#listen i'm still thinking about molly and kingsley and lucien and identity

[nellasbookplanet]

“There’s this spell,” Essek says, before stopping like the words are physically caught in his throat.

Kingsley glances up at him from where he’s idly sharpening one of his swords, pretending like agitation and discomfort isn’t sparking along his skin the way some insects will run on-top of the surface of water. “Sorry to tell you,” he says, making the words drawl a little, crinkling the corners of his eyes in that way he knows will make him look relaxed and teasing, “but I think you’ve got the wrong guy. Magic Man’s over there.”

He hooks a thumb over his shoulder, indicating where Caleb is sitting side-to-side with Veth, heads tipped together as they discuss some king of summer camp with great seriousness.

“Oh. Ah, no.” Essek rubs at the back of his neck. “This is about you.”

“If it’s some weird memory spell, forget it.”

It comes out sharper than intended. Kingsley’s never been to the Dynasty, but he’s been around the Nein long enough to hear about it; he knows about anamnesis, and reincarnation, and consecution. No matter how hard he tries not to know about it, people keep telling him.

For a moment, he fears Essek will disregard his words and cast whatever spell he’s talking about anyway. A flick of his fingers, a magical phrase, and some other person will be called up from inside Kingsley, bring with it memories that aren’t his, feelings that aren’t his, a self that isn’t him.

And everyone will recognize this person, this stranger in Kingsley’s skin, and they will rejoice.

“It’s nothing like that,” Essek says quickly, just as Kingsley is a hair’s breadth away from bolting. “It’s called Resonant Echo. It connects to other possible timelines and summons an other, possible you. An Echo, if you will.”

“I’m sure that’s very nice.” Kingsley grins, a thought occurring to him as calm returns. “Bet there are lots of fun things you could do with that.”

Essek’s cheeks turn a dark magenta as he blushes. As far as Kingsley can tell, he’s the only member of the Mighty Nein with a semblance of dignity and shame; it’s fun to poke at sometimes. And now especially, Kingsley is happy to reach for anything to take his mind off things.

“That’s not what it’s for,” Essek says, still blushing fiercely.

“You telling me it’s beyond your mighty capabilities?”

“I’m saying—” Essek stops, shakes his head. “What I mean to say is, it lets you see a version of yourself that isn’t, or a version that could’ve been. It’s an echo of a possibility of who you are, but it isn’t you.”

Kingsley narrows his eyes at him. “What’s this all about? Did Yasha send you over here to make me feel better?”

“It’s more of a personal incentive,” Essek mutters. “Though clearly I’m not very good at it.”

“No, no, go on, tell me more about how I’m just some echo of another person that everyone liked better.”

Essek winces, and Kingsley suspects maybe he crossed a line. Whatever. He’s had a rotten day, and is in his full right to be snappish.

“That’s not what I mean,” Essek says, very slowly. “I—I don’t know how much they’ve told you about me. About the things I’ve done, or why I can never go home.”

“They’ve told me enough.”

Essek’s face does something funny. A series of interconnected twitches at the corners of his eyes, his mouth, even his long, elven ears. Like he was perfectly prepared for what Kingsley might say and yet the words hurt him anyway, no matter how much he tries to catch them with grace as they’re slung at him. Kingsley softens.

“I don’t really care, you know. Whatever you did, it’s in the past. Right now, you’re just some drunk adventurer still aching after today’s fight. I saw you out there. You saved a bunch of people. Whoever you were before wouldn’t have put himself in danger for the sake of strangers like that.”

Apparently, Essek doesn’t know what to do with words like that. He blinks stupidly a couple of times, and eventually just clears his throat and keeps going like Kingsley’s said nothing at all. Kingsley grins, letting him get away with it for now.

“The person I am now is shaped by the things that I did. The good and the bad. When I call up an Echo, that isn’t me. It looks like me, and it might even act like me or know the same things I do, but it isn’t me. It doesn’t have my experiences. Didn’t make the same choices and suffer the same consequences. It’s someone who looks like me, but really, it’s a stranger. Me, but not me.

“And sometimes, I’m tempted to be like these things. To shirk my past and my responsibilities, to find a way to undo my mistakes and become a version of myself who’s never had to live with blood on his hands. But I will never do that. Because even with all the ugliness, this is still me. I have found a happiness I thought impossible, and I don’t want to go away and lose all that just to give way for a nicer, better stranger wearing my face.”

He stops and slumps, air gone out of him like a hot air balloon. Kingsley, who’s long since given up sharpening his sword and has sat with it limply in his lap for the last couple of minutes, pats him on the shoulder.

“That’s a good man,” he says, and Essek snorts. Then he rights himself, correcting his robes (which, though he’s magicked away the blood and grime from his latest adventures, still look worn and washed out compared to what they must’ve started out as; they’re still a deep purple color on the inside of the collar, hinting at their former glory) and even running his fingers through his mussed hair. There’s a couple of small braids in it: a gift from Veth and Jester.

“I apologize,” he says, all dignity and composure. “I didn’t mean to make this all about myself. I just—I guess I wanted to make you feel a little better about yourself.”

Actually, Kingsley feels fine about himself. Always has, even if his ‘always’ hasn’t existed for very long. It’s other people who look at him and expect to see someone else.

But that agitated feeling has faded. Not fully—Kingsley suspects it’ll never fully go away—but mostly. He feels grounded in his own skin again, even if that skin used to belong to someone—multiple someones—else.

He might remember flashes, sometimes, of Mollymauk and Lucien both. They share this body, and no matter how many times it’s been scraped out some memories will still cling to the inside and come crawling out when he least expects them. But that doesn’t make them his. They are shared, like Essek shares part of his life with his Echoes. Him, but not him. Because this is who he’s chosen to be.

“Thanks,” he says, meaning it.