aionlogs | What's it like to die? {closed + open}

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What's it like to die? {closed + open}

WHO: Howl & others
WHAT: Ever the most unreliable of wizards, Howl is taking extra long to emerge from his chrysalis following dissipation. Those concerned about him will not have a hard time finding him after he's back.
WHERE: The empty room below the Citadel; Howl's quarters
WHEN: Firaseri 23 (The morning after the Innocence's execution)
WARNINGS: Likely to include mentions/discussions of Howl's death; self-loathing, general misery.

Both a closed prompt and open prompts below!

closed ~ barnaby and matt.

Being nothing more than a soul is a strange experience, even when it's your second time. To a certain extent, the experience is a proof of Descartes's most famous principle: without a body, he cannot hear or see or feel anything, or hunger for food, or curl his nose at unpleasant aromas, and yet here he still is, existing without an outside world to reinforce the experience of existing. But at the same time, he is not completely without senses. For example, he can feel, somehow, that the rock containing his soul is being held by Barnaby. Having known the other man for only a few months, it isn't the most comfortable sensation, but the despair flowing into his soul from Barnaby's via osmosis is a marvel to ponder. There are definitely worse people who could've ferried his Shard to the mysterious room in the basement of the Citadel.

Once the touch of the other Aion is gone, Howl finds himself able to finally... rest. He quickly settles into the luxury of being half-conscious and disconnected from the outside world. Both his body and his psyche have been under some degree of strain for over two months, and the solitude of being neither alive nor dead provides unique respite. There is nobody to make demands of him here, nor is there anybody for him to want to protect. Nobody to let him down, nor anybody for him to let down. Simple, uncomplicated peace, more satisfying than a deep sleep.

Howl spares only brief thoughts for how his friends and allies are faring. He's still here, so they must be doing well enough to keep his Shard from being shattered, at least. Emet-Selch is probably going to be mad at him for getting himself killed. Barnaby was there when it happened, and was the one who held him at first — maybe he, too, will be distraught over his dissipation. Will Ciel nag him when he gets back? Will Liem be upset that Howl broke their promise?

Ah. Too bad for them all. He'll have to face them again soon enough. But for now, he wants to stay here. Not happy or sad, not asleep, not awake. Just... existing. Time, it seems, does not operate the same while in this state — sometimes he feels like he's been like this for weeks, sometimes it feels like the seconds meld together and tick by in groups at a time. But it's fine, this is fine.

At some point, following hundreds of overlapping moments, his rest is suddenly and violently interrupted. It begins with a prickle, and then a burn, two phenomenon that belong in the realm of sensation that he has been deprived of since losing his body. Before he has any time to process what could be happening, there is nothing at all. Everything ceases to be in an instant — every part of him that still remains, trapped in his Shard. All thoughts, all memories, his despair, his sense of calm, his loneliness, the meandering passage of time, it's all gone. And then, it's back again.

Howl doesn't know what that was, to put it simply. Once his self returns to him, he's in something akin to a daze. It was... wonderful, in a certain way, more satisfying than this more satisfying version of sleeping. But at the same time, it's harrowing and terrifying. He thinks of his friends again and can't help but wonder... what the hell is going on out there?

It's enough to shake him free of his overwhelming apathy. Coward as he might be, he has to know whatever that hiccup in reality was. This thought seems to be the link that connects his Shard back to his reformed body, and for the first time, he can feel his skin pressing against the hard surface of the chrysalis around him. There are voices out there, muffled by the crystal and the liquid within it.

After a few hard pushes, a part of the rock gives way, and cold air hits the back of his hand. Or... is it his hand? Something feels strange about it, but the thought leaves his head almost as soon as it enters. Howl can feel himself falling, spilling out of the broken chrysalis, and tumbling into what feels like fine dirt. He coughs loudly, expelling the unknown liquid from his lungs.

open 1 ~ the dirt room.

Howl huddles beside his chrysalis, shivering. The blanket that was wrapped around him in the moment following his rebirth is soiled now, smudged with a mix of the chrysalis liquid and the dirt underneath him. Everything sure is a lot right now — not just the return of cold, and gravity, and air, and time, but also the disturbing state he finds himself reborn into. His hands and forearms are covered in black feathers, a complete full coat that shines softly in the low light of the room, and although Howl has no mirror to look into, he can feel feathers on his neck and shoulders too. None of it should be there. He's gotten worse.

And he knows everyone here can see it. Everyone is going to see it. Whatever relief and happiness he felt when he was greeted by Barnaby and Matt has been pushed to the back burner, now replaced by a distinctly typical grumpiness. He'd refused the clothing they offered him, it being insufficient to hide the humiliating new patches of feathers on his body, and that's why he is sitting here, cold and naked, and feeling very much like he should have just stayed in the stupid rock after all.

The sound of footsteps coming towards the open doorway makes him look up. It was only a matter of time before someone else happened upon him here, whether out of luck or because word has already got out that he's back. Howl just isn't sure whether it's going to be someone he wants to see.

open 2 ~ quarters.

By the afternoon, Howl has returned to his quarters in the Citadel. If you weren't aware that he's back by then, you probably are by now — the wizard is on some sort of warpath, and he's being so flagrant about it that one might rightly guess that he's being loud on purpose.

"No, no! These are no good either! Bring me another! More! Different this time!"

The door to his quarters is open, allowing everyone and anyone to hear. The yelling is followed by Howl's retainer, a young man with fish fins for ears, hurrying out into the hall with a huge pile of clothes in his arms, topped by two books. A cloud of dust seems to follow him as he exits and hurries down the hall, almost as if someone has swept a pile of dirt out along with him, but... Howl? Sweep? That's impossible. Right?

He can be easily found in his room, for those eager to see him now that he's back, but one look inside will find the entryway filled with junk. Barely any path has been preserved to get in and out, and it's exceptionally narrow. Howl is clearly in there somewhere, from all the thunking and rummaging going on.

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In total, complete, utterly opposite form, Sebastian has decided that today was a cleaning day. It wasn't as if his room particularly needed such a treatment, as he used it very little in the first place, and he was naturally very neat, but. That neatness was near obsession, and after appraising the... curious architectural choices that surrounded the bed, he had wanted to scrub it clean. So he's feeling quite refreshed as he returns from his own quarters with cleaning supplies in hand. The retainers had been perplexed that he had wanted the supplies and had insisted that he didn't need to do such a thing, but oh, no, he wouldn't let anyone else handle it! They surely wouldn't be up to his standards, after all.

Technically speaking, Sebastian feels the (familiar, by now) torrent of emotion from Howl before he actually hears him or sees the poor retainer heading out. His brow quirks as he sees a bit of a cloud go behind him, and so he approaches Howl's door curiously.

He is not prepared.

There is no way he could ever be prepared for what he witnesses.

There is truly a moment, a long set of moments, in fact, where Sebastian just stares at the narrow, junk-filled entrance into Howl's room with an expression of abject horror. He can only imagine what Howl might be doing in there.

"Mr. Howl," Sebastian says flatly, probably not loud enough for Howl to actually hear, honestly. He might not even be talking to him. But Howl will definitely be able to feel the waves of deep anxiety rolling off Sebastian even if he can't see him.

Edited (omg i'm sorry i noticed all the typos after ) 2022-08-30 03:35 (UTC)

The hurried rustling noises within the apartment cease as soon as Sebastian speaks. Just as the demon expects, Howl barely heard him — but he did feel him. The injection of outside feelings serves to interrupt those looping through Howl's mind and body and halt his rampage, if only momentarily.

A few beats of silence pass, and then Howl appears at the back of the narrow path leading to the door of his quarters. The wizard looks like he's seen better days, to say the least. There are dark circles of exhaustion under his eyes, and he's dressed in something resembling a grubby bathrobe. The robe's hood is pulled over the top of his head, framing his frowning face and hiding the feathers that stick out from locks of hair.

After getting to the door, Howl grips the doorframe and stares at him. He wouldn't go so far as to consider them friends, exactly, but he has considered them to be on good terms this far. The tense, perturbed look he's giving Sebastian is thus unusual.

"Yes. How can I help you?" Flat. You are interrupting a wizard rampage, Sebastian.

Sebastian's fingers are positively itching to clean, or perhaps that's just the effect of the lingering dust cloud that had gone by... Or simply his imagination. None are acceptable, and while he patiently waits for Howl to acknowledge his presence, it's truly only just. He's only a few seconds away from just taking matters into his own hands when Howl appears.

...And, oh, his appearance is not any better. Sebastian's eyes linger on the bathrobe especially, since for someone usually so well-dressed as Howl, it's somehow even more annoying. The anxiety is only increasing, but Sebastian's expression is completely, deadly serious.

As he is holding a mop and a bucket, yes.

"Your room," he returns just as flatly, but he takes a half-step closer, "This is no minor mess. How long have you been living like this?"

If his tone sounds a tad accusatory, it's because it absolutely is. It's a question with an alarming answer that he doesn't actually want to know.

"...I shall do all the work myself if I must, but please, I must insist that you allow me to clean it."

Howl stares at Sebastian, unmoved by the confrontational half-step closer that the demon takes. The look on his face is that of someone who is feeling very done, and yet cannot cease yet. Done with what is, of course, the question, but numerous clues are already on display for Sebastian to make note of on his own.

And then there is Howl's mental reaction to Sebastian's request. While his affect is that of someone who is ready to say no before the question is even asked, the wizard's internal response is different. Primarily, it's dread. Howl isn't being territorial; this isn't about not wanting others in his space. It's the fear of being seen and judged. And, distinctly, the fear of Sebastian throwing out something important as he goes through the piles of unimportant garbage, which hints at what Howl was so frantically doing in there.

"Why yes, I did just come back from being killed. Thank you so much for asking." Howl mutters, more sorry for himself than offended. Pouting, he looks down at the floor. "Why exactly should I let you do anything to my room, hm? I have a right to live in a no-minor-mess if I want. You must admit that."

It's been a trying few days. In such a short span of time he's lost two people he foolishly dared to consider worth some of his time. Both of them prove his age-old assumptions to be correct: One offered betrayal by frailty and the other abandoned him for their own self-interest. Emet-Selch could only scorn himself for always falling into this age-old trap of regarding them at all.

The only redeeming factor in this situation is that the demise of this young wizard was not the end. It's with that simple fact in mind - and the desire to quell the stinging pain that being confronted with more loss - that he enters the underground room.

He does not say anything while he approaches. Emet-Selch simply stops in front of Howl and leers down at the young wizard with a conflicted expression on his face. Though his frown clearly indicated disapproval, the look in his eyes relayed an exhausted sadness.

It takes little observation to see the state that Howl is in. Huddled to himself, disheveled, twisted into something unnatural. Again. Yet again he must watch as someone falls apart around him.

"Get up." He instructs. The tone of voice is not his usual show of extravagant irritation, it is even. Sharp. Done. "You've hidden yourself down here long enough."

The familiar figure that appears in the doorway makes Howl's stomach turn. He's been anticipating this reunion with mixed feelings. Naturally, he worried for Emet-Selch, his closest friend in this wretched world. But he can see from the old man's terse expression that his anxieties were well-founded too. He's upset him. He can't tell exactly how, but he knows he has.

Howl looks down at the dirt between his feet, hanging his head dejectedly as he avoids meeting Emet-Selch's gaze. He doesn't know what to say. In times like these, he says nothing if he can get away with it. Something tells him Emet-Selch isn't going to accept his silence for an answer, though.

"I don't have anything to wear," Howl mutters softly. He says this, even as a set of clothing sits a few yards away, untouched. A part of him wants to hear Emet-Selch get angry at him. Anger would be expected, familiar, easier to navigate. Not that subtle sadness that Emet-Selch is showing him now, which fills Howl with a shame that he can't find the energy to deny.

Emet-Selch's turns his head to look at the pile of clothing that sits within a clear line of sight. It lays untouched, only serving to prove that there is something more that coaxes him to stay in this place.

"Yes, quite the conundrum indeed. We can't have you gallivanting through the Citadel as though it's your first Nameday." It's said without his usual cadence, instead, he sounds completely exhausted.

Emet-Selch looks back and seems to put some consideration into...something. He reaches to his neck and undoes the few fasteners that keep his cloak in place. His cloak is a black piece of cloth with stitched detailing in luxurious gold threads, accented in fur lining around the neck. He tosses the cape over Howl's shoulders. 'Problem' solved.

"And what is your next excuse." Surely this would only prompt more reasons why he can't leave. Might as well ask what it is and get it out of the way quickly.

Edited (wording!!) 2022-08-31 17:15 (UTC)

The weighty cape splays over Howl's back like one large palm. He can feel the warmth from Emet-Selch's body heat clinging to the cloth. Is this meant to be a kind gesture, or is the old man meeting Howl's pettiness with his own brand? His words indicate the latter, but the more muted and controlled tone of his voice suggest that he's not nearly as angry with him as Howl wished.

The wizard sits motionless for a few seconds, and then a single feathered hand reaches up to pull the collar of the cape close around his face. In the low light of the dirt room, the black fur lining seems to meld with the black feathers sprouting from Howl's cheeks.

"I don't want to go up there yet. Back to everything," Howl says simply. "I hate this place. And... I don't want to be seen like this."

Emet-Selch can get upset with him if he wants. Howl doesn't care. He's already given the Ascian a more honest answer than he's given anyone else today.

These words earn a flicker of scorn. Something about his presence darkens; something disapproving and with a worn-down irritation. It's enough to be felt in the air and seen in the intent focus of his glance.

"So here you sit." He says. As the pause between words lengthens he only seems to let the feelings fester. It's with a sharpness in his words that he continues. "Like a fearful child hiding away in your squalor so that you may avoid the world."

"Yes."

Howl's single word in affirmation is the most confident he's been so far. It's bolstered by the sharpening of Emet-Selch's voice. That anger, that's what Howl had expected. What he'd almost wanted to hear, because he has navigated it a thousand times before in similar situations.

"A fearful child. Yes, that's what I am. Coward, quitter, weakling... whatever it is you'd like to call me. They're all fitting."

The word deserter comes back to mind. Ironically, that's one stinging insult that no longer applies. He's in this situation because he fought. The thought makes Howl huff a bitter laugh to himself.

"If I had some way of avoiding this world that didn't involve sitting down here, I would. I had that kind of power in my old world, you know. I built a castle for myself with Calcifer's help. But that's all gone. He's dead and I can't do it anymore."

His expression and tone finally give way to clear irritation. "Yes, the world has indeed robbed you of your ability to be pathetic." Emet-Selch snaps in response. It's a rare show of raw emotion bubbling to the surface, perhaps aiming to cut deeper than he might have otherwise intended.

With a breath, he seems to reign it in and comes back with something more composed.

Emet-Selch's words are calmer when he speaks next, though with a sense that they are only just tethered. "Your friend is not here, Howl. As much as you may wish with all your being that it was different - that they were by your side - sitting here will not change that."

Howl hangs his head and goes quiet. He knows that Emet-Selch is right, he understands the truth behind his words, and he even understands the edge of irritation in his voice. He even knows just how much Emet-Selch is speaking from experience. Howl might have lost his closest companions and his entire world, but so has Emet-Selch — twice.

His awareness is what keeps him from lashing out. As much as he'd love to take his despair out on someone, he won't do that to this tired old man.

"I assure you, friend," Howl says softly, his defiant mood gone. "I am quite capable of being pathetic without Calcifer."

A quiet, half-hearted joke. Howl still doesn't move from his huddled spot on the floor, but the self-deprecating quip is a start.

There are easy responses to this - some reactionary and others less so - but instead of committing to any of those options, Emet-Selch finds himself giving Howl a long look. He studies the boy bestrewn in feathers, curled in on himself as though the small amount of comfort afforded by it would save him from this miserable world.

When nothing possibly could.

He closes his eyes and exhales a steadying breath. After lifetimes of hardship, loss beyond measure, and the burden of his people weighing on him, he is still he is expected to give more. Somehow he needed to conjure the strength to lift up the Kenoma while he, himself, struggled to stand.

Others could often see the infallible figure that often stood unyielding against the many dangers that they faced or the figure that stands unblinking against their Regent, it was few who see the toll it all takes. How his soul twists at the thought of his world being gone, how one of his students abandoning them all breaks his heart, or how the death of a young wizard could feel as painful as a physical blow.

"Yes, so I've noticed." He mutters, reaching into that bottomless well of determination to pull from it more strength. Emet-Selch takes a few steps forward and kneels down so that he may pick up yet another struggling soul, and perhaps afford himself the luxury of embracing another for a few moments. He angles to put his hand on Howl's back and lift him to his feet. "Get up. You are equally capable of being miserable outside of this wretched domicile."

The long period of silence is met with equal silence by Howl. He isn't expecting anything specifically from Emet-Selch. He could do whatever he wants: raise his voice, scold him, expound on his deficiencies, or just walk away. The one thing Howl really wants, really needs, is the last thing Howl dares to hope for... and yet, the silence is broken by that very desire. A friend kneeling beside him, a broad hand pressed against his lower back — over the coat he'd already draped over him! — to gently urge him to his feet.

Feeling his throat tighten, Howl doesn't risk a spoken answer. One hand emerges from underneath the coat instead, reaching up to clamp on Emet-Selch's other wrist and steady himself as he rises. It's the first time Howl has stood since he was reborn. He wobbles for a moment, but quickly finds his balance.

Happy to follow Emet-Selch's lead, he makes no movement to start walking. If the old man has some idea of what to do with him, where to take him, he'll simply follow. But he leans his weight against his side and quietly prays that he won't shake Howl's hand off his arm. This room has been rather cold, all this time, and this shred of literal and metaphorical warmth is so indulgent in comparison.

As rare as a gesture as this is, Emet-Selch shows more of his typical discontent as he gets Howl to his feet. He takes a moment to smooth out the cloak and make sure it is (somewhat) modestly wrapped around him. "The least you could do is look somewhat presentable." He mutters in quiet disapproval as he straightens the cloak's neckline - adjusting it in such a way as to shield as many feathers as possible.

After which, Emet-Selch puts his arm around the young wizard and pulls him close to assure he stays aloft. He makes for the door at his usual pace without consideration of how difficult it may be for Howl to take those same steps. It seems there are obvious limits to his tending.

It's only been a little more than a day since Amos was last down here.

He'd woken up, broken his way out of his crystal, saw another one still intact. There hadn't exactly been time to inspect it — not between his own reunions, the trials of re-entering the land of the physically living, an execution — but it's a new day, and now, he's got time.

It would've been weird of him to have not come back down to check. Just like it's a little weird of Howl right now to be keeping himself down here, amid all of the dirt and nothing more.

Amos enters the room, the new faint glow now coming from his eyes visible thanks to the relative darkness here. He sees the last chrysalis broken open, sees Howl down on the floor, and comes to squat in front of him; distance respectful, but close enough for them to talk. He tilts his head, not really registering any of Howl's distress; he'd come back physically different, too, and it's not like any of it has bothered him.

"Hey," he says, softly, friendly. "How come you're still down here?"

Isn't he hungry... or cold... or bored...

Howl hears footsteps as someone approaches. His troubled mood is not so overwhelming that it stops him from looking up to see who it is. At first, he doesn't recognize the large man walking calmly towards him — complexion too dark, unfamiliar glow to his eyes — but as soon as Amos is close enough to kneel in front of him, the recognition registers.

"Amos?" Howl says quietly, confused. For the past few months, he's seen the other man around the Citadel only in passing. The last time they had any substantial conversation was in that room in a brothel. What an odd reversal of that night... this time, it's Howl naked and barely covered by a blanket, and it's Amos looking down at him with care and concern.

Howl looks away self-consciously and clenches his fists, pulling the sheet tighter around his shoulders.

"I don't," he begins slowly, "want to go up there yet."

The sort of blunt statement of the obvious that's tantamount to avoiding the question.

But Howl can't help himself. He quickly adds, "Why do you look like that?"

He remembers very little of that night in the brothel, though in Amos' defence, that was by design back then. Running away from his problems by drinking and fucking on an endless cycle of hedonism to drown everything else out has its intended effects, like ensuring he remembers very little about what those days were actually like.

He does remember having met Howl then, but the reversal of their positions is lost on him. It's just that it wouldn't really make much of a difference for him now either way.

Howl not wanting to go back up, though, is... well, it remains weird. There's nothing down here. There's nothing down here; nothing more than them and chrysalis remnants. Amos had been ready to head back on up pretty much whenever, but the way Howl curls in on himself... he recognizes the defensiveness in the gesture, he just doesn't get why.

The question both is and isn't easier to address than all of that.

"I don't know," Amos answers, honest. He really doesn't. "I was down here too. I woke up about a day ago. Came out of my crystal like this. I don't know why."

But it doesn't bother him. He's barely thought about it. Although...

"Is that why you don't want to go back up? Because you look different?"

It's really not a big deal. Sure, you might get some curious stares, but they're easily ignored. There's no reason to avoid people. They'll get used to it or they won't; it doesn't make a difference either way.

Because you look different. A plain, simple, wholly straightforward way of putting it, and completely correct. It's so direct and succinct that it puts Howl on edge and makes him look away. Yes, he looks different now, and he doesn't want to be. He'd tried so hard over the past month to make himself change back to normal, and not only has he failed — it's gotten worse.

It might not be a big deal to Amos, but it's soul-crushing to Howl.

"Were you and I the only ones?" he asks tentatively. "Did anyone else come back looking strange?"

Shit. Did he say something wrong? He frowns as Howl retreats further in on himself, pulls back from him. Amos remains in place; he wants to help, but it's quick become clear that this is probably one of those areas where he's unequipped to do so.

"Just us, as far as I know," he says, quiet. A little less certain, considering Howl's reaction. "Matt died too, but he still looks the same. Though he is closer with the Kenoma now."

And Howl... isn't, even though they've both been here the same length of time. It's a little weird to him, but he tamps it down. That's really not the issue here right now.

"Just luck of the draw, I guess."

What else could it be?

Aside from intervals of the execution and visiting the children, Barnaby hasn't been too far from Howl's side, particularly in the past few days when the others had revived and it became clear Howl ought to any time now. (He would, wouldn't he? It was just that he was taking longer for some reason, not that something had gone horribly wrong. He didn't want to, wouldn't, think about the alternative.)

Usually, he'd bring books with him to read to while away the time, if he wasn't engaged in quiet conversation with Matt or another visitor, or dozing. He's half-asleep in a chair, too tired and listless to keep his eyes open, when he hears the crystal begin to move and crack.

"Howl?" He's instantly wide awake, and a moment later, the wizard breaks free of the chrysalis, coughing in the dirt. He jumps to his feet, grabbing the blanket he'd brought for precisely this moment. Then he drops to his knees and bundles Howl in the warm material, letting him rest in his arms while he regained his senses.

"You're all right," he says, but even as the words leave his lips, his eyes are drawn to the feathers that weren't there before in this form intermingled with strands of hair, the clawed talons in place of human feet, and he feels a lump set in his throat, thinking of the mangled beast he had failed to save.

He would be all right, wouldn't he?

Matt hasn't been here as consistently as Barnaby. He wants to give him space to think his own thoughts--and Howl too, or what passes for thinking in the slow-going amber state he's in. Matt's unexamined assumption is that they'll do that more easily without him. When he is here, he'll chat with Barnaby, or read, or work on his meditation.

Matt's deep into his breathing exercises when the crystal starts to crack, adrift on a river of shadow. As he rises to the surface of himself, his heart swells with a hope that maybe Howl will awaken like he did--with a sharpened sense of purpose, an expansive eye for spiritual nuances. A bit of honey to soothe the annihilation. The first thing he sees, lit by the thin gleam of his light spell, is the top of Howl's head, then the blanket Barnaby's wrapped around him. Then ... feathers. More feathers than last time they met. And what's wrong with his feet ...?

That gives Matt some pause. A sense of unease prickles up his back, and for the first time, he thinks, What if this never stops? What if Howl keeps changing, sprouting feathers and hollowing his bones until nothing's left?

One piece of the answer is simple: love him anyway. But it lacks some specificity.

"Hey." Matt's voice is soft, aiming for soothing. "Good morning."

Dazed by the return of temperature and weight, Howl offers no resistance to Barnaby's quick rush of assistance. The blanket immediately shields him from the cold, dry air of the mysterious dark room and provides some degree of dignity. Leaning into Barnaby's arms, he continues to cough, still spitting out thick globs of the chrysalis' broth by the time Matt joins them.

"Where —"

The word catches in his throat and sends him into another brief fit of coughs. Howl flexes his hands open and closed, testing the returned feeling of having fingers to grip with, before bringing them to his face to push aside his wet hair. Beneath his fingertips, he feels scale-like feathers. His heart sinks. He'd hoped weeks ago that if he were ever to dissipate, they might go away. Apparently not.

"Matt?" Squinting and lifting his head, he looks to his fellow wizard, and then to the man propping him up. "Barnaby...? Where am I? What —"

He suddenly stops, eyes going wide. "...What happened? Did we win?"

"We did. The city's safe again, but most of the Pleroma got away. Including the one who..." The words lodge in his throat, and he has to blink hard a few times. "The one who did this to you."

He knows it ultimately wouldn't have changed Howl's fate, but if Barnaby could have at least stopped that Pleroma... made him answer for his crimes... The Pleroma had been greviously wounded even as he got away, but that doesn't mean much when he might have been cured of his wounds soon after.

His eyes burn with welling tears and shame, but instead of voicing his thoughts, he says simply, "I'm glad you're back with us."

Matt can't tell all, or even most, of what's going on with Barnaby. But he knows he cares a lot about Howl--why else would he have taken up this vigil?--and that he's clearly feeling some intense emotions. So he does his best to take point for a moment: He kneels down at Howl's side, trying to catch his eye.

"We're under the Citadel right now," he says. "Deep underground, it's kind of like a shrine? I came back here too, a few days ago."

Or maybe yesterday. Who remembers?

"How do you feel? I can run upstairs and grab you some water or food if you want it. Or if you need a minute ... that's fine too."

It's only a drop of what happened while Howl was dead, and yet it feels like a deluge of information. The city being safe, that's good. The Pleroma escaping, that's... bad. And Matt... Matt dying, too... along with who knows who else...?

And yet, Barnaby described it as a win. So, does that mean... the Sanctifier is dead?

"I'm fine," Howl says, squinting at Matt. "I'll — I'll be fine. Don't go. I'm here, aren't I? I'm back."

He offers a smile to his fellow wizard. It isn't mirthful. It lacks the smooth joviality that so easily comes to Howl in moments of genuine happiness. But it's still a smile, and if it can bring comfort to these two friends who were concerned enough to wait in person for his return... then it's a smile worth mustering.

Especially for the friend who rushed to cradle him. Howl turns his gaze toward Barnaby and does his best to maintain that smile. Internally, he's mystified to see someone in a state of mourning for him.

"Barnaby," he says softly. "You're the one who protected my Shard, aren't you...? Please, don't cry."

He's going to cry if you cry, Bunny. And as much as he's going to cry eventually, he'd rather do it in private. There's so much emotion welling up in his chest, as the seconds tick by in this new lifespan. Howl has had a lot of practice over the years, controlling his cartwheeling emotions, but this situation is unprecedented, to say the least.

"I'm sorry," Barnaby says quietly, as the tears burning at his eyes begin to roll down his cheeks. He's sorry for crying. For ruining what should be a happy moment with his grief. Sorry for not being able to do more than just protect his shard, for inadvertently being responsible for his physical state becoming worse. He doesn't know how to articulate any of his feelings, so he simply hangs his head and squeezes his eyes shut, his voice shaking when he speaks again.

"You're a kind person, Howl. You didn't deserve what happened to you."

He had been the first person to extend Barnaby kindness, after weeks of indescribable torment, isolation, and abject despair. He'll never forget what Howl did for him, and yet he feels like he's failed to repay that, in every possible way.

Please, don't cry.

Matt's always been something of a sympathy crier. When he and Katy-Rose were really little, the sight or sound of her in tears was always enough to get him going. The intervening years have somewhat beaten the urge out of him, but nothing's managed to quash it entirely. So when he peeks up and catches tears shining on Barnaby's face, tears prick at his own eyes almost immediately.

Very cool, very manly. Matt would run from the room if Howl hadn't asked him to stay. As things stand, he offers the second-best thing he can: He reaches for one of his hands, fingers touching down lightly, and blinks fiercely to try and banish the moisture welling in his eyes.

(Does he kind of wish someone had been around to say this to him when he'd woken up? That he's a good person and didn't deserve the death he'd gotten, temporary though it had been? Little bit! Does he wish anyone had offered him help or support after he lost his hand? He sure does. But he's not going to begrudge Howl getting something he didn't. He's happy that he has supportive friends.)

From his check-ins throughout the days following the Pleroma’s attack on Achamoth, Liem knows exactly who ended up in the place of power beneath the Citadel, and how many of those people have already rejoined the world of the living up above. He got to see two of them at the execution the previous day, which had been a mixed relief, considering the nature of the spectacle. Despite his own decision to attend, he considers it a blessing in disguise for Howl to have been incapacitated for that particular event.

Eventually, he makes his way back down to the lower levels in order to check on the cavern’s sole remaining occupant, who should be emerging any minute now if he isn’t free already. With him he brings a small cloth-wrapped parcel, a bottle of cold black tea, and a thick black book.

He’s pleased to see the split-open remains of the chrysalis protruding from the rock of the cavern. Less pleased to see Howl huddled next to it, shivering and wrapped only in a blanket despite the clothes folded nearby. There is no real reason why he should still be here after completing his regeneration; there is nothing keeping him confined to this lonely cavern. And yet, here he remains, sitting in apparent misery on the floor.

“Good morning, Howl.”

Liem pauses briefly in the doorway, regarding this sorry sight with a neutral, weighing look. Then he enters, crossing the space between them so he can lean down to deposit the bottle next to Howl’s huddled form.

“Here—this is yours, if you want it. I brought food, as well.”

It’s still fresh, even. The scent of warm bread can be faintly smelled through the wrapping of protective fabric.

Howl has his forehead pressed against his knees when he hears footsteps announcing Liem's arrival. At first, he does not pick up his head, to filled with dread at who it could be this time. Come to offer him their words of encouragement, or of anger, or of confusion... or whatever else he might be forced to endure while he sits here, trying to cope with what he's woken up to.

But the familiar voice cuts through Howl's gloomy, aloof attitude, and Howl looks up to see Liem standing in the doorway. He blinks as he walks over and sets the bottle beside him. Unused to cold tea, Howl doesn't recognize the liquid for what it is, but the fact that it's in a bottle means it's meant to drink. Right?

Without saying anything, his feathered hands emerge from the hem of the blanket pulled around his body to take the bottle and tip his head back to drink. What would have been a long gulp is cut short by the unpleasant sensation of cold tea on his tongue, but at least Howl is too thirsty and tired to complain.

"...Thank you," he finally says. The wizard spares a wary look up at the priest before reaching for the bundle and unwrapping it. He doesn't know what else to say. Did Liem come down here just to bring him food and drink? Or is it something else?

Not knowing how Liem fared during the raid, Howl slowly asks, "How are you...?"

Liem notes the interrupted gulp, and wonders if he should just have brought water instead. He realizes that he has almost no knowledge at all of the kind of place Howl came from, or what kind of palate he has. Perhaps the bitterness of unsweetened tea disagrees with him.

Regardless, once he’s relinquished the drink and the warm little bundle—filled with a couple of dense pastries laden with nuts—Liem folds his legs to sit next to the other man, arranging his robes so they don’t crumple as he settles on the hard cavern floor. He leaves the book cradled in his lap, idly running a finger over the edges of the pages as he regards the feather-covered wizard next to him.

“Much better than yourself, I think.”

He says this with a light, practical tone, not wanting to dwell overlong on the state of the other man, but also not quite able to ignore it. He has, after all, been down here for the better part of the last week, and despite his rejuvenation, he still does not look entirely well.

“You’ve kept me waiting.”

He’s not going to say that he was worried. But he was worried. Frankly, he still is.

The sight of the pastries makes Howl pause. In that frozen moment, he realizes how utterly ravenous he is — not exactly starving, but perhaps even more intense than that — this new body has literally never eaten before.

Motivated by his hunger, Howl snatches up one of the sweet-smelling rolls and takes an enormous, unceremonious bite. There are times to convince yourself and others that you're cool, and there are times to forget all that and shove a pastry down your throat.

Howl is chewing a mouthful of food, thankful that Liem's lighter tone is sparing him another crying spell, when he adds that second remark. He pauses again and studies candied nuts sticking out of the pastry.

"I did, didn't I," he says softly, his mouth still half-full. He takes a moment to swallow down the rest before putting the half-eaten pastry down.

"I'm sorry. When we spoke last, it... didn't occur to me that I could be the one sitting here like this..."

What a fool he is. There wasn't ever any need for him to worry about Liem, was there?

Liem watches, a bit wonderingly, as Howl ravenously attacks the pastries he brought for him. Gratified as he is to see the food received with more relish than the drink he'd opted to bring along, he's forced to consider that perhaps a pair of nut-filled rolls was not sufficient ammunition to come prepared with in this situation. It's been long enough since he ate regularly with another person that it didn't entirely occur to him until now just how much food hungry people actually tend to want.

But it isn't a total waste. Now that the wizard has remembered his hunger, perhaps he'll be tempted to follow it upstairs.

“To be fair, I don't think any of us were expecting the appearance of a castle-sized dragon.”

He offers this in a reasonable tone, choosing to be touched by Howl's concern instead of insulted by its one-sidedness. Realistically, it's more likely that the wizard saw Liem as vulnerable in some way than that he had some special affection for him, but he's used enough to people making assumptions about all manner of aspects of his life to take even that idea in stride.

“You weren't the only one, either. I've been coming down here all week, checking on our little crop of regrowing aions.”

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

What's it like to die? {closed + open}

2....................

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https://i.imgur.com/FlBmgpq.png

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Dirt room dirt room

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dirt room

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closed - howl & matt

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i rolled a d20 for matt not to cry and got a 5 so rip

dirt room

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