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jaskwritesthings · 2 years

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i'm all yours

Anonymous asked: saw your requests for prompts and didn’t see arranged marriage? if that works for you then shadowgast or widomauk?

(ao3)

The altar wasn’t where one would expect to meet their future spouse for the first time.

But despite Veth’s best efforts, Caleb had been unsuccessful at sneaking into the dynasty’s guest quarters of the castle to meet the man he was to marry.

The Mighty Nein had a string of unsuccessful capers recently. He was starting to think they’d picked up a curse along their travels with how terrible their luck had become. After all, he’d done his very best to avoid the empire’s elite for years and then one little messed up heist landed them with a religious artefact from a warring nation and now he was knelt before the most the monotone priest in existence with a drow by his side getting married for the good of the empire.

Somehow his little ragtag group of friends had become the face of peace between the empire and the dynasty and Caleb especially had become a figurehead for justice with his testimony against his former teacher.

And so the King - with a little suggestion from the remaining members of the Cerberus Assembly of course -had decided the best way to ensure a long lasting treaty was to tie Caleb to high ranking member of the dynasty in holy matrimony.

What Caleb had wanted didn’t seem to matter to anybody but his friends. They had tried everything from putting their best foot forward with their silver tongued Captain to straight up running for the border. Every single plan had failed.

And even when he’d given into his fate and tried to make the best of it, simply wishing to know his future husband and at least find some common ground to form a basis of a relationship, he’d been denied.

By the Assembly.

Because the gods forbid he have any kind of advantage against them and they were probably counting on the Shadowhand despising the deal and in turn, Caleb himself. To what end he didn’t know and neither had Eadwulf who’d done his best to pass information to his old lover. Perhaps it was merely a way to punish Caleb for his transgressions against the Assembly? Or, if Beau’s thoughts were to be believed, a way to reignite the war in their favour.

Whatever their ultimate goal was, Caleb was determined to see the opposite flourish.

The officiant continued to drone on and on about the growing relationship between their two ‘great and powerful’ nations and Caleb resisted the urge to fidget in his starched ceremonial suit. It didn’t help, after running for most of his life, to feel every single eye on his back. The Chantry was filled to bursting with every forign dignitary Exandria had to offer. And they were all at his back.

Easy Lebby, we’re here, Veth’s voice soothed and Caleb took a fortifying breath against the rising panic bubbling in his chest. He twitched two of his fingers in their prearranged signal to let her and the other’s know he was okay.

They had a few gestures ranging from ‘I’m fine’ to ‘time to reenact our taking of the Mistake’ which Jester and Veth were naturally hoping for. Caleb almost wanted to see how that would go…almost. But Astrid had been clear about the stakes involved and how much of an enemy he’d made of the Cerberus Assembly of late. He knew well the lengths they’d go to and with Astrid’s unsubtle question about Luc, he knew exactly who’d they target to make him pay.

So Caleb breathed slowly, measured, and tried to focus on something other than the enemies at his back.

He peeked at his future husband out of the corner of his eye. Essek Thelyss, Shadowhand to the Bright Queen. By all appearance a high ranking official and golden child of his Den. Yet he found himself kneeling beside a renegade wizard with problems with authority. It didn’t quite add up in Caleb’s mind and he wondered just what had Herr Thelyss done to earn the ire of his people enough for this outcome. Because surely he hadn’t volunteered for the position? Caleb certainly hadn’t, nobody had wanted to be on this particular chopping block.

He’d been staring long enough to draw Essek’s steely gaze. He raised an elegant eyebrow in question and Caleb could do nothing but offer an awkward smile in response.

“Hallo,” Caleb whispered, quietly hoping Essek might be up to easing the boredom and distract him from the pain in his knees even just a little.

“Shh,” Essek responded but his lips twitched just a little so Caleb counted it as a small win in his favour.

“I tried to meet with you last night,” Caleb mumbled and Essek exhaled, the sound almost amused.

“My brother was impressed by your halfling friend,” he said and Caleb couldn’t stop the proud grin even if he wanted to.

“She was impressed by him too…albeit reluctantly,” he replied, there’d been a lot of grumbling from Veth about the unfair hotness of the captain of the guard and how it should cancel out any other ability, like fishing halfling’s out of bushes with alarming accuracy. It had taken Yeza quite some time to assure his wife that she was the ‘very best at sneaking’ and that drow had just gotten lucky.

Essek stifled a chuckle, “You wished to meet me so desperately?” he teased.

“Ja, I hoped to get to know you a little. Perhaps start towards a friendship,” Caleb said honestly and Essek tensed visibly, as though he hadn’t expected such an answer.

“We do not need to be friends for this,” Essek pointed out, his voice a touch cooler than before. Caleb wondered if Essek had theories about him too. Maybe he thought he was an empire plant, a spy that would steal all the dynasty’s secrets out from under the Shadowhand. Caleb could understand it to a degree but he had been quite vocal with his opposition to the way things were done, treasonously so.

“I would prefer to marry for love but if that is not on the cards, simple companionship is better than the loneliness I have seen from such marriages. Do you not agree?” Caleb asked, hoping his sincerity was enough to sway his future spouse from those darker avenues.

“I…had not believed that such a thing would be a possibility,” Essek said haltingly and Caleb’s heart ached over the genuine confusion in Essek’s tone as though the mere idea of friendship was unknown to him.

“To which? Love or friendship?”

“Both,” Essek answered quickly.

“Would you like it?” Caleb asked gently.

Essek was quiet for a long time, long enough that Caleb believed he’d pushed a little hard on a particular nerve and was now being ignored. When Essek did answer him, it was so quiet Caleb almost wondered if he’d imagined it, “...Yes.”

“To which?”

“And we will now bound their hands together as they bind their lives to one another. By this knot, so shall your destinies become intertwined.” The priest turned to receive the cord from someone and Essek and Caleb straightened, attention drawn once more to the proceedings.

Caleb laced his fingers with Essek’s as the priest wrapped a blindingly white cord around their wrists in an intricate beautiful knot. He marvelled at the difference and similarities between their skin as the priest continued without their input. There were the same rough patches inherent to every wizard, the ink stains that could never quite be removed and yet Essek’s hand was far softer than Caleb’s. It spoke of a gentler life than Caleb’s own but perhaps only in the physicality of it. After all, Essek was there with him, trapped by some unseen shackles the same as Caleb. Whether the shackles were of his own devising or not remained to be seen. Whatever had brought them together, Caleb was hopeful for something better than what their enemies wanted for them.

“I would like that also,” Caleb said after it became clear that Essek wouldn’t elaborate or further the conversation on his own. Essek raised his gaze away from the cord that now tied their fates together and looked Caleb in the eye. Searching for something that Caleb tried to offer up freely. He wasn’t sure if Essek found it, if anything he looked more thoughtful as he stared at Caleb.

“Then we shall see what the future holds for us Caleb Widogast,” Essek replied after a moment and Caleb tightened his grip on his husband’s hand, feeling a little lighter about the days to come and whatever they might hold.

#critical role #shadowgast #critical role fanfiction #shadowgast fanfiction #series: yearttw

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catalists · 3 years

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📚 tell me your fanfictions!! 💙

Oh, man, there are Many and I'm trying to remember which ones I've talked to you about!

Let's go with a Shadowgast one, because of course. I wrote a tiny piece of this as a prompt request (for you, actually!), but one of my favorite concepts is a travelogue-style fic of Caleb and Essek traveling the length of the empire, revisiting Caleb's favorite places, taking something of a survey of the issues plaguing the country Caleb hopes to help, and giving Essek his first real view of the Empire. Part of this is just...Caleb and Essek getting to know each other, being in love with each other. But it's also them inhabiting each other's viewpoint a little more: Caleb and Essek are very alike in many ways, but different than others. Essek gets to see a nation that terrifies him through the eyes of a man who loves it very much and wants nothing more than to improve it; Caleb gets to see the nation he loves very much through the eyes of someone who, though Essek has no real loyalty to his own country, is nonetheless deeply persecuted in the empire and will find it just as hard to feel at home.

And in travel, too, there is transience, and finding. And I think also Essek making peace with the fact that he may never have a true home in a place again. But he has traded it for a home in people, that moves and is carried with him, and he finds it a fair bargain.

#saturdaysky #my fic #critical role #shadowgast #essek thelyss #caleb widogast

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imalsoscarlet · 3 years

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Behind my eyes it's coming down

Fuck it here's some shadowgast fluff.

Title from Lucky by Aurora. It's an excellent, wholesome, gut-wrenching masterpiece. Go listen to it.

Spoilers for campaign 2, episode 140.

Essek watches from afar as the Mighty Nein get reacquainted with their previously dead friend. With Mollymauk. Molly to his friends. Essek smiles and sips his tea, made from "dead people" according to Jester. He doesn't think about it. Today- is it still today? Time felt different in the Astral Sea. It almost felt endless, and yet nonexistent- death had been very present.

He saw Caleb die and then he saw him come back.

He saw the Mighty Nein beg, plead for their friend whose body had been occupied from a horrendous entity. A terrible soul had taken over and it almost doomed the world.

He saw the resurrection spell fail. He felt anger at the unfairness. The Mighty Nein achieved absolute miracles. They stopped a war. They fought a god! And yet, when it mattered the most, they couldn't save their friend.

And then they did it. They brought him back. One failure did not led to another. Now that friend stood slightly confused but with a grin on his face. The Mighty Nein laughed and cheered and joked and drank and celebrated. Essek stayed in the shadows of a tree within the Blooming Groove and merely watched. He had participated somewhat but duty called him, and he could not stay long. Such is the life of a Shadowhand. He would have a hard time leaving, though.

Who wouldn't, in his position?

The thought made him pause, his lips mere centimeters from his tea cup.

With the Mighty Nein he was safe. With the Kryn Dynasty, he was doomed. Essek goes back and he's done for. Because let's face it: Essek's greatest sin will not be hidden for long. Not with the Dynasty's investigation. Not with-

There's a sudden tightness in his chest. Essek sets down the teacup and pulls his shaking hands under his cloak. He has to go back, no matter what. He could do some good, with whatever time is left for him. Perhaps he could write something about the beacons, fester doubt in the minds of the people. He often worried about the power the Luxon religion held over the nation. He worried that it made the people of his nation do unwise things, ignore hard truths, all for selfish reasons. Perhaps he could help foster relations with the Empire. Teaching Dunamancy could be a first step in that. Expanding the understands of magic all for the sake of unity. Perhaps-

Essek closed his eyes and leaned against the tree. Think small, Thelyss. He didn't have a lot of time left. Not with how close the investigation was getting to the truth.

The tightness in his chest returned and Essek took a deep breath. He didn't want death. He wanted to live. To see the Mighty Nein and whatever future they had. He wanted to begin anew with them, regain their trust, he wanted to know more about them. About Caleb, who made him feel things he hadn't felt in years, perhaps his whole life. He wanted-

Yes, he wanted to live. But duty calls.

Essek stood up. His rest was over. The Mighty Nein were beginning to wind down as well. Talk of sleeping reached his ears. Good, they needed a rest. Especially Caleb.

Essek took a deep breath and turned away, intending to cast his teleportation spell right then and there. They would understand if he left without saying goodbye. Duty calls.

Duty to his nation. Duty to his position as Shadowhand, as-

A hand grabbed his arm, stopping him mid cast. Essek jumps and spins around. He cloak catches the teacup and it knocks over. Essek ignores it because there before him is-

There, in the light of setting sun stood Caleb. His red hair ablaze in the sunset. His eyes alight with joy. Caleb puts his other hand on Essek's other arm.

"I'm not letting you leave just yet, Thelyss."

"You know I'd love to stay Widogast, but-"

Caleb steps closer to him, his hands still holding onto his arms. "Let's stop with the formalities, ja? We just saved the world. You just helped to save the world. Fjord told me about what he said to you. I can't help but agree with him: I've seen all I need to see."

"Caleb...." Why is there tears in his eyes? Why does his chest feel like it's going to collapse inward? Why does saying anything more than his name hurt?

Caleb let's go of Essek and steps back; Essek follows. He reaches up with a shaky hand and brushes a stray piece of ginger hair off of rosey cheeks. Sets his foreheads against another.

"Oh Caleb...."

"Can I kiss you?"

Essek nods, tears streaming down his face. "Please."

There are no words after that.

#critical role #campaign 2 #fanfiction #the mighty nein #shadowgast #essek thelyss #caleb widogast #critical role fanfiction

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criticalroleisdestroyingme · 3 years

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Oh Death

She said to me

"Oh, Death

Come close my eyes, woah"

I know, I'm more fool than wise

After losing the Mighty Nein in Nicodranas, Astrid and Eadwulf are sent on their next assignment. Tracking a loose end in the Frozen North, they stumble across a few more surprises, and the pieces start to add up.

The aforementioned songfic of "Oh Death" by SUGR?. Canon divergent at the end of C2E131. Written from the perspective of a highly angsty Astrid with plenty of Blumendrei and Shadowgast. Advice for Essek based on this post by @slayerscake.

A note to those who count the words of Sending - I kept it accurate to where Matt took a pause for Astrid’s Sending back to Jester, of 26 and 24.

Read more below!

Oh, when I see her looking at me

You best believe

She's only looking past me

What a mess Bren left behind him before he again vanished to the North. It took a full day for Trent’s ire to settle from a raging forest fire into a controlled burn, sending his operatives to seek out their trail. Curiously, Trent did not allow any others into his vault to pick up any trace of Bren - he must have found the amulets, otherwise the search would have been simple. It didn’t take a spymaster to determine what else Bren must have spirited away to send him on such a determined chase, and Wulf quickly agreed that whether intentional or not, Bren now had in his possession the most damning evidence of the enhancements all Volstrucker wore beneath their skin.

Was this their chance to finally…? Bren hadn’t reacted the way she hoped during their meeting, eyebrows furrowing as she had quietly whispered her seditious musings in his ear. He didn’t trust her, didn’t trust them, of course he shouldn’t, Wulf added. She bitterly hoped their actions in Nicodranas would cement that trust, but maybe Bren no longer operated on their wavelength. He couldn’t, shouldn’t allow himself to trust his compromised classmates, only using them for his ends before moving on to that thing that was so much bigger, so much nobler. His eyes never truly met hers as they waltzed, staring through her skull, focused on his own goals, convinced he would be saving the world. She had shared the contents of the meeting with Wulf, of course, but not that wave of guilt that had surged through her for forcing her ambition onto him, collapsing in the alleyway after leaving the dancehall. He had moved on, had so many bigger things to deal with than the crimes of a single man and petty politics.

After dispatching two agents to the coast to board a ship, she was again summoned to Trent’s side with Wulf. Darktow, really Bren? The ruse had seemed so obvious from their clandestine conversation about his goal, but her master was determined to contain the leak and to Trent, no lead was worth overlooking. Trent had hissed that their next assignment was to pay a visit to that Crick loose end, since they were clearly too compromised to be trusted with more important missions. The traitor’s position was confirmed via scry to be in the heart of Eiselcross - fortuitous to be so near to Bren’s destination. Maybe after they dispatch the Shadowhand, they could seek him again, Wulf suggested, and finalize plans to rid the world of another corrupted mage.

She said to me

"Oh, Death

Come close my eyes, woah"

I know, I'm more fool than wise

Her trail goes cold a few hours after they pass through the mountain range ringing the crash site of Aeor, but they’re nearly to Kryn outpost, which was still the best place to check first. Recent reports indicated the drow was getting twitchy (reasonably so, she thought), so it came as no surprise that he had procured divination wards on his latest visit back to Ghor Dranas. Strange that he had not engaged them until after his position was reconfirmed in the frozen north, and the coincidence tickles the back of her mind. She and Wulf decide to press on towards the outpost regardless - to relay this to Trent before confirming the target’s position by eye would earn them a scathing reply.

Easily obscured by invisibility, they slip past the spires of ice ringing the Xhorhassian outpost once they arrive. After around fifteen minutes, they spot the Shadowhand as he exits his chambers and rushes to the storerooms, reemerging a few minutes later with supplies for travel and a heavier mantle. Good, it should be a simple task to take out him and whatever scouts accompany him, rather than dealing with the entire outpost. He lingers outside his chambers, discussing something with the captain of the guard too quietly to be heard from their position on the outskirts. Wulf creeps forward to listen in as she maintains her position, memorizing the guard patrols out of pure habit. She’s making a mental map of the outpost when a familiar but unexpected voice creeps in.

“It’s me… Jester-” whispers into her mind, followed by… a fit of giggles? “Hey, I don’t know if you’re alone. If.. you’re.. not-” another fit. How did Bren’s companions get anything done? “-and you’re following us…” the longest pause yet. Should she start her reply? What did the woman even want? As she opens her mouth to speak, eyes on the perimeter for any unforeseen patrols, it finally comes in. “Clear your throat,” she chokes out amid giggles, “if you’re not following us.”

“I’m so very…” lost? Disturbed? Overwhelmed by the lack of any meaningful information presented in those twenty-five words? “Confused.” She settles on. “What did you say?” Entertaining further conversation in spite of her location may not have been wise, but she couldn’t help herself, needing to know Bren’s next move.

“Sorry-” Warranted. “I need to know if you’re following us. If you know where we are. What’s the plan with you guys? Hope you’re alone! If you’re not-” the message cuts out. She rubs her temples, considering her response a moment. How to impress upon her the importance of what her party now carried with them, what she wanted them to accomplish? This was going to take more than one message, she thought, pulling her wire free from her components.

“A Volstrucker has never disentangled from Trent before. No one who knows what he does, how he breaks us, has shared their trauma with the world,” effortlessly continuing her response with another Sending, “with the king. Imagine the threat you are to him, now that you carry respect of both Crown and Kryn. So, yes,” she concludes, “he’s invested.” Was it enough? No further response.

“Who was that?” Wulf’s voice shocks her as he returns, still cloaked in his invisibility.

“Bren’s companions. The tiefling.”

“Ah,” he grunts. Lingers in silence for a moment. “Will he…?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. Glad to still be invisible, despite Wulf knowing exactly the look on her face. Probably has the same look on his. Her hand reaches out, contacting his upper arm blindly, then gives it a rub. “Later. Our target?”

“Too far, too quiet. Something about the ruin; an entrance his rangers are guarding.”

“Well then, we will have to make our move during his journey to them,” she replies, not keen on chasing this wizard into the depths of Aeor. A grunt of agreement, and they settle together, crouched on the icy ground, awaiting further movement of the traitor and his forces. A few more minutes and the guard captain nods and walks away, barking orders in Undercommon to his men, and the Shadowhand floats alone outside his door. His hand raises to knock, lowers, raises once more, then softly taps the door before opening it.

“He’s not alone in there,” Wulf interprets easily. She squints her eyes, trying to block the glare of the snow and ice to spot the reason for his hesitation, but the low-lit room gave up no secrets before the door closed behind him. Another minute and the door reopens, and neither Volstrucker notices the Shadowhand’s relaxed shoulders as he drifts out, sucking air through their teeth at the sight of who follows him.

Oh, I- I- I- I- I- I- I never wanted anything as little as I want this now

Oh, I- I- I- I- I take my pistol, gonna make you proud

“We should have known, we should have fucking known-” Wulf spits as they tail the group to the northwest, the pair’s white cloaks obscuring them well at this distance.

“Shh! Let me think.” Her words bite at her own tongue, mind racing. It was so obvious - Bren’s party spent so much time in Xhorhas, were so close to the Bright Queen herself that their word alone was enough to halt a full scale attack on the capital. Of course they would know the Shadowhand, at least know of him, and with their connection in the North from the Empire extinguished, of fucking course they would be allying with the Dynasty once more. The source of the Shadowhand’s protection from divination was now also unfortunately obvious - he had been recruited by the team to go stop the supposed end of the world.

This was going to get messy. It would be impossible to take out the Shadowhand without alerting Bren to their presence. How could they convince Bren to work alongside them to expose Trent if they ended up in battle against him? “Scheiße,” she hissed, Wulf growling in agreement.

She wondered what the Shadowhand would be getting in return for his assistance. Protection from the assassins hot on his trail? Yes, but surely this master manipulator would have gotten more out of the deal than that. The drow had fooled his entire country, betrayed his own religion, just for the sake of some arcane research.

She smirked, jaw clicking into place. That’s it. He’s a traitor to his own nation. Make him confess to it, surely Bren would want him dead as well after learning their ally was a conspirator with the Assembly, had stolen the beacons his group worked so hard to return to the Kryn. They could still make this work, and come out of Eiselcross both having completed their current mission and securing Bren, all of them, as allies in their next.

Wulf growled again, pulling her from her thoughts. Looking back at the Shadowhand, he had fallen in line with Bren and was conversing while they pressed onward, taking comfort in a glowing orb he held outside his mantle. Bren had moved in shoulder to shoulder with the drow, leaning in and wrapping his hand around the drow’s forearm in a supposed bid to get closer to the source of light. His group carried on ahead of them, saying nothing as they snuck glances back towards the pair. She felt her cheek burn where Bren had previously leaned his face on hers during their waltz. Wulf was saying something but the blood pounding in her head was far too loud.

She said to me

"Oh, Death

It's way too wet on your cheeks to be nothing"

But what does she know?

Really, what does she know?

The troupe had slowed for a short rest now, and she crept closer unthinking, Wulf trailing behind her. The cold wind whipped her hood back and pulled her light locks free, carrying snips of conversation back to them. “The- I’m sorry, the lesbians?”

“Yes, Yasha there and Expositor Lionett. They’re quite capable on the frontline, and often I find the best means of dealing damage to the enemy is through enhancing their abilities and staying out of sight. So ja, buff the lesbians.” Concluding with a pat on the Kryn’s forearm, Bren appeared to finally spot his hand’s location and jolt back, sheepish grin mirroring one she had not seen for years since she caught him and Wulf outside her dormitory door with a bottle of whisky and a proposal. That pink tint to his cheeks is visible from here, betraying his intentions so plainly. Betraying them. Betraying her.

“I- I see. Any other... tips I should be aware of?” the Shadowhand had asked, looking to the rest of the group and quickly pulling the orb back towards himself once Bren had released him, before thinking and proffering it to the others. Her own cheek stung still. To her side, Wulf reached over and too-gently touched it, rubbing away a layer of ice built up. The half-orc sat up from his resting point across from them, putting his hands towards the orb without any comment on the pair’s previous position.

“Ah, yes - while Jester is a cleric,” he intoned, leaning towards the blue tiefling gently, “try to go unconscious near Caduceus.”

“Fjord!”

“What?! You prefer a more… proactive approach to battle!”

Soothing with a hand on her shoulder, the gray firbolg also leans in and places a teapot atop the orb. “The Wildmother is interested in preserving the natural cycle of life, and if it is not your time, She will not let you pass. At least, not while I have anything to say about it.”

Bren had pulled away now, eyes softening as he looked between the drow and the rest of the group. She drew a wire from her pocket and she took a breath, steeling herself before casting Sending once more.

“Bren.” He stiffened stick-straight. “Do not be alarmed. Wulf and I are approaching your position.” She paused. “Just us. We wish to speak.” She does not trust herself to use the remaining words without stumbling.

“Caleb? Trent again? Or...” The Cobalt Soul expositor perked up, but Bren had lifted a hand to her and shook his head.

“Astrid.” Came clear into her mind as she heard the monk curse in the distance. “If it is just the two of you, please approach. I’m sure our company raises questions.” A pause of his own. “You could have told Jester you were here.”

Overlapping Bren’s voice, Wulf whispers, “What are you doing?” but she’s already stood tall and pushed her hair from her eyes.

“Just trust me.”

Oh, I- I- I- I- I never wanted it to be this way

Oh, you know I- I- I- I hold on to everything you say

“Shadowhand to the Bright Queen, Essek Thelyss. Please meet my, ah, associates Astrid and Eadwulf of the Dwendalian Empire.” Bren gestures. They had all stood as the Volstrucker approached, remaining in their previous circle, but the halfling had drawn her crossbow from her hip and the dark woman had also unsheathed a gleaming blade.

Careful with his words, as if his present company could be spooked like a horse, the Shadowhand spoke with low, smooth tones. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” His eyes betrayed his tone, flitting towards each of Bren’s group in turn. “To what do we owe this visit?”

She smiled coolly. “There is no need for deception here, Herr Thelyss. In fact, it would benefit us all to be forthright. You needn’t pretend this is our first encounter.”

These words should have shook the Kryn to the core, so blunt and expository, the jaws of her trap slowly ratcheting open. His demeanor had not shifted, however, as Bren glanced between the two. “Fair enough, Madam Beck.” The Nein jumped slightly at this, far more than her initial reveal. Had Bren never shared her last name with his companions? “And Mister Grieve, I assume you are well?”

“Well enough in this frozen waste,” was Wulf’s gruff reply, arms crossed to the left and slightly behind her, but within her field of view.

“Then please, join our circle,“ came Bren’s voice, shaking surely due to the cold. She stepped forward at the invitation, and took the space to his other side, the halfling stepping aside but cautiously keeping a hand on the base of her crossbow. “Come now, Veth, there’s no need for that among friends.” Wulf stepped through the circle, taking a position next to the firbolg he liked so much during that dinner before. “We have plenty to share, and I’m sure they do as well.”

Bren always had such a way with words, she thought. Certainly better than Wulf, a perfect voice to tug at one’s heartstrings. He could say so much with so little. If there is any love left between us, cursing his words as they came back to her. Perhaps he was even greater a manipulator than the spymaster to his right. Plenty of love was left, it seemed, but how much belonged to her?

“Ohmigosh Astrid, we are so happy to see you! Why didn’t you say you were close before? We could have been traveling together this whole time!“ the tiefling bubbled, a little too enthusiastically. She was no fool.

“My apologies, Jester.” She gave another cool smile, then directed her gaze around Bren to settle on the drow once more. “There were matters we had to confirm before we could make our presence known to you and Bren.” He stiffened alongside Bren, glancing down at the other wizard with a question in his eyes, and her smile turned slightly more predatory. “Herr Thelyss, might I inquire as to your business in Eiselcross? Seeking additional Beacons, I presume?”

The level of confusion did not rise in the group as she expected, however. The Shadowhand’s eyes narrowed and turned back to her as she pressed further. “Had the Martinet not already promised to share our research?”

“Astrid.”

Bren stepped forward, blocking her line of sight to the Kryn.

“Caleb, please.” A dark hand touched his shoulder (how dare he, her fingers twitched), pushing the man back towards his previous position. “Madam Beck,” he continued, “your insinuations would be quite dangerous in almost any circle but this one.” His shoulders back, he lifted slightly higher off the ground. “I am not interested in being toyed with. Clearly you were sent to dispose of me, so go ahead. Complete your business. But do not waste my friends’ time with your attempts to reveal that which is no longer concealed from them.”

He knew? Bren fucking knew? They all knew what this man had done and walked out into a frozen hellhole with him? Showed him trust, and affection of all things? Her mind swam, staring her target in his face as she searched for any fracture, any sign of weakness. He can’t possibly have told them everything. How could they forgive him for starting the war they had foolishly pledged to end on their own? How could Bren trust him, but not-

“It’s true, Astrid.” Bren said softly in that verdammt voice. “We caught on before the peace talks out at sea. Lord Dezran Thain,” he gave the honorific a teasing lilt, “was a bit too careless. He should not have chosen to be a lord in a city in which he did not know of its main attraction.” He smiled towards Jester.

“Yeah, I don’t know of a single person from Nicodranas who doesn’t know my mamma. Sorry Essek,” she winked at him. He gave an awkward smile in response. Silence hung over the group for a moment.

Wulf finally piped up again. “Well, you’re correct that we were here to kill the Shadowhand.” The group quickly tightened at his words, apart from the firbolg who still stood beside him casually, focused on making tea in that pot on top of the orb. “But... how we do that now is a mystery to me.” His lazy glance cast over her, then Bren, then narrowing briefly on the traitor. He gave a shrug as he unceremoniously sat in the snow. “So let’s talk.”

“Yes, I think there’s much to discuss,” the firbolg said, pulling the now-warm pot from the orb and beginning to pour cups. He smiled towards her sympathetically, somehow looking through her and reaching across the circle with a mug before sitting back and offering another to Wulf. She took it delicately, glancing at the pattern of soft petals on a dark branch.

As the other cups were passed out and the group slowly sat back down, Wulf popped open his flask and poured his whisky into the cup until it reached the brim, then capped it and flicked it across the circle to her. Barely looking up from the cup, she caught the flask mid-air with practiced precision, choosing to take a swig from it directly rather than sullying the tea. A calloused hand with blackened fingertips entered her view from the left as she tilted her head back down. Requesting, but not demanding. Too kind, too tender, and it made her heart ache as the liquor burned her throat. Not meeting his eyes, she passed the flask along.

“Prost.”

Oh, k- k- k- k- k- keep your pity to yourself

Oh, I'll make you wish that you didn't love someone else

#c2e131 #cr spoilers #fanfic #astrid #eadwulf #caleb widogast #blumendrei #blumentrio #essek thelyss #shadowgast #first published fic please be kind #my brain would not calm down until i had written this out #and it might pursue this further while i wait for an account on ao3

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duskoscrawl · 2 years

Note

Favourite cowboy apart from Noel AND caleb widogast

Okie dokie. Gonna merge both blog's content together for this.

My second favourite cowboy has gotta be doc will williams

First impression: my first impression of Caleb was my first impression of crit role. Matt pans the camera up in his opening description of the muddiest saddest man on the planet and he became my sad little german meow meow.

My first impression of will was that his was the only name I knew when we went into the first one shot and I thought he was a respectable and upstanding little man

Impression now: Caleb my love. You've come so far and I love you <3 you're not muddy anymore. You deserve to be loved so much and I am gonna keep writing people loving you and you loving them

William Williams is a naughty little man. I love him and his desire to avoid Noel's many evil ploys to marry him. He probably shouldn't have shot his dad but his himbo big brother is the best <3

Favorite moment: You were not born with venom in your veins... (No surprises there)

When Ansel and Tommy climb out of Ainsel's back window to avoid Will and Thomas having their big reunion

Idea for a story: well... I might be writing several little something somethings. I do have one particular draft titled 'harvest close hairpins' which is another little post canon shadowgast in the vein of the oops all essek fics ive got going on

I would need a bit of assistance if I were to write will and noel give in and actually tell each other their secrets and stop holding each other in a social stalemate.

Unpopular opinion: I think epilogue Caleb is still deeply and intrinsically indoctrinated into empire nationalism. I think that he's ended up in a very powerful position and I think that despite his best efforts, he will end up as another part in the empire's ideological machine - just as the valdhexe in widowgast's web of words predicts.

I think William Williams needs to stop letting himself be an accessory to crimes. It's bad for his mental health and the others are all terrible influences.

Favorite relationship: oh god. Caleb has so many friends. I love the empire siblings. But I think I love Caleb and veth more (the other empire duo). They come as a little duo and i love writing about veth and her boy. They just love each other and I love them.

I adore the relationship between Will and Thomas Williams. The whole story of Thomas riding into Danser and asking after a Williams because he's not sure how his sibling is presenting atm is lovely. I love how the whole town hides Will until the two collide. I love Will's big himbo brother who just wants to love him and see him happy.

Favorite headcanon: oh god. Headcanons for caleb. I mean I have so many. His whole post canon house is laid out in my head, from the position of the wash house to the geraniums in the window boxes. But I think my very favourite creation is Lumpy the Cat (my beloved) a wretched little creation provided by Jester as a gift, Lumpy is a chubby grey and white cat that menaces Caleb's home and gets to go to lectures at the academy

Rather than go to the barbershop with the overbearing french barber, Will cuts his own hair and everyone is a little too awkward to tell him the back is wonky again until Mrs Wilder sorts him out

#a town called danser #chill to reblog #asks #critical role #campaign 2 #caleb widogast

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mithrilwren · 4 years

Text

3 Turn

Another installment in the Shadowgast Figure Skating AU, inspired by the incredible art of @fiovske! You don’t technically have to read the first piece in the series to understand this one - they more or less stand on their own - but if you’re going to read both, I’d recommend doing so in order. [Also on Ao3] [Find the whole series of one-shots in this AU here!]

---

3 turn: a figure skating element which involves a change in direction and edge. The direction of the turn follows the way the edge rotates and curves, either from an inside edge to an outside edge, or an outside edge to an inside edge.

---

1. Forward.

There’s a new skater on the ice tonight.

It’s a rare occurrence, to see an unfamiliar face in competition. Essek has grown accustomed to seeing the same lineup of competitors at every event. The particular selection of faces may change with the location, but the roster is generally static; there are only a select few whose skills are high enough to qualify at this level.

Still, the whirling blur of motion in Essek’s periphery wears a colour palette he’s not familiar with, and as his coach guides him through last-minute stretches at the sideboards, he watches the figure out of the corner of his eye. Not paying full attention, of course - his turn is next in the order, and there are many elements to review in his mind before he steps out onto the ice himself - but he does catch a few details: a grey and black suit, a flash of red hair, the sound of a skate coming down hard.

Too hard, and the subsequent gasps of the crowd tell him a jump has been fumbled, if not outright failed.

Essek smirks - not unkindly, necessarily, but with the satisfaction of renewed confidence. Whoever this new blood is, he’s clearly knocked himself out of the running. Not a challenger, then, and thus, not worthy of any more of Essek’s attention.

As the music fades to a close, he lets his breath go in one low beat. He’s ready. He’s relaxed. This will be a good performance.

Essek barely pays the new competitor any mind as they pass each other: him stepping into the rink, and the other man stepping out. There’s no delay between the two routines for flowers to be collected. Evidently, none were thrown. The man must truly be a newcomer - not many rise to this level of competition without accumulating at least a small base of supporters. But again, Essek reminds himself, this is all unimportant to the task at hand.

Essek floats out to the center of the ice and places one toe on its tip, hands curving up to frame his chin and cheek in an elegant tableau. The crowd is still, as breathless as his own body, as they wait for the first note.

Then the music starts, and Essek flies.

---

Once all the roses and little gifts are collected from the ice, Essek rejoins his coach in the kiss-and-cry. The red-headed competitor is already far from his mind as they wait together for his scores to be announced.

(The cutesy name of the simple, black-clothed bench, surrounded by a chorus of video cameras and fake flowers, is something of a derisive joke between the two of them; neither he nor Mirimm would ever be caught dead doing either in public.)

The only expression Essek allows himself as the numbers are read out is a small smile: first place standing, as expected. Mirimm’s reaction is equally subdued. She doesn’t congratulate him, not on what was already a forgone conclusion.

(And still, his heart eases as he hears the final tally, even though he knew that his performance tonight was without critique. There’s an unhelpful anxiety that accompanies every kiss-and-cry, so ingrained he can barely separate it from the brighter feeling of anticipation. He can’t seem to shake the lingering dread that one day the scores will be announced, and he will be found lacking, and the perilous peak on which he stands will crumble away.)

After returning to their seats, Essek watches the rest of the skaters from the audience with vague interest. He knows most of their routines by rote, along with their faces. The season is spent perfecting only two sets of choreography per person - one short program, one free skate - and he’s seen most of them performed already, whether televised or in competition. Still, the art of skating is beautiful in itself, and even familiar routines are a pleasant enough diversion as they all wait for the final scores, that will determine the skate order for the next day.

Finally, after the last skater has received their marks, the ranking is read out to the audience. Essek’s name is the first announced, of course. As the top-placed competitor, he will go last. That, too, was never in question.

The name ‘Caleb Widogast’, at a stalwart middle rank, crackles over the loudspeakers, and Essek starts. He cocks his head, trying to capture the remnants of the sound before the announcements continue. Something about that name… he’s sure he’s heard it before. Essek turns to Mirimm, leaning down to murmur in her ear.

“Why do I know the name ‘Widogast’?”

Mirimm - an elderly woman, with so many years of experience under her belt that not even her wizened face and hunched, almost goblinish appearance can diminish her reputation as one of the skating world’s premiere coaches - squints, her mouth set into a troubled frown. He’s not accustomed to seeing even that much emotion from her, and certainly not in public. Her answer takes far longer than it should for such a simple question.

“I suppose that would have been before your time, wouldn’t it?” Essek carefully suppresses a wince. Having achieved so much by such a young age might be a badge of honour for some, but he often tires of being so continuously reminded of it. He would rather be set apart by his skill, not his circumstances. “He was a prominent competitor in the juniors circuit, many years ago. ” Her voice grows more craggly as it dips low, softer, as though she’s talking to herself and not to him. “I didn’t realize he’d started skating again.”

“A hiatus? Was there a reason?” There are few explanations that are conceivable to Essek, why someone would choose to give up the sport, even temporarily. You don’t leave a life like this up - not at this level, not after so much work and pain and investment. Even he, even after-

Well. It’s not something you just abandon.

Again, Mirimm pauses before answering. “I don’t know the whole story, but… I believe he was under a lot of pressure.” The inflection on the word pressure doesn’t quite sit right with Essek, and his own frown deepens. “The Empire is very... rigid, with its athletes, as you well know.”

Essek’s mouth parts slightly. Then Widogast is a Dwendalian skater. Now that’s interesting. Stranger still, that no one would have informed him of the man in advance, but if even Mirimm didn’t know he was competing...

“That’s all you can tell me?”

“That’s all I’m telling you.” She fixes him with a hard look, and he sighs, knowing a final answer when he hears one. He’s learned not to question the hierarchy, over the years. As supportive as Mirimm is, and as high as he rises, there are still some things he’s not privileged enough to know. Being sponsored by the Dynasty itself comes with a laundry list of pros and cons, after all, and as much as he’s aware that his role in the conflict between nations is symbolic, it is not unimportant. The threads of political posturing between the Empire and the Dynasty are long-rooted and deeply meaningful, and appearances are more vital now than ever, in this time of perilous peace. He takes that responsibility as seriously as any aspect of his own career.

Still, his curiousity is peaked, and he barely hears the rest of the names in the order, too busy turning over one in particular in his mind.

---

There are also pros and cons in being the last onto the ice, Essek muses the next day, as he waits for his turn to arrive. On one hand, he’s stuck ruminating on his own upcoming performance for longer than any other skater. On the other, he finally has a chance to watch the other routines properly.

He waits with bated breath for the name ‘Caleb Widogast’ to be announced. From his seat near the front of the stands, he has a perfect view to suss out this mysterious competitor, and he intends to make good use of that advantage. Even if Mirimm refuses to share more, there’s a great deal he can learn from simple observation.

His catalogue begins the moment the man steps out onto the ice. There’s a certain awkwardness to Widogast’s movements, as the man drifts out to the center of the rink - a dipped head, and hunched shoulders, nothing at all like Essek’s regal posture. His eyes are nearly hidden beneath the long, wavy bangs that tumble out from his loose ponytail. It’s a curiously unpolished look: not strictly against regulations, but certainly not the finessed coif of a typical skater, especially not with hair of that length. Essek wonders if he does it himself, or if his stylist is simply unskilled. The messiness doesn’t seem intentional, rather, it almost looks like the ponytail began as a tighter pull-back, but wasn’t secured properly.

His outfit, at least, is neat, if slightly old-fashioned. The hard lines of black and grey are typical Dwendalian attire, and Essek thinks again of Mirimm’s words. Rigid. That is certainly a word to describe the suit. He can’t say that Widogast looks terribly comfortable in its constrictive folds and creases. That type of outfit requires a precision to pull off that his hair and his posture don’t match. Everything about the look is like two halves at war from within, and Essek wouldn’t be surprised if the man loses points on presentation before the music even starts.

In the quiet moments at center ice, Essek watches as Widogast breathes out, arms crossed in front of his chest. His shoulders come down, as though he’s forcibly told them to relax. Then the first note sounds, and Widogast takes off towards the rink’s edge in a burst of energy, launching into a routine that leaves Essek more confused with every bar.

The man is obviously quite technically proficient, but whatever rigidity he managed to force out of his shoulders, he clearly hasn’t shaken it from the rest of his body. His steps are intricate, but stiff, and though his movements smooth out into something more like a dancer’s elegance by the end of the first step sequence, Essek is keen now to the tension that shudders beneath. He isn’t surprised at all when Widogast’s first jump finishes a full rotation short of the intended triple lutz. Even if the set-up was executed well, it lacked confidence, and no jump approached with hesitation will ever succeed.

Still, the landing is clean, and though the rest of the routine is fairly unremarkable - full of the traditional upright forms and purposeful movements that he’s come to expect from the (admittedly, small) number of Empire skaters he’s competed against over the years - with each passing moment, Essek only finds himself more transfixed by the series of contradictions that make up ‘Caleb Widogast’.

Who is this man, who skates with all the skill of a champion and the confidence of a fifteen-year-old trainee?

Why is his outfit so strict, and his hair so wild?

Who would give up skating for long enough to fall out of memory, only to return as a shadow of their former glory?

Essek must know more.

He watches Widogast’s face as the song comes to a close, hoping to catch a glimpse of his reaction to the past few minutes. Is he pleased with the middling performance, or disappointed? But as soon as the music dies away, his head is already tucked back to his shoulder, and he hurries his way off the ice even before the polite smattering of applause finishes. No flowers again, and no whoops or cheers from the audience. Even the other Dwendalian entrant - Vadim, oft bronze-medalist, powerful jumps - offers no vocal support to his countryman. He sits a few aisles away from Essek, watching the routine just as intently as him, but without any hint of comradery hidden in his tight-lipped expression. If anything, his look is assessing, rather than familiar.

Stranger and stranger.

Essek’s eyes follow Widogast as he steps out of the rink and heads towards the kiss-and-cry. There’s no coach waiting there when he arrives. Widogast takes a seat by himself, and the next skater takes to the ice. The music starts again, and still, nobody joins him. Widogast picks up his coat from atop his bag and wraps it around his own shoulders, clutching the fabric to his chest as he waits for the scores to be read.

Essek’s heart unexpectedly pangs. He’s no stranger to being on his own - he prefers it, nearly always - but still… he never realized how lonesome that bench could look.

Essek prides himself on being able to predict any score within five points, and this time is no exception. Not a bad showing, per se, but nothing spectacular. Even with only half the scores tallied, the podium is already out of Widogast’s reach. Essek is too far away to judge his expression as the numbers are read from the loudspeakers, but his reaction is far from dramatic. The man sits quietly for a few moments more, then gathers his bag and returns to his seat, ignoring the handful of microphones shoved in his direction as he passes the press box. He doesn’t move from that seat, not for as long as it takes Mirimm to tap Essek on the shoulder and remind him that he should get downstairs and stretch for his own routine.

It only strikes him as odd a half-hour or so later, as he gets up off the cold concrete floor and returns the foam roller to its case, that Widogast’s seat wasn’t next to Vadim’s. If anyone else from the Dynasty was in attendance, they and Essek would have been seated together. A show of patriotic solidarity is never amiss, and the Empire tends to be even more strict than his own country in that regard. But he doesn’t have time to contemplate the question further, because Mirimm is already hurrying him along, back to the rink’s edge just in time for his routine to start.

The rest of the night passes in an accustomed blur - the flawless performance, the kiss-and-cry, the inevitable triumph. It seems barely more than a blink of the eye before Essek finds himself on the podium, listening to the last strains of the familiar anthem fade away. He receives his medal gracefully, dipping his head as the ribbon is placed around his neck, but when he looks up again, it’s to scan the crowd once more, looking for Widogast.

The search is fruitless; his eyes land on an empty seat, and no trace of where the man went. Perhaps he left once he knew the final results. Essek can’t help but be a little disappointed - he has always been insatiably inquisitive, and this Caleb Widogast is an enigma like no other - but it seems tonight is not the night he’ll satisfy that curiousity.

Essek exchanges civil handshakes with the other medalists and makes his way back towards the locker room to collect the remainder of his things, while the crowd begins to filter out of the arena.

Progress is slow, constantly impeded by eager fans looking for autographs or photos that his station - and the ever-present cameras - don’t allow him to refuse. Mirimm knows not to wait around, and by the time he manages to (politely) fight his way out of the stands, he finds himself in a mostly abandoned facility. The occasional conversation still wafts through the echoing concrete corridors below the rink, but most of the other skaters have left already. He’s pleased by the solitude, not least because his left leg is aching fiercely, and in an empty hallway, he can allow himself the slightest limp. He keeps his ears open for any hint of incoming footsteps, of course, but it’s an unexpected boon after a long day.

The locker room is empty as well. Still, Essek ducks into one of the shower stalls and turns the lock before unzipping his bag. He moves aside the foam roller’s case and reaches in, pulling out the brace that lies beneath. Essek holds it in his hands and leans back against the wall, considering.

The pain is worse tonight than usual, but this isn’t exactly a regional show. The reporters will be trained on him the moment he emerges into the lobby. Better not to risk it. Essek slips the brace back into the bag, wincing as he pushes himself off the wall, and unlocks the stall door.

He can manage, and there will be a hot shower waiting for him once he passes through the gauntlet of reporters and returns to his hotel: a well deserved reward.

He takes another step, and his thigh muscle shudders beneath the weight. Essek grits his teeth.

He can manage.

Essek is nearly to the back stairwell that will take him back to the lobby when he hears it - a new, unplaceable sound, drifting from around the corner. He steps closer, and the sound becomes clearer. Quickened, irregular breathing.

He walks as quietly as he can to the bend, and peers around.

A man is braced against the wall, arms crossed over his eyes as he leans his weight against them, his face turned towards the ground as he gulps shallow breaths of air. The shock of red hair, now fully escaped from its tie and spread loose over quavering shoulders, is unmistakable.

It’s Widogast.

Essek means to back away as silently as he came. The man is indisposed, and no matter how great his curiousity, he wouldn’t spy on someone in such a private moment. But his leg, the treacherous thing, buckles on the first step back, and that slight stumble is enough to bring Widogast’s head whipping up. His bright eyes - blue, very blue, improbably blue - land on Essek, and Essek freezes, feeling more chastened than he probably should, considering he truly hadn’t meant to intrude.

Widogast immediately straightens, sucking in one last breath before bowing his head. “I am in your way. My apologies.”

The soft accent catches Essek off guard. Stereotypical as it might be, he was expecting the more severe dialect of King Dwendal. As a child of the Dynasty, brought up in wartime, there were few other Empire voices that were recognizable. All he had were the propaganda speeches on the radio and the indistinct image of a faraway court on the television. He was not a soldier, and would never meet a child of the Empire face to face. At least, that’s what he’d assumed, at the time.

“Are you…” alright, is the word he wants to say. If it’s not an outright panic attack he’s startled the man out of, it was something close to it. But to acknowledge that feels too... forward. They’ve only just met, after all, and he is still a representative of the Dynasty. He must never forget that, or the caution it entails. “...going up?” Essek finishes, gesturing at the stairwell.

Widogast grimaces, a pained look that smoothes out to something more neutral as surely as his movements did on the ice. It’s almost disconcerting, how calm he seems now - how steeled - when only a few minutes ago he could barely breathe.

“I will, in a short while. Please,” Widogast says. “Don’t let me keep you.” His eyes move to Essek’s chest and widen in realization, and Essek is suddenly self-conscious of the golden medal that still shimmers between strips of back gauze. “My apologies again, Herr Thelyss, and... congratulations, on the victory.”

“Thank you,” Essek says slowly. So he knows who Essek is. Has the man been studying up on him as well? But he forces the momentary paranoia down. He is the reigning champion, three years running, and today’s victory sets him well on the path for a fourth crown. Of course this man would know his name. Who in the skating world doesn’t?

Still, Essek makes no move towards the stairwell, and neither does Widogast. Finally, Essek breaks the stalemate. “Shall we go up together?”

It’s a reckless suggestion. If they’re seen emerging together, the reporters will eat them alive. He’s under firm instructions from both Mirimm and the Bright Queen herself that he’s to maintain a civil, but distant, relationship with those Empire competitors he meets. But he can’t help but want to continue the interaction, now that circumstances have brought them together. He might not get another chance like this, imprudent as it might be.

If anything, Widogast’s expression becomes even more pained, and Essek watches him physically hold in a shudder. “Please, go on,” he says again. “I’m sure you’re a busy man.”

An even more reckless thought occurs to Essek. “You’re very right. To be honest, I’m not sure I feel like spending what time I have with the vultures tonight,” he says, regarding Widogast with an air of nonchalance. “And - forgive me - you seem a little tired yourself. Perhaps we should show ourselves out the back? I know another exit.” There. Plausible deniability for the both of them.

Widogast fixes him with a stare as piercing as Essek’s ever delivered, and he knows he’s been found out. That might concern him more, if he knew what, precisely, he was attempting to conceal in the offer. He hasn’t quite parsed out his own intentions - only that the enigma of Caleb Widogast has him intrigued, and he wants as much time as he can steal to begin to unravel the pieces of that mystery.

“...If you are offering, then… I would be grateful.” Widogast dips his head again, sharp expression fading to something almost weary. “I’m not sure I’m up to facing them tonight either,” he admits, more softly.

“Then the rear exit it is.” Essek turns, and a few moments later, footsteps hurry to join his as he leads the way through the twists and turns of the underground structure.

The truth is, Essek knows all the back entrances, to every major rink on the competition circuit. He often comes a day early to walk the halls, scouting out the surest route that will avoid the flash - or worse, the blinking red recording light - of the cameras. In a pinch, he’s even acquired building schematics, if advance travel wasn’t an option.

He can manage, after all - he always does - but there are some nights where he’d rather not have to.

The two of them walk in silence. Though there are a thousand questions burning on Essek’s lips, he knows that there is a time and place, and that this isn’t the appropriate one. Better to show as little of his own hand as possible, while he still knows so little about the man’s connections within the Empire, and… well, he doesn’t want to push Widogast further, not after what he just witnessed.

It might be the shrewder choice. Widogast is more vulnerable now, at least emotionally, than he might be later on, and Essek could probably press him and learn some of what he wants to know. But still-

But still. He feels how he feels. There’s no use pretending something else.

They come at last to a different stairwell, this one leading up to a set of heavy metal doors coated in cracked orangeish paint. Essek pushes the doors open and holds the first for Widogast, and the two of them exit into an alleyway. From the opposite end of the narrow path, the lights of the street blare and fade: cars, passing into the gathering night. Essek looks once more at Widogast, holding his coat closed against the chill of the damp night. Each wash of light catches the outline of the man’s hair: a glimmer of auburn against the grey brick at his back, tumbling in loose waves around his jaw.

“Thank you,” Widogast says again, this time with open, unguarded sincerity, and as the man finally meets Essek’s eyes, the back of his neck begins to prickle. “I am in your debt.”

“Indeed. Perhaps I’ll ask a favour in return, the next time we meet?”

Essek means the banter to be light - playful, even - but Widogast doesn’t smile. He does nod, however, expression altogether too serious for the tenor of the conversation. “A favour,” he says. “Alright.”

“Till the next time, then,” Essek says, and starts towards the alley’s exit. Widogast follows on his heels, but Essek holds up a hand. “Give it a few minutes, in case there are watching eyes on this side.” Widogast frowns, but as Essek points to the symbol of the Bright Queen subtly embroidered on his sleeve, he nods again in understanding.

Essek chances one last glance back before he slips out of the alleyway and onto the street. He sees Widogast framed against the door: a figure in grey silhouette, and still impossibly alone.

---

The shower does help with the pain, and he’s able to go to bed that night without splinting the leg at all, which is a better outcome than he’d hoped. By tomorrow, he’ll be back in the Dynasty, in the comfort of his own home, and for now at least he has creature comforts: good wine, a soft bed, and an evening to himself, without needing to speak to a single other soul. This is his preferred way to celebrate a victory.

As he lays down to sleep, red hair and blue eyes flutter through Essek’s mind, an inescapable interest still burning within him. He finally gives in to the compulsion at almost one in the morning, dragging himself out of bed and back to the sitting room portion of the suite. Pulling open his laptop, he quickly types a name into the search bar.

There are dozens of results for ‘Caleb Widogast’: old videos at low resolution, standings from various tournaments, even a few news articles in languages he doesn’t know. He clicks on one of the videos first, indulging himself for a minute or so in grainy clips of a boy with the same red hair - though much shorter - as the man he met today. But there’s something about the experience that’s almost uncomfortably voyeuristic, and he quickly abandons the pursuit in favour of the articles.

The few that are in the common tongue are intriguing, but sparse, and all uniformly disappear after a certain date. By three in the morning, he’s exhausted every dead end, and come to one inevitable conclusion: Caleb Widogast - the junior’s champion, a prodigy, just like Essek - existed for many years, and then he simply didn’t.

After today’s standings, Widogast won’t be moving on in the circuit. The next leg of competition is all that matters. Essek shuts the laptop, tired and frustrated, and resolves to put the conundrum out of his mind.

And, for a time, he succeeds.

2. Pivot.

The next time they meet, a season has passed, and Essek has his fourth championship victory. Riding high off his success and all the accolades that followed, the exhibition rounds before the next circuit are a breath of fresh air - literally.

The warm shores of Nicodranas seem an unusual place to host an ice skating event, but perhaps the international planning committee has tired of all the cold and dreary locales they’re typically forced to frequent - or maybe somebody had a summer home that they wanted to make use of. Either way, it doesn’t quite suit Essek’s constitution, and he begrudges not having a good excuse to wear his typical heavy mantle outdoors, but it is a change of pace.

He’s taken aback when he spies the name ‘Caleb Widogast’ on the day’s program. Countries usually announce their designated entrants for these events months in advance - how is it possible that both he and Mirimm could be caught unawares yet again? But when he asks, this time Mirimm brushes him off entirely, and he’s forced to stew in silence as he waits for the man to appear.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to wait long. Widogast’s lot falls first in the order, and Essek settles in to watch the short program he missed all those months ago.

Alas, there’s not much to watch. If he thought the man was unpracticed the first time he saw him skate, it’s worse now. These non-qualifier rounds are meant for testing and perfecting choreography before the competition truly begins, and Widogast is obviously still working out the kinks in his routine. The jumps are turbulent, nearly all under-rotated, and even his more melodic passages lack presence or style. Once again, the second half improves on the first, but in a short program - as the name implies - there isn’t much time to make an impression. Essek fully expects to see Widogast’s face fall as soon as he finishes.

But he’s caught off guard as the music reaches its crescendo, then fades, and a raucous cheer rises from somewhere high in the stands. He’s close enough this time to see an embarrassed smile break over Widogast’s lips, and he gives a little wave to whoever made the noise before skating off the ice.

The kiss-and-cry isn’t empty this time either when he arrives. Someone is sitting on the bench, in a tracksuit of blue and grey. They’re too far off to discern any other details, and Essek finds himself rising and descending against his own better judgement, ignoring Mirimm’s pointed look as he makes his way towards the semi-circle of cameras.

Now that he’s closer, he can start to get a sense of Widogast’s companion. Tall, olive-skinned, with close-cropped hair tied up into a top-knot. Despite the baggy clothes she wears, the woman is obviously athletic. Muscles bulge beneath the flimsy fabric as she gives Widogast a hard pat on the back, and he leans in closer to her. She’s younger than him, Essek notes, and not built like a skater - nothing about her is delicate. It’s also unlikely she’s a coach, not at that age. A friend then, or a lover? He’s seen some skaters wait with their husbands or wives, even parents, when their coach isn’t available. It’s certainly a possibility.

He slips away before Widogast’s scores are announced, not wanting to risk discovery by either the man himself or the reporters that circle like sharks around the booth, waiting to snatch an interview from anyone who stops too long. He’ll have to find another excuse to reintroduce himself, somewhere farther from the ring of microphones.

He finds his moment halfway through the roster of performances. It’s a carefully engineered crossing of paths, as he descends to find a glass of water at the same time as Widogast and his companion dip off from the rest of their group, heading in the same direction.

Because, apparently, Widogast does have a group now: a few mismatched individuals clustered in the upper rows, far from the seats reserved for performers. That must have been where the cheer came from. Maybe he’s accumulated a small following between the first event and now.

Essek sidles up beside the pair, walking in lockstep for a few moments before speaking. “I was wondering if I’d see you again.” Widogast pauses, glancing over towards Essek, and puts his hand up to the woman as his eyes widen.

“Caleb, who’s this?” the woman asks, stumbling to a halt just inches shy of Widogast’s back. Her tone is entirely too aggressive for meeting a stranger, and he wonders what about himself provoked that level of suspicion in so short a time.

“Essek Thelyss,” he says, giving a slight bow. “Your friend and I met a few months ago.” Her glare only intensifies, and Widogast puts a hand on her shoulder.

“It’s alright, Beau,” he says, then turns to Essek. “It’s good to see you again. I… understand congratulations are in order?” Essek inclines his head.

“They’re appreciated, but not necessary. I’m happy to focus on what comes next.”

“I understand that completely.” Widogast’s words seem more steady now than they were before, and his posture straighter. Perhaps it has something to do with the woman - Beau - at his side. Some need others to prop them up, when their own courage fails. Essek is not one of those people, but he doesn’t judge those who do too harshly. It’s a difficult world they live in. “I intend to do the same.”

“And how was it, exactly, that you two met, Essek?” Beau crosses her arms, flexing until the muscles ripple beneath a sheen of acrylic blue, and Essek doesn’t miss how she subtly shifts so that she’s placed between the two of them, like a surly tomcat guarding its kill. He still doesn’t know what he’s done to warrant this kind of aggression from her, and he opens his mouth to retort, but Widogast beats him to the pass.

“Beau,” he warns. “This isn’t… it wasn’t him.” She turns her glare to her friend, and Essek watches on, even more perplexed, as a silent conversation ensues beneath the actual words spoken. “And this isn’t the time, or the place.”

Beau hesitates, but seems to find what she was looking for in Widogast’s eyes. It’s her turn to breathe out slowly, as she turns back to Essek. “Sorry, man,” she says. “Didn’t mean to jump down your throat.” She sticks out a hand, and he reluctantly takes it and gives it a light shake. Her grip is incredibly strong, and Essek doesn’t try to match it, aiming instead to take his hand back quickly, before any joints leave their sockets.

“No offence taken,” he says as she releases him. “I should return, anyhow. My turn will come soon.”

Widogast looks for a moment like he might protest, but eventually his mouth snaps shut, and his expression shifts to something between embarrassment and contrition. “It was good to see you again, Herr… Essek.”

The informality of the address takes Essek by surprise - no Empire skater has ever called him anything other than Thelyss - but his mouth quirks up at the edges. He gets the feeling he’s being mollified. He’s more surprised to find that the obvious manipulation is working. “Till next time, Caleb.”

If it’s offered, then he can return the gesture. He couldn’t be blamed, for following Widog- Caleb’s lead. Courteous, but still sufficiently distant. That still lies within the confines of his mandate.

Yes. That is a line he can defend.

And besides, it may not matter much. He’s learned all he needs to know at this point. Caleb’s poor performance at their first competition was not a fluke, thus the man remains an enigma, but not a threat. Essek is happy enough to lay the matter to rest. He has greater concerns to focus his energy on.

...

Herr Essek.

He’s never heard his name spoken before, in an accent like that.

Hmm.

3. Turn.

As for the third event, their paths don’t cross at all. Essek notes the familiar name in the program at the start of the first day, but doesn’t have the time or the inclination to seek him out over the course of the competition. This is, in many ways, the most important tournament of the season, though it isn’t the one that will determine the overall champion. New skaters debut here, and the tone of the whole circuit will be set by the results of this first event. He must perform. Any other distraction is a death sentence.

And of course, with that anxiety mounting, the pain grows worse, as it always does. A flare, the likes of which he hasn’t felt in years, begins to burn steadily by the conclusion of the short programs, and the distraction is so great that even Mirimm notices his discomfort, when he can’t stop himself from squirming in his seat by the fifth hour. It’s undignified, and he hates his own weakness more than that of his body. He has better control than this.

The pain will pass, if he can put it out of his mind.

His performance in the free skate still earns him the top spot of the podium, but it’s a shakier thing than either he or Mirimm are comfortable with. For the first time in almost two years, and after a few very stern words from his coach, Essek concedes to the braces at the end of the second day. The constriction makes his gait awkward, and he waits until he is absolutely certain everyone else has left the building before attempting to sneak out to the street. His car will be waiting for him at the curbside, ready to spirit him away on the double as soon as he emerges. All he needs to do is follow the memorized route.

In this particular arena, the changing rooms are on the same level as the rink itself, and the path to his chosen exit takes him within a breath of the sideboards. He can taste the biting chill on his lips as he walks between walls of fibreglass, rather than concrete.

Essek’s heart nearly stops when he hears the schiff of blades against ice drifting through the wall to his left. Someone is still here, skating.

He will have to walk past at least one opening to the rink before his path is clear. He slows to a more careful pace, lest he be spotted. It’s too late to go back and change out of the braces now, and if he’s recognized, the person would surely wonder about his altered steps, maybe even ask questions, maybe even tell others about what they saw, and…

None of that is acceptable. So he will not allow it to happen.

At the first break in the wall, Essek pauses, then dips his head around the corner. It takes him a few moments to spot the figure on the far side of the darkened ring: a wraith of black and crimson. The shape drifts in and out of sight, obscured by the same wall that hides Essek.

Late as it is, the rink is closed for the night. There should be nobody left here but the cleaning staff, and as always, his curiousity gets the better of him. Essek risks sticking his head out a little farther, trusting the darkness of the hallway to keep him safe for long enough to sneak a glance at whoever has snuck back in.

The only light in the arena falls from a single overhead array, casting a haze of sallow yellow over only half the ice, littered with patches of red from the emergency exit signs. He thinks at first that’s what he’s seeing - the reflection of the emergency lights - but the flashes of red behind the plexiglass are too fast-moving, too unstable to be echoes of something stationary.

He steps closer still, pressing his back to the edge of the wall as the figure glides into the haze once more, curving backwards in a relaxed arc. Strips of red material that line the long sleeves of his black shirt shimmer as he passes through the transition between darkness and light. Essek squints, trying to make out any identifying features, before the skater slips into blackness once more.

He thinks, for a moment, that it almost looks like-

But that can’t be. The movement is too legato, too relaxed. If it really was-

The skater disappears, then emerges again, spinning out into an effortless combination - triple salchow, double toe loop - and sinks into the landing without a flinch or a stumble. His leg comes up as he transitions into a layback spin, the edge of the skate barely grazing the tip of his ponytail as he grasps the skate behind his head. Unmistakable auburn locks, still halfway to escaping from their tie, fan out as he spins, and spins, and-

It is him.

It’s Caleb.

Without thinking, Essek steps closer, mesmerized by the sight. The spin narrows, and his foot comes down to a point as Caleb’s hands rise into the air, held together in a perfect spire. The pace quickens, so fast now that even if there was all the light in the world, Essek wouldn’t have been able to make out his face. The only sound is the whisper of his skate against the ice as the spin resolves, and he glides into darkness again. The tension releases, and Essek realizes he was holding his breath.

This Caleb is nothing at all like the one he’s seen in competition. The transitions he uses, the posture of his arms, the suppleness of his movements are softer, less biting than before - and yes, less powerful, but more graceful in return. It strikes Essek all at once, what the difference is: Caleb is not dancing like an Empire skater. His moves tonight lack the academic precision of any of the other Dwendalians Essek has competed against, whose style he now recognizes in the remembrance of Caleb’s earlier performances. Those routines were an imitation of a philosophy, one that didn’t sit comfortably on Caleb’s shoulders.

Whatever this style is - this bowling, wild, unpredictable dance - it’s something new. Something original.

Caleb reappears into the light. Double toe loop, single toe loop, double salchow, and straight into a quadruple flip, with barely a breath of space between the two. The final jump under-rotates by a mile and Caleb’s hand smacks down onto the ice as he falls out into an erratic spin, only rescued from a total wipeout by a last ditch turn onto the inside edge of his skate. Even so, he skids almost to a halt, and Essek puts a hand to his mouth, caught between horror and admiration.

He could have injured himself there, seriously so. To force a combination like that into the leadup for a quadruple jump... it was a one in a million chance of success, even for someone of Essek’s calibre. He must have known that he would fail, and likely twist an ankle in the effort, if not worse. Why risk it? Is it a strategy for the next competition, banking on difficulty over execution to boost his score?

But it isn’t a routine that Caleb’s practicing. There’s no music, and if there was, Essek can’t imagine what piece would match the sequence of mismatched moves he’s attempting.

No, this isn’t practice for the next event.

This is experimentation.

This is creation.

At last, Caleb glides to a stop at the center of the ice. Chest heaving, he raises his hands and pushes back the bangs from his forehead, hair held in place at last by the sweat of exertion. A panting wheeze becomes a smile, becomes a grin, becomes a laugh, and the sound peals out across the rink, echoing from the farthest corners. Essek feels the same joy swell within his own chest, the same excitement at having done the impossible, even if the effort was imperfect.

He doesn’t fall in love, in that moment. It’s still too soon, for all of that. But something in his heart falls out of place, and into Caleb’s unknowing hands. There’s a force drawing him towards center ice, tethering them together - a connection, when he has not felt connected to anyone, in so very long.

Essek slips away, letting Caleb experience his last moments of giddy triumph in peace. He’s already desperate to see him once more: the real Caleb, not the shadow he’s witnessed in competition. Essek doesn’t know how he’ll manage it, but he will. He is determined not to let this be the last time.

And there has never been anything he’s been determined about, that he did not achieve.

Essek contents himself with that certainty, and only realizes as the car door slides shut at his back, that somewhere in the last hour, his pain disappeared.

#critical role #cr fic #shadowgast #essek thelyss #caleb widogast #my writing

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mithrilwren · 4 years

Text

Inside Edge

So, this is all because of @fiovske‘s amazing, incredible Shadowgast figure skater!AU art. It ended up going in a slightly different, slightly angstier direction than I originally intended, but what can you do - the angst finds me, no matter how much I try to run. [On Ao3] [Find the whole series of one-shots in this AU here!]

(cw. vague implications of some sketchy sexual grooming in Caleb’s past)

---

There are procedures to be followed – fans to greet, hands to shake, cameras to nod at politely before the car arrives and Essek is swept away into the night. The others have changed out of their outfits into unfashionable travel clothes, but gauzy strands of black fabric still flutter beneath his purple mantle. He draws the cloak closer around his shoulders, warding off the blast of frigid air against his damp skin as he steps out of the complex and onto the sidewalk.

The reporters adore it, of course, always praising the commitment to his on-ice persona. He is a carefully crafted statuette, never to be cracked, lest the imperfect man beneath be revealed to the public eye. That mystery is all part of the appeal.

(Never mind that the thought of changing in a public venue makes his hands shake. Never mind what lies beneath the thin layers of chiffon and velvet. The illusion is all that matters.)

But then there’s Caleb, waiting out here amidst the rapidly piling snow, his face turned to the sky and ruddy from the same night air that’s chilling Essek to the bone. He never seems to mind the cold, or perhaps he’s accustomed to it, or maybe it’s the ratty coat he wears, patched one too many times to be anything other than thrift store fare, but undoubtedly warmer than Essek’s: built for utility, not show.

Then there’s Caleb, and no matter where they are, no matter how they meet, it seems that all procedures go out the window whenever he appears.

“We meet again,” Essek murmurs, directly below the other man’s ear, and he finds himself disappointed that the startle never comes. People tend to be nervous by him, when he’s dressed like this. Though sequins and spandex might make most look ridiculous, he wears it well, and he knows it. His juniors – and yes, that sounds good to his ears – tend to give him a wide berth. At first, he’d suspected jealousy, but now he believes (hopes) it’s respect. Four times champion, and for someone his age… unheard of. So yes, he is a little disappointed that Caleb doesn’t startle, even if the man is his senior by three years or more-

And then he catches the look on Caleb’s face, in the brief moment before his expression settles back into unaffected disinterest. A brief tenseness in his jaw, a flicker of… something in his eye, too quick to parse. But it lasts only long enough for Essek note the change, before Caleb smoothes out the expression to something more neutral.

“Herr Essek,” he says. “I thought you had already left.”

“My car will be here shortly,” Essek replies, and casts his gaze about. Where is that driver of his, anyway? They’re sheltered by the overhang and a convenient slab of granite masonry – an abstract art installation that he might find garish, if it wasn’t so unexpectedly convenient – but not all the reporters have left the venue yet, though most of the skaters have. Caleb seems to realize this at roughly the same instant as Essek, and he suddenly finds himself dragged around the corner, further out of sight of the building’s entrance.

The air is cold, and Caleb’s hand on his arm is warm, warm-

(And after all, the war is over, at least officially-)

…He should not be having such thoughts.

“If we don’t wish for the media to believe us up to something nefarious, perhaps we shouldn’t hide so often in dark alleys,” Essek says lightly. Caleb barks a laugh, then covers his mouth with his scarf, coughing for real at the sudden intake of frozen breath.

His coat looks warm, but he has no gloves on, Essek realizes. He frowns.

“And where is your car?”

Caleb doesn’t quite look down, but he certainly doesn’t meet Essek’s eyes as he finally resurfaces for air from his lumpy scarf.

“Oh, I think I will walk back to my hotel tonight. Enjoy the stars for a while.”

Essek stares harder at Caleb’s bare hands, the knuckles already chapping from the melted snowflakes that fall upon them both.

From the curb, a horn finally sounds. One beep, then two.

“My car has plenty of room. Let me take you to where you’re staying.”

“…I will be in your debt again.”

Not a refusal, then. That’s progress, in their tentative back and forth – at least, the one Essek has indulged himself to believe they’ve been dancing over the last few months, despite little evidence to support the theory. Still, he figures… he’s young. He’s allowed to indulge a crush, even a hopeless one, so long as he remembers that that’s all it is at the end of the night.

A hopeless crush, nothing more. Yes, he’s allowed that much, at least.

Essek smiles. “No more than you can pay, I’m sure.”

Caleb gestures down over the wrinkled coat. “You are, as always, an optimist.”

The car honks again, and when he looks back to see if Caleb will follow, Essek finds himself disappointed once more, to see Caleb still standing beneath the eaves, unmoved. But after a solid five seconds, he shakes himself, as though to shake the snow from his shoulders, or a spirit from his bones, and hurries to catch up to Essek.

None of the reporters see them, and the windows of the car are tinted, and that is enough for Essek to breathe easy, though Caleb still seems tense as he slides into the backseat at his side.

It’s not that he’s really that concerned about the scandal of the two being seen together. In fact, it might even be seen as some strange demonstration of unity, to the right eyes. The press has been eating that sort of thing up, lately. The ceasefire between the Empire and the Dynasty has gone on long enough it might as well be called ‘peace’, and if the two nations can deign to send athletes to the same events as they did tonight, well then, the world must be ready for some progress.

Evidently, Caleb doesn’t share the same hopefulness, because his body doesn’t relax, even when the heat is blasting full force and a little of the icy quake in his shoulders begins to subside.

“Where to?” the driver asks, and Essek looks at Caleb, who looks at his hands, then bites his lip and says, “The Chalet, on East Willow.” Essek’s eyes narrow.

The Chalet. Not a hotel, then: a hostel. It’s been a long while since he’s stayed in a place like that, but what he recalls – shared dormitories, insecure lockers, group shower facilities, noise till all hours of the night – he wouldn’t be eager to do so again.

Meanwhile, Essek will return to the Lux, where he plans to spend the evening pampering his body in preparation for another sound victory on the morrow. It’s the sort of place Caleb might have stayed, all those years ago, when he was still a junior’s champion and Essek was nothing more than an undiscovered prodigy on the rise. What happened, between then and now, to change his circumstances so greatly? Essek has often wondered. He knows there was some issue with a coach, a long hiatus, and a less-than-triumphant return, and that is the extent of Essek’s intel on the matter. The skating world is rife with gossip, but this is one tale it seems no one wants to tell.

Tomorrow is the second day of competition. Free skate: Caleb’s specialty, and his only chance to redeem himself after his lackluster short program today. Without proper rest, his performance will suffer. What hope will he have of acquiring more sponsorships then? He can’t believe Caleb has even one at the moment, or he wouldn’t be staying in a place like this.

They’re nearly at the turnoff to East Willow – a dingy street, with sporadic streetlights and not much to see beyond the occasional hostel and long-term residence – when Essek puts his hand on the driver’s shoulder.

“The Lux,” he instructs, and Caleb sits up, mildly alarmed as he leans forward between Essek and the driver.

“Bitte,” he says softly, “My stop is first. We’re nearly there.” He gestures out the window, like Essek can’t already see the sorry road where he’s meant to drop Caleb off.

“Do you have anything stored at the Chalet?” Essek asks.

Caleb swallows, then turns his head. “…I don’t.”

“The Lux,” Essek says again, and because the driver is on his payroll, off they go. Caleb sits back at last, no longer protesting, and Essek smiles privately to himself. His competition will be in proper fighting form tomorrow, if he has to buy out the whole hotel to do it.

Caleb even lets him take his bag as they exit the car and step up beneath the glittering lights of the Lux’s lobby, which he counts as a secondary success, especially for someone who was so reluctant to accept even the simple kindness of a car ride on a snowy night. The proprietors know him by now, so much that he barely needs to speak his request before another room key is being handed over. And perhaps it’s best that the exchange is quick, because Caleb grows more agitated by the minute, as he huddles into himself beneath the crystal chandeliers. Essek thinks he looks enchanting in the ethereal light, but his threadbare clothes don’t match the décor, and he can’t blame Caleb for feeling out of place.

Still, he feels himself like a dashing hero as he whisks Caleb off towards the golden elevators. Like a saviour from the movies, in the most romantic, foolish sense – and this is one more fantasy, but parts of it are real. The part where Caleb agreed to accompany him here, out of the cold? Impossibly, real.

Which is why the ice-water crashes down all the harder when the elevator’s doors slide shut and he finally gets a good look at Caleb’s face, and realizes exactly how unhappy of an expression he wears.

No, not unhappy.

Resigned.

“Is this the favour, then?” he murmurs, and that’s all the warning Essek gets before Caleb’s chapped lips are pressed to his throat.

He catches Caleb’s hands, pushing him away as his heart pounds like an anvil in his chest, realizing what just-

What Caleb-

Caleb watches him warily for a moment longer, then pries Essek’s fingers off his own and takes a step back.

“I apologize,” he says, soft accent turned brittle, “if I misjudged your intention.”

Essek puts his hand to his neck, where only a moment again, Caleb was-

The realization of his own presumption chokes him, and he shakes his head quickly. “I should be the one apologizing.” And he should. In hindsight, it’s easy to see how his actions might have been misinterpreted.

But at the same time, to misinterpret those actions, in such a way…

He is suddenly glad, to not have found out more about Caleb’s past, at least not without the other man’s consent. At least not without being told.

Essek pulls the second key card from his pocket and hands it over. Caleb takes it, turning it over between his fingers. “I should have given this to you in the lobby. Forgive me,” he apologizes again. “I had no expectations of this night, other than seeing us both at our best tomorrow. Neither of us frozen, or unrested.”

As Essek waits for his response, a small shudder runs through Caleb’s shoulders, that might be imperceptible to one unaccustomed to monitoring the body for even the slight minutia of posture and poise. But he straightens up as the elevator chime dings, and when he turns to look back at Essek, his body has lost a little of its stiffness. The tension that the judges so often criticize in Caleb’s form fades in inches, like he’s finally let out a long held breath. Essek’s breath is shorter held, but he does the same still, and makes a silent promise that he’ll be more careful from this moment on.

He’s not the only one who wears a costume, and who knows how to artfully hide the cracks beneath.

Caleb raises his hand in a little wave of farewell as he exits the elevator. “Till tomorrow, then.” The corners of his lips turn up on the last word – not quite a smile, but not so much of a frown. An improvement. A step forward, after two back.

It’s still something.

“Tomorrow,” Essek agrees, and the doors slide shut, leaving him alone again.

Tomorrow, he thinks. Tomorrow.

Show me what you’re capable of, Caleb Widogast, at your very best.

#critical role #shadowgast #essek thelyss #caleb widogast #ice skating au #my writing

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