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Essek was two weeks shy of twenty when he saw flowers for the first time. They do not grow in the ever-midnight of Rosohna; even if they did, they certainly did not take root on porcelain plates. Yet there a flower sat at his mother's place setting: beautiful, damask pink, and damning. A cough and the full bloom was joined by a smattering of pinkish petals. They dripped from his mother's tongue like drops of pale blood.
She stood, her back stiff and straight, and balled the flowers in her fist before Essek could see more. "Excuse me. I'm afraid I have business at the Bastion."
She returned the next morning, nary a petal in sight. Essek was in the study when his father met her at the door. "Dee," he kissed the air above each cheek. "We can work something out, I am sure."
She breezed past, didn't spare so much as a glance backwards as she said, "Nothing worth a fuss. It is taken care of. " It was the last she ever said on the matter.
Essek's father stood poleaxed by the open grand door. Five whole minutes passed before he had the presence of mind to close it, his shoulders slumped as the sturdy vermalock slammed shut.
It was not long before Essek's father too disappeared to the Bastion in the middle of the night and returned with steel in his eyes. He whacked Essek's wrists with the body of the practice foil. Verin cried when he drilled a sequence so many times his feet began to bleed. Essek shouted many unkind things that day, but the unkindest of all came from his father.
"You listen here, boy, nothing will ever love you just because you want it to. Learn it now, or cut it out later."
Verin seemed to think that this meant he must earn it. Earn father’s approval, a spare second of mother’s time, earn their love. Essek salted the earth on which any seed would ever grow. He coated his heart in ice and steel and swore to never let it thaw.
Love is weakness, he learned. You are better off without it, he told himself. That will never be me, he vowed.
"You weren't part of the plan."
It is possible the seed took root earlier than he ever realized. Perhaps as soon as Essek saw that copper hair, those day-sky blue eyes, and that creative spark waggle its feline toes. Perhaps it was watered in the tub beneath their tower, fed by the fulfillment of arcane discovery, nurtured in the shade of a bright pink parasol.
When it truly first blossomed Essek cannot say. He only knows for sure when he feels the press of lips on his forehead. His throat is raw. From crying, yes, but more now. Something claws at his throat. He cannot stay a moment longer. He manages a hasty teleport back to his tower before his entire chest heaves. A single red petal clings wetly to his lips. A bright gash on dark skin.
He laughs and cries until he cannot tell the difference anymore before he burns the petal in his palm.
There has been no word from the Nein. It may buy Essek a modicum of time, but already from all sides the noose is tightening. From the Lens, from his lungs. From his mother .
Deirta Thelyss stands before him in all her glory, a perfect poppy blossom in her hand. She knows. Of course she knows. She thinks him a fool. She is not wrong, she is never wrong.
"Essek," she says, her voice steady and calm as ever. "I expect you will do what needs to be done before this becomes a problem."
A problem for who, mother? He wants to snap. Don't you see, this is the only good left in me. Instead he opens his mouth and mutters, "Of course, Umavi."
He lasts another week. On the days when black spots fill his vision, and his lungs weep for air, when he is sometimes unsure if he has fainted or merely blinked, he is plagued with nightmares of waking in his mother's house with his chest and heart empty.
He is afraid that she will look at him, lungs free and love gone, and say as she always has, "You will thank me for this one day."
He requests the transfer as soon as the first signs of blood appear.
In Eiselcross it is easy to pretend the cough is just a cold. He buries the poppy petals deep in the ice, drinks tea by the pot, hot water when he runs out of the herbal blend. Uraya hands him more the next time the starguide returns from the capitol and Essek has to flinch away from that knowing look.
"Don't be foolish," Uraya says. Too late for that. Between the selfish fool who stole away a catalyst for war and the sentimental fool who fell at the first glimpse of companionship, it's easy enough to say which Essek is worse, but both are equally foolish.
The cold in Aeor makes an easy enough excuse for the rib cracking coughs, but it also irritates Essek's already ravaged throat.
For the second time that day Essek deliberately falls behind the party and let's the petals fall. It is difficult to see the blood amidst the bright red and orange blooms. He frosts them over with a cantrip, hides them among the ruins. He is so very careful.
But not careful enough.
Yasha approaches him on his watch, her brow is furrowed and her eyes weary; she hasn't slept.
"You know, I understand. Needing alone time. That–that's okay. I need it too sometimes. People...they can be a lot. Even the ones you care about." She clenches something in her fist. "Even Zuala. She–she was my wife. She wasn't like that. She loved people but...well she used to slip away sometimes. To the top of a tree or out in the hills. Said she needed the quiet."
When Yasha glances up at him with those mismatched eyes he can only nod. But then she continues. "She was lying though. Maybe not all the time, but sometimes." Yasha opens her balled fist. "That's not really why you want to be alone is it, Essek?"
And Essek's very heart comes spilling out from between Yasha's fingers. The ruby red and amber petals flutter across the snow at their feet, a scarlet stain on pure white.
"You love him, don't you?"
There is no question of who.
"Yes."
"Will you tell him?"
"No."
In some ways traveling with the Nein makes it easier. When Jester and (mostly) Caduceus heal his outer wounds it often soothes Essek's poor abused windpipe as well. There is no courtly facade to maintain, no illusion. The flowers are getting harder and harder to hide–Essek produces enough to make a bouquet every day now–but keeping one secret is so much easier when all others are laid bare.
In other ways, he knows, it will only kill him faster. "Stay close," Caleb says and Essek can feel his lungs constrict. He shudders at every touch, a perverse mix of longing and aching.
He catches a glimpse, just a moment, one possibility among millions. Time and reality itself is unraveling in his hands–their hands–and still Essek is transfixed by a brief flash of potential. Like a twinkling star in a sea of darkness there is one thread of possibility, one other life. A different Essek, a different Caleb. Scars and regrets abound still but an Essek and Caleb with the time for them to heal, to come together slowly, first hand in hand then cheek to cheek. Essek sees the distant echo of a soft kiss and a warm hearth. He glances over to Caleb, but his eyes are locked on the small gem as it spins between them.
Essek lets the moment go. It is not them. Not as they are now. He feels the warmth of it vanish like the sun drifting behind the clouds.
He manages to pass off his gasps as exhaustion from the casting as he swallows down petal after petal. By the time they reach the Astral Sea Essek is certain: He is running out of time. And air.
There are stories, little more than rumors truly, that say death is another cure for love. Those cruel enough could cut out their own heart if they chose. Even if it were true, Essek finds this conclusion so completely unacceptable. Repulsive. Unimaginable even in a world of imagination. No. He resolves. Not if I can help it.
For once he pays little mind to the petals that fall freely as he drags Caleb from the ruins of the tower, revels and recoils equally from the press of their foreheads together, a pantomime of that yearning in his chest. For a moment Caleb catches sight of the flowers, his brow furrows.
And then Caleb is falling and Essek is screaming and the rumors prove false altogether because Essek has never produced so many blooms all at once. He is certain they are filling his body from stem to stern.
"No." He rasps around the blood soaked poppies. "Please, no."
His world goes black.
"Just give him the thing and be done with it."
" Beauregard ."
"What? You think he'd rather be dead?"
"That's why we ask ."
The two voices are such extremes, smooth rumble and blunt jabs. Essek opens his own mouth and only the tiniest wisp whistles out.
There's a rustle of movement; a soft and furred hand slides into Essek's own.
"Heyyy." Caduceus, he finally recognizes. "There you are. Don't worry about talking, I'm sure that's a little hard right now but, if you can hear me, can you maybe squeeze my hand?"
Squeeze.
"Great. That's great. Can you do it twice?"
Squeeze, squeeze.
"Really great. How about we keep things simple for now? Twice for yes, once for no. Sound good?"
Squeeze, squeeze.
"Wonderful. Do you know where you are?"
Squeeze.
"Well, don't worry. We're in my home. A little place called the Blooming Grove."
Essek has no way to ask, but he has to know. He tries to wheeze, but it only ends in a cough, squeezes frantically at Caduceus' hand.
"Hey, take it easy man!" Beauregard now. Essek tries to open his eyes to squint at her but there is nothing but blurs. He feels her wiry fingers in his own and he scrambles at her palm, starts to trace curves and lines. No, no that's undercommon. He starts over.
"C." Yes. Good. She's got it. "A. L. E."
He doesn't finish before Beau cuts him off. "Caleb's alive." It feels like a cool breeze to his burning lungs. "It was rough there for a bit. But we got him back. Molly too. Well. Sort of. It's weird. Not that it's all that important to you."
He's stopped tracing but Beau hasn't let go of his hand.
"Are you up for a few more questions, now?"
Essek squeezes twice on both hands.
Caduceus resumes. "So. Yasha says you're sick. Is that true?"
A pause. Squeeze, squeeze.
"She says it's killing you."
Squeeze, squeeze.
"Is it contagious?"
Squeeze.
Caduceus hums. Essek feels Beauregard shift on the other side of the...cot? Bed? His body aches like he's been laying on stone, but there is a soft pillow beneath his head and the weight of a blanket atop him.
"Essek. If this is what I think it is, we have a cure here."
Essek cannot help the rasp that wheezes from his throat.
"You know what it does?"
Another double squeeze.
"Is that something you would want?"
One squeeze. Hard.
Beauregard drops his hand and storms out.
It takes several healing spells, a number of potions, and some pruning, but eventually Essek is able to sit up and hold his own tea cup. His voice has acquired a constant rasp and rattle, but he can speak in short sentences. Still he recognizes the brief reprieve for what it is: borrowed time.
With some assistance from Yasha he is able to make the short jaunt from the temple to the surrounding garden. There are worse places to die, he thinks. He'd only recently dared to hope he might die among friends. And flowers are quite lovely when they are not killing him.
"I haven't told them." Yasha whispers as she plucks idly at a bed of geraniums. "I haven't said who it is."
"Thank you." It takes all Essek's effort to manage a whisper.
"I'm starting to think maybe I should."
Essek freezes. He fixes her with a desperate eye; he cannot raise to his knees and beg but still he tries, " Please. Don't. "
Essek wishes she did not look so devastated when she asks. "Why?"
Essek has to gather his breath for enough words. "Don't want. Obligation. He doesn't. Owe me. Anything. I don't–" I don't deserve it, he doesn't manage to finish. Full flowers drown out further speech. Yasha tosses them into the spring for him, where the blood washes away and the blooms can float peacefully on the surface, clean and innocent.
"Okay. Okay." Yasha soothes and rubs his back between coughs. "I won't tell. But." Yasha bites her lip. "Surely, you can see this is killing him. Oh." Even in this state Essek manages a wry quirk of his brow. "Sorry. Poor choice of words there. But you know what I mean."
Essek doesn't actually. He has been caught, these last few days, between the dreadful, unyielding desire to see Caleb and the surety that it will only usher death closer. Regardless of his dueling wishes, Caleb has not appeared and Essek cannot bring himself to ask. He subsists only on the phantom whispers in his dreams, soft lilting Zemnian dancing over rhymes he does not recognize.
Essek should know better by now to think the Mighty Nein were capable of letting anything lie.
He wakes one morning–for he is sleeping every night now–to find Jester lying by his side. Her tail twitches on top of the well worn quilt. Essek is alarmed to find there are tears in her eyes as she observes him.
"It's not me, right Essek?" Her voice is smaller than he is used to. "Because maybe I don't want to kiss your face or anything, but I do love you. So much. I don't want you to die."
It doesn't cull the creeping growth, but it does blanket Essek's heart in a warm embrace. "Thank you, Jester." He falls back asleep with her by his side.
Fjord tries next. Probably at Jester's behest. He perches awkwardly on the very edge of the cot. He looks as if someone has filled his mouth with a frog and his spine with a rod.
"Um." He starts with that charisma of his. "So I'm pretty certain that it's not me but." Quick as a wink Fjord bends and pecks his lips at Essek's cheek and is upright again in the same second, his complexion a distinctly darker shade of green.
It startles a laugh out of Essek and then more coughs, but he is still smiling as Fjord mumbles, "I'll take that as a no?"
Essek shakes his head. "Doesn't." Deep breath. "Work like that."
"Oh. Well. I’ll just. Go then.”
Caduceus spends his bedside watch in contemplative silence. He is not...that is, sad is not perhaps the right word for Caduceus’ countenance. But he at least does not press Essek for answers. He keeps him company and brews too much tea. When they can manage a trip outside he teaches Essek the names of the more exotic flora.
Eventually he asks, not about the disease, but about the mammoth in the room. “I’m not sure what kind of rites your people have, I’m sure it’s a bit different with the whole...multiple lives thing. Not pretending I understand that, but there’s a place for you here. After. If you want it. Even if–even if it’s not now .” A foolish hope.
Essek figures he ought to tell someone at this point. What use do lies have to a dead man? “I’m not.” He croaks. “First life. And only life.”
“Ah.” Caduceus’ ears fall for the first time. “Well. Offer still stands.”
Essek nods. “Thank you.”
Eventually Essek begins to nod off even in broad daylight. But he is awoken one day by a bang as Lucien no the purple tiefling kicks open the front door. The Clay, Essek thinks it is Constance, at his side shushes the colorful intruder, but he does not heed her.
There is an awful lot of shouting. It is too much for Essek to keep track of and he cannot raise his voice loud enough to interrupt.
“This is ridiculous!” Is the gist he gets. It is strange to be lectured by a dead man. Stanger still when he kisses Essek on the forehead and slaps him in the same motion. Constance unceremoniously chucks the tiefling out of the temple after that, but Essek supposes it was all the truth.
Beau and Veth team up on him together. They relieve Caduceus from what Essek has come to call death watch duty. They are a matching pair of glares and crossed arms.
“If you die, I’ll kill you,” Beau says.
“If you break his heart, I’ll kill you twice,” says Veth.
Essek is too tired to mask the way his eyes dart to Veth, the way he shows his tell like the fumbling upstart courtier he hasn’t been in decades. But he is also too tired to care.
“Sorry.” Is all he can manage. “For everything.”
Essek sleeps all the time now. There is not enough air to feed his brain, Caduceus explains. But still his coughs rouse him. Or he will wake moments after nodding off, sucking in great gasps around mouthfuls of poppies.
He wakes after one such episode to a startled Caleb, a book open on his lap. There is a night sky above them, although Essek can tell they are still in the temple. An illusion then. It doesn’t take him long to recognize the familiar Rosohna constellations. A perfect replica, of course. Essek glances at the book. He is surprised to find the pages filled with delicate illustrations: small children and fantastical creatures. Nursery rhymes. It seems his dreams had some reality to them after all.
A warm hand guides a cool glass of water to Essek lips. If nothing else it helps to wash the taste of blood away. When the hand lingers on his cheek after, Essek raises his own to cover it. He is too exhausted and too selfish to do anything else. Just closes his eyes and feels the travel-worn calluses rest on his feverish skin.
“Hallo .”
Essek hums back, but doesn’t waste energy trying to respond. He wants to memorize the moment instead. Recall it while his mind is still able.
“I have an idea, if you are amenable.”
At that Essek cracks an eye open. Caleb is twirling something in his fingers. A ring. The metallic sheen of it glints in the moonlight. “It is a ring of telepathy,” he clarifies. “I thought perhaps it might allow you to converse. When you are able.”
Essek lets the unspoken question show on his face. This is no mere trinket. “Ah. There is the rub. Yet another stolen object that we have...liberated from–from Trent.” Essek cannot help the flinch, but Caleb reaches up to brush away a stray lock of hair and assure him. “You have nothing to fear. He is no threat to anyone anymore. There has been much happening these last few days. I–” Caleb’s voice sounds heavy and wet; he has turned his face away. “I am sorry. There has been so much to deal with but... I have not been a very good friend to you. Even after you braved so much with us.”
More foolish than brave, Essek says. Or would if he could. Though the thought of it makes his stomach curdle he opens his palm and nudges Caleb’s hand. His usual ornaments were removed many Cure Wounds ago so it is an easy thing for Caleb to slip the band over his middle finger. It is a gaudy thing: gold with a ruby, squarish, and it clashes horribly, but it sizes itself to his finger.
“Sit with that awhile. And then you can finally tell us all off for smothering you so.” Caleb smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He hasn’t let go of Essek’s hand so Essek squeezes tightly, just once. No, never.
“Stay.” It is a pathetic squeak of a noise, but Essek is beyond caring.
“ Ja . Of course. I will stay.”
Essek drifts off with Caleb’s hand still clutched in his own.
When he wakes–it could be morning it could be mere moments later–Caleb is miraculously, magnificently still there. He snores lightly, chin tucked to his chest. The beard he started in Aeor is fuller, some of the hairs shift with each breath. It is strange. Objectively speaking exposure quickens the disease, but although Essek can still almost feel the unstoppable growth, the roots digging in deeper, the pain is less. Watching Caleb in the light of day–the way his hair turns ablaze with light and the constellations on his skin–it lets him forget, just for a moment.
He is beautiful, Essek thinks. And then he stops himself. He glances at the ring on his finger, clasped still in Caleb’s grasp.
Caleb . He tries. Can you hear me?
Caleb jerks awake.
Caleb?
Essek winces in sympathy when Caleb flinches, the sensation isn’t a pleasant one even with someone you know and trust. Essek should know. “Essek?”
Hello .
Essek’s smile is mirrored on Caleb’s face only a beat later followed by a huff of laughter. “I confess this is a bit odd to be on the receiving end. Almost makes me miss the eyes.”
Essek’s thoughts are less a coherent word than a sarcastic sentiment, but Caleb laughs all the same. “No. Not really.” The smile falls abruptly from Caleb’s face however. “Essek.” Here it comes. Essek closes his eyes, braces for impact, but answers Yes?
“Why not take the cure?”
Essek has to line up his thoughts carefully before he focuses on them. ‘Because I don’t deserve it’ comes to mind, but Essek shuffles that one away. ‘Because it is the only good my heart has ever done’ is another.
Because I am afraid of who I will be without it , he finally settles on. It feels right. I have lived a life without love before. The man who was content with that. He is a stranger to me. And a cruel one at that. I do not wish to go back.
Caleb does not rebuke him, or call him a fool. He does not shout or cry. But although Caleb himself has no telepathy at the moment Essek can see the moment he crumples in on himself. His eyes shutter, he grips his own elbows and holds them close. Exhales.
“I wish I didn’t understand that as much as I do.”
I don’t want to leave you. All of you. But better in death than indifference. Let them say I died saving the world, if it stops me from breaking it.
Only then do Caleb’s shoulders start shaking.
Essek tries to reach for him, shaking hand outstretched, projecting all the while I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please. When Caleb finally notices his feeble attempt he clutches Essek’s hand and brings it to his lips. Essek can feel the tears that dampen the auburn beard. “Tell me honestly, please,” he begs. “Is this–is this my fault?”
And there it is. The crux of why Essek could never say. No . He squeezes once on Caleb’s hand to drive the message home. It’s not your fault. It’s no one’s fault but my own. My greatest bit of self sabotage. I poisoned the plot before anything even took root.
“But these,” Caleb plucks one of the poppy petals from the pillow. “You know. Caduceus told me a little about them. They grow from the ashes of great fires. These are for me. Aren’t they.” It is only half a question.
Essek does not answer. Which is of course an answer in and of itself. He closes his eyes. He had not realized they were watering with their own tears.
“Oh, Schatz. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” Caleb doubles over further, presses his forehead to Essek’s hand in a benediction. “I am sorry."
It it difficult to interrupt someone with telepathy, but Essek tries anyways. Don't be sorry, he insists. It's the best decision my heart ever made. I still believe that. Earnestness does not seem to be getting through so Essek falls back on old tactics, Don't go insulting my taste, Widogast. I'll have you know it's impeccable. That at least gets a huff out of Caleb between sobs.
He shakes his head, clutches at his own chest. "You have chosen a broken thing, Thelyss. I know I could–I would–I will–I just… verdammt. It's just not enough. Clearly its not enough for this disease, this damn curse." He breaks off and swears again.
It's more than enough for me, Essek tries to convey through the ring. He wants to curse at this thing in his chest too. It's enough for me, why can't it be enough for you?
"I had such plans for us. I would take you back to that place, explore its secrets, learn things no other practitioner alive knows. I would show you my home, and the place I want to build. A school. Beyond the influence of the assembly, a fresh start. And maybe, just maybe, I would convince you to teach there too, whenever you were ready. Best teacher I ever had , ja?" By now Caleb has finally looked up, he clutches Essek's hand to his chest–Essek can feel it galloping in place. "And if ever this shriveled mess of a heart could love again, it would be with you, Essek. It would be with you."
Essek can feel his heart warm. He closes his eyes and pictures it, a life like the distant possibility he caught just a glimpse of, wonders if Caleb can see what he is thinking: days spent among the books, nights by a warm fire, as many cats as Caleb could ever want–a dozen at least, the pride that Essek feels even now for the student who surpassed him in so many ways. It's a balm to his heart, to his soul. But not his lungs.
Some of it must come through because eyes still closed Essek can feel the press of lips to his forehead. When he opens his eyes Caleb has pressed their brows together. "I just need more time. "
The irony is not lost on Essek. For once, he has no time to give. I'm sorry, Caleb. I would go anywhere you asked. But I'm all out of time miracles.
Caleb pulls himself closer still, sharing the little air that Essek can yet breathe. "Then take the cure."
Essek rears back. No! No I can't. I told you. I thought you understood.
"You did. And I do. It's how I also understand that you are wrong ." The crystal clear blue eyes are but inches from Essek's own. The eyes of a man on a mission. "You are wrong, Essek. It is not the same thing as love, but I trust you Essek. Trust me when I say that you have changed. And I am not so self centered to believe it is all because of me. We all love you Essek. You are not mine, you are one of the Nein. We look out for each other. Especially when we start to slide down the wrong path. Trust that we will not let you fall back down to the dark. And as for us? Well." Caleb raises each of Esseks hands to his lips, kisses them softly. "I think it's my turn. If we can come as far as we did in impossible circumstances, think what we could do with a little more time."
Caleb it will be like starting from less than zero. It might never grow back I cant–
"But it could come back, ja ?"
He looks so hopeful but. I don't know . Essek is forced to admit. No one has been fool enough to try.
"Well." Caleb seems undeterred. He sits up, squeezes Esseks hand. "You leave that to me. I promise, if I start growing moonflowers in my chest I'll do the same. Just. Don't let love of me kill someone else. Please."
With a bit of fumbling Essek takes off the ring. He is too afraid to broadcast every fear, every what if, every doubt. Caleb, for his part, let's him have the quiet and privacy, releases Essek's hands so Essek can tug at his own hair, teeth worrying at his lip.
There is no guarantee, of course there isn't. The flowers are not a well documented malady, too private and shameful, but Essek is certain he would have found record of any recidivism. And yet. Caleb has returned to holding his own arms across his chest, a self comforting embrace. The options are these really: some miniscule chance or no chance. If foolish youth is what led him here in the first place, perhaps he can indulge in a bit of foolishness once more.
"Okay."
It is barely more than a whisper, but Caleb was waiting for it. He springs up. "Okay, you'll do it?"
Essek nods.
The next thing Essek knows he is crushed in an embrace. There are lips on his cheek, his forehead, the corner of his mouth.
"Thank you, Schatz. " Caleb's lips say as they travel. "We'll get it back. We will."
When they have dried their tears and settled Essek back on the cot, Caleb calls for Caduceus. He does not leave Essek's side, but whips out his copper wire. Essek had always wished to learn about Caleb's preference for components over a focus. Perhaps now he will get the chance.
Caduceus arrives with a bundle of strange herbs and a smile. "I'm always glad to avoid burying someone too soon. Even if I'm sure you would make lovely tea." It's sweet in a morbid way. He sets about stripping the leaves from stems, crushing some with a mortar and brewing others in an iron pot. He adds powders and roots and stews it all together into a brownish looking sludge with acrid smelling steam. The entire time, Caleb holds Essek's hand.
After a little more than a half hour brewing, Caduceus at last ladles a thick scoop into a small wooden cup."Drink it quickly," We warns. "Or you won't want to finish. And you'll need it all." Essek makes the mistake of sniffing the concoction: eggy sulfur, mold, and burnt hair. "And I'm sorry to say this is the easy part."
Essek freezes with the cup to his lips. For just a moment his old friend doubt rears its ugly head. What if it's a ploy? What if he is gambling on a second chance Caleb never intends to pursue? Merely wash his hands of the guilt and move on. But no, Essek beats those thoughts back. They are the habit of the Shadowhand, not Essek of the Mighty Nein. Caleb is right here, holding his hand and hoping. No more games. No more ploys. No more secrets.
Essek chokes down the entire cup in one go.
The pain is immediate. It forces a gasp from Essek but the inhale burns . It feels like his lungs are collapsing inward, supports buckling and warping from the heat of an inferno. Essek falls to his knees on the floor of the temple as he heaves and hacks. Flower after flower pours from his mouth, although now they look shriveled and shrunken, small root systems cling to their stems. His mind grapples with the impossibility of it all. How was this inside me? How am I still alive? Only he is shortly convinced that we won't be for much longer as another fit of heaving takes over him again. And again. And again.
By the end the sun through the window has turned amber, fading into violet-blue. Essek is not sure if there are no blooms left or if he is simply too weak to expel them anymore. All the while that Essek has coughed and spit and occasionally vomited onto the temple floor, Caleb never once left his side. Essek tries to file the strange mix of feelings away. Love is not like magic, but if he makes a close enough study perhaps he can recreate the conditions.
"Please," he croaks. He doesn't have to compete for space with plant growth anymore, but his throat is far from healed. "Remind me. Don't stop trying."
Caleb wipes the sweat away from his face. "I never forget. I promise I won't."
Essek coughs one final petal and falls into unconsciousness.
In total the Mighty Nein spend fifteen days, twelve hours, and thirty-two to fifty-five minutes in the Blooming Grove. Caduceus, of course, will stay beyond that, but one by one they drift off to their various corners of the world.
First is Veth. With the bullseye off their backs it is simple to send her and her family back to Nicodranas by way of Yussa's circle. She kisses Caleb before she steps through, hugs him tightly too.
"Thank you, Veth Brenatto," feels inadequate, but Caleb hopes she understands what he means. She was always good at that.
Jester, Fjord, Kingsley, Beau, and Yasha are all bound for Zadash. The first three to rendezvous with the Ruby and the Gentlemen, the other couple to stay for a time with the Zadash chapter of the Cobalt Soul.
"Gotta clean up Zeenoth's mess and all. I'll see you for the trial." There is no question of if the rest of the Nein will attend. They are family afterall.
Which leaves the two wizards, and with teleports to spare.
Essek is not difficult to locate. He is in the garden with his newly painted gloves. There is a smudge of dirt on his nose and his sun hat has gone lopsided, but he looks more at peace than Caleb can ever remember. He does not fully understand why the feeling that fills his chest was not enough to cure Essek on its own, but it is not a question of if but when. When does this become love?
Essek still smiles when Caleb calls out to him, his eyes still brighten with excitement when they discuss magic, but it does feel different. A bit more like the beginning, only fewer secrets between them. The most promising start to a second chance once could hope for, a true Fortune's Favor.
"I was hoping you might be open to a small side trip, before we set off for the artic."
"Well," Essek brushes at the dirt with his sleeve. He misses the bit that streaks onto his right cheek and inadvertently adds a stripe to his forehead. "I am of course eager to delve into the secrets of the north, but not so eager to return to the cold. What did you have in mind?"
Caleb extends a hand. There is a longer pause than there used to be. It must be strange. To remember feelings you once held, but not experience them. Like a tongue running over a lost tooth. That's okay. Caleb will just have to remind him.
"There are two someones I would very much like you to meet."
Essek smiles. He takes Caleb's hand.
"There is nothing I would love more."
It takes time. Not weeks, not months. Just time. To love again.