makinglies | Respite

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faerun

Respite

The lake is dark and calm with a small breeze by the time they arrive at its shores. The stars above reflect perfectly in the still waters before them, and a small copse of trees lines one side, starting on their side of the river and jumping along the other side.

Chris takes a moment to re-prepare the spell he hadn't been able to cast in five years and gestures vaguely to the area around them as a suggestion for what the others can do. Gathering in the forest, sitting on a nearby over-turned log, it didn't matter to him. What he needed was an hour without interruption.

He settles down on the ground and presses his hands together as he closes his eyes to focus on the image in his mind. Within minutes, the white, shimmering outline of a large building forms in thin air. The gentle glow of its light barely spreads from the growing structure.

As promised, it takes the full hour before the slowly filling-in form is complete and finishes with a jaunty, echoing click.

Chris takes a breath, now sitting in front of the stoop that looks annoyingly like the one he'd passed earlier in the night, and gets back onto stiff legs as the glow fades away, leaving smooth, but otherwise unremarkable, white stone behind.

"Here we are. Home for the next however long we need. I'll start working on food and water next." Once they're inside, anyway, which is why he takes back his things from where he'd left them and leads them into the temple, marked only with the carving of ravens on the black wood of the double doors.

Inside is something just shy of opulence. The same polished white stone makes the walls, though black and gold veins course through the marble. The floor is the inverse, a black stone with white, shimmering speckles like a night sky if looked at for long enough. A single window faced East high up on the wall. The temple was alight with sconces at regular intervals along the walls, illuminating an open area that held all the offerings of comfort Chris could think of.

A large hot-springs-like bath, complete with a miniature waterfall, took up the left side of the room and ran into a smaller, similar bath at dog-height. Next to it, covered by a retractable screen, was a shower. Along the back wall, a raven's head emblazoned the white wall in black and watched out over a set of tables, chairs, and a couple of sofas. The majority of the center was clear for walking, but the right edge and right side of the room held a deeply inset pit of pillows, cushions, and blankets in various soft (black and purple) fabrics.

Finally, in the middle of the right-hand wall, there were two closed doors that, when inspected, revealed one room with a large, soft chair and rug, while the other room was made of nothing but stone with jars, pitchers, and plates on shelves along two walls and a cork wall perfect for catching daggers on the other side.

"I hope it works for everyone. I didn't...I didn't make separate bedrooms this time. I didn't figure we would need them tonight."

♥

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The whole commotion about the game Wolfe and the girls brought in is one that will clearly be resolved without her, so Amelia simply shrugs at the others before moving to a table to set down all her things. Her bag first, from which she pulls the bag of dog food, jar of tea, and one of the bars of soap that she packed. Next she removes all of her weapons, taking extra care to clean off the daggers that saw use during their escape. There's enough on her person that it takes several minutes, and her hands are starting to shake by the time they're all set down and she has space to take off her belts and pouches. By the time she's stripped off her boots, her thoughts have started to wander and everything is feeling like too much: the brightness of walls, the raven head watching over them, the sound of the waterfall between the hot springs, the echo of voices, the occasional chatter from Little Thunder above her, and--

She manages to keep her breaths steady as she lets down her hair, but anything else she was going to leave on the table isn't happening. Her face is clear as she rushes into the shower and turns on the water, not caring that she's still in her clothes or that the water is somehow hot enough right away or even that she forgot her soap. Why would she care? It's helpful that things are like this. It's good that she can hide in here and no one can--

They'll hear her and try to come for her. Fuck. No. She can't let them. She'll be fine. She is-- will-- wants to be fine. For them. Always for everyone else.

Her ass is on the floor and knees pulled to her chest so she can bury her face in them before she even has a thought to spare about where she is. It doesn't matter. Nothing apparently does when they're simply copies of other people, living a life on stolen memories for who fucking knows what reason. Nothing matters when everyone they've loved who was taken before them is just gone, destroyed somehow before they even knew that was possible. Nothing matters when there's no way for them to tell those they still have left how to get out without meeting some horrible, definitive end.

Nothing fucking matters... except what they have now.

Is it enough?

Is she enough? For them, those few she still has left?

Does it matter if she isn't?

There's too much to think about. Too many things she knows and can't reckon with while there's still too many things she doesn't know. She keeps her face as tucked into herself as she can, her arms over her head, and bites down on her lower lip hard enough to bleed to keep any sounds she could make to herself. They don't need to know. They can't know. They need space, too. They don't need to listen to her. They have their own shit to carry without her adding onto it. She only has to hold on until her chest stops heaving and there's nothing left to let out, then she can wash off and rejoin them. No one needs a smile right now; all they need is to get through the night to tomorrow. Rest and getting clean is all they need. Everything else can wait.

Even if she can't.

He doesn't like that answer: to let her be, even as he knows in his bones it's the right one. There's also a part of him that wants to argue, that wants to say he'll be the one to go check on her because sometimes Wolfe is too soft and maybe this is a time for hard grips and bruises...but he keeps the thought to himself. With how long they all thought Wolfe had been missing, she probably did need him.
Another thing Chris wasn't letting himself digest just yet: Wolfe being here, being himself. Maybe when he got to the rest. Or when it was just them again...for now, it had to just be like he'd never vanished.

Luckily, the two different reactions to what Chris knows to be little more than Tharin vermin are...distracting enough. He shakes his head.

"They're fine to eat. Probably better in a stew than on their own, but they'll be fine to eat. They just talk, they're not-" He looks from Wolfe to Jon. "They're like rabbits and rats, they're just fancy pests that someone near the border likes to breed. They come from the region across the river; they're harmless."

Amelia is... someone he can't comfort, even if he wants to. She'd made that abundantly clear when Wolfe had disappeared. She'd pulled away from his attempt at touch, at reaching out, and while he hadn't been surprised or especially hurt by it, it had reaffirmed their current relationship in his mind. They're people who share important people, and that's not enough right now for what she might need. He's already proved he's the unrelenting storm cloud in this group, and that won't be good for her.

In any case, there's the creature to focus on.

"It's a mechanical little monster from the 90s. It was used to spy on people, record secrets. I'm not eating that. It-" It would be a lie to say that's his childhood, considering he'd never wanted anything less his life as a boy, but others at school had had them. "Cut it open. Does it even have blood? It should be filled with gears and wires."

"You can clearly see it has blood." With an unimpressed look, Wolfe gestures at the dogs sitting beside their kills, muzzles less bloody for all their licking but still temporarily stained. "Maybe there's some kind of other connection between Faerun and Earth but either way, if they're not dangerous, then we should cook them or let the girls have them. No sense in letting fresh meat go to waste."

He sits heavily down on one of the chairs, wishing he could reliably get up from the pile of pillows to settle there instead and knowing with how long he's done little but remain strapped to a hospital bed for the past month, that's not going to be possible. Truth be told his body aches. Far more than it would have without his forced sabbatical. He's in poor shape, creaking knees and softer in the middle, on top of feeling hollowed out and brittle. He's not hungry either, but that he knows what to do with. They have to eat, keep up their strength, if they're going to keep moving.

"Just give me a moment and I can start skinning them. I'm sure there's an extra knife around to use..." Since they'd taken his away when they pretended to send him home. "You two go ahead and get settled. I'm sure Jon wants a bath and Chris you spent a lot of magic to get this place up, you must be tired."

Old habits may be coming back, but however much he's hurting or suffering from exhaustion and existentialism, he needs to step in and take care of things. Its how he was brought up, and it's always been his job.

He just... needs to sit for a minute before he gets to it...

He shakes his head again at the whole conversation and moves to unpack a couple things. The elements dagger Nate had gifted him with its various jewels in the hilt, and his stupid little figurines he’d gotten from the city.

He brings both to where Hawke’s sitting and places them on the table nearby.

“Let the girls have them. As I said, they’re not much meat, I’ve got food covered for tonight, you’re exhausted, and you’ll be needed for more than your carving soon enough.” He gestures to the figurines: one of the very clockwork dragon they’d seen earlier and one of Wolfe himself, both posable.

“Look at this. The city gave them to me. They’re not cursed aside from having gotten them at all. You’ll be delighted to know you fit perfectly on the dragon’s back.”

He reaches over as he explains and presses a light healing spell into his touch on Wolfe’s shoulder, then leans in to kiss the side of his head.

“Rest until you decide to go join your lady and clean up.”

He takes a small step back towards Jon and uncharacteristically points at him. “And you! I expect you in the hot springs with me soon enough, do whatever you need to afore I come over there and strip you.”

It’s a largely empty threat, he wouldn’t strip Jon…but he was going to get everyone in the springs with him before they turned in.

For good measure, he whistles twice to Little Thunder and gestures to the pool.

“You too: bath. Gods only know what’s lingering on all of us.”

There's blood, but is it real? Duplicity could simulate all sorts of things. And even in his own world, fake blood in an electronic toy isn't outside the realm of possibility. Fake blood inside fake flesh sacs certainly isn't. Of course, Wolfe and Chris both dismiss his concerns. He knows it's a bit absurd to think they're all gaslighting him after everything they've been through, but there's a paranoid part of him that wonders, that wants to compel Chris just to be sure.

But choosing to believe, to let go and trust, is what's let him actually get close to the cleric, and the mage, for that matter. He's still miles away from that with Amelia, but they have nothing but time ahead with each other now, it would seem. After she has her breakdown. He can taste the fear, practically sense her collapse, and it's enough to tug his attention away from the Furbies. For now. He's certainly not keen on watching a pair of dogs rip them apart.

The sudden point and direction from Chris has him blinking and reflexively starting to undress before he catches himself. "I- There's a woman here, and I've hardly brought my swim trunks along." Never mind this is a woman who's seen him in incredibly compromising conditions before. "I'll come in once she's settled."

And so saying, he hefts his bag and carries it over to the table where Amelia had set her own things. He does have pajamas, at least, just soft pants and his ragged What the Ghost?! T-shirt. Jon takes those out and puts them on the table, followed by Malcolm's journal. He doesn't say anything about it, just leaves it there for Wolfe to take or leave as he likes.

Edited 2025-09-29 19:48 (UTC)

Between the wholly unexpected tiny version of himself and Jon clutching his pearls over a woman being present - and a bit the relief of Chris' magic rolling over his sore shoulders - something in Wolfe cracks. He begins to laugh.

It's too absurd, Chris having grabbed the ridiculous figures as necessary to take with him, Jon having spent longer in Duplicity than any of them still shy about stripping down, the strange sexism most people from Earth seem to have even when Wolfe knows they know the woman in question could upend them with a look. It pulls a loud belly laugh from him, a guffaw that has Wolfe bending double trying to catch his breath before long. They're out, they survived, and they're using it to argue about bath time and play with toys. It's ludicrous and marvelous that they should be so lucky as to be able to experience this together in Chris' world like they've always dreamed. Or maybe not just like they've dreamed, but that's even better. If it was perfect, it wouldn't feel real.

But it is real. Andraste's pyre, it's entirely real because they don't have a place for a fire and there's blood and fur on his girls' muzzles and he knows Amelia is falling apart in the other room while Jon grouses about swim trunks and Chris tries to tell Wolfe once again that he doesn't have to take charge of everything. He laughs himself hoarse until he's wheezing for lack of air, tears accumulating at the corners of his eyes and rolling down his cheeks, wetting his beard. He laughs until his lungs hurt and his stomach clenches and he can't raise his head from where he's doubled over in the chair. He laughs until it's not laughter anymore, just tears and noise and pain and joy and what feels like every little drop of what's been keeping him going while alone for so long, so sure no one would even know to come for him. So sure he was going to fade to nothing but food for a dying god and that eventually no one would be left who remembered him.

He cries for those he's lost - those they've all lost - and those they left behind. He cries for those he couldn't save. He cries for not knowing what else to do, what the next step is, and having no answers.

"Fuck," he rasps through gritted teeth, sounding watery and desperate for air, and buries his face in his hands. This isn't how he wanted to fall apart.

He doesn't have time to do more than roll his eyes at Jon's protest before Wolfe is laughing. At first it's just that, but it lasts too long, and the sound changes, and Chris doesn't try to stop or distract him. He runs his fingers through Wolfe's hair, a feeling that sets something small back to rights in him since his mage's disappearance, but it's a quiet assurance. He was there; they all had him. Each other. They'd have to learn to balance themselves now that it was just them.

Chris throws a look back to Jon to assure him that Chris could handle this if his Archivist decided he wasn't in the mood to offer hugs, though he doesn't close them off either. Wolfe was Jon's friend too and, unlike Amelia, Wolfe would likely actually appreciate his presence when he was falling apart.

That doesn't stop him from mouthing the words 'I'm not done with you, mister' to his other partner, regardless. It could wait until Wolfe's tears stopped.

Jon freezes when Wolfe starts laughing. At first, there's a sense of affront. Is the laughing at him? He's done nothing to warrant it! Has he...? But the tenor of it shifts, stretches on too long, draws itself out into tears of agony from peals of relief. He knows that sort of laugh, the half-madness and full helplessness in it.

Whatever trivial concerns he'd had before are set aside as his gaze shifts sharply to Chris. The cleric is already stepping in to soothe far better than Jon knows he could. There's a part of him that wants to shy away, to hide in the room with the sofa with his own emotions. He can't let himself crack like the rest of them. He's broken too many ways too many times already. Amelia's breaking down, Wolfe is breaking down, Chris is likely to break down soon. He doesn't have any particular right to it, does he?

Jon has gotten most of what he wanted. A new world without the Dread Powers' influence (for now, provided the Eye doesn't try to start something with the gods of Faerun), Chris and now Wolfe back, escape from Duplicity. He doesn't have Martin... his Martin. Both of his Martins. Dead and worse, given what Wolfe has said already. Morrigan, as well. Ava, Alessandro, Lyall, Jamie. Christ, there are so many names. And add onto all the people who went through the other doors they'd been bound for. Tim and Jamie. Leeds and Ororo.

He registers the look from Chris, but pretends not to, nor to understand what's been said. Instead, Jon fights his impulse to retreat and moves around tentatively to place a hand on Wolfe's shoulder. "It's..." It's not all right. Nothing is fine. "We're going to get through this."

Turning his head to hide in Chris' stomach, Wolfe nonetheless moves his hand to cover Jon's on his shoulder, a gesture of thanks where Wolfe doesn't have the ability to speak. He appreciates the gesture. More than he could say even if he could find his words, because Jon isn't a bright side sort of person. The fact that he's making the effort is unfathomably comforting.

It takes Wolfe some time to calm down. Not an unbearably long time, though it feels that way to him. Any time spent paralyzed by his own woe feels unbearable, but he knows the others wouldn't see it that way and would admonish him for thinking it himself, just as he would them. Funny how his own medicine is just as sweet as it is bitter.

At length, Wolfe sighs into the fabric of Chris' shirt, stooped and spent. He let's his hand drop from Jon's unless his friend does anything to hold onto Wolfe's fingers. He nearly apologizes but he doesn't want the protest he'll get for even beginning to say the words. "Thank you" comes out instead.

"I should see to Amelia, its been awhile..." He wants to, but Chris' hand in his hair is something that he'd imagined more than once in his captivity, fingers sliding through the strands in such a way that tugged at Wolfe's heart in memory and does so now more fully. Its hard to break away. He inhales a rattling breath and swipes at his eyes, still remaining with his forehead pressed against Chris' middle and leaning just a little into Jon's hand, not caring that its awkward.

"...You could come as well? I doubt she'd mind." He gives Jon a sideline glance, the ghost of a cheeky grin on his face that reflects in his eyes, even if he's half obscured by his own shoulder. "She might just mind if you join us, though. You should probably start your bath without us."

Whatever they each go through tonight, it will be the needed breaking of the dam, but grief is a ghost that haunts the soul for a long time. It wouldn’t be the last time any of them crumbled. Just as in Duplicity, so long as all of the pieces were in one place, they could be put back together again. Here in Faerun, they might even have a shot at healing.

When Wolfe doesn’t move of his own accord, Chris pulls back himself and leans in to press a kiss to his mage’s lips, a brief taste that makes that buried ache pang before he buries it again.

“Go on. You’re better for soft than I am.”

That fetid feeling of resentment after Wolfe had vanished when nearly everyone in creation seemed to be there to help Amelia while Chris’ support were all grieving with only two people to even give voice to how Chris might feel snags at him now. Let them figure themselves out first, he wasn’t alone just yet and he could wait for the rest.

“She needs you for more’n just this and I’ve a ridiculous brat of a man to keep me busy.”

He waves Wolfe toward the shower with no intention of hearing ‘no.’

There's something in how Chris responds - in that kiss and more - that grabs Wolfe's entire attention. He sits up, catching Chris' fingers before he moves too far. He doesn't say anything but there's that look in his eye, that he knows something is eating at his love and that he wants to soothe whatever the ache is. Wolfe gives a gentle squeeze as a promise and then frees Chris to badger Jon, finally getting back to his feet. His knees creak as he does.

"Go on, then. Use your hard edges to soften his," he says with another grin to Jon, one he hopes gets across that he thinks they'll get through this too. They just have to try.

--

After a brief pass by the dogs to let them know they can eat their kills - which apparently they'd already decided was the case and made a bloody mess of the corner near the door that Wolfe used magic to make a less grisly scene - Wolfe approaches the shower. It's just a screen that separates it from the rest of the extremely open concept floorplan, but something in how its places obscures not just sight but also sound. Maybe its magic, he doesn't know, but he's grateful all the same.

Boots come off, then blood-stained shirt, but thats it before Wolfe pads barefoot into the shower area to find Amelia just how he thought he would: a fully clothed and sodden lump on the floor. With a swallowed groan of effort, Wolfe lowers himself down to the floor with her in the heated spray, gently brushing her shoulder until he gets her eyes on him. Without a word and making no effort to hide the splotchy redness crying causes to paint his face, he simply opens his arms, inviting her in against him with a gentle, fragile smile.

Maker take him, seeing her even like this feels the same as coming home. Tears sting his eyes again and he just... let's them. Its alright just to be what they're going to be right now. As long as they're together.

Wolfe’s grin and Chris’ long suffering are charming in a way, but Jon’s fully aware he’ll need to fend off Chris trying to get him to break down like the others… while doing everything he can to avoid his own.

He starts pulling away when Wolfe does, edging toward the quiet room while the other men have a final discussion. When Chris starts moving for him, though, the edging becomes more of a quick step.

“You should go with him. I told you I’m not undressing when Amelia might walk out of the shower at any moment. You might as well see to her. And yourself. We could all do with a shower before blooding up your hot springs.”

If he just pretends he’s fine, then Chris will tend to the others who need it more. Clearly.

He can see in Wolfe’s face he’ll be cornered later, but that’s later and for now, they have partners to fuss after. Wolfe goes on his way and Jon is practically running from him.

Luckily, his legs are longer.

He crosses the room, wings unfolding as he goes, so that when he gets to Jon, his Archivist is pinned between door and feather and cleric.

“They’ll be fine. They need each other without me right now. Which means, despite your best efforts, you’re not escaping me.”

He reaches down and cups Jon’s chin with one hand, green eyes intent on studying his boyfriend.

“Why’re you trying to dodge out from letting someone care?”

There's little privacy in this open concept of a temple, but there's something about the cover of Chris' wings that makes it feel like they're properly hidden. It helps that he knows Wolfe and Amelia must be having their own moment together behind the screen of the shower. They're likely not thinking about Chris and Jon. Unless they are. Unless they're listening together? The absurd image of two soaked (still in their clothes) people pressing their ears to the screen, eyes squinting as they try to hear past the water, comes into his head.

And is promptly dislodged by Chris tilting his chin up with a warm hand. It takes an enormous amount of effort not to melt into the touch and give in immediately to whatever it is the cleric wants. But Jon likes to imagine he's made of somewhat sterner stuff than that.

"I'm not the one whose world is falling apart. I knew our being... copies was a possibility. That they might be storing people away to torture and kill in worse ways. I've already had those existential crises." More than once. Maybe a few more times in the future, but he's trying not to think too hard about it. "And there's only so much 'care' to go around. They need it more. You need it more, probably. Your whole plan for being here was just upended. Why are you trying to comfort everyone else?"

Edited 2025-09-30 16:31 (UTC)

He at least has the decency not to show he sees when Jon actively resists Chris's offer of comfort. He has patience; it wouldn't be the first time he chipped away at Jonathan Sims. Though his question does deserve a moment of honest reflection, he can do that much in exchange for pushing them all.

"Knowing it's a possibility and knowing it's true are two different things, love." He knows Jon knows that conceptually, even if he deems it different for himself for whatever reason. "And I have plenty of care for those who're here. I wouldn't be if I didn't."

He wasn't that selfless.

"But as for why...wish I could tell you it's out of goodness or love. Unfortunately, I guess it's just because it's what I can do. I should be cleaning up a war, healing, taking stock, fighting with the others to make them believe you're meant to be there too. I had a hundred different arguments and speeches ready...but there's nowhere to put them. So I can do this."

Jon grasps Chris' wrist, not to pull him away, but just to have the contact and something to do with his hands. "I assume the worst. They don't." The cleric is a little more on the pessimist side with him, but he knows that extends toward practicality, not the Archivist's doom and gloom. "So, I just... I don't know. There's not much I can do right now, either. I'd sort of been thinking how I could convince them, too. Maybe, uh... claim I could do some sort of truth spell and compel one of them, then you to prove what you were saying was true?" How much weight the Guardians would put in that remains debatable, of course.

"And now we're- I don't know what I'm going to do here, Chris. I'm not good at the things all of you are. I'm from the-" He holds back on saying 'modern world.' "A world more like Duplicity than this one when it comes to technology and comforts. I can't hunt." Not for anything they can eat. "I don't know how to build a fire. I've only just started moving past basics with a dagger. I have 'dietary needs' that are hard to deal with.

"It just feels like I'm going to be more a burden than a help to you now." At least if they'd had the castle and all of that, he could have fallen back on being some sort of scholar, recording everyone's experiences with the dragon, starting an archive for the city. "That's why you should be comforting people who- people who can actually contribute something useful to us as a party." Because that's what they are now. Some bizarre little 'adventuring party,' like a fantasy game.

For all his talent in reading others, Chris had always been notoriously bad at hiding how he was feeling unless it was under the veneer of impassivity all proper noble women maintained. Unfortunately, he doesn't have that veneer ready just now, and his confused incredulity is entirely unmasked as it grows with Jon's words.

"Hold on...I'm gonna assume it's cause we're tired and unsettled and grieving that you just implied that after all of our years together, I'd consider you worth less of my time for the perceived contribution to this party. A perception I'm afraid your education is limited on, clearly. My fault for not being clear from the start."

He leans in a little closer, a brow raising as he does so. "I don't need you to fight or hunt or even charm people, Jon. I need you because I need you. Because I haven't been in a relationship with anyone as long as I've been with you, even Wolfe by a measurable bit. You'll be a help to us because of this." He reaches up to tap Jon's forehead. "You're the smartest of us. You eat information like you're starving and, even if this is my world, there's so much I don't know that I have little doubt you'll learn and internalize in a snap. I need you cause your mind is sharp and you'll likely learn first what we can eat safely and what'll kill us, and you'll see things we won't simply because you come from another world, another perspective. I've no doubt we're all gonna need you as much as you'll need us to make sure nothing takes a bite out of you. So...no more of that, alright?"

Jon feels his heart start to flutter as his boyfriend leans in, crowds him after a fashion. He knows he shouldn’t find it attractive, this sense of being trapped, but Duplicity’s clearly done something to him since dragging him there some seven years ago. He swallows and glances away momentarily as he pulls his own thoughts together.

“You- I mean, you don’t know that for sure. I can barely even read or write common. What happens if whatever translation effect we had in the City goes away?” He remembers the time that had gone out in Duplicity, how frightening and confusing it had been. They’d managed to get by, but miming wouldn’t work for every person in Faerûn, and having people think he’s completely illiterate… the shame would break him before anything else they’ve learned.

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cw: mention of blood and body horror

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