#Critical role fic

[lakrisrot]

hold me tight (I wriggle)

references a spoiler for c3e96!

ficlet, 400 words, shadowgast

silly wizards for the soul

🐟

***

Essek’s head breaks the surface. He coughs, water trickling from his nose, three mouthfuls worth of it spilling down his chin.

“Breathe,” someone says, and he remembers to do so. His lungs sting as they confusedly fill with air. “No gills, you see,” the voice continues in a kind explanation, and Essek blinks dampness from his eyes and finds that the brown-beige blur in his vision is indeed his partner, looking handsome with his sleeves rolled up, sitting by the edge of the—water? Pool?

He wears an expression of patient amusement, and Essek instinctively raises his chin in defiant indignation, which is usually the correct response. It is made less effective by the water still up his nose.

“What are you doing?” Essek croaks, as calm as one can be when coming to consciousness in a hot tub—because he recognizes the interior of the Tower, now. Caleb raises a brow.

“Oh, you know. Just waiting for you.” He wiggles the book he’s holding open in his lap, one Fauna of Wildemount. “Feeling all right?”

“Yes, I am—“ Essek catches movement in his periphery, and pauses. Small, silvery fish dart through the water around him.

“Uehh,” he says, eloquently, struggling feebly to stand up. His robes are very wet.

“Oh, sorry, sorry.”

Hands reach out, finding Essek’s arms and gently pulling, helping him over the edge. Essek flops onto the floor much like a beached jellyfish.

“They were for you,” Caleb explains, draping a towel over Essek’s head and shoulders. A nonsensical gesture, since Essek’s robes are still very wet. “You stayed Polymorphed longer than I expected. I suspect the depth of our location fueled the wild magic of your misfire.”

Memory returns, distorted through foreign senses. Gasping, wriggling—so much wriggling, it felt nice to wriggle, important—and arms around him, holding on through it all.

Essek hides his face in the towel, angrily patting himself dry. “A Lightsdamned fish.”

“A Wildemount pink salmon, to be precise,” Caleb nods, “though you did not seem keen on the sand eels.”

“Who’s keen on sand eels,” grumbles Essek into the towel.

“Well,” Caleb begins, but seems to think better of it.

Peering out from his towel cocoon, Essek glares through damp lashes. “Please do not feed me eels nor plankton unless the circumstances are dire. But thank you for holding on to me.”

“Mmm. You are one slippery fucker,” Caleb says and kisses him square on the mouth.

“Well, you caught me,” Essek sighs and kisses him back.

[mintywolf]

Her unsteady glance about herself doesn’t catch on a blue damask evening gown, but everything is only a blur of unfocused shapes and bright colors. She draws in a stuttering gasp, and then another, as gradually her surroundings begin to resolve themselves into a bewilderingly comfortable living room and the oddest assortment of people she has ever seen. ... They all look worn and bone-weary, but alive with expectant joy. They are all staring at her intently. They are strangers. -- 33 years ago Matilda made a dying pact in the arms of her murderer. Now that pact lies sundered by a lightning strike, and her soul with it. Waking again in the arms of loving strangers who seem to regard her as family, she tries to put together the pieces of the life she can't remember and what she means to the people around her.

Remember Us, a story about memory (and its loss), fake marriage, real marriage, family, home, the passage of time, resurrection, and ears, is now complete!

(I never did manage to finish all the chapter illustrations I had planned to do but here are a few. Maybe more in the future!)

[omcree]

Summary

“I’m talking about Imogen,” she said, looking down at her ring. “I’m talking about the fact that I’m completely, life-ruiningly in love with Imogen, and I don’t know how to deal with knowing that.“

-

Laudna has an epiphany. Laudna doesn’t cope with it well. A modern AU.

[rainbowcaleb]

FICLET FRIDAY: My Flowerhaired Prince

Prompt: long hair Essek | Pairing: Shadowgast | Rating: T | Wordcount: 811 | CW: none

A trio of wind chimes ring in Caleb’s head. He puts his hand on the page of his book, and looks towards the front hall. The afternoon sun is low enough in the sky that the floor is confettied with colored splashes from the stained glass inset on the door. He watches and waits. There’s a shuffling against the door, but no secondary alarm goes off. Caleb lets out his breath and returns to his book. He’s borrowed it from Veth and it’s long past due to return to her. Apparently she’s trying to start a bookclub with Jester and this is their first pick. He smiles to himself; The Gale and the Raven is a rather raunchy pick, but he can see the appeal. The descriptions are lovingly, explicitly, detailed.

The door opens and Caleb turns his page. Only a rare few know where he lives, and even rarer who have a key. It has been seven years and his anxieties, while not gone, slumber like a cat in a sunbeam more often than they roar.

“Caleb, I’m back.” It’s Essek, because of course it is. He lives here, comfortably settled into life with Caleb, three cats, and friends who come and go whenever they are in town.

“How was the market?” Caleb calls out. “Do you need a hand?”

“No, no, it’s all in one basket. Ah, darling, you won’t believe how ripe the plums are right now. Mister Aplinn was kind enough to set aside a carton for me, which proved fortuitous as Jester’s pastry errand took a while first.”

Caleb finishes up his page and picks an envelope off the endtable to use as a bookmark. It’s the outside of the wedding invitation from Jester and Fjord, the contents of which he’s memorized.

“How is Jester? Did you send along my regrets? The problem with teaching isn’t the students, it is always the endless meetings—” Caleb stops talking. Essek has just entered the room. “Oh.”

Essek raises an eyebrow. “What is it?” He starts towards the kitchen to unload his basket. Caleb practically throws the book onto his seat and goes to follow him.

“Essek, you look…” Caleb feels completely tongue tied. Yes, he saw Essek just this morning, early sunlight through peachy curtains making his bare skin glow against the covers of their shared bed. But Essek has returned looking different.

“Yes, ah, well you see Jester is practicing.” There’s a hint of color starting to dust across his cheeks.

Caleb raises his hands and cups those warm cheeks and turns Essek to face him. “For the wedding?”

“Yes.” Essek holds his gaze. “Do you like it?”

“Dear, you look lovely.” Caleb can’t help but twist a finger around one of the curls that has fallen across Essek’s forehead. Jester has taken full advantage of the new shoulder length growth, braiding a crown of hair around his head and leaving the rest to gently fall in waves. Intermingled with the braids are fresh flowers; dainty pink, spring green, and blue petals frame Essek’s face like gilding surrounding a fine painting.

“Jester didn’t have a mirror, but I did try and glance in a shop window. It’s not really me, I would say, but—” Essek pauses, and Caleb can sense the words tumbling until smooth. “It is something new.”

It warms Caleb’s heart, and he can’t help but lean in and press a kiss to Essek’s smiling mouth. “If you wear this to the wedding, it is only fair that you braid my hair too. We should match.”

Standing this close together Caleb can practically see a sparkle in Essek’s eyes at the suggestion. “Yes, yes, a very good idea. But you can’t wiggle this time. It’ll ruin your hair.”

Caleb pouts. “When do I wiggle?”

Essek reaches up and threads his hand through Caleb’s hair, tugging a little as he goes. Caleb leans into his touch immediately, barely stifling a humming moan.

“See?” Essek kisses his neck, now handily bared as Caleb leans to his side. “You like it too much.”

“That simply means we need to practice, get it out of my system so to speak.” Caleb slides his arms down and around Essek, pulling him flush against him. “Good news, my evening plans are wide open. Shall we begin?”

“Caleb!” Essek does not pull away, but his tone is all playful admonishment. “But the food needs to be put away, the plums…”

Essek should have seen it coming. Caleb tugs him tighter, palming his backside in the process.

“Yes, the plum, which I have right now.”

That earns him a yank of his hair, but Caleb’s reaction is all reward, not punishment. Essek kisses the tip of his nose.

“Fine, you win. But you are making dinner afterwards.”

“Whatever you say, my flower haired love, now let me take you to bed.”

[wvearp]

Fifteen years ago, two best friends made a drunken pact to get married if they were still single at thirty five. Now, Laudna wants to make good on the agreement, and she’s prepared a list of reasons.

In case Imogen needs any extra convincing.

Imodna Marriage Pact AU, for the ITFC Fic Exchange 2024

[mllekurtz]

There's a man Essek meets on the train every morning.

🏙️ modern au shadowgast one-shot 🚆 they’re commuters and they fall in love! 🛣️ 7k of moody, romantic vibes with a helping of existential crisis

[waltwhitmansbeard]

this fic contains spoilers for the mighty nein reunion: echoes of the solstice. please read at your own discretion.

There is celebration, cheers and drinking and the spectacle of fey magic as the quaint homes of Blumenthal are put back together. Glasses are clinked and songs are sung and throughout it all, Caleb is keeping expert track of the minutes. He lets his friends, heroes, each of them, have their revelry as long as he dares.

They sleep in the tower, and first thing in the morning, he uses the boy as an excuse. Luc needs to go home. Veth will be out of her mind with worry. A teleport to Nicodranas, another to Zadash. Caduceus offers to stay and help Beau and Yasha look into the mystical misgivings after the solstice, though everyone knows his role will be in making sure that the two of them see the better part of a pillow every now and again. Caleb will be back to aid in the effort. There is somewhere he needs to go first.

He sees pacing through the curtains as he appears in the front garden of the little cottage. It almost makes him smile. He makes it up the few steps to the front porch, and then the door is wrenched open and he is yanked inside. "For the love of the Light!"

Caleb can barely breath against the knit of Essek's sweater. "Guten morgen," he says, muffled.

"Three days, Caleb Widogast. Three days." Caleb swings backward as Essek holds him at arm's length, an unusual wild look in his eye. "You run off with Beauregard to save the world, and for three days I do not know if you survived." Essek runs a shaking hand through his hair. "Why could I not send to you, what is going on—" Essek cuts himself off as curious recognition sparks in his face. "Something...happened."

And Caleb can do nothing but laugh. It starts quiet, a humorless chuckle, but then it overtakes him, growing louder and louder until it is something deafening, something monstrous. Vaguely, Caleb is aware that Essek is watching him with profound concern, but he can't stem the tide of violent laughter that has him doubled over in the tiny entryway of this cottage.

"Caleb..."

When Essek speaks, lost and afraid, it is suddenly very, very not funny anymore. The laughter quiets, but Caleb remains with his hands on his knees, too exhausted to stand back up. A hand, fingers long and sure, runs up and down the curve of his spine.

Something happened.

"I don't know where to begin."

Essek lets the whisper hang ominously in the air for a few moments. "Shall we begin with tea?"

And they do. Caleb is shuffled to the sofa, cats shooed out of the way, and Essek fills a kettle and prestidigitates the water to boiling. As the tea steeps, Caleb begins with where it all went wrong, because it is easier to think about what happened on Marquet than the horror he faced back in his hometown. When he speaks of the magic collar, of the shackle meant for Ludinus and used on him, Essek's fingers come to brush along the side of his neck, as if he could will away the feeling of stone on his skin and cold in his bones.

When he has described the horrible shunting across Exandria and the subsequent gathering of the Nein, he speaks of the magic mouths, of the words Trent Ikithon left to haunt him, the specter even Jester's magic could not turn. Essek's hand grips his with strength that would put Yasha to shame. "Caleb..."

Caleb almost doesn't tell him. There is no need for Essek to know, no need for a new worry when the threat has already been handled. But Caleb has kept so much from so many for so long, and well he knows that the most important part of loving someone is the bravery it requires.

"He spoke of going to the Bright Queen," he says quietly. He watches the warm amethyst of Essek's cheeks blanche to lavender. "He threatened to turn you in, because he knew that the best way to hurt me would be to hurt the person I love the most."

There is a long pause, and then Essek sets down his teacup, the liquid inside long gone cold, brings his hand up to cup Caleb's face. His fingers gently scratch into his scruff, and not for the first time, Caleb wishes he could purr like a cat in sunlight. "I would let him drag me by the ears before my queen if it meant you were spared even a moment of his torment. You know that, don't you?"

And he does. It is a wild, magical knowing, a certainty unlike anything he has experienced. He presses his face into Essek's palm. "I'm glad he said it. Even after all this time, all of the work I have done within myself to forgive the sins of my past...I must admit, it was...rattling. His voice, the memories it evoked, the ghost of his hands on my skin.

"But then he spoke the word Shadowhand, and it was all gone. The pain, the shame, the fear. All that was left was rage, and the need to free Exandria of his influence."

"And did you?"

And so Caleb continues on with his tale, the illusion of a familiar farmhouse, the use of a wish to protect his best friend's son, the sight of his family home for the first time since he was a boy. He stops himself mid-word as the memory of his parents, dead, reanimated, puppeted by the worst person Caleb has ever known, nearly knocks him from this place, from this moment. But there is still a hand in his, and the tightening fingers keep him where he belongs.

Essek listens to the whole story with rapt attention, clearly straining to keep his myriad emotions from his face. But Caleb knows him well enough by now to pick out the shock, the horror, the disgust, even the barely-contained smile at the thought of a one Caleb morphed into a dinosaur and the other into a massive white dragon. Caleb spares no detail when describing the implausible feats of his friends, giving Beauregard the full credit for wrenching the artifact from the demonic entity summoned by Ikithon, and after recounting tossing the thing into a demiplane, Caleb says, "When it was over, all I could think about was coming back here to you. If I weren't so tapped out on magic, I would have been here last night."

"Come here." Caleb allows himself to be dragged along the back of the sofa, Essek's arms tight around his chest. For the first time in three days, he is not afraid that at any moment, his very atoms will scatter into a million directions. He buries his face into Essek's chest, lets his love hook his chin over his head and whisper, "I do not know what this solstice has wrought upon our world. But I know that I'm very grateful that neither it nor that man took you from it. From me."

There are no more words left. There is nothing Caleb can say, for all his reading, for all the magic incantations he has memorized, to convey the depth of his relief that, contrary to what he may have intoned to Beau, he did not die on the land his parents lost their lives on. There is no telling what horrors are yet to come, nor what they may demand of Caleb and his friends, but he will not begrudge himself this quiet moment in his love's arms, not after these last three days.

[frogenthusiastt]

New Chapter! New Chapter!

(art by my companion in body horror @brookesmartt)

[glossolali]

more heroforges from my SWM cyberpunk h/c fic! part of my winter's crest gift exchange fic for @wanderingbasilisk aka wandie bc they gave me scifi/android/cyberpunk brain rot and so i gave them 6k of said brain rot lol

pls enjoy 🙏💜

[dhwty-writes]

Assumptions, Innocently Made

It's been three years but I am back with a fic! This is a two parter with the second part almost done that will hopefully stay this way. Please enjoy your fake dating!

Summary: Essek's mother worngfully assumes that her son and the wizard of the Mighty Nein and recently proclaimed Hero of the Dynasty are more than what they appear to be. After inviting both of them to a ball, Essek must ask Caleb to indulge the Umavi's misunderstanding for all three of them to avoid losing face.

Warnings: none

Read on Ao3

Hovering in Caleb's room, wringing his hands, Essek Thelyss did not look any less out of place than the first times he had deigned to enter the Xhorhaus. His perpetual smile was replaced by an anxious expression that did not seem to befit his otherwise composed appearance.

Exactly fifteen minutes and forty-two seconds had passed since Caleb had bid the Shadowhand enter, over ten of which have been spent in Caleb’s room with Essek evidently trying to gather his courage and his words. All of Caleb’s attempts at conversation – offering refreshments, asking how he might help – had been rebuffed so far, so he figured he might as well wait.

“There has been... an assumption,” the Shadowhand finally managed.

“An assumption,” Caleb echoed. He had no clue what to do with that information.

“And a misunderstanding.” Essek’s brow furrowed even deeper.

“I'm afraid I do not follow.”

Essek Thelyss sighed as if this whole ordeal was a terrible imposition on him. Which it probably was. “It appears as if the first time I entered this abode it had been perceived by another member of Den Thelyss. Who in turn took it upon themself to report your… display to the Umavi.”

Caleb frowned, still not completely sure if he understood. His time in Xhorhas had been characterized by rapid departures and daring missions and had not left much time for studying this society they now apparently lived in. As such, his grasp on the intricate workings of the upper echelons of Kryn society remained rather loose, although he understood that the Umavi were not to be trifled with.

Essek continued: “After that first interaction, we have been watched closely and… an assumption has been made that we are much more closely entangled than we actually are.” For the first time since Essek had come to him, he looked Caleb in the eye with a sneer of contempt and annoyance. “It has been... suggested that you accompany me to the Umavi's ball to celebrate the homecoming of her younger son.”

“I see,” Caleb said although he very much did not see. “And I suppose that is not the kind of suggestion one can refuse?”

Essek looked genuinely taken aback at that. “Certainly not.”

“Well, I suppose there is no harm in that”, Caleb said with a shrug, although the very thought of it made his insides crawl. “I will come with you, and we shall clear this up. Nothing to worry about, friend.”

“And embarrass the Umavi in front of her whole court?” A pained expression passed Essek's face. “I think not. It is much safer to claim we broke this off after this occasion.”

“You said we were followed, yes? But the only times we met were in public or when you teleported us across the continent. How many people can truly believe that we are… entangled?” “Were wizards”, Essek replied as if that explained everything. And for one such as Essek Thelyss it probably did. Caleb supposed the Shadowhand would have no issue in teleporting to the Xhorhaus without any of the Nein being able to prevent him from doing so. Or Caleb's room for that matter. Awkwardly, Caleb coughed and dearly wished for his beard to hide the flush coloring his cheeks.

“Besides, it does not matter what people believe,” Essek continued. “The only thing that matters is what the Umavi believes. And the Umavi believes that I have been hiding a relationship from her.”

Caleb considered this for a moment. While there were many things that he could think of that he would rather be doing than spend an evening in Kryn high society with only Essek Thelyss at his side, the man in question seemed genuinely quite perturbed by the thought. It seemed only right to try and help him seek a way out of this situation. “I could go on a mission and not return in time,” he suggested. “Or I could pretend I fell sick on the day of the event.”

“The first would be a terrible insult to Den and Umavi alike and in case of the second, clerics would be queueing in front of your house to relieve you of your ailment.” Essek sighed and passed a hand through his perfectly styled hair, liberating one strand that now stood up at an odd angle. He muttered something under his breath and before Caleb could inquire, he continued louder. “I do not know what I was attempting here, but I am afraid I do not see a way out of this situation without insulting the Umavi and ruining your reputation. So, I would be much obliged if you could do me this favor... and take one off the list you and your group owe me.”

“What about your reputation?” Caleb couldn’t help but ask.

“Let that be of no concern of yours.”

“I will do you this favor,” he quickly agreed, hoping he had not angered the Shadowhand beyond measure. “I am happy to be of assistance to a friend. It is only that you seem rather bothered by the idea.”

“I will manage,” Essek snapped. And that seemed to be that.

Caleb politely waited for Essek to speak again but when the silence stretched too long, he quietly cleared his throat. “What will be expected of me?”

“Well, in this case I am glad to say that I happen to be a rather solitary creature. Bringing another soul with me will already raise enough eyebrows, never mind public displays of affection.” Essek winced and Caleb couldn’t help but raise his eyebrows at that. “You need do nothing more than hold my hand. There will be enough drink and food and music available to divert you, and you will likely not lack in conversational partners as half the Den will jump at the chance to thank one of the heroes of the dynasty.”

“Conversation, yes? And here I thought you only required me to look pretty.”

“That too,” Essek said, apparently having missed the joke entirely. “I will forward you some books you might peruse with regards to Kryn etiquette, as well as the address if my tailor, if you are amenable.” “Yes Essek,” Caleb said kindly, “I am amenable.” He did not dare say that he likely couldn’t afford the services of the tailor that usually dressed the Shadowhand; he would find a solution to that when the time came. At least the books should prove to be useful.

It was not long after that that Essek excused himself and Caleb was left with the insurmountable task of telling the Mighty Nein of what had transpired. The recollection of the events was accompanied by much shrieking and hollering that Caleb was glad Essek did not have to suffer, although it did end in the rather conscientious act of Beauregard cornering him later and asking with real concern: “Are you alright?”

Caleb shrugged. “I will be. It is a favor for a friend, ja?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever. But it is a pretty big ask to essentially pretend to be someone’s boyfriend. Especially if you have a crush on that guy.”

He bristled at that. “I do not have a crush on Essek Thelyss,” he insisted perhaps a bit too loudly because next he knew he heard Jester cooing from one room over:

“Cay-leb, it is alright if you are in love with Essek, he is like super hot!”

‘I do not even trust him yet,’ he thought but did not dare say out loud, lest he be harassed by Jester. “I’ll be fine,” he ground out and beat a tactical retreat to his room.

The distance and the wall between them allowed him to ignore Beauregard sedulously: “Yeah man, it’s whatever! I just wanted to offer you to talk!”

The next morning, there was a knock on the door as they all ate breakfast. After they all shouted for the visitor to come in and they didn’t, it was Caduceus who went to great them. When he returned, it was with a confused expression on his face and a stack of books under his arm. “There were some books floating outside the door. I think they’re for you, Caleb?”

Absentmindedly Caleb nodded as he took hold of the books, silently wondering if Essek was nearby or if he had somehow managed to relieve himself of the range restrictions that usually came with the Unseen Servant spell. When he finally concluded that he would never ask but instead try and see if he couldn’t find a work-around himself, he was already surrounded by the rest of the Mighty Nein, who were attempting to see what it was that he had received.

With a sigh he spread the books out for them to peruse while he dug around in his component pouch for a pinch of soot and salt and began flipping through his spellbook.

“That’s not fair, I can’t read any of that!” Jester complained the same instant that Beauregard shouted, “Sick, they’re all in Undercommon! Hey, can I borrow one of those? I really need to practice.” There was no way Caleb would be able to concentrate like this.

Without a word, he pushed back his chair, eliciting shouts from various members of the Nein and announced: “I’ll be in the library to read. Any of you are welcome to join so long as you are quiet.”

In the end, Beauregard indeed did join him but not before she had caused quite a ruckus in the training room. When she entered the library sweaty with a “’sup” and plopped down on a chair opposite of Caleb he leveled her with a detached glare. When she then deigned to make grabby hands for one of the books, his glare grew even more unimpressed.

Only by virtue of being loans from one Essek Thelyss were the books saved from being thrown at Beauregard’s head. Instead, he calmly handed her one of the slimmer tomes via his Mage Hand.

She assumed a position in the chair that Caleb refused to believe was comfortable and began skimming the table of contents. As soon as she appeared to be done, supposedly already bored, she interrupted him for the second time since entering the room: “So how’s the study sesh been so far?” she asked with a yawn.

“Not as quiet as I hoped,” he grumbled. On the other hand, when was time spent with the Mighty Nein ever?

“Hah!” Beauregard laughed at that and looked at the book again. “Man, this shit looks complicated. There’s an entire chapter about hair ties. And another about buttons and cufflinks. Shit and I thought empire rich folk were obnoxious.”

Caleb sighed. He couldn’t say that he didn’t agree. In his time under Ikithon’s tutelage he had received a modicum of training as to how to behave in high society and even though his training had been rudimentary, he could not recall it being even remotely as complicated as what he was dealing with now.

Since this morning, he had made it only halfway through one of the books and despite his perfect memory, his mind was swimming with the exact angle at which one had to bow as well as greetings and different forms of address that seemed to have repercussions on the use of a language he didn’t speak. He could only hope that a casting of Tongues would equip him with the ability to not make a total fool of himself. And that he would have enough spell slots for the entirety of the ball.

The next days were spent like this: Caleb and Beauregard retreated to the library where they would spend their time perusing the books Essek had sent, occasionally debating their contents. They would be left in relative peace from the rest of the Mighty Nein, except for Caduceus poking in his head to ask if they were hungry or thirsty or the usual cracks and bangs that their friends caused. While most of them sounded concerning, Caleb was called only once to cast Control Flames on a misfired Fluffernutter that threatened to set their pantry aflame. What those materials had been even doing close to the kitchen, Caleb thought better not to ask.

Occasionally, he would receive a Sending from Essek, requesting this or that or reminding him of something he had previously forgotten. Caleb acquiesced his every wish and in turn asked Jester more than once to send a message back to Essek to clarify something. While Essek’s books spoke a great deal about the hairstyles of different dens, what about people without dens? Caleb insisted that he could just wear his customary ponytail, Jester insisted that he wouldn’t fit in. Essek assured him that any hairstyle was fine, as long as he didn’t mirror any style from a prominent Den. Caleb asked about the right color of clothing – anything but white – and the need for gifts – Essek would take care of that – as well as if he should wear his token of the Bright Queen – absolutely, if he wanted to be taken seriously. Despite his previously prickly demeanor when dealing with them, Essek remained ever patient in face of the constant probing.

He and Beau did not read every day. One day, Caleb cast Tongues on himself and attempted to hold a conversation with individuals of different stations. They came to the conclusion that while the spell was able to inflect the words correctly, it only did so if the titles were spoken in the original Undercommon. So, the next day was spent trying to teach Caleb the correct pronunciation so the spell would pick up on his intention.

One of the books was entirely about ballroom dances that were currently fashionable in the Dynasty. After quite a lot of ridicule at his attempts, Beauregard finally volunteered herself to help him. The upside of that was that Beauregard was trained enough to pose as a suitable dance partner. The downside was that they had to move to the training room for that and soon attracted an audience.

Jester was the first to jump in and demand to “learn the Xhorhas dances too pretty please!” And Caleb had not yet found the strength to deny her anything and seriously doubted that he ever would. After that came Nott and after Fjord joked that Caleb would only dance with the ladies, he dragged him in as well. After that it was almost a point of pride, to dance with the rest of the Mighty Nein as well, including Yeza, who seemed exceptionally clumsy for a man of his profession.

Almost a week had passed when Jester grew evidently bored with the lack of something to do.

“Cay-leb,” she whined, draped across a chaise longue in a position she had no doubt copied from her mother. “Do you know what you’ll wear yet?”

“No,” he said simply. He was busy trying to memorize the correct order of meal items as well as the corresponding cutlery. Many he was familiar with, but he could not quite grasp how to crack the shell of a giant spider leg or why purple worm tartare was to be eaten only from specialized silver spoons. When she’d read that Beauregard had apparently been unable to keep herself from making a joke about Essek’s circumstances of birth.

“Have you not even… like, thought about it, though?” Jester continued to inquire.

It took a moment for him to recall what this was in reference to. Eventually he said. “Essek gave me the name of his tailor. I’m sure they’ll have something suitable.”

Jester gasped at that and sat up. “Cay-leb!” she shouted way too loudly. “The ball is in like less than a week!”

“So?”

“It takes time to make pretty clothes, you know?”

Caduceus, who was currently watering the plants, nodded sagely. “Nine women can’t make a baby in a month.”

“I don’t need entirely new clothes. They can just alter something for me to fit.”

Without looking up from her book on the genealogy of Den Thelyss, Beauregard snorted.

“What?”

“Dude.” She levelled him with a glare. “There is no way Essek buys off the rack.”

“But-!”

“Just go to the damn tailor, Caleb,” Beauregard interrupted him rudely. With an eyeroll she turned back to her reading.

“I’ll come with you!” Jester immediately volunteered. Caleb wasn’t sure if he found that prospect reassuring. However, he had spent enough time with Jester to know she was a woman not easily denied once she had put her mind to something.

Beauregard had the audacity to sink deeper into her armchair and wave at him. “Have fun!”

It was like this that Caleb found himself in the company of Jester standing in the middle of a tailor’s shop in the Gallimaufry district where everything in the shop window looked like it was worth more than everything Caleb owned combined.

They were greeted by a very friendly Drow who introduced herself as Phaere. “Caleb Widogast, I presume?” she inquired with a small bow as appropriate for greeting someone of a higher station in employ of one of the ruling Dens. “The Shadowhand told us to expect you. We are honored to provide you with whatever you need.”

Caleb was quite taken aback. He didn’t know that he had ever been treated with this much respect and deference, much less since he had become Caleb Widogast. Awkwardly, he cleared his throat, not quite sure how to respond.

At least one good thing came from having Jester around, for he was spared from having to figure that out. “Ohmygosh that’s so nice!” she squealed and barreled to the front. “Hi, I’m Jester! I’m Caleb’s friend and I’m here to make sure that he looks his best for Essek!”

“Then you have come to the right place,” Phaere said with a smile and bowed again. “Whatever your wish, you shall receive it.”

“I am not yet very familiar with the fashions of the Dynasty,” he finally managed to say. “So I commend myself to your capable hands. Whatever you think will suit a wizard of my station and stature I am sure will serve well.”

A minute expression of confusion passed over the tailor’s face. “As a hero of the Dynasty at the Shadowhand’s side? I’ll say you can wear whatever you want to.”

Again, Caleb felt wrong-footed and unsure as to how to respond. This time, Phaere seemed to sense his discomfort and suggested: “How about I show you some fabrics? We can talk about the design later.”

The fabrics Phaere did show him were difficult to comprehend. He had never felt anything as soft as spidersilk, never seen anything as finely embroidered as the borders on display, never thought brocade could look as rich as that. Occasionally they would be interrupted by Jester who had found something herself: “Cay-leb, look at this! Wouldn’t hat be a great sash,” holding a bolt of sheer white fabric that made Phaere freeze. She only relaxed when he explained that white was reserved for Umavi. Or: “Cay-leb, we could weave that into your hair!” pointing at ribbons of cloth-of-gold or -silver that were surely for bound edges. They even spent twenty minutes debating over buttons with Jester insisting he should get the gem-encrusted ones to “treat himself” while he maintained that the plain silver ones would be enough. When he mentioned that he did not want to overshadow Essek, Phaere laughed and assured him that wouldn’t be possible.

Eventually, they settled on fabrics that were simple, but only deceptively so. The cut Phaere suggested was traditional and a little flashy for his tastes, though she was excited to include his suggestions on how to adjust it according to Empire fashions, if only subtly. In the end, Caleb couldn’t help but admit that he was satisfied.

“Thank you,” Caleb said earnestly. He genuinely believed that he was in good hands with the tailor. “I would now like to discuss the matter of payment.” He had been dreading this conversation.

Phaere blinked at him dumbstruck. Eventually, she said: “I can assure you, the Shadowhand has that matter quite handled.”

He suddenly felt faint. It was one thing receiving a new set of robes that probably cost more than his childhood home. It was quite another to have someone else pay for it.

He opened his mouth to protest but before he could get a single word out, he was interrupted by an armful of blue tiefling. “Ohmygosh Cay-leb!” Jester squealed as he hugged him tight. “That’s so romantic! Essek wants you to look so good for him and you don’t even have to pay!”

“Right,” he muttered. “Very romantic.” In his mind he made a note to thoroughly thank Essek for his expense. “Then at least allow me a tip for an excellent service.”

Phaere bowed her head, hardly in a place to object to that. So, Caleb dug around in his purse and set seven gold pieces on the counter, the last he had left to his name. Surely the Mighty Nein would take another mission soon and until then he would get by.

Eventually, the day of the ball arrived and while Caleb didn’t feel comfortable, he was at least reasonably confident that he would be able to spend one night among Kryn nobles without making a complete fool of himself. Or Essek for that matter.

He was fussing with his new robes in front of his mirror, still adjusting to the asymmetrical style favored in the dynasty. Additionally, he fought the urge to hunch his shoulders and disappear in the crowd. That was not why Essek was bringing him tonight. Essek was an individual few could overlook, and Caleb had vowed to do him proud.

Far too soon came the quiet knock on the door, but when he bid them enter, it was not one of the Mighty Nein announcing that Essek had arrived. Instead, surprisingly, it was Yasha, who quietly closed the door behind her. “You look good,” she said after scrutinizing him from head to toe.

“Thank you.”

“Not like when we first met,” she added. “I mean, I didn’t want to say something back then but… you know. You look better now. Good. These robes look good.”

“Thank you,” Caleb said again, unsure how else to react.

“Are you nervous?” Yasha blurted suddenly. When he didn’t immediately answer, she just barreled on: “I mean, I’m sure you are. It’s alright to be. I’m also sure that you’ll have a great date tonight.”

Despite his resolutions, Caleb hunched his shoulders. “You know it’s not like that.”

“Well…” she said with a shrug.

Before he could ask her to elaborate, the moment was interrupted by Jester’s shout: “Cay-LEB! He’s here!”

And that was all the warning he got before the Mighty Nein barged into his room to herd him outside. In the foyer, he was stopped by Nott, who was wiping away a fake tear. “Look at my boy!” she screeched. “All grown up and ready for prom night!”

Caleb frowned deeply. “I’m not sure I’m familiar with that tradition.”

“Never mind. Go get him, Lebby!”

He was about to reply something when Beauregard shouted: “Caleb, your man’s getting impatient!”

Naturally, all the Nein were there to see them off. Caleb wished he could vanish in the ground, especially with all the jeers and calls of “Hot boi!” that sounded from the porch. Fjord managed to shout above them all instructing Essek to “have him home by ten, young man!”

Hurriedly, Caleb walked over to Essek who frowned with confusion. “I do not believe the ball will be done by ten o’clock.”

“Ignore them,” he griped. “Are you ready?”

Essek heaved a sigh. “As ready as I’ll be.” He offered his arm to Caleb and within a breath they were gone.

[seizethegrey]

Dying over this incredible art for my fic, Mistakes Aren’t Regrets, by @piscesboar25.

Thanks to the fine folks @aeor-is-for-reccing for the shout out!

[thishasbeencary]

Critical Role (Web Series) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast, The Mighty Nein & Essek Thelyss Characters: Essek Thelyss, Caleb Widogast Additional Tags: Campaign 2 (Critical Role), Post-Campaign 2 (Critical Role), Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, POV Essek Thelyss, Essek Thelyss Deserves Nice Things, Disabled Essek Thelyss, (blink and you'll miss it but it is there and Important to me), The Mighty Nein as Family, Background Mighty Nein

Home.

It had never meant anything to Essek. A tower sterile beyond his laboratory with spells and chalk and components scattered in a haphazard way he’d be embarrassed to show anyone else. A family he’d grown distant from almost a century ago. A religion and government he’d silently scorned by refusing their most sacred offer.

He had a lot of things he loved and missed about Rosohna, but the city had never been home until a house of eclectic adventurers with a giant, glittering tree moved in and asked him to dinner.

[Essek officially moves in with Caleb.]

[mintywolf]

In the woods not far from Whitestone, close enough that she can see the lights of the castle on the hill if she looks up, but far enough that the warmth of them is only a distant memory, a nameless dead girl is stumbling through the snow. The long furrow cut by her dragging feet winds between the trees like an unrolled strand of yarn, looping erratically around the scaly trunks of the pines and dodging the sharp elbows of rock jutting from the mountainside where she has paused to search for berries, or lichens, or tree bark soft enough to chew on. But the basket dangling from her hand is as empty as the rest of her.

The rough edge of frost in the air catches in her throat and she stops to cough into her threadbare shawl, reaching out a hand to the trunk of a nearby tree to keep from being toppled over into the snow. When she straightens up her teary eyes catch on something bright through the blur of ink, and after she blinks a few times it resolves itself into a hopeful cluster of berries hanging like forgotten holiday ornaments from a tendril of leafless vine. Shifting her basket onto her arm, she makes a shuffling step towards them.

Don’t eat those, the Lady in her head snaps, before she can even examine them, it's bittersweet.

“I don’t mind.”

You will if you eat them. Bittersweet is kin to nightshade. Best left for the birds. Come, the woman says, and it’s like a hand has taken hold of her arm, only the hand is in her mind like the voice of the woman commanding, coaxing, berating her onwards. The dead girl wants to go home, where there’s at a place to sleep and a fire that might soothe a little of the bone-deep ache under her skin, but her shelves are winter-bare, and so she continues on through the woods.

“Delilah? How many ways to die in the Parchwood do you think there are?” she asks to pass the time as she trudges along, a little breathless from the uneven ground that makes it feel like she’s always going uphill. (How funny, to think of a corpse being out of breath. But the air still goes in and out of her lungs like a creaky bellows, albeit a bit slower than it used to.)

(Read more on AO3)

[omcree]

Summary

“You’re the one who has the right to say no. You’re the one who gets to choose what you do, what happens to you. No one else. No leader, or hero, or god gets to decide what you do, Imogen. Only you.”

“I’m not worth Exandria, Laudna.”

“You are. You’re worth everything.” Laudna knows her voice is wretched, her singular devotion to Imogen eclipsing everything else. She doesn’t know how else to exist other than in thrall to her. “I’d let Exandria burn before I let them take you against your will.”

-

There are no secrets in the dark, only each other. Imogen and Laudna talk about the future.

Imogen and Laudna, post 107.

[rainbowcaleb]

FICLET FRIDAY | Home Is Where The…

Prompt: warmth | Rating: G | Pairing: Shadowidomauk | CW: none | Words: 360

“Move over.”

The words came only seconds before a leg pushes into the lack of space between all the pillows, cats, and two bodies. The cats are the first to startle, Ava jumping down to the floor to arch her back in a stretch and swish her tail as she resettles on the carpet. Olly tumbles from the precarious cradle of someone’s knee and catches himself with claws on the blanket before hopping back into the jumble.

The leg belongs to a body that flops down in between the two others. “Any blanket to spare, or are you hogging it all for yourself?”

Caleb levels Mollymauk with a bemused expression. “Perhaps with a little warning, space would have been made.” He shuffles as much as he can on the small couch, pulling his legs in to let Molly lean back into the space.

“And what’s the fun in that?” They pat Caleb’s thigh, now easily in reach, and turn to the other couchfellow. “Oh hello, bedhead. Did I wake you? I didn’t know you actually slept.”

Essek huffs out a fond noise. “Then I guess we shall give away the large bed upstairs, if it seldom needs use by three.” He reaches up to try and smooth the mussed curls of his hair, his sideways position upon the pillows having squished any style down into a pancake.

Molly catches his hand. “I’m teasing. Leave it, you look cute like this.” They twine their fingers against Essek’s own.

“Well, I was going to make room for you, but you’ve rather taken away the ability of my hand.” Essek tugs on Molly, who repositions to let Essek drape his legs across their lap.

Caleb scoops up Olly, who mrrps in confusion before settling back to sleep in the crook of Caleb’s arm. “Want a cat blanket?”

“I’ll never say no.” Molly laughs as Olly is deposited without even waking; he simply flops to his back to show stomach fluff to the sky. “This little one loves people so easily, doesn’t he.”

“Reminds me of someone.” Caleb smiles, all years of fondness in the crinkle of his eyes.

[starchildghost]

I'll forget what I was (when the tide comes home): My own version of the beginning of c3e103, a look into Laudna and Delilah, and how difficult it is to extract one from the other. A little bit selfish of me, wishing Delilah was not a problem so easily solved. 1467 words. Also on ao3.

“This world is full of two kinds of people: those that get hurt and accept it, and those that get hurt and retaliate. Who are you? Who are we?”

“I’m just Matilda.”

“Matilda’s dead. You are something more.”

In a way, the first and second times you were made after the unmaking were kinder than this - in those, you got to wake up. The act of waking up means that something preceded it - darkness, nothing, bliss, death - it was kinder.

There was horror, sure - Matilda, dead, Matilda, hanging in a noose, airways crushed, screaming silently (no way for air to get in or out of her, not for such a long time, where bits of her were broken again and cracked back into place, no longer Matilda, never Matilda again) for her parents who were already gone - Laudna, dead, stabbed through the chest, torn away from Imogen, relief at not having to see her die on the same blade, your blood (what little of it there was - is) pooling around you, her name the last word on your lips - but then: nothing. Darkness. Delilah. Nothing. Delilah.

Delilah? There was before, too - intertwined with your darkness - a woman hunted down like a dog trying to escape, severed arm bleeding and you could have been my daughter to a woman who looks just like Laudna before being pierced through with a rapier, the sizzle and popping of acid melting melting melting - two pops through the head, a kissing pair of lethal, killing wounds, dealt by a pair of lovers whose love differed from yours, pulled in different directions - away from demons, away from the sick, and for what? a boring life making a clock when they could have been so godly if only they understood, if only they had the ambition - darkness, then: you.

You.

Now: this.

Her - Laudna’s - Delilah’s - your hound, vacated, your chest cracked open, hovering for all to see, and they are digging around in there and you are burning burning burning - you pulled yourself apart for this, gave them your consent, told them - her - you wouldn’t trust anyone else - but:

What are you doing?

You need me.

And she’s right - of course she is, she’s always been - how easy had it become, through thirty years? To slip back, Matilda dead, long gone, and to slip back, a little less Laudna, let her control, a little more Delilah - you have always had a hunger with no end. Laudna ran from farmers that drove her away for looking like herself, ran and ran and starved, and when it became too much to bear: Delilah.

It wouldn’t be so easy for the two of you to switch who steers if you were extremely different.

Just like old times, Laudna. Others come and go, but I am always here. Just you and me, always.

How many little scraps had you struggled for? An enchanted necklace here, a lovers’ ring there, all consumed for her - for you. When Delilah was in charge, you weren’t hungry anymore. There were bodies left behind, but, you were an amalgamation of bodies left behind: choked and dissolved and shot and stabbed and stabbed - it is only fair that you should leave some extras scattered behind in the name of keeping yours going if this is the life (or lack thereof) that has been assigned to you. (Matilda - you wish she had been left behind. You wish she could have rested with her parents, remained a little girl with kind, soft hands, who buried birds in her backyard - but instead, you march on with your own dead bird following behind, and you are sorry sorry sorry but you cannot articulate what it is you are sorry for.)

You are burning, burning, and falling to the side, falling into a void within your mind - Delilah sits up as Orym approaches you. “Seedling-” you gasp out, barely able to piece words together as electricity runs throughout your nervous system, shocking out from the burning within your chest.

“...you have more love in your heart than Delilah has ever had in her long, cursed history.” He replies, and oh, neither of you like that - a flash comes to you, a well-meant peace offering of a dagger that had carved its way through you, accompanied by: “It’s his to do with as he chooses. He’s lost more than we have.” Who was in control then? Was it Laudna or Delilah who stabbed you in the chest and absorbed power and sobbed? Was it Laudna or Delilah who built a golden cage around you?

The answer doesn’t matter. It never has.

Do not speak to me about loss ever again do not speak to me about loss ever again do not speak to me about loss ever again-

More flashes - a lover’s smile under a red moon, glowing with power - the excitement of sharing a secret kiss - the anticipation of growing more powerful, more capable, all to protect the one you - she - you love.

You know you saved my life, right? If you hadn’t come when you did, I don’t know how long I would’ve lasted. These last few years have been everything. I love you, and I’m here. I love you more than anything.

The memory is soft, it’s lovely; if only you could remember whose voice those words were delivered by. Imogen or Sylas, Sylas or Imogen: a love you would give every piece of yourself for - perhaps it doesn’t matter who said it; the feeling is the same.

Why did you stab yourself?

It must be done. For you. For us. The fate of the world. What else do I have to give, except for myself? I love you.

I don’t think I’m going to survive this. Is this my thought or yours? Same as it always is - it’s ours.

Why are you ripping yourself in half?

You lock eyes with the spectral form of Delilah, resisting the urge to spare Imogen a glance. You’re full of ghosts, full of hunger and wants and what-could-have-beens, full of Laudna and the ghost of Matilda and full of Delilah, of love for Imogen and love for Sylas and an overwhelming, powerful need for them both, but: you are full of ghosts. There’s a twinned scar on your chest, a stab from a rapier and a stab from the summit blade, her first death, Laudna’s first (Matilda’s shell’s second) death, both yours, and your fear and your power pulses out from them: you release Matilda’s ghosts at Delilah.

It must be done.

You have been burning, purple fire radiating out from your chest; it’s only after you empty some of yourself that the fire expands through all of you: your mouth, your eyes, everything is alight.

Then, all at once, the burning ends, replaced by electricity stemming from the back of your neck (from the scar, always the scar) through your fingertips; this slows, fizzles, and it, too, ends. Your fingertips are a bit numb, but they are yours.

You look inward: Delilah bangs her fists against the crystal that glows within the center of you, so enraged she has forgotten she was a wizard for the ages: she is yours.

Imogen grabs your hands, trying to feel for signs of life that have never been yours, and you don’t acknowledge that her grip revives the tingling that came with the loss of Delilah - you are, for the first time that you have been you, alone. She can’t see through your eyes. You try to slip back, and find there is nowhere to go; you are alone.

You smile at Imogen, wrap your numb arms around her (don’t think about the broad shoulders, the cold skin your arms once wrapped around, that it is harder to feel the difference between them now-), try not to press at the fault lines between Laudna and Delilah, try not to reawaken the burning that has cleared you out into what you are now.

There are some seeds that cannot sprout unless they are first burned.

You touched a tree, once, in the sunlight of a city that had healed, and dreamed you could be something new.

You were tethered to a tree, once, in the dark, sending a message that wasn’t for you, and you became something more.

Perhaps now, finally, the seeds are burned in a purple hateful fire, and you will grow.

Imogen has stepped away, laughing at the antics of the others as they turn their faces towards what lies ahead, and she glows lilac in the fire from the hearth. You catch her eye and her smile softens. It is a gaze that has only ever been for you.

I would break the world for you. Is this my thought or yours? Same as it always is - it’s ours.