Work Text:
A soft light rising above the level meadow,
behind the bed. He takes her in his arms.
He wants to say I love you, nothing can hurt you
but he thinks
this is a lie, so he says in the end
you're dead, nothing can hurt you
which seems to him
a more promising beginning, more true.
- "A Myth of Devotion", Louise Glück
“You know,” Caleb says. His voice trails away.
Kingsley glances up from the floor, where he’s teasing a disgruntled Mitzi with the dangling end of one of Essek’s innumerable balls of yarn. As expected, Caleb has gone and lost himself in his reading again. So predictable.
“You gonna finish that sentence anytime soon?” Kingsley asks.
“Ah,” Caleb says. He blinks and looks up, abashed. “Sorry. I went to the market today.”
“Nice. Did you bring back any of those bear claws?”
“Sadly, no, but there are some pretzels in the kitchen if you want some,” Caleb says, his attention already absorbed in his flaking tome once more. “What I meant to say is that I thought I saw you at one of the stalls earlier.”
Kingsley snorts. “I just got here an hour ago. Is that memory of yours finally starting to go, old man?”
“I am not quite that old yet,” Caleb says, smirking as he twirls a pen between his fingers, eyes still fixed on the pages.
Kingsley, for a moment, lets himself admire the small streak of gray at Caleb’s right temple. Makes him look dignified, like the respectable professor that he is. Or would be, if he stopped inciting sedition among his students every few business days. Not that Kingsley disapproves in the least.
“They must have been one hell of a tiefling to have caught your eye,” Kingsley says.
“She was indeed. It was my failing that I immediately assumed she was you, simply by virtue of also being a tiefling. Forgive me,” Caleb says. His lips turn up in a small, apologetic smile. “In hindsight, she looked nothing like you. Her skin was a slightly different shade—more magenta than lavender. But her eyes were what caught my attention. Red, like yours, from corner to corner. Very distinctive.”
Kingsley stills. A wave of hot guilt, inexplicable and unwelcome, washes over him—a peal of bright laughter, stacks of unopened letters addressed in neat, flowing penmanship, candlelight and dancing and poetry and—
Mitzi yowls at him, her orange fur ruffling as she bats at his knee with an imperious paw.
“Kingsley?” Caleb is sitting up straight now, troubled blue eyes focused entirely on his face. “What is it?”
He manages a laugh. “Nothing. Shocked that someone could match my dashing good looks, that’s all.”
Caleb’s brow furrows, the lines around his mouth tightening. He shuts his book. “If I reminded you—”
“About those pretzels,” Kingsley says loudly, jumping to his feet with a suddenness that makes Mitzi let out an angry hiss. “I could do with a bite to eat, actually. Do you want anything?”
He strides into the kitchen, not waiting for an answer. Then he sits with his back against the counter and puts his head between his knees. It takes him several long moments before he can recover his senses again.
“Kingsley,” Caleb says from the doorway. If he'd seen Kingsley dry heaving just a few seconds ago… well. He's at least decent enough not to mention it.
“I'm good,” Kingsley says, with just the slightest tremble to his voice.
The speed with which he gets up makes him feel faint for a moment. But he picks up one of the pretzels from the basket anyway, tearing into it with his teeth despite his roiling stomach. The bread tastes like ash on his tongue. “You know what? These are great. Absolutely top tier,” he says, mouth full. He chokes down his half-chewed bite. “Where'd you get these again?”
“Essek’s fond of those bear claws too, you know,” Caleb says, apropos of nothing. “I buy them at the same place I got those pretzels, three stalls away from the area where they sell the fresh flowers. I meant to pick some up today since Essek is coming to visit tomorrow, but they had run out by the time I arrived—”
“I can get them in the morning,” Kingsley says before he can think. “I'm an early riser these days. Up with the sun and all that. Call it force of habit—Captain Tusktooth runs a tight ship.”
Caleb makes a small smile. Or at least, he tries to. Sometimes, Kingsley hates how well he seems to understand.
But all Caleb says is: “Essek would like that very much. Danke, my friend.”
To no one's surprise, Kingsley doesn't get much sleep that evening. His one consolation is that he only wakes in a cold sweat, shaking like a leaf despite the warmth of the carefully mended bedclothes. He knows Caleb would be the last person to blame him for having nightmares. But he still feels like shit every time he throws the house into a panic with his screams in the wee hours of the day.
Whatever it is Kingsley dreamed about this time, he sure as hell doesn't want to remember it. He sits up, scrubbing his face with his hands, and pulls his shirt and trousers back on.
One sleeve just catches on the tip of his horn—for a moment, when he reaches up to disentangle the fabric from the pointed end, his fingertips linger on the empty piercing. He's never been fond of jewelry.
Kingsley walks into the sitting room barefoot, and is surprised to find Essek already there, Mitzi purring with great contentment in his lap.
“You're early,” Kingsley says.
Essek arches a haughty eyebrow at him. “So are you.”
He shrugs, collapsing on the couch next to Essek. Mitzi pads over to him, places her paws on his leg, and promptly unsheathes her claws straight into his thigh.
“Ow,” Kingsley says with great feeling. “I'll be out of here by tonight, queen lioness, don't worry.”
“So soon?” Essek asks.
“Yep,” Kingsley says, yawning. “I'm a tremendously busy man. Also, and more importantly, Yasha's making dinner in Zadash tonight. Beau will skin me alive if I make her wait at the Archive for a second longer than I should.”
“Your social calendar must be filled to the brim,” Essek says dryly.
“Like you can't even imagine. You're lucky I managed to squeeze in time for you two squishy wizards.”
Essek doesn't acknowledge the dig, but he presses his lips together into a thin line. It makes him look pissed off, but Kingsley knows he's just trying not to smile. “And what is on your schedule this morning that has you awake this early?”
Kingsley's own grin freezes on his face. His dreams—a frightening mannequin of a person, teeth bared in a hideous smile, casting long shadows over his bed—
“Kingsley Tealeaf,” Essek says in a low voice, snapping his attention firmly back to the present.
For all Essek is so gentle, he never treats Kingsley like he's too fragile to be touched without gloves on. He appreciates it more than he can say. That, and the fact that Essek saying his name like that makes a delightful shiver go up his spine.
So he likes being bossed around a little. What about it?
“Aye, that's my name. Kingsley Tealeaf, at your service,” he says with more relief than he wants to admit.
“I asked you a question.”
“I heard you. I’ve got an errand to run, that’s all.” Kingsley pauses. “Listen, hot boi. How do you feel about going for a walk with me?”
It's an offer Kingsley doesn't extend lightly. He knows Essek rarely leaves Caleb’s house when he comes to visit, and for good reason. He hesitates, glancing down at Mitzi, who has curled herself up against his leg, beady eyes still fixed on Kingsley. She likes Essek just as much as she dislikes him. Honestly, that seems fair.
“What about your errand?” Essek says cautiously. Mitzi chirps in irritated concurrence.
“This is the errand. Just put a disguise on,” Kingsley urges. “I guarantee no one is going to look twice at you if you're with me.”
Essek’s head turns toward the chiming clock. “It is four in the morning,” he says, bemused.
Well. That isn't a no. Kingsley decides to push his luck. “Exactly,” he says. “Most sane people will still be at home resting. The town square’s empty at this time of night. Or day, I guess.” He doesn’t know why he’s so certain of that—he’s never been there before. “What about it, Thelyss? What’s life without a little risk?”
By the end of it, Kingsley’s finally making his way through the hushed streets of the district where Caleb lives, appropriately named The Tangles. This place is one fucking maze.
He pulls the furred hood of the borrowed cloak he’s wearing more tightly about himself. It’s a little too short, the hem coming down just a little past his calves, and it's meant for the biting frost of Eiselcross rather than the chill of Rexxentrum's early mornings. But his hatred for the cold weather is second only to his unspeakable loathing for the gritty sensation of dry soil against his skin. He's grateful Essek had offered it at once when he noticed Kingsley shivering.
That, and the cloak is another layer of defense against curious eyes. Here in the heart of the Empire, to the vast majority of the public, Kingsley is an oddity at best. He hadn’t been joking when he had said his presence would draw scrutiny. There’s a reason he avoids the swanky parts of the city—the attention is fun until the whisper of devilspawn inevitably reaches his ears. As if he had, by some obscure miracle, chosen his heritage. He doesn’t even know who his parents are. He’d like to keep it that way.
“It is… very quiet.” It’s always bizarre hearing Essek’s clipped syllables issuing from the mouth of a perfectly nondescript Dwendalian half-elf, chestnut hair cropped at the shoulders. He could be a local merchant himself with how well he blends into the surroundings. “You were not wrong.”
“The highest of praise coming from you,” Kingsley says, grinning. “Just relax, eh? We’re almost there.”
“You seem to know your way around here very well,” Essek ventures as they round a corner. His voice is almost wistful when he asks, “Do you come here often?”
“You’re lucky you’re pretty, because that is a terrible pickup line,” Kingsley says with a snort, trying to ignore the way the question presses uncomfortably against his temples. The last time he had visited Rexxentrum, he had been with Jester and Fjord, helping Caleb move his newly purchased secondhand furniture into the cottage. That had been the only other time Kingsley had been here. As far as he can remember, at least. “Call it a good sense of direction. No pirate worth their salt can do without it.”
“Are you saying I would not make a good pirate?”
“You said it, not me,” Kingsley says breezily. “Either way, good to know you have some flaws after all.”
Essek huffs. “I cannot be expected to be a prodigy in everything.”
It’s always easy, trading barbs back and forth with Essek. His company doesn’t make strange echoes twinge in Kingsley’s head, the way it does with the rest of their friends, barring Caduceus. Kingsley does his fucking best not to think about why that is. His life makes so little sense already. He wants to let himself have this: simple, uncomplicated—
That is, until Essek says, “You tease me even more than my own sibling does.”
Kingsley’s gorge rises, but he manages a nonchalant laugh. “Well. Since Beau and Veth aren't here, someone's got to keep you humble.” A beat, during which his curiosity spills out of his throat before he can stop it. “So. You have a… a sibling, then? Just the one?”
Essek hums. “I suppose it depends on how you would define sibling.”
Kingsley's heard enough about consecution to put together the pieces—something about dying and being reborn and remembering the person you used to be. Thinking about it makes his head hurt, and in more ways than one. So he doesn't.
“Look,” he says, rolling his eyes theatrically. “If you want to argue about semantics or whatever, we can go back and wake up Caleb.”
Essek cracks a smile, lopsided and genuine instead of his usual gentle politeness. “You think only you know how to tease,” he says. “But to answer your question: yes, I have one sibling.”
“Huh,” Kingsley says.
A few moments elapse where Essek looks the very picture of tranquility, and Kingsley feels anything but. What’s it like, he wants to ask Essek, does it matter, knowing you share each other's blood? Do you know it in your bones? Does it even feel like anything at all?
But those are ridiculous questions. A blood compact is nothing but a contract; having a sibling couldn't be so different from that.
So instead, what comes out of Kingsley’s mouth is, “Is he as hot as you?”
To Essek’s credit, he takes some time chewing this question over. “I honestly cannot say,” he says after a long pause. “We look very different from each other. I imagine Veth in particular would be of the opinion that my brother is much better looking than I am. Of course, I disagree,” he adds in afterthought.
“You would,” Kingsley says with a snort. “Maybe you should invite him to meet the Nein sometime so we can see him for ourselves.”
“Ah.” Essek’s expression doesn’t change, but he can’t quite meet Kingsley’s gaze. “Well. My brother and I are not on speaking terms. We have not been for a long time.”
Kingsley’s mouth is so dry all of a sudden. “Why’s that?”
“I could not say. We were… very close, during our shared childhood. And then one day, we were not.” Essek sighs. “There was no clear turning point to it; no single argument that might have been mended by some reparation. I am left to surmise that we simply grew apart.”
Kingsley has to swallow before he can speak. But even then, the words scrape out of his throat. “That sucks.”
“I suppose. He may be my brother, but we are completely different people. Although conversely,” Essek says, hesitating, “we are completely different people, but he is… still my brother.”
Kingsley makes a noncommittal noise.
Essek's lips quirk. “This is not a topic I have devoted much thought to,” he admits. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” Kingsley says hastily. “Fjord’s good at small talk. Figured I may as well learn the ropes.”
But all of Kingsley's bravado fails him as he and Essek draw closer to the square, his heart beating at the speed of a hummingbird’s wings in his chest. His dark shirt is buttoned up to the throat, just like Essek’s. But suddenly, he can’t stand the thought of someone catching sight of the scars etched in pale lines across his torso, nor the peacock stitched with ink into his skin.
Kingsley tugs Essek into a darkened alleyway. “Hey. Could you, uh,” he waves at Essek, then at himself, “me too?”
Essek blinks at him. “As you wish. How would you like to appear?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Kingsley says quickly. “Human, maybe. Elven. Whatever you want.”
To his relief, Essek doesn’t ask anything else. He simply murmurs, his fingers moving in a strange gesture, and a cool sensation washes over Kingsley’s skin from head to foot. He looks down at his hands and finds the thin shimmer of an illusion clinging to him, turning his lavender skin pale and freckled like Caleb’s. A light yellow plait falls across his left shoulder.
“Will that do?” Essek says quietly.
“Yeah. Perfect.” Kingsley jams his shaking hands into his pockets. He curls his tail around his calf, making a mental note to himself to keep it hidden from sight. “Come on, let’s go.”
It's a little too early. The sky is just beginning to shift from midnight blue to pale pink, stars winking out of sight one by one as the dawn approaches. Most of the market stalls are still shut tight, with only a handful of vendors setting up their displays of vegetables and fruits at one end of the square. But the quiet is nice. Leaves a lot of room to peruse at leisure, unbothered by the crowds. Kingsley knows Essek secretly likes poking through the produce, fascinated by the sheer variety available.
“Why do these come in so many colors,” Essek says in a bewildered undertone, weighing a bright yellow bell pepper in his palm. “Surely they all taste the same?”
Kingsley shrugs. “Beats me. Yasha says it makes the food look nice, though.”
“That is… true,” Essek says thoughtfully.
By the time they finish, Kingsley's carrying a couple of shopping bags over one shoulder, his anxiety somewhat soothed. Essek’s open curiosity is entertaining to witness, like seeing a child running amok through a candy shop. Neither of them even know what to cook with half the produce they've bought.
Oh, well. That'll be Caleb’s problem later.
The flower shops open early too, as it turns out. First customers of the day are always lucky, Kingsley is informed as he adds an armful of flowers to his burden, a riot of blossoms in pink and orange and yellow and red. He hadn't really meant to buy them, but Essek’s shining eyes as he had bent over the colorful bouquets had made Kingsley sigh and pull out his purse.
By the time the scent of food begins drifting through the air, Kingsley’s laden down with their purchases, and Essek has recast each of their disguises once. They retrace their steps toward the flowers at Kingsley’s request, which means passing through a row of foreign vendors setting up their imported wares. Here, it is a cacophony of languages: various dialects from the Menagerie Coast that Kingsley recognizes from all the time he's spent aboard the Nein Heroez, a smattering of Sylvan, even a bit of what he thinks might be Undercommon, judging by the way Essek’s eyes widen in recognition.
But what catches Kingsley’s attention is the quiet murmur in a language all too familiar to his ears—Infernal, guttural and low and amused.
“You’re here early, mistress,” a merchant says, his skin a pale turquoise, his bright eyes the same silver as the jewelry studding the curled horns that stand a full foot higher than his head. “A special occasion to prepare for, perhaps?”
The woman he is addressing has her back turned to Kingsley. Her hair is black as a raven's wing, her braided hair neatly pinned into a coil at the nape with a golden clip. The dress she wears is of dark, high quality wool, the cuffs and hem adorned with a single white ruffle. Sensible, yet pretty; simple, but elegant. It speaks of a life hard-earned, but a great deal better than comfortable.
“I like to do my shopping early in the day while the children are still fast asleep,” she responds in kind, her voice musical and soft despite the rough, throaty syllables of her native tongue. The sound makes an entirely different sort of shudder go down Kingsley’s spine. His tail is wrapped so tightly around his leg that he has to force himself to relax before he can cut off his own circulation.
The merchant clicks his own tongue in sympathy. “Hard to get a moment to yourself when the kids are clamoring for attention every minute of the day, hm? Felt the same with mine when they were younger.”
“My little one has been enjoying her new horns far more than she should,” the woman sighs. Kingsley gets a sudden impression of petal-soft skin, tiny nubs of horns on the little forehead just covered by a dusting of black hair. He has no idea where it came from.
“Didn’t we all,” the merchant says, chuckling. “It'll go by quickly, mistress, I’ll tell you that. Enjoy it while it lasts.”
A light touch on Kingsley’s elbow startles him out of his eavesdropping.
“Everything alright?” Essek murmurs.
Kingsley nods, not trusting his voice. He turns and picks up the nearest curio at the adjacent stall, some carved wooden thing inlaid with mother-of-pearl. From Nicodranas, maybe. Or Port Damali. One of the coastal cities. Kingsley’s seen baubles like this so often that this one is nothing special.
The vendor says something indistinct: a new letter opener for your desk, sir? but Kingsley doesn't have the patience nor the attention to answer just now—he's thankful when Essek steps in to answer for him. He’s much more interested in the conversation that’s going on just behind him.
“What about a fine dress for yourself, mistress? I’ve got some new silks you might be interested in.”
“Tempting me again,” the woman says, laughing a little. “Where did these come from this time, pray tell?”
“Just between us, this shipment was particularly hard to procure—the caravan had to pass through Shadycreek Run before arriving at the city.”
The woman takes a moment to answer. “These are not smuggled goods, I hope.”
“Of course not. But I thought you would appreciate them more, knowing the dangerous journey they took to get here.”
“And what makes you think I would even know of such a place?”
The merchant lets out a low rumble. “Folks like me who lived in the Run know a familiar voice when they hear it.”
To Kingsley’s utter surprise, after a long pause, the woman says, “Well. Like recognizes like, I suppose.”
A full belly laugh, in return. “That’s why I always give you my best prices, mistress. As you said, like recognizes like.”
Hesitantly, in a voice that makes Kingsley's heart crack wide open: “The Run is… not a time I remember fondly.”
“Nor I. But some memories live in your bones, and are all the more dear for having been successfully scraped out of that godsforsaken place.” A muted thud, as though something’s been set down against the thin wooden planks of the counter. “Just like these silks.”
A small sigh. “I must admit, these are lovely. But fine dresses are luxuries I cannot indulge in at the moment, not with a toddler to look after.”
“Of course, mistress. Another time, perhaps. Can I tempt you with anything else before you go?”
“That’s quite alright, thank you,” Essek says in a pitch-perfect Rexxentrum accent to the shopkeeper standing in front of Kingsley, jarring him out of his internal turmoil. He can feel Essek studying him out of the corner of his eye. “Shall we?”
“Aye,” Kingsley says automatically. “Whatever you like, darling.”
What will he say when he comes face to face with the woman behind him?
He curls his hands into fists in his pockets, burying his sharp nails in the meat of his palm, pinpricks of pain shocking awareness back into his body. Will he know her red eyes, a mirror image of his own? How much of his recognition will be genuine, and how much of it will be borne of what Caleb has already told him?
Worse, what if Kingsley doesn't know her at all?
He doesn’t think he can bring himself to say the word sister aloud. It won't be true. No amount of wanting to believe otherwise will change that. He is only Kingsley Tealeaf, and no one else. Whatever flashes of memory he still carries don't belong to him.
And yet. He wants to know. He wants—no, he needs to see her.
He clenches his teeth, steeling himself. Now or never. Now or never. Now or—
He turns.
But the woman standing behind him is gone.
Essek is eyeing the bolts of fine silk on the counter with clear interest, but though the merchant greets him in heavily accented Common, he only nods and gives him one of his courteous smiles.
“Perhaps it is time for us to head back,” he says quietly to Kingsley. “Unless there was something else you needed to purchase?”
“Now that you mention it,” Kingsley says, his feet carrying him away from the tiefling merchant and the fancy silks before he can do anything stupid, like throw up or weep aloud. He concentrates with all his might on the weight of the shopping bags digging into his shoulder. “I hear the bear claws around here are spectacular.”
They make decent time, all things concerned. Early enough that Essek’s only blinking against the sunlight instead of squinting with pain, but late enough that Caleb is just about ready to leave for the Academy by the time they arrive. His eyes brighten with unbridled joy when Essek steps into the cottage.
Kingsley pushes his way past them in the entryway. He makes his way to the kitchen to give the wizards a chance to canoodle in private for a minute before Caleb leaves for the day.
He puts their purchases down in a row on the table. The enormous bouquet of flowers, the box of freshly-baked pastries, the shopping bags filled to bursting with fruits and vegetables. He stares at them for a long time with unseeing eyes. The thought of putting the groceries away is making him nauseous. He can’t seem to get enough air into his lungs.
“Kingsley,” Essek says, in the exact same tone of voice Caleb had used on him yesterday.
Gods, he can’t stand it when he’s being handled.
“Listen, hot boi,” Kingsley says, exhaustion sweeping through him with the suddenness of a door being slammed shut, “think I’ll get some shut-eye now, if it’s all the same to you. Leave me a bear claw for later, won’t you?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer this time, either. Instead, he walks directly to the sofa in the sitting room and pulls off his boots. The clock is chiming seven by the time he stretches out on his side on the cushions and closes his eyes.
Kingsley wakes an hour later, right as the clock is chiming again.
No dreams. Weird. Maybe he should try naps more often.
He blinks his eyes open and finds Mitzi curled up against his chest. Her ears flick in annoyance when he stirs, one green eye opening in return to give him the most baleful of stares.
“That doesn’t work on me,” Kingsley says to her, his voice still raspy with sleep.
“Perhaps. But is she getting up? Also no,” Essek says from the adjoining cushy chair without looking away from the book he’s holding aloft with magic. He’s just like Caleb, the nerd.
In the periphery, a vase dotted with buttons holds the fiery bunch of flowers that Kingsley had carried for an hour from the Court of Colors to Caleb’s house. There’s a pot of tea on the table and two cups: one empty, the other with wisps of steam gently curling from its depths.
Kingsley sighs. “Well, since I’m clearly being held here against my will, could you do me a favor?”
“It depends. What is it?”
“Send Beau a message for me, will you? Tell her we’ll have to reschedule dinner to tomorrow evening. If you and Caleb can tolerate my company for another day, that is—promise I’ll go out to the pubs tonight or something. I’ll stay out of your hair.”
The silence stretches so long that Kingsley cranes his neck up and finds Essek watching him with an unreadable look on his face.
“I speak for both Caleb and I when I say you are always welcome,” he says quietly.
Something in Kingsley’s chest loosens. “Thanks, hot boi. Tell Beau first, though. Before she chews my ear off.”
Essek huffs, but the book floats back down into his lap as he makes another gesture with his hands, pressing his palms together and twisting his fingers before pulling them apart. Threads of faintly glowing violet light come to life between his hands, like the complicated tangle of a cat’s cradle.
“Beauregard. Kingsley has asked me to send his regrets, as he cannot make it to dinner. Would you be amenable to rescheduling to tomorrow evening?”
Essek winces immediately. Kingsley is almost sorry to make him the recipient of Beau’s swearing, but at the moment, he’s just grateful not to have yet another voice that isn't his in his head.
“She says tomorrow is fine,” Essek says after a moment. “She also says, and I quote, ‘turns out it’s fucking hard to plan shit when you’ve got a baby.’”
Kingsley snorts. “Aye, I can imagine.” Then, before he can stop himself: “That was some really nice silk, wasn’t it?”
Essek stares at him. “Yes,” he says after a moment. “Yes, it was. Some of the finest I have ever seen, in fact. The dark red weave was particularly elegant.”
“I trust your judgment, because I definitely wouldn’t know.”
A pause. “And I trust you know what you are doing, whatever it is,” Essek says quietly.
Mitzi yowls at Kingsley, her bushy tail snapping at his nose. He supposes he deserves that. “Anyway, is there a slim chance I can still get one of those bear claws? Or have you already eaten them all?”
“Widogast spoils you dreadfully, Kingsley Tealeaf,” Essek says. Kingsley doesn’t have to look at him to know he’s rolling his eyes. But the plate of pastries drifts toward him all the same, borne halfway across the room on a violet arcane hand.
Yet again, Kingsley finds himself walking down the streets of Rexxentrum as though he knows exactly where he’s going. If he thinks about it too hard, he’ll lose his way. And if he finds his purse considerably lighter than it was this morning, well. He’s never been a purveyor of luxury; until recently, even the sound of two gold coins clinking against each other was a rare occurrence.
It’s a point of pride for him that he has more than enough to go around now. A pirate's bounty, and then some. Enough for him to be as generous as he wants. Never let it be said that he had come here empty-handed.
Kingsley clutches the carefully-wrapped bundle of silk against his chest. After a few seconds of dithering, he folds the bundle into his own salt-stained coat and puts it down on the doorstep. The chill of the Rexxentrum nighttime is already seeping into his bones, right through the homespun cotton of his dark shirt. He can’t stand the cold. But all things considered, it’s a small price to pay. He’s never particularly liked the coat anyway—the colorfully embroidered scrolls and stars have always been a little too flamboyant for his tastes.
He puts his hand into his pocket—not the left, with the hole he’s worried into its seam—the other one, the one that has two pearls sewn into it. His lucky charms. One is a flawless creamy sphere. The other is an odd shape, knobbly and imperfect. But he’d kept it because it had a glint about it, its surface iridescent beyond compare.
Kingsley rips the pocket open and extracts the pearls from within. After another long moment of consideration, he tucks the knobbly pearl into the front pocket of his coat. It might not look like much, but it's worth way more. Anyone with a jeweler's eye would see that at one glance, and he knows she will. He doesn't know how he knows that, but he's certain of it.
He gets to his feet, looking at the small, badly wrapped bundle of cloth sitting on the cold stone. His throat constricts. Surely he could do better than this. Give me another chance. We can start again. Let me give you everything you deserve. Everything we deserve.
There is so much Kingsley wants to say to her. But the die had already been cast for them long ago, and in another life, at that.
He blinks away the salt stinging his eyes and looks up at the window. The curtains have not yet been drawn. In the firelight, there's a silhouette of a woman dancing. She twirls in the window, a young child in her arms. A delighted squeal of high-pitched laughter floats down to Kingsley’s ears.
Hate me not, an unbidden remembrance of a voice lifted in song rises to his thoughts. Doubt me not.
Now it occurs to him what the parcel he’s deposited on the doorstep reminds him of—it resembles nothing more than the offerings he’s seen left behind on gravestones at the Blooming Grove. Somehow, it seems terribly fitting. Maybe he should count himself lucky that he even gets this much. A farewell to a life that might have been his, one that he might have shared with a sister. A family to call his own.
But then, he wouldn't be Kingsley Tealeaf. He would be someone else entirely.
He turns away.
He’s nearly at the corner when he hears a door creak open. The wind carries a whisper to his ears.
“Lucien?”
The soft voice is so anguished it makes Kingsley’s chest ache sharply in return. He wants to go to her. To fold her into his arms. To toss her young child into the air and make her laugh. For a moment, the longing is overwhelming enough to stop him in his tracks. Her voice is so familiar. It sounds like home.
But that isn't his name.
He can't fault her for it—after all, he doesn't know her name either.
Kingsley swallows hard and keeps walking. The stuff in his veins and hers might be the same, but whatever it was they shared had happened in another life. For both of them.
For all intents and purposes, he's a complete stranger to her. His hair is trimmed neatly beneath the curve of his horns these days, no longer flowing in loose waves around his face as it once did. He never wants to wear billowy white shirts again if he can help it. His scars are his own; they are most decidedly not for public consumption. But more than anything, he knows where he’s going now. He’s got a good sense of direction, after all. One that's entirely his own.
She doesn't call after him again.
Kingsley’s already two blocks away before he realizes: he had never even seen her face.
His knees nearly buckle. Maybe it isn't too late. Maybe if he turns back—maybe if he so much as glances over his shoulder—
But instead, he bites the inside of his own cheek hard enough to draw blood, forcing himself back to the present. He wipes roughly at his eyes before wrapping his arms tightly around himself, trembling with cold. He has to keep moving. What ghosts he still carries in his head are his to bear, and his alone; she has enough of them without Kingsley haunting her door.
Besides, there's somewhere he needs to be. A small cottage with two hopelessly besotted mages and an orange cat who loathes him on principle. And tomorrow, Beau and Yasha are expecting him for dinner, and he’s brought gifts for little Tala. After that, there will be Nicodranas, where Jester plans to descend on Veth’s summer camp in full force, Fjord gamely playing along, before they set sail for Darktow once again. And when Kingsley gets tired, there will always be the Grove. Caduceus doesn’t expect him to garden—he knows how much the soil repulses Kingsley—but there’s always work to be done on the temple and its grounds without having to put his hands back in the dirt.
Kingsley doesn’t look back.
You have everyone you need, he thinks. His feet are already retracing the steps back to Caleb’s house, anticipating the warmth of the fire waiting for him. And now, so do I.