Archive of Our Own ^beta

Caleb's hatchet burned warmer at his hip than even the flames dancing around Ben's fingers did. He couldn't help but to want a different approach to this interrogation.

Captain Simcoe, not even a week into his tenure as anything more than a hand of whatever Major lorded over Setauket now, was a man bathed in blood to his very soul, and Caleb didn't need any clairvoyant to tell him that. He'd seen bloodlust throughout the Kingdoms of the New Continent in both Worldweavers and the Nascent, he knew what it was like to see something hollow sitting behind the eyes; and he knew that this man would see no kindness in receiving ward from his enemy.

Still, though Caleb sought to bury his hatchet into Simcoe's flesh and make the man wish he had been interrogated at the hand of the arcane; Ben's work was enchanting, and Caleb still wished to pause and watch whenever he took control of the threads stitching the world together and wield them like he himself was a God. His weaving wasn't like many, it was a raging storm held carefully on a leash. Sometimes Caleb thought his power superior to even the Mad King, or the Demiurge; but he kept those words to himself. Even had the opinion come from a Weaver, he knew such claims were taken as heresy more often than not.

Slowly, the flames lit the sulphur and sawdust coating Ben's left hand, sticking with sap. He held an alembic in that hand, warming the fish fat that Caleb had retrieved for him on his last trip across the river; and in the other hand he slowly worked a ball of clay into a flat disk. Simcoe watched carefully with barely vested interest— perhaps it was the wound in his leg still lazily oozing blood, or perhaps it was the disdain that most every Nascent held for those that wielded the arcane.

With the clay suitably flattened, Ben took a tiny jar from his component bag and set it beside his workspace. Still holding the alembic aloft and bringing the fat to a boil, he carefully uncorked the jar and lifted the cockroach out from its prison with a set of small tongs. He'd seized it by the leg, and as it wriggled and jolted around, he muttered an incantation beneath his breath and pressed it into the clay. It was only a few moments he had to hold it there before the fat had melted to enough of a liquid; and he tilted the alembic to let it coat the roach. Caleb knew from experience that it wasn't simply the heat that would kill it, but the hex that he had infused into the fat.

When it stopped wriggling, he breathed a sigh of relief and put the alembic down. Shaking that same hand three times to douse the last few flames and sparks, he took the ash and charcoal that had coated his fingertips during the fire, and slowly traced an intricate circle around Simcoe's wound. Well, as intricate as one could get without a proper rod to mark the patterns and runes.

With the relic still cooling, he quickly cleaned his hands with water from a pewter and found another jar from inside his bag. This one was similarly filled with water, though far murkier than it should've been. Caleb knew he was risking infection with using Solstem roots that weren't stored in purified water, but he'd already had to resort to using river clay, so infection was very much a risk that had already been taken.

His components weren't of the best quality— none were, as it stood. Their army ran on supplies scavenged from the bottom of rivers, inside tree stumps, and in swamps; whereas the very few Worldweavers that deigned to serve the King were provided with only the highest quality of components. A spell was only as powerful as its supplies.

This much was clear as Ben rolled the clay circle into a scroll-like shape. Caleb could see him wincing from the heat. Transmutation always got hot, and unlike the flames that Ben could hold in his palm, the poor ingredient quality removed any sort of protection from that heat. It was unfiltered and outright wild magic. Still, he kept his jaw tensed and lifted a root from the jar, slowly laying it across the seam where the rolled clay met itself— slowly, the materials began to knit into one, and he lay a length of bandage atop the relic.

"Thank you, Weaver Tallmadge." Simcoe spoke quietly, as to not disturb the final incantations.

Ben simply nodded in response, lifting both the relic and the bandage to press against the wound, clay against skin. Then, as he wrapped the bandage around Simcoe's leg, he pulled with enough pressure to flatten the relic— with time, it would transmute and merge with the skin and muscle around it, and to prevent scars, it would need to be as flush as possible; so he added more bandages until he found the pressure to be suitable.

Caleb had seen the ritual performed many times, just not often from Ben. In fact, the last time he'd seen Ben weave flesh was when he'd been struck in the shoulder by an arrow in a skirmish not a year prior. He'd found the casting a lot less enchanting back then, when he'd been crying out in pain.

"Tallmadge." Simcoe hummed, "That's one of the family names where I'm stationed. You must hail from Setauket, like your man here, Mister…"

He looked to Caleb, who was doing his absolute best not to undo all of Ben's work and make Simcoe bleed— not just for serving the Mad King and the dominance of the Nascent— but for how Abe had reported he'd acted towards Anna.

"Caleb Brewster, milord." Caleb responded with as much sarcasm and snark he could muster. He often failed to incur fear from their enemies when stood next to the litany of Worldweavers under the Demiurge's order, but he hoped Simcoe would be smart enough not to fall into that fallacy.

Simcoe simply smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes,

"I do apologise for my ill manners before. It was my leg talking."

Caleb opened his mouth to respond, to oppose that ridiculous notion, because the apprentice that had tried healing his leg before Ben had done a shoddy job, yeah, but it was a job; and there can't have been enough pain to blind the Nascent to etiquette.

Ben spoke first, though, his tongue learned fast from incantations and prayer,

"Again, the apology is all mine." He said, and Caleb's hatchet had now burned longer than those flames, "You had every right to doubt my intentions."

Ben's intention was perhaps not to kill Simcoe, but Caleb had no such reservations. He just watched as the pair of them sat down to eat like they weren't opposing factions.

Simcoe's pourpoint, once white, had been torn and stained with filth and blood, but the rest of his garb had fared a lot better. When Caleb had freed him of his obnoxiously red tabard, chainmail, and outer armours; he'd stowed it away in a bag he intended to take to the Moon Fjords at his earliest convenience. The witches that lived there may not have wanted anything to do with the fight for Worldweaver freedom, but they would happily burn effigies and poppets dressed in the Mad King's regalia as their own form of protest.

Simcoe watched with narrowed eyes as Ben once again cleaned his hands with the pewter water, cocking his head slightly to the side as he followed it with a coating of chalk powder and a set of bandages of his own. Caleb fought off a wince at that, he'd seen too many healers stretched too thin desperately smearing chalk dust over fatal wounds like it would do anything.

"What is it you wish to know?" Simcoe finally asked when Ben had wrapped his hands.

"Oh, nothing, Sir." Ben opened and closed his fists a couple of time, the bandages already beginning to dirty around his palm from the blisters that were no doubt forming, "We already know all we need to."

Simcoe intrigue shifted to bemusement,

"Truly? You know where we mean to strike after retaking New York?"

In that moment, Caleb was glad he was standing behind Simcoe. He had always had problems controlling his facial expressions, whereas Ben had a talent for keeping his face blank and measured. There was a reason he'd survived for so long and climbed the ladder of Washington's forces whilst Caleb had stayed where he was. Ben had ambition and the skill behind it too.

"We know you have four thousand men stationed at Throg's Neck in Brooklyn as a part of your occupation force."

"Four thousand?" Simcoe smiled, and then laughed, and Caleb felt an unnatural sort of anger rise within him as it often did. He grit his teeth and pushed it down as Simcoe halfheartedly stifled his own laughter, "Try six."

Ben just frowned slightly,

"Well, it doesn't really matter how many. You'll never catch the Demiurge anyway."

"Ah yes, Washington, the old fox." Simcoe chuckled, "Well, it's not my duty to bag him, I leave that to the brothers Howe."

"Oh, of course. Though I suppose General Howe might be slowed a bit by the ash pile in the city."

His head cocked to the side again, still smirking like he had any measure of control in the situation,

"Ashes dissolve in the sea. Our navy is not only the mightiest in all the lands, it is the fastest." He paused to laugh once again, "But where will it sail? Well, I suppose it doesn't matter because you already know."

He couldn't stifle his entertainment at the situation anymore and stopped even pretending to stop himself from laughing. Even when he apologised he didn't stop chuckling beneath his breath, and Caleb struggled to stifle his anger.

"I am sorry... Mock not, nor jest, at another man's misfortune, though there seems to be some cause!"

Caleb had started to move before he even registered it himself, and the only thing that pulled him back into his body was Ben repeating his name over and over. But it was too late now, his blood was boiling hotter than arcane flames, and his hatchet burned too. He had enough control in himself to keep his weapon sheathed, but his fists had more than enough power behind them to do damage, and damage he did.

He punched Simcoe in the side of the face, sending him flying off the chair and onto the floor, and that violence inside of him reveled in the blood that was left on his knuckles. Ben had stood up, but he knew that stopping Caleb would only cause more harm than good.

"It's my turn now." He said, trying to stifle the growl in his voice lest he reveal too much about the bitter and angry creature that lived inside.

Still laughing, still smiling, still unwaveringly confident; Simcoe spat blood to the floor and raised an eyebrow in Caleb's direction,

"You Weavers think yourselves Gods because you can conjure flames at your fingertips. But you hold no power comparable to the Creator, you wrestle for power over the natural order like brutes. Just like you fight your fights."

Moving without thinking, Caleb pressed the heel of his wading boot atop the bandage that Ben had so dutifully applied mere minutes prior. He watched Simcoe's face contort into a wince as he pressed down further until most of his weight bore onto Simcoe's arrow wound.

"Oh, you're gonna wish I was a Weaver." He replied, his words turning wild in accent, "Here's how this is gonna work, stunt. You're gonna give me the name of whatever bastard you've got on our side feedin' information back to Cornwallis, and maybe we'll look at gettin' you back to your masters, hm?"

"I assure you, I have no masters."

"We all have a master. Just a shame yours has lost his mind." He ran his fingers over the blade of his hatchet before turning back to look at their prisoner.

With Ben's help, he bound Simcoe's wrists together and strung him up by the low support beams running across the ceiling-- these types of knots were familiar, similar to the ones he used when bleeding pigs for meat.

Simcoe was still smiling, even as Caleb diligently but mockingly picked invisible pieces of lint from his pourpoint. There was nothing that followers of the Mad King hated more than looking dirty, then appearing as though they'd done even a minute of work in their life. Even their spells were clean, components washed and cleansed and not scavenged from the bodies of fallen comrades. Then again, the hoops the King's followers needed to jump through gain his permission to weave were enough to break any man into as mindless soldier as the King himself was to his crown.

"I find it curious, Mr. Brewster, what reason you have to be scrabbling around in the dirt with these egoists. Perhaps they've put you under a spell!" He laughed, though one of his eyes twitched as he unconsciously tugged his wrists against the binds.

"Enough babbling, man, answer my damn question." Caleb huffed, waiting for Simcoe to start talking again before he threw another punch, straight to the gut this time, "Don't be shy, we know you've got a man on the inside, good thoughts on that one, your intelligence man is to be commended."

"Your…" He wheezed, clearing his throat and trying to regain his composure, "Your jealousy is flattering, though I must confess it is much of a blessing to confirm my knowledge that you Webweavers can't hold a candle to our forces."

Simcoe had already been getting on Caleb's nerves, but this was moving from annoyance to disrespect. He had the gall to complain about the conditions he was kept in whilst seemingly trying to provoke anger from them. If he still had his critical thinking intact, then maybe the next step was to take that away; so Caleb wrapped his hand around Simcoe's throat, revelling in the panicked look on his face, and squeezed.

Caleb had strangled people before— only a few times in dire straits, granted, but enough times to recognise the feeling of breath being forced out of someone's lungs. He didn't exactly find joy in toying with someone's life, but wiping the smug expression off someone else's face always felt so damned good. For how long he'd seen the King's madness spread across countless Kingdoms, he felt as though this sort of interrogation was a little like retribution.

Simcoe's face started to turn pale and he gasped for air whilst still trying to keep his composure.

"Caleb. Caleb, Caleb!" Ben's hand was on Caleb's back, pulling him away with such force that he almost went stumbling back. He could still feel the heat of the transmutation radiating off Ben's hands, "Gods, Caleb. Control yourself."

"…Well, Weav-- Weaver Tallmadge—" Simcoe rasped out, coughing and spluttering through his words and through his snarl, "You've got a well-trained attack dog there. I have to ask, though, why you're so reluctant to— to get your hands dirty. Your father is a man of faith, is he not? I daresay you're looking for salvation in your inaction— if you only order someone to kill, it's no sin."

Caleb could sense Ben's mood drop— they had become attuned to each other over the years together from childhood to now, and he considered himself an expert in Ben, which meant that he knew that bringing up Nathaniel was an easy way to get straight to Ben's aching, bleeding heart.

So, in defense of his friend (his Weaver, his charge, his world), he once again punched Simcoe. His fist collided awkwardly with the side of Simcoe's head, and he heard an awkward crack as their prisoner went limp. He swore for a moment his vision had gone black.

"Caleb!" Ben put a hand on him again, panic radiating both from his voice and the heat in his palms.

"Shite." Caleb opened and closed his hand, looking down at his own fist starting to swell slightly. At least the crack had come from him instead of Simcoe. That would've been a catastrophic shit show, though the more he looked at Ben, the more he felt as through more time had passed than he remembered.

He looked at Simcoe, more bloody than he remembered from mere moments ago. He'd lost time. The violence inside him crooned with satisfaction.

"Are you trying to get information out of him or just have your own training dummy?"

"He insulted you." He responded, the most natural thing in the world, "I don't care what information he has, I ain't lettin' him talk shite about you."

Ben's expression softened slightly, but he shook his head a couple of times and forced neutrality back onto his face,

"And I appreciate that, but we have to retail our composure. Do things the right way."

"Aye, yeah… I hear you Tallboy. Gimme one more try?"

"If you feel that way inclined, just… be careful. You know how things can get with the curse."

"Don't." Caleb interrupted, "Not here. Know he's passed out, but I don't wanna risk that."

Ben simply nodded, patting him on the shoulder before taking a step back and motioning for him to continue. He took his hatchet in his hand now, feeling that heat burn beneath his skin as it tended to do in the heat of battle. There was something about being in the same room as Simcoe that made him feel like he was in the presence of a wild animal.

He took the pewter that Ben had used to wash his hands and threw the rest of the water in Simcoe's direction, commanding him to come to as he did so.

"I'm not done with you." He muttered, holding the blade of his hatchet underneath Simcoe's chin with just enough force to tilt his head upwards but not drawing blood, "Now, you can make this stop before I really get into it, but I hope you don't."

He felt Ben's gaze bore into him as the words fell from his mouth unintentionally. He appreciated the concern, he really did, but each time he was caught out on something he said that came more from the violence living inside him than his actual self; it was a reminder of what he'd lost and what he'd lose to the curse.

"It must be its own torture to live like you do," Simcoe sneered, blood on his teeth though Caleb didn't remember hitting too hard, "On the run, fighting with mages. But that's not right, is it? You're not fighting with them. You serve them. They lord control over the world and get you to do their dirty work when you won't get an ounce of consideration from them when they lose and flee from our King. You worship false Gods and expect to be deified in return."

"You don't know a gods-damned thing about me."

"Perhaps not, but I know Weavers. And I know it is their arrogance that prevails. That's why I joined the Lord King's forces. To remind the Nascent Betrayers of the folly of their 'gods' by executions of law, and order. Your Weaver master would sooner grind your bones to dust for spell components than save your life."

There it was again, an insult towards Ben. Caleb didn't care about information now. He wanted to execute some order of his own. Lifting his hatchet above his head, ready to strike down into Simcoe's neck, he paused only to look in Ben's direction.

"I think we're done here."

And as he began to swing, Ben's hand grasped at his wrist, stopping him not just from the movement but from the look in his eyes. Pleading. Though Simcoe was wrong in saying that Caleb was expendable to Ben, deep down the pair of them both knew that Ben had control over Caleb like no one else did. It wasn't dominance, it was earned respect.

"No." He said, and Simcoe chuckled, "I'll do it."

Caleb knew he was thinking about the curse. What would happen if Caleb killed right now, not in combat or out of necessity but due to anger. Ben cared. Ben lifted the hatchet just as Caleb had done, and that was what Simcoe didn't see: that they followed each other just as fervently, in different places.

Of course, fate intervened as it so often did, and their promise to Anna was foiled by the door slamming open and the appearance of Archweaver Scott.

"By the gods, it's true. Let him down!" Scott always shouted with a voice that commanded obedience, not encouraged it, and as Ben was spluttering and asking to have the time to explain, he continued, "I've come straight from Fort Lee upon hearing a disturbing report— I will be returning there straight away. You will return with me to face disciplinary charges and, most likely, court martial."

"Sir, please, I can explain—"

"Enough!"

It was like Caleb wasn't even there. Sure, Ben had been holding the hatchet, but Caleb had been the one to interrogate him, the one to propose killing him. For all the insanity shared by the Mad King and his Knights, at least they looked at Caleb like he was a threat— sure, it was likely due to the way he sometimes shed his skin on the battlefield, but it was better than the way that some Archweavers simply didn't seem to notice Caleb was there. Like the fact he was Nascent, he was no mage, made him lesser than the Weavers in Washington's army.

Caleb made a move to intervene and take the blame but Ben cast a scolding look in his direction and he stilled. Ben was a Weaver. Caleb was simply a Ranger.

"Milord." Ben bowed his head and rested Caleb's hatchet on the table.

As Scott's men let Simcoe down, Caleb slipped further into the shadows.

"I apologise for the treatment you have received at the hands of a Weaver under my command. You should know that we treat fellow officers with respect, whether captive or not. You can expect the proper courtesy to be afforded to you from this moment forward."

Simcoe nodded, wincing from the pain of being let down. Unease swam in Caleb's stomach as he saw wounds on the Knight's body that he didn't remember making but certainly had the hallmarks of being inflicted by his hand.

As one final act of protest, Simcoe ran his mouth again,

"Thank you, Milord. Please don't go too hard on Captain Tallmadge. He has been a perfect gentleman."

And finally all eyes fell onto Caleb.

Scott scoffed and shook his head like he'd finally noticed there was someone else in the room. Still, though, he didn't even deign to address Caleb directly, and instead spoke to Ben once again.

"Tallmadge, deal with your squire and meet me outside."

"Squire?" Caleb could barely keep his anger contained now, and even as Ben tried to placate him, he couldn't stifle his frustration this time, "With all due respect, Milord, I'm no squire and I'd appreciate being addressed with some respect."

"You will be dealt with the respect deserved of you. No one loyal to Washington's army treats a fellow fighter like this. Tallmadge, sort it out."

It was only when the basement had vacated and only they were left that Ben spoke up again, though he barely got through his first word before Caleb interrupted,

"Fuckin' squire? What sort of absolute shite-eating bullshit is that? I ain't no squire. I sure as hell ain't no fuckin' servant. Squire. Like I'd—"

"Caleb, I know you're not a squire. Ignore him, okay?"

"Ignore him? The guy that's just said he's gonna court martial you? You gonna ignore him when he takes your components away? You'll be no better than a Nascent, Tallboy. You'll be a fuckin' squire."

"There's no need for that."

"I'm allowed to be angry. This whole thing was a shitshow." He ran his hand through his hair and tried to flick his anger away with the sweat, "Maybe I am a squire, eh? You think I need a few more lessons?"

"I think you're just fine, Caleb. We knew this wasn't going to be easy when we joined, and that didn't stop us… for better or for worse."

"Oh, definitely for worse." He was smiling now, for some reason, despite the fact that they were royally in the shit, "How are you gonna 'sort me out', then?"

Ben rolled his eyes but Caleb had managed to tease a smile out from him,

"On second thought, I believe you'd benefit from some lessons on decorum. Now, in the name of decorum, I best go. You keep safe now, Brewster, we'll see each other soon."

"Aye, an' that's an oath." He held out his hand for Ben to take, and relished in the warmth that was now simply like an open hearth as opposed to the blaze of a firebird. It was far more precious to him than holding an egg of such an animal would be, if he were ever blessed with such a gift.

Then the warmth was torn from him as Ben stepped away.

"Ben."

When he turned around to look down at Caleb, the light from the floor above made a halo around his head; and in that moment Caleb wondered if it was possible for a holyman to father the divine. Maybe Simcoe was right. There was worship in play with how he looked at Ben.

"Don't just roll over and take the shit he gives you, yeah? You're right. We need intelligence far superior than scrying if we're to win this war. You got the right idea and I ain't just sayin' that 'cause I worship you or whatever Simcoe said. I got faith in you."

Ben smiled. Caleb knew he was no Worldweaver but he would tear apart the fabric their world and each other world that lay beyond the veil if it meant creating a life where Ben and all the other rebels could have as much freedom as the Mad King's aristocrats did when it came to magic.

Simcoe was right, but his devotion was no weakness.

To stitch together minor injuries of broken skin, muscle, and tendon

To heal a wound, one must replace what has been lost in terms of flesh. A clay ball with a diameter equal to or larger than the entrance point of the wound should suffice as a base for transmutation.

Prepare the ingredients beforehand:

• Clay (river clay works well but risks infection if not cleaned or cleansed before use).

• Healthy living creature equal in substance to that which has been lost.

• Fish or meat fat (be sure to pre-boil the fat into a liquidised form before beginning the incantation).

• Solstem flower roots (store the roots in purified water to keep their malleable nature).

• Sulphur, sawdust, and sap mix.

• Tinderbox

1. Coat your hand in the sulphur, sawdust, and sap mix. Keep healing salves or chalk on hand for transmutation blisters.

2. Light your hand and allow the flames to coalesce.

3. (Re)heat the fat into its liquid form.

4. Whilst the fat warms, flatten the clay into a disk slightly longer than the circumference of the wound.

5. Hold the creature in the centre of the clay disk and coat with the fat. Incantations are not necessary but may prevent the risk of the creature's soul leaving malignant spots upon the wound.

6. Indicate your intent with soot, preferably with a stirring rod.

7. If your patient has a low pain tolerance or is susceptible to heat, numb the area around their wound with gorgon venom, hydra blood, or similar components.

8. Roll the clay, fat, and soul. Temper the transmutation heat.

9. Lay a solstem flower root across the seam of the clay, fat, and soul mixture. Place the mix over the injury site, covering the entrance wound entirely; and hold fast with bandages, dried solstem leaves, or wulfweed.

10. Keep the site clean and uninhibited for between 1-5 hours whilst the transmutation resolves.