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They save Jester and Fjord and Yasha, they save Nila’s son, they save almost-slaves with broken bodies and broken minds who remind Caleb of the inmates of the asylum, of himself in the asylum, and everyone hugs each other and they are all so happy. They are relieved, they are blessed, they are happy. Caleb watches the celebrations the way he watches such things sometimes, when the noise and the energy seek to drill into him: he borrows Frumpkin’s eyes and sits on his own shoulders. Caleb’s skin feels, he cannot help that, but Frumpkin filters the rest. Caleb watches himself watch the room.
Jester and Fjord and Yasha, they each come up to him, they each speak to him and Caleb speaks back, a little too loudly he can tell from their faces. He can’t gauge his own voice. Frumpkin hears them, Caleb responds. Jester and Fjord cry as they mouth a dead man’s name. They are so full of regret. Oh what they would have done if only they’d been there. This death is their fault. They neither say that or mean it but they would like to, Caleb can tell. It would give meaning to an awful, ugly thing squatting putrid in the midst of the celebration that is their freedom.
Yasha doesn’t cry. That is somehow worse. She brushes her fingers against his cheek and murmurs something Caleb will not hear. She is comforting him. She is comforting him . Caleb’s mouth says something, says thank you , or I’m sorry , or fuck off , or I would have left you down there. I would have left you all. That is who I am, Yasha. I buried your friend and was glad it wasn’t me.
Caleb says one of those things. Yasha leaves him be.
There was peace in insanity, peace in being bent until you broke and there was simply nothing left to be done. In the asylum, no one expected much from Caleb. They did not expect him to eat, they did not expect him to bathe, they did not expect him to willingly breathe and remain breathing. They kept him alive and told him it was because someone had paid them to do so. Caleb does not know who. He does not think about it. There is no answer he would like.
In the asylum, he knew that he had done the worst thing he would ever do and now he would never do anything again. In the asylum, Caleb was happy to wait to die. He was a man in a tomb and soon he would rot, he would crumble, he would blow away.
This is not the asylum. A stranger unbroke him without unbending him. Now he must continue. He gets hungry and feeds himself. This body stinks like rot but it is not dead. He has conceived of a way to undo the worst thing he has done and there is no ethical end for him now. Suicide before his work is done murders his parents again. He hides on the edges of fights, lets cowardice of one kind battle cowardice of another. He will not run into the fray; accepting a willing murder is no loophole. Caleb is not allowed to die. Mollymauk was. Mollymauk lived on borrowed time, in another man’s skin. Lucien broke and out of that came Mollymauk; Caleb broke and left nothing but Caleb. He has only worsened with age. He has only diminished. Mollymauk is dead and Caleb has work to do.
The people he has surrounded himself with celebrate. Let them celebrate. They mourn. Let them mourn. They’ll do both all the better in Caleb’s absence. They laugh with ashes in their mouth as Caleb slips out the door. Celebrate life with life and grieve death that no one sought.
In the stables, Caleb saddles a horse who nudges him with its nose for a treat that Caleb does not have. Frumpkin kneads his claws into Caleb’s neck, stops when Caleb spares a moment to scratch behind the ears. “Keep an eye on them,” Caleb tells his familiar, his breath smoking in the winter air. “If they follow, stop them.”
Frumpkin regards him with eyes Caleb cannot read, digs his paws into Caleb’s shoulder, bounds free back into the night. Nott will forget him, in time. She has a new family that will serve her well. She said as much. What she once wanted she wants no longer. She wants to be a hero. Good, good, let her be a hero. She will be a fine one, better than this land deserves, better than Caleb deserves. Caleb deserves the empire and the empire deserves him. Nott will be fine with her new friends. She loves them, and they love her.
The road is dark and cold as he rides out of town. The snow has started again, and on a moonless night, he cannot see but feels it like feathers against his skin. His fingers are already numb. This is foolishness, but necessary foolishness. No one will follow him into the snow, if they notice his absence at all. By the morning, he will be gone, and no one will miss him, and he will be too far away to be worth the trouble. If he gets too cold, he will start a fire. Caleb is good at starting fires.
He will pass down south by Molly’s grave. If no one has looted the jacket, Caleb will take it himself. If no one has looted the grave, Caleb will dig it up with his bare hands. Just to check.
The snow muffles sound, and even without that, Caleb is deafened and blinded by his own self-pity, staring into his own worthlessness for a mote of something worth seeing, and so he does not notice the sound of pounding feet above and behind him until it ceases. And in the absence that startles him though he does not know why, a dark shape dives down from the rooftops, rolls to a crouch in front of him.
His horse has survived too much to flinch. So for that matter has Caleb.
“What the fuck, man?” Beau says. Caleb makes light, and the light dances true to its name. He doesn’t mean to, doesn’t think about it. That is why it is a cantrip. It is rote by now. If Beau needs to see, he gives her light.
She stands, brushes the snow off her knees, glares at him. Frumpkin lands delicately in the snow beside her, begins to groom himself with an insouciance that seems like a challenge. Caleb thinks about snapping him back to the Feywild. He reaches out his hand instead, and Frumpkin jumps, climbs up Caleb’s leg, rubs his head into Caleb’s palm. His skull fits into Caleb’s hand perfectly, and the interlocking makes Caleb feel heavier, as it always does.
“I have work to do,” Caleb says to neither Frumpkin nor Beau. Beau, predictably and nevertheless, responds.
“Fuck off,” she says, reaching up to grab the reins. “Come on.”
Caleb blinks. “Which would you like me to do?”
“Both, man, I don’t know.” Beau starts to walk back the way Caleb came. The horse follows the reins. “I know it’s goddamn cold at here and your cat’s a little asshole with, like, little evil knife hands.”
Caleb thinks about yanking the reins back. Kicking the horse into a gallop. Spiriting away in the night. “Paws,” he says. Frumpkin curls in his lap and meows for the attention of both hands.
“Whatever,” Beau says. The lights encircle them, and the snow caught in their glow look like embers floating down. Caleb’s lights paint the white snow in flames. Frumpkin’s eyes are closed. Caleb wouldn’t have to see anything. It would be easy to slip out of himself.
Beau says, “Nott’s gonna be so fucking pissed at you. Or worse, man. She’s gonna be so disappointed. ”
Caleb says nothing. He watches the snow fall. He is captured. Beau will not let him go. If he ran, she would catch him. He lets her lead the horse. He has no choice. He has no choice.
“Well, don’t fucking do it again,” Beau says into the silence.
“ Ja ,” Caleb says softly. The word evaporates and disappears into the air as if he had not spoken at all.
Beau grunts though and says, “Nott’s still gonna be pissed,” so he must have said something. Her hand is entangled in the leather reins, and the horse walks as silently as she does through the snow. Frumpkin’s purrs hold Caleb’s hands as surely as the stocks. Caleb must pet his cat. Caleb cannot leave his horse. Beau will not let him leave. When he returns to the group, they will hold him as fast as iron walls and a broken mind ever did. There is no running. He is caught. They have caught him.
“It should have been me who died,” Caleb says
Instantly Beau replies, “Don’t say shit like that.”
It’s a command. He has no choice but to obey. “Okay,” he says, and Beau says, “I’m serious. I’m fucking serious,” and he says, “Okay,” again, and Beau says, “It shouldn’t have been any of us. None of this should have fucking happened,” and Caleb says, “Okay,” a third time, a little more insistently, and Beau falls silent.
He is so tired and the night is so beautiful. He is as light as the fresh powder snow.
Beau leads him home, and Caleb follows, limp and free as a corpse.