now we can do that “the anger of a gentle man” quote again but this time it’s Caduceus looking like he’s personally gonna storm into the next plane to go collect Fjord
(“it’s your choice, caduceus,” dad says, meting the leaves out into the strainer. “the time comes for all of us, there’s no rush. it’s just a sign of devotion.
but it isn’t, really, you know? colton and calliope, they’ve done it. colton never talks to him about anything, wouldn’t tell him how it was, but calliope said it was like falling asleep.
she was lying, though. he can always tell. mom always says that about him, that he pays attention when no one else does. clarabelle’s the same way, he thinks, just younger. will she be this afraid, or is it just him? is it something wrong with him?
“i know,” he says, and smiles, and doesn’t.
calliope has said he wouldn’t be able to taste the difference, but he can tell. it sticks in his nose like wet leaves to his shoes, and he wants it gone immediately.)
“we have diamonds,” he says, and nudges caleb out of the way to crouch over fjord, to move stray hair from his face. “it’ll be alright.”
jester shifts from foot to foot. “i’ll— i’ll start on orly,” she says, to herself more than anything, and runs over, tail flicking like an angry cat’s, nightgown sodden. beau’s eyes flick between her and caduceus, torn, and then she drops beside caduceus.
“okay,” she says, and sets her jaw. he can see she’s crying, even in the rain. caduceus knows very little about sailing, but beau is no captain. none of them are. “do you need help?”
“no,” caduceus says, and starts looking through his pouch. “just be here. having us, having friends— he’ll know, even where he is now.”
(faintly, he can feel himself carried to the yard, feel his legs swinging where they dangle from dad’s arms. dad and colton and calliope, they’ve always been stronger than him. maybe that’s it, why they’re not afraid. that he’s just weak.
he doesn’t feel any warmer when he opens his eyes, just cold. just afraid.
there’s no beautiful woman with hair like the leaves of the trees. there’s no lush field. there’s no revived forest. it’s dark, and cold, and he’s lying in a hole in the ground.
when he looks down, he can see his ribs. lichen and mushrooms sprout and cling in the cavity of his chest. life, but not his.
“caduceus clay,” he hears. it is not a voice that restores life to the dead. it does not run like the river in spring nor bloom like the flowers. it sounds like a woman, and it sounds like leaves already fallen, and it sounds like death. “i have been waiting for you.”
“i know,” he says. “i did this for you.”)
he puts the diamond on fjord’s chest and cups his hands over it.
(“you did not want to die,” the wildmother says. “that is okay.”
“i—” he says. “i’m sorry.”
“caduceus,” she says. “it is not the natural state to want to die. i would be worried that you were not one of mine, if you did.”)
the diamond shatters under his hands like glass and the shards glitter under a moon that is not there.
(“you are not one of mine because you await death. there are other gods for that.”
“then why,” he says. he can feel himself crying, and the shaking of his chest shakes the fungi, too, rattles dirt loose from them. “why this?”
“devotion comes in many forms,” she says. “i do not decide them. you show your devotion every day you tend to the graves, every day you allow nature to continue where death has touched. this is another way, but it does not have to be.”
“what about me? what about calliope? i’m going to go back, dad’s going to wake me up,” and he’s seized with a sudden fear, “right?”)
he leans over fjord, so their foreheads touch.
“we’re not done here,” he says, “if you’re not done with us.”
(“if you wish it,” the wildmother says. “the earth takes time to claim what belongs to it. it waits for those who have decided not to return.”
“but i didn’t— i didn’t learn anything.”
“you have the fear of wrongful death in you, caduceus. you will know when you need to act on it.”)
“i call you home,” he says, and closes his eyes. “if you will come back.”
(when he wakes, he’s almost completely engulfed in an embrace. he thinks at first he’s shaking, and then realizes it’s dad, feels tears bleeding into his shirt.
“i was worried,” cornelius clay whispers. “calliope and colton, they’re fighters. i could tell they were scared, that they’d fight it. i didn’t know if you’d want to come back.”)
he makes sure fjord comes to between him and beau, both of their arms around him. blood soaks the both of them along with the rain, smears along the front of his nightgown, and he doesn’t care. he needs fjord to know he’s wanted here, with them. that they’re waiting for him. that he’s waiting for him.
dying’s not a rite of passage for the strong, the faithful, it’s not a badge of courage. it’s a departure, and it can always be reversed for those who don’t want to leave yet. it’s a tide that pulls, and it pulls the same if someone has fallen into it as if they’ve simply stopped resisting.
in his mind’s eye, he wades into the sea until it lurches against him freezingly, and pulls fjord’s body up, to him. the water drags at them both, and against it he carries fjord back to shore. back home.
imagine your first three kisses being with a cute jock under a canoe, with the hottest girl you’ve ever seen at a teen rave, and with the goth child of the guy your dad had an affair with
It’s stupid for companies to pay for ads on Spotify: the only people who will hear the ads are people who have a demonstrated unwillingness to buy things that they don’t need.
#ah yes I will advertise to the most SPITEFULLY STUBBORN group on earth
The only thing ads on Spotify have gotten me to buy is Spotify premium
the rest of the empire armada when brightass spells are getting flung across the balleater, the wizard is flying, the monk is screaming at the top of her lungs, something is clanging on the canons under the deck, undead pirates are crawling up the sides, and the captain just fell out of the crows nest after getting triple blasted by arcane whatchamacallits
[ID: “i am looking away” and “I do not see it” emoji memes. /ID]
I hate when people use the phrase “what have I done” because then sweet jesus what have I done become a thief in the night become a dog on the run have I fallen so far and is the hour so late that nothing remains but the cry of my hate the cries in the dark that nobody hears here where I stand at the turning of the years if there’s another way to go I missed it twenty long years ago my life was a war that could never be won they gave me a number and murdered valjean when they chained me and left me for dead just for stealing a mouthful of bread yet why did I allow that man to touch my soul and teach me love he treated me like any other he gave m
Fjord operates like every conversation he has is a video game dialogue tree and he’s mentally scrolling through forums so he can select the option which will make the character in question approve of him, a fun neurosis that only normal people with cool childhoods have!
