Archive of Our Own ^beta

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a wizard in possession of good fortune must be in want of some solitude. 

So when good fortune strikes two such wizards and they find themselves in what must have at some point been the Aeorian equivalent of a museum, they drift apart in such perfect, unbroken unison that one might think some immutable universal constant controls their orbit around completely separate sections of the area. Whether this is a motion dictated by the laws of physics, propelling two bodies to dance around each other’s magnetic fields, or whether it’s a purely evolutionary result which maximizes their survival in an ecosystem by separating into two distinct niches to cover more ground, is irrelevant. The only thing which matters is discovery - so for the next eight hours, neither speaks a word.  

Caleb holes himself up in what he quickly deduces to be the cultural section even before he bothers to cast Comprehend Languages. Half-listening to the soft, comforting sounds of Essek flipping pages somewhere on the opposite end of the hall he meanders between shelves of documents, artifacts and tablets of times long past - carvings of gods, people, cities he will never get to see with his own eyes. He finds himself undulating between at least 5 sections repeatedly, like a hungry cat taking turns to bite at five separate pieces of fish filet in rapid succession instead of focusing on one, as if the temptation is too great. Finally, he settles on the cold stone floor in front of a single, enormous tapestry he is sure he will not be able to take and carry with him, and prepares for a long bout of reading with the anticipation of someone sinking into a warm, hot bath, and all the inherent satisfaction that comes with it. 

🙙

It is precisely eight o’clock when Caleb realizes that it is, in fact, eight o’clock. 

He comes out of his stupor as if resurfacing from the depths of the ocean. His eyes itch from the strain of reading, and yet there’s a deep satisfaction nestled so deeply in him that no physical discomfort can nudge it out of place. It is the mirror opposite of all the animal instincts that still live within - the intellectual, purely sentient part of him that doesn’t care for food or drink or survival and instead thirsts for only more knowledge. 

And yet, as his stomach swiftly reminds him, the brain relies on his meat body as much as it pilots it. He finds the muscles of his intestines churning almost painfully, insisting that yes , he does need to eat. 

He shuts the book before his eyes can find the next paragraph. There will be time later, he tells himself, as if soothing a child about to tantrum.

“Essek,” he calls. 

There’s no reply at first - but that’s of little concern. He knows, subconsciously, that he heard the other rummaging about some 40 minutes ago, and it must merely be the distance between them and his dried-up throat that makes his beckon so ineffective. 

He is also fairly sure that Essek has fallen into the same intellectual gravity well as he has, and that means the drow likely isn’t aware of anything but words on the page. 

Glancing around, Caleb mentally catalogs the amount of things he would want to remove and take with him, and begins to pat himself down to search for the necessary pieces of amber. When these are located he stands, shakes out his leg which has fallen asleep, and begins to prepare the ritual.  

“It is late,” he calls again, a little louder. 

Although no reply comes, his ear catches some hesitant shuffling, as if a creature is stirring out of hibernation. A second later he hears a hiss, and his mouth quirks into a smile as he imagines a very proper Dynasty mantle bulging awkwardly at angles while its occupant attempts to stretch out whatever cramps have been acquired over hours of not moving. 

Eleven minutes later the Vault of Amber is filled, and Caleb pockets the contents and slowly begins the hike back to where he assumes his friend has settled. He doesn’t take care to mask his steps, and after about five of them, he knows it is the right decision - he begins to hear louder shuffling in echo, as if his approach has finally been distraction enough to pull the other back to the present moment. 

“What hour is it?” Essek calls out. His voice sounds just as raspy as Caleb’s, and he clears his throat a moment later. Caleb tilts his ear to it and steps to the left of a tall column wreathed in frost, following the sound. 

“Twelve minutes past eight.” 

He pauses briefly by a glass display case that holds some form of dress - a robe, or a ceremonial garb. It’s knitted in thick, cord-like fibers that remind him of the gloves he used to own when he was younger - ones gifted by his mother when he wrote to her in a letter that mittens were terrible for spell somatics.

“We’ve apparently lost track of time.” Essek’s voice is closer now. It is also accompanied by footsteps. Apparently he has not even bothered to cast the floating cantrip. 

Caleb lifts his head and allows himself a slight grin. “We?” he echoes. 

The drow’s form rounds the corner, and by the time Caleb sees his face, it has already been sculpted into the expected level of bemused exasperation. “My deepest apologies, I wouldn’t dare group you with the rest of the laymen who lack an inhumanely precise internal clock. Am I to presume you skipped dinner on purpose?”

“I can claim no such thing. I simply fell into a book and could not crawl out.” Caleb steps away from the case, coming to meet the other halfway with a spring in his step, his numbed toes notwithstanding.

“Flawed like the rest of us mortals, what a comforting thought,” Essek says, and his eyebrows curve elegantly, adding to the teasing jab. Then, seeming to grow bored of their good-natured quibbling, he switches tracks into something that sounds more genuine: “Did you discover anything interesting?” 

“Plenty, though nothing I believe I can do justice in summary,” replies Caleb, and then proceeds, like the fool that he is, to do precisely that. “There was a most fascinating document concerning the taxonomical branching of magic schools that I couldn’t put a date to, though I believe it might be one of the earlier centuries from the Age of Arcanum. It was a fascinating insight into how each type of magic was classified prior to the modern reformation, and in the later parts, posited a theory about how the distinct schools developed, and whether the overlap in certain spells is a feature rather than a flaw. There is apparently evidence to support the idea that even though the official schools were classified as separate, earlier ventures into arcane control viewed them as one, and through development and reworking of spells they became distinct, although deeper magic could have potentially been a much less distilled mix of these things.”

Essek’s eyes are alight. “I see,” he hums, and no part of him is feigning curiosity. “I would be remiss not to ask to look at the text in more depth later. I am, of course, familiar with the Reformation and how it reclassified certain things - such as Cure Wounds, which used to be under Necromancy, but--”

“That is precisely the thing,” Caleb interrupts, knowing he will not be faulted for this breach in etiquette. “Based on the writing, and the way these spells are described, I am beginning to think that the spell WAS actually drawing on necromantic magics more so than Evocation. There is little evidence left to support it, however--”

“That would honestly make sense, considering the approach to such things in previous eras of Magic Theory,” Essek continues rapidly, almost picking up where Caleb left off without so much as a pause. “A catalog of the evolution of spells is surely something that can lend itself to further development, and even potential future expansions.”

“Exactly,” the man continues, turning around on the spot and beginning to pace for lack of something to do, “And that is not even mentioning the hints that I got throughout the text which was never explicitly stated, which claim the inherent origins of all magical schools. Not once throughout this entire document did I notice any distinction between divine and arcane types of magic!”

Essek pauses at this, and his head tilts to the side. “Well,” he says after a momentary deliberation. “That would make sense. Given that this was before the Calamity... The distinction would have been perhaps deemed unnecessary.”

“Yes,” Caleb agrees, stopping by a shelf. “At a surface level, yes. But think of the implications. Combine it with the ideas the Dynasty has on the Luxon - the inherent origin of all magic from which other, more complex forms were born! We assume based on current methods that all magic is inherently separate, based on the forces it exerts upon the world. Conjuration is the act of opening doors, summoning-- We think of it as the act of transporting things across space, but if this is true, then what of the idea that Evocation is merely a form of summoning elements through a connection with the other planes?”

Essek crosses his arms under his mantle, but his brows are solidly together now, as if stitched to the bridge of his nose. “What are you suggesting, Widogast?”

“Think of it like an ant looking at a man - the inherent size of something is incomprehensible to a creature which is not equipped to view it all at once. If a child comes across an ant hill and begins to harass it with a hand, and then stomp on it with a foot, the ants may well believe that there are two separate and very distinct entities - forces - acting on them to inflict damage. And yet we know that this is all the separate limbs of a single creature.” When Essek is still frowning, Caleb looks around desperately and grabs at the closest thing he can find - some small metallic polyhedron cast in silver. “Or, better yet, an ant traversing a landscape it believes to be flat, because it is only able to access only a single plane of its surface, when in fact it is made up of multiple sides, each of them making up various faces of a whole.” 

The drow is still staring - and although it shouldn’t be as disquieting as it is, Caleb begins to feel the old pinpricks of nerves raising the hairs on his neck. He feels his face heating up. 

“I--I know it is a circular argument, and it could be made either way,” he admits almost sheepishly. “I was taken by the idea that magic is not a constant, as we may have assumed in the past, but instead evolves - indeed has evolved - and observable phenomena are recorded here, if they are recorded anywhere, that would prove--”

“What is that,” Essek cuts in. 

His tone is so intense and undue for the conversation that it unbalances both of them. There is a strange, awkward bubble of absolute silence for a beat or two - and in this brief pocket of time, Caleb takes stock of the situation. 

The elf is not looking at him at all, he realizes. Instead, his eyesight is zeroed in on whatever it is he’s holding. 

What am I holding? Caleb asks himself, and turns his hand over to roll the little shape he was using for his demonstration into his palm. What, this? It’s just a-- a.... 

And suddenly they are both staring.

He had assumed, at first glance, that he had grabbed some sort of metallic part of machinery, or perhaps an artistic carving. It’s not large - barely the length of his thumb in diameter, and covered, on all corners, in tiny rounded spikes. It is hollow on the inside, leaving the impression of a skeletal casing, or perhaps the intent of holding something between its multiple facets. 

It is also almost identical to the dodecahedron Caleb remembers presenting to Leylas Kryn a little over a year ago.

“Where did you find that?” Essek demands, reaching for the thing. Caleb surrenders it without protest, and the elf begins to turn it over in his hands gingerly.

“I just picked it up,” Caleb says, and immediately turns to the spot he’d scooped it from. It’s a dias they’d stopped next to, which had presumably at one point been housing a larger display, before an entire section of the overhang had come down on top of it, creating a new exhibit of rubble and metalwork instead. 

There are the remains of plaques there, and something resembling an art piece - but it has not been preserved as well as the rest of the things in the library. He squints at the metallic engraving, which has been all but eaten away by rust. By the dim illumination of Dancing Lights, he thinks he can make out hands, but it’s difficult to understand what the symbology is meant to portray. The entire left side of it is completely lost to the march of time. “Do you think this is...”

“A Beacon?” Essek echoes. He is holding the thing so close to his face, his nose is almost poking into one of the open spaces of the shape. “No, it cannot be. But-- It is certainly reminiscent of it. And it has not been touched by rust, so some form of magic must be protecting it.” 

There are a few seconds of fumbling while Essek casts Identify - and a few more seconds after that while he frowns, frustrated, and flutters a somatic for another spell. Neither seem to satisfy him and he instead begins to turn the thing over and over again, as if wrestling with a puzzle. “There are strange enchantments here.”

“Dunamancy?” 

“Yes, traces-- and others. Something else. I thought Abjuration, but then...” He trails off, and Caleb has to stand around for another minute before realizing that no continuation is set to follow. Essek has descended into his own headspace, and is probably barely aware of the way his breath is billowing from his slightly chapped lips. 

That observation, at least, snaps Caleb himself back into adventure mode. They have been traveling far from their original post this morning, and have spent too much time here to leave now. Moreover, there is still plenty of the museum they haven’t even begun to explore. Although frost creeps down the shelves and covers parts of the ancient displays, it’s not completely unsalvageable. It’s also relatively isolated from the main routes, which means there will be less chances that something comes to find them. 

With this in mind, he walks away and begins to look for a place to cast the tower. It takes him a few minutes, but eventually he decides to put it against a wall between the faded, frosty remains of two tapestries.

He has to make a return trip for Essek, who has escalated matters into digging through the rubble on the dias for further clues and has even unearthed the remains of a body - perhaps an unlucky curator that had been in the middle of their shift when The Fall had occurred. Eventually the drow allows himself to be led away, soothed only by the promise that they will continue their search early next morning. When they finally make it into the warm, far more hospitable interior of the tower, Caleb thinks that at least their evening will be interesting. 

The discovery of the fact that this is an understatement comes a few hours too late. 

🙙

The first thing that happens is that Essek does not come down for dinner. 

This is not a huge concern - after all, they are two adult mages on an exploratory mission, without a schedule and without deadlines. There is little in the way of expectations, and given their mutual inclination to diversions when it comes to research a high level of tolerance for delay is required. 

Still, Caleb thinks while he finishes wiping the stew bowl with his piece of warm bread, it would do to at least communicate a little.

Maybe he has grown too soft in his time with the Nein. Caduceus and Jester have taken the part of his heart that has always nested comfortably in all the traditions that come with the concept of ‘family’ and have thawed the cold out of it, stitched it back together with warm, shared meals inside the dome. There was a time in his life where he was relieved to dine alone because it was safer - but that empty space, that distance between his childhood and the Mighty Nein has now been bridged by strings of habit. 

It’s not that Essek has to eat with him. He would never force the elf into following his own strange timetable, given they have not promised each other any such commitment. 

No, the point isn’t that. 

It’s just. 

Caleb withdraws the wire from his pocket before he has even finished coming up with a proper excuse, and cups it to his mouth in pure, selfish indulgence. 

‘ Skipping dinner is not good for one’s health .’

There is a moment of silence on the other end of the Message spell, and then Essek replies in the voice of a man recently pulled from a dream.

‘ You can start eating without me. I’m just trying to finish up something. ’

Caleb lowers the wire, considering the possibility of simply letting Essek drop back into the reverie of work, as he is wont to do. But there is a fond swelling of exasperation that has taken residence in his chest without announcing its arrival, and it feels quite at home. As if it’s always been there. 

He lifts the wire to his mouth again. ‘ I have already finished. Your portion is getting cold .’ 

Another pause. Then a distracted ‘ Perhaps the cats could bring it up? I’ve still not quite cracked this strange-- ’ He trails off for a moment too long - almost long enough to dismiss the spell, and then hurries to tack on ‘ --I feel as if I’ve almost got it, and every time it eludes me. ’

Caleb considers. Essek is far more experienced with this particular field, and yet something tugs on the back of his mind, and his curiosity gets the better of him. Wizardly rears its head - he knows how hard it is to resist the pull of a challenge. 

‘ Maybe I can help? ’ he says into his palms, twisting the wire between two knuckles. ‘ Bring it down and let me have a look. ’ He pauses. ‘ If that is alright with you. ’

‘ Work at the dinner table? ’ Essek’s reply comes more promptly this time, as if their conversation has finally untethered him from his previous focus. ‘ Is that not... uncouth? ’

‘ I daresay more ill-mannered things have taken place at this particular table ,’ Caleb chuckles. ‘ No one but me will know of the vulgar things you choose to do here, I promise. ’

‘ That is tempting ,’ Essek hums, and his voice is strangely low in a way that makes it seem like he’s thinking of something else. Caleb pulls the wire away from his mouth, where it has been pressed to his bottom lip, and tucks it awkwardly back into his pocket as if nothing is amiss. 

Nothing is, really. They were simply having a conversation. 

A minute later, when he has ordered a new, re-heated bowl of stew for Essek, the door to the dining room opens and the drow slides in. He would be stalking if his feet touched the floor, but instead he must settle for only half of the presentation - shoulders slumped stubbornly forward, head bent over the small polyhedron that has ensnared his mind. 

Without looking up, he slides into place opposite of Caleb and reaches out, unseeing, for the food. Caleb moves to oblige him, but then changes his mind and holds the bowl back. 

“Would the Shadowhand care to share his findings?” he asks instead. 

That seems to snap him out of it - Essek’s shoulders unfurl and he sits up straighter, as if responding to the old title on instinct, the way Caleb suspected he might. He feels bad for this sleight - manipulation still slots into first place by default - but instead of looking annoyed, Essek seems almost... embarrassed. 

“I apologize,” he says. “I must admit, this thing is vexing me more than I expected.”

“It might do so less on an empty stomach,” Caleb suggests. “You should eat. And while you eat, I can do my own investigation. A pair of fresh eyes on it may help us discover something new.”

Essek sighs in a defeated way, and his hand moves to pass it over to the other side of the table, where Caleb receives it with the reverence he would give to the real thing. He wonders if the drow will continue to watch him while he works, but a moment later there is the scrape of a bowl being dragged over, and then the soothing sounds of a spoon against ceramic. The show of trust should be insignificant after so much time spent together, and yet something in his stomach still warms in recognition of the fact.

The dodecahedron is, as always, slow to surrender its secrets. Caleb’s habitual casting of Detect Magic does little to expand his understanding - only confirms that there are, indeed, traces of Dunamancy and other magics affixed to it. In fact, the dunamantic properties are barely there, more an afterthought than a proper aura. Instead, he sees Abjuration - and on the outskirts of that, a careful needlework of Transmutation. It doesn’t make much sense, especially because the format of this particular object reads like an enchantment, not a containment. 

He frowns and experimentally pokes a finger inside, wiggling it around and watching the magic interact with it - but aside from a slight tug on the weave, he spots no change. It almost feels as if he’s coming at this from the wrong angle. 

Deciding to change up his perspective, Caleb leans an elbow on the table and holds the thing out at arm’s length, turning it between his fingers. He can’t help the feeling that he’s seen something like this before - but the idea is as ludicrous as it is circular - of course he’s seen it. It’s a Beacon. 

Unless it’s not. 

“You have already tried Identify?” he asks idly, still holding the tiny polyhedron up in the air as if he expects the light to fracture through it differently.

“It is the first thing I did,” Essek responds. “But as you know, Beacons do not react to the spell. That is, rather, the entire point of my research.”

“But Identify draws from the experience of the user on some levels,” Caleb counters. “Perhaps we are attempting to find the answer before we have asked the correct question. Putting the cart before the horse, as it were.”

“I have considered that, yes,” Essek agrees reluctantly. “However, that leaves literally nothing but possibilities before us, with no more direction than we had before.”

“You are a master of possibility, no?”

“I am a master of plucking things out from the sea of possibility,” Essek corrects. “But I am a researcher first, and research is about posing a hypothesis and then acting to prove or disprove it.”

Caleb brings the dodecahedron back down to the table and sets it down between them. His chin rests on his steepled hands a moment later, and he affixes his eyes to the drow, who is currently engaged (in spite of earlier protests and deflections) heavily in chewing a grilled cheese sandwich. 

“What are your theories?” he asks. 

Essek takes a moment to swallow and then a few more seconds to tongue some bread out from behind his fang - a process which definitely does not distract Caleb from the task at hand. At all. 

“My initial thought was some sort of ancient symbolic artifact. Perhaps one that was created shortly after the discovery of the earlier Beacons - ancient civilizations attempting to copy what they saw and worshiped.”

“A holy symbol, if you will,” Caleb echoes. “Not necessarily connected directly to the Luxon and its power.”

“Yes.”

“But you have already cast this hypothesis aside.”

Essek considers for a bit, eyes narrowing in contemplation. “‘Cast aside’ is not the phrase I would use. I’ve shelved it for the time being.” He flicks his hand, habitually Prestidigitating the crumbs off of the table. “Holy symbols are important, but to find one in a place like Aeor, which has famously rejected the idea of god-worship culturally is a far stretch.”

“It was in a museum,” Caleb counters. “Perhaps it is simply a historical record of a bygone era.”

“This seems plausible, however... One other theory has stopped me, and it is entirely reliant on the other thing I found in that spot after you left to cast the tower.”

Caleb frowns. “You did not mention finding anything except the body.”

“Precisely,” Essek says. “We presume that the body had been an unrelated part of the scenery, but I had another idea. What if this relic isn’t actually from the collection at all, but was instead something carried by our unfortunate museum curator?”  

It’s true enough that this is possible - they have, after all, passed by many bodies throughout their trek. Each is curious in its own right, but aside from a few hopeful detours early on, they’d all but given up on searching each corpse for trinkets. Most of them had very little that remained intact and the time spent on it was deemed not worth the risk of attracting the attention of other, more meat-oriented scavengers.  

“You think this is something an Aeorian carried on them, something that was relevant in their present-day.”

“The fact that it has been enchanted several times over and has survived the trials of time would support this idea.” Essek leans elegantly on his own crossed wrists, mirroring Caleb’s thinking posture with a bit more poise. “However, that still leaves the question of ‘why’ and ‘for what purpose’.”

“A secret worshiper of the Luxon, hiding amongst those who wished to use it purely for research?” Caleb posits, and immediately sees Essek’s long ears pull back - perhaps in disapproval, or maybe reacting purely to the irony. 

“How the tables of history turn,” he muses wryly. “That is one possible explanation, I suppose.”

“What is yours?” 

“It mostly concerns the device itself, and the function of the enchantments.”

Caleb quirks an eyebrow. “You think this is a device?”

“You don’t?” 

Their eyes meet - not on the dodecahedron this time, but directly above it. Essek narrows his in that familiar way Caleb knows all too well to indicate a swell of pride inherent to who he is as a mage. Whereas before this may have set him on edge, or even put him on alert, he now knows better than to suspect it preceding anything more dangerous than an incoming game of verbal chess. And that game Caleb is all too familiar with - he would, in fact, go so far as to say he enjoys it. Teasing the other has provided him with endless hours of entertainment in the form of slightly haughty lectures on various topics while they trudge through frozen houses and collapsed marketplaces. Essek, it turns out, instinctively tends to monologue when prodded in just the right ways. To Caleb this is the intellectual equivalent to putting coins into a contraption which spits out candy. 

And he very much feels like a child with some coins burning through his pockets right about now. 

“I believe it might be something else,” Caleb says. He has to fight back the urge to grin mischievously, and instead calls upon his old muscles to sculpt his face into a thoughtful frown, as if he’s not a cat trying to push the teacup off of the edge of the table on purpose. “Frankly, I believe the holy symbol theory is more plausible. Abjuration enchantments would support this.”

“Abjuration enchantments speckled with Dunamancy and Transmutation?” Essek presses, gracefully arching an eyebrow at him. “I’m having trouble following this logic.” 

“As we’ve previously discussed, old magic schools were different to those we recognize today. Perhaps what we are interpreting as distinct types of magic is a single, simple one.”

“And this decreases their significance...how?”

“It does not,” Caleb admits, holds for a count of three, and then comes back like a boomerang. “But in the spirit of discovery, this distinction is not unimportant. In fact, I believe that with the documents I have uncovered, I can make a decent amount of headway into this object without involving the modern Dunamantic pursuits at all.” 

Essek’s ears flutter, and then angle up like a predator homing in on prey. He leans forward, so close that Caleb can smell the grilled cheese on his breath when he bares his fangs with a barely restrained grin. “Is that a challenge, Caleb Widogast?”

Caleb holds his ground. If Essek is hoping to scare him, he is failing spectacularly. In fact, if anything, the opposite effect is making it far more difficult to focus, so perhaps those teeth have served their purpose after all. Still, he has not started this only to roll over and show his belly so quickly (although if that is how this ends, he cannot pretend he would not be equally satisfied). 

He smiles demurely right back at the elf. “In any case, I think I can ascertain its purpose more efficiently than simply using the... brute force method of endless hypothesizing.”

The taunt hits mark with raw precision - Essek visibly grinds his molars and his eyelids fall a bit heavier as he reaches forward to snag Caleb’s scarf with a single, perfectly manicured finger and give it a gentle yank. 

“I’d like to see you try,” he purrs. “If only because it will be very entertaining to see you fail.”

Caleb is suddenly very thankful for the table between them. He hopes the scarf hides the way his throat moves when he swallows. He hopes Essek will pull it a little harder. 

And yet some autopilot compels him to keep going as if he is unbothered. “I aim to please,” he murmurs in reply. 

Essek considers him for a moment, and his jaw tightens in what might be frustration, right before he releases his grip and leans back, slipping out of Caleb’s orbit like silk. His fingers find the object between them and he slides it forward, into the other wizard’s territory. 

“I look forward to your findings,” he declares with a practiced, sharpened smile, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Caleb knows a dismissal when he hears it. Both of them know well enough this is far from defeat - but he hopes that it’s not too obvious that it’s a victory on his part. He pulls away, his back pin-straight, his stomach fluttering, and tries to remember how to move his legs. Some part of him that isn’t consumed with the burning sensation of arousal seems to take pity, and he sees his own hand reach out and take the artifact. 

“In that case, I would hate to make you wait any longer than necessary,” he hears himself say, and stands up, missing the edge of the table by less inches than when he sat down. Essek watches - his eyes travel for a brief moment, but he remains cordial and says nothing, ever the aristocrat. 

It is not until Caleb is finally down in the Salon and a bit more clear-headed that the thought finally strikes him - and it does strike, hard enough to nearly knock him out of the central gravity elevator and into a nearby reading cushion. 

He presses a hand over his mouth, closes his eyes, and holds back a cresting groan of realization.

Essek has just willingly handed a Beacon over to an Empire wizard for ‘further study’. 

Again.

🙙

It shouldn’t be funny, and yet it sort of is. 

If he hurries through his casting and experiments, it’s not because he’s distracted by the thought, or because it disturbs him. He is more than capable of compartmentalizing the coincidence of the situation and reasoning that it is no more than that. He knows none of this is on purpose, and that this is not a Beacon - not in the way that Essek might suspect, in any case. That is the entire point of proving him wrong, in fact. 

No, the reason he hurries is because he knows that, with his evening freed up, it is only a matter of time before Essek himself comes to the exact same realization.

And sure enough - he’s well on his way through only the second modified See Invisibility when he hears a strangled cry from somewhere up in the tower. 

He thinks it sounds a bit like ‘fuck’, and in spite of his best attempts to hold on to some modicum of restraint, he can’t help but chuckle. He stops his hands of their somatics and instead turns around, just in time to face the prompt arrival of one Essek Thelyss, his robes in an upsweep as he hurries the gravitational elevator through sheer force of will alone in order to arrive solidly on the same floor of the Salon as Caleb. 

He looks... absolutely mortified. 

It’s a rare sight, so Caleb allows himself to drink it in just a little bit - the absolute lack of composure in the elf’s wide eyes which are usually held in a controlled and careful half-glare, the way his cheeks are starkly darker, matched only by the tips of his long ears, the way an entire three curls have escaped the careful side-sweep and have gone completely rogue - one has jumped the bridge of his nose, another is hooked haphazardly over his right ear. The last is standing almost straight up, defying gravity as though the iconic floating Cantrip has misfired and gone to the head instead of the feet.

Caleb is not sure if he feels second-hand embarrassment or hilarity. It’s possibly both. Opposite of him, poised to fight tooth and nail for his dignity, Essek seems to be wrestling with an unappetizing mix of horror and appreciation, as if someone has just told him the most offensive yet ingenious pun. 

They hold for one second. Two. Three. 

Essek breaks first.

“I did not mean to do that,” he says in a pathetic imitation of composure. He does not even bother to make an effort to smooth down his panic.

Caleb has already had time to recover first, but it takes legitimate effort to keep his voice steady: “This is not a metaphor, my friend,” he says. 

Former Shadowhand and Dynasty Traitor Thelyss lets out a hissing sigh from between his teeth. “Isn’t it?” 

“A coincidence at best,” Caleb assures him. They’re both tense, and Essek’s ability to Haste himself into a self-hating spiral will not help matters. There has to be a Counterspell. “I just wanted to help you, and give you time to have a calm dinner.”

Essek twitches minutely, and those eyes narrow a fraction.

The wizard does his best to soothe once more: “I will give it back.”

“Like you did the first time?” Essek inquires dryly. 

It should not be funny, and yet Caleb’s lips pinch just a bit. In spite of himself, he cannot deny the parallels for much longer. Instead he swerves, hoping to distract in a different way. “You mean kneeling and strapped in leather?”

Essek’s face darkens again in the most fascinating mix of tormented embarrassment, as if recalling the incident physically pains as much as it entertains him. He seems to fumble for the correct emotion. 

“As it was at that moment,” he says finally, visibly holding himself together, “neither of those factors are a requirement.” 

“But they are an option, if it would make the process easier for you,” Caleb supplies. 

It’s enough to break the tension of the unspeakable between them. Slowly, gradually, Essek’s panic swirls and transmutes, under Caleb’s subtle guidance, into something much more palatable and closer in shape to control. He straightens, and his feet escape the binds of the floor, bringing him to his preferred height - a few inches above his counterpart, specifically. 

Caleb does not mind looking up when the man floats closer to him. He would not mind a great deal many things when the other approaches in this manner, sweeping all of the previously spilled anxiety back under his mantle as if they were never present to begin with. The game has changed once more, and this time Essek is on the offensive. The intimidation, surely meant to be a repelling force, instead works with all the effectiveness of a gravity well on Caleb. He cannot move away even if he thought it a good idea to do so. Instead he feels himself tugged ever closer, swaying under the strain of the same mysterious magnetism that so damned him the first time they met. 

“It may,” Essek says when he is merely a foot away, voice resonating through Caleb as if he were a plucked guitar string, taut and thrumming. “But I do not believe that will be necessary, will it, Caleb Widogast?”

Caleb licks his lips before he has a chance to stop himself, and only barely has the wherewithal to compose his face into something like exasperation. “Not if you ask nicely,” he manages to reply, not missing the fact that the drow is staring at his mouth. 

The next moment, the eyes flick up to his and narrow a fraction more. A hand unfolds from under the robes, and for a moment Caleb thinks - wonders? - hopes? - that it is aiming to grasp his chin. Instead it hovers between them, palm up, expectant. 

“Hand it over, or else .”

“...that is asking a bit too nicely, don’t you think? I am being enticed towards the second option almost out of academic curiosity alone, and--”

“ Eins ,” Essek begins, his accent sharpening the edges around the foreign words. “ Zwei. ” He only stops when the weight of the dodecahedral artifact settles into his hand. His chin lifts just a fraction, and a satisfied smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Good.”

It is Caleb’s turn to glare, however half-hearted it is in the wake of the flush that now heats his entire face. “Using my own tricks against me... That is a low blow.” 

“We can discuss blowing at a later time,” Essek replies, and by this point Caleb is more than willing to classify his grin as shit-eating. He was wrong to misjudge the other’s ability to play this game without gloves. Essek knows his weaknesses by now, and knows exactly what he is doing. Most of all, he is not above using all the strategies available to him. 

As the drow turns and makes his exit, mantle fluttering gracefully, Caleb has only one half-lucid thought left: 

Two can play at that game.

🙙

Time ticks by at its standard pace, but inside of Essek’s workroom it feels as though it is racing.

He is familiar with the loss of time as a concept - all the more so when it comes to research and study, where minutes gallop and hours slip through his fingers like sand from an hourglass. In this instance, a new factor is adding to the breakneck pace with which the fifth dimension is transporting him through space - pettiness. 

Essek is not a stupid man. He is, however, a prideful and competitive man, and he is at least smart enough to know himself. The fact that the polyhedron before him is fascinating, and the fact that he is dead-set on winning this strange argument of theirs - those things can both be true simultaneously.

With this in mind, he settles impatiently in the stone circle set into the floor of the workroom, places out the pieces of Residuum he had purchased through Yussa on his last trip to Nicodranas, and begins to stretch string along the embedded leylines, recreating a local portion of the weave. With the arcane equivalent of a magnifying glass in place, he sets the mini-beacon in the center and focuses. 

When early stages of insight fail to provide any clarification, he moves on - an altered version of Detect Magic. Then a recently discovered, Aeorian-flavored Legend Lore spell he hasn’t quite gotten the hang of yet. He flips between trying out spells with different flavorings and pacing to the edges of the room to retrieve his books and flip through them, as if an answer would reveal itself after he crossed a specific threshold of peering at the familiar letters long enough. 

He does not know how much time passes, does not pay it mind, but he is aware enough to notice when a familiar sound calls for his attention somewhere near the ceiling. It’s a sound he typically welcomes - a soft ‘ mrrt ’ of one of the Tower cats signaling that they have brought him something to eat, or have arrived to replenish his supply of drink. And sure enough, he spots a black longhair with green eyes in one of the runways, a tray with citrus juice poised on her elegantly combed tail.

“Thank you, Myrtle,” he sighs. “You can leave it on my desk.” 

She saunters down and does as told, and then thumps to the floor, coming up to sniff his elbow. Without even thinking, he reaches down to glide a hand down her back, heaving a sigh. At least there are still small comforts here. 

“This is not going well for me,” he confesses to her quietly. She blinks her glittering fey eyes up at him, and then butts back up into his palm, seeking more attention. He obliges, and then pulls her into his lap for a proper mope. “What am I going to do if I don’t figure this out? He will never let me hear the end of it. I will be a laughing stock. I will never live it down, and I will have no choice but to flee into the Eiselcross wilderness, twice exiled.”

The cat in his arms meows in protest. 

“No, you are right,” he relents. “That is a bit dramatic. But a wizard’s ego is a fragile thing, you know. I suspect this is the reason they don’t often gather in the same place. It is just as he said - fucking trouble. He is right, of course. As always.” He brings the cat up to his face and buries his nose in the silky fur of her neck for a second before finally releasing her.

She is without worries, unlike him, and does not care much for their arcane puzzles or competitions. Essek is envious of it - if only his entire life’s purpose was to be a cat, running about a magic tower and carrying food and books, and being petted. He would enjoy it less, he imagines, than reading or researching, but then again, there would be benefits. He could at least let go of some of his less innocent concerns, and the only difficulties in his life would be the strange wizards occupying the tower. He could wander around a magic circle freely, without care, as Myrtle is doing now - sniffing at the Residuum without knowing how much it cost, and carefully stepping over the string, and then batting playfully at the beacon in the center as if it were a toy. It’s purpose does not plague her like it does him. She is lucky.

She is also... attempting to bite it. Pick it up. 

“No,” he mutters, rising to his knees as his naivety cracks, delicate as a sugar-glass dessert. “Myrtle, what are you doing? Please don’t tell me--”

She turns to him, the side of metallic dodecahedron clasped tightly in her jaws. Time halts as they look at one another in something resembling a mournful betrayal. In Essek’s mind, it is accompanied by dramatic string instruments, and not entirely unlike the moment he imagines he may one day have with Leylas Kryn. 

And then she bolts .

“I trusted you!” Essek howls, which he knows is hilarious in retrospect. He knows how stupid he looks - how stupid he IS to have allowed her to get so close. Even as he runs for the wall, uselessly slapping the stonework just below the arcane opening where the cat disappears inside the tower CPU, he knows that he had walked into the setup. He had forgotten who he was dealing with. He had forgotten who the cats work for.

He had allowed himself to become soft. 

No more , thinks Essek, clenching his first and turning around to face the rest of his workroom. He flicks his fingers with extra ferocity to activate his floating cantrip and rises a foot into the air, kicking up chalk dust from the floor. 

The time for diplomacy is over. 

This is war.

🙙

Caleb knows he is playing a dangerous game. He is mostly aware of the rules, and a little bit not, which makes it all the more exciting. He knows, also, that he should logically quit while he’s ahead, but inertia is a force to be reckoned with. They’re already moving. Stopping would be extra energy exerted. Allowing things to progress... well... that is simply a matter of curiosity taking its natural path. A pressure he has never quite learned how to resist fully.

Reasonably, there are two pressures on him - one is the old, familiar drive that keeps his fingers flipping the pages of a book, the thirst for new things, new understandings, incomprehensible made familiar. 

The other is a recently unearthed fossil of something much less academic, something he feels has been revived very expertly by a particular Cleric with a penchant for mischief. Indecisive pseudo-god Archfey aside, Caleb sometimes suspects that, in a way, Jester had been successful in her attempts to endear them to the Traveler’s after all. He certainly feels as though this would be considered at least somewhat up his alley.

And for all his protesting, he does feel a little urge to start praying when a precisely-timed knock graces his door. 

“I am bathing,” he responds. When no immediate answer to this is evident, he decides to be a bit more specific. “And naked.”

“Lucky me,” replies a voice, muffled behind three inches of wood. Then, there’s a light displacement of air as Essek Misty-Steps, without any preamble, directly into the room. He sweeps it with his gaze, and his eyes land on the promised scene - one Caleb Widogast, neck-deep in the clawed bath, a mountain of bubbles for decency. He appears unimpressed, however, because his eyes immediately move on, scanning the vicinity of the tub. Finally, he speaks as if to explain away his earlier words: “Leaving your Component Pouch out of reach, very trusting of you.” 

Caleb sinks a little further into the tub, his nose almost disappearing into the bubbles. “Perhaps very foolish,” he admits. 

The drow hums a note of agreement but otherwise pays him no mind, instead stepping towards the desk at the corner of the room, running a single finger along its edge. “I recall an Empire saying about glass houses and throwing stones... So I must admit that I, too, have been made a fool of tonight. Twice over.”

“The first time was an accident,” Caleb mutters into the bath.

Essek’s head pivots just enough to catch sight of him with a single silvery eye. “And the second?”

Caleb’s blue eyes blink a steady beat. “I do not recall confessing to a second.”

There’s an audible swish of air as the former Shadowhand rotates to face him again. He is not mantled, and yet the effect of his more casual attire somehow still carries the same weight. “Absence of denial is a confession in and of itself. Where is it?”

The figure in the bath does not move an inch aside from further (albeit slowed) blinking. “Where is what?”

Essek’s brilliant facade of serenity almost cracks. When his words find him again, tranquil as the snow of Eiselcross before the Ice Worm breaches, they are clearly spoken through his teeth. “Do not play games with me, Widogast. You are woefully underprepared. And underdressed.” He hovers closer, the length of a single step, and a knowing smile - far too kind to be genuine - splits his face like a faultline. “Or did you think to distract me with that fact?” He tisks softly. “Really now. You ought to know me better. I am not a man of honor.”

From just above the mountain range of bubbles, Caleb’s blue eyes blink up at him. “Then we are a perfect match,” he says. 

Essek hesitates. The model of his plan, constructed and engineered from the ground up like a multi-tier tower of dunamantic precision, shifts and rearranges itself in real time. Constraints, additional variables are added to the ever-evolving equation to balance for all the potentialities. The strings of possibility intersect, weave around one another, tug against opposing choices and their followed cause and effect. 

He follows one such potentiality and his eyes, however briefly, glide over the bubbles obscuring the rest of Widogast from view. Obscuring, possibly, more than Widogast. Presenting a barrier one may think would not be crossed. 

But no, there is more to it. It is too simple, too easy for one like Caleb. He spoke to Essek as one dishonorable man to another. And in that, he revealed more of his hand. 

The drow tilts his head, and his eyes flash white. 

The Caleb in the bathtub before him disappears. 

Illusion , says the magical residue of his leftover silhouette. He blinks and it resolves again.

He resists tightening his fingers into a fist. Resists reacting. Resists everything except the charade, leaning forward and curling his hand around one edge of the tub, nearly straddling it. 

“Perhaps you think so,” he says, each tone in his voice a perfectly tuned melody. His free hand reaches, dips within the water. “But I think I shall be the one to measure the... credibility of that statement.”

The illusory Caleb in the tub stutters, pauses, just a bit, and begins to sink lower still, as if retreating. Its expression is not keeping up with whatever is happening - because in order to cause the illusion to react, one must see what it is interacting with. Not that Essek needs this confirmation - he is focused on something else. His ears swivel. 

He tightens his fist and grins - and ah, there it is. A sharp, soft hiss of an inhale. Behind him, by the door. 

Without even looking, he yanks his hand out of the water and, with an arc of misting spray like the curve of a bowstring, throws Dispel Magic over his shoulder. As soon as it flies he follows the trajectory of the spell with his eyes just in time to see the real Caleb Widogast’s Greater Invisibility drop as he flattens himself against the wall. 

“Uh-oh,” says the man, pale flesh flushed pink. 

“Indeed,” hisses the drow, teeth bared to the fang in a grin.

And then it really begins. 

🙙

There’s the standard, danger-induced adrenaline, and then there’s the giddy, excited high one gets when Essek Thelyss looks like he’s about to personally crush you like a sheet of decorative aluminum. What Caleb feels is only a little bit of the former, and most of the latter. He’d like to lie to himself and pretend that it legitimately scares him more than it turns him on, but... there’s little time to argue with himself when he’s pretty sure standing still for even a second will leave him open to attack.

Several things happen in quick succession when Essek dispels his Invisibility without so much as looking and then whirls to face him. 

Caleb yanks the doorhandle to his escape. Essek yanks his hand through the air. Gravitational magic swirls, snapping like a rubber band into the slight body, and expanding within, magnifying density. 

The wizard stumbles, his step unfairly slowed as he rushes through the exit about as gracefully as a monk attempting a heart-to-heart. He just barely makes it out, and is pushing towards the central chute when he senses, more than sees, Essek follow in his steps. As he realizes that he will not be able to outrun the other he lets out a colorful swear and reaches for a silk cocoon. 

Behind him, Essek’s hands are already forming the somatics for Counterspell. “Oh no you don’t!” he cries. The spell fires, blasts against the caster - dissipates the strung-up magic that was preparing to weave into a hare. “You aren’t getting away from me that easily!”

“I wouldn’t dream of it!” Caleb rasps out, fighting the effects of Adjust Density. Damn, even his tongue is heavier. A fleeting thought torpedoes through his brain - Essek has thought this through, that is a little hot - and shoots right back out of consciousness. He forces himself to think as well, and instead steps backwards into the chute, floating down as he faces his opponent. 

Essek is less than ten feet from him and he rushes to the rim of the iris, already casting again. His hands move smoothly through each sign - Hold Person , Caleb realizes - but he doesn’t get to finish before a Counterspell hits the woven arcane strands and they fizzle out uselessly. 

A swear in Undercommon. “You can’t keep this up forever, Widogast!” he yells, and yanks himself through the iris after the other. 

This time Caleb does get a spell off, and even as Essek tries to counter he keeps going through the chant stubbornly. He watches the magic slam against his cast, aiming to undo his work but it isn’t enough. The elf’s eyes widen in recognition just before the human beneath him - so close, yet so far - pops out of existence with a successful Teleport.

Three floors down, Caleb hears Essek’s distant, echoing scream of frustration. 

“Seventh level? Really?! ” 

In the relatively safe darkness of a kitchen cupboard, Caleb catches his breath and looks around at the several pairs of fey-cat eyes that blink at him, questioning his sudden arrival. “Shh,” he begs them, a finger to his lips. “I am in grave danger.”

Several seconds tick by. Then several more. Little by little, the effect of Adjust Density trickles away. Caleb tries to keep his breathing steady. He cannot hear any footsteps, but he knows this is not indicative of any safety where his floating friend is concerned. 

Unbidden, Essek’s voice slides into his mind. 

‘You cannot hide from me,’ it whispers oh-so-sweetly, sending shivers of terror, or maybe excitement, through Caleb. ‘Dragging this out will only make things more difficult.’

Deciding it’s safer to not, he does not respond. Instead he holds his breath until the reply limit runs out. Then he slowly, carefully exhales. 

 Six seconds later, Essek’s voice is in his head again. 

‘What happened to that promise you made, hm? The one involving the safe return of the beacon in... specific circumstances?’

The bastard , Caleb thinks, feeling his ears burn. He bites his lip to hold in a reply, but some final staw in him snaps. “It’s still on the table, if you wish a truce,” he murmurs just before it can release him. 

Just outside the door of his cupboard, there’s a gentle ‘puff’. The sound of a cat jumping down from the counter? Or something more? Caleb braces both of his hands against the narrow walls he is trapped again and holds his breath. 

 “ I will be the one deciding what is on the table, ” Essek says, just outside the door - and in Caleb’s head. There’s an odd delay, an echo from both his ears and the spell. The drow’s voice drops an octave and now the effect is even more ominous. “ Pray it isn’t you. ”

The human finds his tongue, bites down on the tip, holds it tight. Ignores the way his blood is taking a vacation southward, leaving him feeling just a little light-headed. Waits out the spell without succumbing to an answer. And other urges besides.

The tension holds, then seems to relax. The doorhandle doesn’t move. Somewhere on the opposite end of the kitchen, he hears one of the cats meow. He thinks it might be Greta and makes a mental note to give her a treat later, for the valiant attempt at diversion. 

A familiar creak of a door - perhaps the one leading to the dining room - filters into his hiding space. It slams shut. Then it’s quiet again. 

Slowly, ever so slowly, he unlocks his elbows and edges one toe towards the exit. When nothing happens, he lets out a silent breath of relief and reaches into his component pouch for a piece of liquorice. Biting down, he forms his hands into the spell, mutters the incantation, and opens the door. 

Nothing. The kitchen is empty. 

And yet. 

Caleb cannot shake the feeling of the cold sweat beading on his brow, the feeling that something is off. Some primal instinct is telling him he has missed something. 

He looks down at the polished stone floors, at his own shadow. At how large it looks, disproportionately. How the edges of it seem to flutter like a billowing, silken overshirt. 

Already knowing what he will find there, but feeling obligated to give himself the satisfaction, he turns his head slowly to look over his shoulder, and then directly up. 

From three feet in the air above him, Essek Thelyss smirks. 

“Not quite kneeling, is it?”

Caleb bolts. He doesn’t give himself time to think, doesn’t give himself time to process other possibilities - that would be far too much temptation - and instead just legs it, at double his normal speed, for the door which he had recently been so fooled by. Behind him, he hears the whistle of a single drow fly at him in pursuit. 

“Where is it, Caleb!” 

Caleb slams his stick-thin body into the door, throwing himself through it. “I have no idea what it is!” he manages to shout over his shoulder right before vaulting over the dining room table with a desperation which would make Beauregard proud.  

“You know very well what I’m talking about!” Essek snaps. Then he snaps again - and Misty-steps directly in front of the dining room doors, blocking it off. His face is flushed, his pupils dilated and his teeth bared in what could be generously described as a murderous grin. “Hand it over!”

“That’s the thing, you see,” Caleb gasps, skidding to a stop a mere 5 feet away. 

Essek narrows his eyes. 

He takes one step back. “I don’t know what it is. And until I do--” He yelps as a spectral Mage Hand lunges for him, just barely ducking out of its path to grab his shirt. “--you should hold off on undressing me!”

The spectral hand does not hold off, clearly seeking its prize somewhere within the folds of his layers. Under different circumstances, Caleb would find such single-minded determination in this task extremely flattering, but the situation here is quite dire, and he’s forced to all but dance out of its path.

“I don’t think so,” Essek replies, and although he’s suspended in the air with his Fly spell, he takes a step forward, fingers curling as he controls the arcane hand through its magical pat-down. “We’ve had enough foreplay. Time to show me what you’re hiding.”

“You know,” Caleb chokes out, side-stepping another grab for his shirt collar, “--I think finally understand --” bouncing back on his heel “--the old saying--” desperately reaching into his pocket again “Be careful what you wish for!”

Essek dashes forward, but he’s once again not fast enough - the Hasted Caleb dodges from his grip, form practically melting through the other's reaching fingers. Actually melting - into feathers. A few more seconds while the transformation completes, and a tiny sparrow replaces the human. 

Sparrow-Caleb fully expects, and even relishes the snarl Essek gifts him. What he does NOT expect is for the drow to yank something from behind his lapel and Polymorph as well. 

A dark cat with an ultraviolet iridescent sheen and silvered eyes takes his place, dropping onto the dining room table. Its eyes find the prey without any difficulty, and suddenly, Caleb is a lot less sure about his plan. 

But a plan is a plan, and with little improvisational prowess to go on, the bird rockets towards the wall, where one of the cat-ramps snakes its way to an exit path to the interior of the tower. He feels the wind change as soon as he’s inside the tunnels, and for the next few turns he is only thinking of following the winding labyrinthe, but a moment later he emerges again within the central CPU. As soon as he rockets from the exit, a tiny little bird torpedo, he can feel thousands of fey cat eyes on him. Instinct collides with duty as they all freeze, fighting their desire to leap at him. 

All but one. 

Essek emerges just feet right behind Caleb - ears pressed back to his head for maximum aerodynamics, paws forward, claws out. There is only enough time for the sparrow to turn its head and discover new layers of not only wizard-panic but also bird-panic before nature takes over and he flattens one wing and yanks another to make a sharp 90 degree turn and drops altitude. Before him are thousands of cat-path intersections, overlapping in a knotwork only Fjord could undo. He dives, he careens, and swoops out of the way, flying as fast as his tiny body will take him.

Behind him he hears chaos. Essek is hot on his tail, evidently not bothering to give right of way to any of the cats who happen to be between them. There are disgruntled hisses and meowls as the entire traffic flow disrupts with one Polymorphed wizard breaking his way through the processing unit in pursuit of his quarry. 

Mistakes have been made, Caleb thinks, and knows somewhere deep in his subconscious that the realization is two hours late. He confirms it as soon as he makes a sudden turn to make for one exit and finds it completely blocked off by several fluffed-up tabbies, all of them looking at him with eyes as large as plates. With a quick U-turn he confirms his suspicions - Essek is close, and he is at the head of what can only be described as a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated hunting craze. If at one point the cats were on Caleb’s side, they are no longer. Following in their newcomer’s footsteps, they have joined him in the bloodlust.

It’s difficult to be surprised. He really should have baked in a Fey Cat Union on this iteration of the Tower. He kept on putting it off. It’s his own fault, really.

But the show must go on, and so Caleb-sparrow pushes his tiny wings as hard as he can and shoots for another pathway, one he hopes will be less occupied. He thinks he is almost through, and at the last moment he sees it out of the corner of his eye - Johann, the maine coon. Eyes ablaze, tail a pipe cleaner, and not a hint of regret as he charges down the side of the wall chute, pinching Caleb in. 

We are not going to make it , Caleb thinks, not all of us . He turns his head again to catch sight of Essek, and finds the shorthaired drow-cat having the same realization mid rail-skate on his way down. They share an almost equilateral glance of concern, right before the whole liquid-like mass of cats crashes into the opposite wall, scrambling into every possible nook and cranny and clawing up the ramps to right themselves in the disaster. Caleb is not sure he made it at first, but a fresh breeze promises not lead him astray. He flaps and flutters and screeches out of the paws of his turncoat fey servants until he is in a tunnel again, and then almost blindly bumbles about and  - yes! Light! Freedom!

He falls, rather than flies, out of one of the bookshelves in the Salon, and almost splats on the floor before righting himself out at the last moment and sailing back up. 

But not for long. 

Behind him, ripping books clean off the shelf as he goes, an ultaviolet feline emerges from a separate side-tunnel, spots the sparrow, and immediately takes the jump, 8 feet through the air.

Time slows for a moment. Essek stretches as if he has been caught in an event horizon of a black hole, spaghettified to his longest possible cat. His paw extends, four claws shunting toward his target. Caleb sees this, sees his imminent demise, and also reaches - with his mind. Tugs on a fragment of possibility he still has buried somewhere deep within him. Rewrites fate. 

And swerves. 

The cat’s expression morphs into disbelief, into anger, into fury - and very shortly after, into wide-eyed regret as it sees that it has not calculated for a landing space. Not all its elegant mid-air writhing and twisting can stop its full-force collision with a stack of books on the table directly in front of it. 

There's a crash, then a large puff of magic energy, followed by a lot of swearing in Undercommon. 

Meanwhile, the Caleb-sparrow sails on. He turns to look back only for a moment to indulge in a bit of Schadenfreude right before turning a victory lap--

--directly into a stone pillar. 

Another puff of magic echoes a note of irony after the first. Another round of swearing - this time in Zemnian - follows.

Essek recovers first, but in the mess he’s made it takes him a solid round or two to locate Caleb. By the time he spots a familiar glint of copper hair bobbing between two reading chairs, clearly attempting to scurry off, the man is almost out of his line of sight. 

Almost.

With a last force of will, Essek raises his arms, muscles straining, and throws his hands into the somatics for his final 5th level slot. He feels the power tighten, and allows himself a brief jolt of joyous, dark glee as he sees the drape on the nearby handrail swing under his command. It slithers like a snake along the edge and then leaps at the wizard’s wrists, encasing them in a cocoon of red and gold woven silk. First one, then the other, then both of them together as he stutters in his step and yells. His eyes flit up, finding Essek right before he goes down, stretched out on the carpeted floor of his own library, hands held in place somewhere above his head and legs splayed out and kicking half-heartedly. The victorious drow stands a dozen feet away amid scattered books and a knocked over reading table, fingers curled and holding the Telekinesis spell with the last of his energy. 

There is a beat of novel quiet, punctuated only by their heavy breathing. For once, everything is still. 

“Well, this is not how I imagined things would end,” Caleb finally admits with a nervous chuckle, glancing at his bound hands. “But if that’s your plan, I’ll gladly take alternatives to kneeling--”

He’s rambling now, Essek knows, because his somatics have been removed - and there’s no way he has many spell slots left anyway. But he’s still counting on him being distracted. What he’s not counting on is the Echo which steps up right to him, kneels, and slaps gold dust directly over the tightened cloth binds on his hands, casting Immovable Object. 

“Oh,” Caleb says in a much smaller voice, and stills. 

“Yes,” Essek confirms. He can finally release his Telekinesis spell, and does so now. The gold dust on his impromptu handcuffs holds firm even without him grappling the other psychically. Good , he thinks. Finally I’ve got you.

“The Echo is quite brilliant,” Caleb admits from where he is prone on the floor. “How long were you planning that?”

“He’s been waiting there since you Teleported away from me,” Essek takes only a few more steps before collapsing on his knees next to his prisoner. Now that it’s over, his chest heaves visibly, and he has to sweep some displaced curls back into place. He takes the time to do this now, ignoring how Caleb continues to watch him, face flushed with a similar exhaustion - or maybe something else. He will unpack that later.

“Somehow I’m not surprised,” Caleb admits, casual as ever in spite of his current predicament.

“You shouldn’t be,” Essek replies. “I always have a contingency.”

“One of the many qualities I admire about you.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“I am open to exploring other avenues of redemption.”

Essek hums, unimpressed, and places one hand next to the man’s head, propping himself up on his arm to hover over the other, eclipsing the floating lights in the air above them with his own body. “The time for bargaining is over, Caleb Widogast,” he says quietly. “This is the time to tell me where you hid that damned thing.”

Caleb’s breath hitches a bit at that, and his mouth parts. It’s red from exertion and soft and pliant and-- no, focus, Essek reminds himself. He forces a glare. 

“I am...” The man’s ribcage expands below him in a deep breath. “Woefully out of spells.”

Essek closes his eyes and exhales in relief. “You don’t say.”

“I suppose we’ll call this a draw, then, ja ?”

Essek opens his eyes again and fixes him with a hardened stare. Raises an eyebrow. Watches Widogast squirm, just a bit. Enjoys it, but doesn’t let it show. 

There’s a window of time where it’s clear they’re both fighting an urge, or several urges at once. At least one of them is carnal, and the other 3 are mostly mixtures of pride and mild iterations of mischief. Then, finally, the last of the fight leaks out of Caleb’s tensed elbows and he collapses his whole weight back into the floor, heaving a dramatic sigh. 

“The artifact is in your room,” he confesses. “Myrtle was never supposed to bring it to me. Just hide it in your bed. Under a pillow.”

It is so, so difficult to resist a groan, so Essek doesn’t. He lets it vibrate through his throat, and even goes so far as to throw his head back for dramatic effect, rubbing into the bridge of his nose with his free hand. “Of course,” he grumbles. It is so simple and predictable in the most unpredictable way. So very much like Caleb. Laying all the workings of their extended chase on the line, betting that Essek would never think to stop and consider the most obvious option... It's brilliant, although he's loath to admit that he fell for it.

In spite of the exhaustion, his legs move and push him back up to standing, and then to hovering as he clicks his fingers to activate the cantrip. 

Down below, Caleb clears his throat a tad nervously. 

“Uh... Essek?” 

The drow glances at him. Raises an eyebrow.

“Could you uh...”

Essek allows a small smile to slip through his lips, showing his teeth. “Yes?”

“The spell is still... ah...” Caleb clears his throat again, and shifts his hips. “Since we are... done?” It ends like a question, and there is no masking a hidden implication - are they done? The game is presumably over. Unless it isn’t. 

The knowing smile widens, and Essek dips down to almost kneel again, although this time he does not touch the ground. He extends one arm and, in a clear imitation of Caleb’s own gesture, pats the man’s scruffy cheek. 

“You are comfortable, yes?” he croons. “Nothing cutting off bloodflow?”

Caleb’s face grows visibly warmer under his touch. There is no hint of pain or fear there - and Essek does look for it - only more of the same sweet, sweet understanding that he’d bitten off more than he can chew. “Theoretically, but the spell lasts an hour--”

“I’ve set a password which will release the hold for one minute,” Essek assures him, and straightens back up again. “It is some iteration of an apology. It shouldn’t take you long to stumble upon the correct wording. When you do... well, you can come find me. Then I’ll think about undoing it.”

Caleb closes his eyes, heaves a sigh of resignation. " Ja , okay, I probably deserve that." He's still very red, still very clearly not as regretful about his current predicament as he ought to be. Somehow that doesn't bother Essek as much as it should. He turns away and drifts back towards the central gravity spire. 

"If you are having trouble and want to consider a plea bargain, send a cat," he calls over his shoulder. 

As he ascends, Caleb catches his eye, tries his best to appear remorseful and in need of rescue - and gets only a knowing smirk in return before the drow hovers out of sight, leaving him alone with his thoughts. 

🙙

The next morning is a late one. He knows he's slept in, but he takes his time rolling around in bed anyway, enjoying the pleasant drowsiness one can only achieve after an evening of strenuous activity followed immediately by a full night’s rest. Even after he eventually rouses and goes downstairs, he spends some extra time in the kitchen with a warm mug of coffee, petting Greta and thanking her for her help. When his internal clock is pushing ten he finally heads down to the Salon, which has been cleaned and reorganized in the night. 

Once settled into the comfortable cushions of one of the larger sofas, he kicks up his feet onto a table and decides that it's time to do what he's been putting off for a few days: contact Beauregard.

They had taken a number of precautions before they left for Eiselcross this time around, and many of them had been funded by the Mighty Nein’s adventuring exploits. Most of the money was spent on potions, more on gear that would come in handy in case magic failed them - and a few precious piles of platinum were reserved for a special commission from Pumat, under the guidance of Allura Vysoren. 

What resulted from this union of two great minds was a pair of rectangular mirrors - about as long as one of Caleb’s hands heel to fingertip, and a bit shorter side to side. The surface gleamed darkly until activated, at which point it would connect to its twin, projecting not only sound but also an image of the other party. The invention was a marvel to behold, but also an excuse for constant interruption, which was why they decided early on to only use it in emergencies - or once every week or so, to make sure no one had died and forgotten to send a memo informing the others. 

Predictably, Beauregard does her best to hide the relief in her voice as soon as she sees him safe and in one piece - but the curious glint of her eyes gives her away. He is quite certain that chatting about the perils they face in the biting north is the closest the Expositor gets to any real action these days, and she is clearly fighting back some level of envy. They run through their usual parry of questions and answers, including a recount of some of the more interesting sites and an only-somewhat successful transmission of Caleb’s hand-drawn map of the region they are currently in. 

Eventually, having run out of truly concerning questions but not yet fully willing to return to the comparably boring non-monster-fighting lifestyle, Beauregard fishes for a new topic.“How’s Essek? Is he having as much fun as you are running around that treasure trove?”

Caleb smiles wryly. “I believe he is. And he has not sustained any injuries, if that is what worries you--”

“Hell naw.” Beauregard bristles. “Have you met me? I don’t care. I just wanted the full report.” It’s mostly posturing and both of them know it, but it’s hard to let go of old habits. “Just keeping tabs on the both of you is all.”

“Your concern is appreciated.”

“It isn’t ‘concern’,” she groans, pushing her fingers into her hair and throwing her head back into the couch she’s on. “I couldn’t care less. I’m not Jester, I’m not about to grill you on whatever the hell you two get up to in that tower. It’s none of my business.” There’s a pause, and a moment of consideration - the way the idea accosts her is, on all levels except physical, a visible change. “But I guess I could use it to my advantage later. Either to buy embarrassing info about Fjord from Jester, or to use against Essek himself.”

“Expositor, I would have thought your extortionist roots behind you,” Caleb chides, but there is a barely-masked chuckle in his tone. “Are you really so bored that gossip has become a more lucrative business venture?”

“Yes,” Beau deadpans, and adjusts her position, bringing the mirror closer to her nose and staring straight at him now. “So tell me. How is Essek?”

The wizard sighs in exasperation. “He is well.”

“Well? Or good ?” Beau leans closer, narrowing her eyes. “Is he at least as cuddly as the cats? Or more?”

“The former Shadowhand is approximately at cat-level when it comes to preferred physical proximity,” Caleb replies, as noncommittal as he can manage. “Sometimes he deems it permissible for us to exist in the same room, but on the periphery, where he is not to be disturbed.”

“Does he do that thing where he stares into a corner and you’re sure nothing is there, but it’s like, a ghost, probably?” Beau asks. 

Caleb considers it. “I’m fairly certain staring into seemingly-empty spaces with an intense expression is in his repertoire, yes.”

“And does he come up to every closed door and scream until you open it?”

This does draw a chuckle, especially in light of recent events. “Not as of yet. Although this may be mitigated by the fact that, unlike most cats, Essek knows how to use doors.” And Misty Step , he thinks but does not say. In fact, if anything, last night has shown that nowhere in the Tower is safe when a determined Essek Thelyss out on the prowl.

“That’s fair,” Beau says. She hums thoughtfully. “I’m assuming he doesn’t come up when you’re reading and attempt to sit his ass down on top of the book.”

The idea is so ludicrous that for a moment Caleb makes the mistake of imagining it, and promptly realizes his folly. He tries to pass off the flush on his face as one prompted by laughter, and allows himself to chortle and shake his head. “He is far too busy with his own exploits to interrupt mine,” he says. “As I mentioned, we recently discovered a section off of the eastern end that led into what appears to be a mostly preserved museum. At least it must be a museum, or perhaps a conservatory. Some sort of repository for documents and historical objects. We set the tower there for the night, and will probably remain for another day or two to properly document everything we find. And to do some research on some of the more... interesting objects.”

Beau, sensing the shift in tone, zeroes in on the detail with the precision of a hawk. “What kind of objects?”

In response, Caleb sighs and rubs one side of his face, trying to decide whether to laugh or groan. He does both, and hopes it will be enough to ward off her suspicion. “Oh... Just a little thing which may or may not be related to the Luxon. It’s nothing major, nothing like a Beacon - I think - but it has been quite resistant to our normal form of identification, so we have been ah... going back and forth regarding its function.”

“Big mystery, huh?” the woman asks, cocking an eyebrow. “What is this thing, anyway? Do you have it? I wanna see.”

“I ah...” Caleb holds back another chuckle. “I had it in my possession for only a brief moment. Essek was quite insistent on taking the helm on the research, and he--” 

“You can tell her I still haven’t succeeded,” a voice calls down to him. “It’ll undoubtedly make her happy.”

A glance up confirms what he already knows - the drow has emerged from his workroom and has apparently deemed it acceptable to grace them with his presence. There are slight bags under his eyes, and his hair is flatter than usual, but he doesn’t seem to even care. Instead he floats over to the sofa Caleb occupies and collapses down right next to him with a frustrated huff. 

“Up and at ‘em, Hotboi,” the monk greets with a mocking salute. 

“Beauregard,” he replies evenly.

“No luck, I take it?” asks Caleb. In lieu of an answer, Essek flicks his Wristpocket open, extracting the artifact and offering it up in the palm of his hand. When Caleb accepts the polyhedron, the elf slumps even further down into the couch, succumbing to the gravitational drag of Caleb’s slightly heavier human body. 

 Beau’s eyes flicks between them and she grins a bit. “Cat-like proximity, huh?” she smirks. 

“Cats are all different,” Caleb defends, rather pointlessly. Thankfully Essek doesn’t seem to question, or care about their diversion and the monk’s attention rapidly shifts to the next most interesting thing.

“That thing looks familiar,” she mutters, squinting her own mirror. Caleb holds up the dodecahedron for her, turning it this way and that. “Kinda tiny though. A Beacon for one?”

“There is no immediate magic trapped within it. It appears hollow, although there are enchantments on it from various schools - including Dunamancy.”

“Sounds relevant,” Beau says, staring as she rubs her chin. “Do you want me to--Oh, hi babe.” The sentence is immediately aborted as Yasha scrunches herself into the mirror’s visual range, leaning her head on her wife’s shoulder. “I’m talking to Caleb and Hotboi.”

“I can see that,” Yasha agrees, and smiles and waves at them. “Hello.”

This, at least, draws a responding smile from Essek, even if it is tired. Caleb takes the time to wave back. “Hello Yasha,” the drow replies. “Are you well?”

“I’m great,” Yasha confirms. “What are you all talking about?”

“They found a thing,” Beau supplies. Caleb holds up the mini-Beacon to show her. “They’re trying to figure it out.”

“Oh, yeah,” Yasha replies. “Those are useful. They’re kinda difficult to get the hang of, but it helps a lot.”

The conversation stumbles, trips, and screeches into a startled silence. 

Beau turns her head to look at her wife better. “Huh?” she asks, which just about sums up everyone’s feelings on the matter. 

Yasha looks back at her quizzically. “What?”

“We’re trying to figure out what it is,” Caleb tries, as though there has been some misunderstanding.

In reply, he gets several confused Barbarian blinks. “You mean you don’t know?”

Beside him, Essek tenses and leans closer to the mirror, gripping Caleb’s arm so hard it almost hurts. “You do?” he demands. 

Yasha looks to Beau, to Essek, to Caleb, and then back to Beau again in rapid succession. With each passing second she shrinks under their attention, which is a tall order for such a tall woman. “Oh, uh... yeah? I have one.”

“You HAVE one?” Beauregard and Essek ask in unison, each simultaneously leaning closer to Yasha, which for Essek means nearly crawling his way into Caleb’s lap, where the mirror is. Caleb tries to peek out from over the top of his head, desperate to remain a part of this conversation. 

“Yes?” says Yasha, though she’s growing more and more uncertain by the second. “I used it last winter to-- Hold on.” Looking a bit spooked by everyone’s reaction, she ducks out of frame and steps away to grab something. Beauregard tracks her progress, presumably across the room, and then all the way back. She returns to her seat with a woven basket in tow, filled to the brim with blankets and scarves in various stages of completion, along with several rolls of colorful yarn. After digging around inside it for a moment - a mundane action which is observed by the rest of the audience as if she were about to reveal the secret to the universe itself - she withdraws a very familiar looking, ivory-white dodecahedron. 

“We had them back in our clan too,” Yasha explains, turning it over in her fingers gently. “But rougher ones. This one, I got it from a bone carver that travels down from Zemni Fields to sell them.” 

Caleb understands first. Like the yarn in his friend’s basket, the strings of connection loop, weave around separate memories he had, until that moment, neglected: The historical clothing he found next to the dias. The fact that it had reminded him of his childhood clothes. The fact that it had strands of Abjuration magic - protection, presumably from cold - along with Dunamancy, for longevity... 

“But... what is it for ?” Beau asks, brows furrowing.

“Knitting,” replies her wife. To demonstrate, she picks up the tiny patch of yarn she has begun to weave around one facet of the polyhedron. “It makes doing the fingers easier.”

The clock over the Salon fireplace ticks demurely. The wizards sit frozen still on the couch, mouths agape. In the mirror, Beau slowly looks back at them and her shoulders begin shaking with barely contained hilarity. She hides her grin with a fist, but it still shines through her eyes, clear as day. 

As the drow beside him slowly sinks his face into his hands and collapses under the weight of the revelation, Caleb begins to laugh. 

He does not stop for a long, long time.