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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A smile starts to form when Chris kisses her and grows full when she turns to Wolfe, dressed in that ridiculous shirt of his and with his mug in hand. A shirt he's worn dozens of times and carefully washed and dried to keep it in good condition. A mug he insisted on using even when she had others that better held the heat of his tea or coffee. The way he looks between these two things tugs at 'normal' in her mind and she clings to it; something grounding while the rest of her life is still in upheaval. Even if he does look a little silly with a blanket tied around his waist.

"You in the center of us?" she asks, taking his free hand in hers as they step over to the pit. She pauses at the edge to sit down with her tea. Best to finish it now before taking off her knives and laying down. "I don't think Jon will want to hold your hand or curl against you, but I know he's missed you too. Being close to missed friends is helpful when you suddenly have them back."

"I'd put my arm around him if I thought it wouldn't get me bitten," Wolfe jokes, taking a swallow to tea. "But no, I figured it would be me between you and Chris and Jon on Chris' other side, if he can sleep at all. He doesn't always."

It seems a little odd speaking to Amelia about Jon's personal habits, but she'll learn them eventually since they're going to be staying together for the foreseeable future. That thought is a happy one, the idea of a house of their own, maybe with a garden for vegetables...

Thats getting a little ahead of things, but its nice to dream again.

"Come on, Love. Let's see how comfortable Chris has made these pillow pits."

As it turns out, extremely comfortable, some of the pillows acting like they're stuffed with that memory foam stuff from Duplicity and some very soft feathers, and all the perfect temperature. The bed itself is firm enough for sleep but soft enough to practically sink into, and Wolfe does so gladly and with an appreciative groan after setting his tea aside.

"If all the Raven Queen's temples have nests like this, I might convert."

He'd met the man once, nearly five years ago now, when Lux had wanted Chris to meet his dominant in a more official capacity, for how often he was over at the incubus' house. He suspected Lux might have even had some designs in the back of his head for involving Chris in some more intimate interactions between the three...at least before Lux had vanished barely a week later. Not his first loss, but one of the bigger ones. He'd always thought it ridiculous that someone so old, the progenitor of lust on his own world, would claim to love something so transient and nothing as Chris. Copy as he'd been, now Chris wished he'd let himself believe him a little more.

The thought is quick, brief, and he shakes it from his head as his focus narrows to Jon's vicious scrawling on his own skin.

"Jon. Stop."

Two strides, and his hands reach out to clutch at Jon's hand and arm in a bid to separate them. A bubble of Silence falls over the room instead of bothering to stop the tape.

If he can, he pries the pen from his partner's hand to let it drop to the floor, but even if he must only curl his fingers over the pen and the tip, he bodily pushes into Jon's space to bear his weight down against his love in a way he hopes is grounding as he presses their foreheads together.

He won't be able to say anything or hear anything, but neither would Jon, and maybe that would help. Just for a moment. For a moment, no one had to hear Jonathan Sims breaking.

Chris' words are like a siren blaring from above. Jon freezes for a split second, knowing he's made a mistake. He hadn't meant to let things get this far, hadn't meant to let the cleric see this. He has enough problems as it is with Amelia breaking down, Wolfe a mess, Chris himself having his whole world shattered on so many levels. None of them are meant to see. And there's some perverse pleasure in that, in having the other man Know him, See him, having the secrets he'd been meaning to keep ripped away and exposed like a rotten wound. He can feel the Ceaseless Watcher in the back of his mind, knowing his shame and pushing some sense of satisfaction into him with it.

For as still as he is, Jon's grip isn't particularly strong. Chris knocks the pen from his hand, presses him back and down and over him, and Rafa's voice is gone. Everyone is gone. Martin. His Martin, twice over. His Morrigan. His Alessandro. Lyall, Garrett, Daphne, Anya, Rafa, Jamie, on and on and on, his list of names so much longer than his arms could hold. They're the last repository for every single off-worlder in the LIES program. They are the only people who will ever remember them. Even if LIES does this again, if their abomination finds another crop, they'll wipe out everything about the ones before.

How many times have they done this? How many stories have been lost? Left a complete and utter mystery.

He hates to cry, despises being so weak, but Chris is there and the silence beckons. The first few tears slip out against his will, and as soon as they do, the dam breaks. Jon curls his hands into Chris' shirt, the grip too hard, too much. This is what Amelia keeps doing as she breaks, thinking she's too much, but she has Wolfe and Chris both. He knows Chris will think he's the only one who can handle this. And he's going to feel like he has to handle it tonight.

The urge to push his boyfriend away, to curl up wars with the desire to keep him close and sob into the quiet where no one can hear him.

The reaction to the feel of the pillows is promising. Amelia quickly finishes her tea, trying not to chuckle too much at the way Wolfe practically melts into the downy comfort. It's hard to resist when it's such a Wolfe thing to do.

"I'll remind you said this tomorrow morning." She smiles down at him, waiting until his eyes are closed to shed her knives. She shouldn't hold back, but it's hard to ignore the reflex. They'll work on that another day. With those set aside, she slides down to join him, sighing in relief at how good it feels to fall into any kind of bed after the hell of a day she's been through. Her body doesn't ache much after the bath, but she's still exhausted.

Once she's fully down, she cuddles into Wolfe's side and wraps an arm across his chest as far as she can reach. "This is nice. Better for having you in here with me." Another sigh as she lets her eyes fall closed. "I've missed falling asleep with you at my side."

"You should. I'm going to have to start acclimating anyway," he replies as he fits his arm around her back, relaxing all the more just for having her beside him. This, at least, feels normal.

He doesn't expect Amelia to abandon what faith she has from home; she doesn't need to if she's not going to be written into the Weave as he and Jon need to be to keep themselves as they are. If she doesn't, Wolfe imagines the gods of her world will take her then, and...

No, that's not right. The deity present at all of their creation is the god of Duplicity, and fuck if any of them want to figure out what that afterlife is. Would that be her fate? She has no magic to weave and she has no previous connection to a God as Chris does...

"You should too. Choose a god, I mean. Chris says those of no faith here go somewhere awful. I don't want that for you." Now that the threat of death is again something to consider, especially with how they'll likely be earning a living.

In the silence of the room, Jon's pain can't be heard by either of them, but it's felt. Chris can feel it in the grip of his hands and the way his smaller frame quakes in Chris's hold and how his tears burn hot and cool quickly against the cleric's neck when he pulls his partner more into his chest and the safe curl of his arms.

His own eyes prick and sting out of sympathy. Empathy. They've lost too much and all at once, it's too cruel. Especially when they have the comfort and safety to actually face it.

At least, in Duplicity, there was almost always something else demanding part of their attention. There was always something else they had to keep moving for. Here, on the banks of a little-known lake in a small region, no one demanded anything of them. Time stood still. It was the unkindness of antiseptic on a wound.

He keeps his focus on his spell and how his hands stroke along Jon's back and his hair. His lips press small kisses where they happen to fall, but he makes no move to interrupt him or slow the storm or even try to offer kind words. There was nothing he could say that would feel right enough. Yet in the stillness where their words couldn't be heard and he couldn't interrupt him, he says "I love you" and "I'm sorry" to the quiet and hungry room.

It takes a minute or two for the worst of the sobs to pass, for the tidal wave of emotion to recede. Jon can feel the tears still stinging his eyes, the phlegm clogging his throat, the sense of humiliation that he'd let himself spiral like this when he'd assured Chris that he wouldn't. No wonder the cleric hardly trusts him to be on his own sometimes. Gradually, his tears dry up and he's able to swallow down the worst of everything. There's an unfortunate amount of snot and salt decorating Chris' shirt that they can't simply prestidigitate away, but maybe he can... pretend to spill tea on him? Would that be better as a lie for Wolfe and Amelia? The thought that they would know about this is far worse than Chris' ken.

It's a few minutes more before he's matching his breath to Chris', mirroring, and a another one before he finally pulls back enough to look up at the other man.

'I have to remember them,' he tries to say, lips moving silently. Jon shakes his head a moment, then tries for something simpler to articulate as a concept, if not as words to read by the lips. He lifts a trembling hand to cup Chris' face. 'Please... just cry, too?' At least he wouldn't be alone in the humiliation.

She huffs an amused breath against him. "Have to meet one before I do that. Gods don't exist where I'm from." Or, rather, where her original is from. Luckily for everyone, the exhaustion is weighing heavily enough on her that the thought doesn't have a chance to fully form in her mind. Whatever gods may or may not exist in that world, Amelia's never known them and never believed they existed. There's no one to call her to that plane, as far as she understands.

"I need to see to believe. Maybe I'll pick whoever helps us most to get written into the Weave." A concept she still only vaguely comprehends. It's important and will tie Wolfe and Jon to this plane, and right now that's enough for her. Some other day she'll ask more questions to better understand what's involved and if she needs to be threaded in too.

One of her shoulders rolls in a shrug as she cracks an eye open to look up at Wolfe. "I can always pick whoever you follow. Heard plenty of stories of gods liking blind followers. Why not one blinded by love?" That'll be enough, right? If it's not... dreams, she'll figure it out later because she's so much closer to sleep than she thought she would be when they stepped into the temple.

A chuckle escapes Wolfe at that, something sleepy and more relaxed than he thought he could get right now. He tries to fight it at least until Chris and Jon return.

"I see no problem with that," he concedes, kissing the top of her head. "Get some rest, now. It's been one of the longest days I can remember."

Its strange to think how he started the day versus how its ending. From a prisoner to freer than hes ever been in his life, from alone and losing hope to surrounded by loved ones and looking forward to their future. Its a big change, but an exhausting one.

The rattle of a collar sounds as Patience hops down into the pit as well. She turns around twice and lays herself across both Amelia and Wolfe's legs, almost daring them to get up before resting her large head down on her paws. Chuckling again, Wolfe cranes his neck to spot Cookie snoring away under the table, only her back legs and tail visible among the furniture.

"I hope you didn't intend to get up again."

He's not much for reading lips, even ones he knows so well, but 'remember' is the thing that catches his eye. The second part he understands all too well, and it yanks at him. Wolfe and Amelia had been trying to get him to break down too, and now Jon...he knows he needs to. If he doesn't now, it'll sneak up on him at a worse time. When the remembering would overwhelm the present. It was the honor and duty of the living to carry the lost...no, the dead. They weren't lost, sent home, missing, vanished, they were dead.

His throat fills with thorns again and he shakes his head. "I can't."
He's not even sure why he can't anymore. All of the reasons he might cling to run from him like sand between his fingers.

Crais would have told him he was being an idiot. Did he rail and fight against a second death so much more ignominious than the first? Martin would have been gentle, always so gentle when he smiled and blushed and looked at Chris like he kept waiting for the punchline on why Chris even wanted him. On second thought, he would have told him not to be so stubborn too...it makes him choke on the thorns in his throat. Did he die thinking they'd abandoned him? Left him to his Lonely end and the fears trapped in his head?

Chris' vision blurs, and he presses his forehead to Jon's while he fights not to let his grip turn to claws.

Did Jacob die knowing he'd never see his kids again? Did he die knowing they'd never actually been his kids? That the other life where he and Chris had quiet morning coffee and sunshine and vows was exactly as real as he'd been?

Caleb, Nate, Oliver, Nick, they would have died fighting for a world they couldn't save, a world they'd never broken in the first place, and one they never got to see again. Rosita, Stephen, Daphne, Lux, Diane, Katherine...fuck, Festival-

He sobs into the silence, the people who had made him an unstoppable line of faces in his mind's eye. He wasn't the Chris that existed here on this plane because that Chris hadn't known them, didn't carry them, and hadn't grown from them. He had and it made him just as important as anyone else with his face here. He was better because of them...and the least he could do was cry for them.

Amnos.

He hadn't thought of it for seeing his friend only a few hours ago alive and well, but that hadn't been the one in the city with him. His best friend had died knowing he'd never see his wife and kids again.

He can't keep himself upright at the thought; he crumples into Jon's chest with a silent scream of anger and grief. They'd deserved better than that. He should have done more.

Jon wraps his arms around the cleric, hugging fiercely and sinking fingers into his hair to grip and twist. He knows pain is grounding for Chris, much as the Archivist hates hurting him. This is necessary. All of this grief. Chris has lost his friends in Duplicity and his family here. He’s a man stuck behind a pane of glass, having to watch someone else live the life and dreams, the struggles and triumphs that he thought he was going to. If this were Jon’s world, he can only imagine the Chris, Wolfe, and Amelia all being shunted off to personal hells if the Stranger’s making, having to watch some other thing that isn’t them have what they were striving to reach.

While he can hear it, he feels Chris’ scream, and his fears and anguish come through at full volume. All of those names are in the book already. Jacob’s is somewhere near his elbow. He’d known that was an important one for Chris, much like Aloise for Amelia and Anders for Wolfe. They’re names that need to be remembered. But ‘Amnos’ is one he needs to add.

He holds Chris as he cries, pulling him onto the sofa as he lays back and down to make it easier. Jon lets him go for as long as he needs to, keeping a steady rhythm of harder twists in Chris’ curls to remind him of where he is and that Jon, at least, is here and real.

Edited (Too many ‘he’s) 2025-10-13 04:31 (UTC)

He clings tight to his Archivist, his Jon, as his thoughts jump from the people he's lost to the people they've all lost, to the people here who he could never tell this to, who would never know. Why should they? For his own satisfaction? Validation that this hurt? They didn't need this; it wasn't their responsibility. He wasn't their responsibility...and they weren't his. Only the people here and the people they now carried were.

Chris's tear-blurred gaze is stuck on the pattern of the couch where he's lying with Jon. It seems abstract at first glance, but staring at it with his thoughts chaos and the sparks of pain that offer bright flashes of clarity in the storm, it occurs to him: it's one of Amelia's embroidery designs. Every detail of this place comes from his mind, his imagination, and he can't remember putting that design on this couch, but some part of his thoughts must have done it. It's such a little thing, but incongruously feels huge in the moment. She's part of him in even the smallest of details, just as Jon and Wolfe are. Just as they all are.

So long as they continue to survive, so will those they've lost. They wouldn't be forgotten.

Fresh tears spill from him, but they're calmer, quieter. He sniff and shudders, but the clouds clear more than they have all day, and finally the spell falls.

"I'm..." he stops himself from apologizing. He doesn't want Jon's; why should he offer his own? Instead, he softly offers: "Thank you."

Jon’s tugging softens with Chris’ tears. By the time the spell drops, he’s stroking through his boyfriend’s hair. He’s grateful Chris speaks first as he has no idea what to say.

“Hell of a thing to say to someone when you walked in and knocked a pen out of their hand.” His tone is as light as he can manage through the thickness that still plagues his throat. “Thank you. I didn’t mean for it to go that far. I just… I’m scared of losing them. Forgetting them somehow. If the gods here take the Eye away… what if it takes my memories as a punishment? I don’t want to… I thought if I wrote them down…”

His scalp tingles and aches in a way that helps him keep his breath and work on calming down...and the soothing feeling of being pet is half just nice on its own and half habit that has him breathing evenly in no time.

"Well I wasn't going to apologize for doing that...I didn't want you to hurt yourself. And we'll make sure they're remembered." He can't promise Jon will remember, he can't promise anything about the Eye...but they could do better than scrawling on skin.

He sits up enough to put a hand on Jon's arm. "Let's make sure these are all on paper...and then we're going to wash this off...though we can wait until the morning, if you'd like. I think we can do our loved ones better than this. Find some way to permanently honor them and get a proper, dedicated book for filling with everything we remember of the people we want to hold onto. The people worth holding onto." He traces his thumb absently over Dorian's name but doesn't press any more than that.

"You don't have to bear all of them and their stories alone...in fact, I'd be hurt if you tried...those who were important to both of us belong to both of us...alright?"

Jon smirks for a moment, lips twitching up at the rejoinder. He's always loved this about the other man, that they can find some humor in the misery... especially misery of his own making. When Chris sits up, Jon stays where he is, looking up at his boyfriend with a hooded gaze, letting his arms fall to the sides. He knows he's probably supremely unattractive in this moment, face splotchy from crying, eyes red-rimmed... mostly because Chris is suffering the same afflictions.

"They're all in the book you gave me, I was just- I guess I was worried about... someone taking it away?" Saying it aloud, it sounds stupid, paranoid. "Sorry. I just keep expecting something terrible to happen." More terrible than everyone they knew in Duplicity dying and Chris discovering he has a double. "Something to snatch us back or take what things we have." He sighs and runs his fingers along Chris' arm.

"But finding something better than my skin is- It's a good idea. There's only so much canvas to work with there, and I don't fancy going bald to make more room." His mind turns to Mary Keay, and that just makes him think of Gerry. And Agnes. Gertrude. Tim. Sasha. Martin...

Jon takes a breath and closes his eyes, mentally steadying himself.

"For tonight, I, er... I'll wear long sleeves, I think. Don't tell Wolfe. Or Amelia. Please? They don't need to see this."

Chris takes Jon’s hand to press kisses to his fingers while he listens and shakes his head by the end.

“I won’t. There are likely to be very few secrets between us as we go forward, both by necessity and proximity…I’ll keep whatever ones you ask that are in my power.”

His next kiss falls to Jon’s palm which he then presses it to his still splotchy cheek.

“Be kind to your paranoias the next while, considering what we’ve been through -you the longest- they have their place and our understanding. But…also know I’m still intending to help you against yourself as needed, I don’t even-” his words catch briefly and he clears his throat to keep going. “I’ve nothing but you all to put my focus on now…you’re going to bask and suffer under my undivided attention.”

‘Be kind to your paranoias,’ he says. Jon huffs quietly, enjoying the brush of Chris’ lips. “You’re one of the only people to see my paranoia as a benefit, you know? Thank you, though, for keeping what secrets we still can. And… Before we head back out, did you, er… want to listen to the Statement of one of your people?

“It doesn’t feel… long. It’s all rather straightforward for what’s happening there.” He knows he’s probably asking for too much pain from the cleric, but that need to speak is still there. “And you don’t have to say yes. I won’t explode or anything.”

But he’ll be consumed by terribly curiosity, no doubt.

He smiles, a little too pleased at that proclamation. There were plenty of negative things about them both, Jon’s paranoia simply wasn’t one of them so long as it was within reason.

But then he’s reminded of the statement; he’d nearly forgotten with everything else.

He nods and keeps hold of Jon’s hand. “Tell me…please. I want to know them.” Even if he couldn’t help them, he could at least hear the terror they’d weathered. Call it his last act as the king in his mind, perhaps.

Or just masochism.

Chris says 'tell me,' and Jon relaxes, closes his eyes and finally stops trying to push everything away. Images, words, feelings, thoughts, all flood his mind, and one manages to push itself above the others. When his eyes open again, they're glowing their unnatural green, and there are more of them... far too many more of them. For a blessing, they're all distant, rather than focused on Chris, himself.

There's also a soft click nearby, and if the cleric looks about, he'll see a second tape recorder has appeared on the sofa and begun recording.

"Blessed Bane, Black Lord who conquers all, grant me your power to smite this dragon, this thing of metal and fire." The Archivist voice takes on something close to the lilting accent of Chris' homeland, but it's strained, frightened. "We are your chosen people. I am yours. I clench my fist and see my gauntlet covered in blood, the blood of my enemies, the blood of my lesser brothers. What are these twisted things of flesh and bone that frolic at the monster's feet? They are crimson and ivory, your colors, too, but nothing you would bring to us. My Lord, I am your supplicant, I am your knight. Use me.

"Why do you hesitate, my Lord? Am I not strong enough? Have I not proved myself loyal enough? Faithful enough? Have I not been damned enough, Master of All?

"No. No, my faith is strong, my Lord. I believe in you. This monster that holds the bones of children will fall by my hand. It must fall by my hand. I am strong enough for this. I won't fail like the others. I won't. I'm not afraid. I'm not!"

The Archivist draws in a deep breath, the words having come in an increasingly frantic ramble. When he speaks again, his voice is smaller.

"Lord Bane, I am frightened. My armor is pierced, my is flesh in ruins. Please... please, my Lord, I don't want to become one of them. I am yours. Render me to ash. Lord Bane? I beg you, Lord Bane. Don't let them take me." His voice cracks. "I don't want to be undead. I don't want to be only blood. Please? It's coming toward me. Lord Bane? Anyone? Please, gods, I don't want to die like this!"

There's a break again as the Archivist draws in another long breath, then his voice changes to something deeper, something far more powerful.

"You are weak, boy. How unbecoming."

The Archivist lets out another breath and the eyes vanish as his body unclenches again. "Christ... is that... Sorry." He lifts a hand to rub at his eyes. Channeling some sort of Templar of Bane had not been his expectation. But of course they'd be scared. Their god is a tyrant who loves terror.

His eyes dart from Jon's to the others about and to the tape recorder when he hears it. The latter makes his lips press into a thin line. Whatever they were, they were certainly still very tied to the things that had claim over them. It's a feeling that doubles in certainty as he listens to the account.

One of the Bane Hands...probably native to Melvaunt and her temple to the Black Lord. He could guess names, but he pushes the ones he knows aside. He doesn't want confirmation. Whichever one he was, he was abandoned at the last to the horrors that might have been the Tyrant Lord's doing in the first place. Abaonded like many in Bane's palm.

The memory of a vision flickers in his mind. The soul-deep voice passing judgment on Chris' kneeling form in His unfathomable palm. " Disappointing " he'd proclaimed...and let his cleric Fall into a waking nightmare of fire and ash and the dead of his city. The parallel is no different now as the dark paladin pleads and meets cold condemnation.

But that voice coming from his Archivist...it fills his veins with ice and steals his breath.

Was Jon hearing that through the dying paladin? Was he hearing it- was it for him? He tries to shake that thought off...if it was for 'him', it would be for the him still out there in the carnage. It doesn't stop his own fear from spiking.

He reaches both hands out to grasp onto Jon's arms, eyes wide and breath uneven once more. "How...how did you hear him? Through the Bane Hand or...or was he in your head? Is he still...?"

You are weak, boy.
Look how far you've come, just as I planned for you.
Did you think our separation was your choice? I simply opened the door for you
I offer safety. Certainty. I can protect them...you know what needs doing.

He feels sick. If they're still claimed, then Bane would notice them sooner or later; he would notice this remnant and see opportunity, maybe even power in these people from other planes. Planes untouched by the other gods, planes he could make use of. People he could make use of.

Chris' panic is expected, but Jon still flinches as he's grabbed suddenly. "I don't- Through the Hand? I think?" This is his first time channeling anything like a bloody god, how the hell should he know? As that's not particularly helpful to throw at a frightened man, the Archivist holds his tongue and takes mental stock of himself. Is there something else apart from the Ceaseless Watcher's gaze upon him? It's hard to tell in a world so vastly different from the one he's just left.

"I can't sense anything else? Can you?" He knows Chris has some ability to deal with spirits. Deities may be something beyond him, but having the cleric focus on things that he can do will, hopefully, forestall any sort of spiral. They've done that once only a few minutes ago. They don't need to do it again.

"Would he leave some sort of imprint if he were actually speaking through me?"

Slightly too wild eyes look over Jon as he half expects to see a black shadow of fingers gripping around his partner’s throat…but it doesn’t come.

His heartbeat is still racing, but his breathing gets back under control and his hands slide down to rest, loose on Jon’s legs. He sighs.

“I don’t think I’d sense anything if he didn’t want me to…but he likes letting me know when he has control over something I love…so you probably just heard it from the paladin, not him directly.” Unless it was some long game starting, something to keep him guessing…but thinking like that wouldn’t help anyone.

He brings his hands up to scrub across his face. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have grabbed you like that…I was scared he had you. I’m still scared he’ll take an interest in you all as soon as he knows I’m here. I should have planned this better.”

The last part wasn’t meant to be out loud, but he doesn’t take it back either. Bury it…there was space now.

“Thank you…for telling me. He won’t be the only one with unanswered prayers; the Raven Queen’s reapers will be busy tonight.” He needed to contact her. Commune and ask what questions he most needed to until tomorrow. “Are you okay, love?”

"No, it- I get it. God knows I've been handled more roughly for less." He offers Chris a brief, self-effacing smile before pushing up to his elbows. "And you won't be dealing with him alone. That, I can promise you. You'd protect me from Elias." Jon makes sure to meet his cleric's eye as he continues. "You are mine, and I'll protect you from him, as well."

What he can realistically do against a god is up in the air, but until he and the others are written into the weave of Faerun, there probably isn't any sort of precedent for them or what they might be capable of. Unbound by the laws of reality here.

For now.

"I'm- Yeah. I think I'm fine? Better?" He can't help a small grimace. "Sort of. Less hungry. We should head out, probably. If you're ready. I'm sure Wolfe and Amelia are wondering after us. I think it might be prudent to tell them about this and your concerns about Bane in the morning. Just so we can all mentally prepare ourselves for whatever the bastard might try to do."

Jon’s assurance about how he’s handled isn’t the comfort he or joked about he seems to be aiming for, Chris didn’t want to be anything like the people who’ve handled his Jon in the past, he had to be better. Jon deserved better.

The assurance that he wasn’t going to deal with Bane alone is slightly better and the claim on him brings a flutter of a smile to his lips. On some level, he wishes he could handle Bane alone, just to keep them all out of it…but he knew he could be braver with them, wouldn’t bend a way he shouldn’t with them at his back. He was stronger with them than without.

He would tear their enemies and those who hurt them apart with tooth and claw, he can’t deny them the same, not at this point.

“We’ll be sure to feed you proper soon. For now, I think you’re right: we should go back out and I’ll tell them in the morning. You all need to know his signs, just in case.”

He stands, stretches, and steals another fortifying kiss from his boyfriend as he makes to help him back to his feet as well.

“Shall we? I think we only half look like we’ve been crying.”

Edited 2025-10-15 01:55 (UTC)

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