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Chapter Text

The last forest in the Zemni Fields burns when Caleb is seventeen years old.

He is dead when the fire takes his home. The guard he ran from catches him in the holiest shrine in the woods, drowns him in the sacred pool of his people. Leaves him there in the shallows for whatever animals survive the blaze. 

When he wakes, he is alone. Not just in the ashy water, or the burnt out forest, but deep in his heart where his coven once lived. In the roots of his bones where their god once dwelled.

Caleb is alive, and Caleb is alone, and he wishes neither one were true. The empire has killed everything he ever loved or knew, tied his coven to the stake and set them ablaze as callously as they torched the millennia-old heart of the last Zemni forest.

He has never left the woods before. They would have taught him how to interact with the nearby settlements in time, when he was older, if he showed any interest. But the woods are gone now, and all Caleb has are the waterlogged clothes on his back. 

There has never been a need for shoes before. The forest would never hurt a witch of Caleb's coven. They lived to worship and care for the old god of the forest, and she cared for them in return, back for generations untold.

But the old god is dead, and the forest is burned, and his family is gone, and Caleb has no shoes. He can do nothing about any of that. 

Except, maybe, the shoes.

Caleb leaves the husk of his ancestral home.

He does not look back.

Chapter Text

Nott is in prison because Nott...Nott has an itch, sometimes, that she can't resist. She just--sometimes she just has to scratch it. Sometimes scratching it means she walks away with sticks and stones and shiny things.

Sometimes it means she ends up in prison.

She's been in prison before. They're not usually made with goblins in mind, so it isn't hard to wiggle through the bars or out holes or in the laundry. 

This prison is worse than normal. It's mostly underground, with a line of thin horizontal slits up near the ceiling to let the light and air in, what little light and air there is. They're maybe four inches tall--too small even for her, assuming she could get up that high in the first place. Which she can't.

She's pretty stuck. And she thinks they're planning to execute her? She doesn't speak the language of...wherever this is, so she can't be certain, but she thinks that's the area of the prison they're keeping her in. Every day, some of the prisoners are taken out, and they don't come back. They aren't being released, so.

She needs to get out, or her thieving days are over. 

It takes her an embarrassing amount of time to realize the pile of dirt and cloth in the corner is actually another person. It's wrapped up tight in a worn coat, huddled on the only patch of green Nott has seen in the prison so far, the whole corner covered in what looks like a soft, cushy mattress of moss.

"Sorry," she blurts the moment she processes it's alive. "They threw me in here, I didn't mean to! Don't worry, I won't hurt you, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!"

At first, the rags don't move at all, and she wonders if maybe it is dead, or near enough to it that apologizing is kind of useless. But it's breathing, if barely, so it has to be alive. Well, that's something nice, then, that she can be here for this...whatever as it's dying. It isn't alone, the way she might be, by herself with people who hate her more for what she is than what she did.

"What are you sorry for?" the pile asks in what she thinks is probably a male voice. It--he--gives no other sign that he's alive.

"For, for intruding on your space," she stammers, wringing her hands. "People don't...they don't like when I'm. Near them. Once they know I'm, uh. Y'know."

She realizes that it's possible he doesn't know. That he hasn't looked up. That he can't see, or chooses not to, and she's blown her one chance to pretend to be--

"And what is that?" he asks, and she begins to hear an accent in his words that she's not familiar with. There's a lot of the world she's not familiar with, so that's not a surprise. But she likes it, likes the sound of it, how rough it is, nearly guttural, and she is surprised by that.

"A, uh. A little girl. Um. In a prison. Er, you don't see many of those, I'd wager! And, uh, that can be...off putting?" she says, trying to lie well enough that he doesn't figure out what she is, so they can have maybe a few companionable hours before they die. Maybe together, maybe days or weeks or months apart. It'd be nice to make a friend--something like a friend--before she goes.

The figure chuckles, a gritty noise that he doesn't probably make a lot, judging by how rusted it sounds. "You are not a good liar," he says, finally lifting his head to look at her. He's a human male, she can never guess their ages right, but he looks like an adult to her. She's been wrong before, but she thinks she's not this time. All of him is dirty, from his red hair down. His eyes are a shade of blue she's never seen before, pale and deep like mornings. 

He looks sad. Sadder than anyone she's met in her whole life. There's something hollowed out about his eyes, not just because he looks like he hasn't slept in. Well. Ever.

"What is a little goblin girl doing in a prison?" he asks, a rumble of vague curiosity that draws her closer before she even realizes it. 

"I stole something," she admits. "It was too big to hide, and they caught me."

"So you will burn?"

Nott startled. "Burn? I thought they were hanging people!"

The man inclines his head. "Ja, I suppose they do, at that. Perhaps you will be so lucky."

"Why would they burn you?" Nott demands, shocked. "That's--!"

"Why would they hang you for theft?" he replies. "That, also, is, as you say. We are neither of us in a fair boat, I think."

"They're killing me because I'm a goblin," Nott says, arms crossed, furious about the needless extra pain they will heap upon a stranger. "At least that makes sense! Nobody likes goblins."

"They will burn me for heresy," the man says, watching her with those strange eyes. "Because they found out I am a witch."

Nott blinks. "There's no such thing as witches."

Something that is almost a smile but devoid of all humor crinkles the corners of the man's eyes. "Very nearly," he says, "you are right. And why do you think that is? They have burned us, almost all, to extinction."

"Is that why you got all that moss?" Nott asks before she can think better of it. "Don't they say witches are good with plants?"

The man turns his head to look at the moss growing in the wall, seeming surprised by it. He looks stricken, gutted by the springy green cushion. For a moment, his eyes well with tears, and Nott is sure he'll cry. 

Over moss?

"I suppose I am why there is moss, yes," he says, voice choked with a deep emotion Nott doesn't want to name.

"I wish you didn't have to burn," she says, again without meaning to but it's true anyway. She might as well say it. There's nothing to lose, at this point.

The man smiles at her, still sad, indescribably so. He inclines his head. "I wish you did not have to hang," he whispers. "Especially not for something you cannot change."

"Back at you," she says, as weary as he looks.

"Here." He pats the moss beside him. "You are not very big. There is room enough for two, I'm sure."

"I'm Nott," she says, taking the offered seat. It is every bit as comfy as she thought. 

"Caleb," he returns in the barest murmur of sound.

"It's nice to meet you, Caleb," she says, leaning on him because it doesn't matter if she holds herself back at this point, they're both gonna die here.

"You as well, Nott."

They are together in that cell for three full days.

At midnight on the fourth, the moss inside and roots outside have worked together with an unseasonable downpour to let them quietly tunnel their way to freedom. Caleb could not have done it without Nott's claws, and Nott could not have done it without the plants that reach for Caleb. They escape together as they never could have alone.

Caleb doesn't know where he's going, and neither does Nott. Nott is a danger to everyone around her, just because of what she is.

But then, so is Caleb.

They stick together. Keep their secrets and each other's. Nott still gets the itch, and Caleb is still on the run from who--from what--he is. Two is better than one, and they stick together. Them against the world. Caleb and Nott and nobody else.

Until, eventually, they go to the circus.

Chapter Text

They come across a forest Caleb will not enter. "Not without a path," he says. 

Beau can't see a difference between this set of trees and any of the others they've gone through together. But Caleb stops cold, won't go forward, says without a path it would be suicide.

"I have traveled far enough," he says when pressed, "to know better. Without a path, we cannot go on."

Once Caleb's made up his mind, Nott refuses to budge either. 

Everyone looks to Molly, who is the only person that might be able to convince Caleb that he's being ridiculous. Molly holds both hands up in the universal signal of not it and swings off his horse. There's enough sunlight for another few hours of travel, but Caleb and Nott drive the cart, and they're already unpacking for the night. Molly goes over to help them, an inch too close to Caleb as always, and Beau rolls her eyes so hard she almost tips sideways off her own horse.

Molly is not subtle, and Caleb is not receptive, but the strange little wizard never actually pushes Molly away, which the tiefling seems to take as encouragement. If Beau were going after someone she liked, she wouldn't be so delicate about it, the way Molly is with Caleb. She'd--

Then Beau thinks of Yasha and shakes her head at herself.

She and Molly butt heads because of how alike they are more than anything else. In this too, apparently.

Jester teases Caleb for wanting a path that doesn't exist, since it's not like one will magically appear while they're sleeping. She seems to realize as she's saying it how cool that would be, and immediately starts praying to the Traveler for a magic path through the dark woods. She throws three of her remaining pastries in their campfire as an offering, which.

Well, at least she's entertained.

Beau takes first watch. Caleb volunteers for second. Neither of them is all that useful but it's, seriously, not a dangerous forest. There's no history or lore of travelers being mauled to death or anything, no reports of bandits. They're only going through it to get to more exciting towns on the other side. There's no reason for them not to have just gone through.

But here they are anyway.

Caleb lays his silver thread, and everyone not on watch (everyone who isn't Beau) tries to get some rest. Beau wakes Caleb for his shift, and then is still so frustrated by the wasted time she can't sleep.

Which is why she notices when Caleb gets up and leaves camp. He pauses by his ring of silver to break it open, disabling its early warning system. There's enough moonlight to make it easy for him--and for her--to walk quietly across the the couple hundred feet separating them from the edge of the forest.

The forest that was scary enough to avoid during daylight but just awesome and chill for middle of the night romps, fine, that's cool. That's not suspicious at all, Caleb.

Someday they were seriously going to have to talk about his issues.

She hides behind a shrub of some kind to watch him, see what he's doing. He kneels in the shade of the forest, in the shadows cast by moonlight, and does something in the dirt. He's muttering in a language she doesn't recognize--not Zemnian. His hands press hard against the ground, supporting him until he's nearly bowing. He raises his knuckles so his hands form a little cup over the grass, then he breathes into them.

It's weird and spooky and suspicious as fuck. Kind of Caleb all over.

Beau skulks back to camp when it looks like he's wrapping up, not interested in being caught spying. Caleb resets his silver thread and sits back at the fire like nothing happened. 

"Did it work out alright?" Nott asks, low and soft from where she sleeps not too far from his feet.

Caleb leans over to touch her head comfortingly. "Ja, I think so," he murmurs back. "We'll see soon enough. Get some sleep, it may be a long day tomorrow."

What the fuck, Beau thinks.

The next day, there's a path. There's a motherfucking path large enough for their cart cut through the forest where yesterday there wasn't. It spreads out from a pale white flower that also wasn't there yesterday, right where Caleb did his little whatever last night. The flower is beautiful, and Jester coos at it as they ride by, wants to pick it but Nott won't let her, and nobody else is freaked out that there's a path today and there wasn't one yesterday.

"You're just fine with this?" Beau hisses at Fjord, bringing her horse close enough so they can talk without drawing attention to themselves. 

"We've seen weirder," Fjord mutters back. "And to be honest, no I'm not fine with it, but there's not much to be done at this point. We have to get through, one way or another. At least this weirdness is blatant enough that we're aware it's happening."

Beau wants to tell him about what happened, what she'd seen Caleb do, but she's not sure how to describe it. Caleb breathed on the dirt and now there's a path? Even she would roll her eyes at herself. She should ask Caleb first, see what he says.

What he says when she corners him at lunch is, "Oh, ja, I'm a witch," without even looking up from his book, in that perfect deadpan of his that could be sarcasm or could be the unvarnished truth, with about a fifty/fifty likelihood of either. "Did you know, I get nature to change for me all the time. It is easy, in woods that are listening for it. Let me know if you wish to burn me for it later, I would like to prepare myself." He turns a page in his book and continues reading.

So that doesn't work.

Beau gives it up for now but not forever. She keeps her eyes on Caleb, which is not new, because Caleb is shady as fuck even when he doesn't mean to be. When he's being deliberately weird, well.

Beau keeps her eyes on Caleb.

Chapter Text

They're in the forest three days before the attack comes.

It's not actually an attack. Just feels like one at first.

And there's almost no way they should still be in the forest three days later. They're following the path Caleb wanted so desperately but it must be taking them in circles. Fjord studied the map himself before they chose this road. It should have been a day in the forest, then out safe on the other side.

This situation has been fishy from the start, but Fjord's let Caleb do it his way. The wizard almost never insists, so they as a team like to follow his lead when he chooses to take it. Normally it's not a big deal.

This might be a big deal.

Caleb pulls the cart to a stop and looks toward the treeline, and that's the only sign they get that something's about to go sideways. "There is no need for this," Caleb says, calmly, to the trees.

Fjord trades an uncertain glace with Molly, then catches a suspicious one from Beau. Jester's too busy trying to see who Caleb's talking about to pay attention to the rest of them, and Nott just presses herself harder into Caleb's side on the wagon. 

"Uh," Molly says, drawing his horse closer to Caleb and the cart.

The cart is more defensible than this open path, so Fjord nudges his horse closer, too.

People step out of the forest. Well--step is a generous word for it. One moment the Mighty Nein are alone, and the next they're not. At least half a dozen people are in the forest line, in among the trees, watching them. They have no visible weapons drawn, but neither does Caleb when he's fighting, and Jester can make a spectral lollipop to bludgeon people with, so. Not seeing doesn't actually mean that much.

The people are hard to look at. It's like they're wrapped in the shade of the trees, protected by the shadows. One of them steps forward: a cloak hides their features so even a gender is hard to guess.

"You are trespassing," they say.

"We are not," Caleb replies. "Our path through the forest does the trick, ja?"

"A technicality," the person says.

"A vital one," Caleb agrees. "Will you let us pass? We have no quarrel with you, nor you with us. We have been careful to pick no plants, kill no game. How will you keep us here?"

"What is going on?" Jester asks in a loud stage-whisper to Beau, who tightens her grip on her reins but doesn't answer.

A second figure steps forward, pulling the hood of his forest-green cloak back to reveal a handsome, young face. He peers up at Caleb, honey brown eyes filled with curiosity under dark, curling hair, ignoring the hissed command to get back. "How do you know all this?" he asks.

That's not a bad question.

"Will you let us pass?" Caleb says again.

"No," the man says. His companion reaches out to grab his arm, wrench him back. He looks at them for just a moment, then shakes the hand off and steps forward. "We live to protect the forest," he says. "Until we know how you called the path, we can't let you go. These are dangerous times."

"You live to serve who lives in the forest," Caleb says with a tilt of his head. "A being who would not, I think, be pleased by the waylaying of travelers granted passage."

Beau whips around to stare at Caleb, which Fjord notices because he's staring at him too. "How do you know that?" she demands. "What is going on!"

"Coincidentally," the stranger says, arching one dark eyebrow, "that's what I'd like to know, too."

"We owe you no answer," Caleb says, looking at the figure who hasn't put their hood back. "Will you let us pass?"

The hooded figure steps in front of the young man to bodily push him away from their cart. "We will," they say. "As we must," they stress to the protesting man. "They have passage through the forest, we have done enough trapping them here for three days."

"That was you?" Beau demands.

"We need to know more about who they are," the man insists to his companion. "We can't risk them spreading this trick, you know what they're saying about the others!"

"There wasn't a trick, technically," Jester says. "The path was there in the morning a few days ago, so we took it. I thought maybe the Traveler made it for us, but now I'm not as sure! Caleb really wanted a path, more than anybody."

"Jester," Caleb says, short even for him. "We can talk about that later."

"Let's talk about it now," the man says with a sharp smile.

"This is all getting a little tense," Molly observes, his own smile charming. "There's no reason we can't be friendly."

"Yes there is," Beau and the man say in unison. They eye each other suspiciously.

"Will you let us pass?" Caleb asks a fourth time.

"Yes," the hooded figure says at the same time the man says, "No."

"Is there a middle ground here?" Molly asks. "Maybe we could, I don't know, break bread together. It won't be long until nightfall, we can share a meal, get to know each other, part company as friends."

"Not a bad idea," Fjord agrees, unable to think of another way through. There could be any number of these people waiting in the forest, hidden in the trees. If they can't fight, and this guy is too paranoid to leave them be, they'll have to smooth it over with him first.

"That is a terrible idea," Caleb says, shoulders bunching in what is either genuine distress or another manifestation of his ever-present antisocial tendencies.

"It sounds reasonable to me," the man says. He smirks at his companion, who manages to project an air of rolling their eyes while still remaining sheltered in their cloak.

"We have passage," Caleb insists. "There is no need to make friends with them!"

"Friendship is its own reward," Molly says piously. He grins when Caleb huffs at him.

"Yeah," Fjord agrees, "and it don't hurt us to take a break and reassure these people that we mean no harm. C'mon, Widogast, live a little."

Caleb whips around to glare at Fjord as both the forest figures startle. "Widogast?" the hooded figure echoes.

Ah, hell.

The man lopes forward faster than any of them can stop, weaving between the horses to hop onto the side of the cart so he can be closer to eye-level with Caleb. "Are you really?" he asks excitedly.

"It is not important," Caleb says, drawing away from him with an expression of deep discomfort.

"Isn't it though?" Beau asks. "Man, you need to get better at letting us know when you're trying to avoid being recognized. We could have helped, and now look."

"Are you friends of Caleb?" Jester adds. "Do you have any good stories about him because he never tells us anything ever."

"I'm rethinking my stance on dinner," Molly says while he watches the man climb further into Caleb's space.

"I've never met a Widogast before," the man said, peering into Caleb's eyes. 

"With manners like these," Caleb says, leaning so far away now he's in danger of sitting on Nott, "I am shocked to hear that."

The man laughs like Caleb said something witty. "I don't always make the best first impressions," he says with a dimpled smile, "but I'm told I improve on exposure."

"Would somebody tell me what's going on?" Beau demands. "Who are these guys and how do they know you, Caleb!"

Caleb gestures angrily, reins still in his hands, first at the man and then at the hooded figure and then at the group of people appearing from out of the forest. "I did tell you, Beau! I am a witch, and this is a coven, and now I suppose we'll all have dinner and be good friends! You are a fool to invite conversation with strangers so casually," he snaps at the man, pressing the reins into Nott's hands so his are free to yank his boots off. 

The man is still grinning. "It seems I'll be rewarded for it, though," he says, hopping down off the cart.

"Ja, until one day you aren't, and then where will you be?"

"In the company of a Widogast," he says coyly.

Caleb rolls his eyes so hard he nearly tips sideways. "Sure, alright, that seems like a fair gamble that will pay off every time and no one will ever die of." He sets his boots aside to scowl around at his party. "This could have been simple but now we will have this nonsense to deal with. I hope you're all very satisfied." 

"What?" Fjord manages to ask.

"Caleb," Jester says, shaking her head a little. "What are you talking about?"

"You're a witch?" Molly says, flabbergasted. "Why didn't you tell--!"

"There aren't witches anymore," Beau interrupts. "Everyone knows that. They're either fairy tales or gone now."

"I'm not sure how you can think that where we are," Nott says with a nervous glance around. "They might not like you not believing in them."

"Not believing in us doesn't make us less real," the man says. He holds a hand up to Caleb. "Come on, my grandmother will want to meet you."

"Your grandmother?" Caleb asks with a suspicious glance. 

"The Crone," the hooded figure sighs.

"Ah. Well, that explains a lot, then." Caleb shoos the man. "Get away, I don't need help." The man moves aside, and Caleb hops down from the cart.

When his bare feet touch the ground, the path beneath them disappears, leaving them in a small forest clearing with a dozen clearly visible cloaked figures and the man. The grass under Caleb flowers with fresh clover. 

Caleb scowls down at it. "That is a waste of your energy," he says, in the same tone he uses when Nott takes too big a risk. He looks up at the man. "Well? Take us to her. We have places to be that are not this forest."

"What?" Fjord says again, weakly. 

The hooded figures lead a winding path through the forest. Caleb follows them, and the rest of their party follow Caleb, because there doesn't seem to be a lot of choice in the matter.

"Well," Jester says with a bright smile, "at least we'll get that friendly dinner!"

Fjord and Beau glance at each other, sharing a thread of concern. Molly is watching the way the man walks close to Caleb, who is studiously ignoring him.

Friendly dinner.

Sure.

Chapter Text

Jester knows she should be on her guard. The people from the forest--the witches, Caleb calls them!--have taken them deep into the heart of the woods, and there is no path to lead them back out if things do not go well. Their cart slows them down on a good day, on a solid road, and this is neither of those. Maybe they could leave the cart, if they have to, but--

This situation could go very bad very quickly, and Jester knows it. She should be looking for weakness in their captors, or preparing herself mentally for battle, or, or... 

There are a lot of things she should be doing. But the witches-- 

The witches are singing. The whole forest is full of it, a soft, low song in a language she doesn't know, hasn't heard before, beautiful harmonies her mother would love. Jester tries to commit even part of the song to memory so she can tell her mother about it in her next letter, but it slides away from her like water through her hands. Maybe Caleb can teach her later.

But Caleb is not singing. He's walking with the witches, feet as bare as theirs, the collar of his coat raised high around his ears. He looks miserable, but that's not unusual, for Caleb. Their wizard has always been dour; nothing she or Molly have done so far has helped basically at all, but they keep trying. Sometimes Caleb will smile or laugh, and that makes the effort worth it.

Maybe now that he's with other witches, he'll lighten up a bit.

Probably not.

But maybe.

And maybe once he's lighter, he'll teach her one of these songs, and then she can teach it to her mom, and then maybe someday they can sing it together!

The singing begins to grow louder, or-- It's not louder, but there's more of it, more voices and harmonies, counter-melodies all woven together. They cross over some invisible boundary and Jester sees why:

There is a city here, all built in among the trees. Little buildings circle the base of enormous trees, bigger than any plant Jester has seen in her whole life. Narrow stairs climb up the trunks to connect with even more buildings suspend in among the branches, all linked by rope bridges that Jester desperately wants to explore.

She urges her horse forward so it's walking by Caleb. He lifts a hand to stroke its fuzzy nose but otherwise doesn't acknowledge her. "Caleb," she whispers.

He glances back at her and says nothing, which, by now, she knows is a Caleb-y way of saying, "Yes, Jester?"

"Will you ask your friends if I can climb their trees? I promise I will be very careful and not break the stairs or the bridges or anything but please Caleb, they have to let me up there."

After a long silence, Caleb says, "They aren't my friends."

Jester tries not to roll her eyes at him because she needs his help with this, okay, and he sometimes doesn't end up in the best mood if she teases him. "They like you though, Caleb, which is more than I can say about the rest of us. You are my in!" She leans forward to tug lightly on one of his perpetually dirty curls. "Come on, help me climb the trees."

The witch with his hood pushed back joins them, smiling at Caleb in a way Jester has only seen in her mother's brothel, like Caleb is a cake that needs to be convinced before it can be eaten. "I'll be your friend," he says warmly. "What would you like to see while you're here? I'll show you anything that interests you."

Jester wrinkles her nose. Maybe she's spoiled, having only seen a famous professional like her mom at work, but this guy is laying it on way too thick. He'll never get Caleb like that.

Well, he'll never get Caleb at all, but he should at least do a good job of failing at it. This is just embarrassing.

Caleb frowns at him. "We would like to see the Crone and leave," he says in the flat way that does not mean he's secretly interested in what they're doing. This is the tone Caleb takes with rich people and the Crownsguard. He is talking to the witch because he has to, and he resents it.

This man is doing very poorly if he wants Caleb to sleep with him.

He does not seem to realize it, or he is very stubborn, and reaches out to brush his fingers against Caleb's. "I can be persuasive," he says.

Jester thinks she can hear Molly's teeth gritting.

Caleb draws away from the witch. "Listen, whoever you are," he begins waspishly.

"Gareth," the witch supplies, still smiling, not a bit affected by Caleb's surly attitude. 

"Sure, I don't care. Listen." He stops walking, crossing his arms so he can tuck his hands away. "I don't know what this game is of yours that you're playing, maybe a power struggle, I don't know. And I don't care. We will speak with the Crone if we must, but then we are leaving. Got it? You will not find me such a fun toy if you fuck with us. Ja? Ja. Leave me me alone." He marches off toward the gaggle made of the other hooded witches.

Jester thinks she should probably be nicer to the little guy but she can't help it: She giggles.

Gareth looks up at her. He doesn't seem offended or angry at how Caleb's treated him. If anything, he looks amused. Maybe more pleased than before at their wizard's show of spunk. "It won't be hard to take him from you," he says to her.

"We'll have to agree to disagree on that," Fjord says, drawing his horse up close. "Caleb's family. He won't leave us for you, not even if you're a particularly good romp."

"Anyway," Jester agrees, "I'm not the one you have to worry about beating, buddy." She inclines her head toward Molly, who has gotten off his horse to lead it by its reins so he can talk to Caleb. Caleb never returns Molly's blatant affection, but he sort of...unspools when they're together, in a way he doesn't with anyone else.

If Caleb were going to let anybody near him the way some people sometimes want, it would be Molly. But he doesn't, or he can't, and either way Gareth is not a threat to them.

The witch seems to read her conclusion in her expression, somehow. He smiles, cunning and sure. "I think you'll find I have some advantage in this," he says, smile curling into a smirk. "A few things I can give him that you never will."

"If by that you mean your dick," Jester says, unimpressed, "Molly's taller than you and also has real big feet and also is a tiefling. You're not going to win this, man."

Gareth stops walking. He doesn't move a hand, but all their horses stop, too, even Molly's. "Caleb is a witch without a forest," he says, low and dark, the crunch of leaves and the cold of winter wind in his voice. "Whatever else you think you can give him, I have a coven and an old god of the forest. Every fiber of Caleb's being already wants what I have for him." He inclined his head, not a bow so much as a mockery. "We'll see what happens."

When he is gone, Beau makes a frustrated sound through her nose. "Witches, man," she grumbles. And Jester--

Well.

Witches, man. For real. 

Chapter Text

Mollymauk knows about witches. Or, rather, he knows stories about witches. Everyone in the carnival did. Nobody can travel as far afield as they did and not cross through a few strange forests, meet a few unusual folks.

Nott seems to know something too, if the way she nervously refuses to get off the cart means anything. Fjord is harder to gauge, and Jester definitely didn't learn about them in her gilded tower. Beau apparently thinks they're myths, which means her actual understanding of them could be either surprisingly good or riddled with fable.

That means once the witches separate Caleb from them, taking him aside to speak in hushed whispers while the rest wait in a large, open field in the center of...town, Molly is the resident expert.

Molly does not feel like an expert.

He feels...awed, would be a good word for it, as he watches the witches move around their glade, laughing and singing and downright whimsical. It's beautiful, how they carry the dappled light with them. He's been through witch forests before, seen them in the distance, been laughed at by a few, but he's never actually talked with one.

Except, as it turns out, he's been trying to flirt with one for ages. He wonders how much of Caleb's standoffishness is just a product of him being so very far separated from his home and people. He wonders what could make a witch leave his forest, if it has anything to do with Caleb's fire-related trauma or the way he's always just a degree too filthy for most places.

Why would a witch leave the forest?

Beau sidles up next to him, subtle as always, her horse's reins clenched tight in her hand even as the animal itself grazes placidly on the sweet grass beneath them. "So what do you know about all this?" she mutters, looking around.

"Not much more than you," he says back in a regular tone, arching an eyebrow at her. 

"Bullshit," she says without heat. "You didn't know Caleb was a witch but you knew witches are a thing. Spit it out, man, what're we dealing with here? Do I need to get ready to, y'know, break some heads?"

"I would like to know that, too," Jester says, leaving her horse with the cart and Nott and Fjord when she joins them. "Not about the head-breaking, that is a terrible idea. There are a lot more of them than us and they haven't done anything wrong so far and I think I smell something baking that I want to try. But the witches!" She beams at Molly. "You know something, don't you? Tell us!"

Molly hesitates, glancing back at the cluster of witches--including the bold one, Gareth--swarming around Caleb, who's pulled into his coat as much like a turtle as he can. Affection burns warm in Molly's heart, kindled as always by that particular grumpy expression on Caleb's face. Molly's eyes drop to Caleb's bare feet, clouded again by fresh-grown clover, and he wonders for the first time--

Will Caleb stay here? Should Caleb stay? He's uncomfortable with the other witches but he was uncomfortable when he first started out with them, too. Maybe he'll get used to it, to the others who are like him. Maybe he'll want to. Maybe Molly can't--shouldn't--hold him.

Maybe Nott won't either.

What if they can't hold him?

The goblin is huddled deep in her hood, nervous enough to be shaking. Fjord is standing nearby, talking to her, likely trying to distract her from her worries.

"I've heard something about witches," Molly admits, turning back to Beau and Jester. "But...I think, if possible, we should go straight to the source. They'll send Caleb back to us soon enough; we should ask him."

"Aw, but Caleb never tells us anything," Jester grumbles.

"It'll be hard to change the subject this time," Beau points out. "Besides, if he tries to be, y'know, Caleb about it, I'll start telling the fairy tales I know. If I'm really wrong about it, he won't be able to resist correcting me. And if I'm somehow right, hey, new info."

Molly laughs. "That's a good plan, Beau," he says. "We'll do it that way."

"Can I make up witch stories too?" Jester asks.

Beau gives her a friendly nudge. "Absolutely, he'll hate it."

Caleb comes back, still turtled in his coat, mouth pressed in a thin line. "We have been invited to dinner," he says in his soft, unhappy way once they've all gathered back together around the cart.

"I take it from your tone you won't be taking them up on that," Fjord says, sounding amused.

"That is a thing I heard about witches," Jester says, dancing excitedly up to Caleb, who blinks at her. "You are very social creatures except sometimes you're not! It's a legend about you, I think, I know I heard it somewhere."

"...What?" Caleb says, more confused than Molly thinks he's ever seen him.

"Oh, yeah, sure," Beau agrees immediately. "I heard that too! So it's gotta be true, right?"

"You have described everyone," Caleb says, so befuddled he starts coming back out of his coat. "Sociable or unsociable, that is everyone, what do you mean."

"But it is especially witches," Jester says, tapping the side of her nose like they're sharing a secret.

Caleb looks to Molly for sense, then to Fjord when the only thing Molly does is grin. Then he gives up and turns to Nott. "Do you want to go to the dinner?" he asks her. "There will be food that isn't dried and salted."

"...Will there be shiny things?"

"I am not sure," Caleb admits. "There is no set tradition. Every coven has its differences."

Nott peers down into his face from her perch on the wagon. "Would yours have had shiny things?"

Molly holds his breath, watching surprise and sorrow and a deep emptiness chase each other through Caleb's eyes. "...No," he says, barely a breath, not looking Nott in the eye. "Not what you mean, that you would have been able to see."

"What does that mean?" Jester asks, crowding up behind Caleb in her exuberance.

He shies away from her, as Molly could have warned her would happen--as even Jester would have realized if she'd been thinking about it. "They have told me where we can build camp for the night," he says, still so quiet that Molly can barely hear him. "Where we must build camp, or else face the forest. Come, I will show you."

They set up in a wide, bright glade, full of springy grass for the horses. The bold and thirsty witch, Gareth, comes to get them for dinner. Caleb declines, even over Gareth's wheedling protests and tossed hair. Molly can appreciate an outsider trying to get one of them to go somewhere more pleasurable for a night. He travels with some pretty folk these days, each one charming in their own way.

Gareth's got a bad handle on no though, which Molly has a harder time viewing with a friendly eye. Caleb has done everything but build a wall to put space between himself and the horny witch. Gareth continues to chase him slowly around the clearing, uncaring when Caleb's rebukes get sharper and more insistent.

"A Widogast would be an honored addition to the party," Gareth says for the dozenth time. "I'll show you a very good time, forest guest. Give me a chance!"

Caleb can handle himself, but Molly has had enough. He sidles up behind Caleb where he's trying to build a fire. "Caleb, dear," he says, resting a hand on the wizard's tense shoulder. "Why don't you help Nott and Jester get ready for dinner? I'm sure they'd appreciate your expert opinion. Now, now, no use protesting," he adds over Caleb's utter lack of protest, "I've made up my mind. I'll finish this up."

Gareth frowns up at Molly after Caleb skitters away to the safety of the women, each of whom would gladly cause harm for him. "There's no need for interference," he says, keeping an eye on Molly as he crouches to get the fire going.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, friend," Molly says, focus on his task. 

"There's no need for that, either." Gareth looks amused when Molly glances at him. "I'm going to get the Widogast to join me--join my coven--whether or not you try to stop it."

"That seems like something Caleb should get a say in," Molly points out.

"He is a witch and he is alone," Gareth says, standing with a stretch. "We must be the first coven he's met since leaving his. Normally we wouldn't be so incautious about a witch apart. Exile or abandonment look equally bad, to us. But for a Widogast?" He laughs, beautiful in the fading light of day, every feature highlighted in sun and shadow. "It doesn't matter what they did to him or what he did to them. This is a blessed day. My lord will be very pleased."

"And who is that?" Molly asks, more mildly than he feels.

"The patron of my coven," Gareth says, eyes glowing gold deep behind the natural brown. "The old god of this forest. We live at his behest, for his pleasure, as all witches live for someone. He will be Caleb Widogast's lord before the week is out. If you are very lucky, you might see him before you leave."

Molly sits back on his heels, forearms resting on his knees, to look up at Gareth. "Caleb isn't a feather for your hat," he says, "or a gift for you to present to your god. He's a good man, but he isn't a nice one. He doesn't trust easy. We've worked hard, in this little group of ours, to help him feel safe enough to open up to us, to mixed success. We might not have a forest or a god, but Caleb will stay with us, because it's always an option for him to leave. He's free as he wants to be, which I'm sensing wouldn't be the case here."

"What witch wants to be free of a forest?" Gareth scoffs.

"That might have a lot to do with why he left his forest in the first place," Molly points out.

"He won't stay with you," the witch insists.

"He won't stay with you," Molly parrots, an amused smile curving his mouth. "We'll have to wait this one out, friend."

Gareth cocks his head, a lovely little bird in a halo of dark curls. "I suppose we will." He reaches forward to stroke a hand down Molly's shoulder. "Let me know if you find yourself in need of a companion. I'm sure someone will be willing to sit with you at dinner."

"Aren't you charming," Molly laughs. 

"We don't get many outsiders in the forest," the witch says, expression hot with mischief as he dances lightly from their makeshift camp. "I take my fun where I can find it."

"Not a terrible philosophy," Molly muses, enjoying the show before the witch is gone and then turning back to his work.

Jester wants to go to dinner desperately. Fjord and Beau decide to accompany her, both to make sure she doesn't get into too much trouble and to scope out what, exactly, witches are.

Caleb refuses to leave their camp. Nott, nervous as ever in such a foreign environment, stays with Caleb, not even the lure of maybe-shinys strong enough to part them. Molly stays too. Caleb is his own person and a grown man and thoroughly capable of taking care of himself and--

Gareth is the most aggressive but he is not the only person in his coven who had their eye on Caleb today. Something about being a Widogast makes Caleb especially appealing to this coven, and Molly wants to know why as much as he wants to stand guard. So he stays, too.

Caleb doesn't thank him or ask him why or bring it up at all. But he does set his bedroll closer to Molly's than usual. Nott huddles tight into Caleb's side by the fire while she chats amiably with Molly and they all pass dried fruit and cheese around for a snack, hoping the others will bring more food back with them.

Not long after half their party leaves, Caleb starts so hard he knocks into Molly. He leaps to his feet, whipping around to face the deep of the forest. Molly's at his back in an instant, swords drawn. Even little Nott has her crossbow out.

"No, no, don't," Caleb hisses, angling to get between them and the woods. "This is not something we should fight, even if we could. And I would like to stress that we cannot. It's not--it's not a danger. Please, put away your weapons."

Molly looks at Caleb and then follows his gaze out into the forest.

A stag stands in the treeline, enormous, taller at the shoulder than Yasha or Fjord, an impossibly big animal. Its antlers stretch up and out in every direction. Around its feet, flowers blossom and fade. Dark black eyes look at them--look at Caleb--and Molly feels his heart leap.

The old god of the forest. Gareth's patron, the lord of his people, who he was sure would fill a space in Caleb's heart.

The stag shakes its head, flicking an ear. It steps forward, one pace out of the woods.

Caleb takes a step forward too. He takes a second. Looks like he'll take a third, cross the glade to the god, and be gone. 

Nott reaches up, wraps her hand around Caleb's.

Caleb draws a breath a like a man waking from a dream. He looks down at Nott, then over at Molly. Something deep his in eyes twists with longing, with despair. He shakes his head, expression broken. Molly wants to hold him close, hide him away, save him from whatever it is that haunts him, from the loss in his past, from the pain that will follow him when they leave this place together.

If they leave this place together.

When Molly turns back to the forest, the old god is gone.

Caleb shudders, clutching Nott's hand like a lifeline. Molly rests a hand on Caleb's shoulder, and for just a moment he leans into it, leans on Molly as he rarely lets himself lean on anyone, stubborn creature. They return to the fire.

Three women sit there, clustered together, warming their hands in the fading light of evening.

Molly throws his hands up. "Well! It seems we're to entertain witches whether or not we attend that party, hey, Caleb?"

To his surprise, Caleb crowds up close beside him, trembling finely and all over, Nott tugged slightly behind them. "Why are you here?" he asks, voice rough with whatever it is he's feeling.

The middle woman laughs softly. She's roughly their age, mid- or late-thirties, with a slightly younger woman on the left and a slightly older on the right. "Gareth is so eager to have you that he doesn't care why you're here," she says in a voice that echoes like music in a grand hall. "But we are not forgetful, young Widogast." She looks up, and her gaze is deep as the sky at midnight. "You didn't offer to greet us. Bad form," she notes to her companions. 

"We had safe passage granted through the woods," Caleb returns, low and soft, "yet we were taken off the path, brought here. Bad form," he echoes.

The women laugh, swaying in toward each other, a harmony of voices that raises the hair all over Molly's body. "Why are you here?" the spokeswoman asks.

"Respectfully," Caleb says with a glance at the older woman, "I think it is because a witch in your coven wishes to add me to his collection."

The older witch rolls her eyes. "That boy," she tsks. "There never was a more troublesome grandson!"

Molly blinks. "He's your grandson?" he asks the woman who doesn't look to be out of her forties yet. "Does that make you the Crone?"

"You're just full of good questions," she says with a grin, "aren't you, Mollymauk Tealeaf?"

"You seem to have me at a disadvantage," Molly says, plastering on a showman's smile to hide how disconcerting it is to hear his name from a person he hasn't given it to. "That's not very friendly, now is it?"

"Not at all," the youngest says, hand pressed against her heart. "We should be properly introduced."

"Caleb," all three say in beautiful, haunting unison, "would you do the honors?"

Caleb breathes out hard through his nose. "Mollymauk," he says, resigned, "Nott, may I present the Maiden, Mother, and Crone of this coven?"

"I don't know what that is, Caleb," Nott says, pressed hard against his leg much more like a child than an adult goblin, as she sometimes is with her wizard. "Are they safe?"

"Every coven is led by a trio such as this," Caleb says, an echo of their music in his tone. "A Crone to look into the past. A Mother to watch over the present. A Maiden to seek the future."

"You're quite young for the position," Molly says to the Crone with a wide smile. "Aren't you?"

The Crone leans over to laugh into the Mother's shoulder. "Witches look human," she says, "but we aren't. We age with the forest, at the pleasure of our god. I have been the Crone a long time and had many grandsons, many times great, down through the years. Would you like me to look into your past, Mollymauk?" She holds out her hand. "What do you think I would tell you?"

"Nothing I'd like to hear," Molly says, maintaining his smile out of pure spite now. He doesn't take her hand.

Caleb shifts slightly in front of him, which is darling and unnecessary. Molly doesn't need to know who he was, but he's also not afraid of it. "So now we have been introduced," Caleb says. "What else do you want? Or are we finally to be left alone?"

"Do you think what happened to the Widogasts is something that affected only you?" The Mother settles back on her haunches to peer up at him. "We felt it, Caleb. All those years ago. We don't know what it is but we felt its ripples." She holds out a hand to match the Crone's. "Will you share it with us, that your life might serve as a warning for our home?"

"He doesn't need to share anything with you," Nott says, fierce as she shifts so her back is pressed to Caleb's knees, arms twisted behind her to wrap around his legs. "Caleb shouldn't have to hurt himself just because you think it might help!"

"Will you let us pass through the forest if I do?" Caleb asks, barely a whisper of sound.

Molly wraps a hand around his closest wrist. "You don't have to do this, Caleb," he says, not entirely sure what's happening here but sure it isn't good. "You said yourself, we already had passage. They can't keep us."

"It could help them, to know," Caleb says hoarsely. "Someone should be helped by it, at least." He meets Molly's eyes with a broken half-smile. "It does me no harm to let them know."

"It looks like it'll do plenty harm enough," Molly says with a sigh, letting Caleb go. "We'll be here if your want us to, or go if you don't."

"Stay," Caleb whispers.

So they stay.

Caleb and the witches move away from the fire, kneeling together in a patch of moonlight that glows over them like a halo. The Mother and Crone each take one of Caleb's hands. The Maiden keeps hers on the other women. The Maiden starts humming, cooing a soft melody accompanied by a rising swell of music from nowhere that follows her lead.

The Crone starts singing, with the Mother joining her on harmony. Molly thinks at first that it must be a folk song, something they're sharing to build Caleb's confidence in them. But the more he listens the more he realizes--

They're singing about Caleb.

"The heart of spring’s herald/ the open meadow, wooded dell

The red bird at rest beneath the canopy/ gentled and enfolded

The red bird in flight before pungent oil/ augur to calamity

As spring burns under crisp steel, a bittered breeze

All felled, flesh and forest, song struck silent

Meadow into midden/ pulses pooling in the dirt

Delve and hew the growing green

A red bird drown in the fug of smoke/ the cinders tossed by roaring flame

River choked with sluggish ash

Cut from the roots/ stripped from the branches

The wandering stray/ the desolate vale

Numbing, echoing quiet/ a breath held into oblivion

A red bird flying without home."

Molly comes out of the song and realizes his heart is thundering in his chest, every limb shaking, even his tail whipping behind him like an agitated cat's. He'd thought the witches meant to, maybe, talk with Caleb, or else get his past psychically, through some witchy means of communication that was painful for him but not public. Now Nott and Molly have heard-- These witches exposed Caleb's heart in lyrics that are beautiful but honest, so achingly honest for a man who hides himself in every way possible. That song was about what happened to Caleb, to his people, about the genocide of his home at the hands of--of what? Of who?

Who else? It must have been the empire, with its six approved gods and everyone else a heretic. The empire is killing the old gods, the fantastic things of the earth. They've taken Caleb's whole home and heart, leaving him this withered, lovely figure. A witch without a coven. Without a forest. Without a god.

When the last note of Caleb's song has faded, the Maiden leans forward. "Will you sing with us, Caleb?" she asks, gentle as a prayer.

Caleb is bowed low over his hands, still clasped with theirs. He shakes his head. "You know, now. You must have felt it. I have no song left in me."

"We can share ours," the Mother says. "You wouldn't be the first witch welcomed into this forest who wasn't born here. Give us your strength, and we will weave our melody into the empty spaces in you. Our god, our coven, will give structure to your bones."

"You need not be alone," the Crone tells him, petting her free hand over the crown of his red hair.

Molly's heart leaps into his throat. Nott takes his hand, and they share a worried look.

The Mighty Nein have given Caleb a lot. Friendship, support, adventure. This is something they cannot match, a need they didn't even realize existed, that Caleb never trusted them with. Even if he had, what could they have done? Tieflings don't run on song, not the way witches appear to. Molly carries the mark of his heritage on his skin, as who he is, and it isn't something that can be taken away from him.

Not like Caleb, who has lost everything that makes him what he should be.

No wonder their wizard is so dour. No wonder his smiles are so rare. The empire has taken everything from him. It's a wonder he's survived this long, all alone. Maybe he will take them up on their offer.

Maybe he should.

But he doesn't.

Caleb shakes his head again, heaving a sigh that shudders through his whole body. "It is not the same," he whispers. "Giving the song up, having it taken. They are different. It is not the same to have it burnt out. There is...there is nowhere for a new song to grow. I am what I have become and I..." He turns his head to meet Molly's gaze, expression buckled with grief. "I will die like this. As what I have become."

Molly's heart aches. The trio of witches leave Caleb alone in the grass, glowing under the moonlight. Nott runs to him as soon as they're gone, wrapping her body as far over his torso as she can. Caleb pulls her around to clutch her against his stomach, breath catching in his lungs. Molly measures his approach, crossing the glade slowly so Caleb can stop him, if he wants. When Caleb doesn't flinch, Molly crouches next to them, bundling Caleb up in the silk of Molly's robe.

"Come on, sweetheart," he murmurs, helping Caleb to his feet with Nott still cradled against his chest. "Time for bed now, don't you think?"

"We will have to tell the others," Caleb says, voice breaking in the middle. "When they return to camp, we must tell them that we are free to leave tomorrow. They will have questions. You must have questions. I will--"

"None of that can't keep until the morning," Molly says, steering Caleb back to his bedroll. He settles the wizard down, tucks him in with his goblin friend, brooks no argument. Caleb is exhausted, worn down by the day. Molly strokes his hair until the weight and warmth of Nott, the crackling of the fire, the touch of Molly's fingers help him dose off.

"There will be another," Caleb murmurs before he's lost to sleep.

Molly hums a questioning noise.

"It happens in threes, as it must." Caleb snuggles his face down into Nott's hair. "Gareth. The triumvirate. A third will ask. I have only to say no once more, and we will be free."

Molly works another knot out of Caleb's curly mop of hair and doesn't respond. It's possible Caleb will be firm in his refusal.

And it's possible the third time will be the charm.

None of them will ask him to make any particular choice. Other than Nott and Molly, none of the other Mighty Nein even know this trio of temptations exists. Caleb will say no, or he won't. He'll stay, or he won't.

Only the morning will tell.

The others come back from their party, excited and exuberant with food to share but keeping their voices hushed for Caleb. Molly listens to their stories and smiles and tells them that everything went well, that they can catch up in the morning. They believe him because there's no reason not to.

That night, Molly dreams. 

He dreams he is asleep in camp, curled in his bedroll to face Caleb. He opens his eyes, and the stag is there, the god of this forest. It noses Caleb, who lifts a shining golden hand to grasp its antler. The stag pulls Caleb up, twists its head so Caleb, gleaming, settles astride its back, free hand tangled in its mane. They leave together, bounding across the glade, into the dark of the forest.

Molly opens his eyes. Caleb is facing him, watching him, blue eyes glittering like starlight with unshed tears. Quiet passes between them, then Caleb shakes his head. Nott is still asleep, still curled into the lee of Caleb's body. Caleb sneaks one of his hands into the small space between their bedrolls, palm up, fingers stretching in entreaty. Molly links their hands, an anchor for Caleb.

Solace for a witch who has three times said no.

Caleb turns his face to hide it in his blankets and Nott. He holds on tight.

They sleep, apart, together, until morning.

Chapter Text

Caleb can tell the others have questions. Molly and Nott's questions will be different from those who went to the dinner, but...

Questions, all the same.

He doesn't want to answer them. He doesn't want to talk about any of this, wants to pretend it isn't happening until that pretend comes true and they're out of here, away from this place and the way it wants to hum in him. 

There is no space left for this song. He is too empty even for regret.

No one is actually saying anything to him. They sit around the embers of their fire, sharing the food from yesterday's feast as breakfast, and they do not speak of it. Jester tries to be coy about her excitement, saying things like You remember that thing or Hey did you talk to a guy, wanting to relive her memories and get other perspectives while respecting Caleb's reluctance to be where they are. 

Caleb knows it isn't fair. He knows once they leave the forest, the odds of any of them bringing any of this up are vanishingly slim. This little family that has adopted him, they want him to be happy and comfortable more than they want to know his secrets. There's a strength in that, in today being worth more to them than all his yesterdays combined.

It is their strength that lets him cut through their chatter with, "What is it you...want to know." He licks his lips, eyes on the plate of food he's balanced on his knee. "About...about here. Them. ...Us. Witches. I will...I will tell you what it is that you wish to know. Now. Before we leave." He shakes his head, purposefully not looking at them. "When we are gone, I might...not. Be able to. But here, I can-- I can try."

"You don't have to," Fjord says gently. "But it's mighty kind of you to offer. I'm sure we can figure it out just the five of us, if you'd rather not have to speak on it."

"I have so many questions," Jester says, jiggling over to Caleb so she can bump her knees against his. "They're not as important as you are, though, Caleb, so it's okay. The Traveler will tell me if it's something I absolutely have to know."

"Having answers probably won't make you less sketchy," Beau agrees in her confident, accidentally insulting manner. "It's kind of more fun to make things up anyway. We're good, man."

Nott says nothing, because Nott has already asked him, long ago, while they shared a patch of moss. Nott knows and Nott will never tell, both because she is fierce and loyal, and because she doesn't have context for how rare the knowledge is.

One of Mollymauk's hands scratches through the hair at the back of Caleb's head comfortingly. Caleb finally looks up, meeting Molly's gaze, red as fire, warm as sunshine. Molly smiles, giving the hair in his hand a fond tug. "This is your story, Caleb," he says. "Tell it how you want to, even if that's not at all."

"Ask me," he tells Molly, then sweeps his gaze around to include the rest. "I will stop if I cannot answer. But ask me."

"Have you seen the god of this forest yet?" Jester asks immediately, excitedly.

Caleb startles, thrown by such a benign start. "Yes," he says. "Last night, it visited our camp while you were away. And later, it walked in my dreams. We have met."

Jester bounces in place. "What is it? Is a glowing ball of light? Oh! Is it a bird? Wait! Caleb, is it a really hunky guy?"

"It is a stag," Caleb says blankly, trying to follow her thought process and--as usual--failing utterly. "A very large-- Why would it be a hunky guy?"

"But you don't wonder why it would be a bird," Beau points out. "Interesting."

"Gods of the forest are of the forest," he says. "If the forest thrives long enough, it will produce an avatar that represents its nature. This forest has a mighty stag, for strength, I would guess, agility." He quirks a half smile at Molly. "Confidence."

"That sounds like your friend all over," Molly laughs. 

"Not my friend," Caleb says as mildly as he can.

"The witches get power from their god, right," Fjord says. "Kind of like a paladin."

"In a way," Caleb says. "People cannot just...walk into a forest, find a god, be a witch. Witches are not... Witches look human," he says, "but they...we are not. The god is an aspect of the forest, and witches are filled with the god. They... It is too big," he corrects himself halfway through the explanation, "to protect. Witches cannot offer safety to the forest, that would be. Backwards." He shakes his head, frustrated. "I am doing a poor job of this. It is not something I learned, and I do not know how to teach it."

"Where do the first witches in a forest come from?" Jester asks. "They're not human, they're from a god. The god appears because of the forest, so when does the god start spawning witches?"

Caleb shrugs awkwardly. "I don't know, it... As far as I ever knew, we...always were. The coven existed because of the god, the god existed because of the forest, the forest was old and powerful." He shrugs again. "I do not know."

"Will you live forever?" Nott asks, draping herself over one of his knees. "That witch yesterday, she said she was older than she looked, old enough to have a lot of grandsons. Are you like that?"

"My forest...I." Caleb swallows hard, eyes dropping to the grass under his feet, warm and vibrant with life. "As the god lives, so do the witches," he says softly, dodging around what she was asking. "This god is strong, and old, and I would not be surprised if some of the witches here stretch back to the beginning of the coven. Witches can be killed, of course, captured, die of illness or heartbreak. But age, no, life comes from the god. Gods do not age."

"What happens if the god dies?" Molly asks softly.

Caleb bows forward until his forehead touches his knees. "It should not be possible," he whispers, "to kill a god in its forest. I never heard of such a story, none of my...the. Covens don't have lessons like that. I thought it was impossible. No, I-- It was so far from possible that its impossibility never occurred to me. To kill a god, I-- How would you do it? The god dies, the forest is left vulnerable. The forest could burn, the coven could burn, everything could just--"

A hand touches his back, small, delicate. Jester. "Does the god here give its witches any special powers?" she asks, comforting and distracting. "Because that would be really cool."

"Not the way you think, I imagine," Caleb says, still into his knees. "And it depends on the god. This one, a stag, they will have influence over creatures, especially once similar to the stag. Deer, horses, cattle."

"Is that how he made the horses stop walking yesterday?" Fjord asks.

Caleb looks up. "Was? What? When was this?"

"Yesterday when he was telling me Caleb would like his dick better than Molly's," Jester chirps. 

Heat floods Caleb's face. "Was?" he manages to say again in a strangled voice.

"I hope you didn't let that stand," Molly says, as though he's agreeing with Caleb.

"Don't be silly," Jester says with a flap of the hand not on Caleb's back. "You are taller with bigger feet and also a tiefling."

"All true," Molly says with a wide grin.

"I'm not even into dick," Beau says loyally, "but I'm sure yours is better."

Caleb looks helplessly down at Nott. "Did you have another question?" he asks over the others snickering at him.

"What was your god?" she asks, luminous yellow eyes cautiously curious. "You never told me, before, when we were...you know, there. Would it be easier to tell me now?"

The snickering stops immediately. Caleb heaves a shuddering sigh. "She was life," he tells his goblin friend, unable to articulate the power he grew up with. The blossom of flowers, the thread of vines, the first sweet grass after winter. The canopy that shaded them, the fruit that sustained them. She was everything.

And she was gone.

He touches his forehead to Nott's and is empty with such an echoing silence that he can't even describe it as being sad. All of Caleb's deep emotions went up with his god, with the forest and his coven. He feels shades, now, brief and surface, the implication of what should be.

Mollymauk would be a good partner, he thinks wistfully, if Caleb had space in him for other people. He doesn't even have any for himself, charred up husk of a witch that he is. He is...alone, in his body, as no one like him should be. A witch with no coven or forest or god, no song in his blood given by his patron, woven by his people, strong in the trees and rivers, in the pools, in the sunlight and stars. 

Caleb Widogast is an abomination. His friends don't care because they don't know they should. They can't feel how wrong he is. This coven should care, but they think he still has some of what made his people unique, think they can have it by having him. But how could he, with his god dead?

"That seems sufficient for today," Molly says, standing with a stretch. "We should be going, before anyone else comes with a marriage proposal for our wizard."

"You should have heard them talk about him at the party," Jester says as they all get up to finish packing. 

"Like he's a prize lamb for slaughter," Fjord agrees.

"He does have a very cute tail," Molly says.

Caleb rolls his eyes, letting Nott scale her way into the cart. He leans in after her, snagging his boots, then leads the way out of the glade, trailed by the others on their horses. He At the edge of the treeline, a path forms, cutting through to a pinprick of sunlight on the other side. 

They spent three days wandering this coven's land, and not even an hour escaping it. This is how it should have been, with the first path. It should have taken them through quickly, kept them away from the witches, away from their god. But they are incautious, here.

He hopes they won't suffer for it. Perhaps the song's echo the triumvirate took from him will keep them safe. Perhaps not.

They reach the edge of the woods. Caleb gestures with his boots for the rest to go first, standing on the path so it won't close around them. When the last horse steps through, he looks back.

Stupid.

The old god is there, Gareth at its side, a hand on its mighty shoulder. The stag lowers its head in invitation. Gareth reaches for Caleb, resonant with song, wild and beautiful, eager and joyous.

Caleb shuts his eyes. When he opens them, both are gone. Everything is quiet.

He puts his boots on, and follows the others out of the woods.

Chapter Text

Things change as much as they don't, once Caleb's secret is out. He's still dour and quiet and withdrawn. Knowing why doesn't really change that, and yet--

It's easier to look at Caleb and see someone who's really trying. Molly knows what Caleb feels like he's lacking, now, and why, knows how deeply he's hurting, even if it's not possible for any of them to really sympathize. 

Molly still likes to watch Caleb. It's still second-nature to get between Caleb and danger. He still wants-- He still wishes--

Caleb isn't receptive to Molly's advances, but it's plain he would, if he could. He turns to Molly first, in danger, in confusion, when he seeks reassurance. He is more comfortable now with everyone in the group--everyone helping to keep his secret--but he seems to prefer Molly's company to anyone's but Nott's. Every time Caleb chooses to sit with Molly, quietly or in conversation, watching or engaging, fills Molly's heart with equal parts satisfaction and longing. 

This is all Caleb has, and he gives it to Molly as best he can. It's not love. As far as Molly can tell, it won't ever be.

But it's Caleb. So it's okay. 

Not ideal.

But worth it.

The Mighty Nein head north, following money and monsters and enough but not too much notoriety. They add more enormous skulls to their cart, for flair, to do some of the work of advertising for them. Eventually, they find themselves in a smallish city called Adelaar, tucked in the foothills of a looming, white-peaked mountain. Apparently there's some sort of issue with harpies or rocs or just rather large eagles eating people's sheep. The mayor is worried the whatevers will graduate up to children if the sheep run out.

It's no bother to Molly. He likes a good adventure, and Yasha is at the inn when they get there, so that's his whole ragtag family accounted for. Maybe they can turn the feathers into something beautiful or warm or expensive when they're done. Maybe the nesting creatures will have eggs or chicks they can convince Nott to resist murdering and then sell later for a bonus.

There are a lot of ways this particular adventure could go, and Molly is ready for any of them.

That morning, before breakfast, before setting out, Jester gets a letter from her mother. The team splits up to give her time and privacy to read it, thick as it is. Molly stays with Jester in the inn. Caleb and Fjord head out to top off their magical supplies. Beau trails after Yasha, who is planning to amuse herself by watching Nott practice her grumpy button collecting. Frumpkin trots after the trio of women until Beau notices him, then he gets picked up and cuddled.

Molly smothers a grin behind his hand at yet another demonstration of bristly Beau's squishy center, then distracts himself with his cards. When he looks up some twenty minutes later, Jester is frowning while she reads, such an unusual expression on her joyful face that it shoots a spike of unease down Molly's spine. 

He pulls a card and lays it down: the Tower. Danger, crisis, sudden change.

Ah, fuck.

"Molly," Jester says slowly, pulling something smaller out of her sheaf of papers, eyes still on the letter. "Do you remember when Caleb was telling us about his god? And he couldn't figure out how they'd killed her?"

"...Yes," Molly says, equally slow, taking the items from Jester.

Tickets. Two. For The Archive, whatever and wherever that ended up being.

"My mom says if we have time, we should check this place out. She's says there's all kinds of amazing things down there, and it's rare for people to get to see it, so we should totally go if we can." She looks up at Molly, expression so serious. "She says there's a special object there, one of a kind, like all of nature in a bubble. Somebody found it in a Zemnian forest, fifteen or twenty years ago. She says it's heretical of them to have it, but that they simply couldn't resist keeping it tucked away." Jester bites her bottom lip. "Do you think... Caleb," she reminds him, "couldn't imagine a way for his god to have been killed."

Molly blows out a low, slow breath. "He said she lived in his bones," he says, drumming his fingers on the desk. "Wouldn't he have been able to tell if she was still alive somewhere?"

"Wouldn't that depend on how they were keeping her locked up? On magic, maybe?" Jester asks. "And anyway, maybe it's not his god. Maybe it's something else from the place where he grew up, something else irreplaceable. The harpy thing can wait a day, don't you think? They're not going anywhere." She taps the tickets in his hand. "Caleb trusted us with what happened to him, and so now we can be curious on his behalf. We can figure out what this thing is, if it's important, and maybe get it back to him somehow. Get him back to it. We have to at least try, don't we?"

Well.

Yes.

Yes they do.

They eventually find The Archive in the basement of a municipal building, guarded but not suspiciously so. With the tickets in hand, no one questions their pretense. The guard gives them a doubtful look, which turns into an exaggerated eye-roll when Jester starts talking to Molly in her snootiest accent. 

For all the pretension in its name, The Archive is little more than a glorified, haphazardly organized junk room. There's interesting curios, some pleasant art, enough shiny baubles to keep Nott happy for a year, but nothing really important. They spend an hour poking through the displays, trying to find what Jester's mother meant. Every moment, Molly grows more certain that the thing--whatever it is--can't possibly be that valuable, if it's being kept here.

"Let's go," he says at last.

Jester turns, looking disappointed and ready to agree, then suddenly jolts, eyes wide. "The Traveler!" she whispers, joy brightening her whole face. She takes off down one of the labyrinthine junk corridors. Molly bites back a curse and rushes after her.

At the end of the hall, there is a display. A dusty glass case over a sphere the side of a billiard ball. The sphere seems to glow faintly. Inside, it looks like someone's trapped the dark green, still-living branch of an impossibly tiny tree. The leaves press against every available inch of surface, unmoving, vibrant.

"Oh," Molly breathes, voice rumbling deep in his chest. "Oh, we need Caleb to see this. Immediately." He looks around, trying to memorize where they are, how they got there. 

"It must be Caleb's god," Jester thrills, hands pressed on the glass to peer down at the sphere. "Molly, it must be, that's why the Traveler led me here! He wouldn't want a god locked up in a little snow globe like this. And he knows how much she means to Caleb, who is one of my very best friends after all."

"You could be right," Molly agrees, making sure no one else is in the area. "Why don't we keep it a surprise though, yeah? We'll just tell Caleb we found something interesting, and he'll know for sure if it's his god or not. No need to get his hopes up for nothing."

"It's not nothing," Jester insists. "The Traveler wouldn't have led me here for nothing."

"All the same." Molly gestures for her to follow him. "Let's not be suspicious about this. We'll get out, get Caleb, come back."

"We already used our tickets."

"We'll get more. They can't be that hard to come by."

Molly's halfway down the hall before he realizes Jester's not with him. Before he can hiss for her, she comes bouncing around the corner, tucking her sketchbook away. "I wanted to get a sketch for Caleb," she says, smoothing her skirts before she lifts her chin back into her haughty look. "Shall we?"

Molly knows--he knows--he shouldn't leave it at that. In hindsight, that's where the whole caper goes wrong. But he's so excited to tell Caleb about what they've found, so eager to put some hope into those sad blue eyes, that he lets Jester get away with her weak excuse. He loops his arm through hers, matching her posture, and together they stroll out of the municipal building.

As soon as they step through the gate, an alarm starts blaring. Molly turns to Jester, who looks sheepish but not repentant as she pulls the sphere out of her bag. 

"I thought we could save Caleb a trip," she says as the sleepy guards in the building behind them scramble to mobilize. "And now we don't have to worry about tickets, you know?"

Molly snags her free hand and starts running. "No, of course, now we just have to worry about jail." He's annoyed with himself and trying not to laugh at the same time: they are absolutely going to be arrested, but this is such a Jester thing to do.

He's trying to decide which way they should run when he spots a familiar tabby cat winding its way through the feet of a tall, beautiful figure at the north side of the square. 

Yasha.

Maybe she won't be able to get them to freedom, but Molly's main goal now is to pass the sphere off for Caleb later, and Yasha didn't leave the inn alone. If he can get their cargo to Yasha or Beau or Nott--

Fjord and Caleb step out of a shop near Yasha, looking at a bottle of ink in Caleb's hand, talking over it like it was a particularly lovely ruby. Maybe Jester can get the sphere directly to--

Jester trips. 

Jester, who is one of most graceful people Molly knows, trips on a cobblestone and goes down hard, taking Molly with her in a tangle of limbs and sharp cries. Everyone in the courtyard--their friends plus a handful of other mid-morning shoppers--turn to look.

"Mollymauk?" Caleb says, brow furrowed in confusion. "Are you--? What are you--"

The sphere bounces out of Jester's hand. It rolls an improbable course across the cobblestones, around skittering feet, under a long skirt, to bump lightly against the toe of Caleb's right shoe.

Well.

That's that taken care of, anyway.

The guards catch up to Molly and Jester, hauling them off the ground.

"I'm sure this is all a big misunderstanding," Molly says with his best smile. 

Light flares across the courtyard, bright as emeralds, clean as a winter breeze. Molly's gaze jerks toward the source.

Caleb has picked up the sphere. The colors glow and shift in his hold, as though whatever's inside can sense him, knows who he is.

What he is.

"Oh," Caleb breathes, blue eyes backlit with sharp, swelling green.

"Here, now," one of the guards says, trying to seem stern but only managing nervous. He's got a hand balled up in the back of Molly's coat and shirt and is not tall or stocky enough to keep Molly from escaping, but at the moment playing along is likely the best course of action. "That's a very dangerous historical artifact, you should give that to me before--"

Caleb holds the sphere out, pressed between his palms.

Fjord makes a startled sound as his falchion materializes in his hand. He manages to say, "What in the world--" before the weapon swings around and down, slicing clean through the sphere.

At first, the square is filled with a great silence.

Then the whole world seems to groan all at once. The ground rumbles as grass and wildflowers press up and through the cobblestones, pushing them aside as new earth surges beneath their feet. Caleb stands at the epicenter, even as the rest of them are thrown to the ground. Vines and branches race out of the two halves of glass, an impossible quantity for how small it was.

The leaves and greenery and flowers begin to coalesce into a thick canopy, momentarily blocking out the sun. The canopy becomes a robe, flowing in a way that seems more like water than plant-life. The robe contains a figure, fine-featured, face of a young girl, skin green and textured like moss. She flows down from the sky, trailing her living cloak that covers all of them, the whole square, the buildings in this area, with a veil of roots and grass, climbing flowers, falling leaves. Trapping them where they fell.

She's small as any human child, small as Nott, when she flies up to Caleb. They look at each other for a long time. She touches Caleb's cheek with her slim hand, closing her eyes to press their foreheads together.

Caleb is crying. Tears drip down his cheeks like rain. Wherever they splash on her greenery, the most beautiful flowers blossom, blue and pink and yellow, gold and silver. Impossible.

The god begins to sing in a language Molly has heard only once before, that strange and lovely dialect the witches spoke in the stag's forest. Her mouth doesn't move. No part of her does. Song rises from the plants that make up her body, the very thicket she's making of this town.

Low and weak below her voice, in a rusty, warming counter-tone, Caleb begins to sing too. It's--

Molly's feeling a lot of things, at present. He's worried and he's annoyed. He's amazing. The part of him detached from worry is deeply amused by the expressions his would-be guards are making. And now that Caleb's singing, Molly's whole heart seems to swell. He's full of the rich tenor, unexpected, dear now as any part of Caleb is to him. 

This is what Gareth wanted, what the witches of the stag's forest were craving. Caleb, song mingling with his god's, haloed by new growth.

The god moves around Caleb like a dancer, twisting her cloak about his body. Dirt and age melt from Caleb, falling off him like a butterfly shedding its cocoon. He is still crying and he is beautiful. He shines in the sun and the light of his god like any of the gems he's ever used for casting. Molly thinks, oh.

The god finally, finally turns her attention from Caleb. She's curled around him now, arms wound over his shoulders, cheek pressed to his temple. Vines crawl down Caleb's arms, twining around his fingers. His eyes are shut and he is still singing, soft and warm, in that language nobody knows. His god looks at the guards tangled against the ground.

Caleb opens his eyes. He looks like he does when he's seeing through Frumpkin, except his eyes glow green instead of white. "You who imprisoned me," he says, layered with song and a deep sense of something other, something ancient. Something angry. "You who burnt my forest, burnt my coven. You who took me from my child, who doomed him to wander alone. You who stand opposed to me." The god perching on Caleb's shoulder straightens her arms to give her enough leverage to lean forward. "Tell me why should I not turn you into the rot that feeds my garden."

Molly cleared his throat, trying to draw his--their--attention. "For my part," he croaks through a voice dry with mounting panic, "I don't think it'd be very fun."

The god turns Caleb to look at him. "Mollymauk," she says through him. "I remember you." She swings their attention to the left, where Jester is. "I remember all of you. The Mighty Nein." Her mouth curves in a smile, though Caleb's doesn't. "Do you speak for these people?" she asks Jester.

"Not really," Jester says. "They've treated us kind of junky so far. I mean, these guys would have tackled me to the ground if I didn't fall there first. But they also make really good doughnuts, so." She shrugs against the vines to the best of her ability. "Maybe spare the bakers? Oh, and me. You should spare me too. I'm super good friends with Caleb, he wouldn't want you to kill me. Or my friends. The inn keeper was pretty nice."

"We haven't been in this town very long," Fjord says. He looks like he might be trying to get closer to Caleb and good luck to him on that, because Molly can hardly breathe for how tight the god's vines are. "It's possible these are all good folks who had nothing to do with what happened to you. I think it'd be awful magnanimous of you to let them live."

The god turns to look down at him with her own eyes, with Caleb's. "Do you speak for him?" she says. 

Fjord looks startled. "I'm not sure what you--" He curses again as his falchion comes to life in his hand, pulsing with such a deep blue light it might almost be black.

"Do you speak for him?" the god and her witch ask again, something curious in her face but not his. 

"No," Fjord says through gritted teeth. "I speak only for myself."

"To my memory," the god says, "he has never been one for mercy. You are an interesting choice for him, Fjord."

"How do you know our names?" Nott asks, curled up in her vine prison, yellow eyes huge and terrified. "Could you hear us? Through Caleb? Did you...did you know where he was?" She swallows so hard even Molly can see it. "Why did you let him think you were dead? He really...he really needed you."

The god's face crumples. She hides it in her hands, floating at Caleb's shoulder with her hair curling around him. "My coven is gone," she weeps through Caleb's voice. "I was trapped when they burned but I felt them as they were torn from me. They drowned my only child in my sacred waters and I was alone. I used the last of my strength, the last thread of our connection, to quicken his heart. I had no way to reach him. I have been alone. He has been alone. They burnt my forest!" She lifts her head, eyes dark with fury. "I will make them into a new one."

"Good job, Nott!" Beau calls. "Thanks, I really wanted to be plant food today, I appreciate your effort."

"Count your blessings," Molly calls back. "You're bound up with Yasha!"

Beau, pressed chest-to-chest with Yasha, her head tucked under the barbarian's chin, goes red and sputters.

Yasha wiggles her fingers against Beau's hand in what is either a comforting stroke or a bid for freedom. "These people deserve what you'd do to them," Yasha says to the god, calm and strong as she ever is, steady in the face of disaster. Beau thumps her head against Yasha's sternum in apparent despair. "But does Caleb?"

The god startles and Caleb blinks, looking at Yasha through his own eyes, blue without any hint of green. Caleb turns his gaze to Nott, then Molly, where it sticks for long enough that Molly's heart starts to race.

Even in a predicament like this, Molly isn't immune to Caleb's physical charms. He's lovely, and always has been, and now there's something in his expression that hasn't been before. Even without the god actively possessing him, there's...life there, in a way Molly has never seen. The gaping chasm of loss has been filled with the life of this impossible creature Molly found in a trash heap of tchotchkes. Caleb is a witch, whole at last, alone in his coven but under the care of his god.

A god who wants to level this whole town.

"Caleb," Molly says, entreaty and comfort, as much as he can give of either. "Caleb Widogast, sweetheart. Is this who you want to be?"

Caleb looks around the square, sees the terrified villagers. He shudders, turning his face to hide it in his god. She strokes the crown of his head, small green fingers curled in among the copper of his hair, expression concerned. They look at each other, eyes locked.

The god's whole demeanor changes. She smiles, crooked and loving, both hands cupping Caleb's face. Caleb shuts his eyes and she leans forward to rest their foreheads together. The plants around the square loosen their holds, sprouting flowers and fruit. Song rises up around them. The god releases Caleb to float back and away. She spreads her arms, smile growing bright and joyful. Leaves and loose petals swirl up in a wind that rises with her happiness. Molly tries to keep his eyes on him but he can't, he has to blink, to look away.

When the wind settles, the quiet is absolute. The town is full of wonder and new growth, climbing up the walls, carpeting the streets, all of it blossoming and beautiful.

Caleb and his god are gone. 

"Ah, shit," Beau says.

Molly shuts his eyes.

Chapter Text

It takes them a full day to decide what to do next.

There's a moment directly after Caleb vanishes that Molly thinks the town is going to panic. In this era of state-dictated religion, Molly doesn't figure very many of these people have ever run across something like an old god. Outside the empire, it's slightly more likely. Still rare, but a distinct possibility. Nobody who travels for a living goes long without getting some story or other.

It's different here. The empire has tried its hand at squashing the wild power in their lands for generations. Molly thinks it's fitting that some of that power seems to be lashing back. He wishes the wild luck. The empire is a mighty foe, but the mountains and forests and seas that spawn wild gods were here first, and have lived through the fall of more than one king.

The people of Adelaar face a choice. In the aftermath of the god's power, their city has been transformed into a lush, living garden. They can tear it down or let it grow. If he'd had time to put money down, Molly knows he would have bet on tear it down.

But they don't.

The citizens are instant converts to Caleb's god. They talk about her--about him--in excited whispers, exploring the plants with reverent touches. Not even the crownsguard seems immune. Molly would be amused at almost any other time.

Now, though, Caleb is gone. They have no idea how to find him, if they even should. He could be anywhere.

What's left of the Mighty Nein sit in the inn among a crowd of new-born nature devotees, each of them with a tankard and a heavy heart. Nott is an anxious wreck, carrying her tankard and flask both as she jitters around the legs of the people gathered in the bar, being excited together. With a drink in each hand, she doesn't have the ability to nab buttons for her collection. For the first time, she also doesn't appear to have an interest.

"Caleb wouldn't leave us," she says every time she vibrates by the table, ale sloshing over the rim of her ever-full tankard. "He wouldn't just leave us. He promised--"

"That was before he had his god though," Beau points out, cruel without meaning to be. "Y'have to admit, if it came down to us or her, we don't really stand a chance."

"Caleb didn't want to go," Jester protests. "You know if he could have, he would have stayed with us, Beau! Maybe if we could find him, we could--"

"What?" Beau says on a sigh. "Talk him into leaving his god to keep being part of the Mighty Nein? Be a witch alone so he can wander around killing monsters and earning gold?" She spreads her hands palms-up across the table. "What the fuck kind of draw do we have compared to her?"

Jester starts crying and Beau panics. 

"Shit!" she says, scrambling to get around the table. "Fuck! Sorry, I didn't mean to--!"

"Will we never see Caleb again?" Jester weeps into Beau's shoulder when the monk pulls her into the most awkward, sincere hug Molly has ever seen. "What was the last thing I said to him? I don't know, Beau, I can't remember!"

"Caleb wouldn't leave us," Nott says again, all but under the table as she paces near their feet. "Caleb wouldn't leave us."

Beau turns to Fjord and mouths help me so pointedly she might as well have just said it.

Fjord pats Jester's back. "There now," he says, slow and soothing. "This doesn't have to be the end of anything. His god might be free, but she's been captive a lot time. She's got one witch and no forest. She can't be powerful enough to've gone far. I'm sure if we look for new weirdness in the wilds around town, we can find her, and he'll be there too."

"And then what?"Beau asks, brash enough to voice Molly's own concerns. "We drag him away from a being that makes him whole? From a place where he belongs?"

"Caleb didn't seem to be fully in control of himself," Yasha says. "Let's not pretend we could take him from her, because we certainly couldn't. But we can agree to at least try and offer him the option of staying with us." She shrugs. "There might be a third choice we can't see. Would the Traveler want you to be unhappy?" she asks Jester, who sniffles and shakes her head. "I can't believe Caleb's god would want him to be either. There might be a way." She grips Jester's shoulder comfortingly but locks eyes with Molly. "It's too early to give up hope."

Molly feels like he should feel guilty for not clinging to the chance that they could get Caleb back, but what he actually feels is just...tired. Caleb is gone. His god is gone. They have no way to find either. As far as Molly can see, their best course of action at this point is to kill the harpies or rocs or whatever, collect their pay, and leave.

And then Frumpkin hops up into his lap.

Molly stares down at the cat in something closer to shock than surprise. Frumpkin stares back, tailing crooking into a question mark, and meows expectantly. The cat headbutts Molly's chest with a deep, thrumming purr, and Molly is certain that he is going to burst into tears.

Frumpkin is a part of Caleb. If Caleb were content to be separated from them--from Molly--Frumpkin would be where Caleb is. But Frumpkin is here. With the Mighty Nein. With Molly. Frumpkin came to find him.

Yasha is right. Yasha is always right. There are too many unknowns to be throwing hope away yet.

Molly bundles Frumpkin up in a delighted hug, burying his face in the cat's soft fur. "Thank you," he whispers into Frumpkin's rumbling side. The familiar meows again, squirming out of Molly's hold to scarf around his shoulders.

When Molly looks up again, Nott is already heading toward the door. The others are standing up. Jester looks happy enough to burst. 

"Are you ready?" Yasha asks him, a dozen questions in one.

The answer to all of them is, "Yes."

So they go.

Chapter Text

Frumpkin leads them to a forest.

It wasn't a forest yesterday.

It is one today.

That is as strong a clue as they're like to get regarding Caleb's whereabouts.

Admittedly, calling it a forest is a bit of hyperbole. It isn't anything near that grand in scope yet, although based on how quickly this change happened, that might just be a matter of time. When they arrived in Adelaar, this patch of earth was a small, lifeless valley between two steep cliffs. Perfect for harpies or really big eagles or whatever to roost in while not out eating sheep. Not really much other than that.

Now there's a trail of trees and bushes, new grass and flowers, lining a path between the valley walls. For trees that must have sprung up literally overnight, they look a year or so old. The trunks aren't any thicker than Yasha's forearms and sway alarmingly in the sharp wind running through the ravine. As they walk further in, the trees get taller, stronger, like a crescendo rising up toward the big reveal. 

Frumpkin winds them through the thickening foliage. The flowers are indescribably beautiful, impossibly vibrant in the sunlight dappling through the canopy. Molly wants to look at them more closely, wants to see which of them are perfuming the air with sweetness and which are just lovely to look at. What little of the cliffs he can still see are being actively climbed by a rainbow of roses. Molly watches them work their way higher, curling up the cracks in the slow, inevitable way of creeping things until Frumpkin meows expectantly.

In the closest, darkest part of this new stretch of woods, there is a glade, partitioned by thick draping curtains of vines. Frumpkin pushes through, so Molly does too, followed by the others. The unexpected meadow is lush with the most plush grass Molly has ever seen, so dense it almost springs like moss. In the center of the glade is a single tree, stocky, only about shoulder height, with a riot of stretching branches and hanging leaves like a willow. 

Caleb is with the tree. He kneels before it, fussing with the earth at its base. His hair burns red in the sunlight, richer than Molly's ever seen it. His boots are gone, his socks, his coat. The holsters with his books hang on the branches of a tree at the edge of the glade. The sleeves of his ragged shirt are rolled up to his elbows. His pants are cuffed halfway up his shins. He looks--

He's shining.

The witches in the stag's forest had been wild and beautiful, but it's nothing--

This is something else. 

Caleb is alone in the glade, just him and the tree, but song rises up around them. From the tree and the grass and the flowers and-- Caleb is singing again, that warm sweet tenor that makes Molly's heart ache. The forest sings with him.

Shadows pass overhead, and Molly looks up to watch a convocation of enormous eagles--not big enough to be rocs but still impressive--settle in among the tallest trees ringing the glade. Molly spends a moment being concerned for Frumpkin, then for Nott, either of whom would make a handy snack for the birds. Hell, they could probably take down Fjord, if two or three work together. But they don't move, except to shift on their perches, seeming content to watch Caleb and the tree. 

Molly wonders if maybe this is their sheep/child eating problem solved. If the tree, the witch, the god, can draw the eagles, maybe they'll draw game for them, too. This could be the start of a whole new ecosystem, especially if the town is too frightened or too devout to hunt here for a while as the animals get established. Then again, that might mean leaving the god, the witch, here. And that...

That is not ideal.

Finally, after a much longer period of stillness than Molly figured her capable of, Beau fidgets forward. "Are we gonna say something or just stand here for the rest of our lives?" she asks him in a terrible attempt at whispering.

Immediately, the atmosphere shatters. The singing vanishes, the eagles take flight, even the sun seems to dim.

Molly turns to Beau with his arms spread and raised in a fairly universal signal of what the fuck.

Beau shrugs defensively with almost her whole body. "Well! Somebody had to say something. Or were we just planning on standing here staring at Caleb's ass while he gardens all day?"

"I think Molly would like that, actually," Jester says.

"In other circumstances," Molly allows demurely, "but let's not be crass in the grove of a god."

Caleb half-turns from the tree, gaze almost drifting to where the rest of them stand. "Molly?" he says, uncertain, something like song in the way he says Mollymauk's name.

It sends a shiver up Molly's spine, regardless of how appropriate that reaction is. "I'm here, Caleb," Molly replies, not stepping forward--none of them is foolish enough to actually walk further into the glade without permission. "We're all here, Nott and Jester and Fjord and Yasha and even Beau."

"Hey," Beau says.

"Frumpkin brought us," Molly continues without pause. The familiar trots forward to butt his head against Caleb's knee. Caleb reaches down to absently stroke under his cat's chin, and the tree--the tree seems to giggle.

The tree is the god. Somehow. A...manifestation or avatar or. She is in the tree.

Molly hopes she can come back out again with enough encouragement because he does not want to explore the alternative, not even hypothetically.

"Caleb," Jester calls, "you really scared us, you know? You just left without even saying where you were going! You're lucky Fumpkin has better manners than you, really."

"Are you going to stay here?" Nott asks, nervously inching just a half step more into the glade. "Because if you...if you need to be here now, I can. That's something I can understand. Belonging somewhere, that's, that's important, right? We both know how important it is. How rare. But I hope you'll at least--" Nott swallows hard, shoulders hunched up near her ears, hands wringing so anxiously her bandages are starting to come loose. "Do you remember, we...we made a promise. Back. You know. Back there. I hope that promise is still good."

Caleb's head turns so one ear is cocked in their direction. His eyes and right hand are on the tree. His left rests on Frumpkin's back. Otherwise, he doesn't move. Doesn't acknowledge them. Won't?

"Will you let him talk to us?" Yasha asks.

Molly looks at her in surprise, but her eyes are on the tree. It hasn't occurred to him that maybe Caleb does't have a choice in this, that maybe he's as much a bystander as the rest of them, to the will of this wild god. "There's no harm in that, is there?" Molly asks, turning his attention to the tree, too. "All we want is to talk with our friend, see how he feels about things. You know his heart, don't you? You can see we're no threat."

The tree comes to life, animates before their eyes. The leaves and flowers shift together and up to form a small figure, the young girl from Adelaar, her hair and robe flowing around her without regard for gravity. Her eyes are dark when they turn to Molly, fathomless, deep as the sky or ocean and just as powerful. When she speaks, her expression changes but she doesn't open her mouth. Instead, her voice rises around them from the grass, the trees, almost the air itself. 

"Haven't I lost enough?" she asks. "Haven't you...temporary creatures taken everything you can and more from me? Now you ask for my witch? The only one I have left because of you. And you would take him!" She's curled up among the branches of her tree like a little cat, but now she stretches out, floating forward to drape her greenery over Caleb like a cloak. His eyes slide shut as his mouth curls into a smile more content than any Molly's ever seen. How can they ask him to leave this?

Molly's heart aches. He looks at Nott and sees his hopelessness reflected in the slump of her shoulders. Beau is scowling, Fjord and Jester are trading worried glances. Yasha is watching Molly and he knows her. He knows she's watching him to see what he'll do. How far he'll go.

How can they not ask Caleb to leave? How can they not at least ask him to stay with them? What are they without Caleb? He gave them their name. He's not someone they can just do without.

How can they give up without playing all their cards?

"Caleb's your witch," Molly says, taking as bold a step forward as he can, "but he's his own person too, isn't he? We wouldn't want to make him do anything he didn't choose for himself. How about you?"

For the first time, the god hesitates. She looks down at Caleb, at his sweet smile, then back over at Molly. "You will make your case," she says. "Alone."

Before anyone can question what she means, the ground rumbles. Most of the Mighty Nein are dumped off their feet. Caleb is unmoved. 

Molly stumbles forward. Away from the group.

Towering bramble shrubs burst out of the ground, enclosing the glade, locking Molly, Caleb, and his god in together.

And everyone else out.

Ah, fuck.

When Molly pulls his attention back forward, away from the newly formed barrier, he is nose to nose with the god. "Oh," he blurts, "little close there, sweetheart. Not that you aren't charming but personal space--"

"You have ten minutes to convince me," the god says from all around him. "Is this how you want to spend it, Mollymauk Tealeaf?"

"No," Molly admits, trying to glance around her at Caleb. "I'd much rather--"

"You would have us sacrifice the safety and power of a forest--even a new one--to wander this land alone. To what end?"

"Not alone," Molly protests. "With me. With us. With the Mighty Nein. We can keep you safe, with or without a forest."

The god tilts her head, nearly mocking. "And how many times has my Caleb fallen, in the safety of the Mighty Nein?"

"As many times as he's gotten back up," Molly says with a mocking smile of his own, temper getting the best of his charm. "He died, didn't he, back then? In the safety of your forest? You said he drowned, that they drowned him, and you had to bring him back to life." Molly spreads his arms. "And that in a full forest! Ancient, wasn't it, when they caught you? What can this patch of trees offer that the home of your power couldn't?"

The god flinches and Molly feels a moment of satisfaction chased immediately by regret. His plan, what he could make of one, had been to lay on the honey and all he's given her so far is vinegar, ground right down into her deepest wounds. 

"I'm sorry," he says, scratching the peacock tattoo curling up this throat. "I don't mean to fight you. You're...you're everything to Caleb." He shrugs when the god peers up at him curiously. "He's been a shadow of himself the whole time I've known him. I'd like to see what he's like, when he's not broken. I'd like to fight along side that Caleb for a time. I've wanted to know--" Molly sighs hard through is nose. "Well. If you're as close to him as you say you are, you're aware of what I want to know."

"If he can love you," the god says, curling through the air to look back at Caleb, whose eyes are still shut. "If he would love you, once he can. He's wanted to," she admits, turning once more to Molly. "It was one of the first things I felt in him, when I was freed. He really does--"

Molly lifts a hand to cut her off. "Not that I don't appreciate the sentiment," he murmurs. "But if it's all the same, I'd rather get it from the horse's mouth, as it were. Caleb can tell me what he wants me to know. Otherwise, I'd rather not hear it at all."

The god's face softens unexpectedly. "Oh, Mollymauk," she says, eyes crinkling with her smile. She touches a small hand to his cheek. "Shall we ask him?"

"He should get a say," Molly agrees immediately. "If he wants us to go, we will."

"And if he wants you to stay?" she asks curiously. 

Molly sighs a shivering breath. "I can't speak for most of the others, but good luck shaking off Nott, whatever either you or Caleb decide in that regard. As for me, I'm not usually one to stay put very well, but. I'd like to be with him, if he'll let me. Wherever he'll let me."

"Of all the beings in all the world." The god flows forward, eyes closed, to butt her forehead gently against Molly's. "How lucky we are, to have found you." She turns and extends a hand.

Caleb blinks awake, focused first on his god and then on Molly. A smile brightens his face like the sun. "You came," he said.

"I'm certainly hoping to at some point," Molly replies before he can help himself.

Caleb's fair skin flushes red with a speed and intensity Molly isn't used to. The few times he's coaxed a blush out of Caleb in the past, it's been noticeable but not anything as dark as this. It seems to go all the way down his throat. Even his ears are red. Molly stalks forward a few paces and wonders if this is how Frumpkin feels when he corners a little mouse.

Beside him, the god stifles a giggle in her hands. Or-- The giggling in the glade happens around them, and she has her hands pressed to her mouth. "Will you protect us?" she asks Molly.

"With my life," Molly agrees without even thinking about it.

The color is still high in Caleb's face when he says, "That's not a good thing to promise so easily."

"Who says it's easy?" Molly says. "I've stood between you and death before, Caleb. Even back before you were dear to me. If one of us has to go, I'd rather it were me. I don't have particular interest in exploring a world that doesn't have you in it."

"What do you say, my own?" the god asks Caleb, flowing over to him, leaving a trail of flowers wherever her shadow falls. "We could make a home of this place. It is close and protected. The eagles would make strong allies, I think." She gestures back at Molly. "Or we could go with them."

"We could not bring a tree for you to live in," Caleb says, eyes bright with worry. "It would be too easily destroyed. How would you travel?"

"I can live in trees," the god agrees, pressing a hand to Caleb's chest above his beating heart. "But I am not trees. I am life and new growth, the first buds, the ripening fruit, and I can live in my witch as easily as anywhere else." She pushes harder so her little hand slips inside Caleb's skin, absorbed into him as he takes a sharp breath. "Your bones and body are of my will, anyway. You would make a comfortable enough, if small, dwelling. There would be spillover," she warns him, withdrawing her hand. "You are an echo of my power now, but you are not enough to house it completely. I have never used a witch as my avatar; with a forest to live in, there was no need."

"Your forest sprawled farther than I was ever able to explore," Caleb murmurs. "I would be a...a poor stand-in. You would..." His expression goes sad and bleak enough that Molly fights the urge to bundle him up in a hug. "You would find me lacking, I think."

"You have been alone too long," the god says, nearly scolding. "You are mine and I am perfect. Do not insult me by insulting my coven."

A faint smile curves the edges of Caleb's mouth. "That may take some practice," he says. "But...I will try."

"Do you wish to stay?" she asks pointedly. "Or do you wish to continue traveling with them?" She tips her head toward Molly. "With him?"

Caleb looks at Molly and flushes again, less red this time and more a most charming pink. He fiddles his fingers and fidgets his toes. "Someday," he says softly, turning his eyes to his god, "I would like... We are of Zemni," he says, "and I would like... If we are going to have a forest again, I would like it to be there."

Molly and the god both blink in surprise. "The empire would never let you rebuild there," Molly protests. "That's madness, Caleb."

"Do you think it coincidence," Caleb says, still to his god, "that of all the people I could have joined with, all the opportunities I had to find partners, I found myself with these six? Half of whom have gods and patrons of their own, none of them approved by this empire?"

The god makes a considering sound. 

"Jester has her Traveler," Caleb says, counting companions out on his fingers. "Yasha has the Storm Lord. Fjord's power comes from an old god of the sea. Which one," he admits, "I do not know."

"It is of no matter to you," the god promises with a touch to Caleb's cheek. "He is known to me, and chose to free me from that prison rather than let me rot. I do not believe he would have chosen a host without a greater plan," she admits. "It is...possible, what you're implying. That older powers are stirring. There may yet be a reckoning with this mortal empire."

"If so," Caleb says, "we could return to Zemni, once it is done. Your roots could grow deep in the fields again. I will not say I miss it. What I miss of that time is gone forever, or else returned to me now. But I wish to hear again the songs the Zemni Fields once sang, someday."

The god smiles. "Very well," she says, then turns on Molly before his relief has a chance to fully form. "You said you would protect me," she says, sounding almost like a challenge. "Protect us. How did you plan to do that, now that we will be together? Magical beings will be able to sense me in Caleb," she emphasizes. "Some will be drawn to him. He is not human, though he looks it. He will still appear human, but the sense of otherness about him will intensify. Perceptive people will be able to tell, now, that he is different from them. How will you protect him?"

"With my charm and cunning," Molly says, covering his uncertainty with a showman's smile. "And my blades."

"How will you know when we're in danger?" she asks, floating around him, curling vines up his legs, down his arms.

"Uh," Molly says.

"I will not go into the world without guarantee of protection," she says.

Molly turns his head carefully so he can track her without breaking any of her plants. "I guarantee it." 

"How?"

"Uh." Molly looks to Caleb, who's watching the interaction with curiosity but no expectation. He doesn't appear to know what's going on but seems content to let it play out. No help in that corner. Molly offers the god an even more charming smile. "I'll stay very close."

"Always?"

Molly considers saying yes. He imagines spending the next few years following Caleb around, never giving him a moment's peace. In some situations, that sounds just fine. In others--using the toilet, for example, or exploring every dirty bookshop in the world for the chance of a magical find, or having Caleb always with him when he's trying to busk--it would be somewhat less ideal. That leaves out entirely all the times their group splits up to cover more ground, or the not inconsequential number of times Caleb just. Wanders off. 

In all honesty, Molly can't promise to be with Caleb every moment of the day, sleeping or waking.

He doesn't know how to promise to keep the god and her witch safe in any way that means anything.

"I'm willing to hear suggestions," Molly admits at last.

The god smiles. Her vines around Molly's left arm tighten nearly to the point of pain. "Would you open yourself to my power?" she asks. "Open yourself to Caleb's?"

Molly's mind is not always in the gutter. It only seems so today. He clears his throat as the god giggles again. "I could be persuaded," he says as seriously as he can.

"Listen to me, Mollymauk Tealeaf." The god drifts forward until they're nearly nose to nose, until all he can see is the endless dark of her eyes. "I am offering you a connection. You need not take it, but if you do, it will not be something easily given up. There are three in your party at the behest of gods. Will you be a fourth?"

"There's four already counting Caleb," Molly manages to say as his heart inexplicably starts racing. 

"Caleb is not at my behest," she corrects him. "He is of my will. There is a difference. What he is does not exist apart from me. You need not bind yourself. And, if you do, you need not maintain the binding, once it no longer suits you. Jester follows her Traveler for love, out of gratitude. Yasha feels a debt toward the Storm Lord and likely more besides. Fjord's agreement is his own and conditional. Caleb is mine; parting the two of us is as the parting of body from soul." She strokes the back of her fingers down one of Molly's horns, curling ivy and sweet flowers around it. "What say you, Mollymauk? Will you serve me?"

"Caleb seems to think we're collecting gods toward a greater purpose," Molly says, trying to ignore the way the living vines tickle as they crawl. "Perhaps it's time for me to join that club."

"That is not what I meant," Caleb protests, crossing the glade to rest a hand on Molly's right wrist. "This isn't a thing to do lightly, Molly. It has costs, being at her behest."

Molly looks down into Caleb's eyes, warmed by his concern. He's drawn, as ever, to this bedraggled man. Caleb sways a little closer into Molly's personal space, breath catching in his lungs, and it is gratifying to at last see the attraction Molly has always felt for Caleb reflected back to him in eyes the color of the summer sky.

"Will you tell me her name?" Molly asks, lifting a hand to stroke Caleb's cheek, reveling in the flush it brings to his skin, the way his pupils dilate. After being so distant for so long, to have Caleb end up being so responsive... 

"What?" Caleb croaks over the renewed giggling of his god.

"If I accept," Molly says, drawing his fingers from Caleb's cheek over his jaw and down his throat just to watch his blush spread, his mouth fall softly open, "will you tell me your god's name?"

"We don't speak it," Caleb whispers, free hand coming up seemingly on its own to press against Molly's chest, not to push him away but for balance as Caleb drifts ever closer. "It is...it is the beating of our hearts, the air in our lungs."

"Kind of a hard tune to follow." Molly wraps his right arm around Cable to pull him in snug, leaving his left arm with the god's vines free if she needs it. "Won't you teach it to me, sweetheart?" he says almost directly into Caleb's mouth.

"Will you serve me?" the god asks somewhere back behind them or around them or in them or--

Song is rising in the glade again. Caleb is so sweet in his arms, trembling with his face turned up toward Molly's like a sunflower. It matters that the god is there.

It just doesn't matter that much. Molly has more pressing issues at hand.

"Will you serve me?" the god asks a third time, the question like a melody of its own.

"I will serve you both," Molly says against the warm, thrumming pulse in Caleb's throat. 

"Molly," Caleb gasps, both hands gripped tight in Molly's shirt. "Mollymauk, I--"

"I won't live in a world without you, my dear," Molly interrupts, reveling in Caleb's heartbeat pressed against his own. "I will serve you both in life, or follow you thereafter. Show me the Zemni Fields someday, Caleb. Take me with you in the forest."

Caleb replies in that secret language that witches speak, fingers pressing deep and insistent into Molly's back. Molly pulls away from Caleb's throat, intending to go after his mouth instead.

And then: "I am Haintha," the god says, "of the groves and pools and sacred places in all deep forests. And I accept your service."

The vines around Molly's left arm cinch tight, spiking agony from his shoulder to his wrist and around his ring finger. Blood spirals down into the ground. Where it hits the grass, deep red flowers--tulips and roses--blossom in a moment. Molly hisses in pain as the plants writhe into his flesh. His knees buckle.

Caleb catches him, singing soft and soothing as he lowers them to the ground. The god Haintha spirals around them both and then plunges into Caleb's chest. Molly's witch gasps, folding forward until they're a tangled, panting mess of limbs, and not in the way Molly would have preferred. Molly's vision goes white and then black. He thinks he hears the others, shouting and coming closer. 

And then he knows nothing.

Chapter Text

When he wakes, Molly is warm and safe in bed, which is a nice development.

He is also alone in bed, which is absolutely against his goals.

There's no simple way to tell how much time has passed, if it's still the same day or if he's slept longer than that. The sun is out, spilling through the windows of the room he recognizes as the one he's renting at the inn in Adelaar. Caleb isn't with him.

At first, as he's sitting up, he doesn't give any thought to the certainty that Caleb is safe but somewhere else, somewhere out in town. Once he gets his feet on the floor, it dawns on him how strange a thing that is to know. He remembers the glade, remembers Caleb pressed close against him, remembers almost, almost getting the kiss he's angled for basically since he first set eyes on Caleb.

Then he remembers the god. Haintha. Accepting service to her. The pain that followed. He looks down at his left arm.

A tattoo of vines curls from around his ring finger up as far as he can trace, branching over his shoulder. Vibrant green leaves shift as Molly watches, as though they're alive. Based on how he got this...particular piece of art, that wouldn't be surprising. 

Jester comes in while Molly is watching a flower bloom on the underside of his forearm. "Finally!" she cheers when she sees him up. "I thought you would sleep forever."

"How long have I been out?" he demands, surging to his feet so he can put on his robe and find Caleb.

"At least an hour," Jester says, ignoring his attempted bustle to check on his new tattoo. "It healed really well! You were all bloody and stuff when we brought you back but now it's like really okay. I guess I should have expected that, if you got it from a god though, huh, Molly? Oh, it's moving! Look, Molly, you're growing flowers! Aw, red roses, are you thinking of Caleb? Do you think the Traveler would give me a cool moving tattoo if I really really wanted one?"

Molly pats Jester's head and tries to sort through her stream of consciousness. "Only an hour?" he says, surprised. "Where did everyone go, then?"

"Caleb is helping the town figure out what to do with their new fruit grove," Jester says, dancing out of the way when Molly ducks around her to look for his boots and coat. "Yasha and Fjord and Nott with went with him, in case anything crazy happens, and Beau went with Yasha because she's Beau."

"I think a bunch of fruit trees is called an orchard," Molly says, checking himself over quickly before leading the way outside. He wants to see Caleb, wants to touch him, to keep him safe and see how far Caleb will let him go before propriety or shyness intervene. Now that Caleb is whole and awake and looking back when Molly looks at him, there are so many things Molly wants to explore with him.

Also he wants to ask about his new body art.

"Hey Molly wait," Jester calls, trailing after him as Molly walks purposefully through the town. "Don't you want to know where we're going?"

"We're going to Caleb," Molly says, following a tug of certainty that lives in his bones. In his heart. In the mark of a god.

"Is this because of your new tattoo? Hey, Molly, if you got blessed by Caleb's god, and you're gonna work for her or something, does that make you a paladin?"

Molly stops hard, turning to look at Jester with surprise and a dawning sense of hilarity. 

Holy fuck it kind of does. He, Mollymauk Tealeaf, is a paladin of Haintha, an old god of the forest. He pledged himself to her and her witch, got a fragment of her power in return, apparently, and even if he doesn't know everything this mark can do he knows what it means. 

He's a tiefling blood hunter paladin.

It takes him a few minutes to stop laughing. By the time he's regained his composure, Jester's long since abandoned him. It doesn't matter, though.

Molly knows where he's going. Knows it in his blood.

The orchards fills the entirety of what used to be the town square. Caleb isn't here. Or-- Specifically, he's not among the milling townsfolk, who seem to be taking a survey of some sort of the dozens of trees that sprouted up overnight. Trying to figure out what they've got to work with now, probably. Or else figure out what can stay and what's in the way.

No, not that last one. Some of the adults are touching the trees reverently, murmuring under the canopy like they're in a grand cathedral. If Molly were to bet, he'd put his money on these people being more likely to tear down their own buildings than any of the plants. 

It would be funnier if Molly didn't kind of feel the same. As things stand, he looks at Caleb and his god with a similar level of interest--if, hopefully, a different flavor--and he can't find it in himself to tease these poor unsuspecting saps who got hit upside the head with a type of power that isn't even going to stay.

At least they got fruit trees out of it.

Molly sees Jester trying to get up into the branches of what might be a cherry tree. She can't reach, and the villagers look too uncertain to help her. Yasha solves the dilemma by lifting Jester onto one of her broad shoulders for a boost. Fjord looks nervous in the way he always does when one of them is pulling a stunt that might end in injury. Beau is beside him, admiring Yasha and being jealous of Jester at the same time. Nott and Caleb are nowhere to be seen. Molly knows where to go to find Caleb.

Nott finds Molly on her own. He's just left the grove, on his way to the outskirts of town where he can feel Caleb wandering, doubtlessly trying to find somewhere to hide from all the people in this town who want to build statues of him

Molly considers Caleb's likely reaction to being asked to sit for an art study and has to stop to laugh again. His feelings are positively buoyant, as bright and happy and hopeful as he was dark with despair only...this morning, was it? Earlier today?

Stopping to laugh is how Nott catches him. She pops out of an alley, scaring a decade off his life, and motions for him to follow her. Molly's stupid with happiness, which is the only reason he can think of later for why on earth he'd just go after her without question.

When they're alone and hidden from view, Nott looks around nervously, beckoning him closer. He bends, then crouches, until they're at eye-level.

Nott strikes.

Her hands dart out, quick as snakes, to grab fistfuls of Molly's shirtfont. She yanks him toward her so abruptly that he tips forward onto his knees, landing hard. If this whole town weren't carpeted in plush grasses and clover, Molly might almost have been hurt. "I know you love him," Nott says in opening. Understanding and humor rise in Molly like fizz in champagne.

He knows what this is.

"If he doesn't love you yet," she continues, giving Molly a little shake to make sure she's got his attention, "he will soon. I know Caleb. I know my boy. I know he wanted to when he couldn't, and now he can, so. You're a when, not an if." She shakes him again. "And I know it."

"I won't hurt him," Molly says. "That's something you should know too, Nott. I might not be your boy, but I'm your friend. We've been through a lot. You've seen what I feel for him, clearly. I won't hurt him."

"You won't mean to," Nott agrees with a curl of a smile. She places a hand on the skin exposed by the deep cut of his shirt, curling her fingers so her claws almost, almost press deep enough for blood. "You would never mean to. But Caleb's been hurt by people who didn't mean to as often as those who did. He would never hold you responsible for it. If he loves you, he'll never make you pay back any pain you cause." Nott leans forward, yellow eyes sharp and deep with the purest intent Molly's ever seen. "I will, Mollymauk. If you hurt my boy, on purpose or otherwise, you'll pay reparations to me, and I'll get them to him. You can do that on your own terms or leave me to mine, but I will see it done."

She leans back with a warm, terrifying smile and pats his chest. "Welcome to the family, Molly."

Then she leaves.

Molly is both impressed and a little worried.

But that's trouble for another day.

He gets up, brushes off his pants, and listens for the little tug he's sure is Caleb. Or, if not Caleb specifically, then Haintha in Caleb, which is pretty much the same thing at this point. He's--

Hmm. Peculiar.

He's back somewhere near the inn.

Molly finds him fussing with some strawberries growing up the side of their temporary home. "I hope I'm not interrupting," he says as cheekily as he can. 

Well, eventually. He does stand for a long moment watching Caleb bend and stretch as he follows the plant roots-to-leaves. Molly's never claimed to be a saint.

Caleb looks back over his shoulder at him, surprise melting into something hotter. "Hello," he says. "It took you longer to find me than I thought it would."

"Does it go both ways, then?" Molly asks, slinking closer. "I can feel you, you can feel me?" He grins. "We'll have to explore that in more, uh. Shall we say, more in depth."

A lovely red flush works from Caleb's cheeks down his throat. He really is very responsive. 

This is going to be, just. An indescribable amount of fun.

"I am worried it is not what you bargained for," Caleb says, looking down.

Molly tries not to frown and is only mildly successful. "What, becoming the paladin of an old god? I didn't go in with any expectations, love. Not much precedence for this kind of thing." He shrugs when Caleb's eyes lift to his again. "Tieflings don't generally go in for the paladin life. To say nothing of blood hunters. And a combination of the two?" He stretches a leg out to bump his boot lightly against the side of Caleb's still-unshod foot. "We're in all kinds of new territory here."

"A witch with a god but no forest," Caleb muses, closing the remaining distance between them to tangle his right hand in the bundle of shirt tucked into Molly's pants. Molly pulls his hands out of his pockets so his arms hang loose and harmless. "A god who sleeps in her coven instead of in the heart of her power. Both bound to a tiefling blood hunter paladin." Caleb presses his forehead against Molly's collarbones and laughs, rough and low, a sound that rolls through Molly like thunder. "Yes. This does seem to be an unusual sort of situation."

"You know what I'd like us to be," Molly says, deep and quiet, still not touching. "You know I've wanted you with me in a lot of ways for a long time. But I don't..." He shakes his head. "You aren't a prize or a reward. You aren't anything that can be given to me by anyone other than yourself. I don't want you obligated, Caleb."

"I could say the same to you," Caleb mutters into Molly's skin, rising goosebumps all up and down his arms. "You tied yourself to my goddess. You can feel her--feel me. Even if you wanted to change your mind, could you...?" He rolls his forehead against Molly's scars. "It seems... How can this be ethical, Molly? How can I have what I want from you and be certain it's what you want too?"

Molly heaves a full, laughing sigh. "Ah, Caleb." He lifts his arms to wrap them around the wizard--his witch. "Don't you remember? I chose you a long time ago, however much of you there was to choose. You held your hand out for me in a forest that wasn't yours, and I took it. I loved you before you were whole. When you were a shadow of yourself. Now that you're back, fit right in your skin, gorgeous and willing with your own heart to give, you think I'll change my mind?" He buffs a kiss into Caleb's red hair. "I'll wait as long as I have to, if it'll make you more comfortable. If it'll help you feel sure. But I'm here, Caleb. For you, with you. In every way you'll have me." He pulls back and waits until Caleb glances up at him, then wiggles his eyebrows outrageously. "If you get my meaning."

Caleb blinks and then laughs, shaking his head. "You're a terrible man, Mollymauk," he says fondly. 

"I can be very, very good," Molly promises.

"I'm sure you can," the witch says with a demure, teasing flutter of his eyelashes and a shiver that feels more sincere.

Molly knows himself fairly well by now. He is perfectly aware that if he doesn't change the subject here pretty quick, he's going to end up in a place where it's hard to keep his promises to Caleb. So he says, "Did you teach the townsfolk everything they needed to know?"

"I... What?" Confusion furrows Caleb's brow. "Oh, uh. Yes?" He fidgets in Molly's hold. "I am... To be honest, I do not much care if they succeed in keeping this little grove alive. It is better for trees to flourish than not," he admits, "but I have my god and we are leaving this place soon enough. Other trees will grow where we are, and we will not stay to tend them." He shrugs. "They will be successful or the trees will die. Either way, I will not know."

"It's gonna be a shock when they realize the forest doesn't have an old god living in it anymore," Molly chuckles. "Do you suppose, if they're devout enough, a god of their very own will spring forth?"

"There is a tree in a grove in a ravine watched by great eagles," Caleb says. "A wild god built that tree to live in it. I think, if any forest had a chance of one day housing a new coven, surely this is one." He looks up at Molly, both hands tangled in his shirt now. "You are avoiding my point, I think."

"I'm not," Molly protests. "I'm...putting the ball in your court, so to speak. I'll be here all the same, whatever you plan to do with it."

"Ah." Caleb's fingers drum nervously. "I...haven't much experience," he admits with a squirm, "will...balls and courts. What?" he demands when Molly doubles over laughing. "What! It was your metaphor, now it is-- Do not make fun of me, Mollymauk, I am trying--!"

"No," Molly giggles, pulling Caleb into a hug when the witch seems set on pouting. "No, I'm sorry, I'm not laughing at you. Don't worry, we'll get your mind as dirty as mine in the blink of an eye." He tilts Caleb's face up to kiss his forehead, either cheek, both eyelids. "Don't be angry, sweetheart."

"...Perhaps I could be convinced not to be," Caleb allows with a glint in his eye that Molly hasn't seen before, that makes his heart race and his breath catch. "If you are very persuasive."

"Thought you said you didn't have a lot of experience," Molly drawls, dragging his thumb over Caleb's lower lip just to watch him gasp. "That was a bold thing to say."

"I was seventeen when the forest died," Caleb says, eyes drifting shut as Molly traces all the lines of his face. "You know what I was like, after. Now it is like I am back to being that person and I... Well." He touches Molly's cheek. "I think you would be a good teacher." His gaze drops to Molly's mouth. "Thorough."

That is...an enormous chunk of Caleb's life lived without desire. If Caleb had lived the rest of it that way, Molly still would have wanted to be with him. But now...

Molly has a bounty of delights he'd like to show Caleb. To sample with him.

He starts with a kiss.

There are only a handful of inches separating Molly's height and Caleb's, but Molly takes advantage of every one. He crowds up close in Caleb's personal space, delighting in the way the witch's breath catches as he tips his head back. Molly cups Caleb's face in his hands, sharing a heartbeat of breath before he touches their mouths together.

Molly means to start slow. His intent is to let Caleb set the pace, share as many sweet kisses as Caleb wants until he's comfortable sharing more. 

It turns out Caleb's plan is not the same.

He slots his mouth against Molly's hungrily, wrapping one arm up around Molly's neck and the other tight behind his back. Molly's heart flutters first in surprise, then gives a solid thud as he decides he likes Caleb's idea better. He can absolutely get on-board with this.

Molly grips Caleb's hips, one hand on either sharp bone, and makes a mental note to start feeding the witch more. Surely that's within his purview as a paladin of Caleb's god. He bets-- Yes, it's true. When he slides his hand up under Caleb's ratty shirt (he makes another note, somebody had to dress this beautiful, wild creature properly), he bumps his fingers over every rib all the way up. Caleb shivers and shakes, which Molly soothes with stroke of his thumb and a wicked grin against the resulting gasp.

Caleb presses impossibly closer until they're a solid line of heat from chest to knees. Molly breaks away from the kiss, ignoring Caleb's whine to bite carefully under his jaw, down his throat. He sucks a bruising mark into a thrumming pulse.

The sound Caleb makes then is one Molly is not willing to share. He crouches low, pausing long enough to watch Caleb's eyes pop open in surprise and interest as blood stains his cheeks. Molly dances his fingers along the ties of Caleb's pants because he is first and foremost a tease.

Then he settles his shoulder in Caleb's stomach and stands. Caleb flops over him with a surprised squawk, hands scrambling for purchase against his back.

"Mollymauk, what are you--!"

"Surely you didn't think I'd take you out in the open in broad daylight against a wall of an inn," Molly chuckles, walking out of the alley and toward the front door. "Not our first time, anyway. Have some restraint, Caleb! My modesty may never recover."

"Your modesty," Caleb splutters as Molly saunters them through the busy bar and up the stairs, ignoring the stares and whispers as well as he does the laughter and whistles.

"You'll find I'm a considerate lover, Caleb," he says piously. "I would never expose other people to the kinds of shenanigans upon which we're about to embark." He flings open the door to the room Caleb shares with Nott, assuming his witch will be more comfortable in a familiar location. When he sets Caleb back on his feet, Caleb wobbles a bit, so Molly pulls him flush, pressing them together in a way he's sure will soon become one of his favorite things. "I want you to sing for me," he murmurs into Caleb's mouth. "Only for me."

Caleb swallows hard. "I think that could be arranged," he says, half a melody already in his cadence. He winds both arms around Molly. "If you are very good."

"And if I'm very bad?" He drags his mouth down the unmarked side Caleb's long, pale throat, rising a blush in his wake.

Caleb makes a strangled noise that isn't quite a whimper and isn't yet a song. But that's fine.

Molly's got all day.

He kicks the door closed blindly, walking them both backward and up onto the bed.

And begins his life in service to Caleb.

Chapter Text

Caleb Widogast is a witch without a forest. He carries his god in his bones, carries her song in his blood. They are crossing the world together, in search of a place safe enough to put down roots. Willing to make one, if they must.

Caleb is a wizard, master of forces that once ended his world. He will grow more powerful, will develop the skills required to ensure no one ever takes anything he loves from him ever again. His determination pleases his god, who is amused by human magic. Her gifts come to him more naturally--are an extension of her will, her power using him as a conduit, as he was born to be used--but they both enjoy when he adds a new trick to his repertoire. 

Caleb has a family, now, who travels with him. Not one of them is like the others. He has his goblin, his tiefling, his sisters from all different races, his half-orc brother with an old god of his own. They have disparate goals and it doesn't matter. They will find success together, or not at all.

He is not alone. Not in his body, not in his heart, not in his bed, not anywhere or in any way that matters. Someday he will find his way back to the Zemni Planes, freed of the clutching hand of the empire. His god will come with him, and the paladin she made of a blood hunter, and hopefully some of the others too. They will be happy and together, safe, free to thrive in the forest they grow with their own hands.

Most unexpected of all, Caleb Widogast has a future. He twines his hand with Molly's, laces their fingers together. When his tiefling looks at him curiously, Caleb tugs him close for a kiss they both smile into.

Caleb has a future, and it is a bright one.