my mask is growing heavy, but I've forgotten who's beneath

LIAM

It's not that we don't talk

Wildering House was a marvel, both in terms of design and sheer size. Carved from pale coral stone and crowned in terracotta, Liam had to admit that the estate was rather intimidating, particularly for someone in his circumstances - which was to say, a friend in need of assistance, set to meet with a demigod of death, who'd never been here before and might not find himself in the position to return again. Still, answers (or at least a start to his quest) lie within, and so he dug down deep and found the courage to knock.

Flora had told him that the House would see to his needs, and as the door swung open to reveal no one behind it, Liam realized that she wasn't joking about the spirits that inhabited the mansion. He stepped gingerly over the threshold, a basket of baby paraphernalia looped casually over one arm, and heard the door snick shut behind him. Then he was beckoned down the hall by flickering candlelight, which led him to what he could only describe as a small, tucked-out-of-the-way parlor. It was nicely decorated, though it appeared to be seldom used - most of the furniture looked pristine, as though it had only just been purchased and placed here for the purpose of this meeting. 

Setting down his basket, Liam strolled over to a fireplace (who needed a fireplace in Torchline, anyway?) with his hands in his pockets, looking at the various knick knacks on the mantle. It was something to pass the time as he waited for Remi, but his nerves were such that he didn't really see most of the trinkets. When he'd browsed the mantle for a few moments, he made his way over to a large window overlooking the sea and stood there, trying not to watch the path up to the House for any incoming demigods.

It's just no one really listens and honesty fades

REMI

the alchemist

What good are hands
if there's nothing that they hold

The tide has only just begun to turn when Remi makes his way up the stretch of sand toward Wildering House, the Northaven sitting steady in the small bay. Flying had seemed quicker in theory, though the truth of the matter is that very little feels quick when one has slept in scraps between the restless rhythms of two newborns, and even less so when one has spent the better part of the morning pacing the deck with a babe draped across his shoulder while the other protested the injustice of existence somewhere behind him. The demigod cuts a rather different figure than the composed Bastion most are used to seeing: curls a touch more unruly than usual from hands run through them too many times, the faint bruise of exhaustion lingering beneath otherwise bright eyes, and the quiet, careful gait of a man whose body still expects a small head to be tucked beneath his chin at any moment.

Still, he manages the distance with the ease of someone long accustomed to moving between sea and shore, the wind lifting his shirt slightly as he climbs the last gentle slope from beach to house. When the patio doors come into view he pauses only long enough to draw in a steadying breath, pressing the heel of his hand briefly against one eye before crossing the threshold. The house seems to expect him, because the doors yield without protest, and somewhere deeper within the halls a flicker of candlelight drifts obligingly down a corridor like a patient guide.

He hesitates only briefly at the doorway, as though collecting himself before intruding upon someone else's thoughts, and then steps inside with the sort of unhurried presence that carries neither authority nor apology too loudly in its wake. His hand lifts almost automatically to ruffle through his curls—an absent, apologetic gesture more than a conscious one—as a tired but genuine smile finds its way onto his face. "I am sorry to have kept you waiting," Remi says, his voice touched by the soft cadence of the travelling tongue and perhaps just a hint of the weariness that accompanies two very small tyrants ruling his nights. His gaze flicks briefly to the basket Liam has brought, something like quiet amusement warming the corners of his eyes before it settles more properly on the man himself. "Though I suspect you may understand why punctuality has become something of an optimistic concept in my household lately."

And what good are hearts
if you bury them all alone?

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

LIAM

It's not that we don't talk

Remi arrived without fanfare. Liam didn't know the man well - they'd met once before, briefly, when Liam came to a party as a tagalong with Maea - but he might have expected something less... human from a demigod. Instead, he came looking as tired as Liam might have guessed he'd be, tending to newborn twins, and offered a small, genuine smile to the ex-soldier. Liam returned it, crossing the room to offer a hand to shake. "I haven't been here long," he hastened to assure Remi. "And I understand completely." He remembered those early days, when his own daughters had first been born. Sleep had been a foreign concept as he'd tried to be as helpful as he could be to his wife, tending the girls by her side.

Unsure what to do or say next, Liam stood awkwardly for a moment before continuing hesitantly. "I... hope you don't think me rude to get right to the point," he said. "But I know you're busy, and if you're anything like I was, I doubt you wish to be away from your children for long." Pausing again, he looked out through the window and across the waves, momentarily brought back to a time long ago, when things had been simpler. Then, as though shaking himself, he looked back to Remi. "My daughters died when the Ascended attacked Stormbreak," he said bluntly. "Or... well, I thought they did. I recently saw a young woman who I think is my daughter, Wren, but she doesn't know me. I was hoping... if you could tell me if she's in Mort's halls, then maybe it will help me decide what to do next."

It's just no one really listens and honesty fades

REMI

the alchemist

What good are hands
if there's nothing that they hold

Remi steps forward to meet the offered hand, his own closing around Liam’s in a firm but careful shake, the strength in his grip deliberately moderated so the other man’s fingers aren’t ground into dust by a demigod’s thoughtless enthusiasm. A quiet chuckle slips from him at the reassurance, warm and low, the sound carrying the tired gratitude of someone who has recently discovered just how elastic the concept of time becomes when measured in the cries of infants rather than the ticking of a clock.

The moment their hands meet, however, something else arrives alongside the warmth of the handshake. Liam’s emotions do not present themselves to Remi in neat, sensible shapes but rather as a rush of colour and texture that presses softly against the edges of his thoughts, grief and uncertainty washing through him like a tide that has learned patience after years of repetition. It is not overwhelming, merely present, the sort of ache that has settled so deeply into a man that it no longer needs to shout in order to be heard. Remi lets the contact linger only briefly before releasing the other man’s hand, his expression settling into something quieter as he listens.

He doesn’t interrupt, nor does he rush the pauses that break Liam’s words apart, allowing the story to find its own pace while he folds one arm loosely across his chest and lets the other hand drift absently through his curls again. When the explanation finally reaches its end, the demigod exhales slowly, the breath carrying with it a soft weight of sympathy that he does not attempt to hide. "That must be very difficult," Remi says gently, the words offered without embellishment or hollow comfort, because there is little point pretending such a loss can be softened by language. His gaze drifts briefly toward the sea beyond the window before returning to Liam, thoughtful now, his throat clearing quietly as he gathers the shape of the question that follows.

"If Wren was in Mort’s halls," he continues after a moment, the cadence of the travelling tongue smoothing the edges of the words, "would you wish her to be brought back through to speak with, or are you only hoping to know if she is there at all?"

And what good are hearts
if you bury them all alone?

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

LIAM

It's not that we don't talk

Liam spoke, his story meandering to its conclusion in halting starts and stops, his heart twisting uncomfortably in his chest. He wanted Wren to be alive. He wanted it so badly that it hurt. And yet... the repercussions of his own inaction continued to stare at him from the depths of his mind. If Wren was alive, and he had known, he would have gone to the ends of the world to find her and care for her. But he hadn't known, and now...

He inclined his head, accepting Remi's sympathy, trying to quell the storm raging within. He was afraid, he realized - afraid to hope, afraid of what it would mean if he was right, afraid of how he would cope if he was wrong. Sometimes it seemed that his entire adult life had been spent in some form of fear or other - or in drowning that trepidation through questionable means.

He should probably work on that.

In any case, Remi's question took him by surprise. He blinked stupidly at the other man. "I... didn't realize that was an option," he admitted, a bit flustered. "But - if she's there, then... I'd love to speak with her, if I could. Even if just for a moment." What a blessing it would be, to be able to apologize, to ensure she was well, to say goodbye... but if she wasn't there... Gods, what a mess.

It's just no one really listens and honesty fades

REMI

the alchemist

What good are hands
if there's nothing that they hold

Remi’s expression softens at the answer, something warm and quietly unsurprised settling into his features as Liam speaks, as though the shape of that hope had already been written plainly enough in the colours of his thoughts. He inclines his head in a small, understanding nod, the faintest curve of a smile touching his mouth; not indulgent, nor pitying, but steady in the way of someone who has stood at the edge of similar questions and knows well how they can hollow a man out from the inside.

"I can only do it a few times each year," he says, his tone gentle but matter-of-fact, "but yes… I can bring someone back for a short while, if they are within Mort’s halls." There is no flourish to the admission, no sense of spectacle in it, only the quiet weight of responsibility carried without complaint. His gaze lingers on Liam a moment longer, the Bastion giving another small nod as if to say that the request itself is neither strange nor burdensome, merely human.

Drawing in a slow breath, Remi lets it settle deep into his chest before his eyes close, his posture easing into stillness as he turns inward. The world beyond the room does not disappear so much as dim, his awareness narrowing toward that familiar thread of power that binds him to the threshold between life and death. It is not a door in any physical sense, not something one might open with hands or keys, but rather a tension in the fabric of existence itself, a place where the boundary grows thin enough to touch.

He reaches for it carefully, as one might test the edge of a blade, and then—once found—he draws it closer, allowing his senses to stretch beyond the confines of the living world. The search is not long. It rarely is, when one knows what one is looking for, when a name carries with it the echo of a life once lived. A moment later—brief enough that it might feel almost insufficient for the weight of the question—his eyes open again.

There is no strain in him, no visible cost to the effort, but there is a subtle shift in his expression as he returns fully to the room, his head giving a small, decisive shake. "She is not in Mort’s halls," Remi says softly. "Wherever she is, she is alive."

And what good are hearts
if you bury them all alone?

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

LIAM

It's not that we don't talk

What a wonderful and terrible power to be blessed with, to be able to bring back the dead. Liam had to wonder how many people knew of this ability, if Remi was inundated constantly with requests from tearful loved ones desperate for a final goodbye. What did it cost him, and what could Liam offer in return save for his heartfelt thanks, which seemed so insufficient for the task at hand?

Silence stretched as he waited, doing his best not to fidget. He kept his gaze trained on Remi, as though he might be able to see into the land of the dead through the demigod, as though he might be able to reach in and pluck Wren from Mort's halls, to give her one last hug, to tell her he loved her one last time. Anticipation coiled in his stomach. Surely this was all a mistake; surely she was where she was supposed to be, and he'd gotten his hopes up for nothing -

But then Remi opened his eyes.

She is alive.

Liam staggered back as though physically struck, collapsing onto a nearby couch. "Gods -" he choked out, suddenly overwhelmed. It had all been hypothetical up until now - what he would do if Wren was alive, if she couldn't remember him, if she would let him help her. Now these were real, concrete questions overwhelming him as he lifted a shaking hand to cover his mouth. But beneath all of that was a profound sense of relief, and when he looked up at Remi, it was with joy in his hazel eyes.

"Thank you," he said, meaning it with all his heart. "I - I can't tell you what this means -" A second chance, if he was lucky. How many of those did one get in a lifetime? He'd already gotten one with Maea, and now to have the chance with Wren -

He took a shaky breath. "I... gods. I have to find her." Suddenly antsy, he started to his feet, but hesitated. "Is there anything I can do in return?" he asked. "I brought you some things that I wished I had when the girls were newborns, but - if I can ever do anything, just say the word."

It's just no one really listens and honesty fades

REMI

the alchemist

What good are hands
if there's nothing that they hold

Remi is already moving as Liam staggers, the space between them closing without thought as his hand comes to rest on the other man’s shoulder, fingers firm and grounding as he gives a brief, reassuring squeeze. The contact is steady, offered in the same quiet way he might brace someone against a sudden wave, and for a moment he simply lets Liam have it; lets the relief, the shock, the fragile, blooming hope settle without interruption. "I’m glad," he says softly.

Remi’s mouth curves faintly, though the expression carries a trace of something more distant behind it, his gaze drifting for just a moment as if pulled elsewhere by memory. "My abilities are...somewhat limited when the dead aren’t involved, but if there is more I can do, let me know" he says, the hint of dry humour there doing little to disguise the quiet weight beneath it. The Bastion sighs and for a heartbeat there is a flicker of something wistful in him, something shaped by knowing too well what it is to search for someone and find only absence, or, perhaps worse, to find them where one least expected. Four children lost, two returned; the arithmetic of it does not lend itself easily to peace, and yet here he stands, offering Liam what he can.

His attention shifts then, drawn by the basket Liam had brought, and the mood lifts just slightly as he steps over to it, his smile turning crooked as he takes in its contents. "This is very thoughtful," he says, reaching down to lift it with an appreciative glance back toward Liam. A quiet huff of amusement follows, his head shaking as though at himself. "You would think, given that they are not even our first children—and not even our first twins—that we might have remembered everything we needed. And yet.." The sentence dissolves into a soft laugh, the sort that carries equal parts fondness and fatigue, before he steps back toward Liam and gives his shoulder another, lighter pat.

"Thank you," Remi adds, and this time the sincerity in it is uncomplicated, easy.

There is a subtle shift in him then, not impatience so much as a quiet pull elsewhere, the kind that comes from knowing there are small, insistent lives waiting for him just beyond the horizon. He adjusts his grip on the basket, glancing briefly toward the direction of the sea as though he can already feel the Northaven beneath his feet again. "If there is anything more I can do," he says, turning back with a small nod, "you need only ask."


~FIN

And what good are hearts
if you bury them all alone?

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!