The night before leaving for Aeor, under the roof of the Clay family, Caleb lets himself dream of home.
A little something I want to post before the episode airs later today.
Read on AO3.
Lately, for Caleb Widogast, dreams have come at a price.
Before, they were welcomed summaries of the day, digested ideas, unexplored thoughts.
Now, just endless expanse, the moans and calls of the Cognouza ward making his skin sting, his heart pump adrenaline in fear.
At least, he hopes it's fear.
Tonight, something is different.
He dreams of the soft flower fields of home, how the nape of his neck would tickle with the leftover moisture of grass. The air smells of hay, and baked bread, and his lungs stretch in ways he'd almost forgotten.
Someone runs a hand through his hair, and he curses the emotional evening of families and goodbyes for the torture of feeling his mother's hands move again.
"What scares you, my treasure?"
If he could die in a dream, he would. He brings his knees to his chest, heaves a choked sigh.
He thinks of them, and it calls them to him.
The horizon rumbles, like a thunderstorm, but this is organic, disturbingly alive.
The blue sky over Blumenthal turns sickly white, the shadow of the city casting a shadow like a cloud over the sun. The red eyes shine like beacons, and Caleb shudders, peels at his layers, exposes the brands that thrum with a sickly glow.
Their call grows louder.
Louder,
louder.
Caleb winces, and does not notice Una furrowing her brows.
Theres a sound, just as Caleb slows from his panic, just as he starts giving in to their call, that feels like a bird hitting a glass pane.
The vision of the Somnovum grows farther away, like a hand grasping for something out of reach.
And it's quiet.
"What is that?"
Her voice sounds so alien, after what he's just heard.
Caleb grimaces, and vomits what he knows to her, a conscious effort to tidy his thoughts.
He feels more in control here, like he can think clearly instead of beaing trapped in the foggy logic of his subconscious.
He knows he lost her, three sentences in, but he doesn't stop to think that he could fix it.
He just talks, and talks.
There is Lucien. There are the Tomb Takers. There was Vess DeRogna. There was Aeor.
There is the city.
He worries the most about his friends.
She holds his hand, tells him they will bring him home safe as he will for them. He has a home to go back to. A duty. And a mission.
Caleb nods, the dream melts, and pairs of blue eyes blink themselves awake.
One, curses his perfect memory for recalling his mother's voice so well.
The other, wipes golden sand from his palms and stares down to the lights of the city.
Perhaps, he could wait a few days after all.
There’s moments, when his hand stills in the air and stops shimmering, where he softens his whole expression and runs the feather of his pen along his lips, and Jester almost thinks he looks relaxed.
It’s been months, and Jester still hasn’t wrapped her head around Caleb’s magic. Her power comes from a place of faith and worship, but his, his is all timing and knowledge and science, and every night, while she whispers her thanks to the Traveller, he pours over his book, eyes glazed and glowing with arcane sparks, and Jester doesn’t know where he finds the patience for it.
Tonight is no different.
It’s early enough that they’re still around the fire, all laughs and punches when someone gets too loud, and then it’s back to whispers, like everything’s a secret being shared at a sleepover.
Jester likes it, likes it a lot, the not sleeping alone, the constant buzz of conversation, the giggling. At night, she’s far away from her lonely bedroom, and she’s surrounded by friends, and they fill her life with noise. Sometimes it gets really loud. Other times, it’s very very quiet.
It describes what’s around her perfectly.
Nott is full on standing on Fjord’s knees, has him held by the ears and is smushing their noses together, and Beau carefully observes, checks if either of them are blinking, and Jester wonders who’d be the best of the Nein at that— she doesn’t have to think much to suspect it’s Caleb. Caleb, whose eyes are glued to his spell book even in the dark, with only the flicker of the fire and the soft glow of his lights helping him read.
He’s not just reading tonight, though. Jester sees the inkwell at his feet, and there’s the distinct scratch of nib on parchment joining his usual routine.
Now she’s really wondering how long it will take him to blink, being as engrossed as he is in his work, so she keeps staring.
It turns out that too much is happening for Jester to keep looking just at his eyes. The spell book is laying on his crossed legs, and his right hand just keeps moving, drawing shapes in the air that occasionally spark and leave faint traces of light. Every time something like that happens, and it happens a lot, he hunches over, writes something down, and immediately goes back to casting quietly to himself.
He reaches a point where the glyph in the air doesn’t show any instability, and Jester wonders how long it’s actually been since she started watching him. Yeah, she’s noticed that he always pours over his book before sleeping, and for so long she just thought it was because he liked reading. She didn’t think he was studying. She’s just glad the Traveler asks for faith and mischief instead of essays in exchange for magic.
It’s pretty clear Caleb doesn’t mind working for his magic, tho. He’s started casting again now, and Jester has to blink the sleep out of her eyes because she’s sure she’s not seeing things right anymore— until now he was casting with his other hand, and using his left to write, but now the quill was in his right hand, tracing lines on the page with the steadiness of a surgeon.
How did she never notice before? He does usually study in his own room when they’re resting indoors, but still! She’s an artist, these are the things that she should notice before anyone else!
She goes back to staring at him with newfound interest. She squints, even, doing her best to catch any stuttering in his handwriting or his casting, fueled by curiosity. How many things has she been missing out on just because it’s become so normal to see him study?
There’s moments, when his hand stills in the air and stops shimmering, where he softens his whole expression and runs the feather of his pen along his lips, and Jester almost thinks he looks relaxed. It suits him, when there’s no deep crease between his eyebrows, and she wonders if she could ever look that calm while she draws. She’s all wide strokes and weird faces, nothing like the wizard sitting on the opposite side of the fire.
There’s a squawk from Nott that snaps her out of her trance, and for a moment Jester realizes how engrossed she had been into this observation session. She’s deconstructed all the layers of clothing she can see, from the gloves to the shirt that makes the little diamond shape when it’s buttoned, and how the size of the coat makes him look even thinner than he is.
His current disheveled state doesn’t take anything away from how non-Caleb he looks right now. While he is, obviously, still fully dedicated to his book, there’s no sign of the usual tenseness in his shoulders, and that grimace that makes it look like he’s always scowling isn’t there at all. He’s mouthing at his thumb in deep thought, and Jester is suddenly reminded of things that belong between the walls of the Chateau. Things that definitely don’t fit the campfire mood, and things that she would never have associated with him— humble hand kisses and compliant nods when someone parts your lips with their fingers, or the chalky feeling of candy at the corners of your mouth.
She shakes herself out of it, feeling her face grow warm, and she looks up, to the starry sky and the moons, only briefly flitting her eyes over to him. Oh, oh, he’s tilted his head now, and the hair that he’s tucked behind his ears glows in the firelight, and she swears it almost looks like he’s on fire himself.
He’s so… peculiar, is the adjective she settles on, not wanting to think too hard about how magical he looks with his eyes aglow from whatever runes he’s mumbling under his breath.
The clap of the book being closed makes her let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, and her face still feels warm when the Mighty Nein decide it’s finally time to sleep, when she reaches for her own special book and starts sharing her day with the Traveller.
Jester makes sure to dip her nib in the red ink first.
have a wip of this thing where everyone dies because honestly i don’t think there is one single person out there who isn’t worried about that whole “ultimate sacrifice” business
so my scanner hates me so i cant consider this done IN THE LEAST, but i don;t know when it’ll be cooperating with me again so have this for now
also, bonus panels
this has been an experiment more than anything else, im kinda happy with how it turned out tbh.....now if only i could show you guys how it ACTUALLY LOOKS rather than using botched phone pics
i think about tate pulling his hat over eyes because when he was little everyone said "aww, you have your papa's eyes!" and he doesnt wanna be reminded about that ever
