Work Text:
i.
The aged, moss green binding of his first spell book. The leather once stiff and unyielding, a green that wrapped up promises of such wondrous things, it now speaks softly of hardship and sits so supple in his hands. It is a green that is cracked and worn and familiar. A green of quiet ambition. A green that means home.
ii.
The lush, variegated green of the Wildemount forests and fields. So many shades of freedom. It is a natural, peaceful green, but a green that Caleb has come to recognise as a colour of confinement; the woods are an expansive, slow-growing prison. Bending boughs reach for him, clawing, calling his name. The trees speak in a green of sorrow and loneliness, a green to leave behind.
iii.
The pale, piercing green of Frumpkin’s watchful eyes. No matter his familiar’s form, those same wide eyes gaze back at him. The hue is a comforting, curious green. A green of understanding. A green that shimmers like stained glass, offering a dappled two way view; a chance of a glimpse into Caleb’s soul, and a window for him to take in more of a world that is sometimes, otherwise, too much.
iv.
The muddied, almost-black green of Nott’s hair. Her skin is a not dissimilar hue, but it's her hair that has him caught up. The dirty green mop is matted with rat bones, beads, and thin leather cording. It’s a quiet green, a green of secrets. A green that winds in dark, oily ribbons around Caleb’s fingers as he tries to comb out the worst of a hard week. The tangles unravel slowly in his hands, and this green is the colour of trust.
v.
The rich, royal green of Jester’s cloak. Against her skin the swathe of deep green becomes a boat in the ocean or a magic carpet in the sky. The colour is a fable spun in silk around her shoulders, one part yearning and two parts joy. A green of naiveté and of wisdom; a shining shade of contradiction. The cloak bunches and swirls with her excitable movements, and the shimmer of green light that dances off of the fabric is a perfect mirror for the mischief on her face.
vi.
The bold, almost iridescent green of Molly’s peacock tattoo. Peeking out from his collar and curling up onto his face, the stylised bird trills an emerald melody, a silent tune the colour of confidence and pride. The green ink sparkles and seemingly shifts across his neck, the finely rendered feathers somehow more alive than any art should be. An ostentatious swirl of colour against equally vibrant skin, it is a green that serves as a shield. A green of strength and of hope.
vii.
The bright green of the four-leafed clover pressed between the pages of Yasha’s book. A green of good fortune, certainly, but more besides. She showed him once, that keepsake book, full of muted colours, all worn and dry. Beautiful old flowers, insect wings, raven feathers, an uncharacteristically dignified and presumably discarded drawing by Jester… but nothing as important, nor as colourful, as that clover. Cradled in the gentle embrace of paper and thread, a hidden beacon, it shines a green of balance, and of courage. A green of untapped power. As she is, part of a much bigger story. The charm.
viii.
The cool, sea green of Beauregard’s necklace. Simple in design, a small detail that ties everything together. The jewellery sits still and flat against her collar, a circlet of green in shades of patience and suspicion. It is a green like springtime, heavy with potential. A green akin to independence. The surface of the beads too dull to reflect light, instead they almost absorb it. The necklace is a matte green the colour of hunger, taking in everything and shrugging it right off again, just like Beau.
ix.
The warm, mottled green of Fjord’s skin, pushing blue in some areas, faded to a yellower tone where it’s seen the most sun. It’s an ever-changing green, dappled variations over the expanse of his body, flecked with dark freckles and striped with white scars. Fjord is a green that tells stories, sings songs. A green of salt water and stars.
A living map for Caleb to explore.
Caleb's fingers trace the roads and rails, thick veins and stripes of welted scar tissue marking paths and worried crossroads across Fjord’s arms, hands, chest; a labyrinthine wilderness with no wrong turn.
Fjord is the green of fondness and confusion, a hazy memory from long ago. Caleb has never forgotten a moment, and the giddying green of nostalgia thrums beneath his fingertips.
Fjord is the green of envy and illness, a suffocating shade of danger. But Caleb’s hand presses gently down into a steady heartbeat, and his palm swallows up the green of fresh starts and forgiveness.
Fjord is the green of mint leaves, and deep waters, and deadly poison. And Caleb wants to breath him in, drown in him, drink of him until his own body falters. Until his heart gives out. Until every desperate, gargled breath is a silent scream of agony, and the last ounce of air he has left drags itself up slow and weary from the core of him, claws its way out from the back of his hot, blistered throat, and falls soft and sweet from his swollen lips; a viridescent whisper of gratitude in the shape of Fjord’s name.
x.
When Caleb sleeps, a verdant dreamscape paints the inside of his eyelids. When he wakes, his whole world is green.