Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Summons in hand, Essek lightly raps on the amber-veined door to Caleb’s chambers within the tower.

Staggered footfalls immediately reverberate a scramble from silence, and the door swings in to reveal the only sun up at this time of night.

Bright eyes wide, his grin and shirt collar notably crooked- something has certainly lit a fire under Caleb.

“Essek.”

Though not entirely disheveled, it’s clearly been at least an hour or two since Caleb last thought to tidy his copper hair. What’s not ineffectively restrained by his tie is loosely framing his face, fluffed at the roots as though he’s repeatedly run a hand through it. His shirt is striated with light creases over his stomach, his forearms bared- sleeves rolled and cuffed to the elbow. His hands- well, they’re a bit of a mess.

Extensive thought, prolonged hunched posture, hands-on work….

These are purely guesses.

Essek straightens his own shoulders as if that will quell the anticipation tricking through his spine, his limbs.

Perhaps tonight’s look is simply an interesting take on ‘harried academic’.

“Caleb.”

With an answering nod, Essek shifts his eyes aside, attention drifting towards his true immediate interest.

“You sounded as though you could use a bit of…”

He holds up the note previously delivered by a beeping Gretchen as he attempts to peer past Caleb’s other side and into the room beyond, what might be waiting within.

“Assistance…?”

Caleb continues playing the part of blockade very well, an inoffensive grin indenting his cheeks as he mirrors Essek’s leanings.

“That tends to be what ‘I could use a bit of assistance’ means, ja.”

Unable to resist reflecting Caleb’s apparent good mood, Essek grants Caleb the smile he seems to be trying to elicit.

“May I come in?”

Caleb finally relents his obstruction, stepping aside with a light chuckle and an easy, expected hand behind Essek’s shoulder; of course, it burns, as his touch always does.

“Be my guest.”

As if there could have been any other destination, he gestures to the table and couch in front of the mainroom’s fireplace.

Wasting not a precious second, Essek promptly enters and settles into his familiar near corner of the couch. His corner? No matter.

He promptly shuffles the thought away as he descends upon Caleb’s notes, scattered in sheaves over the table. And, how are these organized… or, better phrased, what story has Caleb been crafting here…?

To say Essek has been itching to sink himself into in-depth arcane investigation may be the understatement of a century, as it has been far too long—maybe a month and some and four days—not that he’s keeping track.

Such deprivation is for safety, though. Always for safety, of course- his, the others’. Of course.

What are days to a timescale of decades?

He’s really no need to leave signatures of dunamanctic experimentation in this corner of Exandria anyway, and, in benefit, refraining does leave him plenty of reserves in the case of emergencies between the Nein’s newfound everydayness. He has means to imagine, to write, to theorize.

Then again, solitary as he once had been, he still had distant peers, those required to review his studies, his findings, his life’s work.

Even upon gaining limited access to Tidepeak’s library following Ryn’s acceptance weeks ago, puttering around Yussa's tower hadn’t been enough to slake this acid-burn thirst for long. After all, despite Caleb’s resharing of the Transmogrification spell’s specifics and thus, by association, Essek’s competent contributions, Yussa is not one to weigh pity over mistrust. Mistrust? No, more like due caution- mistrust with a friendly varnish.

But this tower—Caleb Widogast’s Nascent Nein-Sided Tower, a thrill as it always is to consider—is its own little world; there is some measure of safety to be had here.

And, best of all, Caleb now wants his help.

Thumbing through the ordered stack set aside—the one closest to him, rather—Essek finds it to be meanderings on the semantic encoding of Comprehend Languages. But- interestingly enough… with a focus on the aural aspect of it, now isolated from the tactile connection of visuals and visuals themselves.

Why not Tongues, then?

A weight indents the opposite side of the couch.

Shifting, shuffling- farther pages rustle soft in comparison to the sharp pops of the hearth.

Essek does not look up, flipping the paper.

Same thing, a little to the left, tactility and sight decoupled. Still no mention of Tongues for sound, though all three senses are now stripped bare, separated and raw as if peeled free of bark in preparation for grafting.

Interesting indeed.

“You have been busy, Caleb.”

“Only a little noodling between stints with Beauregard’s project.”

Essek tamps down the envy trying to peek through his buzzing excitement, shaking out his hands to give the latter more room to breathe. Here he is, invited into the sandbox.

Moving onto the next pile, much taller, Essek examines the very top sheet. A quick scan to identify the heart of its content, and he parses an equation focused on unspooling a divinatory school-contour as it pertains to the mental link of… Detect Thoughts.

Comprehend Languages, Detect Thoughts, both broken apart as if to be joined together- these are… undercastings?

Essek is only beginning to wonder, when the simplest, surprising solution flicks him in the chest with a fleck of pride.

“Oh, this--”

“Sending, ja.”

Even without glancing away from the notes to see, Caleb’s smug smile is thoroughly embedded in his confirmation.

Why Caleb has any need to go about constructing such a spell from splintered bits while inhabiting the smooth weave found near everywhere but Eiselcross, Essek is unsure.

Spare reference tomes are amply available within the Archive, as evidenced by those interspersed across the table like buildings along city streets. Additionally, Essek is far from the only one capable of serving as a knowledgeable sounding board, and he is well aware that Caleb has a clever, crafty mind all on his own. And still, beyond that, if he dares to consider, Essek could even share the spell itself from his very own spellbook.

This is not what Caleb has asked of him.

This is a puzzle.

Best Essek begin solving it.

“Looking to take up Jester’s tricks, are you?”

Quieting his heart, Essek smirks his taunt as he trails a fingertip over a lengthy breakdown of level parity- the spontaneity of odd, the stability of even, the buffers between, those encompassing. Seems Caleb has settled for an uneven leaning, which- for Sending makes perfect sense with a glance, but Essek isn’t double checking validity at the moment, merely absorbing the game pieces before him.

“If I am not mistaken, there is at least one other here with such a thing up their sleeve, my friend.”

Now picking through the material components—several many copper pieces of differing sizes and shapes and widths and lengths, small pouches looking to be of powders, various egg shells? strange—lined up and sorted into organics and inorganics, Essek hums behind a forefinger.

“I can’t say I know who you mean.”

He nonchalantly picks out and rolls the thicker of two copper wires between thumb and forefinger for inspection.

“Maybe I should have asked Jester here instead, then.”

The wire seems to be Caleb’s own component for Message, if the curve and indentation at one end are any indication.

Essek clicks his tongue, firelight flickering gold off the metal.

“You wouldn’t be so rude as to wake her.”

A little whine of what is likely a smiled shrug.

“It isn’t as though she hasn’t before.”

The couch indents a little closer, and Caleb’s hand slides into view, drawing a page to Essek’s attention with a tp-tp of an ink-smudged fingertip to graphite.

“But this is where I’ve found myself stumped.”

And Essek scans the runic summary equation Caleb has pointed out.

“So it-.”

No, that can’t be right, can it?

“Seems….”

Caleb is missing the entirety of the spell’s verbal component. Surely that’s too glaring an error to be anything but a deliberate exclusion?

Still, Essek asks.

“You are trying to, ah- streamline, the spell?”

He casts his eyes aside, an eyebrow up.

“For proper use?”

And Caleb rubs along his chin, almost looking sheepish.

“More pushing the boundaries of it. Seeing how it falls apart, where it stays together.”

Essek hums acknowledgement, takes a few moments to read over Caleb’s equation again.

That does make more sense, if this is solely for Caleb’s entertainment rather than him seeking sustained viability.

Though the concept is far from a disappointment, Essek's enthusiasm flags a smidge.

No, what is he thinking- that is rude of him.

Caleb is putting his magic to actual, meaningful use elsewhere, outside this present space. That he can dedicate some of it to fun, and also be so willing to share in the process… surely that’s nothing short of a blessing. Essek can be glad for him.

Recentered and determined to not get ahead of himself, Essek sets his mind firmly to this reframed pet project, running a finger along his lip.

“And the verbal component?”

“I was wondering.”

Caleb’s tone shifts quieter, perhaps thoughtful.

“What if it could be more ah, more private- only thinking the message instead of saying it out loud, for everyone to hear.”

The change draws Essek’s attention and-.

Oh, Caleb fixed his hair a little.

Not entirely tucked and pulled tight, but a tasteful tidying all the same.

Caleb is, also, currently watching him.

Returning his eyes to Caleb’s work, Essek matches his murmur, if only to tease with a mimic under such focus.

“Then, if I may--”

“Ask.”

Curious at the quite-soft interruption alongside Caleb’s correct assessment of his aim, Essek refocuses to him, looks his entire face over this time.

As if there’s anything playing between his laugh lines but quiet amusement, maybe a little mischief. He's likely going to shave soon, given the way looser strands of hair cling to his cheeks. What hair isn’t combed back- it would fit well behind his ears.

It would, Essek is quite sure.

Keeping his hands to his lap, he meets Caleb’s level gaze, chin up to challenge a flirt back.

“What sorts of conversations are you planning, Caleb?”

Voice dropped smooth the way it tends to when they skirt such a play, Caleb’s nose, his eyes, crinkle further as he leans closer.

“I’m not allowed to tinker for pure fun, Essek?”

Hm.

“Who am I to impose allowances.”

Essek relents with a muted smile, muttering his original inquiry while turning back to Caleb’s notes.

“You’re wanting to keep all functionality?”

Quiet returns, a hearth-crackle pause, and Essek glances aside again to wait.

Caleb idly wags a pencil with one hand, his eyes flicking pensive with his chin pressed into the palm of the other. The firelight, of course, colors him very well, face pink and hair gilded.

A handsome picture, really.

He finally lets out a breath through his nose, and his pretty eyes return from his work.

“If possible, ja. But if limits need to be redrawn, fluff cut, I can work with that as well.”

‘Fluff’, as if the spell isn’t already simplified as far as it can be in its current state. But surely even this can be tweaked, for what is spellwork if not continuous innovation between equilibria?

Caster and recipient, beginning and end, surely they can find proper bounds, fit well enough into those already predetermined by set standards.

Perhaps if they go from the start, and walk through Caleb’s steps together.

Great minds think alike.

Before that, though- they will get nowhere if their goals are unaligned.

Waving a hand to the low table, Essek clears his throat.

“This tangle, taken together- it has the overall aim of reproducing the effects of Sending in a manner that entirely circumvents its necessity for verbalization.”

“In so many words, just about.”

With that tease of a grin playing across Caleb’s face, Essek must have given an exact twenty-five.

Essek is suddenly struck with a distinct desire to flick him.

He does not, instead setting an amused glare to the table’s spread and a tent-splayed hand over Caleb’s undercasting breakdowns.

“This is your starting point, then, yes? Deconstructing these two?”

“The one this time, ja. Made the mistake of trying too many in ink.”

And Caleb wiggles his fingers in front of his grin as evidence.

So he’s chipped at this from several odd angles already…. He really must be stuck, unsure, to be calling Essek in so late into the process and to have resigned to scratchwork. Even the Transmogrification wasn’t so informal in the weeds of puzzling. Though, that was much farther along than this, Essek only present for the wrap-up, catalyst to the end of it. This is-.

Undercastings are his own doing; he’s been part of this particular route since Caleb began it.

Then again, once again, only now is Caleb asking for active input after what must be, at the very least, a few days’ work.

Essek refocuses, again, steepling his hands before his lips.

“Adjust me if I misconstrue your current path.”

Caleb hums a nod, eyebrows up as he offers the pencil.

Very well.

What is an obvious next step for this go around?

A prominent part of their prior discussions over its reconfiguration in Eiselcross, Sending has the ability to cross planar boundaries.

So- maybe if the reach is narrowed- localized to a section of the weave…?

“If you discard Sending’s inclusion of extraplanar transmittance entirely, then there really is no need for the deliberate impression of vocalized intent with the message itself….”

Essek speaks as he writes out this amended summary equation, simplifying it further with every line- and the two sides of it don’t match up.

Hm.

“Though, I suppose that would leave it loose-ended with the energy consumption so unbalanced.”

Caleb rustles a search though his papers, draws out a page with the exact same process scrawled across it.

“Backed away from that attempt since there’s no quick fix, barring planar attunement.”

Then, a cheesy grin.

“Even Magic Missile didn’t help.”

Well, fools rarely differ, and quite a pair they are.

Essek huffs a chuckle.

“Your aversion to attunement, Caleb?”

Even if a spell such as this can only work within one plane’s boundaries, surely that is still something of a marvel, getting it to work in the first place?

“I’d… prefer it function anywhere.”

“Ah, a fair goal.”

So maintaining ease of transposition is a part to keep in mind.

What might be a step out of pocket, then?

What else has Caleb done, rather?

Essek considers his skimming.

“Then…”

He draws the third stack over, evenly between himself and Caleb, and returns the pencil. No need to waste paper.

“You went to change the parity?”

“Ja, I’ve checked it over every which way, but the contour doesn’t connect as evocation if it’s even.”

“It doesn’t connect now.”

“You see the issue.”

Still, though the shape of it may not be something they can brute force, if experience says anything, a little finesse and nuance can go a long way in redefining established spells.

Essek thinks over the materials also on the table, the copious amount of copper, including the wire he still holds.

“Have you considered the balance of your conduits as they relate not only to channeling, but sustained actualization as well?”

Caleb’s eyes narrow, before his brows rise and he looks over the materials too.

“An antenna instead of a key.”

Essek wiggles the copper wire.

“Akin to Message instead of something like Plane Shift, yes.”

“Plane Shift….”

“Walking boundaries rather than crossing them.”

And Essek offers a one-sided shrug.

“Could be a route that isn’t moored within any specific plane’s weave until cast.”

“I suppose. And that would allow it the ability to be uprooted- transplanted with a recast.”

Aha, here might be their path through this together. Perhaps Essek really can be of use, with another little bit of recollective humor, even.

“Cantrips have their uses beyond conundrums- sometimes the simplest solutions escape us.”

The comment garners a confused blue-hued stare, a pause far too long.

Ah. Another miss.

Essek meets the awkward air with a cool smile.

Eiselcross issues aside, that fraudulent debt of dispelling from much longer ago has since been paid a hundredfold and then some, if Essek is to put a price on his life.

Caleb continues on by, his chuckle filling the air as if wholly oblivious.

“So if the lack of verbal activation is made up by a physical component that resonates stronger… that can hold a note of intent?”

Deferring, Essek shines out the chink in his pride and regathers his sunk stomach back to neutrality.

“Material or somatic, are you thinking?”

“I’m not sure, the copper has been an essential throughline.”

And Caleb’s face scrunches, setting his mouth into that particularly contemplative squiggle of his.

“Didn’t want to fiddle with that bit too much, and somatics tend to fall into place after all the rest….”

His thoughtful eyes scanning over the parsed hearts of the spells and his fingers half-curled in a stagger, Caleb holds a thumbnail between teeth, cushioned so-soft to his lower lip.

The pencil, flashy thing in the firelight, twirls through his closest hand’s nimble fingers again.

How easy it would be to cast Mage Hand, to catch the spin and still it against Caleb’s open palm.

Though- only a short, a very short, reach… maybe a few book breadths or so, just a couch cushion, and an arcane intermediary would be unnecessary.

His breath a sudden-lodged hailstone, Essek could-

He does not.

He inhales. Folds his own frigid fingers together.

Even though it wouldn’t, can’t, the hearth is better suited to sate temptation if he truly wishes to burn.

Still, his mind stays a distracted track, counts the flick of Caleb’s rhythm, a metronome of curiosity.

Pattern, resonance, a concept of similar shape, but amplified.

He looks to the wire resting on his own lap, tips his head, as if a new firelit angle will offer a solution, and the copper is cast into gold. Cool to the touch, silver might be a color better suited.

Oh.

A step immediately following copper, of course.

It’s as the notion dawns on him when Caleb lets a short breath, sounding more of frustration than relief.

“Swap it all for platinum, why not. Who knows, maybe that’s the trick to it.”

Essek blinks.

“Platinum?”

Where in the world did he get that from?

Twirling paused, Caleb looks equally bewildered.

“It stays as it is.”

What?

“Caleb, no, no, surely it can be simpler than that. Besides, if you want something so dramatically unchanging--”

“Dramatic?”

“Yes, if you want to be dramatic about it, gold would be far more stable based on the shape of the deficit- the valent resonance fits much neater, same group as copper.”

Surely Caleb can connect the dots.

“Mm,”-

But Caleb shakes his head instead, entirely skipping over Essek’s sarcasm as he flips through a reference guide, before facing it to Essek.

“See, still overshoots, too idealized.”

As if platinum would have been the solution, then, with its wholly different periodicity and grouping.

“Copper to silver, Caleb. A natural progression.”

“Silver will tarnish quick.”

What’s quick is his dismissal. It’s a precious component; treated properly, it will keep.

“Not if taken well care of for its lifetime.”

Essek is sure.

“Hand me the book.”

Caleb just eyes him, suddenly looking rather like a kitten with a scrap of stolen meat.

Cute, but Essek observes back, defaulting imperious with his chin lifted, his shoulders down and an easy hand open, up. A Thelyss-soft smile on his lips.

They stare an impasse.

Caleb’s lips twitch taut like he’s fighting a smile of his own, but Essek is learning patience, as always.

He waits.

He’s almost certain he’ll need to snatch the book—is plotting the most efficient manner, maybe a distraction with Mage Hand—when Caleb relinquishes it.

Not even bothering to speak, Essek sets the book to the table with a little more force than strictly necessary, scans through the index, flips to the right page, points to the right entry—the value of which will certainly fit perfect—and, adjusting his seating, turns to Caleb in triumph.

He didn’t realize- Caleb is so near now; a slight lean into sparse space, and they would rub elbows.

Even averting his eyes as he remembers himself, Essek is acutely aware of every inch of space Caleb occupies, the ambient warmth of him impossible to ignore.

So, frozen in place despite the heat in his ears, Essek doesn’t flinch when their knuckles bump as Caleb draws the book away.

As Caleb takes his sweet time to read.

To pull a blank sheet of paper.

To scrabble down silver’s resonance potential as it pertains to the equation’s time constraints.

To pause, breathing so deep and easy.

To shuffle a little further away—luckily, unfortunately—and compare notes, leaving ink-and-cinnamon and a buzz in the air to waft in the vacuum of his presence.

Then, his shoulders slump with an oh-so-heavy sigh, and he drones his words as if proving Essek correct was a possibility he had been actively avoiding.

“It does fit better.”

Essek sighs away the violent hum under his skin and allows himself a touch of smugness, reinhabiting himself by keeping most of it contained to warm his stomach.

“Like I said.”

Caleb slides the paper over, taps at his calculation with the end of his pencil.

“Still falls short, though. It would end up being used entirely, before the spell can even begin to actualize a second time.”

“You’re looking for it to be lasting?”

“Ideally.”

Ah, so that is what his resistance was for- consumed components don’t lend themselves to easily repeated castings.

Though, if Caleb had said so outright, they would have forgone this amusing little challenge; it isn’t often Essek has need to wear his oldest face, even if it fits a little stiff in present company.

Along the same line, he holds the copper wire lengthwise between index fingertips. It’s not particularly malleable from this angle, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be.

“A loop instead of a wire? No end or beginning in that case. Self-contained.”

“Maybe….”

Caleb scribbles a note.

Glancing over the adjusted equation, another glaring issue presents itself in this light.

Essek points it out before Caleb has the chance to.

“On second thought, the spell is also liable to be volatile if you leave the overarching stabilization buffer as is. Silver might wind up too conductive alone.”

“That can be tweaked later with the parity buffers in place- it should hold.”

Reckless.

Though really, who is Essek to judge.

A hypocrite, he throws a tease.

“Here I thought you wanted a functional spell.”

“This doesn’t need to be cast tonight, Essek- I’ll take what I can get for now, sustained or no.”

And Essek simply raises a brow.

A very interesting downplay, feigned dispassion.

He presses a question into his statement the same as a finger to his lips.

“But you want to try tonight.”

As though having taken notes from Jester, Caleb suddenly leans into the couchback with his hands over face, his words morphing into a melodramatic groan of a sigh.

“I want to try so bad.”

His far arm now thrown over his eyes, he barely mutters.

“You have no idea.”

Essek allows himself a chuckle behind his finger.

“I may have an inkling.”

“Then how is Jester’s so different from this? From yours.”

“She has a weasel and doesn’t cast via dunamis.”

Caleb reaches his near arm across himself and, with remarkable aim given he is without sight, promptly smacks Essek in the chest with a pillow.

“You think you’re so smart.”

Laughing in full, Essek grabs the pillow before Caleb can yank it back.

“Shall I send and ask her here?”

Now Caleb peeks a smirked glare from under his arm.

“You wouldn’t be so rude as to wake her.”

“Payback. I have no qualms.”

In evident defeat, Caleb’s arm resumes its function as drapery with a wordless harrumph, narrowly missing the pencil tucked beside his face.

Silly man.

A free floating berg behind Essek’s sternum runs aground, and-.

Ah.

Essek is fond.

This is no surprise.

“If you look again, Caleb, I can show you what I am meaning.”

What is a surprise is the softness of his own voice as it leaves him, a little further to the gentle side of a tease than intended.

What is a surprise is Essek's compulsion to pluck the pencil from its resting place behind Caleb’s rounded ear.

What is a surprise- it’s that he does; the casing is warm in his fingers.

But, lo and behold, theft works wonders.

Caleb looks.

Sitting up from his slouch some, his hair sways a bit looser with the pencil’s loss.

Elbows digging into the pillow in his lap to prevent snatching, Essek hands the pencil back and readies to demonstrate his version of Sending. Purely the somatics, of course, as there’s really no need for him to expend his reserves for a trite showing.

Second fingertips to thumbs in a lemniscate, Caleb’s attention held, he begins.

“Consider this angle the calling of- a roving of the weave, a section malleable, just enough latent potential to leave it crisp,”-

Essek twists apart the circles of his fingers. Hm. Two loops.

-“the twining of it into a dual-plied thread, making use of its ductility,”-

Tucking that note away though, he speaks into the space between his hands.

-“and then crimping information and intent into its potential with the vocalization of the message.”

And he releases his hands in a quick splay.

“Off it goes, simple as that.”

Caleb simply stares, holds silence, chin to the heel of his palm, pencil held stationary in his other hand.

A suddenly self-conscious hand tapped to his mouth, Essek qualifies.

“And, though- well, um, I say ‘consider’, but that really is the most of it.”

“So verbalizing intent is inherent to the function of your casting.”

Essek offers a nod, a smile.

“From my own current understanding, yes. This is also why it still falls under evocation’s contour- even though the weave itself is the medium; the energy of intent is transferred from caster to recipient and back.”

Eyes now narrowed, Caleb mutters into his knuckles.

“Message is transmutation.”

“I know you, of anyone, Caleb, know that is because it’s a manipulation of the air and not the direct energy distribution of the weave.”

“But something is missing.”

Caleb groans again with what Essek would almost call a pout.

“It’s right there, Essek.”

Then he casts his plaintive blue eyes to Essek, absolutely pouting.

“Can’t you feel it?”

Perhaps he is growing tired with the late hour, acting so childish with the light tease of a possible cusp.

So Essek grants him a humoring grin. Why not.

“I am entertained, yes.”

Caleb scrubs his jaw and pats his cheeks, huffs a chuckle, then finally sits back up with a sigh, turning to face Essek fully.

“Show me the gesture again?”

Essek sets the pillow in his lap aside and draws his legs up onto the seat to better face Caleb, knees almost brushed with Caleb’s thigh at this angle.

Essek sets firm focus to his own hands.

While he repeats his somatics, Caleb mimics with a rougher fluidity, as though the motion is intended to tie elsewhere. It calls to mind a cat’s cradle, the way Caleb flicks his fingers out at the end.

“I’m reminded of your web, you completing the gesture like that.”

And Caleb stops.

He stills entirely, his eyes wide and distant, shifting for a calculating instant.

Like a reunion with a dear friend long missed, Essek realizes he knows this look preceding realization, has seen it play across Caleb’s face enough times to count on just a few fingers, all the more precious for its rarity.

His heart catches in his throat with anticipatory excitement the instant before Caleb whispers:

“That’s it.”

In a burst of life, Caleb shuffles his notes and draws out a few deeply buried sheets, all entirely covered in meanderings on Magic Missile. So he did actually try it.

“When you were first figuring the undercastings for Sending, in Eiselcross--”

“Oh.”

Essek goes through the motions for Magic Missile, and there it is again, that same flick of precision.

“Essek, that’s it- can you--”

Essek slides him a few blank pages and is met with a sunfire grin.

Held pencil spun right, Caleb wastes no time writing out, combining, simplifying the foundational runes of the equation.

Parity falls first, setting itself as the baseline. Again, Caleb leaves it odd.

“You’re sure?”

“It might still work as is- it doesn't inherently need to be even.”

“But it will take much more energy to cast.”

“Yes, but see--”

And Caleb taps between the two halves of the equation, their unresolved fulcrum brimming with potential.

“The sum of its parts- it will take more energy regardless.”

Can it really be that easy?

Maybe, maybe.

“Very well.”

This is different from their work in Eiselcross, without the same restrictions of entanglement and limitations of isolation.

Essek locates Caleb's copy of the consideration of planes.

“Then, close up the planar boundaries by fixing the anchor per cast…”

The target and caster together, sharing the same plane- scope sacrificed for directness, a viable route.

Seamlessly, Caleb picks up the next point.

“And let the copper switch to silver--”

It will likely take time to work out the exact conversion, but Essek points out Caleb's scrabbling on looping the material anyway, appending his own note on its multiplicity.

“At least doubled for the expenditure shift.”

“Doubled, yes.”

The parity really seems it should be even, though perhaps the overarching stabilization buffer actually will compensate in practice.

As it is, the equation fills out well under Caleb’s hand; it looks very, very good on paper. Even the pencil lead seems to shine gold.

Practically gasping through his grin, Caleb pauses.

“Then the key to intent’s conveyance is not in what’s spoken, but instead--”

Delighted, Essek completes Caleb's statement as he meets those blue eyes, breathlessly matching him word for word.

“In the targeting of the somatics.”

The next thing Essek knows, he is enveloped in a sway of scorching warmth: tight arms and tension-let laughter.

“It’s not finished yet but- it’s a leap!”

Caleb speaks to Essek’s shoulder before leaning away, only slightly.

“Essek, you are wonderful.”

Copper hair gold-spun in the hearthlight, a wide grin illuminating his face like dawn, Caleb’s daysky eyes are incandescent.

“Thank you very, very much, my friend.”

He is so, so very warm, one of Essek’s hands caught in his, the other trapped between them like a Sending stone in an icy plain- pencil and wire near stabbing his heart through.

A first thought in this infinite instant: why doesn’t this hurt?

A second, both simultaneous and a follow-up:

Caleb is close enough to kiss on the mouth.

Though the thought’s far from a new notion, the sudden, unprompted concept strikes deep in Essek’s chest, freezing him in place and slowing time to a further-chilled honey drip.

Is this what Caleb is asking, though? Is that what he wants?

With this wholly celebratory smile, is he even asking anything in the first place?

It has been months since the last—the first like that—but that circumstance was very, very different and Caleb asking then did not look like this. That was an evident challenge presented, a dare, a prompt, a message of sorts, but this? Essek doesn’t know what this is beyond lively delight. Wouldn’t Caleb have asked sooner, before now, before today, if that really is what is on his mind? That seems likely, given he has nearly done so once before… but then never again. And besides, there is precedent for Caleb doing this; he has twice pulled Essek in when it was only he, himself, and Veth- but Caleb didn’t kiss him then either. Veth kissed Caleb soon after the first instance but that circumstance was also different. Both completed examples seemed to be for the purpose of furthering the sentiment of ‘see you on the other side’.

A kiss is a mere action in the abstract, but this…

What is this moment supposed to be, supposed to mean- Caleb’s gaze unwavering, staring into Essek as if he can see through to his soul? What is Caleb asking? What does he want?

And, more pressing, is Essek even capable of whatever it may be in the first place, suddenly incombustible?

Because this doesn’t hurt; it’s not even uncomfortable.

Why in the world does Caleb’s burning touch not hurt? Why now- what possibly could have changed between minutes? Is Essek safe, as Yasha has suggested the root? This is safe, is it not? But it has been, hasn’t it?

So, is this terror, this tension burrowing its way through every inch of his rime-crusted marrow? Nerves, certainly- his stomach may well be a cavern of ill-woken bats. But is he afraid? Caleb is not something to be feared, not like this, at the very least. Is it Essek himself then-?

Before any conclusion can settle, before he can speak, before he has enough time to think, Caleb draws away, dropping Essek’s hand and removing his warm arms entirely.

Essek, held in place only by a deep, profound chill, then balks as Caleb’s face loses its vibrancy, a candle dimmed.

This is too much. He doesn’t have the mind to deal with this at present.

He does not need to be watched.

Essek’s stiff fingers tidy on their own as he rises from the seat.

Caleb lifts an empty hand- to hold him? To keep him?

He attempts neither, staying in place.

“Essek--”

“It’s nothing to worry about, my apologies.”

He doesn’t need to speak without thinking first.

“I’ll return- I only need a moment of time. We’ll talk, I promise.”

Stepping away, he realizes he doesn’t need to do this, either.

A word uncountered, and Essek is gone.

Chapter Text

Having barely missed the fireplace mantel upon his rushed arrival, Essek rights himself, regaining his balance with a palm caught between sparklingly impermanent vases, their stems and stalks and petals.

And he stands stock-still in the first of his designated chambers within the tower.

To teleport between a few floors- it is a frivolous waste of high magic, but what does it matter. It isn’t as though he’s been using it for much else.

He drags a breath in. Hisses it out. The fireplace sounds the same.

As if it will keep his flailing heart contained in its cage of rime, Essek wraps his arms around himself.

A bare simulacrum of external warmth in opposition to the lively fire beside him, it almost works.

In an attempt to steady himself further, he squeezes his eyes and hands closed, only to startle both open when a crumple grates in his ears.

Caleb’s handwriting greets him, an endearing mess of excited slants in every loose-drawn rune, minor wrinkles cast into chasms in the dancing firelight.

What impulse made him take these notes?

He doesn’t need them; this isn’t his project.

He does not drop them, instead smoothing them out on the tea table with haste.

And, thrown between platters of cut fruits and dry crackers, honeys and Rosohnan cheeses, a platinum pitcher of everlasting ice water, out tumbles a copper wire.

A slight curve and indentation at one end.

Lovely.

Stealing components and research, what else is new.

Light, what is he doing? What were they doing?

Drifting to and fro, shoulders hunched, a free hand over his lower face-

The hearth cracks. The pitcher clangs.

He can’t think like this.

So Essek scoops the pages and wire and weaves his way from the fireside sofas, retreating into the farthest of the rooms Caleb has crafted for him as if it is somehow an escape.

Threshold, threshold, closed door, locked door, closed eyes, deep breath-

A faint spring babble.

Cool air.

A hush of fresh leaves…

Papers held to his chest, Essek slumps with a sigh, taking in the space for something, anything, everything- insight, answers, assurance.

First in his sightline as his back hits the door: front and center and stately as always, the untouched bed.

Its canopy a perpetual living starscape and the whole of it big enough to drown in alone, it could be as much an offer of comfort as company. Though perhaps mildly misinformed on the rest habits of nobleborn Dynastic elfkind with its copious pillows and cushions and blankets, it is likely intended as both, knowing Caleb.

But, even when touring the chambers, Caleb remained in the first two rooms; he has not stepped foot in this one with Essek present, at least- not that he needs to, as he obviously already knows what’s within. But this room—its layout, nearly all its furnishings and decorations—it has not changed much at all since the first time Essek laid eyes upon it.

The settee beside, on the other hand, has since altered notably. It’s comfortable enough—quite indulgent, really—and now similar in make to the welcoming couch Essek has just fled.

What else- broad desk and its paperweights and writing implements, deep chairs and well-stitched quilts, abundant shelves stocked the same, neat table stands, various flowering plants swaying in their own breeze, mentally-lit candelabras, partitioned bath area and its purling font, plush robes and slippers and thick warming rugs, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera- in truth, the whole place is lovely and Essek has taken many a moment to appreciate every last inch and detail because Caleb clearly made it with care, much the same as all else, and for all else, in this tower; even Caleb’s mainroom, the space he gives to himself, seems more alive nowadays. Accommodating, almost.

This helps clarify nothing.

Caleb’s confidence and development, they are not for Essek, despite how kind Caleb is to share with him.

Essek returns his mind to Caleb’s mainroom, the events of the night, mere minutes feeling hours and days ago.

It’s not so far; he can trace the evidence—the result—by fingertip.

The papers whisper in his softened grip.

Had he misinterpreted from the beginning, that this meeting was intended solely as flirtation? Paperthin doublespeak for… for whatever this might be?

Has he settled so simple that he's forgotten his very own tricks?

But, no- Caleb did seem genuinely enthused about, and focused on, his work, so that also differs from prior experience. One can’t accidentally flirt- there is deliberation behind such a course of action. Parts of it certainly were, but what are their interactions if not multi-faceted, teasing as much as genuine, same as for the rest.

So- then, yes, yes of course Caleb has also been talking about this, about them, about having fun with one another. They were working, together, and Caleb, time and again, attempted to point that very circumstance out.

And Essek, far too self-focused to even notice his own rebuffs, ever a coward- he ran.

No, worse.

Mortification eats at him as his stare seeps horror through his fingers, Caleb’s expression a specter in his vision.

It is much worse.

Caleb held him, and he once again let Caleb down tonight.

And he ran, cherry on top.

The last- it is done. Too bad, no modifying that shy of a spell Essek’s struck from both memory and spellbook.

The second- it’s disconcerting how tender a thought the second is, so Essek shoves it away to starve it gone.

The first, though.

Caleb held him suddenly, and it….

It was fine.

It was fine?

It was fine.

It was fine.

Shorthand aside, metaphor stripped for once, Caleb’s touch does not, in actuality, hurt per se, just as it doesn’t literally burn.

But that persistently underlying restless discomfort, let alone sharp aversion raised from surprise… where did those go, and why?

And then, the frigid slurry in Essek’s chest, singing its merry way to his fingertips- is this any different from before? The same fondness as always? This is not new, but neither is it familiar. Is there even a distinction, a line to be drawn? How can one demarcate a multidimensional gradient- within without, both neither, some of one or another?

Does Essek need to be different? Why would he need to be different? Then- does he need to do something different than what general comfort has already worn like a loved seat?

Ridiculous- why must Essek do things? Is it not enough to simply exist?

Of course it’s not.

Nothing happens if nothing is done.

He knows this.

Then, where to begin with any of this?

What did Yasha advise- that Essek tell Caleb? Tell him what, that he loves Caleb? As if Caleb is so clueless; they care for one another (dearly, a warm echo reminds in a taunting caress); there is nothing to deny in that regard, nor any conceivable reason to. Essek may as well state he still holds no affection for the Nein at all, if he’s to reclaim the role of a flagrant liar.

But if his outburst and flight are any indication, when pressed, what can Essek hope to offer beyond fickle, impatient attempts at mundane domesticity? As if Essek can currently and consistently present the time and company Caleb so earnestly deserves. As if Essek deserves so much. As if Common is even capable of scratching the surface of these clumsy, churning thoughts, let alone conveying their spindly intricacies.

And besides, is this ‘love’, as phrased in Common? This beat within his freezing heart, this longing beast gnawing at it, attempting to wriggle out of his skin?

Under what definition?

Acute intensity of fondness isn't a distinction, not with the existence of Jester Lavorre, a life, a light, a delight. A sense of comfort and understanding neither, Yasha sits the same in silence just as well as in conversation. Appreciation of grounds in reality without pity, Beauregard and Veth, of course, what with their bluntness and sharp tongues. Gratitude for steady and stern reassurance, Fjord and Caduceus are wellsprings, deep so much as calming.

He misses them all when apart.

He doesn’t mind their touch, not really.

And even between these categories, their boundaries blur to inexclusive broth when Essek attempts to examine them as if by calipers, his eye to sea foam under the finest loupe.

He may as well collect his friends from their distant corners and nearby rooms, soliloquize a blustering dissertation on these sentiments’ ebb and flow, their tumultuous spread a dubious mix comprised of icy bubbles of sea glass in messy channels of affection that spill wide to a flustered floodplain-

Nonsense.

How can one describe the shape of love? Even oceans have bounds via land.

What’s an unsounded line in the sand to a disastrously irregular tide? To polar trenches unmapped, still deeper than once fathomable and lurking just offshore?

And yet.

And yet still, among all this and apart, there is some indescribable thread, some ineffably minute difference, the tiniest shift in gravity, around Caleb. Time and company have only made the notion more tangled and now Essek is faced with the too-intimidating task of attempting to brush it out. Vein through a needle, he can’t even stitch the pulse of it, let alone find the floodsource and blood his own bleeding heart, or-.

Oh.

He’s no need.

This, between he and Caleb, this is—has been—building into a bond of choice.

Or, at least it feels as such; this is not complete chance, nor mere circumstance alone- they can actively claim it so.

If their wade is mutual—it has seemed mutual, by all accounts both objective and otherwise—then it stands on its own as a grant of deserving.

It is a diving of depths- a driving force, of sorts, capable of bearing the load of sentimental description.

There is no need to put the cart before the horse. No need for a cart at all if it does not serve them. Would Caleb want a cart-? That line of thought only brings up complications right now. Back to basics, back to basics.

Horse.

Surely it can be that simple, yes?

They are friends, certainty certainly the greatest reassurance of any.

Maybe this will ease that stubborn tender spot, too, as it refuses to leave him be.

And, distanced from the structure of his upbringing, Essek needn’t be elegant with this, formality and gravity aside; the Mighty Nein crash their way through his life, so he can do the same to them, can’t he?

Maybe this will work.

Then, how can he phrase this?

Essek takes a deep, deep breath.

“Caleb Widogast-.”

And he promptly shuts himself up as though he’s uttered the first call of an invocation.

Ridiculous.

Caleb’s name is fine; it fits well enough in the air and on his tongue without the drag of translation.

Beginning righted from beside itself and superstition cast away, what is next?

“Caleb Widogast, you--”

No, no, that sounds accusatory. What blame is there to assign Caleb?

He’s not done anything wrong, not tonight.

“Caleb Widogast, I…”

But Essek… what? He is sorry? Worried? Elated? Disoriented?

Phrasings, synonyms, antonyms, definitions- it all chafes, blistering as with unbroken soles.

Does he have to walk his soul bloody for this?

None of the Nein would take too kindly to that, he’s pretty sure.

Then- what, he asks, he asks.

What is his next step?

The empty air holds no immediate answers.

And then it holds a buzz of all things, tugging at his mind in the way fresh-cast Sending does not.

No. No.

Now?

Despite all protests in both body and mind, Essek retrieves his Sending stone from the mundane bag set aside on his desk. The papers find a spot amongst pens, and Essek turns in place, drifts some paces away, unable to bear the sight of them.

Then, a flat, dreaded voice greets him as he begrudgingly welcomes it.

*Arcane assistance requested involving equipment manufactured with acquisitions from Eiselcross.*

Already?

With more life, the message continues.

*Site: Bazzoxan. Timescale: as soon as possible. Scar right.*

And that is all.

But, right? What- oh.

No, it is on his other knee.

At least Verin has their code in mind.

With a hand gripped tight to the nearest bedpost, Essek grits out his key in returning Undercommon.

„Scar left.”

Identity confirmed, he rushes a hissed complaint to the stone.

„This is entirely inopportune. Can’t you delay a day? I’m in the midst of a delicate personal matter and would prefer to resolve it.”

Most of that probably went through.

*In that case…*

Despite his immediate follow-up, relief seems to soften Verin’s tone.

Dare Essek hope?

*Unfortunately, no.*

He thunks his forehead to the bedpost.

*Unless you truly don’t mind those under my watch potentially coming to harm as a result of your present negligence.*

There’s a tease on Verin’s sharp tongue with that precise word count. Salt in the wound, it’s as though he knows exactly where he’s stabbed.

Irritation itching under his nailbeds, Essek turns again to the desk, performs a perfunctory search through his pack, retrieves a wooden carving of a leaping rabbit, sighs with no small amount of frustration.

„No need to be rude. I will be there shortly, willing a direct cast.”

While ruing the thought that he should have teleported a second time before this moment, he forces a preemptive clarification on their prior-set precaution.

„And yes, please don’t worry. I do still have your trinket.”

*Very well, see you soon, dalni.*

Oh this little-.

Essek grits his teeth, takes a breath, and lets his stubborn silence fill the reply to this third stone-cast of Sending. At least he knows with surety that Verin is presently unwatched.

The tether fades, and Essek is again alone, ill-gotten relief curdling with uncertain disappointment.

He releases his grip around the carved rabbit, and indents sting to make themselves known.

Essek sets about the room, stuffing his few tangible and unpacked belongings into his bag of holding. A small painted portrait of glowing jellyfish. Only his light parasol, as the dark version still rests in his chest. A handful of articles of loungewear, his day clothes. Already washed and pressed by the tower cats, Essek redresses in the latter.

Perhaps it is for the best, maintaining ephemeral lodgings such as this- the process of collecting his things is relatively streamlined when storage will disappear in a day anyway.

But tonight of all nights, now of all nows?

What nonsense.

And then, guilt begins to creep in over annoyance, an overabundant garnish to the slurry of Essek’s discontent.

He should at least tell Caleb not to wait for him. No need to add yet another tally against his stance as a courteous guest, assuming the board has yet to shatter.

He could even try implementing some of what they’ve figured tonight, perhaps it would even work-.

No. He immediately chides himself. What is he thinking?

It’s still not stable enough yet.

So he takes a breath, levels his voice, and draws out a thread of the weave.

“Caleb, I-.”

Now isn’t the time to try something new anyway, not when the tried-and-true will continue to suffice. No need to waste effort and energy.

“I loathe to say, but I’m required away for-”

Best to remain vague for safety’s sake.

“Urgent business.”

Always for safety.

“It’s nothing especially dangerous, I don’t think.”

Five measly words.

“I will be back soon.”

Essek waits.

And waits.

And waits.

And he continues waiting through this humiliating pause, every second an entire eternity.

Then, by about the third second, Caleb’s reply arrives.

*I understand.*

Of course he does; Caleb is far too understanding with him.

Even worse, Caleb does not leave his response at that.

*Stay safe, my friend.*

And the spell's tether eventually dissolves, held silence bleeding into a bruise. Even the bandage rip sting of a dispel would fade sooner.

What a disaster.

Essek quickly releases his held breath.

Sucks in another.

It’s fine.

He scrubs his hands over his face as he breathes out again, breathes in again.

It’s fine it’s fine it’s fine.

He breathes, he breathes.

And he emerges settled, court-perfect.

It’s. Fine.

What is a delay of a day or two?

This will give him a perfect opportunity to think things over, to further analyze tonight.

To find words.

Besides, he’s trading one arcane situation for another. He has missed being of confident use, hasn’t he? It’s a horrible, rotten shame they had to overlap like this, though.

Dregs of tetchy regret linger at the back of Essek’s throat, so he nabs a quill, grabs Caleb’s work, and marks out a correction to the overarching stabilization buffer. It’s much better practice to tighten that portion up early on to ensure the equation balances properly in the end.

He adjusts the parity too, simplifying the whole thing greatly; surely it must be even to work in this form, each portion stable on its own and as part of summation.

And, now this work is theirs, truly written together. That will have to do.

He begins to exit, to take the notes and return them as he should, but. Maybe it’s for the best, maintaining whatever slim measure of courage he has by not staring Caleb’s disappointment in the face, so soon and once again.

So he turns, lays them on the nearest surface.

A neat stack of penciled notes on the potential of Sending now rests on the room’s unruffled bedspread, ink still wet to the page.

Before he can misplace it, Essek sets the Message wire atop.

At least Caleb will have those in the morning when the tower dissipates; he said he wasn’t planning to cast tonight anyway.

One final, spine-righting sigh, his face altered to that of a stranger’s, and Essek leaves for the tower’s entrance without another touchy glance back.