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1. Rosohna, Xhorhas
Essek is always very careful when getting dressed to see the Bright Queen.
First, a thin silk undershirt, without sleeves, and close-fitting shorts of the same fine material. Both have embroidery around the neck, arms and hems in a subtle geometric pattern, with thread the same silvery gray color as the cloth it sits on. They have been made for Essek specifically, and will be seen by no one but him and his servants, but are well made all the same. Over his head, his servant Marin slips a thin silver chain that drops to hang to his breastbone. A single shard of obsidian hangs from a silver setting that is just heavy enough to remember that it is there. The shard is not large, and does not glimmer with any sort of magical property, despite how closely to the skin Essek wears it, despite how one might assume the Shadowhand of Den Thyless would be laden with enchanted baubles, it sits alone, glimmering darkly, almost malevolently, against the pale fabric.
Over the undershirt, and the necklace, another silk shirt, this one only slightly heavier than the undershirt. Like the undershirt before, it is the color of the full moon, a pearly pale gray, with none of the embroidery of the undershirt - only crisp clean silk, buttoned up to his throat and tidily at each wrist. The fabric is only just light and translucent enough that Essek can see the darkness of the obsidian stone against the white of the undershirt. For a moment, he is caught in a memory about his brother, who he has not spoken to in… decades. There was an argument - Essek thinks he might be incapable of being in the same room with anyone from his Den without one - Verin had sworn at him, and run back to his post at Bazoxxan. To Essek’s surprise, the shard of obsidian had shown up at his door the next month, with a short note from his brother attached. Scouting party found a big weird stone, made everyone really uncomfortable. Figured it was your kind of thing. His brother had signed his name with the same stupid flourish on the V he’d been doing since they were children, and Essek had crushed the parchment in his hands. Weird and uncomfortable? He’d thought at the time, and he still isn’t sure what made him get the small chunk of stone cast in silver, and strung on a chain. He is even less certain of why he wears it. Essek had been careful, and ascertained that the stone was perfectly normal, whatever feelings the shard’s larger parent had riled up in the nervous band of soldiers stationed at the lonely edges of Xhorhas. He has heard stories of magic steeped in an area that becomes null and void if taken away from that place. Perhaps the stone his brother sent as an insult and a curse is such an item, Essek is sure he’ll never know. Certainly, it does nothing to fill the hole his brother made when he too, abandoned Essek for Bazzoxan.
Next are trousers, heavier still and charcoal gray. The fashion at court, for the last decade, has shifted to more voluminous pants in light, airy fabrics, but Essek eschews popular taste for utility. To be Shadowhand, one does not draw attention to oneself through clothing, despite how well made Essek’s garments are. They are meant to be used, not entirely as ornamentation, but as the way the Bright Queen’s soldiers are outfitted for war, in their chitinous, black-scaled armor. He is of the court, of course, but also outside of it. His job is to peer in and out simultaneously, and if he were dressed as any young fop newly sprung from one of the lesser dens, he would not be fit for the role at all. So, dark pants, soft enough that he will tuck the hems into his boots, but sturdy enough that they will last in a pinch, whatever that may be.
Over the shirt, Marin slips a finely woven garment over each of Essek’s thin shoulders. The fabric is soft and supple, a dark blue-gray garment that is open in the front, and also sleeveless. Marin carefully folds one side over the other, wrapping a length of the same fabric around Essek’s waist, holding the two sides of the fabric together. The garment drops almost to Essek’s knees, and provides a much-needed layer of warmth between his silk layers and the night-shrouded city. The fabric is just thick enough, layered over his shirt, as to obscure any indication of Verin’s stone, or the chain it sits on, and as always, Essek is relieved when it is out of sight.
Over the vest, a heavier navy blue jacket. Open at the front, as style demands, although few will see it. A similar geometric pattern winds its way down and up the open border and along the hem. This embroidery has small stars and moons worked into the dark fabric with silvery thread, catching the light. The jacket has wide sleeves, and is as long as the vest. Between the two garments, Essek takes a deep breath, feeling, as he always does, both the weight of the fabric and the comforting order they bring to his thoughts. Like stepping over a threshold from Essek, barely out of his first century, and into all of the structure and responsibility of being Shadowhand. The Shadowhand is calm, and confident, and unobtrusive. Politicians and thieves and guildmasters and criminals all, from the dens of Rosohna to the outer edges of the Empire, know of whom they speak, when they speak of the Shadowhand.
Into each ear and on at least four fingers, several silver rings are slid on. Marin is careful to tuck the hems of the trousers into Essek’s soft-soled leather boots. He is already floating two inches off the ground - a cantrip he has been casting for so long he can do it trancing (and has, on one memorable occasion).
Over all of this, Essek steps into the heavy deep violet-blue of his mantle. A thick overjacket with wide sleeves, and a hem that falls to his feet, the jacket itself is heavily embroidered. In silk thread the same color of the dark indigo fabric, knots of squares and triangles bend in and out of each other, interlocking patterns that could be dodecahedrons. The shoulders of the mantle are wide, and reinforced with heavy quilting to support the silver armature that winds down both sides of the mantle, over the chest and back, and forms angular protrusions just over Essek’s shoulders, mimicking the chitinous armor patterns of Kryn soldiers. Essek of Den Thyless, Shadowhand of Bright Queen Leylas Kryn, has no need of true armor, but the weight of the mantle sends its own message to those who would seek to destabilize him.
Thus armored, Essek breathes carefully, and turns to Marin. “News?”
“Lady Olios has arrived, apparently with a dozen humans in her wake.” Marin is practically breathless when she finishes even this short sentence, eyes glittering. Essek absorbs what of it he can. She is well bred and well trained enough that she doesn’t grin at this news, intriguing though it is. Marin is a good servant, but she is an even better gossip, which every now and then comes in exceedingly handy. It isn’t often that the Shadowhand is suprised, but wonders never cease.
“Of whom did you hear this?” He asks, already stepping towards the door.
“Ios.” She says. A servant of one of the lesser cousins of Den Mirimm. It is possibly good information. Humans. A dozen?
“A dozen?” Essek asks, and Marin nods, and then ducks a quick bow as he steps out of the door. “That is what Ios said, sir. Knowing Ios, I’d say the number might be closer to, half of that? Maybe?”
Still. Six, maybe seven humans, transported directly into the heart of the dynasty. Essek gives Marin a quick nod as thanks, and sweeps out of his house, his mantle fluttering behind him as he floats towards the Lucid Bastion.
2. Vurmas Outpost, Eiselcross
Essek sighs heavily as he steps back onto the deck of the Outpost, feeling the relative warmth wash over him as drows and orcs mill about him. It is indulgent, a moment of weakness, and one of the soldiers assigned to him glances over, a wry smile on his face. Essek tries not to meet his gaze, or share in the acknowledgement. He can hear the after-hours chatter now - ah, the Shadowhand is just as susceptible as the rest of us, isn’t he? The snide tone in his head stings, and then he realizes the voice sounds quite a lot like Beau, and only barely catches his smile in time. He is uncomfortable, surrounded by soldiers who know him only as his title, and further afield, miles and miles of snow and ice, pockmarked with enemies and ancient technology specifically crafted to hurt people like him. He think of his… colleagues, on the other side of the frozen fields, somewhere, and reminds himself not for the first time, to be friendly to the few allies he has in this desolate place.
He meets the soldier’s gaze. “I always think I am going to get used to it, but I haven’t yet.”
One of the other soldiers huffs out a laugh, “This is my third year posted here, Shadowhand. Trust me, you never do.”
The men grumble and shiver, stomping ice-caked boots on the deck, some of them already peeling off their outermost layers. Essek escapes to the small dark room allotted to him, and lights a candle before beginning his own lengthy disrobing process.
His leather gloves are first. Supple enough to move his fingers to cast spells, and enchanted so that the otherwise too-thin leather will hold in the heat of his hands, they are possibly the most important garment Essek owns out here. He is certainly no use in hand-to-hand combat, and so it is of utmost importance that he can cast here as easily as he could in his library at home. When he peels the leather off, he stretches his fingers out - they already feel colder without the extra protection, and he can see grayish lines running over his knuckles that he knows will crack and bleed if he does not take care.
Boots then, once his hands are free, unlacing the frozen ties with a cantrip. The are heavy-soled, already more wet than frozen in the relative warmth of the Outpost’s interior. For the first time since being a teenager and proving a point, he has not been floating everywhere, out here. Reserving even that miniscule amount of magical energy feels wise to him in a place like this, as he is never sure what spells or action might disrupt the fragile balance and put either himself or his soldiers in danger. The boots are heavy, sturdy, and ugly - a far cry from the slippers he wears at court.
Next, the huge, heavy leather jacket that falls past his knees. The leather has been treated so as to be a light gray, easier to camouflage in the snow. The fur inside of it is gray and black, and peeks out around the edges of the enormous hood. The design of it is such that the open panels at front are fastened together only after overlapping them, acting as duble-thick leather armor and also ensuring that it is quite difficult to sit down in. Essek has heard the soldiers joking about being able to simply lay down with the thing on, and taking a nap inside of it, warm and tucked away from the world. He only hopes they are not doing so while on watch. Even so, it is finely made, and feels as if it is as heavy as Essek is himself, especially with melted snow still sloughing off of it. Essek spells it dry, and hangs it up, knowing he’ll likely need it again soon. Next to it hangs his other over-jacket, this one only slightly less practical, as it is enchanted to keep heat in, but much less stealthy in the snow and ice. It is a deep purple, heavily embroidered in geometric patterns around the wide cuffs and hem, much like his mantle back in Rosohna, but including a heavy cuff of white fur. The white jacket is good for moments when the soldiers spy some new hint of Aeor, some magical artifacts they need him to look at, just after the scouting party but ahead of any real mission, as acting Taskhand of Vurmas. He leaves the other one for work aboard the ships, when he is acting more completely in his role of Shadowhand. Vurmas Outpost is well-built, as all seafaring vessels must be, and so Essek’s rooms are not drafty, but without the weight of the jacket, he is suddenly aware of a layer of sweat and grime between his skin and the layers of clothing he is still wearing, and shivers.
Next, a heavily woven tunic, also knee-length, is unbuttoned. It is embroidered around cuffs and hem with small geometric designs that form into dodecahedrons, in a black thread only slightly darker than the nubby dark blue cloth it sits on. Here and there, a small piece of silver is embroidered in, flashing bright against the dark fabric. More of a secondary jacket than anything else, and the same textured fabric as his trousers, it is heavy - another layer that, once gone, exposes more of his sweat, if not his skin.
Trousers next, embroidered in the same design around the waistband, with the same bits of silver as the jacket. He does truly shiver then, the sweat under the next two layers of clothing evaporating rapidly in the dry warmth of the Outpost. Under jacket and trousers, Essek has a softer sweater on, knit with the long hair of the strange goats that call the foothills of Ebonglass Massif their home. The knit is pale gray, as the goats are, but as Essek pulls the fabric over his head, the fibers catch the firelight and reflect it back with a bluish sheen, like the innermost heat of a forge. The sweater is heavy, as all Essek’s clothes here are, and although the design is unadorned, meant for practical use, their is a subtle beauty to the unearthly yarn. There are stories about the goats, as there are countless tales of the Ebonglass range itself, and of the frightening qualities they possess. Hooves of slate, that strike sparks into the obsidian rock they call home, curved horns that glimmer like pearls, a bloodlust that would surprise you, given their size. The goats themselves have been domesticated, very slowly and carefully, by pockets of bugbears attempting to make their home in the Ebonglass Massif alongside the harrowing dangers and strangeness. Essek knows some of this from books, the rest he picked up from Arn Mirimm, who gave Essek the sweater in thanks for saying a few words to the Bright Queen about her son, Silus. Silus still got sent to do a decade of service in Bazzoxan, for all of Essek’s trouble, but he supposes that it might have been the thought that Arn appreciated - the fact that the Shadowhand stuck his neck out, even a tiny bit, when he so rarely takes the time for anyone else. Essek never liked Silus - he is loud and dramatic, and prone to flirting when he is drinking, but at the time being in the debt of someone in Den Mirimm had seemed potentially advantageous, and so he had consented. Personally, Essek had been indifferent to Silus spending the same decade in one of Rosohna’s hidden subterranean torture chambers, but now he has a sweater, and Silus Mirimm might even have gotten ripped apart by a demon in Bazzoxan. One could always hope. The sweater, like the goats it is made from, is fire resistant, much good it will do him here.
Finally, his undershirt and ankle-length pants, both in a lighter knit than the goat sweater, hug his frame. They are damp with leftover sweat, and he pulls them off quickly, along with Verin’s necklace, his rings and earrings. In the corner of his small room is an empty tin bucket, which Essek fills with water that he creates from the moisture in the air. He tries, as always, not to think about how he might even be re-using his own sweat to get clean, and indeed, his skin feels drier as the bucket fills with tepid water. It is not a luxurious way to get clean, but it is better than spelling himself, which he has rarely had to do before but always makes him feel slightly grubbier. He had not been expecting creature comforts when he asked to be stationed as far from Rosohna as possible, and in any case, the tin pail makes him feel a bit better, it is more than he deserves.
He had not been expecting the guilt that would follow him from the deck of the Balleater to the deck of the Candlefire, after decades without a trace of it. It is difficult not to think of himself as a sweating prey animal, hiding underneath layers - whether the white of Taskhand or the purple of Shadowhand. He washes quickly, and begins the process of getting dressed again - jewelry, clean undergarments, his freshly spelled goat sweater, trousers. It is only when he is shaking the wet tendrils of his hair out of his face that he hears Jester’s familiar voice in his head. She does not introduce herself in the usual way, but she does not need to, she has been messaging consistently in the last few days. He has already warned the soldiers to be on the lookout for a motley group of humans, a particularly green orc, and a bright blue tiefling.
“Okay, we’re on route…” She rambles off about spires, which surprises him, he had not expected them to be so close already, but it is good. He has been thinking about his… colleagues, quite a bit, since the Mighty Nein, in their confounding, inexplicably earnest way, brokered peace between the nations.
Essek pulls on the purple, white-fur lined jacket, feeling as though he is, not for the first time, pulling the role of Shadowhand on as if it were a disguise. He does not know who he is fooling anymore, and he tries not to think of the last time he saw the Mighty Nein, and the tenderness with which Caleb pressed his forehead to Essek’s own.
The Shadowhand takes a careful breath, and steps outside.
3. Zadash, Dwendalian Empire
Essek is breathing hard when he lands on the teleportation circle, deep inside the Cobalt Soul’s library in Zadash. For a long moment, he keeps his eyes closed, and listens to nothing but his own breathing, fast and rough in his ears. When he opens his eyes, a young-looking human straightens on the stool she is perched on. Both of her hands are out in front of her, and Essek can see the faint magical shimmer of the air between them dissipate as she recognizes him.
“Mistress save me, it’s just you, Seth.” Yvonne lowers her brown hands and smiles at him from underneath a froth of darker hair.
“Yvonne, the password.” He reminds her mildly, and she straightens up again, frowning.
“Oh right, let’s hear it, then.” She tells him, her hands once again raised, as if she’s going to cast magic at him if he fails. Essek can name six spells off the top of his head that he could have cast in the last thirty seconds that would have killed her outright. But he’s still breathing hard from teleporting in, and it seems like a lot of trouble, just then.
“Behold the plans of the Beholder, for they are many to behold. Those that would look into them will soon grow very cold.” It’s a nonsense Dwendalian child’s rhyme, but he recites it by heart, as anyone who teleports in or out of the Zadash Archives must do. The last year has been fraught, for once not because of tensions with the Dynasty, but with moon-addled whispers in the streets. Even - maybe especially - among the paranoid, secret-keeping librarians and expositors, Essek can feel something tightening around them all. Those who would claim sanctuary within the Library’s walls must be more careful now then ever, and so the rhyme changes weekly, and a guard is always posted at every teleportation circle to assess anyone arriving. He thinks it might be a good idea to speak to the High Curator about Yvonne’s lax attitude.
Yvonne drops her hands and smiles at him. “I’ll be better about it, next time.” She assures him.
“See that you are, you’re our first line of defense.” But as he steps past her, he pats her on the shoulder, anyway. If he was a religious sort of person, he might pray to ensure she does stay safe, regardless of who may come through the circle, but he is not, so he only hopes that her assurance is a true one, for her sake.
Essek has arrived in the wee hours of the morning, and while he can hear soft words and see candles burning here and there, overall, the library is as quiet as it gets. When he crosses paths with someone he knows, he asks about Beau’s whereabouts, and gets a head shake in response. She hasn’t been back in several days, still out on her most recent task. He tries not to worry.
His room at the Library is small, like many of the other archivists’. A simple bed, washstand, and chest. A single window, that looks out into the courtyard, rather than the street - a concession he asked for, and was readily given. He sets his leather satchel down, and catches the movement in the small mirror hanging on the wall. A pale human with messy brown hair stares back at him, dressed in the bright blue robes of a Cobalt Soul archivist. He blinks, and in that moment, pulls the threads of the disguise away, and Archivist Seth Domade is replaced by his own reflection. He still feels a bit wild-eyed, getting woken from his trance, to hastily making a teleportation circle, and then disappearing out - he had not been expecting to be hunted down. He had not been expecting others, quieter and more stealthy than him, also in Uthodurn, also looking for ancient texts that mention Ruidus.
Or at least, he assumes they are looking for the same texts as he, he cannot imagine why else a member of the Cobalt Soul would be woken and harassed in the middle of the night, in Uthodurn, of all places. He really should speak to the High Curator, but he thinks it can wait until after he gets a full rest in.
He turns away from the mirror, and pulls off one of his two rings. The moonstone-set band is a pocket dimension - he sets it on the tiny nightstand. The other, simpler band he keeps on, even to trance - it keeps him from being scryed on, much good it did him this evening. His other fingers are empty. Somewhere in the last year, he has misplaced the ring given to him by his mother, the Umavi of Den Thyless. Somewhere between a near miss like tonight, or in battle, or perhaps it now lives under the couch, at one of the homes of his friends, scattered across the continent. Essek does not imagine he will see that particular ring ever again, and although his hands feel emptier, it seems right in a way, that even such a small connection back to his old life should be stripped from him.
He thinks of his mother occasionally, but he think of Verin more often. He wonders sometimes if Verin is still posted in Bazzoxan, defending the Dynasty against the endless horde of demons. Sometimes, Essek misses him. It feels almost the same way he misses being Shadowhand - not with any desire to go back to that part of his life, not in any way to reconnect with his estranged brother - but in the way that he misses old routines, the weight of his mantle, the comfort of the Marble Tomes. Essek misses certainty, despite everything he has gained in this second half-life. The Verin that lives in Essek’s memory is always upright, clear-eyed, and certain. He does not know if he could face his brother now, given his own history. Certainly, he could never tell Verin the whole truth. Even a partial truth would be horrible, possibly violent - as children, Verin had a very low tolerance for Essek’s bending of time and truth, Essek imagines he would have even less patience for it now. And Essek is, after all, a coward.
Next, he pulls off his long woolen jacket. Even far from his role of Shadowhand, habits are difficult to break, and he still prefers a floor-length jacket. This one is a dark charcoal grey, more neutral then the deep purple mantle, even though he spends most of his time in public under the human archivist illusion. The shoulders are reinforced - quilted over to provide extra structure and armor, as well as warmth in the cold Dwendalian winters. The inside is lined with small pockets, many of which are currently filled with spell components.
His clothes are two days old, as road weary as he is. He pulls the tan sweater he is wearing over his head. Its a loose, shapeless sort of garment, utility over substance, that acts as an extra layer under his jacket. It is just beginning to smell truly musty, and he is grateful for the soft nighttime breeze blowing in from the window.
Under the sweater, a long-sleeved linen shirt that he pulls off and replaces with a fresher one from the trunk at the foot of the bed. Verin’s stone swings and resettles itself against Essek’s chest as he does so, he does not pull the chain off from around his neck.
The shirt is roomy, the sleeves so long that Essek has to fold the cuffs up twice, and he gives up on trying to tuck the hem in. None of these clothes - either the ones on his person or the ones in this room - have been made particularly for him. Many of them are cast-offs from other members of the Archive, and fit accordingly. The tan sweater is bigger than Essek is, and the cotton shirt he pulls from the chest fits more like a tunic on his thin drow frame, but it’s no matter. He hardly even notices it, anymore.
His trousers and underthings he leaves as-is. He will have time to bathe and review his notes from Uthodurn with the High Curator in the morning, and he means to wait and speak to Beau ahead of leaving again, if only because they keep missing one another at the Archive, and he… well, he misses her sharp wit and easy way of cutting through to the center of things, and his ambush has unseated even the small amount of security he feels he has built as Seth Domade. He will not set out again, no matter what plans the High Curator might have, without consulting her first. He also hopes that she will have news of Caleb, as the pair of them have crossed paths more often than Essek and Caleb have, in the last few months. It is the nature of their skillsets: there are very few arcane problems that need two wizards to tackle. Much more often, a wizard could use a spare bit of muscle, which Beauregard is only too capable of providing. So, Essek and Beau run across each other, and Beau and Caleb run across each other, but Essek has been finding himself on the other side of the continent from Caleb more often than not, and is often reminding himself that his friends do not owe him anything they have not already given to him, even if the thing is simply an hour’s chat over tea. Wizards are, he reminds himself, a solitary breed.
Still, he lies in the narrow bed of the Zadash Archive and wonders what his friends are up to. He hopes that they are safe. He think that maybe the next time Jester rolls her eyes and asks him if he wants to learn Sending, he might take her up on it, finally.
4. Nicodranas, Menagerie Coast
Essek has been to Fevergulf Lake and the Iothia Moorlands. He knows what swamps are, how humidity feels outside the relatively cool dry air of Rosohna. And yet, he is not ready for the blinding sun, and the way it beats down at all angles, from every direction, on the Menagerie Coast. His travel worn, sweat-stained shirt sticks to his skin in all the wrong places, despite the cool, briny breeze that flutters the Lavish Chateau’s translucent window drapes.
Essek has only just gotten into town, taking longer than expected to ensure he has not been followed or observed. A week out from the Zenith festivals that have taken place all up and down the coast, Essek used the effusive celebrations to hide in, first teleporting into Port Damali and then traveling with a caravan up towards the capital city. He hopes his meandering, circutous route makes it so that any prying eyes intent on noticing patterns of his movements will be flummoxed. In the quiet of the room he has been given, with only the laughter and chatter of the street three floors below, he feels as if he might be able to relax, even if just for a moment. It has been a long time, he thinks, since he has felt even this safe.
After shucking his road-wearied clothing, and taking what feels like the first bath he’s had in a year, he considers the garments that have been laid out for him on the bed. Caleb assured him, just before leaving him to his solitude, that Jester and Beau picked them out specifically for him. This is only comforting insofar as, he is certain, Caleb’s own garments were picked by them as well, and looked fairly normal. Essek is certain that it is only Beau’s love for utility that has kept both his own outfit and Caleb’s from any ruffles or glitter. He only hopes that the shirt provided is long enough to cover his torso, although in these temperatures, he might possibly understand the temptation otherwise.
To his relief, the soft linen slides over his shoulders with a long hem that just grazes the waistband of the cotton underpants he’s also been provided with. The linen is a light gray, with long sleeves that Essek knows he will sweat through, but is grateful for. He buttons up several buttons, but leaves the neck open, as he has seen many of the locals wearing their shirts. He doesn’t know what the traditions are for formal events on the Coast, but he doubts Fjord and Jester will mind. Next is Verin’s obsidin shard, which he tucks into the open neckline, hiding it from view. The chain is still visible, blinking dully from months spent on the road, but it is comforting and familiar. A single silver ring in each ear, and three rings on his fingers - one on his left hand, keeping him from being scryed on, one on his right, a pocket dimension set in a shimmering circle of moonstone, and a third, utterly normal, a gift from his Umavi, from decades ago.
The trousers are a deep blue, and crisper than he is expecting. He has seen the drapey, loose fabrics the locals wear here, but these are more structured, a fact he finds that he is grateful for. They feel familiar - still a far cry from his layers of silk, or the mantle he once wore, but well made. A matching length of fabric heavily embroidered in deep greens, bright blues, and the occasional purple is next. Essek picks it up, the texture of the embroidery smooth under his hands. He’s not entirely sure what to do with it - It is as long as his armspan, and almost as wide. The fabric is thin, so perhaps it’s a shawl? A headscarf? A belt, even? He leaves it on the bed. It is louder and brighter than anything Essek has ever owned, so completely of the Menagerie Coast. It is practically tame, compared even to the bright blue and red tones of Jester and her mother, both of whom crushed Essek in hugs as he walked in the door, despite his sweat-stained clothing. Still, he leaves it on the bed, only a little nervous.
Over the shirt and pants, he slides a vest over his shoulders, made of the same deep blue fabric as the pants. It is merely ornamental, he supposes, not needing to confer warmth in this climate, but it was provided to him, and thus he wears it. Only a thin line of green and blue flowers snakes around the hem, but Essek smiles a little at the pattern. He thinks of Jester, picking it out just for that.
He thinks that the final item, in the small pile of clothes set aside for him, is the wide straw hat on the bed. He almost doesn’t take it - it feels silly even holding it in his hands, rough and well-used, a streak of what looks like grass stained in a smear along one edge of the brim. It looks well used, second or third hand. Perhaps someone picked it off a roadside stall as a last minute thought. Still, as rough as it is, he is grateful for it, otherwise he knows he will spend the day cringing in shadows and looking for places to hide. Resigned, he places it atop his head, and is only grateful there are no mirrors in this room.
He is surprised to find a smaller item, tucked under the hat and only now revealed to him. He leans down and gently unfolds a pair of wireframe glasses, the lenses tinted a midnight blue. Like the long pants and sleeves he is wearing, he is utterly charmed that his friends have not only remembered that he is sensitive to sunlight, but have gone out of their way to provide him a way to comfortably celebrate with them. He slides the glasses on, feeling a bit foolish, just as a knock sounds at the door. From under the brim of the wide hat, Essek freezes.
“It’s only me.” Caleb says softly from the other side, but he does not turn the handle, or open the door. Essek takes a steadying breath.
“You may enter, but if you laugh at me, I am teleporting out of here.” It’s an empty threat, Essek is very grateful to not be teleporting anywhere for at least the next day or so.
“I am not going to laugh.” Caleb tells him, his voice clearer as he pushes the door open, sounding fond and warm. Happy, Essek thinks, and lets his shoulders relax.
Caleb grins when he sees Essek, sun glasses, hat and all. The skin around his eyes crinkles, and Essek shakes his head, trying very hard not to smile back.
“You are laughing!” He insists. Caleb puts his hands up, and shakes his head.
“I am not laughing!” Caleb leaves the door open, takes two steps into the room, and places a hand just above Essek’s hip. This is not new, but it still feels like it, Essek’s pulse creeping up even before Caleb touches him. “You look lovely.” Caleb says, the mirth only just subdued, but still alight in his eyes.
“So do you.” Essek tells him, surprised despite himself to see Caleb not in his usual browns, but in deep emerald green, his clothing styled quite like Essek’s own. Caleb is not wearing a vest, as Essek is, but has knotted a bright scarf patterned in red and orange and pink around his neck. It looks quite like the one Essek has left on the bed. “Who has dressed us?”
“Not me, obviously.” Caleb laughs and looks down at himself, and when his eyes shoot back up to Essek’s, Essek thinks he catches the start of a sunburn on Caleb’s face. “You are not wearing the scarf?”
“Ah,” Essek starts, and picks up the square of material, letting the cool weight of it slide through his fingers. “I was uncertain as to it’s purpose?”
Caleb smiles. “Ornamentation? We’ve all got one, though. Better not insult the bride.” He pats his own neck, where the ends of his loose auburn hair look almost drab next to the scarf’s bright colors.
Essek sighs, resigning himself to looking like an exotic bird all night. It is only slightly alleviated by the knowledge that Caleb will also be similarly feathered. Instead of wrapping it around his neck, he winds the fabric into roll, and ties the ends together at one hip. He feels foolish, doubly so with Caleb’s eyes on him, so he steps back and holds out his hands for approval.
Caleb steps forward and takes his hands, and a shock of warmth snakes up both of Essek’s arms. He always forgets how calloused Caleb’s hands are. He always forgets how much he likes them.
Essek is leaning into Caleb’s touch when a voice sounds from the open door.
“Are you guys ready, or what?” Caleb turns, and both Essek and he glance over towards the door.
“Beauregard, you are interrupting.” Caleb admonishes, the warmth and fondness in his voice not diminishing in the slightest. Essek is, for a brief moment, wildly aware of the man in his arms and the annoyed woman at the door and how badly he loves both of them, and this moment in time they are all inhabiting, together.
She rolls her eyes. “You left the door open,” she admonishes back. Essek knows how long this could take, and he cuts in.
“Beauregard, you look beautiful. That’s quite a nice color on you.” That stops her, but he means it. He is used to seeing her in the cobalt blue of her order’s robes, but today she is in violet - a pair of loose pants, worked over in embroidery of leaves and flowers of the same bright hue, and a bra top in the same color. Over these, a translucent shirt, also violet but a slightly brighter shade, showing off her endless rows of abdominal muscles and the layers of thin gold chains around her neck. She is sporting a scarf in tones of teal and purple, slung around her waist.
“Thanks, Essek. Nice shades.” She smirks.
“Thank you. Did you pick them out?” He asks, genuinely curious.
“No, Caduceus reminded us you’d need them. The hat is his, so you better take care if it. Clay family heirloom.”
Essek’s free hand goes straight to the brim of the straw hat, instantly self conscious. His immediate impulse is to pull it off, give it back, and he restrains himself only at the last moment.
Caleb and Beau both notice the movement, of course they do. Essek tries hard not to flush a darker purple, and is almost certain he fails.
“He brought like, four other hats.” Beau tells him, her voice wry. “I don’t even think that’s the nicest one, you should probably feel insulted, honestly.”
“Thank you, Beauregard. I will remember to be. Thoroughly.” Nevertheless, some of the tension ekes out of his shoulders.
She grins at him, tips her head in a mocking salute, and turns to leave, waving a hand at them both. “Don’t make me get sentimental, Thyless. Yasha and I are drinking downstairs, come on.”
Caleb links his fingers through Essek’s, casually and easily, and Essek lets himself get tugged towards the staircase.
“You are going to cry like a little baby.” Caleb calls out to Beau’s back.
Essek can practically hear her sneer. “Nuh uh, not before you do.”
“Am I hearing a wager?” Caleb asks mildly.
“You’re on, Widogast.”
In the end, they both start crying before Jester is even halfway down the aisle. Yasha meets Essek’s gaze over the top of Beau and Caleb’s heads and winks at him, and it is all he can do to keep from laughing.
5. Aeor, Eiselcross
Essek wakes, disoriented. He can feel his heart beating in his ears, and he has the slight headache that always accompanies him out of true unconsciousness. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it. He feels sore all over.
It is a relief, at least, to be waking up in the nein-sided tower. Even without his help, Caleb must have been able to raise the structure, which means that no new threats accosted them while Essek was indisposed. Gingerly, he sniffs his clothing, and wrinkles his nose at the briny, rank smell coming from them. It reminds him of the Menagerie Coast, which is odd enough, this far into the ice, and deep underground. He has no idea what time it is, and scrambles through his memories of the previous day, trying to piece together why his clothes smell strangely, and how he came to be unconscious.
The abomination had not been intelligent. More importantly, it didn’t have anything resembling eyes. Which could have meant nothing, this deep into Aeor, but Essek and Caleb had observed the creature for a few moments, until Caleb cast dancing lights, sending them silently into what would have been the creature’s purview. It hadn’t reacted, so they felt safe enough to climb down into the chamber. So long as they stayed out of it’s way, and stayed quiet, the many-legged crustacean seemed to not notice or care about their presence. They passed almost an hour in this way, and were getting ready to move on, when… Caleb sneezed.
The monstrosity was not overly large, but it moved faster than Essek had been ready for, immediately blocking their exit and making a horrible wheezing noise as it snapped its mandibles near Caleb’s face. Thankfully, not having any sense of sight meant that they were able to get the upper hand on it fairly quickly, but as Essek shot a relatively minor evocation spell at it, his vision had suddenly gone strange, and he felt his body hit the floor with a wet-sounding slap.
He doesn’t remember much after that, his scant memories flickering in and out. He remembers trying to focus on breathing, and Caleb’s familiar voice, but not being able to understand the words. He has a sense that at one point, Caleb had put him down somewhere… that Caleb had been carrying him…
Essek shakes his head, and then regrets it. Even that small movement sends a fresh wave of pain through his body. He pulls himself out of bed, all of his limbs aching, and washes as quickly as he can, grateful to be able to pull off the stinking clothes.
He doesn’t know if it is the water that he washes with, or something jogging in his blurry memories, but the smell of his clothes suddenly clicks in his brain. Brine. Like the ocean. Like…
He groans out loud, and presses his palms to his face. He must have… transformed? The strange undulating magic of Aeor had reduced him to something wet, and slimy, and… and Caleb had carried him around. Had brought him here. He can feel the skin under his palms warming, and presses his fingers into the thin skin under his eyes, as if he can keep the sudden blush in if he presses hard enough. What had he become? What had Caleb carried around, for possibly hours? Essek had been utterly helpless, he remembers only wiggling a bit, and Caleb’s voice, as if from far away, muttering in Zemnian.
Essek blinks, and then pulls his hands from his face. It has only just occurred to him that he is utterly alone in his room, for the first time ever. No cats accost him with plaintive meows, no small bodies curled up next to him when he woke. Had he been dangerous? Had he possibly hurt Caleb while getting carried around Aeor?
Essek hastily dries his body and pulls on a fresh pair of long woven pants and a matching long-sleeved undershirt.
Next, he pulls on a pair of trousers: heavy wool, dark grey. The fabric has a pleasant texture to it, slight variations in the weave, a pattern he always feels as if he can figure out, but never does. These he bought in Uthodurn, from an elderly dwarven tailor who enchanted them to hold in body heat. Essek pulls on a heavy pair of socks and tucks the ends of his trousers into the heavy pair of boots he has brought, one of the few pieces of Xhorhasian clothing he has kept with him. The boots are heavy, a gray leather that has seen much use in the years since Essek was Taskhand of Vurmas Outpost.
Over his knit undershirt, he pulls on a thick sweater - dark grey and cable knit in a nubby yarn. His enchanted goat sweater, much used and with a hole near the elbow, is a victim of whatever wayward spell Essek caught the day before, reeking of the sea and in a pile on the floor along with his other clothing.
Essek finds his usual jewelry neatly piled on his bedside table, had Caleb also done that? He pulls on his rings - the anti-scrying band, the moonstone pocket dimension, and slides a single silver ring into each ear. Around his neck, he lets Verin’s stone hang loose, instead of tucking it in to his sweater.
Several cats meow plaintively at him when he creaks his bedroom door open, and two of them slink past his ankles. He’s pretty sure the calico is named Jinx, the other one he isn’t sure about. Jinx seems to be the cat designated to care for his room, and Essek refuses to ask Caleb if the cat’s name is a joke meant for him.
Essek steps onto the floor’s central pedestal and thinks, “down.” The floor shifts open below his feet, as smooth as liquid, and just as soundless. Immediately, he can hear someone humming on the floor below. He does not think any of the cats hum, although at least one of them plays a violin, which Essek tries hard not to think about too closely. He takes the humming as another good sign - Caleb must have been in enough health after fighting off the monstrosity to raise the tower, put Essek to bed, and then wake up, presumably after a full rest, even earlier than Essek.
He has drifted halfway to the floor when Caleb steps around one of the bookshelves and spots him.
“Ah! Good morning. I am glad to see you awake.” Caleb grins wider, as Essek’s feet stop just short of the floor, and he glides off the central dais. “You are less scaly than you were this morning.”
Caleb sets the book in his hand down on a table filled with other books and papers, and Essek drifts closer, curious what he has been working on while he was unconscious. On the table, a pot of tea sends wisps of steam into the air. There is a cup with dregs already in it, but Caleb leans over to pour another, and hands it to Essek, who is grateful to have something to do with his hands. “Yes, I have you to thank for that.” He tells Caleb, and meets his gaze with a small smile of his own over the cup of tea. “Thank you. I…. don’t remember much.”
Caleb’s smile is warm. “I wasn’t sure, if you would retain your intellect or not. It did not seem so.” He shrugs. “You were very… wiggly.”
Essek takes a sip of the tea in what he knows is a futile attempt to hide his once-again burning face. “Wiggly?” He repeats the common word weakly, and Caleb laughs.
“Oh, you know -” Caleb presses his arms along the sides of his body and moves his hips out of sync with his shoulders. Carefully, he pronounces - “Fish?” in undercommon. His accent is terrible, but that is not what makes Essek wince.
“Ah, that is the mystery solved, then.” He tries to keep his voice light, not let the embarrassment of it show. As if he has any control over the magic of Aeor, as if he could have prevented it. Still. He considers his hazy memories of being carried. “A very large fish?”
Caleb stops wiggling and shrugs, still smiling. “I didn’t mind.” That isn’t exactly what Essek meant.
“How did you escape from the creature?”
Caleb blinks, surprised. “Your gravity sinkhole, as always, was remarkably efficient. It was no trouble getting away after that. I should be thanking you.” He is suddenly polite, a colleague appreciating his work, and Essek lets his shoulders drop in relief.
Essek finds an open chair and sits. It takes only a moment before a cat jumps into his lap, and immediately begins purring. Essek scratches behind the cat’s ears, and thinks about the instinct - survival, yes, but also to protect Caleb - that gave him the courage to cast, even when he knew he’d be risking Aeor’s unstable magical response. He thinks about Caleb, carrying him through the ruins until he landed somewhere he could create the tower. Gratitude and… affection, he realizes, roll through him, and it is a relief to be both physically safe and to feel both of those things. Caleb pours himself a cup of tea, comfortable in the silence as Essek digests his gratitude, and the flare of affection that tangled itself up his spine when Caleb complimented his spell. He takes a steadying sip of tea, and the cat in his lap meows.
Mostly, Essek is grateful to no longer smell like a fish, and maybe understands why his bedroom was locked while he rested.
“You did not let any of the cats eat me?” He asks, scratching behind the ears of the long-haired gray that has jumped into his lap. He tries for the lightness of his earlier comment, and thinks maybe he succeeds.
Caleb smiles at him over his own freshly poured cup. “No.” It seems impossible, how much fondness one can put in just two letters. Essek thinks that perhaps they are having two conversations at once, the thought thrilling and terrifying even as Caleb smiles at him. “I need you around for the moment I turn into…” He shrugs, still smiling. “A pocket watch? A potted plant?”
“Your survival instincts are truly unparalleled.” It is only after the words are out of his mouth that he freezes, remembering Caleb recounting years spent in a Dwendalian asylum, and months afterwards spent in the gutters of the Empire, scraping by with Nott as his only friend. Essek thinks about how many times he has seen Caleb stutter and cringe in battle, only to throw himself into harm’s way when one of his friends is hurt. He thinks about his own instincts to protect his wiley group of friends, the calm clear-eyed man in front of him. He looks up, ready to apologize, but Caleb is staring thoughtfully at two of the cats play-sparring in the corner by one of the bookshelves.
“I’ve learned from the best.” He says, and Essek thinks about their friends, and nods.
“I promise that, if turned into a delicate hothouse plant, you make it back here in one piece.” Essek tells him as gravely as possible, still playing the role of the polite colleague, and Caleb bows his head in gratitude, smiling all the while.
+1. Bazzoxan, Xhorhas
Essek isn’t sure what to wear.
He stands in his bedroom, in the small cottage in Rexxentrum, trunk and armoire standing wide open, trousers and shirts and jackets flung about on both bed and reading chair, in a riot of fabrics and colors. Some of the more patched-up, well worn travel items he disregards immediately, while others - mostly on the bed - lie piled up, waiting for review.
He feels childish and oddly naked, surrounded by all of his clothing, even in the perfectly serviceable (but completely wrong) shirt and trousers he has just tried on. Nothing feels as if it is right, and as the sun dips into the window, lengthening the shadows in the room, he can feel the machinery of his anxiety lighting up in his stomach.
This was a bad idea to start, and feels worse now - he can hear Veth’s derision in his head when he’d asked her for help, a week ago.
“I won’t tell him my name.” Veth told Essek stubbornly, as if it were a deal breaker.
“That is preferable.” Essek agreed.
“Does Caleb know you’re doing this?” She shot back, apparently unsatisfied with Essek agreeing with her.
“No.” Essek told her, feeling all at once like the Shadowhand of old. He was telling the truth: Caleb didn’t know, Essek has only come to the Brenatto’s to ask this, after his real goal - asking Yussa for a third opinion on a wizardly matter he was working on - had been concluded. Personally, Essek thought that Veth still suspected him of foul play more often than not, and he hoped that giving Veth a tiny piece of leverage over the situation would help. When her shoulders sank, and he felt all at once both satisfied and horrified at himself.
Veth shrugged. “It’s your funeral, elf boy.” She told him, and then squinted at him. “Why don’t you just learn this spell? I thought Jester taught it to you?”
“She did.” Essek told her. “I would… rather not assault him with…” Essek sighed, giving in to Veth’s raised eyebrow. “He thinks I am dead. I would rather a third party contact him first, and ah… assess.”
Veth watched him narrowly for a beat too long, then smacked her hands together, and grinned at Essek as he flinched. Point one for Veth, he thought.
“Vibe check, got it. What’s the message?”
Verin had not been pleased, but it had somehow worked anyway - he’d told Veth he’d be on rotation duty at Bazoxxan’s teleportation circle in a week’s time. Essek had been so relieved at the time that he’d reflexively thanked the Light, if at least in Verin’s name, rather than his.
Now, standing among the wreckage of his room, he presses his finger through his hair and closes his eyes, breathing slowly. Time has worked itself out - Caleb is out, teaching a late class for his more advanced students. Perhaps it is the Light’s work after all, Essek thinks, if only to confound him in his comfortable secrecy. He wishes that Caleb were home, that he had at least told him his plans. He doesn’t know if it would alleviate the heavy anxiety pulsing in his chest, but at least… he wouldn’t feel so very like his old self.
Well, perhaps the Shadowhand is what Verin is expecting. It is not… Essek sighs, and looks around at the trousers and shirts surrounding him. A pair of dark gray, heavy-knit trousers that have poorly-patched holes in them from acid and fire in Aeor. At least two sets of Cobalt Soul robes - one a deeper blue than the other. The dark eyeglasses from Fjord and Jester’s wedding. A pair of large hoop earrings that Kingsley pushed on him that he has never worn, and still isn’t sure why he owns. The bulky, holey lavender scarf Yasha knit for him two birthdays ago. A silk shirt that Caleb bought for him last year, with delicate yellow and purple flowers embroidered around the neck.
Essek sighs. Regardless of who Verin might expect, it is not the Shadowhand that he will get. Essek glances down at what he is wearing. A pair of deep green corded trousers, sturdy and warm in the Dwendalian autumn. They are slightly shiny at the knees, worn from kneeling in the garden on crisp spring mornings.
His shirt is woven cotton, soft, and a light sand color. Two large pockets sit over his chest - the right-hand pocket used more than the left, and looks a bit saggy. The shirt is long-sleeved, and there is a bright green grass stain near the left elbow. Essek rubs it, as if for luck.
Several silver rings and baubles hang from each ear, and on his finger, he only wears the anti-scrying band, his pocket dimension tucked carefully in the nightstand drawer, for when he travels. Verin’s pendant hangs heavy against his breastbone.
Agatha, the long-haired calico saunters through the door and looks at Essek as if to say, “So?” He looks back at her, but she provides him no answers. He knows that if he does not leave soon, he will miss Verin’s shift at the circle entirely.
Before heading down to the basement, he pulls on his heavy gray floor-length jacket and checks his reflection in the hallway mirror. The jacket is good - it looks a bit Xhorhasian, more so than the rest of his clothing. His hair needs cutting, he thinks. Maybe not? Maybe. He can’t help wondering what Verin will say.
Essek has not cast a teleportation circle to Bazzoxan in many years, but the pattern is not unfamiliar to him, after casting it a dozen or so times every year before he and Verin fell out of touch. It is only when the cool subterranean smell of the cellar in Rexxentrum is replaced by the more mineral scent of Bazzoxan that he inhales sharply.
He isn’t wearing a disguise. For the first time in years, he’s teleported straight into a Xhorhasian military stronghold, of all things, of all the stupid…
There is a sound from across the chamber. Like tearing parchment, or the crushing of a gravity sinkhole, or when one of the cats finds a particularly large spider where they aren’t expecting one.
Essek looks up and meets eyes almost identical to his own. He has not until this very moment realized how long it has been since he has looked another drow in the face, nevermind his brother. But it is Verin, who blinks at him in shock before his soldier’s training takes over, and suddenly there is very little distance between him and the business end of Taskhand Thelyss’ glaive.
Essek swallows. “Hello, Verin.”
“Fuck you.” Verin spits, and the edge of the glaive presses forward into the front of the jacket. Or at least, it should…
Essek holds his hands out on either side of him, and leans only an inch to the side, so that he can see over Verin’s shoulder into the archway leading out from the teleportation circle’s room. In the darkness of the archway, he can see another figure, shrouded in darkness.
“Your spellwork’s getting sloppy.” He notes, trying to sound calm, and nods at the Verin standing just in front of him. “Shouldn’t have tried to touch me.” The faintest shimmer of illusion ripples out from where the glaive should be cutting into his jacket, but isn’t.
“I don’t know who you are, but if you take a step further in, I’ll kill you where you stand.” The Verin in front of Essek speaks, but a shift of movement over his shoulder betrays his brother’s actual location under the arch. Any Xhorhasian knight with even a hint of magic is taught the spell, a dunamantic cantrip that has saved more than one life, giving their soldier’s a moment of confusion, of being in two places at once, that they need to escape or attack. Verin has never needed it to inflict harm on Essek.
All at once, there is a tugging at the base of Essek’s skull. He resists it for only a moment, and when he lets it wash over him, can feel bile in the back of his throat.
“This is new.” He notes, honestly surprised.
“You’ve been gone a while.” Verin responds, his voice mocking. Essek notes that it is no longer the echo speaking - the words drift out from underneath the dark archway. Now he understands why echo-Verin is there at all.
“Still, I wasn’t expecting a truth spell.” It only hurts a little, Essek thinks it would have hurt more if he’d still been Shadowhand.
“What’s your name?” The familiar voice from the archway asks, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to say his own name.
“Essek Thyless.” There is a pause from the archway.
“What name does your mother call you?”
“Verin, are we going to be at this all -”
“Answer the question.”
“Essek.” He responds, peeved at Verin’s commanding tone. “I’m not lying to you. Although sometimes when she’s really angry, she’ll call me ‘Yaril.’”
There is another pause, this one a beat longer. “Yaril Thyless was once well known, and perhaps still is.” Essek has to hold back a snort of derision. Suddenly weary, he opens his mouth before Verin can ask him another question.
“I doubt it. When I last spoke to him, he became so angry that his eldest son did not want to be consecuted - a process that I still wish to study and understand further before ever acquiescing to whatever semblance of an afterlife it might provide - that he told me, before running away and throwing himself into the same Abyss we stand so near to, that, and I quote - ‘I will teach you how bountiful and merciful the Light truly is, and will go into that place that you so scorn, you self-serving monster. May the darkness take back it’s filth before I return.’ Not much there to be remembered.” Essek shrugs. “And - I am here, and he has not emerged.” He says it as lightly as he can, but there is still too much acid in his voice, betraying him.
The pause from the archway is longer this time, but Essek does not move out of the circle, his hands wide and open at either side of him.
“I can’t believe you memorized that.” The voice says, and Essek watches as Verin’s shadowy silhouette stands, and steps into the room’s lamplight, his black chitinous armor reflecting the white light. “You’re such a fucking nerd.”
“It’s good to see you, too.” Essek means it, but it comes out sarcastic, anyway. Old habits.
“Are you dead?” Verin asks, and this time it sounds genuine.
Essek answers, the last dregs of Verin’s spell sloughing off of him. “Not yet.”
Verin nods, and turns away from Essek, climbing the stairs behind him. Essek follows, casting a small disguise spell on himself as he does. This one is closer to his actual appearance than anything he wears anywhere else. When Verin looks over his shoulder, he chokes out a laugh. Essek only glares back at him as they pass several soldiers in the hallways and chambers of the fort. Most of them are cleaning weapons, making food, playing card games in their down time. Some of them look at Essek, trying to parse out who the noble-looking drow with the dark silver hair is, but none of them stare. He breathes in and out, and twists the anti-scrying ring around on his finger as they walk.
Verin shuts them away in a well-appointed chamber, less spare than the other parts of the fort they’ve walked through. Here, a rug on the floor provides a break from the chill of the stone, and there is quite a nice tea set that Verin begins working with. Essek has not been here in decades, but Taskhand Thelyss’ rooms look the same as ever. It occurs to him, not for the first time, how different they have always been, and how very different their lives are now. Essek sits at a small table and drops the disguise, waiting quietly while Verin brews his tea. Verin doesn’t speak while he works, but there is an old familiarity to the way Verin thinks carefully before speaking, a skill Essek has only learned with time and well-worn practice.
“They told me you’d been killed.” Verin says finally, setting a steaming cup in front of Essek, and taking the chair across from him. He squints at Essek over the curls of steam coming off the tea in front of them. “Aeor.” He pronounces the word almost absentmindedly.
Essek nods. He thinks about the choices he’s made in the last few years - in the last week - that have finally brought him here, sitting across from a brother he has not talked to in over a decade. He wants to tell Verin that stealing the first beacon had been much more difficult - leagues so - than faking his own death, but he thinks that finding out your dead brother is still alive is enough of a revelation for one day. I might tell him someday, but even as he thinks it, he knows it isn’t true. Verin is bright and uncomplicated and kind, and Essek does not want to dim that light, even to lighten his own heart. It is a relief, all at once, sitting across the table from Verin, to be so far from the version of himself who committed the act.
“I… ah,” He presses the tips of his fingers into the ceramic mug, and feels the heat of the tea burning through. He thinks about drinking tea in a graveyard in the Savalirwood, and braces himself. He is still practicing being honest, and even a partial truth is difficult. He pronounces the words carefully. “I fell… in love.”
Verin whips his face up to stare at Essek. “What? You?”
Essek frowns, wishing he could take more offense. “Yes, Verin. Me.” He pauses to take a breath, but he’s already done the damage, there is nothing left to do but roll downhill. “He… we got to know each other, in Aeor. While I was in charge of Vurmas. He was in a scouting group that came through.” True enough. “From the Empire.” Half true. The half that was important, at least for this.
Verin is shaking his head, slowly, as if he’s trying to put the words together in a way that makes sense. Essek cannot blame him, entirely. The Essek that Verin had last spoken to, decades ago, was closed-off, cold, and utterly alone.
“You are the youngest drow in history to be offered the title of Shadowhand, of consecution, and you left because you fell in love with an Empire…” Verin breaks off, and covers his face in his hands. For a moment, Essek thinks he might be crying, and then a snort of laughter squeaks out from behind Verin’s hands. He rubs his eyes with his fingers and peers at Essek as if he were a two-headed bugbear. “Who in the hells are you, and what have you done with my brother?”
“Verin.” Essek frowns. He hadn’t been expecting to get laughed at, but then, he hasn’t spoken to Verin in twelve years, so perhaps he shouldn’t have been expecting anything.
“No, I’m serious.” Verin tells him, a smile suddenly creasing his face as a thought occurs to him. “Is he human?”
“Yes.” Essek says, tightly, and Verin barks out another laugh, wiping moisture from his eyes.
“Next, you will tell me you’ve been consecuted, after all.” Verin muses, and Essek huffs out a breath.
“I have not.”
“No, I didn’t think so.” Verin doesn’t look angry or disappointed, though, and finally picks up his mug to take a sip. Essek mimics the motion. The tea is minty, and quite good - clearly imported from the somewhere more civilized than this haunted outpost. “So, my genius, ruthless brother fakes his own death and leaves his ambitious post for a human lover. I think you are going to get one of those romantic novels written about you.”
“I certainly hope not.” He spits out, but the words genius and ruthless get stuck in his head, a loop that distracts him, but that also feels strangely like relief.
“Does mother know?”
“No, I…” It is impossible to explain everything without explaining everything. “I do not have any wish to return to my post as Shadowhand, or even to Rosohna. I don’t expect you to understand.”
Verin seems to consider this for a long moment, staring into his tea and then meeting Essek’s gaze. “You don’t want me to tell anyone we’ve spoken. You want to remain…” He pauses, but there’s not other word for it, “dead?”
“I would appreciate it.”
Verin tips his head to the side, and laughs, not unkindly. “It seems we’ve both got too much of Dad in us, after all.”
“Oh, fuck off.” Essek tells him, more reflex than actual anger. “Is that why you’re rotting here? Hoping he’ll show up in one of these teenagers, someday?”
Verin shrugs. He doesn’t take the bait, and Essek feels unmoored to have been the one pushed into an emotional reaction. “No.” He tilts the dregs of his cup towards him, as if he is reading his own future in the settled leaves at the bottom of his empty mug. Essek sits in the silence, not entirely comfortable, and watches Verin think. “I don’t miss him. But you never… you were never interested in the high holy days or the mystery of the beacons, not like… you know, not like the rest of us.” Essek has to bite his tongue to keep from arguing, but he knows that in a way, Verin is right. “I know you were more involved in all the political shit in the city, I’ve never held that against you. But… I’m doing something, out here. Defending. Protecting. Following the path of Light.” Essek can hear the capital in his brother’s voice, the quiet reverence with which he says the word. He remembers his mother and father, both of them zealots with the same reverence. Instilling it - with as much force as they deemed necessary - into both of their new-souled sons. In Verin’s quiet speech, Essek can hear what he never heard in his parents’. Humility. Awe. He and Verin share the same scars, perhaps, but where Essek turned towards logic and books to ease the sting and find some measure of control, Verin turned the other way, carving his own path of understanding, half a continent away from Deirta’s influence.
Essek nods, struck by Verin’s quiet gravity. “Okay.” Verin glances up to meet his gaze, and Essek repeats it. “Okay.”
Verin nods back, the first time in decades that both of them have agreed on anything. Essek feels the weight of all that lost time, and the weight of all of the choices they’ve both made, the gulf of their separate lives splitting between them.
“Oh,” he says, suddenly remembering. Gently, he pulls the chain out from under his shirt collar, and Verin frowns at the shard of black stone until his eyebrows fly up in recognition.
“’Weird and uncomfortable’ are the words I think you used.” Essek tells him, and Verin blinks, surprised.
“Right! Is it still magical?”
Essek blinks, and looks up, surprised. “No? Was it ever?”
“Yeah! That’s… wait, why did you think I sent it to you?”
Essek blinks at him. “I thought you were trying to piss me off.”
Verin rolls his eyes. “There’s a stone.” He says, and puts an arm out, pointing over Essek’s shoulder, presumably somewhere outside the fort. “Some of the lads stumbled on it, in a chamber from the main structure that got caved in at some point, got cut off.” Essek thinks about the horrifying Abyssal tower just outside the small outpost, of all the demons crawling through it, and shivers.
“Yeah, you’re telling me.” Verin says companionably, watching Essek shiver. “Anyway, we cleared out the few demons that got stuck on the wrong side of the rubble, and there’s this whole wall made of that black stone - like a dark mirror. Some of the others said they could see figures in it, others saw nightmarish creatures. Anyone stationed there overnight by themselves went crazy, started attacking the wall.” Verin shakes his head, and suddenly the inert piece of rock in Essek’s hand feels malevolent.
“And so you sent me a piece?”
Verin nods, sips his tea. “Thought you’d find it interesting.”
Essek blinks at him, and drops the piece of stone to swing around his neck so that he too, can cover his face and laugh. He’s not even sure what he’s laughing at, really. Only that he is grateful to be here, and grateful to be laughing about the cursed rock his brother sent him, that he’s been wearing around his neck for the last decade.
Verin watches him, bemused. “Makes more sense why you didn’t talk to me after that.”
“I thought you were being a piece of shit.”
Verin grins back at him. “Not that time. It really wasn’t cursed?” He almost sounds disappointed, and Essek can’t help another peal of laughter from curling out of him. He presses his hands into his eye sockets for a long moment before dropping his hands, still smiling.
“I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you for a decade,” he tells Verin. It’s so easy to say that it must be the truth. Verin nods, thoughtfully.
“You should come back and visit.” Verin says. “I’ll take you to the weird rock. You can bring your boyfriend.”
The thought of Verin and Caleb in the same room, sizing each other up, almost sends Essek into another hysterical fit. He thinks of Beau’s glare, and Fjord’s gentle manners, and wonders if Verin would like tea from the Savalirwood. He is actually curious about the big, weird black rock. He thinks Caleb might be too, when he tells him about it.
Ep. Rexxentrum, Dwendalian Empire
Essek appears silently in the carefully worked, but still very rustic, teleportation circle in the basement of an unassuming house in Rexxentrum. The basement smells of earth and damp, and Essek thinks, as the runes marked into the ground flare up at his appearance and then dim, that they should probably reinforce the magic. This particular circle gets a lot of use, and in these uncertain times, Essek doesn’t think that is likely to change anytime soon. Still, the familiar damp smell, as well as the surrounding shelves packed with gemstones, charcoal, wool, and any other spell component a wizard might need in a pinch, is comforting.
It is just past sundown in the city, and even in this small house, tucked away on a corner, Essek can hear children yelling and laughing outside. He thinks about Verin, and tries not to wonder when the next time they might cross paths again will be. It is enough to know that Verin is out there, maybe wondering the same thing about Essek.
Upstairs, he expects the small house to be quiet, but instead of darkness and lounging cats, there is the flicker of lantern light in the kitchen, and the familiar herbal funk of one of Caduceus’ tea blends.
Carefully, he steps towards the open archway leading into the kitchen, and sure enough, surrounded by all three of the house’s cats, Caleb sits at the small wooden table, an ancient book propped in front of him. At Essek’s appearance, he looks up, looking more tired than Essek has seen him in a while.
“Hello.” Essek says softly. He wants to say, weren’t you staying late to help students tonight? but that will only make him look guilty. He tries very hard not to lie these days, especially to Caleb.
Caleb puts a hand out and slides the second cup of tea closer to the open chair. “How did it go?”
Essek’s face lifts. He doesn’t move to sit. “Veth.”
Caleb nods, quietly. He does not smile, or reassure. Merely a silent statement, our mutual friend betrayed whatever trust you put in her, Essek thinks, a streak of acid stinging through him, followed only a moment later with, and she probably only meant to hurt you a little bit. He sighs, steps into the kitchen and sits across from Caleb.
He doesn’t touch his tea, keeping his hands carefully in his lap. “Fine. Good, maybe.”
Caleb nods, sips his tea. Outside, the children are still running and shouting, although all Essek can see out the window is night falling more deeply onto their walled garden. He thinks about Verin’s weird rock, and Veth telling Caleb where he was tonight, and looks at the gray circles under Caleb’s eyes.
“I didn’t…” He starts, and then doesn’t know how to finish. “I’m sorry I didn’t… mention it.” He says quietly, pressing his fingers into each other in his lap.
Caleb meets his gaze, eyebrows raised. “No, you don’t…ah,” he breaks off, pulling his hands from his mug to rub at the skin under his eyes. “This is not an ambush, I’m sorry. I think the last few weeks are catching up with me.” Essek thinks of how much use the teleportation circle in the basement has gotten recently, with Caleb leaving and returning frequently as they get news of Ludinus and the Ruby Vanguard’s movements. Sometimes, even with his internal clock, Caleb has trouble recalibrating, falling asleep in the middle of the day, or at dawn, or at the dinner table. Essek has been in and out almost as often, but then, he only needs four hours to recoup, to Caleb’s eight.
Caleb pulls his hands away from his face, and finally smiles weakly. Essek reaches out to take his hand on the table between them, the warm callouses as familiar as Essek’s own.
“I am glad that you were able to speak to Verin, and to return safely.” Caleb says plainly.
“Veth is a snitch.” Essek responds, but he smiles back, and Caleb shakes his head.
“I think she was worried. She knows… what it is like, these difficult family reunions.”
“Ah.” Essek says, and closes his eyes, feeling foolish. As if he hadn’t been present for Veth’s awkward, horrible meeting with her husband in the Dungeon, all those years ago. Of course, she would see Essek running off to see a brother he hasn’t spoken to since he’s known the Nein, and get nervous. He’d been so wrapped up in his own anxiety he hadn’t made the connection. Trust Caleb to do it for him.
Essek presses his fingers into Caleb’s, and Caleb squeezes back gently.
“It was good to see him. I didn’t, well… I didn’t tell him everything. But he knows about you.” Essek says, and Caleb lifts an eyebrow, smiling back at him. “He laughed at me.”
“Fair enough.” Caleb says, with enough of his usual dry self depreciation that Essek laughs a little, and pulls his hand out of Caleb’s so that he can sip his tea. The blend tastes as funky as it smells, but it isn’t as off-putting as Essek braces himself for.