Chapter Text
Men are flawed. They do not remember history, and they do not remember it right. But you — you were born with an ancient gift, to remember the way things were, the way things have been, and to know how they may be. When the world forgets, it is your responsibility to remember, to catalogue, to retell.
You hold the story of the world in your hands. Take care of it.
— excerpt from the College of Lore's mission statement
There’s an air of peacefulness here, even though it’s a bustling city. Tucker takes a deep breath and gets — spices, fruit, roasted meat, caramel apples, taffy.
It’s a Harvest Festival.
It’s a big, beautiful festival, and Wash looks nauseous.
Tucker nudges him with his elbow. “Hey, cheer up.”
“I really don’t feel good.” He’s mentioned this a couple of times, and he doesn’t really strike Tucker as one to complain.
“Uh, okay. Okay, let’s get you somewhere.” Tucker puts an arm around him and navigates them to the closest inn. The woman renting rooms takes one look at them, though, and pushes Tucker’s coin back across the counter.
“No can do with that one.”
“Hey, come on!” Tucker tries to hoist Wash up to a standing position. “He’s okay.”
“He’s got something and he’s not bringing it here.” She jerks her head. “Try the temple.”
Tucker sighs. “Which one?”
“That one.” She points to the symbol around his neck. “Crazy moon worshipper, right? Edge of town, it’s hard to see, but you’ll know it.”
“Thank you,” Tucker says and half carries Wash out of the inn. “Dude—” He puts a hand on his chest, hums a few notes of healing, which makes Wash groan and stand a little straighter. “Aren’t you supposed to know where these places are?”
“Very new to this,” he says, but he touches the symbol of Selune around his neck and focuses for a few seconds before nodding. “Alright. It’s this way.”
They skirt around the festival — the meat makes Wash gag — and find themselves in the darker part of town, barely making it through the door of the Temple of Selune before Wash pitches forward again.
“Oh gosh.” A human man shuffles forward and kneels down by Wash’s head. “That’s no good, is it?”
“He said he felt sick earlier today. It’s just been getting worse.”
The man nods. “Right.” He snaps his fingers and a few robed figures materialize, their shadowy hands lifting Wash and carrying him into another room. The man turns to Tucker and smiles. “It was smart of you to bring him here. We’ll have him right as rain in no time. Can I get you a beverage? Or maybe you’d like to enjoy the festival? The evening is always an exciting time.”
Tucker’s a little bowed over by the man’s cheerfulness, but he says. “No, thanks. I’ll wait to see how he does. I could use a place to stay, if it’s available.”
“Certainly, certainly.” The man waves him through the temple and leads him into a room. “You two are our only guests tonight, so our home is yours…”
“Tucker.”
“Tucker it is, then.” He bows his head and closes the door behind him.
* * *
Tucker allows himself to sleep in for the first time since he and Wash separated from their friends. Wash is a notoriously early riser, and where Tucker would rather wait until at least after sunrise, Wash is already up and ready to go by the time dawn is barely breaking over the horizon. So Tucker’s really not surprised when he wanders out into the temple and hears Wash talking with the man who took them in last night.
He even looks kind of thrilled to be there.
“Tucker! You’re up!”
Tucker nods and takes a cup of tea offered to him by one of the odd, spectral servants he met the night before. “Yeah. You seem healthy. And cheerful.”
“I feel a lot better. And, I’m catching up.” He gestures across the table. “This is Florida. We were in the Order together.”
“It’s Flowers now, Wash. Please.” Flowers extends a hand to Tucker, who takes it. “It’s always good to talk with old friends. And always nice to hear they’ve recovered. I’m so sorry you went through that Wash.”
“My own doing.”
“Your path was always going to be a trying one. How are you taking to your new devotion?”
“Well enough. I had no idea you were a follower of Selune.”
Flowers nods. “A handful of years ago. After I chose to leave the Order, I needed direction. Corman Keep was in need of a holy man, and I was in need of purpose. The Moonmaiden...found me.” He points. “That symbol around your neck looks ancient. May I see it?”
Wash touches it, briefly. Hesitates.
“You’ll have it back,” Flowers assures him.
“...Alright.” Tucker watches as he lifts the symbol over his head and passes it across the table. “It belonged to the cleric who saved me. I don’t know what he’ll do without it—”
“I’m sure another can be found. This one is truly special. See here?” Flowers turns it over. “I take it Caboose was the family it belonged to?”
“Yes.”
“It must have been with them for ages. Very old metal. Classic craftsmanship. You don’t see symbols like this too often. Worth a fortune, too, I’ll bet.”
Something about that makes Tucker uneasy, and he can tell Wash is feeling the same way. He twitches his hand in his lap and the pitcher of juice spills across the table, flooding Flowers’ lap.
“Oh, shoot.” The symbol fumbles from his hand. Wash snatches it up, loops the string around his neck. “Look at me, all these years later and I’m still knocking things over onto myself.” Flowers laughs. “Will you excuse me? I need to freshen up. Then maybe the three of us can check out that festival.” He leaves, taking his servants with him.
When the kitchen is empty, Tucker turns to Wash and says, “We need to get out of here,” right as Wash does.
He grins. “You get the same feeling I did?”
“Uh, yeah? Also, you have terrible taste in friends. Like, Carolina? Fine. But this guy? How about we don’t hang out with anymore of your old Order buddies again.”
“No problem here. Let’s go.” They both get up from the table —
And Flowers is standing in the doorway.
“Leaving so soon?”
Tucker nods. “You know, we’re really kind of on a timetable. I’ve got somewhere sort of important to be? And Wash is—”
“I know what Wash is.” Flowers looks at him. “I never suspected you’d be the first one to break. Leave the Order, sure. After Connie was gone, you were sort of alone. I figured you’d go back to whatever hole in the ground most tieflings crawl out of. But I never expected you to break your oath. And I never could have expected you to bring so much gold, right here, and drop it in my lap.”
From behind his back, he produces Tucker’s rapier.
Tucker growls. “Hand that over.”
“Elven craftsmanship, no? Finely balanced, tuned like an instrument. Perfect weapon for Blade such as yourself. Particularly a wanted Blade.”
Wash glances at him. Tucker rolls his eyes. “Let’s not go there, alright?”
“Alright, fine. Formerly wanted Blade. But wanted by your old troup, am I right? You don’t just leave the Blades of Valhalla and expect a handwave and a goodbye. You left with quite a bit of gold, and you left with this.”
Tucker snorts. “Yeah, you really don’t have your story straight, dude. Fun fact? I didn’t leave my troup. They left me behind. And that sword? Doesn’t do what you think it does.”
Flowers laughs. “And what do I think it does, Tucker?”
Tucker shrugs. “Work.” And he draws back his hand, forcing the blade to dematerialize in Flowers’ grasp, and reappear in his hand. “Magic swords sometimes do that. What can I say?”
Flowers raises a brow. “Interesting.”
Wash laughs. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
“I find maintaining a consistent persona lets people know what to expect. But, you know better than anyone here, Wash. I sometimes do the unexpected.” He snaps his fingers and the spectral servants appear behind them, grabbing their arms and pulling them back. Flowers steps forward and, with a twist of his hand, yanks the symbol from Wash’s neck. “You shouldn’t have trusted me. That was your mistake. But! It was very nice to catch up!” He makes a face of genuine remorse. “I really hope there’s no hard feelings about this. A man’s gotta make a living!” He turns and waves over his shoulder. “Catch you later, boys!” And he steps forward through a spectral doorway and disappears.
* * *
After the servants have dissolved and Wash has finished swearing, they search the temple and find the real priest in charge, tied up in the wine cellar. They rouse him, get his story, and gather their things.
“I can’t believe I fell for that.”
Tucker’s heard him say this sixteen times, so he takes a book from his bag of holding, turns around, and hits Wash upside the head with it.
“Ow!”
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself. We’ll find him. He used dimension door,” Tucker says. “Like a fucking amateur. He zapped himself 500 feet out of here, and then ran as far as the servant spell could last before it wore off, which is only another couple hundred feet. Odds are he’s still in town, trying to find a way out.”
“He’s going to sell Caboose’s symbol.”
“Not before we find it.”
Wash frowns. “Can we?”
“Yes. Of course we can.” Tucker swings his bag across his chest. “I’m a bard, baby. I’m good at everything. It’s a talent.”
“While that is brilliant and inspiring—”
“I don’t like your tone.”
“—we need a better plan than being good at everything. Flowers wasn’t a slouch when he was in the order.”
“Was he a thief?”
Wash frowns. “...No. He wasn’t. I mean the unsettling cheerfulness was always something he had, but stealing stuff wasn’t his game.”
Tucker shrugs. “People change. You should know,” he adds.
Wash raises a brow. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess I would.”
* * *
A few people in town have seen someone matching Flowers’ description, but they don’t have a lot of luck figuring out where he might have gone until a woman points to a speck of a caravan traveling away from Zhentil Keep.
Tucker yanks his lyre from its place on his back and says to Wash, “Grab my arm, and don’t let go.”
“Uh, why—” he starts to ask, but Tucker plucks the right notes and they’re suddenly five hundred feet ahead and the caravan is suddenly a lot closer.
“And that’s how you dimension door!” he crows.
Wash lets go of him and draws his sword. “Brag about it later, we have to stop them!”
Tucker can see a few people on the caravan turn their heads, speak to one another. Flowers stands up on the end and shades his eyes against the sun to peer at them. Tucker sees him grinning and he kind of wants to beat it off his face, but he also really wants to know how one person stays so fucking cheerful. He swings his lyre back and pulls out his rapier.
Flower holds up a hand and the caravan stops. He jumps down as Wash and Tucker close the distance.
“You’re quick to act, bard.”
“You took something that doesn’t belong to you. Hand it over.”
Flowers laughs. “I really don’t think that a Blade of Valhalla should be schooling me on taking things without asking, but—” He shrugs, reaches into his bag and pulls out a metal box. “If you really want it,” he says, “then maybe we can trade.”
Tucker grips the hilt of his rapier. “...This sword isn’t for sale.”
“Nor is it functional for anyone but you, it would seem. No, no. I’m interested in something a bit more valuable than that.”
Wash puts a hand on Tucker’s arm. “This is a bad idea. Just let him have it.”
“That belongs to Caboose. You’re just going to let him walk away with it?”
“Tucker, you don’t want to make a deal with him—”
“Let the boy speak...Fearnot.”
Wash looks at Flowers sharply, hisses something awful at him. Flowers laughs.
“You still have spunk, Wash. I always liked you.” He turns back to Tucker. “I’ll give you the symbol,” he says. “If you give me a song.”
Tucker falters. “A song?”
Flowers nods. “That’s right. You play me a song, and then it belongs to me. You forget where you heard it, you forget why you knew it. You forget the words, the notes, and everything in between.” He opens the box and pulls out the symbol of Selune, dangling it between his fingers. “You do that, and Wash here can have this back.”
Wash grips his arm tighter. “Don’t—”
“Alright.” Tucker sheathes his rapier, takes his lyre from his back. “I’ll do it.”
Flowers grins. “Excellent! I love this. I love you, I really do.”
Tucker sighs and strums a chord.
“Something important,” Flowers says, earnestly. “Not life changing, but something that matters.” He holds up the symbol. “In exchange for something else that matters.”
“Right.” Tucker closes his eyes, thinks on the songs he’s written, the people he’s written them for. He’s a bard, they’re all important. But Flowers is looking at him expectantly, and he’s running out of time.
He sings, “Kiss the flame, let a righteous heart be free again, though my hands are very far away, I write to you dear Adelaide, dear Adelaide, my sweet Adelaide.”
Flowers puts a hand over his heart. “That is touching. And also mine.” He snaps his fingers, and Tucker feels a pull at the corner of his mind, and suddenly —
He looks down at the lyre, a little confused as to why he’s pulled it out in the first place. Flowers tosses the symbol to Wash.
“A decent altercation, boys. And you never know, you might get that song back someday, Tucker.”
Tucker frowns. “What song?”
“Exactly.” Flowers looks at Wash. “I hope there’s no hard feelings. We did used to have fun together, didn’t we?”
“Different time,” Wash says, but he smiles.
“You know what caused it. You know why I couldn’t stay.”
Wash nods. “I know.”
“Then don’t hold this against me. Only...next time you meet someone from the old Order, don’t be so quick to trust, Wash. It’s not a very endearing quality.” He winks and hauls himself back into the caravan. “Alright then, fellas. Off we go.” The caravan begins to pull away. Tucker feels...tired.
As he sways on the spot, Wash puts out a hand to steady him. “You alright?”
“Uh, yeah. Yeah I’m fine.” He puts his lyre away. Feels kind of useless right now. “Symbol’s alright? Nothing weird about it? No curses? Traps?”
“I think it’s fine.”
Tucker nods. “Right. We should head back into town, get some supplies.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Wash loops the cord around his neck, places his hand over it for a moment before he asks, “Are you sure you’re alright? What you did was...you didn’t have to, Tucker.”
“That used to belong to Caboose. He gave that to you because he thought it was important. It’s not winding up with some sleazy cleric so he can pawn it for coin. It belongs with you.” Tucker turns and starts heading back into town. “I don’t wanna do this feelings shit anymore today, alright? I’m all good.”
Wash laughs. “Fair enough,” he says, and falls into step beside Tucker.
* * *
They’re sitting around a fire that night, well away from town. Wash turns to him and asks, “Who’s Adelaide?”
Tucker shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
Donut had never traveled with anyone before this. He’d spent most of his life on his family’s farm, until he woke up one day and realized there was no amount of gold anyone could pay him to live this way any longer. It’d been hard on his parents and his sisters, but he knew exactly what it was he wanted to do. He took most of what he had and he sold it, put that money toward a mandolin, and found a college that would take him.
Telling stories had always been one of his favorite things to do, and his mother had told him for years he had talent. He wasn’t always sure she meant it, but it’d been nice to hear.
Sometimes when they’re knee deep in trouble, Donut kind of misses the farm life. As he plays his mandolin and sends out a wave of psychic energy at an oncoming pack of wolves, he really misses the farm life.
“Donut, stay on that left one!” Grif shouts. He swings his sword, casting a powerful smite at a wolf that lunges for him.
“No!” Sarge bellows. “Stay on the right one!”
“Stop confusing him!” Grif kicks at the wolf.
“Stop pretendin’ like you know strategy!”
“Stop acting like you’re in charge!”
From the back, Simmons yells, “Can we please focus?” He swipes his quarterstaff and a swarm of thorny vines appear from a point under the wolves and yank them back. It’s a hard won victory, and Donut is close passing out when the last wolf lets out a how of pain as Grif spears it with his sword. He drops to one knee, breathing heavy. He has a bite wound in his arm and three heavy scrapes across his stomach.
Simmons puts a hand on his shoulder. The scratches knit back together and the bite wound stops bleeding. “You okay?”
Donut nods. “Sure,” he says. “Peachy.” Simmons’ hand moves down to help him stand.
As Donut gets to his feet, Grif sheaths his sword and closes the distance between himself and Sarge. “You are not in charge of this fucking disaster of a group.”
“Son, you have got no leadership experience whatsoever. I once led a batallion—”
“In a war that ended without you,” Grif snaps. “I asked Donut to go left because he had them. He got hurt because you confused him.”
Sarge scowls. “He got hurt because you made a tactical error.”
“Dukhal!” Grif shouts. Orcish, Donut thinks. He doesn’t hear Grif speak it very often. “I swear, every fucking day you give me more of a reason to leave your ass tied to a tree!”
“Enough!” Simmons shouts. “Stop it, both of you!” He turns to Grif. “You’re being ridiculous. Neither of you has a right to order Donut around, he’s perfectly capable of handling himself. Grif, tell Sarge you’re sorry—”
“Fuck him!”
“Sarge, you tell Grif you’re sorry—”
“Eat shit and die, half-breed!”
Grif shouts, draws his sword — and finds himself held back by a thick rope of vines.
Simmons grips his arm tight, his free hand glowing. “Stop it. We’re supposed to be a team. We’re supposed to have each other’s back.” He leans closer. Donut just barely hears him say, “Get it together, Grif.”
“Tell him—”
“No.” Simmons lets go. “I’m done mediating. You two need to work it out.”
Sarge huffs. “Nothin’ to work out. He doesn’t like me, never has.” He sniffs and pockets one of the flasks he was using in the fight. “I won’t contradict your...orders in battle if you...if you recognize I have some authority—”
“The military you once served was dissolved. It no longer exists,” Grif says. “You have nothing. You are nothing—”
“Grif!” Simmons shoves him back. “That’s enough!”
“Don’t touch me—”
Donut sighs. He plucks a few notes on his mandolin as Simmons now joins the fight, and the three of them begin shouting, each trying to be louder than the other. He closes his eyes, starting to hum a quiet tune.
He learned during his first months at the College how to calm the people around him. He took to it quite quickly, actually. There was something about knowing a song that could change the air, could relax muscle and soothe aching hearts. That’s what he feels, now — Grif’s pain of being separated from his sister, working with Sarge who still sometimes says things he shouldn’t. Sarge’s pain of being a man out of time, of never being able to go back to his home, trying to make Grif understand.
And then Simmons’ pain, of not knowing what to do, not knowing where to stand.
Donut plays a song, casts his magic out, and the fighting begins to wane.
Simmons smiles at him, looking grateful. Grif unclenches his fists and steps back. Sarge’s stance relaxes.
“I’m just...tired,” Grif says. “I’m sorry, sir. I...I shouldn’t have shouted.”
Sarge grunts. “No apology necessary. Shouldn’t have...said what I said.” He glances toward Donut. “Your arm alright, son?”
“Yep.”
“Good.” He sniffs and turns away from them, walking toward the wolves and picking through them, seeing what bits and parts he can salvage.
Donut sits down and keeps playing, if only to listen to something other than Grif and Simmons muttering to one another under their breaths.
He doesn’t like to eavesdrop, but it’s not his fault the hearing in his right ear is exceptional.
“—have to stay calm.”
“Then tell him to stop with the half-breed shit—”
“Please stop putting me in the middle of this,” Simmons says. “I love you, I do, but you need to deal with this on your own. I can’t fix this. I’m sorry,” he adds, and Donut sees him reach out and cup Grif’s cheek. “I’m sorry you feel this way. I’m sorry you’re upset.”
“I know you are. I know.” Grif leans forward and kisses him.
Donut plays a little louder.
* * *
They walk in silence down the road. Donut has a map they bought a few days ago, after Sarge’s insistence that he knew a shorter way to the northern coast sent them back several miles. That might also explain why Grif seems to be out for blood a bit more than usual, but they’re heading in the right direction now.
“It’s really a great day to cover some ground,” Donut says. They’re all quiet, but the tension is still there. Donut’s not too fond of it. He chatters for a bit, wandering from front to back. Only Simmons answers his questions, and eventually even he grows silent.
It’s getting close to nightfall when they make it over the crest of a hill and, before them, the city of Sigil lays spread out before them.
“A proper city,” Sarge says.
Grif nods. “We could get a decent meal.”
“Stock up on supplies,” Simmons mutters.
Donut smiles. He’s glad they all finally agree on something.
They still have to get to Sigil, and it’s at least another hour of walking through the thinly wooded forest that lays around the southern edge of the city. With a goal in mind, everyone’s spirits seem a bit lighter. It’s probably why they don’t notice what Donut does — Grif and Simmons are talking to one another, getting distracted, teasing. Sarge thinks he spots bear tracks and gets excited.
Donut looks to the left and see a man hanging from a tree.
“Holy crap!” He breaks away, running off the path. “You guys!” He runs toward the man, getting a better look at him. It’s not a proper noose around the man’s neck, so Donut isn’t surprised to get close to him and still hear him breathing. He pulls out a dagger and cuts through the rope, holding the man’s legs and lowering him to the ground.
“Donut, what the hell?” Grif runs toward him. “What are you doing?”
“He’s alive!”
“What the fuck?” Simmons kneels down next to the two of them, reaching out and touching the man’s shoulder. “Shit, you’re right.”
Grif and Sarge keep their distance. Sarge says gruffly, “Did you consider the fact that he might wake up and not be as well intentioned as you, Donut?”
Grif shakes his head. “I cannot believe I’m agreeing with you, but that’s an excellent fucking point, sir.”
Donut waves a hand at them. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate it. Sarge, can we have one of the healing draughts?”
Sarge sighs. “I don’t agree with this course of action, but—” He reaches into his pouch and pulls out a flask of blue liquid. “Fine.”
Donut and Simmons work together to tip the man’s head back and Donut pours the contents of the flask into his mouth.
It takes a few minutes, but eventually he begins to rouse. With a hearty gasp, he sits straight up and shouts, “Don’t touch that!”
Donut stumbles back, startled. The man moves away from them, grasping at the dirt and leaves on the ground. He has a sword in a scabbard at his side, but when he goes for it, Simmons throws out a hand and the thin roots of a nearby sapling wrap around his wrist, stopping him.
“Hey!”
“Easy,” Donut says. “We’re just trying to help.”
“Who...who are you?”
“We’re friends,” Donut says brightly. “We saw you hanging from that tree—” Donut points to it. “—and we cut you down.”
“Friends is a bit much,” Simmons says quickly. “You, uh, did seem like you needed help.” He reaches out and touches the bruising on the man’s neck. It glows, then begins to fade. “What’s your name?”
“Um.” The man looks down at his hands. “I don’t...gosh. I don’t remember.”
Grif points at the holy symbol hanging around his neck. “You’re a cleric.”
“And a classically trained healer,” Simmons says, suddenly grabbing the tools kit at the man’s side. “This stuff are really high quality. Are you a doctor?”
“...I think so. I’m not sure—”
“Doc it is then,” Grif says, and goes to Simmons, pulling him to his feet. “Well, this sure was a lot of fun, but we really have somewhere to be—”
“Wait!” Doc lunges forward. “You can’t leave me! I...I need help—”
“And I think cutting you down from a tree counts,” Grif says. “But we don’t know you and we also have to keep moving.”
“I won’t slow you down, I swear. Where are you headed?”
“Sigil,” Donut says. “Just through these woods.”
Doc nods. “Let me travel with you. Just until we get there. I’ll leave you alone after that, I promise. I just...I need to get my story straight. I need time to remember. I’m sorry, I know this seems strange, but...please.”
Donut stands and reaches down to help Doc to his feet. “Of course you can come with us.” He looks at the others. “Tell him he can come with us.”
Grif scowls. “Donut—”
“Tell him he can come with us,” Donut says.
Grif throws his hands up. “Fine. But he’s your responsibility.”
“He’s a cleric,” Simmons says. “Not a dog.”
“Whatever.” Grif turns and heads back toward the road.
Sarge nods toward Doc. “Nice to meet you, I suppose. I’m Sarge, I’m in charge of these here idiots.”
“Yelling at people to do the opposite of what I say doesn’t make you a leader,” Grif mutters, but they all head back onto the road and head into Sigil.
* * *
Doc is a cleric of Kelemvor, and he finds one of their temples easily when they get into the city.
“I really appreciate what you did for me.”
Donut shrugs. “It wasn’t a big deal. I hope you get your memories back.”
“So do I.”
“I’ll come by in the morning, if that’s alright?”
Doc nods. “Of course. But, really. Thank you all, again. I really mean it.” He gives them a wave before heading into the temple.
They find a place to stay, renting one room and crowding into it. Donut curls up in a chair by the fire, plucking at his mandolin.
“I’m going to ask Doc to come with us,” he says.
Grif groans. “I fucking knew it.”
“We should try to help him. If he wants to travel, he shouldn’t do it alone.”
Simmons comes to sit in the chair next to him. “Donut, I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“Why not? There’s already a precedent. When you needed help, Grif took care of you. And me! When I needed someone, you two didn’t say no! And Grif, even though you keep saying you want to leave him somewhere, Sarge is still with us.”
“Damn right I am.”
Donut sighs. “Look. We’re kind of a gang of misfits. And if Doc could use anyone, it’s us. We helped that Church guy find his sister! We fought undead and we’ve held our own hundreds of times. We’re capable! Doc could totally use us to watch his back and stuff.”
Grif sits up on his elbows from his spot on one of the beds. “Fine,” he says. “But like I said, it’s your job to look after him.”
“I will.”
“And I’m not going on any stupid side quests for him. I need to get home. You got that?”
Donut nods. “Understood!”
“Alright.” Grif lays down again and sighs. “Can’t believe we’re adding another fuck up to this team.”
Simmons smiles. “I like it.”
Sarge nods. “Mmhm. It’s sort of like our theme.”
Grif rolls over. “I hate all of you,” he mutters, before falling asleep.
Beside him, Carolina sucks in a deep breath and grins. “Welcome to Elturel,” she says cheerfully, like they haven’t just spent the last nine days camping on the ground and walking through the rain. “Isn’t it great?”
“It’s a fuckin’ dream,” Church mutters. His back is killing him, he’s hungry and tired, and he wants to die. But this is a city, and he’s low on supplies. Once he has a shower and a nap, he’ll be fine, so he pulls Carolina toward a tavern and puts down the coin for two rooms.
“Okay, big spender.”
“I’m exhausted,” he says. “I desperately need to bathe. Please let me have my space for, like, half a day.”
Carolina raises a brow. “Alright,” she says. “A bath and a nap doesn’t sound so bad. How about we do our thing, and I’ll meet you here tonight for dinner, around seven?”
Church nods. “Deal.” He hands her the key to her room and goes to find his own.
Inside, he falls back on the bed and groans. Even a cheap tavern mattress is better than the bumpy rocks they’ve been sleeping on. Camping with Carolina isn’t the same as camping with Caboose or Tucker. For one thing, she wants to connect. Caboose was usually too tired by the end of the day to talk, and Tucker just didn’t care enough to ask questions.
With Carolina, every free moment is apparently a bonding moment, and while Church is more than happy to have found her, he could do with slowing down on all this getting to know you shit.
Leave some things to the imagination, right? A nice, slow reveal.
He falls asleep before his shower, but it’s fine, really. Once he’s clean and dressed in fresh clothes, he counts his coin and heads out to the market stalls. There are plenty of things he could use here — he picks up some fresh pomegranate, a few colorful bird feathers and some rather interesting sand. You don’t run into spell components like these every day, and they all have their own interesting properties.
He’s feeling more like himself as he walks into a bookstore and buys a fresh spellbook — his most recent one is starting to fill up — and a new set of pens and ink.
When he steps back onto the street, he thinks about finding a blacksmith, someone who can tell him more about the sword Caboose left him —
And then he sees her.
Of course, if he sees her, it means she sees him. Tex is never seen unless she wants to be. Church watches her slink into an alleyway and he follows. She seems to be gone when he gets there, but after a minute of standing in the shadows, her cool hands reach up and cover his eyes.
“Did you buy me anything?” she asks.
Church grins. “Only if you like fruit and duck feathers. And fancy paper.”
Tex pulls her hands away and turns him, pressing him against the wall. “I like all those things.”
“You just like things that don’t belong to you.”
She pouts. “Ownership is such a monarchical concept, Leonard. Invented by kings it so they could collect taxes.” She kisses him. “It’s been a while.”
“Well, you like to disappear.”
“Like you don’t,” she murmurs.
Church laughs against her mouth. “Put my money back.”
“I think I’ll hold onto it for a while. Call it an...insurance policy.” She steps back. “It’ll keep me honest. I’ll find you tonight and give it back.”
“Then you should really be giving me your money,” he says.
Tex laughs and kisses his forehead. “Close your eyes.”
Church does as he’s told. “It’s not a magic trick if you just walk away.”
“I’ll find you tonight,” she says. “I think you and I have a lot of catching up to do.”
Church sighs. He counts to ten. He opens his eyes.
The alley is empty, and she’s left with most of his money.
If she doesn’t keep her promise, then all he’s done since the last time he saw her is go softer.
And if she figures that out — then there’s no telling what he might let her get away with.