Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The visions were vague, at first.

A sapling springing from the hard, cold earth, out of its season, a strange and unlikely strength emphasized by its delicate swaying leaves. It persisted past the snow and ice, reaching upwards against all odds. 

Caduceus could feel its unfaltering will. It was stubborn. He liked that about it.

He knew the difference in quality between a dream and a vision. The Wildmother wasn't speaking yet, but he could feel her presence lurking in these particular nighttime escapades, her artistic flair coloring the plants with an unknown vibrancy to the real life counterparts. They were intentional.

Elegant branches stretched towards the sky, leaves a wild riot of warm, fantastical pinks and purples, ranging from the lightest blossom pink to a purple so deep it appeared black, unruly and beautiful among a forest of green and brown. The bark had an undertone of lovely deep purple, lavish and extravagant in its presentation, almost like it wanted to be noticed.

It was certainly working, too. He didn't know what the Wildmother was trying to tell him, but something about these visions left him mildly unsettled. Like he was forgetting something.

A faded red coat fluttered in the wind, carefully caught on a branch of gnarled wood stuck firmly into the ground. Backed by a massive, colorful tree, it seemed right at home. Countless images in haphazard patterns spread across the coat, the raised ridges of embroidery soft and slightly fuzzy from weathering but somehow oddly intact. Lovely purple lichen climbed up the wooden grave marker, creeping onto the coat in places and rooting the fabric onto the long dead branch.

Caduceus had heard stories, seen Jester's sketches of the coat. She still sometimes sat down and spent a few hours carefully making beautiful artwork depicting its owner. He had watched her charcoal and ink trace along a sharp jawline, delicately capture the gleam of glittering jewelry, strike through a devilish, fanged grin with harsh, dramatic shadow.  Though Caduceus had never met the man, he still felt a certain odd and intimate familiarity to Mollymauk Tealeaf. The coat was different and yet exactly the same in the vision.

The sun rose hot one morning after one such vision, steaming the morning dew off the grass and shaking off the night's chill in record time. Caduceus watched Fjord and Beau compete at push ups, laughing low and pleased as his half-orc protege groaned and complained the entire time. Beau stood easily and stretched, making some presumably snarky comment to Fjord before extending a hand to help him to his feet. 

Caleb sat quietly on a log across from last night's fire, reading his latest acquired book as Veth stood behind him, braiding flowers into his hair. Caduceus thought the little white daisies looked rather lovely next to Caleb's warm ginger waves. Next to them, Jester and Yasha sat in similar positions, though Yasha's wild mane and Jester's less practiced hands made for a little bit more hair pulling and a lot more giggling. Yasha winced as Jester yanked a particularly stubborn section of hair, then laughed quietly as Jester apologized profusely and with the high level of energy and sincerity that seemed to endear her to every soul on the material plane and beyond.

After Fjord and Beau had finished their morning routine, Beau with relative grace and Fjord with significantly more whining, the group gathered back around the remnants of the fire to pack up their things. An image of Mollymauk's tree surfaced in Caduceus' mind and he gazed around at his friends, only a few seasons finished grieving for a man he had never met. He frowned deeply, aware that he may be brushing on some wounds not fully healed by bringing his visions to the group. 

"Caduceus?" Caleb asked, looking up from where he had begun packing his bedroll. "You are, ah– what is the matter? You seem tense."

"I believe…" Caduceus began, before pausing, trying to figure out how to verbalize his vague intuitions, "It might be wise of us to head towards Glory Run Road."

The silence that followed was messy, unintentional, tight and thin with tension. Caduceus could see Beau tense in his periphery, saw Fjord reach up to lay a steadying hand on her shoulder, before seeming to lose his nerve and drop it to his side. Yasha's eyes shot up from where they had been inspecting her pack, finding Caduceus and holding some kind of barely contained storm inside. Caleb retreated immediately, turning his gaze to the ground, trying and failing not to appear like he'd been struck. No one spoke for a long moment, but Caduceus was patient, and eventually Fjord broke the silence by clearing his throat.

"Is there… any particular reason for that?" His voice was casual, but Caduceus could detect an undercurrent of nervousness. The stiffness in Fjord's stance betrayed him, seemingly too caught off guard for even his innate skills in deception to fool Caduceus' keen eyes.

"Something grew," he answered simply, "and it's only right that you all go see it."

---

Lavender hands burst through fertile soil, clawing at the ground around them, vying for purchase. The hands struggle frantically, and the ground bows outward before falling inward, a shock of purple hair erupting from the earth. A man with curled horns and rusting silver jewelry that Caduceus had never met but heard many stories of spat grave dirt from his mouth. He was gasping for breath, trembling, half buried in the disturbed soil.

Caduceus could only watch as the man slowly pulled himself fully free and curled against the dirt, chest heaving from the effort. He didn't move from that position for the rest of the vision. Until sunrise, it was only trembling hands curled tight around dirt smeared arms, hollow eyes staring into the darkness, and the sound of quiet, horrified sobbing.

---

Caduceus woke with the sun and sat slowly, eyes gummy and ears pressed flat against his skull. Echoes of Mollymauk's shuddering, terrified gasps lingered in the back of his mind. He dug his fingers into the dirt, trying to stop his hands from trembling.

Beau, who had kept the last watch of the night, glanced over and frowned deeply.

"You okay, Deuce?" She asked, hesitant, still trying to learn the difference between what was friendly concern and what was being nosy.

Caduceus took a deep breath to center himself first, attempting to smooth the ragged edges of helplessness and fear left over from the vision, "I'm okay. We should hurry, though."

Beau was quiet for a long, thoughtful moment. She opened her mouth, closed it, turned her head to stare at anything but Caduceus. He waited patiently for her to decide to speak her mind.

"You don't have to be so fuckin' cryptic all the time, dude. You can just say what you mean."

"I do say what I mean," Caduceus replied, frowning because it was true.

Beau groaned, loudly and petulantly enough for Fjord to sit up and squint towards her, blinking in the pale light of the very early morning. 

"What?" She said, in the kind of tone that said she was daring someone to argue with her, secretly hoping they would so she could tell them off.

"Nothing, nothing," Fjord held up his hands in surrender, seemingly not willing to humor her at this hour of the morning. He stretched, letting out a massive yawn that put his tusks on full display, prominent now that he had let them grow out. "So. What were you two… discussing?"

Caduceus rubbed some of the crust from his eyes as he replied, "Beau asked me to say what I mean, which is a little silly considering I already do that."

"It's true, Beau. In fact I think he only says things he means," Fjord replied, a tiny hint of mischief in his voice.

Beau groaned again, somehow louder and even more petulant than before, "You know what I meant."

"I actually don't," Caduceus said, feeling himself relax into the comfortable routine of mild banter. "But in all seriousness. I do think we should hurry."

"Hurry?" Fjord began shifting out of his bedroll and straightening his sleep-twisted clothes, "What for?"

He thought for a long moment, torn on what would be too much to tell, on what would really convey his message. Fjord and Beau seemed to see him contemplating and gave him the time to think.

"Well," he finally said, a slight hesitation still lingering, "Your friend, Mister Mollymauk… he may need our help. Or perhaps the Mother is just trying to tell me something is wrong."

"Something's wrong?" Beau asked, sitting up straighter.

"The Mother is trying to move us a bit faster I think."

Fjord frowned as he unfolded his cloak and absently brushed his thumb along the pin that Caduceus had given him, still proudly displayed. "What did you see?" 

"I saw," Caduceus took a slow breath, seeing again in his mind shaking lavender hands and dirt smeared skin, "I saw a grave. I saw a purple tiefling. I watched him dig his way out of the dirt, then I," he faltered, trailing off momentarily to tug on the slightly fraying hem of his shirt, " I had to… watch him cry. Alone. Until sunrise."

Beau sucked in a breath and seemed to hold it, tense and like she needed to punch something. Fjord stared at him, then let out a quiet and shaky, "Oh."

"Yeah," Caduceus breathed, nearly tempted to cast a quick Calm Emotion spell on himself as he felt the dread creep back up his spine and over his head in a wave, "So. I think we should hurry. If not because something might be wrong, then perhaps to conclude this… vision quest… I seem to be having."

"I guess we'd better get a move on, then," Fjord said, tone brokering no argument as he shoved his feet into his boots.

"Why are we getting a move on?" Caleb mumbled, accent thick with sleep as he sat up, disturbing Veth as he did so.

"Cad had another vision about Molly," Beau supplied.

Veth yawned and rubbed her eyes. "Another one? This soon?" 

"Actually," Caduceus confessed, "I've been having them nearly every night for a bit. But this one felt–" he managed to trap the word 'horrible' in his mind before it left his mouth, "well it felt important."

"You've been having visions of Molly and you only thought this one was important?" Veth nearly shouted, sudden and loud in the still morning air.

Jester stirred from beneath a pile of blankets, letting out a soft and sleepy "What?" Yasha grumbled something likely rude in Celestial as she pulled her blanket up over her head.

"Well, no. Most of them are just plants, or a grave, or a coat. He was… he was in this one," Caduceus replied.

"Hmph," Veth huffed, grumpy in the early morning.

Caleb got to his feet slowly and gave Veth a passing pat on the head, "Well? What did you see?" 

Beau must have seen the slight droop in Caduceus' ears, because she interrupted before he was forced to respond, "Apparently the shithead came back. Or at least that's what happened in the vision."

"Oh," Caleb responded, and Caduceus could see his brain working from where he sat, see him compartmentalize and shove any outward emotional reaction into a box to be dealt with later, then continue, "I guess we go then. And see."

Yasha, finally sitting up and staring blearily across camp, mumbled, "What shithead's back? Do I need to kill something? Why are we up so early?"

"Uh," Beau replied eloquently.

Fjord sighed quietly, "Caduceus saw Molly. In his vision. He thinks we should hurry up."

Suddenly very awake, Yasha stared at Fjord for a few seconds, then turned her piercing gaze to Caduceus, "You saw Molly? What– what was he– was he alive? Okay? What– what did you see?"

"He was…" Caduceus kept eye contact with Yasha, knowing she likely needed him to, "Alive. But… he might need help."

Yasha didn't let that sit for long, standing up and beginning to shove her things into her pack, "Then let's fucking go."

Jester, who had been watching the exchange with wide eyes, began to do the same, haphazardly gathering her things with fervor. She furrowed her brow and bit her lip, clearly cooking up some kind of plan that was likely to be wildly unreasonable and yet impossible to say no to. Caduceus prepared himself to have some talks during the next few days of travel. His new family, this group of disasters, needed him to be solid, now more than ever. He was the only one unfamiliar to this brightly colored tiefling that they were all so enamored with. Taking a slow, steadying breath, Caduceus did his best to release the tension in his shoulders.

Chapter Text

A man with lavender skin and tattoos he did not know the meaning of woke up buried in the dirt, and for all he knew, that was the first time it had happened. He wasn’t sure where the strength had come from when he had clawed his way out of the suffocating, heavy darkness of his own burial, but it was gone from him the moment he was free. He felt drained and sick with exhaustion and panic, breath hot and shuddering into the upturned soil. Time seemed to stretch and warp around his shivering form, seconds dragging on for minutes and hours passing in a single breath. He had only barely the awareness to notice two bursts of color in his surroundings and stare, taking them in.

The first was, he could only assume, his grave marker: a tall, sturdy branch shoved deep into the ground, and atop it a gently billowing coat. It may have once been two separate pieces, but it seemed that nature and time had since weaved them together into a single work of art. The fabric seemed miraculously intact, somehow still brilliantly red, unbleached by the sun. Intricate and riotously colorful threads weaved complicated pictures across its width, and he could see barely a hint of damage save for speckles of dried mud and a few creeping veins of moss. Even around his haze of fear and weariness, he found some mysterious comfort in its presence. 

The next was much larger, a massive tree, roots arching up out of the ground and surrounding his grave. Its dark, purple-toned bark and gently swaying leaves occupied most of his vision, soaking up his attention almost as if it enjoyed it. Even in the gentle darkness before sunrise, he could see the rainbow of color in the canopy above, strange and out of place in a forest of green and brown. His frazzled nerves and aching bones gave him a mere moment to wonder at how the roots of this tree had not simply consumed his interred body as it is wont to do, then the thought drifted away as a gust of wind drew his consciousness back to his body. 

The earth was soft and loose where he had dragged himself out of it only hours before, and he had the sudden and unreasonable fear that if he continued to lie where he was, he'd sink right back in to die for apparently the second time. Gathering his strength, he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, crawling a short distance and sitting with his back up against the sturdy trunk of the tree. As his skin touched the bark, some of the terror mellowed, a calming sense of rightness easing into his veins. He took several slow, shuddering breaths, letting his head drop back against the bark.

His skin felt tight and uncomfortable, but with each intake of warm air he felt his wrung out nerves begin to unwind. He was so tired. His joints ached and his head throbbed from crying and his eyes couldn’t seem to focus. Gentle warmth crept across his skin as the morning sun crested the horizon. Try as he might to stay conscious, his already shaking will was no match for the deep and heavy exhaustion luring him into sleep. 

___

A small group marched at an urgent speed along a worn road. Their array of color was pleasing, but the tension in their shoulders screamed of nerves wound tight, ready to snap at any moment. A towering woman in shades of grey scowled like a storm and kept an eager pace. Her steps were halting and staccato, as if she wanted to run but was trying to control the urge. Her anger felt like the vacuum of sound after a loud crack of thunder.

Behind her some distance, the second tallest was a man with a silky mane of pink hair. His soft, animal-like ears drooped like sun-scorched leaves and both his hands clutched a gnarled wooden staff like a lifeline. He stumbled, and a dark haired man of orcish descent lunged forward to catch him by the arm, preventing him from tumbling to the ground. The pink haired man looked very tired.

"We can take a break if you need to, Caduceus," said the orcish man, voice honeyed with sincerity and concern.

The group slowed their pace for a moment, though the tall grey woman seemed almost pained to do so. 

"No," the tired man, Caduceus, replied, "I'll manage. Molly is waiting for us."

—

Molly woke to the warmth of the late afternoon sun and the echo of what he was sure was his name in his head. 

Molly.

That was his name, and he was appalled that he had forgotten it. It was given to him by someone, though he couldn't remember who. He was keenly aware, suddenly, of the seemingly endless chasm of emptiness in his head, lost time and lost memory, intimidating in its vastness. He could drown in it. All it would take was one slip and he might tumble down into that darkness and suffocate on the absence, the thought almost more terrifying than the earth he'd clawed his way out of.

Who was Molly? He didn't know. He had nothing to build on besides a name, a grave, and a colorful coat. He knew nothing about what these curious lavender hands had touched, nor where his worn leather boots had walked. He imagined that if he had felt grief before, in his life as Molly, that it might have felt something like this. It felt like sadness and loss and anger. It felt like desperately wanting something that was just out of reach. 

It was that feeling that led him to finally investigate this miraculous body that had crawled from the grave. He lifted a hand to his face, feeling the texture of his skin, then running fingers through tangled and dirty hair. It was long and unruly, violet waves framing his vision and tickling the back of his neck. Next his hand caught on a curled horn, rough and gnarled and somehow, despite his lack of expectation, surprising. The texture was remarkably similar to that of tree bark, almost completely indistinguishable from the very tree he slept against. He was sure they hadn't felt like that before. He ran his hands along their surface, feeling all of the grooves and knots, finding patches of soft, fluffy moss clinging into the crevices. Though he couldn't see them, he thought that they must be beautiful. 

Turning his attention, he examined his forearms, craned his neck to look at his shoulders. He was covered in scars. Most of them were thin and white, scattered across his chest and arms. Some looked more ragged, less cleanly healed. Even others were tumultuously colorful, spreading and reaching in ways that seemed impossible to have been inflicted by any weapon. 

The most eye-catching, however, was the gaping hole in his chest, seemingly cleaved open by some large blade, an impossible cavity in his still living body. Green and dark purple moss crept out of the wound, overtaking it so fully that no blood or bone could be seen within. He ran his thumb over the soft flora and found that he could feel the touch as if it were his own skin. Small, sturdy looking flowers bloomed and reached for sunlight, and he could just barely see some small white mushrooms hiding away inside the cavern of his chest. 

It was lovely, miraculous, and ghastly. He found himself enchanted by the improbability, finding some kind of new and yet completely comfortable pride in its beauty and its strangeness. He loved that it was jarring and unsettling, reveled in the idea that some might look and find themselves captivated, disgusted and dazzled all at once. 

Whoever Molly was, he felt sure that he had enjoyed being the center of attention. And really, who could blame him? With intricate artwork climbing across his body and a myriad of fascinating and strange scars, he felt like a walking storybook. What tales could this body tell if it could simply remember the words? He found himself tracing his fingers along thin raised ridges of scar tissue, imagining what stories might lie locked away behind it. He could imagine fast paced, complex sword fights, spitting clever insults between his teeth as he and an opponent danced around one another as if  it were choreographed. He pictured getting caught in the crossfire of a wayward burst of magic, his skin alight with the brilliant and dangerous shine of arcane fire. He could almost feel the press of a hilt in each of his palms, conjuring up a friendly but ferociously competitive sparring match, quick dual blades struggling to hold their own against the raw strength of an imposing sword perhaps longer than he was tall.

He longed, momentarily, for a remembered comfort. The embrace of a friend, large enough to drape around his form like a heavy quilt, and strong, gentle fingers combing through his hair. He felt the tickle of delicate petals being tucked behind his ear, tasted the electricity of a spring storm on the horizon. The memory was gone as soon as it arrived, draining away like water between his fingers. 

Molly's chest burned painfully with the loss, sudden and jarring. He felt himself press his back harder against the tree he had rested against before he even processed the desire to do so. It anchored him, feeling the textured bark against his skin, and he leaned his head back, staring up into the leaves as the vacancy of his memory washed over him. Disappointment and frustration dragged the burning from his chest and up his throat, climbing and clawing until it rested behind his eyes. Hot tears glazed his vision and he blinked them away, moisture catching in his eyelashes and running down his cheeks. He sighed quietly in his misery, annoyed that his few moments of peace had been disrupted by his own esoteric emotions. 

His tail tapped gently against a raised purple root, the gentle clinking of old, tarnished jewelry accompanying the rustling of leaves in the wind. He allowed himself to sit in his melancholy a bit longer, letting the quiet music of his surroundings wash over him and slowly ease the tightness in his chest. It was strange, the drastic difference between the yawning, terrifying emptiness in his head and the welcoming and kind warmth of this place. The thought made him deeply grateful, realizing that he felt safe here. He imagined what it might be like to wake up as he had in a place that was unkind, imagined being scared and confused and unable to rest for fear of another untimely death. In this place, with this tree that somehow felt like home and this brilliantly red coat that reminded him that he was real, he felt comfortable to explore what and who he was. 

Molly took a deep breath, then stood, one hand pressed against his tree to support himself. The vertigo of his first time fully upright hit him like a heavy blunt weapon, and he instinctively lifted his tail, swaying it to test for balance. He wanted to walk, to make use of this strange body and to see the place where it had been buried. Pulling his hand tentatively away from the tree and taking a cautious step, he faltered slightly, clearly out of practice on his feet. He hissed through his teeth, frustrated, before his eyes caught once again on his grave marker. Molly grinned.

He was going to look so fucking cool.