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There’s gold in his arms. Well, not exactly gold, but maybe better (maybe worse, definitely worse). He heard it from the nice lady at the store, residuum is better than gold — worth more — it’s right there in the price, several gold for just a bit and he knows his exchange rates, that means it’s better than gold. Simple math. His skin itches and well, it’s itched since he got out, that’s not new. It itched before too, but in an excited, young way, a magic-waiting-to-get-out way, not a get-it-out-please-take-it-out way. What itches must out, is that a thing people say? He doesn’t know; words rotted in his mouth when he was locked up and now they skitter away from him like roaches. That’s what happens when you lose a decade.
There’s gold in his arms, but he’s not certain, not yet. All he’s got is the itch and the memories. Nott said she had an itch too and he thought maybe she was like him, but it turned out her itch was stealing and well, that’s fine too. He supposes it’s stealing for him too, the residuum is government property. It’s probably more valuable than him these days, but what’s a stolen government asset inside another stolen government asset? Money, that’s what it is.
It isn’t actually the money that does it for him though, it’s the diamonds. Or rather, the lack of diamonds. He’s with people now, good people — people who deserve to come back when they die — and clerics who can revive them. He isn’t good people, not yet, maybe never. Maybe good by association, but that’s firmer on some days than others. There might be residuum in his arms and it might save one of their lives (send Jester safely home to her mother, Caduceus back to his family, Nott back to her son and husband) and so really, he’s stealing from them. He told them he wouldn’t do that.
He’s not a fool (not anymore) and not that kind of fool anyway, so he makes sure to tell Jester to save a healing spell for him. It’s night. He needs to study and that’s not unusual, not at all. “It’s experimental”, he tells Jester, he’s being careful, but mistakes happen and he wants to be prepared. There isn’t gold in his arms, but there might be residuum and it might just save their lives. He lights the lamp because this isn’t the old days, he doesn’t need to test his concentration, and then sits alone in their rented room at a small table. There are no straps this time, just the strange taste of his belt in his mouth as he braces his arm on a small table and starts tracing over familiar scars with a knife. There might be residuum in his arms and if there is he is going to get it out.
The skin parts easy but he has to stop when his eyes blur. It’s like tracing his first spell or drawing his first ritual circle — he’s got to follow the lines, even if it’s messy. He grabs a towel partway through because this isn’t as clean as he remembered and he’s dripping blood, snot, and saliva everywhere. It’s important that he is precise. Something in his brain screams at the wrongness, the blade against his flesh, the pulling apart to peer inside, but it quiets after a while. He soothes it. Bren died, he’s Bren’s ghost, and this body is just a thing, just meat they inhabit and this is a simple exercise, find the rock in the meat. He can do that, can’t he?
The left side is done and there’s no residuum and he is terrified and furious. Why must they itch then? He has to be sure. He braces his left arm and slices twice as fast at his right. Blood drips down his hand and makes the knife handle slippery, so he wraps the sodden towel around it to reinforce his grip. Grab and pull and peer; there’s a rhythm to it, like shucking corn or pulling dried beans from their pods. He looks and looks but there’s nothing there. He cuts faster, sure the last one will have something.
There’s nothing.
There’s nothing in his arms and they burn. He is furious and lightheaded and he checks them again and again. The air is clogged with the copper scent of blood and he spits out his belt. Someone knocks at the door and he doesn’t answer. He can’t talk to them, not until he’s found something. The door clicks open. His fingers pry at one of the wounds. Caduceus’ wide eyes stare down at him.
“Oh good,” Caleb says, “can you cast Detect Magic for me? It might pick up what I’m looking for.”
The world tilts and Caduceus’ face blurs. Gentle hands pull the knife away and there’s a light radiating from Caduceus’ hands.
“Mr. Caleb— there’s nothing there — there’s nothing in your arms.”