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Teor Pridesire wakes up in a coffin.
The last thing he remembers is a golden light, and—
Oh.
Raimond Davinos and—
Cyd.
Fuck.
It’s odd, how numb he feels in that moment. It’s like battle. You have set goals, and they need to be done.
His darkvision is barely an asset here. He can see his body, and that’s it. He knows the axe Julien gave him, the bracers, and his emblem are missing. That is clear from the missing weight. He wasn’t able to properly use the bracers, but the axe would be of use, because he needs to get out before his air—
Teor remembers to breathe. It rattles his lungs in an uncomfortable way, and his throat is uncomfortably dry. Has he been breathing this entire time?
…no, he doesn’t think he has.
That is an issue.
He holds his breath, and his brain yells at him for air, but his body doesn’t.
An issue, but a boon. He can deal with that when he gets out—
He can’t use his weapons well in here, so he relies on his muscle, repeatedly hitting the wood above him again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again—
It breaks, and dirt quickly begins to fill. But it’s enough for him to begin digging. He digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs and digs—
His arm breaks through.
Moonlight.
It’s easier, not being under multiple feet of dirt, though it’s still awkward getting out. His body doesn’t strain like it should. Everything is wrong, wrong, wrong. There’s a pull in his mind.
The cool air and wet grass brush against his fur, something he’s blissfully familiar with, and a comfort as his goals shift. He’s gotten out of his grave. The urgency is gone, and panic sets in.
“...fuck,” he whispers. His voice is hoarse. His lungs rattle again as he instinctually forces his breathing to slow. Hyperventilating doesn’t help. But he still isn’t breathing. He—he doesn’t think he needs to breathe. His mouth is dry, utterly devoid of saliva no matter how hard he tries to induce it.
He looks at the dirt, and sees a series of rocks and pebbles in patterns, overturned wildflowers of various colours, all beneath a large weeping willow.
It takes a few moments for him to recognize the patterns, the shiver of magic running through him.
Fae.
Patterns signaling protection. Thimble’s magical signature. He would know it anywhere.
Is Talcydimir going through the same? Is he banging against a coffin, screaming for help?
There isn’t the telltale sign of graves, none of the fresh dirt, but it seems to be replaced by more plentiful patches of flowers, and larger rocks at the head of them like gravestones. Teor begins to dig.
And dig.
And dig.
He digs and digs and digs, dirt continuing to fill the cracks in his paws and beneath his claws, desperation running through his veins because what if—
He hits wood, pulls the top of the coffin off, and is immediately confronted with a stench that should make him gag, even though he’s become used to it after the Rebellion.
It’s the smell of rot.
His brother’s arms are folded over his chest, stitches where he had open wounds that has Teor ghosting over his own, eyes closed, and clearly in a state of decomposition.
Talcydimir is dead, and so should Teor. But somehow, he’s conscious.
Like Occtis.
That…that makes things somewhat clearer, but there’s still a haze of how. Occtis’s situation was a result of a failed ritual and the Stone of Nightsong.
He stares at his brother, like when he was incredibly young and Cyd was an infant.
Teor stays there in the grave for a long time.
He just got his brother back.
He just got his fucking brother back.
A broken yell tears out of his throat. Something ugly and raw and angry.
He wants to cry. He feels like he should cry. But nothing comes out. He blinks and squints and there’s the sting that he should be crying, but he doesn’t.
There’s another pull in his mind. He refuses to move. Not now.
He led his younger brother to his death.
He killed his baby brother.
He—he thought he had reconciled with the fact that his brother may die in battle years ago. That was the nature of things.
But his brother lays in a coffin, dead because of him.
And somehow Teor is the one still standing.
“I’m so sorry, brother,” he says aloud, his voice cracking.
The smell doesn’t bother him as much as it should. The pull stays in his mind. He doesn’t move.
Instead, a litany of apologies is flowing from his lips, and he stays there, even as the moon begins to fall and the sun rises.
Teor stays with his brother, like he should’ve in death.
His body is cold. It lets him stay there longer.
Their father would’ve told him to leave, at least for his own sake. But he can’t bring himself to do so for a long time. There’s no hunger pangs or urges for water. It lets him stay there longer.
His brother’s holy symbol is around his belt. Teor hopes it’s protecting him.
It takes the signs of rain to make him move, to put the top of the coffin back and cover it in dirt before it gets worse. He’s already done so much harm to his brother. Cyd should at least be able to rest peacefully. It feels right, being the one to do this.
He replants the torn up flowers, even though he knows it will barely have an effect. He puts the stones back. He refills his own grave. He puts the location down to memory, thankfully with identifiable features.
He both feels numb and overwhelmed with emotion.
The fae magic stays.
He apologizes again.
The rain begins to pelt down harder.
“Goodbye…brother…” He weakly raises a paw, “I promise to see you again,”
Eventually. By which way, he isn’t sure.
This undeath should be seen as a gift, even if it doesn’t currently feel like it. He can continue to protect his allies this way. He can do what he couldn’t do with his brother.
There’s an emotional pain, leaving his brother alone again. But also an additional anger. If the Tachonis manage to gain hold of his brother’s body, he will be joining Julien in his quest. Primus Tachonis will know what it is like to wake up in a coffin until he runs out of breath from panic, or perhaps Teor’s eyes may be the last he sees, his flail hitting him again and again and again. His body will be burned until it’s ash, to prevent him from standing again.
Teor is overly aware of each step he takes.
He follows the pull. The numbness takes over again. It’s like the worst of the aftermath of the Rebellion, when the jobs slowed and there wasn’t a clear goal. Numbly wandering through the wilderness, taking care of the occasional monster.
The sun falls. The moon rises once again. He walks for hours.
He passes by an old, abandoned cloak. The world is dangerous enough for this not to be the first time this has happened to him. He picks it up, and puts it on. The dirt is barely noticeable with the rain.
It doesn’t take quite long to realize where the pull is taking him. Dol-Makjar. He recognizes the terrain.
The last minute of his death is muddled, now that he’s able to properly think about it. But…
He remembers thinking of his allies. He remembers thinking of Wicander, eyes on his glowing emblem. Is that what's pulling him? It’s his best guess.
Carts pass by him in the distance. He doesn’t dare interact with them. Not only with his…condition, but because he knows nobody will let him in and be willing to hide him. Plus, larger groups make things more difficult.
It would be easier to just…walk in. Make up a lie. It isn’t rare for there to be wanderers or those who would like to visit the city for various reasons, and with the rain, it would make sense for those to end up there late at night.
So that’s what he decides.
He feels…hollow. Emotionally tired. His voice betrays that. It lends itself to the facade.
He forces himself to breathe, no matter how odd it feels. In, and out. In, and out.
He approaches with a casual smile to a section of the passage into the city, a bit more off to the side for the occasional person. There’s only one guard there. One of Azune’s coworkers?
“Night, sir. Welcome to Dol-Makjar. What brings you to the city this late?” the guard asks, clearly unpleased by the rain despite being in a more sheltered location, and Teor recognizes that voice. What was his name? John? Jones? Johannes? Johannes sounds right.
“I was supposed to arrive here earlier, but got delayed unfortunately. I’m here to meet up with a partner of mine? I believe he brought in supplies? Apple pies?” Teor tells him, watching Johannes’s eyes go wide.
“Oh! That’s odd. He left the city…Shapers…maybe about a week ago at least? Maybe a bit longer?” he says, and okay, that gives Teor a timeframe. But he continues. “Issue with mail?” he suggests, and Teor nods.
“Yes. That must be it,” he sighs, and continues to force himself to breathe.
“Adventurer?” Johannes asks, eyeing some of his clothing. The others, or at least Thimble, let him keep his armour. He’s thankful, after so many years fighting.
He does a motion with his paw. “I enjoy traveling, and we know how the world is. It reminds me of childhood,” he explains, leaning into something a bit common with some other beastfolk.
Johannes hums. “Well, I hope your miscommunication can get resolved. I know that there’s probably some over at the marketplace who can help,” he says, “There should be an inn a bit north of here. You’ll know it when you see it. Should give you some reprieve from this shit weather we’ve had,”
“It really has been,” Teor chuckles, “Thank you,”
And he’s let in. Simple as that.
He follows the pull. There are incredibly few people out, thankfully, more preoccupied with themselves than to give notice to him. And it wasn’t like the city didn’t have their own odd figures.
Eventually, he finds himself right near the Villa Aurora, and swears to himself. He’d find himself having another death if he went in there, or worse.
Okay…okay…
He has options.
He can wait, he can maybe check into an inn, or he can see if any of the others are still in the city.
Kattigan is gone. Wicander is here. He knows where Halandil’s is, and that is his best bet. And also one of the very, very few locations he knows in the city.
He wants to be out of this rain. He wants to know if the others are alive. He wants to sleep even though he’s not sure if he’ll be able to.
He’s barely aware of his surroundings in this state. Only his goal.
He walks. And walks.
He steps in mud that gets washed off with each step in puddles. The rain patters against the cobblestone and cries in his ears. The cloak gets more and more soaked.
Halandil’s home feels somewhat odd to him, memories of Thjazi’s funeral coming to mind. Before things became complicated. Well, before things became much more complicated. He hopes the man is home. He should be, this late at night. But over a week has passed, and anything could’ve happened in that time.
There’s a reprieve from the rain, a small roof over the large door. Water still drips from his fur.
The door feels…intimidating. He’s been through worse, but this almost feels like another axe, ready to wound him. What if Halandil is dead? What if the others have died? Kattigan? Wicander? Thimble?
He curls his paw, and knocks. Waiting is useless.
But still, Teor waits. He waits for some time. He knocks again. There’s shuffling inside. Something moves.
The door opens.
Shadia stands there. Oddly, she’s clothed in regular garb instead of simpler clothing for sleep.
He’s about to greet her when—
“You’re supposed to be dead,” she says shakily. There’s a cloak made for the weather fastened around her neck, and a dagger at the belt.
“Yes,” he replies. He doesn’t know what else to say.
“How are you…” she asks.
“I…I don’t know,” he says, and the door slams in his face, and then opens up again to a wide-eyed Shadia.
“S—sorry. That was rude. It’s…it’s just…” she tells him breathlessly. She looks…curious. Somewhat frightened, but curious.
“It’s not every day that somebody comes back from the dead?” he gently suggests.
“Twice! In the last month!” she laughs quietly, but near hysterically. Had she been told…?
She whips out a pocketwatch, and swears, before looking between him and the item continuously. Her eyes catch his belt, the stitches in his clothing where he had been hit.
“Is there…something wrong?” he asks, even though everything is wrong, and it takes a few seconds after hearing him that she responds.
“Come with me?” There’s an odd tone in her voice that Teor isn’t sure how to place, but this is Hal’s daughter. Of course he will follow her, like he had done with Thjazi and Loza. Fuck. He needs to speak to Loza.
He accepts the offer, but adds, “Where is Hal?”
She hesitates for a few moments, her chest rising and falling naturally in a way he’s unable to do. “I’ll tell you when we get there,” she eventually tells him, frantically adding, “he’s not dead!” and he should be suspicious. He knows that. But he’s seen this situation more than once. Public roads in a city, even this late, is still a risk if a secret needs to be kept.
He nods, and follows when she exits the house.
Shadia doesn’t speak, contrary to what seems to be her usual state. But he understands it.
She expertly moves through the streets, avoiding mud and puddles with ease.
He keeps stepping in them.
She leads him to a series of apartments that all look similar in his eyes. Stairs lead to higher up ones. Some have flowers in the windowsills. Some have little signs. Small personalizations. The lanterns still left out are extinguished.
They stop at one of the lower apartments without decor, just a little more isolated compared to the others, where Shadia does a knock to a rhythm.
“Stay out here for a minute, okay?” she tells him, and he nods, and she enters quickly as soon as the door cracks open.
He waits. The rain continues to cry in his ears, drowning out any noise he may hear from inside, seeming that there is nobody near the door.
A few minutes pass. The door opens to Shadia again.
“In!” she whispers hurriedly, and he does so, needing to duck.
Azune and Bolaire are standing there in a somewhat roomy apartment. The former is wide-eyed, sucking in a harsh breath, and Teor is confronted with the fact he remembers the man as a boy. His hand shakes. Bolaire, on the other hand, is unreadable, as usual. His head is tilted, the lights of his eyes on him.
He’s about to speak when Bolaire beats him to it. He feels Detect Thoughts wash over him, and he lets it happen, lets Bolaire probe deeper. He cannot fault him for being cautious. His thoughts are full of Talcydimir, what has become of the others, the pull of his emblem. Bolaire’s demeanour barely changes.
“By the fucking Shapers, it is you,” he hisses out eventually, and Teor watches as Azune’s air of apprehension completely fall, sunset eyes flickering between him and Bolaire and Shadia.
“First Occtis, and now…” Azune’s voice shakes, and he blinks hurriedly, and Teor guesses he’s trying not to cry. He was the same during worse days in the Rebellion.
“I do not know how this happened,” he tells them. He feels like he’ll be saying that a lot, and then frowns. Something has changed. Not in the room. His emblem.
Something gets thrown at him, and he catches them before he realizes what they are.
“You’re getting water all over my floor,” Bolaire tells him in a curt voice, “Dry yourself off, and explain what you do know,”
The towels feel wonderful, getting the worst of the rain off. Those without fur tended to underestimate how badly rain seeped into their fur and how much it weighed them down. Watching Shadia’s expression, especially as she began to feed him more of them out of necessity, was a small bright spot in a truly interesting day.
There isn’t much for him to say when so much of it was him wallowing in his own misery or walking. He speaks of how his brother is still in his coffin, and his voice catches on itself.
“My…apologies,” Bolaire tells him hollowly. It doesn’t sound mocking, or the way false sympathies do. It’s the subtle, sorrowful tone of understanding.
“...thank you,” he replies, and continues. The pull continues to change, something he eventually gets to explaining, the power of his emblem, but he barely has to begin doing so for them to understand it.
“Wick has it,” Azune says, and even with a more steady demeanour Teor can see through him, “He was…the first to learn that you died through that and…didn’t react well. It…it came into use, though,”
“Did…were the daughters able to be retrieved, at least?” he asks. That was the reason he was in the room, after all. He failed in it, and he…it led to both of them…
He doesn’t want another father to be left without his children alive.
“Yes. He was able to get the notice of the others, get help to the manor,” Azune replies hurriedly and lets out a large breath. “So much has happened since you…” he trails off.
“Quite frankly, getting you out and those three was a miracle that night—” Bolaire begins to say when Shadia bangs her fist against the kitchen counter.
“Holy shit, you don’t know everything that happened!” she exclaims.
“Yes, I remember there being much concern about—” he gets cut off by her excitedly beginning to speak.
They had expected the worst out of the play. That’s the primary reason there were so few people at Obrimus Manor. But…
What Shadia speaks of is both mind-boggling. Positive, but also positively insane. And it only continues as they begin to speak of what happened with Kattigan, what went down at the Villa Aurora, and more.
“Really, the only ones left in the city are us, Murray, and Wick,” Azune tells him.
“...not even Tyranny?” Teor asks in shock.
“Not exactly the easiest decision of her and Wick’s part,” he winces, “But she was in danger and him leaving again was too much of a risk. It was the same with Hal after the play,”
Shadia gives a small nod with an averted gaze. For him to have to leave his children and his troupe…it can’t have been a quick and easy decision.
“The Creed wasn’t happy with the changes,” she says quietly.
But they’re safe. Or at least outside of the city. That’s what matters to Teor.
There’s a rhythmic knock at the door, similar to Shadia, who goes to the door, exchanges a few whispers, and—
Wicander stands at the doorway, dripping wet and in a luxurious-looking pair of sleepwear. Teor doesn’t see his emblem, but he knows that it’s there. He can feel it.
Wick looks at him, face morphing from urgency to shock, and then at the others.
“If this is a trick,” His voice is dangerously low and shaking and it cracks partway through, “I swear—”
“This isn’t a trick, Wicander,” Teor tells him softly, and he can see the gentle golden glow beneath the man’s shirt and cloak centered around his chest.
“We buried you!” he whispers, voice cracking again. “We—we put you and your brother in coffins, and gave a memorial and—and—”
He cuts himself off by bursting into tears, legs beginning to shake, and that has Teor going to help keep him up, even though it wets his drying fur again and puts another chill through his body. The cloak Wick is wearing is not made for the weather, and he assumes that he was in a rush getting here.
“The—your holy symbol started glowing earlier and this was the soonest I could get to the others and—and I wasn’t sure—”
And then he truly begins to cry, letting out incomprehensible sobs, and Teor can see the subtle darkness beneath his eyes, feel how tightly he clings like he’s going to leave.
“You’re free to bring him to the couch and use the quilt. Just bring a towel or two,” Bolaire sighs, ringing oddly clear in his mind, and he glances over to him. “Yes, I can speak to you this way,” he sighs again, “Wicander has had a bad couple weeks, to say the least,”
Yeah. No shit.
Tyranny had been somewhat of a saving grace for Wick when they had left. Teor knows that. Without her and now under the close watch of the Creed, it must put a mental strain on him.
But it’s Teor’s job to protect him, and that’s what he’ll do, even in his death and undeath.
He peels the cloak off of Wick and undoes the buttons on his shirt as he quietly explains the situation, easily maneuvering his claws to help without tearing to do the same, revealing his emblem. It glows, tied up with leather cords that allow it to hang around Wick’s neck, gently resting over his heart. He takes the towel that Shadia’s kind enough to hand over to help with the worst of it, and ushers the man over to the couch.
A quilt and pillows are placed perfectly on it. Too perfect. But he’s able to place the quilt around his shoulders as the sobs turn into sniffles, and joins him. There’s a weight that thumps against his side a moment after, and Teor doesn’t exactly mind.
“...I’m sorry, for that display,” he whispers after another minute.
“Happens to the best of us,” Azune tells him with a bit of a hoarse chuckle.
Another minute passes.
“I guess you want your emblem back?” Wicander asks, and there’s a bit of forced liveliness to his voice, even though his eyes are still puffy and red.
“Keep it for now,” Teor gently replies, “We’ll figure it out later,” It feels wrong, at least right now, to take it from him.
“...okay,” he says, and he stays leaning against Teor, like some nights around the campfire, something that feels like a lifetime ago, back when his bones felt warm.
“Should we get Murray?” Shadia eventually says, “She would probably know more about this, since she dealt with Occtis’s…resurrection? I guess?”
“No,” Azune says firmly, “She’s barely getting enough sleep as is,”
“And you aren’t?” she retorts, and Teor is reminded that Azune stayed with her for years and of his past habits. Always eager to volunteer for watch and prove his worth.
“...that’s different,” he tells her, and gets a look from them all.
Honestly, Teor thinks all of them can use some sleep. Even Bolaire, if he even can.
“Can…can I ask about the memorial?” he asks. He had comrades die in the Rebellion, and so they were somewhat common. If they were able to retrieve their body, it would mean either somehow bringing them back to their loved ones, or finding a good location to bury them.
It seems they did the latter with him and his brother.
“We felt it was best to lay you two to rest,” Azune says quietly, “We needed you two out of the city quickly, and keeping your bodies around would’ve been a risk if they were found,”
“...thank you,” Teor tells him. It was better than his brother and him being left to rot in that manor. At least his brother would be able to rest, protected by fae magic. And if Teor woke up in there…
It meant something to him that he was able to get something many others couldn’t.
“It was a location a few hours out. It meant we could all give our respects without too much suspicion,” Azune continues. They chose well, Teor thinks.
“And it meant if Julien and Thimble killed each other, they wouldn’t be found by somebody uninvolved,” Bolaire adds in a harsh tone, getting a glare from the marshal and Shadia.
“...there was a lot of blame that they gave each other,” he says, “It’s…not something I want to get into right now,” And Teor respects that. Emotions are already high.
He sighs. Wick is still leaning against him and has calmed down somewhat. Azune is looking nervous—relieved, but nervous. Shadia is in somewhat of the same boat, fingers tapping incessantly against the counter, with an odd, confident expression on her face that reminds him of her parents. Bolaire is still more difficult to get a read on, but there’s subtleties in his mask. Slightly squinted eyes, pursed lips. He isn’t fully sure what to make of this situation yet, Teor thinks. But he’ll get there.
Teor is in the same boat.
His body feels wrong. Too stiff, too dry. His lungs rattle with each forced breath. He’s quite literally dug himself out of his own grave and there’s still dirt in the crevices that prove it.
But Occtis has dealt with the same. And if anything, this can help give him an advantage. He is there to protect. He can do what he wasn’t able to do with his brother, and being dead means he can do that to a greater degree.
He isn’t going to fail again. He refuses to.
“So what next?” Teor asks.