No sounds of life emanated from the tree house that stood before him. It was empty, a fitting sort of state affairs for the entire situation. Devoid of life for now yes, but not unoccupied. Conor had informed him that Kol's sister, Bris was residing there now. At the time, this news had made Weilund happy. A link to everything he had lost. It was difficult to think of the former state of his life as the 'past.' It was all supposed to be current, not over. This right here – him standing forlornly with a look of loss plastered to his face: it wasn't supposed to be happening. It should have just been him arriving after a long and tiring journey, one undertaken simply due to the desire of seeing a few family members. Instead he was standing here with a pack of all his worldly possessions – hand me downs from his big brother and not because he grew out of them but because he couldn't use them anymore. The dead did not build things. They only tore things down, like lives and hearts.
He wished that Conor was still here. The thoughtful alpha had left several minutes before, sensing that the yearling might wish for a few moments alone. At the time, it seemed like a good idea. Now? Now he desperately needed someone to lean on and there was nothing, no one.
Weilund took an uncertain step forward, shoving the bag to the side while he eyes never left the slightly tattered roof. He studied the structure with a gaze that never wavered, his desire to climb up and into the dwelling paramount. It didn't matter that he didn't own the place (not unless the tree house was passed down to him, like Elliot's tools and Eilu doubted it) or the fact that according to Conor someone was currently living in the place. All the mattered was that this place used to be under the care of the one other he loved best in the world and right now it was in need to repair. He couldn't do a lot to remedy his entire situation – he couldn't raise the dead, he couldn't turn back time in order to kill that one Shadowrunner, or make it so that Liesel had been the one caring for Eli, not him. He couldn't do any of those things. But Weilund could do just one thing at this time: fix that damn roof that was out of place. It wouldn't be big in the grand scheme of things, but at least it would be able to stop rain from falling on everyone's head. Make things look a little brighter.
His decision made, Weilund moved back to where he had left the abandoned the big bag. He knew he had to shift before he could o do anything, but for a moment the massive wolf was frozen, eyes fixed on the dwelling before him. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't shake the deep sense of sadness the place brought about in him. Elliot had made this place with his own two paws. He had planned it all out, measuring more than twice before cutting because that was his way. He would have spent several days scouting out the perfect area, selecting the best trees. He would have made sure that each tree was in great shape, up to the job of supporting such weight. And under no circumstances would Elliot have chosen a tree that would die because of his creations. He was scrupulous like that, something Weilund admired deeply about his brother.
And after all that planning, all the hours his big brother spent honing and perfecting his creation he would be left with an amazing achievement. The house was huge, but it was perfect for two. It was perfect for the life he and Kol had been making, planning. And now what? All for nothing. It was as empty as Weilund felt now.
He was too distracted to gather the concentration it would take for him to shift. So for the moment he merely stood there, just as he had been doing for the last little while and studied the house of broken features. It appeared as though he was completely preoccupied, like the entire world aside from himself and the tree house did not exist. But when Bris spoke, appearing as if from nowhere, Weilund showed no signs of being startled. His gaze never wavered and he did not acknowledge his sister of his brother's mate. Instead he spoke aloud, as though he was speaking to himself or perhaps voicing his inner thoughts for whatever reason. He used nails, instead of screws. Screws would have held up through out the winter without having to be replaced. A pause, and it appeared as though he struggled in order to continue. But he used nails because....because he figured he'd be around to fix them himself. Only on the last word did Weilund's calm facade crack, his voice breaking on the two syllables.