Chapter Text
Let all on whom my light falls be welcome if they desire to be so. As the silver moon waxes and wanes, so too does all life. Trust in my radiance, and know that all love alive under my light shall know my blessing. Turn to the moon, and I will be your true guide.
They arrive in Candlekeep late in the evening, find an inn, and get a few rooms. Sarge will be the first to admit — the one nice thing about having Doc around is now he gets a room of his own. Doc and Donut are thick as thieves, just a few days after meeting, and that works out fine for Sarge — though he sort of misses the gentle strum of Donut’s mandolin lulling him to sleep on the nights they don’t camp.
Grif and Simmons disappear into their own room tonight, while Doc and Donut head down to the bar. Sarge sticks to his own space — he needs to keep working on his companion, and there is a small...aesthetic matter he needs to deal with.
Three hundred years ago, he was trapped in this form. In the weeks that have followed the day he met the boys, he has struggled constantly to maintain it. The day they met the paladins had been the hardest. The urge to shift and defend Donut, no matter what it cost, was almost painful. Since then, though, he’s done alright. But he can feel himself slipping, and if the bronze scales that are starting to make their way across his back and shoulder are any sign — he doesn’t have a lot of time.
He’ll have to shift out of this form and into his true self soon. An inn in the middle of Candlekeep is hardly the time or place, but in front of the boys doesn’t strike him as the best way to do it either.
Gods above, though, he misses it. He misses his home, his little spot on the eastern coast. Sarge doubts it’s gone unoccupied. It was a brilliant location for a dragon’s lair.
And he misses being a dragon.
* * *
Three hundred years ago, humans and orcs went to war. Everything had been so clear back then. Orcs were destroying human cities, and Sarge had always been fond of humans. Call it a bronze dragon quirk, if you will. He took the form of a human constantly, and when they needed more bodies to help fight the war, he threw his lot in with them then, too. He never told them what he was, that’s not how things were supposed to be.
Even now, the urge to keep his true form hidden overwhelms him. He wants to help Grif get home, help Simmons be more confident. He even wants to help Doc, now that he feels he can trust him. But to reveal himself, to let go of his human form in front of them — it defies all logic. So he keeps his secret to himself, and waits for the right moment to let go.
In the morning, they all meet downstairs. Sarge had chanced a look in the mirror and seen that the steady march of scales was making its way toward his neck. He’s put everything he has into keeping these boys safe — despite Grif’s ineptitude — and keeping his dragon form at bay.
He’s not sure how much longer he can hold it back.
A well placed scarf to protect him from the sun hides the bronze scales and no one says anything. They eat while Donut and Doc tell them about the people they met the night before, waving to complete strangers as they head back onto the road. Grif takes point, checking with his map as they keep going. Sarge won’t admit to not knowing this land as well as he used to — so he silently and begrudgingly lets Grif lead them down the path.
They run into another pack of wolves — the fourth in as many days — and dispense with them quickly enough.
Grif wipes blood from his sword on the nearby grass and says, “That’s too many wolves.”
“Beats draugr,” Donut says, fretting over a broken string. “Damn.”
“Maybe it’s connected?” Simmons lets Doc heal the gash in his arm. “Like we’ve moved away from the epicenter of activity, but maybe it’s caused an imbalance.”
Sarge says nothing. He’s known this was the truth for a long time. He’s seen it before, when necromancers get too full of themselves. It’s why he, begrudgingly, admired Church. A good necromancer doesn’t raise the dead for shits and giggles. They let them rest.
“I don’t sense any undead near here,” Doc says quietly. “But if we’re moving farther away from them, that has to be good.”
“If you ladies are all done theorizin’, then we should get goin’.” Sarge brushes the dirt from his trousers, adjusting his pack and holstering his crossbow. He feels the sun beat down on the exposed skin of his neck and he covers it with a hand. The scales have crawled further up, now.
He probably only has another day to properly hold this form. Anything after that is a gamble.
* * *
He had a beautiful home on the southern coast. He could see the island of Chult, he could wake up to the waves crashing against the stone below.
He grew up among others of his kind, and they swam in the ocean and fought great battles. They forged powerful swords and armor, and gave them to the bravest warriors they knew.
Sometimes he thinks about the weapons they would have made for the boys — a falchion for Grif, and a sturdy scepter for Simmons. A slim, quick rapier for Donut. Doc likes his shield, and he seems good enough. It’s a nice distraction from dry itch starting up on his back.
Midday they take a path through the forest, but an hour in, the path starts to disappear, obscured by a strange, pale green fog.
“Church said there’d been some fog in Caboose’s village,” Simmons mutters. “Is this the same?”
“No.” Doc touches a nearby tree. “Still can’t sense any undead.”
“Something else is making this,” Grif says. He draws his sword. “Ugh, it smells.”
“Smells like acid,” Sarge says, and he knows what they’re walking into right away. “Turn around. Turn around, go back, we can’t go this way—”
A heavy thud sounds behind them, and Sarge recognizes the stench. A green —
“Dragon!” Donut stumbles backwards. “Holy shit! Holy shit we’re gonna die—”
“You might,” the dragon says. It’s young, not quite matured, but that doesn’t make it any less terrifying. Sarge knows this. He knows because even though he is good, even though all he has ever wanted to do is help, a dragon strikes fear into the hearts of everyone it meets. It’s why he’s been hesitant, it’s why he hasn’t wanted to reveal himself.
But green dragons are lying, acrid, useless little shits, and he knows his boys might be able to take this one on, but he can’t be sure. And he can’t hold himself back any longer. Maybe this is selfish, maybe it’s what’s right, but he’s throwing off his weapons, his alchemy gear and he turns to them and says, “Y’all need to get back.”
And that’s when he does it.
That first second of letting go is bliss. The rest is just pain. Three hundred years of being held back, weeks of holding himself back. It all releases in a wave of sparks. He feels his body swell, the scales spread, his neck grow long, the snout stretch. With a roar, he release a cone of lightening into the sky, and when he is done, he towers over the young dragon.
The creature tries to flee. Of course he does, spreading his wings and trying to take to the skies. Sarge swipes at him and knocks him into a tree.
“Going somewhere?”
The green dragon cowers. Good, Sarge thinks. It’s been a while since something feared him for a reason as good as this, as good as scales and claws and teeth. He grins and lowers himself to the green’s eye level.
“Were you lookin’ for a fight?”
“N-no. No, not at all.”
“Seems like you were. Hidin’ out here in the woods, waitin’ for unsuspecting folks.”
“Look, I—” Sarge puts an oversized claw on the green’s neck and he goes still.
“I ought to slice you up. Right here.”
“I’ll leave, I’ll go far away—”
Sarge steps, and the green’s neck snaps like a twig underfoot.
“Like hell you will,” he growls.
When he steps off and back, he hears Donut shout. He turns, but his tail smacks into the trees. He’s too big for this forest and he’s going to crush all of them if he isn’t careful. And he must be careful.
But he also need to reach.
Simmons calls out, “Sarge!” but the sky calls louder. He pushes himself off the ground and takes to the air, wings outstretched, aiming for the sun. He expels lightening into the sky, opens his mouth and roars.
It feels just like it used to.
Just like it’s supposed to.
* * *
When he’s landed and shifted, the boys are going over the dragon’s body. Grif lifts its enormous jaw in the air a few times, then lets it fall.
“What a fun secret,” he says, and advances.
“Grif—” Simmons reaches for him, but Grif brushes him off.
“You fucking helped them. Before someone stuck your sorry ass in a cave and left you, you were helping them.”
Donut drops the claw he’s holding. “Grif, who are you talking about?”
“Humans! He’s a bronze dragon, Donut. Don’t you fucking read?”
“Grif.” Simmons gets to him, puts a hand on is shoulder. “That was centuries ago.”
“He’s not on our side! He doesn’t care about us!”
Sarge adjusts his pack, reaches back to touch his neck. No more scales. He feels freer than he has in weeks. “Son, you don’t know what you’re sayin’—”
“Of course I don’t, right? Because I’ve just got filthy fucking orc blood running through me, so I must be a colossal fucking idiot—”
“That war is over,” Sarge snaps. That’s the first time he’s admitted it. “Of course I helped. Of course I fought alongside them. It’s what we did, it’s what we were born to do. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you, I don’t care who or what you are—”
Grif shoves him, and Sarge stumbles back.
“You think I haven’t heard that before? Huh?” Grif lunges, grabs him by the collar of his duster and lifts him off the ground. “You think you’re the first person to tell me that? Why the fuck should I believe you?”
Sarge looks him dead in the eyes. “Because I’m still here.”
Grif blinks. Drops him to the ground with a thud before walking down the path and away from the green dragon’s body. Simmons sighs and gives Sarge a hand before heading after him. “Grif! Grif, come back.”
Sarge watches them bicker before he turns to Donut, who is carefully dismembering the green dragon. He glances up sheepishly. “I just wanted some scales.”
“Careful of the blood. Burn your fingers clean off.”
“Gotcha.”
When he’s helped Donut get some of the scales, a few claws, and a handful of teeth into a bag, they catch up to Grif and Simmons.
“We wasted time,” Grif says. “We won’t make it to Loudwater tonight. We’ll have to camp.”
“That’ll be fun,” Donut says, but Grif’s already walking ahead.
* * *
In the middle of Grif’s watch that night, Sarge wakes up and comes to sit next to him. He doesn’t say anything, but Grif does offer him a cup with a fair amount of whiskey in it, and Sarge takes a generous sip.
“My dad left,” Grif says. “He always said he wouldn’t, and that he didn’t care what me and Kai were. But at the end of the day, it seemed like he did.”
“You live in a human town?”
“For the most part. My mom left when Kai was six. Dad said he’d stay, but…” Grif shrugs. “I’m not stupid. I know what it means, you being what you are.”
“There’s no war left to fight, Grif. And I told you. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
“Kind of wish you would,” Grif mutters, but he’s smiling. “I’m sorry for shouting. Shouldn’t have lost my temper.”
“Well it’s to be expected from a hot headed paladin like yourself.”
Grif chuckles, easily produces a bit of light in the palm of his hand.
“Go back to bed, old man. I’ve got this one.”
Wash and Tucker don’t talk about Flowers after that day. They do have someone enchant the symbol so it can’t be stolen when they reach a town called Selphir in the early morning. The encounter doesn’t seem to give Tucker much to think on — Wash asks once if he’s alright, if he needs to talk about what happened, but Tucker just wants to focus on getting to the coast. To his son.
“I bet he’s gonna be super smart,” Tucker says one afternoon. They’d been enjoying the silence of the open road for some time, passing only a handful of travelers, stopping once to buy fresh fruit from a man with a mule and cart. Tucker happily pops a berry into his mouth, turning to walk backwards with a skill Wash admires. Bards, he thinks. “Way smarter than me.”
“You’re very smart, Tucker.”
“Eh.” He shrugs and passes the little container of berries to Wash, who takes a handful. “I’m just passably good at most things. You learn a lot of weird things at the College. Helps you to blend in.”
Wash sighs. “There are a lot of things you’re—”
Boom.
Ahead of them, someone flies out of the tree line, slamming into a tree on the other side of the road. Tucker snaps his fingers and the berries disappear as he runs over, taking a knee besides the injured man and checking him over.
“Still breathing,” he says.
Wash nods and leans down, touching the man’s shoulder and passing on some of his healing energy.
The man groans and rolls to his side, spitting up blood. “Shit.” On the other side of the road, three men dressed a lot like him burst through the trees, panting.
“Lucas, you okay?”
“No, you assholes. I’m fucking dying.”
“You’re not dying,” Tucker says, and helps him sit up. “What the fuck are you guys doing?”
“Dragon,” the man manages. “Bounty.” He waves a hand. “You get it.”
Wash does. “Dragons are dangerous, there’s only four of you, and you don’t look especially prepared.”
“See?” One of the men turns to the rest. “I fucking told you guys. We’re gonna fucking die out here.”
“How much is your bounty?” Tucker asks.
Lucas reaches into a pouch, tugs out a scrap of paper. “Five hundred gold.”
“For a hundred, we’ll help you.” He stands straight.
Lucas chuckles. “Look, no offense, bard, but we’re not exactly in need of musical accompaniment.” Tucker raises a brow, then draws his sword. “When Rogers over there needs some background music, we’ll—”
The rapier flies across the clearing, sinking into a tree a good five inches. With an easy flick of his hand, it reappears by his side.
Lucas swallows.
Wash steps in and points at Tucker, then himself. “Swordsman, paladin. You could use us.”
And we could use the gold, are the words that go unspoken between himself and Tucker. Last town they were in, they realized they only had a handful of coins between them, most of it silver.
Lucas finally gets up, glancing at his companions. “...Alright,” he says, a little uneasy. Eighty, though. Not a hundred.”
Tucker extends a hand. “Deal.”
Rogers sighs. “Fine. Let’s get some rest and take it on in the morning.”
* * *
It’s been a long time since Wash fought a dragon. He feels invigorated as they do, as he ducks its breath attack and is knocked down by its tail. But he’s a fucking paladin. He knows how to fight, how to attack and shield and defend. And ever since he took this oath, he feels...different.
He feels like his old self again.
With six of them working at it, they take the creature down. It collapses into a heap of black scales and acrid blood and Tucker whoops with excitement. Lucas seems to be in charge of this little group. He bosses the other three around and orders one of them to make a camp while their sorcerer scavenges for parts.
“Nice swordwork,” he says, nodding toward Tucker. “Where’d you get that?”
“Won it in a card game,” Tucker says, not missing a beat. He’s told Wash the story — about his time with the Blades of Valhalla, about how he really found the sword — but he isn’t so quick to share the story with others.
“You must be one hell of a card player.”
Tucker only shrugs, yanking out a tooth and pocketing it. They agree to make camp together one more more night before turning in the bounty in the morning. Wash feels uneasy — he doesn’t know if its the new moon, the lack of Selune’s light in the sky, or just who he is as a person, but he doesn’t trust Lucas as far as he can throw him.
In the morning they go into the neighboring town and turn in some scales and teeth as proof of their kill. Lucas starts divvying up the gold on the road and Wash thinks, for a moment, that maybe he’s just being a little paranoid. Maybe he’s just overreacting to the whole situation.
And then Rogers hits Tucker in the shoulder with a crossbow bolt.
“What the hell?” Tucker doubles over, groaning with pain. He starts bleeding as Wash reaches over and yanks the bolt out, laying healing hands on the wound. As he looks up, four crossbows are pointed at them, and Lucas says, “Give us the sword.”
“Fuck that,” Tucker snarls.
Wash glances between them. “We helped you.”
“Typical paladin,” Lucas says. “Thinks everyone can do the right thing. Idiot. Hand it over.”
“Waste of time,” Wash says. “Won’t matter if we do.”
“Just give it to us and we don’t fill the two of you full of holes.”
Wash stands and sighs. “I can’t do that,” he says.
“I think you can.”
He shakes his head. “No. I really can’t.”
Lucas scowls and readies his crossbow. “Do it. Or I kill you myself.”
Wash shrugs. “Well,” he says. “You can certainly try.”
Lucas growls at him and Wash feels the bolt pierce his own shoulder before he even registers that it’s been fired, but —
He weathers the shot and holds out his hand.
Being born a tiefling has always come with its cons and setbacks. It took him longer to be accepted into his old Order, took him longer to gain the trust of the other members. People always look twice before choosing to trade with him, and he’s seen shopkeeps guard their tills just a bit closer when he’s around.
But this — fire and heat extending from his hands, his fiendish nature making itself known — well, nothing really beats that.
Lucas is fast, but he isn’t fast to dodge Wash’s flames. They ingulfe him, and he tumbles back, screaming and rolling on the ground. Wash turns to the others and they drop their weapons.
“We’ll take that hundred gold now,” he says, and extends a smoldering hand.
* * *
Wash and Tucker both look like hell when they shuffle into a little town called Delia that night.
Tucker groans and falls back on one of the beds in the room they’ve rented. “Fuck.”
“Still hurts.”
“Yeah, but I can take care of it.” He whistles a little tune and and sighs. “That blew.”
“Yeah, but hey—” Wash holds up the bag. “Fifty each?”
“Hell yeah.” Money is enough to get Tucker off the bed. They sit on the floor and count out their earnings. Tucker glances up. “Hey, uh, what you did today—”
“Won’t happen again,” Wash says quickly.
“Dude, what?” Tucker stops counting and laughs. “Do it more, is what I’m trying to say. That was amazing. I’ve never had a friend who was a tiefling before.”
Wash pauses. “A friend.”
“Well...sure. We’ve been through some stuff together already, right? I think I’d call us friends.”
Wash nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess so.”
Tucker grins. “Anyway, that was bad ass. You spoke some language when you did it, what was that.”
“...Infernal,” Wash says.
“Nice. It sounded cool, you gotta teach me a few things.”
“Sure.” Wash scoops his fifty coins into a bag.
Tucker does the same to his own and stands. “I’m gonna figure out where a guy bathes around here. Be back in a bit.” He heads out of the room and Wash collapses onto his own bed after he’s gone. He traces the edge of Caboose’s symbol with his thumb and closes his eyes.
Sheila told him terrible things were coming. She told him to protect Tucker, protect himself. He wonders if she wants him to find Caboose, and then his mind wanders to where Caboose might be.
Safe, he hopes. Caboose had left them at the camp without a proper goodbye, but he’d understood why he couldn’t.
If he’s out there, let him know we’ll find him again. Let him know we’re thinking about him.
Let him know I haven’t wasted his gift.
Caboose stares up at the sky, dark without the moon. He misses it, when it gone. But his mother always told him — she is never really gone, only in shadow.
“Hello, shadow,” he murmurs, and touches his holy symbol. “Hello, Sheila.”
No one speaks to him, but he does feel comforted. Delta hums from his place in the grass.
“We still have some ways to go before we find him.”
“Yeah…”
“We could always turn back. We could return to your home.”
Caboose rolls to his side. “We’ll keep going,” he says. “This is what I need to do.”
“Of course, Caboose. Whatever you need,” he adds. “I will be here.”
Caboose smiles and reaches out to touch the hilt of the sword.
“Thank you, Delta.”
As he closes his eyes, he says a prayer —
And hears a twig snap, just behind him.
“Delta—”
“Yes.”
Caboose grabs the sword and is on his knees, blade drawn in seconds. He doesn’t see anything in the darkness, which doesn’t make sense, but Delta says, “I believe they may not be visible to us.”
“Well that’s silly.” Caboose stands, closes his eyes and listens.
Silence, now.
He sighs, but he’s not getting any sleep tonight. He sits up and adds more wood to his fire.
“I believe it was him.”
“He got the jump on us.”
“Yes, but he didn’t attack.”
“That is true,” Caboose says quietly.
“...Should we stay here? Perhaps it would be safer to go into a town.”
“The roads are dangerous at night,” Caboose murmurs. “Close to witching hours.”
“He might make himself known again.”
“He might.” Caboose looks up at the sky.
At least the stars are visible tonight.
* * *
As the sun rises, Caboose manages to get a few hours of sleep. He’s woken by the sound of an approaching cart on the road near his camp, and he packs quickly and gets a ride into the nearest town. He needs to find a temple of Selune. A big one. A priest of Sune tells him there is a large one in Zhentil’s Keep, which is three day’s journey easy. Delta recommends he join a caravan, offer to hunt and pay them some gold to travel along with them to the city.
He meets a young man who goes by Smith, traveling with his friends to the east.
“We’re trying to get to Calimport,” he explains. “Could use a hunter on the way there.”
“I’ll do what I can,” Caboose says.
He stays quiet for most of the journey, though he is desperate for the kind of banter he hears. Smith drives the cart while his friend Bitters navigates. A girl, Katie, offers Caboose some bread and cheese. They make camp each night and Caboose takes first watch each time. While the others are sleeping, he talks softly to Delta, telling him his plans.
“It could be dangerous.”
“Yes, it will be. But it is what we should do.”
“I trust you, Caboose.”
Caboose nods. “Thank you.”
* * *
When he finally reaches Zhentil’s Keep, he pays Smith and bids the little group goodbye.
“Um, sir?”
Caboose assumes Smith is talking to him, but no one’s really ever called him “sir” before. “Mmm, yes?”
“We, um...we heard you talking. To your sword.” Caboose puts a hand on Delta without thinking and Smith shakes his head quickly. “Oh! Don’t worry, that’s fine with us. It just...it seems like you’re trying to do something dangerous.”
“...Ah.”
“And, um…”
Katie says, “We want you to be very careful.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” Smith puts a hand on his shoulder. “And if you need us, well...we think you’ll be able to find us.” He smiles and gestures for them to all get back into the cart. Caboose watches them head back onto the road, his grip on Delta tightening.
“Alone again.”
“Yes....better that way,” he says, and heads into the city.
* * *
Selune’s temple here is very big. Bigger than any temple he’s ever seen. A pearl moon sits at the top of a very large dome, and Caboose is in awe. He has never seen anything like this before and, for a moment, he doesn’t want to go in.
“You are worthy,” Delta says so only Caboose can hear.
Caboose’s cheeks flush. He sometimes doesn’t like that Delta knows exactly what he’s been thinking, but he climbs the steps into the temple all the same. "Stay out here," he says to Freckles, and scratches behind his ears. "I won't be long."
A young woman sees his holy symbol and ushers him inside, offering him food and drink. Caboose accepts and enjoys the attention for a bit.
“Is there anything I can do for you today, brother?”
“Ah. Um, I need to speak with someone. About a spell.”
The acolyte nods. “Then you will want to speak to sister Grey.” She bows and steps out of the room. Caboose sips his juice and takes in the room. There is a large mural of Selune reaching down and bestowing a weapon to a young woman. Caboose stands and goes to the mural, touching it.
The woman has pointed ears, like his own, and a blue tunic, like his.
“That is Thymara,” someone says. Caboose turns and sees a woman standing in the doorway, grinning. “And you are Caboose.”
“...How—”
“I know a whole lot of things, ivaebhin.”
Caboose moves closer toward her. “Are you Sister Grey?” She nods. “I need to know a spell. I need to learn—”
“You are trying to scry.”
“Yes.”
“You’re playing with something dangerous, Caboose.” She claps her hands together. “That’s exciting!” She goes to him and takes his hand, pulling him from the room. “Come! Let’s get to work right away. Clear my schedule!” she shouts as she tugs him into another room and closes the door. The walls are lined with books and knick-knacks, little things Caboose has never seen before in his life.
“Um—”
“Here.” She points to a chair and it scoops him up on its own. Caboose grins.
He loves magic.
“So you want to scry on someone. Well, I can certainly help you do that, but you must ask Her for permission, of course. The Moonmaiden doesn’t just give magic away.” Grey looks him up and down, then nods. “Right. You’ll need to be purified, first. Get you out of those clothes.”
“I need to be what?”
But Grey is already pulling him out of the chair, now, and into the hall, down a few turns before they step into a room with a large fountain in it. “Clothes off!”
“But I — hey!” He jerks away as Grey takes a dagger and tears a line in the back of his tunic. “M-my mom made this for me!”
“And it will be cleaned and mended. Now, get naked.”
“But—” Grey snaps her fingers and a few spectral servants appear, tugging at his belt and trousers, undoing Delta from his side. “My sword!”
“It will be safe with me.”
“No, I need him—”
Grey raises a brow, but doesn’t give Delta back. “I’ll keep...him safe,” she says.
And suddenly Caboose is very naked. He instinctively covers himself, but Grey isn’t even looking. “Into the fountain,” she says and opens the door, passing Caboose’s things off to someone else. She glances over her shoulder and jerks her chin. “Fountain, boy. You don’t have all day.”
Caboose glances at the fountain, then back at Grey. She is closing the door behind her, and Caboose isn’t really sure what he’s supposed to do, apart from step into the frigid water. He hisses, pulling back at first.
No. I have to do this.
The fountain is deeper than it looks, stopping at his waist. He shivers in the cold and waits for someone to come, but...no one does. For several minutes he waits, adjusting to the water. Gods, his hair is dirty. He doesn’t know if getting his hair wet in the fountain is something he’s supposed to do, but...it couldn’t hurt. He takes a breath and ducks under the freezing water —
And he isn’t in the fountain anymore.
He is somewhere else, somewhere far away from the fountain and the temple and his whole entire world.
His nakedness is trivial, compared to all this. A great blue sea stretches out ahead of him, toward a rocky island with a single white building perched on top.
That’s where I need to go, he thinks, and starts walking. The sea stays solid under his feet as he walks across the water toward the island, taking a set of winding stone stairs around it. He should be cold, he reasons, but he isn’t. He is very warm, and very happy.
Because he thinks he knows where he is, now.
At the top of the island, the white building looms large in front of him. It’s a very large gazebo, he realizes, as he steps inside. In the center is a pool of water, and Caboose spots large white fish swimming in it.
“Hello,” he murmurs, and touches the surface of the pool, watching the ripples travel across it.
“Hello, Caboose.”
He looks up with a start, and finds himself staring at the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.
“Sheila—”
She laughs. “You found me.” She goes to him, taking his face in her hands and kissing his forehead. “Caboose, you found me, I’m so—”
“Sheila.” An ethereal voice pierces their moment. “Is that him?”
“Yes, m’lady. Yes, it is.”
“Bring him up, then.”
Sheila grins and grabs Caboose’s hand. “She’s been waiting for you.”
“...Who?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer.
Sheila glances at him and laughs. “Her,” she says. “Our Lady. Our Moonmaiden.” Sheila takes him up another winding staircase to a room at the top of the gazebo.
Caboose sighs as he sees her, as he takes in the sight of the goddess he has loved and served his whole life.
“Selune.”