Chapter Text
Davenport stands on a boat in the middle of the ocean, and he's screaming.
His voice carries over the still water. The stars watch mutely as he rages back and forth over the deck of his ship, the sound of his voice punctured every so often by the smash of crockery. He picks up a teacup from the crate of old thrift-shop dishware and hurls it out into the sea, as hard as he can. The plop it makes as it strikes the water is too quiet for him, so the next cup he picks up is smashed against the deck instead. The sharp explosion of breaking ceramic is abrupt and satisfying.
He senses Garl's presence before he sees him. But he keeps doing what he's doing. Right now, he just needs to make noise. He needs to get ten years of frustration and a century's worth of rage out of him. His anger is a wild thing in his chest, a falcon with flaming wings and steel talons breaking its way desperately out of the cage of his ribs.
"Utirhant…"
He lets loose a wordless cry as he smashes an ugly serving platter against the metal deck railing. He watches the broken fragments fall into the sea.
"…Did that help?" Arumdina asks.
"Does it matter?" he snaps back, before he can stop himself. He doesn't want to stop himself. He wants to say everything he can. "Everything else in this world is fucking broken. What's one more fucking dish?" He throws a shallow bowl to the deck.
"Utirhant," says Garl, and the sound of his name is both gentle and firm. "You helped save this world."
"After I helped break it in the first place," he growls.
"And it's because of you that it will even have a chance to heal in the first place! The Hunger wouldn't have given it that chance."
His jaw clenches. "I have a right to my anger," he says.
Garl sighs. "You do."
He reaches for another dish, but drops his hand and slumps against the deck railing instead, as the last of his anger drains out of him. Like the burning bird in his chest finally broke free and flew away, leaving him exhausted and empty. He stares out at the silent sea, blinking hard. The moon is too bright to look at.
"Garl, I'm so sorry." The words are strained, tight. "I should have listened to you. I--I shouldn't have shut you out. I should never have--damn it!" He rubs his hand down his face. "I fucked up."
There's a moment of silence as he waits for Garl's condemnation. But Garl only sighs again.
"So did I," he says. He has never sounded so old. "You have a right to be angry at me, too. I saw what Lucretia was planning, with the voidfish. And I didn't stop her. In fact, I encouraged it. I thought…well, I thought it would help you. Give you a fresh start. I…did not foresee what it would do to you. I am sorry."
Davenport leans against the railing, saying nothing for a long time. He closes his eyes, listens to the soft splash of water against the hull.
Garl picks up a plate from the pile. "So if you want to smash a few plates on my account, I underst--"
"I'm not angry at you," he says, voice raw. He opens his eyes, but keeps his gaze fixed on the horizon. "I know Lucretia. She would've done what she did, regardless of your interference. All you did was guide my fall." His fingers tighten on the railing. "Lucretia took everything away from me but you...gave me something to hold onto, something to shape myself around. If it weren't for that..." His voice trails off, briefly. It's just so much, he still hasn't processed it all. "I'm honestly not sure what would've happened to me."
Garl draws close to him, sets a hand on his shoulder. Davenport doesn't pull away. "It was all I could do," he says. "Your name was all you had left by the time I intervened."
A short, sharp laugh escapes him. "I'm not talking about my name. I'm talking about--" He blinks, trying to swallow the stone in his throat. "I remembered you. I remembered that you loved me."
He looks at Garl finally, and looks away, as the weight of a century of regret rolls over him like the tide. He buries his face in his hands and slides to his knees on the deck of his ship. As if he could hide from his mistakes. The deck is damp and cool, and he can feel sea spray soaking into his trousers. He shivers.
It hadn't escaped him that the Oculus had often fallen into the hands of gnomes. How many of them had been sent by Garl to try to undo his mistake? How many of Garl's people died because of him? Because he was stubborn and inflexible and proud, because he was a shitty emissary. If anything, he's the one who deserves his god's wrath, not the reverse. He doesn't even know how he can come back from this. What could his future possibly look like? Who is he, without the Mission to justify it all? How does he make a life in this world that he hurt? He is so, so lost.
He feels Garl's arm around him. It's warm, and it makes his skin tingle, like his limbs had fallen asleep and they're only just waking up.
"My Utirhant," says Garl, brushing a stray lock of hair from his cheek. "You were never lost. Your name is carved like a facet into the jewel of my heart. I always know exactly where you are."
Davenport feels his heart cracking open. He presses his face in his knees and sobs. Garl holds him, saying nothing, as the boat rocks gently on the waves. He cries for a long time.
The moon has set by the time he stops. To the east, the sky is turning a pale silvery-blue with the promise of dawn not far off. He wipes a few final tears from his cheeks and sits up. "Where do I go from here?" he asks.
A little smile makes the corner of Garl's mustache lift. "You could start by talking to your family," he says. "They love you too. Don't be afraid to ask them for help."
Davenport inhales sharply. He looks away. "I can't talk to them."
"Of course you can! You flew into the Hunger. Talking to your loved ones is nothing scarier than anything you've already done."
He shakes his head. "It's not that," he mumbles. "I mean, I can't talk to them. I--sometimes when I'm talking, I…lose words. Or I can't get them out right." His grip tightens on Garl's sleeve. He curses himself for sounding like a whiny child, but he can't stop speaking right now. "I used to have trouble speaking when I was a child, and now it's back but it's worse. But you're the only one I've never had trouble speaking to."
Garl laughs softly, but it isn't a mean or dismissive sound. "My Utirhant," he says, "they still follow you despite the Puppyport Incident on Cycle 67."
Davenport feels the heat rise to his cheeks. He buries his face again. "Oh gods," he mutters. "That got broadcast?"
Another chuckle. "Your family has seen you a hundred different ways! They've seen you at your most vulnerable, at your silliest, at your softest and most doting. They've seen you as a puppy and as the Wordless, and they still chose to call you Captain and follow you into the storm." He takes Davenport by the chin and gently turns his face towards him. "They're not going to turn away from you now just because you stumble on a few words! You're still you. And they love and respect you."
Davenport sighs. Garl is right, and he knows it. But still…what would they think if he just wrote letters begging them to visit him because he's lonely? Because he doesn't know how to build a life and a purpose for himself without them to guard and to guide?
"Maybe," he mutters. "I could, ah, always call them back to me to go on an adventure or something. Just to hang out. For old times' sake." No, that's ridiculous. They wouldn't drop the important work they're doing--running schools and building libraries and resurrecting whole towns--just to spend time with him. "Maybe…we could search for sunken treasure…" That could work. Taako, at least, wouldn't turn down an adventure if there was a nice bottom line.
Garl raises an eyebrow.
"Hmm, but the others might be less interested in monetary gain." He sits up. "But what if I told them I really need the money because, ah…I'm in debt to a bunch of pirates!"
"Wait, wait, wait," says Arumdina. "Wait. So you'd rather your family thinks you're some kind of financial disaster who falls into debt with shady folks the moment you're on your own, than actually admit to them that you're lonely?"
He hesitates. "Well," he says, "when you put it like that, I suppose…"
"Listen, kiddo, I'm a magical talking axe and I can tell you that's a bad idea. Just get some paper and a quill, and write letters to your family saying you love them and want to see them again."
"Well, I mean—won't that sound needy?"
"For crying out--! Garl, hold me up to Utirhant's face. Get me really fuckin' close."
Garl chuckles, and obliges her, holding the flat of her golden blade up to Davenport's nose.
"Tell. Them. The. Truuuuuuth," she says, emphasizing each word.
Davenport clears his throat. "All right," he says. "Fine. But…let's just leave Pirate Debt Treasure Hunting as Plan B."
"Utirhant, I say this with all the affection in the world, but you are one of the strangest emissaries I've ever met. And that is saying a lot."
He smiles. "I'll take that as a compliment."
#
Garl of Tosun lands with a thud on the floor of his banquet hall. He hears groaning around him. The rest of his pantheon is sprawled all around him, sitting up and rubbing their heads in bewilderment.
"What in my own name just happened?" Gaerdal growls.
"I think," said Flandal, "we just spent a century batting for the other team. Not an experience I care to repeat."
Garl stares at his hands. His shimmering gold flesh shows no marks of his time as--something else. The wound on his shoulder has already healed, a pale mark on his skin, no different from any other scar. But he remembers. A hundred years of rage and despair, cut off from everything that made him him, feeling nothing but contempt for the lives he consumed.
"Well," he says, getting to his feet, "we'll just have to sort this out. Now more than ever, our people will need to remember their joy, and find strength in their communities."
"You mean it's pranking o'clock," Gaerdal grumbles, still the same old stick-in-the-mud he's always been.
"It's always pranking o'clock!" he says, mustering up all the cheer he can. "Right, Arumdina?...Arumdina...?"
She says nothing.
He draws her from her holster and stares at her. She is a cold weight in his hands.
"Flandal!" he calls, dashing across the banquet to his friend. He thrusts the axe into her maker's hands. "Fix her right now." His voice booms through the hall, an undeniable command.
Flandal frowns. He runs his hands over the golden blades, sharp as ever, and along the oak handle. He presses his ear up against her. "Come on, my girl," he says gently, and taps the flat of her blade. "Come on out."
There is silence in the hall. And then, a quiet voice, barely above a whisper, drifts out of the axe. "…Garl? You there?"
Flandal hands the axe back to him. "Yes, Arumdina," Garl says, gently. "I am here."
"….Garl, come closer…"
He presses his ear against the flat of her blade. "Yes, my friend?"
"…That…fucking sucked. Let's never do that again."
He laughs.
She snickers. "So, pranking o'clock, then?"
"Indeed! But first…I need to make one stop." He turns to Gaerdal. "Check the perimeter of the Golden Hills, make sure we are well and truly clear of that menace or any others. The rest of you, check in with your respective followers and report back to me. I'll be back shortly." And he swings Arumdina, cutting a hole through the celestial plane, and walks through.
Istus is where he expects her to be, sitting in her chair and knitting, her scarf stretching off into the unseeable distance. She is inspecting the last few rows, feeling the knitted-up fabric, her delicate fingers searching for gaps or inconsistencies. She looks up at his arrival and smiles wanly.
"Garl Glittergold," she says. "I've been expecting you."
He puts his fists on his hips and cocks an eyebrow. "Quite a trick you pulled," he says. "I'm impressed. And that's saying a lot, coming from me."
"Oh?" She raises both eyebrows, trying to feign an innocent look. But Garl is the Lord of Pranks, and he knows that look like the back of his hand. He invented that look.
"Ha! What do you think? The bond engine stitching their fates into a hundred different dimensions? Weaving them back together from death with white threads? The same glowing white threads that you so happened to knit into your scarf, oh…about eleven decades ago?" He jabs a finger at the scarf. "You channeled your power through the bond engine, didn't you? You clever hooligan!"
She laughs. "I have been called many things in my lifetime," she says, "but that is a new one."
He lets his expression soften. "Thank you," he says. "For doing what you did. If it wasn't for your timely intervention, I suppose we'd still be in that…other place."
She looks down at her knitting, lets the loose yarn dangle through her fingers. "I have you to thank for putting the right people in the right place at the right time." She smiles. "What is that term you use? Putting your piece on the gameboard, long before anyone knows it'll be needed?"
Garl shrugs. He'd tried his best to prepare Utirhant for a fateful life, but so much had hinged on things he couldn't foresee, could never have predicted. So much had hinged on what Utirhant decided for himself. "I only chose the one," he says, "and he chose his path, and brought the others along with him." He sits down beside Istus, stroking his mustache, deep in thought. For a moment, there is companionable silence between them.
"Think he'll forgive me?" he muses. "For putting such a burden on him?" He wishes he could see his Utirhant now, but the fate knitted into Istus's endless scarf had placed his emissary far beyond his reach. Another Garl will be looking after him now.
She hums thoughtfully. "You were not the one who made his fate. I suspect he understands that, by now." She pauses, and adds, "Why did you choose him? Him, of all your people? I admit, he struck me as an…unconventional choice on your part."
Garl considers this. There were several reasons he chose Utirhant: a sense that he was destined to do great things (oh, how true that proved to be!); a desire to be surprised, for once (and oh how his Utirhant had surprised him!). But all the reasons he could name collapse into that single moment he appeared in young Davenport's room and saw the wary, skeptical look in the boy's eyes, felt his heart like a bright jewel locked away in a chest of iron.
"He seemed like he could use a friend," he says with a shrug.
Istus's small smile grows, just a tad. She hears the secret ocean of meaning beneath his light words. They've known each other long enough
He grins, waggles a finger. "So! Now that our respective emissaries have saved all of existence," and he winks, "will you finally let me join your poker nights?"
She laughs. "I think that would be lovely."
#
Life on Tosun picks up as normal. The nightmare of the Hunger is over--and that is all it is. The gods might remember it all, but for mortals, that century inside the Hunger was just a bad dream they woke up from: a generic nightmare of shadows and pursuit, which wrapped up abruptly with a song and a story and a happy ending. A dream that faded quickly into obscurity as life picked up exactly as it had left off.
He supposes it's a mercy. The minds of mortals are more fragile than the minds of gods.
But there are gaps; there are losses that leave their shadowy imprints behind. Garl sees this as he watches over his people, as he is drawn by the grief of one particular family.
Clocthi has fallen asleep at his work desk again, head cradled in his arms. His collection of rocks and semi-precious stones is arrayed on the desk around him like a silent congregation. A half-finished mosaic sits nearby, pieces laid out in a pattern of swirling stars against a deep blue background. A gift for someone who will never come home.
A letter from the IPRE arrived that morning, full of formal statements about bravery and sacrifice meant to cushion the bitter pill at the center. The story of the Starblaster was short and unrewarding, a story of gaps and radio silence stretching out to the edge of the planar system. The only ending that story has is merely one of paperwork, an administrative closure that does nothing to soothe hearts left forever wondering.
Garl leans down over Clocthi's sleeping form, and brushes a strand of dark hair from the gnome's eyes. And he steps inside his dream.
He doesn't go far. Clocthi's holy place is, unsurprisingly, his work table. Art is his vocation, and it is in these long nights of putting stone to stone, building something beautiful, where he most brushes up against the transcendent.
He doesn't look up at Garl. He's focused on an empty frame, hand poised uncertainly over a pile of colored stones. But Garl knows Clocthi is aware of his presence. The waiting hand is an invitation, the channel through which the message will come.
"Remember the dream," he says. "You know the one."
Making a mosaic takes many hours of work, but time passes differently in this space. Clocthi puts the colored stones in place inside the frame almost instantly, his mental images translated to a shifting landscape of blue-glass skies turning slowly to riverstone gray and then swallowed up in shimmering black obsidian. Clocthi frowns. "A dark storm," he mutters quietly.
"And the Light," says Garl. "And the ship. Remember, Clocthi."
A silver ship flies through the storm, staying always just ahead of it. Seven chips of dark red glass are visible inside it. A shining white stone follows their path. "A brilliant light," Clocthi continues. "Heralded by seven birds, flying tirelessly from the storm."
"The ship, Clocthi. Look inside it."
The mosaic shifts, the ship growing bigger and bigger until it swallows the frame. Seven figures in red stand in a room; the figure in the middle--the smallest, a gnome with bright orange hair--is gripping a white wheel. Clocthi frowns. "I saw…" He blinks. "Cloch?" He rubs a hand over his eyes, covers his mouth as he stares at the mosaic. "The Starblaster?" And he looks up at Garl, seeing him for the first time.
Garl smiles. "It's all true," he says. "Tell them, Clocthi."
And then the dream is done, and Clocthi wakes.
#
Clocthi is at Star Ruby Jella's office the first thing the next morning. She welcomes him graciously over a cup of lemon verbena tea. He cuts straight to the point.
"Garl Glittergold sent me a vision last night."
Jella puts her quill down, both eyebrows arched in surprise. "A vision of things to come?"
He shakes his head. "A vision of things that have been." He frowns. "Things that were…forgotten."
She smiles over her teacup. "That's remarkable! Truly a sign of his favor."
Clocthi raises both eyebrows. "You believe me?"
She shrugs, leaning back in her chair. "Frankly, I'd be more skeptical, but you're not the only one in your family to whom Garl has shown…favor."
Clocthi's foot taps restlessly on the floor. "That's what I want to talk to you about," he says. "I have two requests to make of the Temple. One, I'd like to be added to the lineup for the next Communion. I'd like to tell this…this story that Garl told me."
She waves a hand. "Easily done," she says. "All are welcome to have their turn on the dais."
Clocthi swallows. "And…for my second request, I'd like to become a Jewel."
Now her gaze is more thoughtful. She sets down her cup and gives him a long, appraising look. "Is this what Garl has asked of you?" she asks, after a moment has passed in silence.
"No," he says. "Garl didn't specifically ask this of me."
"Then why? I am not denying the request, of course. But I am curious to know why you'd like to make this choice. Being a Jewel is a lifetime of devotion."
Clocthi takes a deep breath. He doesn't answer her until his racing thoughts have a chance to settle. "Because," he says, "I want to serve the god who saved my brother."
#
"Bone appetite!" Lup sings, dropping the platter of roast pork on the middle of the table.
Kravitz raises an eyebrow. "You mean bon appetit, right?"
Lup's mouth quirks in a smile. "I meant what I said, Ghost Rider," she says. "This lich is hungry."
Kravitz sighs dramatically. "One thing I will say about your family, dear," he says to Taako, "the conversation is never dull."
Lup carves a healthy slab of meat and drops it on Davenport's plate. "That's how we roll!"
Davenport grins. It's a lovely day at the beach, and the twins have set up a picnic table on the golden sands. "Honestly," he says, cutting into the pork, "I've really missed your cooking, out on the waves."
She arches an eyebrow. "All the more reason to join us for family dinners," she remarks.
"I know, I know! I promise I'll visit more often." He means it, too. Lup gave him a long talking-to after the Ghost Fleet incident and his awkward attempt to lure them back to his side with promises of sunken treasure. He couldn't even justify it as a good prank. It's just…hard to know what to say. Even with all the words in the world.
But he can try. Garl is right, his family loves him. Even if they don't always pick up what he's setting down. All the more reason for him to try to be more direct with them.
Taako nods, offering to top off Davenport's wine glass. "Good, good," he says. "Wouldn't want ya gettin' lost out there."
"I'm never lost," he says automatically. He's about to follow it up with, Garl always knows where I am, but the words get stuck in his throat. He can't tell them about Garl, it's been too long. It's always been too long. Instead he corrects to, "I always know where I am." But it comes across as a hollow boast, a deflection of the problem he'd just promised to be more open about.
Taako picks up on it, and gives Davenport a long, thoughtful look. Davenport clears his throat, and takes a long pull of the wine. "Th-this is, uh, g-good stuff, Taako," he says, his tongue tripping up as his nerves get the better of him. Damn it.
By now, even the others at the table have picked up on the subtle shift of mood. Lucretia frowns at her plate, a guilty look on her face. Kravitz glances at Taako. Magnus looks up from where he's trying to fit a giant pork sandwich into his face.
Merle clears his throat. "Listen, Dav," he says, "so I been thinkin'. If ya need somethin' ta do…"
Davenport raises an eyebrow, and forces a wry smile. "I hope it's better than your bait shop idea."
"No, hear me out!" Merle holds up a hand. "So, you're feelin' lost because you need a purpose, right? Somethin' that makes a difference. Like how Barry and Lup got their jobs as reapers."
He sighs. At least Merle has finally recognized the problem--a problem which, he reminds himself, he's never explicitly vocalized. "Yeah, I…yeah. Like that."
"So, you get an important job like they did."
He nods. "That makes sen—"
"As a reaper." Merle grins, spreading his hands wide.
Davenport's hand freezes halfway to his glass of wine. "…Excuse me?" He's just so surprised by the suggestion that all he can do is stare at Merle.
"Just talk to Kravitz, have him hook ya up!" Merle rolls on, grinning. "It'll be great! And you'll get to hang out with family all the time!"
Kravitz looks up, mouth half full of roasted potato. Both his eyebrows are lifted so high they look like they might come off his face. He glances at Davenport, who sighs.
"Okay," he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's…at least better than the bait shop idea. I'll give you that. But Merle, I don't think that's…" He rubs a hand over his chin. "I mean, I don't have an interest in fighting necromancers or handling…soul management." He looks at Kravitz, hoping to silently convey, Save me from this terrible idea.
Kravitz chuckles. "It's quite all right," he says, raising a hand. "Being a reaper isn't exactly a job for everyone."
"Thank you, Kravitz. You see?"
Lup snorts. "Though it would be cool to see you in a reaper form," she says. "Flaming gnome skeleton duel-wielding a pair of mini-scythes? Badass."
"Lightning," says Barry, staring at Davenport with that distant, thoughtful look of his. "I'd see him as more a lightning kinda guy. Still badass, though."
"True," Kravitz admits, in a musing tone. "But the paperwork would be atrocious. We'd have to come to some sort of timeshare contract. The Raven Queen is a stickler for having everything spelled out in writing, especially when it comes to inter-deific matters."
"What are you talking about?" asks Lup, leaning over Barry as she refreshes his glass of fruit punch. "You never did a timeshare contract for us to become Reapers."
Kravitz clears his throat. "Well, as Davenport is already spoken for…" He lets the words hang in the air, as if their meaning is self-explanatory.
Lup and Barry stare at him. The others at the table stare at Davenport. Davenport freezes, pinned by their collective gazes.
"Wait," says Merle, "you're seeing someone?"
"Are they cute?" asks Magnus.
Kravitz seems to have finally caught on that he's made a wrong step. A blush creeps across his dark cheeks, and he laughs nervously. "I'm sorry," he says, "I thought you knew…" He breaks off, clearing his throat. "Oh dear."
"Knew what?" asks Magnus, looking between Kravitz and Davenport.
"Davenport, I apologize," says Kravitz. "Forget I said anything--"
He waves away Kravitz's apology. "No, it's--it's all right," he says, slipping into Captain Mode even as his heart pounds against his ribs. Perhaps it's the opening he's needed. Just a few words and it's all done. Like jumping into the ocean. A shock, a breathless rush, and then it's over. "It's something I've needed to say for a long time. Everyone, I…"
His whole family turns to look at him. His crew, plus Kravitz, bounded by the lush forests behind Merle's beach house on one side, and the soft roar of the ocean on the other. In the distance, he can hear Mavis and Mookie laughing.
"I--I'm. Well. You see." Beneath the table, his fingers clutch the hem of the tablecloth. The words are there, right there, he hasn't lost them. But the secret sits like a stone in his throat, heavy and cold. When did it become a secret? Why did he decide it had to be a secret?
He closes his eyes. "I'm--please." This last word is to Garl, an unexpected prayer, but he can't think of any other way to get this thing out of his throat.
He can feel Garl's wry gaze, can picture the raised eyebrow. Oof, he mutters, it's really lodged in there, isn't it? Brace yourself.
He feels a tingle in the back of his throat, the same sort of feeling he gets when he's rolled the golden die and something is about to happen. He begins to cough. And he keeps coughing. He staggers to his feet, eyes watering.
He's tangentially aware of his family rising to their feet, calling his name in concern. But it's Kravitz's hands he feels on his shoulders, gently guiding him away from the table and a little ways down the beach. "It's okay, Taako," he hears Kravitz calling. "He's not dying."
That's not terribly reassuring. Right now he's coughing so hard it feels like his body is rejecting his lungs. He feels something hard and cold loosen in his throat.
"Easy there," says Kravitz, thumping him lightly between the shoulder blades. "Looks like a bit of a doozy. Just take it slowly."
He feels one more forceful blow on his back, not from Kravitz, and his throat clears. He opens his mouth and spits a giant pearl into his hand.
"There, better out than in!" Kravitz says cheerfully. He leans over to get a look at the pearl. "Looks like it was in there for a long time, eh?"
He stares at the pearl. It's nearly as big as his palm. "Thirteen decades," he says. "I've been an emissary of Garl Glittergold for…over thirteen decades." The words come out easily, as if he were merely musing about his love of fine, clear nights.
Kravitz smiles.
He raises an eyebrow at the reaper. "You're taking this awfully well. I just coughed up a giant pearl!"
Kravitz shrugs. "I coughed up feathers the first week I was an emissary."
"Gross." He smiles. "My second day, I sneezed out a pair of doves." He snorts. And then, like a spring of water welling up from his gut, he begins to laugh. It's a wild, hearty laugh, and Kravitz catches him by the arm before he can fall over into the sand. Together they walk back to the table, grinning.
"You okay, Cap?" asks Barry. "You, uh--need a drink of water?"
Davenport grins. "Yeah, Barry, I think I could use a drink. In fact…it's a very auspicious day for me, so I think I'd like to raise a toast." He takes the glass of cool water that Lup has at the ready for him, and lifts it. His family raise their glasses and cups and steins, all eyes on him, and he is no longer afraid of their scrutiny. "To friends and found family, who help us be our best selves." They clink their glasses together and he takes a brief sip. "I'm a divine emissary to the Lord of Pranks," he says, while they're still drinking.
His wand is already out, capturing his family's collective spit-take in an illusory copy. "Oh, that is a delight," he says as they sputter and scramble to mop up the mess of spilled drinks. "That's going right on my wall."
"You're what?" Merle asks. "Since when?"
"I work for Garl Glittergold, the gnomish god of pranks," he says. "Since I was thirteen years old." His expression softens. "I probably should've mentioned it sooner, and I'm sorry about that. It just felt like a really personal matter, so I didn't say anything, and then the not-saying became a whole thing and I wasn't even sure how I felt about it and…well, here we are--"
Magnus sweeps him up in a hug. "We can be emissary buds!" he says.
Taako sighs dramatically. "Explains why you were a fuckin' beast when it came to prank wars," he says, then flicks his fingers. "Well, I already put up with raven feathers molting everywhere, and plants growing in every nook and cranny, and Magnus's ever-increasing yarn stash, so I guess I can deal with more pranks."
"Knitting is therapeutic!" Magnus insists. "It's good for the wrists!"
"Oh, hella, my dude. And you know I'm never gonna turn down one of those chunky sweaters you keep giving me every Candlenights. Gotta keep up the aesthetic."
"Wait." Lucretia's squinting at him. "All those weird unexplained pranks on the moon base? The ones we never found a culprit for?"
Davenport smiles, shaking his head. "That was him. In fact, he was honestly behind a lot of weird stuff that happened to or around me. It's…it's honestly a long story and I'd love to tell you all of it. Wow, it's a relief to finally get this off my chest!" Magnus sets him down and he settles back into his chair. A sigh escapes him. "Honestly, I…I wish he were here to see me now. The Garl of Tosun, I mean. The one who picked me in the first place."
He's surprised by the words even as he says them. But they're true, and right now he doesn't want to hold anything back.
The table has fallen silent at this confession. But it's a soft sort of silence, quietly supportive, and he lets himself sink into it.
"Wee-eelll," says Lup, sliding up to his side. "If you could go home for, say, eighty minutes exactly, what would you do?"
He regards Lup. She has that mischievous tone in her voice that he knows so well. "That, uh, seems weirdly specific, to be honest."
She shoots a grin at Barry, who smiles and nods. "Well, you see, Cap," she says, "we have these belts…"
#
"We've all had this dream, right?" Clocthi begins. He stands confidently at the front of the dais, holding the mic so his voice projects well into the back of the room. "You know, the one where you're running from some generic dark force, a monster or a shadow, and you just can't get ahead of it?"
Garl sits in the pew, in disguise of course, listening to Clocthi talk about dreams.
"We've all had that dream," Clocthi continues. "You're running from a dark force, but you can't run fast enough and it catches up and you're so tired of running, so you just give up and let it swallow you. And then you're the dark force. And you're really angry at someone for some reason—a friend or loved one, or maybe a stranger." He pauses, lets the no-longer-generic description sink in. "We've all had that dream."
The congregation shifts uncomfortably under Clocthi's meaningful gaze. A few gnomes in the pew behind Garl begin whispering.
"And in this dream," he continues, "this dream we all kind of-sort of remember, we're angry at these people, this group of seven people, because we want it to end, and they won't let it end. They are fighting to keep going. Hope is their banner, and love is their fuel.
"And these heroes, we see them win. After more than a century of pain, suffering, and struggle, they win, and they end our long dark night of the soul. In one moment of pure, all encompassing light, we are saved. We've all had this dream."
The mutterings have stopped now, and there is dead silence in the temple. Every pair of eyes is on Clocthi. Garl smiles. He didn't expect this one to want to join the temple, but he suspects Clocthi will make a fine Jewel.
"And I'm here to tell you," Clocthi goes on, moving across the dais, energized by his tale, "that this dream wasn't just a dream. It actually happened. As terrifying and mystifying a thought as that is, it is true. But far from being scared, I want all of you—all of us—to be proud. That seven brave adventurers from our world saved all of life, all of existence. Through their sacrifice, we are made light."
Clocthi pauses. Garl can sense the flood of complicated emotion blocking his throat. He wriggles a finger, and Clocthi's throat comes unstuck, and his heart swells with courage.
"And we, this community, should be particularly proud. Because these adventurers were led by one of our own."
Garl glances down the pew, to the rest of Utirhant's family. His parents sit stunned, staring at their younger son, their hands clasped tightly together as grief slips away and understanding takes its place.
"And if you look at that silver ship you vaguely remember from this dream, and at the gnome at the helm whose face you can't quite make out, and you're still not certain if I'm just making this whole thing up? I am here to tell you now, as Garl Glittergold is my witness, that is my brother standing at the helm—"
His speech is cut off as the air behind him pops and two figures drop on a heap onto the dais's green-and-gold carpet. Instantly the silence in the temple is broken as the congregation begins talking all at once, and Clocthi turns on his heel and the Jewels in the front pew stand up to try to figure out what just happened.
And before the tangle of limbs and the startled swearing resolves, before the two figures—a male gnome and a female elf—even get to their feet, Garl already knows who it is. Because there is a door in his heart that he always keeps open, and for the first time in over a century, a familiar soul is peering through that door. Older now, a little uncertain and a lot banged up, but as familiar to him as the back of his own hand.
Garl smiles. "My Utirhant," he says.
And Captain Dwimly Drew True-Blue Utirhant Wrenchfell Cloch Cap'nport Davenport stands up, dusts himself off, and looks out at the shocked congregation. And he sees his family—his relatives, his friends, his whole extended warren community, and Garl—and he smiles.