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both sacred and dust

Summary:

It is lovely to see Colton and Calliope arguing in the kitchen, and Clarabelle talking to insects, and his mother trying out new blends of tea. It doesn’t explain why, sometimes, Caduceus will start when they walk too close to him, having forgotten they were there. It doesn’t explain why when he walks into a room while they’re there, he has to pause, because his chest is sore and tight and hurts and he cannot breathe or speak.

(Sometimes, in the moments after this happens, he can name what is happening, or what he would call it if it were happening to a visitor to the Grove: That’s sadness, it’s all right to need to cry. That’s grief. But he is back here, his family is whole, the garden is thriving—so what need is there, for something like grief?)

Notes:

Happy wildflowers, and to A_Orbit: I hope you enjoyed this! I loved the chance to spend some more time with Caduceus, and I did just run with your prompt to make him sad. Hopefully this satisfies!

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Caleb is the first one to visit him, after it all, teleporting to the Blooming Grove in a quiet rush of magic and the faint wood-smoke scent that makes Caduceus think of the Dome and Tower. 


They settle in the kitchen of the Blooming Grove, and after the pleasantries, after Caduceus has put on the kettle and brewed a pot of the Masafirs tea and poured them each a cup, after Caleb has taken the first tentative sip and complimented it (the plant grows slightly spicy, red-orange flowers he has been saving for a day just like this), the silence settles between them. Caleb is turning a small piece of amber over in his fingers, again and again. There is a quiet tension there, something just under the surface, that Caduceus knows is about to come through soon. He does not ask. Instead, he sips his tea and waits. 

“I returned to Blumenthal,” Caleb says, softly, when Caduceus sets down his mug. 


“Hmm. How was it?”


Caleb closes his fingers around the piece of amber, and looks down. His hair has grown even longer, and now the stray bits of it that have escaped from the tie fall over his face. “Difficult,” he finally says, even quieter, “But—good. Important, I think.” He clears his throat, and looks up. 


Caduceus considers his friend. The lines around his eyes have deepened, his hair is softer and redder than Caduceus remembers it ever being before, and though his hand is still trembling slightly where it’s clenched around the amber, his arms are bare under his sleeves. 


Caduceus’ chest tightens, and he has to pause, breathe through it, before he can speak. 


“That’s nice,” he says, and if his voice is a little rougher than usual, surely Caleb won’t notice. “I’m glad. I am… proud of you, Caleb.” That part is completely genuine. Caleb glances away, but one corner of his mouth quirks up slightly. He hesitates, before adding, “I think they would be too.” 


Caleb’s blush is always easy to notice. Caduceus takes a sip of his tea and pretends to look away as Caleb discreetly wipes his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve. 


When Caleb says, “The Blumenthal graveyard is quite lovely,” Caduceus lets him change the subject. “But I think this place is even more beautiful.” Caleb is silent, and Caduceus watches him look out through the windows at the rest of the Grove. “I think I would prefer to be laid to rest here,” he says after a minute, quiet. 


Caduceus’ chest aches again, sudden and sharp, as though he hasn’t thought of his friends being buried in the Grove dozens of times since he returned—of outliving most of them, of nine gravestones, of committing each of them to the ground and ensuring the Earth will remember them. Again, he breathes, careful, in and out, trying not to feel how the exhale catches as though it will start a sob. “I think,” he says, slowly, “You would make excellent tea.” 


Caleb laughs, and Caduceus relaxes into his chair. There. That was the right thing to say. 


“What about you, my friend?” 


Caduceus starts. “Where would I like to be buried?” 


“No, not quite. How are you? What have you been doing?” 


Caduceus gestures around them, to the kitchen of the Clay home, to the windows outside. “What I was always meant to do. Tending the garden. Looking after the plants. We’re starting to get more people coming in, more funerals, word is spreading. It’s nice.” 


When Caduceus looks back, Caleb is watching him closely. Hmm. Sometimes Caduceus forgets that, after all this time, Caleb is also quite good at picking up on things. “How is it, being back with all your family here again?” Caleb asks. 


Caduceus wants to prod at that, wants to see if there’s any jealousy there—he would understand that, understand Caleb’s bitterness at Caduceus being allowed to return to a home, to a family, to be allowed to repair it after it had burnt. But maybe that wouldn’t be fair. “It’s… nice,” he finally settles on. “Strange, though.” Caleb hums softly. “I didn’t… well, I wasn’t sure it would ever happen. All those years.” 


“May I ask you a question, Herr Clay?” 


“Of course.” 


“Before… before we fought the city, when we came back here. You said… you were eating… flowers?” Caleb phrases it as a question, even though Caduceus is certain he remembers the words exactly. 


“Yes,” Caduceus says. 


“Would you... last time it came up, we were, ah, quite occupied otherwise. Would you tell me why?” 


Caduceus frowns. He’s not sure why Caleb is asking this, but there’s something very focused in Caleb’s eyes. What more is there to say? “I was alone,” he finally says, “And, well.” He gestures to the kitchen around him. “You’ve met my family. There wasn’t much alone when I was growing up. I didn’t know what to do.


“So I found stranger and stranger ways to find the Wildmother. Floating in the spring. Eating the lilies. And then… sometimes, I would dream. And feel closer to her. That’s all.” 


“And you saw the city?” 


“Among other things, yes.” Caduceus casts his mind back, remembers. “Strange… flickering lights, in a colourful tent, dancing together. The flowers on the Clay graves sprouting wings and flying off, like butterflies. Stars, appearing in the middle of the dark, going out. And the—” He pauses, because even though he knows it is dead and gone, it still sometimes gives him the chills. “And the eyes, eyes everywhere, and the city. That was the last one.” 


When he looks up, Caleb is chewing on his lip, contemplative. “And then we came,” he says, softly. 


“And then you came.” Caduceus tries for a smile. “And it all worked out in the end, didn’t it?” 


Again, that half-smile Caduceus has gotten so used to. “Ja. It did.” 


Caleb puts his teacup down, and considers the amber in his hands. “You know, my friend, I do not think we really understood… what it was you had undergone when we showed up at your door. Or even that we understood it for a long time after.”


The vise around Caduceus’ chest returns. “What do you mean?” 


“Just… it cannot have been easy. To lose your family like that. To not know if they would come back. To not know what path forward, if any, was there for you. It can…” Caleb pauses, and when he looks up, there is something very sad and understanding in his eyes. It makes Caduceus want to look away, and, hmm, isn’t that unusual? “It can do terrible things to someone, to feel that way.” 


Caduceus is relieved when Caleb breaks the eye contact and looks back at his amber. “Well,” he says, a little shaky, “It all worked out in the end.” 


Caleb reaches out, and places his free hand, briefly, on top of Caduceus’. He is warm, warmer than most humans. Caduceus knows this, from months of travel and casual touches and healing. It’s still nice to be reminded. “I am glad you are home again,” he says, simply. “Truly, I am.”

 
“Well. That’s nice. Thank you.” 


Caleb leaves the amber behind on Caduceus’ table. Caduceus would assume he has forgotten it, but—well, Caleb is not the sort to forget. 

 

He takes to turning it over in his fingers as well, tracing the rough letters – M9 – on one side, trying to feel which of his friends carved it. He thinks it’s Veth. It’s cool against his fur, strangely comforting. Sometimes, he places it in his mouth to feel the weight of it, remembers that rainy day with Calliope, when he had been so sure he was seeing the Grove for the last time. 


He thinks about their conversation, often. He means what he told Caleb—it is nice to have his family back again, to see the Grove healthy, flourishing; purple crystals – my work, our work, he sometimes thinks, with pride – keeping the corruption at bay; to see Colton and Calliope arguing in the kitchen and Clarabelle talking to insects and his mother trying out new blends of tea. It doesn’t explain why, sometimes, he will start when they walk too close to him, having forgotten they were there. It doesn’t explain why when he walks into a room where they’re there, he has to pause, because his chest is sore and tight and hurts and he cannot breathe or speak. 


(Sometimes, in the moments after this happens, he can name what is happening, or what he would call it if it were happening to a visitor to the Grove: That’s sadness, it’s all right to need to cry. That’s grief. That’s anger. But he is back here, his family is whole, the garden is thriving—so what need is there, for something like grief?) 


The first time he visits Yasha’s garden, the spring air is cold and sweet, and the sun is out. Caduceus watches a pair of bees buzz around the wild lavender that’s taken over a corner of the garden, and thinks of Jester, and smiles. 


When he turns back, Yasha is watching him. “Do you like it?” she asks, and her voice is completely serious. 


Caduceus presses one of his hands into the ground, damp with morning condensation. This little garden – wildflowers and runner beans and the starts of tomato vines, squeezed into the small area between two neighbours’ houses – is so different from the Grove, and yet. “It’s perfect,” he says, honestly. “Do you like it, Yasha?” 


At that, Yasha smiles, and Caduceus feels the now-familiar tightness in his chest ease at the sight of it. “I really do,” she says, quietly, as though admitting a secret. 

 

They watch the garden for a while, together. One of his favourite things about Yasha is this—she does not need to fill the silence. The bees leave. Another bee arrives. Caduceus spends a good few minutes considering it, before deciding that yes, this is a different one. He’s not sure how much time has gone by when Yasha finally speaks. 


“How is the Blooming Grove?” 


Hmm. What an interesting question. “Healthy,” Caduceus says after a moment, because that is probably the most important thing. And then, when Yasha still waits, he considers—around this time, Colton will be watering the graves on the East side, Calliope will be walking the perimeter of their boundary, and Caduceus himself would have been clearing the night’s fallen leaves from the spring. “Constant,” he finally settles on. 


Yasha frowns, just a little. “Is that a good thing?” 


Yes, Caduceus wants to say, Of course. But something about the way Yasha is watching him – the careful furrow between her brows, so similar to the expression she’d worn when checking on her tomatoes earlier – makes him stop. Yasha waits, and does not say anything. 


Caduceus’ hand goes automatically to his pocket, to where Caleb’s amber rests. That’s funny. He’s usually the one asking questions and waiting, while other people fidget and work out their words. 
“You know,” he finally says, “I’m not sure.” 


Still, Yasha waits. 


Caduceus pulls the amber out of his pocket, turns it over in his hand, watching it glow honey-yellow and gold where the sun hits it. “It’s… weird,” he finally says, “Because sometimes, it doesn’t feel like any time has passed at all. Like we’re just back to before any of them left.” He thinks of Clarabelle, young and bright and wild-haired, frozen that way for all that time. The gap between them has widened, twenty years of him ageing while she was stuck in stone.


“And they don’t remember any of that time,” Yasha says, quietly, and when Caduceus hears the words, his fingers still. 


Oh. He hadn’t put words to the feeling yet, but here is Yasha – Yasha who has lost her time and memories again and again, Yasha who is acquainted with grief and loss in a way Caduceus, born and raised in a graveyard, has never been – who somehow knows exactly what this is. His fingers close tight around the amber. 


“But you do,” Yasha finishes. 


Caduceus presses his free hand into the dirt, again, feels the soil and moisture and imagines he can reach down, deep, into the networks of roots and mycelia and tiny water channels that bring this place life. “Yes,” he says. “I think that is just it.” 

 

For the rest of the day, Yasha watches him, sometimes with that same frown between her eyes. Caduceus tries not to be bothered by it. 


They have dinner together, when Beau returns from the Soul, at a small table with stacks of Beau’s notes and journals hastily pushed to the side. Caduceus watches Beau and Yasha navigate around each other in the tiny kitchen, Yasha ladling out bowls of stew and rice, Beau pulling out cups and spoons, talking all the while (“You would not fuckin believe, Caduceus, how much of a slimy bastard Da’leth is, I mean, he knew exactly what was going on, and now watch him twist and lie and pretend, I am this close to punching him in the gods-damned teeth, but apparently I have learnt some restraint, or some shit–”).


When Beau pauses for breath, he asks, “Would you like me to make tea?” He’s already halfway to his feet, reaching automatically for his pack. 


“Absolutely not, you’re the guest, sit down, Deuces.” He does, amused, because Beau is glaring at him. “I’ll make the fucking tea.” 


Caduceus watches then, in the split-second it takes Beau to lean over Yasha and grab the kettle, some unspoken communication he can’t quite decipher – Beau’s head turning towards him, fractionally, Yasha frowning – but that he knows involves him. But neither Beau nor Yasha say anything, and soon the kitchen is filled with the sounds of the kettle whistling and their spoons clacking against their bowls. 

 

The next morning, Beau walks him to Caleb’s, to be transported back to the Grove. In the half-light – it’s too early for the sun to be properly up, this far north – Beau keeps glancing at him, and Caduceus catches her opening and closing her mouth several times. 


Finally, two streets away from Caleb’s house, she reaches out and claps him on the shoulder. “Caduceus,” she says, and waits until he’s turned towards her. “Look,” she says, and her voice has gone even gruffer, “You know that, if you, I dunno, need something, we’ve got you, right?” 


“I do,” he says, slowly, because that much has always been obvious. 


“And I don’t just mean, fucking, needing people beat up or something, though I’m always happy to do that too, don’t get me wrong,” she goes on, as though she hasn’t heard him at all, “I mean even the, I dunno, emotional shit. Talking. Or if you’re sad. Or whatever. I don’t know.” Caduceus watches as she runs her free hand over her face, mutters, “Fuck, Fjord’s way better at this.” When she looks at him again, that glare he knows so well is back. “I’m just saying, talk to us, all right? We’re here.” 


For how much longer? Caduceus thinks. He waits, while Beau’s eyes stay on his, until there is no danger of him saying what he’s actually thinking, and then manages, “I know.” She is still watching him. After a moment, he adds, “Thank you.” 


Beau pats him awkwardly on the shoulder, and – thank the Wildmother – finally looks away. “Yeah, all right. Good talk, man.” She lets go of his shoulder, and continues walking down the street, and Caduceus gives himself a minute to wait, until he can take a full breath without it lodging, painfully, in his chest, and then catches up with her. 


The next few months at the Grove, the thought keeps returning to him. It is as though it had been safely contained, locked in his mind, and Yasha, by speaking the words, had freed it. 


While watching his father chopping mushrooms one evening, humming, Caduceus remembers, Eighteen years of nobody humming in this kitchen.


When he grabs Clarabelle’s hat from where it sits and holds it high above his head, out of her reach, and she cries, sing-song, “Ca-du-ceus!”, he thinks, Sixteen years of nobody saying my name. 


And on. And on. Each time, that same sudden tightness, that pain in his chest that demands a moment to be listened to. 

 

One evening, as the sun is setting and the trees and gravestones are casting long shadows across the ground, Caduceus finds himself at the small shrine to Wildmother tucked in the far corner of the Grove. 


It’s one of his favourite places in the Grove, shaded by trees, always surrounded by birdsong. Even in those worst days, when time had bled together into an indistinguishable mess, he had found comfort here. 


As he steps towards the shrine, he bends automatically to brush the fallen leaves and dirt from the statue. 


His hands meet bare stone. 


Slow, Caduceus takes a step back, straightens up. The base of the statue is clean, and to one side, there is a neat pile of leaves. On the ground, there are the faint parallel tracks of a twig broom. 


It makes sense. It makes perfect sense, because though he has not come this way in days, Corrin is out with her broom every morning, and of course she would have come here, would clean this place too. 


Caduceus doesn’t realise he’s sunk to the floor until he feels the dirt under him. He stares at the statue, at the form of the Wildmother, hair twined with leaves and vines, face turned up to the sky. 


“Nineteen seasons,” he says, and his voice sounds hoarse, even to his own ears. “Nineteen seasons, I came here and prayed, and waited, and slept here, and nobody else ever cleaned this shrine. Just me. Me, and you. And now...” 


He trails off. The words are hard to get out, past that pain in his chest. He keeps his eyes on the statue, and breathes, in and out, and this time he can feel tears at the corners of his eyes on every exhale. 


He can hear his own voice, somewhere distant in his mind, repeating sentences he learnt from his mother: Grief doesn’t always make sense. Sometimes it just needs to be felt. 


He almost laughs. Easy to say. Easy to repeat, over and over, to siblings and parents and children and lovers, crying over graves or cups of tea. Not so easy to follow. “Yes, but—what do I do with it now?” 


There’s no response, only the warm breeze, tossing his hair into his eyes. 


The Nein Heroez returns to Nicodranas about a month later, and, courtesy of Caleb and Essek’s wizard transit system – as Veth has started calling it – they all reunite, taking over the best rooms at the Lavish Chateau and talking into the night. 


Jester has stories to tell and pages upon pages of her sketchbook to share, caricatures of fellow sailors and sea-serpents (“I’m not sure it was quite so, uh, expressive,” Fjord says, at one point, as she shows off a painting of the snake, leaping from the water after the Nein Heroez, an expression of unmistakable glee on its face). The others have tales to tell as well—Yasha and Essek are trying to grow a few of the hardier Xhorhasian plants in her garden, Veth has updates on the apothecary and Yeza’s experimentation, and Caleb, quietly, admits that teaching is actually going quite well, his eyes softening as he talks about his pupils.  


Caduceus listens to them, soaking it in like the first sun after the winter, letting the fondness fill his chest. 

 

Slowly, the stories die out. Veth disappears to the room she’s sharing with Yeza. Jester, in the middle of a pile of pillows, falls asleep, sketchbook still open. Caleb and Essek leave, Caleb saying something about needing to recover the spells he’s spent (“Ooh, is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Beau asks, with an exaggerated wink, and both Caleb and Essek flush immediately). Yasha drags a pillow to the open window, lays down where she can see the sky, and soon Beau joins her, until they are both asleep, curled against each other. 


As quiet settles over the room, Fjord turns to Caduceus. “Hello,” he says. 


Caduceus can’t help the smile. “Hey.” He lets himself look, properly look, at Fjord now. The sea has brought a certain shine to his eyes, the sun has lightened his hair. Caduceus wonders if it feels different, too. His tusks are growing out, and Caduceus again feels that quiet fondness fill his chest. The space between them is filled with only the sounds of their friends breathing and the distant crash of the waves. 


“You’ve been quiet tonight,” Fjord says, after a long moment. 


“Well, I’ve been listening to the rest of you.” 


“Right.” It’s not a lie, not quite, but Caduceus gets the sense that Fjord doesn’t entirely believe him. He doesn’t push, though, and instead asks, “How are things at your home?” 


The phrasing makes Caduceus think briefly, absurdly, of the Xhorhouse, the tree growing out of its roof. He opens his mouth, to repeat things he’s said over and over, about the gardens flourishing and the mourners returning and the beautiful, eternal constancy of it, but something in the way Fjord is looking at him – the small smile, the symbol of the Wildmother hanging freely around his neck – makes him stop. Caduceus thinks of the last few months, of that shrine. 


Fjord is still waiting, patient. 


“You know,” Caduceus finally says, “I don’t think I really realised how… Hmm. How strange it’d be, to go back there. Back to them.” 


Fjord tilts his head slightly. “Good strange or bad strange?” 


“I don’t know yet,” Caduceus says. 

 

Caduceus tries to sleep. After Fjord has joined Jester’s pillow fort, fallen asleep next to her, curled tightly next to her starfished form, he takes up a spot on the floor, where he can see all of them. The air is salty here, and now and then, a warm breeze will gust through the windows, disturbing the curtains, catching the ends of his hair. 


It takes Caduceus about three hours of this – watching the curtains flutter, listening to Beau grumble occasionally in her sleep, considering how Jester’s blue and Fjord’s green look different in Catha’s light – before he can no longer take lying down, and he clambers to his feet. 


It’s easy work to quietly unlatch the door, walk down the corridors of the Lavish Chateau, listening to the sounds of sleeping people, and out of the Chateau itself. 


Nicodranas is quiet at this hour. Caduceus sees the occasional person wandering the street, and some of the windows are still lit, but it’s subdued, almost empty, in a way he’s never seen it during the day. He takes a moment to breathe deep the salty air, to notice that the almost-omnipresent ache in his chest is back, and then opens his eyes and looks towards the ocean. 


Even from here, he can see the shape of the Mother’s Lighthouse. The white stone almost glows in the light of the moons, and every few minutes, he sees her eyes light up, as the beacon within swings around to her face. It’s undeniably beautiful. It makes Caduceus shiver, a little, the sight of the Wildmother’s eyes glowing, watching the sea, then dimming just as quickly.  

 

It’s not a long walk to the Lighthouse. He’s there before he’s really figured out what he’s doing out here in the middle of the night, in his sleep clothes. 


The ocean is louder, much louder, this close—all Caduceus can hear is the crash of the waves against the rocks, then the quiet shh-shh of the water pulling away, and then another crash. He stops, close enough to the Lighthouse that he can see the waves carved into the Mother’s hair, the curves of her dress where algae has gathered, close enough to the ocean that he can taste salt on his lips every time the waves crash. 


He stands there for four revolutions of the beacon in the lighthouse. After he’s watched the Wildmother’s eyes darken for the fourth time, he presses his hand to his chest, hard. It doesn’t help. 
“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” he says out loud, and it’s only once the words are out there that he realises he’s speaking to Her, again. “I… this hurts, and I don’t know why. They’re all fine. The garden is growing. This should be good.” He sounds like a child, again. He looks up at the Lighthouse, just in time to see its eyes glow white, the light throwing strange shadows across the rocks. As he opens his mouth, possibly to complain again, he hears footsteps behind him. 


“Caduceus? You all right?” 


Caduceus looks over his shoulder, and there, picking his way easily over the rocks, is Fjord. “I thought you were asleep.” 


Fjord reaches him, and shrugs. “I thought you might have come out here. Would you like the company?” 


Yes, Caduceus thinks, immediately, and because he’s too tired to lie, and it wouldn’t work anyway, says, “That might be nice.”


“All right.” Fjord stands with him in silence for a minute, and when Caduceus glances at him, his eyes are fixed on the Lighthouse. “I think She’d like that,” Fjord says, gesturing towards the algae-covered folds of the Wildmother’s robe. “Life everywhere, and all that. What do you think?” 


The thought makes Caduceus smile, just a little. “I think you’re right.” As he’s considering the statue – he prefers the one in the Grove, truthfully, with leaves and flowers growing all through the Wildmother’s hair, but this is lovely, too – he feels Fjord’s hand land on his shoulder. 


“Caduceus,” Fjord says, and his voice is so quiet it’s almost lost in the crash of the waves, “It’s… you can talk to us, you know that, right?” 


Caduceus can smell the salt and something green, seaweed maybe, and he’s not sure if it’s the sea or Fjord. He realises, then, as the Mother’s eyes light up again, that he wants to, but how does one start, with something like this? 


A breeze, warm and sweet and entirely not of the ocean, whips his hair into his face. 


Caduceus looks up at the Lighthouse, eyes dark again, and tries. “It’s… good strange,” he says. 


Fjord’s hand tightens briefly on his shoulder. “What—oh. That.” 


“Yes. Good strange.” Caduceus pauses, then adds, “Mostly. There are some… less good parts.” 


Fjord moves closer, till their shoulders are touching. “Like what?” 


“Sometimes, I forget that they’re meant to be there.” The hand that’s not pressed against Fjord has found its way to his pocket automatically, to the amber there. “And then I’ll remember, or they’ll walk in, and… it surprises me.” That’s not quite the right word. Caduceus frowns, but can’t come up with a better one. 


Fjord seems to notice, because he squeezes Caduceus’ shoulder again. “Go on.” 


“And then, recently… when I see them, I can’t… I keep remembering all the time they weren’t there, and how…” He stops. There’s something hard and frustrated building in his throat. He takes a breath, tastes the ocean and that sweetness on the air again. He closes his hand around the amber. “It’s not entirely fair. They’re here now, I should…”


“Caduceus,” Fjord says, and his voice has gone even quieter. The hand that was on Caduceus’ shoulder is pulling him closer, until he’s almost leaning against Fjord, even though Fjord is taller. 


Caduceus pulls the amber out of his pocket. It looks different in this light, all the warm yellows gone. He remembers Caleb, at his kitchen table, saying I went to Blumenthal. For a second, he envies that, the simplicity of knowing dead or not-dead, of a grave to grow tea from and weep at. “I think,” he finally says, and his own voice sounds like it comes from far away, “I never really grieved them.” 


When he tastes the salt, it takes him a moment to realise that he’s crying, and that it’s not just sea-spray. 


Ah, that’s quite expected, says a voice that is maybe his own and maybe just his mother’s words in his head, And a bit overdue, isn’t it? 

 

Fjord stays. At some point, he guides Caduceus down, until they are both sat on the rocks, facing the ocean, then leads Caduceus’ head to his shoulder, keeps his hand there. 


Caduceus lets the tears come. He’s not sure he could stop them if he tried, so he doesn’t. They come slow, and he can feel them drying into his fur. He keeps his eyes closed, listening to the crash-shhh of the waves, feeling the weight of Fjord’s hand in his hair. 


It feels like hours have passed when he finally opens his eyes. He blinks, slowly, and realises the sky is lightening over the ocean.

 
“Hey,” Fjord says, “Wait, here, hang on–” From some pocket, he produces a sea-blue handkerchief and passes it to Caduceus. 
Caduceus takes it, feeling stitches under his fingers, and looks down. Along one edge of the handkerchief someone has embroidered simple waves, and along the opposite edge are white clouds. Caduceus wipes his eyes, tries to wipe at the damp fur on his face and hands, and then finally folds up the handkerchief. “It’s lovely,” he says. 


Fjord’s blush is just visible in the dawn light. “I, uh, got into embroidery. Passes the time.” He stuffs the handkerchief back into his pocket, and Caduceus can’t help the smile spreading across his face. Fjord turns his full attention to Caduceus. “You all right?” Before Caduceus can say anything, he adds, “Honestly.” 


“You know I’m a horrible liar,” Caduceus points out. Fjord raises one eyebrow. Caduceus takes a deep breath of the salty air, feels the way it rushes into his lungs. His chest is still sore, but… relaxed. As though whatever creature had been sitting there, winding tighter and tighter, had snapped and broken—or been coaxed to unfurl, slowly and gently. “I am… better,” Caduceus says, and he is a bit surprised by how much he means it. “Really. Thank you, Fjord.” 


Fjord studies his face for a minute more, then, seemingly satisfied, smiles as well. “Right. That’s good.” 

 

Caduceus turns back to the ocean. After a few minutes, Fjord leans against him again, and Caduceus can just feel Fjord’s heartbeat against him. The sky turns pinks, and then oranges, and as Caduceus starts to see people heading down to the docks, fishing boats leaving, Fjord’s stomach rumbles. 


“Ah, shit, sorry,” Fjord says, and when Caduceus turns to look at him, he’s blushing again. “Sailor timings, you know.” 

Caduceus laughs, and the way it feels in his chest surprises him, so he laughs again. “I have no idea,” he says, “I was an extremely bad sailor.” He gets to his feet while Fjord is still looking away, sheepish, and holds a hand out towards Fjord. “I can make breakfast, though.” 

Fjord grins at that, tusks showing through his smile. “Much better than ship fare.” 

 

Caduceus takes one last look towards the Lighthouse as they leave, one hand still closed around the amber, and catches, briefly, that sweet scent once more on the ocean breeze. 

Notes:

title taken from Heiroglyphs by The Oh Hellos, which is one of my favourite songs of all time. the full quote, which I thought about lots while writing this, is: if the heavens can be both sacred and dust / maybe so can the rest of us.

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