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Memories were hazy, hazy things for Kingsley Tealeaf.
An unassuming, seemingly harmless dream was often a thinly veiled nightmare waking him in a cold sweat and a flight response that lacked any underlying horror, but rather dizzying confusion that made him pace around till his head felt like it was on straight. Dreams are all they were. That's what he told himself, anyway. He was interested in his past, it drew him in. How could it not? But lies, sometimes, were easier.
If they weren't dreams, he'd go crazy. And not because he's running from his past. Gods, no. Lucien and Mollymauk, or at least what he knows of them, have taught him how horrible of an idea that is. But if a lie keeps him from spiraling into a sickening sense of delusion, he'll take the grace of a temporary deflection. It'll come to him in time, maybe, like when he remembered who Lestera was after a rather nausea inducing dream and was unable to shake her voice out of his head. Unable to forget what she meant to him. Unable to shake how strange it was to feel so connected to something so distant, hazy, and detached.
Or maybe it'll always follow him in his shadow. Silhouetted and lingering. Disfigured and an emotion that doesn't feel like his own but had once belonged to this body.
He is Kingsley Tealeaf. Mollymauk Tealeaf is like a weird estranged parent-maybe-brother to him. He appreciates what Molly has left him.
Molly is gone.
Unearthed. His flesh. His blood. Buried.
Buried in dirt two times over and in flesh thrice. Suffocating and trapped.
Kingsley feels trapped in his body, sometimes. As though whoever looks at him in the mirror is something he isn't. No, he is that. That is him. Something he's missing. Yes, that's it.
Empty.
Kingsley.
Empty. Mollymauk. Never Lucien, fuck that guy, though he haunts him anyway. There’s nightmares of him too, sometimes. They were the worst. Kingsley, Empty, Molly, Kingsley. Tealeaf.
Fuck.
He rubs a hand down his face. It is way too late for this shit. He brings the hand to run through his hair. His fingers are empty for a bit too long. Empty.
It had been a bit since he last cut it. He planned on letting it grow out till it bothered him. He liked it short at first but now it was…
He felt empty when he looked at it. Some days he felt less kingly. More… colorful. Like a peacock. And Mollymauk is such a peculiar, extravagant name. A peacock. He, Kingsley, had been compared to one…
Wait.
Had Kingsley been compared to one? Is he making that up? Maybe that was only Molly. Hm. No matter. It didn't matter where that memory came from, not when his hands were shaking. He took a deep breath.
He thought he looked more like a peahen. More subdued with colors, covering himself with blacks and greys. His tattoos were mostly covered these days, so was his skin. Red was his secondary color of choice, it matched the eyes.
He didn’t… hate that. Really.
Right now, in bed, he was just the flesh that covered his bones. He sat up and looked over to the full body mirror in the corner. Waiting for him in the reflection was his scar-littered naked body, slightly fading tattoos weathered down to the years, and… no red eyes.
Somewhere in his mind he knew there used to be some littered across his body. His hand ghosted a place over his heart. Empty. A good kind. The only good kind of empty.
His red sash dangled over the side of the mirror, shielding his face from the view. He’s unsure if that was a kindness or not. Kingsley clicked his forked-tongue across his teeth and decided sleep wasn’t happening anytime soon and took the sash into his hands.
It was a simple thing. Dreadfully simple. He took a look into the mirror again, stared at his face, his short hair, and he swiveled toward a desk beside his wardrobe. Inside one of the drawers were a bunch of threads and a few needles because he recently started to partake in sewing as a hobby.
Initially, it was for convenience. It saved him a trip to the tailor or asking any of his crew to patch up holes in his clothing. He found, oddly, that he rather enjoyed it, so he kept practicing because he felt an itch to do something more. Besides, it came so naturally to him. Hands must have a better memory than minds.
He figured this would be as good of a starter project as any.
Threading fine, yellow yarn into the needle, he poked it through the sash and began a horrendously chaotic process of embroidering patterns into the piece of fabric. Some stars, a sun, some abstract patterns vaguely resembling peacock feathers. Anything he could fit onto it. He changed to blue yarn. Green. Purple.
By the time he finished, the sash looked like a toddler had broken into an art studio and gone crazy with a blank canvas.
He knew, he knew, that he had subconsciously created some kind of homage to Molly’s old, gaudy coat. It didn’t feel bad though. It felt familiar. Homely. Welcome. He flipped the sash over, and frowned at how messy the underside looked. That wouldn’t do.
Contrary to his usual attire, his wardrobe genuinely looked like it came straight out of a theater’s dressing room. Inside it held anything from simple tunics to his pink suit worn at Jester and Fjord’s wedding, and various more fancy blouses and the like that he didn’t wear often, but if he were to take a trip into Nicodranas he knew he’d feel pretty in them. There were also random things he had stolen from unkind pirates trying to take down his ship.
He sifted through them all quickly with the excitement of someone who already knew what they wanted before they even started looking. And there it was, a dark blue cloak with stars. He hardly ever wore it, which was a damn shame for how well crafted it was.
Cutting up such a pretty, lovely thing and turning it into something new felt poetic for this current conatus. He sewed the edges to the backside of his sash. The garish embroidery flipped over to a lovely pattern of stars.
It was incredibly Molly. Perhaps the most Molly thing he has ever done.
He returned to the wardrobe and rummaged through it again. He found a flowy black blouse with a high collar. It was rather basic, so he found one of his other clothes he hardly wore and stole the black lace from them to make some shoddy laced frills decorating the front.
When that was done, he grabbed his favorite black pants and his mismatched black boots.
With the sash tied around his waist, he looked into the mirror.
Something of Mollymauk, remnants of Lucien, and Kingsley stared back. It felt good. Whole.
Still felt like it was missing a little something though. Unbalanced. Or maybe not nearly as unbalanced enough?
They moved around their arms, pivoted on their heels as they looked at the way the sash swayed around with the movement, flashy and eyecatching, when it hit them.
The sleeves.
A simple red tunic and a black corset in his wardrobe were the next victims of his newfound fashion escapade.
Trying to figure out how to reshape and frankenstein the laces of a corset to fit as a faux collared top was a bit of a process, but when they did, they got to work on sewing a sleeve to it. Only one. The left side. Connected to the laced collar in a flowy, grand manner. The back draped down longer than the front, which stopped near the elbow. It created a similar swish to the sash. Draping, a little elegant, but not at all obtrusive to his movements.
The right side of the pseudo-cape didn’t get a sleeve sewn on. He quite liked the asymmetrical look it brought. He did, however, put some jewelry on his right side to balance it out.
What met him in the mirror made him smile. A pirate, Kingsley, a vagabond wanderer in search of a home he felt worthy, with a hint of an extravagant circus man flare. Eyes would be drawn to him and in a sword fight he’d be dancing with red twirling around him.
And it was a little bit of all of him.
–
He had never felt lighter visiting Nicodranas.
The Mighty Nein were all meeting up in the Lavish Chateau for a night of drinking, sharing stories, and whatever the hell else they managed to get up to. It had been multiple months since the last time they met up. Their usual monthly gatherings had been put at a pause for a bit due to some hectic things going on with the Cobalt Soul, but they were eager to return to them and wanted to start it off with a long night of entertainment.
Kingsley showed up in his new outfit. He had made a few minor adjustments since the night he made it. He was rather proud of how it turned out. He got some new boots with red accents on them and had found himself some new rings. Silver and gold, of course.
Oh, and his hair was longer. Waves fell at the sides of his face, shrouding where his horns began on his head. The back was a bit longer, tied up low.
He felt pretty, of course. He’d feel prettier when he gets Jester to do something fun with his eye makeup later.
Naturally, he was the last to arrive. Other than Fjord and Jester, who would definitely always be in Jester’s childhood home first, Veth already lived in the city. Beau, Yasha, Caleb, and Essek always traveled together, usually picking up Caduceus along the way.
Typically, Kingsley would be picked up by them too, but this time he had already been sailing Mollymauk around the Menagerie Coast and told them he’d dock it in Nicodranas and meet up with them on foot.
He opened the doors to the chateau and stepped inside near the booth the rest of them were currently having an exciting conversation at. They all looked over to him, and he smiled when he saw them all double-take at his outfit. He could tell by the look on their faces they were trying to figure out the correct way to react.
He could see it on their faces. The way they looked at him. He looked a lot like Mollymauk. Distinctly less colorful and by no means a walking tapestry, but he knew the longer hair and extra color was associated with Molly.
A somber, but understanding feeling settled on him and his confidence softened to something sweeter. They grieved Molly and always would. He’ll never be the circus man they all knew and love, but he was just as much Molly as he was Kingsley, lost memories and all. He was discovering how to accept it along with them.
He could worry he’d always have nights where he felt empty. It would be okay that he will. The world keeps spinning and he’s got a life to live and make new memories with. His old ones could resurface and it doesn’t change a damn thing.
“Don’t stop the party for me, loves,” he confidently walked over and stole an empty glass and a wine bottle from the center.
“Sick fit, King,” Beau called out to him.
“Thank you,” he said. “I was feeling… colorful.”
There was a tarot card deck hiding in his drop leg bag. An entirely brand new one, drawn by him over months of mulling it over. Some of the cards and meanings were the same, but the designs were entirely different. They mirrored his learned wisdom from this life, obviously.
He stood at the end of the table and took a large swig of his wine before putting it down on the table. Two fingers tapped against the wood in a nondescript rhythm as he scanned the room for the current mood.
A good one, unanimously. Amazing.
He slipped his right hand into the pouch on his thigh and started drawing the cards out and letting them fall into his other hand like he was stretching an accordion. The instant he did, the others gave him a wide-eyed look. Using two fingers, he flicked out two cards and pulled them up.
The Moon and The World. Both upright. Fate must love him today.
“Look,” he began and, with a sleight of hand, he shuffled the card back into the deck, “memory is a fickle thing. I’m always playing a little bit of catch-up with myself, and I’m willing to accept the remnants when they make themselves known. I don’t know what the hell that means,” he laughs a little, “but I do know that I,” he siphons out another two cards and pushes him toward Jester, “want to give you a reading.”
Jester’s smile shined bright, brighter than usual, and she squealed. “Oh, Kingsley!” She excitedly smacked her hands onto the table. “I would love a reading. This will be so fun! You should do one for everyone. I’ve missed your readings so much, you have no idea. You have to show me your new cards! I want to see what you made!”
He grinned. “Of course, joy.”