((this is such a good prompt, op, i'm floored. was going to put some widojest in but it was giving me trouble, i might post a second part later, but hope you like this as is!))
The first thing he does, after, is summon Frumpkin.
He holds his breath, for the moment it takes to call out for his familiar, for the moment it takes his cat to blip into existence. He waits for something to go wrong, to find the bond has been broken.
Frumpkin appears with his typical grace, and Caleb breathes easy. He sends his cat to the other side of the door, and has him look around to see where his captor has gone.
He finds the Mighty Nein first, and so he does not bother for any sort of subtlety. He casts Knock, and the manacles fall off his wrist. He's able to get half-dressed, before the Mighty Nein burst in.
They stare at him, in shock, and he stares back, not quite sure what to do next. He puts a hand around his wrist, half to relieve the raw skin and half to hide it from them, and waits for a reaction, waits for something to go off of.
"Caleb?" Nott asks, staring up at him, uncertain. "Is that - is that you?"
Ah, right. He had - he had forgotten.
"Ja," he says, and he's surprised at how his voice comes out. He thought it would be rough, but even though it cracks it sounds smoother than his voice had since he'd - since ever.
"What the hell happened?" Beau asks. "It's only been a few hours, what-"
"Hours?" he asks.
"We noticed you were missing right after noon," Fjord says, looking at him closely. "It's not yet nightfall."
"We were looking for you really hard," Jester says. "We were so worried and we tried so hard and-"
"No, hours is - hours is good," he says, and steps forward to pat her shoulder, gently. "I lost track of time. I thought it was. I thought it was longer."
"Caleb," Beau says, her voice full of worry, "you don't lose track of the time."
"I know," he says. "It was disorienting. I have not felt like that since the asylum."
Beau and Nott both look at each other quickly, back and forth, and at the rest of the group who stare in shock. He remembers, distantly, that that had been a secret. He can't remember why it was so important they didn't know.
"Caleb," Jester says, "what happened to you?"
She looks at his wrists. His forearms. Looks at the scarring from the manacles that hang against the wall over the bed. Looks at the missing scars across his forearms, skin fresh and clear and new.
"It was, ah, it was magic," he says. "Like what I am trying to learn for you, liebchen," he adds to Nott. He steps away from Jester and begins to pull on his shirt. "It is some kind of permanent polymorph ability. And much like the regular polymorph, it is able to mess with a mind, somewhat."
"Like the moth," Jester says, frowning deeply.
"The moth?" Caleb asks, frowning. "Ah, ja, when we were scouting, yes, I see," he says. And then, "We need to get out of here quickly."
"Do you need healing?" Caduceus asks.
"I am alright," Caleb says. He isn't even lying, much.
---
It isn't until they are home that he gets a look at himself. Among the furniture that the others had bought had been a mirror for him. He'd been - he'd put it up, instead of turning it to face the wall or smashing it. He hadn't minded seeing himself. Seeing himself clean.
This was different. Before, he did not mind, so much, but now - he actually likes the person staring back in the mirror, and that terrifies him in a way that leaves him conflicted, straining for a memory that has vanished.
The face is his. He can recognize it as himself. He isn't certain if it looks the same as his face this morning, if it looks at all like what his face has been for years, but it's still his. The hair is softer, longer, richer in color. It doesn't look like his, because when his hair was this healthy it was cropped short, and when his hair was this long it was even worse. The eyes are unchanged. It makes sense. They always were his prettiest feature.
The skin is the strangest change. It glitters, almost, an iridescent golden overlay that changes with the flickering candle light. It is artistic, fey, magical. It is utterly beautiful and so utterly unlike him.
Then, of course, there are the horns and the tail. The just barely sharpened teeth, the pointed ears, the slight edge of claws on his fingers and toes. Tiefling features, because human was never interesting enough.
It's a useful change, he knows, although he has trouble remembering why it would be, exactly. It's a beautiful change, and the idea should make him sick to his stomach, but it doesn't.
He touches the skin. It feels like skin should, the shimmer not from any change in texture, but it doesn't feel like his skin - except it does, except he's having trouble remembering the feeling of his arms beneath his hands.
There isn't any hair. There isn't any of the distinctive scarring. Smooth and perfect and untouched by his past.
He likes himself like this, and that is the most terrifying thing about it all, because he knows why he isn't supposed to like himself, knows why even the thought of it tears him apart. Should tear him apart. He's missing his memory, and the things that haunt him feel distant, feel as if they happened half a lifetime ago instead of just a day.
He sets his hand on fire, and watches the flickering of the flames, and it doesn't hurt. Not the heat, and not the looking at it. No memories come unbidden. None of the feelings, good or bad, that always come with fire. It is just pretty, just light dancing across his skin.
It doesn't leave a burn mark. The skin still perfect and unmarred. His skin.
That night, he gets very little sleep. The room is too warm, even free of blankets, even free of clothes. Tieflings run hot, he reasons, and he isn't used to it.
It's a good enough excuse as any.
---
He wakes up hot and sticky with sweat, bed ruffled and blankets kicked to the floor. He wakes up hard and wanting. It doesn’t happen often, but it isn’t an unusual sensation, even if it is more intense than it ever was before.
What’s unusual is when, after a few minutes, it doesn’t fade away. He tries to concentrate and force the issue, but he can’t, can’t will his mind to focus on anything past the physical for long, and when it does it lingers where it never did before.
He doesn’t know how long it is before he gives in, but it’s only a few minutes past, surely. He pulls his trousers aside, and in a manner he hasn’t done in over a decade, he touches himself.
Even just a touch feels electric. He wraps his fingers around his hard, aching cock and melts into his own hand at the sensation. Whatever self control or doubt or hesitation held him back vanishes, in an instant, and he lets himself go into the feeling, head falling back into his pillow and back arching off the bed.
When it’s done, he collapses, even more sticky, no longer just with sweat, but the heat beneath his skin quickly fading. He basks in the calmness, for a few moments, and in the hazy bliss he doesn’t remember why he ever stopped doing this, why he ever denied himself this pleasure.
And then he remembers, and he waits for the wave of disgust to come.
It doesn’t, but the disgust that he feels at the lack of it is enough to push himself out of his bed.
---
“There’s a few things that we can try,” Caduceus says. The three of them sit cross legged up in the garden. Nott hovers to the side next to the trap door, watching furtively, and Beau is perched up on the wall, her face more serious than worried. “Miss Jester is going to try a Greater Restoration, and then I’m going to try a Dispel Magic. Does that sound alright?”
“It does,” Caleb says, after a few seconds. The need for permission is both strange and comforting.
Jester’s hands are coated with powdered diamonds, which glitter against her skin like a sea full of stars. She presses them to the sides of his head, and he is consumed by a familiar, healing warmth. He leans into the touch, eyes closed, and he almost follows her hands as she pulls them away.
He doesn’t need to look at himself to tell it didn’t work. Even if he couldn’t still feel it, even if he’d known how unlikely this solution was, he could see it clearly in Jester’s eyes, as she pulls away.
She bites her lip, and crawls to the side, as Caduceus takes her place sitting in front of him.
“Mr. Caleb,” Caduceus says, “I need you to remove any magical items you have on your person, in case the Dispel affects them as well.”
He pulls off his coat and sets it to the side, along with his spellbooks - they aren’t magical, exactly, but there’s no reason to not be careful. His hands linger on the necklace chain, but he pulls it out, unclips it, and sets it to the side. He hasn’t taken it off in five years, and it feels like a heavy weight being lifted.
He doesn’t look at Beauregard or Nott. He keeps his eyes on Caduceus, and watches his friend cast the spell.
A long pause, but no change. He slips the amulet back on first, the meaning behind it far outweighed by the familiarity of the chain around his neck, and he gathers the books after that.
“We could ask Essek if he knows anything,” Jester suggests. “The Dynasty has a bunch of really powerful magic, maybe they know-”
“We don’t need to trouble them with this,” Caleb says. “It is not so serious a curse. I will be fine.”
“Will you?” Beau asks.
“I can still cast spells,” Caleb says. “This isn’t without penalties, but I can handle it.”
Beau looks at him, stares through him, and then offers little more than a shrug before descending back down to the house proper.
“When you figure out how to fix me,” Nott suggests, “you’ll be able to fix yourself, too.”
“Ja, probably,” he tells her, as he makes his way out of the garden as well. He leaves out, of course, the pressing question of if he’ll want too.
---
“You’re not a liability,” Fjord says. “None of us think you are, and if they did, they would be hypocrites, considering everything.” He doesn’t say anything more complicated than thank you in return. There are too many complicated thoughts at play, here. When Fjord hugs him, he accepts it, and tries not to jump at the feeling of pressure around his shoulders and skin brushing against his neck, tries not to react when it gets pulled away again.
“It takes a while to get used to,” Nott commiserates. “Not that I’m used to it. But. You know.” She trails off. “But you’re strong, Caleb, way stronger than I am, and you’re smart, and I know that everything’s going to be okay.” He’s the one who initiates the hug, rather than saying anything, and he’s the one who pulls away when the contact gets too much, for all that he desperately needs to not let go.
“Everything happens for a reason,” Caduceus says. “Destiny will guide us to the solution.” He sips his tea and holds back comments of his own opinions, of fate and destiny. Unspoken, he’s not certain if the words would have been bitter or sweet. If Caduceus reads anything from his silence, he says nothing.
“You’re acting differently,” Beau says. “You’re not as on guard. You lost your creepy perfect memory. I don’t know what else has changed, but - we’re in deep shit, and you can’t go being reckless. Especially if your old friends get involved.” She pauses. “I mean, it’s probably good for you to get past some of this shit, but still, be careful, okay?”
“When you say you’re okay,” Jester asks, “do you mean it, or do you just want us to think that you’re okay?”
He doesn’t know, so he doesn’t answer, and she doesn’t press.
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timeasmymeasure
Shimmer, Caleb Solo, 1/1
Date: 2019-07-31 10:02 pm (UTC)The first thing he does, after, is summon Frumpkin.
He holds his breath, for the moment it takes to call out for his familiar, for the moment it takes his cat to blip into existence. He waits for something to go wrong, to find the bond has been broken.
Frumpkin appears with his typical grace, and Caleb breathes easy. He sends his cat to the other side of the door, and has him look around to see where his captor has gone.
He finds the Mighty Nein first, and so he does not bother for any sort of subtlety. He casts Knock, and the manacles fall off his wrist. He's able to get half-dressed, before the Mighty Nein burst in.
They stare at him, in shock, and he stares back, not quite sure what to do next. He puts a hand around his wrist, half to relieve the raw skin and half to hide it from them, and waits for a reaction, waits for something to go off of.
"Caleb?" Nott asks, staring up at him, uncertain. "Is that - is that you?"
Ah, right. He had - he had forgotten.
"Ja," he says, and he's surprised at how his voice comes out. He thought it would be rough, but even though it cracks it sounds smoother than his voice had since he'd - since ever.
"What the hell happened?" Beau asks. "It's only been a few hours, what-"
"Hours?" he asks.
"We noticed you were missing right after noon," Fjord says, looking at him closely. "It's not yet nightfall."
"We were looking for you really hard," Jester says. "We were so worried and we tried so hard and-"
"No, hours is - hours is good," he says, and steps forward to pat her shoulder, gently. "I lost track of time. I thought it was. I thought it was longer."
"Caleb," Beau says, her voice full of worry, "you don't lose track of the time."
"I know," he says. "It was disorienting. I have not felt like that since the asylum."
Beau and Nott both look at each other quickly, back and forth, and at the rest of the group who stare in shock. He remembers, distantly, that that had been a secret. He can't remember why it was so important they didn't know.
"Caleb," Jester says, "what happened to you?"
She looks at his wrists. His forearms. Looks at the scarring from the manacles that hang against the wall over the bed. Looks at the missing scars across his forearms, skin fresh and clear and new.
"It was, ah, it was magic," he says. "Like what I am trying to learn for you, liebchen," he adds to Nott. He steps away from Jester and begins to pull on his shirt. "It is some kind of permanent polymorph ability. And much like the regular polymorph, it is able to mess with a mind, somewhat."
"Like the moth," Jester says, frowning deeply.
"The moth?" Caleb asks, frowning. "Ah, ja, when we were scouting, yes, I see," he says. And then, "We need to get out of here quickly."
"Do you need healing?" Caduceus asks.
"I am alright," Caleb says. He isn't even lying, much.
---
It isn't until they are home that he gets a look at himself. Among the furniture that the others had bought had been a mirror for him. He'd been - he'd put it up, instead of turning it to face the wall or smashing it. He hadn't minded seeing himself. Seeing himself clean.
This was different. Before, he did not mind, so much, but now - he actually likes the person staring back in the mirror, and that terrifies him in a way that leaves him conflicted, straining for a memory that has vanished.
The face is his. He can recognize it as himself. He isn't certain if it looks the same as his face this morning, if it looks at all like what his face has been for years, but it's still his. The hair is softer, longer, richer in color. It doesn't look like his, because when his hair was this healthy it was cropped short, and when his hair was this long it was even worse. The eyes are unchanged. It makes sense. They always were his prettiest feature.
The skin is the strangest change. It glitters, almost, an iridescent golden overlay that changes with the flickering candle light. It is artistic, fey, magical. It is utterly beautiful and so utterly unlike him.
Then, of course, there are the horns and the tail. The just barely sharpened teeth, the pointed ears, the slight edge of claws on his fingers and toes. Tiefling features, because human was never interesting enough.
It's a useful change, he knows, although he has trouble remembering why it would be, exactly. It's a beautiful change, and the idea should make him sick to his stomach, but it doesn't.
He touches the skin. It feels like skin should, the shimmer not from any change in texture, but it doesn't feel like his skin - except it does, except he's having trouble remembering the feeling of his arms beneath his hands.
There isn't any hair. There isn't any of the distinctive scarring. Smooth and perfect and untouched by his past.
He likes himself like this, and that is the most terrifying thing about it all, because he knows why he isn't supposed to like himself, knows why even the thought of it tears him apart. Should tear him apart. He's missing his memory, and the things that haunt him feel distant, feel as if they happened half a lifetime ago instead of just a day.
He sets his hand on fire, and watches the flickering of the flames, and it doesn't hurt. Not the heat, and not the looking at it. No memories come unbidden. None of the feelings, good or bad, that always come with fire. It is just pretty, just light dancing across his skin.
It doesn't leave a burn mark. The skin still perfect and unmarred. His skin.
That night, he gets very little sleep. The room is too warm, even free of blankets, even free of clothes. Tieflings run hot, he reasons, and he isn't used to it.
It's a good enough excuse as any.
---
He wakes up hot and sticky with sweat, bed ruffled and blankets kicked to the floor. He wakes up hard and wanting. It doesn’t happen often, but it isn’t an unusual sensation, even if it is more intense than it ever was before.
What’s unusual is when, after a few minutes, it doesn’t fade away. He tries to concentrate and force the issue, but he can’t, can’t will his mind to focus on anything past the physical for long, and when it does it lingers where it never did before.
He doesn’t know how long it is before he gives in, but it’s only a few minutes past, surely. He pulls his trousers aside, and in a manner he hasn’t done in over a decade, he touches himself.
Even just a touch feels electric. He wraps his fingers around his hard, aching cock and melts into his own hand at the sensation. Whatever self control or doubt or hesitation held him back vanishes, in an instant, and he lets himself go into the feeling, head falling back into his pillow and back arching off the bed.
When it’s done, he collapses, even more sticky, no longer just with sweat, but the heat beneath his skin quickly fading. He basks in the calmness, for a few moments, and in the hazy bliss he doesn’t remember why he ever stopped doing this, why he ever denied himself this pleasure.
And then he remembers, and he waits for the wave of disgust to come.
It doesn’t, but the disgust that he feels at the lack of it is enough to push himself out of his bed.
---
“There’s a few things that we can try,” Caduceus says. The three of them sit cross legged up in the garden. Nott hovers to the side next to the trap door, watching furtively, and Beau is perched up on the wall, her face more serious than worried. “Miss Jester is going to try a Greater Restoration, and then I’m going to try a Dispel Magic. Does that sound alright?”
“It does,” Caleb says, after a few seconds. The need for permission is both strange and comforting.
Jester’s hands are coated with powdered diamonds, which glitter against her skin like a sea full of stars. She presses them to the sides of his head, and he is consumed by a familiar, healing warmth. He leans into the touch, eyes closed, and he almost follows her hands as she pulls them away.
He doesn’t need to look at himself to tell it didn’t work. Even if he couldn’t still feel it, even if he’d known how unlikely this solution was, he could see it clearly in Jester’s eyes, as she pulls away.
She bites her lip, and crawls to the side, as Caduceus takes her place sitting in front of him.
“Mr. Caleb,” Caduceus says, “I need you to remove any magical items you have on your person, in case the Dispel affects them as well.”
He pulls off his coat and sets it to the side, along with his spellbooks - they aren’t magical, exactly, but there’s no reason to not be careful. His hands linger on the necklace chain, but he pulls it out, unclips it, and sets it to the side. He hasn’t taken it off in five years, and it feels like a heavy weight being lifted.
He doesn’t look at Beauregard or Nott. He keeps his eyes on Caduceus, and watches his friend cast the spell.
A long pause, but no change. He slips the amulet back on first, the meaning behind it far outweighed by the familiarity of the chain around his neck, and he gathers the books after that.
“We could ask Essek if he knows anything,” Jester suggests. “The Dynasty has a bunch of really powerful magic, maybe they know-”
“We don’t need to trouble them with this,” Caleb says. “It is not so serious a curse. I will be fine.”
“Will you?” Beau asks.
“I can still cast spells,” Caleb says. “This isn’t without penalties, but I can handle it.”
Beau looks at him, stares through him, and then offers little more than a shrug before descending back down to the house proper.
“When you figure out how to fix me,” Nott suggests, “you’ll be able to fix yourself, too.”
“Ja, probably,” he tells her, as he makes his way out of the garden as well. He leaves out, of course, the pressing question of if he’ll want too.
---
“You’re not a liability,” Fjord says. “None of us think you are, and if they did, they would be hypocrites, considering everything.” He doesn’t say anything more complicated than thank you in return. There are too many complicated thoughts at play, here. When Fjord hugs him, he accepts it, and tries not to jump at the feeling of pressure around his shoulders and skin brushing against his neck, tries not to react when it gets pulled away again.
“It takes a while to get used to,” Nott commiserates. “Not that I’m used to it. But. You know.” She trails off. “But you’re strong, Caleb, way stronger than I am, and you’re smart, and I know that everything’s going to be okay.” He’s the one who initiates the hug, rather than saying anything, and he’s the one who pulls away when the contact gets too much, for all that he desperately needs to not let go.
“Everything happens for a reason,” Caduceus says. “Destiny will guide us to the solution.” He sips his tea and holds back comments of his own opinions, of fate and destiny. Unspoken, he’s not certain if the words would have been bitter or sweet. If Caduceus reads anything from his silence, he says nothing.
“You’re acting differently,” Beau says. “You’re not as on guard. You lost your creepy perfect memory. I don’t know what else has changed, but - we’re in deep shit, and you can’t go being reckless. Especially if your old friends get involved.” She pauses. “I mean, it’s probably good for you to get past some of this shit, but still, be careful, okay?”
“When you say you’re okay,” Jester asks, “do you mean it, or do you just want us to think that you’re okay?”
He doesn’t know, so he doesn’t answer, and she doesn’t press.