#omniaxmutantur

@omniaxmutantur

@omniaxmutantur

He was too exhausted to be tired. Caleb had known going against Trent would be bad, but he had never expected it to be this bad. He should have. The moment his friends started dying, Caleb found himself hoping they would all perish; he knew what the fate of those that lived would be. When he came to consciousness bound to a table and heard Jester’s voice pleading, he found himself thinking a terrible thought.

‘I’m glad Molly was already dead.’

The sounds his friends made were familiar to him. He had illicited those sounds once, he knew what caused them, what made the screams pitch higher and the sobs more desperate. Caleb had, honestly, believed he didn’t have much heart left to break.

He was wrong.

His ability to keep a straight face and control himself lessened and weakened as fatigue set in, exhaustion bringing him back to base emotions he could not hide. He could only think of Jester, who’d already been captured and hurt before, only then they’d saved her and he’d quietly sworn to himself it would never happen again. Another promise broken. Beau, who was so damn stubborn and such a very good, loyal, trustworthy friend, who he would have seen make the world a better, fairer place because she didn’t put up with bullshit.

It was no surprise that Nott was worst. Of course Trent had saved her for last. Wordless, he sobbed at her through the mirror, wrists chafed bloody because all he wanted was to reach out, shield her from this, his sister - a substitute-family member more real and good than Trent or Astrid or Eodwulf had ever been to him. Every word she said, as kind and positive as it was, cut into him just a little deeper, so much that he expected he’d start bleeding from phantom wounds any moment. He didn’t. What a pity.

Giving in was easy, after that.

Caleb knew he should be angry. Trent had taken a second family from him, had cracked him open to suck the marrow out of him, again. He should be burning up with a need for vengeance, he knew it was in him somewhere. He had felt it, once. He could not find it. His cheeks were wet, there was no fire. The kiss should make him snap and spit and thrash, but his lips trembled and his eyes closed (he wanted to sleep, sleep so badly, please).

“They were home.” He choked on the last word, burst into a string of sobs which took a good couple of seconds to bite back and swallow down. For a blink of a moment, he remembered what breaking had felt like, back then; and he felt how close to that dangerous edge he was, now. “One day, one day-” Caleb wasn’t even sure what he was going to say. “I will- I would have traded-”

“Shh... shhh, it’s alright.” Trent stroked his hair and kissed his forehead. “I’ll take care of you now, Caleb, you’re home.” he whispered, hands that had just torn apart three people over as many days now gentle, soft, clean, on Caleb. 

The world seemed to swirl around Caleb, as he was untied and stripped, but the hands on him- students and workers and Trent himself- they were soft and gentle, the water that washed him was warm and the towels were soft, but not as soft as the warm clothes he was dressed in, as a teenager with a gap toothed, nervous grin, wrapped his chaffed wrists in clean bandages. 

He smiles lopsidedly, in spite of himself. “Oh, nein. The thread is for people hiding their danger.” Caleb has no doubts that Mollymauk will always have a fair bit of pretense about him - don’t they all? - but he’s starting to feel that at least he can trust him when it comes to the Important Things.

“What I mean-” Caleb makes a small frustrated gesture, a literal grasp for the words in Common he cannot find, groggy from lack of sleep as he is. “It was supposed to be a compliment, of sorts.” He watches Molly’s hands do their thing, unconsciously breathes in a little deeper as hot water meets herbs and spices. “Real danger is in people pretending to be safe. You are more of a calculated risk.”

Caleb huffs at the hot bread joke, but gratefully accepts the drink. It makes his fingers tingle. “Danke, Mollymauk. It’ll do.”

“I wear my danger on my sleeve,” he chuffs with a note of theatrical pride.

Molly follows along with a mild smile as Caleb casts about for words. He’d help if he could, but he can’t fathom what shapes the wizard is trying to speak into existence, and besides, watching him fumble brings its own kind of amusement.

“We should work on your compliments,” he teases, stretching his arms across the bench’s seat back. He rests an ankle on the opposite knee, peels his gaze away from Caleb to survey the sparsely treed flatlands around them. The wind murmurs through the needles, bringing with it nothing suspicious to note save the yips of some kind of wild dog, far, far away. “Though that’s not bad. I’ve been called worse.”

He pauses, tilts his head Caleb’s way, ribbing continuing, “It’s the tattoos, isn’t it? The horns? Can’t get rid of those.” Molly eases up a degree to give the tin in Caleb’s hands a gentle tap. “Lifted the recipe from Bo. Swapped the tea to whiskey ratio since that man had a hollow leg. You get all the heat, none of the hangover.”

Something tells him he didn’t quite deliver that the way it should’ve been.

“Ah, no-” Caleb scrubs a palm over his face. “..it was supposed to be a joke.” Some people said Zemnian’s couldn’t joke. Maybe they were right.

He fumbled with a loose thread on his coat, wishing he had a book to hide behind now. “You don’t keep me up.”

     Mollymauk’s eyes narrow for a moment as he attempts to figure out the joke. It’s gone completely over his head, but he still wants to encourage this side of Caleb. “Oh--oh! Ah yes, of course. Wasn’t expecting humour this early, is all. So you slept well? You seem in lighter spirits, today.”

@omniaxmutantur

The difference between Caleb when sober and intoxicated is obvious and immediate. He looks more comfortable in his skin. Still, not overly affectionate, but his movement flows better. He fidgets less.

“Nott, Nott-” He beckons her over, holding up his book. Because of course even drunk Caleb finds joy in books first and foremost. There’s a half-empty wineglass next to him and his cheeks are flushed.

He’s pointing at the margin of the spellbook, at comments that are most certainly not spells. It’s the scribe’s complaints. ‘Thank gods it will soon be dark’ and ‘now I’ve written this whole thing, please give me a drink’.

Nott thought sometimes she liked Caleb better this way. It wasn’t often he was like this, but he was so much more at ease with himself like this. Nott drank to calm herself down. The anxiety of getting caught or discovered or needing to take something and knowing she’d put the group in danger. It was a little much. She knew Caleb had plenty of his own anxiety, drinking seemed to help him too. But he did tend to get a little silly. Not that it was a bad thing, but Nott could do better in a fight while drunk.

“Yes, Caleb?” Nott looked curious, climbing up in the chair beside him. She looked at the book, frowning curiously at the margin scrawling. This wasn’t Caleb’s handwriting. Her eyes went wide.

He drew a ragged breath, slumping against her, and groaned, sobbed, his lungs empty again. “D-danke-”

@omniaxmutantur

“You would of stiffened up and made it difficult if I had actually done it on three, Caleb.”

She has no problems holding him up, arms holding him just tight enough. A hand reaching up to brush through auburn hair and soft lips pressing against his forehead 

The moment he is holding it, he realises he was wrong. “Oh.” It’s not the kind of sword he thought it was. The weight indicates it’s for aesthetic purposes rather than the real ceremonial swords that were used by his-

Well. No need to think about it now.

“Sorry Jester. I was mistaken.” Caleb swallows something down. “Entschuldigung, you can have it. It’s a pretty sword, I suppose.”

Jester waits patiently, well, as patiently as she can be. Hands behind her back as she stares at him intently, as if she could pick apart what he was doing by watching. 

She can’t.

So she takes the sword back, it’s not heavy for her, and it’s actually ridiculously garish when you really looked at it. Not really her taste. 

“It’s kinda ugly, don’t you think?” 

She swings it a few times, away from him of course.