Sobbing. Someone is sobbing, gagging on their agony, choking out words—tut mir leid, bitte, tut mir leid— that mean nothing. Someone that isn’t him, for once. That voice. Doesn’t he know that voice? Bitte wach auf. Du musst aufwachen, oder, oder— Such regret in those words. Essek aches for the speaker, whoever they are. He could open his eyes, look for them, but it always hurts so much to open his eyes. And what could he do, anyway? Nothing. Nothing at all. Not when his body is so heavy, his magic so far away. He couldn’t help himself, how could he help anyone else? Even now, sweet oblivion tugs at him. To think, he once feared sleep. -- “Artie, I hope he wakes up soon.” This voice, Essek knows. Oh no. He opens his eyes. The light is mercifully low, just enough for him to see by. After a few seconds of blinking, an expanse of dark purple fabric resolves above him, details picked out in silver thread. He can hear a fire crackling nearby, as well as soft snoring. “It’s not right. He’s not a bad bad guy, you know? Not that bad. Not bad enough for that.” Essek turns his head toward the voice, and cannot makes sense of what he sees. Sitting beside him, scribbling furiously in a sketch book, is Jester. Just beyond her, slumped in a plush chair and dozing, is Fjord. The room they’re all in is grand, lush in a way Essek thought he’d never see again. It reminds him of the most beautiful places in Rosohna, but it’s utterly unfamiliar. “And how can he be anything if he doesn’t wake up and get better? He likes cupcakes, Artie. He takes us places and only complains a little. And Caleb—” He watches her stab her quill into her little book. Watches her lower lip tremble. He so badly wants this to be real. Wants it to be Jester sitting beside him. But he is terrified. More terrified than he’s been even in the face of knives and whips and spells and the— Because if Ikithon can trick him like this, then what hope is there for him? He sucks a breath though a quickly tightening throat, and that’s enough noise for Jester to turn. Her expression is soft, sad, at first, but then immediately brightens. “Essek!” she squeals. Fjord jerks awake with an aborted shout, flailing gracelessly in his chair, before looking directly at him. Then Jester is occupying the entirety of Essek’s vision. She begins to reach out, but then directs her hands instead to the bed clothes, balling them into her fists. “Essek, Essek, I’m so glad you’re awake!” Essek can only nod. He doesn’t want to know if he can speak. Doesn’t want whatever this moment is to end. “Oh, do you need anything? Are you thirsty?” “Jester, maybe—” Fjord begins, but Jester is already turning away, reaching for a pitcher and cup. She holds it to his lips, incongruently careful as she tips the cup up. Essek lets her pour a little water into his mouth, but once it reaches his throat, he realizes how desperate he is, and greedily drinks the rest. “Thank you,” he says, wheezes really, purely on reflex. He freezes. Did he—can he— “Do you want more?” Essek’s eyes burn, his vision blurring, and he lifts a hand to his throat. He can speak? It is really over? Jester appears again in his vision, her round face all open concern. “Are you okay? Did we miss something? We tried to heal you up, but, but—” “I can speak.” Jester’s lips press together, her arms retreat first to her chest, but then she reaches out, hesitant. An invitation. Essek nods to her. He’s not sure why, but he nods. Jester flings herself at him, tucking him against her body, her cool hands cradling him. She smells like sugar and paint and road dust. Who could ever think to mimic such a combination? It must be her. It must be her. Essek digs his fingers into her dress and clings to it, breathing deep, and she begins to rock. Then he sobs. -- He is convalescing in a pocket dimension of Caleb’s devising, he learns. It is well-appointed, but temporary. Once a day they must return to their home plane while he recasts it. Essek has apparently been making this brief trip for four straight days. Usually in Yasha’s arms. Awake, he can support himself, buoyed up by his own personal quirking of gravity. Yasha insists he curl his hand around her elbow anyway, taking her self-appointed duty to see him through the few moments in the material plane quite seriously. He thinks he ought to feel condescended to or coddled, but Yasha’s quiet bulk is an unexpected comfort. The rest of the Nein gather around them, armed and tense. Essek doesn’t know whether he should be reassured or frightened. Then Caleb descends from higher up in the tower, and his body decides that he will be panicked. He must be the real Caleb, not Ikithon taunting him, but Essek is simply reacting to the stimulus. That face brought too much pain for too long, and while he thinks his own is arranged into something sufficiently neutral, his heart hammers and his palms grow slick. Ikithon would never come so disheveled, Essek tells himself. Would never come in a stained shirt, with greasy hair falling from its tie, with bruises under his eyes. Luxon’s tits, Caleb looks awful. Caleb ducks his head and curls his shoulders forward as soon as he lands, hurrying past the gathered group without a word and opening the door. Outside is a small, plain room. There are no windows, no indication of where they are. Essek can hear voices, the sounds of people, somewhere close, but nothing distinctive. It must be on purpose, he realizes. If anyone where to scry on them, on him, then they would be unable to learn anything useful. The Nein are silent as Caleb works, and that’s so strange in itself. Essek doesn’t think he’s ever heard such quiet when they’ve all been gathered. After only a moment, a door appears in the wall before Caleb. He disappears through it without a word. By the time Essek re-enters the construct, Caleb is nearly vanished through the ceiling. Beau and Veth exchange a look, then Veth nods and chases after him. The rest of the Nein burst into a low murmur, as if to make up for the few minutes of quiet. That is reassuring. Essek withdraws his hand from Yasha’s elbow, but doesn’t drift away from her. Not just yet.
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timeasmymeasure
Fill 5/?
Date: 2021-08-21 12:36 am (UTC)Someone is sobbing, gagging on their agony, choking out words—tut mir leid, bitte, tut mir leid— that mean nothing.
Someone that isn’t him, for once.
That voice. Doesn’t he know that voice?
Bitte wach auf. Du musst aufwachen, oder, oder—
Such regret in those words. Essek aches for the speaker, whoever they are. He could open his eyes, look for them, but it always hurts so much to open his eyes. And what could he do, anyway? Nothing.
Nothing at all. Not when his body is so heavy, his magic so far away. He couldn’t help himself, how could he help anyone else? Even now, sweet oblivion tugs at him.
To think, he once feared sleep.
--
“Artie, I hope he wakes up soon.”
This voice, Essek knows.
Oh no.
He opens his eyes. The light is mercifully low, just enough for him to see by. After a few seconds of blinking, an expanse of dark purple fabric resolves above him, details picked out in silver thread. He can hear a fire crackling nearby, as well as soft snoring.
“It’s not right. He’s not a bad bad guy, you know? Not that bad. Not bad enough for that.”
Essek turns his head toward the voice, and cannot makes sense of what he sees.
Sitting beside him, scribbling furiously in a sketch book, is Jester. Just beyond her, slumped in a plush chair and dozing, is Fjord. The room they’re all in is grand, lush in a way Essek thought he’d never see again. It reminds him of the most beautiful places in Rosohna, but it’s utterly unfamiliar.
“And how can he be anything if he doesn’t wake up and get better? He likes cupcakes, Artie. He takes us places and only complains a little. And Caleb—”
He watches her stab her quill into her little book. Watches her lower lip tremble.
He so badly wants this to be real. Wants it to be Jester sitting beside him.
But he is terrified. More terrified than he’s been even in the face of knives and whips and spells and the—
Because if Ikithon can trick him like this, then what hope is there for him?
He sucks a breath though a quickly tightening throat, and that’s enough noise for Jester to turn. Her expression is soft, sad, at first, but then immediately brightens.
“Essek!” she squeals.
Fjord jerks awake with an aborted shout, flailing gracelessly in his chair, before looking directly at him. Then Jester is occupying the entirety of Essek’s vision.
She begins to reach out, but then directs her hands instead to the bed clothes, balling them into her fists.
“Essek, Essek, I’m so glad you’re awake!”
Essek can only nod. He doesn’t want to know if he can speak. Doesn’t want whatever this moment is to end.
“Oh, do you need anything? Are you thirsty?”
“Jester, maybe—” Fjord begins, but Jester is already turning away, reaching for a pitcher and cup.
She holds it to his lips, incongruently careful as she tips the cup up. Essek lets her pour a little water into his mouth, but once it reaches his throat, he realizes how desperate he is, and greedily drinks the rest.
“Thank you,” he says, wheezes really, purely on reflex.
He freezes. Did he—can he—
“Do you want more?”
Essek’s eyes burn, his vision blurring, and he lifts a hand to his throat. He can speak?
It is really over?
Jester appears again in his vision, her round face all open concern.
“Are you okay? Did we miss something? We tried to heal you up, but, but—”
“I can speak.”
Jester’s lips press together, her arms retreat first to her chest, but then she reaches out, hesitant. An invitation.
Essek nods to her. He’s not sure why, but he nods.
Jester flings herself at him, tucking him against her body, her cool hands cradling him. She smells like sugar and paint and road dust. Who could ever think to mimic such a combination? It must be her.
It must be her.
Essek digs his fingers into her dress and clings to it, breathing deep, and she begins to rock.
Then he sobs.
--
He is convalescing in a pocket dimension of Caleb’s devising, he learns. It is well-appointed, but temporary. Once a day they must return to their home plane while he recasts it.
Essek has apparently been making this brief trip for four straight days. Usually in Yasha’s arms.
Awake, he can support himself, buoyed up by his own personal quirking of gravity. Yasha insists he curl his hand around her elbow anyway, taking her self-appointed duty to see him through the few moments in the material plane quite seriously. He thinks he ought to feel condescended to or coddled, but Yasha’s quiet bulk is an unexpected comfort.
The rest of the Nein gather around them, armed and tense. Essek doesn’t know whether he should be reassured or frightened.
Then Caleb descends from higher up in the tower, and his body decides that he will be panicked.
He must be the real Caleb, not Ikithon taunting him, but Essek is simply reacting to the stimulus. That face brought too much pain for too long, and while he thinks his own is arranged into something sufficiently neutral, his heart hammers and his palms grow slick.
Ikithon would never come so disheveled, Essek tells himself. Would never come in a stained shirt, with greasy hair falling from its tie, with bruises under his eyes.
Luxon’s tits, Caleb looks awful.
Caleb ducks his head and curls his shoulders forward as soon as he lands, hurrying past the gathered group without a word and opening the door. Outside is a small, plain room. There are no windows, no indication of where they are. Essek can hear voices, the sounds of people, somewhere close, but nothing distinctive.
It must be on purpose, he realizes. If anyone where to scry on them, on him, then they would be unable to learn anything useful. The Nein are silent as Caleb works, and that’s so strange in itself. Essek doesn’t think he’s ever heard such quiet when they’ve all been gathered.
After only a moment, a door appears in the wall before Caleb. He disappears through it without a word. By the time Essek re-enters the construct, Caleb is nearly vanished through the ceiling. Beau and Veth exchange a look, then Veth nods and chases after him. The rest of the Nein burst into a low murmur, as if to make up for the few minutes of quiet. That is reassuring. Essek withdraws his hand from Yasha’s elbow, but doesn’t drift away from her. Not just yet.