tieflingtarot | When you dig my grave, could you make it shallow?

Entry tags:

nexus_crossing

When you dig my grave, could you make it shallow?

((TW vomiting, blood, flashbacks of live burial))

Mollymauk Tealeaf liked to come across as someone confident. Someone who while they might not have all of their shit together, at least had the ability to handle themselves when it all turned on him.

Independent enough to handle being on his own.

That last one though was turning out to be an unfortunately nasty little lie. He found himself antsy, uneasy. Annoyed to be honest, wondering why he'd never gotten this handled until he realized with a jolt that this was the first time he'd ever been alone for more than a night or two since he'd been aware enough to know the difference. First with the carnival, and then with the Nein, there were always people around. Even when they bedded down they shared rooms in the inns, they cuddled up when on the road under the protection of spellwork.

He did his best to ignore it. Figured filling his days with exploration and socialization would make up for it. And it did at first. But the interactions weren't enough. His dreams started to edge towards the troubled, no matter what he might drink or take to change that. Like tonight, the tiefling surging up from a near dead sleep to all but tip off the bed in a blind panic, crashing onto hands and knees. His vision swam, he was fairly sure from the burn of his throat that he was vomiting as his stomach heaved against the remembered tarry mess of dirt that had filled his throat with every panicked breath, every gasp for air just leaving the taste of grave dirt in his mouth, fingers aching with the remembered agony of clawing against it, of the nauseating press of the weight of it above him.

Cold, gods but it was cold, fuck it was so heavy it was too much, he couldn't breathe, it was crushing him-

A pitchy noise like a wounded animal tore from his throat as the sudden flash of pain startled him from his state, and he froze, red eyes staring mutely at where he'd started tearing at the floors with his fingers on terrified reflex, a couple of his claws ripped painfully from the process, leaving bloody smears against the hardwood.

He felt ill. Jerked into motion to grab blindly for the bottle on his night stand, draining a quarter of it in one long, burning pull to try and rinse the taste the taste of death, the taste of the grave, he could taste the rich dampness of the dirt even still coating his tongue, against his teeth- from his mouth. Thumping it down again maybe with more force than was necessary as he struggled to stand, stumbling on his hooves for a moment as if he forgot how they worked.

Like when he'd first woken, newborn and already dead, already broken, in a body he didn't understand, with a mind in tatters-

He forced the feeling of bile down with a shudder as he picked his way through the room. It was too quiet and yet that same silence was deafening. Too much room for thought. Too much room to become aware of yawning emptiness, of the trickle of dirt threatening to tumble into that dark space inside of him, bury him again. And who knew what would come crawling out of the dirt the next time.

It took every bit of self control he had to not punch holes in his clothing with claws as he jerkily dressed, feeling wild, somewhat feral with anxiety as he all but fled the apartment, the door banging shut behind him as he escaped into the Nexus at large, searching for something, anything to drown out the cold emptiness of himself, or the taste of damp earth at the back of his tongue.

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Day and night have little meaning to an angel that doesn't need to sleep, especially if one spends that time getting lost in a book. Aziraphale has somehow done it again, staying a shade too long at the Grand Library. He's standing at the base of its steps, sending a text to Crowley about a late dinner, when the sight of a familiar horned fellow catches his eye.

Goodness, is that Mollymauk? He looks so terribly shaken, as if he's trying to outrun a ghost. "Molly?" He pockets his mobile. "Are you all right, dear?"

He certainly didn't look himself, that was for certain. None of the usual baubles or decorations, as he'd removed them to sleep and not been in a state to put them back on. No ostentatious coat, he'd even forgotten his boots altogether in his haste to outrun the sensation of dirt trickling in on the edges of the empty space inside him, but hooves made that a bit less unsafe than it could have been otherwise.

Uncertain which way to go, what to even do Molly had come to a stop, shuddering visibly as he cast about in a manner that was quite lost, tail twitching and lashing madly. At least before his name was called, his name, not the other name, the other title, or even worse nothing-

"Ah-" His forked tongue felt too thick and clumsy in his mouth, the dryness just bringing to mind the feel of grit which wasn't helping as he struggled to find words, to focus on something, anything. "I got... turned around. A bit startled is all, nothing to worry about."

Obviously a lie, but Mollymauk was never the best at admitting when he wasn't at his best. When he needed help.

It is obviously a lie, but Aziraphale is far too polite to call Molly on it directly. His expression says it instead, eyebrows drawn together in concern for his friend. This is a being who was utterly nonchalant with a wound in his chest, what could have startled him enough to run out into the night barefoot? Er, the equivalent of being barefoot, anyway.

"I'm afraid it's a bit too late for me not to worry," he says with an almost apologetic smile. He offers Molly an arm to hold onto. "Why don't we get you back home. Er, you're staying in the Nexus now, I presume? I can brew you a pot of tea." Tea makes everything better during a disaster. That and whiskey.

It was entirely out of character for Molly to be like this especially out in the open, Aziraphale had that entirely correct. The tiefling at least wasn't in any state to get aggressive about being called out, instead letting out a chuckle that had too little of anything behind it to be comforting as he took the offered arm, trying to keep from gripping too desperately though it meant there was no focus left to stop his fingers from trembling.

"Sure," He breathed out a bit hoarsely. "Some tea sounds lovely."

Aziraphale feels the trembling, but tries not to draw any attention to it, other than giving Molly's hand a gentle pat. "There we go, dear. You'll need to show me the way."

On the astral plane, the angel unfurls a wing and lets it curve around the tiefling protectively. The thought crosses his mind of stopping a tea shop on the way, but he dismisses it. He can miracle the necessary supplies if Molly is missing anything in his abode.

"I've been working on your coin trick," he says in an effort to fill the walk back with soothing chatter. "I think I've nearly got it now, thanks to your help. Crowley didn't groan even once when I showed him."

Show him the way. Molly could do that. He nodded jerkily at the instruction as he started to walk again. Still rattled, but miles better for the warmth of the arm under his hand, the sensation of warmth that came from the wing that he was unaware was being moved in such a manner. He wasn't alone, he wasn't gone, he was here, he was Mollymauk, he existed-

"Oh?" His mind was sluggish in making the connection but he huffed a soft noise of approval at the news. "Glad to hear it... you've got the form down now, it's just a matter of practice. Muscle memory."

His apartment wasn't far. Nothing fancy, he'd been a bit too frazzled to really feather his proverbial nest so it was still somewhat undecorated aside from the absolutely garish tapestry of Bahamut cast over the couch like a throw blanket.

He didn't even have the energy to excuse the veritable forest of bottles on the kitchen counter, all alcoholic and in varying states of emptiness. He had the things for tea at least in the cabinets, for all he hadn't touched them in a few days. He'd been having a... rough time of things, clearly.

"Yes, lots of practice," Aziraphale agrees. "That's probably where I've been led astray in the past. I'm too eager to show off what I've learned."

He leads Molly into the flat and over to the couch, only then withdrawing his arm, although the comfort of his aura remains. "I'll be back in just a jiffy with the tea," he promises, heading into the kitchen. The bottles get a concerned look -- that's a consumed collection that's End Times worthy right there -- before he bustles about, finding the tea and getting the kettle going.

When he returns, there is a warm mug of tea in his hands, as well as a small packet of wafer biscuits that he miracle'd up in case Molly needs a nibble of something to settle his stomach. "Here we are," he says warmly, offering Molly the tea and biscuits. He glances at the tapestry. "Goodness, that's quite the dragon. Are they a friend of yours?"

If Aziraphale thought the bottles were bad, he'd really frown at the packets and vials on his bedside table- Molly had been busily going through all the options of illicit things to try and escape his nightmares and the almost out of body disassociation he'd not experienced since he'd first woken, before he'd been himself.

The tiefling hadn't moved from his spot thankfully, just curling up where he'd sat, knees tucked against his chest and dewclaws of his hooves caught against the couch cushion to keep them in place. He blinked owlishly as the angel spoke to him, a bit sluggish as he accepted the mug and biscuits, looking down at them a moment as if they were some indecipherable puzzle to be solved before he at least took a cautious sip of his tea, something tense uncoiling in his gut at the warmth, at odds with the cold that crept through him.

"Dragon..." He glanced around trying to sort what they were talking about before he realized the tapestry was still there, a soft huff of understanding accompanying the discovery. "Ah. That's... Bahamut. The Platinum Dragon, god of truth and justice... I always figured his sense of right and wrong would keep him from smiting me for pretending to be one of his if it was dangerous to admit I worship the Moonweaver."

It was something to focus on at least, even if his tone was still somewhat vague and faraway.

Something has deeply disturbed Molly, not just this evening, but over a long period of time if the bottles in the kitchen are any indication. Aziraphale has no idea what, but he's committed to staying with his friend until this acute episode of it passes, at least. Once Molly has the tea in his own grasp, the angel joins him on the couch, space between them so he doesn't crowd him, but close enough should he need a shoulder to lean on or a hand to hold.

"Bahamut? We have a Bahamut... well, a myth, anyway. It's a giant sea creature that helps support the weight of the world." The dragon deity that Molly speaks of sounds like something closer to the Almighty, or at least one aspect of Her. He smiles a little at the necessary subterfuge. "He sounds very old and wise. I think he'd understand."

Molly's faraway tone concerns him. Is he homesick? Or has the shock of being mortally wounded only now just hitting him? "Do the gods of your world know one another? Sometimes I wonder if the Almighty made the angels because She wanted company. She's omnipotent, you know, She probably could have done it all on Her own."

At one end of the Plaza, close to where the lanterns once marked the boundaries between safety and death in the Winter Storm, there is a narrow brook across which an elegant stone bridge stretches. And in the thick, cool midnight darkness, there is a figure there, seated on the edge of the rail, and singing.

Loki does not wander the night in the Nexus on a regular basis, but sometimes sleep is an elusive beast. Tonight, the children have more than one protector staying in the cottage, and so Loki dared to wander forth for a short while, to breathe the night air. She has opted to wear her feminine form, and so Molly may not recognize her by voice or by appearance, but she is definitely a diversion, and sirens generally don't sing beside brooks that are less than two feet deep, so she's probably safe to approach.

A diversion indeed, and siren or no, it was doubtful that Molly would keep his distance in his current mood and mindset. No already sidling somewhat near, trying not to get so close as to make the stranger nervous, him being admittedly startling typically to run into let alone in the darkness alone. Especially as he was now, raw livewire nerves rubbed over broken edges.

The clip of hooves on stone sounded too loud to his ears but he thanked his lucky stars that he managed to look at least somewhat casual as he leaned against the railing himself, gaze skipping between the strange woman and the brook the bridge went over. Trying not to stare, trying not to feel like her presence was a lifeline.

"You've quite the lovely voice." He managed to at least sound less like he was about to have a meltdown, though maybe not to Loki who knew such tricks, let alone that he'd heard Mollymauk before, knew what relaxed sounded like from him. And that this was not it. Oh no this was far from normal, too thin, too thready, too bright as if to counteract the dark, dark earth he kept imagining the taste of.

Perhaps he is in luck that this particular person recognizes him, and is in fact kindly disposed toward him. Singing to the water is probably some peculiar form of meditation or shamanism for Loki. She has been known, particularly in this form, to be deliberately mysterious, almost to the point of whimsy. But now, she can sense the mental state of the person approaching her, and is immediately concerned.

She lets the chorus trail off--something about the green linden tree--and turns to study the approaching tiefling. He doesn't look as well put together as the last time she saw him. That never bodes well for someone who takes such pleasure in ornamentation.

"Hello, Molly," she greets, rather gently. "I suppose you don't recognize me in this form. It's Loki. I'll happily take the compliment, though, either way."

She holds out a hand, offering an armclasp or a pat on the shoulder--maybe even an embrace, if he chooses to take the initiative. "Rough night, is it?"

If she hadn't said anything, Molly would have likely come to the idea that she might be Loki's sister, or some other relative- there was a shared quality in her appearance and voice that would have colored the assumption. But she offered the explanation and he nodded, a smile crossing his face that was a shade too bright, a thing hanging on by a thread that was fraying almost as immediately as it was put into place.

"Striking in this form as in your other." He replied, trying to gather the tatters of his usual demeanor around himself like a cloak, even if it wasn't as effective as he'd like it. He accepted the armclasp, a tremor working through his fingers as he struggled not to cling, not to grab tight, not to drag closer to her in some blind bid to stave off the yawning void-

He gave himself a light shake as he forced himself to release his grasp, a soft noise slipping from him at the observation.

"Not in the way I'd enjoy either, isn't that a damn unfortunate thing?" If he could fake it he could make it. Maybe. If his attention was a bit less scattered he'd have noticed the blood left from where his fingers had curled around Loki's arm and apologized, but as out of it as he was at the moment that was a thing she'd have to discover on her own.

"Aren't you gallant? As complimentary as ever." Maybe Loki is a bit easier to charm with praise on her appearance than she ought to be (in both forms!), or maybe the subtle purr of pleasure in her voice will help ground Molly a bit further. It's easy to see he's hurting, and given he had been run through when they first met, and now he seems more shaken, it must be bad.

She can feel his hands shake, and whether it's just because she likes him on his own merits, or because she feels he's part of her providence, or just because having children in her care wakens all her nurturing instincts, she really wants to pull him into an embrace. She won't force him, though, waiting to see some indication of what he actually needs.

"Well, you're heading toward the Wilds, and if you go too far that way, it won't improve your evening, that's for sure." It takes only a moment for the night air to cool the blood on her sleeve and for her to feel it. She glances down and makes a small, concerned noise.

"Some day," she tells him, "we will meet, and you will not be bleeding, and we shall have a glorious time then."

Sliding off her seat, she slides her arm through his as if she were taking him on a stroll through a garden somewhere. "If I take you back to my cottage, will you be able to be calm around my children? They're asleep now, and I'd rather they didn't wake, but I'm not leaving you to wander alone, either."

The presence of another person was enough to ground him some. Someone who saw him, rather than looked through him like his overwrought mind told him they would. He chuckled tonelessly, trying his best to keep a smile, to keep an expression like he was fine, though it was tenuous, hanging by a fraying thread.

"Ruined my manicure on top of it." He commented in a thready tone, the safest thing he could manage to complain of. If he said a word about any of the rest he knew he'd be unable to stop. And if she looked she'd see the way the claws had torn and broken, chipping the gold enamel he'd painted black surfaces with.

He didn't resist her taking his arm, just leaning ever so slightly into the solid warmth at his side, tail flicking fretfully. "Luckily... my upsets tend to be quiet. I won't wake them."

"Oh, dear." She pats his wrist gently. "If you like pink, purple, and/or glitter, I imagine my youngest daughter could give you a touch-up in the morning after she wakes."

It's half a joke, but knowing Una, it could happen.

"Good," she says. "I can't imagine you being a danger to them, I'd just rather they didn't get startled. So, come with me, and we'll get you cleaned up and then you'll have some tea and spend the night on my sofa with me. Yes?"

"And some day, when I'm up late and need company, I'll call on you in return."

"I love all three." He let himself be led off, just glad to have Loki with him now, for all he knew he would be terribly embarrassed over his meltdown later. He never did well alone, and hadn't realized just how deeply that ran until now.

"That... sounds nice, actually." He murmured, head ducking slightly, letting his mess of curls obscure his face a moment. "And you're welcome to. Call on me I mean."

"Do you? Then you're bound to be great friends with Una. She prefers to dress like a fairy-tale princess while behaving more or less like a wrecking ball. But I'll go on about the lot of them for hours if you let me."

Which is fine, if that helps as a distraction, but they should also try to get somewhere. Loki gives those curls a reassuring pat and starts leading the way along a thinner path that leads out of town and slightly northward.

"I had a breakdown around this time last year," she confesses quietly after a moment. "There were a number of things going on that hit me in exactly the wrong way at the wrong time. My brother and one of my lovers had to pick me up off the bathroom floor. These things happen, when you've seen and done and been done to. You needn't explain, but if you want to, I'll listen."

"If Jester ever finds this place it sounds like she and Una would be fast friends. She's wild for princess dresses and is absolutely a wrecking ball of delight." It was in some ways easier to talk about others, to distract himself from the things he didn't want to think of, for all he was unhappily aware that it wasn't as simple as that here.

And he didn't resist Loki leading the way, red gaze flicking towards her at the soft admission.

"Not... out here," He murmured softly, tail curling reflexively around one of his own legs, in a self-soothing sort of manner. "It's likely a thing I should share for all I'm allergic to that sort of thing typically."

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When you dig my grave, could you make it shallow?

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