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If he could scrub it off, he would.
It takes a while for the name to turn up at all, as it often does when one or both souls are not consecuted. That alone is enough to disappoint his parents - even more so when it becomes apparent that he is not a returning soul. By ten, Essek has begun to wonder if he will never have a name at all. By thirty, watching all his peers struck with new distractions, he has begun to hope he won't.
It lasts until he’s nearly ninety. Essek has been convinced for decades that he’s managed to escape the matter altogether; perhaps, he had thought, the lack of interest he has always felt in that direction has spared him from the entire ordeal. But there it is, one morning, engraved across his chest as though it has been there since birth.
Bren .
It’s not a typical name for a drow, and that’s bad enough on its own. The fact that it’s not Xhorhasian at all makes it worse, and particularly so when he stumbles across the name one day while leafing through a Zemnian history book. If he is truly destined for someone from the Empire, Den Thelyss just may have his head.
At least, by now, he’s earned the right to some measure of privacy. He acquires a cloak that covers him from shoulder to toes, and layers everything he can underneath it between that name and the rest of the world. The Umavi need not know. The Dynasty at large need not know. They place the mantle of the Shadowhand on his shoulders, and he relishes the extra curtain.
Maybe someday, if he delves deep enough into the right research, he can find a way to get it off.
-
It isn’t meant to be. It isn’t meant to be. It becomes a mantra, repeated over and over in Essek’s head as they make their way through Eiselcross, through Aeor, through Cognouza, and back. There is a name imprinted on his skin, and it isn’t Caleb’s. Whatever he feels, whatever he thinks he wants, it isn’t meant to be. After everything he’s done, how could it be?
The sunlight in the Grove hurts his eyes and burns his skin, but it glints in Caleb’s hair like fire. It draws new freckles across his face and his arms and his neck - and that’s where Essek has to stop counting each time before he lets himself get carried away.
This wasn’t supposed to be a problem.
And it isn’t one - Essek won’t let it be. It isn’t meant to be. He busies himself with whatever chores the Clays direct him towards, going over his own studies when those run out. Caleb takes Jester and Veth away to collect their families, and that makes it easier. But the hours seem to tick by like days now that the world is no longer on their shoulders, and he finds that it leaves him with entirely too much time to think.
It isn’t meant to be. But he would hardly be the first to ignore the name on his heart for a while in favor of something immediate. It isn’t meant to be, not in the end, but it could be, for a while.
Essek lets his gaze wander out the window, to the graves dotting the garden. It doesn’t matter. It’s not the name that’s keeping him from Caleb, it’s all the other names he’s snuffed out. It’s Yeza Brenatto, on his way here now, locked up in a cell and starved. It’s all the soldiers lost on foreign land and buried in the ground because of his own selfish impulses.
Caleb Widogast . He turns the name over in his mind time after time, cementing every syllable. The wrong ones. Caleb is his friend, and that is more than he could have asked for. It will be enough. It isn’t meant to be.
“Hey, Essek.” Beauregard appears in the doorway behind him, leaning there with one arm over her head. “You got a minute?”
Essek gestures for her to enter, and she points with one hand towards her own left palm.
“We’re just checking everybody for eyes,” she explains, and Essek tenses. “Just to make sure. I mean, everything’s probably gone, but like, we’re gonna feel real stupid if we assume it’s fine and then one of us turns into teeth tomorrow.”
Essek shifts in his seat. It’s too warm for his mantle here, when he doesn’t need it to save him from the sun, and he’s never missed its weight more.
“I’m quite alright,” he says with what he hopes isn’t too nervous a smile.
“Okay.” Beau doesn’t appear to be impressed. “Yasha said you said that in the city, though? And she also said you had one on your back. So.”
He doesn’t want to think about it. The feel of those eyes going cold in the heart of the city still wills a shiver down his spine. One at the back of his shoulder, where Yasha must have seen it; one at the center of his throat; one across the side of his left ankle; one on the inside of his wrist; and one over his heart, just where he knew the name to be. It had been gone before he’d had the chance to check what effect it had had, if any. For a fleeting moment, in the heat of the battle, some distracted part of Essek’s mind had hoped it would erase the name away.
“Ah,” he says in response to Beau’s raised eyebrow, “I have checked, myself.”
Beauregard doesn’t break her stare. “If you’re worried about getting naked, I’m not into that.” She jabs a thumb in the direction of the garden. “I can go get Cad if that would make you feel better.”
For a moment, he thinks of arguing. But the look of near-bored determination on the monk’s face tells him he will get nowhere if he tries. Instead, he lets out a resigned sigh and says, “Caduceus, please.”
Beauregard disappears, and he spends the time it takes for Caduceus to replace her steeling himself. Caduceus isn’t one to needle. Not him, at least. With luck, he can escape this with at least most of his dignity.
“Okay,” Caduceus says amicably when he arrives, “Where are we looking?”
Essek points to each spot in turn. The throat and wrist are easy, and Caduceus gives a nod at the blank flesh there. The ankle is next; he tugs off his boot and rolls up just enough fabric to show it’s clear. When it comes time for the shoulder, he tugs his collar down in the same way he had in the city proper. Caduceus approves each in turn, easy smile never leaving his face, until only one remains.
Reluctantly, he unbuttons the front of his tunic and draws it open just enough.
It’s been a while since he really looked at it. He tends to avoid it in the mirror, and never has much occasion to view it otherwise. But now, under someone else’s eyes, he finds himself examining every swirl and stop as though it’s the first time. Even through the thin fabric of his undershirt, it’s perfectly visible.
“Huh,” Caduceus says. A long, awkward moment passes, then, “Is that one of Jester’s?”
Essek frowns up at him. “Jester?”
“Yeah. She likes to give tattoos.”
Essek shakes his head with a huff of laughter. “It is not a tattoo. This is…” How ought one to explain this to someone outside of his culture? “A mark from the Luxon,” he settles on, though he isn’t certain it’s true, “designating my, ah… future intended.”
“Huh.” Caduceus’s face is maddeningly placid, but Essek swears his perpetual smile has grown marginally wider.
After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Essek clears his throat, gesturing to the opening in his tunic.
“Oh,” Caduceus says. “Yeah, good job. No eyes.”
Essek nods stiffly, working the buttons shut again. There’s something about the way Caduceus is smiling that makes him nervous, though for the life of him, he doesn’t know what. When at last he returns to the garden to pass the news to Beauregard, Essek rises and retrieves his mantle from beside the door. The familiar weight settles on his shoulders, at once a comfort and another barrier he wishes he didn’t need.
Within the hour, the temple is on fire, and Essek’s heart nearly stops as a familiar name drips from the archmage’s tongue like poison.
-
It’s not unpleasant, exactly, having Astrid and Eadwulf around again, but it is strange . There’s distance now where it wasn’t before; the shared experience that once bridged the gaps between them is missing now in his direction. Caleb sits in the Clays’ home watching them out the window, with their sunhats and their gardening tools. They should look more out of place than they do. Instead, if he forgets who they are, they could be any couple working in the sun together.
Half a smile tugs the corner of his mouth upwards as his eyes find the other gardener. He, on the other hand, could not look more out of place. Could not look less like himself .
Essek is down on his hands and knees, clothing covered in dirt, with sweat and a faint smile on his face as he tucks another line of seeds into the soil. He’s a perfect contrast to Caleb’s old friends; the two of them sulk in their corner of the garden, completing their work in relative silence, while Essek seems to find a certain peace in it, and has been trading good-natured quips with Clarabelle as she passes in and out of the house all morning.
Perhaps he does look like himself. Perhaps this is more himself than the group - than Essek himself, maybe - has ever seen him. He likes that thought. He likes that smile.
“Hey.” Clarabelle’s voice nearly makes him jump as she clunks a tray with three well-worn mugs onto the table in front of him. “Make yourself useful and bring your wizards some drinks?”
One does not argue when a Clay gives one an order in the Blooming Grove, so Caleb scoops up the tray and ducks out the doorway. Astrid and Eadwulf are closer. The two of them are ostensibly weeding, though it looks suspiciously as though they’ve been prodding at the same loose patch of dirt for the past hour without much effect. They look up with twin expressions of apprehension as he approaches.
“Courtesy of Clarabelle Clay,” he says. He holds the tray out towards them, low enough that they can reach.
Astrid nods. Both of them drop eye contact, taking their mugs without a word. Astrid is already digging her trowel back into the dirt by the time he’s straightened up again, having set the drink aside entirely. Caleb sighs, looking from one of them to the other. At least they aren’t actively trying to murder him, anymore. He turns, carefully stepping over a patch of leafy growth to pick a path to Essek.
“Thanks for the tea, Bren.”
It’s more warmth than he’s gotten from either of them all week, and he can’t keep a sad smile from slipping onto his face as he waves over his shoulder at Eadwulf.
Essek is already watching him by the time he makes his way to that corner of the garden, sitting back on his heels in a little wedge of shade. There’s a strained look on his face, as though it’s taking more effort than it was before to keep the smile up.
“Is that for me?” he asks with a nod towards the remaining mug.
Caleb dips his head in mock politeness, holding the tray out to him as if he were a server. “Clarabelle Clay’s work. I suggest thanking her later.”
Essek takes the mug carefully, nodding again before taking a sip. “Many thanks to the both of you,” he says. He settles the mug down into a nearly-flat section of dirt beside him, but does not get back to work. Instead, he peers uncertainly up at Caleb. "I don't wish to pry, but..."
“What is on your mind, friend?”
Whatever questions may be floating around in that head of his, Essek rarely asks. Whatever has him ready to voice one now, it must be important.
“These two,” Essek begins. He can’t quite keep the furrow from his brow. “And Ikithon. They call you Bren. ”
Ah.
"That is my name." He pauses. "Was. Once." He gives Essek a tight smile. "A long time ago."
"Your name is Bren." He shakes his head weakly, something halfway between despair and amusement. As though he has just realized something terrible that he's truly known for ages. "Of course, it is."
"Well," Caleb says. He claps Essek on the shoulder before turning back and heading back for the house. "Not anymore."
-
The Misty Step fizzles out around him, and Essek’s eyes go wide as the nullifier’s claws dig into his side.
Caleb has felled the creature before he hits the ground, but it’s too late to stop the blow from landing. Essek clutches at his mantel, wincing as his fingers go straight through the new gash in the fabric there, warm and sticky with his own blood.
“Essek?” The magic around Caleb’s hands dissipates, and he’s kneeling down at Essek’s side before Essek can think to stop him.
“I’m alright,” he says, holding up a hand. Carefully, he shrugs his mantel off, leaving only the tunic. It’s hopelessly torn as well, but luckily, it seems to have stopped most of the brunt of the blow. The cut is messy, but shallow.
It’s dangerously close; the end of it curls up to the bottom of his ribcage, inches away from Caleb’s old name. He will count his blessings, later.
“Do you need a potion?” There’s already one in Caleb’s hand, to a flash of fondness from Essek.
He shakes his head. They’re running low, and they’ve been doing their best to save them for emergencies. One never knows when one of them will be unexpectedly unconscious on the ground, in a place like this. A dangerous thing with no healers about. “A bandage should suffice.”
Caleb flicks his fingers apart, and a familiar chest appears on the ground beside them. It always gives him a little glow of pride to see Caleb using a spell he learned from Essek. It happens more often, now that they’ve copied one another’s spellbooks cover to cover, but it hasn’t lost its luster yet. Essek doubts it ever will, as he watches Caleb draw their roll of bandages from the chest and wave his hand to dispel it again. If he can give Caleb nothing else, he’s at least given him this.
“Why don’t you let me have a look?” Tentatively, Caleb reaches out toward him.
"No." Essek catches him by the wrist, quickly quashing the flash of panic in his eyes before he clears his throat. "I will be fine, Caleb, truly."
His heart plummets at the surprise in Caleb’s eyes. He looks a great deal like one of his cats, when evicted from a lap. Essek releases his wrist, clearing his throat and averting his gaze. From the corner of his eye, he sees Caleb sit back. Essek hadn’t noticed how close he had been leaning, before, but misses it sorely now. He uncorks his pouch of water, and the sting of it pouring over the wound pulls his thoughts away long enough to bandage it properly. Then, they settle into silence again.
“I apologize if I made you uncomfortable,” Caleb says haltingly after a long moment.
He wants to let his face fall into his hands and shout with the frustration of it. Instead, he waves a hand with gentle dismissiveness and leaves it at that. Uncomfortable is a word for it, though not for any reason Caleb is imagining.
Fleetingly, Essek considers snuffing out the lights and drawing Caleb’s hand to his chest. He would never see it, before it was wiped away. He would never have to know, and they could both move on without one more complication between them. Essek could dress in the tower without checking over his shoulder with every movement, could let Caleb treat his wounds and enjoy the touch more than he should, would never have to worry about letting slip this little snag.
Of course, that would leave the matter of explaining why he had just seized Caleb by the hand and pressed it against his heart, and that could very well end worse.
Then again, a disobedient part of him suggests, it could end better. You are marked with his name, after all.
He shakes it off. It's Bren. Bren, not Caleb. Even if he were to leave behind the pedanticism, it's far too late for such things, now. He'd shut that door the moment he shook hands with the Martinet. If he had only waited, only spent three more years stewing in his malcontent… but it's done now. Caleb is his friend, and that is more than he might once have hoped. It's enough.
And perhaps it isn’t pedantic at all; perhaps it was not this version of the man before him that was meant for Essek. Perhaps he was destined for a scourger. He would have run into him in the Halls of Erudition in passing, bonded over mutual treason, and spiralled off into ruin hand in hand.
If that’s the case, he’s happier this way. If the choice is between a friend on the way to healing from his past and a lover who might never escape it, he knows which he would choose without a second thought.
What have the Luxon’s designs ever meant to him, anyway?
-
Bazzoxan is much how Caleb remembers it. He checks in briefly with the stables, asking after the moorbounders, but isn’t surprised to find them gone. With luck, they’ve found a happy life free of ownership out in the wildlands. He tries not to think of the alternative.
The stablemaster points him in the direction of the captain of the guard, and the captain of the guard points him in the direction of the largest of the watchtowers, The sentry outside, when presented with the letter Caleb fishes from his pocket, points him in the direction of Verin Thelyss.
The look of confusion on the drow’s face when he walks into his office isn’t a surprise. The gleeful shout of “Essek’s Caleb?” when he introduces himself is.
“I was not aware he spoke to you about me,” he says with a bemused smile.
“Oh, he tried not to,” Verin replies. The grin on his face is a remarkable echo of Essek’s. “But I know how to make him talk.”
He insists on treating Caleb to lunch. Something in the back of Caleb’s mind finds it odd that he’s out to a fancy eatery with this Thelyss before the other, but he shoves the thought back where it came from as soon as it surfaces. The conversation runs in circles - they speak of Aeor a little, Eiselcross often, and Essek the most. Caleb skirts around any information that might be dangerous, though he wonders deep down what Verin’s reaction would be were he to reveal everything here and now. If he were to find out in the future. The light in his eyes when he speaks of his brother - Caleb finds he doesn’t want it to go out. Someone ought to speak of Essek this way.
"By the way," Verin adds offhandedly, "you're well-traveled. I don't suppose you've ever met someone called--" The series of clicks that comes out of Verin's mouth is certainly no language Caleb has ever encountered. The lack of recognition must show on his face, as Verin grins. “Intriguing, right?”
“Who is this person?” Caleb asks.
Verin taps the center of his chest with a conspiratorial smile. At Caleb’s blank look, he cocks his head curiously.
“My soulmate,” he explains. “The Luxon grants her children the names of our future loves written across our hearts. Have you never heard this?”
Caleb shakes his head. He has heard of such things, but never anything outside of fanciful tales. But the look in Verin’s eye seems genuine, and he doesn’t get the impression that the man would be particularly good at lying, if he tried.
“You each have one?” he asks.
Verin nods. “All except the ones who have no destined,” he says. “They do go away, eventually, of course. Once the mark is touched by the proper hand.” He waggles his eyebrows.
Caleb gives a little hum of acknowledgement. That is fascinating. Someday, when he has the time, he might look into this. The way it would work with consecuted souls, whether or not the same ‘destined’ would carry across lifetimes…
"Speaking of which,” Verin says, “you wouldn't happen to know anyone named Bren, would you?"
Caleb's brows shoot upwards, and Verin's face lights up.
"You do!" His grin is nearly blinding, and Caleb finds himself fleetingly wondering if Essek has ever smiled like this. "Look what you get just by asking. Introduce my brother sometime, will you?" He winks. “Don’t tell him I asked, though. It’s not polite to discuss, and you know how he can be with decorum.”
"Sure," Caleb replies numbly.
He doesn't have to ask. He's cleverer than that, and this is as simple as putting two and two together. Verin keeps talking - something about outpost upkeep and moorbounders and supply chains - but Caleb catches very little else over the rush of his own pulse in his ears.
-
It’s become habit to greet each other with a hug. It’s only been weeks this time instead of months, but it always feels too long. It’s a relief, this time, to know that he hasn’t scolded Caleb off of touching him, entirely. It would have taken too much of his pride to request it.
He hands over a letter and several stories from Verin. It’s a surprise how nice it is to hear from him, after this long. He thanks Caleb at least three times too many, the thought that he’ll likely never see his brother again nagging at the back of his mind. But Caleb doesn’t seem to mind, despite a flash of something uncertain in his eyes, and they settle into their usual rhythm before long.
They’ve picked over the portions of the city near the entrance thoroughly by now; this is their fourth trip into Aeor, and by now Caleb has the layout of the Praesidis Ward memorized. They get through it in minutes instead of hours this time, and deeper through their other previous pathways, and before long find themselves in a decent place to stop. Caleb sets up the tower as the two of them keep up easy banter, and Essek smiles more than he has since… well, the last time.
They settle in the library. Caleb passes Essek a book he picked up in Bazzoxan - someone’s new theories on dunamis, handed over with a wry look that tells him he’s meant to laugh more than learn - and Essek flips to the first page with a smirk. Beside him, Caleb flips open a book of his own, and the two of them settle into silence.
It doesn’t last long.
“I think that I should tell you.” The words all come out in a rush, and Caleb looks up from his book to fix Essek with a piercing look. “It does not seem fair that I know and you do not know that I know.”
Essek gives him a dubious look, but any amusement vanishes at the steady look on Caleb’s face. He swallows. “What is it you know?”
They’re quiet for a moment, a strange tension settling in between them. Then Caleb taps the center of his own chest, and Essek’s heart nearly stops.
“How did you…” His hands waver, and he lowers his book onto the table, bracing himself there with both hands. The room is suddenly very warm and very small. He takes a long, shaking breath, and lets it out slowly.
“Your brother,” Caleb says from a thousand miles away.
Verin knows? By the Light and any other deity one might please, that man is a nuisance. Essek’s heart races in his ears. He swallows, trying to take the rising panic with it.
“I do not expect…” The words stick in his throat. “I would never ask more of you than you were willing to offer.”
Caleb doesn’t respond, and instead Essek feels him step closer. Essek chances a sidelong glance up at him. He doesn’t look angry. Does not look betrayed. Essek would know, after all.
“But you do…” Caleb trails off, and Essek studiously watches the table. “If I were to offer, you would accept?”
He grabs the little well of hope in his chest with both hands and squashes it back down. His face is burning.
Maybe if I had done things differently, Essek thinks - but Caleb reaches out and carefully places a hand over one of his. Perhaps in another timeline, he tells himself - but Caleb leans in close, and ducks his head down until they're breathing the same air. If I had just -- but Caleb's lips are pressed gently to his before the thought can finish.
There have always been strange twists to time in this place, and in this moment Essek feels frozen in it entirely, filled to the brim with buzzing light. Then after a heartbeat and a lifetime, Caleb pulls back slowly, resting their foreheads together in a way that is achingly familiar.
“I hope that was not presumptuous,” he says, and the way his voice is so low and so raw has Essek leaning back in to capture that sound before he can finish.
It’s soft. Tentative. Neither of them wants to reach too far, but neither can bear not to reach at all, anymore. The light weight of Caleb’s hand on his is their only point of contact beyond the uncertain, careful kiss - and then the next, and then the next, and Essek loses track of which one of them is due to take his turn leaning in.
“So, that is a yes on the first question,” Caleb asks when they pull back, forehead to forehead again, “and a no on the second?”
The next days pass with a new warmth between them like the glowing of a candle. Caleb is braver than he, but every little brush of their fingers together, every hand on his shoulder, every kiss - and there are more than a few, by whatever gods allowed this - brings a new wave of disbelieving, sickly happiness. Each time he can’t fight back the smile, either - but in a strange and wonderful twist of fate, his smiles tend to lead to Caleb’s, these days, and he finds he doesn’t try to hold back as often as he might have.
Then one night, they lean together again, and this time they do not drift back apart. They fit together like two missing pieces of a puzzle - and it’s Bren on his chest, but it’s Caleb on his breath, Caleb under his hands, Caleb’s eyes so bright underneath him, Caleb he chokes out as their hands clasp tightly at the height of it all, and Caleb who curls up close - pushing Essek’s heart close to bursting - as they drift off together. It’s Caleb’s hands that trace the writing over his heart, wholly invisible to the human in the dark, and wipe it away as though it were nothing more than a smattering of ash. In the morning, Caleb's head is pillowed there instead.
Perhaps the Luxon is satisfied. Essek thinks, as he runs a careful hand through fiery red hair, that he will call it a fair compromise.
-
“Are you very sure about this?”
Essek leans back gingerly in his chair, trying not to grimace at the scrape of the rough wood against his bare back. There are nicer things around to focus on; Caleb hovers nervously at his side, one hand twined with one of his own, and the moon above is settled beautifully among the dotted stars. Even nicer, Kingsley and the rest of the crew are nowhere to be found.
“You know it’s probably going to look, ah… well, a bit silly.”
Essek quirks an eyebrow at him. “Are you going to laugh?”
“No.” His tone is subdued and soft, and Essek’s heart melts for the thousandth time.
Caleb knows, by now, not to argue with his next point. “Well, you’re the only one likely to see it.”
Aside from Jester, of course, and Essek will admit that her fawning has already been his least favorite part of this ordeal. But he can abide it for the time it will take. For this. Just as long as she keeps her promise to stay quiet about it; and though Jester tends not to excel at secrecy, he suspects the trust he’s extended her will keep her lips sealed.
Caleb lets out a sigh, the slightest fond smile tugging at his lips, and kneels down next to him.
“Stay very still, then.”
The tip of the pen is cold against his skin, and Caleb holds it still a moment to let him get accustomed. Then, slowly, deliberately, he signs his name. Smaller than his old mark. Just over the heart. A scrawl that could be mistaken for a birthmark to anyone not looking very, very closely.
“Is that alright?” he asks when he lifts the pen away.
Essek catches his hand before he can tuck it away again, and presses a kiss into his knuckles for an answer. Caleb rewards him with another smile, and Essek pulls a Sending spell between his hands to call for Jester.
She hardly stops gushing from the top of the stairs to the deck beside him through the first press of the needle into his skin. He tunes her out, watches Caleb’s eyes on him, sad but so fond, and takes a slow breath. The needle stings. It feels like blasphemy. Essek grins with smug defiance, and watches her carve Caleb over his heart.
This one won’t come off.