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There is the splish-splash-splash as the Nein travel through the drenched Aeorian tunnel, and then Ikithon’s voice slithers into his head, parting the layers of Caleb's privacy with ease and blotting out all other sound. Caleb swallows down both the immediate panic at the intrusion and the swell of rage that follows. He concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other because that is what he needs to do right now. They do not have time for this. He does not have time for this.
It does not stop the words, which Caleb's damnable memory will hold onto forever.
Bren, I have been thinking, Trent's voice whispers unstoppably into his mind. We worked together, your drow friend and I. His measure was... easy to take. Bright. Malleable. Hungry for many things. The words do not matter; it is a reaction that Trent wants. Caleb grinds his teeth and does not give one to him. The spell releases him eventually, and after a few seconds the comforting ruckus of the Nein fades back in. They are ahead, walking where he will follow no matter what interlopers buzz about his brain.
Ikithon is not done, he is sure of it. He loves the sound of his own voice too much to forego such a tempting captive audience.
True to bitter form, a few moments later Ikithon’s voice again presses softly into his head. I’m pleased you made use of him. You were always talented at bending others to your goals. Even far from home, you make me proud. Caleb does not grant this a response either. He holds his breath and carefully, deliberately keeps his hands at his sides, where there is no opportunity to scratch. He will not give Trent the victory of it. The spell releases him again. He exhales.
The words do not matter, he repeats to himself. Trent always claims influence where he has none. The words do not matter. He must move forward.
From behind him there is the sound of a throat being cleared, close enough he has to suppress the jump in his shoulders. A soft, accented voice — nearly the last voice he wants to hear right now — floats to his ears. “Caleb?”
The Nein are farther ahead than he’d realized, forty paces, maybe. A reasonable distance, but far enough away they make two groups instead of one. Risky for one squishy wizard, much less a pair. But true to his word, Essek has kept an eye on him, following Caleb’s plodding footsteps through the muck. Fondness twists in Caleb’s chest, though it is— hard to reach right now.
One foot in front of the other. He picks up the pace to close the distance to the group. Essek matches him, drifting into his field of vision until they are side by side.
A moment passes. Caleb listens to the Nein while Essek decides what to do with his silence. He keeps his eyes forward, counting steps. Thirty-two more.
Slow enough for him to escape it, the pressure of a hand alights on his upper arm. It is the barest of presses, more fingertip than anything else. Warmth spreads from the touch, though there are too many layers to really detect such a thing. It is probably just Caleb’s sad brain grasping at anything that feels like succor.
“Are you alright?” Essek asks quietly. Caleb lets himself look over. Their Kryn companion is as disheveled as Caleb has ever seen him, hair askew and clothes stained by the inescapable grime of this place. He floats, putting him nearly on a level with Caleb, but despite the lofty distance the hems of his cloak and robes drag through the dirty water.
When he lifts his gaze to Essek’s face, Essek appraises him sharply, but whatever he sees seems to soften him; an incongruous look on the Shadowhand, but one that's becoming familiar on the face of a friend. Essek has let a veil fall away. It is only one of many, but he is unpracticed enough at it that reveals more than he probably intends. By instinct, Caleb starts to peer deeper — hunting for weakness is an old, ugly, useful habit whose necessity he has never questioned — but something in him recoils to do it now. It is too late; he has already parted the veils Essek has inexpertly revealed, already invited himself in to see.
Weariness and wariness greet him, obvious in the hunch of Essek’s shoulders. On his face there is mild concern, but his expression belies the true depth of it — the fingers of his other hand run rhythmically over the hem of his sleeve, a nervous tell he isn’t aware of.
Beneath all of it lies the need he does not seem to know how to hide, either; Essek turns to the Nein like a flower to the sun. He blooms when he is included in banter, at least when he is not the butt of the joke. He gifts enough luck that his stash of pearls is low again, even with the refill from the paper room. He entrusts Caleb with a gem that could power his own studies for centuries, as if Caleb somehow deserves it.
And he is here now, warm hand on Caleb's arm, looking parched for something he cannot name.
Caleb, too, has taken Essek’s measure.
Essek hungers for something, and Caleb knows with horrible certainty he could provide it. Worse, he wants to give such a thing: to lay down the veils in his own eyes, to take Essek's tentative hand in his, to give and take of each other until the hunger in them both is sated.
“Essek,” his mouth begins, and he stops it. Essek waits, gaze focused entirely on Caleb as he matches his steps. His nearness lets Caleb see far too deeply. Caleb’s stomach turns at his own intrusion.
That need in Essek, that hunger — Caleb has used it for his own benefit: to preserve a powerful ally and tether him to Caleb’s opinion. He has kept Essek hungry, fed him tenderness pointed enough to hurt. He would do it again, if it was necessary. Essek would probably forgive him for it, which is nearly the worst part.
The true worst is this: Caleb needed no prompting to do it. He had not even really considered doing otherwise — there was the Nein, and then there was everyone else; he would do nearly anything to the latter to protect the former. It was simple, perfectly so.
And now Essek has sunk his roots deep into the poisoned well Caleb made for him, seeking the nourishment Caleb holds elusive.
You make me proud, echoes his memory — but he has slowed again and the Nein are getting farther away, thirty-eight steps now, so he has no time for that, none. None, no matter if it is true. No matter if Caleb cannot see vulnerability without thinking of how to use it.
No matter if Essek is now on the other side of Caleb’s divide, if Essek is now his, now theirs.
One foot in front of the other. He speeds up. Thirty-four paces.
Essek's brow furrows. "Caleb?" he says, painfully sincere. He leans closer, into sharper focus.
“I am fine,” Caleb mutters, immediately dropping his gaze to the side. He does not want to see this man more clearly; Essek deserves to keep something Caleb cannot use against him. “Just a midge biting at my thoughts.”
The fingers on his arm twitch. Caleb cannot see Essek's face, but he has no trouble imagining his expression: sharp and intent, with some of that fragile sweetness Essek continues to lay at their feet like it is some sort of penance to have people trod upon it. He's close enough Caleb would be able to see the faint wrinkles a century of study has worked into his skin, as well as the tiny scar on his lower lip that pales when his mouth stretches into a grin. Caleb's mind conjures these details with a sentimentality that damns him for idiocy as much as any word from Trent damns him for anything else.
One day, he wants to promise, when we are safe and a little stupid and away from here, you will see me for what I am. And if you still want, if you still need, I will give you only kindness. I will show you how it does not have to hurt. He lets the words die behind his teeth.
The silence stretches awkwardly. When it becomes clear Caleb will not elaborate and will not relax under Essek’s touch, the light press of fingers vanishes. Out of the corner of Caleb’s eye, Essek withdraws the hand beneath his heavy cloak and becomes formless and unreachable once more, except where the mud drags him down.
“My apologies,” he says, "Forgive the intrusion.” His voice has smoothed to opaque, unrevealing courtesy. Caleb can imagine the veiled smile that accompanies it all too well. Good. He will be safer.
Caleb jerks his head in a nod and speeds up to meet pace with their friends: thirty-two, twenty-eight, twenty-four paces, and smaller. Essek does not attempt to keep up with this blatant show of cowardice.
It is better this way, Caleb thinks, and tries to believe it.