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Consider the heart: how we take it for granted its steady rhythm, accelerating under duress or excitement, decelerating in relaxation or sleep.
Consider the brain: how the ability to make a choice is predicated on the twins of consciousness and memory.
Consider the lungs: how quickly the deprivation of air renders us useless, extinguished in the void.
Now consider how these work in concert, allowing decision to flow into action in a relentless, semi-conscious feedback loop.
Now stop.
Make a calculation.
Port Damali is a balmy, humid 85 degrees (F) today, typical of the season. The Lucidian Ocean off the edge of Rumblecusp is just around 60 degrees (F) at the surface. Subtract.
Drow run cooler than humans, so be generous when you consider the temperature difference. Or don’t. It does not make a difference.
What determines where you end up when you hold one location in your mind with intent, but touch a different teleportation token? Essek will consider this later. Instead, as he plunges into the ocean off the coast of Rumblecusp, his body and mind freeze.
Essek does not have a first thought.
His second thought is less of a thought, and more of the primal, deep scream of the body locking up from the combination of rapid temperature change and sudden immersion. Verbal, somatic, material: it is all irrelevant when one is unable to think or move.
His third thought, although it is still more of an automatic instinct, is to begin frantically swimming towards the surface. He is the rope in a tug-of-war. His buoyancy, meager as it is with his slight form, pulls him upwards, but his tunic and cloak drag at him. His moment of complete incomprehension below the surface had already cost him precious time. He flails with the animal instinct of a creature with rapidly dwindling vision. His legs burn with exertion and his lungs ache, but this is all secondary to the desperate drive to reach the surface.
Essek’s second moment of panic comes now. He has breached the surface— but he still cannot breathe. He forces his mouth to open, but even then, his throat rebels. He paddles furiously, just managing to keep his head bobbing above the water.
Finally, his lungs unfreeze and he takes a gasping breath. The air is a sweet relief and a burning pain. His body still simultaneously demands it and rejects it while his heart shakes his entire chest from residual adrenaline. He begins the slow, aching swim to shore loosening the cloak that has been pulling at his throat and letting it drift off into the sea. He watches it drift on the waves for a moment, then snatches it back hurriedly. No sign of his presence. That was the rule. How silly he would feel, if he survived all this just to lead the Dynasty to Caleb by tracking him through a waterlogged cloak.
He wades onto shore, cursing Rumplecusp and the mere idea of the ocean. He had done several of these semi-annual ‘poke-the-moorbounder’ expeditions, but he had never had one go quite so wrong before. He forced his trembling fingers to cast the dome, its transparent shell enclosing his small spot on the beach. When he finally finishes he sits in the center and tries to settle himself to trance, but he remains wet and cold and alone. He finds himself pressing his palms to his eyes in frustration. It is worth it, he tells himself. It is worth it to be able to have a home, to stay in one place, to be with his lover and keep him safe. And if he finds the corners of his eyes a bit damp, well, he was just in the ocean, what do you expect?
Essek comes out of his fitful trance five hours later, clenching and unclenching his chilled fingers. They are unusually pale and he tries to rub some warmth into them like Caleb showed him in Aeor. His clothes are no longer dripping, but the island humidity has kept them damp. They cling to him in a scratchy, sodden mess and he feels himself subconsciously trying to pull away. He pulls himself to standing, one of his knees almost buckling from the residual fatigue of the long swim to shore. Between the swim and shivering for hours, his whole body aches as though he has been grated over a washboard, wrung out, and hung up on the clothesline like he sees at some of the houses near their cottage. One more teleport, then it’s done, he tells himself, searching his waterlogged pockets for the correct token for their home in Rexxentruum.
He pulls a tiny, orange cat figurine from his pocket, focuses on their home circle, and appears standing on a familiar, well-worn circle. The house is silent, save the typical bustle of their street on a weekend. He wonders if someday he will be able to teleport home without being terrified of what he might find. They have warded this house better than most vaults, but both of them have done too many awful things in their lives not to imagine that the divine hand of fate might still come and smack them out of their quiet, cozy life.
Essek sighs in relief as he allows himself the relief of his hover cantrip, floating the short distance from the teleportation circle through the entrance to the Tower that Caleb frequently sets up in that particular corner.
The sight of Caleb sitting in one of his favorite reading chairs in the Salon is enough to send him to his knees. He hadn’t quite realized he was that tired, but the desperate relief of finally feeling safe must have overridden whatever adrenaline rush he had left. Caleb looks up at the quiet thud, his brows quickly knitting together in concern.
“Ah, Schatz,” he exclaims, quickly covering the distance to crouch beside Essek. His freckled hand traces over the still-damp cloak. “Liebling, you are still quite damp and smell of the sea— did something go wrong? Are you injured?” Caleb asks, cupping Essek’s cheek. Essek, to his shame, finds himself sniffling.
“No, no… not hurt. Don’t laugh, but— I had a bit of a teleportation mishap and I ended up a bit more off the coast than on the coast of where I intended,” he says. Essek stares at the ground, trying to pull back the tears that had started to creep into his eyes.
“You teleported into the ocean? You should have come home immediately,” Caleb grabs a healing potion from the table next to him, thrusting it toward him.
“Had to make sure I wasn’t being followed— you know the protocol,” he says, draining it. He sets the empty potion bottle back on the table.
Caleb’s hands twist quickly in somatics and Essek almost counterspells on instinct alone. Instead, he feels the resulting density change for only a moment before he has been hoisted into a bridal carry.
“Caleb,” he squawks, ears flushing, “I am tired, but still perfectly capable of getting to the bath myself.”
Caleb smirks down at him as he floats them up to the next floor.
“Liebling, frankly you look ready to collapse. Besides, I have missed you.”
Essek sighs and smiles, mumbling, “So sentimental.” He tucks his chin into Caleb’s neck.
“I think I prefer to engage with the ocean at a distance, from now on,” Essek says. Caleb deposits him on the settee in the bathroom with a grunt of effort.
“That is a fair sentiment,” he says, concentrating on unfastening the cloak from Essek’s throat. His freckled hand rests for a moment on Essek’s shoulder after the cloak comes to pool around his slender hips on the settee. Caleb pats Essek’s upper arm.
“Arms up, schatz,” he says, reaching for the sides of Essek’s white traveling shirt.
“Are you really going to insist on removing my clothes for me?” Essek asks, an eyebrow raised. Nonetheless, he obediently raises his arms for Caleb to maneuver the still-damp layer over his head.
“Certainly— would you deprive me of one of my favorite pastimes?”
Essek feels his cheeks flush.
“You are shameless,” he says, burying his face in one hand. Caleb chuckles, tossing the shirt and cloak onto the floor next to them.
“No need for shame right now,” Caleb murmurs, fingers deftly undoing the laces of Essek’s trousers before patting his hip, “Up, those need to come off too.”
Essek sighs, but obliges, lifting his hips to allow Caleb to wiggle down his trousers and underclothes.
“You are going to take a hot bath and then we are going to be very lazy and read in bed,” Caleb says. He kneels in front of Essek, carefully untying and putting each of his shoes and socks aside. He walks over to the large, tiled tub, dipping a finger in the steaming water to check the temperature.
“Perfect,” Caleb announces, glancing back at Essek, nude on the settee. Caleb’s eyes flick across his body for a moment, his cheeks flushing slightly. Essek glances back to the floor, still unused to the casual nudity Caleb and the Nein seemed to find so natural. He looks towards the bathtub with trepidation. He can literally see the bottom of the tub. It is steaming warm. Caleb is right there. All of these facts war with the deep, visceral distaste for the idea of submerging his head again.
“Can you…” Essek trails off, flushing slightly and staring at his hands, “This is ridiculous. Can you get in with me? It’s just,” he sighs in frustration, “I couldn’t breathe.” Caleb frowns in concern.
“I am happy to help, schatz, but are you sure you don’t need another potion? Your lungs feel okay?” Essek sighs.
“Everything feels fine, except for the obvious fatigue. It was just…” Essek trails off, looking into the far corner of the wall as he struggles to find the words, “I thought I might die. And I’ve never been in a situation before where I’ve felt that useless outside perhaps in an anti-magic field.” A small shiver races down his shoulders as he recalls the completeness with which his every thought seemed to freeze. He is brought back to the present by the feeling of scarred, finely-haired forearms curling around his midsection. He had been so absorbed in the memory, he hadn’t even noticed Caleb coming around behind him.
Sighing, Essek leaned back against Caleb’s stomach into the hug.
“I’m so sorry, schatz,” Caleb whispers, “You’re safe now.”
“I know,” Essek says, uncurling from the hug and shakily starting to get to his feet, feeling rather like the newborn fawns he had seen in the countryside.
“Ah, schatz, let me help you into the bath and I’ll be right in,” Caleb says, spotting Essek with a loose hand around his waist. Not for the first time, Essek almost laughs aloud with how this would scandalize his mother. Here he is, completely naked with an Empire human who is currently helping him into a bath. They didn’t even have a Luxonian commitment ceremony first— oh the scandal! What a relief being a treasonous disappointment was at times, even if it did shorten his expected lifespan considerably.
He steps into the tub, supporting himself with one hand in Caleb’s before sinking into the steaming water with a groan of pleasure.
“Bathes like this might be the only thing that can redeem water for me,” he says. He leans back against the side of the tub.
Caleb chuckles, shucking his clothes onto the floor in a heap with Essek’s. Caleb slips into the tub next to him, the heat quickly warming his skin to a flushed pink. Essek leans his head on Caleb’s shoulder, closing his eyes as he let the hot water chase away the chill in his bones.
“No dozing off in the tub,” Caleb teases, arm curling around Essek’s snow-freckled shoulders.
“I do not doze,” Essek replies archly, blearily lifting his head. He wondered if, tired as he was, he might actually fall asleep here.
“Of course not,” Caleb says. His ink-stained fingers push a platinum curl behind Essek’s ear. “Shall I wash your hair? You need not dunk your head.” Caleb holds up a drinking stein full of water.
“Have at it,” Essek says, gesturing vaguely towards his head and shifting to put his back towards Caleb. Caleb gathers the lavender scented shampoo and conditioner that Essek always seems to favor to the side of the tub, tipping some of the viscous liquid into his hands and sudsing it into a frothy lather. Essek can’t quite help the pleased groan he makes as Caleb’s warm hands massage his scalp, washing away the salty, earthy smell of his accidental dip in the sea.
“Just a little water to rinse. Tip your head back a bit and close your eyes just in case,” Caleb says. He cups a hand around Essek’s hairline as Essek obediently leans his head back. A pale hand carefully pours a stein of water over the short curls, and then another until the water runs clear. The water rushes past his ears, but Caleb is mercifully accurate to avoid splashing his face.
“I’m not very good at this whole… adventuring thing without you all,” Essek says. He thinks again about the all-consuming panic of submersion and then the bone-aching cold.
“Mistakes happen, schatz, no matter how good anyone is at anything. There is a reason you do not hear of solitary mercenaries much.”
Essek sighs as Caleb massages the conditioner into his scalp.
“I never considered myself delicate before you all,” Essek grouses.
“Everyone looks delicate next to Yasha,” Caleb replies, “And cold water can do that to anyone, even our more robust comrades. I cannot imagine I would do much better, dropped from a teleportation into the ocean.”
Later, Essek would credit his strategic misstep to his exhaustion— he had resigned himself to his friends’ determination to help him evade his pursuers, be they Assembly or Dynasty. The peace he has made with this does not stop him from saying, “You know, as I swam to shore, I thought at least if I die in this manner, they won’t be implicated. It would sort of poetic, wouldn’t it? Dying because I fucked up the thing that got me close to you all to begin with,” Essek says, eyes closed. He barely notices as Caleb’s hands still in his hair.
When the hands recede and he opens his eyes, Caleb has moved in front of him, reddish brows knit, looking at him with the sort of concerned, stern solemnity Essek has seen him wear all too much during his work. He hates himself for a moment— he wants to erase the crease between his brows and return the wry smile to his face. But as he as proven repeatedly to himself, he is weak and selfish, and he will snatch up this comfort and hoard it for however long his years and luck allow.
“Nothing. Nothing— could make your death poetic to me,” Caleb says, resting his arms on Essek’s shoulders and gazing at his downturned eyes through white eyelashes. “If the sea were to take you, I would drain the whole gods-damned thing to find you. I would find a cleric to revive you and I would burn through every diamond in the city.” Essek sniffles and presses himself into Caleb’s arms, nosing fondly at the wiry hair decorating the center of Caleb’s chest.
“That poetic enough for you, libeling?” Caleb rumbles. Essek pulls himself back.
“That sounds… like a bit of overkill honestly. Fjord would be so put-out if you drained the sea,” he says.
Caleb moves back to rinse out the conditioner, continuing, “More likely, if you were to die in the ocean, I would not receive a Sending within our standard parameters, which is within the 10 day limit of my transmuter’s stone for a reason. I would teleport to Jester or Caduceus and see if they could give me some guidance regarding the location of your body. If they could not, there is some possibility of scrying, and should that fail, I have water breathing in my spell book and quite a few castings of locate object,” Caleb says. He finishes wringing out Essek’s hair before carefully parting it to the side.
“You’ve thought about this,” Essek says. He knows Caleb’s paranoia mirrors his own, but he’s still always surprised to hear it exercised on his behalf. Caleb’s answering laugh is bitter.
“Of course I have. It’s nearly all I can think about when you’re off,” he waves a hand in the air, and Essek feels the simultaneous guilt and gratitude that have come to characterize his experience of love.
“Would you like to hear the plan if you died in Marquet? Or Tal’Dorei? Because I have one,” Caleb continues.
Essek spins to face Caleb, placing a hand on his cheek, thumb stroking the wiry hair of his beard. They look at each other for a moment, Essek’s gut churning in a mixture of exhaustion and love— love that someone might comb the ocean for his corpse when he had long thought it better if he had simply turned himself in to begin with.
Caleb takes his hand in his own, moving it to his mouth and kissing it softly.
“You’re all clean now, schatz,” he says, taking a moment to simply hold Essek’s hand against his mouth, the back of his fingers resting against chapped lips.
“You promised me a lazy evening reading, young man,” Essek says, letting his index finger rest against Caleb’s sternum with faux accusation.
Caleb smiles. “So I did.”