Eddie Munson doesn't know what he looks like.
Sure, when he looks in the mirror, he sees a guy with shoulder-length brown hair and brown eyes to match. He sees two arms and two legs and a scar-crooked smile.
He sees all the parts that he has, all the parts that he knows he's supposed to have.
And he's capable of recognizing that they belong to him. It's not like he thinks he's inhuman, some beast of otherworldly nature.
(At least, not on good days.)
It's just... well.
Sometimes, when Eddie looks in the mirror, all he can really see is his face.
Like, sure, he can see the rest of his body. He knows his face is attached to the arms and legs that he's capable of recognizing in some separate, distant sense at some separate, distant time.
But when he tries looking at himself as a whole (after buying himself a full-body mirror to hang on the back of his door), it's like his face alone is magnified a hundred times over.
Like all he can see are the hollowed-out sockets where his eyes sit, the heavy flush of his cheeks, how stark it is against the rest of his pale skin.
It's like he zoomed in too far and got stuck there, unable to refocus and look at the picture as a whole.
All he can see is each individual pore that travels like a lightning rod through his skin. All he can see is the curve of his nose and how big it looks when his brain doesn't recognize its place on the rest of his face.
It's like he sees each feature individually. His eyes are miles away from his lips, his chin and forehead a stretch farther than that of the sun to the moon. Hopelessly revolving around each other in the desperate attempt to cross paths, understanding the inevitable and fighting against gravity to change it.
He recognizes that he has a face. That his eyes and nose and mouth and cheekbones and pores all belong in the same place, on the same body, to the same person.
But it's like there was a wire cut somewhere in his head. Like the connection that reminds him that all those separate parts actually go together was severed. That reminds him he's more photograph than Picasso, less alphabet soup and more a well-structured sentence.
It's worse when he looks at his body.
Because there's so much more to it than to his face. There are so many parts, so many varied pieces that somehow fit together and make him the gangly, skeletal, off-center human he knows himself to be. The sack of bones and blood that moves when he tells it to.
He looks in the mirror and sees his arms, how they hang and where they fall. And then it seems like they keep going, and rather than focusing on where they end (just above the jutting curve of his waist), all he can see is how little space there is from the tips of his fingers to his feet.
And then his arms look ten feet tall, stretched out to fit the entire length of his body, and when he turns away from the mirror, he swears his nails are going to drag along the carpet.
He doesn't know why he feels like this, but he knows he's been this way since he was a kid. He didn't know it was any different than how everyone else felt, assumed in that childlike way that he was just like all the other humans on this planet.
And then, one day, Wayne told him he should probably trim his hair. Said it was getting real long.
And Eddie had looked at him, confused, because his hair hadn't really grown for as long as he could remember. Kind of just stayed the same length, always at the same place on his body.
So Wayne led him to the tiny, clouded mirror in the yellowed bathroom of the place he'd learn to call home, his calloused hands big on Eddie's shoulders. He'd trailed a path with his finger from Eddie's scalp all the way down to the middle of his back, drawing a horizontal line where his hair ended.
"See, Eds? S'all the way down your back."
And Eddie remembers seeing this, even today. Remembers how confused he felt trying to connect what he saw in the mirror with the image his brain was showing him. Fighting reality with his own imagination— a battle he would soon learn cannot be won.
Because his hair did fall halfway down his back, objectively.
But it was also three feet off the ground, too, and that's pretty high up.
So it must not have been too long after all.
Because it still didn't look long, not to Eddie, not until years later when he and his uncle would bring out one of the scrapbooks and he'd finally see what the rest of the world did, if only for a moment.
It was then that Eddie learned he'd never quite see the world the same as everyone else. The way it was meant to be seen, by people who were meant to see it.
He'll see what's really there, eventually, but only after that version of him is no more than a fleeting memory. Only after he's adjusted to the way he looks in the present, to the vision his distorted eyes show him when he enters the hallway of mirrors.
It gets worse with the scars.
Because now his brain has something else to play with. Something else that convinces him that the thing whose limbs move around when Eddie tells them to isn't actually the person he calls "himself."
That they're actually three separate entities:
Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson's body, and the Thing That Calls Itself Eddie Munson's Body.
Three separate things, none of which have ever existed in the same world, let alone in the same person.
It doesn't bother him. Not always.
He doesn't need to know what he looks like, as a whole, the way other people see him. That's not for him.
No, Eddie Munson's Body is for the people that turn away when they see it in the grocery store. For the people who will peer upon its pale face in an open casket and mourn the thing that was inside it. The thing that Eddie knows to be himself, the thing that's begging to be seen for what it is.
But there's not much that can be done about it.
And most of the people in Eddie's life are there for him, for his brain, for the thing that floats inside Eddie Munson's Body. They don't care about what it looks like, only that He's in there.
Still, sometimes when Eddie looks in the mirror, he thinks he sees it. Him.
Eddie inside Eddie Munson's Body, hidden behind the Thing That Calls Itself Eddie Munson's Body.
He thinks he sees it, him, buried somewhere deep. Small, naked, crouched in the corner. Shaking with its hands clasped in front of its chest like it's praying.
He wishes he could do something. Wishes he could reach in and grab it, hold it in the palm of his hand (the one that really belongs to him, the one that he can see) and nurture it until it's bigger than the Thing, bigger than the Body, bigger than the whole world.
Big enough to be seen.
But every time he tries, it disappears like sand between his fingers.
So he gives up.
He drags his nails on the carpet and cuts his hair when Wayne tells him to.
He fills the Thing That Calls Itself Eddie Munson's Body and plasters a smile on the face he thinks is his.
x
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Wyll Ravengard thoughts/writing prompt:
Wyll's identity is so heavily focused on his father, which absolutely makes sense given his upbringing with only the one parent, but that doesn't mean sometimes Wyll never wonders what his life would be like if she'd been there. He doesn't necessarily miss his mother as he never had her, but there are moments of "what if". What would father be like, would his expectations have been the same, would his mother have stopped him from being sent away, would she have come with him if Ulder would not let him remain in Baldur's Gate, would she too have cast him out, would she have written to him after he left the Gate, would she make father stay in touch too? Wyll carries a sense of loss and nostalgia he has no means of placing. His mother is an empty shadow in his mind.
Which brings me to this: I can't get the idea out of my head that after Wyll is transformed he feels he's lost part of the gift that his mother gave him. Specifically his eyes. Are Ulder Ravengard's eyes also brown like Wyll's? Probably, but maybe Wyll's eyes were the same shade of brown his mother's were... He had already lost one during battle, and now his remaining eye has been touched by the Hells.
The scene that made me think of this is when Karlach is mourning the loss of the heart that her mother gave her. I feel like Wyll is still probably in relative shock over his changed form and is experiencing body dysmorphia. He would hear Karlach's words and suddenly have another moment of heart break. A thought that had not sat with him yet while too busy trying to adjust to his new form and survive their adventure. The gift that his mother gave him has been corrupted and it's his fault.
(Not that it's actually his fault given that he was a teenager when forced to take Mizora's deal, but you can't tell me Wyll doesn't feel guilty at times for "failing" to meet his father's expectations and internalized that sense of shame)
Even though he's never really met his mother as she passed before he could know her, he feels another level of loss. The body she died giving to him has been altered, the eye(s) in the mirror watching him are no longer his mother's. Maybe one day there will be some relief. His changed body is a means of stepping out of the shadow of who his father expected him to be. But for now there is loss and mourning a gift given by someone he never knew.
I just feel like Wyll doesn't get as much writing and we don't really get to deeply explore the horror of having your body altered without your consent! Which thematically everyone in the party is desperately trying to avoid having their body altered via the illithid tadpol! What we do get are a few brief lines saying that we are sorry and that he's still himself (as well as very handsome if not more so because... horns 👀💦).
I need to read about Wyll mourning himself and accepting his new body. Confronting his father for abandoning him in a time of need. Remembering his father choosing his duty to the city over his duty to him as his child. I mean he could have retired! He and Wyll could have moved to the country OR travelled the coast together fighting for others! However that didn't happen and I feel like a bigger discussion is needed before healing that bond.
You can't tell my young Wyll Ravengard, who loves his father so much he already forgave him the moment he was cast out, didn't cry his heart out alone under the night sky the first time he was on his own. That he doesn't suppress those emotions constantly, because yes he doesn't regret sacrificing himself to protect the people of Baldur's Gate, but that doesn't mean he doesn't weep knowing his father's love was conditional.
I need a discussion where he worries that Tav may choose to leave him someday if he cannot meet their expectations. He knows its unfounded, but the hurt inside himself remains.
I want to see Wyll struggle with his changed body and rediscover himself. Either with the support of a romanced Tav or just the entire team as a supportive found family there to help him.
If anyone wants to use this as a writing prompt please go ahead and tag me if you do so I can read it!
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