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sockablock · 6 years

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Five times Caleb fell into the past and one time Molly helped him not to (inspired by this amazing drawing by @midnigtartist, read on AO3!)

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Things Left Behind

“I suggest you tell me the truth,” says Caleb, and before he even realizes what’s happened, there’s honey at the tips of his fingers and dripping from his tongue. The warm buzz of arcana, like bees or vibrating bowstrings, hums against his teeth for just a moment, before the spell leaps from his mouth and sinks into the squat, crooked-faced man standing before him.

Luckily—or perhaps not—Febron shakes away the accidental magic easily, and shoots Caleb an angry glare.

“I am telling you the bloody truth, you bastard, so keep your bullshit to yourself. I don’t appreciate you tryin’ to mess with my mind like that, you hear me? I said I’d guide you, and that’s what I’m doing, so if you don’t like it, you can piss off into the bloody swamp yourself.”

And as he shoves past, mumbling furiously all the way, Caleb can’t help but blink, still in shock, and hold his hand up to his eyes. The weak sunlight cutting through the clouds is just enough to reflect gold off the honey coating his nails. He hurriedly wipes it off against his faded coat, and flicks his wrist like it’s drenched in poison.

“It was a good try,” says Fjord with a shrug. “You had the right idea.”

“Danke,” mutters Caleb, but he can’t be sure that he did.

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Tonight they have a map spread out across their table in the small-town inn they’ve chosen for an evening’s rest. Jester and Molly are at the bar, picking up drinks, and Yasha stands closely by in case of trouble. In the booth, Nott holds her flask loosely with one hand, Fjord has a tired look in his eyes, Beau stares at the slightly-wrinkled paper with a thoughtful expression.

“We could cut through here,” she says, drawing a line across the valley with her finger. “It’ll be faster, that way, and easier on the cart.”

“Nein,” says Caleb immediately, shaking his head. “The armies will be using that path to cut across the empire to Xhorhas. Legions move slowly, prefer large tracts of flat land for travelling, and besides, we would run a large risk of running into decorated officers and important military figures there, whom I am sure we would like to avoid. This valley is the preferred route for many of Rexxentrum’s more renowned regiments.”

The low lamplight flickers in the silence.

Beau speaks first. “Why do you know that?” she asks.

Caleb balks, slightly. Under the table, his fingers twitch. “I do a lot of reading,” he says quietly. “I learned it from a book.”

“Really?” Beau raises an eyebrow. “They just throw military shit into books and let people read about it? Isn’t that, like, a security risk, or something?”

Caleb fidgets with his sleeve. “Apparently.” His tone is even more hushed now. “Perhaps they do not anticipate enough people would care to read about them.”

“Caleb is just that smart,” Nott says matter-of-factly, and a wave of gratitude washes over him. “He knows everything.”

Fjord grins, and gestures at the map. “Where do you recommend we go, then, o wise man?”

The edge of Caleb’s mouth quirks up into a tiny smile, and he points at a thin pass through a series of mountains. “Through here,” he says firmly. “We are a small group, and will do fine on this path, so long as we watch out for bandits.”

“That won’t be an issue,” says Beau, cracking her bandaged knuckles. “We eat bandits for breakfast.”

“I sure hope not,” grins Molly as he plunks a tray of flagons onto their table and slides into the booth on Caleb’s right. Jester and Yasha follow, scooting in next to Fjord. “I’d prefer sausages, if anything. Bandits always taste so bland.”

And Caleb, now looking steadfastly at the map, reaches for a mug, sighs, and schools his expression into one of calm and peace. He hopes it is convincing.

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In the quiet of their bedroom, Nott curled up on the mattress, Frumpkin slumbering peacefully at her side, Caleb’s eyes flash open. He stares up at the ceiling for just a moment, before sliding out of bed and pulling coat down with him. He takes a seat on the wooden floor, spreads his spellbook open on his lap, plucks three objects out of his pockets and sets them carefully down on the ground in front of him.

This conjuration is complicated beyond reason, he knows this, but right now, for some reason, in this strange flash of pure, unadulterated confidence, he also knows that he is one of the most powerful and most talented mages of his generation. He has mastered arcane rituals, conquered impossible rites, controlled the elements with ease and taken lives with a flick of his wrist. This is nothing. He has always been the golden child, he knows this, and right now the symbols and glyphs and syllables and gestures line up perfectly in his mind—he will not waste this opportunity, and he closes his eyes.

The ink in his book begins to glow a faint silver, and when he opens his mouth and the whispers come, they strengthen, brighten, leap from the pages and dance over the ivory, the marble, and the tiny spoon on the ground. He raises his hands, curls his fingers in the air, and they too come alight, he traces the outline of a door before him in the air, and with a firm snap of his fingers, it shudders into being. He sees a golden doorknob, elegant carvings in mahogany wood, a glass window in a small semicircle, he can feel the warmth beyond, the safety it holds, the pride in his endless ability and unrestricted talent—

—and then, without any ceremony, the door vanishes. The light fades. The room is dark once more.

For a few moments, Caleb only stares at the empty space in front of him. Then he shoves his spellbook out of his lap, and buries his head in his hands.

Between silent, wet sobs, he can hear a quiet voice hissing its angry admonishment into his ears.

“Failure, worthless, why did I ever waste my time with you, what have you ever accomplished, you are nothing, this is inexcusable, you are nothing, you are nothing, you are—”

There is a small hand on his back, and when his head jerks up he sees the wide, glowing yellow eyes of Nott staring back at him. “It’s okay,” she says quietly. “It’s alright. I…um…it’s okay, Caleb.”

She wraps him into a hug, and he hangs his head against her shoulder. “I am sorry,” he says softly. “Did the magic wake you?”

She shook her head. “Your whispering did. It was in Zemnian, so I didn’t understand it, but it didn’t sound so good. I…I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Behind him, outlined in the moonlight, are the scattered objects from his spell, and his fallen book. He closes his eyes. “Not really, spatz,” he sighs, and tries for a small smile. “Thank you, though. I…I mean it. Thank you.”

She nods, and hugs him tighter.

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A blinding burst of purple light means Jester has summoned her lollipop, and is about to rain hell down on the stone giant. But then its massive, gnarled club slams into her side, and her limp form goes scattering across the rocks and slows to a standstill at the cliff’s edge. All of them immediately whip around to look, and their eyes go wide as the giant hefts its massive club for a second, fatal strike against their fallen friend.

“Kill it!” Fjord screams, voice visceral with anger, “Kill that thing, right now, kill it!”

Caleb’s eyes glaze over. Perhaps it was something about the words, or the cadence of Fjord’s command, or the sight of a fallen ally, but instantly his fingers blacken like charcoal and his veins glow with fire and five roaring spheres of bright-white flame are rocketing out of his hands and soaring towards the giant, all five striking its head and setting it ablaze. It screams with agony, clutches desperately at its burning face, until it drops to its knees and the clubs tumbles away and the giant falls silent and the only sound left is a strange gurgling, and the final crackle of embers on skin. And then just smoke, and the acrid smell of burnt flesh.

Later, when Jester thanks him profusely for saving her life, when they clap his back and congratulate him on his quick shot, he only feels terror. The smell does not go away. Its screams ring in his ears. His friends’ hands all blur together until six become three: a boy’s, a girl’s and another, older, gripping tight and full of icy pride.

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He doesn’t know why, when it happens. One second, everything had been fine. And then the dried grass had turned into hay, the wood had melted into the frame of a horse-cart, and the stars above suddenly looked like they had a lifetime ago, over the slumbering village of Blumenthal in the peaceful Zemni Fields.

And then suddenly, as he snaps his fingers, all he can see is a raging inferno, and just as the sparks jump towards the fire-pit, he lunges forward and snatches the embers out of the air with one hand.

It hurts. Caleb hadn’t burned himself like this in years, not under the careful tutelage of his teacher, not under the watchful eyes of the academy, not even out in dirty city alleyways, after the asylum, after fire had stopped being his friend.

This pain is almost foreign. Even with his keen, keen mind, Caleb had nearly forgotten what it felt like.

And then the animalistic side of him screams out, shakes his palm, and the rest of the Nein instantly drop their own camp-making preparations and rush to his side.

“Are you alright?” Nott asks frantically.

Caleb slowly unfurls his hand. In the middle of his palm, shining bright and angry against his skin, is a massive, terrible blister, glaring, black at the center where the sparks had hit.

“What happened, dear?” Molly asks incredulously. “What did you do?”

He shakes his head. “I…I am not certain. But…it hurts, a bit.” His breath hitches at the end, slightly, and he winces.

“Here,” Jester says, beginning to reach into her bag, “here, I’ve got—”

Molly cuts her off. “I’ve got it,” he says. “The rest of you should go back to getting ready. Alright?”

They all exchange tentative glances. Then they shrug and do so, Nott the last to leave after giving Caleb a calming pat on the arm. And then she too vanishes back to the corners of their campsite, leaving tiefling and wizard alone by the stone circle.

Molly pulls out a bandage and a small jar and with Caleb’s permission, unscrews the lid and takes two fingers and spreads a salve across Caleb’s palm.

It is cool, and Caleb instantly feels better. His shoulders untense, slightly.

“What is that?” he asks.

The tiefling’s lips quirk into a smile. “Burn remedy,” he says. “I’m surprised you don’t carry it around, what with your tendency to use flames, and all.”

Caleb sighs. “I don’t usually injure myself like this,” he says softly. “It usually doesn’t hurt.”

Molly finishes applying the cool medicine, and pulls out a roll of bandages. He begins wrapping it around Caleb’s hand.

“What happened this time?” he asks.

Caleb pointedly stares at the ground. It is Molly’s turn to sigh. “You don’t have to say anything, if you don’t want to.”

Caleb shakes his head. “It was an accident,” he relents. “I…I panicked, for some reason, and tried to stop the fire. I am not sure why. I have done this hundreds of times before.” The last sentence is laden with frustration.

Molly shrugs. “Sometimes it takes a hundred times for something to sink in. For you to realize things. Sometimes it happens right away.”

Caleb raises an eyebrow. “What is your meaning?” he asks.

Molly chuckles, and ties of the bandage with a small knot. “Nothing at all, my dear,” he says. And then he looks at the firepit, and back at Caleb. “Will you be trying to light that again?”

Caleb considers his hand, now thoroughly wrapped. Despite the balm, something still stings. “I…I am not sure,” he says. “I do not want to.”

Molly nods, and reaches into his bag once more, before pulling out a piece of flint, and a flat stone. “What if we tried using this?”

Caleb blinks with surprise, and then looks apologetic. “I…er…I do not know how to use that.”

Molly raises an eyebrow. “Really? Not at all?”

Caleb’s expression turns sheepish, and his cheeks color. “No, Mollymauk. I have never, er, I have never needed to.”

Molly laughs at that. “Come here, dear,” he says, motioning for Caleb to move forward and take the objects. “I’ll show you.”

He accepts the flint with one hand, holds the rock with the other, and sits closer to the firepit. Molly moves behind Caleb, and then leans so that their hands are touching.

“Is this alright?” the tiefling asks, rather close to his ear.

Caleb’s cheeks are colored for an entirely different reason now, but he nods. “Ja,” he says, it is fine.”

“Alright then,” grins Molly. “Here we go.”

It takes a few tries, Molly’s fingers wrapped around Caleb’s and chest pressed into his back, but eventually sparks leap when they strike their hands together, and a small fire blooms into life at the center of the pit.

After a second, Molly moves away.

Caleb glances at his hands, now darkened, the fresh bandage grey, and then back at the fire. Its embers did not come from him. This feeling is more confusing than pain from a burn. He…he truly cannot remember the last time he worked for flames like this. Strangely, it is satisfying. This is not something fed to him by books, or forced onto him by the academy, or shoved into his arms by Trent.

This is honest.. This is safe. This is his own.

His own and…and…

He turns to Molly, and when he glances up at the firelight dancing in Molly’s ruby-red eyes, there is no fear, no sickening pride, no suffocating expectations and no empty promises.

There is only warmth.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

There is a wide grin from the tiefling. “Of course, dear. Anything for you. Why don’t you hold onto those, for me? Next time you don’t feel like magicking a fire, just use that.”

Caleb looks back down at the flint and stone in his hands. He smiles a tiny, tiny smile.

“I will.”

And, next time, he does.

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