#its always shadowgast shut up

[ariadne-mouse]

the long wind down

Shadowgast, rated G, 1276 words. An ode to burnout.

-

"Of course I am not fine." 

Caleb's tone was waspish, and only their growing familiarity with each other told Essek that the sharpness was not meant for him, though he had catalyzed it.  Strudel the tawny longhair cat had no such wisdom, and leapt down from Caleb’s lap, offended. 

"We are in the final waiting period of the old man's sentencing, Beauregard has unearthed new dirt on the Martinet that we cannot pursue yet because of political bullshit, and Soltryce has changed the composition of their teaching offer four times.  I am not fine, Essek.  I am going insane."  Caleb clenched his hands in the air as though he could seize reality itself and shake it, then sagged back in his armchair, strings cut.  He rubbed his forehead.  "I am tired and wired at the same time, in equal and contradicting parts.  It has been nonstop for months."

"Caleb Widogast." Up close, the lines creasing Caleb's face were even more evident in the flickering candlelight.  Essek sat on the arm of the chair and rested his palm against Caleb's scruffy beard. "What can I do?"  His thumb soothed the cheekbone beneath it.

"Nothing," Caleb sighed, turning his face into the touch.

"I can distract you, if you wish." 

The offer earned him a faint flash of a grin. "I do enjoy your skills at distraction, Herr Thelyss."  But he did not move, his posture still slumped, the weight of him and the world on his shoulders pressing down into the chair, and so the question and its answer passed between them unspoken in that tender space of knowing.

Essek frowned. "And you cannot rest?"

"Nein," Caleb looked up at him wearily. "My mind wants something to chew.  It is hungry.  But as soon as I try, and pick up this or that, I get lost in the details or else make stupid mistakes like a schoolboy trying his hand at advanced magic.  I have been going for so long, I can't stop, but I have hit a point where I can’t string two coherent thoughts together either." His eyes drifted shut, but his continued unease was betrayed by the way he plucked at his sleeve in his lap, a precursor to his bad habit of scratching.

Essek’s mind was not fully refreshed either, such was his life of evasion these days, but his retreat from his Dynasty connections was also a retreat from the obligations and noise that came with them.  It was rather the reverse of Caleb’s plight — while his friend sought to put down roots in his home country and make change, Essek was pulling up his roots and casting himself into the wind.  But he remembered the years he’d spent climbing through the Dynasty, and with that recollection, he found he had a solution.  

He tilted his head.  "I have just the thing.  Perhaps."

"Do you?" Caleb straightened up fractionally, focusing on Essek once more.

“Perhaps.”  Essek drew away, but only to free his hands for casting.  “It is a trivial invention of mine from my early days at court, when I first achieved the rank of Shadowhand.  There was always a great deal to be done, many things happening at once, but each with their own restrictions and tediums and frustrations.  Politics.  At times waiting, able to do nothing while some goal became more and more urgent.  Interlacing plans, advancing at different paces.  I found it hard to rest, then, too.  The mind is reluctant to let go, once put to such… hm. Overclocking?”

He traced some symbols in the air, leaving a softly glowing indigo afterimage.  These symbols unspooled themselves and rearranged into a new display: a blank rectangular grid with notation at each row and column. “The numerals are in Undercommon, but I never envisioned an application for this outside of my own personal use.”  He then touched a square in the grid with a spark of magic, and it filled with a soothing blue-purple color.  “It is a simple logic puzzle.  There is an underlying pattern — I took pains for the spell to generate it at random, unknown to the caster — and can be solved by marking the squares to match it.  I will tell you no more of the rules.  Try it.”

Caleb leaned up, the light reflected in his eyes.  He tapped a square, and it lit up like Essek’s had.  Another: this one flashed red and then faded dull and grey.

“An incorrect choice?”

“Yes.”

His eyes flitting over the puzzle, Caleb tested a number of other squares in rapid succession, noting whether they glowed a successful blue or a failed grey.  And he did fail a number of times, his brow wrinkling, but he had about him that drive of experimentation they shared when inventing spellwork: failure was not failure, only information to be utilized in the pursuit of understanding.

“Hm. I think I have it.”

Essek inclined his head.  “Show me.”  He waved his hand and dispelled the game board, replacing it with a new one of larger dimensions.

Caleb indicated a row. “Here there are 10 squares, and it is marked with a 1, 3, and 2.   This means there are groupings of tiles in that composition, in that order, that are neighbors but do not touch.  You must cross-reference with other rows and columns to surmise where they can occur to be in harmony with the patterns of other rows and columns.  And you cannot always do it all at once.”  He tapped a few successful tiles.  Then, quickly engrossed, he continued on.

It was unsurprising that Caleb had quickly deduced the Undercommon numerals by their context, and that he had figured out the simple rules, but there was always pleasure in observing his mind work.  Essek watched Caleb’s face instead of the puzzle.

In the work of a few minutes, he was tapping the last tile of the pattern. The whole grid pulsed with faint light, and dissolved into stardust.

“Oh, pretty.” Caleb tilted his head back to smile at Essek. “You invented this?  It is a remarkable bit of spellwork.”

Essek preened. “It is useless except for this, of course.  A pastime, nothing more.  But when the need arises… I have always found it soothing.”

“May I copy it down?”  Caleb rubbed at his eyes and cast around for pen and ink from the nearby table where their research papers were cast about like autumn leaves.

“Tomorrow.” Essek stayed Caleb in his chair with a hand on his shoulder. “It will take an hour or two, and we have just established that you are in need of rest.  Please, allow me.  I will cast them until you wish to stop.  They require minimal arcane power.”

Caleb’s eyes crinkled at the corners, and drew Essek’s hand from his shoulder and kissed the palm of it.  “If you insist, dear.”

Essek smiled.  “I do.”

Nine and half puzzles later, Caleb was leaned on his elbow, dozing.  

With a flick of his wrist, Essek dispelled the half-finished puzzle and eased himself off the arm of the chair, found a throw blanket, and draped it over Caleb’s lap.  The sleek tabby cat Bartolomew was quick to follow, and Strudel — the earlier insult forgotten — joined soon after, but Caleb did not stir at the added weight, used to his cats making themselves comfortable anywhere at any hour. 

Essek’s feet made no sound as he floated to the kitchen and puttered about making tea.  He would have to leave in the morning, but for now, in the quiet broken only by the clank of the teapot and Caleb’s snoring, this was home.

-

This ficlet is based off of nonogram puzzles. If you'd like to try one online, I recommend this site!

[saturdaysky]

A post-TM9: Reuinited shadowgast ficlet. They were so happy, you guys 🥺🥰

Read on ao3 or continue on.

--- growing sunlight, no warnings, rated G-ish T, 718 words ---

Caleb shuts the door against the afternoon sun, sealing them into comfortable privacy. The curtains on his windows are likewise shut, but light seeps through them anyway, casting the room in a warm, muted glow. Dimmed daylight will gather here for hours; like a little bubble of sunset just for us, supplies his mind. He is too glad to resist whimsy. Essek's visits always make him so.

Behind him, there is a rustle of fabric. He turns to see. 

"The beans outside are looking well," Essek states as he begins to unbuckle the fastenings of his coat. One nacre button of his collar loosens, then two, then three. A daring fourth slips open, revealing nothing but more fabric, but the sight warms Caleb anyway.

"So," Essek murmurs, mouth curling into a small grin, "it seems you are an accomplished mage, a slayer of god-serpents, and now a capable gardener. Impressive, as always." His eyes flick up. The warmth in his tease kindles the heat in Caleb's chest further. He is so very glad of this man's presence. It is a gift, each time.

"Well, they were your seeds," Caleb replies, watching the fifth button slip from its looped fastening. "I merely grew something from a base you gave me. A pattern for us, it seems."

A sixth and seventh button follow the fifth. Beneath them, Essek's next layer becomes clear: a pale cotton robe he often wears to warmer climes. It looks very good on him, Caleb remembers. Almost sheer, in the right light. He does not resist the urge to draw his eyes down Essek's form, half imagining the intimate drape of cotton, half marveling that such a regard is welcomed at all. It is new, what they have together. Still taking to the sunlight. Only beginning to flourish, Caleb hopes.

Essek spots the path of his gaze and raises his brow. He cants his chin to give Caleb a lovelier view, smugness playing around the edge of his mouth. Eight buttons, now.

"You give me much in return, but you are right. It is, ah, something of a pattern," he replies brightly, with such charming condescension that Caleb fights the urge to lean in and kiss it off his face — another new, precious indulgence he is allowed. After a moment, the smirk threatening Essek's expression makes itself known. "Though I confess your garden is among my favorite of our collaborations."

Nine buttons. The coat gap runs down to his navel, now, where fine, dark fingers have paused in its undoing. When Caleb drags his eyes back up, the smirk on Essek's face has transformed to something sweeter, hotter.

Caleb does lean in, then. Essek's mouth opens easily under his. They linger in the threshold of the doorway, drinking deeply of each other's company. Novelty and scarcity have ensured they are always a little parched of each other's presence.

"Mine, too," Caleb says when he pulls back. Essek has a freshly-kissed look about him, mussed in attractive places, flushed in others. The pale vee of his robe catches the glow of the room and blooms to gold, like Caleb has caught a bit of sunlight in his embrace. His fanciful heart decides it is true. "I did not always believe it, but...it is good to grow things. Even simple ones. To give them time, a little nourishment, care." He rests his head to Essek's, taking a moment to breathe him in. "To reap the harvest of patience. A worthy collaboration, I think."

Slim fingers fold gently around his hand, guiding it down until pearl and cloth greet his palm. The nacre buttons are cool and smooth, easily undone. He slips a tenth out of its fastening and counts: there are a dozen more below this one, waiting for his touch.

He lets out a shaky breath at the thought: Caleb has lived, again, and Essek is here, warm in his arms, basking in his touch. There is much for them to share, now that they have time to share it. Much to learn of each other; the air between them is ripe with the promise of golden hours, gathered just for them.

"Worthy?," Essek muses, quiet and close. His face is soft when leans up for another kiss, which Caleb is happy to give. "Yes, perhaps it is."

[glossolali]

a heart is hard to translate

shadowgast - cat café AU

coda to chanse @spottedenchants cute catfé fic (tumblr, ao3)

—

Caleb's ginger waves are twisted into a simple braid today, and a beloved memory flips its dog-eared pages open for Essek, warming him inside and out.

"Do you remember when we first met and you were wearing your hair up with one fishtail braid on each side?"

His partner looks up at him with an amused half-smile, "Yes."

"I recall thinking it was on purpose for a moment. It took me by surprise, and I got even more nervous. I always wondered if you knew what it meant."

Caleb's brow furrows further.

"I suppose from the mystified look on your face that you don't, then."

Caleb slots a postcard into his book and shuts it and lays it in his lap, then looks intently at Essek.

"Am I supposed to?"

"Not necessarily."

Caleb quirks a brow at him, squints and waits, then smiles again when nothing more is proffered.

"Alright."

And he makes to go back to his book, a little smile still curling his lip.

Infuriating man.

In bringing this up, something in his belly flutters, dormant butterflies from their first meeting awakening from their slumber.

read the rest on AO3

"Hair and hairstyles have some significance in Kryn culture. As does its lack, but that's a story for a different time." He smiles ruefully when he catches Caleb's eye again, who gazes back at him, curious and attentive once more.

"Some styles are meant to indicate status, wealth. Some more complex styles are specific to specific dens. Yours, however, was something different. The style is called Nau'shindcal, meaning fruit."

"Fruit.. What is that referring to?"

Essek regards him meaningfully and then says in a matter-of-fact tone, "Well.. fruit is meant to be picked, and eaten."

It is a rare thing, but it always makes Essek even more utterly taken with him to see Caleb blush as he does now, how it colors his pale skin rosy, all the way down his neck and up to the tips of his ears.

Eyes round, he blinks a few times, seemingly speechless.

Essek carries on, so very delighted, and curious to see how he reacts further.

"Literally, the word comes from the root words 'forbidden' and 'eat'. It is meant to indicate one's availability and willingness to be courted. And imply others' temptation to do so. Not unlike the temptation to pick a piece of fruit from a tree."

Caleb's eyes widen and he processes for a few more moments then, adorably, he hides his face in his open book and grumbles loudly.

"Ugh.. Jester. Jessie knew. That's why she insisted," his muffled voice says.

Essek is taken aback, and it makes him laugh, sudden and wholehearted.

"Ah. It actually makes a lot of sense that she was involved."

Exasperating as she is, he loves that meddling girl very much.

Caleb has now laid his head on the table and is covering his head with his book.

Essek reaches over and gently moves the book aside, and cards his fingers through Caleb's auburn locks, curling a strand around his forefinger as he speaks.

"If it helps, it made you even more.. intriguing. And not just because you looked good in that hairstyle."

Caleb looks up at him from under lovely ginger lashes, embarrassment seemingly forgotten, and sends a smirk his way that makes the butterflies flit around even more aggressively.

"Noted."

Essek smiles back in much the same manner, and silently applauds himself that he succeeded in flustering Caleb a little. It's why he brought this up in the first place.

Caleb leans up and into the space between them and kisses him soundly and suddenly. Essek makes a surprised noise, then presses back into the kiss, reciprocating, drawn to him as if by something as irrefutable as gravity.

Caleb looks terribly self-satisfied when he pulls away. Essek's face warms, and he rolls his eyes, pushing on Caleb's chest playfully to get away from him.

"Caleb Widogast."

Caleb laughs, and it lights up his nerves in the best way, and Essek can't resist his infectious joy, his own irritated smile splitting into a laugh as he joins him right after.

He makes a mental note to thank Jester later.

[claylebaslifestyle]

It's been a while since we've seen our family of idiots so I went back to watch a few of my favourite scenes and of course 60% of them were Shadowgast scenes.

Getting near to episode 90, and to the reveal, every interaction with Essek that would have been rather wholesome ended up feeling "weird" to me. Because every time something good happened or The Mighty Nein once again was able to rattle Essek or bring out things of him that he probably didn't know he could bring out, we didn't see the usual cute face he put up or the charming smirk. Instead, we saw an awkward smile, usually followed by him not making eye contact or looking down. Ex; when they completed Veth's spell and Essek stayed quiet for most of the time while everyone was emotional and happy.

Obviously all of this back then only seemed weird and maybe just the way Essek acted because he felt like an intruder to the moment for TMN or he was just awkward and unsure on how to act.

But after ThE reVeAL it hurts so much to see it because you know now that Essek was going through the biggest breakdown inside of him, he was starting to be part of this group of extraordinary people and he got to see their raw love and care for each other and he knew he wanted it so badly, to be part of it; but he had failed all of them even before they had met.

So yeah sorry if I'm reaching here but you can't tell me the last few interactions we saw before shit went down where he seemed particularly shiftier and more awkward than usual was not because of the inner turmoil he had in his heart because he just wanted to have friends but he didn't believe he deserved them, their love or their kindness !!!

[the-littlest-goblin]

Shadowgast prompt: Essek was spying on the dinner convo with Trent (shhhh I know he probably has anti scrying wards all over that tower but idc), his reactions to hearing Trent justifying his abuse as love (maybe with thoughts about his own family situation?)

It’s angst time, folks.

______________________________________________________________

The first time, he was able to justify it to himself.

He didn’t want to contact any of the Mighty Nein directly, not with how they had left things, but he still had to know they were ok. He had to. 

He told himself that he would cast the spell just to test that it reached its target, to confirm they were alive. Maybe a quick peek to make sure they weren’t in immediate peril. Perfectly fine, not an invasion of privacy. 

The next few times were… less defensible. 

It became a pattern: Scry on one of them. Reassure himself that they were all alive. Vow not to do it again. Spend another week with a stifled fear whispering at the back of his mind, growing louder each passing day that was not interrupted by a cheery voice invading his mind with some inane message. Give in. Scry again.

He doesn’t know what possesses him to cast it on Caleb this time. A previous scry confirmed that Caleb no longer wears his anti-detection amulet, but even without it, he was able to resist when Essek attempted to spy on him directly. He should pick a surer target, or risk wasting the spell.

But Caleb remains his focus as he completes the incantation, and miracle of miracles, he feels his magic break through Caleb’s mental defenses a split-second before the scry overtakes his vision.

There are flashes of a bustling city, Empire architecture everywhere. The spell homes in on an imposing wizard’s tower and then zooms into a room inside, crystallizing on a red-haired figure seated at a lavish dining table.

Caleb is wearing the same finery he sported in Nicodranas on that night, and the sight of it sends an uncomfortable jolt through Essek. He shoves the memories aside. Focus. This is a spell that requires full concentration.

From the blurred edges of the scry, a voice reaches Essek’s ears—a sickening, familiar voice.

“...the prodigy I always knew he was. While some students take direct tutelage and study, some are unique in how they best develop: through self-discovery, others inspired through hardship.”

Trent is seated a few feet away from Caleb, far enough that he is barely a blur of pale skin and dark robe in Essek’s vision. Regardless, his insipid voice is recognizable enough on its own, with or without the unfortunate visage that normally accompanies it.

Essek feels his mouth curl uncontrollably into a sneer as Trent continues in the course of whatever it is he’s monologuing about this time.

"Historically, the most talented mages have indeed walked this path, or the greatest ambitions come from those who have endured the dark and crawled their way back."

Veth, her form equally hazy as Ikithon’s, pipes up from the other side of the table, “So you're apologizing, then?”

Beau responds, her tone and diction unmistakable even though her visual is fully out of the limits of Essek’s scry. “No, it sounds like he's trying to take fucking credit.”

Apologizing for what? Taking credit for what? Curiosity bubbles up in Essek, insatiable and undeniable.

Through all this, Caleb is the only clear thing he can see, and Essek watches as his face contorts itself in pain—not the wailing, open-mouthed countenance of physical injury, but the subdued, tight-lipped expression of internal anguish. He is looking in Trent’s direction.

There is misery behind his eyes. There is also hatred.

Trent is speaking again. 

"Forgive me, Bren.” Essek’s brain does a momentary double-take at the unfamiliar name, but it doesn’t take much to put the pieces together. 

"I could see your gifts, and your faults and limitations. To truly grow, you needed to be broken and left to build yourself. It took longer than we anticipated, but when you were ready, we turned on the light and showed you the door."

Without more context, it is impossible to fully understand this conversation, even for someone as shrewd as Essek. But though he does not know the exact nature of Caleb and Trent’s history, or what it means when Trent produces a symbol of the Arch Heart, or why Caleb appears even more distraught when he looks at it, Essek can still recognize the dynamics at play here. A slimy, squirming disgust curls in his gut, like the unctuous voice of Trent made manifest.

I understand the pressure of being young, and the expectation. Caleb had said this to him once, a thousand years ago, on the happiest night of Essek’s life. He had sensed the kinship between them long before that, the shared spark of brilliance, of curiosity, of a life shaped by cruelly pragmatic hands. 

He had replied, Experience is what hardens you, prepares you for the worst. I think you're prepared for more than you give yourself credit for, Caleb. He knows now, with absolute certainty, that he was correct. Yet another thing they have in common.

Trent is still talking. "And I cannot tell you how proud of you I am—we are. And I know you hate me, Bren. Hate what I've put you through, and I accept those feelings. For it was a hard choice for me to make. What I did, though, I did out of love."

There’s an immediate scoff—Jester, Essek thinks, though it’s hard to tell. Whoever it was, Essek wholeheartedly agrees.

No one who claims that their actions were done out of love has ever said so sincerely. If they have to justify it as such, then it wasn’t real love. Essek knows this for certain, having been on both sides of the matter, and also finally understanding what real love actually looks like.

He’s heard selfishness pitched as altruism, cruelty twisted to sound like mercy, has had as much said to his face by those who claim to love him, but whom he fully believes care nothing for him beyond his abilities and the services he can provide. The greater good has been invoked in the name of so many evil acts throughout history.

Which is exactly why he has never tried to delude himself, or others, that his own terrible deeds were done out of good intentions. Anything can sound justified with the right turns of phrase; that is half his job as the Shadowhand. That doesn’t make any of it true, or make the perpetrator any less blameworthy.

“To what end? To use me?” Caleb asks. Essek can’t help but admire the steady strength of his voice, though he knows he has no right to the pride that fills his chest at hearing it.

"No, to show you what you are capable of.” Trent’s voice is full of intensity, sounding almost desperate to make Caleb understand. "It was your parents' wish when I told them of the spark that I saw within you. They asked me to do whatever it took to help you realize it, for the glory of your family, and for the Empire.”

For the Den, Essek. For the Dynasty. How many times has he heard appeals to family and legacy and patriotism? From the Queen ordering her soldiers to battle; from the Umavi demanding nothing short of perfection from her children, whatever is takes to achieve it. How would they feel, to know their most detested enemies use indistinguishable rhetoric?

“I did just that, as much as it hurt to hurt you. It is the greater man who puts the needs of others over himself, Bren. And this nation needs you."

With that, Essek’s vision fades into black as the scry reaches its end. The image of Caleb’s pained expression stays imprinted behind his eyelids even as he blinks them open back to his candlelit laboratory. 

The sick feeling does not dissipate. It is joined by the sour taste of bile in the back of Essek’s mouth as his mind replays pieces of what he heard over and over again.

It’s not verbatim what’s been said to him in the past, but it comes from the same crop of manipulation.

There is nothing Essek can do to help Caleb, nothing whatsoever. Despite this, a part of him yearns to teleport to Rexxentrum right this second, damn the chances of a mishap, and damn the fact that if he arrives in the Empire successfully, he is sure to be arrested or killed on sight.

What ultimately shuts the impulse down is reminding himself that, even if he could get there and evade capture, it is highly unlikely that Caleb would be happy to see him.

He really hopes the Mighty Nein send him a message soon.

[dawl-and-dapple]

tagged by @mllekurtz 💕

Rules: List the first lines of the last ten (10) stories you published.   Look to see any patterns you notice yourself, and see if anyone else notices any. Then tag some friends.

idk who to tag but if you see this, no reason not to have a go yourself

holding her (G, multi) “Careful, they can smell fear.” Essek almost choked on his tongue. Beauregard had appeared beside him without any noise, like she often did, staring at him with what could only be described as malicious glee. “That’s not true.”

under the weather (G, shadowgast) Caleb notices the sniff first. It’s closely followed by infrequent and innocuous sneezes. At first, he assumes the culprit is pollen; both he and Beau suffer from the human ailment known as hay-fever though he had never once considered that elves might experience the same discomfort during hot summer months until now.

60 seconds (M, beauyasha) COBALT SOUL ARCHIVE REQUEST ID #458601 Item of Inquiry: “Dolorav Tribe” Status: Retrieved. Unclassified, Encrypted. Access granted.

master stroke (E, shadowgast) Essek cuts his hair in the mirror of his room in Uthodurn with a small penknife, somewhat aware of how little guilt he feels while doing so. For over a century his hair had been a matter of ceremony and delicacy, like his clothing and accessories and speech. His mother would have lost decades off her current life watching him do it this way.

spare me the brimstone (M, shadowgast) It’s been raining for hours. The cold November rain freezes Caleb’s fingers in a way that reminds him of winters as a boy, getting caught by a storm and hiding between sweet-smelling haystacks in the neighbour’s barn, rubbing his hands together and watching his breath float towards the rafters.

fireside (G, shadowgast) Far in the northern wastelands of Eiselcross, almost two miles below the surface where storms scream for days on end, under layers of ice and rock and metal, is a single dark-grey hemisphere. It is dwarfed by the three great black marble pillars which stretch up to the arched roof of the hall which hadn't been disturbed for several hundred years, until a little over an hour ago.

the house has shut its many eyes (T, multi) It is noiseless, the way they’re killing the Somnovum. Caduceus sits at their bedsides with a small cup of steaming blue tea and watches them sleep as they do it.

mr romantic (T, shadowgast) “I always had the best intentions,” repeats Jester, already unsure of how many times she’s said it. “Maybe Essek doesn't feel that way, and maybe Caleb’s changed his mind, but it's true.”

from across the room (G, shadowgast) The library of the Cobalt Soul in Port Damali is larger than its sister in Zadash, according to Beauregard; Essek can only take her word for it. From what he has seen so far, which is very little after he became glued to the aisles dedicated to local mysticism and theologies indigenous to the Menagerie Coast, it is more compact than the libraries of Rosohna, but certainly more varied in its collections.

traffic (G, jesties + shadowgast) 'Can you drive me to the dentist next week pretty please?' It’s been almost a year since Essek had first been asked to give one of his friends a lift.

[essektheylyss]

i just blanked on all the rarepairs you've expressed interest in. team cleric if that was a thing we were talking about? and if not maybe some mild h/c shadowgast?

okay admittedly I am... so bad at writing cad so I went with uhhh... mild? h/c shadowgast? I don’t know if it turned out mild askjgldk but I hope you like it! went full hubris of drow with this one

All of the equations had made sense. Everything had worked. It should’ve worked. But here he is, caught in the spinning universe of the Luxon, moving so fast he’s dizzy, chasing after—something.

Something is ahead of him and he needs—he needs—he needs it.

He has never experienced astral projection—it is not a form of magic he cares to dabble in—but he has read about its effects, and all he can think is that whatever thing he is giving chase to in this void of stars and emptiness, it is moving fast enough that he fears he may never find his way back.

It is moving fast enough that he cannot say for certain that he will catch it.

Whatever it is, he knows that it is the first interesting thing the research he sold his soul for has produced, and he will follow it to whatever end may come for him.

He has always thrown himself willingly to the void and trusted himself to catch him before he reaches terminal velocity. It’s always been a possibility that his trust is misplaced, but there is no one he trusts more.

“Essek.”

IThe voice ricochets in his head, shocking him enough that he almost jerks off course, losing the signal of whatever he is following, the light at the end of a very long tunnel, and he feels, like a phantom, a hand on his shoulder, very, very, very far away.

He shudders a gasp, in his mind more than anything else, but throws himself headlong after it, bearing down on his quarry—

“Essek, you are going to kill yourself chasing a dream. Let go.”

“I can’t—“ he stammers out, but he can feel whatever grip he has straining, like playing tug of war with an ocean, and he wonders if perhaps he can win.

He has always had too much faith in his own hubris, a small part of him knows.

It seems as though he has been chasing this for as long as he remembers, and he can barely picture the man who is standing beside him, in his study, and he imagines letting go now, leaving his body behind to rot if only he can follow this to its end.

“Essek, come back to me. Please.”

It’s just ahead of him, this pinprick of light, and at his heels is a furnace, a wildfire pressing its hands to his face and cradling his head, and he’s being torn in two directions all at once—

When he lets go, letting the ocean sweep him back out and away from the light, he falls back into the void and lands—

In the lap of a human supporting his shaking shoulders. He gasps, trying to sit up, and finds that he’s too weak to support himself. Instead he curls, choking on air that he has only started again to use, into Caleb’s side, and Caleb wraps his arms around Essek’s shoulders, rocking him back and forth.

“I almost had it,” Essek mumbles out, remembering how to speak, and Caleb only tightens his grip, and for the first time, as feeling filters back to him, he notices that Caleb is trembling as badly as he is.

“It almost had you.” Caleb’s voice is choked, and neither of them seem capable of letting go of the other. “What in the Nine Hells were you following?”

Essek stammers as he points weakly to scattered papers that sit around him in the rune circles that he’s drawn on the stone. “New… new findings. From the Assembly.”

“I think this was a trap,” Caleb says. “A very clever assassination attempt. An ambitious young mage who flew too close to the sun? Found dead in the middle of a failed ritual?”

Essek knows, instantly, that Caleb’s right, and he squeezes his eyes shut against the terror and the alarm and the utter disappointment—that he’d played right into his enemies’ trap because they knew how to lure him there.

“But I found you, okay?” Caleb reminds him, and his voice is so soft that Essek almost forgets that it’s Caleb—it’s softer than he has ever heard it.

“I would be dead if not for you.” Even in his burning embarrassment, he can’t bring himself to let go of Caleb, clinging to the solid warmth of his shoulders to remind himself that he is alive. “I think I owe you another favor.

Caleb’s laugh is watery, and both of them are aware of how close to the brink they have just been.

[mithrilwren]

Closer Still

Shadowgast, ~5000 words. Also on Ao3!

This began as a discussion with @the-littlest-goblin about what the fantasy equivalent of the “trapped in an elevator together” trope was. Naturally, the answer turned out to be “trapped in a pocket dimension because we (two idiot wizards) decided to experiment with time magic together and got in over our heads” :) Where better to get to know one another?

Cw. panic attacks, minor self-harm and discussions thereof (nothing beyond Caleb-typical levels)

Also, VERY explicit hand-holding. Be warned.

---

“There isn’t a door,” Caleb says, as he stares out into the formless void. “There was supposed to be a door.” They had planned - in all their meticulous notes on interdimensional spaces and incremental trials, in every mutual assurance that we will start with the simplest scenario, for safety’s sake - for there to be a door.

“No, there isn’t,” Essek agrees.

In fact, there’s nothing at all. Which is… worrisome. 

Caleb is, to a certain extent, familiar with inter-planar spaces. He’s studied them aplenty over the years, both from books and his own intuition. Frumpkin presumably hails from a pocket dimension much like this one when not with Caleb, which should be a comforting thought. Given their actual circumstances, it is wholly not. 

The emptiness stretches on forever, in every direction - a phantom sea of black that lacks dimension and boundary, but still feels confined. The manner and shape of the confinement isn’t something his mind can fully wrap itself around, but his body seems to instinctively shrink back regardless, hearkening towards a non-existent center, which is merely the place they appeared. The only thing outside himself is Essek, still clad in his mantle and balancing an open book in one hand, that contains their notes for the spell they now find themselves trapped within: pages of calculations and predictions and copied phrases from Halas’s work.

The first step had seemed self-evident, at the time - obvious to both of them in the same breath, a singular shared thought. When their eyes met the spark was palpable, and away they went. It was a simple application, far simpler than what they attempted with Nott. Combining Essek’s knowledge of dunamancy with Halas’s successes on time dilation - along with Caleb’s own work on the vault of amber - had seemed almost too easy. It had taken less than a day to design the rudimentary spell, and less than two hours to collect the necessary components, and then... after all, why wait? They were ready, quicker than they could have believed, to test the results. Here, in a space all their own, they might begin to recreate a little of the Happy Fun Ball’s mystery.

Only, at every stage of this feverishly hurried plan, in every hastily sketched schematic and ink-stained diagram, they had always meant for there to be a way out. A door, back to the material plane.

And there’s nothing. Literally, nothing.

“This is certainly a… predicament,” Essek says lightly. Too lightly, and he is not such an accomplished liar that Caleb can’t sense the hint of unease beneath his steady words. “Perhaps we moved too quickly - there must have been a variable we missed.”

Caleb reaches his hand out, feeling towards the edge of… well, there isn’t an edge. The space has no frontier, and its absence comes as as much of a surprise as the missing door. When he’d read of such magic before - spells to create demiplanes, and things of that nature - the books had always included descriptions of rudimentary walls of stone or wood. Here, there’s only the endless expanse. It’s almost akin to the beacon’s limitless interior, if all the stars within had been snuffed out. 

There is a floor, however. That’s even stranger, because it certainly doesn’t look like there is. Essek still hovers a few inches higher than Caleb, but his own feet rest on a surface no more solid than the immaterial blackness above their heads. It doesn’t make sense. There’s nothing to be standing on.

The moment the thought occurs to him, Caleb begins to fall.

The terrifying descent lasts only a few seconds before Essek’s arm shoots out and grasps his shoulder. Gasping, Caleb jerks to a stop and finds himself… exactly where he started, the unseen floor beneath his feet yet again. He claps a hand over his mouth as his stomach heaves. 

Essek’s fingers uncurl from his shoulder as quickly as they’d snatched it, and Caleb presses his hand down all the harder, like it will keep his breath inside of him. He squeezes his eyes shut, which helps. His body can accept the emptiness when it can sense a reason for it.

“The vertigo will pass,” Essek says softly, but closer now. The vicinity around his shoulder buzzes, like something hovers there, unseen. “I’ve seen the same reaction in those unaccustomed to a dunamatic field. Your body will find equilibrium, once you accept the reality that cannot be seen.”

Mostly reassured by that logic, by any logic that his mind can cling to, Caleb opens his eyes. Essek is still a few feet behind him, like he hadn’t moved at all. No indication that he’d even gotten near enough to touch Caleb’s shoulder. No reason for why his voice sounded close by, only moments before. Abashed, he opens his mouth as he steps forward, meaning to thank Essek-

And immediately pitches forward onto his knees. Only his knees have nothing to land on, his hands have nowhere to scrabble towards, and he is spinning, the room- not a room, nothing- is spinning, and there’s nothing holding him together as he falls-

“Caleb!” Essek’s shout, unmasked and truly unsettled at last, rattles through Caleb, and he can’t stop moving in place, like he’s spiralling out of control, like his body doesn’t belong to him-

The buzzing returns, and tense fingers find his shoulders again, dragging him back up into something like a kneeling position. “You need to focus,” Essek is saying, reprimanding, voice harsher now for the worry that lies beneath the words, and the expanse is dark, and there is nothing, and as the panic reaches a crest, then a lull, he becomes nothing too.

Caleb knows what it means, to float away. It’s protection, like every other piece of armor he wraps himself with. But knowing what it is doesn’t mean that he can stop it from happening. 

Hands gone cold and numb, he curls into himself as best he can, turning his face down- there isn’t a down- every direction is down, oh gods- and tries to make himself small-

Essek’s fingers him release again. His breath comes out sharply somewhere above Caleb’s ear. “What’s happening, Caleb?” More quietly, “Talk to me.”

He doesn’t want to talk. Doesn’t like talking, in this state. Talking is… difficult, and he clamps his mouth down harder, determined at least not to be sick. He doesn’t know what would happen to the vomit, if he did. Would it even fall away, in a void like this, or would it hover in the air like Essek’s feet? He can’t help but giggle at the thought, and the laugh is a wrenched thing, short and torn. His mind drifts further still. 

Something dark and heavy falls over his head - thick material, soft but clinging. It catches in the strands of his hair, blanketing him from his forehead to the small of his back, and with slightly shaking fingers he reaches up and draws the fabric closer around him. The sensation is such an unexpected shock that his breath stutters, slowing to a less frantic rate as he centers on the feeling of the weighty mantle over his head, and the strangeness of it all.

“Does that… help?”

The buzzing. Essek is thinking of touching him, he realizes. Caleb reaches one hand out from below the cloak, feeling for Essek and still finding nothing. He draws it back beneath as the panic begins to build again. A moment later, there’s a solid presence at his side, and an arm wrapping around his shoulders - cloak and all - gripping almost too tightly for comfort. The pressure is unexpected, and exactly what he needs. 

“Is any of this helping?” Essek asks again, still so uncertain, and now that the feeling is returning to Caleb’s body, he can begin to sense the tension in Essek’s. At least he’s not the only one uncomfortable.

“You are real,” Caleb says hoarsely, which seems a sufficient answer in his own head. Something here is real. If Essek doesn’t understand his meaning, he doesn’t have the energy to explain. “Yes, it is helping.”

“...I’m glad.” Only then does Essek’s death grip on Caleb’s shoulder relax, and he steels himself to be let go of again, chest squeezing as he anticipates the absence, but Essek only changes position, readjusting the mantle so it drapes more fully over Caleb before settling back into the awkward, one-armed hug.

Beneath the cloak, the darkness of the floor could just be the lack of light. It gets a little easier to breathe, and Caleb leans his head against what he assumes to be Essek’s shoulder as he pulls his knees under the cloak as well.

“We should leave here, as soon as possible,” Essek says. “I did not expect you would have such an adverse reaction.”

“How do we leave? There’s no door.” Caleb’s words feel sluggish, slow, like they always do in the minutes after a bout like this. He’s probably repeating himself. Maybe. He doesn’t have it in him to care, at this present moment.

“I… don’t know. If we had simply gone to a remote part of the material plane, this would be easier.” Essek says, frustrated. “I have no experience teleporting across planes. I suspect if I tried, we would be ripped apart, or worse.”

“Could we dispel it?” Caleb says. This is a problem. A problem with a practical solution. That’s good. That’s something to focus on. 

“From the outside, perhaps. But the plane itself isn’t magic, only the spell that created it. And I’m not sure I want to find out what would happen to the creatures inside an artificial plane if it were dispelled.”

“I imagine we could be lost forever,” Caleb says. “Like Halas, trapped in his gem for eternity. Only not in a place that a group of merry assholes would stumble upon us.”

“What of your group of ‘merry assholes’?” Essek suggests. “Presumably they’ll come searching for you eventually.”

Caleb nods, only realizing belatedly that Essek can’t see his face. “Nott will wonder where I am. They all will, if I don’t return tonight.” Only, would the others think to worry right away? They know he spent the day with Essek, and that they’re both apt to work long into the night when engrossed in a project. How long will it be, before someone comes looking? “And what about your... coworkers? Will the Bright Queen miss you in court, if you don’t report in?”

Essek sighs, and the exhale flows into Caleb’s chest, the movement of his body moving Caleb’s as well. The back of his neck begins to prickle. He’s grateful now for the cloak for two reasons; his skin is too pale not to show a blush. Even if the situation is far from romantic, this kind of proximity to another person’s body is almost uncomfortably intimate. And it’s hard to separate his own embarrassment from embarrassment on Essek’s behalf. Neither one of them gives casual touch easily, and it feels too close to taking advantage, to ask it of him now, without allowing him a way to refuse. 

Caleb begins to shift away by millimeters. 

“I imagine, after a day or so. But she trusts me to use my time well, as I see fit. I’m generally left to my own devices unless explicitly summoned.”

A day or so. Well, if they’re to be trapped here that long, Caleb may as well start acclimatizing now. He doesn’t intend to spend countless hours wrapped in swaddling clothes, nor could he expect Essek to keep up the same treatment, centering as the touch may be. Even now, the arm that wraps around his shoulder is beginning to shake, and without being able to see Essek’s face, Caleb judges the tension to be discomfort on Essek’s part. 

Reluctantly, Caleb shrugs out of the half embrace and reaches up to draw the fabric down from over his head. Essek makes a soft noise of protest, but doesn’t stop Caleb from completing the movement. He drops the mantle in his lap and balls his fists into it, eyes still squeezed shut. 

No buzzing this time. Maybe Essek has finally tired of holding Caleb up.

“I’ll be alright,” Caleb murmurs. “The worst is past, I think.”

He swallows, willing his words to be true as he forces his eyes to open. The darkness is still waiting there, so he turns his head instead to Essek, keeping his gaze focused on the details of his garb - the gentle greys of folded cloth, the intricate embroidery along his belt, the slender line of his fingers, folded neatly in his lap and held there, meticulous in their stillness. Essek’s hands are stained with ink and chalk and golden flecks of dust, and Caleb had been thinking only a few minutes before they left, how very strange it was, to see such elegant fingers dirtied as much as his own.

Caleb doesn’t look him in the eye. It still seems too personal, for all of that. 

They’re both sitting now, in a way, and maybe that helps too. It’s easier to believe the not-there floor is actually beneath them when Essek’s legs, tucked neatly to one side, are also touching something seemingly solid. 

Caleb pulls the mantle over his lap like a blanket, not quite ready yet to surrender the comforting weight. Then he places his hands on his forearms and begins to scratch at the long sleeves. That pressure is soothing in a different way. It’s a more familiar kind of comfort, as he digs the nails in deeper. He thinks he catches Essek’s eyes narrowing, but it’s been a long time since he’s been able to stop the habit, no matter who watches on.

As a last ditch effort, Caleb snaps his fingers. Unsurprisingly, Frumpkin doesn’t appear. The cat is tethered to the material plane, not this pocket one. Mouth twisted in displeasure, he returns to the scratching with renewed vigour.

“Tell me if it gets bad again,” Essek says. Even if his words are unassuming, he’s still watching Caleb’s hands too closely.

“I will,” says Caleb, not quite sure yet if he’s lying, but eager to change the subject regardless. “After an hour, the spell will expire anyway. Who knows? Maybe we’ll be ejected when it does.”

“That’s certainly a possibility,” Essek says. “Let’s hope.”

“Let’s hope.”

Essek falls silent, almost meditative, and in the absence of his voice there’s nothing but silence either. At least the beacon had a sort of hum to it, a cosmic energy - brimming with what he now knows as life, unimaginable and vast. This feels more like the quiet rooms of the asylum, where they hung dark sheets against the wall, to muffle the sound of-

Caleb digs his nails in harder. The memory stutters and shifts, and he can breathe again, for a few minutes more.

“Forgive me,” Essek says, then reaches out and takes Caleb’s wrist in his hand, drawing it away from his arm. “I…” His mouth twitches, and he turns his head away. “I’m afraid you’ll break the skin. I don’t have healing magic like your compatriots, and we don’t know how long it will be before-”

“Essek,” Caleb warns, because by the quickening pace of Essek’s words, it seems like he’s not the only one in a spot of panic anymore. 

“I don’t enjoy watching you hurt yourself.” 

The instinct to apologize is almost too great to fight, but he manages to reign it in. It isn’t what Essek is looking for, what will make him stop watching Caleb so intently, after such a forlorn admission. No, what he needs is reassurance. “Well,” says Caleb. “I think you will like it better than the alternative.”

“Which is?” He still hasn’t let go of Caleb’s wrist. Caleb doesn’t try to fight him. He’s not sure if he wants to.

“Me losing my head,” Caleb mutters. “Trust me, I’ve learned how to cope with...  stressful situations. This is effective.” 

There. They’re both practical people. Rational people. An explanation like that should keep Essek off his case.

Then why hasn’t his hand moved?

“Just because it is effective, doesn’t mean it won’t hurt you.”

Caleb can’t help but smirk at that, the bitter irony sharp on his tongue. “You are more right than you know.”

Essek abruptly releases his hand, almost startled, like he hadn’t realized he was still holding it. “Forgive me, again. That’s three times now that I’ve touched you without permission.”

Oddly, Caleb finds himself more touched by that nervous courtesy than by the gesture itself. In a rush of reckless, unexpected affection, he reaches out and grabs Essek’s hand. Essek freezes. “There’s nothing to forgive. It helped.” He pauses. “It all helped. Thank you.”

Essek stares down at their entwined hands, and Caleb chances drawing a thumb across the smooth skin at the back of his knuckles. He half expects to be pushed away once more. But Essek endures the touch, and eventually even squeezes back. 

Breathless for a new reason, Caleb slides his fingers down, until they’re laced with Essek’s. It’s almost like a game, to see who will push the moment farther, first, and Caleb is so entranced that he nearly forgets where they are. 

Essek’s fingers are softer than his own, and darker. They’ve borne less days on horseback, weathered fewer storms, seen less battle and flame. The skin feels so different, yet it’s stained, same as his. 

All of this is so new.

“Alright,” says Caleb softly. “Instead, tell me something, to take my mind off this place.”

“What would you like to hear?” Essek’s voice cracks near the middle, a veneer of composure chipping away, and Caleb knows now he’s not the only one affected. 

Neither of them have pulled away yet.

“What was your childhood like? Was it happy?” Caleb flicks his eyes up to Essek’s, to find Essek staring right back, his eyes as wide as Caleb’s ever seen them, dark and alight from within. “Were you loved?”

“Yes,” says Essek. “And no. To all questions.”

Caleb smiles wryly. “That’s an answer, but not a very good distraction.”

Essek’s lips twitch. “I suppose you’re right.” He sighs. “My mother loved me, as much as any parent loves their child. But she had many responsibilities. And... “ The fingers between Caleb’s tense. He smooths his thumb down the side of Essek’s hand again. “Well,” Essek says, half-smiling, half-sad. “I think she was afraid to feel too much, before she knew for certain.”

Caleb’s own smile drifts away. He doesn’t know the direction of this story, but he thinks he knows the shape of it. “Knew what?”

“Who I was.” Essek shakes his head. “Everyone assumed I would start regaining memories of my past life when I reached adolescence, as so many do. She had no guarantee that by the age of twenty, I would still be the boy she raised. I believe she was… waiting. To fix her estimation of me, until she knew who I would become. I could have even been the vessel of someone she knew in a past life. How uncomfortable it would be, to feel a mother’s affection for an old friend.” Essek shrugs. “But her waiting was in vain. I never became anything, and by then it was already too late. I left home soon after it became clear that the memories were never coming - which did not please my father, I might add - and here we are. Still friendly, but distant.” 

Caleb purses his lips. He doesn’t have anything to say that seems adequate, but he squeezes Essek’s hand again.

“Can I ask you something in return? ...No, that’s not what I meant to- I’m sorry, my phrasing was poor. You need not answer if you don’t wish to.”

There it is again, that consideration. Wanting to respect Caleb’s boundaries. When they first met, Caleb had envisioned all sorts of things Essek might ask of him in return for the favours they owed. Familiar things. Dark things. Things that he would despise with every inch of his being, but would have had no choice but to endure without complaint, for the sake of his friends. 

It seems all so incongruous now, to picture Essek making those sorts of demands. Caleb feels… secure, with him. Safe, almost.

Safe.

He doesn’t use that word often.

“I’ll do my best to answer, if I can.”

Essek lifts his other hand and, after a careful look, places it just above Caleb’s wrist. He brushes back the sleeve, revealing a sliver of bare skin. “The scars you bear… where did they come from?”

Six months ago, the question itself might have sent him right back into a spiral of panic, but having shared the story twice now, he finds the thought of recounting it less fearful than it was before. 

It occurs to him that he could lie. And perhaps he should lie. Essek is, after all, still their handler, at least in name. Foolish, to give up something so personal to a spymaster. But Essek asked. And Essek has proven himself trustworthy before.

And Caleb finds himself very weary of lying.

“They were given to me,” he starts, “by my teacher.”

Essek, to Caleb’s relief, doesn’t flinch or grimace at the admission, but his eyes narrow a little more. “A punishment?”

Caleb shakes his head. “A means to make us stronger, and… hmm. To advance his own knowledge. An experiment.” He thinks of all the pages spread out over Essek’s desk, still waiting on their return. 

An experiment gone wrong, that’s what’s trapped them here.

How very far we mages are willing to go, just to learn that little bit more.

“You said before that you were trained within the Empire. Was this teacher employed by the government?”

“He was part of the Assembly.” Essek’s fingers twitch. “Trent Ikithon was his name.” Caleb glances up, and sees the mask of unreadable interest is beginning to shift. Bits of dawning realization live in the crease of Essek’s brow, the slight widening of his eyes. “But, of course, what he did was for the good of the Empire. Like you said before, few necessary choices are moral ones, and Trent made it his living to walk that line.” His words twist up with bitterness, and he can’t help the pointed barb. 

It’s been lingering in the back of his mind, Essek’s comments over dinner, all those nights ago. He can’t blame Essek for being drawn in by the allure of the moral grey that the Assembly exemplify. After all, he spent many years under the same spell. But Essek is not the same as Bren. He grew up under a different sort of indoctrination. He can still be reasoned with, made to see the Assembly for the danger they represent. Caleb needs to believe that.

“Back then, I believed he had my best interests at heart, and more importantly, the best interests of my country. But now… I cannot see any justification good enough to excuse all he did to us. The experiments... and everything else.”

Essek’s hand still rests above his wrist, fingertips grazing the first of the scars. 

“How old were you?”

“Sixteen, at least. Not a child,” he clarifies. It feels important, somehow, to make that distinction. To say that he was too young to know his own mind would be a justification for his own actions, and he refuses to make it one. Even if he has no intention of revealing the end result of his training, even if Essek never asks about his parents’ fate and he never answers, in his own mind, he cannot stand to make his age an excuse. 

Essek breathes out slowly. “Sixteen is still a child, in the eyes of the Kryn. At sixteen, life has only begun.” 

Caleb stubbornly swallows around the lump in his throat. Telling this story has gotten easier, but his body still betrays him, every time.

“Ja. Perhaps you’re right. I felt for a long time, that sixteen is where my life ended. Many things happened after that, and I would not call what I was for the years that followed ‘alive’. It’s only recently- since I met the others, that I started to wonder if there was still something left. Some life I could still live, after all of this is done. I don’t know yet if that is true. But… I want to believe it is.” 

Caleb looks down at their hands, still intertwined. He has thought, in scant moments, that there was something there between the two of them - something growing, inch by inch, in the shrinking space between. 

When they first met, there were so many barriers in that space. They were handler and subject, favour-giver and debtor, reluctant allies from two worlds at war. But now the platforms have shifted, and the ledges that seemed insurmountable have become, by nature of perspective, very small.

Something between them.

Some life he could still live…

“I’m sorry,” Essek says at last. There’s a husky edge to his voice that Caleb isn’t sure he’s ever heard from him before. “I’m sorry this was done to you.” Essek’s thumb starts to trace hesitant lines down the edge of Caleb’s hand - a nervous approximation of what Caleb had done for him. The rush of endearment that comes from the realization is almost overwhelming, and Caleb bites the inside of his cheek to keep his breath from stuttering out as he speaks.

“It was a long time ago.”

Essek’s thumb doesn’t pause, and eventually Caleb leans over and rests his head on Essek’s shoulder, feeling brave and exhausted in the same turn. His head is heavy, emotions wrung out from anxiety and release and too many hours of frantic work leading up to this moment. His eyes begin to close, and he lets them. After a long, long moment, Essek’s body begins to relax as well. 

He isn’t sure, after the fact, which one of them is the first to drift off to sleep.

---

Caleb wakes to the bright light of morning spilling out of the skylight above his head. He blinks, confused, up into the eyes of a familiar blonde-haired mage. 

“Welcome back,” Allura says, and her pleasant smile is tinged with just the slightest hint of exasperation.

Beside Caleb, Essek groans and curls over onto his side, pulling his hands up beneath his chin as if cradling a pillow and turning away from the light. So, Essek is not a morning person. He tucks that information away, still impossibly endeared. 

They aren’t holding hands anymore, but he can’t help but notice that Essek’s mantle is spread across them both. 

“I assume you are our rescuer?” Allura offers Caleb a hand and he takes it. As the mantle falls away from his lap and hits the floor, Essek startles awake with an undignified gasp. Off to the side, Jester giggles. 

He sees the rest of the Nein hugging the edges of the circular room, looking equal parts relieved and annoyed. “Maybe tell us next time you two decide to go traipsing off to another dimension?” Fjord grumbles, his arms crossed over his chest. “You’re lucky Nott knows how to read your notes, or we’d have thought you’d just disappeared.”

“Which you’re totally cool,” Beau adds, smirking as she looks pointedly at the shared cloak. “You guys want alone time, that’s a-ok. Just like, let us know ahead of time, so we don’t send out the cavalry to find you.”

Nott rushes up and wraps her arms around Caleb’s middle. “The pages said the spell should only last for an hour, so we called Allura after Jester couldn’t reach out. ...We did good, right, Caleb? You wanted to be rescued, right?” She also eyes the shared cloak dubiously. 

“You did good,” says Caleb, rustling her hair. “Thank you for coming to our aid. And thank you,” he says, turning to Allura. “You must be tired of rescuing foolish mages from prisons of their own making.”

“All part of the job description, as I’m finding out,” Allura says mildly, dusting off her robes. “Next time, please double check your work more carefully.” She sighs, then gathers her bag to her side. “Alright, I’m off - hopefully, I’ll be back before my wife notices I’m missing and gives me an earful.” Essek, finally having picked himself off the ground, opens his mouth to try and offer his own thanks, but Allura is already gone. 

Caleb turns back to Essek, who is currently in the process of smoothing down his hair back into its usual elegant coif. It’s only partially successfully - a few strands still stick up at odd angles - and Caleb grins sheepishly.

“Not a great success, was it?”

“No, it was not.” Essek turns instead to brushing out the wrinkles from his tunic, which only draws attention to its current rumpled state. Jester giggles again, and Essek flushes, but resolutely does not look in her direction. “Still, at least we learned something?”

He offers his hand to Caleb for a congratulatory shake. Back to business as usual, it seems. There can be nothing more, before so many watching eyes. Even so, there’s a sort of tremor in Essek’s hand - an anticipation, that wasn’t there before.

I think we both learned more than we set out to.

Caleb gives Essek a small smile, and takes it.

[duskoscrawl]

Love yourselves: 2021

Tagged by @silvermagpies (thanks m8 lov u)

Rules: Filter to 2021 on your AO3 stats page, and answer some questions/ link some fics for everyone to enjoy! Tag 3 friends to do the same.

How many fics did you finish this year?: lots an lots (49)

Least popular (by kudos): (ignoring danser) shut your eyes, kiss me goodbye (cinderbrush) which i still dont understand why it only has four kudos. is it because jamie isn't in it? sasha deserves emotional stuff too

Most enjoyable to write: oh god there's 49 of them. i'm gonna say Xhorhassian Cuisine: An Essential Guide for Parties Crossing the Ashkeeper Peaks (what a mouthful), because it is the culmination of my research into xhorhassian cuisine as well as the x in my alphabet of crit role fics. but i really enjoy writing most of my fics, however long they take

Most out of your comfort zone to write: 100% thinner than a razor. you might have noticed that i'm not a chapter fic kind of person. heck i'm barely even a planning or research person. but thinner than a razor is plotted out, it is researched, it is divided into chapters. it is a nightmare to write. i care about it so much. but my best friend said, write a chapter fic and so im writing a chapter fic

Fic you’re most proud of? either calculations and conversations because i'm in disbelief that the aeor era au is mine. that i thought of it and nobody has written it or a recipe for spaaldl because i adore it when people ask me for soup recipes after reading this

Best fic you wrote or finished this year (in your opinion): oh god gotta be bread and buttons because that thing do contain love bro. i poured months and months into bread and buttons and ngl i adore it

Anything you wrote that you think is underrated? hell yeah. i am always disappointed about how much attention my shadowgast fics get over everything else. but i spent five months writing basically a god and i love it so much and nobody else does. but it was one of those wips that i'd open up and reread and then feel like i could add more because it was too good and i couldn't live up to it. i was playing with time and vision and divinity and it was wonderful and i'd love if more people read it and loved it as much as i do

i'm not gonna tag anyone because this is really late now and its been through all my friends, but hey, if you wanna do it, consider yourself tagged (yes you)