William's voice is a shout in a hurricane, a distant noise lost in the wall of muttering sound that washes through Logan's mind. The lessons that have been pounded into him by Xavier, by Jean and Emma and Rachel, aren't enough, not against this tide -- the edges of his telepathic walls are beginning to fray. The murmuration takes on William's inflections, becoming anxious, afraid, sick with fear.
Logan grits his teeth and tries to hold on, searching for things to hold on to. The pain in his knuckles as the claws grind against his bones, the smell of William nearby and the rich earth under his hands. The berserker in his soul throws himself against the bars of his cage, making him want to rip things apart, but he can't, not with innocent people in the way.
Don't lose it, don't lost it, don't lose it don't lose it --
William's hand is a weight on his back, an anchor of warmth.
Come back. Come back.
It feels like the brush of wings and tastes like ashes.
Logan. Let go.
And it's that simple. Let go. Accept. Like standing in the rain and knowing you're going to get wet, not fighting it, not wanting to be anything else. Logan forces himself to relax and the tumult of psychic energy doesn't fade, but becomes part of his mental landscape, parting around him instead of crashing against his walls, and he finds he can stand against the flood.
He pulls in a ragged breath, his claws sliding back into his forearms with a grating of metal. He still can't see, but he can feel the ground beneath him, can smell William and the others nearby. Ellie. Ruth.
Focus. Breathe.
Logan scratches up the ability to speak through the psychic din.
"I'm OK.. it's OK. Ruth. We need to.. make sure."
He sits back on his heels, turning his head towards where he can smell Ruth, then hauls himself to his feet. He's not used to being blinded, at least not without the burning ache of healing as his eyeballs grow back, but he remembers long days of training with Ogun, silk blindfold around his head as he knocked stones and shuriken out of the air with a staff. Two senses down, he relies on the others to make his way towards where Ruth lies beside the wall.
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Logan grits his teeth and tries to hold on, searching for things to hold on to. The pain in his knuckles as the claws grind against his bones, the smell of William nearby and the rich earth under his hands. The berserker in his soul throws himself against the bars of his cage, making him want to rip things apart, but he can't, not with innocent people in the way.
Don't lose it, don't lost it, don't lose it don't lose it --
William's hand is a weight on his back, an anchor of warmth.
Come back. Come back.
It feels like the brush of wings and tastes like ashes.
Logan. Let go.
And it's that simple. Let go. Accept. Like standing in the rain and knowing you're going to get wet, not fighting it, not wanting to be anything else. Logan forces himself to relax and the tumult of psychic energy doesn't fade, but becomes part of his mental landscape, parting around him instead of crashing against his walls, and he finds he can stand against the flood.
He pulls in a ragged breath, his claws sliding back into his forearms with a grating of metal. He still can't see, but he can feel the ground beneath him, can smell William and the others nearby. Ellie. Ruth.
Focus. Breathe.
Logan scratches up the ability to speak through the psychic din.
"I'm OK.. it's OK. Ruth. We need to.. make sure."
He sits back on his heels, turning his head towards where he can smell Ruth, then hauls himself to his feet. He's not used to being blinded, at least not without the burning ache of healing as his eyeballs grow back, but he remembers long days of training with Ogun, silk blindfold around his head as he knocked stones and shuriken out of the air with a staff. Two senses down, he relies on the others to make his way towards where Ruth lies beside the wall.