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Essek gripped his cup of tea, product of a Lord Ashford of the Northern Empire, and focused on the stream of steam above it, playfully creating infinitesimal points of gravity here and there to twist it around and make it danse. It kept his thoughts busy, circumscribed into a single bubble dampening the laughter of his companions. Jester’s voice rose and fell in a grandiose tale of their latest adventure, her narration complimented by the occasional onomatopeia from Beau and Veth or a brief lightshow from Caleb, captivating the members of the Clay family gathered at the table.
This had become tradition whenever they dragged Caduceus out of his home to another dangerous adventure; they paid for his company in tales, as Cornelius had requested, and everyone was happy for the excuse to crash the Grove for a night, enjoy a delicious meals--and by the Light, their soup was a miracle in and of itself--then sleep their wounds away. Essek enjoyed it, too--he did!--but there always came a point when the playful screams and laughter, the scraping of chairs, the scents of drying herbs and food and tea, the heat of the fire and of so many bodies--there always came a point where it felt too much, all pressed against him, and it left his skull and skin buzzing. To leave would be impolite, so instead he retreated to a shadowed corner and found comfort in the routine of his magic. He’d been so absorbed by his attempts to create a dodecahedron with the steam through careful placement of his gravity wells he startled at a small tug on his robes.
Bright pink eyes stared at him from under a wide brimmed straw hat. She put a finger to her lips before he could speak, then bounced off, slipping out of the room without a word. He stared at the mass of multi-hued hair vanishing around the corner, imagined how much quieter and cooler it’d be, one room over, and set his tea down. He didn’t know much of Caduceus’ youngest sister--she always seemed to vanish when they arrived--but he wouldn’t pass an opportunity to escape. Essek floated after her.
She was waiting for him at the door, and as soon as he inched closer, she dashed outside with a grin and a small wave. Well. Now he was intrigued, and fresh air would do wonders. Essek threw one last look over his shoulder as Cornelius Clay’s booming laugh filled the room. Yes, outside was good.
Once again, she waited for him a short distance away, under a tree wrapped in luminescent buttons. She watched him approach wordlessly, only to dash off as soon as he was within ten feet of her. Her bare feet made no sound as they hit the soft dirt path, and when she veered off it, they did not crush either plant nor flowers. Essek stopped, tilting his head at the curious ability, then followed.
She led him deep into the Grove, always in starts and stops, and after a time he stopped wondering at her game and admired the life around him. Rosohna held incredible beauty, carved out of purple vermaloc wood and obsidian, all geometric shapes and elegant white mithril, but the Grove was different, free and uncalculated, each plot of buried personhood allowed to grow into its own personal beauty. Sometimes vine crawled from a grave and to the nearby tree, blooming deep yellow, sometimes thin red mushrooms twisted around each other--and through it all small motes of light floated, gigantic oak trees creaked in the wind, and a small spring gurgled. It was peaceful. Calming.
“You’re my favourite.”
For the second time tonight, Clarabelle startled him. He hadn’t realized she’d stopped fleeing at his approach and instead stayed by a small, lily-covered pond.
“Pardon?”
They had never talked. How could he be her favourite?
“You like bugs, don’t you?” She crouched down and placed two hands on a big rock. “I know you like bugs because you always float everywhere you go, so you don’t have to crush them.”
Essek pressed his lips together. He did it for the bugs, yes, certainly. In a way, she was not completely wrong: he’d continued to float for the illusions people built about him when he did so. Hers was simply… gentler. Essek let it slide and tried not to dwell on the quiet warmth it brought him.
“In the Kryn Dynasty, our warriors seek to emulate the best of insects, yes. They work as one, don chitinous armour, and when they charge in battle, they make the sound of a thousand crickets.”
She pouted. “Bugs aren’t for war.”
Awkward silence fell between them, every second stretching as though a chronomancer had pinched their ends and pulled them apart. Essek almost regretted the noisy temple hearth, where no eyes focused on him.
Clarabelle wasn’t even staring at him, though: her gaze followed something above his shoulder, and when he turned he found fireflies there. Little knots of stress unwound in him, and he studied the erratic flight with her for a while longer, the quiet no longer threatening. Essek let himself sink into it, forgetting the measure of time, until Clarabelle tapped her rock.
“I have a secret to show you. You can’t tell the others!”
“A secret?” he repeated. “I love unearthing the mysteries of the world.”
He crouched down to be at her level but kept both his cloak and feet floating off the ground. Solemnly, he brought his hands into a tent in front of him, forming one of the many triangles of the Luxon. “On my honour, and that of Den Thelyss, I will hold your secret.”
Clarabelle accepted his vow with a serious nod, then pressed her ear to the rock under her palms. Essek’s curiosity rose with every second of silence. It must be important, if she had decided to share. He felt honoured to be the recipient of her secret, even though they had never exchanged a word before today. But it also made him feel like an impostor, and he hoped she did not imagine in him an expert entomologist.
In time, Clarabelle straightened, then spread her fingers all around the rock, gently, as if caressing it instead of searching for a good grip. She had a way about her, like everything she touched deserved respect and consideration, from the ground under her toes to the rock at her fingertips. It reminded Essek of the way Caduceus sometimes stopped to talk to the tree branches hanging, when they trekked through dense forest.
“Be ready, Mister Floaty, and stay quiet. They scare easily.”
Essek eyebrows shot up, but she lifted the rock before he could introduce himself, revealing a network of tiny tunnels under it, with one, bigger room. In it wriggled a dozen insects, their brown skin dappled in moonlight. Crickets, he thought at first, but their bodies was rounder and shorter. Cicada nymphs, not yet ready to emerge.
Clarabelle leaned over, and he caught her bright grin before her rainbow hair covered her face. “Hello little ones. I brought a friend with me. I hope the burrowing goes well.”
As far as he could tell, the nymphs made no answer. One vanished down a tunnel. Clarabelle giggled.
“Yes, yes. Your time hasn’t come. I will let you bet now.”
Very slowly, she set the rock back down, hiding her secret once more. She laughed again as it settled where it belonged, then jumped to her feet. Her gaze caught on something in the tree, and she rocked back and forth on her heels as she studied it.
“They won’t tell me when they will be ready, but I hope they will remember me. I’d like a swarm of cicadas in my hat.” She pushed it up so it wouldn’t half cover her eyes and turned to him. “Maybe they will remember an Essek too, and go to you if you’re there.”
Ah, so she did know his name. Essek was uncertain he shared her enthusiasm for that particular future, but he nonetheless smiled at her. “An hypothesis I’d like to test.”
“Do you want to see more bugs?” she asked. “That way, you would always have friends when you come here. You’d be less lonely.”
She scampered off without waiting for his reply, and for a moment he could only stare at her bouncing hair as she skipped across the Grove’s wild grass and weeds. Lonely? He always came with the rest of the Mighty Nein, and they’d done so much to alleviate the solitude that had burdened his life before. He wasn’t lonely, not when they were around. Yet Clarabelle wasn’t wrong, either: when the crowd grew boisterous and conversations flew, he often found himself longing for peace and quiet, for a companionship of silence, of crinkling pages as one studied and researched. That was why he created those bubbles, isolating himself before the noise and smells and sounds became too much.
Clarabelle Clay had watched him float, tea cup in hand, detached from the world around, and she had seen a friend for her bug, but someone who needed them. A shy, awkward smile stretched his lips--perhaps the illusions she’d built from his magical drifting were not only kinder than most, but also more accurate.
“I’d love to see more bugs,” he whispered to the air, long after she was gone. Then he set off after her, his feet never touching the ground.