Chapter Text
And did you know that when you really get close
Nothing really touches, bro, just kind of floats?–Mother Mother, "Infinitesimal"
The vollstrecker makes a short, sharp motion not unlike snapping bone, and the elf goes down on one knee. It’s too far from the trees to see his face, but the posture is not good: shoulders slumped, swaying, head lolling his neck.
“Get up,” he hisses, and claps a hand over his mouth when he realizes he’s spoken aloud.
“You should not have come here.” Her voice is raspy, as if something hurts deep in her chest. Broken rib, or something in the lungs. Perhaps a strike to the throat. There are many options which come to mind. This battle was clearly begun long before he found the clearing in the woods. Already, everything spells of spilled magic and fresh blood.
The elf puts a hand up. There’s something small and round in his hand, rolling across his fingertips. He speaks a word in an unfamiliar language and—
Too slow. The vollstrecker’s blade comes down across his wrist and the object scatters in the long grass. She strikes again, catching the elf’s shoulder.
The elf — flickers.
She kicks him in the chest next, not bothering with blades. A cat playing games with its prey. The elf goes sprawling like his spell component before him. This time, the spell drops for good. Gold-brown skin turns purple-black. Sandy hair goes white, save for a shock of bright, bleeding red at the temple.
He’s never seen a drow before.
“In your next life, you should make smarter choices.” She raises a hand, magic brewing in her open palm.
Bren crouches up out of the underbrush just enough to release the firebolt straight into her back.
The vollstrecker staggers forward, the dagger falling from a limp hand. There is a smell of burning hair and —
Screaming.
He comes back to himself when the force of a spell crushes his limbs against his sides and sends him toppling into the dirt.
“Another one of you is it?” The drow has not put his costume back on yet. Up close, Bren can see his face is swollen on the right side. One eye is nearly knotted shut, the carefully shaped eyebrow above matted with blood. “Is there a bounty already? Some prize for the first scourger who brings me back alive?”
So many things are still hazy. But those words he knows. And they burn.
“Not one of them,” he snarls through the magic clenching his jaw.
“Hm,” the drow crouches down, looks him over with an appraising eye and fishes Bren’s pendant, his lifeline, from below his shirt. “Oh, very interesting.”
Bren growls at him, animal and frantic, and thrashes against the bindings of the spell.
“Sssh, none of that.” He straightens, and Bren blinks, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. The grass beneath him flattens slightly, but the drow’s feet don’t touch the ground. “If what appears to be the case here is true, I believe I may have an interesting proposition for you.”
This is how he first meets Essek Thelyss.
If the human wizard has known better days, they are clearly well behind him now. The man’s brown hair is greasy and lank and the bones in his skull are too visible through the skin of his face. The garments that hang off him are worn thin and yellowed from repeated washings. None of them have pockets or fastenings that Essek can see, save for the laces of his too-big boots. When Essek hauls him to his feet the man snarls again, trying to bare his teeth. Trying. Essek ignores him in favour of shoving up one of his loose, stained sleeves.
The human’s skin is pale, even compared to other light-skinned people Essek has met within the Empire. The scars on his arms stand out more starkly than they had on the scourger he's killed, vivid pink lines slightly raised from the rest of his flesh. He rubs a thumb across a particularly ropey band of scar tissue and the wizard jolts in his grip.
“Alright, alright.” Essek returns his sleeve to its previous place and makes sure he is out of range of teeth before he relaxes a portion of the spell. “How did you escape Vergessen?”
One of the interesting side effects of the immobilization spell: dry mouth. In the time it takes the human to work up the ability to spit, Essek’s already moved out of range. After that comes a series of harsh, jumbled consonant sounds. An Empire language, though not one he’s familiar with. Not that the intonation leaves much room for guesswork.
“They will be searching for you sooner than they will be searching for me,” Essek says, mildly. “What do you think they would do, if they found a failed scourger and a dead one alone together in the woods? Do you think they would believe you if you told them the truth?”
The Common tongue seems to come to him slowly. It is a long moment before the human speaks. “Then why are you still here?”
The places he could begin that answer.
“Because the people who made you have something that is mine. I have asked politely for its return but,” he gestures to his still-throbbing face, “it seems we have come to an impasse. Alternative measures are required.”
“And me?”
“I wonder if these people have taken from you as well.” Essek circles out of his line of sight, and the human’s eyes dart frantically about. “And I wonder if it might please you, to return that favour in kind.”
“You want me to help you steal from the Cerebus Assembly?” The human lets out a harsh bark of laughter, says something else that hardly needs translation from his strange, foreign tongue.
“You are thinking much too small,” Essek says. “With your talents? I say we burn them all to ash.”
For the first time in their conversation, Essek can see him think before he reacts. “All of them?”
“Three for me: Ludinous D'leth. Vess DeRogna. Trent Ikithon. And in exchange, you may add to the list as you like.”
Something terribly cold steals across the man’s face. A glimpse of what once was, perhaps. It’s thrilling. “I believe that list will suffice for me as well.”
“Excellent.” Essek relaxes the remainder of the spell ever so slowly as he circles back into view. The human does not move. Smart of him. “I suppose I should ask you for a name.”
He thinks about it too long. They will have to work on that.
“Widogast,” the wizard says finally. “Caleb Widogast.”
“A pleasure to meet you Widogast,” Essek says. “Cross me and you will not be able to say the same.”
It would be easier, maybe, if their screams didn’t form words.
They shout for help. Of course they do. To each other first, across the small farmhouse, urging an attempt at this door or that window. Turn the knob the other way. Can you smash the glass? What if we try together? When nothing works they turn their screams outwards, into the warm, clear Zemnian night. The nearest neighbours are more than a mile away. No one will hear. And if they did, no one would come in time. And yet they scream and scream and—
Caleb claps a hand over his mouth before any sound can escape. There’s a faint copper taste on his tongue and a rough, sore spot in his cheek. His shirt is damp against his skin and his pulse is still racing. Just the same as every night since the nameless woman in Vergessen cleared his mind.
Though, circumstantially, there are some differences. The small inn they’d found after nearly a day of walking is cozy and cramped and smells of brewing beer and fresh bread. The bedding is cleaner than he is.
And he has company.
The drow sits in a chair in the corner, hands folded in his lap. His face is relaxed. His eyes are shut. Caleb sits up cautiously and waves in his direction. No reaction.
It takes long, agonizing minutes to slide to the edge of the bed without the slats creaking. Caleb sets his feet on the floor one at a time, cautious. Still no sign of a reaction. And his hands aren’t shaking quite so terribly now.
Gods, what is he doing here?
If there is anyone in the world who knows better than this, it is him. There is no good ending, no satisfaction, nothing but fear and guilt and shame and his own painful death and he is walking towards that with open arms if he follows this man in the corner. And maybe, certainly, he deserves it, but there is no reason to rush to it like an old friend. He could live some time yet. Not well. Not long. But certainly for a greater span than he is likely to get here.
He needs to leave. He should never have come.
There is a soft noise from the floorboards when he stands. Caleb freezes. No movement from the corner.
His boots are on the other side of the room. Not too far from the door. That had been smart — one smart thing in all this foolishness. If the drow weren’t sleeping in it, his jacket would be worth taking too. The asylum clothes will not keep him warm or safe. He’s going to need to steal something. He’s going to need money. He’s going to need—
Caleb takes a step forward. No movement.
The drow wears a dagger on his belt, but carelessly. Caleb had noticed earlier as they walked, how it moved about in its sheath. It is hardly well-secured. It would be easy to slide free.
He has better clothes. Better boots. Money. Components. If Caleb is careful, he could go far by selling off the silver rings on his hands alone. Maybe to the Menagerie Coast. Would anyone look for him there? He has always wanted to see the ocean.
The drow must have a spell book as well. That decides it.
It feels like it takes an hour to cross the room, even as Caleb’s brain keeps tracking the time with a precision he had forgotten he possessed. Four and half actual minutes later and his hand is around the dagger hilt. It slips free as smoothly as he’d expected.
His hands are not even shaking, when he raises the blade to the drow’s throat.
The pressure on his windpipe comes on sudden as a blow. “I gave you a warning.”
Caleb tries to gasp for air and nothing comes. It's not like being choked by hand — whatever is cutting off his airway is blunter, more brutal. Stronger.
Thelyss opens his eyes. Smiles. His incisors are pointier than Caleb remembers. “And we made a deal.”
Caleb grits his teeth and tries to tamp down rising panic. When he shifts his weight forward, the edge of the blade is a hair’s breadth away from biting into skin, even with his fingers slackening on the handle. Thelyss makes a lazy flicking motion and the weight on Caleb’s throat clamps down on his chest as well, forcing out what little air remains.
His vision is edging grey. There are tears on his face. The blade falls into Essek’s waiting, outstretched hand. Caleb hopes he cuts himself when it lands.
There is a single, sharp snap and the pressure drops. Caleb’s knees make quite the racket when they hit the floor. He can hear the sound of air moving into his lungs as if from a distant room.
“You’re a very interesting person, Widogast,” Thelyss says. “If I do not have to kill you before the day’s end, you will be quite the case study.”
Caleb crawls back to the bed on his hands and knees. When he sleeps, he does not dream.
The couple who run the inn have a son who has gone to Zadash to enlist in King Dwendal’s armies and left some of his old clothing behind. They refuse Essek’s coins after he spins them a tale of his companion’s poor luck on the road. Bandits have become much bolder on these country byways as of late, what with so many of the stout young men leaving for adventures in the east and soldier’s wages. Poor Widogast was lucky to escape with his sleep clothes.
Nothing fits, of course. But the woman lets down her son’s trouser hems and offers thick, handknit socks to help pad out his boots. It will do until they reach the city. The bath has been more transformative. When not covered in several layers of grime Widogast’s hair is coppery and curls at the ends. Even his eyes seem a clearer blue. A few more meals and a better outfit, and Essek might be able to be seen with him in public.
But first, there are more important considerations.
They find another wooded clearing, well off the main road. Essek knows it must be different thanks to the headache at the base of his skull that comes from hours of walking in Empire sunlight, but in arrangement it looks much the same as where they had first met. There are trees, then there are not. This one has a half-rotted stump where the former had a log. It's all terribly exciting.
“Alright,” he stops and folds his arms. “Show me what you can do.”
Widogast looks confused, then concerned, then very carefully blank.
“Surely the fire is not your only trick?” A man who escaped the Cerebus Assembly, even one so carelessly valued, cannot be stupid. Essek has to commend Widogast for his performance to the contrary. It is quite studied.
Widogast is quiet and still long enough that Essek being contemplating how several of his organs might fare against his own prepared spells. Eventually he plucks at the arm of his sweater. Like the rest of the innkeepers' clothing it is roughspun, clearly homemade. Years of steady wear have left a fine halo on the wool. It’s not difficult for him to gather a handful.
“Fleece, ja?” Widogast murmurs. It’s not clear if it is meant for other ears. His eyebrows knit and his teeth worry the inside of his cheek.
A tongue of flame appears in his palm, flickering somewhat unsteadily. When Essek passes a hand above, it gives off no heat. Widowgast’s mouth crooks up at the corner, edging towards a smirk.
“Very funny.” Essek reaches into an inside pocket, finds a bit of phosphorus and tosses it at his chest. It’s rather amusing watching him fumble with the illusory flame still burning in his palm. “Perhaps this will be of more use.”
Like his illusion, the orb of light isn’t quite correct at first. The glow is uneven, strobing slightly before it settles.
“When was the last time you cast?”
The traces of a smile still lingering on Widogast’s face fall away and his throat works in a swallow. When his eyes move, they don’t quite track the ball of light still floating in front of him. “Depends. What year is it?”
More and more interesting all the time, this one. “Eight hundred thirty.”
Essek is used to spending his days amongst the powerful and those who would become so. It is some time since he has seen someone let themselves so visibly crumple, even if only for a moment. Widogast’s hand snaps shut and the sad little light snuffs out.
“Fuck.” He turns, wanders a few steps away, then seems to lose the momentum.
“Well?”
Widogast laughs, low and strained, and pushes the heel of his palm hard against the space between his brows. “Give or take a few months? I would say it has been about eleven years.”
He had known. There are no mirrors in Vergessen, but the part of Caleb’s that is always on, logging the steady forward movement of time, has not felt right since he woke up to a woman going mad. There has been more since. The strange feel of his face under his hands, the new aches in his joints, the half-seen reflections glimpsed in spoons and inn windows he has tried to ignore.
Eleven years. He deserves worse. Caleb feels panic clawing up his throat nonetheless.
“That is one question answered I suppose,” Thelyss says, somewhere behind him.
Caleb had almost forgotten he was here. “What?”
“What they took from you.” With his illusion up, it’s hard to read his face. Not that Caleb is expecting sympathy. But it is comforting, in a way, to see the complete absence of pity. “You humans burn out so quickly. A decade must mean so much more to you.”
Caleb is halfway to correcting him before he stops himself. It hardly matters, does it? He is a tool. Why should Thelyss care if his hammer is more or less damned? “Ja.”
“They deserve to suffer, do they not?” Thelyss’ voice gentles, sweetens. It sounds strange on him. “For what they have taken, there is a debt owed. Pain to be paid for pain received. Do you agree?”
“I already told you I will help you.”
“And then you tried to stab me as I slept.” He smiles, almost fond. “I have many more important people to kill, Widogast. I do not wish to waste my time and energies on you. So I am asking one more time. What do you want?”
Caleb pictures a knife against skin, cutting spaces for crystals to go. A young woman’s face, placid and still as she picks a bottle of strong poison from a shelf. His mother’s hands, red and work roughened, cupping his face. Blood washed off in a rain barrel outside another small farmhouse. Sparks and smoke. Flames and char. Burning hay. He squeezes his eyes shut and streaks of light dance across the insides of his eyelids, but the images remain.
“Scorched earth.”
“What?” Thelyss asks. “Speak up.”
“What you said before,” Caleb says, and feels a strange, sudden calm overtake him. “We burn them out. To ash.”
“One more question,” Thelyss says. “Which one?”
He does not have to clarify. “Ikithon.”
“Unsurprising,” Thelyss says, and Caleb does and does not ever want to ask him what that means. “In that case, if it is possible, I will ensure he suffers before the end.”
“Sehr gut,” Caleb says, before he catches himself. “Good. Very good.”
“Then let us begin.” Thelyss slips a hand into a sudden slash in reality and retrieves a thick book bound in black leather. “We will have to find you something suitable in Rexxentrum. In the meantime,” he flips to a page filled with glyphs and formulations written in an even, flowing script, “this should be a suitable start.”
He starts to take the book, but it’s snatched back.
“You may read. I said nothing about holding.”
The simple pettiness of it is wonderful. This is the man he will almost certainly die with: Dangerous and manipulative and ridiculous. Caleb could almost laugh. Then he takes a closer look at the offered page and all else is forgotten. “What am I reading?”
“Arcanists in my home country specialize in the manipulation of gravitational forces and time. This spell focuses on the latter. We call it Fortune’s Favour,” Thelyss pauses, and a slow, satisfied smile spreads across his enchanted elven features. “It is going to infuriate so many people that you know this. Let us begin.”