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It’s not hard to guess where the fascination began.
So much of a wizard’s work is done with the hands. A forefinger extends, leaving wisps of smoke in the fiery ember’s wake. Crooked thumbs come together and apart, and space rends before their passing. A dot of sweet nectar passed over the lip, and the tongue becomes as deft as the curling wrist that placed it there.
Caleb’s hands are trained. They move in the way they need to, in whatever situation – sharp in one moment, fluid in the next. Twisting, turning, bending string and wire and fate in one motion, and Essek’s hands are skilled in the same way, with decades of training over and above Caleb’s own, but they lack his variety. Perhaps it comes from having seen so much of the world, and having been so much a part of it, but Caleb’s hands do things that Essek would have never thought to contemplate.
Such as: a brush of fingers against Essek’s arm.
He had pulled away before they could do much more, confusion turned sour in the Greenwood’s sticky heat, but the memory still returns, potent and often, in the long months that the Mighty Nein are away.
He would not have done the same, in Caleb’s position. What was there to gain? Perhaps he thought he could buy Essek’s goodwill with a caress, but that is not the most efficient way of things, in his experience. The scalpel’s blade is careless, but Essek has learned to turn the air to a knife that cuts cleaner than any sword. His strokes are swift, precise; they carve away until the truth is revealed. Persuasion is a blood-stained touch: callous and uncivilized, but necessary. What use, in gentleness? What good in the half-turned smile of regret, or his sorry eyes as Caleb watched Essek pull away?
There are mothers, he knows, who hold their children tightly to themselves. Fathers who stroke hair, siblings who pinch and prod, friends who interleave fingers like pages in a well-worn book. Lovers, who do much more than that.
These are all things he knows, in theory. But Caleb does not try to touch him again, after this first time, and so theory is all he has.
And as with all theories, Essek’s mind cannot let the matter be.
❊❊❊
A wizard’s hands are scholar’s hands as well. Callouses mark the place where the pen sits, habitual and as particular to the spellcaster as any practical flourish. Magic can only be learned through repetition – by folding back pages and scouring lines, by endless copying, by expensive pages and ink spent in the pursuit of perfecting a subtle art. All of it leaves a mark.
Essek watches closely, under pretext of instruction, as Caleb copies another spell from his own book. The lamp of the Xhorhaus’s laboratory-slash-library lends little illumination for the task, but Essek is accustomed to darkness, and so, it seems, is Caleb. Both tend to their work admirably in the dim light: Caleb, to his transcription, and Essek, to a far more mundane sort of study.
Caleb’s hands are a scholar’s hands, but they are more than that. There are lines that don’t belong – some rough and hidden beneath old blisters, like a farmer’s after the harvest – some thin and neat, raised in white relief against the dark freckles that trail off beneath his sleeves. Those are too familiar to contemplate, and Essek merely notes their resemblance to those born by prisoners in the Dungeon of Penance before moving on.
Just as a singer’s voice must be pampered, a wizard’s hands require care to exhibit their best performance. Care Caleb gives to his work, that much is true. Essek cannot fault him in his diligence, nor his attention to detail. Each stroke is laid down precisely, every dot borrowed sparingly from the tiny bottle of ink he keeps hidden close beneath his arm. But that same care does not extend to the instruments of his profession. No time spent on stretches between each copied page, to keep the musculature supple. No oil, to sooth skin inflamed by fire’s touch. No creature comfort for now, no thought of preservation for the future. Only the reckless pressing forward of a man who does not expect to be given another chance.
Caleb dips his pen again, and curses as a scant drop of ink falls to the table. Essek could give him a hundred bottles from his own personal stores, of far finer quality than the passable stock Caleb guards so obsessively. He will not – he has given more than enough for today, and for far less in return than he should have – but the thought crosses his mind.
Many more thoughts plague him over the course of their hours of study. Errant thoughts, and unbecoming. Questions regarding the quality of a scholar’s hands, that must have been more than that, in lives that Essek cannot possibly know. Thoughts on texture, and strength, and size comparative to his own. Musings about how best to engineer a touch that could satisfy his curiousity.
When Caleb finishes the spell, he is thankful for the excuse to remove himself from any possibility of further investigation. He is curious, achingly so, but some things are better left alone.
❊❊❊
When things fall apart, as they were always going to, he regrets many things. He regrets that he dragged good people like the Nein into the dark of his own treachery. He regrets that he let himself become so attached, to the point that he cares what happens to them, when he has never cared before. He regrets that he was too careless with his secrets, or perhaps, that he was not careless enough. If they had known the sort of man he was from the start, would it have softened the inevitable blow?
But it’s strange, he thinks as he sits within the belly of a retreating Empire ship, wearing a body not his own, that among all his many regrets, one like this would rank so high: that he never once took Caleb’s hand and found his answers, before it was too late.
❊❊❊
The Mighty Nein arrive in Vurmas, wind-chafed and exhausted, late on the evening of Folsen. The sun has long since set on their coming, but Essek is accustomed to snatching hours of meditation over the brightest part of the day, whenever the soldiers and the researchers let him alone for that long. He is not tired. But even if he was, he still would have waited up.
The arrangements have all been made: a barracks cleared to give the group some semblance of privacy, Essek’s own office warded against intrusions of both the physical and divinical sort, a hot meal prepared from his own closely-guarded rations.
It isn’t much of a peace offering, not with the violence behind them still so fresh, but it’s the first time he’s seen them in months, and he means to show them what hospitality he can. In as dreary a place as Foren, hospitality of any sort is hard to come by.
But hardly before the first of the group is through the door, Beau is calling out to Caleb something about a mansion, and he’s barely gotten through perfunctory introductions before he discovers that the group has already made their own arrangements for the night. A note of bitterness forms on his tongue, but he swallows it away as he turns to greet the rest of the group. It is enough that they are here, enough that there are genuinely happy smiles scattered amongst the cool, untrusting glances. His eyes light on Caleb last, and Caleb meets his gaze with a wam, if reserved, smile, before sitting down on the floor to begin his incantation.
And that is enough. It has to be enough. He will not let disappointment overwhelm his better senses. They came for information, after all, not for the pleasure of his company. He knew that from the start. They’ll retire to their magical abode, and be refreshed in the morning, ready to talk about the business they came here for. He can wait till then. He’s waited this long.
“Aren’t you coming, Essek?”
He blinks to discover that minutes have passed, and Jester and Caleb are the only two left in the room. Both are standing in the middle of a doorway that certainly wasn’t there a moment before, staring at him expectantly.
“Ah-” he says, then closes his mouth. “If I am invited... then yes, of course. I will join you.”
Jester rolls her eyes. “Of course you’re invited, silly,” she says, and grabs him by the arm, tugging him past Caleb and into a splendour of multi-coloured light.
The tower is utterly unlike any wizard’s mansion Essek has been to, and he has seen a fair few over the years. Most are utilitarian, created for the sole purpose of conducting the more dangerous sort of experiments: the kind that might rip a normal laboratory in two. The dwellings that retain any sort of aesthetic sense tend to be self-aggrandizing, boasting of accomplishments and triumphs to the rare visitor or, more often, for the sole pleasure of the solitary creator. Who doesn’t long to gaze upon the marvels they’ve created? Wizards take pleasure in little else, or so has been Essek’s experience.
But Caleb’s tower, while certainly amongst the most grandiose that Essek has seen, lacks the arrogance he’s come to expect. The transmutation panel on the first floor is given no greater significance than any other window, and Essek notes, intrigued, that while the architecture is primarily Dwendalian, there are elements of elegant Xhorhasian stonework interleaved with the more rustic portions of Zemnian and Julous design. Essek has little time to contemplate the artful arrangement of the main chamber before Jester is rushing him along, eager to show off more of the mansion. When she reaches the centre of the room, she hops into the air and begins to rise off the ground.
“Isn’t this so cool?” she cries, bouncing like a soap bubble on the empty air. “Caleb made it so everyone can float between floors.”
“I somehow doubt our friend here will find that impressive,” Caleb says wryly, and when Essek glances his way, the smile has returned. A joke – something personal, something meant to be shared – and for a moment he can hardly speak as the relief sinks through his chest, like a leaden shackle unfettered at last.
“I am always impressed by you,” he says, entirely too honestly, and when Caleb stares, Essek hastily corrects, “...by your work. You have a special talent for making magic your own.”
“A good teacher always helps,” Caleb says, and though his expression is not entirely teasing – a shade of familiar darkness passes behind his eyes – there’s fondness there too, and recognition.
They are talking about this: what they were, before. Who they used to be to each other, before things got so complicated – before he betrayed their trust, before Caleb knew that he did.
If they are talking about it, then perhaps not all hope is lost.
He follows the two of them through the rest of the tour – through dining halls and libraries, stained glass and wood panelling. He meets a marvelous – if alarmingly bipedal – horde of cats in the kitchen, and accepts a cocktail from Beau for the obligatory gesture that it is. Jester peels off at some point to change out of her winter attire, which leaves Caleb to show Essek to his room alone.
Essek knows how these mansions are made. He has studied the mechanics of interdimensional spaces for decades – his own wristpocket is a far simpler application of the same principles – which is why he cannot ignore the significance of the window that greets them, as he and Caleb pass through the plain wooden door of the guestroom.
Had Caleb been less thinking, or more cruel, he might have given the window the Luxon’s shape – an intangible representation of the country Essek has been exiled from, and a backhanded reminder of his betrayal all at once. But instead, he sees his own home. Walkways shimmer between tall panels of slate-grey glass, and the vane atop the highest spire seems to rotate before his eyes, with ley lines spreading from out from its peak like rays of light, formed in the separation between pieces of glass. Instead of the harsh sun that glints like burning steel off of the drifted snows of Foren, its darkened panels reflect only the pale glow of moonlight, cool and comforting.
Caleb would have had to know the changes to the mansion he meant to make when he cast the spell... which means that it wasn’t just Jester’s unprompted invitation that led to Essek’s presence here. Caleb wanted him here, enough to put the effort into crafting him a room of his own. Enough to take the time to find the only piece of home that remained untarnished by his actions: his home, the one he built, the place where he and Caleb and Nott – now Veth – created a new spell from nothing but an ancient wizard’s notes and intuition.
Something personal. Something shared.
“This is beautiful,” he says, placing a hesitant finger to the glass. In one of the windows of the leftmost spire, a shadow of purple flits away, and reappears in a window farther to the right. For the briefest of moments, his vision blurs.
If Caleb heard his murmured comment, he doesn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he says, “There’s a bath, in the other room, if you’d like to use it before dinner.”
Essek frowns, glancing down over himself. He is meticulously neat, as always. Not even his boots are slush-stained: floating everywhere does come with unanticipated benefits. He raises an eyebrow at Caleb, mildly offended, and Caleb lifts an eyebrow in return.
“I only asked because you seemed cold.”
Ah. He’s been so long in Eiselcross’s frozen wasteland that he’d almost forgotten that there was once a time when he wasn’t shivering. He stays by the fire of his office when he can, but too often, business calls him out to supervise the various excavation sites, and he’s learned that soldiers tend to be resentful when a wizard conjures a flame solely for himself. He’s not sure how Caleb noticed – he likes to think he’s gotten the persistent tremor in his shoulders under control by now – but his assessment is correct. He is very cold, even more so for having his attention drawn to it… and the offer of a hot bath, once he allows himself to fully imagine it, is nothing short of divine.
Only-
Essek has no idea how long it will be before the Mighty Nein vanish again. They aren’t ones for standing still, and tonight might be the last night he has with them for a long while. He is not too proud to admit his loneliness to himself, not after everything, and as much as he is starved for warmth, he is far hungrier for conversation, of a sort that doesn’t involve scout deployments or ration shipments. He wants to drink up Caleb’s presence: immerse himself in talk of his newest magical pursuits, or what new forms Frumpkin has taken, or even the mundanity of cross-country travel. He will take anything that Caleb is willing to give.
“It’s alright,” he says at last, eying the promised doorway regretfully. He can almost smell the steam-wisps of perfumed water from here, though it’s doubtful the scent is anywhere but in his mind. “I don’t want to keep you waiting. You must be famished after your journey.”
“It’s no trouble,” Caleb replies, and striding forward, he throws open the door to the bedchamber. The hint of a copper tub peeps through the crack. As if to chide his hesitation, his body chooses that moment to wrack his spine with another chill. “We have all night.”
Yes, but will we have more than that?
Despite his reluctance, he can’t bring himself to refuse a second offer, and Essek follows Caleb into the other room.
The bedroom is simpler than the sitting room of the suite – less personal, but still welcoming. A chaise sits at the end of the bed, and a few feet from it is the tub. Its magical vapours colour the air in iridescent mist without leaving a single drop of condensation on the walls. He suspects any water splashed on the floor would be gone by the time the occupant stepped out.
“Well,” says Caleb, “here you are,” and waits for Essek to say something in response. A thank you, perhaps, or a polite nod followed by a request for privacy. He is not sure who is more surprised, Caleb or himself, when his reply finally does come.
“You can stay. If you’d like.”
Caleb’s eyes widen, visibly caught off guard. Essek barrels ahead like a stone tumbling from a cliff, hopelessly resigned to the fall. “I suppose I’ve lost a modicum of modesty since arriving in this place – the bathhouses here in Vurmas are shared. And I’d appreciate the chance to talk, if you have the time.”
“I… That’s hard for me to picture.”
Essek inclines his head, somehow more comfortable now that the conversation has moved back into the realm of subtle deception. It’s not as though he’s lying outright – the bathhouses are, in fact, shared – but if he cannot use his executive position to leverage an hour alone, he makes do with prestidigitation and a basin of frigid water in his room. He has not bathed with others since he and Verin were children, and he has no intention of making the rough soldiers of the outermost guard the first to share that privilege. But if it means that Caleb will stay, he can withstand a little mortification.
Thankfully, Caleb chuckles, settled by Essek’s white lie. “I can certainly relate to that. I’m sure the rest of the Nein have seen far more of me than they ever wanted to during our time together, and I of them.” He shrugs and takes a seat on the chaise. “If you want to talk like this, I have no objection.”
In the relief of having somehow secured both a bath and company, the embarrassment of now having to follow through with the bargain becomes mildly more tolerable. Essek strips off his outer layers quickly and sets them on the bed in a neat pile. His tunic and leggings he waits to take off till he’s back by the tub, to minimize the time between achieving full nakedness and slipping himself into the waiting shroud of water. But as it turns out, even that precaution is unnecessary. Caleb, for his part, averts his eyes, allowing Essek his modesty until he’s safely hidden in the water. And once he’s there, all other thoughts become immaterial.
The sheer joy of muscles untensing for the first time in months is almost overwhelming, and he lets out an involuntary groan. Caleb chuckles again.
“Good, ja?”
“Incredible,” he says, and slides down to his chin. “You are a miracle worker, Caleb Widogast.”
“Says the man who alters fate with a touch.”
“And yet, fate has never brought me a hot bath on a cold day.”
“She is a cruel mistress, then.”
“She is indeed.”
Essek allows himself to luxuriate for a full minute, soaking in the well-needed comfort of the hot water. The magical peculiarities of the region prevent him from ever dipping back to Rosohna for even a night to indulge, and it has truly been so long since he has been completely warm.
“For the future, if you have no other options, I’ve found that a fresh loaf of bread does the trick.”
Essek hums, glancing at Caleb, whose expression has morphed into an unguarded sort of amusement. He can’t bring himself to be embarrassed that he’s clearly the source of Caleb’s laughter, not when the bath feels so very good.
“How so?”
Caleb demonstrates, holding up an illusory loaf in his hands, then pantomiming shoving one fist into the end. “Keeps your hands warm.”
How like a wizard, to think of his hands before his belly. Essek glances down at his own, half submerged in the water. He’s noticed a worrying sluggishness in his own somatic components as of late – tendons clicking over stiffened joints and the like. Maybe Caleb has a point.
“You are more experienced with the cold than I am, I take it?” He doesn’t mean the question to be probing, but another shadow passes over Caleb’s eyes before he answers.
“Ja. I imagine so. The northern parts of the Empire get very chilly at night, especially without proper shelter. There were times, when Nott and I-”
Here, Caleb cuts off.
“Yes?” Essek asks, too curious to let the moment pass.
“I only meant to say, body heat also works, if you have nothing else.”
A faint tinge of red begins to bloom beneath Caleb’s freckles. Essek is thankful his own blush can be attributed to the steamy water.
So there is still this too. This… something between the two of them – undefined, yet there. A phantom imprint of a kiss lingers on Essek’s forehead, and he splashes water on his face, trying to startle the memory away before the blush spreads.
When he finally brings himself to look at Caleb again, there’s something considering in his gaze, and Essek realizes for the first time that Caleb has grown since they last met. Not bodily, though humans do age quicker than elves, but something in the spirit. He looks older somehow: his gaze less hesitant, his posture less wounded. There is no fear in his expression as he looks at Essek. Only uncertainty – only a decision to be made.
Whatever that decision is, the moment passes, and Caleb turns his face away. “What is it you wanted to talk about, that could not wait for dinner?”
Essek has built his life on knowing the right words for the right time, but when it comes to it, he finds none at his disposal. Too late, he realizes that in his haste to secure Caleb’s company, he didn’t bother to plan his cover story in advance. How can he possibly say, I missed you, with every part of myself, every single day you were gone, out loud? It is the truth, but not one he can verbalize. Caleb has his friends already, people he cares for with his life and soul. He does not need the way Essek does – this startling, ravenous hunger, only recently awakened: to be seen, to be felt, to be present in another’s space. In this moment, and too many moments that preceded it, he wants nothing more than to exist where Caleb is. But he cannot believe Caleb wants the same.
When the words do come, they’re clumsy, and inadequate. “Forgive me for my... selfishness, yet again. It’s nothing that would matter to you.”
“...You are my friend, Essek,” Caleb says, and Essek shuts his eyes as his throat threatens to rebel at the familiar name on Caleb’s lips. He hadn’t thought he’d earned it back. “What matters to you matters to me.”
Essek can’t help the forced, wet chuckle that escapes him – at Caleb’s ridiculous statement, at his own ridiculousness. Here he is, the Shadowhand of the Dynasty, naked and near tears because the Empire agent sitting by his side called him friend.
“I am a mess,” he admits, and Caleb smiles.
“That makes two of us. But I think I prefer the messier version of you.”
“Is that true?” Something shifts, and suddenly they are talking about something else entirely.
“...It is,” Caleb says. “I wasn’t sure, at first. When we first met, I believed you were the better version of me – who I could have been, if I hadn’t been so weak.” Essek wants to interject, to contradict Caleb’s estimation of himself, but Caleb shushes him with a hand. “How could I not? You had achieved so much, while so much of my own potential was wasted in my youth. But I was wrong. It turns out you are messy, the same as me. You hid it well, but friends have a way of worming their way past our defenses, don’t they?” Again, the word friend. It feels like a knife in Caleb’s hand, cutting deep, but drawing poison on the way out. “I have spent many months thinking about this, and I am sure: I would rather know the real you than a well-crafted shadow.”
This time, it’s Caleb’s turn to swallow, and a little of the old vulnerability returns to his eyes.
“If we begin again… will you let me see the real Essek Thelyss?” he says, but his eyes ask a different question.
Can I trust you? After everything we’ve been through, can I trust you?
“I’m not sure I know him myself. But… I will try. I think, with your.. all your help, I can try.”
I don’t know if I can be honest, but I don’t want to lie to you again.
Caleb nods. “Then I want to try too. Because what I have seen of him… I want to know more.”
Essek’s heart gives a dull thud.
“Has the water gone cold? You’re shivering again.”
And so he is, but it’s nothing to do with the temperature. Before he can respond, Caleb stands and walks to the side of the tub. There’s no hesitance in his step, no reluctance as he kneels at Essek’s side on the wooden floor. He dips a hand into the water, and Essek follows his fingers with rapt attention. Ripples lap against his bare shoulders as Caleb’s distorted hand twirls below the water’s surface, testing the heat.
“Feels alright to me.” Essek stares, speechless. Caleb’s face is close enough that when he leans back, withdrawing his hand, loose auburn locks skim the edge of the tub.
“May I?” he says, and Essek nods before knowing what he’s agreeing to.
And then Caleb’s hand is on his shoulder.
His fingers are cold compared to the steaming water, and Essek shivers again. Caleb shushes him softly. “Lie back.” He gently pushes until Essek’s back slides down the copper slope.
“What are you doing?” he tries to ask, but his eyes are already drifting closed against his will. The feather-light fingers along the back of his neck are barely a touch at all, but their tracing connects with every inch of his skin, until he swears that he can feel Caleb’s hands in places they cannot possibly be: on his arms, his jaw, his chest.
He thinks, so this is why these things are done.
“How do you keep your hair so neat, in weather like this?” Caleb flicks a little water into his ear, maybe unintentionally. Essek frowns, sure he’s being made fun of, but his retort lacks any real bite.
“Magic can do many things.”
“Hmm,” Caleb says, and his hand dips into the water again. A moment later, droplets of warmth begin spreading down over Essek’s scalp. Caleb’s hand dips again, and he begins to pour handfuls of warm water through Essek’s hair. “This could do to be a little messier too. You should let yourself relax, Shadowhand. This doesn’t seem like the type of place that cares about appearances.”
Essek bites back an embarrassing noise as Caleb’s fingers thread through his wet hair, bringing another handful of water with them. The sensation is quite unlike anything he’s ever felt, and shimmers all the way down to his palms. The rough pads of Caleb’s fingertips drag against Essek’s scalp, sweeping the hair back until there’s nothing left for him nothing to hide behind. He keeps his eyes closed, afraid to look up and see what expression Caleb wears – afraid to let Caleb see his own.
The hands disappear for a moment, with the sound of a box being dragged from beneath the tub, and when the hands return, a sweet scent meets Essek’s nose, and the water grows fragrant as Caleb begins to rub soap into his hair.
“You intend to make me look ridiculous in front of the others, then?” he mumbles, not even sure what he’s saying. With each handful of hot water, any trace of coherent thought melts away.
“No need to be so suspicious,” Caleb teases, and this time the water flicked into his ear is definitely intentional.
“I’m sorry. It’s in my nature.”
“I know,” Caleb says, and one hand moves to his shoulder and squeezes reassuringly. Essek’s throat grows uncomfortably tight. “You don’t need to be.”
The quiet honesty in Caleb’s voice is too much, and Essek finally brings himself to pull away and turn to look at Caleb properly. A little water sloshes out of the tub with the movement. He doesn’t look to see where it lands.
“Caleb,” he tries again. “What are you doing?”
“I’m washing your hair – if you’ll let me continue.”
Essek blinks as his heart gives another. “...Why? Not that I-” he hedges, “I don’t object, per se. But… why?”
“Because I want to.” Caleb pauses, then amends, “If I want to do this, and you want me to, then why not? We do not have to be alone anymore, you and I. So why should we be?”
Essek can think of a hundred reasons why – their history, betrayal, a war that could break out again at any moment – and each matters less and less when he thinks about the simplicity of the action. About Caleb’s hands in his hair, and how they feel like nothing and everything he imagined, in all the months they spent apart. About raised lines and jagged edges, and contradictions, and symmetry, and choice.
“Why not,” Caleb repeats softly, almost to himself. “No one else is here to stop us.”
“I don’t want to stop you,” Essek says, softer still, and Caleb looks down at him with a quiet smile.
“Then don’t,” he says, and leaning down, he presses his snow-chapped lips to Essek’s.
The angle is strange at first, but Caleb’s hands are steady, and guide Essek’s head up until they fit together right.
❊❊❊
There are things he learns, over the years. Such as: the way that fingers curl around a warm cup as tea is passed from the maker to the recipient – gently, so the porcelain doesn’t crack. Such as: the difference between a tender brush of knuckles against the chin, and a tight grip on the jaw followed by heavy, open-mouthed kisses. Such as: all the ways that Caleb’s hands twitch when he sleeps – reaching out towards the darkness, or pressed to his chest when the nightmares come.
Essek is content to watch on most nights, cataloguing each movement and adding it to the list of things he is slowly beginning to understand about what it means to love another person. On others, he finds himself reaching back, marvelling at the way their fingers fold together to form a single whole.
He finds his answers, in the end, but never stops wanting to learn more.