Essek, they think you’re dead. Did something happen? Please, you can tell me, we’ll keep it a secret, we’re just really worried. You’re scaring me. -- Jester’s voice in his head is probably not real, he decides. It’s probably just some atavistic survival reflex, fabricating something to cling to as his higher functions deteriorate. He wonders at what point he will no longer technically be sane. It’s been so long since he could trance properly. Maybe his sanity departing will be a gift. After all, there is only one thing he needs to remember. Only one rule, and when he can gather his thoughts, he repeats it, hoping to brand it into his battered soul. The door to his cell opens, and as his heart races and his throat tries to whimper, in the last lucid part of him, he repeats— I will not be Ikithon’s instrument. I will not be Ikithon’s instrument. I will not— -- Essek, I know you’re there. Alive, I mean. Hold on, please? We’re trying so hard to find you, it won’t be much longer, I promise— -- “I know she’s talking to you.” That hungry cruelty on Caleb’s face would turn Essek’s stomach, if there were anything in it. And worse, Ikithon knows about Jester. He hadn’t been entirely sure her Sendings were real. Maybe they’re not. Maybe this is another one of his mind games. Confirming something false to further unravel him. “Gut. I was beginning to worry I was keeping you alive for naught.” Somehow, after everything, that still manages to chill him. -- Just hold on, Essek. You’re super smart and super cool and you’re better than him. I hope you can hear me. We’re gonna kill him. -- Ikithon has tried this trick before. The old man must be getting forgetful. Essek can’t quite remember how long ago it was, but he knows Ikithon has come rushing into his cell with that same breathless haste. He had believed it, once. He won’t make that mistake again. He can’t help he instinctual shudder at Caleb’s face. Whatever act Ikithon is attempting, if he’s playing at Caleb today, then whatever comes next will be unfiltered agony. Essek had been left chained in the center of the room, his arms bound behind him and lifted towards the ceiling until his arms separated from their sockets. He tried to keep his footing, tried to relieve the pressure, for as long as he could, but his legs gave out hours ago. His skin still itches with the dried blood and plasma from the burns Ikithon cut into his back and legs. If Ikithon starts again, then he’ll be needing a cleric to finish the session. His dignity died a long time ago, so he doesn’t try to stop the welling of his eyes or the flinch as Ikithon’s hand reaches out. “Oh, Essek.” There’s a crack in the voice. It’s a nice touch. Ikithon casts something and the lights go out. He’s never done that before. Essek opens his eyes, trying to glimpse whatever he can before Ikithon can finish whatever ploy he’s planned, but his vision is still muddied from the brightness. The near daylight is replaced by a soft, if disjointed, amber glow. A few globes of light hover in the air near Ikithon’s head, still too bright for Essek’s comfort, but not so blinding that he can’t see Ikithon reaching for him. Essek can’t help the tremble that starts, even has it wrenches his ruined joints. “No, no, Essek, please, shhh, shhh,” Ikithon says, wrapping one arm under his chest and lifting him up. Essek lets himself go limp, submitting to the meager relief. “It’s all right. We’re here.” Ikithon turns slightly, towards the door, and calls, “Help! I found him, but he needs help!” Essek closes his eyes again. Why? Why this stupid lie? Ikithon is murmuring something in a gentle whisper, and if Essek had the strength, he would put his vestigial fangs to use and rip his throat out. Essek hears footsteps, many footsteps. That is never good— Abruptly, the chains holding his arms go slack and his arms fall. The sudden shift in position brings a pain that’s both novel and devastating. Essek, with everything he has, tries his best to scream. No sound comes. He tries and tries, his body is barely his own, useless and crumbling, but still he tries to scream. Tears fall, and he trembles and hiccups with it, but he cannot make a single sound. He doesn’t fall, though. Ikithon holds him up. Another hand, one far too large for Ikithon, presses into his back, and there’s a sudden influx of magic, knitting him back together. Essek, freer than he’s been in so long, tries to wrench away. Ikithon, to his immense surprise, lets him go. Essek stumbles back, then falls, his legs too weak to hold him up. He lands, flat on his back. Just as helpless as he’s ever been. Still staring up at Ikithon. He is so very afraid. His limbs shake with it. But he hates this ruse. Hates Ikithon. And the hate, the spite makes him defiant. He knows he will regret it, but he meets Ikithon’s stolen eyes, sneers into the fake look of shock he’s wearing, and carefully mouths, I know you are not him. He won’t be able to stop whatever comes next. Whatever awful retribution Ikithon will levy for his petty defiance. He can’t even hope for the mercy of death, at least not his own. One day Ikithon will die, and then maybe his successor will put him down. Hopefully Essek will have long since gone mad. He closes his eyes and lets himself go slack against the floor. Fixes this strange moment of reprieve in his mind. Maybe he will be able to revisit it in a trance. “What are we waiting for?” someone shouts. Hands, so many hands, but Essek’s are free this time, so he lashes out. It is useless, pointless, he wasn’t strong before, but he has to try. Even if he only manages a single scratch, then he will have drawn the blood of his captors, and though he doesn’t know why, it means something. “Stop!” One of them roars, and he feels the thrall of another’s magic still his limbs. He is frozen in place, once again. He can still weep, though, it seems. “Hey, Essek, we’re your friends. We’re just trying to help you,” one says. The voice is soft, low, so very familiar. Against his better instincts, he opens his eyes, and is met with a firbolg. Not just any firbolg—Caduceus Clay. There are so many spells that could mimic Caduceus, and maybe Ikithon would know to use them to that end, but as Essek looks, he also sees Veth and Jester and Beauregard and Yasha and Fjord. Ikithon would have enough magic and lackeys at his disposal to impersonate the entirety of the Mighty Nein, but he never has before. That doesn’t mean anything, it can’t, because if it did, then they might really be here. Oh, how he wishes he could speak. Even with only one question, he’s sure he could settle his mind. But he can’t, and hope is a poison he’s since sworn off. There is nothing he can do to stop whatever comes next, so he looks away from the faces of his friends and closes his eyes again. Tries to brace himself. Trembles, like a beaten animal. Repeats his promise. His oath. I will not be Ikithon’s instrument. Suddenly, there is light, and there is heat. Screaming. The stench of magic and blood. He opens his eyes again, just the barest fraction. The facsimile of Veth is just in front of him, and Ikithon beside her. Both their backs turned to him. Veth’s bolts are just within reach. If they are real, that is. He finds the strength to reach out, to take one. They are real—hard and sharp under his fingers. She doesn’t notice him draw it. He imagines, vividly, plunging it into Ikithon’s thigh. If he hit the artery, he might die in seconds. But— I will turn you on him. If he were wearing his own face, it would be so easy, but he’s wearing Caleb’s. Beautiful, brilliant Caleb. Even the echo of him is enough to make Essek doubt. I will not be Ikithon’s instrument. The bolt is still an escape, he a willing target. Ikithon might try to revive him, but maybe he will fail. This might be the only change Essek has to deny him. Essek jabs it into his throat. Feels his own blood pour hot and thick over his fingers. He’s immediately choking on it, struggling to breathe. He doesn’t need to. Doesn’t need to. He only has to let go.
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timeasmymeasure
Fill 4/?
Date: 2021-08-20 02:34 am (UTC)You’re scaring me.
--
Jester’s voice in his head is probably not real, he decides. It’s probably just some atavistic survival reflex, fabricating something to cling to as his higher functions deteriorate.
He wonders at what point he will no longer technically be sane. It’s been so long since he could trance properly. Maybe his sanity departing will be a gift. After all, there is only one thing he needs to remember. Only one rule, and when he can gather his thoughts, he repeats it, hoping to brand it into his battered soul.
The door to his cell opens, and as his heart races and his throat tries to whimper, in the last lucid part of him, he repeats—
I will not be Ikithon’s instrument.
I will not be Ikithon’s instrument.
I will not—
--
Essek, I know you’re there. Alive, I mean. Hold on, please? We’re trying so hard to find you, it won’t be much longer, I promise—
--
“I know she’s talking to you.”
That hungry cruelty on Caleb’s face would turn Essek’s stomach, if there were anything in it. And worse, Ikithon knows about Jester. He hadn’t been entirely sure her Sendings were real.
Maybe they’re not. Maybe this is another one of his mind games. Confirming something false to further unravel him.
“Gut. I was beginning to worry I was keeping you alive for naught.”
Somehow, after everything, that still manages to chill him.
--
Just hold on, Essek. You’re super smart and super cool and you’re better than him. I hope you can hear me. We’re gonna kill him.
--
Ikithon has tried this trick before.
The old man must be getting forgetful. Essek can’t quite remember how long ago it was, but he knows Ikithon has come rushing into his cell with that same breathless haste. He had believed it, once.
He won’t make that mistake again.
He can’t help he instinctual shudder at Caleb’s face. Whatever act Ikithon is attempting, if he’s playing at Caleb today, then whatever comes next will be unfiltered agony.
Essek had been left chained in the center of the room, his arms bound behind him and lifted towards the ceiling until his arms separated from their sockets. He tried to keep his footing, tried to relieve the pressure, for as long as he could, but his legs gave out hours ago. His skin still itches with the dried blood and plasma from the burns Ikithon cut into his back and legs. If Ikithon starts again, then he’ll be needing a cleric to finish the session.
His dignity died a long time ago, so he doesn’t try to stop the welling of his eyes or the flinch as Ikithon’s hand reaches out.
“Oh, Essek.”
There’s a crack in the voice. It’s a nice touch.
Ikithon casts something and the lights go out. He’s never done that before. Essek opens his eyes, trying to glimpse whatever he can before Ikithon can finish whatever ploy he’s planned, but his vision is still muddied from the brightness.
The near daylight is replaced by a soft, if disjointed, amber glow. A few globes of light hover in the air near Ikithon’s head, still too bright for Essek’s comfort, but not so blinding that he can’t see Ikithon reaching for him. Essek can’t help the tremble that starts, even has it wrenches his ruined joints.
“No, no, Essek, please, shhh, shhh,” Ikithon says, wrapping one arm under his chest and lifting him up. Essek lets himself go limp, submitting to the meager relief. “It’s all right. We’re here.” Ikithon turns slightly, towards the door, and calls, “Help! I found him, but he needs help!”
Essek closes his eyes again. Why? Why this stupid lie? Ikithon is murmuring something in a gentle whisper, and if Essek had the strength, he would put his vestigial fangs to use and rip his throat out. Essek hears footsteps, many footsteps. That is never good—
Abruptly, the chains holding his arms go slack and his arms fall. The sudden shift in position brings a pain that’s both novel and devastating.
Essek, with everything he has, tries his best to scream.
No sound comes. He tries and tries, his body is barely his own, useless and crumbling, but still he tries to scream. Tears fall, and he trembles and hiccups with it, but he cannot make a single sound.
He doesn’t fall, though. Ikithon holds him up.
Another hand, one far too large for Ikithon, presses into his back, and there’s a sudden influx of magic, knitting him back together. Essek, freer than he’s been in so long, tries to wrench away.
Ikithon, to his immense surprise, lets him go.
Essek stumbles back, then falls, his legs too weak to hold him up. He lands, flat on his back. Just as helpless as he’s ever been. Still staring up at Ikithon.
He is so very afraid. His limbs shake with it. But he hates this ruse. Hates Ikithon. And the hate, the spite makes him defiant. He knows he will regret it, but he meets Ikithon’s stolen eyes, sneers into the fake look of shock he’s wearing, and carefully mouths,
I know you are not him.
He won’t be able to stop whatever comes next. Whatever awful retribution Ikithon will levy for his petty defiance. He can’t even hope for the mercy of death, at least not his own. One day Ikithon will die, and then maybe his successor will put him down.
Hopefully Essek will have long since gone mad.
He closes his eyes and lets himself go slack against the floor. Fixes this strange moment of reprieve in his mind. Maybe he will be able to revisit it in a trance.
“What are we waiting for?” someone shouts.
Hands, so many hands, but Essek’s are free this time, so he lashes out. It is useless, pointless, he wasn’t strong before, but he has to try. Even if he only manages a single scratch, then he will have drawn the blood of his captors, and though he doesn’t know why, it means something.
“Stop!” One of them roars, and he feels the thrall of another’s magic still his limbs. He is frozen in place, once again.
He can still weep, though, it seems.
“Hey, Essek, we’re your friends. We’re just trying to help you,” one says. The voice is soft, low, so very familiar. Against his better instincts, he opens his eyes, and is met with a firbolg.
Not just any firbolg—Caduceus Clay.
There are so many spells that could mimic Caduceus, and maybe Ikithon would know to use them to that end, but as Essek looks, he also sees Veth and Jester and Beauregard and Yasha and Fjord.
Ikithon would have enough magic and lackeys at his disposal to impersonate the entirety of the Mighty Nein, but he never has before.
That doesn’t mean anything, it can’t, because if it did, then they might really be here.
Oh, how he wishes he could speak. Even with only one question, he’s sure he could settle his mind. But he can’t, and hope is a poison he’s since sworn off.
There is nothing he can do to stop whatever comes next, so he looks away from the faces of his friends and closes his eyes again. Tries to brace himself. Trembles, like a beaten animal.
Repeats his promise. His oath.
I will not be Ikithon’s instrument.
Suddenly, there is light, and there is heat. Screaming. The stench of magic and blood.
He opens his eyes again, just the barest fraction. The facsimile of Veth is just in front of him, and Ikithon beside her. Both their backs turned to him.
Veth’s bolts are just within reach. If they are real, that is. He finds the strength to reach out, to take one. They are real—hard and sharp under his fingers. She doesn’t notice him draw it.
He imagines, vividly, plunging it into Ikithon’s thigh. If he hit the artery, he might die in seconds. But—
I will turn you on him.
If he were wearing his own face, it would be so easy, but he’s wearing Caleb’s. Beautiful, brilliant Caleb. Even the echo of him is enough to make Essek doubt.
I will not be Ikithon’s instrument.
The bolt is still an escape, he a willing target. Ikithon might try to revive him, but maybe he will fail. This might be the only change Essek has to deny him.
Essek jabs it into his throat. Feels his own blood pour hot and thick over his fingers. He’s immediately choking on it, struggling to breathe.
He doesn’t need to.
Doesn’t need to.
He only has to let go.
“Essek, NO!”