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He keeps waiting for them to call him back. For Jester to send to him, for Caleb to come running— but there is nothing. They let him walk away, which is more than he knows he strictly deserves, and that is the end of it. He feels himself drifting, out of body until he realizes his mind is not all that is drifting. Feet on the ground, Thelyss. He crashes more than he lands, sending a jolt of sharp pain up his ankles. Steadies himself. One glide at a time, isn’t that what Nott said? The spell keeps him light, feet barely touching the cobbled streets of Nicodranas, and the illusion makes him seem no more out of place than anyone else in this eclectic city.
The Cerberus Assembly’s ship is not too far. Or maybe it is. He doesn’t quite know how long it takes for him to get back, only that there is no one else there to stop Lord Dezran Thain from re-entering his quarters. They are cramped but comfortable, and because he does not have to share, he drops the illusion the moment he locks the door behind him, and then drops the spell and lets himself collapse on the narrow bed bolted to the wall.
His trembling hands fumble with the clasp on his mantle, and he discards the thick fabric onto the floor before sinking under the covers. The cotton is comfortable against his skin. The ship is rocking gently from side to side. He breathes in. It is not enough. Tries again. He can't. There are small scratch marks against the side of the bed, a blemish on the Assembly's perfection. Essek curls up tighter, draws his knees up to his chest. Breathes again. It is easier this time. Time blurs a little after that, but even as his breathing grows steadier it does nothing to ease the ache in his chest.
Exertion, certainly, but it is more loneliness than anything else: of coming from a home where no one understands him, of living under layers of illusion for so long. Essek is tired of being the outsider, tired of the Martinet looking at him like he is something to devour. He wants to go home, but there is nothing there for him either, not when his heart has decided of its own volition to rest in the hands of seven mighty misadventurers.
It was necessary. He clings to that fact like a lifeline, but it does little to comfort him against the Nein's hurt and righteous anger. He knows he cannot make this right, and he still wants what he has given up so much for but he wants to prove their faith him. He wants to try.
So when Jester sends to him, he tempers his answer into something careful, somewhere to start from, and hopes the Nein will stay with him on the journey as he makes it.
Fjord looks very handsome in the dim lamplight of the Chateau’s restaurant. Without the hat. Jester almost giggles at the thought, but catches herself just in time and takes a bite of her fish instead.
“What are you smiling about?” Fjord asks.
“Your hat.”
Fjord lets out a long-suffering sigh, and she dissolves into laughter. It feels earned tonight, after everything, but the thought of that alone makes her smile wobble. Fjord catches on instantly—he always does—and frowns at her. “Alright, Jester?”
“Of course I’m alright!” she chirps back, but relents when he gives her a steady, understanding look. “I’m just worried about Essek, you know.”
“About what he might do?”
Jester shakes her head. She knows that should be the logical thing to worry about—she’s not stupid, even though she knows her friends think she’s a little slow on the uptake sometimes—but she’s worried about the Essek who came over for dinner and responded to all her messages and liked her parasol and teleported them everywhere just because they asked so nicely and—
“He’s our friend.” She isn’t surprised by her own conviction, but she can tell that Fjord is. “Just because he did a bad thing— or, like, several really bad things doesn’t mean he’s not our friend anymore. And he looked really sad, you know. Like, I totally think he’s crying in his room right now.”
“I’m sure he is.” Fjord is humouring her and she knows it, but that’s fine, because they’re all going to see that Essek totally has it in him to be good. They just need to believe in him, and if there’s one thing Jester is good at, it’s believing. “Crying so hard and wishing he was here with us having this lovely dinner instead.”
“We do make the best dinners!” The promotion of the Chateau is almost out of habit, but Jester finds herself cheering a little nonetheless. Fjord probably intended that. He’s no Caduceus, but he’s perceptive like that. But when she thinks of Essek alone somewhere, the thought doesn’t bring nearly as much joy as it probably should. “I hope he doesn’t do anything super bad, Fjord. Like we can totally handle anything, obviously, but still.”
“I hope so too, Jes.” Fjord frowns into his wine, quiet and contemplative. She likes the look on him. “But I don’t think he will.”
There’s something restless inside of Beau that makes her want to keep moving. It’s either that or punch something, and she probably shouldn’t punch anyone around her. Probably. Caduceus and Yasha are standing in line at the fish market and Nott— Veth— is busy trying to pick someone’s pocket one stall over, but Beau doesn’t have the patience to stand in line or to babysit so she just settles for pacing up and down a few feet in front of where Caleb waits patiently.
“Beauregard.”
“What.” She spins around so fast that she nearly stumbles. “I’m fucking amped, okay?”
“Okay.” Caleb gestures to the mouth of a nearby alleyway and she follows him without question. “Maybe you can be amped here and not out there where you will scare away all their other customers in the line.”
Beau barely hears his answer, only his tone. “How are you not freaked out about this? He’s responsible for countless deaths and has been misleading us for months. We’re supposed to be administering justice and— no matter whose rules we play by, he should die for what he did.”
Caleb flinches, and she is about to lecture him on the uselessness of self-inflicted guilt when he holds up his hands in a defensive gesture. “Beauregard, please.”
He sounds so tired, and she feels a little guilty for implying that the only way to feel anger and betrayal is to yell about it. Of course Caleb is angry. He has only ever been around wizards that hurt each other, and Essek might have been different. Essek should have been different. And there was the fact that they were definitely going through some sort of homoerotic wizard exchange with all the study sessions.
“Sorry,” she said, a little sheepishly. “No killing. Yet. You good? He’s not you, you know. You’re doing good stuff, and he’s kind of fucked up.”
“Ja.” He is too calm, too collected, and Beau knows immediately that he is lying through his teeth. “I am not the one to worry about.”
“Don’t bullshit me.”
“I am not.” Fuck, he sounds so miserable. “But he is what I was, Beauregard. Young, for his kind, lonely, a prodigy being offered greatness by the most powerful mages in Wildemount. No one else sees his potential. No one else could possibly understand. I am familiar with the story, I have been fed the same lines.”
“You’re not him,” she repeats, more forcefully this time. “Don’t do that to yourself.”
Caleb only sighs, and she knows that the message hasn’t gone through his too-fragile skull and probably wouldn’t even if she knocked him over the head with it. This is just one more thing to throw onto the list of why she wants to punch Essek in his stupid, too pretty face.
“He will have to earn back our trust,” Caleb says quietly, and she is grateful for that at least. She can only deal with instant forgiveness from someone like Jester. “But I do think he can be saved, if he wants to be.”
Beau doesn’t want to be the buzzkill here, but Caleb has an obvious blindspot that she can’t really let go of without pointing out. “And if he doesn’t want to be?”
Caleb shrugs, but she can see that his heart isn’t in it. “One problem at a time, Beauregard. We’ll get to that one when we’ve solved all the rest.”
“One problem at a time,” she echoes, and hopes that he is right.