makinglies | Respite

Entry tags:

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."

♥

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Chris sings, largely unaware of the extra pull he's put in the song. As much as this was a moment of peace, it was also a chance to try his siren's abilities on his own plane. This form has always been modeled on stories of old of the creatures who sank sailors and drowned young fools, but actually knowing if he was as he was meant to be here and not just some Duplicity-created thing was...good. It was another sign he was himself, no matter how he was made.

The blackjaws and one catfish circle closer, and it's simple work to coax the eel-like green fish close to the shore in a writhing mass of flailing bodies that are simple to catch or beach. The catfish he kills more personally, a swipe of talons across its underbelly that will feed other things here before Chris claims the rest for their needs. It would serve them a long while once prepared and dried. He's quietly grateful for the years of fish preparing and cooking he'd been doing for his own desires in Duplicity; it would make a good addition to their survival skills, better than diplomacy and the sex he wasn't supposed to look to anymore.

A note of annoyance stretches through his song, but doesn't break the melody or the power woven in it; he didn't intend to stop that until he knew they'd collected enough fish. To that end, his golden head pokes up from the water a few feet from the writhing fish mass to watch the results.

Amelia's voice breaks through the song that winds around his psyche and Wolfe stops and blinks rapidly, not entirely certain what he'd been doing.

Right. A rinse in the lake. Chris was calling them. He really must be losing his magic if his careful mental fortifications didn't protect him from the song. Or... No. He's always been weak to Chris' song. Even now he misses the peace it brought, freedom from thought instead of the cacophony his mind was before. He's not upset Amelia broke the hold - it's better to be clear-headed about these things - just a little disappointed.

The look she gives him definitely turns his thoughts another way, though. One he shouldn't but also... It's difficult to remember the harm when she's looking at him like that and talking about stripping down. "Hmm, a good point."

He grins and tugs his shirt off over his head, tossing it over to a nearby rock, after which he steps towards her to reach in her belt where he knows she keeps one of her knives just at the small of her back, effectively crowding her as Chris' head pops above the water. "Do you want some help? It's the least I can do to wash your shirt after I stained it, after all."

Stop. Don't do this. Don't--

Her breath catches in her chest and cheeks flush as he steps against her. She barely notices the pull of her knife, so distracted is she by Wolfe. The cool of his skin through her shirt, his breath against her face, the rumble of his voice in his chest...

"Hang the shirt, I'd rather you wash me." She looks up at him through her lashes, then leans closer to ghost her lips across his. Her voice drops to a whisper. "I've missed your hands on me. It's been too long since we were together. Since we made love."

Dreams, this is the worst idea. They haven't talked yet about what they each want and what she's done. But by all the gods on this plane, she misses being intimate with those she loves.

Chris watches as Wolfe steps in close to Amelia and sees how she responds; of course, neither is able to resist the other. Part of him only feels more annoyance. Were they supposed to be taking things slow? Had she told him what she'd done in her grief and selfishness? Was it his place to even harbor that beyond what it meant between himself and Amelia?

How could it be years now that he'd been in relationships and still he felt like he had no idea what he was doing?

Something in him sours, and it feels petulant, but in his siren form, it's harder to bury and let go of his own emotions. His song breaks, and he shoves the catfish's 9-foot body onto the shore nearest him, pushing and beaching a few more of the blackjaws that don't escape as well. A neat little corpse pile he'd deal with. Later.

He wasn't going to strand himself out here while they...did whatever they deemed necessary. Nor was he in a place to even find the idea of potentially being invited to join them appealing.

At the very least, he uses every ounce of willpower in him to smother his own song and bite back on the urge to screech his irritation as he takes to the air in a drizzle of lake water and soars over to the temple door. He'd wanted to give Jon his time, but...well...now he needed to be inside. Still as a siren, but that was fine. The quartz floors of the temple were easy enough to slide along.

The siren song halts Jon’s consideration of a pair of silken panties that he’s fairly certain had been amongst his wardrobe in the city. The Archivist quickly shoved everything away and heads for the front door. The music cuts off, which is mildly concerning, but before he can check outside again, the hand knob… the ‘handle’ twists and there’s Chris in full siren form slithering his way inside.

“What…?” He catches a glimpse of Wolfe and Amelia at the edge of the water before having to step back and out of the way to give Chris room.

“Are you all right?” The others don’t seem alarmed enough for something to have been in the lake or for Amelia to have told them anything troubling about her encounter with Jon, and Chris looks… annoyed? “It’s, uh… it’s clear in here. Poppet and I were very thorough. Ah! And my cat’s name was the Captain.”

He hovers nearby, a little uncertainly before adding. “I like what you’ve done with the place. Apart from the hand and web nonsense. At least there aren’t any actual spiders. Or monsters in the cupboards.”

Wolfe barely has his fingers on Amelia's waistband when there's an unceremonious slap of fish against the ground. The song is entirely gone too, Chris freeing himself from the water in a spray of crystalline droplets and smoothly gliding to the temple door. Even as a siren, Wolfe can tell he's annoyed. He's not always the best at hiding his emotions even as a human, let alone a creature that expresses itself through the very emotional act of song.

That breaks his mood, worried for what could have caused this sudden outburst. Was it something he did? He and Amelia together? Or... what they're about to do? Wolfe knows he's coming off a bit of a hypocrite here, having just told Chris they should all take it slow. This isn't slow.

Setting his mouth, Wolfe kisses Amelia's forehead firmly and steps back, though his hand moves from her waist to her arm in an unwillingness to lose that closeness entirely. "I'm sorry, I know we both want this, but I don't trust myself to be at all normal about it right now, and that isn't fair to you. Its barely been a full day since we escaped. I'd been... I fantasized about so much to get through it, I don't want to have a poor reaction to the real thing."

He also doesn't want to be intimate just for the sake of feeling something good after having such terrible thoughts not long ago at all, but that part he keeps to himself for now.

"It doesn't mean I don't love you, or not desire you, let me be clear. I've wanted little more than to out my mouth all over you since I saw you again. Things are just... hard-" Wrong word. "-difficult to keep straight right now."

Fish hit the shore, Chris flies overhead, and all at once her heart drops into her stomach. Wolfe is right, they shouldn't do this. She knows that, has known it, yet she pushed.

Dreams, what a fool she is.

"You're right. We should wait, talk first and take things slow." She breathes deeply and moves her hands to his shoulders to steady herself. It takes more strength than she would admit to, and she hopes Jon is distracted enough by the siren to not hear her thoughts screaming about how much she doesn't want to do the hard part anymore. Not again. Not when Wolfe is so close.

Another breath to calm her heartbeat and she nods. "I believe you, and I trust you and your feelings. They're as deep as mine. We'll find our way back to each other. I know it." Neither of them will let it be any other way.

Gently, she rubs his biceps and then steps back. "Let's take care of the fish Chris left us, then rinse off quickly. We can wash our clothes after we have something else ready to wear."

Jon is there talking about bugs and monsters and his earnest mixture of concern and confusion is a breath of fresh air.

A low sound of frustration rumbles in his chest and Chris curls himself and his tails around Jon’s legs so he can shove his face into his partner’s side. His wings curve in around his Archivist.

“I’m fine. They’re annoying. I’m glad you like it. There’s books you haven’t read. You can’t take them out of here, but you can read them until we can afford real copies.”

His voice carries that slight echo of song behind it, betraying him behind his words even as he already gives himself away with his pettish body language.

‘Please be pleased. Make sense. Don’t go. Be honest.’

He frowns. “I should have made ear plugs. I should change back.”

Not that it’s making him less entirely curled around his Jon.

There’s irritation and neediness in the siren that Jon hadn’t entirely been expecting, but he’s spent long enough with Chris to have an idea of how to handle ruffled feathers of both the metaphorical and literal variety. It might help to assuage some of his guilt for lying to his boyfriend, as well.

His fingers dig into Chris’ wet hair, scratching along his scalp and down to the feathers at his back. “You’ve only just changed. Why don’t we get in the water? You need to wash off from the lake… and you need preening.” Whether that’s actually true or not, Jon expects the siren to favor it.

He stops stroking and catches a hand under Chris’ chin to pull his attention upward. “I saw some swim trunks in the wardrobe. Let me grab them and we can get started. Make yourself comfortable in the water, hmm?”

"A good plan," Wolfe says with a smile, though it's a somewhat heavy one. He feels like all he's been since getting to Faerun is heavy. Heavy thoughts, heavy frustrations, and just plain heavy in other ways. Amelia rubs at his biceps before letting go and he can feel how flabby he's gotten. He was winded just from a little light exercise earlier. Mak- Gods, he's almost glad they didn't go through with it; how much of a mood killer would it be were he to have to stop to catch his breath every few minutes?

That unflattering picture of himself in mind, Wolfe turns his attention to the fish. The small eely ones are easy to gut and he makes quick work of them, but the large catfish is something else. He's not sure he's ever seen one that big. It's going to take fifteen minutes or more to make sure he gets all the bones out. Thankfully, Amelia is there to help and between the two of them they get the fish prepared.

"That should be alright for now. Its cold enough it'll keep until we get clean then we'll make something that won't spoil before dinner." He whistles sharply for the girls, telling them to guard the fish from any scavengers. They both boof in assent, Cookie jumping on her hind legs for a moment in her happiness, though that has a lot more to do with the snack of game entrails than anything she's charged with currently.

After a quick rinse so as not to track blood and scales inside, Wolfe holds his hand out to Amelia. "I'm ready for a shower. You?"

It all feels... wrong. Like there's something hanging over them that she lacks the words for. It's too soon to say they won't make it through this, but her gut twists in uncomfortable ways as shadows of times leading to their hardest conversations come to mind.

Choose to believe them. She has to trust that if something is wrong, Wolfe would say so, if only to ask her to wait to talk about it until he was ready. There's no reason to think things have gone wrong or that her pushes toward sex - not even intimacy, for fuck's sake - are too much. He would tell her. They would all tell her if she was too much.

Or would they? Their siren broke the moment she and Wolfe were sharing in a frustrated and petulant manner. That means something.

She's quiet as they take care of the fish and clean up enough to go inside, and her smile is barely there when she takes his hand. "After I clean our clothes, yes. I need to do something useful with my hands before I'm ready to try and relax." And she feels like she owes Chris an apology for whatever it is she did that caused him to storm his way into the temple. Dreams, how many times is she going to owe him apologies for shit she's promised not to do within days or hours of making those promises?

When is he going to tell her it's too much?

"Let's see what our cleric has for us today. I'm certain it's exactly what we'll need." It's a deflection that's terribly offered and easy to read, and she doesn't care. She just needs a chance to clear her head, then she can deal with all of the bullshit she's done to these people who keep choosing her when they shouldn't.

The hand in his hair is almost immediately calming in a way he knows is very thoroughly learned after years of having his hair pet both just casually to have a calm night in, and while during pet play sessions. He doesn't fight it regardless. He leans into the touch and the tilt of his chin with only a brief snag from himself that maybe he shouldn't be indulging in this, it was silly to want, they hadn't even discussed if this was going to be part of their normal or fell too far into kink for Jon's comfort-

Those were Chris' concerns, not Chris-the-Siren's concerns. He nods. "In the wardrobe." There was a vast array of clothing needs in there, all for inside, but they'd do, even if their color scheming was largely monochromatic.

When he's been given leave to go, he drags himself over to the vastly diminished springs, now comfortably big for two people, maybe three, but four would be a tight fit...but plenty large enough for a single coiling siren. The water is hot to breathe, so he keeps his face and neck out of the water, but otherwise relaxes in, his wings lying out like huge carpets of feathers on either side on the rocky surrounding while he waits to melt further under Jon's attention.

He should feel bad for wanting it...but he'll try to muster those feelings later. Right now, the siren wanted preening and attention and to fill the temple with the subtle thrum of affection and contentment around the grateful kisses he peppers along what he can reach of his Archivist when he returns.

Jon picks up the dregs of some of those thoughts, the fear and uncertainty. They're concerns he's had, as well, if he should be indulging any of this sort of thing, if it strays too close to... But then pet play had never been about sex for him, just comfort. It's that thought that has him nodding to himself. This is probably a broader discussion they ought to have, but it's one that can wait. There's nothing inherently... peculiar about taking care of someone you love. He'll just avoid calling Chris his handsome bird. Out loud, at the very least.

He's quick about things once Chris lets him go, what with his clothes getting wet from the siren's clinging. Jon offers his boyfriend an encouraging smile before slipping into the changing room. His own clothes are discarded in a small pile on the floor and he tugs on the trunks before ordering Poppet not to eat his things before heading back out. They're simple black trunks with no adornment, and everything is a bit cold as Jon pads over to the springs on the bare marble.

"Here we are. Clever of you to leave your wings out for me." He kneels next to the water and reaches for the cleric, bending down further to kiss him, if he'll come up enough to allow it. "At least we know your matron's fine with sirens. I expect you'd have been tossed back out if she weren't." Small favors, but it's one potential difficulty off their plates.

"I'm going to get in behind you." He'd tease about behaving, but he's trying not to turn this into that. Entirely. "You'll look nicer than the rest of us by half when we're finished. I'm sure the zombies will be impressed tomorrow."

For a rogue, Amelia is remarkably bad at hiding her emotions. Which is probably not a fair assessment to make when they've all been going Through It for years now, let alone less than a full day after escaping from where they did. Whatever the reason, Wolfe is glad for it even if he's too tired to deal with his own issues, let alone someone else's. But it isn't a choice. He will, for her, for them, because his exhaustion is so much less important than their knowing that he's here for them, even if he has to say they'll handle things in time. Sometimes its most important just to listen.

"Come here," he asks gently in a way that is a question but not much of one. He takes her hand lightly, brushing rough fingertips against her wrist. "What's in your head? I believe you when you say we'll find our way to each other again, but I only want that to hold for the ultimate physical intimacies. The other things, the parts that make up the us of us, there's never a too soon for. Talk to me, Love. However you're feeling, I can confidently doubt you're alone in it."

If she pushes him away, then fine, he will leave it for now, but its important to him that she knows he will always listen.

She tries not to shudder at the touch to her wrist, knowing full well that Wolfe isn't going to do anything to hold her or to hurt her. With how scrambled and spiraling her thoughts are, it's easy to know but not believe things that are obvious truths. She pulls that hand to her chest, keeping it between them as she presses her forehead to his collarbone.

"I am in some of it." In what she did to herself, allowed to be done to her in that awful, aphro-fueled headspace she'd been in after the SLUT Center. She should have told Chris. She should have been honest with the one person out of all the others who would've understood why she refused to do that stupid challenge and asked for his help in taking care of the cravings that came after. So many people would have been there for her, people she's now lost forever and who likely don't even know they're never getting out of that dreamsforsaken city even if they take the 'deal' to leave. All of her friends, her Yennefer, Caleb, Krem...

She doesn't even realize she's crying again until she feels the cool of her tears against the fist she has curled between them. Fuck. No. It's not Wolfe's fault. It's not.

Please, dreams, don't let him think that.

"I can't." I have to hold back. I can't put that on him. Not yet. "It's... so much, Wolfe. It's too much after just getting you back. I was so reckless and stupid and I know I hurt so many people. I hurt Chris so much." He shouldn't forgive me. I shouldn't even be here after all of it. "I just... I-I--"

Her shoulders begin to tremble and her jaw aches as she both tries to hold back and to tell him to let it go. Somehow, neither of it comes out and instead she sobs loudly against him. Again and again he's the one to hold her through this and he deserves better. She should be better than this.

"I'm sorry." Always sorry. Always failing where she says she's trying. One day, he's going to see she's not worth it. "I'm sorry... I'm so, so sorry."

He leans up for the kiss, of course, and grabs another to whatever part of Jon he can reach out and snatch for the purpose before his partner gets into the water. He shifts his tails first out of the way and then back so he can curl them around his boyfriend once he's settled in the water.

The comment about the matron causes him to pause momentarily. "I hadn't even thought of that. I suppose it adds to the 'uniqueness' if she has a siren worshiper. Most likely worship the sea-related forces, not death."

He rests his face on his folded arms and scratches mindlessly at the stones while his right wing helpfully stretches out for Jon's inspection.

"We've never tried this as a siren before...not beyond what you did to keep me sane the first time this happened." It's an observation, one he's not sure has a point, but it's an attempt to venture into a topic that isn't the one that bothered him so much outside.

"I'm sorry if I sing about your clever hands."

There's a part of him that screams danger at a monstrous creature wrapping around him while he's in he water... ready to be drowned. Maybe willingly, too, with Chris' singing ability as a siren. But that's set aside as Jon embraces the thought of this being his boyfriend. Chris is powerful and playful when he wants to be, and the Archivist still thinks about their underwater excursions in Duplicity with some fondness.

Never mind that the siren is also a deadly predator. Not thinking about that as the weight settles around his hips and legs.

"As long as you don't sing about my scrawny waist, I think my ego can manage." There's more bothering Chris, but Jon is happy to provide distraction as he begins running his fingers through the siren's feathers, starting at where the wing meets Chris' back and moving out toward the tips of his wing. The Archivist is meticulous, searching for anywhere his fingers snag and working to straighten or pluck, as needed.

"I suppose we were always doing other things when you were a siren, though... or you were in my office lounge in a pool." And he had been too concerned about water escaping out into the archives to do much. "I'm going to miss the archive there. I wish I'd been able to bring everything with me."

She cries - again, again she cries because of something he said or how he pushed her - but this doesn't feel like something he shouldn't have done. This feels like something that needs to come out. Wolfe holds her against him, as if he could use his arms to block out everything but them.

"If its too much, let me help you carry it. Gods know you help me carry mine when I'm overwhelmed. That's part of what I've always loved about us and how hard we've worked together," he moves his hands to her arms, not holding them so much as just resting in gentle reassuring pressure, and ducks to try and peer at her face. "No matter what it is, we move forward together. I forgive you, Love, for whatever you feel you need me to forgive."

He shouldn't do this. He should tell her it's too much and leave her to her tears until she can get it out enough to hold her head high. He deserves better than her.

Yet he stays. He stays because he loves her. He stays because he wants them. He stays, even when she wishes she could tell him to go to the arms that can actually support and love him the way he deserves right now.

She doesn't want to meet his eyes, to let him see how scared and hurt she is. But she knows him, knows he won't let her go until he thinks she can stand on her own and until she believes him when he tells her he loves and forgives her. The more she pulls back, the harder she tries to hide, the closer he'll get until all that's left is to bare her soul and beg him to stay.

He'll stay anyway. She knows that. She believes it. It's still hard to reconcile with what she thinks will come when she tells him the truth.

"You shouldn't." Her whole body tenses, jaw trembling as she fights saying what she must, fights the sick feeling in her stomach and throat, fights her need to run to protect him from a truth that needs to come out between them. It makes her voice a whisper when she finally manages to speak again.

"I refused to complete their quota challenge, and I-- I didn't tell anyone. No one knew. No one knew I hadn't-- th-that I'd not had sex since you left." Her hands move to his biceps, gripping them just enough to be certain he can't run without her being able to attempt to stop him. "I didn't tell anyone after I'd gone to the SLUT Center either. I fought off what they wanted me to do until--" Her eyes well up with fresh tears as she hangs her head in shame.

"Public sex. They wanted me to have public sex. So I begged someone to-- to fuck me while streaming to the network. O-only the audio, but it was enough." Enough to get the wrong kind of attention. Her grip on his arms tightens. "Chris was so angry. He was right to be angry because I hid to 's-save him' when that was the worst thing I could've done. I lied by omission and tried to tell him I was right but I wasn't. A-and then I asked him to h-hold me to make it through the pain and I... I-I..."

Her knees give out beneath her, and she lets go of Wolfe to put her arms over her head protectively. "I stopped caring about m-myself when you'd gone. I don't know h-how to do it. I couldn't. He saw it and he's so angry because I-I'm still not--" Because she's terrible at it. She shakes her head, sobbing for a few seconds before finding her voice again. "It's only been a few days since then. I... I shouldn't be here. He shouldn't let me be. And you shouldn't-- dreams, you shouldn't love me after all this. You shouldn't love-- someone who can't care about herself even as she stares down a blade hovering at her throat."

She's weak. She's pathetic. She hurts those around her constantly. She's a failed leader. She's everything the Family of her terrible recurring nightmare accuses her of being.

You can't give yourself worth that's not there.
You are fit to lead no one.
Not even yourself.

Between her deep, aching sobs, she moves to hug herself tightly, bent over her knees and with her forehead pressed into the dirt. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to--" No. That doesn't fucking matter anymore. Her intention means nothing after what she did. "I-I don't want to hurt you again."

Jon doesn't press, and Chris appreciates it. He hasn't decided if he wants to talk about any of it, or if he even should. It's easier to sink into the feeling of meticulous fingers straightening and preening his various feathers. Jon gets a small handful of some of the shorter feathers for his efforts, particularly in the harder-to-reach places by Chris's shoulders.

"Then you'd have to cart it all around by hand," he points out. "I am sorry we couldn't bring more. We'll make you a new space that's your own with all the new oddities you'll find here. And statements, so long as you'll need them."

He sighs mostly in a release of tension and watches as his talon slowly starts making a deeper groove in the rock under it. True to his word, too, a low-hummed melody starts like the purr of a cat from the siren, one that carried affection for clever, scarred, hands and attentive eyes, and a sharp mind.

And a scrawny, easy to hold, waist...

"Will you still take more, even if you no longer need them to survive?"

“Don’t you have… what did you call them? A bag of holding? Really, I just need one of those and we’ll be able to take an archive wherever we go.” He tries not to think about the fact that he is the real archive. It was never the paper or tapes.

Jon pushes that more troubling thought aside as he focuses along the bone, knowing it will make Chris melt. The feathers he pulls out start to form a small pile on the edge of the hot springs, something to take care of when they’re done.

“I don’t… know if I’ll keep taking them. I’d like to? I think.” His hands pause, but it’s only brief as the song rumbling from the siren puts him at a sort of ease. It makes his head float a bit. Not enough to knock him completely out of his own head, but things are a little fuzzier beyond the boarders of the water. “Just… I don’t know if it’ll be the same. Part of what makes it easier for people to write or give Statements is the-the inherent power of the Archivist. Pull feel a pull to tell me things and organize it all into a neat little narrative.”

It would certainly be harder without that. And now they’re talking about it, Jon feels his hunger rearing its head again.

“I, uh… I could probably use a statement before we head into the Shadowfell.”

"I think we've already established we all do things we shouldn't," Wolfe says gently, kneeling to the ground with her, then thinking the better of that and sitting beside her instead. He doesn't try to get her to raise her head, instead rubbing her back as long as she remains curled up.

"I'm not the one who has to forgive you, Love. I do, for what of this hurts me, but... Do you know why it hurts?" It sounds like a question he'll answer himself but he waits to hear what she'll say instead, what she thinks he thinks about all this, because that's more telling.

It hurts him that she hurt Chris. That they couldn't support each other in his absence. The familiar hurts of having left her when he didn't want to, of wishing he'd been there to prevent her doing such things are there, but its the heaviness of it that hurts the most. Someday he'll actually be gone and what then? It hurts him to think that he's her only support even while he's sometimes envious of not being such for Chris. She deserves better, deserves to actually acknowledge the strength she possesses that she only sees when someone else points it out to her.

It hurts because he doesn't know how to help her.

"Because I didn't need to do this. Because I chose to do this to myself. Because I shut Chris out and hurt him multiple times over for it."

Because he thinks she can do and be more even when she knows she can't.

She shakes her head, drawing her hair through the dirt and counteracting everything they did to clean up. It doesn't matter. She shouldn't be allowed across the threshold of that temple anyway. Chris shouldn't let her in. Wolfe shouldn't try to coax her in. Jon's made it clear he thinks she's stupid and short-sighted, so he'd easily agree if Chris cast her out.

Her shoulders shake with another set of heavy sobs. "I wasn't strong enough. I-I can't be without the people I love at my side. Being alone, facing that house and that room and that bed without you... I just couldn't do anything on my own." A slow, tense breath. "And I was too scared of hurting others to let them help."

“I might be able to do you one better than a bag of holding, though one of those would do us good as well. I’ll have to look into it, I’ve only heard of what I’m thinking about, so I don’t want to get your hopes up.” A pocket workshop would be perfect for a displaced archivist, if it worked how he thought.

“And there might be spells that can work similar to your compulsions. Gideon would know better, or just the library at the tower.” Something like a zone of truth, maybe? Or a magicked quill that wrote more consciencely? Maybe.

He tries not to melt entirely as Jon’s fingers trace along the bones of his wing.

“You might want to finish what you’re doing and wait on the other wing, then. I don’t trust either of our abilities to split concentration during a statement. Besides, we probably ought to afore the other two get in here from whatever they’re doing.”

He considers a moment. “Would yesterday do? When we got here. Would the Eye be interested?”

Better than a magical bag that can hold just about anything? Jon is skeptical, but given Chris can summon all of this out of thin air, maybe he shouldn't be. Doubtful it would be some sort of cleric spell, but they could sort out who might be able to use it once they're written into the Weave.

"Mm..." The sound is considering as Jon does his best to focus on the obvious 'problem' areas to finish up. He could do more later. His appetite is overruling his desire to be gentle with his boyfriend, unfortunately. Maybe if he feeds he'll have an easier time controlling himself around Amelia and Wolfe, as well. "I think it would, considering. Seeing a double of yourself, losing everything, questioning who and what we are... It's ripe ground for the Stranger and the Desolation. Maybe the Lonely and the Buried, as well, depending on how you feel about it all. We can see what comes to mind."

Jon spends another few minutes fluffing and plucking before he pulls back. "By the way, I-" No. Chris won't have answers about that. How the hell would he know what they'd be once written into the Weave? If Jon would lose half his soul in the process, or if there would be some way to marry the pieces of him back together enough to make one thing. He casts about for a different question. "Did, uh... did you check for curses on the lighter?"

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Nat 1 Deception roll (lolol)

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cw: talk of forced drugging, dubcon; low self-worth

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