#this is based off that one scene in downfall. and that bit with the matron--

[dent-de-leon]

Ars Elysia is paradise. Here at the beating heart of Aeor's damned and desperate--here at last, perhaps even someone like Caleb Widogast can truly belong.

Yet still, he keeps his hood drawn. Ducks his head down and clasps the cloak around him a little tighter. He wanders numbly from the bar, gaze pointedly fixated on the marble floor. Harsh lights glare bright and dazzling all around them, intricate glass sculptures glistening and gleaming, priceless crystal chandeliers cascading from the ceiling.

Laughter bubbles up in darkened corners, music blaring from the dance floor, a chorus of a thousand voices lost in revelry. And here in this patch of glorious paradise, at the height of decadence and wanton indulgence, amidst all the dizzying excess and ecstasy, all he can think is just—This was a mistake. 

He was lonelier somehow, amidst the roaring, merry crowd. But…he had to know. Needed to see him, alive and whole, lost in a wild dance and giddy laughter, carmine eyes glowing softly in the night. Needed to just hold him and forget—

The sickening scent of iron; thick, suffocating, flooding all his senses. The taste of blood on his lips when he bit back a scream. Blood on his hands, washing away in the bathhouse when Wulf and Astrid touch him. Love him. 

He wretched and gagged after. It was the face that did it. He’d been pretty, in life. Striking eyes, soothing voice, a wicked smile to match his devilish horns. In the shrouded dark of the interrogation room, in the sharp flicker of candlelight and crawling shadow, that broken body on the floor, he looked almost like—

Someone could have told. Someone could have seen. No archmage in all of Aeor was ever truly forgiving, but the clandestine, heretical philosophers of the Cognouza Ward were shunned and loathed even among their peers. He had heard especially haunting stories of Fastidan, the rogue faction’s closest thing to a leader—how he was charismatic enough to even charm the ruling court, how they showered him in wealth and riches to fund his forbidden research. 

The countless scores of offerings. Living flesh and blood—their very own. All lambs to slaughter, all sacrifices to sate Fastidan’s sadistic experiments. 

He sees again, all too clearly, the endless scars carved into Molly. Every precious drop of blood they ever drew from him, every damned sacrifice and rite. The hollow laughter when Caleb asked, Molly’s lopsided grin that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. 

He aches to kiss every scar in penance, to just hold Molly in his arms. Whisper foolish promises of escape and other pretty lies, anything to let him sleep soundly one more night. Erase the piercing gaze of nine red eyes.

He downs the rest of his drink, and tries to forget the fleeting glint of hope in Molly’s eyes. 

“Can I make you feel good?” a voice asks--cold, synthetic, charged with raw arcane potential, yet affecting the faintest tone of something so distinctly mortal. As intrinsically human as Caleb himself. 

The automaton before him shines like the morning sun; gleaming armored gauntlets, the dull, hypnotic hum of an electric current, a golden mask inlaid with shimmering crystals and charged runes. They’re a work of art. Radiant, beautiful. And all their attention is singularly focused on him. 

And he can't bear it--any touch at all of fleeting warmth and affection--

Caleb nearly jumps out of his skin, gaze swiftly averted, the sound of song and cheer and laughter all drowning away. Cheeks burning hot, his tongue trembling over every word.

“Nein, I. I—”

“Oh, you’ll have to forgive him, dear. He’s a wee bit shy.”

An arm wrapped around him, warm and welcoming, pulling him in for an embrace. 

Caleb freezes for but a moment, then he’s sinking back into Molly’s familiar touch, letting his head fall to lay on his shoulder, arching into his embrace. Mollymauk responds in kind—tucking closer to nuzzle at his cheek, pressing a fleeting kiss to his forehead. 

The music is still blaring. Neon lights beaming bright, glass gleaming all around them. But the world is quieter now, muffled and muted in Molly’s embrace. Drowning out the burning light, the bleeding color and warbling static. Caleb buries his head in Molly’s neck, breathes in his comforting scent. Rich, earthy sandalwood, the sweet taste of bergamot, warm spices of freshly burned incense. Everything else fading away. 

Caleb washed his own hands over and over, scrubbed the skin red raw in scalding hot water. But they still reek of blood.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, love,” Molly says, sighs. There’s a clawing want to his words, a threadbare longing betrayed by every bated breath. 

It’s all a show of course. Fantasy. A game Mollymauk likes to play, an idle whim they both indulge. A polite excuse for Caleb to hide. 

“Mollymauk,” Caleb breathes, shudders, shaking with relief.

He turns his head to burrow closer, tucks his face in the soft silky curls cascading down Molly’s neck. Feels the beating of his wild heart. 

He’d seen Molly play that role countless times, repeating the very same words in a soft sultry croon. Tucked away in some darkened corner, head lying pillowed in his partner’s lap, or else sinking down to his knees, wanton and breathy.

Not that he hadn’t dreamed of it—Molly’s faelike charm and wiles directed at him, his playful teasing and fond laughter as they fell together. Never real though, nothing more than the pretty stories Molly told when turning cards. His Circus Man, with all his little tricks, a myriad of stunning masks, as ever changing and mercurial as the many faces of his beloved moons. The rushing tide and turning winds.