#MELORA HAS HEARD MY PRAYERS

[essektheylyss]

YESSS VIOLENCE

[thewickedkat]

seems to me that the whole 'criticism of the gods' debate/discussion/argument is oversimplifying something that people wrestle with on the daily (both in D&D terms and in our real world). it's one thing to philosophically ask 'what have the gods done for me personally lately?' that is normal and healthy. it's even normal and healthy to be bitter, to an extent, about the gods: 'hey, my loved one was sick and i prayed for their healing and restoration to full health and my prayer was ignored; meanwhile Bernice down the street didn't pray for shit and got an inheritance of seventy platinum from her great-great-uncle. what the hell?!' i would even go so far as to say it is completely understandable for that bitterness to coalesce into full-on hatred for the gods, where one says 'all right, Pelor, i did all the rituals and said all the things and i did everything i was supposed to and i heard crickets. fuck you and fuck your brethren, i'm out.' and then you never visit a temple or pay homage again in your life.

but it is quite another to take your own bitterness and bile and make it everyone else's problem on such a level that it fucks up the fundamentals of magic, Ludinus.

i'm not saying anything what hasn't been said before (and by folks far more eloquent than i), especially in the past two weeks. but no matter how much criticism is levied at the gods, they are still being criticised and questioned through a very mortal lens, frameworks shaped by religion in the Exandrian understanding. religion wasn't created by the gods; it was created by mortals in an effort to understand something (someones) so vast and powerful that the mortal mind wibbled uncomfortably around the edges when looked at full-on. so folk set down 'rules' as they understood them, dogma and schema so their brains didn't quiver like custard when they went to sleep at night. and that's fair! the gods are older than time and earth and wind and mountains! mortal brains don't function too well when there are no limits, so we create them. consequently we criticise through those limits, and get fed up and cheesed off when the gods don't follow those statutes we set up for them.

i think that is one of the big sticking points that continually pops up in the 'gods: yea or nay?' debate, the real question of are we criticising a god, a pillar of physics and nature and reality, or are we getting pissy because said god is operating outside the box we so carefully drew for it? are we upset that we might have to redraw rituals and frameworks of worship, throwing thousands of years of 'understanding' into the bin? how much does that possibility scare us, the notion of having to amend or even start over?

because the fact of the matter is, what the Exandrian gods have shown us canonically is that, even when you do All the Things, Cross the T's and Dot the I's and do the Proper Hokey-Pokeys...sometimes the gods can't be arsed. sometimes they don't listen. is it because Melora has it out personally for you, a farmer whose crops didn't yield as expected? or is it because she doesn't play by your particular set of rules?

or maybe it's because you're not that special, Ludinus. maybe we are just batteries for them. maybe we aren't. maybe we'll understand all of this about seventeen years after the Matron has shuffled us through the veils of death to wherever we're supposed to go.

[wistcrias]

tharizdun’s clawed tendrils grasp at her, tugging her towards an abyss that knows no end –– chaos, and hunger, and corruption, swirling all around her like a maelstrom. but as she inhales, a peace settles around her –– she is in the eye of the storm, the peace within the darkness twisting around her. and she is not alone. she is not alone.  comfort settles around her; a shawl of setting light and the scent of the open ocean air. inhaling, she is home, and she is safe, and she is not alone. though she cannot see the wildmother, she feels her stronger than she has ever before. music swells around her, percussion built from the fall of rain, and the coastal breeze, and the swaying of palm fronds –– it is the soundtrack of everything zena holds closest to her heart. and there she is: melora, comforting in the way only a mother could be. 

and though she cannot feel her, she can feel the weight of her gaze. “ for years I have heard your prayers and longed to answer your call. were it not for the influence of tharizdun, I would have... but he is held at bay and you may rest now, my child, for you are safe. ” her words are an embrace. they wrap like a cloak around her, and she is held by the wild mother’s every word. 

“ thank you... thank you... thank you for listening. ” she is not alone. she was never alone. all of this... it wasn’t in vain. “ all I ever wanted was a mother. ” 

and though zena has suffered –– though her faith has been tested again and again –– she has it now. the wildmother is with her, as she has always been. and this means everything to her. 

[seadeepywrites]

When the River Meets the Sea

Character: Fathom Tidechaser Words: 3490 tw: death, violence/gore, body horror

1. Our Souls Will Leave This Land

Fathom isn’t afraid until the moment his Heal spell fails him. Like a sword parrying in a clash of steel, like a rubber ball rebounding off a stone wall, the magic that is supposed to close his wounds slips free of his grasp, reflecting back on him. As the sudden, breathless darkness of necrotic damage leaches his strength, Fathom feels it: a flicker of fear.

Fathom is occasionally anxious and frequently surprised, but true fear like this is vanishingly rare for him. He has faced vampires and corpse-stealing fiends from Hell and suture-scarred fleshy mutants that should never have existed in the first place. He has healed injuries, raised the dead, and climbed out of his own grave. He has walked between planes, traveled backwards through time, and spoken to gods.

Today, for the first time in his several lives and deaths, Fathom considers the idea that Melora’s blessing may not be enough to save him.

The illithid-lich shrieks without sound, and even aware of what’s coming, Fathom can’t stagger out of the way quickly enough. Its psychic scream blasts his mind free of his body, into some hazy place where the real-time consequences of combat don’t seem to matter. Fathom knows, on some level, that he is standing here in front of the illithid and its creations, flat-footed and slump-shouldered. But most of him is absent, drifting through a blurry infinity of vague concepts and disconnected thoughts. Not unlike being extremely high, actually.

Next to Fathom, the eye sockets of a dozen skulls light up with the same eerie green glow that pervades this lair. Their jawbones seem to widen and vibrate with silent laughter — or maybe that’s just Fathom’s vision swimming. Fathom isn’t present enough to be concerned as his soul begins to prise itself from his body, attempting to wriggle free of his flesh like a snake shucking its skin.

It is only the sigil inked across Fathom’s collarbones that prevents it, the Death Ward flaring in one final, desperate attempt to keep Fathom alive. Even when he himself isn’t fully aware of it. Even when blood slips slick over his upper lip and his neck, running like water from his nose and ears. Even when he sees — sees but cannot make himself react — sees the illithid floating down from its dais.

The illithid reaches out toward him with one hand, whispering in its breathy voice. Fathom can’t quite parse the words over the thunderous roar of his pulse crashing in his ears. It doesn’t really matter, though, does it? The illithid’s slender tentacles reach out too, impossibly long and serpentine, and wrap themselves around Fathom’s head.

Melora, Fathom thinks. He would say it out loud, if he could. If he could shape his lips to breathe it out, he would want her name to be the last word he says. It is a prayer and it is a plea: Please. Help my friends where I’ve failed. Give them the power to defeat this evil where I cannot.

The only thing in the world that Fathom truly, deeply cares about — the only thing he will ever live and die for — is his goddess. He would go to his death gladly — placidly allow the illithid to drink his brain like so much beef stew — if he could know for sure that he hasn’t disappointed her. But he isn’t sure of that at all, so Fathom’s heart stutters and his blood freezes to ice as the illithid’s tentacles smother him, obscuring his vision.

Melora, he thinks again, with desperation and heartbreak and terror.

And then the pain begins.

**********

2. The Winds of Time

In the darkness, Fathom hears the sound of ocean waves. He knows the Material Plane and several others by now — the Astral Plane, the Feywild, Orthrys, the Plane of Time, and Pandemonium among them. This place is none of those. This is maybe not a place at all but a feeling, a moment between breathing in and breathing out. It holds him like the fuzzy apathy from the illithid's Mind Blast did, but a thousand times more transient, more ineffable.

Fathom is alone here — until he is not.

He learned a long time ago to see beyond the sight of his eyes, to sense beyond the flesh that covers his bones. It’s that ability now that tells him who surrounds him.

First is the clicking of goat hooves and an uncanny chuckle, a presence as mysterious and mercurial as a dream. The glint of sharp teeth smiling, and a shimmer like a heat mirage. Fathom recognizes the unpredictable, long-limbed, goat-eyed Archfey-in-the-form-of-a-man who scraped him off the rocks of the Feywild and brought him back to life the first time. The Entertainer. The Twilight Walker.

Second comes the rustling of midnight-black wings, which bring an endless field of stars in their wake. This void is hers, as is the longbow the halfling wields and every inch of Tanazil's new human body. Fathom has passed through her domain several times now, but only discovered recently that she was once a person like him. A friend of the party's, once, until she sunk into a slumber from which she would never wake. Umbra, the Raven Queen. Keeper of the boundary between life and death.

Fathom actually tastes the third presence in the back of his throat, the sweet and heady burn of alcohol mid-swallow. If he had a face right now, he'd smile, because it's a familiar sensation. It reminds him of the wild nights of carousing he's participated in over the years and, more rarely, the sheer bloody joy of splitting knuckles and breaking furniture in tavern brawls. There's an energy to this presence, careless and defiant. Appropriate for one of the youngest gods, whose reign over his twin domains of strength and luck is just beginning. Cayden, proprietor of the Drunken Sailor until his recent removal from the Material Plane.

Fourth is another brand-new god, one whom the party itself assisted in his ascension. With him comes the clicking of tiny gears and the whisper of sand through an hourglass that now only exists in memory. He is a god of brilliant ideas and science precise enough to navigate through the stained-glass labyrinth of the Plane of Time — and while Fathom respects him, he does not understand him in the slightest. Fathom will keep his own slow thoughts and poor reading comprehension, and leave the worship of this god to the more intellectual party members, like Curt. Fizzlewick, once a gnome artificer who spliced together various realities. Now so much more.

Fifth is the reason they are all here, an overpowering feminine force who is both beautiful and terrible. Like Umbra, her wings would engulf all if Fathom could see them, but he has already witnessed their burning white radiance. He’s got his suspicions about Trox's allegiance, because he's seen the bug man's shell light with the same bleached-bone color. Amidst the chaos, Fathom can hear the thrum of the threads of Fate as they dance between her fingers. If she has a name beyond the mistress of such things, he does not know of it.

Last and most beloved is the taste of salt and the scent of ozone, vast and untamed ever-changing. Fathom's loyalty to her is as boundless as the waters she rules over and as fierce as the violence of the tempest. She has been in every breath he takes since the day he was brought into the world, and he will follow and fight for her long after he leaves it. Melora, goddess of sea and the wilderness. Fathom has pledged himself to her before, and would do it a thousand times again.

There are other gods here too, ones Fathom has heard of from the many faithful he's met in his travels. But these are the ones Fathom knows, the ones Fathom has actually met personally and spoken to. They surround him with their awful, unspeakable power — if Fathom were still alive, this much divine energy in one place would undoubtedly blow him into tiny pieces or melt his eyes right out of his skull.

"Hi," Fathom says, or tries to. "What's up, guys?"

It is Fizzlewick who answers him, voice gleaming gold against the blackness that surrounds them. His words resonate in Fathom's mind, deafening and omnipresent in a way they never were in life. WE ARE WAITING, he says.

Fathom considers this. "Waiting for what?"

WAITING FOR A CHOICE, Fizzlewick says, and does not explain further.

"Aren't you the god of time?" Fathom asks, skeptical.

YES, Fizzlewick replies, and is it just Fathom's imagination, or does he sound a little bit cranky? THAT IS WHY I AM GIVING HIM THE TIME TO CONSIDER IT.

"Oh. That makes sense, I guess."

Several ideas connect suddenly in Fathom's head, in that lightning-flash and logic-less way he processes concepts:

Curt, invisibility spell broken, screaming himself hoarse in a way Fathom has only heard once before. Although that time he’s been a version of Curt from a future where the illithid had triumphed, and then after the screaming stopped he wasn't Curt at all.

The sound of a vial uncorking. The screaming suddenly cut short.

A gift that Curt was given weeks earlier, when the party visited Fate's domain, in faint disapproval but also in consolation. A promise that the gods had not given up on the young wizard entirely, not yet.

"Huh," Fathom says.

So he settles down to wait in the way he does best: aimless, serene, equivocal. Just vibing. The pain and terror that accompanied his death seem very far away, like faded colors or muted sounds.

At some point, the waiting ends. Was it half a second, or was it forever? It could have been either. Fizzlewick speaks again, and Fathom's soul rouses itself to respond.

HE CHOSE CORRECTLY, Fizzlewick says.

"Cool. So what happens now?"

NOW, Fizzlewick says, I SEND YOU BACK TO HELP MY CHAMPION.

That's new information, actually — that Fizzlewick now has a champion — but it doesn't take a genius to figure out who Fizzlewick's talking about. Which is good, because Fathom definitely isn't one.

The void, the gods, this in-between place — all begin to dissolve, in the same rhythmic way that waves erase footprints in the sand. Instead of divine presence, Fathom becomes aware of a ceaseless wind that carries the whispers of insanity along with it. As the sound of the wind — which somehow, mysteriously, continues to blow indoors and underground — increases, so does another sound: a rapid, clicking whir. Like the hands of a pocket-watch, spinning forward. Or backward. Or both.

Fathom can see again: golden light, bright enough to sear through his closed eyelids. More to the point, he's back in his body, in his deeply cursed plate armor, with his arm made of water and his silver trident at his fingertips.

He is alive, and he's pretty sure his brain is firmly inside his skull, which are both things he never thought he’d experience again.

Fathom's eyes flutter open to a scene that would look really strange if it wasn’t the one he'd been seeing just before his untimely death. Trox and Tanazil are hacking at the illithid, both wielding enormous axes and foaming with berserker's rage. The halfling's elk is there too, rearing up with its wickedly sharp front hooves to contribute to the damage. The giant translucent pods up on the dais seem to have increased in number, which is odd, but it is not the oddest thing here by far.

As Fathom clambers to his feet, he realizes he doesn't just feel alive — he feels great. Better than he ever has in his multiple lives, maybe. The glow that haloed him is already fading, but there is another god's power present here, crashing inside him like thunder and breaking surf. Fathom feels almost limitless. Renewed. Reinvigorated.

"Now that's more like it," he says with satisfaction.

He sends a fragmentary thought through the telepathy rings, just enough to tell the nameless halfling he is alive. Her joy radiates back at him, warm and wonderful.

Then Fathom hefts his shield and his trident, and prepares again to fight.

********** 

3. That Sweet And Final Hour

Melora takes him home. Or rather, Melora takes him back to the only place that has always been there for him, a place that has taken from and given to and blessed and cursed him. Melora takes him back to the place that has always been hers, and now is a little bit Fathom's too.

Melora clasps his hand and pulls him between planes with a lurching tug he has come to recognize, not unlike free fall or the sudden drop of a ship's deck below his feet. And then he is with his goddess on the cliffs of Cherat, in the very spot he once stood and whipped up a storm, looking out over the wind-roughened gray expanse of the sea.

Fathom turns to Melora, unashamed of the tears in his eyes. "Thank you," he says, breathing deeply. "It's good to be home."

"Yes," Melora says somberly, looking out across the water.

They stand there for a moment side by side, saying nothing because they have said all there is to say already. The world has been saved. The tapestry of Fate has been re-woven. Fathom's friends, the little dysfunctional adventuring party he has kept alive at all costs, have gone their separate ways. Fathom's journey is, in so many ways, all over.

"I wasn't sure we'd make it here," Fathom confesses, scratching idly at his darkness-beard. He shrugs. "But I figured I'd try anyway, you know?"

Melora shakes her head, smiling, her long hair rippling as it shifts against her bare shoulders. "I know," she says plainly. "I wasn't sure you would either."

"That makes three times I've died," Fathom muses. "Can't say I want to make it a habit. That last one really hurt."

Melora winces. "Fixing that was Fizzlewick's doing. I couldn't— There's only so much I could do, when—"

"I know," Fathom says quickly. He isn't sure if a goddess feels things like awkwardness or embarrassment, but that's certainly the image Melora projects when she stumbles over her words like this. It delights him, actually, the thought that he's spent enough time with her now to recognize the habit.

"I'm glad," Melora says, relaxing slightly. "That you survived. Or, well. That you're alive now."

Fathom tips his head back and closes his eyes, letting the sea breeze mist across his already-damp skin. "That makes two of us," he says. After a moment, he adds, "'Cause now that I've done the save-the-universe thing a couple times, I just want to chill for a bit. And I feel like hanging out on the Material Plane would be weird if I was dead."

"Weird, yes," Melora acknowledges with a nod. "Also sort of forbidden by Umbra and her followers."

"Ha. Wouldn't want Tanazil coming after me. That axe of his is pretty sharp. Though..." Fathom brushes his fingers against the hilt of his trident. "I kind of feel like I could take him."

"Hmm. Maybe." Melora's smile is amused, maybe a little indulgent.

"Curt seemed to think he'd be able to do it," Fathom continues. "But Curt has a pretty big head when it comes to his own powers." He pauses, voice softening. "He made the right choice, though. When it counted."

"That he did." 

Fathom shakes his head, sighing. "Imagine fighting the illithid and all that because it was the right thing to do. A moral compass, or whatever."

Melora makes a little noise of objection.

"What? I know damn well I'm not that selfless."

"And what do you call your help in the whole matter then?"

Fathom stares at her. Surely she is just teasing — surely she must know. "My lady," he says, frowning. "That was all for you."

Melora blinks, a slow sweep of her lashes, her eyes glistening gray-blue-green-black-gold. Then she smiles, reaches across to pat Fathom on the shoulder.

"My champion," she says fondly.

Fathom shuffles his feet and squints out at the water again. There is silence between them for several long minutes, though of course it is never really silent here. The waves hiss and crash, and above their heads gulls screech and circle. The sky is a boundless blue, darkening to slate where clouds encroach at its edges.

Fathom is like a grain of sand on this beach, a tiny part of something much larger. His soul sings with it, with the connection to the land and the sky and the sea. He is suddenly quite certain that if he wanted to, he could step into open air and soar. Could fly upward towards the bright, alluring heat of the sun until his lungs lost their breath. Then he'd tumble downward head over heels to meet the sea under sunlight, and it would welcome him into its salty and eternal embrace.

Melora has entrusted him with part of her domain, and Fathom thinks this is one of the few things he’ll be able to carry with him for the rest of his life. One of the sole responsibilities he'll shoulder and never ever grow tired of, never seek restlessly to move on and walk away. He's left so many people and places behind, but this — this he can keep.

"So," Melora says after some unknown amount of time has passed. "What's next? Mushrooms?"

Fathom tilts his head. "Do you mean going to visit Toad like we planned, or the kind that makes you hallucinate? 'Cause I'm down either way."

"Yes," says his goddess, and offers him her hand again.

**********

4. Epilogue: The Almighty Sea

Fathom Tidechaser lives his life.

He spends two weeks with Tanazil in silent retreat and contemplation, drinking in the richness of the ancient, mossy forest, perfectly at peace. But while it’s a haven of relaxation and redemption for Tanazil, Fathom can’t linger. He’s never been able to settle down, not even for a few months. The power Melora has blessed him with guides him onward like he’s a ship sailing toward the horizon, pointing into the bittersweet unknown.

The halfling and her fey patron are always able to find him no matter where he travels, and it becomes something of a game between them all: to play pranks on Fathom, to get their tricks past his uncanny awareness of his surroundings. He catches them as often as they succeed, and it’s always a joyful reunion. The once-nameless halfling introduces herself these days with the name the Entertainer has given her. It suits her.

Curt turns twenty, which is a surprise to everyone who thought he'd get himself killed long before that. Technically he has, several times, but Fathom figures that any debt Curt built up from Fathom's resurrections was definitely repaid when Curt asked Fizzlewick to revive him. So they are equals now. On an even footing. Fathom has zero interest in the school of magic Curt is establishing on the moon, but he can recognize the bright-eyed whip-smart type of adventurer who would thrive there. He frequently sends Curt new recruits, and along with them his best wishes, but visits rarely.

Fathom travels as he always has. Now, though, he can raise and quiet storms at his command. He can also fly without a spell, skimming over the surface of the ocean for miles until he finds a ship and scares the hell out of its crew by landing on the rigging like a gigantic shiny albatross. When he is addressed as a minor deity, he scoffs, but then he wonders: are the frightened sailors that far off the mark? 

Fathom dies — finally, permanently, for good — at a much younger age than most, but that's hardly surprising. He is powerful enough to face almost any creature on the Material Plane, and several more planes besides, but the one person he can't resurrect is himself. It isn’t a dramatic sacrifice, nor is it a gentle and peaceful passing. It is simply a death — ugly and brutal and fast.

He greets Umbra as a friend, only exchanging a few words with her. Because they both know where he’s going, of course. Melora is one of the few deities with no astral domain, choosing instead to wander the cosmos eternally. So this is less of an ending and more of a transformation — from one way of being to another, like a wave breaking and returning to the water. Fathom’s soul still travels, still soars over the sea, still stirs up storms in thunderous magnificence. 

Fathom Tidechaser dies, and serves his goddess long past his death, until his name is mentioned in the same breath as hers. Things change, as they always do. Fathom dies, but he lives on.

[dracoqueen22]

[CR] A Fine Kettle

Title: A Fine Kettle Universe: Critical Role, Campaign Two, Alternate Universe Characters: Caduceus Clay/Caleb Widogast Rated: K+ Description: Of all the things Caduceus expected out of his new purchase from the antique store, a djinn appearing in a swirl of steam never even made the list.

For @claylebweek, Day 6, Alternate Universes

Caduceus Clay had need of a kettle. Just this morning, his own had come to ruin, the handle breaking off, the insides rusting as if by some magical means. He’d been forced to microwave water for his tea and that won’t do at all. It couldn’t be just any kettle. Caduceus had no need for the fancy ones they sell in stores nowadays. He appreciated more traditional designs. He knew he would have to go to an antique store.

It took him a day of scouring all of the local shops, and he was nearing closing time in the sixth shop when he spotted it. Elegant. Metal in definite need of polishing, but images and an unfamiliar language in relief along the sides. It had a wide spout, and the handle was wood. It called to Caduceus, and he knew with a smile, this was to be his new kettle. It faintly hummed to his fingers as he traced the upraised design. He got it for a steal. “Been on the shelf for ages,” the shop’s proprietor told him. “Couldn’t bring myself to be rid of it, but couldn’t seem to sell it either. Glad it’s finally found a home.” “Does it have a story?” Caduceus asked. “Oh, everything does, but this one.” The shopkeeper stroked his bushy beard and looked heavenward, contemplating deeply. “It had a story once, but I’ll be damned if I can remember it. Guess it’s up to you to give it a new one.” Caduceus smiled and thanked the man, and came home with his new kettle. It really was lovely. He couldn’t wait to brew his first cup of tea. First, however, it needed to be cleaned. So he scrubbed and polished, taking his time with all of the engravings, until the swirls gleamed back at him. Fire, Caduceus thought, the designs on the metal reminded him of fire. How appropriate for a kettle. He filled it with water and set it on the stove to boil while he perused his teas, trying to decide what would make for the perfect, first cup. Something to welcome the kettle to his household. Hmm. A new mix perhaps. He pulled down his jars and scooped a little bit of this and that into the strainer. A pinch of apricot, a scoop of hibiscus, some orange peels, a dash of honeysuckle, and a little bit of licorice root for an interesting twist. Yes. That sounded nice. The kettle whistled. Caduceus hummed and plucked it off the range. He paused, however, tilting his head. Was it his imagination or had the etchings started to glow? The range wasn’t nearly hot enough to overheat the metal, which was itself too sturdy to catch flame. Perhaps it was a special design, like glow in the dark paint, but of course it wasn’t paint nor glow in the dark, but the association seemed apt enough. There was no spell of burning. The kettle was safe enough, Caduceus supposed. He poured the hot water over his tea, steam rising from the cup in lazy swirls that thickened and thickened, until it looked more like smoke than steam. It smelled faintly phosphorus and sulfuric and a bit like volcanic ash. Caduceus blinked and stepped back, kettle still in hand. There was now a man in his kitchen. Or, almost a man. He was human in appearance, average in height, fair-skinned, ginger-haired, dressed in simple, if not tattered robes. Flames licked along his bare feet, briefly scorching Caduceus’ kitchen tile before they dispersed. “Um,” Caduceus said, still holding the kettle which yes, seemed to give off a magical hum now that he thought about it. “Hello?” The man’s eyes opened -- blue, they were very blue -- and he looked at Caduceus with a sort of quiet resignation. “Hello,” he said, his voice thick. Accented. Caduceus didn’t know enough to place it. “I am Caleb Widogast. I am the djinn of the kettle. I am here to grant you three wishes.” “Wishes?” Caduceus echoed. “What sort of wishes?” He thought djinns were bound to lamps, not kettles. “Any wish you might have,” Caleb Widogast said, though his tone was very bland, very uninterested, very sad. “Only, I cannot bring someone back from the dead, make them fall in love with you, and you can’t ask for more wishes.” Caduceus put down the kettle. “Well, people who are dead should stay dead, if you ask me, and I don’t want anyone who isn’t in love with me in the first place.” He tilted his head. “I barely know what to do with three wishes. I don’t need more.” Those blue eyes finally looked up at him. “What is your first wish?” “Hmm.” Caduceus went and fetched another cup while the djinn’s gaze followed him. “I don’t think I have one. I mean, I’m pretty happy as I am. I have a job and a home and friends. I used to need a kettle, but then I found yours, so I’m set.” It had never occurred to him to wish for things. If there was anything he wanted, he sought to retrieve it on his own, or asked the Wildmother if it was to be his. Caduceus had a rather content life, all things considered. “I can grant you untold riches. I can make you famous. I can give you a bigger home,” Caleb suggested. Caduceus returned with a cup and another mix of tea, and poured hot water over it as well. “I don’t want riches, and I really don’t want to be famous, and my home is the perfect size for me.” He put the kettle back on the stove. “Are you thirsty? You look thirsty. Have some tea.” Caleb Widogast squinted at him, glanced at the cup, then looked at Caduceus again. “Is that your wish?” “Do I have to wish for it to let you drink some tea?” “... No.” “Then I guess it’s not my wish. Have some tea if you want. It’s good. I grew it myself.” Caduceus beamed a smile at the djinn, hoping to put him at ease. He wondered how long Caleb had been trapped in that kettle, waiting to be released, while knowing his freedom would be temporary. It must have been lonely. Caleb frowned, but he finally moved, giving the tea a tentative sip. “You grew it?” “Here in my garden.” Caduceus tilted his head and subtly whispered a few prayers to Melora, relieved when he detected nothing Undead, and when the kettle indeed glowed the fierce blue of something magical. He wasn’t hallucinating. That was a relief. “You really have no wish?” Caleb asked. “Well, I didn’t say that. I just said I don’t have a wish right now,” Caduceus said. “I have everything I need.” He paused and reconsidered. “Well, maybe that’s not exactly true. But the thing I don’t have, is something I need to earn. It wouldn't feel right if it was just given to me.” Caleb’s shoulders hunched, but he kept sipping at the tea. “Are you hungry?” Caduceus asked, because he was thin himself, but Caleb looked starved, like he hadn’t had a good meal in centuries. He rose from his chair. “I’ll cook something,” Caduceus said before Caleb answered. “I hope you don’t mind. I don’t eat meat, but you’ll be amazed what I can do with some mushrooms.” Caleb shook himself as if he were coming out of a dream. The cup clattered back onto the saucer. “I should be granting you wishes,” he said, eyeing the kettle on the stovetop before chasing after Caduceus. “Please let me do the job, sir.” “Clay,” Caduceus corrected. “Caduceus Clay is my name. And it’s nice to meet you. Peppers okay?” “Ja, I eat peppers,” Caleb answered, as if on automatic, and blinked at him. “No, no. It doesn’t matter. What would you like to wish for, Mr. Clay?” Caduceus pulled down a pan and drizzled olive oil liberally along the inside. “Do I have to make a wish?” he asked and gestured to the fridge. “Would you grab the lemon juice, please?” Caleb blinked, but he obeyed, searching the shelves before producing the bottle. “I… suppose you don’t have to make a wish. I don’t know what happens if you don’t.” He frowned, forehead furrowing into deep lines. “It’s never happened before.” “There’s a first time for everything,” Caduceus said, and tilted his head, tasting the idiom again. “Which is quite true, isn’t it? Something has to happen once for it to happen again. Isn’t language interesting?” Caleb stared at him. “You are very odd, Mr. Clay.” “It’s not the first time I’ve heard that,” Caduceus said with a grin. “But if I had to make a wish. Hmmm.” He tapped his bottom lip as he waited for the pan to heat. “What would you ask for, Mr. Caleb?” The djinn reared back as if Caduceus had struck him. He went ghost-white, and his hands fisted, his gaze shunting away. “That is a cruel question to ask. I am in the business of granting wishes, not making them.” “Never?” Caduceus asked. “That is my punishment,” Caleb said. “One I richly deserve. So please, Mr. Clay, do not grant me any kindnesses. Make your wishes so I can go back to my kettle.” Funny enough, he didn’t so much sound like he wanted to go back to the kettle, but that he felt he ought to. All the more reason not to let him, Caduceus thought. He wasn’t much a fan of leaving people to their loneliness, and he suspected there was more to this story. Curiosity had always been a fault of his, Clarabelle said, and maybe it was a fault now, but Caduceus couldn’t let the mystery lie. He wanted to know more about the djinn who lived in a kettle, rather than in a lamp, and wore his misery around him like a cloak. The pan was warm enough, so Caduceus gradually added sliced vegetables to it, stirring in mushrooms, carrots, broccoli, and more. “I think a simple stir fry will be nice,” Caduceus said with a hum. “You shouldn’t eat anything too heavy if you haven’t eaten in a while. This’ll be a nice way to get you on your feet.” The djinn made a frustrated sound. “Did you not hear me?” Caduceus swirled a bit of soy sauce over the vegetables before he covered it with a lid and went in search of his rice cooker. “I think that you are already sorry for whatever it was you did, Mr. Caleb. So there’s nothing wrong with offering you some kindness.” “I… I am not here for kindness,” Caleb said, and he exhaled loudly, slumping back into his seat. “I am here to grant wishes, but you don’t have any, so I… I don’t know why I am here.” Caduceus measured water and rice in the appropriate measures, setting up the cooker to make a perfect batch. He could do it the long way, but sometimes, it was nice to not have to. “You are going to have dinner, and then after, I think I have some cookies for dessert,” Caduceus said, because it seemed the simplest thing to do. “You don’t have to go back in the kettle if you don’t want.” Blue eyes stared at him, at once bleak and resigned and confused and perhaps far, far in their depths, a bit comforted. It was important to be a good host, Caduceus thought. And if he didn’t have any wishes now, he’d rather help Caleb Widogast be comfortable while he waited. Caduceus didn’t know much about djinn and wishes and magical kettles. They were far outside his realm of expertise, but Melora seemed to think everything was all right, and Caduceus trusted Her judgment far more than anyone else’s. “I don’t know what to say,” Caleb said, and he sounded impossibly lost. Caduceus gave him a smile. “Thank you is a good start,” he said, and brought over another bundle of tea to make a new cup. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Caleb.” The djinn looked up at him as if he couldn’t believe Caduceus was a real person, his eyes wide, and magic swirling around him anxious eddies. “I… it’s nice to meet you, too, Mr. Clay. Thank you for your hospitality.” “It’s my pleasure.” Caduceus’ insides flushed with warmth. The company would be nice, and at least Clarabelle couldn’t tell him he was lonely anymore. “More tea?”

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