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criticalkinkThe rules are under the cut for you to read if you haven't already checked out the profile!
Welcome to the kink meme for Critical Role!
This community is open to all fans of Critical Role no matter what your preference for pairing may be. You do not have to join the community: you can either watch it or just track the post. Anon commenting will always be on, and IP tracking will be off. So feel free to stay anon if it makes you more comfortable.
What is a Kink Meme?
It's pretty simple. You post a prompt and your fellow fans get inspired and write fic based on that prompt. As it is a "kink" meme, a great deal of fic will be of the smutty variety, so if you aren't into that or not of a porn-reading age, this place won't be for you. Not all fic has to be smutty, but it does have to be kinky.
Clarification: This is a kink meme, therefore prompts must be kink-based. It is not a general prompting/headcanons meme. There have been a couple of people confused by that, so we're just making it extra clear.
Please only post one prompt per comment so to avoid any confusion.
How do I prompt?
Post each prompt as a new comment to the main post. Include pairing (or threesome or more if that's your thing) and anything else you want to add. You should put, at the very least, the pairing in the subject line along with a specific kink if it applies. You can put the whole prompt in the subject if it will fit, but if it doesn't, use the comments. For example:
Subject line: Beauregard/Jester, friends to lovers
Body of comment: Jester's been letting Beau use her for sparring practice. That kind of proximity does things to a tiefling.
I see a prompt I want to write! What now?
Go for it! You don't have to claim it, and fills can be written by more than one person. Once you've finished you must post it as a response to the original comment. Responses should use a subject line that includes the pairing, rating & any necessary warnings (i.e. incest, non-con, etc.). If you have titled your fic you can also include that. Also, as LJ limits the size of comments, if your fic goes into multiple comments, please note that your comment is part 1/5, part 2/5 and so on. Using the prompt above, the subject line could read:
"Punches and Pastries, Jester/Beauregard, M, 1/3"
And now some rules...
While we want this to be a relaxed and cool place, we also don't want people to feel uncomfortable being here. If you have suggestions or comments on how this community can improve please address to them tocriticalkink in a PM or drop a comment on this post.
The most important rule of all? HAVE FUN.
Now go forth and prompt!
Welcome to the kink meme for Critical Role!
This community is open to all fans of Critical Role no matter what your preference for pairing may be. You do not have to join the community: you can either watch it or just track the post. Anon commenting will always be on, and IP tracking will be off. So feel free to stay anon if it makes you more comfortable.
What is a Kink Meme?
It's pretty simple. You post a prompt and your fellow fans get inspired and write fic based on that prompt. As it is a "kink" meme, a great deal of fic will be of the smutty variety, so if you aren't into that or not of a porn-reading age, this place won't be for you. Not all fic has to be smutty, but it does have to be kinky.
Clarification: This is a kink meme, therefore prompts must be kink-based. It is not a general prompting/headcanons meme. There have been a couple of people confused by that, so we're just making it extra clear.
Please only post one prompt per comment so to avoid any confusion.
How do I prompt?
Post each prompt as a new comment to the main post. Include pairing (or threesome or more if that's your thing) and anything else you want to add. You should put, at the very least, the pairing in the subject line along with a specific kink if it applies. You can put the whole prompt in the subject if it will fit, but if it doesn't, use the comments. For example:
Subject line: Beauregard/Jester, friends to lovers
Body of comment: Jester's been letting Beau use her for sparring practice. That kind of proximity does things to a tiefling.
I see a prompt I want to write! What now?
Go for it! You don't have to claim it, and fills can be written by more than one person. Once you've finished you must post it as a response to the original comment. Responses should use a subject line that includes the pairing, rating & any necessary warnings (i.e. incest, non-con, etc.). If you have titled your fic you can also include that. Also, as LJ limits the size of comments, if your fic goes into multiple comments, please note that your comment is part 1/5, part 2/5 and so on. Using the prompt above, the subject line could read:
"Punches and Pastries, Jester/Beauregard, M, 1/3"
And now some rules...
- Since we're all supposed to be adults here, let's act like it. Be respectful to your fellow posters.
- Your kink is not someone else's and their kink may not be yours. If you don't like it, don't read it. It's really that simple.
- Please no bashing of other pairings. Just like with kinks, everyone has their own flavors, and this is neither the time nor place for ship wars. This meme is meant to include the entire fandom.
- Crossover prompts are allowed, but they must include a Critical Role character as a main part of the prompt.
- RPF is also allowed, but please prompt it over here!
- Het, slash, femmeslash? You're all welcome here. The more the merrier!
- It's not a requirement by any means, but writers love feedback, so if you read something you enjoy, take a second to tell the writer. Whether it's a one word response or something longer, it's always appreciated.
- Please follow basic kink meme etiquette by not linking the cast or crew to this meme.
While we want this to be a relaxed and cool place, we also don't want people to feel uncomfortable being here. If you have suggestions or comments on how this community can improve please address to them to
criticalkink in a PM or drop a comment on this post.The most important rule of all? HAVE FUN.
Now go forth and prompt!
Inspired by the above fill, Trent Ikithon/Essek Theylss dark, tw torture, noncon
Date: 2020-02-27 11:18 pm (UTC)Squicks are bathroom stuff and permanent Essek death
Re: Inspired by the above fill, Trent Ikithon/Essek Theylss dark, tw torture, noncon
Date: 2020-02-28 12:24 am (UTC)Re: Inspired by the above fill, Trent Ikithon/Essek Theylss dark, tw torture, noncon
Date: 2020-02-28 07:46 am (UTC)Based on tonight's episode, this could easily go the blackmail route or like...'If Essek's fan failed'
Re: Inspired by the above fill, Trent Ikithon/Essek Theylss dark, tw torture, noncon
Date: 2020-02-28 08:46 am (UTC)Re: Inspired by the above fill, Trent Ikithon/Essek Theylss dark, tw torture, noncon
Date: 2020-03-02 06:09 pm (UTC)Re: Inspired by the above fill, Trent Ikithon/Essek Theylss dark, tw torture, noncon
Date: 2021-08-16 02:43 am (UTC)Maybe Vurmas would have been. Maybe if Essek had gotten there, it would have been the shelter from his many, many enemies he’d hoped. It seemed like such a good plan, to go somewhere teleportation would be fraught. The risk of the journey had seemed worth it.
Face down in the snow, held down by both an anti-magic field and the iron grip of the Scourgers, he sees his possibilities for escape slipping away. He struggles, tries to writhe away. They are stronger than he is, stronger than his desperation. He feels cold metal snap around his wrists, feels something arcane flair and then sink its tendrils into him. Feels the oily slick of anti-magic again, this time closer to his skin. The field dissipates, and one of the dead eyed assassins presses her sand filled hand to Essek’s forehead.
Essek spits on her boots before the spell drags him into unconsciousness.
--
Sleep is a stranger to Essek, and so waking is a terrifying, disorienting thing. The muddled thoughts, the lost time, he is a panicking stranger to it. He tries to get his bearings, but the light in here is blinding, and he can barely keep his eyes open. He tries to lift his arm to shield himself, but it is held fast to his side. He tries the other arm, then his legs, but all are held tight to something unyielding at his back.
“Guten Morgen, Shadowhand Thelyss.”
That voice.
No.
Panic empties all rational thought from his head. He wrenches at his bindings like a trapped animal, but all he manages is to tear the skin over his wrists. He hears the click of a tongue, tutting.
“How unbecoming.”
Essek hears footsteps, fine slippers on stone, and tries to open his eyes again. He squints against the light, and can just make out a man, now leaning over him.
Trent Ikithon.
“I’m sure you think you’ve outlived your usefulness, ja?” A smile, cold like a corpse in rictus, splits the Archmage’s face. “You haven’t. There is one last use I have for you.”
Information, Essek assumes. One last chance at intelligence. Wring him for all he knowns before putting him down. There was a time he would gladly have turned coat to save his skin, but not for Ikithon. Never for him.
Essek opens his mouth, ready to spit the foulest invective he can muster, but no sound comes out.
He’s been silenced. As a precaution against casting, certainly, but if he cannot speak then he cannot spill his secrets.
Horror chills Essek.
If that’s not what Ikithon wants, then what?
--
The pain is expected.
He was warned that capture and torture was a risk, however remote it had seemed at the time, in accepting the position of Shadowhand. What preparation there was, what training he could have, he’d done, as the Crown required.
Those sessions, in hindsight, were laughably tame in comparison to the real thing. As if a papercut could prepare him for a moorbounder’s claws.
The pain is expected, but pain is not a currency in which Essek has often traded so directly, and it consumes him. Drives thought from his mind, giving his body over to helpless, useless reflex. He struggles and gasps and cries. Screams, begs, promises silently.
Ikithon is a master, weaving magic that plucks at Essek one nerve at a time. Essek had expected knives, whips, the craven brutality the Dusk Captain’s surrogates warned of, but so far, the only blood that’s been spilled, Essek drew himself, trying to flee from his own flesh against unforgiving iron.
He doubts that will last. Ikithon strikes him as something of a generalist when it comes to causing suffering.
Ikithon still hasn’t asked him a single question. He speaks, occasionally, but Essek can’t focus, can’t understand him. In the small parts of him still capable of thought, he just wishes he’d shut up, because every so often, his voice strikes a syllable just so, and conjures something worse than agony.
Because, blinded by light and half deafened by pain, occasionally Ikithon sounds like Caleb to Essek’s ears, and thinking of Caleb feels too much like hope for him to bear.
Re: Inspired by the above fill, Trent Ikithon/Essek Theylss dark, tw torture, noncon
Date: 2021-08-17 06:40 am (UTC)So… Who’s placing their bets on ‘he knows Essek matters to Caleb/the Nein and needs to keep them quiet at all costs’?
Re: Inspired by the above fill, Trent Ikithon/Essek Theylss dark, tw torture, noncon
Date: 2021-08-19 01:07 am (UTC)That is perhaps the only useful lesson he took from his training.
Still, it is the moments when he is alone, when Ikithon leaves him to shake tremble on this wretched table, that he fears might undo him.
The dread of what will come next is its own torture, ruining the only moments of peace he has left, and dread is nearly the only thing that fills those long hours. He tries to trance, occasionally, but that allows his mind to wander. Semiconsciousness brings him to a shelter, to memories of a strange, vibrant house, filled with light that didn’t sting and people who called him friend. Waking from those trances, having to leave those memories for this hell, almost isn’t worth the respite. Not when he knows he’ll never see that house again, when he knows how gravely he wounded those friends.
They don’t even know he’s gone.
And he’s not sure they’d come looking if they did.
--
“I wonder, do you know what purpose you serve? I’ve given you enough time to think it over.”
Even if the question weren’t rhetorical, even if Essek could have answered, he thinks he still would have tried to ignore Ikithon. It is the only bit of control he has.
“You’re a practical demonstration, to illustrate a point he seemed slow to understand. I will grind you down, shatter you to until you’re nothing but your basest instincts and my will, and once the moment is right, I will turn you on him. He thinks I have ceded control, that he has allies I cannot take. You will be the first. And, perhaps, not the last.”
He could only mean Caleb. He is the only person they have in common.
It is arrogance, Essek thinks, that bore those words. An arrogance Essek knows well.
And arrogance, as Essek well knows, comes before the fall.
Hope would make a ruin of him, but hate? He could cling to an eternity fed on nothing but hate for this man. Ikithon has given him something. Not hope exactly, but a purpose. Something to cling to. Whatever happens, whatever comes, he will not become an instrument to hurt Caleb.
--
The next time Ikithon returns, he kills Essek for the first time.
If Essek were coherent enough to take stock of himself, he would say he’d been clinging to life by the barest thread for some time. As it was, he only realized how fragile he was when his vision began to tunnel, when his heart began to stutter in his chest. He feels a moment of vicious triumph, then darkness, then—
Blinding light, and a cleric of unclear provenance. Something glitters on the cleric’s skin. Bits of diamond.
“You don’t have permission to die,” Ikithon says, matter of fact. “And not all resurrection magic requires your cooperation.”
Essek finds he had, in fact, harboring a little bit of hope. Hope in that grim escape. Now it is dashed, and he cannot even bring himself to weep.
--
Hate makes for bitter rations, but that is all he has.
Re: Inspired by the above fill, Trent Ikithon/Essek Theylss dark, tw torture, noncon
Date: 2021-08-19 04:56 am (UTC)Hate makes for bitter rations, but that is all he has.
Ooof. Good line.
Re: Fill 3/?
Date: 2021-08-19 11:41 pm (UTC)-
The door to his cell rattles, and Essek hates how that makes his pulse quicken with an instinctive fear. But it’s also odd. Ikithon has never had to force the door before.
It’s new. Essek is learning to fear new.
The door opens slowly, creaking on its hinges. Essek risks a look. Better to know.
(As if that isn’t the very instinct that eventually brought Essek here. Still, he looks.)
He doesn’t believe his eyes. In fact, he stares as long as he can, until spots begin to cloud his vision and he has to squeeze his eyes shut.
Caleb is standing in the door.
Essek cries his name, or tries to, forgetting he cannot be heard.
“Essek?”
Caleb runs across the room, his boots loud in the silence. Essek’s bottom lip trembles. He should fear for Caleb, should wish him far from this awful place, but he simply can’t, not when relief, when freedom, is so close.
There is a faint dimming of the light, the sense of a body near him. Essek risks opening his eyes again. He meets Caleb’s, the blue of them washed out but the light, but still achingly familiar.
Please Essek mouths, tugging again, helplessly, at the manacles fastening him to this table. Caleb lifts one hand, brushes it down the length of Essek’s arm. What is he doing? Essek tries to look around, maybe, maybe the others—
“Now, what have you gotten yourself into?”
Essek’s gaze snaps back to him, squinting against how he’s backlit. Essek can only shake his head. Caleb knows, he has to. Why else would he have come here, to the lair of a man they both loathe?
Caleb's fingers trail back up his arm, slipping under the collar of his long-ruined shirt. His hands drag over ragged skin, down, down, and Essek tries to flinch away.
What are you— help me! he shouts, or tries to, but Caleb just chuckles, draws a knife from somewhere and slips it under the waist of what's left of his trousers. Essek tries in earnest to twist away, but the hand on his torso bears down hard, pinning him in place. Essek has no name for the sour, dizzy feeling that takes root in his gut. Something like panic, something like betrayal, something like grief. Could Caleb really—
Caleb's hand withdraws from his body, going to rip the cut fabric away, and in that moment, Essek sees Caleb’s palm.
The scar, the ragged split bisecting it, is gone.
This isn’t Caleb.
Hot tears, both shame and frustration, well in Essek’s eyes, and he tries to scream. Leans up, with what strength he has, as if that would give voice to the curses burning in his silent throat.
“Ah, you figured it out quickly. No matter. I can still make you fear his face.”
A grin that could never be Caleb’s spreads across those lips, making a stranger of him. Ikithon, wearing Caleb's face, casts mage hand and gives the arcane figment the knife. It taps the flat of the blade against the inside of his thigh, a clear threat. It draws up, toward his pelvis, and Essek doesn't even dare to breathe.
"The handle this time, I think. No sense in bothering my clerics."
--
Ikithon is wearing his own face when Essek sees him next, and the pain he delivers is—
Pain he didn't realize he preferred until he knew the alternative.
When he comes as Caleb again, there is no pretense of rescue.
He doesn't use the knife blade, though, and that must be his idea of generosity.
Essek is beginning to fear Caleb’s face, and he hates himself for it. He knows, knows that it’s not really him. That Caleb could never be this monster. But the part of him, the growing part, that is nothing but a wounded animal has learned to fear the sight of that red hair, those blue eyes, that constellation of freckles.
--
Ikithon had called this graduation and laughed as his lackeys had hauled Essek from the table to the center the room, strung a chain between his anti-magic cuffs, and pulled him up until only the balls of his feet brushed the floor. He's not sure if this is meant to be a mockery of his levitation, or if that is just awful coincidence.
The barbed whip puts any thoughts of the magic he used to be able to weave far from his mind.
He tries to scream, tries to twist away, but that just loses him his footing, puts his full weight on already raw wrists. Still, he can't stop writhing, not until he's lost enough blood to be weak and faltering.
If there is one silver lining, it is this— in these minutes before Ikithon calls over the cleric (and how he loathes the feeling of divine magic now, how he hates that it constantly denies him escape), Essek is lost in a dizzy, cotton haze, barely even tethered to his body.
Strange thoughts bubble up in that altered state, odd flickers of memory. Some are even pleasant.
Right now, he is remembering Jester’s voice. Buoyant, loud, colored by that lilting coastal accent. Always appearing in his mind at the most inopportune moments.
Esseeek, hey, do you know—
The cleric’s hand is on him, fingers just brushing his shoulder. Hesitant, like they’re being forced to touch something unclean.
Essek? Are you mad at me? Please, make a noise or something if you’re okay, I’ll be—
The healing spell burns away the haze, closes the worst of Essek’s wounds. But not all of them. Never all of them.
Essek retains enough clarity to hope that where ever Jester is, it’s a far better place than this, before Ikithon’s whip returns.
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!”
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.
Re: Fill 5/?
Date: 2021-08-22 05:48 am (UTC)all of that to say this is amazing and i am on the metaphorical edge of my seat wondering what might come next. i felt very strongly for essek and the nein reading this (and your writing really did get to me, as i found myself horrified and fearful and distressed alongside essek--but in a good way, the way that good writing is meant to make you feel that kind of empathy!)
Re: Fill 5/?
Date: 2021-08-22 09:47 am (UTC)I love the details of Essek first recognizing that it isn’t Caleb because Trent doesn’t know about the scar from the Diver’s Grave blood seal thing. I love the details of Jester’s smell being so particular, her mannerisms being so specific, that Essek knows Trent could never mimic them so perfectly. Jester is inimitable, she’s “absolute fucking chaos,” to quote her god/patron, which is why she tends to baffle even the smartest people like Ludinus Da’leth. I love the details of Essek knowing it’s not Ikithon, knowing it’s the real Caleb, recognizing the reactions that have been trained into him but being unable to do anything about it.
I love the moment where I could tell if he was going to stab Caleb or himself with the arrow because he was so desperate *not* to hurt Caleb and the others.
I love this story. Youre a fabulous writer.
And you are absolutely terrible to poor Essek. XD
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.
Re: Fill 6/?
Date: 2021-08-23 03:21 am (UTC)It feels like a new kind of sin, to be the reason someone like Jester now carries those horrors.
Essek did you not JUST hear her say that she had been abducted before and it had nothing to do with you? I mean, she didn’t really specify the torture, but I thought it was implied… then again I suppose in his state of mind implied meanings might go over his head. There’s too much for him to deal with to accurately gauge what people aren’t saying. Also, I’m glad that you brought the Iron Shepherds up. It gets kinda left by the wayside a lot in fics, but…I think with the exception of Caduceus, all of them have been kidnapped and/or tortured before.
And CAT-LEB oh my sweet boy! I hope he at least feels better getting to give Essek this comfort, even if he doesn’t feel he can approach him in human form. I have to wonder if Essek would be upset at the deception if he knew… but also I fucking love that he knows exactly what Frumpkin’s coat looks like.
Re: Fill 6/?
Date: 2021-08-27 12:28 am (UTC)It takes on the colors he tends to favor in his dress, becomes plusher, with pillows more suited to keeping him comfortable while reading and trancing. Gains a companion in the form of a low table. Books he’s shown interest in manifest on the table, along with similar tomes, rather than him having to ask for them each time. The far end grows slightly farther away, to accommodate Jester’s frequent company without leaving him cramped.
All this consideration, and Essek only ever sees Caleb for the handful of minutes it takes him to exit his tower, recast it, and enter it again.
Essek doesn’t know if that is a kindness or not.
Because his pulse still quickens, and his stomach still knots with fear, but his heart aches for that quiet, brilliant company.
--
The little orange cat visits more nights than not, patient but insistent on his attention.
“Does the master of the house send you, I wonder?” Essek murmurs. The cat is curled at his hip, purring loudly. Essek strokes it behind the ears. “He sends the others to wait on me, but you don’t seem like the usual staff. And I know you aren’t Frumpkin.”
No, he’d spotted Frumpkin, in his usual livery, and Essek is certain Caleb would not expend the resources necessary to change his coat with such frequency. So this is someone else.
“Well, even if you are here under orders, I appreciate your company.”
The cat lifts its head to stare up at him with its vibrant blue eyes. If Essek didn’t know better, he’d think there was something sad in that gaze. He wonders if he’d said something wrong, before realizing that he could hardly offend a cat, arcane manifestation or no. Still, he scratches it under the chin in what he hopes it a suitable attempt at mollification.
The cat leans into his fingers for a moment, then climbs onto his chest and curls up again, purring more loudly than before.
--
He might spend most of his time in the salon, on his lounge, but Caduceus has encouraged him to walk around. Exercise, to regain his strength. If that first circuit around the salon, holding Yasha’s elbow, hadn’t exhausted him, he’d have brushed the idea off as well-meaning but ludicrous. Surely walking couldn’t elude him.
But Caduceus is an expert in his own field, and Essek should have known better than to disregard his advice.
He can’t very well walk around outside (which is Uthodurn, apparently. They deemed it sufficiently remote and neutral for the purposes of hiding him.) so he makes due with wandering the tower. He no longer needs an escort, at least, and he takes it as an opportunity to study Caleb’s handiwork.
It’s the detail that consistently impresses Essek. This is masterwork, and it never grows less careful, no matter how many times he recasts it. No matter how many times he changes it. Essek has so many questions but—
A turbulent mix of emotions rears up—fear, anger, longing, sadness, worry. His grits his teeth, breathes the way Caduceus taught him. Eventually, the chaos will to turn to exhaustion and numbness.
What was the other advice? Focus on his senses. Hearing for example. What can he hear, besides the pounding of his pulse?
Voices. Whose voices? Beauregard’s and—
And Caleb’s.
Essek is on the sixth floor, the furthest he usually ventures upward. Below Veth and Caleb’s rooms. The iris is open—not unusual—but Essek doesn’t think he’s ever heard anything from that floor.
Eavesdropping is rude, but it is also second nature to him. A return to one of his worse habits can probably be forgiven, under the circumstances. And Essek misses the sound of Caleb’s voice very badly.
“—Fuckin’, seriously? There’s self-flagellation and then there’s whatever the fuck you’re doing.”
“Beauregard.”
“Don’t ‘Beauregard’ me, I’m right.”
A beat of tense silence, then—
“No, you think you’re right. But I’m not going to subject him to more pain because of what you think.”
“The fuck? You’re acting like this is your fault or some shit.”
“It’s not about fault. It’s about—” Caleb’s voice dies. Essek can picture the tense, grim expression that must come with a silence like that. “I know how he prefers to break people down. Not just pain, but lies, and—and—” There’s a soft choking sound, very like the prelude to a sob. “Essek is afraid of me. I don’t care if it looks like self-flagellation to you, if I were him I’d never want to see my face again.”
“He’s not you, though. And we both know it’s not you wigging him out.”
“And it doesn’t seem to make a practical difference.”
“You wanna live like this forever? Never talking to him again?”
“It doesn’t matter what I want, so—”
Essek doesn’t hear the rest, he is already fleeing. He doesn’t know why, just that he doesn’t want to hear more of that conversation. He fairly flings the door to his own chambers open, only barely keeps himself from slamming the door behind him.
Essek sinks to the floor almost immediately, resting against the door. Curls into himself, head resting on his knees. Tries not to shake.
He cannot name this feeling, this yawning ache. The know that Caleb knows, to know that Caleb is trying to spare him in the ways he can, to miss Caleb bitterly, to hate that he cannot stomach what he desperate to have.
To know that Caleb, too, is hurting for his hurt.
It occurs to him that the last words they exchanged, if they could be called that, were Essek’s bitter attempt to fling vitriol at someone else entirely.
Will that be it, then? Will that be forever how things stood between them?
Essek finds he hates that thought more than almost anything else.
Fill 7/?
Date: 2021-08-27 12:29 am (UTC)It's above, I don't know what I'm doing here
Re: Fill 7/?
Date: 2021-08-29 06:16 pm (UTC)Poor everyone.
Also bless Our Lady Of Real-Talk, Beauregard Lionett. Love her so much. She is the bullshit detector every group needs.
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.