Time might be specialty of his, but he finds it’s escaped him of late. He realizes he doesn’t know how long he’s been absent from his post. He’s even lost track of how long he’s been with the Nein. The days in Caleb’s tower run together in his memory, one long blur of plush and restless monotony. None of them have commented on the amount of time they’ve spent playing his nursemaid. Neither has there been any mention of how much longer they will indulge him. They go to great lengths for their own, he knows, and he has counted enough to be saved, but they cannot house him here forever. His sanctuary will come to an end, and he will need a plan. It had been Vurmas, but now— Away without leave, for who knows how long. If he’d managed to avoid suspicion before, surely this has drawn it. There is no lie he could tell that would stand up to the scrutiny a lengthy, unplanned absence would entail. And the truth could spell either renewed war or another prolonged stay in a torturer’s care. His fingers drift up to the knotted scar at his throat, an ugly reminder of his final attempt to deny Ikithon. Feeling wretched and ungrateful, he wonders if it would have been better had they let him die there. There is a kind of freedom in death he’d never appreciated before. A gentleness to oblivion. “Essek?” Jester’s voice jolts him from his morbid thoughts. He glances over to her, once again perched at the end of his lounge. Fjord, not far away, looks up from the book he’d been reading with a look of gentle interest. Essek returns his hand to his lap, perhaps a little too quickly to go unnoticed. Jester’s expression shifts, becoming just a bit sadder. She scoots closer, just barely not touching his feet. Essek misses the times when she would throw herself at him without a second thought. “Do you need something?” she asks. He needs quite a lot, but nothing she can give. And even if she could, she’s already given him quite enough, more than he could ever repay. She’s still staring at him, waiting for an answer. If none of the Nein will bring up what comes next, then maybe he can broach the topic. Give them their out. Maybe, in a way, that will pay down a little of what he owes them. “Just thinking about the future.” He tries to say it with a small smile, but from the way Jester’s lips thin and Fjord shifts to lean over his knees, he realizes he must fail to look pleasant. “What do you think the future looks like, friend?” Fjord asks. Bleak, Essek doesn’t say. Entirely too long or too short. “Not as I had been planning, certainly.” “I tried to tell you but—” Jester reaches up, scratches her pet weasel under his chin. Soothing herself by soothing it. “The Bright Queen told us you were dead. I haven’t told her you’re not. We didn’t want to make the decision for you.” Essek feels relieved at that, even if it does close many avenues forward. There’s little reason to hunt a dead man, and who would miss him? His brother might, but— Well. With the matter of his consecution long since settled, Essek suspects Verin had slowly been making his peace with Essek’s eventual absence, one way or another. “It’s probably for the best the Dynasty continues believing that.” Jester nods, more enthusiastically than the statement warrants. “There’s lots of other great places, anyway! Do you like sailing, we have a boat, or, or Nicodranas is just the best, and the Wildmother has all these cool sanctuaries, and there’s Rumblecusp.” Ah. So they must have been planning to leave him somewhere. He wonders if they have allies in the places Jester mentioned. How would those allies fair against the Assembly’s forces? Ikithon wasn’t the only archmage who would find things simpler with Essek off the board. At least the others would probably content themselves with merely depriving him of life. “You could stay with us,” Jester says, softly. “If you wanted to. But if you don’t—we’d understand.” “It’s not like you need to decide anything now,” Fjord adds gently. Carefully. “But we’ve all given how to keep you safe some thought. I hope knowing that gives you a little comfort.” Put like that, it does. Put like that, it guts him. He wonders, against his better judgement, what plan Caleb put forth. He is presumed dead, and therefore safe from the prying eyes of his homeland, with allies strong enough to pull him out from under the Assembly. Not just allies, but friends. And the dearest of his friends makes him want to flee his very skin. Perhaps this is the universe, exacting justice on him. -- “I miss him, little one,” Essek says. The orange cat abruptly stops purring, looking up at him with a strangely knowing stare. Essek pets it between the eyes, gently, in the way it seems to like best. It leans into his hand for a moment, but wriggles upward, trying to curl up under his chin. Essek sighs, runs his hand lightly along the animal’s spine. “I don’t know what to do about it, and I hate it so much. I could get up and find him, right this moment, if I wanted but—” There is a lump forming in his throat. Essek buries his face in the cat’s fur. Heaves a shuddering breath against it. The animal tolerates his imposition with grace. “I am freer than I have ever been, but the cost—” His eyes prickle. “He took Caleb from me.” What’s the harm in weeping? Only the cat will see. “I don’t want him to have the satisfaction. I don’t want to be afraid of Caleb. I want him back.” Suddenly, the cat pushes away. Sick of Essek’s tears and squeezing no doubt. Essek lets the creature go. It walks to the end of the lounge, then yowls at him, low and plaintive. Asking a question Essek doesn’t understand. “What is it?” In answer, the cat ceases to be a cat. “You have him, if you can stand him.” Caleb is looking away, face nearly entirely hidden behind the curtain of his hair. Essek gasps in reflex, and Caleb hands jump into the first somatic component for Seeming. “Don’t!” Essek snaps. “No illusions.” Caleb shudders, but his hands drop back to his lap. He still won’t look at Essek. Essek, who feels panic creeping up his spine and affection blooming to meet it, reaches out, thoughtless and bold. He trails the pads of his fingers over the sleeve covering Caleb’s arm, watches as the fabric moves like it should. It feels like it should, sturdy and warm from Caleb’s body. The clothes, at least are real. He continues down to Caleb’s hands. Caleb turns them over, letting Essek do what he wills. The scar is there, a line of thick keloid tissue bisecting one of his palms. It feels right, as do the many callouses and smaller scars. No glamour covering them. Caleb isn’t breathing, frozen utterly in place. Letting Essek pet and prod. “Caleb. Let me see your face.” Caleb twists even further away, just for a moment, but slowly the assents. His eyes are downcast, but bluer, realer than Ikithon ever made them. His beard is thick and course under Essek’s inspection. The hollow line of his cheek matches perfectly with the report of Essek’s fingers, and it breaks his heart. “I meant every word,” Essek whispers. He laces their fingers together. Feels the scar against his own palm. Presses his face into Caleb’s shoulder. Something in Caleb deflates, and he breathes again. “I—I didn’t—I thought I could only make it worse.” “You are a balm, one I have sorely needed.” Caleb, clever Caleb, maneuvers them with only the barest touches. Essek isn’t sure how he traversed the space from upright to lying mostly on top of his fellow wizard. Caleb doesn’t hold him close, only brackets him with one arm—keeping him safely on the lounge—and resting his other hand gently on Essek’s flank. Not holding. Not confining. Just there. Essek buries his face into the blessed darkness where Caleb’s neck joins his shoulder. Rests his eyes in the gentle warmth he finds. Breathes deep the scent of human and leather and ink and magic. This, this is Caleb. Not an illusion meant to make him mad. Essek, in that moment, finds a new thing to sustain him— I will not lose this.
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timeasmymeasure
Fill 8/?
Date: 2021-09-01 01:36 am (UTC)He realizes he doesn’t know how long he’s been absent from his post. He’s even lost track of how long he’s been with the Nein. The days in Caleb’s tower run together in his memory, one long blur of plush and restless monotony. None of them have commented on the amount of time they’ve spent playing his nursemaid. Neither has there been any mention of how much longer they will indulge him.
They go to great lengths for their own, he knows, and he has counted enough to be saved, but they cannot house him here forever. His sanctuary will come to an end, and he will need a plan. It had been Vurmas, but now—
Away without leave, for who knows how long. If he’d managed to avoid suspicion before, surely this has drawn it. There is no lie he could tell that would stand up to the scrutiny a lengthy, unplanned absence would entail. And the truth could spell either renewed war or another prolonged stay in a torturer’s care.
His fingers drift up to the knotted scar at his throat, an ugly reminder of his final attempt to deny Ikithon. Feeling wretched and ungrateful, he wonders if it would have been better had they let him die there. There is a kind of freedom in death he’d never appreciated before. A gentleness to oblivion.
“Essek?”
Jester’s voice jolts him from his morbid thoughts. He glances over to her, once again perched at the end of his lounge. Fjord, not far away, looks up from the book he’d been reading with a look of gentle interest.
Essek returns his hand to his lap, perhaps a little too quickly to go unnoticed. Jester’s expression shifts, becoming just a bit sadder. She scoots closer, just barely not touching his feet.
Essek misses the times when she would throw herself at him without a second thought.
“Do you need something?” she asks.
He needs quite a lot, but nothing she can give. And even if she could, she’s already given him quite enough, more than he could ever repay.
She’s still staring at him, waiting for an answer. If none of the Nein will bring up what comes next, then maybe he can broach the topic. Give them their out. Maybe, in a way, that will pay down a little of what he owes them.
“Just thinking about the future.” He tries to say it with a small smile, but from the way Jester’s lips thin and Fjord shifts to lean over his knees, he realizes he must fail to look pleasant.
“What do you think the future looks like, friend?” Fjord asks.
Bleak, Essek doesn’t say. Entirely too long or too short.
“Not as I had been planning, certainly.”
“I tried to tell you but—” Jester reaches up, scratches her pet weasel under his chin. Soothing herself by soothing it. “The Bright Queen told us you were dead. I haven’t told her you’re not. We didn’t want to make the decision for you.”
Essek feels relieved at that, even if it does close many avenues forward. There’s little reason to hunt a dead man, and who would miss him? His brother might, but—
Well. With the matter of his consecution long since settled, Essek suspects Verin had slowly been making his peace with Essek’s eventual absence, one way or another.
“It’s probably for the best the Dynasty continues believing that.”
Jester nods, more enthusiastically than the statement warrants.
“There’s lots of other great places, anyway! Do you like sailing, we have a boat, or, or Nicodranas is just the best, and the Wildmother has all these cool sanctuaries, and there’s Rumblecusp.”
Ah. So they must have been planning to leave him somewhere. He wonders if they have allies in the places Jester mentioned. How would those allies fair against the Assembly’s forces? Ikithon wasn’t the only archmage who would find things simpler with Essek off the board.
At least the others would probably content themselves with merely depriving him of life.
“You could stay with us,” Jester says, softly. “If you wanted to. But if you don’t—we’d understand.”
“It’s not like you need to decide anything now,” Fjord adds gently. Carefully. “But we’ve all given how to keep you safe some thought. I hope knowing that gives you a little comfort.”
Put like that, it does. Put like that, it guts him. He wonders, against his better judgement, what plan Caleb put forth.
He is presumed dead, and therefore safe from the prying eyes of his homeland, with allies strong enough to pull him out from under the Assembly. Not just allies, but friends.
And the dearest of his friends makes him want to flee his very skin.
Perhaps this is the universe, exacting justice on him.
--
“I miss him, little one,” Essek says. The orange cat abruptly stops purring, looking up at him with a strangely knowing stare. Essek pets it between the eyes, gently, in the way it seems to like best. It leans into his hand for a moment, but wriggles upward, trying to curl up under his chin. Essek sighs, runs his hand lightly along the animal’s spine. “I don’t know what to do about it, and I hate it so much. I could get up and find him, right this moment, if I wanted but—”
There is a lump forming in his throat.
Essek buries his face in the cat’s fur. Heaves a shuddering breath against it. The animal tolerates his imposition with grace.
“I am freer than I have ever been, but the cost—” His eyes prickle. “He took Caleb from me.” What’s the harm in weeping? Only the cat will see. “I don’t want him to have the satisfaction. I don’t want to be afraid of Caleb. I want him back.”
Suddenly, the cat pushes away. Sick of Essek’s tears and squeezing no doubt. Essek lets the creature go. It walks to the end of the lounge, then yowls at him, low and plaintive. Asking a question Essek doesn’t understand.
“What is it?”
In answer, the cat ceases to be a cat.
“You have him, if you can stand him.”
Caleb is looking away, face nearly entirely hidden behind the curtain of his hair. Essek gasps in reflex, and Caleb hands jump into the first somatic component for Seeming.
“Don’t!” Essek snaps. “No illusions.”
Caleb shudders, but his hands drop back to his lap. He still won’t look at Essek. Essek, who feels panic creeping up his spine and affection blooming to meet it, reaches out, thoughtless and bold. He trails the pads of his fingers over the sleeve covering Caleb’s arm, watches as the fabric moves like it should. It feels like it should, sturdy and warm from Caleb’s body. The clothes, at least are real. He continues down to Caleb’s hands.
Caleb turns them over, letting Essek do what he wills. The scar is there, a line of thick keloid tissue bisecting one of his palms. It feels right, as do the many callouses and smaller scars. No glamour covering them.
Caleb isn’t breathing, frozen utterly in place. Letting Essek pet and prod.
“Caleb. Let me see your face.”
Caleb twists even further away, just for a moment, but slowly the assents. His eyes are downcast, but bluer, realer than Ikithon ever made them. His beard is thick and course under Essek’s inspection. The hollow line of his cheek matches perfectly with the report of Essek’s fingers, and it breaks his heart.
“I meant every word,” Essek whispers. He laces their fingers together. Feels the scar against his own palm. Presses his face into Caleb’s shoulder.
Something in Caleb deflates, and he breathes again.
“I—I didn’t—I thought I could only make it worse.”
“You are a balm, one I have sorely needed.”
Caleb, clever Caleb, maneuvers them with only the barest touches. Essek isn’t sure how he traversed the space from upright to lying mostly on top of his fellow wizard. Caleb doesn’t hold him close, only brackets him with one arm—keeping him safely on the lounge—and resting his other hand gently on Essek’s flank. Not holding. Not confining. Just there.
Essek buries his face into the blessed darkness where Caleb’s neck joins his shoulder. Rests his eyes in the gentle warmth he finds. Breathes deep the scent of human and leather and ink and magic. This, this is Caleb. Not an illusion meant to make him mad.
Essek, in that moment, finds a new thing to sustain him—
I will not lose this.