[To be honest, Henry was only intending to be there for a short while. But the cats needed to be checked on, that was important. They were important, for all that he more-or-less ignores the fuzzy bodies threading between his ankles, sniffing at the drops of blood left from the laundry he was carrying to be washed. Or to sit there unattended; it wasn't as if he expected to come back for it.
The hours when he'd first realized Ryan had disappeared were a complete blank. It might've been days; the blood on his skin had been dry and flaking by the time he noticed it, his clothing stiff and cold with it, the bodies he'd left having had time to go limp and rigid and limp again. The mage's thoughts had been distracted, calm, as he rearranged limbs of another native on another god's altar. Hel, was that last one. Appropriate, he guessed.
Henry would have been lying to say there was some purpose in it, even a retroactive one. He didn't expect to get a reply from a message left in corpses, and he wasn't sure what he'd say if a god had turned up.
But he was 'home' now, such as it was, settled tiredly on the couch, absently toying with the ring on his hand- the one he'd gotten Ryan, the one that hadn't disappeared with him. Henry wasn't sure if he regretted that Ryan hadn't taken it with him. It was a reminder; on the other hand, it was a reminder.
At the message beep, he almost ignores it; he'd leave a note for Gerome, there was no one else he wanted to speak to. He'd find his wolf, wait out the war somewhere away from people. It was a sick sort of hope that made him check the message anyway- and even then, he almost misses the name. If it wasn't Ryan, he didn't want to know. But why would anyone write to ask him what day it was?
He blanks out again when he does see it, answering the message on automatic. Not that he knows what day it is either, and not that he gives an actual answer instead of just a spasm of fingers against numbers.]
no subject
The hours when he'd first realized Ryan had disappeared were a complete blank. It might've been days; the blood on his skin had been dry and flaking by the time he noticed it, his clothing stiff and cold with it, the bodies he'd left having had time to go limp and rigid and limp again. The mage's thoughts had been distracted, calm, as he rearranged limbs of another native on another god's altar. Hel, was that last one. Appropriate, he guessed.
Henry would have been lying to say there was some purpose in it, even a retroactive one. He didn't expect to get a reply from a message left in corpses, and he wasn't sure what he'd say if a god had turned up.
But he was 'home' now, such as it was, settled tiredly on the couch, absently toying with the ring on his hand- the one he'd gotten Ryan, the one that hadn't disappeared with him. Henry wasn't sure if he regretted that Ryan hadn't taken it with him. It was a reminder; on the other hand, it was a reminder.
At the message beep, he almost ignores it; he'd leave a note for Gerome, there was no one else he wanted to speak to. He'd find his wolf, wait out the war somewhere away from people. It was a sick sort of hope that made him check the message anyway- and even then, he almost misses the name. If it wasn't Ryan, he didn't want to know. But why would anyone write to ask him what day it was?
He blanks out again when he does see it, answering the message on automatic. Not that he knows what day it is either, and not that he gives an actual answer instead of just a spasm of fingers against numbers.]
145684865
[Followed by, a minute later:]
Is it actually you?