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Double exposure: A technique that combines two different exposures or images that are layered on top of each other.
The breeze carries the fresh scent of salt and sun through the window the first time Essek visits Jester in Nicodranas.
She is so delighted to see him, even cloaked in disguise as he is. It warms Essek to the core to think that there is one person in the world to whom his presence brings only unmitigated joy. Even better, she is wearing the earrings he had brought for her from Tal'dorei as a wedding present. A special commission made from the finest silver, but designed simply enough to be appropriate for daily use. They suit her very well. He tells her so, and she beams.
Essek is promptly dragged into the cottage that Jester and Fjord have purchased with the money they made adventuring with the Nein. He is sorry to have missed the housewarming celebrations, but had not wanted to incur unnecessary risk to Jester and Fjord. They would already draw attention to themselves just for having Expositor Beauregard Lionett, the face of the Cobalt Soul's ongoing investigation against the Assembly, as a guest.
The cottage is a modest affair located very close to the ocean. It has not been long since they moved in—they’re still working on getting all the furniture together, Jester tells him, but Essek notices a few details that make him smile. A handful of bright yellow flowers in a vase adorned with buttons. Small glass jars of dried tea leaves on the kitchen counter. An enormous oyster shell serving as a centerpiece, the mother-of-pearl surface shimmering with iridescent light.
Sunlight spills in through all the windows. It is picturesque indeed, but rather hard on Essek's eyes. Jester is kind enough to draw the muslin curtains without comment, reducing the glare to a soft, muted glow.
After an afternoon tea composed mostly of cupcakes so sweet they make his teeth ache, she takes him to the spare room. To his surprise, it is nearly bare of furniture. All that is in this room is a stool and an easel, turned away from the door and set up in the very center of the room. Next to this, a small table littered with palettes and brushes. Canvases lie piled up in one corner, tightly rolled, and there is a pleasant smell in the air that reminds Essek of linseed oil.
Jester leads him to the easel. The canvas sitting on it is blank, but there is a sketch of a beautiful woman he recognizes at once as Jester's mother done in swift charcoal lines on heavy paper, pinned to one corner of the canvas. She is smiling happily over her shoulder under the wide brim of a sun hat, and Jester's skilled hand makes it appear as though her hair is being swept back by the wind.
He admires it for a long moment. “Your next work?”
“Yep,” Jester says, beaming. “I want the first painting I make in this house to be of my mama.”
“I am sure it will turn out wonderfully.”
“Maybe you can come by again when it's finished? So you can see it before I give it to her?” she says, taking Essek's hand with a hopeful smile.
That is unlikely. But he does not want to disappoint her. “Perhaps,” he says, and squeezes her hand in return.
For the first time, Essek notices that the easel is sturdy, if somewhat roughly hewn, and made from different kinds of wood. There is a very distinct mark on the frame holding the canvas in place.
A tiny cat paw print, carved with painstaking care into the wood.
Oh.
Essek traces his fingers over it lightly. Just once. The wood grain catches against the cotton of his glove.
It is so like him to craft something out of nothing, to use his bare hands to turn odds and ends of wood into something beautiful. Essek does not know what to do with all the fondness that sits aching in his chest.
Jester hesitates. “It was his housewarming gift to me.”
“A very thoughtful one indeed,” Essek murmurs.
“He’s doing pretty well for himself these days,” she adds, as though in answer to the silent questions Essek is biting down. “It took him a while to get into the groove of formal learning again, but I think he’s really getting the hang of it now.”
Essek clears his throat, but the tightness does not ease. “He will become an excellent professor in time, I am sure of it.”
“He wanted you to be there to wish him luck, when we went to see him the day before the semester started,” Jester says softly. “Even if he wouldn’t say it, I could tell.”
Essek cannot quite manage an answer to that.
—
The next time he comes to visit, the front door is already open.
Out of a lingering sense of propriety, he knocks before he enters. His hand slips into the pouch of components around his waist, all his senses on high alert. Luckily, it is a pearly gray sort of day, and he does not have to worry about the sun blinding him.
The sudden rattling noise from the storage closet at the end of the hall makes Essek jump. His heart is pounding in his chest as he takes one step, then another—
He whips around at the creak of floorboards behind him, only to have his wrist caught in a firm grasp.
“Fjord,” Essek gasps. “My apologies, I—”
“Hey, it’s alright,” Fjord says, letting go of Essek. “You’re safe here, there’s no need to be on your guard.”
Essek, in turn, drops his disguise. Dips his head low. “Still. It was incredibly rude of me to threaten you in your own home.”
“Don’t worry about it. Veth does it to me all the time.”
Fjord claps a hand on Essek’s shoulder, leading him further into the house, just as a small figure emerges from the shadowy depths of the storage closet. Essek’s eyes widen. It is Veth’s husband Yeza, the halfling man who had once been just another one of Essek’s prisoners in the depths of the Dungeon of Penance. The memory is hazy, distant, as though from an entire lifetime ago. For a moment, Essek has a nearly uncontrollable desire to flee, but Fjord is still gripping his shoulder.
“I’ve just got a bit of repair work to take care of. The roof’s been leaking now that the rains have come, so Yeza’s been helping me out,” Fjord says apologetically.
“Not a problem at all. It’ll be quick once you get the hang of it, you’ll see.” Yeza says, smiling with his usual good humor as he bustles down the hall with what looks like a toolbox in hand. He stops short when he catches sight of Essek. “Oh. Um. Good afternoon, Shadowhand.”
“Just Essek, please, Master Brenatto,” he says immediately, and with no small amount of shame. He dips into a bow, retreating behind his courtesy. “I have not been Shadowhand in some time now.”
“Anyway, we’d best get to it,” Fjord says, intervening in the face of Essek’s discomfort—he has never been so grateful for Fjord’s skill with people until now. “Jester’s waiting for you in her studio, Essek, you go right ahead.”
He does as he is bid, smoothing his face into its usual calm mask before he knocks on the door. A muffled voice yells for him to come in.
When he opens the door, he is greeted by an explosion of color.
All four walls are covered with landscapes so vibrant that Essek hardly knows where to look first. But he is spared the agony of deciding when Jester throws herself into his arms, nearly knocking him onto his back. When she pulls away, she is beaming so happily that his own facial muscles respond with a smile, unstudied and unbidden. It feels strange after all these months of pretending to be someone other than himself.
There is a smudge of orange paint on the bridge of Jester’s nose. Essek probably also has paint on his clothes after that hug, but he cannot quite bring himself to care just now.
“Hello, Jester. I thought I would see you off before your trip.”
“It’s been way too long since I last saw you,” she declares, reproachful.
“We Send to each other nearly every day,” Essek says, amused.
“That doesn’t count.” She’s still holding him tightly by the shoulders, looking him up and down—he realizes that she’s inspecting him for injuries, the way she used to when they had traveled together in Aeor. Old habits die hard, even in peacetime.
“All is well,” he says, attempting to reassure. When that does not work, he tries a distraction instead. “Your earrings are lovely, Jester; where did you get them?”
She grins. “They were a wedding gift from a friend.”
“I must say, your friend has impeccable taste.”
Jester laughs aloud. Essek decides his distraction was a success.
The portrait of the Ruby of the Sea is already at the Lavish Chateau, Jester tells him regretfully, but there is plenty more to see. The easel is still sitting in the center of the room, canvases lined up along one corner, and now there is a cabinet next to the door that houses more of Jester’s supplies. Essek lets her lead him by the hand around the room to be personally introduced to each new artwork.
There is an enormous canvas that spans nearly the length and height of an entire wall. A figure in bright greens and oranges, set against an oil landscape ablaze with so much color that Essek's eyes almost hurt just looking at it. Some shapes are blurry along the edges, others rendered in shocking, hyper-realistic detail—patches of grass with each blade individually drawn, a tree with strangely pointed leaves, a unicorn grazing in the foreground.
“Is this—”
“The feywild,” Jester says, nodding. “Artie took me once, when I was still pretty young. It was the craziest place we ever went to together, and believe me, we've been to a lot of places. I don't think I was supposed to be there at all—time went a little weird for me, I don't remember it much—but it was beautiful. I still dream about it sometimes.”
“Incredible,” Essek breathes, filled with wonder. “I travel far and wide these days, but the feywild… I have always wished to see it, ever since I was a child. Verin and I were not reared in a créche like most elf children are, because we were born so close together in age. We had a nursemaid instead; she used to tell us stories of ancient elven cities where the boundary between this realm and the feywild was so thin that if you stepped into the woods at a certain time of night—”
He stops, the heat rising to his face. It has been so long since he was in the company of someone who knew him, he had quite forgotten himself. “Forgive me. I had not meant to speak so much.”
Jester shakes her head. “I want to hear all about it, Essek.”
“Some other time.”
“Promise?”
“Yes, I promise,” Essek says, smiling. “But you must tell me all about the feywild.”
“Some other time,” she says, dimpling at him, and tugs him on to the next set of artworks.
He is unsurprised to find Fjord's portrait in the place of honor on the wall. He is dressed in his finest uniform, looking out over the ship’s deck at the sea. The wood framing it is faded, salt-stained.
“Isn't he handsome,” Jester says, sighing.
Essek stifles a laugh. “Fjord is your husband. Of course he is.”
“I mean, objectively,” she protests. “Don't you think so?”
“Why, yes. I, I suppose he is,” Essek says, caught somewhat wrong-footed. He tries not to blush and fails miserably. “You have certainly made him very handsome in this painting,” he says, withdrawing behind sincere admiration to hide his confusion. But Jester is already grinning at him, her eyes dancing with mischief. Essek gives himself up for lost.
The next portrait is of Beauregard staring fiercely over her shoulder at the viewer, bo staff in hand. The tattoo at her nape is just visible over the collar of her vestments, the geometric lines encrusted with what appears to be the dust of a bright green crystal. Yasha's portrait is painted in softer light, the only strong point of contrast the black tattoo drawn from lower lip to chin. She is wearing a crown of flowers on her head in a pretty shade of pink. Veth is holding up her crossbow nocked with a bolt in hers, a wide smile on her face, flexing an bicep with a tattoo of two interlocking C's. The bracelet around her wrist is studded with real buttons.
“These are beautiful, Jester,” Essek says at last. “I hardly know what to say other than I am in awe.”
“Thanks. I had a lot of time to practice, and I wanted everyone to look their best,” she says, beaming. “Caduceus has one too, but his isn't ready just yet. You'll have to wait until next time.”
The next painting makes Essek stop short.
He would have called it a portrait of Kingsley, with that wicked smirk on his lips, but the tiefling in this artwork is not wearing one of Kingsley's usual breezy white shirts, and he is wearing far too much gaudy jewelry that Kingsley would certainly never be caught dead in. With his face half-hidden in shadow, Essek would call him Lucien, but his clothes are not dark and sleek, but as vivid and flamboyant as the peacock etched on his neck. A red coat patterned in moons and stars, diamonds and diagonals. He holds three cards in his hand, a silent invitation for the viewer. Make your choice.
The light in this painting is muted like Yasha's. But where hers is the golden cast of the early morning sun, this is the dusk right before twilight, the remnants of the day fading into darkness.
“Mollymauk,” Essek says softly.
A beat. “That painting wasn’t originally meant to look like that,” Jester admits. “I meant for it to be happier, I think. Because it was how I wanted to remember him. But it changed while I was painting.”
He studies her out of the corner of his eye. “Do you like it?”
Jester falls silent, as though it had not occurred to her to think about it. A long moment passes before she nods. “It wasn’t how I meant for it to turn out, but it feels more right somehow.” She squeezes his hand. “I have one more to show you, but… you don’t have to look at it, if you don’t want to. It’s not finished yet anyway.”
Essek just manages to keep his composure from slipping. There is only one member of the Nein whose painting he has not yet seen. “Of course. But if you would prefer not to show me until you have finished—”
“I don’t mind when it’s you,” she declares, leading him to the last wall of paintings.
On this wall, all the artworks are unfinished—most of them have only a layer of paint covering the canvas, the pencil sketch beneath still visible. Essek spots one that seems to be the beginnings of a second portrait of Jester’s mother, another of a minotaur, a third of a figure with blue skin that he does not recognize.
The last one is a painting clearly intended to be a person reading a book, though there is nothing on the canvas but odd shapes—a golden background filled with bright circles, the rough edges of what is probably intended to be a scarf, another shape that might be the brown leather cover of a book, the outline of a face framed by a few brushstrokes of red. Essek’s mind fills in the details for him, unprompted. The precise shade of blue of the eyes, the break in the bridge of the nose, the spray of freckles across the cheeks, the thin, wide mouth pursed in concentration.
“I wish I had more to show you, but it’s not much yet.”
“It is lovely all the same,” he says, managing a smile for her sake. “You caught the exact color of his dancing lights.”
“Amber. I remember.” She squeezes his hand. “Hey, Essek?”
“Yes?”
“He asked me to tell you that there’s a spell he needs your help with.” A crease forms in her brow. “Have you not been speaking to him?”
Essek cannot quite meet her bewildered gaze. “It… it’s complicated, Jester.”
—
The next trip to visit Jester is a cause for much anxiety. Essek has never been to Rumblecusp before. Before now, it would not have mattered all that much—Light knows he has expended profligate amounts of arcane energy in the past just ferrying the Nein to various destinations that grew more and more ridiculous with every request. But even with his prodigious skill, teleportation is a tricky thing, and he finds himself running very low on magical resources these days.
He draws his glyphs with a careful, meticulous hand, conscious of the fact that he is using his last bit of chalk to do so. He doubts that Rumblecusp would have a shop where he would be able to replenish his stock, but he is hopeful that Jester will perhaps be able to spare him a little of her own.
One twist of his fingers. A murmured incantation. The circle glows bright violet around his feet.
Essek reappears amidst palm trees and sandy beaches, pain searing through every limb, as if he had been disassembled at the joints and put haphazardly back together. Coughing, he somehow manages to pull himself together enough to cast his levitation cantrip. The sun is burning hot on his skin. With the last of his magic, he casts.
Jester. I think I have made it to Rumblecusp. I am on the beach, and there is a mountain to the southeast. Doo doo doo, he hums, overtaken by a moment of giddiness in the delirium of pain.
Essek! Okay great, just stay there, okay? I’m gonna get Kingsley to look for you—
He drops from his levitation and collapses before Jester’s message ends.
—
When Essek stirs, his eyelids are heavy and his mouth unspeakably dry.
He catches the scent of salt in the air and bolts upright, adrenaline flooding through his veins. Here he is, lying on a bed in a room completely unfamiliar to him, the sunlight so bright he has to squint just to see. His heart is beating a tattoo against his ribs. He is already dragging himself to his feet when the door opens with a loud squeak.
Essek freezes. For a moment, he is so overcome with fear that all he can hear is the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears. He is too exhausted to think, his arcane reserves stretched to the utmost, and here is Lucien, back from the dead, come to finish him off in his moment of weakness—he manages to let loose a sapping sting that glances off the wall, a pathetic attempt to defend himself, before a pair of lithe arms wrap around him, holding him close.
“Hey, hey, hot boy, calm down,” a familiar voice says, and it breaks through Essek's panic.
“Kingsley,” he gasps, “I, I am sorry, I did not mean—”
“Just breathe,” Kingsley interrupts, easing him back onto the bed, and the words are like water dousing the rest of Essek's fear. He pulls in one harsh breath after another through his nose and lets Kingsley help him back onto the bed.
“You're in Rumblecusp, do you remember?”
“Yes,” Essek says, forcing himself toward some semblance of calm. “I—I had promised to visit Jester.”
“Well, you made it. Just barely, but still.” Kingsley collapses into a chair beside him. “I found you out cold on the sand—is that what teleporting usually does to you?”
“Ah, no. Not usually,” Essek murmurs.
His eyes fly open when a weight settles against his side, but it's only Kingsley, resting his head against Essek. Looking at him solemnly with those red, red eyes.
Essek remembers with a start just how new Kingsley really is to the world. All he knows is what Fjord and Jester have shown him. And from Jester, he has learned to give away his affections freely, and as often as he can. He is so sweet under all his mischief. Essek nearly forgets that his body once housed a man who inspired in Essek the greatest fear he has ever known.
“You feeling okay now?”
“Yes, thank you. I… I apologize for attacking you.”
“Nah, don't worry about it.” Kingsley props up his chin on his hand. “Fjord and Jester have done that to me a couple of times before, if that makes you feel any better. So I just try to remember not to startle them.”
Oh.
Physical affection is not in Essek's nature, but Jester has taught him a few things too. He places his hand on Kingsley's arm, squeezes lightly.
“It is not your fault. We have been through a lot.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Kingsley says wryly. “Either way, I don't blame you. Or them. It’s not like you can help it any more than I can.”
He presses his cheek back against Essek's ribs, as though to seek more comfort now that he is permitted to do so. Essek wonders if Kingsley, like Mollymauk, is a fragment of Lucien's soul, and if so, how it could be that a man like that could also contain gentleness like this.
“Hey,” Kingsley says, interrupting Essek's thoughts. “It's okay. Really. You'll get used to me after a while. But I can go, if it bothers you too much.”
If I bother you too much, is what he means. Something about that makes Essek ache for him.
“It does not bother me, Kingsley. You are not him, whatever else our reflexes might tell us.” Essek's mouth twists. “And you know I have done unimaginable things. Many people would be inclined to say that I am just as terrible as your predecessor.”
“Maybe,” Kingsley says, looking entirely unimpressed. “But I'd argue it was a different person doing those things. Not you. Well, not in the same sense as what happened to me, but you get what I mean.”
Essek smiles a little. “You are very kind.”
“Don't get used to it,” Kingsley says at once, tilting his head just enough to prod Essek in the side with his horn.
A distant slam makes him sit up.
“Oh, hey, they're finally back. Jester! Fjord!” Kingsley yells loud enough to make Essek wince. Indoor voice, he almost says, before he realizes that even in his head, he sounds just like the umavi reproving Verin.
Running footsteps. Almost before Essek knows it, the door has banged open and Jester has flung herself into his arms.
“Essek, I was so worried—”
“He's fine, Jester,” Kingsley says, laughing. “Just a touch of sun, I think.”
Light above. Essek can barely breathe, but oh, he has missed her. He puts his arms around her and hugs her more tightly than he ever has before.
“All is well,” he says, and she lets out a choked laugh. He lifts his hand in greeting when Fjord appears in the doorway. “Hello, Fjord. Thank you for letting me visit.”
“It’s good to see you again. You should really come by more often,” Fjord says, raising an eyebrow at him. Essek smiles, rueful. Ducks his head so he does not have to see Fjord’s knowing gaze. He sometimes forgets how difficult it is to be with people who know him.
Their late lunch is a lively affair with both Kingsley and Jester present. Were it not for the volume and pitch of their voices, Essek would have pinched himself more than once to check that he is not lost in his imagination again. He is here with them. With his friends. He is smiling so wide that his cheeks are hurting. It has been so long since he laughed this much.
Thanks to the combined pressure of Jester’s cajoling, Kingsley’s threats, Fjord’s insistence, and his own fatigue, Essek is prevailed upon to spend the night at Rumblecusp.
The house is almost extravagant in floor area, all airy rooms and high ceilings. Here on its perch on the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean, it is somehow even more scenic than the cottage at Nicodranas.
“We got a big house so we could have everyone over if we wanted to,” Jester says absently. She is sitting at her easel, swirling some paint on a palette.
Essek is curled up next to her on a comfortable chair with a stack of sketchbooks in his lap, the product of several months of Jester’s work while they were at sea. “It is a wonderful house.”
“Maybe, just maybe, I can convince you to come visit me more often. It's safer for you too—practically no one lives here on Rumblecusp anyway,” Jester says, flourishing with her brush to punctuate her point.
“Maybe,” Essek allows. “We will see.”
When Jester carefully begins laying down a wash of red on the heavy paper, he lifts the cover of the first sketchbook. The first drawing is of Kingsley hanging from the mast of a ship by a rope, a delighted grin on his face. It is done in pen and ink, quick brushstrokes to fill in his lavender skin and the endless expanse of blue sky.
“This is lovely. I had not seen you draw in this style before—have you been trying out a new medium?”
“Well, it’s not exactly new. I learned to paint with watercolor and ink first, but it’s been a long while since then, and I do want to branch out from just my oils.” Jester peers at the page Essek is looking at and laughs. “Fjord was so annoyed at Kingsley, that day when he was literally learning the ropes. He figured it out really quick, he just wanted to keep being a pest.”
That does sound very much like him. Essek smiles and turns the page. “And who is this?”
“Oh, that’s Orly. He’s been with us for ages, from when we were still traveling with the Nein. He did my tattoo,” Jester says, pointing to the fine lines gracing her décolletage as Essek hums in appreciation. “He did Beau’s too, and Veth’s. Oh, and Yasha's.”
“A man of many talents.”
The sketchbook is filled with scenes of their most recent voyage. Essek now knows the names of each crew member aboard the Nein Heroez. By now, the painting on the easel has red overlaid with blue to make a pretty shade of purple. The blue is darker in some places, lighter in others, except for two spots that remain red.
“What are you painting?”
“It’s a bust of Kingsley, just for practice.”
The shapes slot into a recognizable form now—the darker curves are Kingsley’s horns, and the waves of his hair are more blue than red. The effect of the overlay of color makes the hues richer, the first wash of red reflected through the layer of blue.
“How are you doing that,” Essek says, honestly amazed.
Jester smiles a little. “Remember you told me before you spent a lot of time studying dunamancy when you were young?”
“Yes. What about it?”
“Well, that was me too. Except with this,” she says, tilting her palette in his direction. There are only three colors in it: a pale red, a rich blue, and a bright, bright yellow.
When Essek begins paging through the next sketchbook, he is surprised to find they are all in pencil. An entire spread is dedicated just to Veth, when she was still Nott—all long ears and bandages, with the little mask she wore over the lower half of her face. A series of poses in motion that Essek thinks might be Yasha swinging Magician's Judge, only her hair is very dark and half her face is obscured by heavy makeup. Another series, this time of Yasha's face slowly contorting into a scream that Essek recognizes as her going into a rage.
There is only one drawing of Mollymauk: he is sprawled out on the ground, his face in profile. One hand is curled under his head, the other pointing up, as though gesturing to the stars. The perspective makes it seem as though the viewer is lying right next to him in the grass.
“You remember him so well,” Essek says quietly.
“Mm. It helps a lot that I still have a good reference.” Jester does not even have to look to know which sketch Essek is talking about. Her attention is focused on drawing out the features in Kingsley's face. Plush lips, curved eyebrows, slightly crooked nose.
The next page is Fjord, but with no tusks, which surprises Essek. The streak of white in his hair is less prominent, and it makes him look much younger than he is.
“You met Fjord first, didn't you?”
“Yeah,” Jester says. She is gazing at her painting with her head cocked slightly to one side. She leans forward with her brush and darkens one side of Kingsley's left horn with more blue. “I found him along the road with Beau. Then we met the others afterwards, in Trostenwald.”
Essek is bracing himself now. He is not sure if he is more relieved or disappointed when the next page contains various illustrations of Caduceus: kneeling in prayer, tending a seedling, smiling with his hands cupped around his tea. Along one margin, there is a drawing of his staff in careful, elaborate detail.
But finally, when Essek turns the page, he finds an all too familiar face looking at him—but so different from how he remembers. He cannot help the sharp inhale that escapes him. The eyes are dull, almost lifeless. There is a smear of grime across one unshaven cheek, and the long hair is cut in uneven, ragged chunks. Essek has seen this dead-eyed man just once before, kneeling before the Bright Queen with a beacon held aloft in both hands.
“Oh, Essek,” Jester says, putting her paintbrush down to take his hand. “He changed a lot when we were traveling with him, you know. This is just how he looked when I met him the first time.”
Essek cannot help himself. He traces the familiar outline of the bearded jaw, still remembering how the stubble had caught against his silk glove. “He looks so…” Essek hardly knows how to finish his own sentence.
“Yeah. I get it.” Jester squirms a little. “I was, um. I was really mean to him back then, for a while. I didn't like him much.”
“Well, it is as you said. He changed. And so did you.”
“I love him a lot, you know,” she says simply. “Even if sometimes, he doesn't make sense to me at all.”
Essek does not quite know how to respond. He turns the page and finds more sketches: a ritual casting, a furrowed brow lost in thought, even a drawing of a large spotted cat curled up in his master’s lap.
“You still care about him, don’t you, Essek?”
He has to swallow before he can speak. His mouth is so dry again. “I—yes, of course I care about him.”
“Then what’s wrong? Why aren’t you speaking to each other? Icky-thong’s trial will be over soon, and in a few months when everything has died down, you could go to Rexxentrum again. Even just for a little bit.”
Essek shakes his head. He had always intended to stay far away for the duration of the trial for everyone’s safety. It was simply too much to risk that one of the Nein would get caught harboring a Dynasty fugitive in their home, a fatal mistake that would tear down everything they had all worked for.
But this—how can Essek even begin to tell her about this? Perhaps it is best that he does not.
“It is difficult to explain,” he says, and turns the page before Jester can say anything.
To his surprise, the last sketch is one of Beauregard in quick, light lines. She is fast asleep, curled up on her side, still fully dressed but for her shoes and gauntlets. Unlike the drawing of Mollymauk, the perspective in this sketch makes it appear as though the viewer is looking at Beauregard from the end of the bed. The sheets of the bed she is lying on are rumpled on one side, as though there had been someone asleep next to her just a few moments ago.
The empty space speaks of absence. Essek knows. He has left an empty space just like this in a bed far away in Rexxentrum.
He glances up and sees Jester’s gaze fixed on her own sketch, wearing a strange expression that Essek has not seen before.
“This one seems to have a story,” he says, his voice pitched soft. Enough of an invitation that Jester can speak of it if she wishes, or refuse him without issue if she does not.
She turns back to her easel without meeting his gaze. “It’s difficult to explain,” she says, and picks up her paintbrush once more.
—
The next time Essek visits Rumblecusp, it is not the result of days of Jester's cajoling, but a single Sending in a thin, shaky voice.
Essek, I'm in Rumblecusp and, and—I, I need you, Essek; will you come, please? Come now.
He had paused only to respond, of course, give me a few minutes, his hands already packing up what few personal belongings he still carried with him before clasping the tiny statue of the Traveler tight in his palm—how odd for something to be both holy icon and symbol of desecration.
A moment to concentrate, then he casts.
He reappears before the house on the cliff, the sea crashing in agitated waves against the shoreline. He sighs, relieved to have managed a successful teleport this time around.
Here in Rumblecusp, the sun has already set, the last rays of the sun fading into the horizon beyond the cliff, the first stars already appearing in the sky. Nothing seems to be amiss at first sight. But he prepares himself nevertheless, pressing a pearl into his forehead to synthesize the Luxon's favor.
The front door is already ajar. He Sends to Jester, just to be certain. I am here. Shall I come in? Are you safe?
Yeah. Come to the studio.
Essek notes the brevity and grows even more concerned.
He enters the house. It seems deserted but for a rustling sound coming from the studio. There are no lights on despite the late hour. He drifts down the expanse of the empty sitting room, a prickling feeling at the back of his neck, as though he is being watched. Or perhaps it is just his paranoia.
“Jester?”
“Here,” a voice calls from the doorway near the end of the hall.
Essek finds Jester kneeling in the middle of an odd diorama composed of strange, sinuous shapes in a pattern of repetitive fractals around her, rising nearly to her hip in height. Her back is turned to him, her hands busy with something on the floor. When the door shuts behind Essek, she gets to her feet.
“Come here,” she says without turning. “I want to show you something.”
“As you wish.” Essek has to levitate himself higher to avoid knocking anything over before gingerly setting himself down beside Jester on the ground. “What is all this?”
Jester does not answer. She clutches the sacred symbol of the Traveler around her neck, a guttural incantation leaving her lips. Her eyes glow a bright green as she sweeps her arm in an arc over the room—
And suddenly, the diorama at their feet comes alive.
The weird shapes are moving, lit up with an unsettling glow from below by Jester's spell. Undulating in sickening motions as though made of flesh and blood, rather than by Jester's own hands.
Cognouza. Essek does not know if he is more horrified or awed by the sheer accuracy of Jester’s work. Thin tendrils are whipping back and forth in slow motion, landmasses crawling at their feet. Jester has even meticulously assembled mouths, complete with teeth and tongues, and veins are pulsing sluggishly along the roads. Cold terror floods through him when he sees the nine eyes of the Somnovem watching them, each eye glowing a brilliant, ominous red.
It is not real. Essek knows this. But cognitive fact is separate from physiological response. His throat is burning with bile. He falls to his knees and retches, surrounded by flesh towers and gaping maws, his body heaving as his stomach empties itself out onto the floor. He gets rid of the mess with a shaky wave of his hand and a murmured spell, but the scent and taste of searing acid lingers in his mouth.
“I keep seeing it.”
Essek looks up at Jester, framed by a ghastly halo of illusory red eyes around her head. The skin around her own eyes is bruised darker than he has ever seen it, her lips dry and cracked. It dawns on him with horror that she must have been working on this for days before he arrived—when had she last slept?
“I keep seeing it,” she repeats in a hoarse whisper. “Everything about how horrible it was. The way Lucien turned into that awful, awful thing. The way it writhed.” She shudders from head to toe. “I needed to get it out of my head, Essek, otherwise it would stay there and drive me mad—I, I can't even bear to look at Kingsley some days, I love him so much and none of this is his fault, he didn't do this, it wasn't him, but—”
“Jester,” Essek interrupts. He grabs her by the shoulders. “Look at me. What do you need?”
“I need—” She stares down at the city of flesh she had so painstakingly built. Licks her lips. “Burn it. All of it.”
Essek inhales sharply. The studio is filled with Jester's art all over the walls, the shelves lined with her sketchbooks.
“Jester, I… I will do this for you, but you must know, my control over fire is not so refined,” he says, willing her to understand. “Perhaps I would not be the best person for this—”
“No, it has to be you,” she insists, her eyes fever bright. “I can't stand the thought of anyone else seeing this—not the others, not even Fjord, especially not Kingsley—”
“But all your art,” Essek protests helplessly.
Jester stares at him, bewildered. “They're just paintings. I can always make more.”
She recasts her spell, the incantation in a harsh language he doesn't know, and the fading light flares back to life around them. Essek wonders, if he undresses, whether he would find that Jester has also placed a set of red eyes on his body. He has to resist the urge to vomit a second time.
He reaches into his pouch of components and draws a line of phosphorus up his arm, hesitating. Already, he is mourning all the art in this room that will be lost to the flames, but he will do as Jester asks. He murmurs the incantations and slams his palms flat on the floor—a web of fire spreads outward from his hands until around them, the flesh city is devoured by a conflagration so bright that he can barely see.
This is a spell he has cast only once before, and in the presence of its creator, who had helped to control the fire. This time, Essek must rely on his own skill to keep the flames from spreading too far, to burn nothing but the eerily accurate representation of Cognouza that Jester has made. Sweat is dripping down his brow with the intense heat and the effort he is putting into controlling the spell. But now the flames have eaten up the city, and tongues of fire are licking at the shelves, up the walls—
There is a flash of green out of the corner of Essek's eye.
He whips his head around and sees nothing there, but to his shock, the flames are dying slowly, as though being smothered by an unseen hand.
Come find me when you're ready, a voice whispers, and Jester lets out a thin, breathless laugh that sounds like a sob. She kneels beside Essek, in the smoking, charred remains of what might have been her greatest work of art, and puts her head on his shoulder.
He helps her out of the room, his arm around her waist. Settles her onto the living room couch, prestidigitating them both clean. Presses a cup of water in her hands, makes her drink it slowly, sip by sip. Refills it for her and makes her promise to drink it.
Essek returns to the studio alone, surveying the ashes on the floor, the scorched paintings of Fjord and Kingsley on the Nein Heroez, a half-finished portrait of Marion Lavorre, another of a man with blue skin who bears a striking resemblance to Jester around the eyes. The lowest shelf of sketchbooks is damaged beyond repair, but the ones above it are intact, rescued by the unseen being that Essek suspects might have been Jester's trickster deity. He draws a small dick for Jester in the ashes as thanks, even if it makes him feel a little silly. Then he begins cleaning the room section by section with a cantrip.
“You don't have to do that.”
When Essek turns, Jester is leaning against the doorway, looking small and wan, hands still cupped around the glass of water.
“I know, but I want to.”
She watches him the whole time, until the room is free of ashes and smoke. The scorch marks on the floor and walls will have to wait—much to his embarrassment, he does not know the spell for mending.
Essek leads Jester to the kitchen. There is some food here, at least; a bit of bread and cheese, some cured meat. He does not remember ever taking care of anyone like this, except maybe Verin when they had been much younger.
It is strange, but it makes a quiet space after all the excitement of the early evening. He is relieved to see a little color come back into Jester's face after a hearty cup of tea and a few bites of food. Her eyelashes are fluttering with exhaustion by the time she finishes.
“Essek,” she says. “Will you stay with me tonight?”
“If you need me to, I would be glad to keep you company. But where is Fjord?”
“He and Kingsley went on a trip, and they only meant to take a few days, but the ship needed some repairs that took longer than expected. They should be back by tomorrow, though.”
Essek and Jester lay out blankets and pillows by the slow-flickering fire in the living room. She's quiet for so long that he thinks she might have finally fallen asleep, but she rolls over to face him.
“Hey, can I show you one last thing? It won't be anything like what I showed you earlier. Just another sketchbook, promise. Nice and safe.”
“Nothing we do is safe,” Essek deadpans, and Jester laughs. She gets to her feet and plucks a sketchbook from the shelf. He sits up and takes it from her, but she does not sit next to him—she lies back down instead, pulling the blanket over her shoulders.
“May I look at it?”
“Go ahead.”
The first drawing Essek finds is a drawing in ink and watercolor. A beaming Jester with short hair, a green cloak draped around her shoulders. It is a likeness so excellent it borders on uncanny.
“This is the first time I have seen you draw a self-portrait.”
“I hate drawing them.”
“Why?”
“I don't know,” Jester says. “I just do.”
There is a number on the lower right corner of the page. 22.
Essek turns the page. It is another drawing of Jester. The green cloak has been replaced with a high collar tailored in the popular fashion of Rosohna a few years ago. Her smile is more demure too, as in the common style of Dynasty portraits. This was Jester when she had first met Essek. The number in the corner says, 23.
Oh. Essek sees where this is going.
In the next one, Jester is dressed for a fierce winter, white fur framing her face. She is not smiling in this one. The number in the corner says, 24.
But to Essek's confusion, the next few portraits are virtually duplicates of the one marked 24. Jester, dressed for the harsh Eiselcross snow, her face stern and fierce. He counts three of them. But instead of a number in the corner, there is only a question mark in each one.
He goes back to 24, examining it more carefully before flipping to the next, and the next, and the next.
Now he sees it. The drawings are the same, with one exception. Her horns in each of the ones with question marks are slightly longer with each succeeding portrait, and so is her hair. The laugh lines in the corners of her eyes do not change. The worried crease in her brow, however, deepens with every page.
Last is a portrait of Jester in a dark green blouse that exposes her shoulders, her hair braided into a thick rope down one side. She is smiling again in this one. Something of exhaustion lingers around her eyes, but she seems more relaxed. Content. This, like the pages preceding it, has only a question mark in the lower right corner.
Essek turns to look at Jester. She is staring up at the shadows dancing from the firelight.
“I really, really hate self-portraits,” she says to the ceiling. “But it was the only way I could let it go, you know? All that time I lost.”
Essek does not know what to say. He cradles the sketchbook in both hands. The tightness filling his chest is grief, but it is accompanied by an intense, overwhelming admiration.
“You are one of the strongest persons I know, Jester Lavorre.”
“So are you, Essek de’den Thelyss.” She says his name in perfect Undercommon, and he blinks at her in shock. The tip of an eyetooth flashes in the light when she smiles. “There's a reason we get along, you know. I like having friends, but you're the only one who gets to see all the crazy stuff I make when there's no one around to see.”
“Because I am the only one who can take it?”
“Something like that.”
Jester sits up and takes the sketchbook from him. Without any preamble, she throws it into the fire. Together, they watch it curl up at the corners, blackening at the edges, until nothing is left of it but ash.
“I’m really sorry I made you throw up, Essek,” Jester says quietly, her gaze fixed on the flickering embers. “It was awful, wasn’t it? Seeing it like that. I’m sorry. I didn’t even warn you before I cast Thaumaturgy.”
“Your well-being is more important than my comfort,” Essek says, and means it. “If you wish, you may consider it a testament to your vision that you evoked such a visceral reaction in me. That is what performance art is intended to do, no?”
She brightens a little. “I guess that did count as performance art, huh? I hadn’t thought about it that way until now.”
“You did say you wanted to branch out. I would call it a resounding success.” He takes her hand, squeezes it lightly. “Joking aside, it was truly an honor to have been part of the show, Jester, and I speak as both audience and arsonist. Thank you for sharing it with me.”
“Thank you for bearing witness to my madness,” she says, copying Essek’s formal tone to great effect. “In addition, it might interest you to know that I snuck a few dick-shaped towers in there.”
“Jester,” Essek groans, covering his eyes with his hand, but he is laughing all the same. “I do not know if that makes it better or worse.”
“Why not both?” she says, grinning. “Besides, you burned it all up anyway.”
“I am almost sorry to have done so,” Essek muses. “Art can be very powerful. I had not thought it could have such an effect.”
Jester contemplates this for a moment, her face growing somber. “That’s true, but also, I just make stuff because I want to. And sometimes it isn’t because it makes me happy. It’s just something I have to do. Like that, and that,” she says, pointing first at the fire, then in the general direction of her studio.
Essek thinks of the last time he had borne testament to such an incineration a few years ago, in a T-dock in Aeor. Perhaps there is something to be said about the catharsis in destruction.
“Come on,” Jester says, “let's get some rest.”
Essek lies down on the floor beside her. The room is very quiet, apart from the crackling flames. He is so used to being in big cities, where he can go about in disguise much more easily, that the silence of the island presses against his eardrums. But it feels like old times, sleeping side by side on the ground after the adrenaline rush of the day. When he says so, Jester smiles.
“That's exactly what I wanted,” she says. “This space is about the size of the dome, did you know? But a little bigger, because we're nine people now.”
“Finally living up to the name.”
The attempt at teasing prods a laugh from Jester. “Can you imagine all the nights we spent squished together in that dome? Every moment I could get to myself was a relief.”
“Likewise,” Essek says in heartfelt agreement. “It is especially difficult when you are used to being alone all the time.”
“Yeah. It’s nice that it’s so quiet here, you know? Reminds me of when I was growing up in the Chateau. I mean, there were always so many people there, so it isn’t exactly the same. But I had so much time to myself to just paint or read, just like I do now.”
Essek smiles a little. Perhaps it is the late hour, or the exhaustion, or just the sheer relief of being with Jester, that it is as though his tongue has been pried loose. “It was the same for me, as you know. Although now I find that after I have been with you all, it is, ah… harder to be on my own, these days.”
Jester reaches over and brushes his hair out of his eyes. “I guess you two still haven’t made up, huh?” Essek does not quite know how to answer, but she takes his silence as assent. “Oh my gosh, Essek, this has gone on for way too long.”
“It has. But he…” Essek hesitates. It sounds like such a petty thing, because it is. He does not want to speak of it at all. But it seems only fair—Jester has done nothing but show him vulnerability, after all. The admission falls in halting words from his lips. “He hurt me very much the last time I saw him. I do not think he understands how much.”
“Ohhhh.” Jester sighs. “Did you talk about it at all?”
“I tried, but… it was difficult to resolve with my circumstances being what they are, and at the time, Ikithon’s trial was so near. And so I told him that perhaps it would be best for us to part ways, at least until the trial was over.”
“But you Send to him, don’t you?”
“Yes. To check in.” It is merely part of a long-time arrangement that Essek had kept up. No point in increased anxiety or worry for either of them if it could be helped. “But even when I do, there is not much for me to say, really. I cannot tell him where I am or what I have been doing for fear that it will compromise his safety.”
“So, what, you just let him know you’re alive and stuff?” she says, incredulous.
“Jester, you know as well as I do that twenty-five words is nowhere near sufficient to deliver messages of import.”
She grimaces. “Yeah. Okay, fine, I’ve definitely been there. But look, Essek, what if he suddenly showed up at your door? What if he knelt at your feet and totally begged you to take him back?”
“We are, most unfortunately, not living in a romance novel.”
“Just think of it as a hypothetical situation.”
The thought alone is making Essek chuckle. How absurd. “I can at least promise that I would hear him out.”
“Well, that’s something, I guess,” Jester says, rolling her eyes.
He smiles and lies on his back. “Go to sleep, Jester.”
To his surprise, this is met by a long, abrupt silence. When he glances at Jester, she is staring at him, aghast.
“Essek,” she whispers. “Your ear.”
“Ah.” He lifts his hand over it, shielding its torn edge from sight, shame coursing through him with the force of a tidal wave. Carelessness, that was what it was. He should have known better than to adorn himself with frippery while he was on the road. “My apologies. It is unsightly, I know,” he says, trying to smile for her sake.
“Why are you apologizing? That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” she protests, sitting up. “Let me look at it, come on.”
“No. My vanity has been wounded enough without your close inspection.”
“Essek,” Jester says, reproachful now. She reaches up and touches her own ear, an unconscious movement. He realizes that she is wearing the jewelry he had given her over a year ago. The time he spent in Tal’dorei feels like a dream now. She takes a breath. “It’s not that it’s ugly. It’s only that… there’s only so much I can do for you, there’s only so much I can fix—” her voice breaks.
“I do not come here expecting you to fix anything for me,” Essek says softly. “Your company is more than enough. That you welcome me into your home is all I can ever ask for.”
Her touch ghosts over the fingers covering his ear. “Let me heal it, Essek. Please.”
Essek has never been able to refuse her anything. Not even that very first day when she had extended her arms toward him, so hopeful that she might receive a hug from someone of a foreign land, a man several decades her senior, her newly assigned steward, and a complete stranger besides.
And yet he had permitted it, all the same. There is no resisting Jester Lavorre. Essek suspects he has never even remotely wanted to.
He sighs as her healing pours into him, cool and soothing as a balm.
—
Essek! Me and Fjord and Kingsley are still picking up a few things from the village, so just make yourself at home, okay? See you!
Thank you, Jester. I will be there very soon. I am looking forward to seeing you again.
By now, Essek knows the house in Rumblecusp so well that it is easy enough for him to materialize directly indoors. Much improved from his first attempt at teleporting here.
“Oh, ah. Hallo.”
Essek startles so badly he drops his levitation. He whips around, a hand thrown reflexively out to defend himself, a spell ready on his lips.
He has to blink. And blink again.
But no, he is not imagining this.
Here is Caleb Widogast in the flesh, standing in Jester and Fjord's sitting room.
“Hello,” Essek manages, his throat very dry. He straightens his clothes automatically, resisting every urge to teleport right back to where he came from, component cost be damned. “I… I was not expecting to see you here.”
“Neither was I.” Caleb laughs, short and strained. “This must be Jester's doing, then.”
Spiderspawn and darkness. Essek does not know what to do with his hands. He clasps them tightly over his middle, willing himself to hold eye contact with Caleb.
“Your hair has grown,” Essek says without thinking. He immediately desires nothing more than to Dimension Door out of the house. Preferably over the cliff, if the distance could be managed. “Ah, what I mean to say is, you look well. I hear the trial proceedings are over?”
“Ja.” Caleb ducks his head slightly. “What a relief to finally have a moment to breathe. We are expecting the decision to be promulgated any day next month, if all goes smoothly.”
“Good. I heard public opinion was swayed heavily in your direction.”
“That helped a lot,” Caleb agrees. “And with the Cobalt Soul's assistance, we built up a solid case. The evidence should be enough to lock Ikithon away for good.”
“One down, at least.”
“There is a lot of ground left to cover.”
Essek shakes his head. “You have made a strong start toward eradicating a great evil in the Empire. You should be proud of the work you have done.”
“I… ja, you are right. Thank you.” Caleb scrubs at his beard with one hand. “It feels strange to say this in someone else's home, but would you like to sit down?”
Essek gingerly seats himself on one end of the couch, Caleb on the other. Between them, there would be enough space for Jester, Kingsley, and Fjord. It would be a tight fit, but they could manage if they tried hard enough.
Light above, Essek is so nervous. What does one do in situations like this? For years, he has quietly longed to see Caleb again, even after the way they parted. But now that he is here, Essek has no idea what to say. He forces himself to unclasp his fingers slightly—he can feel them growing numb from the lack of circulation.
It is some consolation that Caleb seems just as uncomfortable. “Thank you for still keeping in touch with me,” he finally says. “It was good to hear from you now and then. I… I often wondered how you were doing.”
Essek inclines his head. “Thank you for thinking of me.”
“Have you been well?”
He gestures briefly: one hand out, palm open. “As well as can be expected.”
Caleb accepts this without comment. “Will you permit me to ask where you've been?”
“I have been to too many places to mention without monopolizing the conversation.” Essek's lips quirk. “But most recently, I have been at Marquet.”
He feels, rather than sees, Caleb's eyes rake over his body, examining him. The thin fabric of his long-sleeved shirt, the airy linen pants. Heat is rising to Essek's face. He does not know why he is compelled to explain away his clothes, but he is.
“It is very warm there—you can imagine my usual layers are not suitable for the desert climate, unless I must veil myself for a sandstorm.”
“I have never been there,” Caleb says softly. “Is Jrusar as beautiful as it is described in the books?”
“No book does the city justice. The spires are breathtaking beyond words.”
“I am glad to hear that you have derived some pleasure from your travels.”
“It has not been all bad,” Essek acknowledges. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Caleb freeze.
“Not all? But some?”
“Ah.” Essek licks his lips. “Well. Risk is an inherent part of travel. You know this.”
A sharp intake of breath. The couch springs shift. Essek has to work very hard not to flinch when Caleb moves a few inches closer.
“Oh,” he breathes, dismay loud and clear in that one sigh. “Essek.”
He almost reaches up to cover his ear, but at the last second, he drops his hand back into his lap.
“It is not as ugly as it first was, you know,” Essek says to his folded hands, aiming for levity and landing somewhere nearer to self-pity. “Jester did her best, but even a cleric's magic cannot heal without leaving scars behind. Besides, it is a good thing. Vanity is a luxury I can no longer afford.”
Essek is rambling now. He clamps his mouth shut.
When he peeks up at Caleb, he is surprised to see him bent over, his face in his hands.
“Caleb?” Essek says uncertainly. “What is the matter?”
His shoulders rise and fall in a long breath. When he lifts his head, his blue eyes are red-rimmed and wet. Oh, no.
“I am sorry. Did I say something wrong?” Essek is absolutely helpless with longing. Would it be too much if he reached for Caleb, to touch him again? After all this time, would he still be permitted the privilege of affection?
But to his surprise, it is Caleb who reaches for him first, closing the gap between them to take Essek's hands in his.
Oh. Essek has forgotten just how warm Caleb is.
“Don't,” Caleb growls. “I should be the one apologizing to you, Essek, and it is an apology that is years overdue.”
“There was too much going on, you know this—”
“I am sorry I completed the work on the new spell before you arrived, even though I promised we would do it together.” Caleb lets out another shaky exhale. “I knew the pains you took to visit me. How careful you always were to tell me down to the hour when you would be arriving, so that I would know not to worry. I did not think. I should have. You were right, I did not understand at first what I had done wrong. I just thought you would be happy that the research for the spell was out of the way.” He lowers his eyes, as though ashamed. “I am sorry that I ever made you feel that I could not wait for you. I am so sorry, Essek. I cannot tell you how much.”
Essek swallows down the sob that is choking him. “You sound as though you have had that memorized for a while now.”
“I have. The last thing I wanted was to get it wrong again,” Caleb says. His hands are trembling. “I… I don't know. I was hopeful that maybe you would still want to give this another try. Give us another try.”
“Caleb—”
“You know, the cats still wait for you,” he says, speaking very fast, as though he is trying to get all the words out while he has the chance. “I see them sitting by the back door sometimes, where you always come in. And I tried to keep your clothes fresh, even laundered them a couple of times the first few months, hoping you would come back—”
“Caleb,” Essek interrupts, “you know why I could not return. We discussed it with Beauregard well before any of this even happened. The trial would be our top priority, we could not afford to jeopardize your prospects—”
“I know. It was stupid of me. But I hoped for it, all the same.” Caleb swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. Pauses to take another shaky breath. “Once my old master is dealt with, you are welcome to stay with me, as long as you want, whenever you want. Just as I promised you before.” His hands tighten around Essek’s. “You… you can call it home. If you want.”
“What do you want?”
“This. You.” Caleb twines their fingers together. “In whatever capacity you wish. For however long that may be.”
“Those are very wide parameters, Caleb Widogast,” Essek manages, so overwhelmed that he can no longer look Caleb in the eye.
“They are yours to adjust as you wish. Just… please.” Caleb leans forward, presses their foreheads together. “Do not ask me to be without you again. I don’t think I can stand it a second time.”
“Fuck, just kiss him already!” A voice yells from outside the front door, making both of them jump, then laugh when it is followed by a loud smack and a yelp of pain.
“Kingsley, shut up!”
An audible groan from Fjord. “Oh, now you’ve gone and ruined the moment.”
“We’ll kiss when we’re ready!” Caleb shouts back.
“You can,” Essek whispers before he loses his nerve. “If, ah. If you want.”
Gods, his heart is beating so loudly that he wonders if Caleb can hear it. Certainly, he must be able to feel Essek’s pulse with the hand cupped under his jaw.
Caleb’s laugh is a wet, broken sound. “You have no idea how much I want to, Essek.”
He swallows. Lifts his chin. “Then what are you waiting for?”
To Essek’s surprise, Caleb hesitates. His thumb brushes carefully over the ruined shell of Essek’s ear, making him shiver. He only has a moment’s notice before Caleb leans forward and kisses his ear right on its mangled edge.
“Caleb,” Essek protests, covering his ear and twisting away, but Caleb will not let him escape.
“You are as beautiful as ever, Essek. And now you look even more dangerous. I like it very much.”
“You would,” Essek says, rolling his eyes.
“I have a type.” Caleb is grinning so wide that his eyes are crinkling at the corners. He presses his lips to Essek’s forehead, the tip of his nose, his cheek, then the very corner of his mouth. “I missed you,” he says, the heat of the admission ghosting over Essek’s skin. “I missed you terribly, Essek. Every day, from the minute I woke, you were never far from my mind—”
Essek kisses him then, because if Caleb does not stop talking, he might begin to cry, and that is the last thing he wants to do where Kingsley Tealeaf can see him. The bliss lasts for exactly two seconds before he feels Caleb smile against his mouth at the cacophony of cheers that erupt behind the door.
“You should be ashamed of yourself for springing this on me,” he says to Jester much later, after several glasses of wine.
She sticks her tongue out at him. “You should be thanking me for getting you to talk to each other at least six months earlier than you would have if I left you both to it.”
He finds himself unable to marshal a counterargument to that. Jester smiles at him, beatific. “I give Caleb a nine out of ten for that confession—took a point off because he didn’t get on his knees, but maybe that can come later?”
Essek chokes on his wine. “Jester!”
“And yet you aren't denying it,” she says, grinning in triumph. “Anyway, I made you something, want to see?”
“For me?” He is so surprised that he forgets to be embarrassed. “What is it?”
“I was doing this outside and I was in a rush, so it’s not super nice, okay?”
She slips a folded piece of paper into his hand. When Essek opens it, he finds a simple pencil sketch. Two figures sitting next to each other, foreheads pressed together. One with a short, untidy mop of curls, a long ear torn along one edge. The other with long tousled hair in a ponytail falling across one shoulder, the curve of a rounded ear peeping through. Both their faces are tear-streaked, but both of them are smiling.
It is the first time Jester has ever drawn Essek.
“I didn't put too much detail into it because I know you worry about Caleb and people finding out about you and him and everything,” Jester says, watching Essek anxiously. “I can draw a better one next time—”
Esesk finds that all his words are stuck in his throat. Instead, he leans over and kisses her on the cheek.
Her eyes are as round as dinner plates when she touches her cheek with the tips of her fingers. She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.
Oh, wonder of wonders. The inexorable Jester Lavorre is actually blushing. Essek is thoroughly delighted.
“It… it's just a rough sketch,” Jester says after a long pause spent visibly grasping for something to say. “Nothing special.”
“I love it all the same,” Essek says. “And it is special. You drew it for me.”