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Essek has a faint sense of prediction as he glides back to the meeting room. Some would blame it as a side effect of Dunamancy, but Essek had been analytical to the point of predicting likely outcomes long before he was graced with the privilege of studying spells.
In the hallway outside the chamber, he calls one of his servants to his side. “The red-haired one, he is to be permitted into my home at any hour. Watch him, summon me if I can be summoned, and allow him to wait inside if I am already occupied.”
The servant nods, face impassive. “You think it likely, Shadowhand?”
“It might come to naught.” Essek concedes. “But I have a … suspicion.”
The servant melts back to their place at the wall: unobtrusive, silent, waiting to be called to action.
Essek returns to his meeting. He puts Caleb Widogast out of his mind.
~*~
It’s just past midnight when Essek is woken by one of his household staff. “The redhead is here, sir,” the girl says, delicately concealing her yawn behind a flick of her hand.
Essek sighs heavily. “I expected as much. Come, help me dress.”
He could pick far more ostentatious robes, but for this Essek decides to refrain from extravagant displays. A house robe of dark plum, with minimal embroidery at the hem and sleeves, is more than suitable. The girl leaves his hair tousled from sleep, and applies brief brushes of color over his cheekbones and along the bridge of his nose. She smudges the color to near-invisibility: Essek might be giving the impression of casual composure but he will not face a relative stranger without a mask firmly in place.
“Jewels, sir?” she asks, hands hovering over the various boxes.
Essek considers his many options. “… not tonight. Thank you, you may return to sleep.”
She bows her head and shuffles out of the room, to the hidden hallway and back to her own bedchamber.
Essek leaves to go find the human in his house.
~*~
Caleb is waiting in the entrance hall, sitting stiffly on one of the chairs placed at strategic points to disrupt the flow of magic. There’s a cup of tea on the table beside him, untouched and still drifting with steam.
He stands when he sees Essek approaching. His eyes flick up to Essek’s face and then hurriedly to the side, a response Essek has come to understand is typical of the man, not only in stressful circumstances. Essek has never met a human with the habits of what Xhorhasians refer to as “one of Sabrae’s children” before, but then again he has not met many humans, and those he has have not maintained long enough relationships for him to recognize the signs. He wonders if Caleb separates his food on a plate so that the edges are clearly defined, like Essek’s niece does. He wonders if Caleb flaps his hands when excited, like Essek’s childhood best friend had.
Essek puts those thoughts from his mind and focuses on Caleb’s current state. The man is stressed, exhausted, and still unwashed after his travel. He reeks. The chair he sat on will need to be scoured later. He is alone; untethered from his companions he seems profoundly ill at ease.
“Shadowhand.” Caleb’s head twitches, though whether a nod of respect or an involuntary movement it’s difficult to determine.
“Caleb Widogast.” Essek tastes the name carefully. A fake of course, but Essek doesn’t begrudge the man that. Truth will come in time.
There’s an uncomfortable pause. Quickly Caleb rushes to fill the silence. “Thank you for permitting me into your home.” He glances around the hallway as if seeking spyholes.
“And why are you here, at this hour?” Essek has several ideas, some diminishing by the minute.
“I … I …” Caleb straightens up. Essek notes that Caleb is actually taller than he often appears.
Essek waits. Perhaps he is supposed to guess the likeliest offer and spare Caleb the embarrassment of asking? He keeps his mouth shut, waiting, watching Caleb wrestle internally with his shame and desires. It’s an engaging sight.
“I want you to use me.” Caleb says at last.
Ah. Ambiguous language, to a less discerning individual. Essek understands, but wishes to draw it out from Caleb’s own lips. “Use you?” he lingers on the syllables. “Yes, to ferret out spies from the Empire. We’ve discussed this.”
Caleb shakes his head in a twitching movement. “No. Not like that.” His hands fail briefly in agitation. He’s coming apart at the seams, this man. Essek very much wants to know what’s hidden underneath.
“Then in what manner?” Essek isn’t playing stupid. He knows, and he knows Caleb knows he knows. But he wants to hear Caleb say the words.
Caleb gives a jerking shrug. “However you wish, Shadowhand.”
Essek has to hold back a laugh. Even in this state, Caleb is attempting manipulation. Flattery, assertion of Essek’s rank against him, hoping to leverage that for … something. Perhaps Caleb has only ever experienced powerful people drunk on their own status. Perhaps he is attempting to goad a reaction from Essek.
“‘However I wish?’ What a reckless turn of phrase.” Essek glides half a step forward, watching Caleb intently.
Caleb does not flinch. His fingers clench briefly but only for a second.
“I could beat you.” Essek says calmly, circling Caleb in a slow drifting progress. “I could hold you fast and beat you bloody. Is that what you want?”
“I don’t want anything, except to be used.” Caleb’s voice is verging on harsh. Essek wonders if someone taught him to say that, to repeat it, to believe it even.
“Oh I very much doubt that.” Essek returns to face Caleb, though Caleb will not meet his eyes. “Did you expect me to pounce on you, like some tawdry villain in a melodrama?”
Caleb does flinch then, almost imperceptibly. Color blooms on his face, heat rising to his cheeks. “There is nothing ‘tawdry’ about you, Shadowhand.”
The way he says the word tugs at Essek in a way he wishes it did not. The idea that this filthy man, this turncoat, has found a lever in Essek’s head, should disgust him. It should offend him on a professional level at the very least. Instead it intrigues him.
“You flatter me.” Essek states it.
“I have yet to meet a person who does not enjoy … that.” Caleb licks his lower lip.
There’s an intentional double meaning in his words. Essek can see it plainly.
“And why would I want to use you, in that sense?” Essek asks, genuinely curious as to Caleb’s answer.
“I cannot imagine why," Caleb looks up for another brief skittish flash of eye contact, “… but you do want to."
Essek feels as though he’s been struck by a cart. Some of the shock must register on his face, he knows. He’s out of practice. He hasn’t had to deal with something so personal in quite a long time, and certainly never in his own home.
"You're very confident." Essek says quickly, far too quickly. It’s obvious that Caleb’s words have flustered him. Even a half-rate spy could notice that and Caleb has clearly had elite training.
"No. But I'm ... reasonably certain of some things." Caleb gives half a shrug. Downplaying his expertise out of modesty, or for a more sinister purpose?
Essek composes himself again. “And what do you wish to accomplish with this flattery, with this … bold imposition into my home at this hour of the night?”
Caleb winces quite visibly now. “There is a practice, in the Empire, of putting metal rods on roofs so that if lighting should strike, it strikes the rods and goes to ground, rather than causing harm. Do you know of it?”
“Yes, of course.” Essek waves a hand. “Your point?”
“I am … there is a storm, within me now. Roiling. Wrecking. I could lash out and harm my friends. That cannot happen. I need … I need to be grounded.” Caleb does meet his eyes then. It seems to take some effort. “Do you understand now?”
Essek nods slowly. Some of his pervious theories begin to shift and slot into place, forming a more complete picture. “I believe so.”
“I could beg.” Caleb offers, lowering his eyes again, slouching his shoulders again. He looks pathetic, and Essek realizes now it is by design. “I’m quite good at begging.” His voice cracks.
“I am sure you are.” Essek quells the interest coiling in his belly. “But not here. And not in your current state.” He allows a faint sneer to cross his face and hears it color his words. “You are filthy. Bathe yourself.”
Caleb looks up, eyes wide with confusion.
Essek glides down the hallway and rouses a servant. “Draw a bath. Escort my guest there.”
~*~
Essek waits in the guest bedroom. While Caleb washes, Essek debates with himself. Perhaps this is madness and he should send Caleb away at once. Perhaps this is a stroke of luck, and this will allow him to draw more secrets out of the man. Perhaps this is all a game of Caleb’s to manipulate him in turn. Perhaps …
There’s a knock at the door.
“Enter.” Essek says automatically. He straightens his robe.
Clean, no longer reeking, Caleb looks not much better. His face is still contorted with suspicion, his posture is still hunched out of a desire to appear smaller than he is. Caleb’s beard is still somewhat wild, though all hairy humans have that appearance in Essek’s mind. It’s a cultural bias coloring his opinions and one he must reign in. But Caleb at least no longer smells of travel and battle. At least he is no longer caked in dust and grime.
Caleb is now dressed in the simple black clothing Essek has on hand in case of guests in need of extra clothes. The clothes do not fit him exactly: the shirt hangs long over his hips and the trousers show his ankles.
“My servants will clean your things.” Essek says to fill the silence. “You can trust them.”
Caleb gestures to the door. “Shall I close this?”
“If you wish.”
Caleb hesitates and then closes the door. He does not lock it.
“Would it be presumptuous of me to ask if you have any limitations?” Essek inquires, not expecting much in the way of information.
Caleb glares. “No limitations. Use me.”
“I intend to …” Essek waves a hand and murmurs a word.
A sudden force shoves Caleb backwards, nearly sending him sprawling to the floor.
“… just perhaps not in the way you were hoping.”
Caleb steadies himself. “You made me bathe, and you’re not even going to touch me?”
“I will. When I decide you’ve earned it.” Essek flicks his hand again and he smirks as Caleb is flung against the bed.
Caleb climbs up onto the bed. “Come on then. Let me earn it, Shadowhand.” He turns, his back to Essek, the fabric of the borrowed clothes stretching over his skin.
Essek is tempted, but he knows blatant manipulation when he sees it. “You think I want to have you like a dog? Like a wanderer in the wasteland?” he snaps the spell’s word and slices his hand through the air.
Caleb is flipped over entirely, flat on his back. Essek levels another spell, and constricting manacles of magical energy form around Caleb’s wrists and ankles. As Essek spreads his hands, the manacles stretch Caleb out across the mattress.
Essek sees Caleb’s fingers begin to thread the air in the familiar motion of a counterspell. He wonders if Caleb will struggle, fling spell after spell at Essek in a parody of a wizard’s duel until he is spent, until he is truly helpless and not merely playing at it.
Instead, Caleb leaves the spell incomplete. He relaxes his fingers and waits, panting, eyes coming to rest on Essek’s hands.
“No, if you wanted that, there are taverns you could go to. They would rip off your clothes and take you apart piece by piece. You want something else. Something more … refined.” Essek glides to the bed and comes to hover above Caleb. With a sigh, he allows gravity to claim his body once more, sinking down with limbs that feel like lead weights.
Caleb is watching him curiously. What must the man think of Essek’s near-constant levitation? Does he suspect a health reason, a religious tradition, a casual demonstration of power?
Essek shifts and settles himself on the bed beside Caleb.
“So, tell me, what exactly is it that you want?” Essek asks, taking Caleb by the chin. He doesn’t force eye contact: he doesn’t need to in order to assert his control.
Caleb shivers at Essek’s touch but doesn’t flinch. He casts his eyes to the far wall and breathes deeply. When he speaks, his voice is soft and vulnerable. “Take me out of my head. Away from my thoughts, my memories, everything. Please.”
He doesn’t sound like a calculating spy, or a seductive foreign agent. He sounds perfectly honest, possibly for the first time in his conversations with Essek.
“And why would you want me to do this to you?” Essek presses on, pursing the heady rush of honesty from this secretive man.
“You’re discrete. You’re meticulous. You present yourself to the world in a purposeful way. Your hands were gentle when you taught me those spells. And you’re …” Caleb hesitates, then pushes on, visibly flushing. “… you’re very handsome.”
Essek makes a pleased hum. “Thank you for your honesty. I hope to prove worthy of your estimations.”
Caleb looks confused.
Essek shifts away from that to a different track, hoping to draw more honesty from Caleb before he shuts himself away again. Honesty is so rare in Essek’s life; he will treasure it here and now.
“You said you wanted me to use you. You want me to ground you, to take you out of your own mind. Truly, it is you who is using me.”
Essek sees the way Caleb’s eyes fill with fear. He sees the man start to struggle with his magical bonds.
“This needn’t be a bad situation,” Essek says hurriedly. “I believe our goals are quite aligned this evening.” Essek allows himself a brief touch, pressing his fingertips against Caleb’s shoulder. Caleb stills.
“What do you want me to say?” Caleb asks hoarsely.
“The truth. You intend to use me for your own benefit.”
Caleb makes eye contact with him. “I hope so. But I can make it worth your time.”
“That remains to be seen.” Essek leans over on the bed. “But I will very much enjoy finding out.”
Caleb looks thoughtful.
“I’m going to give you a word. If you say it, I will cease. Otherwise, speak only when I ask you a direct question. ‘Yes’ or ‘no’ is preferable. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. The word is saib. Repeat it for me.”
“Saib.”
“Speak it if you wish me to stop. I will stop. If you find yourself unable to speak, you may make this gesture with your fingers, and I will also stop.” Essek demonstrated with his fingers. “Do this.”
Caleb copies the gesture.
“I asked you before, and I ask again: have you any limitations?”
“No.”
“I don’t believe you.” Essek sighs. “But I will try my utmost not to cause you true harm and stop if you appear unacceptably distressed. I am trusting you to use that word, or that hand signal, if you dislike something I am doing.”
Caleb says nothing. He stares at the ceiling and sets his jaw.
Essek shifts the magical bonds, easing Caleb up into a sitting position in the middle of the bed, arms outstretched. He positions himself behind Caleb, resting his hands on Caleb’s shoulders. “Let us begin.”
He moves his hands over Caleb’s body, focusing on his shoulders, his arms, the muscles in his back. Essek encircles Caleb’s torso with his arms and presses his thumbs over Caleb’s collarbone.
After a few moments of stiffness, Caleb begins to relax. After Essek pushes on a particularly sore muscle along his neck Caleb makes a soft noise between a gasp and a moan.
Essek smiles, unseen by Caleb due to their positions, and continues to work the muscle. “I should have said, sounds are not speaking. Feel free to express yourself wordlessly.”
A few more strokes and kneads, and Caleb groans with what sounds like relief.
Pursuing more sounds, Essek finds the seam of the shirt he’s wearing and murmurs a spell. The fabric unmakes itself inch by inch, unraveling at the drag of his fingertips.
Caleb gasps loudly, spine arching.
“Remember your word.” Essek murmurs before spreading his hands over bared skin. The center of the shirt has unraveled into nothing, leaving only the sleeves intact.
There are scars here. Essek knew there would be, but there are far more than he’d expect for a spellcaster. Some of the scars are very old indeed. A few look like whip marks. Essek scratches over them with his nails, and elicits a whimper from Caleb.
He pauses, listening to the man’s breath, reaching to feel for his heartbeat. Both are steady, though the latter is a bit elevated.
Essek proceeds. He follows the musculature of Caleb’s back and works through the knots and sore spots. He drags his nails occasionally and smiles when Caleb gasps or moans each time.
“Have you any aversion to cold?” he asks.
“No.”
“Heat?”
“No.”
“Sharpness?”
“… yes.”
Essek raises his eyebrows. Finally: a limitation.
“Softness?”
“No.”
“Thank you.” Essek dances his fingertips over his knuckles and murmurs several words. This is a delicate spell, and often too intricate for use in overt combat.
First his touch trails intense heat along Caleb’s back.
Caleb cries out, shying away from the sensation despite his words.
Essek foregoes the next touches and shifts the spell to another outcome. Now his touch leaves spirals of frost on Caleb’s skin.
Caleb’s moan is the loudest so far of the night.
Essek reaches around and teases Caleb’s chest with the ice too, before bringing his hands back and shifting the spell once more. His touch feels soft, almost tickling, and startles a shocked laugh from Caleb when teasing at his sides.
Smiling, Essek presses with that one, reaching up to Caleb’s neck, fluttering against his ears, and reaching up to the bared skin around his wrists. Each time Caleb laughs, more startled at first, and then gradually more at ease.
“Now, I know you didn’t like the heat, but perhaps …” Essek alternates on one of his hands and grazes the fingers of his left hand over Caleb’s shoulder.
Caleb yelps as the crackle of static sears over him. When it stops, he whimpers at the loss.
Essek strokes his soft, tickling fingers over the spot. He alternates each sensation and hand, the static and then the soft soothing.
Caleb starts to moan, low and consistent, over and over again.
Essek lets the spell go and murmurs another word. The magic encircling Caleb’s wrists sinks down, letting his arms relax.
It takes some maneuvering of Essek’s body, but he gets into a position at the headboard. Then he moves the spell again, and drapes Caleb over his lap, face down and arms crossed underneath his head.
“Are you comfortable?”
“Yes.”
“You make speak freely for a moment. Do you have any thoughts on what I’ve been doing?”
Caleb mulls that thought over for a moment. Finally he says “You’re being so kind.” Caleb sounds utterly baffled. “Why are you being … kind?”
“You’re my Ward, do you understand what that means?” It strikes Essek that perhaps the cultural significance and translation might not have been properly conveyed to Caleb and the others.
Caleb shrugs as best the bonds and his position will allow. “We’re under your protection?”
“Yes, but that’s not all. I’m obligated to care for you, all of you. To keep an eye on your general wellbeing. If I neglect you, that reflects poorly on not only myself, but on my Den.”
Caleb visibly processes this information. “And that’s why you’re being kind?”
“That, and other reasons. I’m also being kind because to be cruel with you right now would be a horrific act. And I don’t play at cruelty with partners in the bedroom. Not even if they beg prettily for it. “
Essek sees Caleb’s ears turn red.
“Are you ready to proceed?”
“Yes please.”
“Very well. No more speaking, unless it is your word, or ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”
Caleb nods his head.
“May I remove your pants?”
“… yes.”
Essek reaches down and slowly pulls the fabric down around Caleb’s knees. There were no undergarments provided, so his ass and thighs are bared to him now too.
There are scars here, more prevalent on the thighs. Old scars for the most part, long marks Essek classifies as from switches, or perhaps a cane. Harming a child is one of the vilest things one can do in a lifetime and Essek’s stomach churns at the thought of it. He’s relieved at his own caution and hesitation, where lesser men would have leapt on the offer Caleb made and stormed ahead into harming him unduly.
Essek summons the spell again. He traces the static along Caleb’s skin, the softness, and the frost. Caleb moans and stretches. Several times his head rises and falls back down. Essek even scratches Caleb’s skin with his own nails, though this time he avoids the scars as best he can.
The spell reaches its time limit and fizzles out. Caleb has barely moved or spoken for the past few touches.
“Are you here?” Essek asks softly.
Caleb makes a mumbling noise.
“Can you speak? Make the sign?”
Whatever Caleb mumbles is too incoherent to understand. His fingers don’t even move.
Essek smiles. He shifts the manacles to lift Caleb up and turn him slightly, letting him rest on his side on the bed, beside Essek. His wrists are held against his chest now.
The movements seem to rouse Caleb slightly. “… yes?” he slurs.
“Would you like me to touch you there?” Essek asks, gesturing down between Caleb’s legs.
Caleb shifts his hips and nods eagerly. “Yes.”
Essek reaches and wraps his fingers around Caleb’s cock. The man is hard, slick with precome, and responds quickly to the feeling of Essek’s hand. Caleb’s hips buck and he moans desperately.
When his cock twitches, Essek casts a dunamantic spell. Time loops on itself in a brief cycle, with Caleb coming, hardening, coming, hardening, and coming, over and over. Caleb’s eyelids flutter and his breath catches. The spell ends and Caleb pants heavily, clutching at Essek’s arm.
Essek releases the spell holding the magic manacles around Caleb.
Caleb slumps against him. Clumsily he starts to grope for Essek’s midsection, fingers fumbling at the fabric of his robe.
“You don’t have to –” Essek begins.
And then Caleb shifts and gets his mouth around Essek’s cock.
“… oh.”
Caleb sucks him slowly. Essek gets the sense that Caleb could be far more efficient, or far more intricate, if his mind had not so recently been made fuzzy and calm by the proceeding activities. It’s a luxurious act.
For his part, Essek pets Caleb’s hair and mutters soft soothing words and phrases, in Common and Undercommon. Several times rakes his nails over Caleb’s scalp.
Essek taps Caleb on the shoulder when he feels himself about to spill. Caleb makes no move to get out of the way. He swallows as Essek comes without the hint of a gag.
Caleb rests his head on the mattress, eyelids fluttering as Essek continues to pet his hair. After a moment or two, his breathing starts to suggest sleep.
Essek draws a blanket up over their bodies. In the morning the servants can put the room to rights, return Caleb’s clothes, and help Essek clean himself up. He wonders if Caleb will slink out as soon as possible, linger, or wish to speak about the night’s events in detail.
For now, Essek pets Caleb’s red hair and ponders the risks and benefits of honest communication.