He was too exhausted to be tired. Caleb had known going against Trent would be bad, but he had never expected it to be this bad. He should have. The moment his friends started dying, Caleb found himself hoping they would all perish; he knew what the fate of those that lived would be. When he came to consciousness bound to a table and heard Jester’s voice pleading, he found himself thinking a terrible thought.
‘I’m glad Molly was already dead.’
The sounds his friends made were familiar to him. He had illicited those sounds once, he knew what caused them, what made the screams pitch higher and the sobs more desperate. Caleb had, honestly, believed he didn’t have much heart left to break.
His ability to keep a straight face and control himself lessened and weakened as fatigue set in, exhaustion bringing him back to base emotions he could not hide. He could only think of Jester, who’d already been captured and hurt before, only then they’d saved her and he’d quietly sworn to himself it would never happen again. Another promise broken. Beau, who was so damn stubborn and such a very good, loyal, trustworthy friend, who he would have seen make the world a better, fairer place because she didn’t put up with bullshit.
It was no surprise that Nott was worst. Of course Trent had saved her for last. Wordless, he sobbed at her through the mirror, wrists chafed bloody because all he wanted was to reach out, shield her from this, his sister - a substitute-family member more real and good than Trent or Astrid or Eodwulf had ever been to him. Every word she said, as kind and positive as it was, cut into him just a little deeper, so much that he expected he’d start bleeding from phantom wounds any moment. He didn’t. What a pity.
Giving in was easy, after that.
Caleb knew he should be angry. Trent had taken a second family from him, had cracked him open to suck the marrow out of him, again. He should be burning up with a need for vengeance, he knew it was in him somewhere. He had felt it, once. He could not find it. His cheeks were wet, there was no fire. The kiss should make him snap and spit and thrash, but his lips trembled and his eyes closed (he wanted to sleep, sleep so badly, please).
“They were home.” He choked on the last word, burst into a string of sobs which took a good couple of seconds to bite back and swallow down. For a blink of a moment, he remembered what breaking had felt like, back then; and he felt how close to that dangerous edge he was, now. “One day, one day-” Caleb wasn’t even sure what he was going to say. “I will- I would have traded-”
“Shh... shhh, it’s alright.” Trent stroked his hair and kissed his forehead. “I’ll take care of you now, Caleb, you’re home.” he whispered, hands that had just torn apart three people over as many days now gentle, soft, clean, on Caleb.
The world seemed to swirl around Caleb, as he was untied and stripped, but the hands on him- students and workers and Trent himself- they were soft and gentle, the water that washed him was warm and the towels were soft, but not as soft as the warm clothes he was dressed in, as a teenager with a gap toothed, nervous grin, wrapped his chaffed wrists in clean bandages.
He was brought to a clean bed, tucked into warm blankets, and Trent was there again, sitting down on the edge of Caleb’s bed, taking his hand gently. “Do you feel better now, Caleb?”
