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

Jon knows he likely hasn't helped with the Amelia situation, nor has Chris. Nor has whatever cosmic force thinks it's funny to put them just within reach of so much while calling into question so much of what they know about themselves. "Right..." He's quiet for a moment as he processes. "You know we're actually ourselves, right? That we're not suddenly... not us because our lives hit a divergence point? Like a parallel universe. We're just aware of that other universe in a way most people aren't."

He has a good sense that Chris is on his side where this is concerned, but if he needs to worry about another in their group having a massive existential crisis about this specific issue, the Archivist would rather be aware of it sooner. It's probably something they should address as a group, rather than splintering off for their own conversations, but then it might just feel like ganging up if Amelia really is the only one.

"I know it's something she's... struggling with. And I should probably apologize to her about."

"It took me awhile but I decided its basically the same as the rest of the multiverse. We're just the ones that came into being by being copied instead of born. What's mostly been difficult to reconcile about it is relationships before Duplicity, so before I was "born," basically. I have these memories and they inform who I am, but the people in them from before aren't mine," Wolfe says, looking aside instead of making eye contact. "It's frustrating too because I have all these faults and traumas from things I technically never experienced. My upbringing, the Blight, Quinten, Meredith, the Nightmare, I still get fits of anger that I have to suffer through those memories when it wasn't me in them. Only it was, in a sense, and it's why I'm who I am."

He sighs, finally looking at Jon in the face again. "Do you feel that at all? Angry that you have to deal with what feels like someone else's shit life?"

There's a long pause because Jon isn't entirely sure how Wolfe is going to take the answer he has to give. Amelia had received it very poorly. "No?" He shifts so that he can look up better at Wolfe, even if it's only out of the corner of his eye. "Because it... is my life. I'm Jonathan Sims. The fact there's another Jonathan Sims who wasn't taken is... irrelevant? Or I-I'm as much Jonathan Sims as I was after the Unknowing."

Jon looks down again, frowning. "I've lived with an existential crisis of who and what I am for years, Wolfe, even before I arrived in Duplicity. I died for all intents and purposes when a building crushed me. In some other version of reality, I decided to stay human and was just... dead. But I didn't die. I became something"-more-"else, the Archivist. I've had people with the ability to see souls tell me I'm twined with something else, incomplete without the Eye, and I've felt different since that change."

He lifts a hand to gesture around them. "The city didn't feel any different. It's only since I drank that vial that I... did you feel it? Like you were being slotted into place? Like you were whole after being broken?"

Jon says no and Wolfe smiles a little, affectionate and happy for his friend that he doesn't have to experience that unplacable anger. Jon has so much else that eats at him, its good to know that in this, at least, he doesn't have trouble.

"I don't think it affected me the same. I didn't feel complete so much as felt something sever. I think it was the connection to Duplicity in truth but in practice it felt like what I imagined it must be to be severed from the Fade," he admits, smile fading and leaving a worried line behind across his face.

"I can still feel my magic, but its already draining slowly. I'm afraid to use it and hasten that process, and I may... not be able to sleep until we're in the Weave, if I don't dream in the Fade. Do you remember when I had the magic blocking anklet in the city, after the heist? It will probably be like that." So he can fall asleep, technically, but the terror of dreaming lucidly in a void instead of the Fade as he should is enough to jerk him awake almost immediately.

He shakes his head. That's not the point. "I'm glad it gave you a sense of completion though, that's wonderful. Do you feel better than you did before the Eye?"

So, a man with Swiss cheese soul felt completed, a man with his soul caught between the veil of mortalkind and magic felt severed. What had Amelia felt? Jon had been too wrapped up in the overwhelming sensation and emotion to pay attention to either of the other two and regrets that now. Would he have seen discomfort marring Wolfe's features? It's passed, though, and he knows now. He hadn't felt fear from Amelia, at last not about that. Christ knows she's had enough other terrors pinging about in her head it might have been lost in the shuffle, though.

The mention of magic and fear of sleeping does bring a grimace to Jon's face. "Not really. Just... it was a lot like becoming the Archivist. There was a sense of completeness in that, too. Of being finished in a way I hadn't felt in years. I still feel- Thinking about who I was before I became the Archivist, he still feels like a photograph that's faded at the edges. When I drank the vial, it was like the color pouring back into me. I've only had that the one time. When I changed... metamorphosed.

"You mention your magic draining, I, um... I think I might be in more trouble faster than you. I can't turn mine off. I'm hearing all of you, feeling what you're afraid of. I'm trying not to, but it's not exactly a battle I can win."

"You might, you might not. Having your powers ambiantly working and actually using them are two different things. I'm still colder in temperature than the average person and that's not something I can turn off. Its just something that's part of us, but it will drain away regardless since we're not connected to our sources anymore. Just... try not to hasten it by using your powers actively." That's the best they both can do for their shared family and for themselves.

"Is... Can I ask what Amelia is..." He trails off and shakes his head. He shouldn't ask, he should talk to her. "Nevermind. About feeling complete, could it be the Eye hollowed something out initially and now the vial filled it in again? Metaphysically I mean. Anders said something similar about having a sort of gap in him when Justice was removed."

Wolfe stops himself before he asks the question, and Jon is grateful for his self-control. He's not in the business of sharing people's feelings and thoughts around, but he might have made an exception if it might mean the mage would be better equipped to handle the rogue.

The idea that ambient abilities aren't draining them seems dubious, though. It might be why there's a steady drip Topher had pointed out. Even their best efforts not to use their powers couldn't account for that. And Jon knows he's already been bad about that on the active side of things. Still, a conversation about that needs to wait for one with Amelia. He's set his mind to that, at least.

"Possibly. I'd need someone like Emet-Selch or Hythlodeus to look at me, I guess." Or maybe the Raven Queen, herself, if she does visit them. There's a long pause before he adds, "I, uh... once we're woven into the Weave, I will try not to be, but my... Part of the comfort of being the Archivist is being able to just know things. Or know I might be able to force people to tell me the truth. Without that..." He trails off. "I've always been a-a paranoid man."

And it has been easier to trust people when having a potential idea of their intentions. When that goes away, Jon doesn't trust himself not to backslide.

"That might be a struggle," Wolfe agrees, looking at Jon with very little surprise that he has, in fact, always been paranoid and this isn't an Eye-fueled development. Predatory beings like Entities and Gods and Templars exploit what's already there. Its less effort than starting from scratch. "You'll have to work at it, Chris said people seem to be able to resist magic more often here than we're used to. I know you do better with consequences, though. Maybe you should talk to Chris about some kind of structure."

He'd offer to keep Jon honest too, but setting formal consequences seems intimate in a way that relies on the kind of relationship Jon has with their mutual partner, not him. Still, a little exchange wouldn't hurt. "I'll call you on it if you help keep me focused on studying."

'Some kind of structure' for consequences. Jon turns his attention back to the book in his hands as he feels color paint his cheeks. He knows Wolfe knows some of that part of his relationship with Chris. If they hadn't done a bloody scene together, he'd have picked it up from living with them. Still, having it called out when they haven't actually talked about what was going to happen with all of that is more than a little embarrassing.

Jon clears his throat. "Yes, well... Consequences might well come from the people around me, regardless. I can keep you on track for your studies. But if I don't regenerate like I usually do, that... Well. It ought to leave a more lasting impact. Although... Maybe it's just me, but did you feel actually rested this morning? I had my nightmares like usual, but it was like-like they were restful?"

"Oh! I thought-" He thought he only slept well because he was finally curled between his two partners again, but if Jon felt it too, then maybe there's something there. "I did. For the first time in a long time."

That's good news, at least. They really should get back to studying, on that topic, but something about what Jon said gives him pause.

"Wait, back up, when you say lasting impact, what do you mean?"

Maybe it's something of the magic here. Chris had always seemed annoyed when he'd slept and hadn't felt fully refreshed in the city. Which is ridiculous. Magical sleep? They're not even woven into the Weave. How could that be affecting them?

He's about to start looking through the book he has more properly, but Wolfe's follow-up gives him pause and a furrowed brow. "I mean people can stab me and have the damage last. I told you I tried to cut off my own finger once, didn't I?"

"I knew you removed a rib, not cut off your finger," Wolfe replies dryly, making it very clear that none of that is normal. But what about any of them is ever normal?

"Why?"

"Well, I had to have the rib removed after I tried the fingers." His tone says that ought to be obvious. "I needed an anchor to the world so I could find my way out of the Buried. I was going in to rescue someone. It seemed sensible to have an escape once I found her."

See! He can plan ahead. Not that his rib had worked as intended, but the thought had been there.

"That makes sense," Wolfe nods, wondering how in the hell Jon could ever claim that what he does isn't magic. "It sounds like what the Circle does with phylactaries."

Which he also considers magic, now that he's seen the breadth of what's possible in other sorts of practices. Enchantment is a type of magic, which means Dwarves have been practitioners all along, and even some of the things that the Templars use - like the phylactaries or even their anti-magic abilities - could easily be recatagorized under magic. It's been semantics this entire time. Honestly its kind of infuriating. "Every Circle mage has blood drawn and placed into a phylactary so that if they ever escape, the Templars can use it to find them again. Sort of like bloodhounds following a scent. I didn't know that was an ability you possessed as well."

"W-well, I mean... that was the theory of how it might work given some of the Statements I'd read. Things that ground you tend to be a sort of... barrier against some of the Fears. It doesn't always work, but sometimes." Jon clears his throat. "In any case, that makes sense I suppose? If being a mage is genetic, there's probably something in your blood that could be traced. Interesting that it's almost like a fingerprint, though. You don't have issues with mage brothers and sisters being confused?

"... I wonder what would happen if you had mage twins and one escaped."

"I have no idea, I was never in the Circle," and that was never a question he thought to ask Anders. "I imagine no one would know, though, because siblings were generally sent to separate towers. Family ties are discouraged," he makes a face like he's tasted something sour.

"I guess it wont matter in a few years, or already doesn't, time is strange. I learned from Bellara that another Blight devastated both the north and south of Thedas. Thats as close to an apocalypse as any. If there are still Circles after that, I would be... well, not surprised. Disappointed, certainly, but not surprised." But he'll never know. Maybe that's for the best.

"Once we're in the Weave, maybe you could study magic scientifically here and find out if it works that way? Not sure how you'd go about it, but there should be plenty of time for that sort of study."

"We seem to have nothing but time." And still they're struggling with waiting. "On that note, I think we ought to use what time we have left to keep studying. Chris is... he's stopped somewhere. Or he's not moving anymore. He's flown off that way." Jon points off in a direction. "Which I believe is back toward the Deismyr."

He sighs. Chris can't leave well enough alone sometimes. "In any case, these books are identical, so I expect you to keep up with me. We can work on our Common pronunciation."

"He went to Deismyr?" Wolfe probably shouldn't find that as alarming as he does, but right after a large-scale battle with many losses, Wolfe isn't sure any of the Guardians are going to be in a state to believe a story as outlandish as theirs.

"What if he gets into trouble? I thought we were going to lay low and avoid the Guardians. What is he thinking?" He's not panicking, but there is very real concern that is going to make studying impossible until its addressed.

"Likely that he's upset and needs to feel like he's doing something." Jon leans harder against Wolfe as he resettles himself, shifting so that his legs are on the sofa, tucked up next to him, and Wolfe is providing a support on the other side. "He's not an idiot. He'll likely either watch to hurt himself or disguise himself and keep to the edges of the city. Do you really think he's going to waltz up to the Guardians and announce his presence?"

"No, of course not, but they're likely running all over the place tending to their land and their people. There's no guessing where they'll be at any given moment. Chris likely remembers where he was - is - but that doesn't account for all the rest." So much of Wolfe wants to run off and be there to defend his love, but there isn't... really a threat. It feels like there is, but even if one if the Guardians spots Chris it's not likely to turn into a confrontation immediately, and Chris is more than capable of handling himself. Usually.

Wolfe will just have to trust him. Especially with Jon shoved into him like a begrudging cat. Its calming, having the weight of another person against him, and Wolfe tries to make himself settle down. "...He will call for us if he needs us, won't he?"

There's a long pause. "He can send, I suppose, but what are you going to do? We don't have cars or teleporters. And you can't run for miles in an instant. It took us more than an hour to get here. Even granting you could sprint back there, you'd be 20 minutes, at least.

"I'm the paranoid one, remember? There's literally nothing we can do at the moment if something does go awry. That's not worth agonizing over. Now turn to page 3 and read off the second sentence for me, please."

"Its very frustrating when you're right," Wolfe grousses, but does as he's bid, opening the book to page three. It would be the continuing story of his life if they got here and then something happened to Chris. He tries not to think about it, instead deciding to put faith in his partner and in his friend.

Thankfully, his drive to learn the language and to impress Chris when (when!) he returns, helps to keep Wolfe engaged. He's going to be able to carry a small conversation by the end of the day, Gods willing.

It's some time well into the study session going on that Amelia makes her way out of the room she'd barricaded herself in. A few of her knives need sharpening, the cutting board she'd grabbed from the kitchen is destroyed, and one of the chairs in that room can no longer be used for its intended purpose. She's still on edge, still angry and with her thoughts trying to spiral, but she's caught her breath and isn't going to snap at anyone who approaches. Immediately, anyway.

She wishes again with those stupid, dreamsforsaken wishes that she had supplies for embroidery, something mindless to occupy her hands that she couldn't cut herself on. It doesn't matter, of course, because needs must and her knives must be in the best shape possible for tomorrow's trip into the Shadowfell.

Her footsteps are quiet, but the drop of her knives onto the table is not and Patience's footsteps beside her as she walks across the temple aren't either. Weapons deposited, she takes a moment to let the girls out of the temple, taking care to stay just inside the door while they run about to relieve themselves and stretch their legs. It gives her another moment to breathe and fortify herself against the inevitable question she knows is coming in one form or another: How are you feeling?

Like some kind of hell. She's well-rested and still tired in ways that go beyond the physical. Ways she doesn't know if she can address without things she doesn't think she'll get when several conversations need to be had before she can have them. Or the kind of space she can't have when they all need to stay close and be ready for tomorrow. She can't run through the woods, driving knives into trees or hunting more game. She can't spar with Chris or Wolfe and expect anything after that will soothe the inevitable fire in her blood. She can't do anything of use. No one needs her to but her, and that just makes her feel worse.

The disquiet in her stomach isn't helping. Dreams, one good meal that's like what she remembers from 'her' world and her body is rejecting it? This couldn't come at a worse time.

Amelia stays by the door as the girls return, welcoming Cookie in with a pet to the top of her head and a few scritches behind one ear. Patience gets a single pet after the rogue rolls up a sleeve as she takes up a watch just outside the door, nose pointed South as she waits, or so Amelia assumes, for Chris to return.

Edited 2025-11-09 05:15 (UTC)

The sound of the knives on the table is what pulls Wolfe from his and Jon's study. He glances out the open door, then to Jon, who takes the cue and shifts his weight away from Wolfe so he's not as ensconced and can get himself up off the couch. He does with some effort, grunting softly when his knees crack as he stands. A good stretch and Wolfe gives a grateful nod to Jon as he leaves the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Cookie trots over after her afternoon constitutional, expecting head pats from master as she did her mistress. Wolfe obliges, scratching behind her ears, but his gaze is on Amelia.

"Hey," he says softly, in the tone that belies he has an apology to give. At least it also means he realizes he hasn't been listening, and is ready to start.

"Hey." She keeps her voice quiet, not wanting to invite anyone into the conversation they're about to have. Part of her wants to tell him to save whatever is on his mind for later, but what good would that do? If they have to talk, better to do it when there's fewer people to intrude.

She takes a deep breath as she turns to him, letting down her sleeve again and not bothering with a smile when she's not feeling it. "Something on your mind?" It certainly sounds like it.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

cw: mention of self-harm

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject