Molly watched the girl fall limp against the grass, her hand which had been outstretched dropping to the earth with a dull thud. She was still breathing—he watched the erratic rise and fall of her chest and grimaced, eyes wide with fear.
She was emaciated, every inch of pale skin marred with scars of every kind imaginable—cuts, burns, whole swaths of skin giving way to silver. He guessed her hair white under the matting of blood and filth, the sliver of iris visible under her fluttering lids as crimson as his own eyes. Her pointed ears were notched, torn in places, just as the rags that hung from her frame, rags that only may have once been clothes. He’d never seen so frail an elf, couldn’t even begin to guess her age—
He scooped her up, cradling her to his chest. She was freezing, and lighter even than anyone of her stature had any right to be. Her skin was icy to the touch, cold enough to make him shiver—he carried her back to the side of the tent covered in pillows, pulling wool blankets over the pair of them, trying to stop her from going into hypothermic shock.
“Molly!” Bo said as he burst back into the tent. “Did you see? There was a girl who ran out of the tent, across the whole camp, looked pretty beat up. Orna, Desmond and the rest went out looking for her—”
He broke off as he spotted the girl in Molly’s arms. He abruptly closed the flap of the tent, stooping as he came closer.
“We need to get out of here. We don’t want to be here if anyone chasing after her catches up.”
Bo nodded, standing up. “I’ll round up the others. You alright looking after her?”
Molly nodded, pulling a scimitar free from its wrappings.
~
The girl slept for two days.
Which was good, since the circus spent that time traveling far from the clearing where they’d first found her. There hadn’t been any talk of leaving her behind, not even from Mona and Yulie, who Molly considered the most selfish of the group. Instead they’d all pitched in what they could—Bo had sliced an old shirt into bandages for her while the twins tucked her in an extra bedroll, which Desmond in turn covered with an old worn—but warm—knitted blanket to stop her from shivering. Orna checked and changed the girl’s bandages, muttering darkly to herself as she did so.
“She’ll be alright, won’t she, Molly?” Toya asked, brushing back the shock of white hair, still matted with blood and dirt.
“In time. She’s got all of us now, hasn’t she?” he replied, giving her a reassuring smile. She nodded, looking back at the girl.
“People are cruel, aren’t they?” Toya asked, thumb tracing a thick scar that cut across the girl’s face. Molly shrugged.
“Makes it all the more important to be kind, yeah? To balance out all the cruelty.”
She nodded without looking up from the girl. She hummed to herself, the song long familiar to Molly, though without the dramatics of the show it became something more intimate—a lullaby, a wish for her to wake. He settled back against the side of the cart, pulling out his tarot deck and rifling through.
The Moon. Strength. The Fool.
An odd spread, for sure.
“Molly!” Toya’s voice broke him out of his thoughts, his eyes flicking back to the girl’s face. She had begun to stir, a soft whine leaving her throat as she shifted in her bedroll, her eyes screwed up in pain.
“Nindol jivviimir ichl mzilt tlu elghinn,” she murmured, curling in on herself. Molly reached out, rubbing soothing circles into her back. She froze, eyes flying open to fix on his face.
“You’re safe, dearie. We’re long gone from that place,” he said, smoothing back hair from her face. She stared at him with wide eyes, lip trembling.
“This is real? It’s not a trick?” Her voice was hoarse, the accent that lilted her words unfamiliar, even to his well-traveled ears.
“We’ve been on the road the past two days,” Toya said, trying to reassure her. “We haven’t seen a trace of them.”
The girl seemed to notice Toya for the first time, propping herself up in alarm, though the dwarven girl’s words brought her to tears. She smiled through her sobs, hugging her arms around herself as if to prove it was all real. Molly wrapped an arm around her shoulders while Toya clambered over and squeezed her around the middle, careful not to hold her too tight.
“Thank you,” she cried, curling into their touch. “Thank you, thank you—”
“Shhh, we’ve got you. It’s all going to be alright.”
~
She didn’t talk much over the next few weeks. He’d learned she preferred to be called _____, though the name she’d started to reflexively give started with an _. That she didn’t know how old she was or how long she’d been held captive.
After nearly a week they reached a town large enough to have a bath house and Orna was able to finally scrub the girl clean and properly wrap her wounds. While she did her best to save what she could of the girl’s matted, ankle-length hair, the rest of them set out to restock and prepare for a show in the next couple of days.
Gustav pulled Molly aside before they split up, clasping his shoulder as he handed him a few silver pieces.
“See about finding her some proper clothes. Poor thing deserves better than cast-offs.” Molly smiled before pocketing the money.
He waited for Orna and the girl to reemerge from the bathhouse. He had no idea what sort of clothes she might prefer and figured at the very least this way she’d end up with something that would fit. She was so tiny he was hardly certain he’d end up guessing right on the sizes.
“What are you doing, hanging about?” Orna asked when she spotted him, the girl trailing behind. She was clean for the first time since he’d met her, her hair moon-bright and streaming down her back, still soaked. It was several feet shorter than he’d last seen it, but it was finally free of brambles and blood and grime. She wore one of Orna’s old dresses, the hem dragging on the road, her feet bare.
“Gustav gave me some coin to find _____ here some proper clothes. You want to join us for a little shopping trip?”
“If it’s the same to you I’d rather go back and have a lie down. It was no picnic saving as much hair as we did.”
“Don’t mention it, dove. You alright if I leave you with Molly?”
She nodded, gaze dropping back to the ground. Molly hooked his arm around her own.
“Don’t look so blue! We’re going to have loads of fun.”
“Don’t get into trouble,” Orna said, giving him a look. He grinned.
“No promises, dear.”
It took a bit of looking, but they were able to find a second-hand store that had well-made items much finer than they’d be able to afford new. They’d found her a pair of leather boots and a thick woolen cloak with a hood, as well as some baggy pants with matching sash, a long sleeved, high-necked shirt, a bodice, vest, and a pair of bracers.
He paid for the lot, stuffing Orna’s old dress back into his bag before they returned to the street. The girl held her head a little higher, absently playing with the hem of her cloak.
“You like it?” he asked, half just to make conversation.
She nodded. “Very much. Thank you.”
“You don’t have to be thanking me. It’s good to see you out of those rags. Before you know it you’ll put some meat on those bones and you’ll scarcely recognize yourself!”
“How long do you think that’ll take?”
“Oh, maybe a month or two? We’ll have to see. Why?”
“Do you think they’ll be work to be done then? So, I could stay on?”
“There’s always work, but what are you on about? Do you think we’re going to kick you to the curb the moment you’ve got your feet under you proper?”
She didn’t say anything, merely bit her lip. Molly through an arm over her shoulder.
“Don’t you worry. You’re one of us now, and we take care of our own.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Fandom: Critical Role (Web Series)
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast
Characters: Essek Thelyss, Caleb Widogast
Additional Tags: Tusk Love (Critical Role), Post-Campaign 2 (Critical Role), Established Relationship, Sexual Tension, Reading Aloud, Implied Sexual Content
Summary:
Kai Willowfright, a disgraced wizard, finds himself fleeing the Empire in the midst of a budding war. Captured by Xhorhasian soldiers, it is soon discovered that he is in possession of a Luxon beacon. He surrenders to the Bright Queen, and is granted protection in Rosohna—on one condition.
Supervising this human foreigner falls to Hassan Threll, a high-ranking drow mage of the Kryn Dynasty’s court. Though repulsed by each other at first, the human and the dark elf begrudgingly work together to ultimately fetter out the ugly truth behind the war. They shift from enemies, to friends, and begin to wonder if they have discovered something even bigger—love—in A Heart Brighter Than the Beacon.
This is part of the Critmas Wishing Tree Prompt Meme
spelled out on skin | Inspired by @exhaustedwerewolf‘s Fic
Percy jerks in his sleep, spasmodic movements that spell nothing good. Vax is curled comfortably against Trinket’s side and he watches as Percy yanks himself upright, eyes wide as he fishes blindly around his bedroll for his glasses before finding them and sliding them on. For a long stretch Percy stays there, hunched over his knees and visibly trembling.
Percy’s sleep shirt is rucked up by his hip. In the firelight Vax can make out the scars of torture he’d first seen spelled out on his sister’s skin.
sirens, nereids, gods, whump, hurt/comfort, first meeting, flirting, falling in love
cw: drowning, temporary / implied mcd
4.7k
—
Caleb has finished teaching for the day, and something anxious in him wants to wander this evening, perhaps winding more outwardly than usual– to walk under the stars and follow the salt on the breeze till he makes it to the beach.
Perhaps he'd been inside stone buildings with his nose in his scrolls for too long; his heart longs for the inimitable feeling that is only evoked by the open sky, open sea, and open road. That strangeness, that magic, that mystery– the sense of seemingly endless possibilities, held in the depths of the ocean, and the heights of the heavens.
He wants to think about the nature of things and his position within the bigger scope of the gods and their plans– or lack thereof.
But he doesn't quite want to go there tonight; he is in such a hopeful mood after all. Maybe it is merely brightly-colored frivolity that fuels his urges tonight, but maybe he really will learn something new by contemplating all that is bigger than he is, some inkling that can help him in his quest to bring his family home. The answers certainly seem to be eluding him within the four walls of his study, the library, and his classroom otherwise.
So he sets off on his own before dusk, outbound from the depths of the city, and forgoes informing Beau, Veth, or any of his other colleagues and friends about his plans. This irresponsible craving seems to be making a place for itself in his heart this night, and an overabundance of warnings and cautioning would do nothing but sour his mood.
After an hour or so of his trek, he crests a ridge, over a grassy knoll– and below, the sea in all its sparkling, inky grandeur reveals itself, meeting the molten sunset sky at the horizon line.
He breathes the salty air in deep. It is reinforced every time he meets the ocean, that despite what it has taken from him, he still feels connected to it. Or maybe it's because he lost a part of himself to it that he is always drawn here?
The Gods meant to watch over it, however? That is a different story.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Critical Role (Web Series)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast
Characters: Caleb Widogast, Essek Thelyss
Additional Tags: Explicit Sexual Content, Summer Vacation, The Author Misses Summertime, The Author Regrets Nothing, Anal Sex, Sweat, Beach Sex, In Media Res
Series: Part 1 of cr valentines week 22
Summary:
Caleb has ever had an affinity for fire, but this - he’s burning up.
Happy Valentine’s Day! have some of the boys being [checks notes] healthy and normal. Man, I miss summertime. Stay tuned this week for more!
A single sun pillar shot through the sky of Rosohna. Essek had only seen it once before, a pinprick hole in the dark covering the sky rather than the full release of a Day of Light. That sunlight was not for everyone, but strictly for the Temple of the Luxon, for the chosen few meant to bathe in its glow.
For the rare occasions when those deemed worthy underwent consecution.
That was supposed to be his sun. His shining moment of possibility, made visible for all to see.
Instead, Essek stood in the sun and felt only scalding shame.
It had failed.
He had failed.
No one noticed.
The ceremony continued without his input, as it was wholly unneeded--the priests had tugged his unresisting form from the shrine chamber out to the inner courtyard, where he was left in the center, as immobile as a stunned ox for the slaughter.
He had stood in the sun before, on the Days of Light. It was the act of the faithful-- to be blinded, dazzled, warmed through by the sun that could never be felt in the Underdark. To burn, and be grateful for it.
He had never understood it.
Now he stood in his light, and all he could see was sunspots flickering in his retinas like the way the motes of possibility danced in the beacon. It burned.
On the evening of the Nein's return to Xhorhas, Essek finds himself wandering past their door again, searching for... well, if he knew the answer to that question, this would all be so much simpler.
Basically, Essek and the M9 hang out, because this poor boy deserves a break. Also on Ao3.
-----
With all likelihood, they won’t even be there.
The Mighty Nein are just as likely to have returned to the Empire by now as to have stayed the night in Rosohna, Essek reasons, even as the inescapably logical portion of his mind soundly rejects the hypothesis.
(They said they were for us, for the Dynasty, and even if most of them are from the Empire…
And even if…)
It’s just a walk, is his second justification. A chance to clear my mind. He has work to do – reports piling up on his desk, people to message before the day is done – but he can spare fifteen minutes, surely, to breath in the night air and recenter himself. It might make him more productive when he returns to his study, and at the same time he can check for watchers-on in the vicinity of the house, or any sign of illicit activity. While he does not think anyone would openly accost sanctioned guests of the Bright Queen, these are strange times, and it does not hurt to be cautious.
Excuses continue to float through his mind as Essek approaches the halo of luminescent light that radiates from the guardian tree upon the house’s apex. The sound of caterwauling – in every sense of the word - meets his ears.
Home, then, Essek thinks, then corrects himself. Still here. The Mighty Nein have not yet returned to Rexxentrum, and any would-be lurkers have doubtless been chased off by the awful din emanating from the house. No reason to stay any longer.
At his own home, the work is waiting. It is always waiting: an inescapable, immovable mountain of tasks, no matter how much he chips away at the foundation. One night of neglect, and it will all come crashing down on his head – or, at least, it often feels that way.
Five minutes more. He’ll walk past the door, and then return. By this point, the path to the house is practically on the way. A justifiable excuse to continue walking.
Five minutes more.
The cobblestone reflects the faint daylight that drifts from the tree to the street below. It burns faintly against Essek’s skin – not quite strong enough to damage the tissue, but enough to be a constant aggravation. He’d thought at first the magic was a deterrent, meant to keep unwanted drow from snooping about. But now, he suspects the Mighty Nein were simply ignorant of the effect it would have on their neighbours, as they are ignorant of most everything that lives within Xhorhas.
That willful lack of prudence should be frustrating – after all, he is tasked with ensuring the group assimilates, to some degree– but their carelessness seems only to add to his hopeless endearment with each passing day.
And after all, some of the dens in the area could stand to experience a little discomfort now and then.
He’s by the door now, close enough to look through one of the windows if he so chose. Close enough to knock. Which is a foolish idea. An utterly foolish idea.
He has so much work to do.
Almost anything else would be preferable.
His hand finds the doorframe almost of its own will, and he can scarcely believe what he’s done as he draws back, the echo of his rapping knuckles against the wood fading away.
He stares at his traitorous hand. Surely, the sound was drowned out in the rest of the noise, he thinks wildly. The instruments haven’t ceased their wailing, at least. Surely, he still has time to-
Ting-a-ling-a-ling.
The door cracks open, revealing a sliver of green skin near waist level. Yellow eyes blink up at him. He blinks back.
“Guys?” Nott calls over her shoulder, never breaking eye contact. “Essek’s here!”
The music finally stops, and Essek has no rational explanation why his heart feels suddenly too weighty for his ribs to contain.
A flurry of footsteps, and then the door is swinging fully open, and there are four of the Nein staring out at him. Beau, and Fjord, and hovering in the background, Caduceus, with a flute of bone and pearl still dangling in his fingers.
“What’s wrong?” Beau asks, already pressing forward past the others. “Did something happen?”
Right, he thinks. Right, that would be the assumption, as he tries to come up with some excuse, any excuse for his presence that isn’t in the shape of ‘it seemed less agonizing than heading home’.
“My apologies,” he says, bowing his head slightly, “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was only hoping to borrow Caleb for an hour or so?” Beau’s eyes narrow, and Essek searches for his next words, the right ones to justify himself. To de-escalate the mess he created. “Since your group might not be back in Rosohna for some time, I thought we might take the opportunity to squeeze in one more lesson. Assuming Caleb is interested, of course.”
Good. Plausible. And knowing Caleb, an undeniable lure. The correct thing to say, even if Essek’s heart clenches in his chest all the more to know he’s drawing the man away from his friends for the evening, all to bolster his own pointless deception. He’s seen the bags under Caleb’s eyes. He deserves to relax for a night, as much as any man. And still, Essek is selfish, and he cannot take back the words now he’s said them.
Beau considers for a moment, then glances down at Nott, who looks back at Essek with unveiled suspicion, and he is suddenly and violently reminded that however much he has observed this group, they have been observing him in turn.
The thought is… not pleasant.
“Nah,” says Beau. “Fuck that shit.” Then she grabs Essek by the arm and pulls him through the door. “Caleb’s spent the last two days stuck in the library with me. Your little lesson can wait until the band’s finished, at least.” Fjord jabs her in the ribs as they pass him by, and a smile materializes on Beau’s face, one that more closely resembles a pained grimace. “Oh yeah, come on in, welcome to our home, whatever.” Beau glares at Fjord. “Do I have to do this every time?”
“No formalities are necessary,” Essek assures her, and takes his arm back before she can feel the escalating rate of his pulse through his sleeve. Which is, again, a foolish reaction. He has no reason to feel anxious. The Dynasty granted the Nein this house, it’s as much his right to be there as theirs, but he still isn’t sure how he ended up in this position. How all his individual actions could have led to this moment, to him being pulled into an open space of haphazard pillows and mismatched furniture arranged in a semi-circle around a still-seated Yasha and Jester. Caduceus rejoins the pair, and Beau directs him to the spot on the floor next to where Caleb sits cross-legged with his cat in his lap. He balances a closed book on one knee, like he meant to open it and got distracted somewhere in the effort.
Caleb looks up, taking in Essek’s presence with a little surprised oh that becomes a welcoming nod, and that too is endearing, and Essek should not be here. He is meant to be at home, finishing his work, ensuring all is ready for the days to come.
“I’m sorry,” he begins to say, readying the next excuse on his lips, when Caleb’s hand finds his sleeve and pulls him down to the floor. And, light guide him, he goes.
He allows himself to be manoeuvred onto a cushion, seated with legs bowed slightly to the left as the trio resumes their playing. Nott still shoots him the occasional suspicious look from Caleb’s other side, but the rest of the Nein seem… strangely comfortable with his alien presence in their midst. He is considerably less comfortable to find himself there.
This whole circumstance is beneath him. If someone from the Bright Queen’s council were to see him here, in such an undignified position as this, he’d be laughed out of the throne room. To be taken seriously has been a decades-long endeavour, in light of his age and his as-of-yet unconsecuted status. He knows there are still those who would jump at the chance to embarrass him for less than this, if it meant elevating their own status.
And yet, he accepts a lukewarm cocktail from Beau when offered, and listens all the way to the end of the ‘song’, if it can be called that. Caleb’s presence at his side is an ever-nagging thought, prodding at him from all angles, and that too is an impropriety he should not indulge. Has not indulged. Has been very careful not to indulge, for many, many weeks.
(There are many things he knows, that would be dangerous in the wrong hands. He does not intend to make his own feelings one of them.)
The music ends, and he is immediately smothered in attention. Jester’s voice rings the loudest, pressing over the others with adulation and excitement that makes his (recently, near-constant) headache start to surge.
And it’s Caleb, of all people, who takes his sleeve again and draws him away from the clamour.
“We will be back,” he assures the rest, “but I believe you had something to show me?”
He leads Essek down the stairs, towards the basement library where they’ve spent the majority of their time together. His mouth runs drier with every step.
He made a promise of more, when he arrived, and now he must honour it, but there haven’t been the proper preparations this time. Essek is walking himself out on a narrow limb at an already precarious time, and if he teaches Caleb yet another unapproved spell tonight, he may find himself tipping the balance. The Bright Queen still doesn’t trust the Nein, after all they’ve done.
And he, so, so foolishly, does.
They stop just inside the door. Caleb closes it, and Essek swallows down the tightness in his throat. With his back ramrod straight, he has a good few inches over Caleb, and his posture is always pristine. He still looks the part of the confident tutor, and that is all that matters.
“So,” says Caleb, “what are we going to study tonight?”
The brightness is still there in his expression, the eagerness mixed with no small hint of fear, as Caleb makes himself vulnerable before Essek’s eyes. He makes himself vulnerable, as much as Essek makes himself imposing, and he wonders if Caleb has realized the same thing about him yet – whether only Essek has been watching closely for the tricks of the trade. They understand each other too well. They have known the same sort of training, have lived very different but somehow parallel lives.
They are complicit in their dishonesty, and Essek is abruptly tired of it, so very tired of everything that is involved in this dance of mutual manipulation. He is tired.
“Nothing,” says Essek. “My apologies, yet again. I should not have come.”
Caleb’s hand is on his arm once more, and the touch burns right through his cloak, through his skin, all the more painful for how much he wants to let it linger. It feels different than the tension that courses through his limbs, and he has wanted nothing else, through the last few weeks of escalating demands and endless worry and impossible tasks, to feel different. It’s comforting, and awful, and he doesn’t want to remove the hand, and hates himself for not having the same willpower he did in the forest – the last time Caleb attempted the same.
He wants to think that the touch is genuine, but wanting is not the same as believing. This – this thing between the two of them – is still work, of a sort, and pretending it is anything else would be a betrayal. It would be a betrayal of his queen, of himself, and even of Caleb, who is working as hard as him, though towards an end Essek has never been able to fully pin down.
“Should we sit?” Caleb offers, and Essek finally removes his eyes from the lingering hand, the one he has not yet managed to shrug off. They find Caleb’s, and there’s a different sort of vulnerability living behind them now – uncertainty, yes, but also understanding, and no small measure of determination. “It was too loud up there for my tastes. Thank you, for giving me an excuse to catch my breath.”
Still, Caleb looks at Essek, and squeezes his arm gently as a small, self-deprecating smile ghosts his lips. He saw my discomfort, Essek thinks. He noticed, and offered me an escape.
What does he expect in return?
Essek does his best to mirror Caleb’s expression, to keep the dance going, but can’t quite make the same light appear in his own eyes. There have been too many sleepless nights to fake another expression of certainty he doesn’t feel, and he doesn’t know what Caleb hopes to see anyway, so really, what’s the point, of any of it?
His inner voice is petulant to his own ears, and he chides himself even as he surrenders to it. One does not remain the Shadowhand by dropping their guard at a whim. It’s his duty to maintain his own composure, regardless of any feelings he might hold. It’s his responsibility. It’s-
“-alright,” Caleb is calling up the stairs. “We’ll be up soon, Nott!” He looks back at Essek. “Whenever you’re ready,” he says more quietly. When did Caleb become this confident? When did their roles reverse?
And Essek still can’t spot where the manipulation hides.
It scares him, more than the thought that he might have missed a tell, the notion that this might not be a game after all. That Caleb might be honest – at least here, at least now – in his intentions.
After all, the Mighty Nein – to a fault, admittedly – seem to land within the realm of overbearing honesty. When Jester asked about his mother’s name earlier in the evening, he forgot to be suspicious of her reason for asking. When Beau offered him a glass, he did not think to check for poison lacing the rim. If Caleb touches his arm in a comforting manner, can he believe that too?
If there is a proper manner to forming… honest relationships, he is sorely out of practice. But the alternative is to remain on guard for the rest of eternity, and more and more, he’s beginning to suspect he won’t survive to his first consecution, if he doesn’t find a way to relieve the constant pressure in his chest, the kind that reminds him that every word must be carefully considered. That anything less than perfection could mean the end of his career, his status, the very future of his soul.
(There are times, when he sits at his desk and puts his head in his hands, and tastes the sourness on his own quickening breath, that he wonders if this body is already falling apart from the inside.)
“Thank you,” he says at last, and puts his hand over Caleb’s – not to draw it away, but to press his own fingers down. To squeeze back.
He’s not wearing gloves. It has been an age since he’s felt another’s skin against his own. He’s almost not sure what to make of the sensation, at first. But Essek finds he doesn’t want to let go, and Caleb doesn’t force him to. No expectations. No exchange. Just a small moment of comfort, the first he’s allowed himself in a long while.
Essek almost lets himself believe, as he chances one more glance into Caleb’s eyes before pulling away, that it was a comfort for them both.
They return upstairs, in the end, and Essek stays for another hour of socialization more. He dances around the edge of Jester’s more personal questions, but answers a few of the less intrusive ones. He compliments the unnerving beauty of Yasha’s new harp, and receives a soft smile in return. He finds himself laughing at Fjord’s dry humour, and the sound catches him off-guard, for being the second time he’s heard it leave his mouth today.
He doesn’t remember the last time he laughed – at least, not without flattery as the main objective. Perhaps a little too much honesty has seeped into his blood now, because it feels worryingly natural to be easy in their company.
That’s another thing he’s scarcely remembered – that some things could be easy.
At last, he begs off to return home, and they all bid him farewell at the door. Even Nott gives him a little wave, and he waves back before heading off into the night.
When he opens the door to his home, his servants greet him immediately, take his coat, beckon him towards his study. The world grows narrow again as the new words filter in amidst the resumed rushing in his ears, -needs a response by the morrow- and he agrees without fully hearing the request.
If it must be done by tomorrow, he will get it done. There is no other option. And he does, along with every other task that cannot wait. Then he looks at the stack of scrolls on his desk.
It will continue to grow if he leaves it, and there are still a few hours yet till morning-
Thank you, for giving me an excuse to catch my breath.
Essek shakes his head, and looks again at the stack.
They will still be here tomorrow.
…It can wait.
Though morning still comes too soon, Essek finds it easier to drift off to sleep tonight than usual.
He may be foolish, but he’s not so naïve that he doesn’t realize the reason why.
