Memory [Thomas]

Drew Roscoe
It's quarter past eight in the evening, and the sun has long since gone down over the mountains and hills on the western horizon.  Lightning bugs are fewer and further between as the weather chills, but a few still light and float over the grasses and in the woods out here in the country.  Though it is mid-October, the temperatures are still mild all things considered, having been up in the sixties earlier today.  With the sun gone and the cool of nighttime settling, even still it hadn't dropped lower than the fifties yet.  Anyone out and about would be comfortable in a good hoodie or a light jacket tonight.

Along a road that twists less than a mile outside of Browntown proper sits a little white house.  It's one story tall but too large to be considered a cottage, while simultaneously too small to be a rambler.  There's a short gravel driveway that goes just past the side of the house to a detached garage/shed, and sitting before the shed rather than in it is a big Dodge Ram with custom black-cherry paint (apparently too big to fit in the tiny garage, so it had to sit outside instead).  The front yard is good sized with no fence to speak of, the grass is was mowed in the past few days and the leaves have been raked just as recently (though, of course, it was impossible to completely clear the yellows and oranges that scattered sparsely across the grass).

The only indicators to who lives there:
Asking the town's barkeep, or other local Garou or Kinfolk who've heard her name or seen her at town meetings.

The same big old truck she used to drive in Chicago (though they currently hosted California license plates for some weird reason).

The mailbox out front against the road had 'Roscoe' painted on the side of it in big black letters.
Inside all was quiet and the blinds were drawn, but the glow of a light from the front room and a dimmer glow from a far side window indicated that Drew either had to be home or nearby

If~Frost~Had~FearIt has been long-
'Duty knows no measure of time.'
Then it should have been spoken in the agreement
'It is spoken now. This last thing-'
She is no longer my-
'This last thing, spirit. For which payment is handsome. For which duty is plain.'
She is not mine
'Then you lose nothing in the telling.'

* * * *

A country road. Winding and casual and smooth, it bends to the shoreline of the trees surrounding, a curved length of minimal civilization. Here, the quiet rules, but for brief moments of calamity as Browntown has been exposed to in recent times. Down the trail, some wolves might chase red hoods gone riding, there is a tiny bright spot upon the roadside. A little white villa, with the suggestion of domesticity. Here, lingers the touch of decoration, the pragmatic defensiveness...

...The scent of the familiar (Almost forgotten).

Gravel crunches underfoot, dirt shifts with each step and he climbs out of the darkness lining the road, hands tucked into the pockets of a dark hoody so weather worn it's pock-marked with holes, tears and hastily sewn repairs. The hood tilts, it's volume deep enough to occlude the features from a casual glance, keeping the fears and balking to a minimum on his way through town. It hadn't taken long to find her. She hadn't done much to hide (no reason?).

What light exists in her front yard, beyond the small change of landscape that divides private from public property, grass lawn into grass meadow, he stands watching the light in the windows. Bare feet curl toes into the gravel sticking to the flesh of his soles, the webbing between toes. He chimes, a guttural thing in a throat raw with disuse. Clears his throat again.

"Drew." Tries the name. Not loudly, not softly. A statement as if marked to be memorized.
"Drew." Louder this time. A fact, as his eyes scan the dark letters hugging her villa wall.

Drew RoscoeInside the house, Drew Roscoe is taking a night off.  She'd been working all day at the desktop in her bedroom, answering emails, on and off the phone with her boss and on-location associates at the bank, correcting coding issues and all of that delightfully dull IT jazz.  She'd sent an email out to her associates at five o' clock declaring that tonight she would not be available.  She had settled into the couch in her living room, put on a movie, and was half paying attention to it, half inside of her own head.

As luck would have it, Drew's head was under the front window beside the door, the one that the most dominant glow was coming from.  The volume was down low from old habits that didn't want to die, ones instilled in her long ago to be ever aware.  She has on more than one occasion had her home invaded, and never by a simple burglar either.  It is this combination of things that allows her to hear, but vaguely...

Drew.

It's something that she only half-hears.  She isn't sure of the letters surrounding the sound, if there was a word or not, but the startle in her breast and the brisk skip in her pulse made her certain that she wasn't imagining things.  So the blanket that she'd had over her lap and pooled at her stomach was pressed aside, and Drew Roscoe walked on stocking feet to the front door.  She'd paused long enough at an end table beside the door to retract an almost obnoxiously large .45 pistol from the drawer, then peeked out the blinds.

There was a figure, uncertain height, uncertain features, uncertain... anything really.  Hooded, barefooted, standing in her driveway with face shadowed and hands in pockets.  The peephole she'd made in the blinds was let to close gently, slowly, hopefully without being noticed, and Drew Roscoe jammed her feet into a pair of beat up sneakers exclusively used for yardwork, tapped her toes to the floor to secure them, and switched the safety switch on her pistol from 'On' to 'Off'.

She was not sudden in her movements, but Drew opened the door slowly and calmly, one hand on the knob and the other already aiming the pistol at the figure in her driveway.  She appeared with her long brown hair down in natural waves about her shoulders and partway down her back, with only a modest bit of make-up (blush and mascara's all that's needed) largely worn away from the day gone by, and a stern look on her face.  She's dressed in jeans, worn out black sneakers, and a snug-fitted gray long-sleeved shirt with a peek of violet camisole from underneath.  When she speaks, her voice is clear and firm and steady.

"I'm kind enough to give you a chance to identify, but trust me when I tell you I will shoot and I will hit you between the eyes when I do if you so much as blink wrong."

If~Frost~Had~FearHe watches.

She emerges slowly, carefully, calculated (expected) and there is no movement from the body standing beyond the porch steps. The hood blackens features, the low light doing little to remedy it and yet there is an intensity with her first exposure to the outside and the stranger standing there. Intensity like she is used to, intensity like it's obvious. That tell-tale prickle that flicks off the skin and sharpens the senses, demanding everyone choose sides (Predator or Prey).

The pistol seems to bring the smallest of reactions. A tensing of movement that is at once reflexive for how quickly it emerges (fluttering in the pockets, the balling of fists), the barest hint of something on the vague features in the hood. A twitch that is all wrong in it's display. It is a moment, with not a step forward or back and then...

...A slow inhale through the nostrils. Flickering movements of the head inside it's hood. Relaxing tensions and...laughter. A soft thing, harsh on the hiccups of it. Awkward, like it wasn't something standard or even recognizable in the figure's repertoire. It doesn't last long, the newness of it leaving the body feeling awkward. Strange and discomforted.

"Memories speak of moments like this before. First hellos...First bullets...He loved that..."

The voice is gravel in water. Harsh as if, anything above a whisper, conversational, was said at the top of the lungs. At the bottom of the diaphragm. A hand emerges from the pocket of the hoody and she can see it has but two fingers and a thumb. The pinky and ring are missing, worn to white scarred stubs. That mangled limb pushes the hood back and grey eyes inside a ruined face are given.

His head is still bald. Shaved and patchy and nicked in a half hundred ways from a half-hundred things. Like broken glass had shattered over where he kept so many memories. The cords of his neck are thin, stretched and taut, wire and iron. The nose is slightly mashed, slightly chipped on the right nostril, where pink scarring mars the lower right half of his face. The right side of his lips have been shaved is the only word, worn down to the thinnest of pallors over a rictus of a grin that spreads, unbidden to that side. The scarring travels up, halting in spiked furrows just below the right eye. The other side of his face is slack, but deeply lined. The muscles overworked, compensated for the loss on the right. The lips, half-formed are a jagged thing of broad expression, forming exaggerated, biting expressions to replace what was lost.

"Drew." He says again and Thomas' lips form the word with perfect clarity, spoken out of the corner, without failure or fault. A skald's effortlessness even in the face of deformity.

"Another bullet for me then?" Gravel clicks under his feet, stabbing into the bottom of well calloused heels, arches and soles.

Drew RoscoeThe figure in her driveway laughs and it is a harsh sound, rough and gravelly and familiar, but in a way that makes her uncomfortable in a way that she doesn't understand immediately and doesn't spare the energy to try to, not just now.  Rather, she continues out onto her front porch, letting her door swing closed behind her, and moves her hand to instead pull the hammer of the pistol back, punctuating the end of this man's brief and staccato'd laughter with a resounding 'clack' that speaks promises rather than threats.

He spoke of memories, of bullets and first hellos.
He loved that.

The phrase catches her, and she stops with her toes at the front step of the porch, halting her approach (though this may well have been intended, so she wouldn't have to give up the higher ground, even if it was only three stairs higher than the laid brick of her sidewalk, winding its way through her front yard to greet the gravel of the driveway.  Her brow furrowed, but the pistol did not lower, not even a fraction.  Rather, she stills, is quiet, and watches carefully when the hand moves (slow, deliberate, a subtle show of nonthreat).

The hood goes back, and Drew looks confused at first.  The face is familiar, but again in a way that makes her uncomfortable, and has changed.  There are scars where her mind does not want them to be, he's perhaps a touch taller, fingers are missing, his voice is, if possible, more strained.  He says her name, and the discomfort slams resolutely from the center of her chest to the bottom of her stomach.

"Thomas...?"

No, he's dead.  He's gone, the Spirits ate him up.  You cut your losses, They're both gone.
You're seeing ghosts, then.
No, you wouldn't see new scars on a ghost.  That's real, that's resolute.  He's here.

She doesn't set the gun aside or tuck it away, but the arm holding it does go slack and relax as she struggles in her own mind to decide if she should believe what she's seeing or not.  Perhaps this is an image some remnant of the wicked Fogs from before has conjured to fool her?  Still, the barrel of the gun is now aimed at the ground, and Drew's mouth moves to find words for a few seconds before her voice catches up.

"Wh-.  When...  Oh my god."

If~Frost~Had~Fear"Gods are for mortals with curiosity. Not you. Not this. Not here."

A brief flicker, like a frown. The memory is instantaneous and quickly dismissed. A thousand times when they were...younger. A thousand times when he found something outside of the boundaries of what should be. Could be. Was and had been. A thousand frowns, slender and etched in every line, blurred in the places where the scarring should be young pale flesh. His eyes thin slightly at her mention and his head tilts in that agitated way. Then-

"When is never as important as why. Blood-" And he's sniffing again. Louder this time, as if to check and re-check for himself. Her breeding hangs in the air between them and he is...sensitive. Was always sensitive to such things. Adamant that she stand a little further ahead...above, what was supposed to be done. A hint of ancestors and heroes.

He has yet to step forward or move in the lower body. The mangled hand returns to the worn hoody pocket, while that gaze re-orients re-focuses on Drew. If the pistol is giving him any hesitation or concern, it doesn't show. That intensity of before, all too familiar now (Hard will. Fierce dedication. Unhinged certainty. Rage making duty.)

"Where is long in the telling. Ancient." A pause. "I met the Wolf that ends Worlds. Tasted-" A pause, eyes closing, a memory, that harsh voice (Gut~song) clearing briefly "-Winter. Made love and hate of Frosts and Snows. Stepped in the wake of giants and knelt before Once-kings with their archaic breath-" He freezes. Sharpens again. Returned to reality, with the snapping of eyes open once again.

"Mmmm, the threat." Eyes finally on the pistol briefly, then back up at her before she can decide what to do with it. "Stays. Here-" The mangled hand emerges, fewer fingers tapping at his chest. "Trust is harder and hardest and a bullet is sure, like fire. The threat remains here while we..." A pause. Discomfort again?  "...Talk."

"He put something on you. A memory of something long since gone. I found a sliver of it, the Fetch he gave. Asked of it a plea and a bargain and it spoke a name. A haunting of your scent. The heroes in your wake and future. I stepped into that wake and felt rivers tug and pull me, errant leaf in tides, washing. Heard your report in the winds and...found you in solace. Renewal-" His eyes traverse her house. Her modest home and his hands emerge, the unmangled and the mangled, to dangle at his sides while he takes in, breathes in, memorizes her home.

"Find you in newness." If it could be called a smile, it is. On that face, few (Drew included) might be able to imagine it as that. "I am pleased."

Then. A hardness. A sharpness. The crackle of something (familiar).
"Where is He?"

Drew RoscoeThe Skald speaks, and Drew is certain.  It is him, reminding her damn near sharply that Gods had no place here, not with them, as they were intended for 'mortals with curiosity'.  As though neither of them were mortal, and neither of them curious.  She takes in a deep breath, eyes fluttering near to closed before remembering diligence, and it is as though she can breathe in the sound of his voice, that gut-growl, and remember everything that came with it in times before.

How long had it been?
Irrelevant, the when is not as important as the why, Thomas says.

He takes initiative and explains where he has been, understanding the questions she wanted to ask without her having to force them from shock-still vocal cords.  He has been places she cannot understand, encountered things of Dream and Legend alike, and seems to drift while recalling that, but comes back to earth sudden and soon.

As he speaks, Drew regains a little of her sense and drops her eyes from Thomas's scarred face for a moment, just a moment, to put the safety back to 'On' and tuck the gun into the back waistband of her pants, neverminding the mild chill of cooling metal seeping through the thin fabric of her camisole.  He'd wanted the gun, the threat, to stay while they spoke.  She didn't want that there, because it was a symbol of doubt and she had never wanted doubt around less than she did now.

Then, the question.
Where is He?
Oh Jesus, he doesn't know.

"Thomas," she says, and the word is spoken like a newborn child is held-- precious, delicate, and nerve-wracked that something might go so very wrong.  "He's...  Gone.  He's been, for two years..."  Drew stepped down off the porch, onto the sidewalk.  She wanted to approach, obviously, but didn't want to cross lines that might be in place now, ones that she didn't understand.  So she moved slowly, pausing after a few steps to give him a chance to speak, warn and react.  "He was murdered, Thomas."

If~Frost~Had~Fear(something...)
Dice: 7 d10 TN7 (2, 4, 6, 8, 10, 10, 10) ( success x 4 )

If~Frost~Had~FearHe seems to clench. His teeth gnaw on something unseen, a memory or some sort of ancient imagery. She speaks quietly (with difficulty), timorous and considerate more of the Beast than her own feelings on the matter but then...she has had two years. Two years to consider, weep and console herself. Warm herself with other bodies and other names. Other places and other people. He...

...clenches, a slow build along the wire of his throat, the clutter of those grey eyes that remain sharp. She says 'Murdered' and there are a thousand and one scenes from a thousand and one histories that flash across the Skald's mind. Heroes fallen to betrayal or treachery. Tragic moments or heroic feats cut short. Flashes of daggers hidden in the darkness. Terrible furies and fallen widowers and-

-His jaws relax before the tension rises past his throat. He clears the knot that emerges and finally registers the departure of the gun. The holstering and acceptance that comes to her that this is real. They are here. The fury seems to bleed and ebb and there is an inherent something that brushes off his shoulder and into the wind, wafting away carefully.

"Two years..." A brief breath. "So long now..." As if he hadn't noticed. As if the time passage had been...a priority far removed. It seems as if he might vanish again, lost in memory, but those nostrils flare and Drew, her scent and breeding, replace and anchor him once again. He takes several exacting steps forward until they are face to face and he has a chance to glance down at her, memorize not just a face, but the slender of scars and flaws and blemishes. The details that have changed in her growth. Follows the lines of her and then-

-Two years vanish, his head tipping forward to tap brow to brow, eyes closed and a vague hint of unrestrained grief trickle's over those ruined features.

"I'm sorry."

Drew RoscoeThe Skald needs a moment to process what he has heard.  He clenches, jaw and throat tightening, and Rage whips about him like an arc from a Tesla coil-- mighty, potentially terrifying, but (precariously) controlled.  Drew's feet still, plant themselves on the cold bricks of her walkway, and her hands curl fists futile against the dense fabric of her pants at her thighs.  She isn't able to bunch the fabric, it's too snug to the skin, but short fingernails bite at it regardless and she breathes deep and slow to bring cold air in over the tense fires in her chest as she lets the Get of Fenris work through his reactions as need be.

She's quiet, lips pressed closed, and watching him careful and cautious.  He may snap, she isn't sure-- she certainly did when she heard the news, to the point that she had smashed a bottle against a counter and lunged at a ranking Get of Fenris for his dismissive and insulting manner of delivering such devastating news.  Kinfolk that were more logic than heart would have reached for their gun again, just in case the Wolf could not be held and the Beast tore its way out.

Drew does not.  She wrings her hands against the outside hem of her pants and is patient and trusting instead.

And she is rewarded for this when he relaxes, exhales, and speaks only to recognize outloud how much time has passed-- as though he did not know for himself.  He approaches then, closing the distance between them until there is perhaps a foot of space between them, and hunts for changes that may have come to the Kin since time has elapsed.  Her hair is longer, her face a touch more matured (from twenty-one to twenty-three there isn't that drastic a change, after all), but there are no new scars to note.  Something to be recognized from the fact that she is the same, though... She hasn't had the opportunity to adapt to motherhood.  Hips are not broader, her shape is not softer.  It is evidence that He left without leaving a Legacy behind.

Then he closes the distance in a way that wrenches in her heart.  His forehead touches hers, and her exhale shudders with emotion.  Another had tapped his brow to hers a year and a half back, and she had pushed him away, reminded of a Skald with a harsh voice and rough persistence that she had known and loved in ways deeper and more complex than she'd be inclined to explain to any.

She pauses, but for less than a second, before lifting hands not-yet-chilled to hold his head, cupping behind his ears, fingertips scraping the velvet of his shorn scalp to settle in place, clasping to prevent him from moving away too soon.  "I'm sorry too."  And her voice catches, wavers, but does not break.

If~Frost~Had~FearThere is silence for a time.

A time, in this instance is a moment, which has no ticks or tocks. It has no seconds passed. There is no moment after or before because thoughts in the water of memory do not flood that way. There is a bloom of things. Stories told, chinese take-out. The ugly sort of youth that came with a Modi and a Skald. friends and packmates. There is a hardened softness between them and she fits there. Comfortable amidst the hatred and the hate. One held to heroes in fists, the other in voice and hers was a blood tie that hung in the air. A remembering-

There is silence for a time and he doesn't pull away. Remains where he is, jaw tilting to one side, obscuring those scars slightly, offering the face she is used to should her gaze clear. His hands raise, the oddity of that mangled appendage settling over her own, clasping both her hands and settling them by his shoulders. A chaining that she not step free or away. His eyes opens and his jaw straightens and he finds her eyes for a moment. The sharpness is still there. Clear and even-

"I need names. Locations. Anything and everything you can provide me of what occurred. How it happened. When. If not out of certainty than out of vagueness. Morsel or full, you will give me Joe's story." Not war-handed, because, in the end, Drew is Kinfolk. She knew a Man. She knew a Mate. Not the Modi. That...was another story.

Drew RoscoeTime doesn't still, not necessarily.  More accurately it swims like a whirlpool in a river, twisting back upon itself a couple of times, muddling up and becoming indistinct in its path.  However, as holds true with Time and its metaphor, things shake loose and a course is rediscovered.  This is when Thomas's hands settle over hers and move them down so that her palms and fingers slide past years, down a tense neck, onto his shoulders.  He holds them there, keeping her close, and lifts his head and opens his eyes. She follows suit.
There is sharp gray to deep brown, far northern Winter to a moderate Autumn, meeting and merging not unlike the time of year they were rapidly approaching, understanding rather than clashing with differences.
Thomas needs the story.  Drew knew that he would, and she would not deny it to him.  There is an urge there, for a moment, to lean her head back forward but under his chin this time, to rest her forehead to his collarbone and seek solace there instead.  But she does not, and rather keeps her chin steady while she tells what she knows.

The story is spoken in a steady enough voice, but volume is low.  There are no neighbors near enough by for her to worry, the closest was half a mile up the road, marked only by a houselight in the distance, barely visible between a line of trees along a gravel road not on her property.  She tells of Joe's embarkment to the city of San Francisco, summoned out there by a fresh War and the stale politics of Chicago.  She speaks of a trial that was held, that Joe had been called to and Drew not allowed to join.  She says that she did not know this and had to seek the truth, because He did not return home for a week, and that she found her answer in a smoky bar from the mouth of a Fostern whose name she remembers clearly and gives with a note of hate not yet burnt out, that likely never will.

She tells what the Fostern had told her-- that the Tribe had gathered and demanded that Joe abandon his Camp and his earned rank and Glory along with it, that he renounce his Name and start over as a Cub.  She speaks, proudly mind you, that Joe had refused the offer, but the tone switches back to something not too far away from a snarl when she says that this Fostern had set his pack on Joe and put him into the earth.

"That's all they would tell me, and all I could find.  They had a moving truck at my house the next day and people 'helping' me pack my things."  Her head shakes, and the story peters out like a candle flame that has burnt too long.  But the details are there, and that is what Thomas needs from her.

If~Frost~Had~FearDissection.

It was something of a habit. A reflex. An instinct. Drew speaks and he listens. Devours. Some beasts eat flesh and bone. Meat and blood. Others, suckle at the soul. Sustain themselves on cruelty or kindness. Others yet, on honour and promise. Compromise and willingness.

Thomas is a Beast of the Word. Of memory. He takes in every spectacular or humble moment of Drew's tale and fashions of it a story. In that moment, she finishes, he can carve something in the air for any True to hear. For the highest of Elders and the Smallest of their world. It would ring with clarity and bring out the worst and best of imagery for the listener.

...Yet, it is the story of a kinfolk. A mate. A lover. It was never meant for Trueborn ears and never would be. This was Thomas'. Something he would keep and hold and that they would share until Apocalypse come.
When she finishes he inhales, loudly, as if breath had been forgotten for a moment. He releases her hands and the grimness in his features is tightly wound. Wrapped up in something hectic and harsh. A promise there, something distinct and effortless.

"Yours is the song of a widow. Of a survivor. What wrongs were made, what woes came, are not yours to hold onto. Memory is a slave to our will and it is only death that speaks louder." That three fingered hand rises, thumb touching the bottom of her chin, index and middle curling around her cheek. A gentle thing, a firming thing.

"That you share it is a gift. I will hold it it. I will hold this and the grief that comes with it, as made by the mission. He was my alpha. My packmate. My brother. I would not see that memory diminished by the failures, flaws and shortened sight of lunacy. Fenrir chose him. As he chose me. As he chose each of us and to call that under judgement for nothing short of Spoken loyalties..." There is a bristling. Feral and brief (The River splashes).

"Portland." The name. Spoken as it was before. "I will find his bones. I will find his name and his story. I will find the Warrior he was and bring the tale to those who matter. To he who Winters the World-" Fenris "-and to the names who would Judge him true. Grudge~Cracker, Forseti, Athro of the Bloodglut Sept. Grip~of~Gallows, Forseti Adren of the Winter's Song. Witch~Crag, Godi, Elder of the Fireheart Sept-" And the names go. A dozen, spoken from a half-ruined face. He ends, both hands now clasped to either of her cheeks, breath a rushed thing. Still a boy of eagerness, heedless heart.

"I will take your grief with me, make of it a brand with which to stir a fire. I will seek answer where it can be found and in this, where Kin cannot tread, I will find the cause."

"He is done though." He stares at her. Firmly. Evenly. Calmly (for once). "A memory, warm and comforting. A sorrow, plain and obvious. I take your grief and make of it a brand, as no Trueborn would know it as it is. I take your grief that you know peace in this night and further."

He smiles on one side. That ruination curved into something hideous in it's familiarity. He is different. No longer one of 'The Boys'. They are not the same as they were, even if they have these few moments.
"Remember and forget. As important to one another as you are to the future of us."

Drew RoscoeHer story is breathed in as fresh air after days in caves and tunnels.  It's consumed, taken in and devoted to heart and memory.  He lets go of her hands, and they stay at his shoulders, unwilling to break touch, fretful that he may drift away back to the Spirits that he had run with for so long that he'd forgotten Time.

Thomas expresses that she is a widow, a survivor, and the story she told is not something to hold onto too tightly.  He promises that he will take her grief and remember it, that he will stoke the fires of War-Handed's story with it, that he will go to Portland to find where Joe had fallen, to gather the bones and take them where they belong.  He vows to take His story to those that should hear it, that can judge it and give it the proper audience that it deserves.

As he says this, his hands go to her face-- first one, with thumb to her chin and fingers to her cheek, then the other joining it, cupping round cheeks and speaking Promise and Heartfire to her.  She can't stop tears from welling in her eyes, just as much as she is unable (and maybe even a little unwilling to try) to stop a couple from rolling over her cheekbones and onto his palms.

He smiles for her, his face so different from what she remembered.  He wasn't a boy any longer, having grown from a teenager of spoken passion and fanatic commitments to a man with scars all about his head and face and experiences that Drew couldn't begin to understand.  The advice comes to remember and to forget both, and she swallows the lump that knotted up in her throat when the tears started to come just well enough to ask, haggard:

"Let me be there.  For his Farewell."

If~Frost~Had~FearHe snorts. A sharp thing. Too sharp to be dishonest.

"Fenris takes of the spirit and leaves behind the body. Of him, little remains within this realm but the memory of which, you hold the Majority." Something of envy there, in the vaguest of frowns.

"Wish you a goodbye, then speak. Speak and it will be carried. It will be known."

Drew RoscoeShe shook her head within his palms, tilting her head a little to rub a tear trail away from her right eye using the curve of his fingers without putting enough thought into the gesture to recognize it.  There's a sniff, quiet, against emotion and the faint nip of the autumn night air both.  Her nose recognizes the cold even if the heat flashing across her chest and back refuses to just yet.

"I've wished him my goodbyes many nights before, many nights before.  I wore his ring for a very long time.  I've found my peace, as much as I can at least.  I meant if there's a... ceremony.  But if there's none, none Here--" and she obviously means in a physical realm that she can reach-- "then there's not much to be done."
There's a pause, and she recognizes that her hands had trailed from his shoulders to grasp at his forearms through the hole-riddled hoodie sleeves.  "You're not coming back, are you?"  There's acceptance there already, but parallel to that is dread that is undeniable.

If~Frost~Had~Fear"You spoke good-byes to the air. To trees and forest and unknowing ears. That is not here. That is not me. I speak with ancient voices and dist-" He pauses. His eyes search hers, a brief flickering.

"I will speak the story for the Wolf Lord. For the Elders who would listen. For those who would not and when the time comes and there are no more ears for the Brand, I will find Fenris' lands and the Modi known as War-handed and I will tell him the Tale of this as well." That grin, rictus and free and permanent, spreads again.

"...and listen as he laughs. When he tells me of you together. Speak your good-byes. They have ears now that listen. A voice now to speak them." He leans an inch closer, conspiratorial or...adamant. "Your grief is mine now. Let it go."

Drew RoscoeHer lip quavers a little-- Thomas tells her to give her grief to him, that it is his now, that she no longer needs to bear it as she has done for two startlingly long years now.  He says he will bring her words to Joe, to wherever it is that dead Fenrir go to battle in the Beyond until the Final Days.  She breathes in, deep again, with her nose near the heel of his hand.  Her head rests more securely in his hold, her eyes close, and she speaks quietly words too intimate for her to have murmured to anyone beyond her own pillow and a crudely fashioned but intricately carved proposal ring (that once housed a spirit that Thomas may well have taken information on Drew's whereabouts from).

"It shouldn't've been so soon.  I'm sorry I wasn't there-- I should'a been.  Should'a had your back like I have before, like you did for me.  Shoulda vouched for you, spoken for you when no one else would.  ...I'm sorry we didn't get a chance to carry your Name and Legacy.  ....Bet you killed at least two of 'em that that asshole didn't tell me about, bet you went down in Glory 'cause you wouldn't any other way.  I love you, so fucking much."

And, again, tears roll down the same paths that they'd found before, this time more steadily with a sense of release behind them.  More than just mourning, as that time has long gone.  This is for the memory, dragged to the surface and made fresh by an old face deeply missed and always remembered.  Dragged forward to be taken and carried where that grief needs to go.

Drew's quiet after that, just trying to even her breathing back out.  Willing to let Thomas speak and lead because she trusted him to do so.  After all, he was half of the force that taught her about everything she'd ever needed to know.

If~Frost~Had~FearThere is silence then. Much as there had been before. More moments without the before or after to make them a Time. They are there for the length of it and when it is done, his hands fall away from her and his eyes are clear. That haze that comes after a thunderstorm sort of grey. He watches her and breathes deeply, from the diaphragm. Like an old reflex. Like a Skald only could.

"I'm leaving." He answers her question from a few minutes (ages) ago. "Coming back is...a thought, best left to when it happens. Our times are few, measured in memory and forget. As quickly as the body can be taken away, the spirit endures." His features slacken and it is almost as if the scars could be forgotten for a moment. As if half his shaved off face were once again youth and brazen antics.

"There is a tale to be spoken and it is only after that is done, that a War can continue. That a duty be had." His lips, half gone and working to form each word with the precision of a whole mouth, flare back from his teeth. What might have been a smile. What might have been a snarl. Imperceptibly both.

"You are a monster. A first love. A memory that deserves many more. Do not quail. Shake. Do not tremble and do not forgive, unless they are worth your time. Fenris gnaws on the unworthy. Be the poison. Be certain." He leans down then to hug her brow to his ruined lips, a harsh pressure that is released after a moment, a vague wetness left behind.

"I am Thomas Weiss. Gut~Song. Fear~of~the~Archaic. Fostern, Skald of the Get of Fenris. This is my name but not the memory. Keep it for a time until I should need it again."

Drew RoscoeHands fall away, and Drew's lift from his forearms with a lingering tug of fingers grasping to his sleeve not too unlike that of a child being pried away from their mother for their first day of preschool, grasping and wanting desperately to stay even though the arms they were attached to dictated that they release and behave.  They do, of course, and instead she scrubs the heels of her hands both to her face to wipe away tears and better compose herself.

It's as she's doing this that Thomas says he is indeed leaving, that he may not return but just as likely may-- it is an unknown that cannot be considered until duties are fulfilled and the War is back to being fought.

You are a monster.

This line elicits a small chuckle from the woman, a smile spreading on her face for the first time since Thomas's sudden appearance in her driveway.  It's the laughter of irony and agreement both, and peters away soon enough so she may hear him.  He tells her to be steady and sure, that she is worth more memories as time goes on, and that she dare not bend or give to anyone or anything because she is Fenrir and she is Better.

His name is carried with a smile that is unsure as to whether it's sad or elated.  "Thomas Weiss.  Fear of the Archaic.  I'll carry it along with Gut-Song now."  Her hand lifts, this time without the invitation of his opening the door (as they had fallen away again after holding her brow to his mouth for an uneven kiss) and touches the left side of his face, strokes from cheekbone to jawline and then away again.  Her eyes are misty and fervent both.

She wants to tell him that he needs to come back, back to this World, back to her Life.  She wants to tell him that it's unfair of him to leave after reappearing for thirty or forty minutes, that he can't go without absolutely promising that he will return.

But she doesn't, because they are Fenrir, a Skald and a Staple, a Memory and a Widow, and there is never, ever a promise to return anywhere but Onward.

If~Frost~Had~FearThere is silence for a time.

The third such moment this night. Unlike the last few, this one remains. He endures and she speaks and then there is nothing more to say. He pulls the hood back into place, shadowing those scarred features once more and then, glances about as if trying to orient on which direction Portland is. He seems to figure it out, as certainty orients him away. Then he is moving, gravel clicking underfoot. Grass bends and is slow to return upright. Then he's a shadow in the forest and soon enough, not even that.

Just a memory and a mission.