He’s chosen to remain in the magnificent library, rather than the room with the bed. Lovely as those chambers are, the openness has an appeal he’s too tired to read into. By silent, mutual agreement, those present directed him to a large, low lounge by the fire. Jester fussed over him for several long minutes, arranging a small army of pillows just so, then tucked a heavy blanket of nearly incomprehensible softness over his legs. “You need to put on weight, my friend,” Caduceus says, once he’s settled. “And you can ask the cats for anything!” Jester chimes. Anything feels overwhelming. Surely there are limits to Caleb’s construct, and while Essek is sure he must be hungry, he can’t untangle that from the exhaustion and malaise that permeates him down to his bones. Caduceus and Jester are staring at him expectantly though, so it seems he will be eating. “Whatever you think, Caduceus,” Essek says, finally. Caduceus hums to himself, tapping one long, thin finger to his pink chin. “I know just the thing.” It is easy enough to simply leave him to it. Jester settles on the far end of the lounge, just past his feet, with her sketchbook and some charcoals. Yasha is nearby, Essek can hear her tending to her weapons. Beau and Fjord have disappeared upstairs, following Veth and Caleb perhaps. That’s everyone accounted for, and nothing for him to do but lie there. He stares into the fireplace, while a discordant jumble of conflicting impulses simmers in his chest. There is a part of him, small and suspicious and afraid, that wants to have them all in sight, as if they are all threats. Another that would relish being alone—perhaps forever. And yet another that hungers for more of the quiet company and gentle treatment he’s received. A last that is screaming that this could be a trick, that he will wake chained. His hands hurt, he realizes. He looks down, sees that he’s clenched them so tightly his knuckles have bleached lilac. It takes more effort than it should to straighten his fingers, to force them to relax. Maybe if he had something to do— He casts Prestidigitation. He is clean (someone must have done that and—why does it chafe to think of being so vulnerable in front of his friends, when he’d already been lain open by a monster?) but he focuses on his face and neck anyway, drawing a few threads of magic from the current of the universe to do his bidding. Feels a wash of gentle energy flow over him, removing anything that shouldn’t be there. And with that, relief. Relief that he can cast, that he is no longer helpless. That he could fight or flee. That he can exert control, once again, over himself, his situation. He’d already used his levitation cantrip, done so almost reflexively, so he knew, intellectually, that magic was once again at his disposal, but this is the moment it sinks in. He casts Prestidigitation again and again and again, cleaning every inch of himself, burning away any trace of where he’d been. Of who had been there with him. “Essek?” Jester says, softly. “You’re crying—oh.” He freezes, mid cast. Shame he can’t explain, bubbles up from somewhere in his guts, choking any explanation he could give before it could even form. Jester sets aside her sketchbook and draws her legs up, resting her chin on her knees. Her arms loop around her shins, her tail curls around her ankles, and she looks into the fire. Behind them, the small sounds Yasha had been making stop entirely. “I got—once—” she bites her lip. “A long time ago, a real asshole took me and Fjord and Yasha from the group. It sucked really bad,” she pauses, and her gaze loses its focus for a moment. “I was still scared and felt so helpless.” She shakes her head and turns back toward Essek. “I had my friends with me, at least.” Now, Essek hears Yasha move. He can’t help but look, and sees her coming closer. She walks around the couch and sits on the floor, near enough for him to touch, if he wanted, but facing away slightly. “I Scryed on you,” Jester says, voice uncharacteristically small. “I just— you weren’t alone, okay? I know you couldn’t have known, but every day, after we knew something was wrong, I Scryed.” Essek shudders. The things she must have seen. It feels like a new kind of sin, to be the reason someone like Jester now carries those horrors. “I’m sorry we didn’t find you sooner, but we’ll be here for you now, okay?” “You have nothing to be sorry for, Jester. If I hadn’t—” Essek can’t help the bitter laugh. If he’d been more cautious travelling, if he’d paid more mind to martial spellwork, if he hadn’t started a fucking war— “Hey,” she says. Her face is deadly serious. “Icky-thong did this, and he deserves the blame.” That’s when Caduceus returns, carrying a bowl of soup and half a loaf of crusty bread. -- Essek feigns sleep, and after some hushed discussion, they leave him in the salon. He probably could have simply said he’d prefer to stay there, but they would have asked why, and he doesn’t want to examine that now any more than he did earlier. He only knows that the huge space, filled will books and firelight, feels more welcoming than any other place available to him. A few of the cat servants are lounging nearby, available to him any time, but he hasn’t needed them since he sent one in search of a book. He thought it would occupy his focus, but his eyes kept sliding off the pages. He’s tried trancing, but he can’t quiet himself enough for that either. So he’s staring into the fire again, feeling dull and agitated. “Mrow?” A cat, a lanky, orange creature, appears at the end of the lounge, regarding him with a strange intensity. It looks more properly feline than the servants, but they take so many forms that Essek can’t be sure. But there is one particular cat that is so far unaccounted for— “Frumpkin?” The cat just blinks coolly, somehow disapproving, and while he knows Frumpkin can take a variety of shapes, usually his coat is more dappled and dark than this animal’s. It’s not impossible that this is Caleb’s familiar, but it is likely? Essek doesn’t know enough about cats or fey to be sure. The cat slowly, cautiously picks its way up the lounge, avoiding stepping on Essek for the most part, until it reaches his hands. Then it bumps its head against knuckles, fairly demanding he pet it. Essek huffs, more bemused than anything, and scratches it under the chin. The cat immediately begins to purr, then pushes closer. It nuzzles Essek under his chin, then settles against his chest, still purring, seeking him out whenever he stops his ministrations. The low noise of the purring, the repetitive motion of running his fingers through cat’s soft fur, give him the mindlessness he needs to finally quiet himself. It’s not long before he finds his mind slipping into a trance. When he rouses, the cat is gone.
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timeasmymeasure
Fill 6/?
Date: 2021-08-23 01:17 am (UTC)“You need to put on weight, my friend,” Caduceus says, once he’s settled.
“And you can ask the cats for anything!” Jester chimes.
Anything feels overwhelming. Surely there are limits to Caleb’s construct, and while Essek is sure he must be hungry, he can’t untangle that from the exhaustion and malaise that permeates him down to his bones. Caduceus and Jester are staring at him expectantly though, so it seems he will be eating.
“Whatever you think, Caduceus,” Essek says, finally.
Caduceus hums to himself, tapping one long, thin finger to his pink chin.
“I know just the thing.”
It is easy enough to simply leave him to it. Jester settles on the far end of the lounge, just past his feet, with her sketchbook and some charcoals. Yasha is nearby, Essek can hear her tending to her weapons. Beau and Fjord have disappeared upstairs, following Veth and Caleb perhaps. That’s everyone accounted for, and nothing for him to do but lie there.
He stares into the fireplace, while a discordant jumble of conflicting impulses simmers in his chest. There is a part of him, small and suspicious and afraid, that wants to have them all in sight, as if they are all threats. Another that would relish being alone—perhaps forever. And yet another that hungers for more of the quiet company and gentle treatment he’s received. A last that is screaming that this could be a trick, that he will wake chained.
His hands hurt, he realizes. He looks down, sees that he’s clenched them so tightly his knuckles have bleached lilac. It takes more effort than it should to straighten his fingers, to force them to relax. Maybe if he had something to do—
He casts Prestidigitation. He is clean (someone must have done that and—why does it chafe to think of being so vulnerable in front of his friends, when he’d already been lain open by a monster?) but he focuses on his face and neck anyway, drawing a few threads of magic from the current of the universe to do his bidding. Feels a wash of gentle energy flow over him, removing anything that shouldn’t be there. And with that, relief.
Relief that he can cast, that he is no longer helpless. That he could fight or flee. That he can exert control, once again, over himself, his situation.
He’d already used his levitation cantrip, done so almost reflexively, so he knew, intellectually, that magic was once again at his disposal, but this is the moment it sinks in. He casts Prestidigitation again and again and again, cleaning every inch of himself, burning away any trace of where he’d been. Of who had been there with him.
“Essek?” Jester says, softly. “You’re crying—oh.”
He freezes, mid cast. Shame he can’t explain, bubbles up from somewhere in his guts, choking any explanation he could give before it could even form.
Jester sets aside her sketchbook and draws her legs up, resting her chin on her knees. Her arms loop around her shins, her tail curls around her ankles, and she looks into the fire. Behind them, the small sounds Yasha had been making stop entirely.
“I got—once—” she bites her lip. “A long time ago, a real asshole took me and Fjord and Yasha from the group. It sucked really bad,” she pauses, and her gaze loses its focus for a moment. “I was still scared and felt so helpless.” She shakes her head and turns back toward Essek. “I had my friends with me, at least.”
Now, Essek hears Yasha move. He can’t help but look, and sees her coming closer. She walks around the couch and sits on the floor, near enough for him to touch, if he wanted, but facing away slightly.
“I Scryed on you,” Jester says, voice uncharacteristically small. “I just— you weren’t alone, okay? I know you couldn’t have known, but every day, after we knew something was wrong, I Scryed.”
Essek shudders. The things she must have seen. It feels like a new kind of sin, to be the reason someone like Jester now carries those horrors.
“I’m sorry we didn’t find you sooner, but we’ll be here for you now, okay?”
“You have nothing to be sorry for, Jester. If I hadn’t—” Essek can’t help the bitter laugh. If he’d been more cautious travelling, if he’d paid more mind to martial spellwork, if he hadn’t started a fucking war—
“Hey,” she says. Her face is deadly serious. “Icky-thong did this, and he deserves the blame.”
That’s when Caduceus returns, carrying a bowl of soup and half a loaf of crusty bread.
--
Essek feigns sleep, and after some hushed discussion, they leave him in the salon. He probably could have simply said he’d prefer to stay there, but they would have asked why, and he doesn’t want to examine that now any more than he did earlier. He only knows that the huge space, filled will books and firelight, feels more welcoming than any other place available to him.
A few of the cat servants are lounging nearby, available to him any time, but he hasn’t needed them since he sent one in search of a book. He thought it would occupy his focus, but his eyes kept sliding off the pages. He’s tried trancing, but he can’t quiet himself enough for that either. So he’s staring into the fire again, feeling dull and agitated.
“Mrow?”
A cat, a lanky, orange creature, appears at the end of the lounge, regarding him with a strange intensity. It looks more properly feline than the servants, but they take so many forms that Essek can’t be sure. But there is one particular cat that is so far unaccounted for—
“Frumpkin?”
The cat just blinks coolly, somehow disapproving, and while he knows Frumpkin can take a variety of shapes, usually his coat is more dappled and dark than this animal’s. It’s not impossible that this is Caleb’s familiar, but it is likely? Essek doesn’t know enough about cats or fey to be sure.
The cat slowly, cautiously picks its way up the lounge, avoiding stepping on Essek for the most part, until it reaches his hands. Then it bumps its head against knuckles, fairly demanding he pet it. Essek huffs, more bemused than anything, and scratches it under the chin. The cat immediately begins to purr, then pushes closer. It nuzzles Essek under his chin, then settles against his chest, still purring, seeking him out whenever he stops his ministrations.
The low noise of the purring, the repetitive motion of running his fingers through cat’s soft fur, give him the mindlessness he needs to finally quiet himself. It’s not long before he finds his mind slipping into a trance.
When he rouses, the cat is gone.