v e i l - t h r e a d e d

“So, uh. Maybe you can answer this for me. What exactly was the Throne of Halamshiral?”

There’s a lot of benefits to having his soul back in one piece again. There’s the obvious: he feels whole, like he’s not half-empty, like he’s not just a little disconnected at all times. But it had taken Grayson two weeks to realize the second side-effect: the magic potential he’d never really explored before, hadn’t been able to with a broken soul, but now could.

Grayson’s never considered himself the smartest of individuals, but sign language was surprisingly easy to pick up. Or maybe he just had one hell of an incentive to learn it quick -- namely, a stubborn older brother that liked to pretend he only remembered curse words.

@graysonlangley​

          The only true benefit Azrael could see from the destruction that had swept through his home was this. “I won’t be long,” he promises, hand gently carding through soft dark hair. It’s not so thin now, he notes, but he’s careful not to tug anyway, for fear of pulling any out. He bends down, kissing her forehead, for once not unnaturally cool or clammy and warm with fever. He softens, almost changing his mind entirely, before he straightens and heads out of the bed chamber and the walls of the estate altogether.

          He’s not a healer, nor has he sussed out what precisely is going on right now, but he longs to find a familiar face, to further good news in the darkness, to ease the tightness of his chest as he rubs furiously at the wetness in his eyes. His mother. Not only alive, but seemingly, healed. He plows right into Grayson, fate tying them together in this moment as he sprawls over top of him on the ground. It’s the wrong familiar face, but where there’s Grayson there’s––––

         “You’re alive! Where’s Archer?” He breathes.

“Oh, thank fuck,” is the first thing Grayson says. Or, rather, wheezes, because Azrael might be shorter than him but he’s still six feet worth of stockiness and he’s heavy. After some ungainly struggling, Grayson separates them -- and proceeds to pull Azrael into a fierce hug.

He knows it’s probably not appreciated. He doesn’t care. He’s spent the last couple of days watching a brother who thinks Azrael is dead, a brother who’s trying to pretend he’s tough and strong in the midst of absolute terror, and it’s fucking awful.

        𝐇𝐄'𝐒  𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍  𝐒𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆  𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐄  𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍  𝐅𝐎𝐑  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐓  𝐓𝐖𝐎  𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒.  the  smoke  had  come  like  a flood ;  they’d  seen  it  from  where  they’d  held  up  for  the  night  –––  the  way  it  ravaged  and  devoured.    ❛  we  couldn’t  have  known.  ❜    archer  says  it  like  he  needs  to  be  convinced  of  it,  like  the  guilt  isn’t  threatening  to  swallow  him  whole.  they  saw  people  fleeing  the  gates  from  a  distance.  it  was  sudden  and  then  it  was  still,  hovering  like  a  storm  cloud  descended  upon a  city.  who  was  left  alive ?  how  were  they  to  know ?    ❛  we  couldn’t  have–––  i  wouldn’t  have  left  him  there.  ❜    he  doesn’t  feel  the  need  to  clarify. 

“Do you think--” Reshdva starts, and falls silent. They know Azrael lives in the Capitol, but surely he can’t be dead. Right? “It didn’t kill everybody. Maybe...”

She trails off, both of them not quite sure how to end that sentence. There’s every chance Azrael is dead, suffocated along with scores of others. Every chance that his body is one of god knows how many. And the thought hurts; not just on behalf of Archer, but Grayson’s wound up liking the guy too, wound up wanting to see him safe and happy.

marli had barely said anything since she escaped the capitol. she was pretty sure and entire day had gone by without her speaking a word. even as grayson sat across from her now, she only sat staring blankly at a spot on the ground, a blanket pulled around her. his question though pulled her eyes away to look back at him. but even then it took her time to find her voice once more. “gone….they’re all gone.” her voice was flat, as she tried to keep any emotion away. but how could she? after everything she’s seen, everything that happened. “even my brother he…he was a good person. he wasn’t like my parents grayson he didn’t deserve to be killed.” the emotions flooding back to her now as her voice wavered.

Grayson’s never been the most deft at emotional conversations, and here, he finds himself at a total loss for what to say. What does a person say to something like that? Apologies seem so trite, offers of a shoulder to cry on seem so useless.

“I’m-- god, I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, watching her carefully. Reshdva’s pacing next to her, going back and forth like she wants to huddle up to Marli’s side but being able unable to touch her. Still, even now, Grayson doesn’t miss the implication that maybe she thinks her parents did deserve to be killed.

               hira takes a spot on the stool beside grayson.   an old,   rough-faced looking man with a few scars approaches them from behind the bar and takes their orders.   hira introduces them.    geezer,   these here are some friends of mine.    and the geezer gives them a nod and a vague smile.   it’s as much of a pleasant greeting as he ever gives.   

hira turns back to grayson.   he chuckles a little miserably.   it’s not that hira doesn’t love his life at the kestrel isles.    hell,   he wouldn’t trade it for a comfortable one at the capitol,   but he supposes that a life of travel suited him well.   he can’t blame grayson for finding it hard to imagine him without a sword in his hands or overflowing with charisma while he convinces an odd group of individuals into adventuring into the unknown.

but this is hira.   tired from a day’s work,   his clothes wafting off the scent of fish and hair of salty sea breeze.   

“  managed to wheedle my old job back at the piers.   been getting nothing but the rough work no one wants to do as payback for leaving without telling anyone,   but it’s alright.   yeah,   i missed it.  ”    he shrugs,   then leans back on the stool.   hira nods towards the dog.   “  your friend ?  ” 

Grayson grimaces, because yeah, he knows what the rough work that no one wants entails. When he’d run away and come here, he’d slogged his way through those jobs for a few years as a young teen. It doesn’t seem right that Hira’s getting saddled with those jobs just because he left, but people in Kestrel Isles have their own way of sorting things out, he supposes.

“Oh, uh, that’s Wisp,” he explains, glancing down at the dog, who’s tail is thumping against the ground in a lazy wag. “You remember that spirit we met in the veil, that tried to convince us to turn back? And it was really scared? Well, um. You were kind of distracted at the time,” (getting hit across the room by the giant beast), “but I... found a way to bring him with us. And he needed a body, so.”

Grayson makes a gesture to sum up so I shoved a veil-spirit into this street dog. You know, normal stuff.

              “  wonderful !  ”    hira slaps his hand down on grayson’s shoulder,    giving it a firm squeeze before he properly wraps his arm around to lead them towards the tavern.    

“   archer around,   then ?  ”    he asks,   glancing around for the sight of the blonde brother.   he drops his hand from grayson’s shoulders,   moving to stuff them in his pockets.    he’s not carrying his sword around today.   the absence of its weight feels strange,   unfamiliar now,   but he’s been working at the piers.   

it’s helped,   somewhat.   the fishing,   the nets,   the boats.   it’s like his sea legs never left him.    still,   the emptiness lingers.   

the tavern hira leads them to is an old thing.   a fading sign hangs on a wooden plank over the door,   its hinges creaking horribly each time a gust of wind blows by.   the building’s been standing way past its expiration date,   but it’s hira’s home.   

“   there’s the old geezer,   old joe,   hally if she’s around,   hahuge,   harpoonty…  ”    hira continues to name a few more before he decides to stop,   giving grayson and reshdva and the dog a look while he leans to open the door.   he’ll spare them the headache.   “  usual kestrel suspects.  ”

Grayson carefully conceals a smile at some of the names being rattled off -- hey, who is he to judge? He’s walking into the tavern with his own animal entourage, a fox on one side and a big black shepherd on the other. He’s more out of place than someone called Harpoonty. Besides, he lived in the Kestrel Isles for a time, he’s used to the old grizzled fishermen and dock traders.

“Yeah, Archer’s settling in at a place we found to stay,” he answers belatedly. Most of the patrons don’t bother to look up when they enter, but to the few that do, Grayson gives an awkward nod, and settles onto a bar stool that creaks alarmingly under his lanky weight.

Is this where Hira is hanging out now? This broken down tavern?

         “   reshdva ?  ”    hira spots the fox before he spots the human.   he also spots a dog.   a strange,   rune-riddled dog.  he blinks at it a few times,   wonders when grayson picked up another odd animal.   wonders where he’s getting them from.   finally,   though,   his eyes land on the familiar tall man.  hira’s eyebrows are raised,   hidden above the dark curls that fall over his forehead.  

he didn’t expect to run into anyone here.   hira’s been home for a week now,   and nothing he does can lift the darkness from his mind.   it is as if the black mist made a way into his skull through his ears or eyes or something inevitably creepy.   and now it’s stuck in there,   haunting him.   he can’t sleep.   he can’t really smile,   either.   

grayson sees him trying,   but it doesn’t reach hira’s eyes the way it used to,   no matter how wide it is.

   “  didn’t expect to bump into anyone here !    what brings you around ?  ”   immediately,   hira is letting the force of his personality flood over grayson.   “  you must let me get you a drink at the old geezer’s taver—   let you meet everyone !  ” 

@graysonlangley​

“Hira,” Reshdva replies first, surprise plain on both her and Grayson’s faces. It’s only just now, with the sight of him, that they remember he comes from the Kestrel Isles.

Hira looks... diminished, somehow. If Grayson looks considerably healthier since his visit to the eastern glaciers, then Hira’s gone the other way, something that was once bright now dim, a glassiness to his gaze. Oh, he’s trying, there goes that cheerful tone, but it doesn’t quite work. Grayson supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. If he’s been feeling like a useless failure, he’s likely not the only one.

        𝐀  𝐑𝐔𝐌𝐎𝐑  𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓  𝐀  𝐆𝐔𝐘  𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓  𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐒  𝐀  𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 ?    ❛  yeah,  ❜    archer  snorts,    ❛  sounds  like  a  real  solid  lead.  ❜    his  legs  are  still  stiff  from  running  himself  ragged  as  the  portier  family’s  perfect  little  messenger  the  day  prior.  but  it’s  nothing  a  good  night’s  sleep  won’t  fix ;  along  with  the  fact  that  the  tip  he  received  was  good  enough  to  afford  the  rental  of  two  horses  for  their  next  ill — advised  adventure.  which  is  why  he  stops  in  his  crossing  to  the  fireplace  at  grayson’s   words,  turning  a  suspicious  gaze  on  his  brother.    ❛  woah,  woah,  woah–––  ❜    green  eyes  narrow.    ❛  i  have  a  laundry  list  of  empirical  proof  of  the  opposite,  gray.  like  hell  i’m––– ❜  letting  you  out  of  my   sight,  he  fails  to  say.    ❛  –––just.  no,  forget  it.  not  happening.  ❜    

A muscle in Grayson’s jaw jumps at the reminder of his laundry list of ill-fated fuck-ups -- to his annoyance, he has no argument against that, not a sliver of proof that he can take care of himself, outside of... the time he got through the veil without even a scrape, mostly because nothing had been targeting him. The palace gala, where he’d managed to only fall in a shallow pool.

“I’m just saying,” he says carefully, “if you... decided you wanted to stop, I wouldn’t blame you.”

        ❛  𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐃  𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐓  𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒,  𝐇𝐔𝐇 ?  ❜    the  house  itself  is  far  less  drafty  than  when  they  were  children ;  needle  and  patchwork  archer  had  nailed  into  the   walls  of  their  childhood  home  years  after  grayson  had  left.  it  feels  smaller  now  that  they’ve  been  out  in  the  wide,  wide  world.  confining.  archer  would  almost  prefer  to  sleep  on  a  dirt  floor  blanketed  by  stars  than  within  these  four  walls  after  all  they’ve  been  through.    ❛  what’s  out  there  again ?  ❜    between  the  aches  and  pains  of  manual  labor  to  support  such  ventures,  it’s  sometimes  hard  to  remember  what  it  is  they’re  looking  for  next.

"A rumor about a guy that knows a thing,” Reshdva says dryly. “It’s probably nothing.”

“But. Still. Could be something.” Grayson knows exactly how convincing he sounds. Which is to say, not at all. They’re both watching the way Archer’s moving a little slower -- and yeah, they are too, but less slow than they were before the eastern glaciers, so that’s something at least -- and Grayson thinks about telling Archer to stay. He only half thinks about it, not sure if he’s serious about it.

--after

After everything, the first time Grayson looks in a mirror, he immediately wishes he hadn’t.

They’d all looked like crap when they’d gotten through the portal. Bloodied, bruised, dirty. Exhausted. Arkham, limping. Hira, dazed. It had been a long few months. And Grayson knows he’d already looked like crap right from the very start -- having a chunk of his soul exist outside his body made him feel disconnected at best, like his body just forgot how to feel hungry or tired or thirsty.

They’d split up. Gone their separate ways, goodbyes awkward and stilted and regretful. And he’d followed Archer home without a second thought, and the first time he passes by a mirror--

He doesn’t know when he got this bad. Sallow, dark shadows under his eyes. The bones in his wrists, his cheekbones, sharp and hollow. Hair gone lank, lifeless. He looks like the walking dead, like he’s one breath away from keeling over. No wonder Archer’s gaze always turns sharp and worried whenever he gets a glimpse of him. Reshdva’s silent, and when he meets her eyes -- his eyes -- they’re mirrors, identical thoughts. They’ve never really tried to think of a way to put themselves back together, because they thought there was a more important mission.

They can’t stop in the search for a way to end the black.

But along the way, they need to find a way to fix themselves.

It wouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone that Grayson didn’t stop the search for a solution to the black, even after the party broke. Even as they were parting ways, Grayson had already been brainstorming, thinking of places they hadn’t traveled to, old stories about magicians and wise hermits, leads to possibly chase. It’s been a month and a half, and he and Archer have already been on three trips. So far, there’s been nothing.

Well, almost nothing. The trip to the isolated groups of people in the glaciers had helped Grayson a little, for which he’s grateful.

They’re only passing through the Capitol, not intending to stay, just browsing through some of the shops as if they could actually buy anything. Archer’s off god knows where, Grayson thinks he might have stopped at a street food stall -- Grayson, meanwhile, has a giant black prairie shepherd by his side, and Reshdva’s nowhere to be seen. Maybe he shouldn’t be shocked to run into Marli; it is, after all, the exact same street of shops they’d stopped at before.

“Uh.” Dumbstruck, Grayson blinks owlishly at her. “Marli-- holy shit. I didn’t think-- um. Hi. Wow.”

The old house hasn’t changed; and yet, it’s changed immeasurably.

Every room is still the same size, but everything feels so much smaller. The kitchen door frame still has the scratch Grayson carved into it when he was twelve, trying to measure how much he was growing, but the door itself doesn’t have the same rusty squeak. It’s still old and patchwork, but Archer’s patched over the wounds a little, repairing some of the damage. And Grayson still automatically steps over the creaky floorboard in front of what used to be their father’s room, still reflexively thinks don’t wake him up or he’ll be mad.

Their dad’s room has changed. Archer has claimed it for himself, but the window’s still the same, the cupboard’s still in the same place -- and as Grayson lingers in the doorway of it, waiting for Archer to pack his stuff for their newest journey, he finds himself staring at the familiar bits, expression pinched, gaze distant.

Reshdva, seated at his feet, decides to do the talking for them. “Remember to bring your warm jacket, the one you forgot last time,” she helpfully tells Archer. “Sandstrom gets cold this time of year.”

         ❛  𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍'𝐒  𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆  𝐓𝐎  𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄  𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄  𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐄,  𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐇.  ❜    nothing  but  smoke  and  mirrors ;  he  now  has  half  a  mind  to  think  it  was   nothing  but  magic.  dragons  are  extinct  –––  elves  apparently  not  as  much.   he  sidesteps  a  crumbling  ledge  that  disappears  into  nothing  but  sky  below  them,  grimacing  as  he  does  so.  when  he  chances  a  sideways  glance  at  resh,  he  gets  that  same  sinking  feeling.    ❛  you  think  he  could  help  you  guys ?  y’know,  if  he  can  do  all  this ?  ❜  

Grayson and Reshdva turn identical baffled stares on Archer; the idea clearly hadn’t occurred to him. “Maybe?” he says, unsure. He never did quite get a full explanation on how the people in the glaciers had tied his soul back together -- something to do with threads and the veil, binding but remaining separate enough that jagged edges didn’t chafe too hard. He’s not exactly an expert in magic, much less anything to do with souls or the veil.

“If he could, we doubt he’d help now,” Reshdva says dryly. “Arkham did stab him. That seemed to piss him off.”

Grayson snorts, tucks Reshdva under his arm like a football, and keeps pace with Archer. “Should we feel bad that he got stabbed, do you think? Because... I kind of don’t. Okay, yeah, potentially the last elf, but he could have at least said something helpful.”