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2023-12-08
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a conversation on conthsen afternoon, zadash

Summary:

With their spouses off in Marquet, Essek and Yasha share an afternoon of quiet tomfoolery.

Notes:

inspired by real events. sort of.

(See the end of the work for more notes and other works inspired by this one.)

Work Text:

“Essek. Hello, hello. I have… done something. That is not very clear, is it. Hm. Would you like to come over for—tea?”

The Sending Stone hums from his inner pocket, close to his ribs, and Essek pauses the rapid movement of his pen. He is familiar with emergency tea sessions by now—he has been friends with Caduceus for years, after all. With Beauregard and Caleb off in Marquet, having the Stone as a direct line of communication between Rexxentrum and Zadash has been a support on stressful weeks where less than a handful Sendings reach him. Yasha’s quiet worry matches stride with his own, and they can exchange reassurances and bread recipes and worst case scenarios with equal ease. 

“Tea sounds lovely,” Essek replies into the Stone, already spelling the ink on his notebook dry. A happy hum in response informs him this is not an emergency of the life-threatening kind. Still, it had been a call for aid, and so he is quick to tidy his desk.

He dresses in his light summer cloak and dons his disguise with a twist of his ring—a gift from Caleb, all braided gold. They had spent an entire afternoon with the enchanter, allowing Essek to describe in great detail his five best-loved disguises. He chooses a Yasha favorite today, a spindly teenaged firbolg with chestnut-colored fur. 

His Teleport takes him directly outside the brick house that Yasha shares with Beauregard in the somewhat quieter area of Zadash. They have been discussing the possibility of installing a permanent teleportation circle inside, like the one kept in Caleb and Essek’s basement, but it still feels a little delicate, this network of homes and visitations they have woven across the continent. There is also the very real practical concern of having to teleport into the Lionett-Nydoorin abode daily for a year. Essek had attempted a reassurance, informing Beauregard his daily presence would be imperceivable and temporary, but she had feigned the chills and said, So I won’t ever know if there’s a wizard in my basement or not? Gods, that’s just creepy.  

Plans for a circle postponed until further discussion could be held, Essek suffers the shock of stifled heat upon materializing outside the warded door. His lightly furred face protects him from nothing but the gazes of strangers. He knocks, and the door swings open a crack, revealing the face of his Xhorhasian best friend. And—ah. That is different. Her hair is a shock of bright blue against the bleakness of the overcast afternoon. 

“Oh dear.” Essek takes half a step back, while simultaneously leaning forward in interest. “Is this related to wild magic?”

“Oh, no,” Yasha says quietly, opening the door further as she fingers a strand of hair. It looks damp, now that he looks closer, hanging in heavy strands past her chin. “You look so cute like that. Do you want to come in?”

Nodding, Essek enters, carefully hanging his coat on the nearby hanger, twisting his ring again and leaving his boots by the door. He follows Yasha silently into the kitchen, and they begin the process of brewing tea without further discussion required. The presence of Caduceus lingers in the familiar acts, the remembered instructions and the gifted herbs, and Essek dulls his instincts to fill the quiet with all his questions. Instead, he locates the honey jar, and observes the room.

There are loose bundles of flowers tied with string on the kitchen table, their petals numerous and folded like a thousand tiny bells. Small leaves and stripped stalks clutter the table surface. On the oven sits a pot filled with a soup-like substance, petals swirling on top of a cobalt colored liquid. A wood-framed mirror rests on the countertop, its handle stained with blue fingerprints. 

Admitting defeat, Essek shakes out his wrist and reaches the sticky-sealed honey jar to Yasha, who clears her throat as their eyes meet.

“I was making dye from some of my flowers,” she explains, twisting the lid open with an easy pop. “I was going to make something for Beau. Because, you know. Blue is her color.”

“It certainly is.” Essek pauses, observing the way the hue catches the cold light from the windows. It is a beautiful color, though it stains her hairline in fingerprint-splotches, stark against her pale face. “Was this—ah, an accident, then?”

Yasha gives the question serious thought, her gray, bushy brows furrowing. As always, she seeks honesty in herself with the utmost somberness. Essek waits in silence, knowing she will continue once she has tracked the path of her thoughts back to their vulnerable burrow. 

“The first strand, maybe. And then I did another one, and it was maybe not so much an accident. I thought it was nice.” She purses her lips. “And now I don’t know anymore. I have blue hair , Essek.”

“Blue hair is perfectly natural,” he argues, hovering on tip-toes for a moment to reach his favorite cup in the back of the cupboard.

“For tieflings, or elves. I look—“

“You look perfectly wonderful.”

“It’s very bright.”

“Hm. It’s the white base, I think. It amplifies the intensity quite a bit.”

“But do you like it?”

“Well,” Essek hesitates, doing a slow walk around her as she digs the spoon into the firm honey. He thinks distantly of the way Jester might phrase herself when giving an honest but gentle review of a new garment. 

“It is new. A breath of something fresh. A statement, amongst those who know you, at least. But it does not necessarily need to be. It could be simply hair. More importantly, though, how do you feel about it?”

The honey is too thick; it refuses to leave the spoon when she shakes it sharply. 

“Oh, I don’t know.”

Quiet, again, for a while. 

“When I saw the streak of blue, I started thinking about how my hair has been changing all my life. But those changes were always just happening to me. I wanted it to not just be bad or a sign of healing. I was thinking, for once I wanted it to be—fun.”

A touch of something sweet reaches the corners of her mouth, curling the lip in fond memory. 

“I used to paint my face like this, or weave dyed ribbons into my hair. And we’ve had these beautiful flowers grow in the southwestern corner, so so many of them.” 

The brick house had come with a large and unruly backyard, inherited from the elderly couple who had lived here last, being unable to tend to their much-loved garden in their later years. When Yasha and Beauregard had moved in, blackberries, red currant, roses and old apple trees had all curled stubbornly against the drought, tangled by brambles and runaway mint. Yasha had spoken of it with what, for her, counted as very bright enthusiasm. 

“That’s lovely,” Essek smiles back, and means it. “You do look lovely, Yasha.”

“It’s a little silly.”

“Perhaps,” he muses, “perhaps not. Is it so bad, if it is?”

“Hm,” Yasha hums, eating the stubborn honey off the spoon. “I guess not. I have been in a mood for fun, lately. Being with Beau—“

“I am sure you two have a lot of fun,” he says mildly.

“Yes,” Yasha smiles, and it’s so utterly fond that Essek almost feels bad for teasing. Still, he knows far better than to take the aasimar’s sweetness for innocence. “I guess it fits the trend, then. A new color whenever something changes inside of me.”

“Ah, indeed, like a…” Essek attempts to recall a term Veth had once used, his fingers waving nonsensical patterns in the air. “Like a mood ring.”

Yasha nods slowly.

“That makes sense. I think. Did you want honey?”

“Ah, I am alright.” Essek pours the water, allowing it to slightly cool in the cups. He chooses one of the teas that are less bitter, for both of their sakes. “If it is any reassurance, I do not expect this sort of dye to hold up for very long—it is purely ground and boiled floral pigment, correct? No chemical additions?”

“Just flowers.”

“It will be a fine experiment, then. To ascertain your feelings. Afterwards, you can always readjust.”

“That’s true.”

“May I share a relevant tale of my own?” 

She nods, sitting down opposite him. Her hair is beginning to dry, the color paling slightly on the silver locks. It emphasizes the marbled blueness of her veins beautifully.

“Well, when I was a youth, I wore my hair long and braided in my Den’s elaborate fashions. At a certain age, I came into conflict with several of the doctrines and expectations that were put upon me due to my heritage, and the skills I possessed. It felt foolish at the time when I cut my hair, like a child’s tantrum, but… I grew into it quickly. It felt distinct. It was too short to be braided.

“I did not want to be claimed by anyone, defined by anyone else’s relation to me. I refused to believe my freedom and sense of identity were in opposition, like my Den wanted me to think. I desired a way to prove to myself I was in control—of little else, perhaps, but at least of the way I present myself.”

He huffs a small laugh, thumbing at the ring on his hand. 

“To be frank, I seek that, still.”

It is a strange thing, to wear other people's faces so often they begin to feel like garments to don. At least he has always been fond of fashion.

Yasha hums in understanding, leaning forward over the table. 

“So, you want blue hair too? I think there is enough. Yours is shorter.”

“Ah. That…” He falters in the face of her genuine curiosity. Her mismatched eyes gleam with the excitement of shared tomfoolery. Essek can’t help himself. He is a known heretic; he will not fear the questioning glances of friends. Especially not when the two of them are in this together. “Why ever not?”

 

He crouches over a big copper bowl while Yasha works gentle fingers through his curls. It is a messy process, but cleaned up easily enough with a few spells, which also serve to dry up the dripping mess that is the blue mop on top of his head. 

It’s not quite as shocking on him as on Yasha. It softens him, a little, darkening his hair to a shade somewhat closer to his skin. The blend of colors against his black wrap shirt reminds him of the Nein’s sailor friend, Kingsley—he no longer thinks Lucien first; only second—and he can’t help but think that they’d approve. Perhaps Essek could even be convinced to go bare-faced and undisguised, next time he joins them out on the sea. 

Yasha peeks at his reflection in the handheld mirror, creeping closer when she notices him noticing her. Her hands touch his shoulders, gently. 

“We look cute.”

“Indeed, we do,” Essek smirks, leaning into her touch. “People will take us for siblings, now.”

“That was a joke,” Yasha guesses, amused when he bows his head in agreement. “Hm. Do you think it will fade before Beau comes back?” 

“It…may.” The air holds the weight of their shared question. It has been close to three months, now. “Do you want to show her?”

“Oh, yes, please.”

Putting aside the mirror, feeling adventurous and full of easy yearning, he busies his hands in familiar motions. 

“Caleb, dear. Hope you are safe. Keep us updated. If you have the energy, Scry on me, yes? Nothing like that. You may notify Beauregard.”

“Oh—!” comes the answer, slightly winded, crackling through the vibrant string of arcana. “Ja, I can do that. Give me twenty minutes? Ah, I miss you. Ow—We miss you both. No need to be rude, Beauregard—“

Essek laughs, and Yasha squeezes her arms tightly around him, made happy from Essek’s obvious glee at the response. 

“He’ll peek in soon. Beau was there. I’m sure he can share a vivid illusion of what he observes with her.”

“Yesss,” Yasha says, and he coughs and pats her arm until her grip softens. “Well, we need to sit down and look cute. More tea?”

Their cups have grown over-brewed and cool on the table, forgotten in their enthusiasm to be impulsive in a way that does not interact with the greater threats of the continent whatsoever. It is nice to share this kind of respite, just for the evening. It will be nice, too, hearing Caleb’s laughter again. He can imagine the texture of his pleased voice in his mind already, all, ahh, my dearest Essek, I need to hear every detail of how this came to be. 

“A brilliant suggestion,” Essek nods, and once more, they begin their process of preparations around the kitchen, this time with an added conspiratory quality to their movements. “You do have the best ideas, Yasha.”

“I do,” she agrees, sneaking another spoonful of honey.

Notes:

thanks for reading! <: