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His father says, “one of yours is in the garden,” and his sister says, “he won’t stop screaming,” and his brother says, “are you sure you don’t need new friends?” And Caduceus ignores all of them, puts on a pot of tea, sets out four mugs, and strolls out.
It’s early morning, autumn, the season gifting fresh dead things on old grave dirt. The scent of petrichor and blood is heavy when he inhales. The sun has barely risen.
Fjord is kneeling on the ground over a prone body, Jester on one side. The body, because that’s all he—it—becomes at times like this, is thrashing and keening.
“Well,” Caduceus says, just loud enough to be heard. “Good morning.”
Fjord stands quickly, pulling Jester up and away in the same motion. They sway, unsteady with solid ground under their feet, clinging to each other and looking at anything but the body on the ground. Fjord says, “thank you.”
“Go inside,” Caduceus says. “We’ll be in a bit.” He kneels down next to the thrashing tiefling. “Hey,” he says. “It’s been awhile.” He touches one horn, the other, and then catches the body’s chin in one hand, holding fast. Calm emotions is a spell he doesn’t need to pray for these days. The magic sits like honey at the roof of his mouth. He lets it unfurl with his breath, heat seeping into his cold fingers. The body shudders and stills. The only sound is his ragged breathing. “This is only going to last a minute,” Caduceus says. “And then it’s all going to come back. So I need you to breathe and look at me, okay? I’m not going to hurt you and you’re not going to hurt me.”
The eyes blink. Once. Twice. Three times. “Cad?”
“Yep. You’re good.”
“I’m good?”
“I like to think so. You’re certainly not bad. I’ve killed you before; I’d know.”
“Jester killed him.”
“Did you think she was going to kill you tonight?”
The tiefling breathes in sharply. His hands are trembling. He holds them out, turns his palms over. Curls his hands into fists. “I might have wanted her to. I don’t know. I remember—“
“Your body remembers,” Caduceus says. “Your body is not you.” He runs a thumb along the cheek, touches the torn lip. “Ten seconds. It’s going to hurt, but you’re going to breathe. And you are not going to hurt me.”
A flash of red as he looks up. The smallest hint of teeth. “Are you sure about that?”
“Now you sound like you.” Caduceus stands. “Do you want to be alone?” It’s a question Fjord and Jester are often to frightened to ask, he knows.
The terror bleeds back into Kingsley’s eyes. He breathes in. He breathes out. He says, “yes, please.” He does not scream.
“There’s tea, when you’re ready,” Caduceus says, and leaves him in the garden.
Inside, Jester has thrown open every cabinet in the kitchen. She’s pacing around the set table, arms crossed, tail flicking. When she sees him she says, “there’s no chocolate anywhere in this house, Caduceus!” With the same urgency one might announce a sudden monster attack.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” Caduceus reminds her. The only screaming now is the tea kettle. He takes it off the stove and pours hot water into their mugs.
Jester throws herself into the closest available chair. “This is the worst night.”
Fjord has his head pillowed on his arms on the table. “It’s morning,” he says without looking up.
“FUCK!”
These poor, traumatized, exhausted idiots. Caduceus says, “here’s what is going to happen. You are going to drink your tea. You are going to take a nap. And then we’re going to talk.”
Fjord looks up. “Caduceus, I—“
“I don’t have the patience for whatever you’re about to say, so don’t bother.”
“Damn,” Jester mutters into her mug. “Someone’s cranky.”
He doesn’t deny it.
But they have been friends for too long and been through far more tense situations than overtiredness and tea, so none of them say anything else. They sip. They breathe in. They breathe out.
When their mugs are empty, Kingsley has still not come inside.
“Should we go after him?” Fjord asks. He’s been staring out the window, picking at one overgrown tusk with one finger. He’s been keeping them longer lately, but they’re jagged.
“No,” Caduceus says. “You shouldn’t. My family will make sure he doesn’t leave the Grove or harm himself. You two need to talk.”
“About?”
“How this isn’t working.”
Jester snarls a guttural string of infernal. “This is stupid! I care about him! It shouldn’t be—“
Fjord lifts a placating hand but at Caduceus’ glare, doesn’t say anything.
Jester digs her nails into her hair and yanks. And then looks up at Caduceus. “I miss Molly,” she whispers, and then laughs, bright and terrible.
“I know.” Caduceus sits down next to her.
She worries her lip between her teeth until it bleeds.
“This is worse,” Fjord says. “Than before, in a way. I feel fucking terrible saying it, but it’s—“
“A choice you made,” Caduceus says. He’s trying so hard to keep his voice neutral, but something must grate through because Fjord’s eyes snap to him. “You didn’t need to take him with you so soon. That’s a lot to handle.”
“That’s what family does.”
“Family asks for help,” Caduceus snaps.
Jester looks at him through her fingers. “Cad,” she whispers. “Why do you think we’re here?”
They can’t stay in the house, they’re too restless and aching and they don’t want anymore tea, so Caduceus sends them out walking.
Fjord wanders behind them, Jester flitting a few paces ahead.
After about fifteen minutes, Caduceus says, “You have that spell. I know you do.”
She stops, turning slowly. Her smiles is soft. “Yeah,” she says quietly.
“Why didn’t you cast it?”
She shrugs. “It scares him, when I’m sad. It makes everything worse. He thinks it’s his fault. And he’s, well,” she breathes out sharply, trembling, unsteady on the exhale. “He’s not wrong.”
“I know you weren’t there for Molly, at the end,” Caduceus says as gently as he can. “But that doesn’t mean you need to torture yourself for Kingsley.”
The words land swiftly. She grimaces, but Jester is far from emotionally fragile. If he had said that to Fjord, he would be expecting hurt. Fjord cradles his bleeding, aching heart in his hands; there’s never an easy sleeve there to staunch the bleeding. Jester, though, catches the words in her teeth and holds them fast. Her jaw clenches. She takes one quick breath in. Lets it out slow. She closes her eyes. She opens them. She crosses the distance between the two of them and reaches up, wrapping her arms around Caduceus’waist.
He hugs her back, instinctive, quick.
She casts Calm Emotions.
He feels the prick of arcana against his skin as she twists her fingers into the shape against his spine, feels the way the leaves of the trees sway and the Grove shivers at a cleric’s spell craft. He can, he knows, resist. He can let his own magic bloom wild and dark and rip that arcana from her hands. He does not need to let her manipulate his emotions.
But he does. He really does.
Jester whispers, “please,” like a prayer against his chest.
Because she knows he’s upset too, knows that the screaming is not easy, knows the frustration and the constant work of being homebound without an immediate option to escape, knows the trappings of family.
The spell is sweet, as all of Jester’s are; it starts with a soft heat, spreading from her fingertips into his back, and then eases like a warm drink down his throat, settles like hot chocolate on his tongue.
She pulls away and smiles at him, her eyes shining with unshed tears, her teeth very sharp. ‘Gotcha,” she whispers.
“You did,” he says, and kisses her forehead. “Thanks.”
Fjord reaches them a few minutes later. “The Wildmother is so…present here,” he says. He sounds a bit steadier. “But she feels different when I’m not on the sea.”
Caduceus shrugs. ‘She’s mine, here. Ours. Whatever aspect of her can claim this temple. She’s not quite the same as yours. I think she’s a little more wild with you.” He means the words to be a compliment. He’s not always sure they land. Even though he and Fjord spent many months learning the language of each other and their shared language of devotion, he’s been alone in this garden for the better part of the year mending the cemetery after the fire. He’s a little off-kilter. And the calm emotions spell is making everything a little fuzzy.
Fjord tilts his head back to the trees. The branches bow and dance and sing. “He’ll be alright, here? With you, for awhile?”
Jester takes his hand. She squeezes once, twice, three times.
“Yes,” Caduceus promises. “I think he will be.”
Fjord gives him a long, searching look. “If you need us, or he needs us—“
“We’ll talk.”
“I’ll check in every day,” Jester says, as if she doesn’t already.
“I know you will. He’s going to be amazing. He just…he needs a little time to grow, I think. And you need time apart. He’ll go back to you when he’s ready.”
“Will he?” Jester asks.
“He loves you,” Caduceus says. “He love us. Trust him, a little, if you can.” It’s a mantra he’ll repeat to himself, later, in the screaming, awful dark.
Kingsley is waiting for him in the kitchen when Caduceus gets home. He’s settled, now, tail flicking lightly like one of Caleb’s sunbathing cats. He doesn’t look up when Caduceus steps inside. He’s staring at his hands. He’s picked the nails down to bloody slivers. He wreaks of grave dirt. There’s a fresh cut on his cheek and a smudge of something dark on his chin. “You said there would be tea?”
Caduceus takes the kettle to the sink and fills it with water. He sets it on the stove. The flames hiss. “Of course,” he says. “I always have tea for you. Are you feeling better?”
It’s rhetorical. He probably shouldn’t have even asked.
Kingsley smiles, soft, gentle. “Yes,” he whispers, and it sounds like when they first met, when he looked at Yasha and said, Love, love, love. “Yes, I think I am.”