Work Text:
'Imagine the soul misses hunger, emptiness, rage,
the fist that was never taught to curl - curled,
the teeth that were never taught to clench — clenched,
the body that was never taught to make love - makes love,
like a hungry ghost digging its way out of the grave.'
- from 'Tincture', by Andrea Gibson
Molly was too alive to stay dead.
He claws his way through the dirt above him and launches himself onto land like he's beaching himself on the shore. The air is stark and chill and the grass is damp underneath his fingers and chest. He takes one desperate gasp of air and feels his lungs re-inflating with new oxygen, feels them remembering how to exhale and then breathe in again. He turns one beady eye towards the blank grey sky and then heaves the rest of his body out of the grave, earth tumbling away around him. The muscles in his arms are taut like wires. He squints in front of him, groans, and slithers through the grass a little farther, then collapses. He lies there, panting and sweating, feeling the first flecks of cold rain on his face again and smiling faintly like a mad man.
He stumbles through the streets of the first town he finds, bottle in hand, taking everything in. He peers through windows lit from within with golden light, splashes through puddles, until he eventually spins and stumbles back against a damp stone wall, the back of his horns hitting it with a CRACK. He chuckles, drains the bottle, and drops it in the gutter, then shifts his head back at a stark angle so he can open his mouth and catch the rain on his tongue.
The following evening finds him holed up in the red light of a nameless brothel, sunk back on elaborate tapestries and velvet pillows. He's tended to by a young man with chestnut brown skin and rings in his ears and a pale, lithe woman with violet eyes. He holds out a hand lazily to her and runs it up her side, and her skin feels impossibly soft. She smiles down at him and crawls up onto the bed. As he tilts his head back, the man pulls his mouth open to pour in a sip of wine, waits for him to swallow, then leans down to kiss him.
He opens his eyes some days later, far out on the road in a field of glowing golden wheat. He sits up blearily, rubbing his eyes, and watches as a white butterfly flies towards him and comes to rest on his horn. He looks around, yawns, and shakes his head, dislodging it. Then he turns his eyes towards the horizon and keeps walking.
Molly enters Zadash just as the Mighty Nein are sitting down to a hearty supper after seeing off a nasty creature that's been living in the sewers. They're counting out their coin and talking in hushed voices. The candles gutter low in their holders. Jester takes a silver piece and spins it on the tip of her finger.
The door slams open in a spray of rain, and several patrons look up sharply as the barman scrambles to his feet. Molly stands in the doorway, head snapping to and fro to take in the room. He spots the group in the corner, grins, and marches over, holding his arms wide.
There's a shocked silence.
'What the FUCK,' bellows Beau. Molly grins wider, showing his fangs. Everyone moves towards him. Somewhere in the Ethereal Plane, a god kicks themselves for taking their eye off the ball for a single second.
FIN