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There’s rain pattering on the balcony, and a cool breeze dancing in the curtains that wafts the scent of wet grass and cobblestone into their little room.
(Fjord had asked Caduceus, before they went to bed, whether they should keep the glass panels closed. The floor is bound to get cold before long – night air seeps into hardwood, no matter how fine the finish, and silken shirts do little to protect Caduceus’s thin frame from the elements. But Caduceus had said that he didn’t mind, and so open they stayed.)
Fjord lays on his back, listening to the rain, and watching the glint of moonlight split through the crystalline stone at the center of Caduceus’s gift. He holds the metal gently between forefingers and thumbs, turning it to and fro, uncovering different facets of its construction with each new angle. The latest discovery is a burnished spot, where a hint of copper peeks through the blue-green seaweed frame – an imperfection that only serves to remind Fjord that this was made by hand, with perfectly imprecise care.
This was made by hand, for him.
Fjord takes a deep breath. The night air tickles his throat as his chest comes up to meet the symbol’s base, then settles back down.
There’s a part of him that wants to keep looking, to never stop looking. To lose himself in the crystal’s gleam, like he once did with the dodecahedron. This simple thing is more precious by far than any ancient artifact could be.
(Caduceus made this, for him.)
It’s not that he’s never been given a gift in his life. The Driftwood Asylum certainly did not pamper its charges, but there was usually something waiting on each child’s pillow at each Harvest’s Close. A scarf one year, or woolen gloves the next. Always made of the same drab brown fabric - warm, functional – and always interchangeable with the ones the other children wore, but something. The Nein have been more than generous as well; the Glove of Blasting and whip placed haphazardly on a chair near the door are proof enough of that.
He traces a finger over the seaweed whorls, the wrought-iron anchor piercing the heart of the stone. There is so much of Caduceus in the craftsmanship, in the intentionality of the symbolism and in the Wildmother’s influence, but there are pieces of Fjord too: the decorations, the colours, the shape.
That someone would look at him, and somehow find ways to make his roughshod edges into something this beautiful? That’s…
He never expected that.
Caduceus snuffles from his place on the floor, rolling over to find a new position, and Fjord isn’t quite sure why, but he finds himself shoving the symbol down below the blankets. Embarrassment, maybe, to be caught staring so long into the night. But eventually Caduceus settles again, and Fjord lets out a low breath as he pulls out the symbol once more.
He hasn’t chosen a place for it yet. Part of him thinks he should keep it hidden away in a pocket, only for himself, to touch when he needs a reminder of everything that’s happened in the last few months – everything he’s gained, everything he’s been given.
But a bigger part of him – a much bigger part – desperately wants to wear it.
There’s a nervous pride in the idea that someone might see the symbol on his person and understand, what he’s only just beginning to grasp himself. That they would see that Caduceus made this, for him, and that that means… something.
He thinks he appreciates now, in a way he didn’t before, why some lovers exchange rings on their wedding day. It had always seemed like a needless expense to him – why waste your wage for a band that might be lost in a week, or spend half its days hidden in a drawer, where the sting of lye or muddy earth can’t tarnish the metal?
But he can’t get the image out of his head, of walking down to breakfast in the morning and seeing Beau’s curious stare, of listening to Jester’s cooing compliments and hearing his own voice reply, Caduceus made it for me. Caduceus would nod, smiling and serene, and everyone would be able to see. See that he’s worth something to someone. That they cared enough to pin the proof to his chest.
He can understand, now, why someone might want a ring.
The rain is still pattering on the balcony, and Caduceus turns again, restless. If Fjord let his hand drift down, he could touch his shoulder. Nudge him awake. Ask him if he wants the window closed after all. Tell him again, how glad he is that they met, gods or no.
Tell him again and again and again, until he can find a gift that Caduceus would feel just as proud to wear. If it takes a lifetime, he’ll do it. He wants nothing more, than for Caduceus to feel just as happy as he does now.
Fjord doesn’t summon the courage in the end, to wake him, but he gets up and closes the window anyway.
Sometimes, Caduceus isn’t the best at asking for what he needs. Fjord intends to get better at noticing.
He falls asleep on his side, bruised and sore, and content, with the emblem still clutched in his hand, tucked beneath his chin like a talisman.
If nothing else, he thinks it’ll help ward off the cold nights ahead.