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| Details |
| Author: | Athena |
| Summary: | The Aspenwoods gather to formulate a plan forward after the Shattering destroys parts of their family and homes, and Mordecai and Colson return to their shattered home to salvage what they can. 7600~ words. |
| Rating: | M for Mature 17+ |
Arc: The Shattering
Chain: Morson
Sunlight filters through the curtains whether anyone inside the bedroom wants it to or not. Mordecai has his face smushed up against Colson's arm, trying to hide from the light in his sleep.
From out in the hall comes a rapid pounding of footsteps, loud, someone running in the house without having any consideration for those who might still be sleeping. "Is it this one?" a boy's voice asks, and the doorknob of Colson's bedroom begins to turn.
Colson snaps awake at the sound, and he launches upright, on his feet and out of bed — naked — a brighter Light filling the room in a [Consecration], as he stands before whatever threat is coming and his priest.
Yeah, he's fine.
It takes him a half second more to place where he is, and catch up with what his mind heard, to make it make sense. The moment it does, he releases the [Consecration] cast, and moves instead to set a hand against the door.
"It is occupied, Arnie," Colson says, his voice as calm and deep as any ordinary day.
Just as Arnie has begun to push the door open but before he has time to see anything inside, Colson closes the door.
"Oh! Uncle Colson! Sorry. Is this your bag out here?" Arnie releases the doorknob, shifting from foot to foot out in the hallway. "Did you see the dragon?"
Mordecai, on the bed, rubs his eyes. It got even brighter. "Mngh."
Colson breathes steadily through the adrenaline, slow and controlled.
"It is alright, Arnie, there has been no harm done. I am not aware of a bag in the hallway. It may be intended for us, if you would be so good as to step away from the door so we might check." He pauses, but then answers honestly, "Yes. I did see the black dragon in Stormwind."
"Arnie," calls Gardenia from the area near the stairwell.
"Mama's calling," Arnie says, and bolts off down the hall the way he came. That counts as stepping away from the door, surely.
Mordecai sits up in bed, squinting at Colson across the room. "Mrnghn."
It does count, so there's something.
Colson turns his head to look at Mordecai with a faint smile, keeping his hand still on the door. "Good morning. Lady Gardenia and Arnie are here, and possibly the rest. Arnie mistook our room for being unoccupied. There is a bag in the hallway outside the door." He says it all slowly and patiently, and with possibly an awareness that most if not all of it is not landing yet.
Mordecai seems to realize where they are. He mutters, "Fuck," under his breath, and covers his face with both hands.
Colson steps away from the door, turning in place to return to the side of the bed. On the desk chair is the neatly folded pile of his clothing from the day before, and on his way back, Colson picks up his pants, hardly stopping at all, as he makes his way to the bed to sit on Mordecai's side of it, reaching out a hand to cover Mordecai's left hand.
"I am here," he says. "We are both here."
Mordecai peeks through his fingers at Colson. "Mmhm." He scoots closer and wraps his arms around his husband in a tight hug. "Morning…"
Colson smiles faintly, returning the embrace with a slow exhale. In the light of the day, the ravages of the day before show only in the absence of hair, a stark reminder of the wounds from the dragon. No shadows linger around his eyes, and no new scars adorn his body.
But there is a slowness in his reluctance to let go of Mordecai, a tension in his shoulders of a man preparing to address a difficult day.
"I should see if the bag outside the door is meant for us," Colson says gently, not even remotely pulling away to go do that.
"I'll go see," Mordecai says, his expression warming into a fond smile. "I'm wearing more clothes than you." There is a quick beat of a pause, during which his eyes flick down and then back up to Colson's face. "Currently."
Colson's expression warms in turn, his gaze following the trajectory of Mordecai's look, and he leans in closer. "That can be altered in either direction, as you would wish."
"Let me get the bag first. And see if that door can be locked." Mordecai leans in for his good morning kiss regardless.
Colson's priorities are in the order of kiss Mordecai, and only secondarily answer the question, which he does as he pulls away gently, brushing his thumb along Mordecai's cheek.
"I am afraid it does not," Colson answers. "But it is not usual for anyone of the house to open a shut door without knocking and invitation to enter."
Mordecai sighs. "I'm going to get the bag," he says, and releases Colson. On the way to the door, he does pause to stretch, clasping his hands over his head, and before he opens the door itself he glances back over his shoulder to see if Colson has put those pants on yet or not.
Well now he certainly hasn't. The pants remain still folded in his hand, Colson turned entirely in place, watching Mordecai with open appreciation. He's still obviously waiting to find out which direction the clothing ratio is going.
Mordecai cracks the door open and peeks out into the hall. He drops to a crouch and reaches out with one arm to pull the bag inside, quickly shutting the door. He examines it from that spot on the floor, peeking inside.
The bag is made of frostweave, clearly one of Cressidha's, although rather plain and uncustomized. "I think Cressidha made you some clothes," Mordecai reports, standing up. He carries the desk chair over to brace against the door (this is a good sign for the Less Clothing direction) and then brings the bag over for Colson to see (this is a more ambiguous sign).
"Ah." Colson's expression softens into a gentle smile, as he reaches for the bag to take it and inspect the contents. "Of course she did. It was most considerate of her." He seems to be checking, perhaps, for something more than just the usual array of shirt and pants. A hat, maybe.
Everything inside is neatly folded.
On top, there is an envelope with Colson's name on it. This may be why Mordecai assumed everything in here was for Colson. (It is not.) Beneath that, there is an extra set of under armor clothes, identical to the rest of Colson's.
Deeper in the bag, there are a few pairs of light-colored socks. There are undergarments, there are a pair of soft yellow pajamas made of a light fabric meant for the spring weather, and then there is a carefully-tailored shirt-and-pants outfit likely meant for Colson to wear today.
Beneath that is another set of clothes, but smaller, according to the most recent set of measurements Cressidha took for Mordecai. His outfit includes a vest, because Mordecai wears a lot of vests when not wearing robes.
There is also a robe, and the design of the robe is complex enough that it's likely Cressidha has been working on it for some time. Even in its folded state, that much is obvious. The cloth is primarily white with red and gold accents.
Colson carefully removes the envelope from the bag, opening it first.
The note inside simply reads, "Send me any requests you have."
"It is from Cressidha," Colson confirms. "She asks that we send any requests we have to her." He sets the note to one side, refolded, and begins removing the clothing from the bag onto the bed. Either consciously or not, he separates them out by size, one pile Colson sized, the other pile Mordecai sized — with one single exception: Mordecai's pile has two (2) pajama shirts.
Mordecai stands next to Colson and stares. "…She made us both clothes," Mordecai amends, blinking at the piles.
Colson finishes placing the last of the socks in the center between the piles — Our Socks — and looks at Mordecai. "Of course." He smiles fondly at the piles. "She is a kind person, and she also knows her brother all too well. Had she made only a set for me, she knows I would have likely offered it to you, and worn what I had already, and thus by crafting both at once, saved us from an unnecessary back and forth."
Mordecai smiles and picks out his shirt, vest, and pants to start getting dressed in. This process does involve removing his current clothes to put the new clothes on, and as he reaches into his pants' pockets to transfer over Colson's hair tie and Snocoza into the fresh pair of pants, his expression brightens further. "She's all right," Mordecai says, holding a hand out and tipping it up and down to make the snail-shaped timer resting on his palm give a little nod.
Colson smiles back, inclining his head as politely and formally as if Snocoza was a lady of Society. "I am glad to know that you are well," he says, addressing the snail timer.
He rises from the bed to pull on his new clothing, without significant haste. There is no need to worry or wonder at his outfit this time, at least, as his options are limited and Colson is paying at least a marginal amount of attention to it.
Mordecai makes a faint noise, almost a laugh, and gets dressed as well. He steps into the bathroom for a short while and returns without having shaved for obvious reasons, but at least he's washed his face and he looks a little more alert.
Colson just runs a contemplative hand over first his jaw — very light stubble barely starting, the blond indistinguishable from his skin at the moment — and then over the bald pate of his head. There is not even the slightest bit of growth yet there. Ah, well.
Dressed in his usual manner outside of armor, his posture rigidly straight, he waits patiently for Mordecai near the door. "It is likely with Amadeus and Gardenia here that Mother and Father have called for a family meeting downstairs." He adds immediately, "We are not late. If there was a specific time, we would have been told. However, we should meet with them all first, to speak of matters."
Colson is not wrong entirely. He's just wrong in his assumed head count.
Mordecai nods, returning to Colson's side and reaching for his left hand. He's done his best to neaten his hair out a little using just his fingers, but it could still use a comb. "A-all right. Um, I've never been to a good family meeting before. What do your parents do?"
Colson's expression flickers, a brief clenching of his jaw, a slight jerk of his fingers of his hand in Mordecai's, and then he takes a breath before he answers. "We will discuss matters as a group, in an orderly manner. We will each speak on our experiences, our concerns, and our intentions. Our parents will ask how they might best support our decisions, and what they may be doing in the days to come."
He doesn't mention that they'll be sitting down, or that there will be options for drinks made available, or the habitual seating habits, but that may be because these details are so normal, so ingrained, that it is difficult for him to imagine another setting entirely.
Mordecai rubs his thumb soothingly over Colson's knuckles. "Your parents are good people," he says, like he's trying to reassure someone.
Colson brings Mordecai's hand up to his lips for a kiss. "They are yours as well," he says gently. "Are you ready?"
Mordecai sighs, takes a deep breath, and steadies himself. "I'm ready," he says, smiling gently at Colson.
Downstairs in the Aspenwood sitting room, more usually used as a family living room, the atmosphere has been significantly altered by a rearrangement of the furniture and the collection of the family in the house.
Like most of the house, the space is exceptionally elegant, in golds and blues, both expensively soft and timelessly restrained. Ordinarily, the couches and chairs are in a companionable sectioning, but now they have been grouped up and formed into a wide circle near the hearth.
On one loveseat the Duchess and Duke Aspenwood sit together, Clara to the right, and William to the left. Clara looks ready to walk into the House of Nobles, in perfect dress and not-a-strand-out-of-place hair, her expression in a neutrality that is not entirely neutral; it is difficult for one to read, but the worry is there underneath the calm, simmering without danger of boiling over. William, by contrast, is in his casual clothes, comfortable and familiar, his cane (a lovely dark cherry wood with carvings of flowers that resemble birds, but are not birds) still under his hand even sitting, his reading glasses still on his face. He's smiling a little, not a happy one, but a sad, soft look that shows he's glad to see the children, but the circumstances are less than ideal.
There is no fire in the hearth, not on this spring day, but the room is comfortable in temperature for most, well insulated by the rugs and curtains, and the sunlight streaming in through the windows, illuminating the back of the heads of the house, their gray and blonde streaked hair more strongly resembling their children's for the moment.
Cressidha sits in a chair on her mother's right, close to the hearth, her wavy wheat-blonde hair left down, her hands folded in her lap.
Gardenia enters next, holding Arnie's hand. The two of them are dressed for a casual day out on the town, but a little rumpled, like they have had to sleep in their clothing.
Arnie pulls free and goes for the seat on the long couch closest to his grandparents. "Hello, grandma. Hello, grandpa. Hello, Aunt Cress."
Gardenia follows her son, resting one hand on the back of the couch. She seems reluctant to sit. "He's not here," she says, instead of a greeting. Her eyes are haunted.
William's smile slips, and there's fear and worry both in his blue eyes. He tries to give a better smile to Arnie. "Hello, Arnie, it's good to see you both safe and well."
Clara moves to set a hand briefly on William's, a small touch there and gone, before she inclines her head to Gardenia, her own expression unaltered. "So it would seem," Clara acknowledges to Gardenia. "Please, sit if it is more comfortable."
It's only a few seconds after that Colson enters with Mordecai, holding his husband's hand. The paladin is well-dressed, thanks to his sister, and as mild-mannered as always. He is, however, bald and hairless as a newborn cat. "Good afternoon," he says to the room at large.
Clara blinks at the sight of her son, and makes a faintly audible hm sound.
William, on the other hand, shocks halfway out of his seat, leaning on his cane, and his mouth half open before he speaks. "By the Light, Colson — Cressidha said, but …" Words seem to fail the Lord Aspenwood, and he sits down again, shaking his head, striving for a level of composure. "Well. It's…certainly. A thing." He's not wrong.
Gardenia sits down in the center of the couch, next to her son. "I thought he might be here, somehow," she says, quietly.
Arnie turns and stares at Colson. "Whoa…"
Mordecai mumbles, "Good morning," looking down at the floor.
Colson inclines his head to his father, the gesture of it so exactly his mother's that it's obvious where he picked up the motion, and guides Mordecai over to the opposite loveseat, waiting for Mordecai to sit first before he does. "The Light cannot heal hair, and I was wounded severely enough that it was…impossible to retain any. I am well now. Mordecai saved me from it being fatal, and the recovery possible through the Light."
William exhales a breath that ends in an awkward sort of chuckle, but his look of gratitude directed at Mordecai is sincere. "Thank you, son."
"Yes, thank you. It is most appreciated," Clara adds, and although her tone is even, and controlled, the similarity to Colson's own voice is unmistakable in the same sincerity, if less easily heard. She does not linger in staring at Mordecai, however, turning her attention to Gardenia once more.
Mordecai takes a seat on the left side of the loveseat without releasing Colson's hand. Due to the way that the furniture has been rearranged, the archway that leads into the hall is directly behind him. He is bound to get jump-scared by a staff member in the near future.
"Amadeus went to the harbor yesterday," Gardenia says. "He was waiting for a ship to come in."
Colson's hand tightens on Mordecai's, and his expression goes mask-like, as his eyes go to the empty place next to Gardenia.
William glances from Colson to Gardenia, leaning forward as he visibly struggles to not jump to a conclusion, gripping his cane harder. "What does that mean?"
Cressidha's face goes blank as she watches Gardenia.
Mordecai sets his other hand over Colson's to make a hand sandwich.
"I don't know," Gardenia says. "There was a tidal wave. He would have been there. I don't know."
"Our house fell down a pit," Arnie says. He sounds sulky about this.
Colson takes a careful, slow breath. His hand in Mordecai's is the only thing that really moves, as he squeezes three times. He does not add that there were virtually no survivors who had not already been mostly out of the harbor when the wave hit. He says nothing at all.
William seems to be focusing on his own breathing, his skin an unhealthy pallor. "Oh, no," he says, so quietly it's barely a whisper in the room. "No, my boy." He can't look at anyone, blinking hard as he lowers his head.
Clara's throat flashes in a hard swallow, but otherwise there is no other sign of distress. "I am sorry to hear that, Arnie," she addresses to the boy. She looks at Gardenia. "Amadeus has not reported to any location you are aware of? Could he have been on a ship at the time that might have ridden out the wave, and do we know what the name of that ship is? We must not assume the worst until we have verified the state of things thoroughly. Disasters can result in a break in reliable communication, and he might have defaulted to military protocols." It's a practical based sort of optimism.
"He was waiting for his friend Edson," Gardenia says. "I don't know the name of the ship. It was supposed to come in."
"Papa knows how to swim," Arnie says. "He's a soldier. Soldiers can swim."
Mordecai scoots sideways towards the center of the loveseat, closer to Colson, looking at his husband.
Colson's in full clenched jaw situation now, a shade paler under the tan of his skin, and he looks back at Mordecai helplessly, clinging to his husband's hand with a fluctuating strength, like a man trying to hold on tighter without hurting the person he's holding.
"Yes, both of those are true," Clara says calmly. Her posture remains ramrod straight, as she turns her head to look at Cressidha. "Cressidha, we will need to investigate the situation in Stormwind immediately and locate Amadeus. Do you have sufficient reagents for portals?"
At her side, William covers his eyes with a shaking hand, his back bowed like a much older man.
"Yes, mother," Cressidha says automatically, reaching into a bag for a portal stone.
Gardenia lowers her eyes. "We went to the cathedral and the harbor this morning. It's a mess. We couldn't find him. We thought if he were anywhere he might have come here."
Mordecai leans in and whispers to Colson, "What do you need?"
"I do not know," Colson whispers back, his voice wooden. He takes a deeper breath before he addresses the room, with the sort of forced neutral calm that is not fooling most of the people around him. "If Amadeus and his friend were already out of the harbor when the wave occurred, or if Amadeus was…rescued after," Colson says, avoiding the other R word in front of Arnie. "And he did engage in military protocol, he might have made his way to the Stormwind Keep for the protection of the king and heir, and assisted in the necessary engagement to secure the crown. It is also possible he went to assist the evacuation of other officials, the judiciary or House of Nobles."
"Just so," Clara says. "We will be certain to examine the possibilities." There's a slight movement of her head, a small betrayal of concern, of unease, but it's kept contained. "Gardenia, what would you prefer to do at present? You are welcome to remain here in the interim, as long as you would like. How can we help?"
This seems to do something for William, who pinches the bridge of his nose, and dislodges his glasses to rub at his eyes under them. He then sniffles, and straightens back up, nodding at his wife's words. He has too obviously been crying to really disguise it, and doesn't try. "Yes. What can we do?"
Gardenia puts a hand over her eyes. "Thank you. I'm sorry, I… I need to write to my father, and… I don't know. It's too soon."
Arnie gets up from the couch and goes to give his grandpa a hug.
"Who am I sending to Stormwind?" Cressidha asks.
Mordecai looks at Arnie. Apparently hugging people is appropriate at family meetings. He pulls Colson into a hug, too.
With similar body language accounting for the size differences, William and Colson return their hugs. But where William rubs his hand over Arnie's back, and presses a kiss to the boy's hair, Colson closes his eyes briefly, and looks to Cressidha from the position over Mordecai's arm.
"I shall go to Stormwind," Colson says. "If I might borrow your company tabard, if you have it here, Cressidha, I will see to the inquiries. Between our family name and Cobalt Company's reputation, there should be few places barred, and few who would not speak of Amadeus' whereabouts should they be known."
"I have a few," Cressidha says, and withdraws a clean tabard from a different bag. "You'll wish to take Tenacious, I assume, to return here."
Mordecai has not let go. He mumbles, "What about me?"
"Yes," Colson says to Cressidha, before he turns his head to look at Mordecai. "What do you wish to do?"
"I want to go back home," Mordecai says at a more normal volume. "I want to see if we can get anything back, before looters get to it."
"Shall I make the inquiries, then?" Cressidha offers. She looks to her parents.
Clara observes her son and his husband for a moment, before she nods to Cressidha. "Yes, that would be best, to ensure the most efficient cover of both needs. The townhouse must also be evaluated in the near future, whatever remains of it." The evenness of her voice does not disguise the tightness forming briefly around her eyes, fine lines going deeper. "We will prioritize the well being of our family and households, and address the issue of physical losses after. Colson, Mordecai, do you require anything or anyone to assist with your home that we can provide?"
Colson gives Cressidha a grateful look, setting his hand gently on Mordecai's hair, and looking at his husband for his answer first.
Mordecai looks like he might have short-circuited. He is at a family meeting and everybody is being very reasonable about everything. He does not answer.
Colson waits patiently for Mordecai's reboot, ready to repeat the question if needed.
Clara waits neutrally for an answer.
William blows out a breath against Arnie's hair, and encourages the young boy to sit next to him. His glasses are a little tear splattered. "We should see at least that some lunches are packed before you go. There's no knowing what state the city might be in, and the inns and places to eat will be under strain, I'd guess."
Arnie squeezes himself into the spot between his grandparents on the loveseat and gives his grandma a hug, too.
"Very good, sir," says Grace Auden's voice from the hallway.
Mordecai startles, springing to his feet and looking behind him. "Ah…"
There is the tiniest glow of the Light in Colson's eyes at Mordecai's startle, a start of a reflex, but it fades immediately, as he calmly turns his head to nod to Grace.
As the housekeeper walks off to give instructions to the kitchen staff, Mordecai sinks back onto the couch. "What are they waiting for?" he whispers to Colson.
"Is there anything or anyone that you would like to assist us with our home?" Colson repeats, although since he doesn't sound like he's repeating anything, it might simply sound like just a question.
"I don't know," Mordecai whispers back, and he squeezes Colson's hand twice.
Colson just nods, and then addresses his mother. "I believe we have what we will need, between food and the horses with us, thank you."
"Of course," Clara says, setting her arm around Arnie in something like a formal hug, before rising to a stand. "Please excuse me. I have a note to write for the House of Nobles to make arrangements. I shall leave for Stormwind when it is confirmed that we are intended to convene in the city."
Gardenia manages a nod. She looks like she might be either having some sort of internal breakdown or falling asleep on the couch and it's hard to tell which one.
Cressidha passes Colson the spare tabard. "Here you are. I'll meet you at the stables."
Colson takes the tabard, folding it automatically, one handed. The other hand is for Mordecai. "Thank you. I should perhaps change into armor. It will only take a few moments. Mordecai?" He asks, to confirm what Mordecai will want to do. "Do you wish to change upstairs, or would you prefer to wait here for the food before we go to the stables?"
William pats Arnie's arm in a side-hug squeeze. "Come on, Arnie. Let's get you and your mother settled, hm? You must be exhausted. We'll handle the nitty gritty details while you get some rest. That's what family is for." Before he even starts to rise, Clara bends to hold out her arm for him to take, and William takes it, getting to his feet somewhat unsteadily. She waits until he has a solid grip on his cane before she steps away, moving decisively towards her office. William reaches for Arnie's hand.
Arnie takes his grandfather's hand. "Okay."
Mordecai blinks at Colson. "I'll stay with you," he says, his hand tightening on Colson's.
Colson smiles gently at Mordecai, squeezing back twice, and nodding. "Very well." He gives a polite nod to the room as he rises fully to a stand. "If you will please excuse us, we will be at the stables shortly. Please rest well, Gardenia, Arnie. Light be with you."
Gardenia manages another nod.
Mordecai makes for the stairs, walking quickly, towing Colson along. "Everyone was staring," he mumbles. "I don't know what they wanted me to ask for."
Colson is an easily towed paladin tugboat. "It is alright. No one is upset," he says soothingly. "They simply wanted to know what, if anything, you might need or want. Sometimes that answer is 'nothing more at the moment,' and that is alright. You cannot displease them by either the asking or the refusing. All are correct answers as long as they are what you want."
Mordecai nods. "Between the two of us, we can probably… lift what we need to, I hope." He sighs and holds the bedroom door open for Colson, stepping inside after him.
Colson walks into the room with that military-like posture, a man readying to put on his armor at the sort of speed to impress a drill sergeant.
Once the door is shut and they are securely in a private space, Mordecai says, "I didn't know what to do. You squeezed three times but we couldn't just leave a family meeting. Could we have?"
"I should not then, no. I…" Colson covers his eyes with a hand briefly, an echo of his father's gesture, and he shakes his head as he lowers his hand again. "I simply did not want them to see me and know my thoughts. I want to believe, and I want to hope that somehow Amadeus survived." He exhales slowly, controlled, as he strips off his nice, new clothes, to put on yesterday's, and his armor on top of it. "However, you and I both know the odds of that are distressingly low, if not entirely nonexistent. I am — I am afraid my brother is…dead."
"I'm sorry," Mordecai says, moving in closer. "I really hope not, but…" He looks at his hands. The odds are indeed very low. He does not say that out loud. "If you want to… keep it together in front of your family…"
"They were not there, and so there is more reason to hope, and I do not want to take that from them." Colson straps on his pauldrons with a mask-like neutrality. "I cannot stop and grieve prematurely either. I must believe there is a chance, and I must try. We shall go to Stormwind, and I shall pray the Light guides us to him."
"I understand." Mordecai takes a deep breath. "Fortitude." The spell seems to fortify them both with a single casting.
Time Passes, With Sandwiches and Horses, To Stormwind
In Stormwind, it's the unsettling quiet of a day after a disaster, Normalcy too far away to do anything more beyond creakings and groanings of fits and starts of what should be a Wednesday afternoon. There are few shops open, but more people in the streets, oddly subdued, than usual, with the largest crowd that buzzes with noise around the Cathedral as it struggles to accommodate and give succor to the wounded, the traumatized, and the unhoused.
The remains of the Park District are as devastating in the next day's light as it was before, the sunken pieces of rubble in the water all that remains of many buildings. There are a few Stormwind guards and possibly civilians on the edges of it, doing what they can to sift through, and there are few sheet covered bodies along where some of the dead have been found and moved out of the water.
Colson and Mordecai's house is mostly on land, near the edge of the collapsed wall of the city, although water has leaked throughout from where the pipes burst and broke, sending a great deal of mud throughout the rubble, and hiding some of both the damage and what few precious objects might have escaped the destruction both.
Mordecai makes a quiet noise of dismay as he sees it. "Oh," he says quietly. "Maybe I should have asked your parents for a bunch of people with shovels after all."
"Ah. Well." Colson surveys the remnants of their house with that deep calm he usually shows on the battlefield. "We must start somewhere, and if we determine we require more assistance, we will ask for it. In the meantime, where would you prefer to begin?"
"Um." Mordecai inches towards the house. "Where were your bags? If we can find those, then…"
"Our bedroom," Colson says, and he seems to be visibly pausing to mentally reconstruct the house for where that would be, without the aid of the actual walls and interior cues. "I believe that would be over here." He starts stepping towards what does seem to be the general vague end of their house nearest the wall, wood and stone shoved up against the edge. There are shapes within the detritus, things that could be their possessions, including something that seems sharp and in the afternoon light, vaguely purple.
Mordecai fumbles in his bag. "Here," he says, and presses a feather into Colson's hand. "I can float us over the mud?"
Colson looks over, accepting the feather automatically, before he directs his attention to it and grasps the connection between the thing in his hand and the words. "Ah. Of course, thank you."
Mordecai takes a feather for himself, tucks it behind his ear, and levitates the two of them about a foot into the air.
Colson moves with as much easy grace a foot in the air as he does standing on the ground, the difference allowing him to cross easily to the remains of their bedroom, as he begins to methodically and carefully examine the objects there. "I believe this is our bed," he says after a moment, and his estimation is probably accurate — there is something of a rectangular shape that has been crushed beneath several beams of the roof, but elements of cloth are obvious even under the grime. He takes a knee — mid air — to bend down, eyes narrowed in concentration, as he reaches down for one of those sharper purple shapes, spaced roughly but closely enough to suggest that it might be the string lights Colson made for them in Nagrand. "Mordecai. The lights."
Mordecai, who is unarmored, crouches down much more easily. But when he tries to brace a hand on the air for balance, it doesn't stay, and he hurriedly repositions himself over a beam before lowering himself down to balance on it, now levitating only Colson. "The string lights…" With a hopeful expression, Mordecai reaches for a crystal and tugs on the string, carefully unearthing the string lights bit by bit.
Colson smiles faintly at the sight, stepping closer to hold out a hand for them. "May I see them? They might still be functional, or they might require repairs."
"They're covered in muck," Mordecai warns him, but he offers the string lights up to Colson, smiling.
"That is alright," Colson answers, taking the lights in his hands, turning them over gently, and unhurriedly. He brushes away the mud with a thumb, looking over the results crystal by crystal. One has fractured, but not broken, and Colson spends a longer moment on it before he moves on with a low hmmm. When he gets to the power source, he takes a deep breath before he turns it on — even underneath the coating that remains, the lights turn on into a steady glow, with only two dimmer sources: the carved heart center, and the fractured crystal, two to the right from the end.
Mordecai gasps. "They still work," he says, and Colson begins to descend about an inch in the air before Mordecai focuses and reinforces the levitation spell, lifting him back up to that one-foot hovering mark.
Colson nods in agreement, holding them back out to Mordecai with a softer but more obvious smile. "Yes. I should probably take a closer look at the one that cracked, to see if it might require replacement, but otherwise it is intact." So, hey, that's at least one (1) thing.
He turns his head as he surveys their bedroom again, mentally tracing steps. "My bags would have been…that way, but I am unsure as to where they might have gone from that location." Colson does not have a mathematical calculation of angles sort of mind. He does however have patience, and so he seems prepared to start at the center where the bags were and just move outwards in all the directions from there. Eventually he will probably find something.
Mordecai wipes the string lights off with a cloth - it's Colson's handkerchief from yesterday - before he puts them away in his bag. One thing he does have with him is disposable cloth gloves, and he puts on a set of those. Carefully, he moves off the beam, and then begins to just start shifting what rubble he can lift aside.
It is difficult not to notice that the ratio of preservation to destroyed completely is heavily weighted on the latter. The wardrobe is shattered, splintered wood. The couch with its blanket suitable for two buried so deeply beneath mud and stone that recovery would be fruitless and the fabric impossible to salvage. The garden is ruined beyond hope of repair, the flowers torn from their roots and beds, crushed into smears of color among the rubble. Porcelain shards and glass slivers are all that remain of their kitchen, peeking up from their place of broken wood that were once cabinets.
And yet, here and there, are pieces of their life, stubbornly and softly remaining. Colson's dedicated attention to sifting through each and every part of their bedroom reveals that within the mess, their wedding clothes encased in their garment bags survived intact. And though they were crushed beneath the weight of the house, several of Mordecai's heavily enchanted robes courtesy of Cressidha need only a cleaning and mild repairs.
While no paper survived, not the letters in their carefully maintained binders nor their cherished recipe book filled with their collaborative ideas, among the rubble of the living room the draenei crystals held on: the recorded music of their dances, and if not all of them, at least a single flower of the carved bouquet fully and completely unaltered, sparkling in the afternoon sun.
Mordecai finds his pocket watch in one piece. Although the chain has been damaged and the outer casing has been scratched, when he opens it up to check, the inside is fully intact and the watch still ticks. He shows it to Colson with a pleased smile before tucking it away.
Mordecai fluctuates between quietly devastated at each confirmed loss and pleased and delighted at each find. The single suitcase he brought with him when he left his parents' house is damaged beyond repair, and anything still inside is fully ruined. Mordecai spends a full minute touching the muddy leather, mouth moving in prayer, saying goodbye.
When Colson finds the gem flower, Mordecai does a happy bounce and lands on something that slips beneath his feet. He holds his arms out to steady himself, managing to remain upright.
Colson nearly drops the gem flower in his haste to close the gap between the two of them, a muddy hand hovering below Mordecai's arm as Colson waits to see his husband stabilize before he lowers it. "I can remake the rest," he offers, a faint smile on his face in reflection of Mordecai's own louder joy.
Mordecai beams at him. "I love you. I mean, all right."
Colson's smile widens and softens, his eyes tracing Mordecai's face like a touch. "I love you," he echoes, and it takes him another beat to drag his eyes from Mordecai to examine the skeleton framework of their house. "I wonder…" He steps towards the pile of stone rubble of their sunroom, evidence of broken wood frames of art poking up through like fingers. "My jewelry kit was forged to withstand crashing tests of the draenei ships. I believe it is likely it is still intact." He holds out the last fully intact gem flower to Mordecai to place with the rest of their items. "Will you take this, please?"
Mordecai takes the gem flower and tucks it very carefully behind his ear, holding it in place.
Colson is not fast, but he is strong enough to manage careful lifting of parts of the house away. The sun's path has hit beyond its zenith and has begun to dip low enough to cast longer and longer shadows, but still the paladin does not hurry or rush. Beneath a heavy, mostly intact stone of the wall, rests Colson's kit. There is a deep scratch through the painted Coleson label, but it remains readable beneath the dirt.
"Oh!" Mordecai crouches down to pick up the box, brushing it off as he straightens up. "Here." He presents the kit to Colson with a smile.
Colson takes it carefully, balancing a hand on the bottom and another on the top, looking over the exterior with a mild, appraising eye. "It seems the shell has held well enough. I will need to open it and inspect it to know what might have been damaged in an impact, but I believe the main tools should be completely unbroken."
Mordecai straightens the gem flower behind his ear and climbs out of the wreckage to stand on level ground. He removes his gloves and covers his face with his hands, taking a few deep breaths. It seems like he's bracing for something.
Colson places his jewelry kit into one of his bags, gently and with care for the precious things within as much as the kit itself, and moves to stand beside Mordecai, not quite close enough to actually be touching him, but only a short reach away. "Are you all right?"
"We just have to say goodbye to it," Mordecai says. He sounds sad, but not on the verge of tears, as he lowers his hands to look at Colson.
Colson lets that stand for several breaths, the words given weight in a calm silence. Then he nods gently. "Yes." He looks away from Mordecai to take in the sight of the ruined Park District, and their own center of the world crushed beneath their feet. He turns back to Mordecai, reaching out a mud covered hand for one of Mordecai's clean ones, an offering. "Would you like to pray with me for it in farewell?"
"Yes, please." Mordecai takes Colson's hand without hesitation, although his expression flickers as he feels the texture of the mud. "I had more gloves," Mordecai says. "I forgot. It's all right." He squeezes Colson's hand and smiles.
Colson's eyes flash with brief guilt that he allows Mordecai to assuage, and he squeezes back gently once. With the solemnity of a man at a funeral, he bows his head and closes his eyes, breathing deeply as he centers himself.
Mordecai laces their fingers together and does the same, bowing his head and closing his eyes.
Colson speaks softly, barely above a whisper, with not his own words, but those of a canticle prayer of the Church of the Light. It is heartfelt if not of his own construction, his faith clear within the phrases, though they speak of generalities of loss, references to the sacrament of waiting, of beauty found within silence and the stripping bare before the Light in its glory, and not of the intimacy of the stones and wood under their feet gathered around them in a tomb where a home once was.
Mordecai does not have this one memorized, so he just listens quietly. When Colson finishes speaking, Mordecai murmurs, "Tenacity in the face of destruction," opening his eyes to look at his husband.
It makes Colson reach a hand up automatically partway to the scar that mars the skin of his upper torso, freezing in place before he lowers it, and raises his head instead and opens his eyes to meet Mordecai's gaze. "Tenacity in the face of destruction."
Mordecai makes eye contact, holds it, and nods. "We'll have a new home one day," he says, "and another garden. And right now, we have each other." His hand in Colson's abruptly grows warmer as a flicker of the [Guardian Spirit] manifests. It only lasts a second, and the wings of Light that form behind Mordecai are a different shape: taller and less wide than they used to be.
This detail is not missed by the paladin, who looks at the wings with a bit of an odd expression, half caught in a familiar rapture of awe and desire, and half caught in curiosity, like a man who is confronted with a profound mystery of the powers that be and the unknowable enigmas of the universe forces that hold his faith, but he's still into it.
He reaches out a hand near the wings, hovering on the outer edges. "It is different," he murmurs softly.
Mordecai turns his head to look, and the wings vanish, the spell cut short. He turns back to Colson, stepping a little closer. "What? What was different?"
"The wings. They are not the same as before," Colson says, his hand pressing forward into the space the wings were, as if he can catch the faintest hint of the Light still in the air and he cannot help reaching for it. "Still beautiful, only different."
"Oh." Mordecai smiles dreamily at Colson, not really in a place to start mentally unpacking why that might be the case. "Should we wash our hands and head back…? I think I've… said as much of a goodbye as I'll be able to."
Colson closes his hand on the memory of the wings, and nods to Mordecai. "I understand. It does not all need to happen at once. Today can be enough as it is." He casts a glance out towards the harbor, the useless information that it provides for the mystery of his eldest brother's life, and he inhales deeply to settle into the unknown. He steps away, holding Mordecai's hand gently but with the firmness that suggests he is ready to aid in holding the priest's balance. "Let us return to our family."
"Let's," Mordecai agrees.