Chapter Text
Caleb’s face was sallow. He stood at the altar like he was trying, like resignation itself. The collar of his black robes pressed against his jaw, like it was keeping it upright.
Essek glanced back at the priest at the altar. The scales embroidered onto his vestments glinted like a bad joke onto the small party at hand -- Archmage Astrid Beck standing to Caleb’s right, and Umavi Thelyss to Essek’s left. They looked determined, satisfied with another step off this project of theirs completed. The priest said something about vows, until death, rings exchanged in the Empire tradition on clumsy and clammy hands. They turned to each other, and once again, Caleb looked through him at some ghost. The perfunctory and performative kiss felt painful in its obligation. They turned to the small crowd of Rexxentrum dignitaries in the cathedral. They walked past the formal dress, holding hands, careful that their robes don’t show the anti-magic cuffs underneath. All for the sake of peace.
The colonel gestured inside the cottage. It creaked with forgottenness. Caleb looked around with his wide eyes pressing his eyelids against his tensed eyebrows.
“A patrol will be by every week or so,” the colonel delivered. “They will expect to see you here. There’s nothing else around here in at least 5 days' journey.” He gestured outside. “There are tools in the shed. There’s a creek down the slope, about a 10 minute walk.”
“The shackles?” Essek dared to ask.
“Stay,” answered an accompanying Taskhand.
Caleb turned around. “You expect your prisoners to stay alive in the mountain winter without heat?” It was his first reply that day.
“Not without heat, just without magic,” the Archmage interrupted. “You should know how to do that, Bren.”
Essek has seen Frumpkin’s hackles spit, hair rise, claws extend on those few occasions of Caleb’s anger, when he was still around. Those wide eyes froze in the fury of disbelief.
The Archmage continued. “The Menagerie Coast will be having a function for its treaty in a month. I would like our symbolic union to be present. You will be called. I would appreciate the preparation beforehand.”
The pearls around Essek’s neck weighed so much more than they should have. All this potential, and only choking.
The delivering party coalesced around the Archmage. As those who deal with timelines do, Essek saw this moment of possibility: a counterspell of this teleport, clocking the taskhand across his nose, yelling his last bit of helpless rage. But he bit his tongue. The jailers disappeared and the prisoners remained. An old, dusty house. Outside, the thawing mountainside. A creek 10 minutes away. A request for good behavior, obedience under the law they had previously shirked. No life under a week’s magicless travel on foot.
Ending a war benefits some things -- less needless slaughter, spies reallocated for other enemies, opened trade routes. International cooperation also includes extradition and extrajudicial analysis. Two defectors, inconvenient in their home countries, deserve each other. Their high status and international acclaim allowed for some usefulness -- instead of removing them from the chessboard with a promise of a hanging and a blast in the Barbed Fields, the greater powers turned them towards each other, and placed them inbetween. The Dynasty did not want to eradicate its greatest dunamantic mind; the Empire shared its traditional exiling punishment in a show of good grace towards its newly friendly neighbor. Essek spun the simple metal band on his finger. What a grand showcase of international unity. He glanced at Caleb. He gripped the windowsill, the matching band bright on his clenched hand. He glared out the window. Last week, he was meeting with Solstryce professors about visiting lectures during the summer semester. This moment, he was scorching the bleak landscape with his glare. Essek joined him at the windowsill. The terrain outside was gray, and rocky, and craggly. He thought of the teleportation sigil in his taken tower and tried to forget it was an option. The potential of that is gone. He is here now. Nothing can grow here.
Practicality won out his own rage. His footsteps landed in the cottage’s dust as he discovered what their nations thought two magic-less mages would need to survive beyond civilization. He found shovels, spades, seeds, iron and flint, an axe, a bucket, some soap, a couple old wool blankets, a single bed. The cellar had some assorted homestead tools that he had heard about but never seen, and definitely never expected to use: a loom, a canner, a spindle. His Rexxentrum wedding’s robes dragged on the dusty floor. He took the train into his hands before realizing that he might as well take it off. Under the wool blankets he found some plain working garments. He stowed the delicate gossamer veil, the robes, the soft leather boots. The new Shadowhand permitted him to keep his pearl earring; it’s not like he’ll use it. He took the blankets upstairs to the single bed that he won’t use and saw the door was open and Caleb was gone. He’ll come back. Or throw himself off a cliff. And Essek wasn’t sure if the acid in his throat was from his helplessness to either outcome. He could have found that moment of splitting time, feel through the wave of consequence and effect its trajectory to his preferred outcome, change the world to his will. He could meet that moment, face it, embrace it, as well as the man embodying it, look at him and believe that they could do more together, instead of becoming his prison.
Now he just went to the seeds and tried to plant his scant Clay family gardening knowledge to the perilous task of survival.
Caleb returned under the light of the setting sun, his gait practiced and heavy along the mountain ridge, hair slipping out of its elaborately decorated braids. His dark ceremonial robes paled in dust, less of an executioner and more of a ghost. Essek rose from the garden beds in greeting, glad to set down the shovel from his pained hands. Caleb looked through him like at the T-dock, a weight easier destroyed than acknowledged. They looked at each each other, before Essek hit the crest of his patience with this unconnected uncertainty.
“The ground is still hard. We can try to move more of the soil tomorrow morning as the snow melts, perhaps start planting in the next few days. I’ve left some blankets on the bed. Please get some rest.”
Caleb looked even more pained, nodded, looked down at the ground. “There is a creek a bit of a walk down the slope. I’ll get some water tomorrow.” He left, leaving Essek alone in the rapidly darkening garden. Essek left him to it, trying to ignore the audible confirmation of no outhouse, trying to ignore the growing pressure in his throat and temples with an analysis of just how much land, growth, and effort would be necessary to feed two grown men. He couldn’t find any paper or writing tools in the shed and kept misplacing his mental calculations. Catha and Ruidus sneered from above as the temperature dropped and Essek hoped that Caleb’s human nature would have already brought him to sleep.
Inside, darkness reigned. Caleb’s curled form bunched up one of the blankets and left enough space to the side for another body on the bed. Essek took the remaining blanket and sat on the floor to trance. Caleb’s even and raspy breathing provided the rhythm for Essek’s meditative breath, closer and embodied against the rising alpine wind outside. The wool kept him warm and he wrapped it over his head, around his ears, only nose poking out. If Caleb looked over, he would see a mound of blanket and some white hair— but no, not in the dark. Essek looked over, and saw his fellow mound and unbraided hair. Last night, the handfasting ceremony in Rosohna. This morning, rings exchanged in Rexxentrum. And nothing but the cold space inbetween.
Caleb left the cottage with the axe and his clothes on its floor. Essek plotted out a rudimentary garden. Caleb returned with firewood, and as he arranged it to chop, Essek saw the farmer’s line of his body, this familiarity with the work and the easy acceptance of motions Essek had never seen from him: not the careful somatics of a mage, but the rough control of a worker of the land. He pulled away from Caleb, sweaty and disenchanted, looked back at his measured plots, grasped his shovel, and dug the first soil of his new labor. His muscles protested, but their acid reminded him that this too was worth being alive for.
“I think the potatoes would work better on this side of the house,” Caleb said, his shadow above Essek.
“They need more water -“ Essek began.
“I’ll bring some. They need sun more than water and that side will only catch the morning, not the stronger rays of the afternoon.” His voice sounded better, stronger if not alive, yet.
Essek considered relaying Caduceus’ lessons, but Caleb made it clear this wasn’t an argument. Essek moved the seeds to the other plot, and bit his tongue.
As the sun finally peered through the paper clouds, Essek fought the first hunger pangs with blistering digs. The reception felt so long ago, and here was the evidence. He wanted water. He left the shovel, aired out his hot hands, and came up to Caleb, who was digging up another bed of soil.
Essek waited for Caleb to notice him standing there, but the caw of a nearby crow reminded him that what he wanted right now was to not become carrion.
“Caleb, if I may,” Essek waited until Caleb looked up through his sweaty bangs, “Would you please direct me to the creek? I believe it is time to get some water.”
Caleb looked distracted. “Yeah, yeah… let me show you.”
One hand motion, and then a description, a bucket, and then back to work, and Essek was on his way. He followed the dirt path, scrabbling over thawing muddy snow and slipping on uncertain slopes. His simple laborer’s clothes kept catching on the sharp shrubs. He wondered if his former robes would have tangled him here like a spider’s web.
The valley protected its treasure with the shrubs, and Essek found the trampled path where Caleb came through the night before. The creek ran under a thin sheet of snow-covered ice, but water already lapped at the shores with snowmelt vigor. Essek sat down on his heels at the edge of the water and ran his fingers over the top. It looked cold; it felt cold. His plunged his hands in until the anti magic cuffs, and gasped with how the cold overpowered the rawness of the skin underneath. He lifted his hands and tried to prestidigitate the water off his hands. He needed no focus or components. He still had his voice and his hands. And yet the magic did not come, and he just threw around some water uselessly. He knew it wouldn’t work; he thought he had long left hope, but new habits were addicting in their naive optimism.
He knew his last cast magic was his levitation cantrip, the morning of his arrest. He massaged his hands, from the fingers to the joints to the sinews on the backs, to the wrists, to the cuffs. He was in the Dungeon of Penance, sending farewells to his loves, his regrets, his enemies, awaiting the execution that he intellectually understood but never internalized or comprehended in its practical matter, when he chose a chance at a greater understanding of the potential of life for his own reduced potential. The new Shadowhand explained the agreement with the Empire: no one wanted to publicly reignite the war again due to the discovery of the true traitor, but they did need a public display of commitment towards peace, and there was a readied candidate on both sides. Two weeks later, he dug soil on a mountain.
Essek gazed in his reflection. He didn’t take off the makeup from the night before. The silver eyeliner was smudged with sweat, the lipstick eaten long ago. He cupped his hands, took a drink, and wiped his mouth. He cupped his hands again and splashed his face, teeth chattering. His teeth could chatter. He could breathe in the water droplets and feel the coldness enter into his lungs. He filled the bucket and his palms protested at the manual labor, the lack of lotion, the missing somatics of this banal task. But he could do it. He grasped a thick stick from the bank and swung it around. It kept his balance with the bucket. He proceeded back up the slope to the cottage, shack, house, prison, walking the shrubs on the path. This, he could still do.
-----
Caleb turned on his side away from Essek, at night. Essek slowly built himself a small nest on the ground and still shivered through the blankets. A week in, Caleb asked if he wanted to sleep a bit higher. Essek rebuilt his nest of blankets on the small bed, and Caleb faced the other direction, still away from Essek. His red hair was muted in night vision. Essek could see him clearly in the dark and enjoyed the view. Caleb drew his blanket to his ears (which had speckles on them). A curl jumped over his shoulder (wider than a usual mage). His usual long frame he scrunched up small against the chill (just enough taller than Essek, just enough).
Essek had no misunderstandings about their relationship here. His adoration was a simple fact of his life; whatever delicious potential Caleb surely squashed in his own internal barriers. Essek was patient; he could look, and enjoy, and know it’s already more than he could have afforded himself. Caleb won’t look back, in purposeful ignorance and rejection. This was not the first time.
Patience can only be strung so far -- Essek’s more mature understanding of time faltered as he saw Caleb’s beard grow in. Weeks have passed. He felt them in his aching shoulders and leaner stomach, but to see it --
“Shall we spend some time together? The partridge from yesterday, we can try it with the berries I found yesterday,” Esek looked at him, settling his gaze on Caleb’s downcast eyes, “We can chat. I’d like that.”
Caleb looked up at Essek, and it’s as if his gaze retreated, while still remaining on Essek (he might as well have closed his eyes).
“That would be nice. I’ll ready it.”
He went for water and only returned after dusk. Essek had already lit the oil lamp, heated the remains of the bird, pummeled some berry buds like an inkstone. Waited. (He could wait; he expected nothing, and he had the time. Caleb didn’t).
Caleb returned, drenched and callous from the spring rain. He took off his jacket and changed into one of his remaining shirts (they would need new textiles, eventually -- are there sheep around? Will they have to think about this? When will that patrol come?). The water dripped from the jacket and Essek had to stop himself from wiping it.
“I didn’t need to go down there after all, hah,” Caleb breathed, teeth chattering.
“If only either of us could read clouds,” Essek smiled.
Caleb looked up at him, and once again -- it was like he looked without seeing. “Dinner?”
Caleb focused on his plate and Essek kept looking up at him, breathing in like he was about to say something -- again, and again. Caleb looked down so closely, it must be on purpose. He finished chewing, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and sat back. He looked out at the table for a second, gaze unfocused like he was trying to hear something far away, and then reached back in to grab one of the bones. He started gnawing on it, blunt teeth scraping down the side of the sinew, jaw working back and forth. He took the bone in both hands and sucked him his cheeks to get to the marrow. It felt a shining residue on his chin, with red hairs glistening brighter. Essek couldn’t look away.
Caleb saw him staring, and this time, he looked away with the shoulder shrug of their first meeting, wiping his hands and crossing his arms, always trying to make himself both smaller and sharper. Essek reached out for another bone, and slowly began to gnaw on it himself. His fangs caught the ligaments better than Caleb’s. He sawed his jaw against the joint, licked the marrow from inside. With the bone inside his mouth, he looked back up at Caleb. He stared back. He closed his eyes. He cleared his throat. He asked about where Essek had placed his garb. The Archmage made it clear they were expected at some diplomatic function soon. Would he be ready?
Essek looked back at him and closed his mouth. He tasted the fatty marrow. Of course he would be ready.
“Shouldn’t we prepare?” he asked
“We seem to have done well enough last time,” Caleb responded.
The tension between them was thin as a razor.
Essek felt something inside him shift, his shoulders lie back, his voice deepen, his neck elongate. “So we’ll say that we have been, perhaps in Uthodurn, these past few weeks. We already had an expedition in Aeor and wanted to enjoy it for ourselves, away from prying eyes, in company of fellow mages. Perhaps?”
“Perhaps,” Caleb growled. “People don’t usually ask for more about a honeymoon.”
“To our advantage.” Essek leaned forward, and Caleb sank further back.
Caleb made a face, and started to put the plates away. The bones would go to compost. The water, to boil, to drink. The clothes would stay on, and Essek would trance sitting up in his blankets, thinking of the body next to him, the ring on his finger, and how his best performances are when he’s ready to die.
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The Shadowhand collected them a day after Caleb said it was time. He found a razor and showed his cutting cheekbones and sloping nose to a soon-to-be adoring public. He drew his hair back in an austere high ponytail. The collar of the dark robes covered the rare sight of his open, blushing neck.
She looked at them, appraising, obviously considering their new environment against her precise pageantry. Essek shivered from under his blanket; the back of his wedding garb was open, the metal of an intricate decorative mantle pressing against his exasperated skin.
“The evening will be at the Marquis Demesne. The Clovid Concord wants to increase trade with Issylra, recognizes the its newly allied Wildemount neighbors to the rest of Exandria civilization. You will be asked to show your faces. I trust that I do not need to resort to threats. Your performance here will be used to assess your usefulness going forward.”
The skin on Caleb’s skin froze and then sculpted itself into a tryingly pleasing expression. He stepped near Essek and reached out his elegant elbow.
“Liebling, shall we delight?” Essek took his arm, the solid leanness of it, and relished their weights standing together. Caleb kissed him on the temple where his hair drew out, and the Shadowhand beamed like knives as she arced the somatics to teleport to the mansion.
Back in Nicodranas, Caleb in black, Essek in pearls, rings linking their fates like a cruel joke.
Both damned, together.