There is no one to whom Caleb can plead his case. (I cannot be here, I can't, I am needed elsewhere, you don't understand—) Those who wield authority here do not care to listen, and in his more spiteful moments, Caleb suspects they cannot undo whatever it is that brought him to this place to begin with.
There is a castle. It is cavernous and cold and filled with possibility. If he could think of something other than the absence of Nott, or the peril with which he'd left her (and Beauregard, and then the others, Fjord and Jester and Yasha) to navigate, or the fresh-made grave in which they had buried Mollymauk—
Well. It is a place where Caleb could coax out information. He could learn here. No one is stopping him.
No one but the splinter of guilt that reminds him: He had not left them when he was able, and he is surely not excused for leaving on a technicality, so surely he must devote himself to slipping the cage he's found himself in, no matter the gilding of the bars.
Magic hums in every corner of Thorne. It makes Caleb's molars ache for biting down, tearing into it. That same fervor that had driven him through book after book once Beauregard had finally, finally brought him to the library is unchecked but for his own tenuous grip on rickety morality.
His notes diverge. What he should pursue, what will take him home, and the rest. Revenge. Rectification. A scaffolding of scribbling notes in a journal set alongside his spell book, both working in tandem.
It is harder to do on the road.
There are skirmishes at the border and their hosts have been neglectful and disinterested, but they dislodge their guests from the castle to tend to their affairs in what might be a battle, or might resolve itself before reinforcements arrive. Caleb cannot think of it.
He is hunched by the fire now, writing still, mapping what could be a spell, could blow up in someone's face. The ink shimmers faintly, even in the poor light, made worse by—
"Please, you are blocking the fire," is carefully posed, one hand hovering over the page as he looks up. This man, with his cane, who Caleb has seen in passing but said little to before now. What he is capable of is a mystery, one Caleb is not sure he needs answered. Eventually he will need help, yes, but he hardly knows what he needs yet.
And so: he is polite, quiet, easy to ignore. That has served him well so far in his life.
let me here.
There is a castle. It is cavernous and cold and filled with possibility. If he could think of something other than the absence of Nott, or the peril with which he'd left her (and Beauregard, and then the others, Fjord and Jester and Yasha) to navigate, or the fresh-made grave in which they had buried Mollymauk—
Well. It is a place where Caleb could coax out information. He could learn here. No one is stopping him.
No one but the splinter of guilt that reminds him: He had not left them when he was able, and he is surely not excused for leaving on a technicality, so surely he must devote himself to slipping the cage he's found himself in, no matter the gilding of the bars.
Magic hums in every corner of Thorne. It makes Caleb's molars ache for biting down, tearing into it. That same fervor that had driven him through book after book once Beauregard had finally, finally brought him to the library is unchecked but for his own tenuous grip on rickety morality.
His notes diverge. What he should pursue, what will take him home, and the rest. Revenge. Rectification. A scaffolding of scribbling notes in a journal set alongside his spell book, both working in tandem.
It is harder to do on the road.
There are skirmishes at the border and their hosts have been neglectful and disinterested, but they dislodge their guests from the castle to tend to their affairs in what might be a battle, or might resolve itself before reinforcements arrive. Caleb cannot think of it.
He is hunched by the fire now, writing still, mapping what could be a spell, could blow up in someone's face. The ink shimmers faintly, even in the poor light, made worse by—
"Please, you are blocking the fire," is carefully posed, one hand hovering over the page as he looks up. This man, with his cane, who Caleb has seen in passing but said little to before now. What he is capable of is a mystery, one Caleb is not sure he needs answered. Eventually he will need help, yes, but he hardly knows what he needs yet.
And so: he is polite, quiet, easy to ignore. That has served him well so far in his life.