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Very little is known about reincarnation, to such an extent that the precise cause of reincarnation is unknown. The most prevalent belief in the Dwendalian Empire is that reincarnation began due to the Calamity. High Curator Mercer of the Cobalt Soul wrote of the Calamity, describing that “the sheer magnitude of the energies unleashed by gods and mortals alike was enough to fray the boundaries holding back the elemental chaos, spilling unbridled destruction into the world. It completely rearranged the known flow of magical ley lines in Exandria.” The disruption of certain ley lines, combined with pure elemental energy, is believed to have flowed into an unknown number of people, although it is also widely believed that only two individuals are capable of reincarnation.
However, the Kryn Dynasty recognizes a second belief. Their Luxon Beacon, which allows key members of the Dynasty to reincarnate, is believed to be the physical manifestation of the Light, which came into being from nothingness itself. Holding to the Kryn belief that creatures who naturally reincarnate are holy creatures, individuals who reincarnate without the assistance of the Luxon are believed to be messengers from the Light, carrying a shard of the Light within them.
Both beliefs maintain that these individuals are marked in some way, although it is unknown how. All that can be said with any semblance of certainty is that by some unidentified power, there exist specific individuals that have the ability to transfer their consciousness across universes and across time itself. These individuals lead independent lives, until they come into contact with their companion in reincarnation. Memories of former lives may present in the form of dreams; however, it is by physical touch that they begin to consciously recover their memories.
- Excerpt from “Reincarnation: An Analytical Approach” by Expositor Atlas of the Cobalt Soul
Despite what the storybooks may have you believe, the first time Molly and Caleb met was surprisingly unremarkable. There were no sparks at first eye contact, no rosy haze. Rather, they met in the dingy bar of the Nestled Nook Inn.
Caleb Widogast was in a state of survival. He saw the peacock that was Mollymauk Tealeaf, and his immediate reaction was fear . Caleb survived by going unnoticed. He could never be associated with, much less maintain a relationship with someone like that.
It was only later, in the privacy of his own room, that he allowed his mind to wander. He wondered what might have been, if he hadn’t been so afraid. He remembered Molly at the circus, how he had moved with such ease and grace, dancing through the crowd. He thought of how his swords had flashed, how the man had laughed as he leapt into battle.
Caleb Widogast dreamed.
Mollymauk Tealeaf, on the other hand, was fascinated. He was fascinated by the scruffy man who hunched over in the bar. Despite the dirty exterior, he saw secrets hidden. (He knew what it looked like to hide secrets - he saw it every day in the mirror.)
He watched Caleb come alive at the circus, eyes wide and face strangely young. He watched flames burst from his fingertips, the mysteries of the arcane equally as fascinating as the ginger wielder. Molly wondered what his smile might look like, under those layers of fatigue.
Neither of them slept well that night.
Mark scrambled into the room, clothes disheveled and curly hair in disarray. “Christopher,” he said, breathing hard. “Chris, Chris, Chris. I need you.”
Christopher jumped slightly, but not enough to spill the cup of tea he held in his hand. “Mister Mark,” he said, head bowing slightly - just enough to conceal the shock in his eyes at Mark’s candor. “How can I help you?”
“You’re my muse, Christopher,” Mark said, circling the couch, eyes wide. “You’re my muse, and I need you to sit for a painting.”
“I do not think I am fit for a portrait, Mark,” Christopher said with a sigh. “I am no model.”
“But Christopher, you’re my muse ,” he repeated.
“You may consider giving in,” said a voice he knew, but couldn’t place. He could hear the smile in their voice. “I’ve learned that he isn’t one to give up, once he’s like this.”
“First of all, there is no ‘like this’,” Mark said. “I’m simply inspired.” He stuck his chin up into the air, striking an overdramatic haughty pose.
“Well, if you insist, seeing as how there is no escape for me,” Christopher laughed. “If I had a warning, I would have brought a book.”
“Or, I shall propose another plan,” Mark replied, resuming his dance around the couches - maroon, complimenting his skin beautifully. “I shall invite myself over to your house, in order to see you in your natural habitat.”
The first time they touched, it was not in the best of circumstances.
Caleb watched as fire flowed from his fingers, dancing up the kobold priest. He watched as the body blackened, scream cut short as the body fell. The world blurred around him, battle-sharp instincts reducing to colors. He vaguely registered Shakäste roaring, energy crackling towards the manticore.
And then in front of her, red and orange and gold suddenly turned purple, the noise of battle fading. A gloved hand struck the side of his cheek, and his eyes focused enough to see scarlet red eyes and lavender skin in front of him.
“Hey! Back in the game! Time for that later. You all right?”
Caleb nodded, stiffly at first, then easier. “Yeah.”
And then, Molly placed a burning kiss on his forehead. It took Caleb a moment longer to recover, but not from the numbness he had fallen into before. His heartbeat thrummed through his body, carrying the heat from his forehead, through his veins and into his chest.
Not quite. No, “heat” wasn’t the right word. Caleb had studied fire. He knew heat well, had it burned into his body and mind. This was different.
It felt like companionship and love. It was knowing that there was someone waiting for him after a long day. It felt like wrapping his hands around a warm cup and the hum of a friend through the best and worst of times.
It felt like home.
Cayden made his own trail through the woods, heading towards where he could see the sun beginning to peek past the treeline. He patted his belt, checking his daggers, and tied back his long hair as he ran. When he knew that he was approaching the hunting grounds of the trib- no, the enemy , he found a place to lay low. Hiding in the brush, he waited.
The sun was high in the sky by the time he heard anyone, light filtering through the trees above him. It was only the slightest of rustles, the snapping of a single branch, and yet Cayden’s instincts peaked. He had long since learned to trust his instincts.
And then, standing in front of him, wearing the war paint of another tribe, was a warrior, weapon at the ready. His curved blade looked to be hammered scrap metal, and yet somehow, it seemed to fit him. The strange warrior stood with the confidence of someone who knew they had power, certain of his moves.
Cayden leapt out of the undergrowth, sending one dagger flying before him and wielding another two. Reacting impossibly quick, the warrior knocked the dagger out of the air with his blade and swung, fist hitting Cayden’s face. Cayden fell to the ground, scrambling upwards just in time to dodge the hammered metal falchion. The blade curved through the air, narrowly missing, and Cayden fell to the ground again.
“I’m not going to kill you,” the warrior said, his language accented and barely comprehensible to Cayden’s ears. “You have done nothing to wrong me.”
“We are warriors,” Cayden said, the guttural common language burning his throat. “This is war.”
“I do not take pleasure in bloodshed. Rather, I come to ask for peace.” He offered a hand out to Cayden.
“And who are you to do that?” Cayden ignored the hand, scrambling to his feet.
“Marcoril, head of the Nomasdus tribe.”
“I am Cayden. I am no one. Why would you choose me to ask for peace?”
“You haven’t killed me yet,” Marcoril replied with a hearty laugh, clapping a hand down on his shoulder.
Caleb was no stranger to pain. That night, after the fight had ended and the Nein had made their way back to a mostly-intact inn in Alfield, he had waited. He had grit his teeth through the strange burning sensation, through their farewells to Shakäste, until he was alone in the inn room. Nott was still downstairs, with the others. With shaking hands, he began to unravel the bandages that wrapped up his arms.
And there, on his palm, was a compass. It looked like a golden light shining through his palms, three concentric circles tracing around and through the points of the compass. It burned, warmth radiating out from it. It was unlabelled, but Caleb swore he could feel it pulsing in time with a heartbeat that didn’t quite seem to be his.
“Was ist-” he mumbled.
What could he do? What was this? His head swirled with questions. In all his studies, he had never read of something like this. Was it a hallucination? How was something like this even possible? And, assuming that this was real, who could he even tell about this? He refused to burden anyone any further than he already had, especially Nott.
With a sigh, he rewrapped the bandages around his hand, layering it until the light was no longer visible. It would have to do for now.
-
Mollymauk, on the other hand, was a peacock at the best of times. The tattoo itself simply blended in with the rest of it. As for the light, if he had an impossibly beautiful glow at times, who was he to complain?
The only person who knew was Yasha. He whispered it to her in the darkness of night, palm glowing. He told her how the warmth had spread from his lips and rested in his chest, how he had felt truly warm for the first time he could remember. He told her how it felt like there was another heart in his hand, as though he held someone’s life and love in the very palm of his hand.
Yasha nodded. Molly knew she couldn’t really understand - how could he possibly ask her to? - but she knew what it was to hold the love of her life in her arms. She understood the danger, the worries that came with the euphoric joys, the fragility of that love. And that was enough.
Molly slept curled up, the compass pressed to his heart.
“Callum,” Maxwell sang, dancing through the people preparing for the show. The stage lights were dim, so that no light peeked through the crimson curtains.
“D is for dog. Duh, dog. Duh, doctor. And duh, dancer - yes, just like you!” Callum looked up from the book, which he held by the light of a tin lantern.
“I know learning to read is important, but this little lady is absolutely critical for this show,” he laughed, sitting down next to them and snatching the book out of Callum’s hand, snapping it shut. “And we’ve only got a little bit of time before it starts!”
She gasped, head snapping between the two of them. She stood up, giving each of them a quick hug before running off into the wings.
“She’s quite a whirlwind,” Callum said with a chuckle, standing up and brushing off his trousers, offering a hand out to Maxwell.
He took it, jumping into a crouch and then leaping into the air, spinning around Callum’s hand. “I think she inherited it from her father.”
“So I suppose I should abandon all hopes of her taking after me?” Callum said, pouting overdramatically.
“Well, maybe not, with how much she seems to like reading. But either way, she’ll always be our daughter.” He pulled Callum into a tight hug, both laughing.
Caleb Widogast was a broken man. (Or at least, that is what he believed.) He believed himself to be unlovable.
He was a broken man, with skeletons in his past. And, if he continued to surround himself with such good people, there were skeletons in his future as well. The fires that had once brought life to humanity, that had once allowed people to flourish and thrive, were the same ones that he used to kill. He brought death and sadness to everyone he came into contact with.
He was unlovable.
There was no way that a being as ethereal, as beautiful, as perfect as Mollymauk Tealeaf could ever be interested in such a broken person. He was stupid for even considering something like that.
In his darkest of nights, when even the fire that filled him inside and out wasn’t enough to keep him company, the warmth of the compass kept him company. Its light glistened through the tears that he wouldn’t allow to fall. It burned. It pulsed with another heartbeat. Caleb hoped - he had to hope - that it meant there was someone.
-
Despite appearances, Mollymauk was not perfect. Ethereal and beautiful, he would make no effort to deny - after all, he knew he was attractive - but certainly not perfect . The Nein may have known about his memory loss, but they didn’t know about the side effects, as he referred to it. There were some things he kept to himself.
There were days where he couldn’t bear to get out of bed. There were days when he felt like his identity was an incomplete puzzle, when his smile felt more like a fragile mask than anything else.
There were days he felt like nothing, like nobody. As happy as he was as Mollymauk Tealeaf, there was an emptiness that rested in his chest. On his best days, he filled that emptiness with laughter. He filled it by decorating his skin with colored ink, by embroidering his jacket, by smiling and pulling tarot cards out of thin air. He filled it with all the things that made him Mollymauk Tealeaf.
Sometimes he felt longing for places and people he didn’t know, and he knew he didn’t know.
When he felt like he was floating through the crowd, when he couldn’t hold onto the pieces that made up Mollymauk Tealeaf, he clenched his hand around the tattoo. It was the one thing that made him him . He hoped, he prayed , that even though sometimes he didn’t know who he was, that he had no idea what skeletons might have been in his past, that someone would be able to stay with him through it all.
For better or for worse.
Mirek wandered through the streets of town, freshly cobbled streets still strange and uneven beneath his feet. A wicker basket hung from his arm, filled with fresh fruits from the market.
“To all those who have space in their abode,” the town crier read, “we ask that you accept new members of the Empire, formerly of Zeidel, into your homes, until proper abodes can be built.” Murmurs spread through the crowds, uneasy whispers flooding outwards from the crier. “The Dwendalian Empire will reimburse you kindly for your troubles.”
Well, that couldn’t hurt, thought Mirek. A few extra coppers in his purse would be nice, especially with winter approaching, and he had no trouble helping those in need. He looked up by the town crier and saw a cluster of folk cowering behind him. He wove his way through the crowd.
“Hi,” he said, standing before them. “My name is Mirek.” He gestured to himself.
One man stepped forward, pushing the children behind him. “My name is Corben,” he said, accent heavy, voice low in his throat. The man extended one arm in front of him, hand open sideways.
“It’s nice to meet you, Corben,” Mirek said, clasping his forearm. Heat blossomed from their skin, burning, but neither winced. Rather, both of them looked up in surprise. “Would you like to live with me? At least for the time being.”
“Under one condition,” Corben replied, still holding onto his forearm. “Let me make sure that the children find good homes first.”
Mirek nodded. “I wouldn’t ask anything else from you. I will stay and help.” He knelt, releasing Corben’s arm to scrabble in his basket. He held out an apple to the child closest to him with what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
In spite of that, they found themselves drawn to each other. It was an inexplicable pull, almost magnetic.
Caleb noticed the little things. He felt their connection, the thread that wove between them, in the tiniest of things. He saw the slightest flick of Molly’s tail and knew that it meant that he was watching. The wrinkles at the corners of Molly’s eyes meant that he was laughing and that his right eye crinkled more than his left eye when he was laughing genuinely. It matched his slightly crooked smile.
And although Caleb was terrified to reciprocate any of it, to display any affection, he returned the gestures in his own way.
When he saw the slightest upwards tilt of Molly’s mouth, combined with the flick of the tail, he mirrored it with a tiny smile of his own. He sent glances out of the corner of his eye as he pulled back copper hair. He shifted the sleeve of Molly’s jacket out of the way of his drink, making sure that not a single drop of liquid fell on the scarlet cloth.
Mollymauk showed his affection with grand gestures, with loud laughter and sweeping motions, just as he would with any other of the Nein. It was easier to mask his affection as something more simple, to make it seem like simple companionship rather than the complex emotions bubbling beneath the surface.
Molly watched Caleb’s stifled laughter and vowed to make him smile as much as he possibly could. He saw how Caleb’s eyes softened while Nott argued about the reasoning behind tarot cards. And he knew that although Caleb would never return his grand gestures, Molly could tell that he returned his affections.
It was in the little things.
It was impossible not to notice the curly-headed boy who sat in the corner of his coffee shop nearly every day. Mattias wiped down the counters, trying his best not to stare, but it was nearly impossible. After all, the beautiful stranger had come to a coffee shop to order tea. Tea.
(Mattias would never admit it, but the quality of tea he kept in the shop had increased dramatically since the stranger had become a regular.)
He glanced up at the stranger again. As his luck would have it, the stranger happened to be looking in his direction at the same time. The two locked eyes for a moment before Mattias broke the contact, blushing furiously. He busied himself with cleaning. A moment later, he heard the clink of a mug placed onto the wooden countertop. His head shot upwards, just in time to see freckles - oh gods, he has freckles.
“Thank you for the tea,” the beautiful boy said, smiling gently at Mattias. His hands slipped into his worn cardigan.
“N-no problem,” Mattias replied, cursing internally as he fumbled the mug. “You know, you’re becoming quite a regular here.”
“Yes.” He ducked his head, the slightest of blush dusting his cheeks. “I’ve discovered that being here makes it easier to write.”
“Well, I’m happy to be able to help. I’m Mattias.”
“Carter.”
Although neither of them could put a name to it, their connection had a momentum. In every touch, in every held gaze, in every smile.
Everything came crashing down that night in the woods.
Caleb didn’t hear Molly hit the ground. He felt it. He felt the sharp pain of Lorenzo’s glaive meet Molly’s chest, and the world blurred.
As the life left Molly’s eyes - how could Caleb ever have thought that these eyes were expressionless? - something twisted in his stomach. He knelt, pain and loss thrumming through his body. It pooled in his hand, the compass shining through the layers of wrapped bandages, Scorching Ray leaping forth almost unbidden.
And suddenly, the battle was over. The noise and chaos stilled in an instant, and Caleb was left alone. So painfully alone.
Beau slammed Keg to the ground, screaming at her, tears streaming down her face, although she would never admit it. Caleb was barely present, head humming with one thought.
Molly.
Molly.
Molly.
The name repeated in his head, beating in time with his heartbeat, filling his mind. He was barely aware as he questioned Keg, building a plan. It might have been impossible. He didn’t care.
He would not walk away from this.
But first, they had to bury him.
Molly.
Molly.
Molly.
Looking down on the face of the man he loved, the man he has loved and will continue to love, Caleb sighed. He looked at the note in his hand, golden light barely visible underneath torn bandages and paper. Ever so carefully, he folded it into the lapel of his clothes, brushing the hair out of his face. He held his face in his hands, stroking impossibly soft purple skin, and rested his forehead against Molly’s.
“I will see you soon,” he whispered. It was nearly silent, barely more than an exhalation, but he needed to make sure that Molly knew.
He stood, pushing dirt over the open grave. Once it was finished, he stood, head and heart and hand thrumming. “Shine bright, circus man,” he said, throat tight. He stood there for as long as he could bear before storming off into the woods, chest heaving and tightening with every step.
Molly.
Molly.
Molly.
He wasn’t sure how far he had walked. His usual impeccable sense of time escaped him entirely. Alone, surrounded by trees, he fell to his knees, the snow crunching beneath his knees and hands. Caleb let out a guttural scream, the cry tearing at his throat. He sobbed, eyes wide and chest heaving. Every interaction, every touch, every smile he had ever shared with Molly flowed through his mind, but-
Molly .
Molly.
M-
Dozens of faces smiled back at him, his keen memory clinging onto each one. He relived dozens of lives, met Molly and Mattias and and Mirek and Maxwell and Mark over and over, falling in love every time. He heard the clang of metal, felt a ghostly hand clapped down on his shoulder. He smelled tea and coffee mingled together, hands wrapping around the memory of a warm mug. He felt the pages of a worn book under his fingers, which he inexplicably knew were illuminated by a lantern. He tasted crisp apple, with the feeling of uneven cobblestones beneath his feet.
His palm burned. With shaking hands, he unwrapped the bandages, exposing the golden light. The compass still glowed, heat emanating from it. It pulsed in time with his heart, occasionally flickering, as if it could feel his grief. With another gut-wrenching sob, he clutched the compass to his chest. The warmth was familiar, but not painful. It was home .
It would lead him back to the love of his life - no, lives . He knew it.
They would meet again.
They had to.