Chapter Text
Early morning sunlight streamed through the windows of Caleb Widogast's Rexxentrum bedroom, slipping through the cracked curtains and alighting on the redheaded wizard in question. Caleb sat up in bed, fingers gripping the coverlet as he attempted to breathe through the clenching of his lungs.
There are breathing exercises I would like you to do, Dr. Dominique Thulogge had told him at his last appointment. The fading winter had made Othe cold and muddy, but within Thulogge Clinic all was warm and comfortable. It will ease your shortness of breath and strengthen your lungs, at least for a time. Like so…
Caleb unclenched his neck and shoulders, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply. Held the breath for four counts, letting it warm within the confines of his body.
It will hurt a bit, Dr. Thulogge had said. She never sugarcoated. He appreciated that about her. But it will only feel that rough momentarily. Breathe through it. But if you feel any undue pain, contact me immediately.
He pursed his lips as if he were to whistle, and blew the air out slowly: six five four three two one. Again: inhale two three four, exhale five four three two one. Inhale two three four…
Little by little the tightness in his chest eased, taking with it the pain that had woken him. It was as if the flowers that twisted around and within his bronchi had withdrawn slightly.
It will not last. It never does. But at least he felt well enough to get up and smile for Astrid and Wulf, and pretend that he had not dreamed hazy lavender dreams of Jester in a field of flowers—
In Blumenthal there was a meadow that always burst into riots of lavender blooms come summer. It was one of the reasons why the little village had its name. She would have loved it there. She might've giggled and rolled in the grass and plucked lavender for an attempt at oil pressing them. Bren had.
His lungs seized up again, reminding him of the source of his illness.
“Gods fuck you,” he muttered, and restarted the exercise. Inhale two three four, exhale five four three two one. Inhale two three four…
I want to tell you the stories of my life. When Mother turned twenty-five my birthday gift to her was a vial of lavender oil. Our home smelled like lavender all winter.
When he made it down to the kitchen, Wulf was already there. He was already dressed for the day: dark robes trimmed in scarlet, buttoned up to his chin. His cheeks and chin were still a little wet, and newly smooth.
“Morning, Kohle,” Wulf said. Caleb nodded good morning. “Oatmeal and bacon, or bacon and bread?”
“Oatmeal and bacon and toast,” Astrid said, ambling into the room. Unlike Wulf, their archmage was not ready for work. Her two-toned blonde-brown hair was yet unbrushed, and she was wrapped in a thick fur cloak that dwarfed her slender frame. Her eyes were still crusted with sleep.
“Extravagant tastes you have there, Archmage Beck,” Caleb teased. Wulf hummed agreeably and got out the water and oats.
“Kohle, could you light the fire—thank you. Better than coal, as always.”
“That's me. Caleb Widogast, better than coal.”
“Very true,” Astrid agreed. “Wulf, add milk to the water, and fry the bacon in butter.”
“Extremely extravagant!” Wulf exclaimed in false shock.
“And the toast in bacon grease and butter,” Astrid continues, grinning.
Wulf puts a hand to his forehead. “Who would ever have thought that we would reach these heights of luxury? Oatmeal with milk, bacon in butter, and white bread toast.”
Caleb almost said, Was it worth it? Worth our parents and our minds and our years? But—no. These are the things that the three of them are reclaiming. These are the things that they are allowed to enjoy.
Certainly it was better than stale bread with the barest scrapings of jam. The few jars had to last the whole winter, after all.
Instead he said, “I daresay the corrupt old miller never ate as well as we do now.” The farmers of Blumenthal milled their wheat and paid the miller in flour. But the miller was a terrible, selfish old coot, who always took more than his fair share. Literally everyone had hated him.
Astrid's eyes lit up with dark fire. She all but purred as she said, “Let me tell you what we did to him…”
The thought came, as he half-expected it would. Jester would like this story.
She would. But she's not here. I am.
So he nicked the milk bottle and drank as Astrid and Wulf gleefully told him about how Crown authorities found out the miller's corruption was depriving the king of farmers' rightful tax. (And ripping off poor farmers, but it's not as if nobles cared about that.)
The milk was cool, sweet, and refreshing, but sweeter still was the schadenfreude as his friends recount the miller's misfortunes. And sweeter even than that was the knowledge that the mill was eventually given to Karl the woodworker down by the river, whom the old miller despised.
Seriously. Fuck that miller.
His next bout of breathlessness could have come at a worse time, true, but in the middle of a joint combat class between Soltryce Academy students and baby Cobalt Soul monks was pretty awful, all things considered.
He was in the middle of coaching Darrow Yannet through casting shield. Darrow was a good, solid martial and magic fighter, but his dexterity and reflexes left something to be desired. Shield needed swift reflexes to utilize—there was no point in casting the damn spell if the attack had already gotten through.
As the dwarf boy materialized a glimmering, translucent shield, Caleb caught sight of a small carved wood symbol of the Traveler, carried coyly on a charm bracelet of one of the Cobalt Soul baby monks.
A tiefling Cobalt Soul baby monk.
The daffodils surged up in his throat, and he doubled over, coughing and retching at the same time.
“Caleb!” Beau shouted from across the room. Her panic must be incongruous to everyone else—who flips out over a little coughing fit? But with steps swift as wind Beau appeared by his side and thumped his back a tad too hard. “Fuck, man, you okay? Are you gonna hack up a hairball?” Hairball, of course, being the lie for daffodil.
He massaged his throat and felt the unmistakable mass of a flower head low in his esophagus. But based on the placement, it would not come out within the next coughing fit, so he told Beau, “No, it is well and truly wedged within.”
Sweat trickled down his temples and his skin was clammy to the touch. Beau scowled at him and guided him to chair, sternly telling him to stay put.
Moth and Darrow sidled up to him.
“Are you all right, Sir Widogast?”
His voice was rough as he said, “Yes, just a little asthma attack.” Asthma was the pretty lie they fed gossipy little students. Teenagers absolutely could not know their teacher had blumenkrankheit, he'd be a subject of outrageous rumors in two hours. Perhaps less.
“Do you want to inhale some steam?” Moth asked worriedly.
“...Pardon?”
“He means he'll put some water in a basin and boil it,” Darrow said. Moth nodded.
“My little sister has asthma and steam inhalation helps her.”
Caleb blinked. “Well…I suppose. I would appreciate that. I have never tried that before.”
“You didn't do steam inhalation as a kid?” Moth questioned. The halfling boy produced a bowl from somewhere, and poured some water into it. He chanted beneath his breath, and the water began to bubble.
What he's doing was probably shape water, but Caleb had never seen that cantrip used to boil water. Most used the cantrip in its property to freeze.
But then again, Moth had said his little sister had asthma and steam helped her. Was that not similar to why Bren had learned fire in the first place? Kohle, better than coal at keeping his friends and family warm through a Zemnian winter.
“I did not have asthma as a child. This is ah, a more recent development.”
Moth hummed in understanding. “Here you go, Sir Widogast. Careful you don't dip your nose in.”
Caleb leaned over the steaming bowl, some strands of red hair slipping from his bun, and inhaled as deeply as he could. The warm air traveled through the oxygen-starved labyrinth of his lungs, and he had to admit it was soothing. He should incorporate this into his care routine.
Breathe in breathe through breathe deep breathe out, he chanted to himself. But all too soon flowers and stems and leaves blocked the way until he was forced to cough, big hacking coughs that made reflexive tears trickle down his cheeks. Roughly he wiped them away.
Moth yanked the bowl away so Caleb didn’t jolt it with his flailing, then shrieked and upended the thing when Beau reappeared like the wind.
“Damn, Caleb,” she said. “If you didn't want to teach combat with me you could've just said so.”
“Of course I wanted to,” Caleb said. He inhaled and held for as long as he could. It was not long at all, and he ended up coughing and spitting into a handkerchief. No petals, still, but he was not fast enough to hide the spittle veined with red from Beau's eyes. “The spirit is willing but the flesh, unfortunately, has terrible constitution.”
“We're ending class early,” Beau decided “Hey! Kiddos! Homework—” A chorus of groaning greeted her, and she scowled fearsomely. Everyone shut up in terror of Expositor Lionett. Moth and Darrow scuttled off to their proper places with the rest. “Wizardlings, research buff spells for your buddies and debuff spells for your enemies. Monkeys, figure out how to defend your squishy partymates. Recitation next week. I will be using the index cards.”
“Fireball,” one of the wizardlings said. Another one laughed. “Yeah, I'll debuff the enemies all the way to—”
“Sometimes we need to take enemies in nonlethally. Like for questioning,” a baby monk said. Caleb's eyes went to her, and oh. It's the tiefling girl-child with the Traveler symbol. Her skin was night-dark, her eyes lined with gold and her horns painted with long, languid patterns in gold leaf. “You can't just fireball anybody you want.”
“Yeah Caleb, you can't just fireball anybody you want,” Beau mocked under her breath. Caleb elbowed her, but she simply swayed aside and the elbow connected with empty air.
“Who is that child?” he asked. “She has a…” He caught Beau's eye and directed his gaze to her charm bracelet, upon which hung a carving of an archway and a path leading inwards.
Beau's eyes went briefly wide.
“That's Lumina Eclipse,” she said. “She's a bit of a—well, she showed up one day and said she was gonna be a monk. They gave her the entrance tests and she aced all of them. So.” Beau shrugged. “She's here on scholarship, but the monks are pretty good at taking care of kids…Well.” She cleared her throat. “Have gotten better at taking care of kids, so while she's on scholarship she's not impoverished. She gets a stipend. You know?”
Caleb hummed in acknowledgement. “Miss Eclipse,” he rasped. Two heads, one blonde and one dark, snapped up. “Please stay behind.”
“Uh…” Alerie Eclipse said. She's a blonde, brown-skinned half-elf, one of Caleb's wizard students. “Which one of us, Sir Widogast?”
Lumina Eclipse blinked.
“Ah—Lumina, please.”
The other kids filed out, and Lumina stayed behind. “What's this about, Sir Widogast, Expositor Lionett?”
“Interesting charm bracelet you've got there,” Beau said. “Especially this one charm. Any reason you've got one?”
Lumina's eyes widened, and she darted a glance towards Caleb.
“As you may know,” Caleb said casually, “both Expositor Lionett and I have traveled extensively throughout Wildemount. We do not have religious prejudices as many in the heartlands of the Empire do.”
“So hypothetically,” Beau continued , “if the charm were a symbol of some dude with red hair and a green cloak and frankly ridiculous eyebrows, we wouldn't care.”
Lumina's eyes went even wider.
“You know him,” she whispered in awe.
“We might. Hypothetically. If we're thinking of the same person,” Beau said.
“...him,” Lumina said, even more hushed. “The Traveler.”
Caleb's breath rushed out of him.
“Ja, we do,” he said. Then, the words rushed from him as surely as his daffodils, without his conscious input: “I wonder if he has ever mentioned his high priestess to you?”
“Oh!” Lumina all but bounced up and down. “Yes, he's mentioned her! The high priestess, the best prankster that's ever walked Wildemount! He said sometimes her tricks are harmless and funny, but sometimes she tricks hags into negating bargains or, or, ending wars. I'm not sure about that one, though.” Her nose scrunches up. “I know it was the Mighty Nein who ended the war. You guys.”
Beau made a choked little noise.
“He sounds like a proud fucking father, what the hell.”
The smile spread unbidden across Caleb’s face. Artagan’s excessive praise of Jester was well-deserved. “Ja, well, Miss Eclipse…can you keep a secret?”
Lumina favored him with the withering look that only teenage girls could produce, before she caught herself and schooled it into a more respectful expression. “Yes. Sir.”
“Then I can tell you that indeed, it is very true: the high priestess of the Traveler is part of the Mighty Nein, and she was vital in ending the war.”
Lumina sucked in a breath. Her body quivered.
“Does that mean you were at Rumblecusp?” she whispered. “I couldn't go, I couldn't aff—I couldn't find a ship that would take me all the way, but I've always wanted to know what happened!”
Beau all but fell on the floor, howling in laughter, and Caleb grinned a little wider.
“I cannot believe you know about Rumblecusp, what the fuck,” Beau chortled. Caleb dug out a bit of fleece, and with a flick and a murmured word, the vista of Rumblecusp loomed before them. Amber hamster unicorns and blue fairies danced around the tiefling girl-child. Then an illusory Jester appeared before her, all blue skin and green cloak, just as she was during Travelercon. Lumina looked wonderstruck.
“Here is the story…”
He did have to edit the telling a little, and talking so long and so in-depth about Jester caused the entirety of his respiratory system to protest. He powered through it by sipping at his ginger tea. It was well worth it, to see Lumina so enthralled.
“But, hey, Lumina,” Beau said. “Traveler's treating you okay? No weird sh—stuff?”
“Of course the Traveler is going to be weird, he's the Traveler,” Lumina said, and it sounded so much like what Jester would say that Caleb had to hide in his handkerchief for a moment. “But he's good to uhhhhh me. He's the one who told me to join the Cobalt Soul, a friend of the high priestess would be there—oh! That's you, Expositor Lionett! Isn't it?”
Beau looked reluctantly pleased. She had never liked the Traveler, but hearing how proud he was of Jester and how he cared for this little girl under her charge…
“Yeah, that'd be me. Hey, it's getting pretty late, I'll walk you back to the monastery.”
“Oh, I—my sister's waiting for me. Alerie. I mean, not my sister blood sister, but. Um.”
“That's no problem then. You can make your way back?”
“Yes, expositor.”
“Go on then.”
They watched the kid bounce out the room, met by the blonde half-elf wizardling.
“Artagan seems to like adopting tieflings,” Beau said.
“Maybe just interesting children,” Caleb said. “We met many of his acolytes, and they were not all tieflings. But certainly, all interesting.”
Beau shot him a searching look, and Caleb coughed. “Well it has been very nice to see you again Beauregard I will see you again next week goodbye.” He was already halfway out the door.
“You’re gonna have to talk about it eventually, Caleb!” she howled after him.
Not if I have any say in it, he wanted to call back, but he speedwalked out of the Academy instead. He’d have teleported, but that was a tad excessive.
He ended up in his bedroom, staring at the ceiling and replaying memories of Rumblecusp. Jester underwater, hair fanning out around her. They went pearl diving but she was so distracted by the wildlife that she'd not found any. Jester in her priestess robes, radiant and tricksy and fey, for all that she was of infernal heritage. Jester clinging to Artagan and how his breath had caught, how his heart felt it was being torn out of his chest he could not lose her—
Wait, no. That was just his blumenkrankheit. Again.
He lay down on the floor, the hardwood more welcoming than his bed at the moment. He brought his knees up so his feet were flat against the ground. Then he placed his hands atop his stomach and began to breathe deeply. Breathe in breathe through breathe deep breathe out.
But then the memory of the beach and the firelight returned to him, the music drumming through his body. That night felt like a pocket full of stars, the air charged with possibility, like he could hold out his hand and ask her to dance and she would interlace blue fingers with his and they would spin around the campfire and she might, she just might, she could feel—
He turned over just in time and retched onto the floor. Pain wracked his chest, his lungs, his entire body—he writhed, gagged again, a line of fire up his throat, blood and bile and flowers all surging up. The daffodils that splat out of him, roots and all, were streaked vividly with bloody spittle. When he touched his lips they came away red.
He clambered up onto his bed and spat on the floor again. The bloody vomit and flowers on the floor stares accusingly back at him.
I am so tired of this I am so tired of being sick I hate this I hate this I hate this. Jester why don't you—
No. Never that. Never, ever that.
I hate this, he thought again. He pushed a shaky, clammy hand against his aching chest. The pressure helped. Fuck the Betrayer gods.
And then, more quietly, Darrow still hasn't mastered shield. I need to work with him on that.
You can't, if you don't—
I know. I know. IknowIknowIknow.
Beau walks catfoot-soft into Caleb’s bedroom. Her friend stands at his desk, with a pile of small things surrounded by amber pieces in front of him. He’s already dressed for his surgery: a crinkly, paper-thin gown, hair braided back, barefoot.
“Yo,” she says. He yelps, and the pile of things flashes and disappears into the amber.
“By the gods, Beauregard.”
“Just not the ones we killed and or neutralized,” she agrees. “You ready?”
“More or less.”
“You sure you’re cool with some of the Soul medics observing the surgery?”
“It is a little late to back out now, ja?” he rasps.
“Just say the word and I’m kicking them all out,” she promises. She studies his face. His skin is drawn tight and pale, the bags under his eyes heavy with exhaustion. His lips are dry and cracked, but stained just faintly bloody. “Just shove them all into the teleportation circle.”
He laughs weakly. “No, it is fine. Let my misfortune contribute to the sciences, so the doctors can better care for the next poor sad sod to contract this—” He waves a shaky hand.
Beau steps close and hugs him. He stiffens for a split-second, then relaxes into her hold and even wraps his arms around her.
“I’ll be here when you wake up,” she promises. “Or, well, in the kitchen. Yeza has been stress-baking and I want first dibs on the sourdough.”
“It does smell pretty amazing,” he says. “I look forward to enjoying his bread once again.”
Yasha pokes her head around the doorframe. “Caleb, Doc Thulogge says she’s ready.”
“Into the breach,” Caleb murmurs. Beau gives him the gentlest love tap she’s ever given him. He still winces and staggers back dramatically.
He leaves the room. Beau makes to follow him, but then something crunches beneath her feet.
It’s a piece of crumpled paper, discarded and rolled under the desk. Beau picks it up and smooths it out. A huge X is slashed atop the words, but she can still make them out.
Dear self,
It only hurts this much right now
I love her and I'm afraid of how much I do
I love her and I'm going to make it stop
It hurts and I want it to stop hurting but I don't want to lose this
It only hurts this much right now because I haven't made it stop yet. But I will soon.
She would break her back to make me break a smile but she doesn't love me back and it's breaking my heart. And it's not her fault it's not her fault it's not anyone's fault but my own for being a fool.
Remember that cheesy old line, something like “why is it called falling in love when being with you makes me feel like flying?”
I should've turned around the moment I realized what was going on.
I don't want to lose her.
I have to lose her. I want to live.
I miss her. I love her. I'll be getting over her my whole life. However short it is.
BURN THIS.
Beau bites her lip so hard it almost bleeds.
Caleb's never…he's never said things out loud like this. She knows he felt it, he'd never have gotten sick if he hadn't. But this despair and love and want is gross and weird and fucking awful, why did things have to work out like this—
“Why couldn’t it just be a regular case of unrequited love,” she hisses to no one in particular. “I could’ve drowned him in alcohol and fixed it that way. Gotten him a rebound or something. But nooo the Betrayer Gods have to be little shits.”
What if they fucked around with time travel and went back to the Calamity and she punched the Betrayer gods into submission before they got the brilliant idea of making love a literal terminal illness? That would be a fun time.
But the only place she can think of that has that time travel capability is fucking Aeor, and she’s not stepping back into that place, not ever. So instead she grabs the crumpled paper and goes out into the kitchen.
Yasha’s there, watching Yeza as he stress-kneads dough. There are already bowls of varying sizes covered with damp cloth. Beneath those cloths, the dough is rising into cute little bubbly elastic…things. She has no idea how baking bread works.
“Hey babe,” she says. “Want to smoke a cigarette with me? You too, Yeza, if you want.”
“Ah, thank you Beauregard, but I promised Luc cookies,” the halfling says. “I still have to cream the butter and sugar after this loaf.”
Beau has no idea what creaming butter and sugar means, either, but Yasha seems to. Yasha says, “I’ll just take a quick smoke break and come help you with the creaming, okay Yeza?”
“Thank you, that would be a big help,” Yeza says, obviously relieved. “You can smoke on the back porch, just not near where the surgery will be.”
“Of course,” Beau agrees. She leads her girlfriend out into the Brenattos’ backyard. Veth’s flower beds have received the news that it’s spring. The primroses have burst into color, and the tulips are beginning to bud. They settle down under the tree festooned with climbing roses, and Beau slumps into Yasha’s side.
“What’s wrong, babe?” Yasha says softly. Beau waves a hand.
“Just—all this bullshit.”
Yasha pats her head. Beau leans into the touch, then pulls out Caleb’s discarded letter and rips it into half.
He said burn this, and what better way than to smoke with it? She tips some crushed leaves she’d bought in Othe into the paper, and proceeds to roll it with expert movements. She hands the first hand-rolled cigarette to Yasha, then starts on hers.
When she’s done, she lights her cigarette and raises it in a mock-toast. “To Caleb surviving this stupid sickness.”
Yasha tips the end of her cigarette to Beau’s lit one. The ends kiss, and Yasha’s cigarette lights up orange. The smoke spirals up into the air, and through the newly-leafy branches of the tree.
“To Caleb getting better and not forgetting Jes,” Yasha says.
“...Yeah. Fuck.”
Beau snuggles closer to her girlfriend, and together they smoke and wait.