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Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Caleb looks up from the tome he’s been poring over all day, taking notice for the first time that the light spilling through the windows has turned golden. He stretches and yawns, working out the kinks in his joints from sitting still for too long. Johann pads over his desk and settles over his book, glaring at him balefully. Caleb laughs and ruffles the white fur, earning himself a disgruntled miau. 

Almost time for dinner, anyway. 

Living in a place he has finally allowed himself to call home has quickly taught him that even a gifted wizard may be grievously ignorant when it comes to most domestic chores. It is a lapse that he has been diligently working on improving. 

He lights the lamps as dusk approaches and gets to work.

These days, Caleb is much more efficient at peeling potatoes, and the chopped onions and garlic come out more uniform in size than otherwise. He’s finally learned what Suppengrün is, and the familiar scent brings more joy than pain, now.

The smell of frying bacon always makes his stomach rumble, but thankfully, this is a recipe that he’s found both delicious and relatively easy to prepare. It helps that he’s been practicing this for a while, trying to get it just right.

It’s not long before the vegetables are simmering in the broth. There’s nothing left to do now but carefully cut off the tops of two round loaves of bread, scooping a little hollow into both. He surveys them with satisfaction. He’s cut them a little unevenly, but he trusts they will look much better later.

Spoon in hand, Caleb lifts the lid of the pot to taste its merrily bubbling contents – the steam condenses on his glasses, he always neglects to take them off before doing this – and just then, there is a whooshing sound from the sitting room, an arcane glow illuminating the hallway. A smile rises to his lips.

Essek is home.

It’s a familiar routine by now. Essek will take his boots off, lining them up carefully next to Caleb’s in the entryway, and hang up his mantle on a set of hooks that holds Caleb’s coat and his favorite scarf. It takes him nineteen seconds at most. Today, it takes him only eleven.

“You’re in a rush,” Caleb says, squinting at Essek’s silhouette through his fogged-up glasses. 

“I must admit I am hungrier than I thought I was.” 

Gentle fingers lift Caleb’s glasses from his face. He blinks at the human standing before him, olive-skinned and dark-haired, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he casts Prestidigitation to clean Caleb’s glasses.

“Must you be so handsome every time, Schatz?” Caleb sighs.

There is a chuckle as the glasses are placed carefully back on Caleb’s face, just as the illusion fades. Caleb’s stomach still does a funny swoop every time he sees Essek’s face emerge from beneath whatever disguise he’s chosen this time. He smiles, bending down obligingly as Essek stands on his tiptoes to give him a kiss, soft and lingering.

“I must keep up appearances. You’re getting quite the reputation among your students, I’ve heard,” Essek says, a finely curved eyebrow raised at Caleb. “I believe the term they are using is that you have got game.”

Caleb laughs, shocked. “I’ve got what?”

“Oh, come now. No need for false modesty.” Essek wraps his arms around Caleb’s waist, looking inordinately pleased with himself. “They have that part correct, at least, even if all the rest is hilariously erroneous.”

“All the rest?” Caleb says incredulously. 

“You will not hear it from me. Perhaps I shall ask Beauregard to tell you.”

Caleb groans. “I think I would rather not know.”

“I do not think you will have a choice,” Essek says, smirking. He snatches the spoon from Caleb’s fingers and leans down to peer into the pot. “Now, please. If I do not taste this right now, I shall certainly die.”

“Not yet,” Caleb protests, wresting the spoon from Essek’s grip, trying not to laugh at the offended look on his face. “Sit down, Schatz. Give me just two minutes.”

Essek lets out a deeply wounded sigh and does as he is bid. Caleb ladles the soup quickly into the hollowed-out loaves and carries a tray to the dining table. His sulking beloved has been conveniently distracted by a purring Liesl, who has consented to have her ears scratched, for once. 

“Dinner is served,” Caleb announces, placing a bowl of steaming soup before Essek.

“It smells wonderful.”

“I hope it tastes wonderful too,” Caleb says, “seeing as I did not get a chance to try it before a handsome stranger turned up in my kitchen.”

Essek laughs. Even after all this time, his courtly manners still show in the way he holds himself at the table, back straight, legs primly crossed. 

“Permit this stranger to sample the results of your hard labor.”

“Please,” Caleb says, gesturing toward the soup. He has tried this recipe enough times to know that he has done everything right, but there is a hint of trepidation nevertheless as Essek lifts his spoon to take a delicate sip.

“Oh,” Essek says, and Caleb is highly gratified to see the way his eyes have widened. “It is delicious, Caleb. What is it?”

“Potato soup,” Caleb says. “A very simple dish. But it is from home, and I wished for you to try it.”

Essek’s eyes soften. “It is my favorite of all the dishes you have cooked so far, I think.”

“It has occurred to me why you like soup so much, Schatz.”

“Tell me.” Essek takes another sip, lets out an appreciative hum that makes the heat rise to Caleb's face.

“I think it is because you only need to make soup once, but you can have many, many bowls.” 

“I did not think of it that way,” Essek chuckles. “But you are not wrong.”

“Or perhaps it is that it is warm,” Caleb says, contemplatively stirring his own bowl of soup. “And when you have some, you are warmed.”

The steam has fogged up his glasses once more – he takes them off and wipes them carefully on the edge of his shirt. When he puts them back on, he finds Essek gazing at him. His smile is a little brittle around the edges, but his eyes are crinkling at the corners in the way that tells Caleb that he is very, very happy.

Essek reaches forward and places his hand palm up on the table. Caleb takes his hand, their fingers tangling together.

“That must be it,” Essek says, and his hand tightens around Caleb’s, his face still incandescent with joy. “That sounds exactly right, my love.”

Chapter Text

Eight days have gone by since that farce of a parley Trent Ikithon had set up for the Nein.

But Caleb can still hear the crackling of the flames devouring the thatch, can still feel the thick smoke stinging his eyes and throat.

Veth tells him again and again that it is not his fault, and so does Jester. But it certainly does not feel that way, not when Caleb has to watch Clarabelle growing teary when she finds the charred remains of an old doll, Calliope’s stoic expression giving way at the sight of her beloved mace ruined by smoke and water.

Doing repairs around the Clays’ house with Fjord gives Caleb something else to focus on. Makes him feel useful. The ache of an honest day’s work is a relief after the endless hours he has spent closeted with Beauregard taking Astrid’s and Eadwulf’s testimonies. He thinks of the incongruity of seeing the stuff of his nightmares inscribed in Beauregard’s cramped shorthand.

Caleb wipes his brow on his sleeve. His hands are filthy with ash. The late afternoon sun spills on the Blooming Grove, the warm light turning everything it touches to gold.

He turns his head to see Caduceus standing under the shade of an enormous tree. He’s watching something in the distance, his face turned away.

Caleb’s guilt is a weight in the pit of his stomach. He still has not spoken to Caduceus, whose time the past few days has been split between comforting his family and supervising the gardening when he’s not casting Mending ad infinitum on the rafters.

It is difficult. Caleb has to drag his feet to cross the meager space that separates them, and even then, he comes to a stop a few feet behind Caduceus, his shame pressing his shoulders down.

“Caduceus,” he says softly. “Could you spare me a few minutes?”

An ear flicks in his direction, but Caduceus does not turn around. “Sure,” he says. “I’m keeping an eye out at the moment though, hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

Caleb clears his throat, casts about desperately for something to say. The first words that come to him are Zemnian, the once-familiar cadence of the formal apology that he had learned as a child. Unutterably heartfelt in his native tongue, but dry as sawdust when translated. His heart is beginning to thud painfully in his chest. He squeezes his eyes shut. He has to say something, anything –

“I can hear you thinking from here.”

Caleb’s eyes fly open just in time to see Caduceus glance over his shoulder at him.

“Ah, you see,” Caleb swallows hard, “what I wish to say is… well, it is difficult to express.”

Caduceus turns away. “Take your time.”

It is to give Caleb an opportunity to collect himself, and they both know it. Caleb thinks he will never get used to Caduceus and his uncanny perception, his trick of drawing people quietly into the light without their noticing.

No, Caleb corrects himself. It is not a trick. It is a kindness.

“I struggle to find the words,” Caleb admits. “It is so terribly inadequate, this language.”

“That it is,” Caduceus says, humming in agreement. The measured inflection of his voice shifts to something more lilting and melodious. “We have another, if it would suit you better.”

It takes Caleb a second before he registers the switch in language. Sylvan, the speech of the fey. The constant dull ache in his chest that is Frumpkin’s absence is making his throat painfully tight. Sylvan would suit his purposes better, perhaps, but there is only so much he can endure in one conversation.

“I – I will make do with Common, I think.” He clenches his hands into tight fists, resisting the urge to scratch. “I wish to… to apologize. I should have known better than to stay here with all of you, knowing the danger that was coming for me.” The words are halting, dropping like stones from his lips. “You, your family, this sacred land – your home – you have had to pay a heavy price for something that did not even have anything to do with you.”

“I disagree, respectfully. You’re our guests here, each one of you. We hold ourselves responsible for looking after you all. I don’t doubt for a single moment that my family feels the same way.”

Caduceus speaks in his usual tone, his voice slow and steady. The sincerity of the words washes over Caleb, but he can sense the fury simmering beneath the surface. He knows more than anyone what it is like to carry rage within him, and he recognizes it in the hard set of Caduceus’ jaw, the tension in the lines of his shoulders. 

It is a frightening thing, invoking the wrath of a person slow to anger. Caleb thinks of Caduceus’ failed Command spells. He wonders if Ikithon has ever even possessed the capacity for empathy. Caleb certainly does not think so.

“Regardless, I wish it had not come to this,” Caleb says, his sorrow slipping through the cracks. “But I… I will do whatever I can to make it right.”

“I know you would. And I think that’s all any of us can do.” When Caleb glances up, Caduceus is looking at him straight in the eye. “Living here taught me a few things,” he says, nodding toward the house. “You learn to accept that there are things beyond your control. Magic can only do so much. Life comes and goes the way the tides ebb and flow.”

“But being with you all made me think about how I want that life to go.” Caduceus unbends a little, a small smile curving his lips. “I always knew I’d stay here, but now I want it to be on my own terms. Nothing will change the fact that life will always follow their natural course, I think. But I’m not going to sit around and wait for things to happen to me the way I used to.” He holds up his staff, the smile growing. “Turns out it’s not such a bad idea to go out and meet them halfway every now and then.”

Caleb nods. “Ja. I would like to believe I have learned the same.”

“I think we all have, one way or another.” Caduceus’ eyes soften. “Come look.”

Caleb walks forward, and now he sees what Caduceus has been so absorbed in observing the past few minutes.

At the bottom of the deep slope near the edge of the Blooming Grove, Caleb sees three figures, all of them wearing identical straw hats, the wide brims concealing their faces.

One of them cuts a hulking silhouette as he heaves stones and logs away to make a small clearing. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, exposing his raised white scars and black tattoos.

In comparison, the second figure is small and lithe. His fine courtly garments are stained with dirt. He cradles a seedling in his cupped palms, his delicate spellcaster’s hands protected by a pair of flowered gloves. The third figure kneels next to him as he lowers the seedling into a hole in the ground, the intricate maze etched on her arms standing out in sharp relief. Together, they press the soil down around the plant’s newly transplanted roots with their hands.

“Meet them halfway,” Caleb echoes. There is something tugging painfully in his chest. He has to blink away the moisture in his eyes, but he cannot hold back the smile that rises to his lips. “By any chance, would you happen to have a spare sunhat, my friend?”

Caduceus takes off his own hat and puts it on Caleb’s head. “There you are,” he says, some of his usual good humor returning as he pats Caleb on the shoulder, urging him forward into the golden light of the sun. “Get going, you’ve still got time.”

Chapter Text

“What do you think of him?”

Eadwulf looks up from his shirt buttons. He doesn’t need to ask who she’s talking about. “He reminds me of us, in a way.” He ponders this a little more. “He is dangerous. Powerful. Hot as hell.” 

He grins at Astrid, but she doesn’t return it. She only snorts and leans against the door frame, head tilted to one side in a near-flawless imitation of detachment. To anyone else, she would appear completely relaxed. Bored, even. But Eadwulf knows all her tells even better than his own. Her knuckles clenched white, her shoulders stiff with tension, her smile just a touch too tight around the corners.

“I guess it makes sense that Bren likes him so much, then.”

“Caleb,” Eadwulf corrects automatically. 

Astrid’s mouth turns down. “Caleb,” she echoes. She loathes the reminder, but she should know this better than anyone. It was his hand that had branded her with a scar on her neck, after all, that day they had dragged him to the sanatorium. He had screamed loud enough to wake the dead, flames bursting from his hands, volatile as an alchemical experiment gone hideously wrong. 

Eadwulf fingers the medallion he wears around his neck and sends up a silent prayer to the Matron for the boy they had once loved. 

“They are well-matched, the pair of them.” Eadwulf pulls off his shirt and drapes it across the back of a chair. “Now that I think about it, he is more like Caleb than he is like us.” 

“What makes you say that?”

“He thinks he might still have a chance to change,” Eadwulf says simply.

Astrid huffs out a laugh. “He deludes himself.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Eadwulf sits on the chair, tugging off his boots. “I hear repentance is the painful route.”

“What do you call this, then?” she asks, idly examining a cuticle.

“What do I call what?”

“What we’re doing.”

Eadwulf pauses and looks up at her. She’s still watching him with that feigned air of mild curiosity. “I don’t know,” he says. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not arguing with the logic of what we did. This was the best choice we could have made after the Nein managed to subdue Ikithon. But where do we go from here?”

Boots finally toed off, Eadwulf picks them up and sets them neatly next to the bed. He knows Astrid is more exhausted than she will let on. The Expositor is not one to pull her punches, and she has wrung them dry of all the details they’re willing to give. Experienced as he and Astrid are, the fatigue is weighing on them. Not least because they have to watch Caleb bear witness to their admission of the horrors their hands have wrought.

Eadwulf still remembers how it felt to snap his father’s neck with his own bare hands. One quick jerk was all it took. His mother followed soon after. It was a relief to silence her screaming.

(He still isn’t sure he’s ready to buy into Caleb’s explanation that their memories had been manipulated. Sure, it makes sense. But the weakness of the Bren they had once known, little Bren who had broken so easily under the weight of Ikithon’s final test… well. That, too, is equally plausible.)

For the first time, Astrid’s gaze falters. “Will you believe me if I tell you that I don’t have an answer to that either?”

“All the more reason for us to start planning, then.” 

She doesn't deign to respond - instead, she strides across the room and sits down, crossing her legs and propping her chin up on one hand. The very picture of nonchalance. It makes Eadwulf smile a little. It always takes Astrid some time to come down from whatever façade she’s decided to put on for the day – he’s used to it by now. 

(Even alone together, they are never truly themselves. He doesn’t think they can ever be. There isn’t enough of them left for that. Chimaeras, that’s what they are, flayed apart and sewn back together into something disfigured beyond all recognition. But they go through the motions of pretending to still be human anyway.)

Eadwulf kneels on the ground and starts unlacing her boots, first one, then the other. The fact that she’s letting it happen tells him that she intends to stay here tonight. He assumes she’s taken the necessary precautions for her own room – this tower is full of strangers, and he is certain she knows better than to be careless. 

Astrid peels her socks and gloves off while Eadwulf is occupied with lining her boots up next to his own. He strips her of as many knives as he can find – one at her ankle, two concealed on her torso, one holstered on each arm, another two concealed around her hips. He leaves the one that is strapped around her waist beneath her clothes. He has one to match beneath his own undershirt.

“Did I miss any?” 

“Just one.” Astrid’s smile is sharp and arrogant as she unbuttons her shirt. There is a tiny dagger between her breasts, carefully sheathed so as not to cut herself. “But you would have found it sooner or later.”

Eadwulf clicks his tongue. “Still. I must be losing my touch.” 

“You know you would never.” She stands and tugs off her shirt, lets her pants and underwear fall to the ground as she steps out of them in one fluid motion. Eadwulf exhales in a huff and picks up her clothes, folding them and placing them on the chair.

“Bath,” Eadwulf says firmly, grasping her by the elbow before she can object and tugging her into the adjacent bathroom, where the tub is already filled with steaming water. 

She grumbles, but she allows herself to be led in, shuddering a little at the heat. She curls in on herself and lets Eadwulf wash her hair as she halfheartedly rubs a cloth against her skin, lifting a finger only to drain the water. The tub magically refills as Eadwulf rinses the suds from her hair, working his fingers through the tangles. He helps her out of the tub and dries her with a towel so ridiculously luxurious it makes him wonder where Caleb has been, to be able to capture the sensation of such extravagance. 

(Bren had always had an excellent memory, even when they were children. Eadwulf is glad to see that it didn’t die with him.)

He lets Astrid wander back into the bedroom before he refills the tub for his own bath.

Eadwulf’s hands move mechanically, scrubbing himself clean on the strength of muscle memory alone. The water is so hot it nearly scalds, and his skin is bright pink by the time he emerges. It’s nice. Perhaps he’ll tell Caleb so in the morning. 

He reenters the room that is shaped like a place they had once called home. The furniture is simply hewn, and the faint scent of cedar lingers in the air the way it had in Eadwulf’s childhood bedroom. He half expects his old dog Kira to come enthusiastically bounding in any moment and attempt to lick his face. 

He glances up at the stained-glass window, watches the light shimmering across the golden fields, the wheat ready for harvest. Being here… it is disquieting, to say the least. It has already occurred to Eadwulf to ask Caleb to alter it, but for some reason, he can’t seem to bring himself to. 

(Caleb wears Bren’s face and carries Bren’s memories in his head, but he is not Bren. Not anymore.)

Astrid has already flung herself into the bed, almost completely obscured by blankets. Eadwulf sighs. He won’t be surprised if the bedclothes have grown damp from her hair. 

He grabs the hand towel in the bathroom before doubling back. Somehow, he manages to persuade Astrid to move enough for him to lay the towel down on the pillow beneath her head, her hair still so wet it’s soaked through the homespun cotton.

Eadwulf curls himself around her. He wraps an arm around her waist, presses a kiss against her bare shoulder. Even in bed they stay dressed – they cannot afford the risk that comes with even a single moment of vulnerability.

“Out with it,” he says firmly. “Otherwise, neither of us are going to get any sleep tonight.”

There’s a loud huff, and the small lamp next to the bed snaps off.

Astrid tucks herself against Eadwulf’s side, pulling his arm around her. Her hair is still damp against his chest, though only the top of her head is visible – the rest of her is hidden under the blankets. He heaves yet another long-suffering sigh and presses his lips against the crown of blonde hair, resigning himself to endure. 

“I don’t like him,” Astrid says, voice muffled by bedclothes.

Eadwulf hums. “You do,” he says. “You just don’t like the way Caleb looks at him.”

He winces as the point of a blade traces over his ribs. “You like him too, don’t you.” It’s not a question.

“He reminds me a little of us,” Eadwulf repeats. His hand comes up to stroke through the short blonde hair, coaxing her to relax. “And also of Caleb.” 

“That’s not an answer, Wulf.”

Better to lance the boil quickly than to let it fester. Eadwulf steels himself. “This is an exercise in futility,” he says. “Bren’s gone. You know that. That man we call Caleb is not him.”

“I know,” Astrid says crossly. “That… that’s not it.”

“What, then?”

He feels her shrug against him, even if the heap of blankets doesn’t stir. “I don’t know,” she says, her voice so soft it’s barely audible. Her fingers are tracing a symbol over and over on his stomach. The rune for fire. “What makes him different from us?”

He presses his hand down on hers, stilling her. What she means is always in the negative spaces of the words that she says aloud. If he is like us, then why does Caleb want him? What does he have that we did not? Do not? 

“Nothing,” Eadwulf says at last. “We are all cut from the same cloth, the four of us. Except with him… well, I suppose Caleb must see someone worth saving.”

He knows Astrid, too, will hear the words he is leaving unsaid. There’s no undoing how broken we are. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he says quietly. “We don’t need anyone, you and me. Not even Ikithon.”

Astrid burrows closer to him. “I know,” she says, her tone bordering on petulant in the way she only ever lets Eadwulf hear. “But. I want him still. I want them. Both of them. And you.”

“You’ve always been a greedy thing,” Eadwulf says, half-exasperated, half-fond. “Fine, if I tell you that we will find some way to have them both, will you let me sleep?”

He gets a sharp scrape of fingernails down his chest, but it’s worth it. 

It’s not long before Astrid drifts into the light doze that passes for a night’s sleep for the two of them. Eadwulf shifts, deliberately keeping himself uncomfortable. The only reason they’ve managed to stay alive thus far is because they don’t trust anyone but each other. He tucks a throwing knife beneath his pillow and keeps his eyes on the door, listening to Astrid breathe.

Chapter Text

The scorching heat of the midday sun on Caleb’s face is almost a relief after the weeks of eternal night here in Rosohna.

He has consented to walk to the Conservatory with Beauregard and Caduceus, divesting himself of his coat and scarf in public for the first time in years. His fingers keep tugging the sleeves of his shirt down over the bandages around his forearms as they walk. As though sensing his discomfort, the cat draped around his neck bats at his face with a paw, which has the intended effect of distracting him – he smiles and gratefully scratches Frumpkin’s ears.

The city is just as magnificent bathed in light as it is shrouded in darkness. In the stillness, even Beauregard is making an effort to modulate her voice.

“Oh, would you look at that,” Caduceus says suddenly.

It is rude to stare, but it is hard not to when at least three-quarters of the city’s largely nocturnal population is gathered in the central square, drow and goblins and orcs all on their knees on the cobblestones, their faces tilted up like flowers turning toward the sun.

“Huh,” Beauregard says, bemused. “Doesn’t the sun, like… hurt them?”

Leylas Kryn kneels on a dais in their midst dressed in shimmering golden robes, her mane of white hair crowned with an elaborate headdress, her arms extended toward the heavens. The powerful melody issuing from her lips is audible even from this distance. A spell adapted to make her voice to carry through the crowd, Caleb thinks, already trying to analyze its finer details – but his train of thought screeches to a halt when he recognizes the lithe figure kneeling on the step below the Bright Queen.

The Shadowhand, stripped of his mantle in deference to the heat, his face lifted to the skies. His palms are raised above his head. For some reason, the gesture reminds Caleb of defeat more than piety.

“Is that our friend I see on the dais?” Caleb asks.

“You know, I think you might be right,” Caduceus says. “Didn’t take him for the praying sort, but I could be wrong.”

Beauregard raises an eyebrow. “Poisonous toadstools don’t change their spots, man.”

“What do you mean?” 

“He’s the Queen’s right hand. I mean, it’s not like he could skip out on this, y’know? This is, what,” Beauregard waves a hand in the direction of the square, “all of fucking Rosohna or something? I mean, even BQ is here. And isn’t his mother a perfect soul too?”

“Umavi, they call her,” Caleb says, the foreign word strange on his tongue. “I think you are right, Beauregard. Whether he is a believer or not, I think his presence here is non-negotiable.”

“That’s true,” Caduceus says, nodding sagely. “As for the difference between believing and only going through the motions… Well, it’s hard to tell which is which sometimes, if it’s made out to be an obligation.”

Caleb and Beauregard exchange a quick look. Neither of them has a particular leaning for this kind of worship, but it would have been difficult to travel with the Nein and not believe in the existence of gods. Caduceus himself is proof of that.

The hymn flows into crescendo, the crowd’s voices joining the Queen’s in a chorus of praise. It is an arresting sight, the haunting melody making the hairs on the back of Caleb’s neck stand on end. He wonders what it is like, to be willing to endure such pain for the sake of devotion. Beings of darkness consumed by brilliance, their agony an offering laid on the altar of their god.

As one, they raise their right hands, moving in a steady, slow arc from one side to another, palms angled toward the sky. They track the movement of the sun – east to west, from the rising to the setting.

Beauregard’s gaze is sharp. “Obligation, huh?”

“Well, we don’t know for sure,” Caduceus says diplomatically. “Lots of different ways for people to express their faith, after all.”

Caleb can tell Beauregard isn’t convinced, but she lets it go. 

Right before they turn the corner, he glances one last time over his shoulder.

The Shadowhand moves in unison with his people, his elegant hands raised, face tilted up in what seems very much like adoration. But Caleb can’t help but notice how he kneels, his back stiff and shoulders tensed, unnoticed by the worshippers around him as they sway and shift like blades of grass stirring in the wind, chasing after the light.

Chapter Text

Caleb shuts the front door behind him, out of breath from having hurried home from the Academy. Of all the days for his lectures to run late, just when they are expecting guests -- 

His head jerks up when he hears raised voices coming from the kitchen, though he cannot make out the words. He crosses the hallway quickly without even taking off his shoes, unwinding his scarf from his neck as he goes.

“--been over this already, you know we have--”

“Well, maybe if you’d just listen to me for once then we wouldn’t need to have this conversation again!”

There is an open box of pastries on the kitchen table. One plate has a half-eaten black moss cupcake that’s fallen onto its side; the other contains a pastry with a dollop of dark jam in its center, cut into neat bite-size pieces. 

Essek is hovering in midair, breathing hard. Jester’s teeth are bared in a furious snarl. Her fangs are bigger than Essek’s, Caleb realizes abruptly. Neither of them have noticed that he’s arrived.

“You’re so stubborn you can’t even listen to a friend telling you what’s good for you--”

“You cannot tell me what to do, Jester, and you know it,” Essek says, his teeth gritted. There is a smear of black icing on his cheek. Caleb's eyes widen when he looks down and sees a dark trail of icing where a piece of cupcake has rolled under the table. “I know very well what I am getting into when I make these decisions--”

“They’re stupid decisions, that’s what they are,” she hisses, spots of color high on each cheek. “Why didn’t you just ask me to heal your leg?”

He turns his face away. “I am not in need of healing.”

“I’m not blind, Essek. Why else would you be floating in Caleb’s house?”

“Because this is the only place I still can.”

“Oh, don’t give me that. Save your self-loathing for Caleb, he’ll kiss it better for you,” Jester snaps. Caleb flinches. Essek whirls to face her, his eyes blazing, but she doesn’t let him get a word in edgewise. “Someone around here has got to start being practical, and if it won’t be you, then I guess it’s gonna have to be me.”

“I do not wander Exandria for my pleasure. I do it because it is necessary.” Essek’s voice is icy and sharp. This is the first time Caleb has seen him like this, fury pouring from him in palpable waves. 

“You think it’ll make Exandria better the more you suffer for it? Who do you think you are, some sort of martyr?”

There is a muscle twitching in Essek’s jaw. He doesn’t answer.

Jester snorts. “I thought so.”

“Do not mock me,” Essek says, his voice rising.

“You’re asking for it,” Jester says sharply. “If you can’t make smart decisions for yourself, you can’t make smart decisions for anyone. You’re better off staying here until you can get your head on straight.”

Essek lets out a long breath through his teeth. “I am leaving tomorrow, Jester. You cannot stop me.”

“Watch me,” she says, her eyes narrowing.

Essek's chin lifts in obvious disdain. “You are most welcome to try, though I do not think you are capable of keeping me here against my will.”

Jester’s nostrils flare. All the warning Essek gets is a single angry flick of her tail before she pulls out the Traveler’s symbol. 

Caleb steps into the kitchen then. “Jester, that’s enough,” he says, his hand already moving in the gesture to dispel, but to his dismay, the spell fizzles and dies.

The room seems to grow darker as Jester calls out to Artagan in a tongue Caleb has never heard her speak before, the harsh guttural words reverberating through the tiny kitchen. His hair stands on end as the Traveler’s immeasurable fey power rushes into his home.

Essek’s counterspell, like Caleb’s, sputters to nothing in the face of a divine intervention -- he cries out as a strip of bright green light binds itself momentarily around his eyes. 

“Jester,” Caleb says, shocked.

“What… what did you do?” Essek says, his voice thin.

“I asked the Traveler to keep you here.”

Essek lets out a half-broken sound as he casts a spell to draw the curtains shut over the windows. “It’s so bright.” 

This puzzles Caleb. The sun is already low in the sky. Not even Essek minds going outdoors at this time of day. 

“You better not try to go outside,” Jester warns, but Essek is already pulling the back door open before she’s even finished speaking -- he promptly throws an arm over his eyes, a sharp gasp leaving his lips as he slams the door shut once more.

“So bright, I can’t -- I can’t,” he says, his voice high and panicky, “Jester, what did you do?”

“I don’t want you to leave,” she says. She lifts a hand toward him, an uncertain movement. “You’re only going to hurt yourself out there, Essek, you don’t know how to take care of yourself.”

“Jester,” he says, his arm still pressed over his eyes. Caleb realizes suddenly that Essek is no longer floating. He slides down, still leaning against the door, until he’s on his knees on the stone. 

“Stay here, please.” There’s a definite tremble in Jester’s voice now, fear visible in her wide eyes. “Here is safe. You can still help from here, can’t you?”

Caleb can see the rapid rise and fall of Essek’s shoulders from where he’s curled up on the floor, the light catching on the violent shiver of the silver chain draped along his ear.

“Essek,” Jester says, taking a step forward. “Essek, please.”

There is nothing but silence for a long moment. It’s broken by a wounded sound, a whine of pure animal terror.  It takes Caleb a second to realize that it had come from Essek.

Jester’s face crumples, tears filling her eyes as she claps a hand over her mouth in horror. Caleb doesn’t understand what she’s saying, but he can feel the fey magic dissipating with her muffled words. 

She crosses the room and wraps her arms tightly around Essek.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she says again and again between sobs. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was… I’m scared, Essek, I’m so scared, I don’t want you to die out there without us, and you won’t even tell me when you’re hurt, why can’t you just let me take care of you? Do you really think I can’t?”

There’s a hard lump in Caleb’s throat he can’t seem to swallow down. He doesn’t know how to fix this. Essek is weeping now too, quiet hitches of breath stifled against Jester’s shoulder. Caleb kneels next to them, helpless to do anything but sit with them, hoping with all his might that the damage they’ve wrought on each other isn’t irreparable. 

The seconds tick by. Caleb keeps count. Four minutes and thirty-two seconds before Essek’s arms come up around Jester, fingers curling tightly around the fabric of her dress. Another seven minutes and fifty-six seconds before he makes to pull away, scrubbing at his face with the heel of his hand like a child. He lets Jester brush the streaks of salt from his face with her thumbs. She winces and rubs the icing off as gently as she can while she's at it, a gesture of silent apology.

Caleb clears his throat and gets up. He reheats the abandoned cups of tea on the table with a murmured spell, placing one cup in Jester’s hands, the other in Essek’s. He waits until they have both drunk some before he speaks.

“You will both be more comfortable on the couch, I think,” Caleb says. “If you wish to talk some more. If you think that you can.”

Jester only looks at Essek, her contrite face speaking volumes.

His throat works for a moment. “Yes,” he says hoarsely. “I think that would be best.” 

“Okay,” Jester whispers. “Okay, if you’re sure.”

“But I, ah,” Essek looks down at his cup, as though he’s struggling with himself, “I think I will need your help getting there.”

Jester’s eyebrows lift, but she says nothing. She hands Caleb her cup and helps Essek to his feet. He leans on her arm all the way down the hall to Caleb’s study. Caleb gives Jester the woolen blanket at the end of the couch, and Essek allows her to fuss over him, tucking the blanket carefully around his legs. When she finishes, she stands for a moment, fidgeting at the cuff of one sleeve.

“Should I… should I ask Fjord not to come, you think?” she says, looking at Caleb.

“No, please,” Essek says, surprising both of them. “I would like to see him. And baby Livvy too. I do not know how long I will be gone this time.” 

Jester bites her lip and nods. “Can I stay here with you for a bit?”

Essek pauses for a moment, as though unsure of what to say. In the end, he gives up and simply pats the spot next to him on the couch. 

Caleb decides this is probably a good time for him to start getting dinner ready, and leaves them to it. He’s grateful he decided to prepare most of the food beforehand, and now only has to maneuver everything onto a tray and into the oven to bake. Perhaps there will be time to speak to them both later, he thinks, putting away the box of pastries and clearing the plates. He picks up the fallen cupcake, wiping up the mess on the floor. 

When he peers into the study half an hour later, they’re talking again, their voices too soft for Caleb to hear. But Jester has her hand on Essek’s knee, a faint green glow emanating from her palm. Essek sighs and leans closer to her, the furrow on his brow smoothing over with relief.

Chapter Text

“What time is Essek arriving?”

“What?” Caleb runs a hand distractedly through his hair, pushing the loose strands away from his face as he bends over a crate in the kitchen. “Oh, I don’t know – a few hours? Maybe more? He just said he was arriving tonight.”

Eadwulf blinks as Caleb straightens up with a carrot in each hand, contemplating them for a long moment before evidently reaching a decision and pressing them both into Eadwulf’s hands. “Will you help me with these?”

“I… sure,” Eadwulf says, nonplussed. “Since when do you cook?”

“Veth and Caduceus refused to leave me alone about feeding myself properly,” Caleb says, already bent over the box once more. “There’s a spare chopping board over there,” he adds, waving his hand aimlessly. “Near the knives.”

Eadwulf sighs and begins methodically opening cupboards one by one. As expected, the chopping boards are nowhere near the knives – they are shoved behind a neat pile of mixing bowls sorted by size. The knives and cutlery are arranged in a strange configuration in a drawer, orderly in a way that makes sense to Caleb, but certainly not to anyone else.

He looks up to see Astrid lounging against the table. She’s watching him with her usual silent amusement, the laugh that she keeps confined only to her eyes. After a moment’s hesitation, he leans over and brushes his thumb lightly across the chiseled edge of her jaw. It still feels strange, being safe enough to show affection. It’s taking him a long time to get used to it, but he’s trying.

By the time Caleb has emerged from the depths of the crate with a rather limp bunch of leeks and some celery root, Eadwulf has already made small, even cubes of the carrots. Caleb hands him the celery root, relief palpable in his face.

“What are we cooking?” Eadwulf asks.

“Soup,” Caleb says.

“Oh, so he likes soup?” Astrid leans her chin down on her arms and peeks up at Caleb through her lashes. “That’s so very sweet of you.”

Eadwulf suppresses a laugh. Astrid is one to talk. If she thinks she was able to sneak a jar of Essek’s favorite ube halaya into the house this morning without Eadwulf noticing, she is very, very wrong.

Caleb rolls his eyes, but he’s gone all pink. “We have to feed him while he’s here,” he says, “he doesn’t always get enough to eat when he’s preoccupied with studying –”

“Speaking from experience?” Astrid says. She throws a knowing look at Caleb. “You need to chop the leeks more finely, by the way.”

Exasperated, Caleb puts the knife down to glare at her. “Would you like to take a turn?”

“Hmm.” Astrid contemplates this for a moment. “No.”

Eadwulf shakes his head. Incredible how some things never change.

Somehow, the rest of the vegetables are cut up without further incident. Eadwulf lets Caleb take over after that. It would probably calm him to keep his hands occupied. It’s endearing how nervous he is. He must really be looking forward to Essek’s visit, Eadwulf thinks, watching Caleb scrape the garlic and onions into the frying pan.

He catches Astrid watching Caleb with her lips turned up in a fond smile. Only then does Eadwulf realize his face is making the exact same expression, and entirely without his permission. This is what Essek has done to the three of them. Made them all soft and sappy. It’s ridiculous, really –

The smell of the cooking leeks, carrots, and celery hits Eadwulf’s nose, and abruptly, his stomach turns. He stumbles to his feet, barely making it to the garden before he vomits into the shrubs, his mind full of disjointed images of fire and poison and his own blood-soaked hands.

“Wulf,” Astrid says softly. She does not touch him, but she kneels an arm’s length away, keeping her hands where he can see them. “What do you need?”

Eadwulf wipes his mouth with the back of one hand, taking deep breaths. Caleb is hovering behind Astrid, the distress clear in every line of his body. 

Now Eadwulf's gone and scared the shit out of Caleb again. He sighs and extends an arm, beckoning. 

Caleb lurches forward and wraps himself tightly around Eadwulf. His thin shoulders are trembling like a leaf.

“Sorry,” he whispers again and again, his grip tight on the back of Eadwulf's shirt, “sorry, sorry –”

“It’s not your fault,” Eadwulf says, his voice grating. He rubs a hand in weary circles across Caleb’s back. “It really isn’t.”

He glances at Astrid over Caleb’s shoulder. She nods. “Stay out here until the food’s ready.”

“Yeah,” he says, and lets Astrid pull Caleb to his feet. “I’ll be fine once Essek gets here.”

By the time Essek gets here is what Eadwulf had meant to say, but he doesn’t correct himself. It’s true either way.

He sits in the grass for a while, long enough for a bird to examine him with an inquiring eye before returning to its business. Eadwulf dusts himself off and decides to go for a walk. Casting Seeming is second nature to him now, and he clothes himself in the guise of a tiefling, broad-shouldered with tattoos across his neck and chest. Maybe he’ll pick something up from the farmer’s market before they close for the day.

The table is set for dinner by the time he returns, sunset fading into twilight. Essek is waiting for him, his eyes bright with expectation, his once-elegant coif lengthened into a shaggy mop of curls. Eadwulf spills the armful of oranges he’s carrying into Essek’s lap, and is immensely gratified to see his mouth drop open with surprise.

“Oh,” he says. The fruit is just the size of his little palm, and he examines it carefully, wonder written all over his face. “I love oranges.”

“I know,” Eadwulf says, smirking at Astrid, who’s glaring daggers at him. Looks like he’s beaten her to the punch. Too bad, he mouths silently. She sticks her tongue out at him.

Caleb emerges from the kitchen, sweaty and disheveled but pleased with himself as he sets the pot of soup down on the table.

It’s better now that the smell of the Suppengrün has been thoroughly smothered in cream and bacon. Eadwulf can sit here and keep the screaming in his head safely contained. He can smile at Essek as he compliments Caleb’s cooking and tangle his fingers together with Astrid’s under the table.

He looks up and catches Caleb staring. His shoulders curl in on himself, his face penitent. Eadwulf doesn’t like that. He sighs and gets to his feet, crossing to the other side of the table.

This part is still difficult. Sometimes, it disorients Astrid to find glimpses of Bren in Caleb. But when Eadwulf sees Bren’s face, he is acutely aware that the person beneath it is a stranger.

He’s trying. He is.

Eadwulf reaches forward and cups Caleb’s face in his palm. His blue eyes go wide as they gaze up at Eadwulf.

“Whatever is going on in your head, stop it,” he says firmly. Before he can lose his nerve, he leans down and presses his lips to Caleb’s.

Caleb makes a small noise of surprise before he wraps his arms around Eadwulf’s neck, pulling him closer, parting his lips for Eadwulf. Oh.

“Wulf, you’re going to make Essek choke on his dinner,” Astrid says, amusement threading through her voice. Essek splutters out a protest composed entirely of incoherent syllables. Eadwulf laughs and kisses the corner of Caleb’s mouth one last time before extricating himself gracefully and returning to his seat.

After Essek finally recovers from the impromptu show, he holds out a spoonful of soup to Eadwulf, coaxing him to try some. Caleb freezes, but no one is more surprised than Eadwulf himself when he leans forward and lets Essek feed him the last bite.

It’s good. He tells Caleb so. Under the table, Astrid’s hand closes around his. Two squeezes. Are you okay? He squeezes back once. Yes.

He helps Caleb clear the table while Astrid sits absorbed in watching Essek peel the fruit with his nimble fingers. Eadwulf lingers for a moment by the doorway. Inhales, exhales. The air is bright with the scent of oranges.

Chapter Text

The quiet shifting of the bedsprings is all the warning Eadwulf gets before Essek settles down next to him on the floor.

“I thought you were sleeping,” Eadwulf murmurs. 

Essek shakes his head. “I thought Astrid would need to rest after today.” 

Eadwulf glances over his shoulder. Sure enough, Astrid has a hand tucked under her chin the way she always does when she’s just fallen asleep, her other arm under the pillow where he’s left his spare dagger. There’s an empty space between her and Caleb, marking the spot Essek had just vacated.

“You can sleep too, if you like,” Essek whispers. 

“I can’t. Not after that.” It’s a difficult admission to make, but the room is dark enough that it makes it easier for Eadwulf to say the words aloud. “I’d rather stay up in case Astrid wakes and, you know,” he motions with his hand. It is a pointless gesture, but he doesn’t want to give voice to the lingering fear that one day Astrid will slip away entirely into her memories, unable to return to the present.

“I see.” A fine-boned hand slips into the crook of Eadwulf’s elbow, the rings adorning it glinting in the firelight. “I’ve found taking watches is easier with two,” Essek says, “if you would want my company?”

“I always do.”

Essek makes a funny noise, fingers tightening their grip on Eadwulf’s arm for a moment. It makes him smile a little. He doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of Essek and his courtliness, his obvious surprise every time he receives anything even remotely resembling affection. 

“Is it so hard to believe?” Eadwulf asks. He intended to tease, but somehow, it sounds like an earnest question.

“Ah, no, that is not it,” Essek murmurs. “What I mean is… I also want your company. If that is alright.”

Eadwulf wraps an arm around Essek’s slight frame, slotting him carefully against his side. It still surprises him how delicate Essek is under all his layers. How painfully sincere. 

“I think I’ve made my thoughts on this abundantly clear,” Eadwulf says. “But I don’t mind telling you again, if you like.”

“I… I would not mind,” Essek says. The hand on Eadwulf’s arm is tugging him down – he’s only too happy to oblige, tilting Essek’s chin up to kiss him full on the mouth for a long moment. 

“There,” Eadwulf murmurs against Essek’s lips. “Are you convinced?”

“It will do for now,” Essek allows. “But I think you shall have to remind me again later.”

Eadwulf huffs out a laugh. For all Essek is so easily flustered, he’s also an insufferable flirt. He and Caleb are very alike that way.

“In the meantime, you’ll have to keep me awake.” Eadwulf leans back against the edge of the mattress, the edge of the bed frame digging into his back. “Tell me a story.”

“That will put you straight to sleep,” Essek says, chuckling. “You can tell me a story instead. The one Caleb told me before, the one he said every child in the Empire knows. Of the… the Waldhexe,” he says. His pronunciation is atrocious, but Eadwulf holds back his amusement, not wanting to injure Essek’s dignity.

“As you like,” Eadwulf says. “But it isn’t a happy story.” 

“Few are,” Essek says, shrugging.

“True.” A wave of shyness overcomes Eadwulf suddenly. He is hardwired for magic and combat, not for telling children’s stories. “How does it start again?”

“There were three good children,” Essek prompts – and now Eadwulf remembers the tale he had made up with Astrid and Caleb one night as they had huddled together on the stone floor with only a single threadbare blanket to share between them. But here the bed has blankets enough for everyone, and Eadwulf can pretend for a few minutes that the past is nothing but the remnants of a nightmare from a childhood long gone.

He clears his throat. “Once, there were three good children who lived in the light of the Dawnfather…”

Chapter Text

Essek squares his shoulders, his fingers clutching the two cups of coffee he has just ordered. One is plain and black, the strongest brew available on the menu. The other is doctored exactly the way a certain professor of transmutation likes it, with a bit of milk and three teaspoons of sugar. Said professor is currently sitting at a corner table blissfully absorbed in a book, fingers toying at a fraying thread on his scarf. 

Carefully, Essek wends his way past the other tables and chairs. He hesitates when he finds himself standing behind a familiar head of red hair, now liberally streaked with gray. He doesn’t know why he is doing this, really. He isn’t even in a particularly teasing mood.

Oh, well. He’s gotten this far, he may as well commit to it. 

At the moment, he appears to be an attractive male human, all light brown eyes and heart-shaped mouth. Just this side of intimidating. A small scar over one eyebrow for good measure. He knows what would be most appealing to the object of his affections.

Essek clears his throat. His disguises have gotten much better over the years out of necessity – today, his accent is his best approximation of Fjord’s. 

“Professor Widogast?” 

It takes a few moments, but Caleb eventually looks up from his book, blinking owlishly. “Yes, ah, hallo.”

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” Essek says, putting on his most charming smile. “Only I couldn’t help noticing that you’ve been sitting with an empty cup for a while now. Would you mind if I joined you?” 

“Oh. No, not at all. Please have a seat.” Caleb glances at his cup in confusion, as though he’s completely forgotten about it. Chances are, he has. “That – that is very kind of you, Herr…?”

“Frederik,” Essek says smoothly, taking the seat catty-corner from Caleb and placing the cups down between them. This table really is quite scandalously small. If Essek moves any closer, their knees will touch. His mother would be incensed if she saw him right now, and isn’t that a delightful thought? 

“I’m an arcanist myself, you see,” Essek adds, nodding at the book Caleb is holding. “Not at Soltryce, but I imagine there are very few students of magic who would not know the face of such a renowned professor.”

Caleb dog-ears the page before he shuts the book. “If you have come to discuss transmutation, I would be very happy to hear your thoughts.”

Essek’s lips twitch. He would love nothing more than to challenge Caleb to a debate right now, but that more than anything else would most certainly give him away. “Perhaps some other time, though I thank you for offering.”

“What can I help you with then?” 

Caleb looks adorably puzzled with his brow furrowed like that. It is taking a significant amount of Essek’s self-control not to reach up and smooth the wrinkle away with his fingertips.

“Simply to have a conversation.” Essek flicks a pointedly flirtatious glance at Caleb from beneath his lashes and is delighted to see a faint blush blooming on his pale face. “Is it so difficult to believe you might be an object of fascination outside of your academic capacity?” 

“Ah, well,” Caleb says, shoulders curling in on himself. “At my age, I hardly expect such overtures anymore.”

Essek lowers his gaze demurely. “You must know it only enhances the appeal.”

“That is very kind of you, Herr Frederik, though we must agree to disagree.” Caleb says. He picks up his cup to take a sip, and his eyebrows fly up. “Oh, this is – this is just the way I like it.”

Shit. Essek just manages to keep his disguise from slipping. “I asked what your preferences were,” he murmurs, smiling at Caleb as though he’s sharing a secret. “I hope I didn’t presume too much – I’ve been waiting for a chance to speak to you for a while now, if I might be so bold to say.”

Caleb’s expression turns a shade too self-deprecating. “I am very flattered, truly. But, ah, I’m afraid I must decline.” 

Here it is, the moment Essek has been waiting for. He lets his face fall into what he knows is an endearing pout with these human features. “Of course, I understand,” he says quietly, feigning resignation. “May I ask if… if perhaps there is someone else?”

Caleb talks over him as though he hadn’t heard Essek at all, occupied as he is with staring into the depths of his cup. “I believe I am not mistaken when I say you are still very young, and I am, well,” he gestures at himself with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, “I am getting on in years, to say the least.” 

“I assure you, that is of no consequence whatsoever.”

“It makes a world of difference,” Caleb says, soft but firm. “You should be with a person who can be with you for as long as possible, not someone who will leave you bereft after only a handful of years shared together.” 

This is not at all the direction Essek had expected this conversation to take. “That is a morbid thought, Professor Widogast,” he manages, his heart caught in his throat. 

“It is,” Caleb agrees. He looks up at Essek once more, and the pain in his eyes makes Essek flinch. “You are kind, Herr Frederik, and very handsome too, if you will allow me to say. You would have no trouble finding someone closer to your age much more suited to you than I could ever hope to be.”

“What if that did not matter to me?” Essek says thinly. 

“I know it seems that way now.” Caleb’s voice is low and soothing. “But you will come to see the logic in it, in time. I do not want you to make a decision you will end up regretting later on.”

These are all sentiments that Essek has heard time and again from Caleb, but for some reason, they have never stung as much as they do now. His chest is strung so tight that he can barely draw breath, and it is taking every last bit of his concentration for his disguise not to drop.  

This was a terrible idea. They have already wasted too much time on this. Some nights, it comes to raised voices and tears. This is most decidedly not a topic Essek wants to discuss in a crowded shop in broad daylight. He manages to stammer out an apology with the last of his composure and makes to stand, but Caleb’s hand settles gently over his, holding him in place.

“That is the advice I would give an attractive young stranger who approached me in such a way… but I am afraid I would be much too selfish to say that to you, Schatz.”

Essek’s head whips up, and the sound that escapes his throat is much too close to a sob for his comfort. “Cruel man. When did you realize it was me?” 

“Incorrigible flirt, tormenting me so,” Caleb retorts. His grip tightens in silent apology, his thumb rubbing circles into the back of Essek’s hand, soothing him. “You dropped your accent.”

Essek huffs through his nostrils. “I thought it was when you tasted your drink.”

“I regret to inform you that you are not the first student who has attempted to approach me with my beverage of choice.”

Professor Widogast is altogether too charming for his own good. Essek cannot help but glare at him. But when Caleb twines their fingers together, Essek notices with a start that he has cast Seeming over their hands. Like this, it seems as though they are wearing matching rings. 

“Caleb?” he says uncertainly.

“It is an Empire custom, I know,” Caleb says, speaking so fast he is stuttering a little. “Your people do not see the need for marriage, given the nature of consecution, but I thought to show you, well. I meant what I said earlier, as you know. We will not have much time. But all of the life I still have left to live, I wish to share with you. If you will have me.” He laughs a little, tucking a loose strand of hair nervously behind his ear. “I… this is not how I imagined doing this, but I could not bear for you to walk away from me like that.”

Essek stares at their hands. He has to clear his throat a few times before he can speak again, and is grateful Caleb doesn’t mention it. 

“Why bother with an illusion?” Essek lets go of Caleb’s hand and pulls a silver ring free of his thumb. With a murmured spell, he adjusts it, making it slightly bigger. All the while, Caleb is watching him with his lips parted, his blue eyes wide as dinner plates. “Does this suit you, Professor Widogast?” 

Now it is Caleb’s turn to blink hard, his mouth opening and closing as though he cannot find the words for what he wants to say. But he lets Essek slip the ring on his finger, his face redder than his hair, the very tips of his ears burning.

“Mein gott, Herr Frederik. The last thing I expected today was for a handsome young man to waltz up to my table and propose to me.” Caleb’s eyes are very bright, and his smile even brighter.

“I did not want to waste another moment,” Essek says. He cannot seem to stop smiling. Lovesick fools, the pair of them, even after all this time. He draws his chair closer until their knees are pressed firmly together under the table, and takes Caleb’s hand. “Now you are never getting away from me, Widogast. Not least because you are still withholding the components for the tower from me.”

Caleb throws his head back and lets out a full belly laugh. “I knew you only wanted me for my spells.”

Chapter Text

Jester turns away from Caleb with a renewed bounce in her step, pamphlet of the Traveler in hand. Her enthusiasm is so endearing it makes Caleb’s chest ache, but in a good way. Just seeing her so joyful is enough. It always has been.

Frumpkin seems to sense the direction Caleb’s thoughts are taking – he meows as he climbs onto Caleb’s shoulder, batting at his chin with an imperious paw, demanding his attention. He presses his cheek against Frumpkin’s head, grateful for the small comfort.

Caleb looks up and catches sight of Essek, his unblinking stare lost in the flickering of the small fire that Caleb had lit.

There’s something odd about how preoccupied Essek has grown of late when left to his own devices. It’s not the pensiveness per se that bothers Caleb, but the fact that Essek no longer tries to hide it from the rest of them. Caleb supposes there must be a myriad of reasons why, but relearning trust is a difficult exercise.

Perhaps in better times, Caleb would have the courage to ask: A silver piece for your thoughts, Herr Thelyss?

A little teasing would coax a smile from Essek’s lips. You think so highly of me, Widogast.

I take it back. You are my teacher, after all. Your thoughts are worth their weight in gold.

Essek would laugh outright at that. Flattery will get you nowhere, he would say, feigning sternness, but I will tell you a secret if you share one with me in return. A fair trade, no? 

In Caleb’s distraction, he doesn’t notice until it’s too late that Frumpkin has leapt from his shoulder and sauntered directly toward Essek, proceeding without hesitation to make biscuits on one slim thigh. Essek flinches away from the touch at first, but after a long moment of simply staring at Frumpkin with a bewildered expression, he reaches out with a cautious hand to stroke Frumpkin’s fur. One quick caress, nothing more.

Essek’s gaze darts up, as though expecting to be called out for indulging in something forbidden, but nobody is paying attention. No one but Caleb, who cannot seem to keep his eyes from straying to Essek every chance he gets.

Satisfied that no one is watching, Essek begins scratching Frumpkin under the chin, murmuring to him in a voice too soft for Caleb to hear.

“He likes you,” Caleb says at last.

Essek does not turn, but a pointed ear twitches in Caleb’s direction. His gloved hands fold primly together in his lap, well away from Frumpkin.

“I cannot imagine why.”

Now it is Caleb’s turn to flinch as Essek’s lips curl up into his perpetual soft smile, the Shadowhand mask slamming firmly down into place. Maybe Essek intends for his words to be a joke, but the self-deprecation is too obviously sincere for it to be funny.

Caleb’s lackluster attempt at conversation is interrupted by Jester brandishing the pamphlet in Essek’s face in a last-ditch attempt to proselytize. Frumpkin winds insistently around Essek’s ankles, tail flicking in irritation at being ignored. Essek reaches forward tentatively as though to pet Frumpkin again, but at the last moment, he withdraws, clasping his fingers together in his lap once more.

Jester doesn’t seem to notice, absorbed as she is in detailing the pamphlet’s contents to Essek. The strange wistfulness lingers, but his eyes soften the longer he listens to her. He leans into her space in a way Caleb has never seen him do to anyone else before, like a flower gravitating toward the sun.

Oh.

The blunt force of the realization slams into Caleb so hard that for a moment, he forgets how to breathe.

Falling in love with Jester Lavorre is a predetermined conclusion for most. Caleb himself can bear testament to that fact. And yet here he is, utterly blindsided.

It takes an enormous effort, but Caleb finally succeeds in wrenching his gaze away, guilt sitting heavy as a stone in his gut for prying into a secret that isn’t his to know. He picks up a ruffled Frumpkin absently and lets him curl around his neck once more.

There is a terrible adage in Common for this, something about curiosity and cats. Some archaic fable about a man forbidden to look back at his lover, and in so doing, lost them forever.

But Caleb cannot help himself. He never has. Not when it comes to Essek. 

He glances toward the fire one last time.

Jester’s head is resting against Essek’s shoulder now, her cheek nestled against the ermine of his collar. She has commandeered his hand to admire his fur-lined glove, comparing its delicate stitching to the intricate embroidery of a gown she had worn to one of her mama’s gala performances. 

They all know how particular Essek is about his gloves and keeping his hands covered. It borders on intimacy, what Jester is doing. And not only is Essek allowing it, he’s gazing down at her with unmistakable fondness tugging the corners of his mouth upwards.

So this is Essek beneath his mask. A hard knot coils in Caleb’s stomach. He thinks he might have caught glimpses of Essek’s true smile in the past, just out of the corner of his eye when Essek thought he wasn’t looking. That time he had pressed a pearl against Essek’s forehead and cast the first spell Essek had ever taught him, and when they had completed the spell to return Veth to herself, and a thousand other moments in between.

But perhaps Caleb had been mistaken all along. 

Essek’s sharp polished edges have given way to something unexpectedly gentle. Affectionate even, all pretense of detachment dropped in the face of Jester’s warmth. He looks like a different person when his smile reaches his eyes like that. It suits him. Love suits him.

Caleb looks away. His throat is burning.

Frumpkin makes a rumbling sound like a purr, but much closer to unhappiness than contentment. Caleb reaches up and scratches Frumpkin behind the ears, the mournful vibration pressing against his skin.

He allows himself the span of one long, ragged breath to let this revelation settle into his bones, and another to ease the tightness of his chest. He is happy for them, truly. He is. If he repeats it enough times, it will become true. His own secrets can keep, tucked close to his heart where no one else will see.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The chief point of interest when it came to Mollymauk was the way his presence had occupied every last square inch of any room he was in. His magnificent overcoat alone could command the attention of a crowd. He did all the embroidery on that coat himself, you know, Jester had confided, her finger tracing over an old sketch of Mollymauk in all his vibrant glory. 

The coat was a marvel indeed, diamonds and moons and intricately patterned stars on a blood red background. The man himself wore a grin with the force of a magnet. Burning crimson eyes and a posture that radiated confidence. He was quite handsome, Essek had realized with surprise, even if he resembled nothing more than an overgrown peacock. 

But Mollymauk is not Kingsley, even though they wear the same face.

On Kingsley, the cheeky smile is softer around the edges, self-assured without crossing the line into brazenness. He is not fond of jewelry, unlike his predecessors - the only concessions he makes to finery are a few small hoops in one ear, and the golden horn caps that Essek gifted him long ago, a tiny crescent moon dangling elegantly from the end of one cap.

Jester had been kind enough to make arrangements for Essek to stay at the Lavish Chateau for a handful of days. He arrives in impeccable disguise, this time as a half-elf with sun-browned skin and golden hair. 

The curtains billow in the wind, the scent of salt filling Essek’s lungs as he stands by the window. One hand shields his eyes from the harsh noonday sun. It is difficult for him to see much with the glare of the sunlight on the waves, but if he squints, he can just make out the familiar sails of the Balleater at the harbor. 

His heart lifts, pulse speeding. Just a little while longer, he thinks, and then he will see - 

The door bangs open. 

Essek turns sharply, fingers flying to his pouch of components, an incantation already hovering on his lips. 

The intruder flings his hands into the air at once, a sheepish grin on his face. His scarred chest rises and falls visibly, as though he is out of breath. A crescent moon shivers violently from the end of one gold-tipped horn.

“Oh,” Essek says faintly. He presses a palm over his heart, his pulse racing so fast that he is growing lightheaded. “Don’t sneak up on me like that. I could have killed you.”

“But you didn’t.” The grin grows brighter. “The whole point was to surprise you.”

Essek huffs out a laugh, reaching for the shreds of his composure. The onyx shard drops unheeded from his fingers back into his bag. “I… I wasn’t expecting you for another hour, at least.”

“I know, but I couldn’t wait any longer. Not after Fjord slipped up and said that you were already here.”

“It was meant to be a -”

“Surprise,” Kingsley says, but the rise in tone at the end of the word turns it into a question. Scarred arms open hesitantly, as though this, too, is a question. 

Perhaps Mollymauk would have simply crossed the room without further ado and swept Essek up into a crushing embrace. He certainly seemed to be the type. Essek does not know if he would appreciate such extravagant gestures. Neither does he know if he would be opposed to them. If Kingsley does not happen to be inclined that way, then Essek will never know. 

For all of Kingsley’s audacity when it comes to jumping into danger at a moment’s notice, there is a wariness that lingers under his skin, unobtrusive to all but the most discerning eye. Essek can hardly blame him, not when the body he lives in has housed three entirely separate people. Vigilance tempers what might have been a brashness as wild and unpredictable as a storm. Kingsley shares Mollymauk’s canny sense of perception, but where Mollymauk preferred smoke and mirrors, Kingsley wields his charm with unerring aim. 

With little more than a gesture, he pulls Essek into his orbit. As always, Essek is helpless to resist.

He makes his legs move step by step and allows Kingsley to enfold him in the circle of his arms. Long separations always leave Essek a little wrong-footed, as though he has to relearn the steps to the dance he has learned with Kingsley. His fingers curl tentatively into the homespun fabric of Kingsley’s salt-stained shirt, breathing in the scent of the sea and fresh air that he carries with him everywhere he goes, soaking up the heat of the sun pressed into his skin. 

Kingsley’s heart thrums hard and fast against his ribs. He must have sprinted at full tilt from the docks to make it to the Chateau so quickly. All to see Essek. That is… a staggering thought. Essek burrows his face into Kingsley’s neck in a vain effort to hide the heat that is rapidly rising to his face. Kingsley laughs and presses his lips to Essek’s temple. The beginnings of a sea shanty rumbles in his chest as he holds Essek close, his thumb running circles through the short hair on Essek’s nape. 

When Essek tries to coax Kingsley to sit on the couch next to him, Kingsley collapses into a pile of graceful limbs on the rug instead. Essek only narrowly escapes having his thigh skewered by a sharp horn when Kingsley’s head tips sideways right into his lap.

“You would be much more comfortable if you were not on the floor,” Essek murmurs. He runs a hand carefully through the rough windswept hair, letting it flow through his fingers like water. 

Kingsley makes a noise of contentment, slinging an arm over Essek’s legs. “I like it just fine where I am, thanks.”

There will be time for more words later. Time for Kingsley to spin hair-raising yarns of sea monsters and treasure, gods and tempests and perils that only the Nein would be foolhardy enough to face. Or perhaps Essek should call it bravery. Perhaps they are the same thing. 

And later, Kingsley will ask about Caleb, and Essek will reassure him that he is doing well. Adjusting to his new life in Rexxentrum. Maybe they will visit him together sometime. A dark parasol edged with the finest of lace will reveal itself from the voluminous pockets of Kingsley’s coat, and Essek will once again be cajoled into the possibility of spending some time at sea. Just a few days. It couldn’t hurt, could it? 

Maybe, Essek will say, maybe one day. With Caleb too, if we can steal him away from Soltryce long enough. 

Kingsley will touch Essek’s cheek with gentle fingers, the corners of his mouth turned up in a smile that does not quite reach his eyes. It is a lovely daydream, even if all three of them know it will not come true. The past is never far behind, no matter how much Kingsley would like to pretend it is. Essek prefers to be content with this. Intermittent visits to Caleb, stolen moments with Kingsley. It is more than enough.

And much later, when they are curled up in bed, Kingsley’s voice will drop into a murmur in the silence. Stories from a notebook with flowers pressed between its pages, of circus tents and glass scimitars and learning to read fortunes. Essek will trace his fingers over the vivid ink of Kingsley’s skin and find a new Captain Tusktooth tattoo by one Jester Lavorre. Late into the night, Essek will listen to Kingsley stitching together the fragments of Mollymauk, gathering up the frayed threads of the man he once was, until his whispers resolve themselves into the measured, quiet rhythm of sleep.

Chapter Text

A thought Essek has never had cause to entertain until he met the Mighty Nein: there is no direct translation for den in Common. 

How does one explain the concept of den, a word that exists only in the vocabulary of the Luxonborn? With it comes a veritable host of terms that would be incomprehensible to anyone outside of the Dynasty. A single word can mean: firstborn child of a present life, new soul, unconsecuted soul. The word is elestro. It is what the umavi calls Essek. It is what his father had once called him as well, when he had been alive. When he had not yet been infuriated by Essek’s heresies. 

The umavi is always umavi, but Essek’s father had been ilharn: first birth father, present-life father, consecuted soul. The word Verin ought to use for Essek is dalninuk: elder sibling, present-day sibling by blood, new soul. The word Verin uses instead is the diminutive dalni, because he is an incorrigible little shit with no respect whatsoever for Essek.

And that is barely even scratching the surface. Brightseer Taldia calls Essek huthindro, because he is their birth parent’s child from a current life, soul-sibling, consecuted soul. Or so they think. That last assumption isn’t worth correcting. It is so much easier to simply let those of den Thelyss see what they want to see.

How does one explain the ties of the soul as separate from those formed by blood? It has never even occurred to Essek to wonder how Dynasty relations might appear to an outsider. Why should he, when his whole world had been his den and his work and his all-consuming thirst for knowledge?

That is, until his friends had barreled into his life without even a single word of warning.

It is a challenging puzzle. Essek has given up on trying to explain den dynamics to Veth and Jester, who are still caught in the middle of a circular argument about what to call a birth parent emerging from anamnesis in their late adolescence. (The word they are looking for is wael-ilhar, but Essek doesn’t bother mentioning it.) 

Yasha is only mildly interested. The tribes can be quite hierarchical too; she doesn’t make too many inquiries. Beauregard, as always, displays fascination to the point of rudeness - and to Essek’s great surprise, so does Fjord. Kingsley is mainly engrossed in finding out if there is a word he could use to refer to Lucien and Mollymauk. (Essek is unsure. How would he refer to a self that was himself, yet not himself, killed then brought back to life? Perhaps the closest approximation Kingsley could use would be vaendelgh-ninuk; elder sibling, past life, unconsecuted soul, deceased.) Caduceus has simply decided to accept the whole thing, no questions asked. Caleb seems content to listen to the endless debate, his blue eyes bright and curious.

Den is not family, Essek knows. Den is soul, blood, life. Connections far beyond the comprehension of those who do not speak their language, who do not live within the sphere of the Luxon’s influence. 

But then, there are no words for the bonds that the Nein share, either. 

Essek is at a loss as to how to describe Fjord and Caduceus’ relationship - the easy intimacy that Essek might call platonic, but the way it intertwines with their faith defies Essek’s vocabulary. Seriso would be a closer fit to describe what Beau and Yasha are to each other. Perhaps one day, they might even refer to each other as seriso-tek; a true soul-bond, the kind that is capable of surviving petty obstacles like time and space. Jester and Kingsley are another conundrum altogether. Dalnidro could be a term Kingsley might use for Jester: elder soul-sibling, new soul, unconsecuted soul.

Essek looks up and finds Caleb watching him, his steady blue eyes attentive. Waiting.

This might be the most complicated of all. What word could Essek possibly use to refer to Caleb? New soul, unconsecuted soul, beloved, betrayed. Some days, Essek still cannot find the courage to look Caleb in the eye. Staring at his reflection in a mirror would be a damn sight easier than having to endure the silent empathy he finds in Caleb’s gaze. A reflection is all too easy to loathe. But seeing himself through Caleb’s eyes… well, that is something else entirely.

(Essek doesn’t want to give a name to what Caleb is to him. Den bonds are fixed. Immovable. Caleb will only have so much time with this human life of his. Essek refuses to put the burden of a den’s chains on him.)

“Everything alright, Schatz?” Caleb murmurs, loud enough for only Essek to hear. He laces their fingers together. Under the table, his touch is out of sight.

“Yes,” Essek whispers. “Better now. Thank you.”

Caleb smiles and squeezes his hand, tearing his gaze from Essek to answer Beauregard’s jab with a biting retort that has everyone else bent double with laughter. 

Essek does not hear a word. He is too distracted by the warmth of Caleb’s grip, his calloused thumb rubbing circles over Essek’s knuckles.

Schatz. Essek thinks he might not mind that so much. Treasure.

Chapter Text

Sometimes, late at night, Caleb finds himself sitting in the garden outside his little house in Rexxentrum. 

The nightmares come less often now. But when they do, the fresh air always helps. It takes him away from the memories of a freezing room, locked away in a tower with Astrid and Wulf in a strange city, where the language is heavy and rough on their tongues. 

There is a bench among the yellow and orange flowers, bright as fire, that Yasha and Caduceus planted the week Caleb first moved in. In the daytime, the vibrant colors are invigorating. In the evening, the silence is soothing.

Sometimes, on nights like this, Caleb finds himself humming. This, too, is soothing. He has never had much of an ear for music despite his memory, but once upon a time, his mother had a voice bright and sweet as honey. The tune he sings is melancholy and just slightly off-tune, his lips stumbling on its syllables. 

A muted thud has Caleb leaping to his feet - even after all these years of peace, he still keeps the most essential of his components in a small pouch at his waist, and he is already reaching for an onyx shard before he realizes - 

“Oh, Schatz,” Caleb says, half in joy, half in sheer, unutterable relief. “You startled me.” 

He strides forward, but to his dismay, Essek withdraws past the doorway, his face hidden by the darkness. In the dim light of the half-moon, Caleb cannot see much, but he does not miss the way Essek has wrapped his arms around his middle. Shielding himself from an attack.

“Essek?”

“I, ah,” Essek clears his throat, “what were you singing just now?”

“Oh.” Caleb hadn’t really been thinking about it. He casts about for the memory he had drawn the melody from. It takes him a few moments, but then he remembers. “You were singing to the plants. In the Blooming Grove. I was sitting some distance from you, but the wind carried your voice to me - you were lowering a seedling into the ground, I remember. Your hands in those flowered gloves Jester gave you.”

Essek does not answer, but his arms tighten around himself. The shadows shift on the edges of his face, betraying how he has turned his face away from Caleb.

“I did not mean… I am sorry,” Caleb says desperately, though he does not know what he is apologizing for. 

“No. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I have upset you.”

“That is hardly your fault.”

“Essek.” Caleb exhales in a huff and extends his arms. “Tell me, please.” 

It takes several breaths, but Essek steps out of the darkness and into the soft moonlit glow of the garden, his face still carefully turned away. He allows Caleb to fold him into an embrace. Caleb keeps a hand pressed between his delicate shoulder bones and waits for him to speak.

“Did I ever tell you,” Essek says, the words muffled against Caleb’s clavicle, “how new souls discover they are new souls?”

“Only in the context of Verin.”

Essek’s breath tickles Caleb’s neck as he lets out a sigh. “The kindest way I can think to explain it is that the den treats you as a guest. You are welcome, yet not welcome. Part of the family, so to speak, but still you exist outside of it. I, ah,” his hands tighten in Caleb’s shirt. “I cannot think of the words.”

“No matter,” Caleb soothes. “You do not have to tell me.”

For a long moment, there is only silence.

Then the words spill from Essek like a dam breaking. “I used to sing to Verin when we were children. He cried very much. I was told he cried much more often than I did. It kept me awake most nights. When children are that young, they do not understand what it means to be in a den. They only know mother, and alone, and abandoned.” 

Essek’s Common is slipping. Caleb presses his lips to Essek’s temple. Safe, he tries to convey without having to say it aloud, because he hears what Essek is not saying. That he had to endure, alone and abandoned, without the benefit of an older sibling. 

“Tell me what the song meant? I only remember a few of the words, and they were all in Undercommon.”

When Essek looks up at Caleb, the expression he is wearing tells Caleb that he is turning something over in his mind the same way he puzzles over arcane intricacies. Translation is difficult. Caleb understands. Multilingualism can be a burden as well as a gift.

“It is a lullaby,” Essek says at last. “Strange, I imagine, but we do not learn to trance until our late adolescence. It takes a certain amount of… mental control, shall we say?”

“I see,” Caleb says softly. “Drow sleep as children, then?”

“Yes. The song you were singing goes something like… I will do my best to translate, but it will not do the song much justice.” Essek clears his throat. “‘In deep slumber, the stars watch over you, the stars keep vigil. Your mother is not here. Sleep a while longer, little one.’”

“That sounds beautiful. In its own way.”

“Hm. I suppose.”

Essek lets out an honest-to-goodness squeak as Caleb lifts him off his feet. In moods like this, he needs a distraction. Caleb knows that better than anyone.

“Maybe if you sing it to me, I will sleep better.”

Essek huffs out a laugh. “That is a hypothesis with no basis whatsoever.”

Caleb smiles, knowing Essek can see it in the darkness, and carries him off to his bedroom. Their bedroom, now. “No better time to test it than now.” 

Chapter Text

what distinguishes my face
from a tree is the total lack of
commentary as in that tree loves you
honestly loves you I’m the noisy one
who has to say it
- “TRYING TO RETURN THE SUN”, Heather Christle

Caleb has a bit of a surprise waiting for Essek in the tower today. He takes Essek’s hand, and together they float up to the top floor so reminiscent of the beacon – only today, it comes with a couple of modifications. There’s a very familiar tree now waiting for them amidst the sea of stars, its branches dotted with golden lights. Enchanted liquid encased in glass. It makes Caleb smile to think of how creative his friends could be, when the occasion called for it.

“Oh,” Essek says, his eyes round. “From your home in Rosohna.”

“Ja. I thought it would make a nice change of pace.”

Caleb leads him to a rug laid out beneath the expanse of the tree’s foliage, where there are already drinks waiting for them: a stein of dark beer for Caleb, a honey-colored peach wine for Essek.

Caleb gets Essek settled down before quietly requesting the cats to bring their food. It isn’t a special occasion by any means, but every moment Caleb gets to spend with Essek is precious. They’re much fewer and farther between than he would like, but always, he reminds himself that he’s very lucky to have this at all.

By now, Essek knows to raise his glass and clink it gently against Caleb’s stein. “Prost,” he says, the beginnings of a faint blush showing on his cheeks.

His Zemnian is stilted more out of embarrassment than any real difficulty, which has the effect of making Caleb’s heart swell at least five sizes. He can’t help leaning forward, wanting nothing more than to taste the wine straight from Essek’s mouth – but Essek promptly lifts a hand to stop him. Caleb’s lips land on his open palm instead.

“Drink first,” Essek orders him. “It is bad luck not to drink after making a toast.”

“Where did you get that from?” Caleb protests.

“Beauregard,” Essek says primly, the ghost of a stifled laugh hovering around the corners of his mouth.

Caleb lifts the stein to his lips and drinks obediently. When he’s finished, he sets the glass down and raises an eyebrow at Essek, who imitates the gesture perfectly.

Now, when Caleb leans in for a kiss, Essek allows it.

The peach wine tastes of sunshine, bright and sharp and heady. Or maybe that’s just Essek. Caleb is so smitten; it’s hard to tell the difference.

“This is a very scenic dinner you’ve planned for us today,” Essek murmurs against his mouth. “I would hate to waste your hard work.”

“True enough,” Caleb acknowledges. “It is not every day you can enjoy a meal with such a handsome, intelligent man with arcane abilities beyond compare - ouch!” he lets out a startled yelp when Essek pinches him.

“You are a very lucky man indeed, Caleb Widogast,” Essek retorts, laughing.

Caleb concedes easily enough. Essek is not wrong, after all. He permits Caleb one more kiss before retreating to a safer distance, hiding his blush behind his wine glass.

“Why all this?” Essek asks, looking up at the tree.

“No particular reason,” Caleb says honestly. “Only I remembered that the Nein used to drink together under the tree, just like this. I often wished to ask you to join us, only it never seemed to be a good time. And I never knew if an invitation would be welcome.”

“Mm.” Essek’s lips press together in a thin line. “May I tell you something?”

“Please.”

There is a long pause, during which time Essek takes several sips of his wine in silence. Caleb reaches for the bottle behind them and refills his glass without being prompted.

“I could see the tree from my towers,” Essek says in a rush without looking at Caleb, as though admitting a guilty secret. “Sometimes at night I would look out from the balcony and wonder what you were all doing. If Jester and Veth were occupied with blowing something up again, or if Caduceus might be having tea with Fjord and Yasha.”

“You were welcome to join us anytime. You knew that, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Essek says slowly, turning over Caleb’s words in his mind. “But I… I don’t know. It was a lot. Being with all of you all at once, when I was so accustomed to my solitude. I wished to be with you, but also I did not. Does that make sense?”

“Of course. I felt the same for a long time, as you know.” Caleb smiles a little. “They are, as you put it, a lot.”

Essek glances at him then. “Do you remember the night I joined you for dinner?”

“I don’t think any of us would ever forget that,” Caleb says, laughing. “We were half-convinced you were about to spring some elaborate plot on us. I don’t think any of us really relaxed until you decided to take off your shoes and get into the hot tub.”

“Fair enough,” Essek says softly. “You were right to be suspicious.”

Caleb reaches over and places a hand on Essek’s knee. “We were very happy you came over, though. Jester was over the moon, if you recall. So was Beauregard, though she did a terrible job of showing it.”

Essek lowers his gaze. “I stood outside for a very long time that night,” he admits. “Just looking up at the tree. Wondering if you would let me in, if I knocked.”

Caleb’s hand tightens. It is not like Essek to be so forthcoming. He watches Essek drain his glass in one swallow and hopes he has not done wrong reconstructing the Xhorhaus tree tonight.

“We do not have to stay here, if it is too much,” Caleb says at last.

But before he can even finish the sentence, Essek is already shaking his head. “It is lovely, truly,” he says. His cool fingers come to rest over Caleb’s hand on his knee. “And I am glad to finally observe for myself the phenomenon behind these lights – was this your idea?”

“The clerics came up with it. Caduceus said the tree would need light and warmth to grow, and Jester thought it would be pretty.”

“Oh, yes, that I recall,” Essek says, smiling. “I came by that day. Jester was standing on Caduceus’ shoulders. I remember watching them from below with a levitation spell ready on the tip of my tongue. The last time I had felt stress like that was when I once caught Verin climbing into our bedroom on the third floor of our house, back when we were children.”

Essek rubs his fingers over his eyes at the very recollection of it, which amuses Caleb to no end.

“All’s well that ends well. And the tree ended up looking beautiful.”

“It did,” Essek agrees. “Do you know what I thought of when I saw Jester and Caduceus stringing up the lights?”

Caleb is so entranced by the fond look on Essek’s face that he nearly misses his cue. “What were you thinking?”

“I could not help but admire how audacious it was.”

“Mm, I think I see what you mean. Lights in the city of eternal dusk?”

“Precisely,” Essek says, nodding. “Like they were trying to return the sun.”

“Maybe that was when you started to realize that you wanted to be our friend.”

“Perhaps.” Essek allows Caleb to tug him closer and wrap an arm around his waist. “I would have liked to have had dinner with all of you under the tree, I think.”

“Ah,” Caleb says, and clears his throat. “I was imagining something, shall we say, a little closer to this? Just you and me.”

There is a surprised silence before Essek laughs aloud. The smile on his face is so wide that little dimples appear around the corners of his mouth. If Caleb weren’t already hopelessly in love with Essek, he would certainly be doomed now.

“Herr Widogast, you would have caused a scandal in the Xhorhaus,” Essek accuses. “In front of all our friends, at that.”

“And why exactly would it have been a scandal?” Caleb demands. He tangles their fingers together and presses a kiss on the back of Essek’s fine-boned hand. “I do not recall making a secret of how I felt about you.”

“Den Biylan would overhear the commotion, and that would be the end of it. We would have been front and center of the most lurid pieces of gossip Rosohna has ever known.”

“The Bright Queen would have put me in chains in the dungeons for seducing her most trusted adviser.”

“Not if my mother got to you first,” Essek says, grinning.

Caleb cannot help himself - he kisses one of Essek’s dimples, then the other, entirely absorbed in the way the shimmering lights turn Essek’s pale hair into spun gold. Touched by sunlight, Caleb thinks hazily, lifting his hand to brush an errant curl from Essek’s forehead.

This time, it is Essek who leans in, driving every last sensible thought out of Caleb’s head. Their drinks sit in front of them, utterly forgotten.

Chapter Text

“Wulf, come on,” Astrid says, her voice tugging him forward through the darkness. “We’re going to be late at the rate we’re going.”

Eadwulf shakes himself and stumbles on, his boots dragging with a crunch through the gravel. They’re lucky to have been given this opportunity, he reminds himself for the thousandth time. This is what they came to Rexxentrum for.

He likes Astrid. He likes her ideas, the good ones, the brilliant ones, the ones that end up with them bruised and laughing in Bren’s bedroom, the spoils of another successful heist in a bag shoved under Eadwulf’s shirt. Spell components far too expensive and advanced for them to use without supervision. Not that we need it, Bren had said, a smug tilt to his chin. We do so well, just the three of us.

They do. Everyone in the Academy knows it. Even their professors have taken notice.

Bren, at least, is definitely impossible to miss. His arresting blue eyes alone make a vivid first impression. When he speaks, everyone pauses to listen. And when he casts -

“Wulf,” Bren says, impatient now, “we can’t be late to meet the archmage, hurry up.”

Astrid’s hand is on Eadwulf’s arm now, guiding him to keep up with them.

Her presence has the force of a magnet, drawing Eadwulf in. Nobody fascinates him the way Astrid does. Her magic is bold and tenacious, disregarding petty things like physical limits and imminent destruction. She dares to experiment with spells that even Bren shies away from. Eadwulf has never met anyone quite like her.

The first time Astrid had come to visit, her long golden hair wild and uncombed, dirty boots tracking mud into his mother’s kitchen, Eadwulf’s parents had looked askance at her, then at Eadwulf. He had mouthed silent apologies and wiped the floor clean once Astrid had departed. It isn’t her fault that she hadn’t been taught those things at home the way he and Bren had.

Eadwulf’s parents hadn’t been thrilled to discover she’d be leaving for Soltryce with them, but by the time the dinner plates had been cleared from the table, Bren had managed to soothe their doubts. He’s always been good at that. The apple tarts he had brought for dessert had made Eadwulf’s parents smile, too. A gift from my mother, Bren had said proudly, to celebrate our acceptance.

And now here they are, the best students in their class, hurrying across the city to receive private tutelage from one of the greatest mages in the Empire.

The three of them are lucky to have been chosen, handpicked from the pool of the Academy’s top pupils. They should be proud. Bren certainly is. He’s so excited he’s nearly glowing, enthusiasm rolling off him in waves. Then again, maybe that’s just the way he always is. Watching Bren is like staring into the depths of a blazing fire - warming, captivating, terrifying.

They should be proud, Eadwulf repeats to himself silently as they stand outside the entrance of the archmage’s towers. They are the most brilliant. The brightest of all. This is an opportunity few could ever hope to receive.

Astrid smiles at Eadwulf, her eyes shining with triumph. Bren reaches for his hand and squeezes it.

“Ready?” Bren whispers.

“Yeah,” Astrid says.

Eadwulf nods. He’s glad to be here with them. He is.

Bren reaches for the brass knocker.

They are lucky to have been chosen, Eadwulf thinks frantically. This is why they had chosen to leave home, after all. To become great mages for the Empire. Isn’t it?

His fingers clench around the Matron’s pendant under his shirt. It’s not too late. They can still turn back. Bren, something about this isn’t right, Bren, wait -

But the brass knocker lands against the heavy wood, the thud echoing in Eadwulf’s ears.

Chapter Text

Soltryce Academy is under several binding contracts not to reveal the scholarship program’s greatest benefactor to anyone outside of the board of directors. It wouldn’t do at all for people to think that Archmage Beck has more of an influence on the Academy than she should.

In all honesty, the archmage has no particular interest in matters concerning the academe. She’s currently occupied in wrapping her hands in preparation for her usual morning warm-up. Four layers of a linen strip folded over her knuckles, which will bear the brunt of the impact. The rest of the linen is bound tightly around her palm and between her fingers. She does this so often that her hands move on their own. No thought, all muscle memory. The end of the linen is tucked carefully into the last few loops around her wrist. 

Astrid flexes her hands, slow and deliberate, ensuring that she’s still capable of her usual range of motion. Satisfied, she pushes herself up and strides to the sand-filled leather bag in the center of the room.

There is a distinct relief that comes with physical exertion. Her mind goes blank, wiped clean of all but the solid thud of her fists against the bag. Eins, zwei, drei, vier, each punch keeping time with the rhythm in her head.

Only a month until the new academic year begins. Astrid will have to make arrangements for the usual fund transfer for the scholarship program soon. She does it herself every year. Not even Wulf knows that a significant percentage of her income is funneled directly to the scholars. He doesn’t need to be reminded of their history any more than he has to be.

The only thing she asks from the Academy, apart from the utmost secrecy, is to be given a full list of the scholars every year, and to be kept updated on their performance.

She takes special interest in the students who come from homes far away from Rexxentrum. Makes it a point to remember their names. The list grows longer every year. From this year’s batch of applicants: Shionna, a half-elf from Feolinn. Hope, a young dragonborn student from a small village in the Lotusden Greenwood. Ilvir, Soltryce’s first ever applicant from Rosohna.

And at the very bottom of the list… a student named Caleb, from the Zemni Fields.

Astrid’s next punch lands harder than it should, the jarring force of the impact rippling all the way up to her elbow. 

Choice is but an illusion for those students who bear unpaid debts and empty stomachs; not just their own, but their family’s, too. Those children do not know any better. They think their education is their only hope. And for many of them, it is. It makes the bile rise in Astrid’s throat. Her punches land harder and harder, until the linen around her hands begins to unravel. 

Bren should have let her kill Ikithon. It would have been better than what he deserved, but it would have given her peace. Maybe. Or not. Either way, now she’ll never know, because Bren took that choice away from her. The hatred that fills Astrid is so intense that she nearly vomits. No child should have to endure what they did. Bren, who spent an entire decade of his life locked away in the darkness. She and Wulf, who were under their master’s power for so long that even now, the two of them do not know where Ikithon ends and they begin. 

They were only children. How proud they had been to have been chosen for such a noble cause. They didn’t know. They didn’t know–

“Astrid,” a voice says from the doorway. “Enough.”

She inhales sharply. It’s an ugly, ragged sound. Her shoulders are heaving with exertion, every breath tearing painfully through her lungs. She notices for the first time that the bag is smudged with red. The linen wrapped around her right hand has come undone, the frayed end of the strip trailing on the ground.

Wulf comes up behind her to examine her ruined hands. He sighs, his brow furrowing. Gently, he maneuvers her to sit, kneeling before her to unwrap her hands the rest of the way. The linen around her knuckles has grown sticky with blood, but she can hardly feel a thing.

“How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough.” He shakes his head. “The Assembly will wonder who you’ve been picking fights with.”

“Let them,” Astrid says dully. “It’ll do them good to remember where I came from.”

He stops and looks up at her. Waits. 

Astrid can’t tear her eyes away from her bruised and swollen knuckles, still bleeding freely. Weapons forged for destruction, by destruction. 

“It’s too late for us, isn’t it,” she says, apropos of nothing.

Wulf doesn’t ask for further explanation. “Yes,” he says simply. Even though it was never a question to begin with. 

It hurts every time, as though his confirmation is what makes it real. But she knows he does it for their own good. Dismantling the Vollstrecker program is part and parcel of everything Bren has been working towards, but there is no fixing those who have already been shattered beyond repair. 

Wulf begins cleaning Astrid’s hands as best as he can; rinsing them with the water in the pitcher standing nearby, drying them before wrapping them in fresh linen. 

“You will have to see a cleric later today,” he says, “you might have fractured something–”

Astrid never knows how to thank him, so she never does. Sometimes she wonders, after being destroyed and remade so thoroughly, how much of them is still left. She doesn’t know the answer to that. She isn’t sure she wants to know. 

What she does know is that they are here. Broken, together. Just as they have always been. Perhaps that will have to be enough. Perhaps they can make it be enough. With Bren too, if he chose. No, not Bren–Caleb, she amends.

Astrid clasps one bandaged hand clumsily around Wulf’s wrist and raises his scarred knuckles to her lips. It’s strange, and more than a little embarrassing. Affection isn’t something that comes naturally to either of them. But his eyes soften, so maybe she’s doing alright. 

“I’ve been donating to the Soltryce scholarship fund,” she says at last. It will hurt Wulf to hear it, but she doesn’t like keeping secrets from him. 

His hands still before he looks up. Astrid sees her own grief reflected for a moment in his eyes, but he only nods. She presses her fingers lightly against his in wordless apology. 

“I know,” is all he says, and he tucks in the end of the bandage neatly against her wrist. 

Chapter Text

Essek looks up from the small bench where he is seated as Caleb approaches him with a heavy tome in hand.

“Did you find…?” Essek says, but his words trail off when he notices the tight lines around Caleb’s eyes and mouth. 

Caleb shakes his head and holds the book out to Essek wordlessly. He sets aside the scroll he has just unfurled and takes the book–it is dusty, but in surprisingly good condition considering how long it has been abandoned in these ruins. 

Essek swallows as Caleb kneels at his feet, the proximity startling. Caleb is so close his overcoat is brushing against the velvet of Essek’s cloak. Like this, he can count the freckles dotting Caleb’s cheeks and the bridge of his nose. 

It is… inconvenient, to say the least, this sudden constant awareness of Caleb’s presence. He touches Essek frequently, gloved hands against his arm, his shoulder. A minimum of four layers of clothing separating skin from skin. 

Essek has never known what it is like to want to touch someone for no reason other than to touch. Not until now. 

He clears his throat and turns his attention to the ancient tome, casting a spell to clear the thick layer of dust from its leather cover. The title emblazoned in flaking gold leaf on the cover is in archaic Undercommon. It takes Essek a moment to parse its meaning.

“‘Hours in Reverse: a treatise on the passage of time,’” he translates. 

Oh. 

He glances at Caleb out of the corner of his eye. There is a telltale smudge of soot on his jaw which tells Essek that he has already cast the necessary spells and is perfectly capable of reading this on his own… and yet here he is, staring at the book in Essek’s hands with a bewildered look on his face.

“Would you like my assistance?” Essek offers. “I can translate it for you if you think that the nuances of the theory are lost with Comprehend Languages–”

Caleb’s expression shifts, his brow furrowing. He opens his mouth, then closes it. Tries again. Nothing comes out. He exhales in a loud huff through his nostrils. 

Essek understands all too well by now what it is like to fear what he might be capable of if he gives into his hubris. He knows, because he has done it. But for Caleb, it is nothing so simple as that.

“Caleb,” Essek says carefully, “if you wish to read this now, I will help you. But is that what you want?”

There is a long pause where Essek does not know if Caleb even heard him. He is still staring at the book, his eyes blank. 

“You do not have to decide now,” Essek adds softly. 

Caleb takes a long, shuddering inhale, lets it out through his teeth. Scrubs a hand over his face, heedless of dust and soot. Like this, with shoulders hunched and arms wrapped tightly around his middle, he looks utterly exhausted. 

The language of touch is still unfamiliar to Essek, even after all this time spent with the Nein. But he thinks perhaps in the absence of words, if it is what Caleb needs, Essek is more than willing to give it. 

He reaches out tentatively. Slow, careful, giving Caleb the opportunity to move away. But to his surprise, Caleb curls closer, leaning into Essek’s touch. He takes this as assent. He lets his arm drape more securely over Caleb’s shoulders.

He forgets, sometimes, how warm Caleb is. 

Caleb closes his eyes, takes another breath, frayed at the edges. Now that Essek is touching him, he can feel the way that Caleb is trembling. 

There is an odd squeezing sensation in Essek’s chest. It hurts to breathe. 

“Caleb,” he whispers. “No matter what you decide, I will be here with you.”

The only response he gets is a soft, wounded sound before Caleb collapses into his lap. The tightness of his hold on Essek suggests the desperation of a drowning man. 

He lifts his other arm and wraps it around Caleb, holding him as close as he dares. The immediate embarrassment of Caleb’s heavy weight pressed against him is completely eclipsed by the way Caleb is shuddering against him, his breaths hitched and broken. 

Essek takes a fold of his cloak and pulls it around Caleb’s shoulders. Warmth helps to relieve distress. He learned this from Jester and from a cup of hot cocoa spiked with whiskey. 

Caleb is exhausted enough that after several long minutes, his trembling eases, his ragged sobs giving way to even breaths. Soon, he is warm and unmoving, fast asleep in Essek’s lap, though his pale face is still drawn, salt drying in streaks on his face.

Essek hesitates for a long moment before brushing away a fallen lock of red hair from Caleb’s forehead. Caleb only sighs and huddles closer. 

For a moment, Essek’s gaze falls on the treatise on time that Caleb had handed him. 

Surely it would be beneficial to learn of it either way? Knowledge is only harmful in the wrong hands, after all. What harm would it cause if Essek were to read it?

He is already halfway through casting a levitation spell on the book before he realizes–no, this is not for him to decide. Caleb will make his choices when he wakes. Essek has already learned his lesson once before, and he is not in the habit of making the same mistakes twice. 

(And if he were to be honest with himself for once in his life, the man in his arms already means more to him than all the wonders Aeor has to offer.)

Essek directs his spell onto the unfurled scroll at the last moment, raising it before his face. The flowing script has faded with time, but it is still readable. 

Consider the realm of possibility as a path forking into innumerable roads into the future, it begins. Essek settles down to read, Caleb’s shoulders rising and falling beneath his hand in the soft, measured rhythm of slumber.

Chapter Text

Aurora sits curled up in the corner of Vati’s big chair, the old one with the fluffy cushions. She’s trying to read. Vati had brought her a new book just yesterday. It’s called Der Katzenprinz, and the cat on the cover looks a lot like Johann when he’s all fluffed up. 

But she keeps getting distracted by the big man sitting in kel’nar’s chair, the straight-backed wooden one with hardly any pillows. He has skin like hers, but darker. His ears are long like kel’nar’s, longer than Aurora’s. He had called kel’nar dalni. Kel’nar doesn’t speak Undercommon at home very much, so Aurora isn’t sure what that means.

The man had held kel’nar’s arm tightly, and said, they are coming, Essek, you must go. Now. Then kel’nar had asked, who is coming, and then a lot of Undercommon words, too fast and quiet for Aurora to understand. There were many words she hadn’t ever heard kel’nar say before. He had gripped the man’s shoulder and said, please stay with her, Caleb will be home before long. 

Where are you going, she had asked. The man had been so startled to see her that his jaw had dropped, opening and closing his mouth without sound like a fish.

Kel’nar had knelt and given her a big hug. Smoothed her hair back from her forehead. 

Aurora, this is your ilninuk Verin, he had said. He was trying to smile, but his eyes were very big, like he was scared and trying not to show it, which only scared Aurora more. He will stay with you until Vati comes home, is that alright?

Where are you going, she had repeated, clutching at the front of his shirt, kel’nar, are you leaving?

Just for a little while, elemmiire. 

How long?

Wait for me, alright? Be good for your ilninuk. 

How long, kel’nar? How long?

Aurora got no answer. He had only kissed her, and then he had hugged her again, so tight she couldn’t breathe. Then he had let her go and cast a spell. A circle had glowed on the floor with strange letters she couldn’t read. And then he was gone, leaving her with the man who had sent him away.

The man had looked at Aurora for a long time. She hadn’t wanted to stare back, but she couldn’t help it. His eyes are so scary—one of them is red like an apple, and the other is white, like all the red has leaked out of it. He has a big scar on his face shaped like a splotch of paint. And his white hair is so long. Longer even than Aunt Yasha’s. And all of it is in braids.

Aurora touches the ends of her hair—she has curly hair like kel’nar, but it’s red like Vati’s, not white. Kel’nar never braided her hair.

Ilninuk, she whispers to herself. She doesn’t know what it means. 

She thought she was being quiet, but the man looks up. 

“You can speak Undercommon,” he says. 

Why is he so surprised? Silly man, she’s been talking for a year, seven months, and eight days now. Vati had said so just yesterday to Uncle Fjord and Aunt Jester. Vati was very proud.

“It’s not that hard,” she says. “Even you can speak Undercommon.”

He smiles when she says that. He has a dimple in the corner of his cheek like kel’nar. Like Aurora. His scary eyes are a little less scary when he smiles.

“You must have learned very quickly. What other languages do you speak, starlight?”

Elemmiire. “Don’t call me that,” she says, annoyed. “Not even Vati calls me that. Only kel’nar can.”

His face twists when she says kel’nar. She wonders why that is. 

“I apologize, Aurora.” He bows to her, the fingers of both hands crossed over each other and pressed against his forehead. Like kel’nar does when the sun is too bright. “I wish we could have had the chance to be properly introduced. My name is Verin. I am, ah. Your ilninuk. Do you know what that means?”

“Yes,” Aurora says, lifting her chin like she’s seen kel’nar do when he’s being brave. She can be brave too.

The man huffs. He sounds like kel’nar when he does that. “You look so much like Essek, do you know that? Except—”

“Red hair. Blue eyes,” she says. She’s heard it so many times she’s tired of it. “Who are you?”

“Essek is my dalninuk,” he says. 

Aurora doesn’t know what that means either, and now she’s even more annoyed. “That wasn’t what you said earlier. You said dalni.”

“Yes. Yes, I did,” he says. He looks like he got caught stealing sweets from the jar. “Don’t say that, alright? It… it’s not very polite.” 

“You were being rude to my kel’nar,” she says, and frowns at him as hard as she can.

“I was. I’m afraid I’ve never been much for respecting him, even when we were kids,” he says. He’s chuckling again. “You remind me so much of him.”

Aurora doesn’t like this man at all. “Kel’nar says it’s important to be polite to people. And I think you’ve been rude to him for a very long time.”

“That does sound very much like something he’d say,” the man agrees, his lips twitching. “And yes, I have been. He is my…” he trails off for a bit, then says the word for it in Common, sibling.

Aurora looks at him out of the corner of her eye. He does look like kel’nar a little, even if he’s nearly as big as Uncle Wulf, who had also scared her a lot when she first met him.

“Kel’nar never said he had a sibling,” she says.

The man’s expression grows serious. He sits up straighter. “I see. What else has he taught you then? Do you know of his den?”

“You say so many words I don’t know,” she says. She turns her back on him and opens her book to the last page of Der Katzenprinz she was reading, but the Zemnian words are swimming like minnows in her head.

She can hear the man moving around behind her. It sounds like he’s sat down on the rug. 

“My apologies again, Aurora. I have been a badly behaved guest.”

“Yes,” she says, but she doesn’t look at him. “Maybe kel’nar doesn’t talk about you because he doesn’t like you very much. Because you’re very rude.”

He sighs. “You know, you’re quite right. And yes, I am very rude. You know who else would agree with you? My… ah. My mother.” He says mother in Common. It sounds funny after all the Undercommon. “I learn very quickly though, I promise. I will not be rude anymore. Will you sit with me here? I can teach you the words you don’t know.”

She glances at him over her shoulder. He’s pulling a piece of parchment out of his pocket, smoothing out the creases. 

Oh, now she’s interested. She wants to learn more words.

“I don’t want to talk to you if you keep laughing at me,” she says, trying not to pout.

“I won’t laugh, Aurora. I promise.” 

She looks at him for a long time. His face stays serious. Finally, she nods. Gets down on the floor, but not too close, because his eyes are still scary. “Okay. Teach me.”

He teaches her a lot of things. She isn’t sure she understands all of them. Things about being born once, and then born twice, and then born even more times than that. Blood, and soul, and life. That is what den means. The man tells her about their parents, umavi and ilharn—”but you would call him hiak'tanuek, Aurora,” he adds—and more and more stories about Essek and himself when they were children, until Aurora is laughing. 

“What do you call me,” she says, trying to puzzle it out. “Your dalni—”

“Dalninuk—”

“Dalni,” she repeats firmly. “Your dalni’s daughter?”

“Dalhar,” he says. His mouth drops at the corners, like he’s sad. “You are my dalhar, Aurora.”

Such curious words. He has written them down for her so she can remember. She traces her finger over his script. Not as pretty as kel’nar’s, but still nice.

“Where did kel’nar go?” Aurora finally asks.

He fiddles with his pen for a bit. Then he puts it down and looks at her. “Somewhere he can be safe.”

“Here is safe. Vati keeps him safe.”

“I know. But he wants to keep you both safe too. And for now, that means he has to leave.”

His scar isn’t so bad to look at now, and his chin and mouth remind her of kel’nar. He’s still handsome like kel’nar, even with his eyes like that. Aurora feels very small all of a sudden. She wants kel’nar to be home with her and Vati. They were supposed to read Der Katzenprinz together when Vati got home from school. And it’s supposed to be kel’nar’s turn to feed the cats their dinner today.

Aurora reaches out and touches the man carefully on the wrist, the way she’s seen kel’nar do with people he doesn’t know very well yet. “When will he be back?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” he says quietly. “But he’ll be home very soon, starlight, I’ll make sure of it.”

Aurora thinks about that for a while. She doesn’t mind anymore that he called her elemmiire again. He sounds the way kel’nar does when he says it.

“Okay. Promise me.”

He lifts his hand up, palm extended like he’s about to grab the sun, then presses his hand over his chest. Then he extends his hand toward Aurora.

“In the Dynasty, this is how we make promises,” he says. His lips are pressed together in a tight line the way kel’nar does sometimes. “These are promises that cannot be broken.”

Aurora’s eyes widen. “What will happen if you break it?”

“I won’t,” he says, and that is all there is to it. “Now you try.”

She tries to imitate him—fingers up to the sky, then to her heart, then against his gloved palm, very lightly. 

His hand is so much bigger than hers. When he reaches out and touches her cheek, she lets him. She hopes he doesn’t notice that her lip is wobbling a little, but maybe it’s okay, even if he does. Kel’nar is his dalni, after all. He’s family too.

“Bring him back quickly, Verin. Ilninuk.” 

“I will, starlight. I promise.”

Chapter Text

Here is what none of the umavi ever discuss: when one has been alive this long, each moment is colored by memory.

“Waelin,” Deirta says softly. Her youngest child among her many lives kneels at her feet. He is nine years old, his tight curls hanging loose about his face. He is forty years old, already wearing his first braid. He is ninety-seven years old, his head of braids crowned with the helmet of Taskhand that his ilharn had once borne. She smiles sadly. “You weep too much for one who is still among us.”

“You know that is not true, umavi,” Verin murmurs, his voice low, fraying at the edges. “He refuses the Luxon’s blessing of consecution—by all accounts, he may as well be dead. He will be soon enough, and where will we be then?”

Verin’s unbridled anguish makes Deirta’s chest tighten. She has taken special pains to ensure none of her other children would ever know it, but Essek is the apple of her eye. The dearest of all the ones that were ever born to her—not in spite of the grief he has caused her, but because of it.

She places her golden glove lightly on her youngest child’s head. “If he is lost, then he is lost.” 

“Umavi,” Verin protests, his voice breaking on the third syllable. 

“It is his decision to make, and we must allow him that.”

“I refuse to accept this,” Verin snarls, his eyes blazing.

Did Deirta ever tell Elemir how much Verin had taken after him? She must remember to, when he is reborn. “It is not up to you.”

“Perhaps he can be convinced, umavi—”

She cups the broad jaw in her hand, tilts his face toward hers. “I was fortunate the Luxon allowed me to have you for a short while. But Essek? He was never mine. Just as he was never yours. He is in the Luxon’s hands now, and he must see it through to the end.”

Verin’s throat is working, his jaw clenching and unclenching. “Umavi—”

“It is hard, I know. It is always the most difficult the first time.” She leans down and presses her lips to her youngest child’s forehead. “He will be gone, but we will remain. Accept it, waelin. There is nothing we can do but watch.”

Chapter Text

“Would you like to say something, Essek?” Caleb asks quietly. 

Essek is kneeling in the grass next to the hole in the ground that Caleb has dug, a lovingly wrapped bundle cradled in his lap. 

“Marta,” he says, and his voice cracks right in the middle. 

Caleb doesn’t know what Essek says after that—the words are in soft, broken Undercommon—but he holds the bundle against him with careful hands. When he finishes, he looks up at Caleb, his reddened eyes bright with unshed tears. Caleb gets down on the ground next to him and takes his hand.

“You can cry, if you need to,” Caleb says. “That is part of it too.”

Essek makes a small sound. “It does not seem right to, when she brought me so much joy.”

“You grieve because you loved her.”

“No one told me it would hurt me this much,” Essek says. Caleb would call the words petulant, were it not for the way his lip is trembling.

“The love does not end just because her life did,” Caleb tells him. “That is what makes it hurt.”

Essek’s breath hitches. He hides his face against Caleb’s shoulder. 

For a long time, neither of them speak.

“It feels like only yesterday that I brought her home,” Essek whispers. 

“And yet somehow it has been ten whole years.”

“A blink of an eye. I thought time was my specialty, yet the years flew by so quickly.”

“But without regrets, I hope.”

Essek’s head jerks up, his damp eyes furious and heartbroken. “How could I regret it?”

“You did not know what it meant to grieve, when you were in the Dynasty,” Caleb says, pressing his lips to Essek’s temple to soften the blow. “It is a terrible pain to bear.”

“Ten years was all I had with her, perhaps, but it was well worth every second,” Essek says fiercely. 

Caleb smiles a little at Essek’s vehemence. His own grief sits lodged in his chest, heavy against his heart. But that is just how love is sometimes.

“I’m glad,” Caleb murmurs. He lays a hand over Essek’s, where he is still holding the bundle close against him. “Come now. Time to say goodbye.”

Chapter Text

“Essek,” Caleb calls, striding into the sitting room of the little cottage in Rexxentrum, a bag of oranges and a new book from Jester under his arm. “I’m home.”

No response. The cats, however, are meowing with delight at Caleb’s arrival. He pets them all one by one and scoops Johann up into his arms, soothed by the heavy rumbling purr against his shoulder. He heads to the kitchen to put the oranges away, only to stop short at the sight of a familiar slim figure, head bent over a simmering pot on the stove.

“Essek?” Caleb says, incredulous. 

The lid of the pot comes down with a loud metallic bang. “Caleb,” Essek gasps, only narrowly saving the pot from tipping over with a cantrip. “I did not hear you arrive.”

“I only just got back,” Caleb explains, pushing the pot back gently into place, lest all of Essek’s hard work be lost. “You must have been terribly bored without me, if you have resorted to cooking, of all things.”

“One: bold of you to assume I am incapable of keeping myself occupied without you. Two: I will have you know I can do anything I put my mind to,” Essek says loftily. 

“As to your first point, I beg to differ. But with the second, I agree entirely. Surely a simple soup would be well within your considerable abilities,” Caleb agrees.

“We will have to agree to disagree on the first.” Essek hesitates, glancing at the pot. “On the second… Do not expect much. I fear you will be disappointed.” 

“As if you could ever disappoint me,” Caleb says, leaning down to press his lips against Essek’s cheek. “But before that, I come bearing gifts from Jester. She made me swear I would give them to you immediately. The very moment I arrived.”

Essek’s eyes brighten. Caleb never tires of how excited he gets at the prospect of presents. “What did you bring?”

Caleb makes Essek hold out his hands, then deposits the bag of oranges into his open palms. “Your first present,” he announces.

“Oh, my favorite,” Essek says, marveling.

“She knows. Of course she knows.” Caleb takes the bag and sets it on the table. “And one more gift.” He sets the book into Essek’s hands. Its leather binding is beautiful, supple and sturdy and dyed a rich purple, but there is no title on the cover. “Jester also made me promise that only you could open this book, so I have no idea what it is.”

“Hmm.” Essek frowns a little, then he lets the book fall open. To their utter shock, something squirts from its pages and lands directly on the tip of Essek’s nose. He startles and drops the book.

“Are you alright?” Caleb asks at once, wiping the stuff from Essek’s nose. He looks at it, confused. The goo is purple and sticky and… smells rather like fruit? Caleb looks down. More of the goo is oozing from the book’s pages. Caleb gets on his knees and peers closer. There are a few words written in Jester’s familiar flourish, though they look rather as though she had used the tip of her finger to write them. 

Caleb reads the message aloud: “Your dalnar called in a favor. I said I’d do it because I knew you couldn’t get mad if it was from me! Love, Jester. And, of course, a beautifully illustrated dick at the bottom of the page.” Caleb blinks, confused. “Dalnar?”

To his surprise, when he glances up, Essek’s lips are pressed together in the way he does when he’s trying not to smile. “Verin, you little shit,” he mutters in Undercommon. 

“Is… everything alright?” Caleb asks.

“Yes. It is a silly thing, I suppose. Something Verin used to do from when we were children—he would put jam in my books as a joke.” 

Essek kneels down beside Caleb to get a better look at Jester’s message. He has to wipe the salt from his cheeks after a few moments, but his grin brightens his whole face, all the way up to his eyes. Something tells Caleb that even if Verin had sent the book, Essek wouldn’t have been angry. Not really. 

“You still have a bit of jam on your face,” Caleb informs him. He scoops up a fingerful of jam and smears it on Essek’s forehead. 

Essek lets out the most undignified squeak, which delights Caleb to no end. “Caleb!”

In no time at all, there isn’t a single inch of either Essek or Caleb that isn’t stained violet and sticky with sugar. It takes Caleb ages to get the last of the jam out of his beard, and Essek’s soup nearly boils over on the stove, but it’s absolutely worth it just to see Essek laughing.

Chapter Text

The umavi sighs. “Why did you do that?”

Verin makes his eyes very wide, like he’s surprised. “Do what, umavi?”

“Ay, waelin, you know what you did.”

He shifts from foot to foot. “It was only a joke,” he tries.

The umavi looks at him for a long time without saying anything. She doesn’t seem to be angry, but she takes him by the hand and leads him down the hallway.

Verin is growing worried now. “Umavi, it was really only a joke. I promise.”

“I know,” she says, and smooths his curls away from his face. “But I think there is someone else who needs to hear that.”

A sniffle from the direction of the window startles Verin. When he turns, there is Essek, half hidden behind a dark curtain. He’s holding a book very carefully in his hands. When he wipes roughly at his eyes, he gets a smear of jam on his face.

“Dalni,” Verin says. He takes a step forward. Then another. Essek’s eyes are red, and he’s blinking hard. He won’t look at Verin at all. “Dalni, why are you crying?”

“Essek’s books are very dear to him, waelin,” the umavi says softly. 

“I know.” Verin doesn’t understand. “I only put jam in the book because I knew he was reading it. And I wanted him to see it right away.”

“And you were right,” she says. “But it upset him, I think, that you ruined something he loved.”

Essek wipes at his eyes again. His gloves are all black-purple with jam and ink. 

Oh.

Verin had only meant to have a little fun. Open a book, and—surprise!—jam right down the middle. It was supposed to be funny. Verin had only wanted to make Essek smile, after all the days he’s spent sick in bed. He hadn’t wanted to—to… Verin’s lip is trembling. He bites it hard, but the tears slide down his face anyway. He rushes forward and puts his arms around Essek, tries to hug him tight tight tight to make up for it. 

“Dalni, I didn’t mean to make you sad. I… sorry, I’m sorry, don’t cry anymore.” 

“M’not crying,” Essek mutters, but he lets Verin hug him. After a little while, he puts his head down on Verin’s shoulder. He’s sniffling again.

“Sorry,” Verin says. Now he’s sniffling too.

“There, now,” the umavi says gently. She kisses Verin on the top of his head, then Essek. “We learned something new today, I think.”

Verin wipes his face with his sleeve before he takes the little book from Essek. It’s a collection of Luxon fairy tales. The umavi reads it to them sometimes because she knows it’s Essek’s favorite book—he likes the story about the sea of stars best. 

“I’ll fix it, dalni,” Verin says. “Don’t worry.”

Essek shakes his head. “You can’t. I’ve already tried—” 

“I can,” Verin insists. He can fix this. He has to. 

The umavi kneels beside them. “Would you like some help, waelin?”

Verin bites his lip. Nods hard.

“Like this,” the umavi says. “Watch.”

He knows the umavi can do magic, even if he has never seen her do it. Once, he had slipped on a branch while climbing a tree and had cried out—but before he knew it, he was floating down to the ground, light as a feather on the wind. Essek had wept then too, out of fear that Verin had been hurt. Maybe he would have been, if the umavi hadn’t been there.

Verin watches in awe now as she waves her hand in a strange way, murmuring something he can’t hear. 

The jam fades from sight. Essek’s gloves are clean once more, as is the book. He gasps softly as he takes it back from her. “It’s like new again.”

The umavi smiles. “All better now?”

“Yes.” Essek sniffs one last time. “Thank you.”

“Sorry,” Verin whispers again.

“You will not do it again. Right, waelin?”

“Yes, umavi,” he says, lowering his eyes.

“Hey.” Essek nudges him, then makes a tiny smile that makes Verin’s heart feel ten times lighter. “Fine. It was a little funny. But only a little.”

Verin smiles, elbows him back. “Crybaby.”

Esesk doesn’t seem to hear that. It’s probably just as well. “I want to know how to do that, umavi,” Essek says, reaching for the umavi’s hand. His eyes are very wide. “Can I do that?”

She hums. “Maybe, elestro. Later this evening before bedtime. And if you manage to cast something with those clever hands of yours, then perhaps I will also give you a new book for you to keep your spells in. Would you like that?“ 

Essek is already nodding before she even finishes speaking. "Yes, please.”

“If you both behave for me today, I will show you the spell again.”

“I will,” Essek promises. His eyes are all lit up with excitement. He must want to learn how to do magic very much. If that’s what Essek wants, Verin will do whatever he can to help. 

“Me too,” Verin says quickly, and takes Essek’s other hand. “I will be good, umavi. Just like Essek.”

Chapter Text

“Why do you look like that?”

Caleb blinks. Now that the adrenaline rush of combat is over, he finds himself staring into space in exhaustion. “Like what?”

In lieu of words, Essek sticks out his lower lip in a—there is no other word for it—a pout. For a moment, Caleb is entirely lost in adoration. Then he realizes what Essek has just said.

“I am not pouting,” Caleb protests.

“You are, though. What is the matter?”

Caleb’s eyes dart to the ring on his right hand before he can think better of it. It’s a simple silver band, now bereft of the intricately carved obsidian that had been set into its delicate prongs.

“Ah,” Essek says, and heat flares in Caleb’s cheeks. “You know it was always intended to function as a spell component if necessary.”

“Ja, but… I liked that one,” Caleb mutters, mortified by the admission. “That’s all.”

Essek’s hand settles over his. “There is no shame in liking pretty things,” he says gently. “You shall have another, as soon as I can get it. One not meant for magic. One just for you. Yours to keep. Would you like that?”

Caleb smiles a little. His face is still on fire, but the embarrassment is worth it when Essek twines their fingers together and lifts Caleb’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss against the now empty ring. 

“Thank you,” Essek says, “for saving me.”

Chapter Text

In the meantime, I tire of glancing

at the sand trickling through the hourglass, of tearing

leaf after leaf from my calendar, of scribbling

down my grievances in my journal.  

This is a strange notation to find in the margins of the demiplane calculations Essek has been working on the past week. The penmanship is familiar enough: spiky, hurried, barely legible. And yet for some reason, Essek’s mouth has gone strangely dry. 

“There is an explanation, I promise.” Caleb’s hands are fluttering nervously. How odd. That is a habit of Essek’s, not his. “I was, ah. I know you enjoy reading poetry.” 

Essek nods. All of his words seem to have gotten lodged somewhere in the vicinity of his throat. 

Caleb’s face, meanwhile, is as red as his hair. He says, stumbling a little: “That is, I remember some old poetry my Mutti used to read to my Vati, when I was younger.” 

“I see,” Essek says faintly. He really does not. 

“I thought I might try my hand at… translating some of it for you. So that you might see a little of what Zemnian poetry is like,” Caleb says, the panic in his eyes hinting that he would like nothing more than to drown himself in the depths of the Lucidian Ocean at this very moment. “I know you are well read, and I am only a wizard, not a poet, but still, I thought you might, well.” He flounders for a moment, the fluttering of his hands escalating in agitation. “Please say something.” 

Essek clears his throat. Opens his mouth. Shuts it again. “It is beautiful,” he finally says. The heat is climbing to his cheeks so fast that he is getting lightheaded. “I must admit I wondered if you had written it yourself.” 

“Gods, no,” Caleb says, laughing. His shoulders have relaxed a little. “I can only wish I were capable of such language.” 

“Translation is an art form of its own,” Essek finds himself saying. “It is not an easy task you have set your mind to, Caleb Widogast. And as in all things, you have risen to the occasion. Magnificently, I might add.” 

“That is high praise coming from you,” Caleb murmurs. The blush has crept down his neck. 

Essek manages a smile, though he cannot quite meet Caleb’s gaze. Light above, why is he so flustered all of a sudden? “I must give credit where it is due.” 

“Likewise. Plagiarism is a terrible offense, for one thing,” Caleb agrees.

When Essek glances at Caleb, he finds that his bright blue eyes are dancing despite the telltale flush of his cheeks. “Are you mocking me?” 

“I wouldn’t dare,” Caleb says at once. “But since you have caught me out, may I tell you the rest of it?” 

Essek takes a breath. “Please,” he says. 

Then, to his surprise, he finds Caleb rising from his seat, crossing to Essek on the other side of the table and taking his hand. To Essek’s even greater surprise, he allows it. He looks at their fingers tangled together. He thinks to himself, somewhat feverishly, you have never touched my bare hands before. 

Caleb holds his gaze. His face is still flushed, but every line of his body is resolute. He says:

“But then you said: time is not a wheat field

that can be measured in hectares

or a sea that can be measured in miles.

The wait for a beloved lasts only as long

as the ability of a heart to continue beating.”

“It is a lovely poem,” Essek murmurs when he finds his voice. He has to swallow before he can continue. “I hope to hear the rest of it one day. When you are finished.” 

“You see,” Caleb says. He hesitates, then he plunges on. “I hoped we could work on the rest of it together.” 

“I do not speak Zemnian,” Essek says, but hope is swelling so fast in his chest that he thinks he might spontaneously explode. 

“No, but I do,” Caleb says. “And I do not know a thing about poetry, but you do.” 

“A collaborative effort, then.”

“Exactly,” Caleb says, relief spilling through his words. He raises Essek’s hand to his mouth and presses his lips against the knuckles. “We learn together. As we have always done.” 

“I could be amenable to that,” Essek whispers. He cannot seem to tear his gaze away from Caleb’s mouth. 

“Good,” Caleb says. He leans over the chair, trapping Essek in place. “We have many things we can teach each other, you and I.” 

“Show me,” Essek breathes, and is promptly silenced by Caleb’s lips on his.

Chapter Text

You are magnificent, wreathed in fire from head to toe. In its fierce light, your hair shines brighter than gold. 

You are rarely anything less than precise. Even at a moment like this, it is impossible not to admire the work of your hands. You could lay waste to the entirety of this Aeorian ward if you so chose. But you do not. Your casting keeps the tongues of flame occupied with devouring the secrets you fought so desperately to find. Eons of magic burned to a crisp in a blink of an eye, and yet somehow, the moth-eaten carpet remains wholly untouched by the fire.

The sight of an incredible trove of knowledge going up in flames would be horrifying, were it not so beautiful. Or perhaps the horror is the beauty of it. There are few materials fire is more starved for than dry paper. Now, this ancient hall will serve as a mausoleum in more ways than one. 

You turn, and your blue eyes are sightless, blank with shock. 

I have killed them twice over now, you say.

All the breath rattles out of your lungs, as though your own words have struck you in the chest with the force of a sledgehammer. You fall to your knees, hands extended blindly, as though seeking something just beyond your reach. 

The strength of your grip betrays you. You cling with the desperation of a man drowning, gasping for breath, straining to find something that will keep you afloat. 

I do not know how I will bear it, you say. Emotion and smoke have sandpapered your voice down into raw, unfiltered anguish. I do not know if I can. 

The only thing more terrifying than your fire is your grief. Your own heart, threatening to consume you from the inside out with love grown too heavy to carry. 

But you do not have to bear it alone. 

A bold claim, issued from the lips of a man who is at once liar, traitor, and coward. And yet somehow, against all odds, it is true. 

You must know this by now. At the cusp of breaking reality to undo the past, I stood unflinching at your side. And now, in the smoking remains of a past now made unreachable, I kneel in the ashes and wrap my arms around you. It is a pitiful offering compared to the might of Jester’s hugs, but I pour all of myself into holding you together. 

I will help you. I have already said it before, but it bears repeating. Allow me to be your refuge, as you have always been mine. Let me help you, Caleb Widogast. 

Chapter Text

"Caleb?" 

Relief and happiness flood through Caleb in a wave so forceful he nearly sways. Yet again, he's grateful for the cane that keeps him steady on his feet. 

"Hallo," he says, "welcome home." 

Essek tucks himself beneath Caleb's chin, pressing as close as he can. Caleb's eyes slide shut as he inhales the warm, spicy scent of Essek's perfume. Gods, Caleb has missed him. The cats seem to feel the same, judging by how they are twining around Essek's ankles, yowling for attention. 

"Careful," Caleb says, laughing as slender arms wrap around his waist, squeezing tight, tight, tight. "I don't want to throw my back out again."

"You and your creaky joints," Essek says, pulling back just enough to narrow his eyes at Caleb in mock annoyance. After he's satisfied that Caleb has taken note of his derision, he turns his face up to be kissed, like a flower turning toward the sun. Caleb is more than happy to oblige him. 

Essek reaches down to take Caleb's hand, and is bewildered to find it clasped around the head of his cane. "What is this?" 

"For my creaky joints," Caleb explains patiently. 

Something passes over Essek's face, too complicated for Caleb to parse. "It is quite lovely." 

"It's hand-carved driftwood. A birthday gift from Fjord. He said I would need it soon enough."

"Beauregard's teasing must have been merciless," Essek says, the corner of his mouth turning up. 

"Ja," Caleb says ruefully. "Fjord wasn't wrong, though." 

A pause. "I see."

"Don't worry. It's only for the days when my right knee decides to be angry with me. I rarely use it otherwise." Caleb cups Essek's jaw and tilts his face up. He's holding his expression relaxed and unguarded, the tension visible only because Caleb knows where to look. "I can still dance with you, if that is your concern. You will still have the pleasure of stepping all over my poor toes."

"Do not mock me, young man, otherwise I may just let you fall mid-waltz."

"You would never," Caleb says. "Or perhaps you would, just so you can catch me when I swoon into your arms."

"Do you take me for the hero of that insufferable smut novel you are so fond of?" 

"Which one?" Caleb asks innocently. 

Essek glares at him. "Light above. You know what I am talking about. The one with the penniless Empire farmer and the Dynasty lord in the apple orchard." 

"Ah, so you did read that one."

"I loathe you," Essek informs him. 

"No you don't," Caleb says. He kisses Essek again, eins-zwei-drei-vier-fünf in quick succession across the freckled cheeks and bridge of his nose, until Essek is laughing and squirming away, all thoughts of Caleb’s new cane temporarily forgotten.