my babe would never fret none

In hindsight, wandering around Trostenwald at night, undisguised, is not one of Fjord’s brighter ideas. The three men - teenagers, really, but Fjord doesn’t get a look at how young their faces are until later - jump him from behind on his way to the Nestled Nook. Before he can even think of fighting back, he’s pushed roughly into an alley. One of them slams a fist into his ribs while another loops their foot around his ankle and pulls. He crashes to the ground and skids a few painful inches on his shoulder.

The hard sole of a boot stops him and for half a dread-filled second, Fjord thinks he’s just landed at the feet of a fourth attacker. When he squints up, however, he meets the surprised eyes of a bearded, scruffy man who smells like he hasn’t bathed in ages. The man stares down at him, lips parted in shock, before his blue eyes harden. Fjord pushes himself away as quickly as possible, an apology on his tongue, but the man has turned to face the attackers.

“I do not think this is a fight you want to start,” he says, pulling himself to his feet with some difficulty.

At the mouth of the alley, silhouetted dark against the weak moonlight, the three attackers exchange looks. One of them, the tallest, steps forward. With Fjord’s darkvision, it’s easy to see the arrogant, drunken humor on his face when he chuckles. 

“Yeah? You gonna stop us?” He looks back at his buddies, eyebrows raised in exaggerated incredulousness.

Despite himself, Fjord agrees. Now that he’s actually looking, the man’s face is gaunt and he’s leaning against the brick wall of the alley for support. There’s a determined harshness in his eyes, but he hasn’t drawn a weapon.

“Don’t endanger yourself for me,” Fjord mutters, slipping easily into Vandren’s accent without a second thought. The man barely spares him a glance.

“This is going to go very badly for you,” he warns the attackers. His voice is rough and accented, something Empiric that Fjord can’t place.

“Sure it will,” the seeming leader agrees, pulling a small knife from his pocket as he steps forward.

He barely makes it an inch. A burst of flame shoots through the alley, impacting harmlessly at his feet. He jumps back with a yelp.

“The hell—?!”

Fjord stares, agape. The man’s eyes are alight with arcane power, one hand stretched before him. Angry flames curl up his fingers. Awe mixes with the adrenaline and shocked fear thrumming through Fjord’s veins.

“Go,” the man growls. The fire leaps from his fingers, yet again slamming into the ground in front of the three attackers. A warning.

They exchange another look and turn tail. The man waits until they’re gone before he turns to Fjord and offers him a hand up. Fjord takes it; the man’s fingers are trembling and surprisingly cool. His eyes still glow faintly with arcane sparks that fade as Fjord watches.

He clears his throat. “Uh. Thank you, you didn’t have to do that.”

The man tucks his hands into the pockets of his ragged coat, shoulders curling up towards his ears. He looks away. “I was not going to let you get attacked in front of me.”

“Still,” Fjord says. “I appreciate it. I’m Fjord,” he adds, offering his hand.

The man’s eyes flick back up, scrutinizing. He takes Fjord’s hand hesitantly, shakes it once before dropping it. “My name is Caleb Widogast.”

“It’s good to meet you, Caleb.” Fjord pauses, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, I can’t thank you enough, but let me buy you a warm meal and a place to stay for the night? And maybe a bath? I mean, no offense, but—”

“That isn’t necessary,” Caleb interrupts. “Truly, you do not need to do that.”

“Sure, I don’t need to,” Fjord agrees. “It’s no trouble, really.”

Caleb studies him silently for a long moment. Finally, he sighs and says, “Ja, okay. Lead the way, then.”

+++

The next morning, Fjord wakes with a sneeze that startles him from half-asleep to fully alert in a split second. When he sits up and looks over, rubbing his nose, Caleb is already awake, sitting cross-legged on the other bed with an orange cat in his lap. Both of them are watching Fjord with unsettlingly similar, unblinking blue eyes.

Fjord suppresses another sneeze. “Where’d the cat come from?” He wheezes, barely remembering to slip into Vandren’s accent.

Caleb looks down. “His name is Frumpkin; he is my familiar. I am sorry, I didn’t think you would mind, but if he is bothering you I can—”

“No, it’s fine, I’m just,” Fjord sneezes again, “a bit allergic.”

“Ah,” Caleb says, the barest hints of a smile on his lips. “I see.”

He snaps his fingers and Frumpkin disappears with a small flash. Fjord stares, another sneeze disappearing before it can fully form.

“You know magic,” he says, unable to keep the awe from his voice, though it’s not like he really tries. “I mean, with the fire last night as well— it’s very impressive.”

Red spreads across the high bones of Caleb’s cheeks. “Those are easy things; nothing remarkable.” Something flashes in his eyes, but it’s gone so quick that Fjord half-thinks he’s imagined it.

“Have you always known how to do that?”

Caleb’s eyes go a bit distant and he shrugs. “That is a difficult question; I learned a bit, as a child, but I only picked it up again recently. It’s all book-learned.”

“That’s impressive. I’ve recently come across magic myself; I’m trying to make my way north to the Academy to see if I can learn more, improve.” On a whim, Fjord adds, “Maybe we could go together?”

This time, it’s impossible to miss the darkness that slashes across Caleb’s face, but it disappears as quickly as it had come.

“It is a very fancy place,” he says neutrally, glancing down at his filthy and tattered clothes.

Despite his better judgment, Fjord asks, “You know it?”

“Ja, it is very well-known in the Empire.” 

There’s a bitter twist to the words. Caleb’s eyes have frozen to icy, clear blue. Fjord swallows.

“Ah. I’m going to get breakfast, if you care to join me,” he says awkwardly, sliding out of his bed.

Caleb nods a half-second late, gaze still hard and distant. “Ja. I can pay for myself, this time. You do not have to waste your money on me.”

“It’s not a waste,” Fjord protests.

Caleb hums, looking away when Fjord reaches for a change of clothes. The walk downstairs is awkward and silent, but Fjord still pays for Caleb’s meal despite his protests. When they sit down, Caleb sets a small handful of copper beside Fjord’s plate.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, avoiding Fjord’s eyes.

Fjord frowns, looking between him and the copper, too much for one meal. “Of course,” he says, and doesn’t ask if that’s all the money Caleb has.

Silence falls once again, still tense but less than it had been earlier. Caleb finishes his food first and spends the rest of the meal watching the other tavern patrons, fiddling with the frayed cuff of his coat sleeve.

“Hey, uh,” Fjord clears his throat. “Listen. I don’t know what I did to make you uncomfortable, but it’s clear that I did, and I apologize. That was not my intention. I just thought...I don’t know, that it would be safer for the two of us to travel together, rather than alone. We could help each other. I mean, you saved my ass last night, and I would’ve done the same for you, so.” He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck.

Caleb frowns. “It was not...the suggestion of travelling together that made me uncomfortable,” he says carefully. “I think that is a good idea, but if you truly do intend to go to Soltryce, then I will not go that far. It is a good school, a wonderful place to study, but it is not for me.”

“Of course, this doesn’t have to be permanent,” Fjord agrees, ignoring the odd tightness in his chest as he says it. “Hey, can I ask - and apologies if I’m overstepping my bounds here - do you have some sort of...history, with the Academy? It’s just—”

Caleb’s blinks, frown curling into something almost wry. “You could say that, ja. Perhaps I will tell you someday, but...not now. We barely know each other, after all.”

Fjord grins. “Fair enough.” He stands. “I think, between the two of us, we might do okay.”

Caleb’s almost-smile turns a little more sincere. “Let’s make it work, ja?”

Their first morning in Zadash, Caleb drags Fjord into the Pentamarket, on the hunt for bookstores and, apparently, magic paper and ink. Part of Fjord is curious, but most of him dreads the monotony that is sure to come with the shopping.

Thankfully, with Caleb asking around with more energy than Fjord has ever seen in him, it doesn’t take long before they’re directed to the Invulnerable Vagrant. The exterior of the building is dark stained wood that’s draped in beautiful, green-gold velvet. Warm light seeps through the shop’s windows. Despite his inherent dislike of shopping, Fjord follows Caleb through the door with interest blossoming in his chest.

The first thing that hits Fjord is how warm it is inside, though not uncomfortably so. Fascination thrums through his veins for everything from the various items on display to the floating lanterns that light the room. They pass a small bookshelf on their way deeper into the store and Caleb brushes his fingers across the books’ spines almost reverently. 

Across the room, two figures with bushy brown hair are bent over a desk covered in papers and books. A third, behind the counter, turns around when they enter. 

“Welcome to the establishment!” He greets, a wide smile on his face. Beneath robes of deep green, his body is covered in short, grey-brown fur. “The Invulnerable Vagrant greets you both humbly.”

“Hallo,” Caleb answers absently, still half-distracted in his blatant excitement. “Wow. You know, I have never— forget it. I’m so sorry, I am looking for— I need ink.”

"Before we can get to that, I just have to say you're, respectfully, terribly filthy,” the shopkeeper says, “and this is an establishment that I have to insist requires some more cleanliness."

Caleb opens his mouth, but the shopkeeper waves his hand before he can say anything. Fjord watches with wide eyes as the dirt covering Caleb begins to sift away. Caleb recoils in surprise, but it only takes a moment before he’s completely dirt-free.

Just then, the other two figures at the desk turn around. They’re both identical to the person behind the counter.

“Hi!”

“Hi.”

Fjord stares at them, startled. Beside him, Caleb blinks. “Okay, this is a little off-putting.”

“I’m Enchanter Pumat Sol,” the person behind the counter says. “And this is—”

“I am also Enchanter Pumat Sol.”

The third one waves. “I myself am also Enchanter Pumat Sol.”

Caleb clears his throat. “First question that I have for you, Pumats—”

“The fourth one’s in the back.”

“Pumats Sol, is there one of you and this is fun and games or are you—?” Caleb cuts himself off with a confused tilt of his lips.

The first Pumat smiles. "There's the prime Pumat Sol and the three of us are what you would call magically manifested duplicates to aid in his work,” he explains.

“Understood.” Caleb swallows. “I am finding it very hard to concentrate at the moment, but I know that I need paper and the most expensive ink you have.”

"Oh, we have both of those things, come with me."

The first Pumat turns and walks around the counter towards the desk at the back. Caleb follows on his heels, but Fjord trails a few feet behind, reading the descriptions beside the displays as he goes.

“He needs some—” The first Pumat starts.

“Oh, I heard him.”

One of the Pumats at the desk grabs a couple of inkwells and brings them forward. The other pulls out stacks of paper and parchment, which he sets beside the ink. As he reaches the desk, the first Pumat turns to Caleb.

"All right, so how much do you need  of each?"

Caleb hums. “I need your most fine arcane ink and I also need your finest paper. I need about 150 gold worth of materials. Is that too much to ask?”

"No, that's comparably - respectfully - a paltry sum.” Caleb huffs a self-conscious laugh. “We can get that paper to you. When you say ink, I have to specify: do you want ink that's used in the ritualistic design and presentation of arcane symbols, scribes, and glyphs? Or you looking for ink that itself is actually enchanted for various uses and manifestation?"

The words wash over Fjord; try as he might, he has no idea what they mean. Caleb, however, nods.

“No,” he says, reaching into his pack. He pulls out two scrolls that Fjord has never seen before. “I have these. I found them in my journeys and I want to make them a part of my repertoire.”

Pumat nods. “Oh, that’s some wizard stuff. Okay, we can do that.”

He collects some of the ink and paper the other two Pumats had set out and heads back to the counter. Caleb follows, pulling out his coin purse. Fjord clears his throat.

“Enchanter Pumat Sol, do you have any health potions we might be able to acquire from you?”

“We have a few in stock, actually.” He turns to another of the Pumats. “You want to—”

“I’m already on it.” The other Pumat wanders over and sets a case filled with eight vials onto the counter beside Fjord. “We've got a variety of potions at our disposal, so let us know what you're looking for."

“How much would a greater healing potion run me?”

“That? Let’s see here.... That would put you back about 200 gold pieces for a single vial.”

Fjord winces. “How about one of the more basic healing potions?”

“That’ll put you at a simple 50 gold pieces.”

“I’ll take...two of those, please,” Fjord decides, handing over the gold. He tucks the potions safely into his pack.

“It would be my pleasure, Mr. Green Man.”

Fjord chuckles, holding out a hand. “Fjord, and this is Caleb,” he adds, nodding to Caleb, who is still slowly counting out his gold under his breath.

Pumat shakes Fjord’s hand. “Fjord and Caleb. Pleasure to meet you both.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” Fjord agrees. Then, over his shoulder, “Caleb, you done?”

“Ja, one moment.” Caleb carefully collects his parchment and ink. “Thank you for your help,” he says to the Pumats.

“It’s my pleasure,” the one that had first greeted them says.

Fjord waves the Pumats goodbye over his shoulder as he steps back into the Pentamarket. Beside him, Caleb is practically radiating joy. Fjord nudges his shoulder.

“Changed your day, didn’t it?” He asks, grinning. “Everything’s coming up flowers now.”

Caleb turns to him, blue eyes nearly aglow with happiness. “These spells will help me - us - immensely. Thank you for coming with me; I know you were not exactly...enthusiastic about it, at first, but.”

Fjord chuckles and looks away, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. I’m glad I did, though.”

“You’re quite interested in magic, aren’t you?” Caleb asks, the excitement in his eyes sharpening into something that pierces straight through Fjord. “You’ve said before, but you have only come across it recently, ja?”

Fjord shrugs. “Yeah, in the past few months. I was always fascinated by it as a kid, but it was always one of those things I figured I could never have, y’know? I never expected...this,” he adds, gesturing vaguely to himself. “I don’t understand it much, but it’s always incredible to see or hear about.”

“I could help you,” Caleb offers. Fjord blinks, his brain stuttering.

“What?”

“With your magic,” Caleb clarifies. “It is different from mine, obviously, but the basic principals are the same. I could teach you, if you like.”

Fjord gapes. “Really?” He stammers. Caleb smiles at him, softer but just as genuine as he had been minutes before.

“Of course, mein Freund.”

Even though they reach Erefeld around midday, the streets are eerily empty and silent. Many of the buildings they pass are closed and dark, but every so often Fjord will catch a flash of movement in the windows of the cottages they pass. He swallows and flexes his fingers, fighting off the urge to summon the falchion. They’re less than ten yards into town and already, unease skitters up and down his arms.

“This...feels off,” Fjord murmurs.

Caleb nods, absentmindedly picking at the bandages on his arms as he glances around. “Well, we were hired for some sort of undead problem,” he points out. “If it is as...horrifying as Quinn thought it was, I would assume all the townspeople are hiding.”

“Yeah, let’s hope that’s where they all are.” The curtains twitch in the window of one of the houses they pass and Ford grimaces. “We really should’ve asked for more information. Or, better yet, made the guy come with us. It’s his town, least he could do is guide us.”

Caleb hums. “Well, we know that the source of whatever this is is in the graveyard—”

“Which is kind of obvious,” Fjord mutters. Caleb snorts softly.

“True. And we know that people have seen the zombies and skeletons at all times of day, so that probably rules out some sort of specific ritual. I hope.”

“Do we know where this graveyard is?”

Caleb pauses. “No. And we did not ask Quinn for a map; we probably could have better prepared for this, in hindsight.”

“Well, too late now. Should we just wander until we find the graveyard or do we wanna see if we can find someone who’ll talk to us?” Fjord asks, glancing at the mostly-dark windows around them.

“Let’s see if we can find someone, first,” Caleb suggests. “If that does not work, we can always wander until we stumble across something. I can cast Detect Magic, as well, though that will only last us ten minutes.”

Fjord starts towards the first building he sees that has even a faint flicker of possible life. “This place ain’t very big, I doubt we’ll go ten minutes without getting something. ”

“That’s fair,” Caleb agrees. He steps up beside Fjord to scrutinize the simple cottage. “Do you want to knock, or shall I?”

Fjord hums, debating. “After you,” he decides.

Caleb nods. As he steps forward, his posture straightens into an almost official-looking stance that seems both natural and entirely out of place on his body. He raps his knuckles twice against the door and waits, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat.

They wait for nearly a minute before the door swings open a cautious few inches. In the gap, a young woman’s face appears, wary. Her eyes flick from Caleb to Fjord to the empty road behind them and back again.

“Hallo,” Caleb says. “My name is Caleb Widogast, and this is Fjord,” he gestures to Fjord, who nods politely. “We were hired by a man named Rohan Quinn; do you know him?”

The woman relaxes slightly, though she still watches the road carefully. “I do, he’s one of the men that volunteered to go off and find help. Is he with you? I— come in, come in,” she cuts herself off, ushering them inside. 

Caleb steps in and, after one final scan of the quiet town, Fjord follows. He finds himself standing in a simple cottage, kitchen on one side and a small sitting area on the other. A few candles flicker on the counter, but the room is mostly lit by what little light filters through the half-closed curtains. Fjord absently notes the closed door the woman has placed herself in front of.

“My name is Fiona,” she introduces, fingers fluttering nervously at the hem of her sleeve. “Please, make yourself at home. You said you’re here to help?”

“We are,” Fjord says. He and Caleb both stay standing. “Rohan found us in Zadash, but he seemed pretty shaken up by everything so we told him to get some rest while we checked it out.” That’s putting it kindly. “We’ll send him on his way once we’ve cleared up your...zombie issue, was it?”

Fiona nods, eyes wide and fearful. “Yes, zombies and skeletons. They haven’t killed anyone yet, but that’s almost worse. They just wander the streets at all times; no one wants to go outside anymore. I haven’t seen them myself, and I wouldn’t care to at all, but I’ve heard enough descriptions to have nightmares for months after this.” She shudders.

“How long ago did they start appearing?” Caleb asks.

Fiona hesitates, so Fjord adds, “I know this is a terrifying experience, but the more we know the sooner we can solve the problem and get your lives back to normal.”

Fiona nods and clears her throat. “It started just over two weeks, now. Archibald, the keeper of the cemetery here, came running into the tavern one night, half-mad with terror. He’s worked at the cemetery for decades; nothing can spook him. That was the first sign. Even once he was coherent again, he refused to say anything. The next day, the— these things started appearing.” Fiona shudders. “At first it was only a few, but the sightings just kept increasing. Finally, a few days ago, a few of the men in town decided to set off in different directions to see if they could find help.”

She shrugs. “You’re the first two that’ve shown up.”

“I see. Thank you, Fiona,” Fjord says, catching her eye. She blushes and looks away. “Truly. We’ll see what we can do.”

Fiona smiles. “No, thank you. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

Caleb steps back towards the door, brushing against Fjord’s shoulder. He clears his throat. “Do you happen to know where the graveyard is?”

“Oh— yes.” She pauses to think for a moment, then, “It’s northeast of the town, on the edge. Good luck,” she adds.

“Danke.”

“Thank you,” Fjord repeats, following Caleb out of the cottage. The door shuts lightly behind him and a moment later, he hears the sound of a lock sliding into place. “That went well.”

“It did. You are quite the charmer. I think she liked you,” Caleb says, lips twitching into a grin.

Fjord flushes. “I don’t— that’s not—”

Caleb pats him on the shoulder and starts leading the way through the town. “Don’t worry about it. Let’s go fight some zombies, shall we?”

+++

There are a lot more undead that either of them expected.

“Get down,” Caleb calls, voice tight with pain.

Fjord ducks seconds before a wave of shimmering, orange-gold flame roars over his head. It incinerates most of the undead between them and the cemetery gates; Fjord aims an Eldritch Blast at one of the remaining skeletons as he stumbles towards Caleb. A zombie rushes towards them, barely standing and still on fire. Fjord brings up the falchion and cuts it nearly in half; it crumples to the ground at his feet.

“That better be all of them,” he mutters, stepping over the zombie’s body into the cemetery itself. “It’s like the entire damn graveyard is attacking us.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be surprised,” a voice says from around the small temple at the center of the graves.

Fjord tenses, readying his falchion. Beside him, Caleb raises a soot-darkened hand sparking with arcane energy.

A small, black blur rounds the corner of the mausoleum first; it takes Fjord a second to place it as a hummingbird. Before he can decide whether or not the bird is a threat, a man follows behind it, hands raised placatingly. The first thing that strikes Fjord is the pure-white shock of his hair.

“Apologies,” the man says, “I didn’t mean to startle y’all. I take it you were hired to take care of this town’s undead problem, too?”

Caleb lowers his hand but the magic doesn’t fade. “Ja,” he agrees warily. “Who are you?”

The man grins. “Who am I? My name is Shakaste, it’s nice to meet you.” The hummingbird zips over to hover above his shoulder; only then does Fjord realize his eyes are cloudy white, glazed over with the same arcane blue that Caleb’s eyes go when he sees through Frumpkin. “This is the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna. They call her Stacy, but that’s not her name.”

Caleb blinks slowly. Fjord clears his throat, keeping one eye out for any approaching undead.

“Shakaste, my name is Fjord, and that’s Caleb. We are, as you said, on a mission to rid this town of its undead issue. Do you know what’s creating the problem, by any chance?”

Shakaste shakes his head. “I’m afraid not. I was just told—”

The mausoleum doors suddenly swing open behind him. Fjord gets a split-second look of a cloaked and dark-clothed figure before they raise their hand, fingers splayed. Loud, painfully mournful bells ring sourcelessly through the air; Fjord winces, stumbling back and nearly losing his hold on the falchion as the sound pierces through his mind. Through the dark spots dancing across his vision, he can just make out Caleb and Shakaste shielding away from the echoing magic; they seem to shake it off easier than Fjord does.

When he gets his bearings, Caleb’s teeth are bared with surprisingly vicious anger at the figure in the mausoleum. Flames roar down his arm, collecting into a single inferno at the palm of his hand. A small part of Fjord’s brain whispers danger, but he pushes it down and readjusts his grip on the hilt of his sword.

Caleb’s eyes flash. “Necromancer,” he growls, flexing his fingers. Three bursts of fire shoot from his hand; one slams into the mausoleum doorway inches from the necromancer’s face, but the other two impact on her shoulder and thigh.

She laughs, patting out the lingering flames. “How clever, little wizard.”

As she speaks, she slams a white, carved-wood staff twice into the ground. The earth next to Fjord splits; he stumbles away, barely managing to avoid a skeleton’s fist as it slams into where he’d been standing. Around the front of the temple, three more zombies crawl from their graves. Fjord steps back, cursing when he realizes he, Caleb, and Shakaste have been penned in.

“Hello, darling,” Shakaste says, seemingly unbothered, to the necromancer. “It’s so kind of you to join the fight.”

With a flick of his wrist, the air shimmers and coalesces into an almost-translucent bust of a woman that Fjord doesn’t recognize. Shakaste sends it tumbling towards two of the zombies and in the same motion, a bolt of shining, radiant energy shoots from his hand. It slams into the skeleton next to Fjord; he dodges its clumsy attack and brings the falchion straight into its ribcage, shattering it to pieces.

He turns around just in time to watch the necromancer summon a wispy, skeletal hand that she pushes towards Caleb. He flings a hand up, fire dissipating into a shimmering, arcane shield. In the same second, a zombie slams into Caleb’s unprotected back. He crumples. Fjord raises a hand and blasts the zombie with sickly green, eldritch energy before he even fully realizes he’s moving.

Shakaste curses. “Take care of these fellas, I’ll take care of him,” he calls, abandoning the two zombies he’d been bludgeoning to rush towards Caleb. The bust of the woman goes with him, slamming through the mausoleum door and into the necromancer.

The zombie above Caleb goes down in another burst of radiant energy, so Fjord forces himself to turn away and focus on the two remaining undead. The first one goes down easily enough and Fjord is slashing through the second when he hears a startled curse from behind him. He turns, unprepared to come face-to-face with the necromancer, her shadow-wreathed hand reaching towards his neck.

“Fjord!” Caleb’s voice is rough and more panicked than FJord has ever heard it.

Before he can blink, a bolt of fire slams into the necromancer’s temple, catching on her hair. She stumbles back, pained shock spreading across her face. The shadows dissipate from her skin as she falls to her knees. Her screams slowly taper off as the fire spreads across her skull.

Fjord stares, frozen somewhere between shocked and terrified. His grip on the falchion goes slack; the motion of it falling from his hand and back to its pocket dimension jolts him from his shock. Carefully, he kneels down and pats out the flames before they can spread further, trying not to gag at the smell of burnt flesh.

“Thanks, Caleb,” he starts, glancing over.

The words die on his lips; Caleb’s normally piercing eyes are wide and vacant, his face slack as he stares unseeingly at the necromancer’s body. Dread and concern pooling in his stomach, Fjord stands and walks forward. Shakaste is still kneeling beside Caleb and Fjord stops behind him, unsure of what to do. The Grand Duchess buzzes up to his shoulder for a second before zipping back down to hover by Caleb.

“Caleb, baby, I need you to listen to me,” Shakaste says, carefully raising his hands into Caleb’s line of sight, not touching. “Whatever you’re seeing isn’t real. You’re in Erefeld, to the east of Zadash. It’s about an hour or so past noon. You’re not in danger anymore. Whatever you’re seeing, it isn’t real. You’re okay.”

Shakaste addresses Fjord without looking away from Caleb, “Has this happened before?”

“No, I—” They’ve only been travelling together for a few months. Fjord knows Caleb has nightmares, but the wizard has respected his privacy so Fjord hasn’t pried. They’ve gone on jobs together, but— “No, it hasn’t.”

“Can you think of anything that will help ground him?”

Fjord bites his lip. “Yeah, I mean, his familiar, but. I dunno if we can...” He trails off. There’s not much he knows about magic, but he’s pretty sure that only Caleb can summon Frumpkin.

Shakaste hums, nodding. “Caleb? Can you summon your familiar?” No response. Shakaste tries again; still, Caleb’s eyes are lost and unfocused, his limbs limp. “That’s okay. You’re safe now, Caleb; whatever you’re seeing isn’t real.”

It takes another minute of Shakaste’s low, comforting murmuring before Caleb blinks. Though still distant, his gaze has sharpened, and he swallows and looks away from the necromancer’s body.

“Was—?” He starts, accent thicker than usual. His voice breaks and tapers off and he doesn’t try again.

Fjord makes a half-step forward and kneels beside Shakaste. Caleb’s eyes flick to him, pain flashing briefly across his face before he looks away.

“Caleb? D’you think you could summon Frumpkin?”

Caleb frowns, a faint scrunch forming between his eyebrows. “You’re allergic,” he points out, voice flat and empty.

Fjord shrugs. “I think you need him more, right now. I don’t mind,” he adds. “Really.”

Caleb blinks a few times. After a moment, he snaps his fingers weakly together. Frumpkin appears and immediately curls himself around Caleb’s shoulders. Caleb smiles, strained, and buries his face into Frumpkin’s fur.

Shakaste stands. Fjord does as well, wincing when the movement twinges a cut on his side.

“Need healing?” Shakaste asks. “I think I still got a little juice left in me.”

Fjord nods. “Yeah, if you wouldn’t mind.” He breathes out slowly as radiant warmth rushes through his body when Shakaste pats him on the shoulder. “Hey, thank you for your help today. With the undead and— and everything else.”

“Of course. I do my best to help people in need.” The Grand Duchess flits from Shakaste’s side to hover near Caleb. “Go tell the townspeople their problem is solved; I’ll take care of the necromancer’s body and then head out.”

Fjord frowns. “What about your share of the money? They hired you, too, didn’t they?”

“I think y’all need it more than I do,” Shakaste says. “Take care of each other, y’hear me?” Fjord nods.

Shakaste turns and walks towards the necromancer, patting Caleb on the arm as he goes. Another faint burst of radiant energy seeps from his hand; Caleb slumps slightly, pain washing away from the tense line of his back.

Fjord steps forward, holding out a hand once he’s in Caleb’s line of sight. Caleb blinks up at him, face still half-buried in Frumpkin’s fur. After a moment, he hesitantly wraps his faintly-shaking fingers around Fjord’s wrist and Fjord pulls him to his feet. He wavers for a moment, leaning briefly into Fjord’s space as he gets his balance. Fjord leads the way back into town, nodding at Shakaste when they pass him.

Halfway there, he tilts his head down to catch Caleb’s eye. Caleb meets it for only a second before looking away. 

“Hey,” Fjord says, low, “how’re you doing? I mean, you got knocked out, and then—”

“Ja, I am fine,” Caleb interrupts, staring at the horizon with his fingers buried in Frumpkin’s fur.

Fjord frowns. “You sure? I— I was worried,” he admits, the words sticking in his throat. Caleb huffs, bitter and humorless.

“Thank you, Fjord. I am fine, but thank you.” He swallows, fingers briefly tensing in Frumpkin’s fur, then adds, “I was worried about you, too.”

The rest of the walk into town is silent.

With Fjord out running errands, Caleb decides to work on transcribing scrolls he’d bought earlier from Pumat. He spreads out his paper and ink beside his bed on the floor in the inn room and loses himself in the familiar, repetitive motion of copying runes and glyphs. Caleb vaguely notices when the room’s door opens and closes, but he doesn’t actually look up until Fjord’s boots appear in his line of sight.

“How was shopping?” He asks, moving some papers aside so Fjord can sit beside him.

Fjord shrugs. “Same as always. The blacksmith said he’d have my armor repaired in about two days, so as long as we don’t get into any trouble before then, I should be good.”

“We are very good at staying out of trouble,” Caleb says, lips curling into a half-smile.

Fjord snorts. “Sure. I also picked up some more thread,” he continues, pulling open his pack, “so now our clothes won’t be more rips than actual fabric.”

“I think that is a bit of an exaggeration.”

Fjord makes a skeptical noise, pointedly eyeing Caleb’s coat where it’s slung over the back of a chair. “I dunno about that, Caleb. That thing looked like it was halfway to falling apart when I met you, and it hasn’t gotten any better.”

Caleb considers this. “Ja, but has it gotten any worse?”

“Yes! I think the only reason it hasn’t completely unravelled is out of spite,” Fjord exclaims, gesturing at it as if to prove his point. Caleb grins.

“Perhaps you have a point,” he concedes. “ Perhaps. ” He clears his throat. “I still have one more spell to transcribe; I’m afraid I won’t be very exciting to talk to until that’s finished.”

“It’s not like I keep you around because you’re a great conversationalist,” Fjord points out with a teasing grin. “I think I’ll survive.” Caleb huffs, an echo of a laugh.

Fjord stands and walks over to the chair, picking up Caleb’s coat. “I’m gonna start working on this. Mind if I join you on the floor?”

Caleb shakes his head, half his focus already back to the spell. “Not at all, mein Freund.”

Fjord settles beside him, leaning back against the bed. Caleb dips his quill into the inkwell and continues his work. Nearly forty-five minutes pass to the sound of quill against parchment and the soft pull of thread through fabric before Fjord clears his throat.

“I passed this place on my way back,” he starts. Caleb narrows his eyes at the faux-casualness of his tone; when he looks over, Fjord’s eyes are locked on the coat but the needle is still.

“What kind of place?” Caleb asks.

Fjord swallows, gnawing on his lip. “An apartment,” he mutters.

Caleb blinks; that was not anywhere near what he was expecting. “Ah,” he says a second too late, before realizing that Fjord will likely take his pause as dissent.

Sure enough, “Not— I was just curious, is all,” Fjord rambles, his words nearly stumbling over each other in their haste to get out of his mouth. “It’s not— we don’t—”

“Fjord,” Caleb interrupts, carefully setting his quill down. “I don’t mind. Truly. Tell me about it.”

Fjord’s mouth snaps shut. He swallows again, then says, “I saw the sign, so I went in and asked about it. Not out of any concrete interest or anything, but. I was curious, y’know?” He shrugs, eyes still fixed on Caleb’s coat. “It’s small, but it’s got two stories; the top floor is the actual apartment, the bottom floor the previous owner said he used as an office and extra storage. I thought - hypothetically, but - that we could use it as a more official place to meet potential clients than just going to a tavern and hoping we find someone? It’s kind of...I dunno, wishful thinking, I guess, but—”

“How much does cost?” Caleb asks, gently cutting off Fjord’s nervous rambling.

Part of him - the part that has been running for over three years - balks at the thought of buying a permanent place of his own, even with someone like Fjord. He digs his nails into his arms and focuses on the surprised, hopeful, and quickly-but-poorly muffled smile dawning on Fjord’s face.

“I mean, we’d have to negotiate, but he estimated around 2,000.” Fjord’s smile turns a bit bitter, his fingers curling into the fabric of Caleb’s coat. “Kind of expensive, not gonna lie.”

Caleb hums. “I think we could afford it,” he decides, eyes darting back and forth as he runs mental calculations. “Besides, you are very charming. I’m sure you could talk him down.”

The bitterness fades from Fjord’s smile and Caleb carefully doesn’t acknowledge the fondness that bubbles up in his chest. Fjord nudges him in the thigh with his foot.

“Don’t undersell yourself, Caleb, you can be plenty charming when you want.”

Caleb smiles past the echoes of Ikithon’s...kinder lessons. “Sure,” he agrees, and leaves it at that. “Tell me more about your plans for this apartment. It would...be nice, to not live out of an inn room when we aren’t on a job.”

Fjord grins, bright and pleased. “It’s kinda small, but it’s not like we need that much space, do we?” He gestures to the room around them. “There’s a kitchen and a small sitting area, and it’s also got this little nook where you could transcribe all your spells easier than sitting on the floor, or where I could sew or something. There’re a lot of shelves, too, so you don’t have to carry your books all with you. The previous owner - name’s Elliot; he and his wife are moving to Deastock and he said they’re gonna leave most of the furniture in the apartment for ease of travel.”

Caleb blinks, momentarily thrown by the fact that Fjord thought about what he, specifically, would like in the apartment. “You said there was a downstairs part, too?” He asks instead of dwelling on that particular thought.

“Oh— yeah. It’s probably bigger than what we’d need, but I thought maybe we could use it as someplace to set up, I dunno, an actual business or something? Like adventurers for hire, so we don’t have to just hope we overhear someone in a tavern or something.”

Caleb hums. “We should go over there tomorrow,” he decides. “I would like to see it.”

Fjord’s smile, if possible, grows brighter. He looks away, back to Caleb’s coat, and picks up the needle and thread again. “Sure,” he agrees. “Yeah, we can do that.”

+++

Fjord steps into the apartment first, the key clenched tight in his hand. Caleb closes the door behind them with a soft click. With a wave of his hand, four globules of light disperse into the room, hovering near the ceiling and bathing everything in golden warmth. Neither of them move for a long moment, both frozen on the threshold as they soak it in.

Caleb places a hand on Fjord’s shoulder.

Welcome home, he thinks.

A wave of radiant healing washes over Caleb, accompanied by the warm timbre of Shakaste’s voice. He sits slowly, pushing himself up on shaky elbows as he takes stock of the battlefield. There are no more undead, their bodies crumpled on the ground, and the necromancer—

“Fjord!” The name tears itself from Caleb’s throat. 

His hand raises on instinct, fire curling around his wrist and up his soot-blacked fingers. The Firebolt flings from his hand with surprising force, but he watches with a detached sort of desperation as it soars through the air to slam into the necromancer’s temple. She stumbles away from Fjord with a startled, choked-off scream that something deep within Caleb’s mind relishes.

Sickness roils in Caleb’s gut as the flames spread down her skull. His eyes go distant, memories bursting and fighting through his vision, but not before he sees the startled horror that dawns on Fjord’s face. Someone might be saying something, but their words are drowned out by the screaming flames in his ears. His hands and forearms itch and burn, but he’s frozen. He doesn’t breathe, doesn’t blink, even when his lungs and eyes fill with smoke.

It could be minutes or years before a voice filters through the memories; in his daze, it takes Caleb a moment before he recognizes it as Shakaste. He blinks. His vision clarifies and sharpens onto the still, empty body of the necromancer. The flames are out and Fjord has moved from beside her body to behind Shakaste. Caleb frowns.

“Was—” He starts, slipping into the familiar comfort of Zemnian, but whatever else he would’ve said sticks in his throat.

Fjord kneels beside Shakaste; Caleb’s eyes flick to him, instinctual, before he remembers the expression Fjord had made when the Firebolt caught on the necromancer’s hair. The look is gone by the time Caleb turns away, but Fjord is very good at masks. Caleb swallows down bile.

“Caleb?” Fjord asks, far too soft and worried. “D’you think you could summon Frumpkin?”

Caleb frowns. He digs through his chest for words, but all he can find is, “You’re allergic.”

Fjord shrugs. “I think you need him more right now,” he says. His voice hasn’t lost that concerned edge. “I don’t mind, really.”

The words trickle through Caleb’s brain. He blinks, trying to catch them as they continuously slip through his fingers. When the request finally processes, Caleb’s hand is shaking so hard that he can barely snap. Still, Frumpkin appears in his lap with a small meow. The knot in his chest lessens somewhat and he smiles, albeit strained, as Frumpkin climbs onto his shoulder. Part of Caleb painfully murmurs the need to acknowledge Fjord and Shakaste; the rest of him clamors desperately for comfort. He buries his face in Frumpkin’s fur and momentarily allows himself this if nothing else.

Distantly, he hears Fjord and Shakaste’s voices, but none of it registers. It seems only a second goes by while they talk, but it is probably longer than that. Caleb’s internal clock whispers, barely audible, that a few minutes have passed. Part of him is uncomfortable with the fact that he lost even that small bit of time. He cannot bring the rest of himself to care.

Shakaste passes him by with a gentle pat on the arm. Radiant warmth seeps from his palm; Caleb can’t help the tension that bleeds from his shoulders as he feels a few of his cuts and bruises fade. Thank you, he wants to say, but his tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth.

He blinks again and Fjord’s hand has appeared at the edge of his line of sight, where his vision isn’t completely obscured by Frumpkin. Caleb shifts so he can see better, frowning at Fjord’s hand and then at Fjord himself, before he realizes that Fjord is probably offering to help him up.

He wraps his still-shaking fingers around Fjord’s wrist. When Fjord pulls him to his feet, he allows himself to lean briefly against Fjord’s side as he gets his balance. Frumpkin shifts so he isn’t squished and Caleb buries his fingers in his fur as he steps away from Fjord. 

The walk back into Erefeld passes in a blur. Caleb warily allows himself to fade out, trusting Fjord to lead them while he focuses on the familiar, simple feeling of Frumpkin purring against his shoulders.

Caleb barely conceals a faint jolt of shock when Fjord leans down to catch his eye. He looks away as fast as he can from the naked concern on Fjord’s face.

“Hey,” Fjord murmurs. “How’re you doing? I mean, you got knocked out, and then—”

Caleb bites his tongue until he tastes blood. “Ja, I am fine,” he interrupts, forcing the words through his teeth.

Fjord frowns. “You sure? I— I was worried,” he admits.

Caleb chuckles, more a bitter and humorless exhale than anything else. He does not deserve the painfully sincere concern in Fjord’s voice, but instead of making this known, he says, “Thank you, Fjord. I am fine, but thank you.”

He swallows, nearly choking on the words, “I was worried about you, too.”

Fjord stares for a moment, clearly as surprised by the admission as Caleb is. Caleb doesn’t look at him and buries his fingers deep in Frumpkin’s fur. The cat purrs louder, but other than that, the rest of the walk is silent.

Fjord does all the talking when they go around Erefeld to inform the townspeople that they’re safe. He collects the promised gold and graciously accepts the inn room they’re offered for their troubles. The meal they eat is flavorless and Caleb barely manages to keep it down; he does not miss the near-constant looks of concern that Fjord shoots him, but he does not acknowledge them, either.

Fjord, blessedly, doesn’t try to talk to him again until they’re getting ready for bed.

“Caleb?” He asks, barely loud enough to carry across the small inn room.

After a few seconds of tense silence, Caleb realizes he should respond. He hums and focuses on removing his book holsters and bloodstained coat so he doesn’t have to look at Fjord. Frumpkin meows. Fjord clears his throat.

“Look, I’m not...asking you to talk to me, or anything,” he starts. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to; I’m not gonna force you into anything you’re not comfortable with. But—” he sighs; when Caleb glances at him out of the corner of his eye, he’s rubbing the back of his neck anxiously. “—I’m here if you do wanna talk about it. I’m happy to listen or help, if that’s what you want.”

Caleb frowns down at the well-worn wood floor. Warmth curls unbidden in his chest, but it’s quickly overcome with the fiercely desperate need to keep this shame, this guilt to himself. His mouth moves wordlessly for a moment before he manages, “Thank you, Fjord. I will— I will keep that in mind.”

Fjord lets the conversation drop and Caleb is thankful; he is not sure how many more words he has left floating in the void of his chest. They both eventually settle into their beds. Fjord snuffs out the single lamp, leaving Caleb to stare blindly at the dark ceiling. He doesn’t sleep, but he didn’t expect to. It’s almost better that he doesn’t; when he’s awake, the only nightmares are his own conscious thoughts, and those are always more controllable than dreams.

At some point around sunrise, with Frumpkin purring on his chest, he drifts off listening to Fjord’s deep, steady breathing. He forces himself back awake before any concrete dreams can form; every time his eyes threaten to flutter shut, he stares at the strips of sunrise creeping around the mostly-closed curtains. 

If Fjord notices how haggard he is the next morning, he doesn’t comment, and Caleb is thankful.

+++

It is a warm, slow night; summer has dug its claws into Zadash, and Caleb’s distaste for the heat outweighs the discomfort he feels without his coat. It’s easier to go without it in the inn room, anyway, when it’s just him and Fjord. He keeps its comforting weight across his lap while reading, but only a loose tunic covers the bandages on his arms.

Across the room, Fjord shifts. Caleb turns another page in his book. Fjord coughs. 

“I’ve been thinking,” he starts, an awkward and uncomfortable edge to his voice.

Caleb sets one finger on the page so he doesn’t lose his spot and looks up. Fjord’s eyes are focused on the wall a few inches to the left of Caleb’s face. Caleb frowns at him.

“Ja?”

Fjord hesitates, worrying his lip between his teeth. “You remember when we first met, and I said I wanted to eventually make my way up north? To the Academy,” he clarifies, unnecessarily.

Caleb swallows. Cold numbness begins to curl itself in his gut, crawling up his throat and through his veins. “Ja,” he repeats, slower. Carefully.

It would be very hard for him to forget about Fjord’s wish to go to Soltryce. Neither of them have mentioned it since that one conversation months ago, but the fact looms silent and ever-present in the back of Caleb’s mind. Though he will never admit it to anyone, least of all himself, he has been dreading the inevitable day when Fjord will...leave him.

There is no question about it, not when even the thought of it sends panic shivering through his veins: Caleb will not be returning to Rexxentrum, but he also will not hinder Fjord’s chances - small though they may be (not that he will ever tell Fjord so) - of getting his dream. Therefore, Caleb-and-Fjord is only a temporary arrangement.

“I am...not sure if I want that, anymore,” Fjord admits.

Caleb blinks. The words aren’t fitting together, aren’t lining up with the facts that he had long ago accepted. “You...what?”

Fjord swallows. “I don’t know if I want to go to the Academy anymore,” he says, sounding more confident now that he’s repeated it. “It’s just— I dunno, I’ve been thinking about it. My magic is different than yours, right? You’ve said it yourself. And— I mean, I don’t think spitting up saltwater is really par for the course in a fancy wizard school. So.”

He shrugs. Caleb studies him and pointedly ignores the hope bubbling in his chest. “Nein, it is not,” he agrees a second too late.

Fjord grins, soft and a little awkward. “And...I like what we have here,” he adds. “A while ago, you said you wouldn’t go with me as far as Soltryce, and I don’t want to force you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with. I...am happier here, with you, doing this, than I think I would be at the Academy.”

A wave of warm fondness crashes over Caleb, chasing away the remaining vestiges of cold dread. The corners of his lips curl up unbidden and for once, he doesn’t try to hide the smile or force it away.

“I can always teach you if you would like to learn,” he offers. Then, tentatively, “We’ll make it work?”

It takes a moment, but recognition flashes across Fjord’s face. He meets Caleb’s eye. “Let’s make it work,” he agrees.

+++

It has been a very exhausting— week, really. In the past five days, Caleb has both been knocked out and seen Fjord knocked out far too much for comfort. They are dangerously low on healing potions - only one left between the two of them - and Caleb is starting to regret never learning even a simple healing spell.

Thankfully, when they make camp for the night, they’re just under a day’s travel away from Zadash. Caleb wants nothing more than to collapse into bed at his and Fjord’s apartment, but he’ll settle for his bedroll for one more day. He sets the Alarm spell on practiced instinct; he’s done it so many times now that he doesn’t need to be fully cognizant, which is good because exhaustion has him half-asleep on his feet.

“I can take first watch,” Fjord offers when Caleb returns. He already has a fire going.

“Danke,” Caleb murmurs, too tired to argue.

He shrugs off his book harness and sets it carefully in his pack before settling into his bedroll. For once, it does not take him long to fall asleep.

A handful of hours pass in dark, dreamless nothingness.

When Caleb wakes, it is abruptly and to the sound of his Alarm spell triggering. He scrambles to his feet before his eyes have fully opened, one hand already reaching for his component pouch.

“Fjord,” he calls, a little panicked, scanning the darkness for whatever tripped the wire. “We have company.”

Fjord curses under his breath and stands just as four figures melt out of the darkness. All of them have bandanas over their faces. Two of them have shortswords; the other two have crossbows and both are aiming at Caleb or Fjord, respectively.

“Don’t move,” one of the men calls, the apparent leader; he holds himself taller than the rest and has two shortswords as opposed to one. Caleb narrows his eyes.

Fjord slowly raises his hands, one of them the barest hint more curled than the other. He catches Caleb’s eye. “Now, gentlemen,” he starts.

With a splash of ocean water, the falchion appears in his hand. All four bandits swing to face him; at the same moment, three rays of flame burst from Caleb’s hand to slam into the leader’s chest. He stumbles back from the force of the blow, a scream cutting itself short when his body is nearly incinerated.

Caleb swallows, mouth suddenly dry. The now-dead man’s shortswords fall near-silently onto the grass atop his ashes.

“What the hell!?” One of the remaining bandits exclaims. Caleb forces himself back into the present, pushing past echoing memories as best he can.

He pulls fire from smoldering remnants from the leader’s body into the inferno sparking in his palm. Two crossbow bolts slam into him at the same moment; one in his chest, the other in his thigh. He grunts, vaguely registering Fjord’s shout of distress as he pushes the pain into a corner of his mind to be dealt with later.

“Are you sure this is a fight you want to pick,” he snarls, the words tearing across his throat. He raises his hand, the flames jumping higher and brighter, and looks to one of the men that shot him.

The remaining three bandits exchange a frantic look.

“We—”

“I— you—”

“ Go,” Fjord growls, his accent deepening and sharpening into something more intimidating than it usually is.

The bandits turn tail and run. Caleb lets the fire in his palm die, absentmindedly wiping the soot on his pants as he stares at the ashes and shortswords. Abruptly, the pain comes rushing back, and he stumbles towards his bedroll.

“Shit, Caleb,” Fjord says, rushing over. He doesn’t disperse the falchion, which is probably smart, but he does pull out their final healing potion from Caleb’s pack. “Here. Take this.”

“Yeah,” Caleb agrees, though he doesn’t reach for the potion.

His fingers are shaking when he curls them around the crossbow bolt in his chest, but he doesn’t hesitate to pull it out. Fjord jolts slightly at the hoarse, pained scream Caleb traps behind his teeth, and he rushes to put pressure on the wound while Caleb reaches for the second bolt.

“Caleb—”

Fjord swallows whatever he was about to say with a frown when Caleb pulls the second bolt out of his thigh with another muffled scream. He reaches blindly for the healing potion; Fjord places it, already uncorked, in his hand, and Caleb downs it thankfully. The wounds close up, though they’re still raw and tender. Fjord pulls away and Caleb reaches past him for his pack.

“I can finish the watch,” he says, despite the fact that there are still a few hours left in Fjord’s shift.

Fjord frowns. “Are you sure? I mean, you did just get shot, and—”

Caleb pulls out extra bandages from his pack and sets about covering what’s left of the wounds so they don’t get infected. “Ja, it is fine,” he interrupts. “Get some sleep, Fjord.”

“I...okay,” Fjord relents. “If you’re sure.”

He settles into his own bedroll a few feet away. Caleb waits until he’s certain that Fjord is asleep before bandaging the wounds. He does the one on his thigh first, and then the one on his chest; after a moment’s hesitation, he redoes the wrappings around his forearms, too.

In the faint firelight, the scars are stark against his freckled skin. He studies them for as long as he can bear until the memories threaten to pull him under; after that, he rewraps his arms quickly and carefully and stuffs the bandages back in his pack. With a soft snap of his fingers, Frumpkin appears in his lap.

There are no other interruptions throughout the night. Caleb does not drift off; he has Frumpkin wake him every time he does. He passes the hours with memories repeating in his mind, but it is far better to experience them awake, when he is at least somewhat cognizant, than to replay them in all their terrible, twisted detail while asleep.

Around sunrise, the scars begin to itch. Caleb acknowledges this with an unsettlingly bitter, humorless smile that only Frumpkin sees, and accepts that it is going to be one of the bad days.

+++

By the time they reach Zadash, it feels as though the scars have split and that there is magma running beneath Caleb’s skin. He stuffs his hands deep in his pockets and digs his nails into his palms hard enough to draw blood; if Fjord notices, he doesn’t comment, so Caleb highly doubts he is aware.

They eat a dinner that Caleb barely tastes at the Leaky Tap before heading back to their apartment. Fjord has definitely noticed Caleb’s exhaustion; he doesn’t try to say anything after Caleb brushes him off the first three times, but he stands a few inches closer to Caleb than normal so that their shoulders brush whenever either of them moves. Silently, Caleb is grateful, but the exhaustion and the pain in his arms have stolen all the words from his throat, so he simply leans against Fjord’s side as much as he can while still walking on his own.

Fjord steers them to the bedroom as soon as they’re in the apartment. Caleb tries to fight it - a futile attempt, but he balks at the thought of falling asleep, at throwing himself straight into the claws of his nightmares. Still, he’s slept maybe seven hours in the past two days; nothing he hasn’t done before, but he knows Fjord will not let him do anything else until he sleeps.

Dazedly, Caleb shrugs off his coat and unhooks his book holsters. He drapes his coat over the foot of the bed and sets his books on the nightstand, always within reach. The scars on his arms are burning, but Caleb simply bites his tongue against the discomfort.

Despite the pain, he is asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

+++

Three pairs of feet whisper on the floorboards of Master Ikithon’s home. It is 7:28 in the morning; pale, golden sunlight streams through the windows lining the corridor. Out of the corner of his eye, Bren sees a flash of Astrid’s blonde hair, nearly glowing in the sunrise. He smiles. Eodwulf towers to Bren’s other side, comforting in his bulk.

Bren stops in front of the door to Master Ikithon’s study. Astrid and Eodwulf pause behind him, steady presences at his back. He opens the door. It is 7:30 on the dot; he is as punctual as always. They step into the room and the door shuts with a soft, echoing click behind them.

The first thing Bren sees, as though his vision has been inexplicably pulled towards it, is a large, smooth, green crystal sitting in the center of Master Ikithon’s otherwise spotless desk. Master Ikithon is standing beside it, arms crossed behind his back. Bren steps forward. The corners of Master Ikithon’s mouth curl up; Bren blinks and the enchanted globes that light the room have been snuffed out.

On the desk, the crystal glows eerie and green, lighting Master Ikithon from beneath. Bren steps towards the desk. Astrid and Eodwulf move from behind him to stand at his sides. Together, they reach forward and touch the crystal.

It flashes, brilliant and blinding, then shatters with a sound like thunder. Bren turns away instinctively, squeezing his eyes shut. He tries to raise his arms to protect his face, but his limbs have frozen. It feels like his skin is porcelain, cracks skittering up his forearms.

“Very good,” Master Ikithon says, as smooth and comforting as silk.

+++

Bren opens his eyes to the familiar basement beneath Master Ikithon’s home, lying back on a surface of some kind. It is probably a bed, but Bren has never seen any of those in the basement before. The surface beneath him is uncomfortable and scratchy, like a poorly-made mattress.

He looks down.

His arms are bare, restrained at the wrists by straps he hadn’t noticed earlier. Bren accepts this with the kind of learned familiarity one might accept a teacher’s suggestion.

There are crystals in his arms.

They are the same peculiar green as the crystal on Master Ikithon’s desk, though these are smaller and more jagged, protruding from Bren’s arms in neat, near-perfect lines. As soon as he looks at them, they start to tingle. He curls his fingers with idle curiosity; the words for Firebolt come as easily as breathing to his lips.

Familiar arcane flame bursts from his palm, but it does not fly in the direction his hand is aimed; the crystals spark at the same time. Fire crawls up his arms, caressing the jagged crystals as it leaps across his skin. The crystals climb, spreading their roots through his veins.

Bren opens his mouth.

+++

“Get them out!” He screams, realizing a half-second late that the words are in Zemnian. He swallows, ducking his head against Master Ikithon’s imminent displeasure. “I am sorry,” he murmurs, and doesn’t bother with useless apologies.

For one terrible, suspended moment, there is silence. He does not open his eyes - he hadn’t realized he’d closed them - and braces himself for punishment. Master Ikithon does not like it when they speak Zemnian. The crystals in his arms burn, crescents of awful, piercing heat.

Beside him, to his right, something shifts. He flinches.

There is a beat, and then, in an almost-familiar voice, “Caleb?”

The world shifts and stutters; Caleb’s eyes shoot open, breath catching somewhere between his lungs and mouth. It takes far too long for his eyes to register the far wall of the bedroom in their apartment. 

“Caleb?” Fjord asks again.

Caleb turns, squinting in the darkness. Fjord’s body is outlined by the faint moonlight filtering through the mostly-closed curtains. Caleb can just barely make out the concerned, half-asleep tilt to Fjord’s lips.

“Ja,” Caleb tries to say, but the word sticks in his throat and never makes it to his tongue. He clenches his mouth shut against the swirling emptiness in his chest.

“Are you...alright?”

Caleb huffs, trapping laughter behind his teeth as his lips curl up into a bitter smile. Fjord shakes his head.

“Yeah, stupid question.”

There’s a pause, but Fjord doesn’t lie back down, so Caleb doesn’t, either. He is not sure he could go back to sleep, anyway; he is not sure he wants to. Fjord inhales, as though bracing himself, and Caleb slowly, carefully looks at him.

“I’ve never asked before, because I didn’t think it was my place to do so,” Fjord starts, and Caleb begins to gather all the words floating tetherless in his mind. “I know you have nightmares; it’s kind of hard to miss, but— you haven’t told me very much about your past.” Fjord chuckles a little, humorless. “I haven’t told you much about mine. But...is there something in yours? That— that haunts you, with these nightmares, and the fire, and,” Fjord swallows like he’s rolling the words around in his mouth. “And the Academy?”

Caleb inhales sharply. He cannot help himself; he had known the words were coming, and yet hearing them is still a punch to the gut. 

“Ja,” he says, forcing the words out through the void in his chest. “That is— ja, you are not wrong. I, I have a checkered past, with— with flame. Fire. And, and the Academy.”

Absently, Caleb realizes he’d been digging his nails into his arms. He shifts his grip to curl his fingers tight around his wrists instead, grounding himself in the rough, raised tissue. The scars no longer feel as though his skin is splitting apart; the pain has lessened to a faint, barely-there tingle. He is still hyper-aware of the feeling.

“I have made mistakes in my life,” he continues. “I harmed people I— I shouldn’t have. Not in a long time, but— I thought I was going to be something, someday, but now I am not so sure. I do not think— oh, gods.” Caleb inhales shakily, biting his lip. He turns his face away from Fjord’s heavy gaze. “Ask me again in a couple of days. I will prepare a better answer than this.”

He cannot see Fjord, but he hears it when Fjord hums - even that sounds warm, understanding, and Caleb wants to scream at all the undeserved kindness Fjord gives him. He does not, simply bites down on his tongue until he tastes blood.

“Sure,” Fjord agrees easily. “Thank you for trusting me with this. I know it can’t be easy for you, but—” Hesitantly, he rests his hand on Caleb’s back, just below his shoulder blades. “—I am here for you, Caleb, whether you want me or not.”

There’s a soft rustle of fabric as Fjord lies down, taking his hand with him; almost immediately, Caleb misses the heat, and he forces himself not to chase it. It has been— so long, since he has felt kindness like this. He does not deserve it anymore. The warmth of it burns him in a way he isn’t used to.

With another shuddering breath, Caleb lies back down, hyper-aware of the cold, empty space between him and Fjord. He rolls over onto his side, facing away, and does not sleep for the rest of the night.

+++

Three days pass, then five, then a week, then two, until it has been nearly a month since Caleb promised Fjord an answer. The awareness of it sits awkwardly in the back of Caleb’s mind, wrapped in gauzy cobwebs of guilt. At first, he does not say anything simply because he is still finding the words; as the days stretch into weeks, however, it becomes easier to avoid the topic altogether. When Fjord doesn’t bring it up either, Caleb allows himself to believe that Fjord has forgotten - it is a willful ignorance.

Caleb is, at the end of the day, a coward.

Sometimes, on slow days between jobs, Caleb will open his mouth with the intent of telling Fjord— something. He thinks he will start with an apology, for keeping this from Fjord for so long, and then he will...tell Fjord everything? He is not sure.

But it is very rare that the right words leave Caleb’s mouth - more often, it is something completely trivial, like what they will do for dinner - and then Fjord will look at him, and Caleb can’t bring himself to break the easy peacefulness of it all. He swallows the words he had meant to say and saves them for a later date.

+++

Pumat greets them with a wide smile when they enter the Invulnerable Vagrant.

“Well, hello there! You’re just the people I was hoping to see, actually.”

“Really?” Fjord asks, approaching the counter. Caleb trails behind him, running his fingers over the titles in the small bookcase near the door as he scans for anything new.

“I have a job for you, if you’re free,” Pumat offers. Fjord makes an interested noise, so he continues, “I’ve got a shipment of spell and enchantment components I need to pick up in Rexxentrum—” Caleb’s fingers freeze on the books. He barely registers the rest of Pumat’s sentence, “—but all of me is busy here working on orders for the next few weeks.”

“Yeah, I think we could—” Fjord starts, glancing over his shoulder at Caleb.

Caleb nearly bites his tongue in his panicked haste to speak. “I, I don’t— I do not think— we, I— I am sorry, Pumat, but I do not think we can take that job,” he stutters, his words stumbling over each other as they rush from his mouth. Fjord frowns at him.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Pumat says, looking between Caleb and Fjord with a bewildered expression. “Ah, well, I’m sure I can find someone else to help me out.” He clears his throat. “I’m assuming you didn’t come here just for a job, unless you did, in which case, I apologize. What can I do for you?”

“Right, of course,” Fjord says slowly, his questioning gaze lingering on Caleb for a moment longer before he turns back around. “We were looking for some more health potions, actually, and Caleb, you needed more paper and ink, didn’t you?”

It takes a moment for the question to process through the haze of dull panic that has settled over Caleb’s mind. “Oh, ja, thank you,” he answers.

Pumat nods. “We can do that, yeah. We only have a few health potions left, as you guys have been clearing us out and we’re running low on ingredients to make more, but I’m sure we can get you something.”

The rest of the transaction passes in a blur; Caleb vaguely remembers handing over the gold for his paper and ink, but then it seems like he blinks and Fjord is steering him back into the Pentamarket. The parchment is tucked carefully under Fjord’s arm. Caleb blinks, trying to remember if they’d attempted to hand it to him or if Fjord had taken it originally, but his mind offers up no answers. He frowns, digging his nails into his arms. The lost time settles uncomfortably in his throat.

Fjord leads them back to their apartment and Caleb drifts beside him, collecting and arranging words in his mind for the inevitable, no-longer-avoidable conversation. Thankfully, or perhaps unfortunately, Fjord doesn’t speak until he’s closed the apartment door behind them. He sets the parchment on the table and continues into the bedroom; Caleb follows and settles hesitantly beside him on the bed. When he turns to Caleb, there’s a confused and what could be concerned look on his face. Caleb looks away.

“We don’t have any jobs right now,” Fjord says, low and faux-casual. “Why did you tell Pumat we couldn’t do it? It’s not like it’s too dangerous for us - just a simple supply run.”

A strangled, near-hysterical laugh claws its way up Caleb’s throat and out of his mouth. “It is not dangerous for you, ja,” he agrees.

Fjord frowns. “What—”

“Weeks ago, I promised to tell you about my past.”

There’s a pause. “And then you didn’t,” Fjord says; the words burrow painfully into Caleb’s chest, constricting around his ribs. “I didn’t want to push you.”

Caleb chuckles again, crossing his arms tight over his chest. “That is kind of you,” he murmurs. Then, louder, “This is— I do not know how long this will take. I am—”

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Fjord interrupts softly. “I don’t want to push you.”

Caleb inhales a deep, shuddery breath. “No, that is— you deserve to know.” He clears his throat, forces as much emotion as he can out of his voice - not that it will matter much, as Fjord can probably read him like a book. “I am going to tell you the story of how I murdered my mother and father,” he starts.

“Oh,” Fjord says, small and surprised like he’s been punched.

Caleb cannot help it; he looks up, at Fjord’s face, and something in him shrivels when he sees the quickly-but-poorly muffled shock and pain there. Caleb swallows. He almost can’t bring himself to look away, now, but the shame curling in his gut forces his gaze back down to the bedspread.

“Caleb?” Fjord murmurs.

Caleb shudders. Like something in him has cracked open, the words come spilling out of his mouth, nearly tripping over each other, and he tells Fjord everything.

+++

Caleb starts the story with, “My name. Was. Bren Aldric Ermundrud,” enunciating each syllable carefully like the words burn the inside of his mouth.

He watches the surprise flash across Fjord’s face. There is a long, quiet moment before Fjord clears his throat.

“When did you get your new name?” He asks.

“I used a lot of names,” Caleb tells him. “Caleb Widogast is just what I told you. I did not...think it would be this permanent,” he admits. Fjord hums.

“What do you prefer?”

The question throws Caleb off. He blinks. When he opens his mouth, he has no idea what will come out.

“I don’t know. Caleb,” he says, oddly comfortable with it. “Let’s stick with Caleb for now.”

Fjord nods. Caleb continues his story.

+++

He unwraps his arms with shaking fingers. The bandages fall limp on the bedspread; he looks at them to avoid looking at Fjord as he raises his arms.

“He used to put crystals in— he experimented on us, the three of us,” he explains. “To make us more powerful.”

He lowers his arms. The scars glint green in the low candlelight; Caleb would almost think it a trick of the light, but when he looks up, Fjord is studying them with a perplexed look on his face. Caleb swallows and runs his finger over one of the larger scars halfway up his forearm.

“Crystal residue,” he says, to Fjord’s unasked question. “They did not— it was not always easy or clean to remove them from our skin. The nature of them, they resisted magical healing.”

What he doesn’t say is this: the crystals were not meant to be removed, at least not as early as Caleb’s were. The memories are foggy, cracked and blended with eleven years’ worth of others, but he knows that his crystals were removed at the Sanatorium. It was not done kindly.

Fjord does not need to know that.

Caleb picks the bandages back up. He hesitates, for a moment, before he tucks them into his pocket. There is no use hiding from Fjord, not anymore. Still, he tugs his sleeves down over his arms and waits for Fjord to ask the question he’s clearly chewing on.

Finally, “Do they still hurt? I see you scratching your arms, sometimes,” Fjord asks, then quirks an eyebrow at whatever face Caleb must make. “What? I’ve been travelling with you for over a year, now; I’m bound to notice things.”

Caleb chuckles, though it’s bitter and rasping and not humorous at all. Fjord doesn’t seem to mind.

“Ja, I suppose that is true enough,” Caleb agrees, curling his fingers around his wrists. Through the threadbare fabric of his shirt, he can feel the scars now that they aren’t hidden beneath the bandages.

He swallows. “The— the crystals were not the worst things we were subjected to,” he continues.

+++

It is the better part of an hour before Caleb is finished, his past laid bare on the bed between him and Fjord with no way of taking it back. The silence hangs; Caleb forces himself to not count the seconds, but something ingrained in him still knows the precise amount of time that Fjord doesn’t speak. When he does, Caleb is expecting disgust. Hatred, maybe - this is a man who has wanted a family since before Caleb met him. Caleb murdered his own parents; he deserves nothing less than every awful thing Fjord can think of to spit at him.

Instead—

“Can I—” Fjord’s voice is hesitant, so soft that Caleb nearly flinches. “Can I hug you, Caleb?”

The shock hits Caleb slowly, like honey spreading through his veins and coalescing around his heart. For a moment he forgets to breathe; the next breath he manages to draw in shudders through his chest like an earthquake.

This, of all things, is what breaks him. 

He slumps forward, knocking his forehead against Fjord’s chest. Arms wrap around his back almost instantly and a sob wracks his body, try as he might to keep it in. Fjord is warm and sturdy, and he shifts both their bodies so Caleb is curled against him in a less uncomfortable position. He buries his tears in Fjord’s chest; thankfully, Fjord does not seem to mind how damp his shirt is getting.

“Caleb, it was not your fault, you are not at all to blame,” Fjord murmurs, pressing the words into Caleb’s hair.

A laugh that is more like a sob tears itself from Caleb’s chest. “I am, though. I am. I was— I was so sure, until I wasn’t,” he forces through his teeth, because Fjord needs to understand this, needs to understand that Caleb is not a good person. “I was so sure.”

Fjord goes tense, briefly, before he forces himself to relax. “It was not your fault,” he repeats, somehow sounding so terribly, ridiculously sure. “You were being manipulated, Caleb; Ikithon was taking advantage of you and your friends. If anything, he is the one to blame.” There’s an undercurrent of anger, there.

Protests rise to Caleb’s lips, but they’re drowned by the tears he is completely failing to swallow, so he doesn’t argue. Besides, it is— safe, in Fjord’s arms. Caleb reaches blindly for Fjord’s hand and squeezes it as hard as he can when Fjord clumsily tangles their fingers together. Fjord grunts but doesn’t pull away, and warm, surprising gratefulness surges in Caleb’s chest.

They don’t move for a long while; by the time Caleb can bring himself to pull away, his tears have dried and his foot has fallen asleep. Fjord, he’s sure, is even more uncomfortable. Caleb loosens his death-grip on Fjord’s hand and grimaces an apologetic smile up at him. 

“Hey,” Fjord says, as endearingly awkward as always.

Caleb swallows down the lingering, ashy shame sticking in his throat. Before he can think about it, he cups one hand around the back of Fjord’s neck and lightly bumps their foreheads together. Fjord grunts, surprised, and Caleb pulls back.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, unable - or perhaps unwilling - to find better words for all the emotions swirling in his chest.

The night starts as uneventful as any other; when Fjord wakes him for his watch, Caleb settles in with his back to the fire, eyes on the dark fields surrounding them on all sides. Every so often, he sends a globule of light drifting around the perimeter of their camp, but most of the time he goes without to avoid highlighting their position.

It’s boring, sitting alone in the dark with only Frumpkin and the low-burning fire for company, but it’s far better than getting woken with a sword or crossbow to his chest. Caleb enjoys the quiet solitude of the early-morning hours.

That all changes when, just before dawn, Fjord shoots up in his bedroll, coughing like he’s choking. Caleb scrambles to his feet, two golden globules of light swirling into the air as he rushes forward. It’s only once he kneels beside Fjord that he sees the water streaming from Fjord’s mouth in hacking bursts.

“Fjord,” Caleb says, hands hovering unsure just above Fjord’s chest. “Are you— what is— Fjord ,” he repeats, when sentences fail to form coherently in his mouth.

“What—?” Fjord splutters.

It could be the fact that he was just choking - it is probably the fact that he was just choking - but his voice sounds different, if only for a moment. Caleb’s frown deepens. 

“What the hell?” Fjord mutters, in his normal drawl, as he looks down at his soaked sleep shirt. He plucks at it with two fingers, annoyed and perplexed, and Caleb backs away to give him space.

“I could ask you that same question,” Caleb says. 

The sky has started to turn grey with the beginning hints of sunrise, so he drops one of the Dancing Lights. The second he brings closer to hover above their heads; its golden light throws Fjord into sharp relief. Caleb searches for some impossible reason for why Fjord was suddenly choking on water while asleep and finds none.

Fjord lets his shirt fall back against his chest and, after a pause, sticks his finger in his mouth. Something flashes across his face, too fast for Caleb to identify, and then he frowns.

“Salt,” he mumbles to himself.

Caleb raises an eyebrow. “Salt?” He repeats. “Why did you suddenly cough up a load of saltwater in your sleep?”

“I don’t know, I— I had a dream, a vivid one. This has never happened before.”

Caleb narrows his eyes, studying Fjord. He finds no trace of a lie, only muffled confusion.

“Does this have something to do with your sword, do you think?” Caleb asks. “It got a, ah, a little drippy in that last fight we were in.”

“Yeah,” Fjord agrees, trailing off as he reaches for his sheath. He holds it up; it’s empty. Caleb swallows.

“Ah. That is...hm.”

“Yeah,” Fjord says again. “Hey, you remember when I said I’d only come across my magic recently?”

Caleb nods slowly. “Ja.”

“My small experience with the arcane came to me around the same time that sword did; no more than a month before I met you, actually.”

“How did you come across the sword?” Caleb asks.

“I did a lot of merchant sailing, previously,” Fjord explains. “Had one trip that didn’t go so well; rough waters, you know - the ocean is unpredictable, sometimes. When I got back to shore, it was just there. I know how it sounds, but it was like it was almost...calling to me. When I picked it up, it’s like everything changed; I’ve been able to do more things - magic - ever since.”

“Interesting,” Caleb murmurs, mind whirling with half-remembered readings on sources of magic besides wizardry. It was never his main focus, at school.

Beside him, Fjord holds his hand up, palm open. With a sickly flash of sea-green, almost teal energy, his sword appears. Unlike the first time Caleb had seen it, however, it has barnacles encrusted all around the hilt and up the base of the blade. Water pours off its edge in that same, slow drip that it had had when Fjord had first fought with it days ago. Caleb reaches out a hand and casts Detect Magic; there’s the faintest flicker along the blade’s edge, where the water is, but other than that, nothing.

He frowns. “Interesting,” he repeats. “Do you trust me to study it for a moment?”

Fjord coughs. “Could we revisit that idea, perhaps? I’m sorry, this whole thing has left me a bit...shaken, and I feel like I need a bit to get my bearings, if that’s alright.”

“Ja, I would not want to push you,” Caleb agrees. “I mean, we’ve just met.”

Fjord chuckles. “That is true. I appreciate your patience in advance, Caleb.”

He opens his hand and the sword dissolves into seawater that soaks into the ground beside them. With a sigh, Fjord stands and starts rummaging around in his pack. Caleb stands, too, and backs away towards the near-dead fire.

Fjord pulls his damp shirt over his head with a face; Caleb looks away to give him some semblance of privacy. 

“I’m gonna have to carry this until it dries, aren’t I,” Fjord mutters.

Caleb hums. “Maybe not. Give it here,” he says, holding out his hand. Fjord raises an eyebrow but passes the damp shirt over.

Caleb kneels, scooping up a handful of flame from the fire. Fjord makes a noise of interested concern, quickly muffled, but Caleb doesn’t break his concentration to look over. The flame grows magically-hot in his hand but he’s careful to keep it under control and not burn Fjord’s shirt. After a few minutes, the fabric is steaming and mostly-dry. Caleb curls his hand into a fist to extinguish the flame and hands the shirt back to Fjord.

“That’s incredible,” Fjord says.

Caleb blushes and looks away, tucking his hands into his pockets. “A simple cantrip, but it has been rather helpful to me on the road,” he deflects.

Fjord hums. “Still very impressive.”

“We should get going,” Caleb says, thankful to let his hair drop in front of his burning face when he leans down to pick up his pack. The sun has mostly risen, at this point. “There is no point in lingering here, if we are both awake.”

“Right, of course,” Fjord agrees.

A few minutes later, they’re on their way.

+++

Fjord picks at his tusks.

Well— Fjord doesn’t have tusks, really; it’s something Caleb had noted about him early on, but he hadn’t really really thought about it. However, now that he’s been travelling with Fjord for over a month it’s hard to not notice how Fjord sometimes picks at his teeth, absentminded like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“Fjord,” Caleb calls, hesitantly, when he looks up from his spellbook one night to find Fjord with his claws in his mouth.

Fjord glances over at him; his hand falls back to his lap. “Mm?”

“Why do you...perhaps it is not my place to ask.” Caleb almost backs out, then forces himself on, “You pick at your teeth.” He cringes, internally, at the bluntness of his words, but it’s too late to take them back.

Fjord startles. “I—”

“That was blunt, I am sorry. But— I have noticed you doing it, like it’s a habit. Your tusks are— is it the reason that your tusks are...smaller, than most other half-orcs?”

“Oh,” Fjord says, like it hurts, and Caleb almost wants to interrupt again to tell him he doesn’t have to answer. “Yeah, uh—”

Jerkily, Fjord gestures for Caleb to come closer. Slowly, Caleb does, setting his spellbook on the bed and awkwardly making his way across the inn room to Fjord. When he gets close enough, Fjord pulls down his lower lip.

Caleb frowns, squinting at the scratches and chips on Fjord’s oddly stubby tusks. “Did you...this was on purpose,” he says, something curling uncomfortably in his gut. “Why?”

Fjord shifts, dropping his hand. “I, uh— I grew up in an orphanage. There weren’t any others like me there, any other half-orcs. Kids can be cruel; they used to make fun of my teeth, so I decided to take away the target that was most easily available to them.” He chuckles, bitter. “Didn’t stop them, of course. They just focused on other things.”

“Do you still feel the same way? About your teeth?” Caleb asks. He settles awkwardly onto the bed beside Fjord.

“Not necessarily. It just became a habit. To file and pick at ‘em.”

Caleb frowns. “This is many years later, though. I can’t imagine that— I would not even blink at tusks.”

“You know, it’s not even that intentional. I’ll find myself picking at them every once and a while— like you said.”

“Do you not want them to grow back, do you think?”

Fjord shrugs. “I feel like it's a trait that exemplifies the rougher side of my race, so sometimes I wish I had them, and sometimes I'm glad I don't.”

“I think you would— you would look fine either way, I think,” Caleb says. Fjord raises an eyebrow.

“You saying I should let them grow out?”

“I mean, if you want to. It is your choice, ultimately, but I think it would suit you either way.”

Fjord sighs. After a moment, he says, “How about this. You see me picking at them or chipping away at them or any of that shit, you just say the word and I’ll stop.”

“Okay,” Caleb agrees. “Ja, okay.”

He stands and makes his way back to his own bed.

+++

“I am really starting to regret taking this job,” Caleb mutters as he and Fjord turn yet another corner in the abandoned, ghoul-infested mansion they’ve been slowly clearing out for the past two days.

“We’re getting paid well, at least,” Fjord points out just before he walks face-first into a cobweb. He stumbles back, wiping at his face. “Fuck!”

Caleb grins at Fjord over his shoulder. “Watch out for the cobweb—”

Something crashes into him in a grey-black blur. He grunts as his back slams into the ground; the Dancing Lights that had been floating above their heads flicker out, plunging the hallway into darkness. Teeth sink into his forearm.

“Caleb!” Fjord shouts in an odd, smoother-than-normal accent.

There’s the now-familiar flash of sea-green light, accompanied by a splash of ocean water, as Fjord summons the falchion. The ghoul lets out a terrible, grating cry as its weight disappears from Caleb’s chest. He scrambles back until he hits the wall then stands, resummoning one of the Dancing Lights in the same movement.

The ghoul, now with a large slash across its torso, has turned its attention to Fjord. Caleb takes advantage of its distraction to send a Firebolt straight through its back; it crumples to the ground at Fjord’s feet, still twitching, and Fjord kicks it for good measure.

“We should, perhaps, be more careful,” Caleb says, rolling his sleeve up to inspect the bite with a frown. Luckily, between the wraps and the thick material of his coat, the ghoul’s teeth didn’t even reach his skin, but he isn’t looking to repeat the experience.

“Yes, that would probably be wise,” Fjord agrees. “Are you alright?”

Caleb lets his sleeve fall back down. “Ja, I am fine, simply surprised.” He sighs and summons three more globules of light to send down the hallway before them. “Let’s continue, shall we?”

+++

In total, it takes them just over two and a half days to clear out the mansion entirely. By the time they stumble back into town for, hopefully, the last time, they have one healing potion left between them. The only highlight of the whole experience is that they’re getting paid enough that they can actually afford more healing potions once they get back to Zadash.

All Caleb really wants to do is collapse into his inn bed and pass out but unfortunately, the townspeople seem insistent on celebrating him and Fjord. Part of him is appreciative; the rest of him has no idea what to do with the, frankly, ridiculous amount of free drinks they’ve been bought.

“We are not going to drink all of these, are we?” Caleb asks, glancing between his first drink, still half-full, and the other tankards on their table.

“We’d get fucking trashed even if we did have all of our blood left in us,” Fjord agrees. He glances around the tavern, where most of the patrons are not-so-subtly watching them. “I wouldn’t want to offend anyone, though.”

“I do not think we would.”

Fjord hums, skeptical, and sets down his tankard. “I’m gonna go see if— Daphne, I think she said her name was? Daphne is fine with us giving all these back,” he says, gesturing to the barmaid. “We haven’t touched any of ‘em, so.”

He pushes himself to his feet with a groan and walks up to the bar; Daphne turns to him almost immediately, a shy smile touching her lips. Caleb is too far away to hear what she and Fjord are saying, but it isn’t long before a blush begins to spread across her cheeks. She leans forward, her smile growing, and Fjord shifts back ever so slightly. Whatever he says makes Daphne’s smile fall, but she does her best to keep it up. Fjord turns; Caleb watches with a raised eyebrow as he stumbles back to the table and downs the rest of his drink in one go.

“I take it that did not go well?” Caleb asks, a touch amused and a touch concerned.

“It went fine,” Fjord mutters, slumping in his seat. His claws start tapping on the table’s surface.

Caleb frowns at him. Now that he’s closer, it’s easy to see the ruddy brown blush that has spread across nearly his entire face, down his neck, and up to the tips of his ears. The tips of his tusks peek out through the almost uncomfortable tilt to his mouth.

“Are you certain? She looked very interested in you, what went wrong?”

Fjord’s lips harden into a flat line. “Nothing, it’s fine. She said she’d let people know the drinks were up for grabs when we were done.”

“Alright,” Caleb says, studying Fjord’s face for a hint of what’s wrong. He comes up empty. “Are you—?”

“I’m fine, Caleb, don’t worry about it. Just tired, it’s been a long couple of days,” Fjord sighs, flexing his fingers against the wood of the table.

“If you are certain,” Caleb agrees slowly. He lets the topic drop.

+++

Caleb is halfway to sleep when Fjord clears his throat and says, “Caleb?”

“Ja?” Caleb almost flicks a Dancing Light into the air, so he can see Fjord, but decides against it.

Fjord shifts, rustling the sheets. After a moment, he asks, “Have you heard of someone not liking sex?”

Caleb blinks into the darkness. 

“Oh, uh, ja,” he says after a few seconds. “I have read some— not much, only a few paragraphs in a book, but it is not unheard of. That or someone simply having no interest.”

“Oh,” Fjord says, soft and surprised like he hadn’t really meant to make the noise. “So it’s not...bad?” A pause, and then, “To not be interested in sex, I mean?”

Caleb frowns. “No, why would it be? Sex is not for everyone— it is like how some people prefer one type of a thing over another, or don’t prefer that thing at all, I think.”

“Oh,” Fjord repeats. Softer, he adds, “What if someone hates even the thought of it?”

“That is not unheard of, either.” Caleb pauses, tilting his head to the side like he can see Fjord in the pitch-black darkness. “You are...this is not just simple curiosity, is it?”

Fjord chuckles softly, bitterly. “No.” He sighs. “People find me attractive and they flirt with me and want to sleep with me and I— I hate it. It feels terrible, y’know? Makes me want to crawl out of my own skin. But I flirt back because— it’s expected of me? I don’t know.”

Something heavy is curling itself in Caleb’s chest. “We have used your...looks as a distraction, before,” he states flatly. “Or as a tool to help weasel information out of somebody.”

“Yeah, uh. We have.”

“Why did you not say anything?”

Fjord shifts, rustling the covers. “I mean— it’s not like it matters much, in the end, how I felt? I did it to help us; who knows where we’d be if I hadn’t been able to get us that information or talk us out of something?”

Caleb sits up, finally sending a globule of light into the air. Fjord is lying on his side, facing Caleb, but he cringes away when Caleb looks at him.

“It does matter, Fjord! I would not have— if I had known how uncomfortable it made you, I would not have suggested we do those things! We are smart men, we could have figured something else out.” He meets Fjord’s eye. “Do not think you have to compromise yourself for our success.”

Surprise flashes across Fjord’s face before it fades into something softer. “Oh.” He clears his throat. “Uh. Thanks, Caleb.”

“Ja, of course.” Caleb pauses, then extinguishes the light and lies back down.

He jumps, slightly, when Fjord taps two fingers against the back of his hand. Instead of pulling away, Fjord curls his fingers loosely around Caleb’s wrist.

“I mean it, Caleb. Thank you.”

+++

“We’re lost,” Fjord says; when Caleb looks over at him, he’s making a face down at the swamp they’re trudging through.

“No, we are not, I know exactly where I am at all times.”

“You sure? Because we’ve been wandering around for hours and we still haven’t found those flowers Pumat wanted and,” Fjord glances up, “it’s getting late.”

“I said I knew where I was, not that I know where we are going,” Caleb points out. “All Pumat said was that the flowers were somewhere in the north part of this swamp, so I am leading us in that direction.”

“Alright, fair enough. Still, it is getting dark. D’you think we could make our way back out by the time the sun sets,” Fjord sounds doubtful even as he says it, “or should we try to find some shelter?”

“Shelter, probably.” Caleb gestures to the large trees towering above them. “Perhaps if we can find one of these that is hollow?”

It takes just over half an hour, long enough that it is starting to get difficult for Caleb to see, but they do end up finding a hollow tree large enough to fit them both. Fjord is the one that finds it; Caleb doesn’t know what he’s doing, at first, until he taps the tree and that part of its trunk moves.

“Huh,” Fjord muses, pulling open the section of loose wood. “Would you look at that?”

Caleb follows him inside and sends a few Dancing Lights to hover around the space. His eye catches on a hole in the corner; when he sends a light through it, it opens up into what he thinks is a man-made basement.

“Hey, Fjord, come look at this,” he calls over his shoulder. “Do you think this is someone’s— what, hideout?”

Fjord hums, peering over Caleb’s shoulder. “Maybe. Place looks abandoned, though.” He catches Caleb’s eye, his lips curling up into a smile. “Think we should explore?”

“I mean....”

Fjord is already pulling a rope and stake out of his pack. He jams the stake into the ground, ties the rope, and tosses the other end into the hole. After testing to make sure it’ll hold, he jumps in. With a slight grin, Caleb follows, taking the lights with him.

+++

“I think you were right about this being a hideout or something,” Fjord says, shifting through the cracked, half-open crates sitting on one side of the cave.

Caleb hums, nudging a mostly-broken box with his toe. It splinters into pieces, spilling wooden, silver, and gold medallions over the ground. Caleb kneels down, intending to organize the pile into something less haphazard, but the symbol engraved into one of the medallions catches his eye. He picks it up with a frown, rubbing his thumb over the cool silver.

The jagged cross and mirrored crescent moons glint in the Dancing Lights. Before he can think too hard about it, Caleb tucks the medallion into his pocket and stands.

He turns just in time to watch Fjord pick up a smooth, golden orb from one of the crates. His eyes glaze over as stares at it, head tilted curiously. Before Caleb can do anything, he raises the orb to his chest and pushes it in. It disappears.

“Fjord—!” Caleb yelps as Fjord stumbles towards the pools of water at the center of the cave.

Just as Caleb reaches the pool, Fjord begins coughing, clutching at his chest as water spills over his lips. Caleb curses under his breath.

“Fjord, can you hear me?” He asks, hesitantly placing his hand on Fjord’s back. “Are you—?”

Fjord coughs for a few seconds longer before leaning back, rubbing his palm across his chest. “What the fuck,” he rasps in a smooth, mostly-unfamiliar accent, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

Caleb scrutinizes him. “That is a very good question,” he agrees. “I am...not sure; I turned around just in time to watch you pick up a golden orb. You stared at it for a few moments, pushed it into your chest, and then came over here, to the pool. And then you started coughing up water.”

Fjord looks down, opening his hands like he expects the orb to still be there. When it isn’t, he pats at his chest, a furrow forming between his brows. “I don’t...feel any different, I don’t think. I dunno, it’s like I was almost compelled it pick it up. I didn’t say anything?” His voice is back to its normal drawl.

Caleb shakes his head. “You felt compelled,” he repeats. “Like it was calling to you. Do you...is this like your sword, do you think?” Fjord has not talked much about his powers or the dreams that make him cough up water, but Caleb can put the pieces together— “Could it be connected to your magic, somehow?”

Fjord blinks, briefly startled. “I mean, maybe?”

Fjord raises his hand. The falchion appears in its customary flash of sickly teal light; Caleb leans away from the spray of water, then blinks. There, resting at the junction between the guard and the blade, is a golden eye.

“That’s the thing,” Fjord says, odd recognition in his voice. “The orb.” He looks down at his chest, then back at the sword. “I don’t....”

Before he can finish his sentence, the water ripples abruptly. Caleb gets a flash of sharp teeth, serrated fins, and blue-grey scales before a harpoon flies straight towards his chest. He flings his arm up, an arcane shield sparking to life, and the harpoon bounces harmlessly off.

“Shit!” Fjord hisses. 

He raises the hand not holding his sword; sickly, blue-green light coalesces in his palm. The eldritch energy slams into the fish-person’s side and it snarls. Caleb swirls his own hand in the air, sending three rays of flame towards the fish-person’s head. One skids off its cheek, leaving an angry red burn. The second impacts its chest and the third sizzles harmlessly into the water. Caleb backs away, already murmuring the incantation for another spell under his breath.

The fish-person darts towards Fjord and wraps its claws around his ankle before he can move away. With a jerk, it pulls him into the pool and submerges them both. Before Caleb can do more than curse, there’s an unnatural, choked-off scream from beneath the water. Fjord surfaces, his hair plastered to his face. The fish-person’s body doesn’t reappear, but the water does turn black-green with its blood.

“Fuck,” Fjord gasps, pulling himself out of the pool. Caleb lets the magic die on his fingers and offers Fjord a hand up, not that he’s strong enough to be much help.

“Perhaps we should head back up, ja?” Caleb suggests.

“Mm, good idea.” Fjord winces, patting the back of his head. His fingers come away red. “I think I hit my head on the rock when it pulled me under.”

He wipes the blood on his pants and begins climbing back to the surface. Caleb follows, pulling the rope back once he’s up. The sun has completely set, by now, so Caleb recasts the Dancing Lights to float near the tree’s top. Fjord sighs, pulling out a healing potion from his pack. He downs half of it and tucks the vial away.

“Are we comfortable staying here now that we know those...things are down there?” He asks, then throws a glance at the darkness outside. “I mean, ‘s not like it matters, at his point.”

Caleb hums, curling his fingers around the silver wire in his pocket. “I am not sure they can climb,” he points out. “Besides, I will set the Alarm spell, so we will be...hopefully not attacked in our sleep. And we can take watches.”

“Good point.”

Caleb catches Fjord’s eye. “We are going to talk about...all of this, when we get— when we return to Zadash,” he says, then turns away to start setting the alarm.

+++

“Why have you been speaking to me in a fake accent?” Caleb asks, turning to Fjord as soon as the apartment door closes behind them.

Fjord freezes partway through taking off his cloak. Slowly, he lowers his hand back to his side.

He chuckles softly, bitterly. “I should’ve known you’d caught onto that,” he mutters, mostly to himself. He clears his throat and says in that odd, smooth voice, “I’m sorry, I haven’t been entirely forthright with you. I’ve— this is my real voice. I sound like this.”

Caleb frowns. “What was...the other accent. What - who? - was that?”

“My old captain, Vandren— he was a man of great renown and respect, and I wanted to emulate him, I wanted to be him. So.” Fjord gestures to his throat.

“So you were talking like him,” Caleb finishes.

Fjord nods, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Yeah. People never— people didn’t listen to me, when I spoke like this. But Vandren, when he talked, people would get quiet and listen and I— I wanted that.” He huffs, lips curling up humorlessly. “Control issues, you know. And when I woke up after the shipwreck, I figured— no Vandren, might as well fill that void.”

Caleb curls his fingers into the sleeves of his coat. “Did you— if I had not caught on, would you have ever told me? Or would you just have kept up the facade for however long we stayed together?”

“Honestly? If I could have it my way, you would never know anything about who I was before, and I mean that. I like this new me, I love it, but—” Fjord sighs, “sometimes you hold onto things that make you who you are, and if you lose those things, you can fall free.”

Caleb nods. “I understand that, that sentiment.” He meets Fjord’s eye. “We can remake ourselves into something better.”

“Better than what they made us,” Fjord agrees. “That’s what I thought I was doing, for a while there.”

“The only reason you know anything about me is because I was backed into a corner,” Caleb informs him, “but— it is also because I trust you, Fjord. So I understand why you did not tell me, but I— you can talk to me, and, and you can just be yourself— talk as yourself, when you are around me, at least—”

“Caleb,” Fjord interrupts. “I trust you, too; I wouldn’t have told you anything if I didn’t. And, while we’re on the topic of sharing things, I have not been completely honest with you about my dreams, either.”

“Ja, I figured,” Caleb says, grinning slightly. Fjord chuckles.

“Kinda thought you’d seen through me on that, too,” he agrees. “The dreams are mostly the same; I’m deep in the ocean and there’s this huge, glowing yellow eye. It says things like ‘consume’ and ‘learn’ and ‘watching,’ and then I wake up choking on seawater.”

“An eye. Like the one in the hilt of your sword?”

Fjord nods. “Yes, exactly like that. I’m not— really sure, what all this means. I’ve mostly been trying to figure it out as I go, but. I still don’t know anything about what’s going on.”

Caleb hums. “Well, I can help you with that. I have some theories; we can perhaps go to a library later, to see if we can find anything. We will figure it out.”

“Thank you, and thank you for understanding.”

Caleb nods. “Of course. That is what friends are for, ja?” He smiles, awkwardly. “We are friends?”

“We are friends,” Fjord repeats with a slight grin. “I’d hope so, anyway, after all this time.”

Caleb snorts, even as something settles in his chest. “That is true.”

They leave the Harvest Close festival just as the sun begins to set. The autumn air is brisk, chilly enough that Caleb tucks himself deeper than usual into his coat and scarf, but it’s hardly enough to dampen the warmth curling in his chest. There’s nostalgia there, too, and childhood memories stained bittersweet by everything that has happened. Still, Caleb finds himself smiling as he follows Fjord back to their apartment, deftly side-stepping ecstatic, sugar-high children.

He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t question it when Fjord detours to one of the stands still lining the streets of the Pentamarket - Hot Cocoa, the sign says. The stand is manned by dark-skinned half-elf who begins to prepare two mugs when they see Fjord approaching. Fjord hands them a few coins, then picks up the mugs and returns to Caleb. Caleb smiles and pulls one of his hands from his pockets to take the offered cup.

“Danke, Fjord.” The cup’s warmth seeps into his bones and he can’t help a contented sigh. “I have not had hot cocoa in a very long time.”

Fjord takes a drink of his own cocoa and hums, pleased. “Yeah, me too. I forgot how good it was.”

Caleb does his best to savor the cocoa on the rest of the walk back, but even so, his cup is mostly empty by the time they reach the apartment. The chocolate rests sweet and rich on his tongue and its heat lingers in his chest like a blanket, so he can’t bring himself to be disappointed. When Fjord pushes the apartment door open, Caleb habitually flicks two golden lights into the air before draining the final dregs of his cocoa. He sets the cup on the counter and flexes his fingers, then begins to unwind his scarf from around his neck.

The fabric is soft and thin with use; Caleb absently runs his fingers over the many mended tears as he drapes it over the back of the couch. He shrugs off his coat, as well, and places it beside the scarf.

When he looks up, Fjord is watching him. Caleb quirks an eyebrow at him, mouth curling up into a questioning, half-teasing grin, and Fjord shakes his head.

“I got you something,” he says, setting his mug down to reach into the bag slung over his shoulder. Caleb blinks, startled. Fjord pulls out a knitted bundle of soft, purple-grey fabric. “I’d noticed your old scarf was more stitches than actual fabric, at this point,” he explains, shifting awkwardly. “So I just— decided to buy you a new one. It’s a gift, before you say anything about paying me back. I wasn’t super sure what color you’d like the most out of all the options, so—”

Caleb steps forward and gently rests his hands on Fjord’s, where they’re curled in the scarf. The fabric is just as soft and warm as it had looked. Caleb smiles, surprised but pleased about the gift.

“Fjord,” he interrupts, warm fondness seeping into his voice, “thank you. Truly. When did you—?”

“When you were looking for books. We passed a woman who was selling scarves, so I just— bought it.” Fjord shrugs, fully handing the scarf over. “It was kind of an impulse purchase.”

Caleb swallows past the sudden lump in his throat. “Thank you,” he repeats.

He loops the scarf twice around his shoulders, ducking a content grin into the soft yarn. When he buries his fingers into it, it’s almost like petting Frumpkin; not as perfect as the real thing, of course, but still very good.

“Fjord,” he says again, breaking the comfortable silence.

Fjord sets his mug on the counter beside Caleb’s and looks over. “Hm?”

“Thank you for staying with me,” Caleb says, deliberately catching Fjord’s eye. It would be impossible for him to miss the surprise that flashes across Fjord’s face. “Thank you for being my— my only friend, besides Frumpkin. I know I am not the...easiest person, to get along with or to live with, sometimes, but— thank you.” He swallows. “You are a good man, a good person. I know you may not believe that, yet, but you are. I— appreciate you, very much.”

Fjord blinks, surprise still etched into the lines of his face. “I appreciate you too, Caleb.” Despite his own vulnerability just seconds before, the blatant honesty of it still cuts Caleb deep. “You’re a good man, as well, and one of the reasons why I’m trying to be better about— all of this.” He gestures to himself, a self-conscious tilt to his lips. “Gods know where I would be if I hadn’t found you in that alley, what? A year and a half ago?” He shakes his head. “It feels like ages.”

“Ja, it does,” Caleb agrees. “I would not say you ‘found’ me, though. It was more like you nearly fell on me and I, the homeless and very weak wizard, had to save you.”

Fjord snorts. “I could’ve saved myself,” he retorts, and just like that, the heaviness of their conversation is gone. “You just happened to act before I did.”

“I have no doubt that you could have,” Caleb agrees, warmly sincere, because even back then, Fjord was a force to be reckoned with.

Fjord chuckles, then sighs. He rubs a hand over the short hair on the back of his head and glances away. When he looks back to Caleb, his golden eyes are almost unbearably fond.

“Today was a good day,” he decides.

Caleb blinks. “It was.”

“It’s been a good year and a half, too. I had this whole life planned out for me, and then I had a rough outline of something else when that went to shit, but. I don’t think I’d trade this for anything, you know?”

Something curls in Caleb’s chest, vaguely uncomfortable. He swallows past it and returns Fjord’s look with a half-smile of his own.

“I do.” He doesn’t have a drink, but he tilts his head in the mimicry of a toast. “Here is to many more good years, ja? We will make it work.”

Fjord grins. “Let’s make it work.”