#empirefire

quiet  moments  /  light  in  the  dark

a  little  late  night  reading  with  a  small  friend.  

jester feels the tears streaming down her cheeks before she even registers that she’s crying , her fingers on caleb’s chest as she tries to pump a healing spell into him before she realizes that it’s not going to help . she’d failed him . she’d been so close & she’d failed him . caduceus puts a soft hand on her shoulder & she doesn’t dare look at him , the somber tenderness she knows she’ll find in his eyes is too much . he doesn’t ask , he just starts setting up the ritual around him . veth is there , whimpers escaping her lips as she clings to his side and jester doesn’t let herself think about the possibility that they won’t be able to bring him back . she feels beau at her back and wonders , briefly , if maybe she should let someone else - yasha , fjord - contribute to the ritual but as caduceus starts , his chanting as he places the diamonds on caleb’s chest she finds veth’s eyes on her , pleading silently . caduceus looks at her expectantly & she nods quickly , wiping her tears on her sleeve before she looks back at caleb’s form . 

    [ text / essek ]   looked it up online and zoo tickets are only 20 bucks and there’s also a museum of science close to the hotel.

it, of course, is just logical to fjord. something about the way caleb looks at him just bothers him, like an instinct that feels alien and familiar at the same time. his long sword is already drawn, and he turns it on the wizard with a mixture of a blank expression, and a confused one.

“don't make me fight ya, caleb,” the half orc mutters, shaking his head as he takes a quick step toward the human. “just put your weapon down. no magic. we can be civil here.”

challenge my writing. send me a word, and i will write a drabble about that topic—but without ever using the word you said.

there are no flowers in the badlands. nothing bright and colorful, no grass or meadows to lay out in and stargaze. everything here has a purpose. she has a purpose. her hands were never made to be gentle - she cleaves things in two the same way others find ease in healing. strength has always come easy to her, far more easily than gentleness. 

zuala does not need her to be gentle. zuala does not need her to be anything but herself, whatever that might be. not useful, or strong, or orphanmaker. 

the only thing they need to be is a secret. 

( zuala is warm like the edge of a sunset, when the orange fades into pink and bathes the world in gold. yasha spends days and hours in private alongside her, laughter buried in the crook of her neck, fingers soft in her hair, on her arms, on her face.

with zuala she does not need to be gentle, but she is. with her it comes naturally, as naturally as the swing of a blade or the heft of weight over her shoulders. pushing strands of hair behind her eyes to better see the laughter in her eyes, the way the corners crinkle when she smiles. leaning into each other after a hard day. 

they spend time together when they can, in secret and away from the rest of them. there’s never enough of it. time slips away as fast as they can get it. it’s as exhausting as it is exhilarating. 

she wants more, always. wants more quiet moments than they can get. wants to spend nights with her instead of alone or with the person that’s been chosen for her. wants more kisses that aren’t stolen. 

for awhile it seems they might be invincible. 

( a wedding just before dusk that’s just the two of them, a thing unto itself. sweet and sad and knowing, but not afraid. ) 

they’re only secret until they’re not. 

( she keeps the flowers in her pockets until they wilt and wither, until he gives her the book and shows her how to press them inbetween the pages so that they seem to never die. ) 

mollymauk is -- well, he’s mollymauk. 

he is bright and ostentatious and everything she’s not, but it feels like they know each other. it feels like they match. 

her soul is quiet around him in a way it hasn’t been since zuala, like her heart is at peace, not at war. like the past few months of blank void don’t matter, because he spends hours at her back, hands braiding flowers into her hair with a calming swiftness, curls around her for warmth in the tent they’ve recently starting sharing with horns pressing into her shoulder and tail wrapped around her ankle. 

she is not a person who shows off or makes friends easily; she is withdrawn and silent, putting together the tent or taking it down or following molly around as his own personal bodyguard, but he does not let her fade into the background - always pulling her in for a joke or an arm around her waist or coming to her defense. 

he is hers. not in the same way zuala was ( is ) but entirely her own. 

( many months later, she will tell them - because he was mollymauk. this is the best and only way to describe who they were, when they existed in a space together. ) 

there is a terrible and empty space where he once was, and some part of her feels like she’s still waiting to wake up from the iron shepherds and see him, and that she might be that way for the rest of her life. 

maybe they are the last thing molly gave to her: this strange little group of people who will not let her leave without a fight, even when she thinks they might be better off without her. 

they are: speaking celestial in late night conversations with caleb, an understanding that can only come from shared pain; painted murals by jester, wh ohugs her only minutes after she is freed from obann’s control; stealing nott’s flask and not giving it back because that’s what family does; caduceus with tea that warms her and sleepovers where they talk until one of them falls asleep, and sometimes after; learning about faith from fjord while he learns it himself; and beau: who fights and takes the damage with her and calls her beautiful in a sudden way that is more than flirting, and more about yasha herself. 

if they’re the last thing molly gave to her, she’s going to protect her. 

they’re family. 

    [ text / jester ]   hey if there is a better reason to go drink than  ‘ i’ve been fucking robbed ’  i have yet to hear it.     [ text / jester ]   also, i’ve been fucking robbed.

on nights at the xhorhaus when he finds himself unable to fall asleep, it’s customary for caduceus to descend the steps of the tower & fix himself some tea to relax. as he puts the pot to boil, he lets out a deep, contemplative exhale -- then long, droopy ears perk up at the realization that, despite the late hour, there’s a good chance caleb is probably up doing ... well, whatever it is he’s up to when he’s writing in that book of his. in fact, come to think of it, he’d never actually asked the wizard what he was always writing so diligently.