#kingsley has decked him in the face

[oasis-of-stars-4]

Snape: Tommorrow's garbage day. Barty: I can't believe they made a whole day dedicated to you.

[railroad-migraine]

Hey Poet ♥️ I had to put my bird and companion of 12 years to sleep earlier today... I was hoping it would be okay to request Molly, Kingsley, Ashton and Caduceus comforting a Ranger SO (friend in Cad’s case) who had their beast companion pass away? I hope it’s not too grim of a prompt, thanks a lot either way! And thank you for what you do, your lovely writing brings joy to many people :)

Oh darling I'm so sorry. We also recently had a family pet put to sleep and it is very hard, but know that you provided your lil friend a wonderful life and that's something to make it easier as time passes 🩶

Comforting Ranger!GN!Reader

Ashton 💚

Is the shoulder to cry on that you've always needed. They're a strong presence, someone reliable to lean on, something physical and real to keep you grounded and help you not lose yourself in feelings.

They say they have difficulty with words, but Ashton surprises even himself with the soft tone and even softer things he offers you. Little phrases of encouragement, of how things will get better, and how you're not going to carry this alone. You have him and friends who care about you - he ignores the hot feeling in his face when your teary eyes meet his upon the confession - and pulls you into their side with a soft "I got you."

-

Caduceus 💜

Arguably the best person on the list to console you after losing someone you held dear. If it's something you'd like, he'll organise a little ceremony - allow memories of the good and fun moments shared with your companion to take centre stage. It's a happy occasion, with friends in attendance, a celebration of their life, their love, and how they made a home in your heart.

Cad takes time out of his day to sit with you, share tea and treats and the quiet tranquility of his porch, content to give you silent support but even more eager to offer counsel if that's what you seek. He understands how you're feeling, and guides you through them with careful, attentive ease.

-

Molly 💜

He knows what it's like to mourn a life, be that of a friend's or the past that he will never truly know. He makes sure that as you're processing this change in your life, that you continue to look after yourself. He ensures that you eat, even if you don't feel hungry. He washes your hair and cleans your face, helps you change into fresh clothes, coaxes you outdoors to feel warm sunlight on your skin. He wants to remind you to keep living, to enjoy it just as your pet beast did.

Life moves on. It always will. Your animal came into your life unexpectedly, just as you came into Molly's life. He's there for you, to get you through the day, the week, the month, and beyond. It happens gradually, as all wounds heal, but eventually he sees you smile at him more and he knows it hurts a little less. He smiles back, all teeth and pride for you.

-

Kingsley 💜

He's still discovering the big emotions that come with experiencing life. Grief is one of them. He fumbles in the beginning, and is scared to say anything in the fear of hurting you further, but he feels more confident after you melt into his arms and let him hold you for who knows how long. He realises later that a distraction can help further along healing.

So that's what Kingsley does. He spends more time with you, takes you sailing and has you steer the ship (with his professional supervision of course). He drags you into dances along the deck and sings you songs before bed. He holds your hand as you fall asleep, and tells you how grateful he is that you're there with him. Thanks you for giving him that - just as you had given your familiar that.

[romeoandjulietyouwish]

anyway I adore Kingsley so have a character study I guess <3

Kingsley bounds to the front of the ship, looking out at the water with childlike glee. Childlike is right, he’s technically not even three months old. Sometimes he feels older, sometimes he really does feel like the child the others seem to think he is.

Everything is still so fascinating and new but also familiar. The ship isn’t familiar, neither is the water, but the people are. Jester and Fjord. It feels as though he should know them but he doesn’t.

Every so often he gets a flash of a memory, Jester smiling up at him, whispering to him in Infernal. Or Fjord bisecting some kind of creature with a sword.

He doesn’t tell them as much, doesn’t want them to get their hopes up that whoever inhabited this body before him is returning. He’s not that person anymore, either of them, and it’s taking them all some adjusting.

Kingsley takes a big breath of salty air as the wind blows his coat back, certain with every bone in his body, that he's never done this before.

They tell him he used to read fortunes. And apparently they’re right. His hands know the worn deck of tarot cards Jester hands him. He knows how to get the card he wants to the top and how to trick his customer into thinking he’s genuine. Kingsley hates it. It’s not him. It’s something else, someone else in his head bleeding through.

So he gives the tarot cards back to Jester. The next time they make port he purchases a worn book on palm reading. He reads through it in one night, burning a candle down to the stand. And the next day he spends hours just staring at his palm. 

His life line is frayed, splitting off into three lines. He traces a nail through them, wondering which one is his. Wondering if it even matters.

His heartline is the deepest one. It means you love deeply and completely, the book had said. And that’s the one he’s become fixated on. How can his hand know more about him than he does? It doesn’t make any sense and yet at the same time it makes the most sense of it all. This hasn’t always been his body. Maybe the line was meant for someone else. Lucien? Mollymauk? 

Sometimes when he lies in his hammock below decks, he’ll trace that line over and over again, hoping beyond anything that it belongs to him.

The nightmares are the worst part. More often than not in the early months, he wakes up screaming names he barely knows, looking at faces he doesn’t remember. He dreams of a city made of roiling flesh. He dreams of a snowy road and a sharp blade. He dreams of a figure in red staring down at him. He dreams of dirt and ash and books and eyes. So many eyes. 

Nothing but fucking eyes.

Jester is always there to comfort him. She’s good at that. She’ll hold him in her arms, let him cry and babble on and on about his dreams, switching mindlessly between Common and Infernal. She doesn’t judge. She doesn’t tell anyone.

She’ll braid his hair and sing a song her mother wrote her. Kingsley doesn’t know his mother. He doubts he ever will. And it eats at him far more than he would ever let on. Jester never sees his thumb digging into his life line almost hard enough to cut the skin.

Unlike the others, Caduceus has no expectations of him. He is a welcome friend, despite their many differences. It's Caduceus that Kingsley talks to when he can no longer stand the thought of staring at his palm, wondering what it all means.

Caduceus takes his hand, gentle as ever, and turns his hand over so Kingsley can no longer see the lines. He taps his thumb against the scar on the back of Kingsley's hand, asks him how he got it.

Kingsley is prepared to say he doesn't know, that it's a relic from Molly or Lucien. But then he takes a better look at it and smiles, telling Caduceus that it's from when Fjord tried to teach him to cook and a huge wave rocked the ship making him cut himself.

And in that instant, Kingsley understands the point Caduceus is trying to make. It doesn't matter who came before him, it doesn't matter which lines are his, because at the end of the day it's his body now. Every day he's figuring out who he is, he's adopting mannerisms, he's learning. And he's growing.

And that has to be enough.

[dent-de-leon]

Is there a explanation for the lack of tattoos on Kingsley?

No I don't think there's one officially yet! It's something I've been seeing a lot of interesting posts on lately though, and it makes me very curious 👀 He definitely still has them in episode 141, so I don't think it's something that got retconned. It could've just been kinda forgotten since it's been so long, like the little Balleater and Nein Heroez mixup.

But I also think it's a possibility that King is hiding the tattoos while still trying to work out his identity. I've seen a bunch of other posts point out that it's very noticeable Kingsley isn't showing any skin; he's got a high collar coat, long sleeves, gloves--you can't see the tattoos even if they are still there. (Except for the feathers on his face I suppose, though I'd also buy that that's either something he'd cover with makeup or even just a minor detail left out in the art.)

This also isn't out of character for Mollymauk himself. In fact, if he was reconsidering what tattoos he wanted to show off and what to cover up, it sounds very in line with his Moonweaver worship. The same goes for his little comment on reinventing the coat, that it's still a work in progress, but it's getting there. "I feel a bit underdressed."

He's adding to it, customizing it, redesigning it. Like his original patchwork coat, lovingly hand-embroidered and intricately detailed. (And I think it means something, that this one is still red. A red coat like the one worn by the beautiful woman he kept dreaming about--who sounds an awful lot like the Moonweaver herself--)

For reference, here's what Molly has to say about Moonweaver oracle decks in the tarot card booklet:

"Each deck of Moon Oracle cards are different, as each deck evolves with the owner. When a card is weathered or simply no longer speaks to you, replace it with a new card of your own design. Something personal and true. Trust yourself; what is true for you will ring true for others. Some choose to change a card each Lunar cycle. Some decks magically destroy a card when it is replaced with a new one--such decadence!"

"Each card holds two balanced thoughts. They can be opposing thoughts, complementary, or different states of the same thought. Meaning may sometimes overlap between cards, but that's hardly the point. A deck with a point of view is far more useful than a false sense of worldliness. And if you find a card is too close in meaning to another, simply cast it off for a new idea."

Molly himself admits it's common practice to hold onto the cards that really resonate with you, and then discard and redraw the rest. Sometimes replacing cards as often as every month. And it's a philosophy Sehanine's followers embrace wholeheartedly. Again, these are Mollymauk's own beliefs.

While the thought of King not wanting to keep some of his old tattoos certainly hurts, I can at least take comfort in the fact that, for Molly, a core part of his religion is changing and reinventing your sense of self. The Moonweaver encourages exploring your identity, continually growing and changing, starting anew whenever you wish.

And I don't think it's necessarily supposed to be a destruction of the past so much as allowing yourself a sense of...fluidity. Staying in the moment and donning a new mask each day like the ever shifting phases of the moon. He might just be keeping the tattoos covered up for now while he decides what he wants to keep or add, still discovering who he is in this world.

It's also worth noting that Molly originally got those tattoos to try and hide the Eyes. He might want something a little different now that they're gone, just so he's never reminded of those empty spaces where the Somnovum once branded him.

[saphirered]

Hello :), id love to request a kingsley x reader where theyre a member of his new pirate crew perhaps first mate after he steals that ship from fjord at the end of campain 2

Sorry for the wait on this one! Too many ideas to approach this request turned into procrastination but I finished it! It's pining, it's sweet and fluffy. Hope you like how it turned out! And right in time for the Mighty Nein reunited! 😘

He still doesn’t quite know how this happened or when and don’t get him started on the why���s because every time he tries listing them, he can’t put actual words to it; you’re just everything perfect. When did he turn into some fictional cliché? His fellow chaos maker tiefling would use this to fuel her next novel to be sure. Captain falls in love with his first mate. A match made in hell. Perfect. Just perfect. Kingsley’s tried to play it cool but during mealtimes he finds himself sit next to you, relishing in even just smalltalk. When you have a shift together he’ll be paying more attention to you than to what he’s supposed to be on watch for. When another totally unavoidable skirmish arises, he worries for your safety and always makes sure he’s within some kind of reachable range because he feels safer when you’re near. He trusts few people, and you are no exception. You’re all pirates after all. But unlike anyone else, he actually wants to trust you. He wants to be able to count on you, as you can count on him. Were he ever to tell you this, you’d laugh in his face of course. The last deckhand that did, you literally laughed in the poor man’s face. He’d rather not be verbally torn apart and take that wound to his heart. 

You look over the waves, your post at the helm is one you take seriously. You always have. You’re the goddamn first mate of this ship. You do your best to ignore the staring of your captain who is rather disinterested in the suggestions of the bosun, and favours simply nodding or humming along, when he looks past. He’s focussed on you. You feel heat rise to your cheeks but luckily the appearance of such could be brushed off as the harsh wind cutting at your face. Those ruby eyes, you cannot set out of your mind. Are you not doing your job correctly? Are your capabilities being brought in question? Is there doubt in your loyalty to this ship, to this crew? Did you do something wrong? Are you no longer worthy of this position? All these questions are easier to ask, to consider than to admit to the truth you’re denying; that’s the stare of admiration. There’s a tap on your shoulder and you nearly jump out of your skin. It’s just the helmsman ready to relieve you. 

You retreat into your own mind, build a shield to keep your thoughts from going rampant as you make your way down the steps onto the main deck. It’s probably a good thing you have got your sea legs because a particular wave has some catch themselves just in time. Kingsley, who you missed was midway towards you, lunges and barely manages to catch himself on the railing of the stairs. You didn’t even realise he had moved, but now he stands in your path. Quickly you respond out of reflex, catch his other arm, and help him back to stable feet. Everything around feels numb but the moment you touch him, feel his hand wrap around your lower arm, as you balance him, your cold skin burns and find yourself short of breath, eyes wide. 

“Looks like I can count on my first mate to save me collecting my teeth from the deck.” Kingsley appears as short of breath as you. The moment you’re sure he’s stable again, you pull your arm from his grasp and step around him without another word, making for the stairs down below deck. The tiefling watches you go, and you move so fast, or perhaps his mind has slowed that much. He can’t say anything else, do anything else. You’re gone and he won’t follow. 

So ends another day. And he’ll spend the next night staring at the ceiling of his cabin, unable to take his mind off you; the electricity that ran through his veins when you caught him, and the numbness when you let go. It may sound cliche but when he stood so near to you, when you held onto him, he felt as if he had never seen the world in colour, had never used his senses to their full extend, suddenly everything made sense yet nothing at all did but he couldn’t care less, and when you rushed away, you took that feeling with you and he felt lost again. He’ll day dream about that feeling because he could not find sleep until the early hours of morning. He’s completely and utterly in love with his first mate. No way around it anymore. 

————

Kingsley dodges a punch as someone tosses a chair at another drunkard. The tavern took a turn for the better when an incredibly dull night turned into a bar fight, and a glorious one at that. He’s pretty sure he’ll be covered in bruises, the bloodstains he’ll never get out of his shirt, his knuckles are busted, and his nose just might be broken, still he is filled with cheer and adrenaline. The next punch to the gut sparks it only further as he counters by grabbing the arm, getting close and delivering a punch straight to the face of his opponent. Knocked out cold. Next. He’s distracted when he sees a familiar flash resembling your shape, legs wrapped around someone’s shoulders as they desperately try to throw you off, but you hold on tight, even when your back hits that thankfully sturdy table. This time you let go and deliver a perfect kick to the throat and get back up to tackle the next one coming at you. Then for just a brief second things go dark as pain erupts through his head. He recovers, looking for the source to see the blurred form of some kind of brute. Did he just get punched in the face? His ears are ringing. Just barely does he manage to deflect the brunt of the next hit. 

You let out a battle cry as you kick low, high and strike. You’ll have to admit that when this fight started you were exhausted and didn’t feel like getting into the fray. You don’t exactly know why it started but your captain seemed to be one half of it and then it became crew against crew, and the rest of the bar got pulled in. Your exhaustion faded quickly when some poor sod made the wrong call and made you spill your drink. Screw exhaustion. That’s what you told yourself because in reality, you felt your blood boil when Kingsley took a foul hit. You’ve been on a good track record for the past few minutes. Sustained some damages yourself, but nothing you couldn’t handle. You’ll probably be sore in the morning and have some bruises to show for the eventful evening but such is your life. Everyone needs a good bar fight every once in a while. Every once in a while you’d check up on your captain, search for him in the room. When you have the opportunity to do next, you see him cornered, disoriented and opposing a man twice his size. He takes another hit and is thrown against the table, it shattering beneath the impact of his weight. 

The groan on his breath is cut short as air escapes his lungs and he’s coughing. He barely has time to recover or get up when he’s grabbed by the front of his shirt, the movement registering a second or two later than it should. The brute in front of him has no intentions of letting him go it seems. Squinting he’s pretty sure this is the first mate of the captain he went fist to cuffs with in the first place. Maybe this wasn’t one of his better ideas. Does he have any regrets? No. That captain is short a couple of teeth. Serves ‘em right. Though, given his place now, he might be short a couple of teeth. The punch is incoming and while he does his best to deflect, there isn’t much he can do to turn this into a favourable position for him, so he prepares for the impact best he can though he doubts he’ll be awake to make any counter move. Then, it rains something, shatters. Glass. Glass shatters above him. His opponent goes dazed and the hold weakens. Next a fist swings to bring home the attack and the brute hits the floor with a heavy thud. He’s grabbed by the front of his shirt again and when he thinks the next blow is coming, he just focusses in on your face. With force you get him to his feet, never letting go of the red stained linen as you pull him along, dancing around other fighting patrons until the cool night’s air hits him. He hears shouts behind, but you run, and thus force him along until the sounds muffle and he walks the plank onto the ship. 

Out of breath you set the tiefling on one of the crates on deck as you bend over, take a deep breath and straighten again. Kingsley watches as you run a hand through your hair, and wipe some remnants of blood from your cheek. Your gaze turns to him, analytical. You check him for injury, step close, hold his chin, move his face, touch some scrapes to which he hisses in discomfort, then look him straight on. You hold his nose between both your index fingers and give him a serious look. He can feel the crunch back in his skull as you reset it. He tastes metal on his tongue. Blood. You press a scrap of cloth to his nose and when his response is too slow for your liking, grab his hand and make it take over the position you held it in. 

“You good?” You ask. You sound mostly neutral, as if you would have after any fight he’s gotten into. There’s a hint of exhilaration. Good to know you had your fun too. What strikes him though is the concern that’s hidden beneath. You’re actually concerned for his wellbeing? 

“Yeah.” He groans leaning back only for you to interfere. Right. He’s sitting on a crate. “Saved me yet again. What would I do without you?” 

“You’ve got brain damage. And you’re drunk.” You roll your eyes.

“I’d hate to tell you, but I’m perfectly sober. The brain damage? Now that, I won’t make any statements on.” Ever the witty remarks you snort and cross your arms. 

“Oh really? Captain Kingsley, started a bar fight perfectly sober? What would the people say?” You retort. Maybe it’s the buzz of what little alcohol you did manage to consume, or the adrenaline beginning to wear off but it’s so easy again. You don’t feel like you’re running away from a truth right now. This moment, is just so easy. 

“There’s the sass I love.” He grins. He’s missed this. The times where you’re so easy going. You’ve been avoiding him, you’ve been distant and he’s missed this nature of yours, the one you reserve only for public settings and anything not to do with your person. And yet you close up again after that comment. Your shoulders move in and you rub your arm, only to be reminded of the forming bruises when you find your skin tender. 

“Do I want to know why this fight even started?” You try to change the subject, ignore the comment, pretend it was never said. Love. Love. Love. The word echoes through your mind. Kingsley sighs deeply and the usual attitude dissipates for a slightly more serious one.

“I don’t think you’ll like the answer.” His eyes cast downward. At first you’re brushing it off like a child being caught doing something they shouldn’t but then you see it for what it really is; avoidance. Like you’re avoiding certain things. Your heart clenches. You bite your tongue. No more running. May this tail-end of an adrenaline rush give you the courage to see this through. 

“Humour me.” He looks up and you see his eyes. Gone is the playfulness he usually displays, or the self-confidence and pride. The fuel of an epic bar fight is not enough to linger. 

“A captain from another ship had some choice of words about someone I happen to care about.” Kingsley admits. “I asked the captain if he’d like to take back his words. He did not.” 

“So you punched him in the face?” He drops the rag from his nose, the bleeding stopped and wipes away the remaining blood best he can before he simply shrugs. It’s not like he’s going to deny it and he’d do it all over again in a heartbeat. 

“They were some very offensive words. I take it to heart when my first mate is brought into question.” You thought you could brush over the implication it might have been you, not wanting to get any false hope but this blatant confirmation, that’s it. A small smile creeps onto your features and a warm and fuzzy feeling spreads through out. 

“So what you’re saying is, you knocked out another captain because they insulted me, spiked the ire of their crew until a tavern brawl erupted in which you took a further beating to the point I had to save your ass before their first mate could return the favour?” You step closer and closer until you’re right in front of him. Kingsley looks up at you nodding along and getting smugger with the second. That pride returns. 

“When you say it like that-“ You press your lips to his, your hands falling to his cheeks when he responds to your affections gleefully. Without breaking the kiss he scoots over on the crate and makes space for you. You sit next to him, thigh pressed against his, as you feel a warm palm against your cheek, and the other brushes along your arm, onto your shoulder until it settles on the small of your back and pulls you closer. 

Many things run through his head and most thoughts come as fast as they go because he has no room for anyone but you in his mind. At surface it’s easy. The taste of your lips; remnants of the ale mixed with some metallic taste of blood either yours, or his or both. Then when he feels daring enough to brush his tongue against you and you respond favourably he continues. He feels your arms move from his cheeks where they cupped his face curve around until you wrap your arms around his neck and allow yourself to move closer against him. He runs his fingers along your cheek, into your hair where they tangle, the other pressing against the small of your back, brushing along in gentle circles. Secondly words finally appear in his head, cohesive strings of thought; why did he wait so bloody long? This now, this moment is a blessing but if this is how you feel, and might have felt ever since you retreated from him, he should have done this earlier, should have confronted you earlier and cleared up that misunderstanding. 

Thirdly, Kingsley wants this moment to last forever. He’d fight an entire armada on his own if it meant you would grace him a kiss, even just a single one. But you do pull apart. Forehead against his, eyes still closed, he takes in the proximity to you. previously when you had a moment of physical closeness, you’d bolt the first chance you got. He hopes you won’t. He hopes you’ll stay. But he still makes it clear; if you think this a mistake, something you regret now, you can. He would never hold something like that against you. Sure it would hurt his feelings, but such is the way of life. It’s not just his word that matters here. If you are not one-hundred percent behind this, then it simply should not happen. He wants to be sure you don’t feel there’s no way back, that you feel trapped or like you have to but then he feels your lips peck his once final time before you pull back, unwrap your arms from him as he lets go of you. What he does not expect is for you to grab onto one of his hands, and pick the rag with the other, only to press it to his nose again.

“Your nose bleeding again.” You try to hide your gentle laughs as he just shakes his head in amusement causing you to reach out quickly and hold his head still. Kingsley responds but you can’t make out the words so when you raise an eyebrow he pulls the rag away once more, holding you at the wrist ever so gently. 

“Injury. Forever to ruin the moment. At least I have a good healer.” 

“I’m a pirate. Not a healer.” You deadpan. “If you’d like me to go fetch the healer I’m sure he’s deep in his cups but should be perfectly-“ Kingsley grabs your hand when you poke at one of the forming bruises. 

“Oh, you think you’re funny now, aren’t you? Don’t backtalk to your captain.” You wipe away some more blood, and prevent any further response. 

“My dear captain seems to be incapacitated.” You hum. He pulls away the rag again. This time the bleeding seems to stop and you feel safe to put it down.

“Well then, first mate. I’m pretty sure that puts you in charge. What are your orders?” You grin and tap your chin. 

“I’m sure I can think of something.” You purse your lips every so lightly and Kingsley takes the opportunity to peck them in jest. He’ll have some ideas. Some inspiration for you. The ice has broken and with it all previous tensions. The morning can only tell how things will be when you’re both down from your adrenaline highs and when the world has returned to normal, or as normal as can be on this ship, given that Kingsley did just spark a conflict between his crew and another but he couldn’t care less. He lives in the moment and this is a good one. You’re living in the moment too. You can talk later about how much your lives have been one romantic cliche for the past few weeks. 

[cupcaketrickster]

{[ with one hand, fjord cradles jester’s head. he places the other over her wounds—a trickle of blood at her temple, a gash on her cheek—and allows healing warmth to blossom from his palm. jester regains consciousness as he murmurs a soft prayer to the wildmother. he asks not for his safety, but for hers: don’t let them take this. don’t let them take what i love from me. fjord smiles softly at her despite the sorrow in his eyes. “forgive me,” his voice is gentle, but firm. taking his hand away from her face, fjord lifts the cloven crystal into the scions’ view. “if you want the last key, leave my crew. you’ll have to take me.” with force, he pushes the cloven crystal through his skin, through muscle and bone, to his very core, through his chest. ~~~ @falchioned ! ]}

it is a strange thing, the way that her hearing slowly began to return to her the moment that the world went dark. she could hear the sound of her body hitting the deck before it fell away --- she could hear swords clashing. she could hear thunder crying out and rain hitting the deck. the feeling of the boards on her back, though, slowly begins to fade. time seems to slow, moving fast and slow at once, but what she does feel in the midst of loud, terrifying, too nothingness ( something she has not felt before ) is the hand that is holding her head, and then the warm energy. everything comes to her at once and she is gasping lightly. she does not acknowledge any of it, though, as she instead looks him in the eyes. though her hearing still fades in and out and jester finds herself unable to look away from fjord in the moment. he is muttering something- what, she does not know, but then he turns to her-

something is wrong. it's in his smile. it's in his eyes. it has jester sitting up with a bit of a struggle, eyes locked on his every move, violet eyes confused as he says those two words and pulls his hand away. she is not prepared, though, for what he does.

there's a flash of panic within her, moving as quickly as she can to step on her feet, hearing kingsley's words above, a holler, a demand, asking what's happening, but her eyes are torn between the mage who is approaching, an angered look in his eyes and fjord, trying to check in on him. the scene around them quieted as scions had a new thing to do... take him.

" fjord? " her voice comes out broken, shaken, eyes focusing on him and him alone, trying to wait for a sign that he had a plan beyond this, though it explained everything, trying to see if she could help. trying to catch a glimpse of his eyes once again, desperate, pleading, terrified, not hiding her terror.

[mackenzielovee]

letters to you: one - rafe cameron

summary: sometimes the people that put us on edge are the ones who have the most to teach

warnings: swearing, cigarette smoking

wc: 4.9k

a/n: please let me know what you think and if this should continue :) thank you all xoxo (also i wrote this all today so sorry if there's any typos! i edited so hopefully not)

Mind-numbing chatter. That seems to be the only real way to describe the noise that floats around you; all of the OBX adults gossiping, talking loudly, and gasping as they pretend they haven’t seen each other in months.

For you, the story is different. The Outer Banks has always been home. It’s where you grew up, it’s where you learned to ride a bike, got your first period, and suffered heartache as a teenager.

Now, home from UNC Chapel Hill for Christmas break, you don’t feel that sense of belonging anymore. You don’t feel at home, you don’t ever really feel settled in or relaxed when you sleep in your childhood bedroom. You miss your college apartment, your friends, and most of all, you miss crawling into bed and having that feeling of total bliss. Total comfort.

You’re seated between your parents at a table in the middle of the banquet hall, eyes fixating upon your half-full white wine glass in front of you. Your dad’s deep voice attracts your attention for a moment as he begins discussing market pricing, and your mother laughs loudly beside you at something one of her friends said.

With a perfectly manicured finger, a staple of being upper class on the island, you hook it around the stem of your wine glass and pull it toward you. Glancing around, you ensure everyone’s eyes are elsewhere as you drain the glass with two swallows, then set it back down on the table and stand up.

“Honey, you okay?” your father asks.

“I’m fine,” you smile, placing a hand on his shoulder and giving a warm smile to the co-worker sitting beside him, “Excuse me, Dad, Mr. Kingsley. I just need to run to the restroom.”

He nods and his co-worker smiles to you as you slide your purse over your shoulder, making your way to the nearest exit. You’d been here plenty of times; the adults of the Eight always put on holiday celebrations that are way too fancy and way too expensive. Your dress comes up just above your knee, and it accentuates all of your favorite parts of your body in a classy way. You’d never been one to show off, not like the other girls who would get drunk off of champagne and have to Uber home before their parents so they didn't see.

The hall, although large and beautifully decorated, starts to feel suffocating. So suffocating, in fact, that sucking in a deep breath becomes impossible. Your heels click loudly against the marble floor as you hurry toward the French doors, pushing one open and stepping out onto the deck.

It’s a beautiful night; stars high in the sky, string lights decorating the deck. A few people loiter around, enjoying drinks and talking softly, but you know they won’t bother you.

With a deep breath and a step toward a seat, you bite the inside of your cheek to hide a smile when you remember you slid A Sicilian Romance into your small purse before leaving the house for this event. You take a seat in one of the cushioned chairs outside, one with a great view of the water over the deck and better lit than the remainder of the area, then pull it out and open it up.

Suddenly, you don’t care about the party. You don’t care about getting back inside or having another glass of wine or smiling absently to all of the adults that come up to you to ask about college. Really, you’re just fighting to get through the break so you can leave again. No part of you wants to explore why coming home suddenly seems so hard.

“I saw you take down that wine like a champ. Riesling is fucking awful.”

Your eyes pull out of your book and travel from the dress shoes up to the face of a guy you barely recognize.

Rafe Cameron, marked the king of the Eight when he was in high school, yet seemed to disappear off the face of the earth after everyone parted. You’d been two years behind him in school, yet seemed to have no better knowledge than his own friends about what he’s been up to the past 5 years.

From the looks of him, you figure it’s not much. He has a cigarette resting between his fingers, probably only having taken one or two drags from it since he stepped out. His button down is open at the top, exposing his chain and his chest in a way that isn’t exactly appropriate for this event. He has a blazer over the dress shirt, and if he had tried to button his shirt, you think he might even look effortlessly handsome. His hair is shorter than you’d last seen it, not that you ever paid too much attention to him. He had a reputation, a lifestyle that you did not agree with or participate in.

“Although, I don’t really like any white wine, so I suppose I’m biased,” he continues, seemingly fine with your silence.

He lifts the cigarette to his lips and inhales, but doesn’t pull it out once he’s through. You debate speaking for a beat too long, and when your voice does come out, it sounds weak and almost pathetic.

“It was Pinot Grigio,” you inform him.

He chuckles, not even attempting to be subtle about the way his eyes trail from yours down your entire body. You’d had your legs up on the chair, your book tucked in your lap. When his eyes go lower, you shift immediately, placing your legs on the ground and lifting your right over your left tightly.

“Y/N, yeah?” he asks after he removes the cigarette from his mouth.

You nod.

He chuckles again.

“Relax. I’m not gonna do anything,” he says.

He remains standing, his body pointed toward the view off the deck. He has to turn his head to look over at you, but he doesn’t seem uncomfortable by this. You, on the other hand, are. Almost as if he can sense it, he turns to look out.

“Do anything?” you question, an attempt to clarify his statement.

His tongue pokes the left side of his cheek as he considers his response. He taps the cigarette over the deck, watching the ashes fall down, down, down.

“You’re squirming around like I’m gonna hurt you just by looking at you.”

You frown, looking back down at your book. You can feel your uncertainty and wonder for half a second if going back inside would be better than this. How can he be comfortable? How does he know your name?

“Most girls like being looked at, you know,” he carries on.

You aren’t sure what to say; fully aware that most girls would have a flirty, underlying remark to say back to this. You’d read enough books to know what’s supposed to happen now – you say the right thing and Rafe Cameron would think it’s an invitation to fuck.

He keeps his gaze out on the view, listening to you clear your throat and inhale the silence between you two. You’re hoping he’ll just leave you alone, but as the seconds tick by, you only become more aware of his presence. He doesn’t seem bothered by the fact that you’re not speaking back to him, but you learned a long time ago to never go off of what people seem like. Instead, you settle your eyes back down to your book and try to focus on the words. Re-reading the same sentence four times before you finally give up, looking back to the smoking boy.

“You shouldn’t put the ashes of your cigarette onto the wood of the railing,” you tell him, “It’s inconsiderate.”

“To the wood?”

“To other people,” you clarify.

He smirks, pulling his cigarette from his lips and tapping the ashes onto the wooden railing anyway. You swallow your pride and roll your eyes, sucking in a deep breath. Yes, the party definitely would be better than whatever game this is. You shut your book and reach for your bag, fumbling with your belongings when he speaks again.

“You’re supposed to tell me smoking is bad for me. That cigarettes will kill me,” he says, a teasing tone present in his voice.

You stuff your book in your bag now, organization be damned. When you stand, dress adjusting down your legs, he looks over. Instinctively, you smooth it down, not wanting to look bad under his wandering eye. You decide not to investigate why on that one, either.

“I don’t believe in telling other people how to live,” you say simply.

With a shrug, you adjust your bag over your shoulder and move to walk away. Everything about this version of Rafe Cameron seems slow, organized, deliberate, and smooth. So, when he launches his half-consumed cigarette over the deck and takes two quick, long strides to stand in front of you, you jump at his stealth and proximity.

“Excuse me,” you mumble, attempting to sidestep him.

He steps with you, trying his best not to smile when you step the opposite way and he follows you. You can feel the embarrassment start to churn in your stomach as he keeps up this little game, and you curse yourself for ever having come out here.

“What are you reading?” he asks when you are still.

“A Sicilian Romance,” you tell him.

Your eyes fall to the ground, trying your best to avoid his dilated blue ones. He smells like whiskey and cigarettes, but it doesn’t repulse you. Especially when he takes a step forward, so close that you can feel his body heat.

“Hm,” he hums, and you can feel his intense stare at the top of your head, “Have you read Northanger Abbey?”

He watches with a wide smirk when your eyes shoot up to meet his. You’re trying to gauge if he’s serious, if he’s genuinely trying to start a conversation or if he’s getting ready to tease you for reading at a party.

“You like Jane Austen?” you ask, figuring that’s the safest response to his question.

His smirk transforms into a grin, his eyes moving from yours to the view off the deck just for a moment. He doesn’t nod or speak for what feels like minutes, but you’re sure that’s only due to his close proximity.

“I didn’t say that,” he responds.

You purse your lips and nod, then attempt to sidestep him again. No common ground would be found with him, you decide. This time, he lets you pass him. Your eyes stay on the ground as you move away, heels clicking on the deck. You take four steps when he calls after you.

“I have, though,” he says, raising his voice.

You turn and find his back is still to you, and he takes his time turning around. You watch with hesitance as he trails you from top to bottom with his eyes once more.

With the raise of an eyebrow, you question him.

“Read Jane Austen,” he clarifies, “If you like her work, don’t ask me if I do.”

Something in his words sounds like a challenge. You glance over your shoulder through the French doors, but you can’t find your parents among the crowd. You’re sure they’re far too busy to notice you haven’t come back, or they’ve assumed you’re off with some girls from high school. When you turn your attention back to Rafe, victory shines through his eyes.

You take one step forward, “You didn’t like her work?”

“She’s too busy constructing the perfect man. It’s unrealistic. Men are selfish, they are demeaning, they lack integrity–”

“It sounds like you speak from experience,” you take another step forward, crossing your arms over your chest as if you’re defending yourself, not Jane Austen.

What you fail to realize when you cross your arms is that you push your breasts up further on your chest. Rafe’s eyes fall to them for one quick second, but you notice it. It was accidental, but it lights a fire in you that he’s looking at you this way. Male attention isn’t exactly something you receive or even notice.

“Maybe I do.”

He shoves his hands in his pockets and decides it is his turn to step forward.

“Not all men are selfish. Or immoral–”

“I didn’t say immoral,” he reminds you, “And, I’m just referring to the average man. Most men. Not a few exceptions.”

“If that’s your opinion, that’s fine.”

He licks his lips, taking another step forward. You’re almost as close as you were initially. When his eyes fall down to your chest once more, you uncross your arms. He smirks.

“Let’s try something,” he declares, “This might help you see what I mean.”

“What?”

He wets his lips again, “Three adjectives. Describe me with three adjectives and we’ll see if they compare to precious Jane Austen’s take on a man.”

You shake your head and step back, “I’m not going to–”

“Delicate, benevolent, tempting.”

He stares at you intensely, as if you’re supposed to understand what that means. You shut your eyes for a second and shake your head slightly, then open to find the same expression on his face.

“What is that?”

“Your adjectives.”

You replay his words in your head and swallow at the last one. You have no idea how to respond – should you thank him? Should you argue that you’re not delicate, even though you’re not sure you’d believe yourself? What the hell does tempting even mean?

You open your mouth and then close it again twice, trying to work out your thoughts and calm the nerves in your body.

“I don’t know what yours would be,” you say quietly, “I don’t know you.”

He shakes his head, “First impression. I won’t be offended, I promise.”

You suck in a deep breath and nod, closing your eyes to think. Deciding to be honest, just the way he was, you speak.

“Arrogant, imposing,” your eyes open and you look at him for the third, “Misunderstood.”

His body pulls back, as if your final word strikes him physically. His eyes never leave yours, not until you grow uncomfortable over his sharp and intense gaze. He watches you swallow and turn back to the French doors once more, then steps back from you.

“Shit,” he mutters, pulling another cigarette from his pocket.

“Darcy was arrogant,” you tell him, sure he’s already aware, “In Pride and Prejudice. Handsome, too. Definitely misunderstood.”

Rafe grins as he lights his cigarette, “I guess you win this one, then.”

He steps away and sits down, leaving the chair previously occupied for you open in case you’d join him.

“I’ve never read A Sicilian Romance,” he declares, “But I’ve heard about it. Do you like it?”

“I’m not far enough into it to have an opinion,” you reply.

He hums and smiles, nodding slightly. You can’t help but allow your eyes to rake over him now; looking impossibly handsome as he lounges on the deck like he owns it. The cigarette between his fingers doesn’t even bother you.

“Did you follow me out here?” you blurt it before you can help yourself.

You’re sure he won’t give you a proper answer. It will probably be backhanded, vague–

“I did.”

Your eyes widen slightly, “Why?”

He laughs and takes another hit from his cigarette, holding the smoke in for a few seconds before blowing it out between his lips.

“Because,” he waves his hand around vaguely, “I like following women to dark corners of parties.”

Your eyebrows furrow as you scan his features, looking for any sign of deception.

He laughs, “That was a joke.”

Your expression relaxes, but it’s clear to you that he won’t be giving you a real answer to your question tonight.

“I should probably get back to my parents,” you murmur.

He nods, a frown tugging at the corners of his lips when you inch backward. You adjust your dress and turn around, ready to plaster that fake smile back onto your face.

“I’ll be quiet,” he calls out the second your hand extends to the French doors, “If you just want to read. I will sit and smoke and stay the hell out of it. You don’t have to go back in there.”

You consider his offer, but really, you know what you’re going to choose. The only reason you’d started heading inside in the first place is because you’d felt awkward standing there. Now, he’s giving you an out. A way to remain out here, to observe him when he’s not looking, and attempt to figure him out all while keeping out of the Eight Club.

Silently, you turn and walk back over, placing yourself neatly in the chair you once occupied. He watches as you place your left leg over your right this time, then dig your book out of your bag. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him take another drag.

“You don’t have to be quiet,” you say as you open your book, “I don’t mind.”

He smiles, humming contently at your words. Just as you find the spot where you’d left off, he speaks again.

“Altruistic. That’s your fourth adjective.”

You can feel his gaze on you, but that doesn’t prevent you from biting your lip to contain a smile as you stare down at your book. The words all blend together and you watch them, none of them making any sense to you. None of them are altruistic. Which, as of now, you’re pretty sure is your new favorite word.

You are not subtle in the slightest when it comes to stealing glances at Rafe Cameron. He remains true to his word; sitting in silence and smoking. He smokes the same way he behaves – leisurely, slowly, and deliberately. He smirks every time he feels your eyes on him, watching him take hits from his cigarette and then pick at a stray line of fabric on his dress shirt.

He makes a silent game out of it, you notice. Every time you look back down at your book, trying to gain some sort of semblance of self control, he looks over at you. He’s shameless about it; he knows you know. He doesn’t care, it seems. He watches your eyes travel across the page, not knowing you’re absorbing nothing. When you can no longer take it and you look up at him, his smirk widens and he looks away.

This cycle repeats itself for the better part of an hour. You turn the page in your book three times. A breeze begins to cross the deck and you shrink down in your chair, cursing yourself for forgetting your wrap at your chair.

Rafe sits up in his seat, staring straight ahead as the cigarette hangs from his lips, and slips his jacket off. Your eyes flicker back down to your book when he turns to you, jacket extended your way.

“No, I’m fine, really–”

“It’s a jacket, Y/N. You’ll take it off at the end of the night and return it to me and the earth will rotate again. I promise.”

You shake your head, “What if you get cold?”

“I’ll be fine,” Rafe snorts, then shakes his arm up and down, silently demanding you take the jacket from him.

You do, hesitantly, letting your book fall closed as you sit up. He watches closely as you pull it around your body, tucking your arms into his sleeves. The jacket is warm from being pressed against him all night, and you fight off the urge to inhale loudly as his scent washes over you. Your eyes meet his and you smile gently.

“Thank you.”

He nods, returning to silence so you can continue reading. Frankly, you’re amazed he’s out here with you in the first place. You open your book back up and hold it higher against your face, hoping he won’t be able to tell as much when you’re looking at him.

Upon further inspection, he looks chronically lonely. Maybe, you think, he’s so good at silence because he lives in it. He’s used to it. Your heart tugs; nobody deserves to feel lonely. Especially around the holidays.

These thoughts continue to swim around in your mind, loud enough that you grow frustrated and blurt out the first thing you think of.

“Do you and your family do anything fun for the holidays?”

His eyes narrow, like he’s trying to figure out if you’re playing a game with him.

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Why do you ask?”

You shrug, wishing you hadn’t asked given his lack of an answer, “Just curious.”

He sighs and sits back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. The action stretches the opening of his dress shirt a bit, exposing even more of his broad, tan chest.

“I’m spending Christmas watching The Hangover movies in my apartment,” he says, “This whole charade is the extent of what my family does for Christmas.”

“I’m sorry,” you reply.

He chuckles, “You’re sorry? Why are you sorry?”

“Nobody should be alone on Christmas, Rafe.”

His expression drops completely, and for a moment, he lets you see the true extent of his loneliness. He clears his throat and looks down at the cigarette pack in his lap, fumbling around with it just to have something to do with his hands. With a slightly clenched jaw, he starts speaking.

“What about you–”

Both of you stop when the French door opens from inside, your father standing in the threshold between an event you’ve grown to enjoy versus an event you hate.

“Honey, I’ve been looking all over for you. Are you ready to go?”

His eyes narrow when he sees the jacket around you and Rafe’s lack of one. Quickly, you close your book and stand up, removing his jacket from around you.

“I’ll be right in,” you say with a convincing, innocent smile.

Your dad nods, sending a glare Rafe’s way before he shuts the door once more.

You hold Rafe’s jacket out to him and he takes his time reaching for it. He watches your urgent expression, trying to hurry for the sake of your father.

“Can I ask you something?” he requests, finally removing his jacket from your grasp.

“Sure,” you reply, shoving your book into your purse for the final time tonight.

“Do you remember me?”

You stand up straight and set the strap of your purse over your shoulder. You don’t falter in your answer.

“Yes.”

He nods, clenching his jaw again, “Right. So, this whole thing. It was tainted by who I used to be.”

You falter in your expression and response, having not expected such a statement to come out of his mouth. He sounds irritated – almost angry about his past behavior. His eyes soften when you shake your head.

“No. It was tainted when you told me your opinion of Jane Austen.”

He grins and so do you, a silent understanding that whatever he had been, he clearly wasn’t that anymore. You’d never hold someone’s past against them. Even in this short time you’ve been speaking with him, Rafe has you looking at things from a different perspective.

“Merry Christmas, Y/N,” he says quietly.

You smile, “Merry Christmas, Rafe.”

He stands and puts his jacket back on, a sort of silent agreement between the two of you to walk back inside together. You’d felt like an outcast, like a puzzle piece that didn’t fit when you walked out of those doors. Now, you feel as if you have more of a sense of belonging. A place. A person.

Rafe pulls open the door and gestures for you to go inside, but you stop right before you do. He watches you curiously but doesn’t dare speak.

“Dispirited,” you whisper, “That’s your fourth adjective.”

December 24th. Christmas Eve. You’re sitting on the couch with A Sicilian Romance open on your lap, fuzzy socks covering your feet and a blanket keeping you warm. Your dad placed a mug of hot chocolate in front of you before he sat down in his chair and opened up Great Expectations. Your mother had barely come out of her bedroom. She and your father were sleeping in separate bedrooms now, but you pretended not to notice.

You’d been reading all day and still hadn’t managed to make it far in the book. Rafe’s plan for Christmas is incessantly gnawing at your brain, and all you can think about is how he shouldn’t be isolated on one of your favorite holidays.

You consider what you’re even supposed to do about it – you’d met him again for the first time yesterday and, yes, you thought he was handsome and mysterious and you felt sorry for him being so lonely, but it’s not like you could go over and hang out with him. You’d barely been able to talk to him last night without being nervous or embarrassed somehow.

When the idea comes to you, you close your book and sit up, reaching for your mug of hot chocolate.

“You don’t like your book, darling?” your dad asks, not looking up from his re-read.

“It’s not that. I just feel like baking,” you say, sipping from your mug.

“Your snickerdoodles?”

This question pulls him from his novel, a smile tugging at the ends of his lips. You’re hoping to make two men happy with this plan.

“Do we have all the ingredients?” you ask.

“Still in there from last time,” he confirms, watching you stand from the couch.

“Fantastic.”

You carry your hot chocolate to the kitchen and set it down on the counter, then pull your phone out to text Kiara. A resident Eight Club member herself, but she didn’t always act like it. She’d been a good friend of yours since middle school, and you love seeing her when both of you come home from your respective schools.

Do you know what apartment complex Rafe Cameron lives in?

She texts back so fast you swear she already had the reply typed.

Is this about what happened between the two of you last night?? My mom’s been gossiping about it all morning. SPILL.

Your heart drops in your chest at the thought of the Eight moms gossiping about you in any capacity. But where Rafe is concerned? Nothing had happened between the two of you.

Nothing happened. I just ran into him outside and we chatted for a bit.

You frown when she doesn’t immediately reply and instead busy yourself gathering cookie supplies. When your phone buzzes again, you’re quick to swipe it up.

We have a FaceTime date the second you get back to school on the 26th. You have to tell me everything! He lives in The Oaks. Get some!

Your nose turns up at her last remark, but instead of acknowledging it, you just type out a ‘thanks’ and get to work.

“I really can’t give out residents’ personal information, ma’am.”

You frown and set your cookie tin down on the counter, the one with a short letter inside that you’d written to Rafe. You had read over it dozens of times just to make sure it’s right. Now, you had it committed to memory. It read:

Rafe,

I’ve been thinking a lot about your plan for Christmas and I find it unacceptable. I hope, at the very least, you know that you do not have to be alone. If you choose to be, that’s a different story. My family is having a big meal. We always do. You’re welcome to join us if you don’t mind a million questions from my father and my mother hogging the wine. You don’t like wine, though, so I guess that’s okay with you.

I’m thinking of re-reading Pride and Prejudice again, but trying to read it from your point of view on Jane Austen’s work. I’ll probably cringe the whole time, but I am curious to see where you are coming from.

The return address on the envelope is to my apartment at UNC. If you’d ever like to write back. I think I’d like to know how your holidays go and if you ever read A Sicilian Romance. It’s okay if you don’t get around to it.

I baked the snickerdoodles this morning. I hope you enjoy them and know that you’re not completely alone this year.

Merry Christmas,

Y/N

“I get that,” you tell the man at the front desk of Rafe’s apartment complex, “I’m not asking for his apartment number or anything. If you could just make sure he gets this.”

The man sighs and looks from the harmless tin up to you, then nods in defeat.

“I will make sure Mr. Cameron receives this when he comes home.”

You grin, “Thanks so much. Merry Christmas.”

He nods to you and tucks the tin behind the desk. You turn and slip out of the complex, hopping back into your father’s Mercedes and turning the heat on. It’s not terribly cold, but it’s enough that you’re wearing leggings and a sweatshirt and still have a little chill.

On the way home, you wonder if it was a mistake. If he’ll laugh at the letter and toss it with the cookies, labeling you as some ridiculous girl who’s seemingly obsessed with him after hanging out with him for a bit.

Yet, the other part of you can’t wait to get back to UNC – to your apartment – where Rafe might write to. Because something in your gut, call it your intuition or the naive little girl inside you, is telling you that he will, in fact, write back.

Tags: @valeriiecameron @lurkymurker @scenesofobx @mardema @girlsneedloovee @red-wine06 @itsalexwin @wishing-i-was-rafes-princess @witchwyfe @malums-trash-can @emotionalbruv @parkerreidnorth @milkiane @rafecameronswhore @kotzmagoatz @wanniiieeee @kookkyra @sarahwasfound @lilgoddesshines @proactivetypeofperson @abrunettefangirlnerd @the-chaotic-cow @absolute-fcking-chaos @kaatelyyynn @jordynsharum @anonymousobxfan @premixed-margarita @princesspogue @gasolinesavages @outlaw-abby @samcaniglia @marveloussensations @dr3aming0utl0udx @thisisthewayrose @iammirrorball @r0und3bitch @thesimpletype @fashphotolife @notdisneychannel @gillybear17 @solllaris @lilacsandwhiskey @i-is-for-inspiring @sksliz @drewstarkey @luversgirl

*if you would like to be added/removed from my taglist at any time, please send me an ask!

[spottedenchants]

What about echo and/or sword with Essek and Kingsley?

Fight! Fight! Fight!

18. echo + 79. sword (Essek + Kingsley)

~

“You little-! Help, this way?!”

Attention snapped to the call, Essek spots Kingsley, sword crossed with an enemy’s as his whip is held underfoot.

What can Essek do here-? He skims his mental catalog in an instant. Prepared offense is resisted. Imprecise. Not powerful enough- perhaps defense? Kingsley’s very capable. Enhancement? Maybe that.

It’s worked for the others before.

Tugging upon the dunamis threading this pocket of space, Essek sets his focus to speeding time’s localized ebb, links this manipulated flow into Kingsley’s potential and- there!

Immediately, a manic light takes to his bright eyes, shining red as his blood as he manages a quick slip, efficiently carving down his assailant in a single strike. Suddenly turned to Essek, those eyes hold an echo of something that should be wicked, but is instead ingenuous.

Tail lashing and with a triumphant laugh from a wide smile, Kingsley bounces on the balls of his feet as if made of springs, a child stuffed with sweets.

“FJORD!”

Jester’s distant cry rings over the clamor, claiming Essek’s attention as he spins in time for horror to strike.

He would think himself hasted the way motion slows around him.

Over an eon, Fjord collapses beneath a looming figure, blank shock across his blood-spattered face.

Skewered once, a second impending.

Not again.

Not again, not again not again.

Essek reaches for the threads of fate itself-

But, a blur of lavender, and Kingsley has already felled the fishy foe, now kneeling by Fjord’s side, cork between grinning teeth and bottled life in hand.

A century of a heartbeat-.

And then Fjord coughs.

He was breathing. He is breathing.

“Upsy-daisy, Cap!”

With a kiss to Fjord’s temple, Kingsley hefts him to sitting before bolting towards Shelda and the opponent harrying her.

As he rushes by, Kingsley leaves a matching, if haphazard, sear on Essek’s forehead.

“Thank you kindly, Magic Man!”

Sublimated from frozen, Essek has hardly a moment to consider anything at all before he sends off yet another round of Magic Missile to keep Marius away from the precarious edge of certain doom.

The din dies as quickly as it started, the gentle soughs of wave and wind left in its wake.

After a few alert seconds and darting glances, Essek takes a breath somewhere between relief and hope.

It seems Fjord was the true target- no one else has much beyond a scratch to show, even Marius, despite his terrified taunting.

Jester rushes from the bow and promptly tackles Fjord into a hug that is likely intended to heal rather than harm.

Assured the fight is truly over, Essek broadens his narrowed concentration.

Then, a thud sounds from the starboard deck.

Oh gods, the spell.

He swivels, discovers Kingsley supine as a starfish, chest heaving.

Before concern can well up, Kingsley punches out, fists raised as though celebrating the sky.

With the motion, he whoops into a tired laugh.

Essek sighs, not bothering to fight off a smirk.

He’ll be fine.

[quantummindclassicalheart]

like it’s the last time

A Widojest epilogue “missing scene” inspired by a comment from @cranesofibycus and some art from @belligerentbagel. It’s the night before Fjord and Jester leave Nicodranas, and the Nein are throwing a party. Everything should be great. Except Caleb’s been distant lately, and Jester wants to know why. 

Words: 2678

“A toast to Captain Fjord Tusktooth!” declares Beau, raising a glass. “May your skies be clear, may your seas be smooth, and may your ship not get wrecked by a giant fucking sea monster-- because seriously, we’ve met a few.”

“To Captain Tusktooth!” the revelers chorus. Fjord smiles broadly and raises his own glass in a little salute. He looks dashing in his captain’s coat, all buttons and epaulettes and flourishes, though his oversized tricorn is just unwieldy enough to keep him humble.

“And to Jester Lavorre, high priestess of the Traveler! I would tell Fjord to keep her safe, but I think we all know it’s going to be the other way around,” Beau jokes.

“To Jester!” On her part, Jester beams and gives a little curtsy. Tonight she’s opted for rich reds and purples for her own outfit, a flowy dress with white gloves and a fuzzy shoulder cape. Glasses and steins clink, drinks are had, and the musicians soon start up another boisterous tune. Before long the Lavish Chateau is filled with music and dancing and laughter.

It’s a bespoke party, planned exactly to Jester’s tastes. The banisters of the Chateau are draped with all manner of sparkly decorations that glint and shine in the warm orange light of the lanterns and sconces illuminating the room. There are countless exquisitely decorated cakes, pies, and pastries adorning the dessert table (which is, naturally, the largest of the food and refreshment tables), and the air is rich with the smells of nutmeg, cinnamon, cloves, and more. The band is playing some of Jester’s favorite redowas and waltzes, and it brings back her memories of dancing with her feet on her mama’s as a little girl.

Across the room, Marion is talking with Fjord about something or other (not about anything embarrassing, Jester hopes), and she looks beautiful as always in her deep blue evening gown and ornate gold jewelry. With the band’s latest song, Beau is showing off some sort of martial arts/breakdance fusion out on the dance floor while Yasha watches appreciatively, nodding her head to the music. Veth seems to have challenged Kingsley to a drinking game involving a deck of cards, and the pair are knocking back rounds of drinks (“Kingsley’s Cup,” they’re calling it). Caduceus, ever the responsible one, is munching thoughtfully on a small platter of crudités, a placid smile on his face.

Jester has every reason to be happy. It’s a great party, the perfect send-off, packed with food and friends and fun. Except… Caleb’s not here. On Jester’s last night in Nicodranas, Caleb Widogast is nowhere to be found. And Jester doesn’t understand why.

Caleb has been so busy lately. That’s what he said, anyway, just before disappearing for the last three days. He’s probably got lots to think about, she knows. But tonight is the party. Her party. And Caleb should be here. So why isn’t he?

Just then, Jester’s startled out of her musings when Beau taps her on the shoulder, drink in hand. “Oh hey, didn’t mean to scare you. You doing okay?” asks Beau.

“Uh huh,” says Jester unconvincingly. “I was just thinking about… stuff.”

“Ooookay. Right. Well, I just wanted to tell you this is a sick party. You really outdid yourself with the planning and everything.”

“Thanks!” chirps Jester. “I wanted it to feel really special, since this is the last time I might see everyone for a while.”

“Yeah, well, helluva job,” says Beau, patting Jester on the back with her free hand. “...you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah! Definitely! Everything is totally fine. I mean… it does kind of suck that Caleb couldn’t make it, but I know he’s been super busy these past few days.”

Beau sets down her drink on the bar, a puzzled look on her face. “Wait, what do you mean? I saw him at lunch earlier, and it didn’t seem like he was doing anything too important.”

“What? No, he told me--” Jester waves a finger in the air and attempts her best Zemnian accent. “Jester, I vill be very busy zis veek, and I vill not have much time to do ze hanging out.”

“...okay, that was pretty good,” laughs Beau. “But seriously, we were just talking today. Or, well. He kind of went off on some long tangent about modifying spells to make the enchantment last longer or some arcane shit like that. I think it’s based on dunamancy, maybe?”

“Huh,” says Jester.

“Anyway, Caleb’s definitely been around,” Beau says. “Which means…”

“...he’s been avoiding me, specifically,” finishes Jester.

“Well, it might not be you--”

“I kinda think it is, though? Why wouldn’t Caleb want to see me? He knows I’m going away,” says Jester. “I think I’ve gotta talk to him myself. Thanks, Beau.” And she hurries off before Beau can respond.

Away from the bustle and roar of the celebration, Jester finds a private room off to the side where she won’t be overheard, and then she Sends Caleb a message. “Hey, Caleb? Are you there? I haven’t seen you in a little while. Why aren’t you at my party? Where are you? We should talk.” The magic carries her words off into the aether, and in a moment there’s a familiar tingle at the back of her scalp telling her that the spell has found its target. She lets out a sigh of relief and waits for the response. And waits. And waits. Eventually the arcane tether fizzles out, with no reply. Frankly, this is rude and weird, even for Caleb.

Heading back to the party, Jester asks around a bit, but no one else has seen Caleb that evening, so finally she decides to take matters into her own hands. She walks to the door of the Lavish Chateau and faces out into the cool night air. With her left hand she clutches her symbol of the Traveler and whispers, “Arty? Can you help me find Caleb? I really need to talk to him.”

There’s a sudden gust of wind and a flicker of emerald green, and then a silky voice speaks into her ear. “Of course, my dear. You only need to ask.” And a thin gossamer thread the color of the Traveler’s cloak materializes before her, stretching off down the street.

Jester follows the thread swiftly along the winding cobbled streets of Nicodranas, past uplit homes and shuttered stores and late-night street vendors hawking their wares, away from the Opal Archways and down to where the Open Quay meets the waters of the Lucidian. It’s not long before she comes across a figure sitting at one of the docks, wrapped in a familiar brown coat. The ethereal green thread ends at his chest and vanishes into shimmers as she approaches.

She sits down beside him on the wooden dock, dangles her legs over the side and kicks them back and forth. She finally gets a good look at him, and man, Caleb looks terrible. He has dark circles under his eyes, and his beard is less charming scruffy and more scruffy scruffy. His posture is somehow worse than usual, if that’s even possible.

“You’ve been avoiding me, Caleb.” It’s not a question. Caleb doesn’t look up.

“I have been very busy--” he begins, but she cuts him off.

“Too busy to say a real goodbye?” asks Jester coolly. Caleb doesn’t respond, and that only irritates her more.

“You know, you’re being a real dick, Caleb. I haven’t seen you for days, and you totally ignored the message I sent you earlier. Fjord and I are leaving tomorrow on a ship where we could seriously get murdered by Uk’otoa or something and you can’t even be bothered to come to our fucking farewell party.” She knows the words are harsh. But she’s aching for him to show some emotion, and right now she doesn’t care if it’s affection or anger. Anything but indifference.

“I don’t understand,” says Jester, and her next words are laced with unexpected venom. “It’s like you don’t even care.” She regrets saying it as soon as the words are out of her mouth, but it’s too late. Upon hearing this, Caleb pounds the wood of the dock with his fist and looks her straight in the eye.

“What do you want me to say, Jester?” retorts Caleb, not breaking eye contact. “That I’ve been avoiding you because the very thought of you leaving hurts me more than I can bear? That I thought-- somehow-- it might be easier for the both of us if I just slipped away and made it so you wouldn’t have to think of me too much in these last few days? That you are about to embark on the life of excitement and adventure you’ve always dreamed of with a good man who can give it all to you, and I will never be a party to that?”

It’s Jester’s turn to be speechless. Caleb, who looks as though he’s shocked even himself with this sudden burst of vehemence, slouches over again and rubs his temples with his hands. The two of them sit in silence for a long while, the only sound coming from the waves crashing and rolling beneath them.

“For a smart person, you sure can be pretty dumb,” says Jester at last. “You really thought it would be better-- for me-- if one of my best friends in the whole world cut himself off entirely without a real explanation or a goodbye. That’s bullshit, Caleb, and you know it.”

“Fjord is a good man. He really loves me. And... I love him back. I think. This is all still new to me, to be totally honest,” she admits. “You know, the adventure stuff is super fun and all, but the best part was always the people I did it with. That’s why I’m going with him. This is important to him, and he’s important to me.”

She pauses. “You’re important to me too.” She rests her hand on his, and he looks back at her with those searching blue eyes. “I really missed you these last few days, and I’m going to miss you even more when I’m away.”

“I’m sorry,” Caleb murmurs. “I thought-- I was simply being selfish.”

“So be a little selfish,” says Jester. “I’m leaving on a boat tomorrow, and I don’t know when I’m coming back. If there’s something you have to say to me, you should say it now.”

And so he takes her hand in his (she lets him) and raises it to his lips. Jester is struck by a memory of her taking him by the hand and pulling him through a Dimension Door in the guts of a living city, she remembers the way his rough hand felt clasped around hers as he cast Teleportation Circle. Every touch spell comes rushing back, and it feels for a moment like he is casting another one now. The stubble of his beard grazes her hand as he kisses it, as deliberate and careful as his spellcraft.

He lifts his gaze to meet hers, his expression gentle and his eyes kind in the pale moonlight. Without faltering he says, "I love you, Jester Lavorre." The words hang in the air between them, and she looks back at him with hope and wonder and more than a hint of sadness.

"Oh, Caleb,” says Jester softly. “I know.” She wants to ask him if that’s all he wants to do, she is imagining his lips on her own and on her neck and her collarbone and more-- but she understands why he’s still holding back. He looks at her like he is trying to learn by heart the constellation of freckles that dapple her cheeks, as though he is trying to memorize the slant of her jaw and the curl of her horns and the way her bangs frame her face. 

He looks at her like it’s the last time. And she wants so badly to tell him that of course it’s not, that it won’t be long at all, but truthfully she doesn’t know for sure. Instead she just tries to capture this moment in her mind’s eye so that she can draw the two of them later, exactly as they are right now.

“You should… you should get back to your party,” Caleb says. “People will wonder where you’ve gone.”

“Oh, hang on,” says Jester, and her eyes glow with magic. “Hey Beau, found Caleb, he’s not dead. We’re-down-by-the-docks.” She counts the words out on her fingers. “Back-to-the-par-ty-soon. Uhhh… your hair smelled nice, is that a new--”

“That’s twenty-five,” Caleb announces.

“Shit.”

Beau’s response comes back to her promptly. “Hey Jester! Okay good, I’m glad Caleb’s not dead. See you in a bit. ...wait, is there a thing I’m supposed to press to end--” and it cuts off.

“Did she mention the hair?” says Caleb.

“She didn’t mention the hair.”

“Probably for the best,” he quips. And just like that they’re back to an easy banter, the comfortable back-and-forth of old friends. Jester breathlessly catches him up on all of the preparations they’ve been making over the past few days, stocking the ship’s caches and repairing the sails and plotting sea routes. She has already bought a new pirate-y outfit, because what even is the point of sailing the high seas if you don’t look the part?

Caleb tells her about a spell idea he’s been working on recently, shows her the initial notes in his spellbook as she does her best to follow along. He shares with her an introductory transmutation lesson plan he’s hoping to have Luc test out while they’re all together, methodically walks her through the mix of practical drills and lecture. Caleb seems genuinely happy, and it makes her glad to see him thinking about the future.

But it’s getting late, and also cold. Not that the latter bothers Jester, but she can see Caleb starting to shiver, even in his wool-lined brown coat. She unbuttons the fuzzy purple shoulder cape she’d worn to the party and drapes it around his shoulders gently. “Danke,” he says.

"Are we out of time?" Jester wonders aloud, and they both know she’s not talking about the party anymore.

“For what it’s worth, I have thought a lot about time and regrets,” Caleb says. “Regrets can eat up your soul if you let them. But… I think you have some great adventures still ahead of you, and a sturdy heart in your chest. Time is whatever you make it.”

“I’m… I think I have to see where this goes,” says Jester. “With Fjord and all.”

“I suppose that’s as it should be, then,” Caleb replies. “I want you to be happy, Jester. Whether that is with Fjord or me or both or neither, the most important part is that you are happy.” He says it with such conviction that she almost believes him.

“And, you know, you get to be happy too,” Jester points out. “Like, things seem to be heating up between you and Essek, huh?” She waggles her eyebrows suggestively.

Caleb chuckles. “Essek is very clever and he certainly has done us a good turn, but I think he still has quite a long ways to go. Perhaps with time.”

“Anyway,” he continues, “what with my new appointment at the Soltryce Academy, I have a lot of work ahead of me as well, so I really will be plenty busy in the days to come. So long as you send me a message once in a while, I will know you haven’t entirely forgotten poor old Caleb Widogast.”

"Caleb, listen to me. I will cast Sending to you every day for the rest of our lives if I have to," says Jester intently, and she shoots him a look so he knows she means it. "You're not getting rid of me that easy."

"Is that a threat, Lavorre?" says Caleb, raising an eyebrow.

She grins at him, her toothy smile full of mischief and mirth. "It's a promise."

[ikeromantic]

Hola! May I request for headcannons for both armies that MC came from 21st century instead of 18th century, and she's actually an idol, she's keeping it a secret from the boys because she thinks if she tells them about it she feels like she's bragging about it. But eventually they found out she's a popular singer in her world after confrontation or smth when she won in some kind of music festival competition in cradle...??

Sorry if this is too detailed! It's okay if you turn this down xD I love your works btw! Hope you have a lovely day 💕

Hello nonny! I don't know if this is what you wanted, but I hope you like it ^_^

Central Quarter was decked out in brilliant banners, ribbons from every flag pole, flowers on every door and window. The squares were lined with vendor stalls selling food and trinkets, and there were street performers on the corners that juggled or danced or did magic tricks.

Everywhere there was something to feast your eyes upon, but most eyes this afternoon were focused on the festival stage. The Red and Black Armies ‘fought’ here today in contests of wit, skill, and talent. A grand showcase to celebrate the new year, finally at peace.

The sun hung low in the western sky, casting everything in a rosy-golden hue. Everyone in the audience held their breath as the next act took to the stage. A woman stepped out from behind the curtain, her face hidden under a clever mask. Her clothes were outlandish - ephemeral, sparkling, the fabric a shifting of color and texture that mesmerized.

She walked forward, her steps a graceful dance. And then she began to sing. The lyrics were catchy, and the beat had everyone moving. But what held the audience was her voice. It hung in the air with crystal notes, ethereal, impossible. Beautiful. Who was this woman with a voice so divine that the absence of it brought tears to people’s eyes?

Lancelot Kingsley

Had no idea that voice lived in MC but is instantly her most devoted fan.

His shock is short-lived. Of course his chosen beloved would be amazing.

He immediately makes arrangements for additional performances.

Would always be the first to greet MC backstage with a rose and a kiss. Expect to get carried off stage sometimes.

Jonah Clemence

Is offended MC didn’t tell him first, but this is really just his jealousy.

Would pout until MC gave him a *private* show

He is so proud of MC that it hurts, and his fan club is now MC’s fan club.

Demands MC tell him all the rest of her secrets because as MC’s lover, he should always know about them first.

Edgar Bright

Clearly already knew about MC’s talents. He could tell by the way MC breathes and moves.

Teases MC that he has other ways to make her sing (and oh yes he does ;)

Has already come up with ways to use MC’s talent for the Red Army.

Would definitely tease MC about her outfits, dancing, and lyrics no matter how much he actually loves them - just to make her react.

Zero

Already adored MC, now worships the ground she walks on.

Curious about life as a pop star in the modern world, and will listen for hours to MC talking about her life before.

Feels like he isn’t good enough for MC and has to be reassured frequently that she loves him.

Does not handle MC-haters well at all.

Kyle Ash

Is impressed but pretends it’s no big deal.

He would make sure MC’s dancing doesn’t lead to injuries. He gets nervous before a show and a little clingy after.

He would love getting to party with MC and might use her shows as an excuse to get very drunk.

When drunk, would get very handsy with MC, especially when she’s dressed in a sexy or cute outfit. Would deny this completely when sober.

Ray Blackwell

He wouldn’t make a big deal about it, but would be really supportive.

Ray would never miss a chance to see MC perform

Ray definitely teases MC about her fans, both because he likes to rile her up and to keep her down to earth.

He is proud of MC and her talent, but isn’t the kind of guy to say much. He lets his feelings show in his kisses and caresses.

Sirius Oswald

If there is something to worry about, Sirius worries. He makes sure MC has good security at her shows, that she stays hydrated, doesn’t work too hard, treats her injuries, takes care of her voice.

He wants to know everything about your life as a pop star.

This man will make sure you are showered with flowers and compliments constantly.

Would help MC get through moments of self-doubt and mean comments with his wisdom and his love. He knows how to make a woman feel beautiful, so expect the royal treatment.

Luka Clemence

Luka was already nervous about this whole dating thing and knowing MC is an actual pop star would nearly break him. He needs frequent reminding that he’s good enough just the way he is.

Makes special meals for MC to give her energy to dance, to protect her voice, and to spoil her rotten because he adores her.

Sexy and cute outfits for shows make him blush, and MC likes to tease him by ‘modeling’ them for him. Sometimes, this does not end well for the clothes but ends very well for the two of them.

He fills his diary with his impressions of MC’s shows and her practice, sketches her, and would die if she ever read it.

Fenrir Godspeed

Fenrir does not know what a pop star is, but it sounds fun!

MC and Fenrir would have duets and dances together because there’s no way he is letting his partner go out there alone all the time.

This guy would bring MC to all the best parties. He was super-proud to be with her before and now he gets to show her off even more.

Costumes might not survive his enthusiasm after a show . . .

Seth Hyde

Seth knew MC was a singer and dancer, he just didn’t realize how good MC is.

Immediately becomes MC’s biggest, loudest, most enthusiastic fan ever.

Would make sure every outfit, hairstyle, make-up, etc was perfect. Seth has an eye for style and MC would be his canvas.

Expect every fitting, practice, and show prep to leave MC blushing and breathless. Seth knows how to tease and enjoys using his position to find new ways to tempt her.

BONUS:

Harr Silver

Thinks MC’s voice might be a lost magic from the rational world.

Cannot get enough of seeing MC dancing in her adorable costumes, but would never be able to admit it.

MC would never *see* him at one of her shows but he never misses a performance.

He has memorized all MC’s lyrics and sings them when he thinks no one is listening.

Loki Genetta

He is incredibly jealous that MC shared her voice with everyone - he wants it all to himself.

Pouts that MC didn’t tell him first and uses that to get all sorts of extra kisses and snuggles from her.

Will absolutely prank her shows and *might* have scammed a few fans with fake merch.

Would definitely want to dance with MC on stage.

Blanc Lapin

This gentleman rabbit doesn’t seem surprised by MC’s performance but says he had no idea!

He will insist on arranging more performances for different groups in Cradle. He loves getting to share MC’s talent since it brings happiness to people.

Celebrates MC’s shows with a bottle of white wine and something sweet.

Blanc would never say a word about it, but if MC has a costume with bunny ears, his cheeks turn bright red.

Oliver Knight

“So you are good at something.”

Despite being a snot about it, if anyone dared suggest MC wasn’t the BEST singer in Cradle, he’d cut them to bits with vicious, witty commentary.

He insists MC only perform at night so he’s tall enough to see the stage (will absolutely NOT admit to that one time Fenrir put him on his shoulders)

Oliver always hurries MC home after a show because the best part of a sexy costume is taking it off.

[chockfullofsecrets]

"If I'm not careful I'm gonna end up writing content for a character who literally never appears in 141 episodes"

I mean, you are more than welcome to. In fact, we will gratefully encourage this.

you encourage chock? you encourage chock like the author? oh! oh! tk fic for anon! tk fic for anon for Two Thousand Words!

(also, heads up that i am moving next week! have been working on Importance of Timing when i can, but the first chapter probably won't be here for another two weeks at least.)

---

Verin Thelyss, Essek knows, is a seasoned battle commander and strategist.

He’s also in possession of the instinct to tackle people when he’s excited, so Essek is well aware that it’s only those decades of training and experience that have his little brother pausing for the briefest instant as Caleb and Jester teleport him into the hold of the Nein Heroez before he launches himself at Essek in a dead run.

Veth and Caduceus are at their respective homes, Kingsley watching over the ship, but he is far from alone - Yasha and Fjord each have a supportive hand on his shoulder, a silent assurance from the tense minutes waiting for their friends to return from Bazzoxan. They swear in unison and scramble for their weapons as Verin screeches to a halt just shy of shunting Essek straight though the hull and yanks him into a rib-crushing hug.

He burrows into the junction of Essek’s neck and shoulder, made possible only by virtue of the activated floating spell that puts the coiffed swoop of his hair a full inch above Verin’s. “Thank the fucking Light, you’re not actually dead.”

“What the fuck, he’s like a swearing puppy,” Beau hisses. There’s a soft thwap as Fjord gently smacks her across the back of the head.

Essek is feeling out the edges of friendly intimacy, still, stumbling through every brush of fingers and shared look of exasperation, but even he does not need Jester’s frantic gesturing to prompt him to lift his arms and awkwardly wrap them around Verin’s shoulders.

It’s like wrapping a single thread of silk around one of Yasha’s biceps. Clearly he is not built for comforting.

Verin stiffens with a single sharp twitch of his ear against Essek’s collarbone . Essek’s thoughts flail wildly between an expectation of tears or a dagger to his ribs, but his brother just laughs, loud and hearty, and snuggles even further into his personal space. “I see someone’s finally taught you how to hug back - you should have written and told me, this is better news than any number of pages on den politics.”

Essek bristles. “Careful, or I will stop,” he huffs, somewhat more waspishly than he intends to.

Luckily, Verin has proven immune to his moods. “Oh, please don’t,” he insists, voice still crackling with glee. He grins, warm and wide enough that Essek can feel it against the side of his neck. “It just makes doing this that much easier.”

“Doing what,” Essek says reflexively, even as the tiny portion of his brain that he allows to remember his childhood starts to blare an alarm. “Verin-”

It’s far too late to realize that Verin’s hands have somehow been maliciously positioned just along the backs of his ribs.

Jester, standing with Caleb behind Verin, perks up in clear interest as the corners of his mouth start to twitch up. On second thought, Essek thinks he’d have preferred the dagger.

“Verin,” he hisses again, fighting back the anticipatory shiver crawling up his back. “Don’t - don’t you dare-”

It’s about then that Verin’s evil, evil fingers find the edges of his mantle’s arm slits and squeeze him even closer as they stretch to wriggle under his arms.

He snatches his arms back, but it’s too late - a dismayed giggle sneaks from his throat, then another, and then he’s beating helplessly at Verin’s shoulders as he dissolves into high, squeaking laughter.

Every single nerve between his armpits and his ribs squirms in unison - a bubbly, slippery sensation even more potent for how long it’s been since he last felt it. “No,” he shrieks. “I - ahaha! eeheee! - no tickling, no tickling, Verin-”

Jester looks thrilled - she’s bouncing on her toes, babbling something to Caleb that’s inaudible over the rush of his own laughter. Light, the Nein are going to tear him apart for this-

“Yes, tickling,” Verin protests, laughing right along with him. “All the tickling! You let me think you were dead! For months! I thought I was never going to get to watch my poor brother giggle himself to pieces ever again!”

He’s not, because Essek is going to kill him. “That - nahaha, hff, ahaaa! - that was - ha - it’s been decades - stop, stop, there’s people!”

“Yeah, people,” Beau says, loud and smug and far too close behind him. “Hey - Verin, was it? - does hotboi here have a worst spot?”

Oh no. Oh no. Essek squeezes his eyes shut in a desperate attempt to focus and does the only thing he can while laughing like an idiot.

With a shaky flick of his wrist, his floating dispels. Verin yelps in surprise as gravity takes Essek straight out of his grip.

The instant his boots hit the deck, Essek twists the rest of the way out of his grip and bolts.

There’s nowhere to go, really - the Nein have a room full of Counterspells, and Verin can run faster than he can, and he’s already tumbling halfway back into laughter in giddy anticipation of being caught. Still, it’s a surprise when he stumbles into a brick wall of leather and biceps that resolves itself into Yasha as she hoists him back into the air.

“Oh, where do you think you’re going?” She sounds admirably innocent given the soft, teasing smile she gives him.

“Noooo,” Essek giggles. Heat gathers in his cheeks as he tries to make himself stop - it doesn’t make sense, he’s not even being tickled anymore, but even the potential for it flutters light and fizzy at the bottom of his lungs. “I - I’m not ticklish anymore, I’m not-”

The Nein and Verin cluster around the two of them, bubbling with various levels of amusement. “Really?” Beau drawls. “It’s cute that you think denying it has a single fucking chance of working.”

The sarcasm helps him center himself, if only a little - he buries his face in Yasha’s arm and sucks in a deep breath that doesn’t do nearly enough to get rid of his blush.

He straightens as best he can while being bear hugged by a barbarian. “I am denying nothing,” he says carefully. Jester is still bouncing next to Beau, fingertips already twitching where they’re curled sweetly on her cheeks around a mischievous beaming smile, and Essek has to look away before the nervous snickers still wobbling on the back of his tongue can worm their way free. “I am well aware that Verin is - incorrigible-”

He hisses the last word in his brother’s direction - again, harsher than he intends, but he is so unused to being soft around him - and fails to contain a shy smile as Verin sticks his tongue out in retaliation.

Jester’s tail waves its way into the edge of his peripheral vision. He jumps and looks over at Fjord instead. “-but I, ah, I would ask for more respect from the rest of you-”

“You really shouldn’t,” Fjord says, grinning boyishly back at him. “I mean, you know us.”

And then, to Fjord’s right - “Essek?”

He’s been avoiding looking at Caleb. It is foolish, perhaps, to think that after all of the incredibly stupid things he knows Essek has done he will decide to judge him for this, but he cannot help the way his shoulders stiffen as he twists a little further to meet the gaze of the last link in their semicircle. “Yes?”

Caleb looks - focused, in an offhanded way, like he’s intent on something happening just slightly out of their current reality. Stunned might be a better word for it. He blinks for a moment before focusing those keen blue eyes somewhere near Essek’s eyebrows. “Ah - did you know that when you laugh, your ears -” He puts his hands up to his own ears and flaps them a little.

Drow do not run particularly warm, but that only makes it easier for Essek to feel the heat absolutely flood back into his face. “I-” he stammers. Nearly a century of politics is nowhere near enough to help him keep a straight face. “I - ah - eeh!-”

Caleb is close enough to reach out and run a questing fingertip over Essek’s left ear - it flicks wildly, trying to dislodge the unexpected tickle, but a surprised squeak still slips out.

There’s a moment of silence before Verin starts to snicker. “Oh, I like your friends,” he says merrily, beaming. “Go on, Light knows he doesn’t let himself laugh enough otherwise.”

“Don’t,” Essek gets out hastily, but Caleb is already reaching out for another go and Yasha’s grip is firm enough that all he can do is squeak again. “Wait - hm, hnn!”

Beau sidles up to Yasha’s side and gives him a self satisfied leer as she reaches out across their little group to pluck the feather from Fjord’s tricorn. “You got him, babe?”

“I do,” Yasha confirms and lets out a little squeak of her own as Beau reaches around her, no doubt squeezing something entirely inappropriate with company present.

“Hot,” Beau smirks, and reaches to flutter the feather over Essek’s right ear. “Aw, does that tickle? Thought you said you weren’t ticklish, man.”

Essek maintains some facsimile of composure for all of two seconds before his face crumples “Nnn - hehehe - eheehe - oh!”

His lungs are surely going to burst, with the way they’re shivering out desperate giggles as he shakes his head frantically between Caleb’s fingers and the teasing feather. He can’t move his arms, so he kicks his legs instead. “Please,” he begs, nearly incomprehensible even to his own ears. “Ah - aha, heeheehee! - tickles-”

Verin leans down and scoops his ankles up with one ridiculously sculpted arm. “Essek, you’re going to put a hole in someone with those boots.”

He looks up, raising his eyebrows teasingly, and Essek’s stomach drops like he’s cast something on it. “Here, I’ll fix that.”

Essek’s eyes, narrowed with laughter, shoot wide open. He doesn’t remember Verin being this evil - but then again, his brother’s never been egged on by five other people determined to render reports of his death more realistic.

“Verin, Verin, no-” he tries, but he’s giggling so hard that he can’t even get the words out. He twists as far away from Caleb and Beau as he can, flailing frantically, but Verin’s grip holds firm.

He pouts dramatically. “What? Is it my fault that my tiny, ticklish wizard brother insists on wearing metal-tipped boots that endanger everyone?”

Essek opens his mouth to reply and promptly dissolves into another frantic peal of laughter as Beau gets bored of his ears and shoves her feather in Caleb’s direction before jabbing a finger between his trapped arm and his chest to get at his armpit. “Your - shihihit, shit, ahahaaa, not there! - your arcanist brother is going to kill you just as soon as I can- hahaha!”

Verin just laughs, unlacing one of his boots and starting to slide it off. “Is that your attempt to convince me not to tickle your feet?”

Jester, practically vibrating, emits a sound that perhaps only weasels can hear. “Oh, that’s so cute! Can I have one of them?”

“One of his feet? Sure.” Verin hands over an ankle, grinning down at Jester. “You, I think you’re my favorite.”

As Essek gasps and struggles and falls further and further into a formless mirth that makes him feel so light he can hardly bear it, there’s a different sensation at his ear. A hazy portion of his brain identifies it as the rough bristle of chin scruff and an amused huff of breath.

“You don’t really want them to stop, do you,” Caleb murmurs. “I will help you, if you do.”

It’s quite unfair, Essek feels, to try and make him explain himself while he’s strung out and dizzy with laughter. He tries anyway, for a syllable or two, but Verin digs in between two of his toes and he ends up just tipping his cheek against Caleb’s and shaking, laughing too hard to make a single sound.

“Alright, then,” Caleb says. “In that case-”

He brandishes the feather with a flourish more suited to somatic casting, swooping it down the length of Essek’s nose before directing it back to his ear.

“Tickle, tickle...”

[intergalacticwanderer]

It happened faster than any of them could react.

Overall, things had been going well. The sea monsters were on their last legs, they had the numbers with all of the Mighty Nein present, and it was only a matter of time before they’d come out on the other side. But in combat mere seconds can make all of the difference and one monster slipped through at just the wrong place and time, burying its claws into Kingsley’s back.

He swore, blood bursting from his neck and the monster’s eyes bleeding black, but it wasn't enough, the monster digging the claws in deeper and dragging him off of the ship, two of them going over the rail and into the ocean. He heard someone screaming his name, muffled through the water - and then the claws found his throat, and he didn't hear anything at all.

But something else started to happen.

He didn't know where he was. He knew, at the very least, that he wasn't in the ocean, his surroundings too indistinct and no longer able to feel the water around him. But even with being able to tell where he wasn’t, that still didn’t tell him anything about where he was. In fact, the only source of light Kingsley could see was - himself?

He looked down, startled, and saw that his own form seemed to be made of softly glowing light, a strange in between of tangible and intangible, floating in place. He... he didn’t understand. What was this? Kingsley raised a hand, both confused and awed at the sight.

The fingers began to disintegrate right in front of him.

He recoiled at the sight and the hand - HIS hand - broke apart even further, the once distinct outline now breaking into individual motes of light that slowly drifted away. He scrabbled with his other hand, as if to try and staunch a bleeding wound, but all that did was scatter the remaining bit of light from the hand even faster and he yanked his arm back. To his horror it was happening on other parts of his body as well, chunks carving out and being eaten away, motes continuing to drift, like paper burning into embers, or scattering sea foam, or or or - It felt like he should be hyperventilating. Was he hyperventilating? There wasn’t any sound, he couldn’t tell, could he even-?

Kingsley tried to hold on to his thoughts but they began to disintegrate too, and that realization, the fact that he could feel that happening, sent a bolt of terror through him even greater than the sight of what was happening to his body. He twisted in place, panic rising higher and higher as his body continued to disintegrate, looking for something, anything around him, but. Nothing.

The remaining parts of his legs and tail separated from his torso, stomach now gone, and while it felt like there should have been sound it continued to be completely silent, his thoughts reeling and disoriented as the parts spun away, quickly dissolving and scattering. What was- he couldn’t- who-

Further light scattered and so did his memories. His thoughts. His name. He drifted, motes rising up from near his eyes. Something from eyes. Tears? He didn’t know. Couldn't know. He was small, getting smaller, too small, no stop pleasenoPLEASESTOPNOPLEASE-

Sensation and clarity of thought slammed into him.

Kingsley (Kingsley!) gasped in a breath of air, coughing and shuddering. He was cold. Wet. Someone was holding him, cradling him between arms, one under his shoulders, the other under his knees, and his tail was dangling, limp. He blinked open his eyes. Two faces were directly above him, and there were glimpses of others in his peripheral, just out of direct sight but hovering close. The first face he could see was Fjord, wet hair clinging to his face and breathing heavily. He... he was the one holding him, wasn’t he. The second was Jester, shaking hands hovering over his chest and a faint shimmer fading from the air. He met her eyes.

“Jester...?”

A sharp inhale, and then a laugh, which turned into a heavy, wracking sob, and Jester buried her face into his chest and continued to cry. Others poured in then, crowding close with words of worry and comfort, but Kingsley barely heard them, still too stunned and numb from all that had just happened, and he didn’t react at all.

***

Over the next few days, Kingsley found himself in the company of at least one other member of the Mighty Nein at all times.

Fjord asked him for more advice and assistance around the ship. Jester sought him out even more than normal to ask about drawings, or tattoo ideas, or ship gossip. Caduceus invited him meditate. Caleb and Essek just happened to read their books nearby. Beau dragged him along to sparring practice, his complaints that he didn't even fight hand to hand normally falling on deaf ears. Yasha ended up clinging to him during sleep (though, in that case, he had been the one to initiate at least half of those). And Veth - well, he was pretty sure Veth was just straight up spying on him, but he didn't really begrudge her that.

Usually, Kingsley would have found the hovering his friends were doing to be suffocating, but this time? He sought their company right back, determined to not be alone.

There was no way around it - he had died. Full stop. That would have been bad enough on it's own but of course he had an... interesting relationship with death and revival, and it didn’t escape him that Jester had only started crying once he’d said her name. Like she’d been waiting to hear what his first word would be.

Wondering if that word was going to be “empty.”

He couldn’t tell if that made him feel better or worse. Better because they obviously cared about him, wanted him to be okay and to be the one to come back. Worse, because, well. Last time he’d been the one to come back saying empty. And they had to have gotten that fear from somewhere.

He sighed, pulling the blanket around his shoulders closer as he sat on the deck, watching the bright light of Catha above in the sky. Everyone was out on the deck at that moment, quietly talking after a late night meal and Caleb's dancing lights softly illuminating things along with the moonlight.

The main thing eating at him was the time in between falling into the ocean and the revivify spell, and he shuddered involuntarily at his mind’s word choice. He still didn't understand what that had been, but whatever it was it’d been terrifying, too strange to fall under normal experience and too vivid to “just” be a strange dream. The closest thing he had... his fingers tightened on his blanket. His reoccurring dream- nightmare- memory. Fighting in Cognouza, fighting back against Lucien, breaking free. Drifting away with hundreds of other lights. Drifting...

“Can I ask you all a question?”

Eight other heads turned to him, conversations stopping, and he had to fight to not shrink away. He was the one who’d asked.

“Kind of a morbid one but, wondering about who else has died here. You all know a lot more than me right now.”

He knew of a few past deaths. Glory Run Road. Those in... Cognouza. He wasn’t particularly fond of thinking about any of those from his perspective, however. Better to hear stories from others.

Several of them glanced between each other. Essek was the first to speak up.

“Personally, I have been lucky enough to not require any resurrection magic, and I hope it will remain that way in the future. I believe the same is true for Beauregard?”

Beau nodded. “Yeah. It’s gotten close a couple times but I’ve never actually died. Still kinda shocked at that, honestly.”

“I think I’ve died in a dream? Or maybe it was a vision...?” Yasha said, and when she got multiple confused looks she shrugged. “It was a trial from the Stormlord? I’m not really sure if it counts.”

“Let’s call it an in between,” Kingsley said.

“There’s the time I drowned and came back as a goblin,” Veth said quietly and the mood immediately dropped. She took a long drink from her cup. “And I guess there was also that time in the Happy Fun Ball.”

“Which is why we always check for traps,” Caleb said, giving her a pointed look.

Veth waved a hand in the air. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

“Checking blast radius is also important,” Caduceus said, sipping on his cup of tea. “I was too close to an exploding crossbow bolt once,” Caduceus said matter of fact, and Kingsley was gobsmacked at how serene Caduceus was at having literally been blown up. Then again, it was Caduceus, so he shouldn't be that surprised.

Veth bristled. “Hey!”

“Not assigning any blame, just stating what happened,” Caduceus said and he took another sip.

Three people left, and he already knew what the answer could be from two of them. Jester met his eyes and he gave her a little nod. He was okay with them talking about it.

“The only one I’ve had was when we were fighting Lucien,” Jester said, hands resting in her lap. “It happened really fast, but Caduceus got me back up, and Fjord protected both of us. It was still pretty scary, though.”

“I also went down to Lucien, but later in the fight,” Caleb said. Essek looked particularly miserable at the reminder and Caleb gave him a squeeze on the shoulder. “But the Mighty Nein does not leave anyone behind, so I was okay. And the same is true for you,” Caleb said, giving Kingsley a meaningful look and a nod.

Kingsley nodded back, relieved both at the reassurance and the reminder that they never considered him to be the same as Lucien. Sometimes that was enough against the images of them lifeless below him.

(Sometimes.)

Fjord was the last one left, and he downed the rest of his drink before looking Kingsley directly in the eye.

“I died the first time we were attacked by Uk’otoa’s minions.”

Kingsley gave a start. “Wait, really?”

Fjord nodded. “Really.”

“But- that doesn't make sense.” Fjord was the captain and Uk’otoa attacks, those were just- they were just a thing. An annoying and very dangerous thing, sure, but what had happened to him, that was his fault, he hadn't been careful enough, or-

“Kingsley.”

Fjord still held his gaze, not looking away. “What happened the other day is not your fault. If anything, it’s mine.”

“It totally is,” Veth added in and Fjord sighed.

“Regardless, don't blame yourself. I died to just the same thing and it can happen to any of us. And taking care of this problem is why we’re all on the ship right now anyway.”

“Cheers to that,” Beau said, raising her cup in a toast. “I’ve had enough murder fish for my lifetime.”

There was murmured agreement around the group, several others draining their cups and Kingsley staring at the bottom of his when he finished. So that was six. Two thirds of the Mighty Nein had died at least once, himself included, and Fjord even had a similar cause of death to this last time. Definitely not alone. And yet...

“Do you remember anything? From when you died?”

He didn't look up from his cup but he could just imagine the amount of eyes that would be staring at him right now. Whatever, it was already out there.

“A little,” Fjord said. “Mostly just that it was cold, and feeling scared, but...” Fjord’s voice softened and Kingsley looked over at the change in tone. “I also feel like the Wildmother would have been there to catch me. And that’s comforting in its own way.”

Kingsley nodded, mind going back to the scent of a warm sea breeze. Even though he wasn't a follower himself he knew of the comfort that Fjord spoke of.

Which just made him feel even more miserable in that moment.

“So... nothing else? No kind of visions or anything?” No disintegrating and losing everything while completely alone? His voice cracked a little, no longer able to hide his anxiety.

“Nothing in particular.” Fjord frowned. “...are you alright, Kingsley?”

“... not really, no.” He was too worn out to lie at this point and he hunched over, pulling his blanket even tighter.

“Is that what happened to you Kingsley? A vision?” Jester asked.

“Yes? Maybe? I don’t know, vision isn't quite right, but- I don't know.”

“Well, how would you describe it?”

An involuntary shiver ran up his spine. “An experience, I guess? But not a good one, and if anyone ever tried to sell me that kind of ‘experience’ I’d straight up stab them.”

Kingsley went to take a drink before remembering he’d already finished his and he scowled at his empty cup. Caduceus passed over another one without a word and Kingsley murmured a small thanks, taking a long drink to wet his suddenly dry throat.

“I was made out of light or something like that? But-” His throat closed up and he had to loudly clear it to keep going. “I started to disappear. Like I was just a bunch of dandelion fluff and-” he mimed an explosion with his fingers- “poof. Just blowing away. And it wasn't just my body, it was my memories too. I think Jester got me just in time.” It took a moment for him to realize he was shaking.

“C'mere,” Yasha said quietly, moving closer and holding out an arm, Kingsley almost falling into her side and curling close. She held him in her arm and rubbed his shoulder, his shaking slowly subsiding. There was a stunned silence for several moments.

“What the fuck,” Beau breathed out, finally breaking the silence. “That’s so fucked up.”

“And concerning,” Essek said, a curled finger hovering over his mouth. “I have never heard of anything similar, even in death accounts from consecuted individuals. Caduceus?”

“I also have no idea,” Caduceus said, frowning. “Either way, that doesn't sound like how it should go. Not to me at least.”

“Or me,” Veth said, eyes wide. “Dying’s bad enough, that’s- that’s just excessive!”

“This isn’t exactly making me feel better,” Kingsley grumbled. Sure, it was commiserating, but mostly it was just reminding him of how alone he was with what happened.

Yasha squeezed his shoulder. “Well, what would make you feel better?”

“Answers,” Kingsley said without hesitation. “Just... what the hell that was. Or why it happened. Just something.” He curled further into Yasha’s side, his head and tail now the only things peeking out from under the blanket.

“I can research, but it will have to be after the voyage,” Caleb said. “I do not have a personal archive unfortunately.”

“Yet,” Essek added on, giving Caleb a quick smile. “My ability to help is limited but I could still assist with some of this research.”

“And I’ve got the Cobalt Soul stuff of course,” Beau said. “So, definitely a more long term thing but we’ll find out what we can.”

“Thanks guys,” Kingsley said quietly. He wasn’t a fan of the wait but just the chance of answers and the fact they were willing to do it still meant a lot.

All through this Fjord had had a hand on his chin, contemplative, and he looked over at both Jester and Caduceus. “Maybe you two could ask for some godly input? It’s worked before and it shouldn’t hurt at least.”

Caduceus nodded “I say it’d be worth trying out.”

Jester nodded as well. “Yeah! It’d be nice if we could get some answers right away. You want us to give it a shot Kingsley?”

“Please,” he said, latching onto the mention of ‘right away’ and pushing away the small shiver at directly asking the gods for help. That sort of thing was the entire reason he was even alive at all, but even when it was positive the idea of it still freaked him out a little. That didn’t mean he was going to pass up the help however, and he looked at the two of them expectantly.

Jester looked over at Caduceus. “You want me or you to go first?”

Caduceus gestured towards her. “You go ahead.”

“Okay!” Jester said, and Kingsley watched as she brought Sprinkle down from her shoulder and held him in front of her. “Okay Artie, if you’re there, we could really use some answers about what happened to Kingsley, it’d be suuuuper helpful.”

The moment Jester finished speaking Kingsley found himself hit with a sudden wave of tiredness, and as he slipped into sleep at Yasha’s side he saw one last glimpse of Sprinkle’s eyes flashing a brilliant green.

***

The first thing he heard was the quiet shuffling of cards.

He found himself sitting in a room. A tent? The lighting was soft, coming from a few candles scattered around the space and a lantern in the shape of a crescent moon hanging from the ceiling. Colorful cloth was draped from the walls (or was the walls, if the guess about the tent was correct), and while the colors were muted by the low light he saw it was mostly blues and purples, with a splash of red or silver here and there. The sound of shuffling cards came from the back, where a woman sat behind a low table and fanned out a set of cards in front of her, gave a satisfied nod, and shuffled the cards back into the deck, Kingsley catching a brief glimpse of one that said “The Dream” before it disappeared from view.

The woman was wearing a red coat.

She looked up, caught his eye, and smiled. “It has been awhile, has it not?”

Kingsley was unable to speak, heart in his throat but he nodded anyway. He recognized her, would recognize her anywhere, but he had never expected to actually see her again. That dream he’d had in his first day had been precious but fleeting, starting to fade even at the time and he’d resigned himself to never fully knowing what it’d been about. The two parts that had managed to stick with him were the sad angel and the woman in the red coat, and while the angel had been revealed to be Yasha no one had known anything about the woman, and over time he began to wonder if she had been based on an actual person at all. And now here she was.

She placed the deck of cards down on the table and gestured for him to come forward, Kingsley moving up to sit cross legged on a red plush cushion, setting down gingerly and his tail curling up next to him. The fact that he had fallen asleep just before this told him that this should be a dream, but at the same time it felt as if it were something more. Something important. Clasping her hands together on the table she held his gaze, expression serious.

“Normally, I would deliver this kind of message through a reading, to avoid saying too much and to allow ambiguity in the meaning. But what I must say is important enough to be blunt. Your soul is fragile, Kingsley Tealeaf.”

Kingsley swallowed hard. He didn’t know who she was, not really, but absolute truth still rang in her words. “W-what does that mean?”

“In practical terms, returning from death is far more dangerous for you than some of your friends.” She opened up her hands and in between them was a ball of softy glowing light. “If your soul is returned to life quickly enough, as it was this last time, there may not be too many complications. But if you are dead for too long...” At her words the ball of light shuddered and then it scattered just like Kingsley remembered and he flinched back, breathing heavily, having to catch himself on one of his hands as dozens of motes of light rose up around them and then dissipated. She brought her hands back together, looking at him sadly. “I am sorry you had to experience a portion of that. It is not something I would wish on anyone.”

He slowly brought his breathing back under control and righted himself on the cushion, emotions stuck between a giddy rush at the fact that Jester’s intervention seemed to have actually worked and terror at the reminder of what had happened to him. Not to mention that something was wrong with his actual soul itself, so, plenty more potential terror and possible nightmares for him there. But for right now, at least...

“Is there anything I can do to... ‘fix’ my soul? And do you know why it’s like that?”

“For your first question, it will mostly just take time.” She cupped her hands in front of her, smaller motes of light reappearing and coalescing until once again she held a ball of light, and she lifted it up to float above their heads, the space around them now brighter. “The longer it has, the better it will be. It is both as simple and as complicated as that, unfortunately.”

“As for the why...” She spread an arc of cards out on the table with one hand and smoothly flipped them over with a pass from the other, but instead of individual cards it was a picture that continued from one card to the next.

“The journey your soul has gone through is far from normal. In fact, some would say it is astonishing that it exists at all.” She trailed her finger along the edge of the card created artwork, narrating as she did so.

“Your soul began with the sundering of a different soul, life springing from death when none should have been there.” A body pulling itself halfway out of a grave, hands scrabbling on the ground, red eyes shining in the face but also on the body. “This soul fragment may have started as just one piece of a larger whole, but something important happened. It changed. And it grew.” Hands helping the purple tiefling to stand, him walking forward and gaining additional color and vitality with each step. Tattoos, jewelry, vibrant clothes, the gaudiest coat imaginable. A bright and happy smile. “The love and experiences your soul had, both good and bad, allowed it to become a full soul in its own right, separate from where it came from.” Helping out at a circus, performing. Blood flashing along blades and becoming ice in an early taste of combat. Sitting side by side, content, with a certain aasimar. Riding along in a cart with the aasimar and five other individuals, sun low on the horizon. “And then... an end.” Blood stains on snow by a road. A coat placed on a staff, fluttering in the wind. “But not the end.”

A new arc of cards was laid down and revealed below the first, with a new artwork. “The soul that yours originally came from was brought back, and it had forcibly reclaimed your soul.” Four figures standing next to an empty grave, the body of the purple tiefling rising into the air and surrounded by magic. “At first, it seemed that your soul had been subsumed.” The group of five, purple tiefling in the lead, bundled up and trudging through a harsh winter landscape. Bodies left in their wake. “But your soul had become its own, and because of that it could no longer slot neatly into place.” Two tieflings sitting across from each other, one purple, one blue, three tarot cards suspended between them. The purple tiefling standing in front of a circular gate before eight other individuals, many of them from the prior artwork. “Your soul fought back, and it eventually helped to free itself from its prison.” Screaming at those eight from a changed body, nine eye stalks coming from the back. An even more monstrous form, torn in half by its own hands.

One final set of cards was placed. Revealed.

“Your friends then attempted to return your soul. But it failed.”  A body lying on the ground, partially covered by the gaudy coat and bisected by a new scar. Eyes closed. “It took a prayer to the Wildmother and her intervention for it to be successful.” The same body, standing, eyes open, the ground now covered in greenery and flowers. “However, your soul did not come out unscathed. Not broken, or missing parts, but... injured.” The body now shown as an outline, filled with glowing light. Light that was rough around the edges, shot through with spiderweb cracks. “The time it was forcibly shoved in with originating soul, and having to separate itself out from it again, was traumatic.” A large pair of hands, each hand holding a source of light, one angry and boiling, the other small and dimmed, but warm. “Still the same soul, but changed by the experience. Needing time to relearn. And to heal.” The purple tiefling sitting in a lush graveyard garden, surrounded by both flowers and friends. Sailing on a ship, hanging from the rigging and hair tossed in the wind.

She pulled back, resting her hands on the table. “Your soul is whole, and your own, but less... stable under stress, as it were. There is no way to know for sure, since it has not happened, but I suspect that if you were brought back after a longer period of death you would be in a similar state as to when you woke in the city, due to the healing your soul would need again. I do know however that your friends would do everything they could to return you from death.”

“They would,” Kingsley said, without even thinking about it. His attention was still stuck on the cards. The artwork, as stylized as it was, captured a certain life to it. It felt... real. Alive. But at the same time, something felt off. Something missing.

“Kingsley.”

He startled, as if released from a spell, and he closed his eyes and let out a long breath. When he opened his eyes again he saw her giving him a concerned look. “Sorry,” he said quickly. “I, ah. Thank you?”

Her concern didn’t fade.

“Something about this troubles you.” Not a question. A statement of fact.

“Are there other art cards in that deck?” The words spilled out of him. “I mean, they’re gorgeous, and they worked really well, but, are you sure there’s not more?”

She tilted her head, gaze growing sharp.

“There are if you want there to be.”

Something about the way she said that made him pause. He looked down at the cards again. Three rows.

Three names, he realized.

The last one, Kingsley. Him. His body, his soul, himself. The second, Lucien. Most definitely not him, and she had confirmed that as well with differentiating the souls, even with the strange situation of the shared body and his nightmares. And the first... Mollymauk. A different name, a different life, but according to her, the same body. The same soul. His hand gripped his knee, nails digging in.

His soul was his, and Kingsley would fight anyone who implied otherwise or tried to take that away. He knew from experience, however, that he might not have a choice. His eyes lingered on the second set of cards. Flicked to the first for just a moment.

“... maybe not.”

She inclined her head, and nodded. Her hands hovered over the cards and he made a go ahead gesture, and she scooped them up, one, two, three rows, shuffling them back into the deck.

“I admit, I am not accustomed to speaking of things so plainly,” she said lightly as she shuffled the deck. “Partially due to preference, and partially due to limitations I am often bound to. But a prior... interloper decided to facilitate as a way to make amends.” Kingsley saw a flash of another card, this time with a silver dragon, but it was gone too quickly for him to read the title. “It is difficult to judge the character of one such as him, but he was actually the one to ask for help first.” A small laugh. “Luckily for him, this was something I had wished to do anyway. He simply made it easier.”

Kingsley was almost positive the interloper she spoke of was Artagan, but that just raised even more questions. He’d known coming into this that she was mysterious, and that she had to get her answers from somewhere, but the fact that Artagan had been the one to ask her for help?

Another shiver ran through him, even stronger than the one he had pushed away on the ship. Caduceus and Jester would go to their gods when they needed help. So that meant that if one their gods (or sort-of-god, when it came to Artagan) asked someone else for help, that person was...

“I understand if you can’t answer, but. Who are you?”

The shuffling of the cards stopped.

“Do you want to know that answer?”

She was giving him an out. It was probably even a good idea for him to take it.

“Yes.”

He wasn’t going to take it.

She smiled again and set the now shuffled deck down on the table, drawing the top card and handing it to him. Moon and mirror, with the moon facing him, though with one key difference from the card in Jester’s deck - the crescent moon was strung like a bow.

Kingsley stared at the card, heart hammering in his chest.

“...I’m really sorry, but I have no idea what that means.”

She blinked, taken aback, before noticing his slightly manic grin and she burst out laughing.

“I think you almost believed that yourself for a moment,” the Moonweaver said and she graciously accepted the card when Kingsley handed it back to her, him immediately going and sitting on his hands afterwards to hide their shaking. “Unless you’d still prefer for me to say it out loud?”

“Nope, I’m good,” Kingsley said quickly. He was totally good right now, not panicking at all, nope. He got a raised eyebrow at that response, but her smile was still there as well and she didn’t press him.

Kingsley’s leg bounced as she placed the card back into the deck, having to actively work to keep his breathing steady. On some level, he knew that his perspective on the gods and faith was a bit skewed. Fjord sailed the seas with the Wildmother’s blessing. Caduceus had performed literal miracles with the Wildmother’s help (and, once again, one of those was the entire reason he was even alive at all). Yasha was a full fledged champion of the Stormlord. And proper god or not, Jester was still outright friends with Artagan.

In comparison, his own tentative explorations towards faith and the gods had felt like they didn’t really count. He’d learned about the Moonweaver, and her commandments had resonated with him, so he’d decided to follow them. He didn’t actively worship, or ask for blessings, or go out of his way to do things on her behalf. Instead Kingsley mostly just lived his life, sending a small prayer when it felt right and taking some comfort in the light of the moons. That was it. The big stuff, that was what his friends did. They were the ones who...

He looked around at the rest of the tent again, trying to distract himself. With his new knowledge he saw nods to the Moonweaver throughout, most of the decor having been subtle enough on its own to escape attention the first time around, though, okay, maybe the lantern hanging from the ceiling was a bit on the nose. It was an understated but beautiful space, and just one more reminder that he was talking to a literal actual god right now.

Maybe that hadn’t been the best way to try and distract himself.

Her casual comment of ‘something I had wished to do anyway’ spun over and over again in his head, him trying to figure out what the hell that even meant and dread growing at what it could mean. It didn’t make sense. Why-

“Why me?”

He’d just said that out loud. Fuck.

Kingsley looked back to her and nearly jumped when he realized that she’d been staring at him the entire time, swearing several more times in his head and wondering if he’d just pissed her off. But instead of anger her expression was soft.

“Why not you?”

Whatever he’d expected to hear, it hadn’t been that.

His brain stalled. There were so many things he wanted to say in response. So many things he knew he should NOT say in response. But she hadn’t said anything else yet, simply watching him and her hands resting on the table. He slumped, bringing his hands back to his lap.

“Because I’m not actually who you think I am?”

That got him another raised eyebrow, but this time there was no accompanying smile, and he quickly continued. “I know I’ve met you before, in that dream, but that wasn’t- I wasn’t even me yet. I didn’t know who I was s-so it makes sense that you were there for someone else.” Fuck, he knew this was a bad idea, second guessing the decision of, once again, A LITERAL ACTUAL GOD, but the sour sick fear that had been growing in the background was finally too much for him to ignore.

“Mollymauk, right? You said yourself that he’s where my soul came from and what if I'm just-” His voice cracked, and he hastily scrubbed a tear away from the corner of his eye. “I know he was a follower of yours, and he did a better job than any of the half measures I’ve ever sent your way, so. That’s why not me.” Kingsley couldn’t hold her gaze anymore and he looked down, eyes boring into his lap. “And maybe you were there for me, originally, whoever I was. But I still fucked that up anyway.”

A couple frustrated tears dropped down and landed on the back of his hands, Kingsley feeling like he was about to scream. His soul was HIS. He was Kingsley. He was himself. He knew who he was. He was. He was supposed to know who he was. He...

(Breaking apart. Disintegrating. Motes of light drifting away).

A hand cupped his check and his breath hitched, and then his breathing almost stopped entirely when a gentle kiss was pressed to his forehead.

“Time for that later,” she murmured, and then she was pulling back, tilting his chin up with her hand. She was kneeling in front of him, just a couple feet away and table now gone.

“Yes. Mollymauk is where your soul is from. And yes, my first visit in that dream was to see you, in part because of the sacrifices you had made in Cognouza, and in part because of a life lived in full and prior faith. But there is something important you must understand.” She held his gaze, not looking away. “You are not inferior to Mollymauk. You are not a mistake. And you do not have to fear losing yourself and becoming him, because he has already become you.”

Her hand cupped his check again, and she smiled softly.

“You are Kingsley Tealeaf. And I am so proud of all that you are.”

Mollymauk was... him?

Kingsley swayed in place. He didn’t know whether to cry, or to laugh, or what even to do at all. Instead he just sat there, feeling lightheaded at what had just happened. He wasn’t dead for disrespect. She had actually listened to him. Reassured him. Her. A god.

“I think I need to lie down,” he said weakly.

She gave a small laugh, withdrawing her hand and Kingsley slow motion flopped onto his side, before rolling to his back and staring at the ceiling. There were stars embroidered in the fabric up there. He hadn’t seen that before.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw her sitting down next to him, leaning on one of her hands. “Feel better?”

“Yeah,” he said. He could almost pick out some constellations in the embroidered stars.

“Good.” She played with one last tarot card in her free hand, just barely visible to him. A sun rising over a grave. Dawn.

Slowly, almost so slow that he missed it at first, the lights in the tent started dim. Eventually the only light left was a faint glow from the crescent moon lantern, and, to his quiet awe, the embroidered stars themselves, silver threads glimmering with magic.

“There are only a few more things left for me to say.”

He tilted his head to look in her direction. Even in the low light he could still see her clearly, and he realized she was actually the final source of light in the space, her white hair and blue skin giving off a faint luminescence.

“If a day comes where things are not fast enough, where others are not able to reach you in time and you cannot remember with your mind, remember with your heart like you did once before. Even when starting over, a home and a family will still be waiting for you.”

She glowed a little brighter, surroundings starting to fade.

“Hopefully, by the time you pass on your soul will be healed enough that you no longer have to worry. But if that is not the case...”

She leaned down, held his face in both of her hands, and placed one last kiss on his forehead.

“I will be there. Shine bright, my little monarch.”

He closed his eyes, for a single blink-

-And opened them to the deck of The Nein Heroez.

“-I told you, I’m not the one who knows. I just sent him along to someone who does, he’ll be fine.”

“I’m surprised she didn’t smite you,” Kingsley croaked and Artagan whirled around, pointing at him.

“See! I told you, he’s fine.”

Jester gasped. “Kingsley!”

“Welcome back,” Yasha murmured, and she gave him a hug with the arm around his shoulder.

“Wait, smite? Who the fuck did you send him to?” Beau said, shooting Artagan a look.

“Well! It looks like my work here is done,” Artagan said, completely ignoring Beau and clapping his hands together. “Just let me know when you need something again Jester, tah!”

He vanished in a swirl of green cloak before Beau could get another word in, and she groaned.

“Ugh. He didn't even do anything himself.”

“Yes he did!” Jester said, and she looked at Kingsley. “... it did work, right?”

“... yeah,” he said, a little dazed, and he reached up to touch his forehead. He was going to need time to process that. A lot of time.

“See! He did do something!”

Fjord gave him a thoughtful look. “Who did he send you to? You seem a little overwhelmed.”

“T-the Moonweaver.”

That got everyone’s attention on him at once. A couple of them blanched.

“... you were not kidding with the smite comment,” Caleb said, eyes a little wide.

Essek looked around at the group and everyone’s expressions. “Being sent to a god is notable, but I feel I am missing some additional context here.”

“We um. Miiight have had a plan where Artie pretended to be the Moonweaver?” Jester said.

“It went badly,” Fjord said bluntly.

“As in dragged off into the sky in chains badly,” Veth added on.

Essek blinked, then shook his head. “I should not even be surprised anymore.”

“I was pretty surprised the first time I heard about it,” Kingsley said, shrugging. “And I only heard about it cause of all the times the ship docked at Rumblecusp. I think you're good.”

Essek gave him a wry grin. “Well. I am glad I am not the only one to hear about things after the fact.”

“You get used to it,” Caduceus said, smiling. “And we’re all here now, so, you don’t have to worry about it this time.”

“True enough,” Kingsley said and he stretched, sitting up straight but still at Yasha’s side.

“What did you learn?” Yasha asked.

“Well... the main thing is she said my soul is. Fragile? And that if I’m dead too long I might forget things again. But she also said it’ll heal after enough time so it’s not all bad?” Her last words to him, about what she would do if it hadn’t healed yet, echoed in the back of his mind.

“It’s still not great though,” Beau said, sitting with her arm resting on a raised knee. “She tell you any way to fix it sooner?”

He shook his head. “She just said it’d take time.” After a second he glanced over to Essek and Caleb. “And I don’t think she meant your kind of stuff. Sorry nerds.”

“Magic cannot fix everything,” Caleb said. “As much as we might want it to.” He was lost in thought for a moment before Essek squeezed his hand, Caleb returning the gesture.

Kingsley took a moment to inhale the ocean air, grounding himself, before fully flopping back against Yasha like a cat and she chuckled, starting to comb her fingers through his hair.

“What else did you guys talk about? You were gone for a while,” Jester said.

Kingsley hesitated.

He didn’t really know why he was hesitating. Maybe he was afraid. Of what, he wasn’t sure, but that fear that had bubbled over while talking to the Moonweaver wasn’t totally gone. And maybe it was the fact that he still didn’t know what to make of things himself yet. But he also remembered the words she’d said towards the end, that even if he forgot, he would still have a family. And a home.

(An even more distant memory. Of him asking for home, and Jester saying yeah, we can go home).

He saw Caduceus watching him out of the corner of his eye, expression knowing, but the cleric didn’t push, and that was what made the decision for him. The Mighty Nein was his family. And they would be there for him no matter what.

“Well,” Kingsley said, pausing for dramatic effect. “To start, she was wearing this red coat...”

He launched into retelling, knowing that he had his family, his home, and that his heart would remember for as long as he would need.

[kaptainkit]

Jester used to think about ships passing in the night and how heartbreaking it must be to meet and connect only to part and never see each other again. As she stands by the harbor with the Nein Heroez at her back and Nicodranas over Caleb’s shoulder, Jester wonders if passing ships are all the two of them will ever be.

port of call

Her eyes are closed and the wind is tossing her hair like billowing sails when she hears him approach.

His footsteps are even and not as loud as those of the roughest traders she’s met, but the pier is oddly quiet today, and the way his boots hit the dock is as unmistakable to Jester as nearly everything about Caleb Widogast has become.

She turns, still smiling. “Come to see me off?”

The words are already out of her lips even before her eyes are fully open, and it’s the excuse she will give for why she runs out of breath the moment she finally catches glimpse of him.

“Hi,” she says when she finds her voice again.

Unlike her, Caleb has his long hair tied in a ponytail. It leaves his face unhindered and the handsome, greeting smile he gives her for all the harbor to see. “Hello, Jester.”

“Oh, Cayleb!” She jumps in place and starts to move closer to him, helpless against the twitching of her fingers. “You should really let me braid your hair again!”

But before she can close the distance between them, another strong breeze sweeps through the docks, and it sends Jester’s own wayward hair to one side, some of the strands twisting up around her horns. The strength of the gust is not enough to knock her off balance, but it pulls a startled yelp out of her and a muffled snort from Caleb.

“Hey!” Jester laughs as she drops her reaching hands to hold her hair together.

Caleb is shaking his head, but he’s also chuckling. “Perhaps we should tend to yours first, ja?”

She wants to scowl because it’s obvious he’s teasing her, but the feeling doesn’t last very long and she’s grinning again, because he’s teasing her. “Really? But you never braid my hair!” With one free hand and her tail, she starts patting herself for the tie she knows she has. “Can you do it like how you did for Veth that one time? It was so pretty! But wait, I gotta find my lucky ribbon first—”

“Jester.”

She looks up, and the expression on Caleb’s face makes her stop and abandon her quest altogether. “What?”

“I. . . do not think we have time to do any braiding today.”

Caleb’s eyes are fixed on something behind Jester, and when she follows his gaze, she finds Kingsley climbing up the gangplank to their ship, talking animatedly with a nervous-looking Gallan. Waiting for them on the deck are most of the crew, a blur of busy hands preparing the Nein Heroez for departure. Kingsley seems to be giving their poor carpenter enthusiastic orders, and Gallan’s increasingly worried reactions make Jester giggle.

He’s awfully chipper, their new Tealeaf. Sometimes even moreso than Jester herself. It’s both a comfort and a bittersweet proof, every reminder that he really is neither Lucien nor Molly.

“I guess you’re right,” she tells Caleb. Orly did say they need to leave before sundown.

“I’m surprised you did not let your mother do it for you, though.” Jester frowns when she faces Caleb again, and it makes him fumble as he backtracks. “Er, at least I thought– I assumed that was something you two do.”

Suddenly Jester feels irritation burn up her throat at how they’re still talking about hair, especially when he’s made it clear that they don’t have much time left. “I can braid my own hair, Cayleb.”

“Y–yes, of course. I knew that.”

“I am very good at it, remember?” she huffs. “I would’ve made a really awesome braid with your hair again if only you’d let me.”

This time, Caleb doesn’t respond. He only gives her one of those pained winces of his that say too much and yet never nearly enough. The kind of look that has always made Jester feel like a proper sapphire in a tower: precious but ultimately untouchable.

She stops holding her head and fiddles with her hand instead. Even though Jester remains inordinately frustrated, in the end she can’t really stay mad at Caleb. Not when they don’t have long.

“And, uh, I had to leave Mama when I had the chance,” Jester admits quietly. The memory makes her scowl, so she continues with a wail, “It’s because I could tell she was starting to cry! And if she cried, I would cry, and then I’d never be able to leave! So I ran.” She hears Caleb’s sharp intake of breath, and she quickly adds, “But I could hear her laughing! So it’s all good. She’ll be fine, it’s okay.”

Caleb nods, relieved, but his smile doesn’t return. “That is. . . good.”

He doesn’t appear convinced of his own reassurance, and the irritation inside Jester turns into that familiar, nameless ache that she’s come to associate with moments when they can’t seem to find the right words to say to each other.

She turns a little so she’s looking out into the water, angling herself so a sidelong glance still catches Caleb’s face. Somehow, it’s the only way she can truly look at him lately.

“You weren’t there,” Jester almost whispers. “At the Chateau. Everyone else was there to say goodbye.” The wind is calmer now. She can speak more softly but with no doubt that Caleb hears her.

He’s quiet for a while before she hears, “Veth. . . needed my help. She was preparing a farewell present for Fjord.”

Despite her souring mood, Jester giggles again. She knows exactly what that present is. “Ooooh yeah, yeah. Veth spent all day yesterday making it. Yeza helped, too! It’s really brilliant.”

“That is one way of putting it, ja.”

Jester waits until she catches his eye, but she makes sure to still smile to soften the blow. “But they were there this morning,” she tells him. “Veth and Yeza.” And Luc. And Beau, and Yasha, and Caduceus.

Yet no Caleb.

It’s obvious she’s snared him on a poor excuse, and his cheeks, now with a dusting of pink, threaten to crumple. There is that wince again, now deeper and even more heartbreaking.

Before Jester can feel any kind of guilt, however, Caleb notices her watching, waiting. He straightens and pulls himself together long enough to say, “Well. It is possible she left me alone to carry the things by myself.”

The wind blows again, and Jester drops her hand and sighs.

Usually, she finds pleasure and pride standing witness to moments when Caleb marches in front of foes or allies and plucks from the truth the best defense or offense that they need to win. Not only is it always a display of his sheer brilliance but also of the capacity for mischief that Jester is aware he possesses and she so greatly enjoys.

But that same brilliance also means he already has answers prepared for all the questions Jester’s never been able to ask, even if not all of them are necessarily the truth.

Instead of teasing him with a reminder that Veth Brenatto is far too clever to trust Caleb with anything that requires physical strength, Jester sets her gaze back on the nearing sunset.

“I told Veth to set it up on the Lighthouse,” Jester says. “When she asked me where Fjord would go last.”

She is facing the wrong side with her back to the Wildmother’s temple, Jester knows, as her eyes map a good stretch of the Open Quay.

“He and Caduceus had one final ritual to do.”

Not unlike her and Caleb now, Jester had stumbled upon Fjord and Caduceus dancing around their own farewell earlier. Though many things between her and Fjord remain uncertain despite the journey they are to embark together, Jester is sure of at least a few.

Her suggestion that the sanctuary of their shared goddess would be great for a quiet moment of worship — and the tender, knowing look from her fellow cleric that she got in response — is the least Jester could do to ease people’s hearts at this point in their journey where parting is inevitable. Even if none of those hearts can be hers.

“What about you?” she asks Caleb, folding her arms to ward off the chill she shouldn’t even be feeling. “Do you have a present or a ritual for me before I go?”

He gasps, clearly startled. “Jester—”

“Because if you do, it has to be, like, right now.”

She twists a bit to steal a quick glance before turning away again, a touchstone to keep her going even as her heart pounds the way it’s only ever done when she’s facing ancient dragons and miserable hags.

“It doesn’t even have to be a present! I mean– a gift would be nice, but maybe something different from Veth’s? It’d be super funny, but I don’t think it would suit me very much.” She grins and forces enthusiasm into the empty air that’s kind-of-but-not-quite between them. “So, do you really have one? A gift for me? Can I see it?”

As the words continue to tumble out of Jester’s lips, faster than she can think about them and against the hammering of her chest that’s made her too nervous to even really hear what she's saying, she curls both of her hands into tighter fists.

Before her, reflected into the frustratingly calm waters, the sun doesn’t slow its descent, unaware or maybe just uncaring of Jester’s frantic efforts to hold on to what’s left of her last day home.

It’s Caleb’s polite cough that snaps her out of her despair, and Jester’s shoulders sag in a final sort of defeat.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles with her head down.

There’s another wince in Caleb’s response that she doesn’t need to see to be able to recognize when she hears him say, “Jester, you don’t—”

“But I do!” she interrupts with a voice that goes embarrassingly shrill. Jester has to swallow when she looks up to continue in a voice that still has a bit of dignity left. “Have something for you, I mean. Uh, something to say. Not a gift.”

When Jester finally faces Caleb again, her heart has settled, taking root in the resolve that all of her courage has given her. She allows herself to watch his bemused and worried face. Instead of shying away from it, this time, Jester welcomes the ache and lets it move her forward.

Behind Caleb, the outline of Nicodranas is nothing but a swirl of familiar colors that seem to also toe the line between holding her back and letting her go.

“I was a little glad, I guess. That you weren’t there to say goodbye. Okay, wait— that sounds bad. But I don’t mean it like that! I swear! I just meant– I wouldn’t know how to say it, you know? Goodbye. To you.”

She makes her pinched eyes meet his, and even through his confusion Caleb nods, giving her both permission and strength to continue.

“I guess because part of me still wanted you to come?” Jester admits. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since Fjord and I started making plans, and I wanted to tell you right away! But– I knew you’d never say yes and that you have other plans, so I– I just. Didn’t ask.”

Even as the thoughts and feelings she’s been keeping for what feels like forever start to form themselves into words, Jester realizes that this offer to travel with them has only ever been for Caleb. She and Fjord invited everyone when they told the party their plans, but they both knew it was more a formality than anything else. For the man standing in front of her now, though, Jester knows the question is tied to a response that, either way, would’ve answered for her more than just an acceptance to sail the Lucidian Ocean.

Maybe that’s why she never got around to asking it.

“I’m sorry if I never said it,” Jester hears herself go on, above the hitch in her breath that Caleb echoes.

Somehow, they both seem to come to an understanding that this is now about more than what she can outright say it is.

“But it– it took forever for me to figure it out, and I was always gonna know what you’re gonna answer anyway, so why bother, right? Besides, Fjord has– he has plans, yeah? And I told myself, you know what? Those plans sound good! I can see myself doing that! But it didn’t mean I forgot about wanting to ask you still, because it was still there and I don’t think it’s ever gonna stop being there, but you were never gonna say yes to me, Cayleb, so why do I keep wanting to ask you!”

When she’s done — more from running out of breath than out of more things to say — Jester feels every inch of her skin burn from both shame and righteousness. She’s held Caleb’s blue eyes all throughout, and when she gasps at the end of her final exclamation, she sees him gasp with her.

His gaze is filled with so much painful realization that it snuffs out the rest of the flames in Jester’s chest and, like the sunset next to them, she lets herself sink into this farewell one last time.

She watches Caleb’s face, commits every detail to memory, and wonders if this is what it feels like to miss someone you’re still about to leave behind.

Jester wonders if this is really the end of such a long time trying and failing to find a person who’s standing right in front of her.

“Goodbye, Caleb.”

She turns, her swimming vision making her ship just a little more than a blur, and starts to walk away.

“Jester, wait!”

There’s a loud thud behind her, a single step against the wood of the dock. For some reason, it rings louder and truer than anything Jester’s ever heard before.

It makes her pause mid-stride and listen.

“I think I—”

All of the harbor hears Caleb Widogast take a deep and decisive breath, and despite her trembling, Jester can’t help but feel so proud of him.

“I. . . may have something I need to tell you, as well.”

.

(read on ao3)

[romeoandjulietyouwish]

Fjorester Week Day 2: Battle Couple

Read on ao3

Rain pounds down on the deck of the ship. Swords clang together and spells shoot to and fro in the chaos of the night. Fighting Uk’otoa’s servants has become nearly routine for the crew of the Nein Heroz, but this fight is going worse than most. The rain is making it nearly impossible to see what’s happening and the deck is slippery, not to mention the number of assailants seem to have tripled since the last time they fought.  

Jester has lost sight of Fjord in the chaos. He started off by her side, but they quickly got separated as people called for their help. Now she feels a thrum of panic run through her veins as she turns from the dead servant in front of her and turns towards the rest of the crew. 

A crack of lightning briefly illuminates the battlefield. She can see Kingsley swinging his sword with a maniacal laugh, blood running down his arms and chest, Orly shouting out as he kicks a sea monster down the steps, Marius slamming his sword weakly into a creature, and then she sees Fjord. 

Like the rest of them, he’s soaked to the bone, hair plastered to his face. Even from this distance, she can see blood on his cheek. But despite that, or maybe because of it he still looks like her captain: face hardened, muscles flexing as he swings his sword. 

“Fjord!” Jester shouts out and she starts running for him. 

She’s not used to fighting this many enemies in close quarters so she just runs towards him, dodging allies and enemies as she does. When she shouts his name, he looks up and his eyes go wide. Before she knows what’s happening, Fjord’s eldritch blast shoots right past her head. She screams, ducking out of the way as it slams into the sea creature she hadn’t even noticed behind her. 

When she makes it to Fjord, he immediately ushers her behind him. “You alright?” He asks, looking over his shoulder as he stabs his sword into the chest of a barnacle encrusted man. 

“Not really!” Jester calls back, shooting a green bolt out of her hands. “This isn’t exactly going as planned!” 

Fjord hooks his arm around her waist and yanks her out of the way of a trident hurtling her way. When they stand up again, Jester finds herself face to face with a creature, their jaw unhinged. She yelps and slams a spell into it. As she does, Fjord slashes its neck and kicks the creature’s chest until it goes tumbling over the side of the ship. 

Just as Jester begins to feel like they have a handle on the situation, another bolt of lightning illuminates the dozens of creatures clawing their way up the sides of the boat. She gasps and points, “Fjord!” 

Fjord looks where she’s pointing. “God fucking dammit!” Fjord shouts. As they surge back into battle, Jester hears Fjord shout to her, “You know I was going to propose to you tonight, I still will if we make it out of this.” 

She doesn’t even process the shock that comes with that admission, too distracted by the pain wracking her body as another crossbow bolt embeds in her leg. “That’s looking less and less likely by the second. Why don’t you propose to me now?” 

“Now?” He gives her a crazed look. She shrugs with a smile. “What the hell,” he says, pushing his soaking wet hair out of his eyes. As he buries his sword into a creature, blasting the one behind it he shouts, “Jester Lavorre, I have never loved anyone like I love you. We have literally died and killed for each other and I can’t imagine a world in which we spend the rest of our lives apart,” an blast releases from his hand, “however long they may be. Will you marry me?” 

Jester grins back at him, rain and blood streaming down her face. “Yes!” She shouts. She closes the distance between her and Fjord and pulls him into a kiss. She feels him pour healing magic into the kiss and the ache from the wound in her leg lessans. Just as they pull apart, she roughly yansk his shoulder down, forcing them both to duck out of the way of a volley of spells. 

“That’s m-mighty nice,” Orly shouts to them. “Congratulations. Now we got shit to kill, get a m-move on!” 

It takes them far too long to keep all of Uk’otoa’s servants, well into the early hours of dawn. And once the last body has been tossed over the side, Jester falls to her knees, completely exhausted, bleeding far too much. 

Fjord kneels down next to her and puts a hand on her shoulder, “We’re okay, Jester.” She lurches into his arms, not caring about her wounds, and just holds on to him. “I’ve got you. We’ll get you all healed up soon.” 

She digs her fingers into the short hair in the back of his head, tears welling in her eyes in pain, exhaustion, and recollection at Fjord’s slapdash proposal. After a long moment she pulls back just enough to look him in the eyes. “Did you mean it?” He gives her a confused look. “The proposal.” 

Fjord lifts a hand to her cheek and brushes away a strand of wet, slightly blood soaked hair. “Of course I meant it. I want to marry you, Jester. I have the ring in our bedroom so once we’re all cleaned up...” 

She laughs a little, “That’s good.” And she leans back into his arms. “Do you think you could carry me inside? I don’t think I can stand.” 

He presses a kiss to her temple and scoops her up, “You don’t have to ask.”

[dent-de-leon]

Hello, I am here once again to cast my Molly thoughts onto you.

Very often I think about Molly once being quiet…empty. But then he thrives in the joys, laughter, and color of the carnival, and then with the Nein.

But sometimes, Molly will have dreams, visions, nightmares of the quiet, the empty, THE EYES, and suddenly, he’s in a state of silence, unable to talk.

The Nein are fumbling on what to do, but then Yasha, his dear Yasha, easily holds himself close, and he hangs onto her like a lifeline. She does her best to talk despite not being the best conversationalist, but it’s what Molly is so familiar with, so soothed by. She tells him of the colorful flowers she’s seen, the crackling sound of thunder from her trips away from the group, the bustling sounds of people she has passed by.

The Nein learn from this, making sure that when Molly is unnervingly silent, they give him sounds, colors, warmth.

Molly may be silent, but never is he empty.

Oh, I absolutely headcannon this as well!! We know that Molly did have nightmares about Lucien and the Eyes--dreams that he always tried to forget. And at the very end of Campaign 2, Matt describes the haunting visions that Kingsley still sees of Cognouza and Lucien night after night. King reliving the moment when he sacrificed himself over and over, the primal alien screams and black chains that followed--

So I definitely think Molly/King still has moments when he feels that familiar, gnawing ache of Empty, once too many nightmares and memories come pouring back. And I can definitely see Yasha running right to his side. When Molly first confesses the truth about Lucien and his days of clawing Emptiness, he's so grateful to have Yasha there for him. Gives her a pat on the shoulder and says, "Thank you, dear." And at the very start of the episode, he stays close by her, still trying to suppress a panic attack--laughing nervously, admitting shakily, "I'm so glad to see you."

Just having Yasha near helps ground him. And if he got lost in feeling Empty again--even if the rest of the world and his memories start to fade, I think he'd still very much be drawn to her and reach out to her for comfort all the same.

I think a lot about how King Molly's first word after Empty is Love, how he goes up to Yasha and gives her a big hug and holds on tight. The way he goes and picks flowers for her and Beau in the Blooming Grove--all these little things that show how much he loves his charm and the rest of the Nein, even though he still doesn't have the words to say it.

The way Jester shows Tealeaf each of the cards in his tarot deck, gently tells him that she hopes just having them again will make him feel a little bit better. Tries her best to give him something concrete to hold onto, to anchor him. I can see her dealing out the cards between them whenever Molly's feeling Empty again, Jester softly telling him who each person is and what their card means. Tealeaf clinging to the deck and reading through it over and over in the moonlight, trying to commemorate every face to memory. The way Jester's so protective of Molly like he always was of her.

And then...I just can't get over how it's Caleb Molly calls out to first after Yasha. How first and foremost he has his Love, is warmed by just the sight of her so much, and then calls out for his Magician right after. The way Caleb fought so hard just for the chance to reunite with Molly, limped to his side and begged the rest of the Nein to save him. Casting the spell to resurrect him, promising so earnestly, "Empty no longer, Mr. Tealeaf." Caleb showing so much love and compassion for Mollymauk, that when all hope seems lost, when he doesn't wake--it's him Yasha turns to for comfort, looking to him for help as she cries, "Is there nothing else to do...? Caleb?" Because they both just love him so much. Because Yasha trusts Caleb to save him.

In those moments when Molly/King goes nonverbal, I think Caleb would also be very patient, very understanding. Because he'd been through very much the same thing, all those years in the sanitarium. We see panel after panel of him silently moving through the years in a haze, and I think it's very much implied he never spoke, never really felt aware. Just years and years of walking through this nightmare, dissociating from the world around him--Trent's spell further distancing him from himself, locking all his memories away.

So if anyone would understand exactly what it is Tealeaf's feeling when all he can say is Empty, I think it's Caleb. Because for an entire decade, that's how he felt. I can see him being kind and gentle with Molly in those moments the way he wished someone would have been for him. Sitting by his side when the memories get to be too much, when it all eats away at him until he feels hollow again. Caleb delicately parting his hair and giving him another forehead kiss, promising him again that he isn't Empty anymore--

It's like how Yasha told Molly having a family again made her feel less empty. I think her and Caleb just understand a lot of Molly's pain and grief in a very intimately familiar way, and it makes them both want to reach back out to Mollymauk like he did for him. Molly, who tells Lucien, "We love broken things the most," and gives his whole heart to try and save other shattered souls.

And I just love your idea that Yasha would see how Molly is grounded by color and light and joy and life; all the vibrant, beautiful things that Molly saw in the world, even though he still knew it was so "harsh and cruel." Yasha giving Mollymauk more wonderful memories to fill that Emptiness, to remind him that he is alive, and whole, and loved.

I think of Yasha holding onto Molly and hugging him as tight as she can when they fall asleep. Playing old songs from the circus on her harp. Beau reading pages from her journal aloud, showing off all the little trinkets she gathered in their travels. Jester fanning out the tarot deck and inviting him to pick a few cards. Drawing with him under the stars. Caleb casting Prismatic Image until golden memories flicker all around them, retelling all of their adventures like it's his favorite story, watching the way Tealeaf's eyes light up--

[saphirered]

The Lovers

Spoilers for Campaign 2 Ep141

Man oh man oh man. I've had this one written since the day after the last episode but I've been soooooo hesitant to post it at all 🙈. Anyway... I'm just gonna regardless because it's just sitting there staring at me to either delete or post it 🤭. I hope you enjoy because I'm still so conflicted about his piece of writing 😅. Unless people actually like it I might just end up deleting it after all.

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Jester had asked you to come along on another journey of the Nein Heroez. She needed your expertise for something but couldn’t get across what for within the twenty-five word limit. Regardless, the opportunity to see and travel with your friends is not one you’re just going to pass on so of course you happily made your way to Nicodranas. Maybe the ocean would do you some good. It’s been a while after all.

In the first few days of your journey Jester had been keeping a close eye on you, watching your responses and reactions. Specifically your reactions to any and all interactions with a certain lavender tiefling. When she was certain your responses to the tiefling in question were not in any way negative and cordial if not friendly you found yourself being paired with him more often than not. Watch, hoisting the sails or dropping them, food shifts and even at the helm a few times.

You caught an argument between Fjord and Jester a few weeks later. Fjord was defending you and telling Jester she couldn’t just play matchmaker after everything that had happened between the previous inhabiter of Kingsley’s body and you and how it might still be a painful subject of not once but twice being faced with someone that’s not the person you loved and lost.

Jester seeing reason in Fjord’s arguments put aside the love story she’d been trying to unfold with you and the poor tiefling as her main characters. The shifts you shared with Kingsley came to a close and would be no more often than any shifts shared with anyone else on the crew.

One day the Nein Heroez made port to stock up on some supplies after being hit by a storm and running short on food. The crew was given some downtime to enjoy the many pleasures port has to offer but you decided to stay back at the ship. You asked Jester for the cards.

You’re sitting crosslegged on the docks watching the sunset as the crew leaves in groups bidding you goodbye while they go. Once the majority of them have left you take out the cards and begin laying them in certain patterns starting with simple ‘yes/no’s onto the past present future and more complicated readings. You’re not paying attention to any particular results but instead study the drawings fondly.

“You’d call me a sentimental fool.” You snicker as the fool card is revealed in front of you.

“Sentimental? Yes. A fool? I’ve yet to decide.” You turn around at the familiar voice seeing the tails of the black sleeveless coat you’ve grown accustomed to seeing around. You pick up the cards and put them back in their order stacking them.

“Oh really? You’d think a few weeks of being not so inconspicuously paired together on any task possible would give you enough time to form an opinion on that?” You tease beginning a new read.

“Maybe that makes me the fool then.” You can almost hear the smirk in his words.

“Care to find out?” You put down card by card face down. You know how to push for certain results. A trick you’d picked up from your former lover. It feels right to use it against him in a strange twisted way like this. Not really him but close enough.

Kingsley sits down to the side, not trusting you to not push him off the docks if he were to make an offensive (in jest of course) remark. Gathering the cards back up you start over. Time for a bit of fun. You push for the first card setting it down face up in front of him.

“The owl and the bear. Some might say the most deadly combination when put together. Be watchful of the owl’s words or you might find yourself at the ends of the bear’s claws.”

“So it was a good idea to sit on this side and avoid meeting my waterlogged demise.”

“Are you doubting my capabilities, Kingsley?” You smirk and watch the tiefling gulp. You move on to the next card making a show of pulling it from the deck and displaying it.

“Look at that! What did I say. The fool has appeared. The cards have spoken. my fool.” You take a bow as if addressing the most pretentious royalty around limited only by your crosslegged position on the docks. Kingsley can’t help but let out a chuckle at your theatrics.

“The cards have spoken indeed! A fool I must be.” He plays along. You begin picking up the two cards and restack the deck.

“Hey hey hey, isn’t there supposed to be three cards for this one? Not two?” You stop. He’s not wrong technically. You raise an eyebrow at him, fan out the cards and allow him to pull one from the deck as per the variant of this reading, putting the fate in the hands of the drawer. Not really of course. Usually you’d still be able to push for a card for them to draw but for this one you’d leave it up to the divines. You’ve had your fun.

And fun it was until Kingsley kept the card for himself, studying it closely. You were curious to see which one he pulled but you hadn’t exactly paid attention to that like you’d otherwise done. You wait for him to either give it back or tell you what it is but he takes a long time.

“So what is it?” You ask, your curiosity getting the better of you. It still takes a good few seconds before he lowers the card so you can see it too.

“Oh.” Is all you manage to vocalise upon seeing the card. The Lovers. The familiar drawing of a lavender tiefling looking at another figure arm outstretched and love in their eyes. The image of the tiefling reaches for the outstretched hand of the other figure; your figure. You’re staring back at your own face and the expression Mollymauk had claimed to have plenty of visual references for to know he could properly draw you but would always ask for one more just to remind him.

“I’m so sorry.” Kingsley hands the card back to you and you keep staring at it. He stays for a little bit to make sure you’re alright as you’re hit with a whirlwind of emotions. Once he’s sure you’re alright he begins to get up.

“I’ll leave you to the rest of your evening. Someone’s gotta make sure these fools drink just enough and start a brawl or two.” You snap out of it putting the card back into the deck.

“Kingsley. It’s alright. You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.” The whirlwind subsides and you return back to a peaceful state of mind. You offer the tiefling a kind smile and he halts himself sitting back down still somewhat tense. He opens his mouth to say something but is quick to close it again. There’s a moment of silence between the two of you as you shuffle the cards absentmindedly. You catch onto the conflict and hesitation in Kingsley’s features.

“If there’s something you wish to say please do say it.”

“When you said you loved him… I think it never registered it was anything other than the love the others held for him. Strongly yes but I always assumed it was akin to Yasha’s. Why didn’t you say anything?” Kingsley states piecing things together watching you closely.

“It’s not a burden for you to bear.” You pull the Lovers card back up to the top and study it closely.

“I might not know much but I don’t think being faced with your dead lover’s body inhabited by someone not him doesn’t bother anyone. That’s just cruel.”

“It doesn’t bother me. Not anymore. I’ve grieved Molly when he died. I grieved him again when Lucien returned. I’ve gone through it all and accepted he’s not coming back and that’s okay. Everything comes to an end at some point. I don’t think it’s cruelty. I think everything is as it should be.” You speak honestly stroking your thumb over the card.

“I have so many questions.” Kingsley states. You get it. He woke up one day, recovering from death not knowing who he is or was before that moment beyond emotions and flashes of a past that didn’t feel like his. That’s exactly why you wanted to spare him another previous relation to figure out. Yes it might make things slightly more difficult for you but that’s not his fault. That’s no one’s fault.

“And I believe Beau gave you her notebook so you can read back about your predecessors. But you’re not ready for that yet, are you? That’s okay. Don’t read it until you feel ready.” Kingsley’s head shoots up to look at you. Why do you understand him? Maybe you’re wiser than he gives you credit for but he thinks you’re already pretty wise.

“Expectations. Everyone expected something of me but I didn’t live up to it. I’m not who he used to be and that disappoints people. But from you, you never expected anything from me. Why?” He’s piecing it together bit by bit. You never slipped up. Never asked him to put on a coat that wasn’t his or asked him if he remembered something. You never even asked him if he recalled anything about you or sought to involve yourself in his life without his permission.

“It’s unfair to expect someone to be or become someone they’re not and never will be. You get to be your own person free of the constraints of the past.” The answer is simple. There’s no deceit or doubt. No hidden message or intent behind it.

“How is it you of all people can say that without pain or regret or wishing it were different?” You turn the card back around and put it back in the deck in its place and put the cards away. You take a second before answering trying to formulate a proper answer as Kingsley waits studying every micro expression.

“Bear with me for this one.” You start and he nods. “Lucien was born lonely forced to fend for himself and make friends out of the need to survive. Molly rose from a grave alone and scared. He was taken in by friends but he had to find a home his home with them. He found that home and got kindness and love. You awoke surrounded by friends, no family you didn’t even know but would still love you regardless. No matter what, you’d always have a home with them. You’d be neither alone nor lonely unless you choose to be.” You explain and take breath before you continue.

“You plant random seeds in the ground it’s very unlikely you’re going to receive the same flower twice. The only similarity they have is that they are seeds and will grow as long as they have the right foundations to do so. When I look upon you I see Kingsley Tealeaf, a man that became a sailor after we brought him back from the Astral Sea. There may be similarities, your roots may even be the same but you are not the same. You are separate.”

Kingsley takes in your words very carefully with a sense of understanding and something with in him he couldn't quite pinpoint until now. Acceptance and content. Whatever might have been holding him back before, he’ll have to come to terms with that. That’s the past and if the past comes searching for him one day, so be it. Until then, Kingsley Tealeaf has a life of his own to live and to enjoy. Enjoy all life has to offer, to its fullest and don’t hold back.

Let the sailor become captain of his own ship knowing he has a home and a family that will welcome him with open arms to return to. Let the eight be nine despite the expectations of others. Be free and be happy. Live content.