you'd get a pet. A magical one. You don't have to answer right away or anything, and I can explain more, but... no rush, okay? Let's just drink some tea.
... I do like rabbits. I'm rarely ever close enough to a wild hare to pet it, but...
[He looks a little confused, though, for plenty good reason. Normal folks usually don't offer magical pets to people — and with that in mind, he can't even imagine that a rabbit is interwoven with calling for help. He reaches for his tea, brow still furrowed, sips, considers-]
[ He opens his mouth and he really is about to explain the technical details--the Neitherlands, the properties of Fillorian rabbits (if they even are Fillorian), maybe even delve really deep into the source of all magic when he decides very quickly not to.
The last thing he needs is to overwhelm him, so he treads it like he does when someone's having problems in math: simple first, then build up. ]
Well, it's pretty much a normal bunny. For some reason, rabbits have a better time traveling between worlds. These ones can find whoever you want, and repeat a short sentence or phrase. Sort of like your Fluid, but, uh. Alive. You just tell them who to find, give them the message, set them down, and they hop to it. Literally.
Scared the shit out of me when I first got a message by bunny, I'm gonna be honest.
Where I hail from, we use birds to deliver messages, sometimes. A rabbit between worlds is just... a more intricate version of it, is it not? [He frowns, moving to sip on his tea.] The... rabbit talks?
Oh, man, that's a way better analogy. Yeah. Carrier pigeons, but with fluffy tails.
I mean it, though. I know you might not trust me and that's--I'm not asking you to change your opinion. But if you're in a bind, I mean... you've seen it. I'm a Magician. I want to be there for you.
[Diarmuid's quiet for a long moment, looking at his tea and considering the man's words with careful, earnest attention. Honestly, his stomach is in knots — relieved ones, in some strange way, like someone who has just finished a roller coaster ride at that park. It's not hard to imagine the man in front of him uses his power for good, even after seeing what he'd seen, but he also thinks if he saw that power blossom in front of him again he might hide in a panic.
But perhaps it will not always be that way. And perhaps it is a fear he can learn... to force himself to overcome. He's had to do it here before; he'll have to do it again. After a moment and a deep breath through his nose, he nods.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Ow — ow, ow, ow...! Y-you — ha —
Ow, ow.
Such a love for stories...! You would have been banned from the oratory by the abbot, too; it's like looking into a mirror. [He leans in a little more, rubbing the edge of his palm over the corners of his eyes. Fear may be a deep ugly wound in him right now, but there's some sort of salve in just how harmless the eager rambling is, and it almost helps confirm Quentin's repaired demeanor more than the apology did.] How many books are there? Do you have them all?
tw institutionalization, depression
Okay. Okay, this isn't so bad. He'll take the little monk dude laughing at him over being scared of him any day. It's not the first time, and so Quentin tentatively smiles back, tainted with only a little bit of confusion. Just a bit. Until, of course, the other reveals that he was essentially blocked from telling stories. All that embarrassment and confusion is gone, and it's instantly replaced with familiarity. If he hadn't hated himself as much as he did when he was that age, if he wasn't constantly checking himself into hospitals, he would have probably been banned from whatever an Oratorium was, too. Or the modern Earth equivalent. Or the non-religious equivalent. Whatever.
He doesn't feel as bad now. Probably because not only has Diarmuid forgiven him (hadn't he done that as he was being attacked?) but because they found a little bit of common ground. He leans forward, far less nervous, and starts pouring more tea for the both of them. ]
There are five, yeah, and a sixth one that was never actually published. [ And that had been a mess. ] Hey--speaking of Fillory, I know this is going to sound crazy, but how good are you with animals?
no subject
I — Well enough, I suppose. I helped with the livestock on the monastery grounds.
In Kilmannán. Chickens and goats... horses... creatures of that kind. Brother Darragh was a farrier before he was a monk, so he taught me how to file hooves and... things of that nature...
[He trails off, feeling a little foolish in his ramblings.
Quentin probably isn't asking about that sort of skill in animal care.]
no subject
What about rabbits? Eliot and I were thinking that if something like this happens again and you need help, we want to be there for you. There's a way you can call us for help no matter what, but it means you'd get a pet. A magical one. You don't have to answer right away or anything, and I can explain more, but... no rush, okay? Let's just drink some tea.
no subject
[He looks a little confused, though, for plenty good reason. Normal folks usually don't offer magical pets to people — and with that in mind, he can't even imagine that a rabbit is interwoven with calling for help. He reaches for his tea, brow still furrowed, sips, considers-]
How does such a thing work...?
no subject
The last thing he needs is to overwhelm him, so he treads it like he does when someone's having problems in math: simple first, then build up. ]
Well, it's pretty much a normal bunny. For some reason, rabbits have a better time traveling between worlds. These ones can find whoever you want, and repeat a short sentence or phrase. Sort of like your Fluid, but, uh. Alive. You just tell them who to find, give them the message, set them down, and they hop to it. Literally.
Scared the shit out of me when I first got a message by bunny, I'm gonna be honest.
no subject
Where I hail from, we use birds to deliver messages, sometimes. A rabbit between worlds is just... a more intricate version of it, is it not? [He frowns, moving to sip on his tea.] The... rabbit talks?
no subject
I mean it, though. I know you might not trust me and that's--I'm not asking you to change your opinion. But if you're in a bind, I mean... you've seen it. I'm a Magician. I want to be there for you.
no subject
But perhaps it will not always be that way. And perhaps it is a fear he can learn... to force himself to overcome. He's had to do it here before; he'll have to do it again. After a moment and a deep breath through his nose, he nods.]
... I'll remember.