Chapter Text
Part 1 — Autumn, 835 PD
Fessuran
“How much classroom experience does he have?”
Mikkel looked down at the stack of papers in front of him. “He has apparently lectured to undergraduates at the Marble Tomes Conservatory.”
Caleb waited. Mikkel sighed, looked up at him.
“All right, none. But—” he went on, just as Caleb opened his mouth, “One, you know better than I do what a shortage we are in. Two, he has a wildly impressive academic background—here, take a look at this CV. Three, that is why he is under your care, and I am certain you can make a decent teacher out of him.”
Caleb took the proffered CV, beautifully formatted—Mikkel had gone to the trouble of printing it out in full colour, and at the top, in dark purple, was typed Essek Thelyss, and below that, a single line in script Caleb recognised as Elven, but could not read. It took only a glance of the CV to ascertain a few things: one, this Essek Thelyss was incredibly qualified; two, Caleb would be out of his fucking depth talking to him, but maybe the keener of their students would benefit; and three, Dr Thelyss was probably ill-prepared for a school. Caleb ran a finger down the list of conferences, mostly locations in the Dynasty, with a few he recognised as institutions on the Coast. “What the hell is he doing here?” he wondered.
Mikkel’s tired smile was one Caleb had gotten to know well over the last couple years. “I have no clue. But it looks like it could be to our benefit.”
“I cannot train him, Beauregard.”
Beauregard barely looked up from her desk, where her keyboard competed for space with a teetering pile of textbooks and the latest of her cobalt-blue journals, open to a page of indecipherable scrawl. “Dude, if this is another one of your self-deprecating moments—”
“It is not, I am being practical.”
At this Beau did look up, and fixed him with her regular don’t-give-me-that-bullshit look. Fortunately, Caleb was well acquainted with the looks, which made them less effective on him than on thirteen year olds. “Yeah? And how are you being practical?”
He had a list. “I have never trained anyone before, ever. I started teaching practically yesterday. And as you know, I am barely functioning and holding it together most of the time, ja? If the goal is to give this Dr Thelyss someone with a similar background, I have been out of academia—” He faltered at that, and Beau’s glare softened for a moment. “Most of my… recent experience was just the training we did,” he said instead, “And I am sure there are better suited people who have a stronger academic background than me. And also,” he finished, “My timetable is full.”
Beauregard leaned back and crossed her arms. “Really? That all you got?” She raised one hand, and started counting off on her fingers. “Honestly, the fact that you’ve not trained anyone yet is sheer fucking luck, and you know they’re letting anyone and everyone do it these days, experience be damned. You’re doing a whole of a lot better than holding it together, and yes, I do know it, and even when you’re a bit fucked you’re good as hell at this, don’t make me give you more compliments. And if you want statistics, Caleb—” she raised the notebook and waved it threateningly in his direction, “—I will goddamn give you statistics, but really, you think we’re rolling in whatever-the-fuck, academics who ditched and decided to teach kids or whatever? Hell, you think we’re rolling in scientists at all? Also, I’ve seen the copies of the Cosmology Quarters or whatever in your pigeonhole, I know you’re reading them—”
“Cosmology Quarterly,” Caleb corrected, before he’d thought about it.
“Exactly, see, physics nerd shit. You know your stuff. If Thelyss can’t explain himself to you, he’s got no business being in a classroom. Oh and, finally—” She turned her hand and raised her middle finger, “Everyone’s timetable is full, dude, fuck off.”
Somewhere in Beau’s rant, Caleb thought he’d heard multiple compliments. In her own way. She was still glaring at him, but with that pinched expression at the edges of her mouth that meant she was concerned. “That was... thorough. Thank you. I think.”
The glare softened slightly. “I think you should do it. Besides, it’ll be good for you to have someone to nerd out with.”
“Ja, but I do have you for that,” Caleb said, mostly to see the scowl she directed at him.
“Someone nerdier,” she said, and before Caleb could argue, she snapped the notebook shut. “Right, you got another crisis you need me for? Cause I have a meeting at the Soul in—ah, fuck, ten minutes or something.”
“How are you getting to the Soul in ten minutes?” he asked, as Beau started grabbing notebooks and pens and sticky-notes, shoving them into her battered tote bag. It was probably closer to nine minutes, Caleb did not say, given that it was currently 4:21.
“Some of us are fast, dude. Unless you want to run there with me or something—“
“Absolutely not.”
“—Yeah, I didn’t think so. Think about it, though.” Beau stood up, paused, bag halfway to her shoulder. “I’m right.” There was something softer in her gaze as she looked up at him, and said, “I’ve been right about this kinda shit before, haven’t I? You know I have.”
“Ja, ja, sure.”
“Ohmigod, Cay-leb! He’s hot!”
Caleb shot a desperate look to the half-closed door of his classroom, and the corridor beyond, thankfully free of any students. “Jester, a little quieter, please.”
“He is, though!” She leaned closer, her nose nearly touching the screen of his PC, which currently showed a picture of Dr Essek Thelyss from the speakers page of a Coastal conference. In the picture, Caleb could see—well. Lavender skin, white hair shaved on the sides, an abundance of jewellery in the pointed ears, a black shirt with silver embroidery. Jester was right, unfortunately—he was hot. His expression was neutral, pleasant—Caleb felt like he was going to be politely insulted just looking at it.
Jester was still speaking, saying, “You know, I looked him up when you said? He’s apparently from like a, super-rich super-famous Dynasty family? Or, Den, I think they’re called?”
Ah. That checked out. Between the jewellery, the shirt, the expression—it made sense. What didn’t make sense was why he was here, why he’d applied for a job at the Apple Tree of all places.
“Caleb? He’s not too, like, pretty for you, is he? You’re not into more, oh, I dunno, rough and tumble types? Because it’s fine if you are, but I’m just saying—”
“Jester.” She stopped, and cocked her head at him. Any annoyance he could have felt evaporated at the sight of her, at her paint-stained dress and the way charms on her horns jingled as she turned her head (the closest one to him was a little paint palette, and Fjord had gotten it for her last year). “The issue is more that he is my trainee, ja? So my, ah, inclinations are not the most relevant here.”
Jester nodded, serious, and he had about ten seconds of reprieve before her face split in a grin, and she said, “So he is hot, right? Right?”
Caleb glanced back at the picture. “Just a little,” he relented, and immediately had to duck away as Jester honest-to-gods squealed.
It would be another week before he finally met the man himself.
Considering the… international aspect of it all, Caleb had been surprised when he’d received an email from Mikkel saying Essek would start the following week, but the only information offered was – in Mikkel’s words – it appears to be a hasty relocation, and, well, who was Caleb, of all people, to read too closely into that?
So at the start of the following week, he picked out his least-worn shirt, a blue one that Nott had gotten – bought or stolen, he wasn’t certain – for him, put on trousers that he had remembered to iron, and brushed his hair.
Nott watched from the nest of blankets at the end of the bed, clutching a mug of coffee. “You look good, Caleb,” she said, and Caleb glanced over to watch the familiar, toothy smile spread over her face. Like this – just awoken – was the most skin Caleb ever saw of Nott, her brown hands bare and her round cheeks uncovered.
“So do you,” he said, on impulse, and it was worth it to see the way her cheeks flushed, even as she scowled at him and hunched further into her blankets. “This is going to be fine, ja?”
“You’re gonna do great,” Nott said.
He didn’t quite believe her, but he met her eyes, attempted a smile, and nodded.
In person, Essek Thelyss looked even more put-together than he had in the picture—certainly too put-together for 7:43 in the morning. Caleb hovered at the doorway to the staff room for a minute, taking in the sight—Mikkel, whose wild hair and usual state of harried exhaustion seemed even more pronounced now, stood next to Dr. Thelyss, in an immaculate black shirt with silver buttons, an abundance of earrings that tinkled gently when he moved his head, and that same polite, neutral expression on his face. A sleek black bag was hanging from Dr. Thelyss’ right shoulder, and on his left side, just visible from Caleb’s vantage point, was an equally-sleek black crutch.
Mikkel was passing sheafs of documents over to Dr. Thelyss, saying, “Ah, and, copy of the staff code of conduct—please read that one, and of our equality to access policy—please do look over section 5 in particular, the school timetable, your own timetable—don’t worry, Caleb will ensure you have a staggered start, when he arrives he can go over—”
And that was probably enough staring, Caleb decided, and cleared his throat as he stepped into the staff room. “Hallo, Mikkel. Dr Thelyss, I presume?”
Before Caleb could even proffer his hand, Dr. Thelyss was turning to him, papers smoothly tucked under his arm, and stretched his right hand out. “Just Essek, please.”
He stressed the second syllable slightly, a gentle Es-sik. Caleb immediately tried to commit that intonation to memory. Just-Essek had a soft accent to his Common, a careful intonation. Caleb smiled and shook his hand. “Caleb Widogast, or just Caleb when there are no students here. I believe I am to be training you, ja?”