Remus had seen more of his bed than he had of sunlight for two long, tiring Durations. It seemed outrageously bizarre now that previously, the time reserved for entering its covers was something to be looked forward to, especially after a demanding day of performing odd jobs for the sect. As opposed to now, where he fully planned on setting its quilt ablaze the second the medic approved of his recovery.
Speaking of which, like some miraculous spot of mercy from the gods, that was exactly what happened several Passings into the year.
“You’re well enough to walk, at the very least,” the bespectacled woman informed him, “but no strenuous activity. You hear me?”
“Loud and clear, Saige,” Remus replied delightedly. “I can’t recall the last time I felt the sensation of solid ground beneath my feet.”
Through the many long days of his treatment, Remus had both grown to resent the taste of mint, and gotten to know his doctor Saige fairly well. Although her constant wariness elicited many a groan from Remus’ mouth, he couldn’t deny that he had become somewhat fond of her, exasperated by her worrywart nature or not.
“You should be able to continue your carpentry work now, undeterred, and whatever else you do to keep yourself busy.”
Lining his arm across his nape and tugging it in a stretch, Remus replied, “not much, as of late. Though I’m sure Mother and Father will find some way to occupy my time, with the Descension coming up.”
Saige wielded her accusatory look like a dagger. “Nothing too demanding, no doubt?”
Chuckling, Remus began to stride towards the room’s door, eager to see the rest of his manor for the first time in recent memory. “Yes, Saige. Gods, you dote over me more than my own mother!”
“That’s obviously false. Do you know how much Briella has questioned me about your health?”
Remus halted abruptly at the doorway. “She has?”
“More times than I can bother to remember.”
There it was, jumping out at him when he least expected it, almost spoiling his jovial mood — a tinge of guilt.
“Do you . . . do you think she’ll forgive me?”
A resounding cackle echoed around the chamber. “Forgive you? For what?”
“That stuff with Edmar,” Remus hesitated. “I don’t know why I did that. Mustn’t have been thinking straight. And now the rest of the sect’s reputation has took a hit because of m-”
A blunt blow to Remus’ head caught him off guard. “Ah! Did you just swat me?”
“Yes I did!” Saige confessed sternly, waving a upheld fist. “You’ve been talking in circles for your entire treatment. Of course she’ll forgive you. She likely already has.”
Offering no words for a second, Remus bit the inside of his cheek. “It still doesn’t sit right with me.”
“Then follow your brother’s advice. Apologise to Edmar. You agreed to, correct?”
“I did.” He admitted, eyes appearing to be seeing something miles away. “But that sits even worse.”
“And yet, that seems to be the only thing that’ll ease this trouble from your mind.” Saige reasoned, somehow able to deduce his every worry and concern with the subtlest glance.
Remus wasn’t exactly keen on the idea of prostrating himself in front of anyone, and least of all for the man who had hospitalised him for half a Passing. Nevertheless, Saige’s arguments never failed to be convincing. “All right, fine, fine. Next time I see Edmar, I’ll apologise with as much authenticity as I can muster. But really Saige, must you insist on being impossibly right all the time?”
“Alas, only I must bear this great burden.” She lamented with mock regret. “Now, I do believe it's about time you got going. A certain someone is arriving today, after all.”
He looked blankly at his medic for a moment, not inferring her meaning, before slapping himself on both cheeks. “Oh, Oh! Andreas!”
Remus launched out of the room in a limping run, leaving Saige alone to cackle at the amusing sight.
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Inside of the carpentry manor’s looming shadow, a crowd of men and women stood silently, all awaiting for Andreas, the pillar of their shared sect to make his long awaited return. A rising sun emerged behind a visage of grey blotches, interlaced with the occasional structure of somewhat admirable build. These were outliers, tiny fragments of finery in an abyss of bleakness that made up the main body of Labour District. Whenever Remus left the clan’s manor, and was subject to traversing through such morbid territory, he tended to skirt through as quickly as his legs could carry him. To save himself from catching a glimpse of the space he lived in, a space manufactured by Damosh to do nothing but oppress.
That would only spiral his thoughts back into that inescapable rabbithole of loathing. Just the sort of place his mind had been ensnared by, when he had made the worst decision of his life.
Yet today, for the first time since he could remember, save for the brief instances in his youth where he was too naive to process the horrors encompassing his own home, a dash of excitement drew him out there. Made him actively want to stand within the district's indistinct borders.
Remus strolled behind his brother as quietly as he could, not wanting to encroach on the shared silence that hung above his family like an impalpable veil. Damion only nodded approvingly upon catching sight of him, before turning his attention back to the shadow speeding towards them.
It had come into the range where one could hear the turning of wheels, rattling against the roads of mud and deteriorated rock, but could barely garner more than an impression of browns and blacks when trying to see the cause of the rumbling.
“He’s here.” Aiden said quietly, so only the four of them could hear.
“I hope he isn’t too mad at me.” Remus mumbled, both so intoxicated on his dread that his pupils couldn’t linger on the advancing shape for more than a second, and near to bursting with gleeful anticipation. The two emotions raged war within him, producing a sort of uneasy queasiness that left him altogether apprehensive.
“He might have an awkward talk with you,” Briella replied, at the same volume, “but my grandfather is a calm man, if you express remorse, he’ll probably let you off with a pat on the back and some inspirational words.”
Damion snickered affectionately. “Like a motivational speaker, that man, isn’t he?”
As a comfortable quiet began to engulf them once more, Remus couldn’t help but find it bizarre that his great grandfather was still alive and most virile, and yet his closest grandparents had perished years ago, long before he had been born. He knew it to be because of the life-expectancy increase that came with climbing the Divine Ranks. For a Warlord alone, a two hundred year lifespan wasn’t uncommon. In fact, it was seen to be the average.
His Rank of course, was the central reason explaining why Andreas had outlived his own children. Despite the glories advancement bestowed, and Remus desired dearly to claim even the first Rank as his own, he couldn’t help but find that prospect ceaselessly depressing.
Finally, the formless pigment sharpened into a bustling carriage, with two mighty horses at its helm parading forwards. Down a hill it strode, and straining, Remus could spot a superbly dressed man whipping the horses into action. He blinked, and the vehicle disappeared, as if blipping out of existence, before, bewildered, Remus realised it had reappeared at his side.
Now, he could take a closer look at the suit-sporting coachman himself. He dressed clearly to impress, paying fine attention to ensure that every miniscule detail of his outfit was utterly perfect. A rose was set upon his tophat, somehow defying the laws of gravity to stay put; his tuxedo was pure black, adorned with buttons of glistening grey; and sat in front of his left socket, a monocle with a golden chain magnified his eye ever so slightly. Stubble spotted his defined chin, and the man’s pride and joy, his well-groomed moustache, could attract envious compliments from anyone.
He hopped out with a cane striking the ground before him, knocking onto the carriage door and shouting, “open!”
Damion leaned over to him, hand to his mouth, eyebrows raised. “Do you see that?”
“See what?” Remus replied absently, the suited man’s flamboyant outfit practically demanding his attention.
“On his hand, that’s his Mark. The Speed god, it looks like.”
Remus scrambled his memory. “Java, right? That explains how the carriage got here so fast.”
“Exactly.”
For a second, Remus examined the deity’s Mark: a myriad of hovering clocks in a vortex of contrasting reds and blues. Surrounded by this cocoon of blinding light, a series of images, like blurred visages of huddled men, sat in a perfect cycle. They depicted the most unfortunate group gradually decaying into bone, before only passing piles of marrow remained.
“Seems more Time related than Speed.” Remus couldn’t help but comment, as the man’s hand went straight into his waistcoat pocket.
“Java was apparently so fast during the war that he could manipulate time, but to what extent no one knows. He spent most of his time hiding then, his power reportedly so hyper-focused onto his agility that his other attributes, like strength and endurance, were left to suffer. To the extent that a couple blows from the other deities could prove fatal. Anyhow, none of his followers have ever displayed any time-warping capabilities, but this—” Damion examined the coachman’s odd appearance “—gentleman sure is quick.”
Damion’s rambles were largely left ignored, as right that moment the carriage door slid open.
Two broad legs, stepping gradually down a set of laid-out stairs, were the first sight Remus caught of his great grandfather. The man was muscular, a behemoth of masculine strength that often participated in bodybuilding competitions when he was younger. Or, whatever counts as young when you’re over a hundred years old. Slid over tightly on his hulking frame was a classic carpenter’s uniform, rugged and worn from age. Perhaps the man took pride in the archaic piece, donning it to remember his roots. But Remus couldn’t deliberate too much longer on whether Andreas was of the nostalgic sort or not, for his head was now in visible view.
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A bald ball of a face poked out from the carriage, a beaming smile fit with all his teeth perhaps the most prominent of his grandfather’s features. Stormy grey eyes settling upon his clan, Andreas let out a booming, earth-rumbling laugh from the pits of his stomach.
“My family and fellow carpenters!” An equally loud shout sent rubble on the streetside quaking. “How much I’ve missed you all! If I have to see another fiend pushing its repulsive head through one of my walls, I’m going to go mad, I swear.”
Many of the crowd let out a great clamouring full of cheer, and after the noise settled down, Aiden and Briella stepped forth to meet the man.
Aiden took the courtesy of speaking first. “It's an honour, and a great relief if I may add, that you’ve finally returned Andreas. We have much to discuss.”
“Indeed we do!” The Warlord patted the man on his shoulder, his smile seemingly permanent. “Indeed we do . . .”
“It's wonderful to see you, Grandad.” Briella matched the man’s delight. “Anything to report from the front lines?”
Glowing expression not extinguishing, but evidently dimming somewhat, Andreas mused. “Continued construction of barricades, a few skirmishes of Unbounded slipping past the front lines, a few more promising recruits to the army . . . more of the same, really.”
Remus stood stationary at Damion’s side as a sea of carpenters washed over him in a roaring wave of movement. All surrounding an exuberant Andreas, who talked to each of them in turn. He recognised those whose faces he could catch through the flood of human flesh, the Carpentry Sect being reasonably small, so that you could know most of the fifty-or-so members by name without too much difficulty. There was Arlen, the oldest of the clan’s teenagers, beating Damion by a few day’s slip, on the verge of adulthood and struggling to contain himself, as he battled his way to Andreas. He must have seen this as quite the auspicious opportunity to talk his way into a higher paying working position. Portia, Remus also spotted, an elderly woman — for an Emblazed Rank — who took pity on him when he was younger. Having handed him several sweets whenever she noticed him particularly downcast.
Inevitably, quite a few leers were sent in Remus’ direction, each of them causing him to wince on impulse. Remus had of course expected some resentment after his explosion with Edmar, but the sheer number of unapproving looks chafed away at his self-esteem. Unable to bear the weight of the stares, he fixated on Andreas, only now noticing the long strip of bandaging plastering his left arm. Had he always had that? Remus’ memory of brief meetings with his great grandfather didn't seem to match with this current version. A sickly feeling arose inside him, and suddenly the looks seemed a smidge less daunting. Blankly ignoring it all, Remus waited in a true test of his patience.
Time seemed to decelerate, and he observed in slow motion as each sect member went up to Andreas to exchange a few words, their numbers gradually, ever so painfully gradually, diminishing. The coachman must have slipped away in the brief millisecond Remus took to blink, for he could catch no further sight of him or his vehicle.
“Oh no . . . “ he accidentally let out aloud, biting away on a nail pensively.
“What is it?” Damion inquired drowsily, at some inexplicable point having mastered the art of sleeping and standing simultaneously.
“People are clearing off, Andreas is going to be free to have a word with me any second now.” Remus found his fingers tapping against his thigh with unexplained urgency. “Damn it, our first time meeting in a year, commenced by a harsh berating.”
“Could be worse.” Damion yawned. “We could have had to wait out here longer.”
There was a silence. “. . . well yes, admittedly, that does sound equally bothersome.”
Attention swerving back to Andreas, Remus took a step back in startlement at the empty patch of ground where the Warlord had once stood.
A step back right into his great grandfather.
“Ah!” The two brothers yelped in unison.
“Boys!” The man shouted as he lifted the two in a fierce bearhug. He didn’t seem to note the fact he was on the verge of rebreaking Remus’ freshly healed ribs. “How much have I missed my grandkids! How’s the ripe age of nineteen treating you Damion, almost an adult now, eh? How exciting!”
“Its — its been good.” Damion managed to slip out between strained breaths.
“Excellent!” The Warlord howled in jubilation. “And Remus . . .”
The Death-Marked grew tense for reasons excluding the physical hold gripping his body. “Y-yes?”
“How you’ve grown! Ah, how I long for a chance for us to catch up, there will be much to discuss.”
“Of course,” Remus mumbled. “Quite a bit.”
“Excuse us Damion, but it seems that some, uh, private matters may surface during our talk. I’ll have to drag this one along by himself, but never fear! I’ll be sure to teach you a trick or not at your next shift. You’ll never chop planks quite the same.”
“Yeah, that sounds great.” Damion said, his eyes transmitting an unspoken good luck to his brother.
Remus was slumped over the shoulder of his grandfather as if he weighed the equivalent of a feather. He was about to spurt out a hasty, “Wait!” to his overly at ease elder, when the ground at his feet suddenly grew very distant.
And the clouds, like blotches of white ink that had fallen off of the gods’ palettes, dotted his vision. The air was stripped out of Remus’ lungs, his every survival instinct screaming nonsensically, and yet still, they seemed to be gaining in elevation, much to gravity’s annoyance. Then, inevitably, when the laws of the universe had decided to snap back into effect, Remus plummeted in the Warlord’s steadfast hold.
They were falling to their deaths, or at least, Remus couldn’t see this ending in any other way. Remus the Death-Marked, accomplisher of nothing, and Andreas, who incredulously, was giggling all the way. Cackling insanely in the face of the final reaper.
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They didn’t die, fortunately.
But Remus found himself much less fond of heights after that incident — not that he had reserved any special place for them in his heart of stone in the first place.
Angling downwards like twin arrows after passing the apex of their shot, they were slowly sloping towards a sweeping series of hills outside of First Rite. Up here, Remus could view the only city he had ever known in fine detail. The three districts, utterly differing from one another up close, conflicted in appearance more than opposing shades from his newfound bird's-eye-view. There was the Labour District, the largest of the non-equal thirds, like a sooty stain ravaging the highland landscape. Their buildings’ dark hues merged together in a splashing of ash, making discerning any one structure rather a challenge, though Remus was convinced if he squinted just hard enough, he could spot their sect’s manor.
Adjacent to this, after he had overcome another screaming fit, the smallest district, Leisure, stuck him as much more appealing. Even before the date of the Day of Descension had crept alarmingly forwards, Leisure had been a marvellous expanse of stalls, clean stone streets, and crowd-gathering hotspots. Now, with the deities closer to making their appearance than ever, it had an extra layer of crisp elegance to it. Banners were lined across every building, the flagstones that made up the streets seemed to gleam, and preparations were heavily underway.
There was, of course, like a looming, unspoken-of shadow casted over everything, Ruling District. Remus only caught a glance of its spiking towers, before the acceleration of their trajectory left him more concerned with keeping the skin on his face than any sight First Rite could bestow.
Andreas let out a playful cry in equal parts non-intelligible as it was mirthful. The noise emerged right when Remus’ throat released an odd sort of whimpering sound itself, as his grandfather came to a resounding crash, mud spewing up to blind them. Time seemed to pause, and it took a great while for Remus’ senses to kickback into gear, as he lay heaving on the Warlord’s back.
Feet deep into the ground, Andreas pulled himself free, before kicking back and resting against a patch of grass. Sun on his face as if mother nature herself intended him to rest there, a satisfied smile curved his lips, as the man exhaled deeply. Remus, meanwhile, was left to hunch into a ball, rocking with his knees just below his eyes and clutching at the daffodils sprouting from upheaved earth.
“I haven’t stretched my legs like that in a long time,” Andreas reflected, stretching nonchalantly.
After the world stopped spinning, Remus got up shakily. “You can fly?”
“Heavens no!” Spat the man who, seconds prior, had been dividing clouds. “I can jump high. Gotta work those hamstrings somehow, do we not?”
“I guess so.”
The two soon found themselves under the shade of a tree’s canopy, backs against its log, and staring lazily at the capital. Remus enjoyed the company of his grandfather, letting the wears of his recovery seep away from his mind and body, as light began to dim to a welcoming incarnadine. Andreas recited stories of his time at the front lines, all of them so ridiculous that, lethargic or not, Remus knew the majority to be embellished. Or the Mortal Realms were more chaotic than he could have ever imagined.
“A colony of supersized worms ate their way through your shielding?” Remus repeated, the words not quite providing sense. “That’s almost less believable than the army of squirrels you claimed to have attacked you.”
“They are feisty creatures!” Andreas held his ground, smiling so brightly that Remus failed to infer if he was serious or not. “We may revisit this topic another time boy, but for now, there is an awkward subject we must discuss, mortifying for the both of us or not.”
Remus suddenly became absolutely fascinated with the lines of his palm. “ . . . There is?”
Somehow, he could feel Andreas’ stern gaze. “There is.”
At his grandson’s silence, the man began. “I understand why you did what you did, Remus.” His voice grew as tense as bedrock. “Believe me, I know.”
“So, you’re not mad?”
“Oh, I am.” He put bluntly. “I just have the miraculous ability to control my emotions, and not let them take the reins of me. Something you, let us assume because of the shortsightedness of youth, sorely lack.”
“I . . . admittedly can see where you’re coming from.”
“So you’re not totally blind in this regard!” Andreas clapped encouragingly. “Self-awareness is good.”
“I know that I’m in no position to conflict with Damosh or his henchman,” Remus explained. “But whenever I think of how they’re abusing the sect, all logic in me bleeds red.”
“Red? Oh, we’re speaking in metaphors now? Not my favoured means of communication, I must admit. Craft with your hands, not with words, I say.”
“What I mean to say,” Remus continued, ignoring the Walord’s rambles, “is that I’m truly sorry for any shame my misconduct has put onto the clan’s name. At the nearest opportunity, I plan on apologising to Edmar in person. Hopefully then, maybe, you’ll be relieved of some of the consequences of my actions.”
Squinting at him, Andreas examined Remus up and down. “You’ve rehearsed those lines in your head a hundred times, haven't you?”
“Well yes, but that doesn’t change the fact I meant every one of them.”
His grandfather sighed, comfortably tired after a long day’s journey. “You may Remus, but there’s something you’ve got to understand if you want to survive in this world. Something vital.”
Remus raised an eyebrow. “And that is?”
Characteristic ebullience abruptly fading to the backburner, Andreas’s face grew very dark indeed. “You are nothing.”
The late afternoon breeze swept over the hillside, riding a new wave in a quiet humming. A series of chirps resounded from a flock of birds circling overhead, and the chirping of cicadas overlaid it all.
But even louder, was the silence that engulfed the two.
“Not on a personal level, I should probably add,” Andreas burst the tense bubble between them. “But Edmar is only a Foot-Soldier Remus, and from the sounds of it, you couldn’t even rustle the hemming of his clothing. I’m all for being ambitious Remus, but without a Rank, you can’t choose your fights.”
Remus’ throat constricted, and his words seemed to become lodged before they could leave his lips. Andreas put an arm on his shoulder, smiling wistfully directly into his eyes.
“I don’t say this to hurt you, but I can’t have you getting yourself killed. The power between the Divine Ranks is unfathomable — hell, there are beings out there that could poof me out of existence with only a passing thought, and, not to toot my own horn or anything, I’m seen as relatively powerful in most corners of the world.”
The words dug deep, and Remus couldn’t believe how a man who casually jumped amongst clouds like it was a work-out routine, could only be paired with such a dull description, in the grand scheme of things. Was he exaggerating? Well, no, he concluded, if you took into account the gods themselves, who tended to slip Remus’ mind. They always seemed so far off, detached from regular human life, that he’d failed to consider them.
“I understand.” Remus eventually managed, even if the words cut like razors in his mouth.
“That’s a good lad.” Andreas beamed, tension fully vanquished. “Now, let’s get you back to your betters, eh? I’m sure they have plenty to keep you busy, with the Descension almost upon us. And hey, maybe you’ll even run into Edmar, and you can make amends with him. Then we can put this all behind us. Like a sour, distant memory.”
“Sure Grandad,” Remus muttered hoarsely, eying up Andreas’ veiled arm, “sure.”