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The gurgling and hissing of the creature before them echoed against the crystalline walls, sharp and terrible. Its claws raked the stone floor, sparking, catching on every pebble, every bump. Dark fur against exposed flesh, an eye at the end of a long, muscle-bound tail. A flick of the eyelid-less orb, left and right and back. A panther-scream, a screech, had them both reeling back a step but, by that point, they had been beaten and hammered and menaced into near-perfect synchronicity, and so, they held on strong enough.
A couple weeks deep into the ruins of Aeor will do that to you, thought Caleb, as he watched his drow companion out of the corner of his eye, holding a crackling spell at his fingertips, as elegant and precise as ever, waiting for the right moment. Waiting for him to determine the right moment.
It was strange, being the front-man for once, but it made perfect sense, he supposed. If he was experienced at anything other than magic, it was struggling and unlikely odds and terrible beasts. He was afraid still, despite said experience, but there was little doubt in his mind that he would rather take the hits than allow Essek to be hurt in any way. Not on his watch.
It was with that thought, mid somatic gesture, arms outstretched before him readying a Wall of Fire, that the world tilted and twisted around him.
Neither of them had noticed a change in the creature. They had not seen the whip-like tongue shoot out to grab at his leg, or the way its panther body had reared back with fury, head thrown side to side, shaking like a dog with a new, fascinating toy. Caleb would’ve liked to think he let out a rather dignified scream as he was yanked onto the floor, liked to think that the scrambling of his hands against the floor was resourceful, smart, and not simply terrified. Liked to think he did not look like a feral kitten.
Not for a second, though, did he manage to think that the angle of his ankle and the throbbing of his muscles against the crushing pressure was anything but bad news.
There was no stopping the pull of the beast. “Essek!” He screamed, out of pure instinct, horror, as the beast pulled him closer, scraped him against the rough floor, his coat and scarf trailing messily behind him, hair already fallen out of its bounds in his struggle. He did his best to grab and kick away from the thing, but it was no use.
He could hear a crack, a hiss of pain from the beast, a growl of fury following soon after. “Caleb!” Essek’s voice was panicked, loud, a little too high, not fast enough. Caleb’s brain went into overdrive then, at the thought of fucking it up. At the thought of being so damn close to where they wanted to go. At the thought of leaving Essek all alone with that beast, even for a single second.
Struggling. Unlikely odds. Terrible beasts.
Caleb let go. Let himself be pulled. Essek screamed, slipped into Undercommon, terror palpable in his voice, desperation obvious and raw. The strange, otherworldly smell of dunamancy began to fill the air, ozone and something else, something unnamable, something that screamed of nostalgia and whispered future and sang the siren song of possibility. Caleb kept his eyes up, trained at the beast, sharp, glowing fangs, one part ice shard, two parts slobber and old blood, polished selenite stakes, immeasurable darkness in its cavernous throat.
He was pulled beneath it all, powerful, giant paws stomping on either side of his head, claws clinking on ice and stone, freeze-dried leather smell and rot. A snarl had him shaking, but kept him focused.
Once again. Struggling. Unlikely odds. Terrible beasts.
And one more thing. Despite the bitter taste on his tongue, the roaring in his ears, the still-tender bruise on his heart, one more thing: fire.
He grabbed at the hunter, one hand digging into the loose skin at its neck, the other pulling the whip-tongue, and he burned. His hands blackened and charred, and yet remained unharmed, as he burned and burned and consumed the beast-head. It screamed and screeched and yowled and shook, but he held strong, adding coal to his blaze, burning brighter, dripping arcane reserve into it, pushing from bright red-orange-gold into pure white, specks of blue flying about.
He could feel bone. Lost the tongue, severed in the blaze. Gagged at the smell, charred flesh and scorched fur and boiled blood, strangely food-like. Absolutely disgusting.
And then gravity changed. And he was pulled away with a sharp tug.
As if time had slowed, he could see the panther-hunter twist in pain, rolling and bashing itself against the ground, right where he had been laying prone, lost in the horror of the blaze, and then a black mass of nothing, a hole in existence, burst and grew above it, pulled it in and in and in, smaller, tighter, heavy, squelching and then silence.
Caleb stopped moving. Stayed on the ground. Panted.
Hurried steps. Actual steps. “Caleb!” Essek’s face came into view, strain clear in the tilt of his eyebrows, the pinch of his nose, his pursed lips. His hair, for once, was out of place, mused in the battle, fallen to the side, already much longer than the first time they had met, with the slightest of waves to it. Incredible, he thought, brain still caught in a loop of panic and fire and quiet, stopped before thoughts of leaning up and meeting the drow could bloom completely. “Caleb, are you alright?”
He nodded, sat up very slowly, took a deep breath. Began to stand. “Ja, ja, it didn’t manage to-” his whole leg buckled under him, making him double over and back onto the floor, shaking violently, teeth clamping into his lower lip and he hissed and cursed, Zemnian freely spilling out, harsh into the air- “Mist.”
There were hands on his shoulders, steadying him, strong and solid. “I will take that as a negative.” And then he was being pushed back, gently, down flat against the stone, loose hair fanning out in a mess of knotted, limp waves. “Let me see.” Essek wasn’t asking. He simply grabbed at his leg, at his calf, lifted it up so it was bent at the knee, saw even the leather of his enchanted boots had bruised the slightest of bits and scowled.
Caleb watched him examine the Stormrider’s, one hand holding him by the pit of his knee, the other hovering over the highest of the buckles. There was something in Essek’s eyes that wasn’t exactly good. Something like worry, something like exhaustion, and that was understandable, really, but there was also a brightness, a reflection of light, almost a wetness to them, held only by a dam of stubbornness. And that was his fault, wasn’t it? “What are all these buckles good for if they will not at least protect your ankles?”
“Shocking the shit out of someone,” he said, matter-of-factly, “and flying.” Essek still made a displeased sound at the back of his throat, half a hum, half a groan. Caleb kept watching from his place on the ground, worry beginning to gather at his gut, dripping cold from that one, fluttering spot in his chest, melting ice, heavy and uncomfortable. He spoke much more softly, did his best to sound light and joke-y, rather than hesitant. “If Jester were here, she would say fashion.”
Essek’s frown got deeper. His voice more forceful. “If Jester were here, you would be up and walking like nothing happened.”
Well. There was that.
“Essek,” he called, a little too softly, as he watched the drow begin to unbuckle his boot, his movements more forceful than he had ever seen before, pulling at the leather straps, one after the other, in a hurry, on the edge of desperately. “Essek.” He went on like that, until an especially strong pull jostled Caleb’s leg into the wrong angle, hurt spiking up from his toes and all the way up his spine. A yelp escaped him then, along with a shaking tautness that gripped him from his thigh and down. Caleb curled his toes, bent at the middle, abdomen working to lift his upper half, his body trying to protect itself in the second of shock, only to flop back down onto the hard ground once his mind managed to catch up.
Essek’s hands froze. His eyes went wide, bright, glassy, vivid violet, almost amethyst. His hands shook, only for a moment. Caleb went up to his elbows as he watched him, worry spiking, until the drow simply took a breath, shaky and shuddery and quivery, and went on removing his boot, gentler. Soft. “I am sorry,” he said, after a moment, “lay back down, Caleb. I will not hurt you.”
He did, slowly, kept his eyes on the ceiling, on the ice that had climbed down the walls through the years, centuries, frozen rivulets of water a poor imitation of jungle vine and fern, but glittering and beautiful. “I know you won’t hurt me,” he said, loud over the clicking of metal and groaning of leather. “I know.”
Essek hummed. Said nothing.
He was much gentler after that, softly pulling and shifting the offending boot, coaxing it off Caleb’s leg, over-washed, bone-white sock and all.
In unison, they sighed in relief. Nothing was bent out of place. Essek rolled the pant leg up higher, as much as it could go. There was no blood either. Good. That was good. But a bruise was building, already red and blue, soon to be black and purple, especially around the knobby bits of bone on either side of his ankle, swollen and tender. Essek swallowed, hard, slowly probed at the worst of it. Caleb hissed. “This is not good,” said the drow. “Can you move your toes?”
“Ja.” He already had, but he did not point that out. Instead he curled them for his companion, for his peace of mind. “Nothing is broken.”
Again, Essek hummed. He didn’t do that often, and yet he had, thrice in the last ten minutes. Caleb did not question it, simply watched him, dusky hands gingerly holding his leg up. He knew how hard it was to find word sometimes, after all. “And are you able to bend your ankle?” Slowly, Caleb tried it, up and down. A little painful. Then he strained, pushing his toes up and back, towards his knee. A lot painful. Shaky and too warm and uncomfortable. Essek’s mouth became a thin line. He spoke softly. “Try side to side?”
He did. He also regretted immediately, again, scrambling to try and get up on his elbows, on his hands, just up, like it would somehow help-make-it-stop-protect, but Essek’s hand were firm and cool and held his leg in place, steady until his body calmed, realized the danger was just not there. Caleb flopped back down, blinked a stray pained tear away before it could embarrass him, scrunched his eyes closed. “Bad idea,” he said and repeated, “bad idea, bad idea.”
And suddenly, relief. Cold, colder than even the freezing air around him, but soft and hazy rather than the bitter and biting storms of Eiselcross. Peering through his lashes, he found Essek, hands frosty with magic, shining like frozen morning dew, soothing his tender bruises. Caleb could not help the sigh of relief that tumbled from his lips. Or the fond smile curling his lips. That was sweet. Not that he would say. “May I hear your prognosis, doctor Thelyss?”
Finally, a cheeky smile came over the drow, playing along. “My assessment is,” he turned slightly, scooting in place, to meet his eyes, “that you must take a potion.”
Oh, that was not good. “We only have two left.”
“Indeed we do. So we will have a spare after this.”
That would not do. Not at all.
They had bowed at the very beginning of their excursion, walking through the same entrance the Nein had used on their first trek through, hackles raised at the possibility of more undead frost giants, that they would go on as far as they could, granted that they had potions on hand. If not, away it was, to the grove. At two left, they were already pushing it. But one? One, perhaps, would not be enough, in the circumstances of something truly grievous befalling either of them. “I think I will be fine without it.”
A violet stare pinned him, fluffy, curled, ermine-white lashes framing Essek’s utterly unimpressed gaze, pale freckles stark against his dark skin, like a smattering of snowflakes in the breeze, a cluster of stars painting a picture against the evening sky. “Caleb.”
“Essek.”
“Caleb.”
“I have sprained my ankle plenty of times, I know I will be fine,” he said, carefully removing his leg from the cool grasp of his companion, and sat to dig around his pockets for a leather cord to tie his hair. He found none, and so, began to pull and brush back with his fingers, knotting it farther so it would hold without. “Hell, I’ve broken my leg before, this is much easier to deal with.”
“You are in pain,” Essek pointed out, half remark, half exhausted sigh, looking horrified at what he was doing to his poor hair.
“Not that much, really.” He went on anyway, braiding haphazardly, twisting, finally achieving a sort-of-up-do. Out of the way, at least. “Really.” And then he looked around, clocking where his sock had ended up. “I bet it will be fine tomorrow.” He bent forward to reach it, pressed his injured foot just a tad too hard against the cold stone, hissed from the pain and froze. Essek watched him, mouth pursed, eyebrows furrowed. “Maybe the day after,” he amended.
The drow remained staring at him for a full minute, before sighing once more, sagging back into his hunches, looking towards the heavens. Were it anyone else, Caleb would have thought it a silent prayer for patience. “Are you certain you did not hit your head when you fell?”
Despite it all, Caleb laughed. “I am certain. I am just this stubborn,” he declared, gingerly reaching his sock, putting it back on, careful not to jostle his foot. “Nothing is broken, nothing got torn. I will be good as new in a day or two.” And then, he paused, looked at the swelling, tried not to curse. There was no way in the nine hells he would be able to shove his foot back into his boot. “If anything, I may slow us down some, I am…”
“Do not say you are sorry, Caleb Widogast,” Essek was quick to interrupt, reaching over to assist, one cool hand resting firm over the bridge of his foot, ensuring his ankle would not bend as he pulled the sock back up the rest of the way. “Do not say it.”
He did not, then, clamping his mouth shut, mid-sentence. Instead, he smiled lightly, a little cheeky, on the right side of playful, and Essek huffed, failed miserably at looking annoyed, relaxed the slightest bit. Caleb felt like he had done one good thing, at least. Anything was better than the misty worry he had caught a glimpse of. “Early rest?”
Through much difficulty, Essek smiled. Nodded. “That is the most sensible thing you have said in the last half hour.” Then pointed a finger at him, in warning, as if done with his antics. As if. “Do not tell me the exact time, Widogast, you are on thin ice.”
He just laughed. “You know me well, my friend. You know me well.”
It was a struggle to get him up after that, he had to admit. They had not even tried to pull his boot back on, not after a single try that had his eyes blinking rapidly and hazy with pain, and so, with the simplest of somatic gestures, Essek had adjusted his gravitational pull so he could basically be towed to a less open area, through a derelict, half-collapsed hallway, and into a tight, little alcove they had spotted earlier that day.
Despite how cold it was, all hard stone and jagged edges, it truly was a blessing. Just enough space to squeeze two sleeping mats next to each other, protected from sight and beast. Caleb ended up set up in the middle of it all, half checking on Essek as the drow cast his recently learned Alarm spell, half working on his own rite for the dome. Damn those beasts, he could’ve really used a warm bath and a kitty bringing him hot chocolate to bed. The nice, spiked kind that made his throat burn and his gut heavy and warm, his thoughts blurry enough to chase any dreams away.
Well, he thought, as the magic barrier bubbled and expanded and settled around them, not that I would complain about a night in close quarters with Essek Thelyss.
God’s above, he was ridiculous and in trouble.
The stone around them began to warm under the soft amber glow of his magic. Essek stepped into it, sighing in relief at their safe, little space, and hurried through his routine of setting his mat on the ground, doubled over for extra comfort, despite the fact that he would end up trancing a few inches from the ground. Their coats were shed, scarf, belts, over-shirt, and elven chain and mantle, tunic, and thermals, wools and furs, all folded neatly and to the side, brown and siena and orange next to pure white and navy and gunmetal grey, over their bags, off the floor.
Caleb began his nightly ritual of laying out every one of his components, lines of pearls and dried catmint and an abundance of pupas and, slowly, hesitantly, Essek stepped around him, eventually sinking into the tight space between him and crumbles wall at his back. “We could leave, Caleb,” he said, very softly, as he began to untangle the travesty of a bun the human had pulled his hair into, deft, elegant fingers digging in and pulling and tugging as gentle as a whisper, then running through, first at the tips, then mid-way and down, finally raking harmless claws against his skull. No longer manicured to perfection, but blunted for efficiency.
It was tender. Very soft, very intimate, and Caleb felt frozen in it all. He did not want to scare him away, like a shy alley cat, like a flighty bird, so he remained, and basked in the feeling of warm familiarity, of the natural closeness developing between them. “It will take us weeks to get back here.”
“We know the way now and cleared some of the danger,” was his answer, as sections of copper strands at the crown of his head began to be pulled, left aside to hang, then dragged into, what he assumed, was a very involved and complicated braid, “it would not take us too long to reach this point again.”
Silence fell over them, heavier than ever. Or not ever. There had been that twilight bellow decks, of course, metal cuffs clinking and fallen disguises and a soft brush of lips against dewy, too-warm skin. But since their expedition had begun.
Logically -if he used his damn brain- Caleb knew Essek was correct. The sensible, right decision was to be safe, not risk it. Leave, come back with more supplies, or, hell, a cleric, a whole team, keep himself healthy, each other safe, for another chance. Not risk Essek himself finding the need for a potion they were sorely lacking. Caleb would be a liability as he was, anyway, slow and hurting, and he knew, he knew, the correct choice was to leave.
But his heart ached. He felt it so close, his resolution, and he was a selfish, terrible, horrible man, and he was desperate, he could not go on later, he would crumble and ruin everything, everything he had worked on for since Vergesson, all of Beauregard’s work too, and Essek would be the one to deal with his fallout, but if he went back, if he did, if he stumbled into Rexxentrum as he was, no real answers to anything, the questioning of the court would tear him to pieces.
Terrible, he was terrible. He could not to this alone and he was terrible.
His throat hurt when he finally managed to speak. “We are so close, Essek.”
A huff. “Your health is much more important than…”
“Please.” His voice broke, on the very edge of the word. The simplest, damn word. His accent came on thicker, more pronounced, familiar V’s tumbling out and invading his speech, an errand, misplaced F. The hands on his hair paused “Please, we are almost there. Do not make us leave.” And softer, more wet than he would have liked. “Please, Essek.”
He felt bad, felt like he was guilt tripping his friend, and he had thought he’d been way past that. He hadn’t done it in a while. Not since Veth had hammered it into his thick skull that he did not need to do that, not since the Nein had not left him even at his most useless moments, after his biggest fuck-ups. Not since Molly’s kiss, or the dance with Jester, or the blood-pact with Fjord. Yasha’s quiet protection and Caduceus’ patience and understanding, Beau’s fierce bullshit detection. Essek’s mirror soul. And yet, there he was, crossing a line, strumming a well-known string.
Just as began to turn, to look at Essek, to offer an apology, to insist he could stay on his own - do not worry for me, I have done this before, I can do it again - the hands on his hair began to move again, deftly braiding back and down. “Take a potion,” murmured Essek, very carefully, half a sigh. Not annoyed, or even exhausted. Just a settling of lungs, a breath of understanding. “I will not make us leave, we will simply be more careful now. Slower, as you said.”
Caleb looked at his leg, following his sturdy pants down to the still rolled cuff, to his socked foot, noticeably bigger even hidden by the fabric.
“But, do not make me watch you suffer.” Essek’s voice was soft and soothing, a balm and salve, and Caleb already knew that he would do as his companion asked, knew he would keep his promise, knew they would make it to their destination. Together. The braid was finished with a twist of hair and a loose knot and, by the next morning, they both knew it would become nothing but a tangle, but that hardly mattered. A rustle of fabric and the clinking of glass, and a bottle was held over his shoulder. “That is my only ask.”
How could he ever deny him that? Impossible.
With a breath, the calming kind, Caleb grabbed the glass bottle, watched the thick, red liquid slush and stain the sides, the good, concentrated stuff. He uncorked it. Tried not to smile at the sigh of relief behind him. “Danke,” he said, and took a deep swig, like one bottoms out the last of their liquor. He thought of Nicodranas, of the stout, little glasses filled with strong spirit to the rim, how people bit into rich citrus to chase the awful after-burn away, and he smiled. That would be a good place to go next.
The effect was instantaneous. The throbbing, beating, of his wounded muscles and strained ligaments, which he had vehemently been ignoring, subsided into a more manageable, slightly uncomfortable heat.
They both sagged in relief. It had been enough.
“Now, for both our sakes, you ridiculous, stubborn man,” Essek’s voice took a mock tiredness, though it remained light, much lighter now that the injury had been, mostly, taken care of. Caleb turned, eyes widening as a hand, newly calloused and a little tender with casting bruises, fell on his cheek, softly thumbed at his cheekbone, “go to sleep.”
With a smile of his own, Caleb Widogast leaned into the touch, and sighed. “Alright.”