written

Our love was slow. I think he was shy, he says I was rather bold. I like to think I just couldn’t help myself, even if it meant bending a few expectations. We married six years later, on the last day of autumn. He came across the revelation that sparked the Project the next night. I remember how he held me, so tight I thought I would never find a safer place than his arms.

You read so many stories of husbands lost to their work. Mine was never lost to me. He was mine even in his worst moments, in the moments of feverish philosophy. I remember, in our third year of marriage, he did come down with fever. I worried so much then; the way he tossed and turned in restless sleep, the incessant rambling of indecipherable thought. I had tried to write it down for him, but when he finally pulled through he had less of an idea of the notes’ meaning than I.

He had his position at the university, as I had my own work, finances were never the worry. Between our schedules, and his time in his study and mine in the library, there was always time for us. Once, I had taken ill with the season, and to my knowledge for the fortnight I was laid up with fever he did not once leave my side, except for to fetch us food and new books. Even when he had to leave for work, he left notes on a small pile of reading for me should I have felt well enough. He was so utterly dedicated to that which he loved.

It has only been recently that I feel a change occurred.

It was not long after our fifteenth anniversary that it happened. Nothing in his behaviors changed, nor did his manner towards me, I think it was his perspective on the Project. Some unfathomable shift in his mind. It is all so unclear.

I do not think I am much longer for this world, forgive me, but I must move along. That which is unknown to me is not particularly pressing.

The firelight had swept out. That is the best way I can understand it. It was as if some great shadow had come across the fireplace. And then it flickered back to life. I don’t know what it was, but some Thing in my gut told me it was him and his Project and at long last he had crossed a threshold not meant for him.

I moved faster than I had in some time, the candlelight in the halls of our house flickering in and out without so much as a breath and found myself at the door of the study. Unlocked. Shadows dancing from beneath the crack of the door. Labored breathing, so familiar to my old heart. I pressed on, the wood of the door so cold to the touch I thought it almost ice.

And there he was. He was mine, as he had always been, but something was so changed I fear I cannot put it into words. I could scarcely comprehend it when it was before me.

It was as if he was not truly there. I remember he turned towards me, and he wore that smile of his. But the grimace behind it showed the tooth that should have been chipped, and it was just as perfectly shaped as I imagine it once was. He told me he was sorry. He told me it was not death but we must part and I think I started to cry and that is when he stood from his chair and put his arms around me.

I have never felt so alone. His arms were nothing, a wisp, cold against me. I did not even try to hold him, that anchor deep within me telling me whatever nothing was left of him would break me more than anything.

He thanked me. And he apologized as he had so many times before in that voice he used only for me, that his work would take him far. He said he loved me and I felt ice in my throat when he kissed my cheek. He pulled away and I have never felt such anger as that at my relief at the warmth in his absence. He took me by the shoulders, and he said to me: “I have loved you more than I think any one person has ever loved. If I forget you I think my heart will always remember, and if my mind and your memory remain, then I shall spend every moment wishing I was different and that I might have made you happy.”

The shadows in the curls of his hair stretched, the darkness under his collar becoming a secondary maw, the pool of darkness below his feet a gaping pit. I reached for him and I can only hope that the outstretched shadow of an arm was the last vestige of his rather than my own.

His glasses were perched tidily atop a neatly stacked pile of notebooks and paper on his desk.

Lying had come naturally, like a compulsion he couldn’t help but wrap himself in and let it seep into his skin. It was so much easier to drink of and mangle the body of truth when it came knocking. And though he had never heard it spoken, as so many of the rules of his undeath had been quietly learned, he was never quite sure if the lies were part of him, some joke meant to plague those who reveled in it less, or if he had just always been that way, and it had been exaggerated in the transformation.

Humanity had not always been so strange to him. Once he had been a child, as most things have been, and he had bled and breathed and bounded across the stages of life. He was sure there had been an old family, though he no longer remembered the name they had given him. They had mattered so little after he had been bitten.

Where the memories of youth and life shine so bright, the time before he had fully transformed had always been gray and hazy. Just the pain of being drained but the unnatural fulfillment brought by the trance he had been under. 

He had never taken thralls. It was a cruelty he couldn’t quite stomach. Or perhaps it had been the threat of responsibility. 

And the sharpness of transmogrification. The way the world itself had become more angled, more vicious to even look at. The comfort in the dark and the biting fire of attempts to exist under the sun. The pain so great and terrible anything he had ever felt and would ever feel would pale in comparison.

He wasn’t sure if undoing the change had hurt more, or if the act had simply reminded him what suffering was.

The wall ahead of him blank, he reeled his thoughts away from the memories. Stopped himself from the same spiral he fought every morning. Slowly, he climbed out of the bed, bones groaning without the old strength holding them up and muscles straining without supernatural aid. He sipped the water he had left for himself the night before, swishing the taste of copper out of his mouth.

He turned, glancing at the window, curtains shoddily drawn across. The bookshelves, less dusty than they had been in innumerable decades, almost new bedsheets despite their age, carpet from centuries prior only now seeing foot traffic. 

And the door, still locked from the other side. 

He closed his eyes again, feeling his weight on his feet. Letting his shoulders slump and his chin fall against his chest, he breathed. In, out, air still the stranger in his lungs as it had been when he had woken up every day since he tore the fangs from his mouth and the bloodlessness from his veins.

He readied himself for the wailing at his door come dusk, for the books he would more likely than not read time and time again until mortality at long last claimed him.

Essek stood in the centre of the ninth floor of Caleb’s tower, watching images of himself walk the endless possibilities around him. Hundreds of lifetimes, so similar and so different to the one he had lived. To stand in this room⁠— it was a line of thought he had followed late into many nights, wondering what and who he might have been in some other life. If the threads of fate would have pulled him so hard towards people who he did not deserve.

He remembered as a child being told the story of how the Luxon had tied glowing strings of fate between destined people, people who would complete each other in some way. Soulmates. Essek hadn’t believed the story, after all he had never seen any glowing string tied to him. He remembered the odd look his younger brother had given him when he had made some offhand comment about it, followed by Verin holding up his hand and tracing an invisible line through the air. Essek thought Verin was joking for so long.

It was barely before his first century had passed when he had realized that there was no joke.

He had been working at some theory or another, and within the space of a breath something had pulled tight around his heart for just a moment. He had put a hand on his chest, suddenly fearing illness. But no⁠— there was a pale, glowing string tied around the small finger of his hand.

The details of the story had come rushing to his head; you would see a thread tied around your own hand, but you would only see the connecting thread when you had met your soulmate. The Luxon, as he had been told, had wanted people to work towards it and learn, not obsess over it and ruin themselves.

But it was real. Essek had spent nights reworking the number of his theories after the discovery. He hadn’t told anyone⁠— not that anyone outside Verin knew that he hadn’t seen one. If Verin remembered, in any case.

Although the discovery of the existence of soulmates had been a shock, Essek still felt a wave of anxiety and shock whenever the memory of discovering who his string had tied him to surfaced. He took a deep breath as he let the memory wash over him.

The Mighty Nein had been marched into the halls of the Lucid Bastion, and Essek had almost dropped the spell that kept him afloat as he very suddenly had seen a glowing line drawn between him and Caleb. It was only slightly less of a shock now that he knew the other wizard’s name, but seeing him then, dirty and harnessed and holding up the beacon he had traded to the Empire, had shaken him to his core.

He had ignored it for so long, hoping perhaps Caleb simply didn’t see the string as Essek had slowly and against his will had grown to care about the Nein. He felt his brows pull together as he sighed, again feeling the tug at his heart for betraying the family the Nein had become to him and the betrayal he had done before he even knew their names.

That, on top of his growing feelings for Caleb⁠— he had never been able to tell what had been pulling at him when Caleb had pressed a kiss to his forehead or gently squeezed his forearm. When he had reassured Essek, his Zemnian accent echoing in Essek’s ears. If it had been the string tugging at proximity or his own affections.

Not that it mattered, or ever would.

He could stand here and look at the wonder Caleb had created, watching different lifetimes of himself walk paths that may never have connected with Caleb, or that hadn’t involved betrayal and deals with the Empire as long as he wanted, but it would not change the facts of this lifetime. Of the limited and limitless possibilities this timeline offered.

If Caleb could not see the string connecting them, that was fine. He would never speak of it, just as he would never speak of his feelings. If Caleb could see the string and was choosing to ignore it just as he was, it was just another similarity between them. And another difference, albeit an expected one, in that Caleb very likely did not feel the same.

How was it possible to be so similar to someone and be so different and yet be connected by the very thread that wove the universe?

Essek almost had to laugh, but the building pressure behind his eyes stopped him from anything other than a short exhale as he paused in his thinking, letting himself indulge in possibility for just a moment.

With Lucien and the threat of the Somnovum eliminated perhaps he could truly build a friendship unbroken by betrayal with the Nein. Essek would leave his position as Shadowhand, and remove himself from the politics of the Dynasty. He would quell his ambitions, and quietly spend his days studying. Perhaps Caleb would be there. Maybe they could open a school, rivalling the Soltryce Academy in renown, and teach until Caleb passed. Caleb could leave this world having left a footprint that erased the mark Ikithon had left. Then Essek’s string would fade and he would move on and simply study and learn until his own time came, and perhaps he would be buried in the Clay family’s cemetery. 

Essek blinked away the wet in his eyes, smiling grimly and shaking his head free of the fantasy. After all, that’s what it was. It was unlikely he would see a natural end, and it would be a wonder if he could extricate himself from the mess of lies and politics that awaited him should he ever return to Rosohna. That aside, he couldn’t claim to know what Caleb or the rest of the Mighty Nein wanted. Much less if they still wanted him around. He was being irrational. 

Perhaps he simply needed to rest, and all this turmoil could be forgotten in the morning. He would gracefully excuse himself from the Nein, they would be glad to see him go, and he would go to Rosohna, where he would surely be put to death for treason and that would be the end of it.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,”  Caleb’s voice sounded from behind him. Essek swiped a hand over his face, internally wincing as he turned and watched that glowing string bridge the distance between him and Caleb where he stood at the entrance to the room.

“No, not at all.” Essek let the words fall into the air, his surprise showing more than he would have liked as he let his eyes remain on the string.

“I didn’t know you were up here, I thought-” Caleb paused, and Essek couldn’t stop his gaze from flicking up to meet Caleb’s eyes, “Can you see it too?” 

Essek started, blinking and pulling the hand where the string was tied to his chest. “I-” He paused just for a moment, letting possibilities flow through his mind, “Yes. I wasn’t aware you could see it too.” Essek took a breath, and resigned himself to leaving in the night. “Were you ever taught what it means, living in the Empire?”

Caleb’s cheeks flushed with colour as he responded, breaking eye contact. “In a way, I suppose. There was a story my mother told me, that some people were brought together by destiny. I think for a time I believed her, but I always thought it was just a story.”

“I thought it was a story, too.” Essek pressed his lips together, and wished that his self-restraint had not failed him as he took a small step towards Caleb. “In the Dynasty, I was taught that the Luxon had connected certain people with string. Soulmates, meant to complete each other.” Essek looked away, at the string that crossed the suddenly very small seeming distance between them.

“That is not unlike the story I was taught.” Essek heard more than saw as Caleb took a step closer, and began a second step as he spoke, “Essek, I-”

“I know.” Essek looked up into the sea of possibility of the room, swallowing. “You don’t want to act on it, I understand. I-” Essek felt his head pulled to meet those piercing blue eyes, Caleb’s hands suddenly cupping his face. “Oh.” Essek felt blood rush to his face as he exhaled, eyes wide.

The moment stretched endless between them.

“May I?” Caleb’s voice made Essek’s breath hitch, pulling him back to his body as he nodded.

Caleb’s hands moved up into Essek’s hair, pulling him down to his level as their lips met. Essek felt that pull at his heart as he let his feet touch the floor, but as he pulled away, breathless, he knew he would never have been able to live that fantasy life without Caleb.

The battle was not going well. 

They had gone in with a plan: surround the Tomb Takers on all sides and keep the magic users separated so they couldn’t all be taken out at once by Lucien’s anti-magic eye. And it had turned the tide in their favour. For a time.

But now Essek was just scrambling for an idea while trying to stay out of Lucien’s path. And trying to make sure that every last member of the Mighty Nein made it.

He could see Beau still standing, Yasha by her side. Veth sprinted throughout the cavern they were in, firing bolt after bolt. Caduceus and Fjord within a tornado of iridescent beetles, flashes of magic showing through. Jester not far off, or was that her duplicate? 

The Tomb Takers had been scattered, and while Lucien stood at the centre of the chaos his remaining followers flew in and out of Essek’s field of vision as he searched for Caleb. Flashes of magic, a counterspell, bolts and gleaming metal⁠— 

He saw Beau’s legs fall out from under her, Jester’s duplicate popped out of existence, a strangled but familiar cry echoed in the cavern.

No⁠. 

They would not die here. The Tomb Takers would be felled, and his friends⁠— his family, would live. And they would be whole and good and safe. The Mighty Nein had trusted him, taken him in, given him nothing but kindness he had done nothing to deserve. He was already damned but he would ruin himself before he let them die. 

An idea of a spell flickered in the back of his mind.

There.

Following Lucien’s line of sight, Essek found Caleb.

The wizard was frantically rifling through his pockets, components falling used with no effect from his hands. Lucien stalked towards him, tail cracking through the air as he moved.

The spell clicked into place in Essek’s mind. He remembered learning it, delicately copying it into his spellbook as he had decided he would never use it. 

His hands already held the components before he remembered why he made that decision.

It didn’t matter anymore. He was on borrowed time and he would let the sand run from his hourglass if that meant more for them.

The words of the spell tasted sour on his tongue, burning as he pulled his hands through the air, feeling the space between them thicken like tar. He pulled at it, spinning it over into itself and crushing it into an ever-smaller sphere, over and over and over again. With each motion Essek felt the spell tear at his body, pulling his joints apart and darkening the edges of his vision.

He gritted his teeth, inhaling once, and letting the last word of the spell fall into place and shoving the spell into Lucien, a sudden wind ripping through his hair as pain stabbed down his spine.

Black spidered across his vision as he felt the spell take hold.

Every single inch of his body burned as he felt his knees buckle, pain rippling through his muscles and crushing his bones to dust.

He hit the ground and there was nothing.

Almost nothing.

Essek blinked without eyes. Stars glittered in a sky that did not exist. He floated, feet firmly on unseen ground. He felt everything and nothing.

It was wonderful and terrible all at once.

He thought he smiled.

“Breathe, Essek, come on you stupid wizard!” 

Eyelids that very suddenly existed flew open, and air flooded very real lungs, immediately followed by a hiss through his teeth as pain blinded him and he saw that field of stars and impossibility for just a moment.

There.

Blue eyes, bright with something he couldn’t name quite yet, framed with familiar orange hair. Essek locked onto them, letting the rest of his vision slowly fill in around the eye contact with… 

Caleb, that’s who the eyes belonged to. At the back of his mind he saw hours flipping through books, eyes meeting briefly before looking away. 

Essek didn’t want to look away anymore.

In his periphery, memories filled in as he processed the scene. A house with a tree growing from it, a dinner, a homemade hot tub, a party, hours of trekking and planning in the snow. Blue hair and blue monk’s robes, green beetles and green skin, faded yellow flowers and a bright yellow dress. Hushed voices and boisterous laughter.

They were all there. They had all made it.

He had made it.

Essek pulled himself from his memories, looking from face to face, putting names back in place.

He found Caleb’s gaze again, holding it. The other wizard’s face split into a grin, and Essek felt his own lips stretch into an identical shape.

Essek was not quite sure what he was doing. Well, he was sure that at the moment he was making sure he had every component he needed in his component pouch, but the was more likely than not just a way to keep his hands occupied so he’d stop nervously wringing them and drifting back and forth across the library of Caleb’s tower. Come to think of it, Caleb was probably where he picked up the component counting. Which was not terribly unexpected. It was certainly less unexpected than the reaction he was currently having.

The reaction being due to what Essek was rather unsure about: asking Verin if he would join them for some battle or another. He couldn’t remember the exacts of the excuse he’d told to both his brother and the Nein. He hoped he wouldn’t need to, neither had been particularly hard to convince. The Nein had wanted to know why they hadn’t met Verin sooner, and Verin himself was too kind-hearted to say no unless he had been particularly swamped with his post in Bazzoxan.

Essek almost wished Verin had said he was busy. Then he could have pretended to be disappointed with the rest of the Mighty Nein and said that they would just have to go to Bazzoxan without him if they were so set on meeting his brother on the grounds that he still didn’t want to be anywhere near Rosohna.

But then there were the reasons he had really invited Verin. He had wanted his blood family and the family he had found in the Nein to meet, yes, but there was also the matter of Caleb. Who he was desperately, hopelessly in love with and wanted to propose to. 

Not that he really deserved Caleb. Caleb had goals for the good of others, all his wrongs had been put upon him, all his acts had been under the influence of someone far crueller. Whereas Essek had only ever done what he wanted. What would benefit him alone, consequences be damned. Sure he had made an effort since, as much as he could, but his actions were still far from forgivable. The voices of the Nein seemingly so long ago, echoed in his head. Thousands have died, Essek. And his brother⁠— always so much more than Essek had ever been. More of a son, and just as much if not more than the pride of their den than he had been. Essek was the Shadowhand, however long that would continue to last, but Verin was not any less for being the younger of the pair and being titled Taskhand.

Maybe he should just tell Verin not to come. That he was needed more in Bazzoxan. He would forget proposing to Caleb, so they needn’t meet. He would leave the Mighty Nein in the night and he would never worry anyone again.

The last of his components fell into place in his pouch.

The iris at the bottom of the library opened, Caleb gently floating through, that slight smile on his lips but a nervousness in his eyes as he looked toward Essek.

“Your brother is at the door, Liebling, and I do think Jester can only keep him there for so long,” Caleb walked to where Essek stood, gently taking his hands, “are you coming?” Caleb looked up at him, meeting his gaze.

Essek took a shuddering breath. No. “I think I can make meeting my own brother.”

Caleb raised his eyebrows appraisingly, sighing. “Alright.” He pressed a kiss to Essek’s cheek, and whispered: “And just in case you were feeling nervous, Beau and Yasha promised to keep you safe.” He pulled away, linking their fingers. “I said I would be okay, but Veth insisted that if your brother is more of a fighter I’m not much protection, I’m too squishy.”

Essek felt himself exhale, laughing despite himself at Veth’s protectiveness of Caleb. “Thank you, Caleb.” He let himself smile, squeezing Caleb’s hand. He took a breath, exhaled again. “I’m ready.”

He let Caleb guide him to the iris, which closed as they floated down to the second floor where Beau and Yasha waited, Yasha’s sword swung over her shoulder while her other hand tucked a flower behind Beau’s ear. The don’t-even-think-about-mentioning-it glare Beau gave Essek and Caleb should have been enough to make the flower shrivel if it had been the subject of it.

“Ready?” Beau asked, one foot over the iris down as she and Yasha looked to Essek. He nodded, and the now group of four began to descend.

Essek felt his fears rise in his throat, and was about to tell Caleb they needed to stop, but the other wizard squeezed his hand as if he knew, and nodded his head to where Jester was keeping Verin at the door with Veth beside her in the doorway, Caduceus and Fjord nearby, grins stretching across their faces. Jester’s obvious excitement was contagious, even as he was only just hearing her voice, and with Caleb at his side, it was almost hard to be nervous. Almost.

“Jester!” Beau called as their feet hit the ground of the entrance floor. “You can let him in now!”

“Okay!”

And suddenly Verin was inside, all chitinous armour and long hair, but smiling good-naturedly.

Jester was immediately all questions, after a small apology about the whole password situation, she really was sorry he hadn’t figured it out sooner but now she had so many things to ask!

“Is Verin taller than you?” Yasha leaned slightly down from his left and asked.

“I-” Essek barely had time to think about a response before Beau interjected.

“Wait, did you learn your floating thing so you weren’t shorter than your younger brother?” Beau whispered loudly around Caleb. Essek felt his face flush and was very thankful Jester was keeping Verin occupied.

“Essek!” Verin’s gleeful shout echoed in the chamber.

Or not.

Before he knew it, Essek was swept up in his brother’s arms, and just as quickly released as Verin pushed silver-white hair out of his face.

“It’s been too long, Essek, you are alone too much. Although,” Verin looked to the three surrounding Essek and gestured to the rest of the Nein, “this is an improvement from that tower you have at home.” He paused again, heaving a sigh and putting a hand on his hip, armour whistling with the movement. “So what was it that you needed my help fighting again?”

Essek scrambled for whatever lie he had told his brother, “Oh, well,” His brow briefly furrowed as some movement behind Verin caught his eye, “I don’t know if you’ve heard of it, it’s quite similar to-”

“This!” Essek heard Veth yell, and in a flash of green a massive, red ape-like demon was howling into the room.

“Not in the tower!” Caleb yelled before a string of Zemnian poured from his lips and his hands slipped into his component pouch. 

Essek really was not adjusted to adventuring. The Aeorian ruins had revealed yet another secret in the form of fungus. There was the deadly frigid woe that had kept him especially wary of any spore-adjacent things to begin with, then the heat-seeking mold, and now this. He felt his pulse pound in his head and winced, taking a breath and peeling his eyes open.

His vision was blurry and his muscles ached, but he had enough of his wits about him and enough sight to check and recheck any visible veins, making sure for the last time it wasn’t frigid woe. 

It wasn’t, but he almost wished it was, at least then perhaps Caduceus or Jester could find some direction to cure whatever ailed him. He knew it was spore related⁠— he remembered them coming across a strange cavern, covered half in ice but even the cold couldn’t kill the strange mushrooms covering most of the remaining space. They had carefully been making a path avoiding the mushrooms as much as they could based on a hunch Caduceus had about what they were. He didn’t quite know what happened but somehow a cloud of spores had been released, and the next thing he knew was the Mighty Nein quickly crowding around him and pulling him into a tower of some sort.

Essek, now that the initial delirium seemed to have abated, expected that the tower was of Caleb’s conjuring. He just wished he could properly appreciate it and look for all the careful details the other wizard had likely put in, rather than being stuck in the room of dark purples and silver accents he couldn’t fully process.

“Essek?” He opened his eyes, not realizing they had closed again. He shifted, trying to turn towards the voice but only succeeding in hissing through his teeth as pain shot up his neck. “Nein, ah scheisse, be careful-” Piercing blue eyes met his own and he felt what he recognized as Caleb’s hand on his forearm. “We have a solution, potentially, but it will have to wait until the morning. I-” he paused, looking away and furrowing his brow as he massaged his face with his other hand, seemingly searching for words. “I will stay here. To keep watch on your condition. Jester and Caduceus need rest, and so does everyone else.”

Essek tried to respond, but violent coughs erupted from his throat, yanking him into a sitting position that pulled at his muscles. Caleb was silent but as the fit faded, he pressed a warm cup into Essek’s hands, equally warm fingers briefly brushing his and leaving a faint tingling sensation in their wake.

“Caduceus made this before he went to rest, he said it’s an old family cure.”

Essek carefully sipped at it, sighing as what was presumably tea soothed his throat. He met Caleb’s eyes. They seemed to be the only thing his vision could catch on without blurring.

“Caleb-” Essek cleared his throat, but only managed to set off another coughing fit.

“Shh, don’t stress yourself, friend.” Caleb let Essek take another sip before squeezing his forearm and gently taking the cup from his hands, quietly setting it on what must have been a bedside table. “Just try to rest, I’ll be right here.” Their eyes met again, and Essek thought he managed to nod but whatever pain the movement caused was numbed as the air hummed between them.

Caleb looked away, moving behind him before gesturing for Essek to lie down. He found himself almost sitting, pillows piled up behind him.

“My mother taught me this trick when I got sick as a child,” Caleb mumbled almost to himself as he pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat down, pulling a book off the bedside table into his lap. “She said it was good for the lungs. I never really figured out if that was true but…” the other wizard trailed off, pursing his lips before opening the book he had grabbed. “In any case, I am just going to read, but I am here if you need me.”

As Caleb fell silent, Essek couldn’t help the ache that gripped his chest, knowing that it had nothing to do with whatever sickness the spores were causing.

It was his guilt at every problem he had caused the Mighty Nein, so ready to call him friend when he had already betrayed them. It was the fact that he was causing yet another problem, holding them up in their venture to stop this thing that could very well end the known world. It was the sleep and rest Caleb clearly needed that Essek was taking from him. It was the way Caleb’s hair caught the light and the unnatural warmth of his skin that left Essek chilled after his touch, the way that his reverse figuring of a spell he had only seen Essek do had made his heart catch in his throat before he could register the threat using it in the Empire posed.

It was some time and most of the tea later when Essek felt he could finally speak again. He felt his heart twang again, looking with clearer vision at Caleb’s focus on his book. He couldn’t see well enough to get the book’s title, but he could tell that this was a moment of relaxation Caleb desperately needed, even if the tense set of his shoulders made it clear that he was far from relaxed.

“Caleb,” the wizard looked up, eyebrows raised inquisitively. “Thank you. For staying. I appreciate it, greatly.” Essek’s voice was hoarse, but he found it better than silence filled with only his thoughts. 

Caleb smiled softly, “You are part of the Mighty Nein, it is what we do.”

It was silent again, the air only filled with the quiet turn of pages.

“You know,” Essek huffed softly, not quite sure if the delirium had truly left him as he continued, “you once said I was not born with venom in my veins, but I certainly have put it there.”

“Essek-”

“I betrayed you before I even knew you, and now you sit at my sickbed while I am holding you up from what is quite possibly the most important thing any of us have ever done. I am trying to change, I am, but it feels as if the time I have to do so is slipping through my fingers. My own actions made me run from Rosohna and put me here, sick with some plant’s venom. And my own.” He kept his eyes down, only half sure Caleb was hearing words and not sickness-addled nonsense.

“Essek,” and there was Caleb’s hand at his forearm again, pulling a sharp inhale of surprise as Essek’s eyes jumped to meet his. “You have time, my friend, and you are not alone in this.” Essek watched as Caleb’s gaze left his, eyes seeming to search the air for the words he was looking for. “We- I am here with you. I will always be here with you and trust me, I know, change is not instant. I know you are trying, Essek, and I see what I have seen in myself.” Caleb’s hand found Esseks’ cheek, and Essek realized he was looking up into his eyes, though he hadn’t noticed when the wizard had stood up. “You have time, I promise.” Caleb pressed a kiss to Essek’s forehead, and Essek felt his breath hitch again. “Besides, you inhaled those spores, so it’s not venom, it’s poison.”

Essek let himself grin as his eyes fell closed again, “You’re ruining my metaphor, Widogast.”

Battle was not Essek’s forte, as he had found out through the past few days travelling with the Mighty Nein. First it had been the frost giants, where he had barely been able to haste Yasha, then whatever the strange beast following that had been. For that he had only managed to gather his wits enough to slow the creature before it too was decimated by his friends, who were admittedly far more organized in combat than he had originally given them credit for. The next creature, some sort of worm centipede thing that had made Essek want to be sick, hadn’t even been around long enough for him to do anything.

And now they were wiping its guts off themselves and marching forward. He had made the mistake of going first, offering his eyes as they were better in the dark of Aeor’s halls. It was not untrue, but he was only marginally calmed by Fjord’s quiet presence at his side. If there was any comfort it was Caleb behind him, keen blue eyes matching that mind of his. Neither of which Essek was thinking about, of course,  as he was meant to be looking for any further creatures or hints as to where they should be going or traps.

And it was for entirely unrelated reasons, perhaps something in the air had gotten in his eye, that Essek heard Fjord’s warning yell before he saw the five crystalline creatures that had pulled away from the shadowed walls in front of them. They glowed a sharp white-blue, drawing a hiss from his lips as he squinted against them, only realizing the threat they posed as the air chilled and the frost burned at the tips of his ears. 

Yasha’s battle cry washed over him and as Veth’s arrows and the vibrant green of Fjord’s magic pelted the creatures, Essek shook the cold off, collecting his wits. 

One breath in, one breath out. 

Drawing the familiar geometry into the air with resistant fingers.

A small grin as practised words fell off his tongue and he felt the spell coalesce in his hands, the air trembling ever so slightly around him as he pushed it towards the creatures, releasing it from his grasp the moment they were all encased.

He watched the spell form, a sphere of shadow expanding outward, just translucent enough to watch as they were pulled together, a jumbled tangle of ice spines and briefly dimming light stilling just for a second before the spell dissipated into the air, two of the creatures falling to the ground and shattering, shards of ice skittering across the floor.

Essek stepped back, and his focus left him as he realized he’d dropped the spell that held him above the ground, his balance almost failing before he backed himself against a wall and out of the way of the rest of the Nein.

He exhaled, watching Beau and Yasha rush forward grinning at each other as more spells flew through the air. He carefully traced haste into the air, clutching the spell before pushing it onto Beau. He let himself grin again, the blood seeming to rush back into the tips of his fingers and ears as a well-placed firebolt from Caleb shattered the last creature.

The rush of battle had faded quickly, and after asking the time from Caleb the group had decided to set up camp. Caleb had brought up his dome, which Essek realized he had come to appreciate far more than anticipated as most of the Nein hunkered down for the night. He had taken first watch, attempting to make up for earlier, and Caleb had joined him, though he hadn’t met Essek’s gaze when he volunteered.

Not that Essek had noticed, of course. He had already been keeping lookout, and wasn’t hoping Caleb would look at him the way he had when they had been working on spellwork together again. In fact, he hadn’t been thinking about Caleb at all, he was simply very focused on keeping watch.

“You know, Essek, you will have to show me if there is anything I missed when I was working that spell out sometime.” His name in Caleb’s accent sent a shiver up Essek’s spine, knocking any thought from his head except the fact that Caleb had acknowledged him and was talking about spells again.

“I’m sorry?” Essek turned to face Caleb, his response barely stammering out of his mouth.

“I only mean that I would like to see if I was wrong about any of it, I worked it out just from the other time I saw it used by you.” Caleb’s eyes gleamed in the dim, his eyebrows lifted inquiringly.

“I- of course, I can show it to you when we are more secure than,” Essek gestured to the dome around them, “this.” He had never been more thankful that humans couldn’t see in the dark and Caleb was using Frumpkin intermittently to see, otherwise the other wizard would have seen the blush that had surely crept into his cheeks.

“Of course.” Caleb paused, and Essek tried not to be too eager for him to continue. “Well, in any case, I am glad to see you adjusting better to battle, my friend.”

Zoril was never a truly quiet child— he was never going to be anything else. In a different life, a different time, perhaps. But in this one, his life was chosen first by his mother when she left him to be raised alone by his father.

It was no fault of hers, really. It can be difficult to co-parent a child when the other parent in question is one of the kings of the nine hells.

But this is not a tale of unlikely parents. It is of unlikely children. And first, is Zoril.

Zoril was raised bouncing between the hells, never staying particularly long in one before he was passed to the next, although his time in his father’s domain was always the longest. The other rulers didn’t quite understand why the tiefling child was left to live very long, much less run amok among the denizens of the underworld.

But Zoril’s father had his reasons. Zoril hoped this was the case, anyway. His father was the only one who never seemed to, at least overtly, cast him away. And so, despite bouncing between others, he was always Zoril, Prince of the Hells and Heir to Mephistopheles’ throne, should he ever leave it.

He had his tutors in the form of the souls who had made bargains with his father, though they always seemed to be removed whenever they attempted to reveal any regrets they may have had about the deals they made. He made friends with the passing imps and quasits, coercing devils into joining his games. 

But there were also the lessons of his father, beginning as Zoril grew into his horns. Lessons taught within the palace walls. Never to perform a task without proper payment, to always know when respect and treachery are due. To know that even though his mother had given Zoril fire when he lived in a realm of ice and his nature was freer than the strict hierarchies of the hells, he was a Prince of Cania, that he was owed his rights to the world. But also to know that these rights must, at times, come second to the end goals of ambition.

And as Zoril continued to grow into these lessons and his adolescence, he was allowed and encouraged to begin to venture into the material planes, however he could. To witness the mortal lifespan he was left with, and the mortal souls he may one day be able to take.

His time on the surface was yet another teacher. Of want and desire by those who were raised with mortality. Of the passion it brings. As well as how to remain in the shadows, and when to leave them. How to grow close to another and leave them behind, desperate and ready to make a bargain.

But many of these required quiet, and as he grew taller into adulthood, Zoril found that endless energy again boiling underneath his skin, tired of being taught.

And so he found what he considered the second-best thing mortals had ever dreamed up: brawling.

He was always faster than he was strong, charming more often than fighting, but he could never argue against an adrenaline rush.

His trips into the material plane began bringing him more scars than potential souls for the devils of his home, and as he marched, smiling, into the palace of Cania, Mephistopheles had laughed, a great deep thing, gesturing with one clawed hand toward serving devils. And so his weapons training finally began.

It was not too many years after this that he was one of the top fighters at a ring he had come to frequent. Despite its allowance of magic, Zoril had taken to maces and flails rather than learning spells, letting the illusion of strength and slowness keep his opponents surprised.

It was a night like any other at first. He had been on a roll, undefeated for a week. But the whispers around the room as he readied himself spoke of a newcomer, some challenger from out of town, apparently desperate to fight someone who could pose a threat.

He wanted to laugh as he checked the leather grip of his favoured weapon. Instead, he volunteered to be the one to graciously defeat whoever this mysterious newcomer was. Then he laughed, joining the others around him as another fighter clapped his back and Zoril stepped into the ring.

If he had any less composure he was sure the newcomer would’ve knocked the grin right off his face as his laughter trailed off and he swung his flail up over his shoulder, barely thinking enough to not himself. 

They were tall, towering even over the elaborate spines and curls that Zoril’s horns had grown into. Long dark hair tumbled onto pale purple-grey shoulders that sloped gently up into a set face and bright-burning purple eyes. Elaborate red acolyte’s robes draped over their frame, giving away their origins.

At least to anyone watching— Zoril himself was utterly lost in the newcomer, looking them up and down, barely catching himself as a wave of fire was hurled in his direction.

---

Ildien had often wondered why his parents had left him. Many would have been grateful to have the celestials near. He often came to the conclusion that he had never looked precisely good-bringing. He had never really looked precisely human, as far as he could remember. Not that he was, but he had heard of others like him who could blend in with ease.

He had been told by those that had raised him that his parents had come to the church stammering and clutching at themselves like madness had overtaken them, muttering strange things about their child. The church Elder had asked to see the child, only for it to be thrown into her arms as the couple backed away and never returned.

Of course Ildien was only told this when the Elder had died.

He had been 12 at the time. Until then he had been told that the elder, Elder Calla, was his mother. Then another acolyte had snidely commented that he didn’t have the right to mourn, after all, she wasn’t even really related to him. He had been told the real story later that night.

It was not long after that when Ildien’s magic began to change. It had always been something they could do, it came naturally. But light grew to darkness, the blossoming healing abilities seemed to wither away as he began to drift farther from human, even away from the celestial blood in his veins.

It was then, too, that Hadrariel became as distant as the light that once surrounded him.

Until that point, Hadrariel has been a constant companion, whispering kind words and gentle guidances, a second parent. In young Ildien’s eyes, another liar.

Truly it was not Hadrariel’s fault— though perhaps it was not Ildien’s either. It had been a long day, the day of Elder Calla’s funeral ceremonies. The loss was still sharp, and the leering gazes of older acolytes and unspoken words were constant needles, pressing into his skin. He had been the last to speak to the Elder, and was, therefore, the last to bid his farewell before the body was burned. 

The memory of it was still a burning sear. The peace in the lifelessness of the corpse, another deception. The pitying eyes of her replacement. The ever-pressing gazes around him, narrowed eyes and silent laughter. And then the faint weight of Hadrariel’s gaze, an invisible hand on Ildien’s shoulder.

Shadows had lashed out of him, tipping the room into the grey of twilight, before the sudden pitch black of night as pain had ripped through him, tearing him to pieces.

Then as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. The shadow fled from the room, slinking back to the soles of Ildien’s feet as he gazed at the skeletal remains of his wings, on display of their own accord. The absence of the weight of their feathers echoed in the void left behind by Hadrariel’s flight and the strange stillness in his chest.

He had looked on, to Calla’s body.

It was the last time he cried.

The following years were long— Ildien was yet an acolyte of the church of [], he had his duties and still lived within the church. But the laughter that may have turned to friendship instead turned to fear and quick glances. The new Elder was not kind as Calla had been. Ildien was labelled a bad omen, banned from certain ceremonies.

Most ceremonies aside from funerals, in fact. At these he was allowed, if only so no one else had to be near the corpse.

When not being put to the undesirable tasks, Ildien remained in his room, watching the torch fire make shadows dance across the wall as he read himself to restless sleep. Time seemed to pass slowly and quickly all at once, slipping through his fingers as he gazed on, indifferent. 

He knew the church would release him once he was of age, no longer obligated to keep him as their ward. The only thing that had stopped them from throwing him out sooner was the new Elder’s idea of image.

But as he grew closer to this release from the church, it grew impossible to passively be feared. To allow the world to pass him by.

So rather than read himself to sleep watching the shadows, Ildien looked at what cast them, studying the flames licking at the air. He let his magic follow it’s new call into fire and shadow, falling in love with it. He let himself smile for the first time in years as fire danced across his shoulders as his feet moved in the rhythm of the shadows below him.

Ildien had not thought the new Elder, Varif, cared enough to pay him mind outside of when necessary, but when he was called to speak in front of him it was not long before the Elder’s intentions were revealed.

Varif had, in fact, been watching Ildien, and he had deemed worthy of the grand gesture the church needed to make to bring the community back into the fold. 

Ildien only learned when the gesture was as it was happening. He was kept in a room away from his own, with only his shadows for company in the weeks leading up to the event.

 When the door to his chamber opened as his eyes adjusted, Ildien was pulled and shoved into flowing ceremonial garb layered with dust, a uniform he hadn’t seen before. A scroll was pressed into his hands as he was pushed to an altar.

He remembered blinking the setting sunlight out of his eyes, looking to Elder Varif, grinning, and to a figure opposite him on the altar, decorated in the bones of an ox, eyes closed. The face of one of the newest acolytes in the shadow of the ox’s skull.

Ildien had looked down at the words on the scroll, the idea of this gesture clicking place in his head. He glanced once to the other acolyte, their eyes blearily opening, panic raising their eyebrows. He glanced to the Elder, grin settling into smug satisfaction.

He stepped towards the acolyte, putting them within arms reach, letting a smile of his own stretch across his face as he snatched the ox skull, planting it on his own head and swinging to face the Elder, outstretched arms coming together to hurl fire at the Varif.

It really was only meant to maim, for the most part. But as the Elder’s body hit the floor, the spark that had ignited his rebellion quieted, and there was an utter silence the same as Calla’s funeral.

He felt his heart beat once in his chest.

And he ran, the air on his face reigniting him— a grin stretched across his face as he threw layers of the constraining upper garment off and let the flowing skirts fly in the wind as his feet pounded stone and dirt.

He ran through the city, taking unfamiliar turns, whooping as he clutched the stolen skull to his head, not even quite sure why he took it. He did mean to stop before he ran into any buildings, but he was looking over his shoulder as his feet carried him into a small, dimly lit tavern, tumbling through a swinging door on the back wall into a somehow much larger space.

He was only able to pull himself to a stop just before he would have slammed into a wall of muscle glowering up at him.

A blur of questions were asked, lies flowing quicker out of his mouth than he could think about what he was saying and the next second he stood in a ring with wooden walls and a packed sand floor, the most stunning tiefling he had ever seen standing across from him. Their skin was dark red like deep flame, pitch coloured horns reaching into the shadows above their head, a flail was swung over shoulders covered only by a light tunic, black sleeves billowing ever so slightly as Ildien’s eyes were drawn down to the tiefling’s cloven hooves and then back up to gleaming eyes and sharp fangs poking out of a rakish grin.

Even if it made a pit yawn open in his gut every time he thought about Caleb and what the other wizard thought of him, he was ever the sight for sore eyes. Especially eyes sore from paperwork.

It had taken an almost embarrassing amount of self-restraint to not leap from his desk and rush over to him, but thankfully Jester had reached Essek before he could have done anything, sweeping him into a surprisingly strong hug.

And upon entering the tower he couldn’t help but be struck by the beauty. All of it so stunning, a reflection of what he had always seen behind Caleb’s eyes. 

But now it was just him and Caleb in the library. Caleb had apologized for any lack of reading material, as it was only what he had memorized, but it was astonishing nonetheless. It is impressive enough how accomplished Caleb is in the world of the arcane, it is even more so knowing how much information he has continued to retain outside of it. It made Essek’s heart swell in the way only sharing joy can.

But for now, he was simply reading a book, curled in a chair, with Caleb in a similar position in the chair beside him. In all truth he was not paying particular attention to the book. It was fascinating, of course, it was all transfiguration theory, but as a graviturgist he was far more fascinated by the very close and very pretty transfiguration wizard.

Of course he wasn’t staring, but it was hard not to glance sideways at Caleb, eyes roving between him and the book. There would not have been a problem with this had Essek not been entirely preoccupied with far too much on his plate and not had enough time to maintain himself and by doing so make sure his hair was how he liked it and it had grown far too long in his personal opinion⁠—

“Do you want something to tie your hair back, Essek? I— it looks, in a way, like your hair is getting long enough to interrupt your reading.” Essek started at the sound of Caleb’s voice, low and cautious in his offer. “Forgive me if I sound rude, it is simply an observation.”

“I⁠—” His voice seemed to dry up in his throat as he tried to think of a reason to say no other than the fact that Caleb even having noticed his appearance made his heart pound uncomfortably loud in his ears. “Yes, I suppose you are right, and I would certainly not mind it. Something to pull my hair back, that is, although I don’t know if it is long enough to be able to be tied like yours is.” And he was rambling and mentioning that he had also noticed the appearance of his companion. Perhaps he was as stressed as he had pretended to be to get out of Rosohna.

Caleb gave a small smile, exhaling slightly as he set his book to the side and pulled a piece of cord out of his coat before turning again to Essek. “Do you mind?” Essek blinked, furrowing his brow at the question. “It will probably be easier if I do it for you if it being too short is a concern.”

“Ah,” Essek hoped desperately that the heat he felt rushing to his face was not as visible as it felt. “No, I don’t mind at all, here⁠—” He set his own book down and sat up. “Is this better?”

Caleb nodded, standing and moving over to Essek. He stood for a moment, looking down at him, something unfamiliar in his gaze. “Perhaps⁠— Could you look down slightly?” His voice was gentle, the way it sounded when he was figuring something out, turning it in his mind.

“Of course.” Essek bent his head, and almost went into shock from the feeling of the other wizard’s hands in his hair. For as rough as they had looked they were gentle, carefully pulling his hair into place.

The space between them is so small in the quiet moment as Essek desperately hoped that no one else would walk in and, in a much smaller and hidden part of his heart, that Caleb was not simply doing this as an aid to a friend. That would be⁠— unfortunate. He tried not to audibly sigh at the possibility, instead focusing again on the warm sensation of Caleb’s hands in his hair.

“Could you look up for me, please? I want to make sure I got everything.” Again, that gentle voice of Caleb’s making his heart swell in his chest as he carefully tilted his head back up to look at Caleb.

The world seemed, for a moment, almost to freeze as if under the influence of magic rather than simply Essek being frozen by Caleb’s gaze, his lips parting slightly despite all intention.

Essek almost surprised himself when he broke the silence.

“Can I kiss you?’

Caleb blinked, red rising in his cheeks as look away before again meeting Essek’s eyes. 

For all Odona’s joy, she was ever grieving her inability to stop Helad from chasing Aankeen down from Above. Knowing this, Juval and Yahnalan toiled many days and many nights, creating a gift to ease her grief. Even when this gift was done, they waited yet until Minaan’s gaze again gleamed with mischief from the shadows of Yahnalan’s forge.

So it was with Minaan at their heels that they presented Odona the gift on the bank of a great river. Minaan watched from behind the clouds above, waiting for the perfect moment to step in as Juval and Yahnalan revealed the first willow tree, branches brushing the water’s surface so that Aankeen could climb up from Below to meet her lover.

Odona loved it so deeply that she wept, and as her tears fell upon the bark, the leaves of the tree rustled and from the highest branches, a figure peered.

He smiled down upon the gods below with glittering eyes, Juval’s addition to the gift revealed. He was Nianthiul, the first and king of the Fae. And Minaan was so struck by his beauty that they fell out of the cloud they were hidden in.

Nianthiul, startled, dove into the river below as Minaan fell. This is not the falling of which I spoke before, of course, but I am getting distracted. 

Nianthiul swam far down the river as Minaan became tangled in the branches of the willow. Much to the delight of Juval and Yahnalan, Minaan quickly freed themself and dove after Nianthiul. At long last, Minaan was chasing rather than being chased.

The river was so great that Minaan chased Nianthiul through the end of spring, and all through summer and fall. Nianthiul as each season changed paused, and along the river and in the trees and forests beside it built the foundations of the great fae courts to mark his passage, breathing life into the clay of the riverbanks and bringing forth the growing number of the fae. And at each pause, Minaan got slowly closer. But as winter began to seep into the great river and the waters began to freeze, Nianthiul slowed, and Minaan again gained ground, catching up at long last.

Nianthiul was struck by Minaan’s determination, and, curious, paused, climbing back onto the bank of the great river. Minaan soon climbed out after them, only for Nianthiul to laugh.

“You have chased me all this time and have not said a word to me⁠— why do you follow so closely?” said Nianthiul the bright-eyed. “I am yet new to this world, all I have known is this river thanks to you.”

Minaan, with the practised ease of a god, bowed and replied, “I only follow so that I may see such beauty as yours up close; I am Minaan, Lord of Chaos, and it is not often that one keeps my attention for so long.”

“Well then, Lord of Chaos,” Nianthiul proclaimed, “if I hold your attention so closely, when you cause such a stir that myself and my people yet again are so surprised as I was, perhaps I will leave my throne to another and take a place by your side. But not until then, dear Minaan.” And with that, Nianthiul dove yet again beneath the surface of the great river, disappearing before Minaan’s eyes as the river froze.

But Minaan grinned, challenge a thrill racing through the god’s bones as they dashed to Below, searching for the roots of the courts of the fae and for Nianthiul. They yet race through the sky and Above, thunder and lightning in their wake as they enrage the gods, much to Juval and Yahnalan’s disappointment. But to anyone with bright, keen eyes, Minaan is always distracted, ever plotting a surprise for the Fae King.

As for Nianthiul, it is his fall I discuss. For he has reigned long over the immortal Fae, travelling between the courts of the seasons so as to keep Minaan chasing at his heels. And after many long centuries, he has felt the cold of winter strong in his bones, not a comforting hiding place, but a reminder of his word. For truly, he realized that while he loved his people and his throne, he longed for the mirth and delight of Minaan to be at his side. But Fae are bound to their word⁠— and it is not until Minaan again catches Nianthiul off-guard that the pair will be allowed to remain together.

It is not uncommon, now, that the bright-eyed king will again travel through that great river, waiting for Minaan to see him, be they Above or Below. It has been many years since they parted there, and Nianthiul knows that they cannot be caught there. He simply enjoys the thrill of the chase, watching as the lightning of Minaan barrels down from Above, or the ground drops and a waterfall is created as they reach up from Below, even as the long solitude lingers in his bones.

And so Nianthiul is the reason Minaan resides Below when they are not making victims of the gods of Above, why lightning strikes the water and tall trees, why waterfalls form. But Minaan is not the one who fell, dear listener. I am afraid that you have already grasped my meaning, one which I have long tried to avoid. 

Aankeen had not caught the attention of many, but they soon had the eye of Lian. As words had begun bubbling from them, Aankeen had sought to learn every language that had been gifted to the mortals. As time passed, even with all the words of the world at their fingertips, it was not enough. They began to seek the language of trees and of the wind, and on learning these, the languages of all the creatures of Aria. Even this was not enough, and as Aankeen walked the lands searching for fresh things to learn, Lian came down from Above.

Lian had fallen for Aankeen, as deep as if pushed by Itran, the god of love. Aankeen, at first, was not ready for the eyes of divinity. But as time wore on with Lian refusing to leave their side, it was as if Itran had pulled the pair to each other.

Lian did their best to sate Aankeen’s hunger for knowledge, and Aankeen captivated Lian with fantastical ideas and strange trains of thought. Soon enough, Odona, keeper of nature and the moon, noticed the pair as she walked among the forests and rivers of the growing world. In secret, she aided Lian and Aankeen in their marriage, and as a show of her support, gifted Aankeen with the language of magic and, with the assistance of Lian, granted them divinity.

Soon after, the now married Lian and Aankeen moved to Above⁠— Aankeen was utterly captivated with the home of the gods, and for a time, was satisfied to live and learn by their lover’s side. But as they looked down on what had once been their home, pity struck them; how was it that they of all mortals had captured the eyes of the gods, how was it fair of them to deprive mortals of such a gift as magic? Helad, god of order and balance, heard of this desire and demanded that the peoples of Aria remain without magic, for it would bring them too close to divinity.

And so it was in the black night of a new moon, when even Odona was turned from the world, that Aankeen crept out from Above and returned to Aria. Slowly, they began to walk the old paths through the woods, searching for their former people. But Helad was suspicious, and had not turned a blind eye.

Instead he swept down from Above, intent on destroying Aankeen for fear of them disturbing the balance of the world. He chased them across Aria, and as Aankeen ran, they passed through rosebushes. As the thorns pricked their skin, their blood dripped into the earth, sowing magic wherever Aankeen ran. As the sun began to rise and Helad came ever closer, Aankeen transformed into a rabbit, driving between the roots of a rowan tree and hiding in an abandoned burrow. As Helad passed them, Aankeen crept in rabbit form to Below, where they beseeched Uthoriel, god of death and caretaker of Below, to let them stay.