#that far back.. only to find out that ... the jailers master plan was... i dont know... nothing?

[wp100]

maybe there should be a term that's like a sister term to 'plot armour', called 'plot power'

because how the hell did sylvanas even have the power to take the helm of domination off of bolvars head. 'plot power'. She can't die, and she has to be more powerful than the goddamned Lich King. So she took his helmet and disenchanted it right in front of him. IN FRONT OF US

[analisegrey]

Februwhump Prompt:

“Who would the whumpee take a beating for?” (Read on AO3)

Caleb’s always been goal-oriented.

He likes having something to strive for, a box he can mark off when he’s accomplished something; that inclination is honed when he gets to Soltryce- each new spell he learns, every milestone of knowledge, he goes after with fevered abandon. His time in the country with Master Ikithon doesn’t exactly dampen the tendency. The desire to please combined with the need to hit the next goal, do the next thing, pressing ever forward- it’s a terrible and heady combination that Trent utilizes ruthlessly.

And still, after all that, after breaking and reforming, after traveling alone, after finally finding new companions, he’s still goal-oriented. He has one large, overwhelming goal, and it’s always in the back of his mind, waiting, but sometimes it gets overshadowed, pushed temporarily to the side by immediate need.

For instance-

The cell they’re in is cool and damp, moisture dripping down the walls in shining rivulets. Jester’s out cold when they’re dragged in, but Caleb’s awake, if only barely, and so catches pieces of conversation, taunts and threats. He’s known jailers like this before, had suffered extensively under them in the jail where he met Nott. He knows the type- overconfident, cruel, inclined to go after the weakest, softest target, because they don’t want a challenge so much as a reaction.

Caleb weighs his options as he waits for Jester to wake up. They’re both spent from the fight before they were captured, and he knows that especially without his components, they’re on their own until help arrives. He’s moved her so her head is pillowed on his lap, and he absently cards his fingers through her hair as he thinks. He knows this type of people, knows what they’re capable of, how they react, who they’ll likely go for once they’re ready to start. He knows, and he refuses to let that happen.

There’s a rustle of fabric and a shift of movement as Jester starts to wake up, groaning as her eyes slit open.

“What- what happened, where-”

Caleb gently squeezes her shoulder. “I am afraid things went rather poorly, Jester. We are in a cell.”

Her brow crinkles in confusion before her eyes go wide and she jolts up to sitting, Caleb barely leaning back in time to avoid getting knocked in the chin. She’s scrambling to her feet and heading for the door before Caleb can stop her, her fingers digging into the edges where the frame and the door meet, looking for purchase, for a catch, anything, as her tail lashes behind her.

“We need to get out, we need to get the door open, we have to leave- ”

Caleb gets up and moves to her side, catching carefully at her wrists and tugging. He knows he has no hope of moving her if she doesn’t want to allow it, and is relieved when she lets him.

“Jester, you must be calm.”

She turns to him wild-eyed and pale, her skin washed out to a sickly light blue. “Caleb-” Her voice wavers with panic, and his resolve only strengthens as he gets a more secure grip on her and pulls. She goes with him as he leads her back to the far wall and sits, bringing her with him; her skirts pool around her, and he puts an arm around her after only a moment’s hesitation. She’s shaking, her breathes quick and hitching, and he’s familiar enough with the sounds of panic and terror to recognize it. He gives her a squeeze.

“Jester, I know this is frightening. It’s not a great situation, but we must believe the others will come and get us out. We have done it before, and they will do it again.”

“I know, I know , it’s just, what will happen in the meantime? I can’t- I can’t do that again, Caleb, I can’t- ”

If his plan’s going to work, he needs her calm, needs her strong. He feels for her, he does, but he needs her to get herself under control.

“Jester.” He keeps his voice soft, calm, soothing, and takes her by the shoulders, turning her to face him. “I know this is a terrible situation, and while neither of us wants to be here, this is especially hard for you after everything you have been through. I can’t guarantee everything will be okay right now, but I believe- I have to believe- that the others are coming, and we just need to be strong until then.”

She sniffles, eyes red-tinged and wet as she looks up at him. He knows how strong she is, physically and emotionally, but right now she looks small, frightened, and he’s reminded how young and sheltered she is, and he feels the protective urge he normally feels for her surge. He will not let them hurt her, not if he has anything to say about it.

“I need you to listen to me, Jester, you can do that, ja ?”

She nods, though she doesn’t look very sure, and he smiles.

“The men who brought us here are going to come back.” She freezes under his hands, her breath starting to pick up again, and he squeezes, trying to ground her. “They are going to come back, but I have a plan. I will not let them harm you; but you must work with me. I can only do so much, so you must be strong. I need you to look fearsome.”

Her brows furrow again in confusion as she looks him over, her tail moving agitatedly behind her. “But how will you do that? They took all your stuff, Caleb, your components, your coat, your books- how are we going to fight back?”

He shakes his head. “My plan is not to fight, not with magic or fists. I plan to fight with this,” he says as he taps his temple with a finger. “I do not need to be stronger or have my components in order to out-think them. I am going to play a part, and I need you to as well for it to work. It will be scary, but I know you can do it. You are a very good actress, ja? They will not know what hit them.”

Her eyes narrow momentarily, and he worries she’s figured him out, but then her face relaxes and she gives him a tremulous smile, which he mirrors back to her.

“Okay, I think I can do that, Caleb.”

“I know you can, blueberry.”

She smile brightens at the nickname, as he’d hoped it would. Now for the hard part.

“I need you to promise me something though, Jester. This is very important.”

“What?”

“When they come back, I want you to try to get in front of me. I am also going to be acting a part, and it may be difficult to watch, but I need you not to interfere otherwise. Whatever you see me do, whatever you hear me say, just know that I’m acting, and it will be alright. Can you do that?”

Her lips press together, pensive and pinched, the dark blue of her lips paling before she nods, her expression growing hard and resolute. “Okay okay okay, yes, I can do this. We will get through this, and the others will come, and everything will be okay.”

He smiles at her, and he hopes it doesn’t look as much like a grimace as it feels.

They pass the time chatting about nonsense and when they hear a door clang open nearby they both tense. In the last few seconds before the cell door opens, he turns and whispers, “Don’t forget- you are fierce, blueberry, and I am just acting.”

The door swings open and Jester plays her part perfectly, straightening up and snarling an oath in Infernal, coming to her feet in front of him as he slowly gets to his behind her, feigning weakness.

One of the few benefits of being a self-confessed coward, of being afraid nearly all the time, is that when it matters, when it’s actually helpful , it’s no hardship to play the weakling. He barely has to try for the fear he normally keeps bottled up show readily on his face, for the near-constant dread to become manifest. When their jailers enter the room, Caleb presses himself back against the wall, shuddering as the cold and damp seep in through the thin fabric of his shirt. He hunches inward, makes himself look small, an easy target, and bless the two buffoons holding them captive, they buy it.

“Grab him. Let’s make ‘im squeal.”

Caleb’s eyes go wide in only partially-feigned horror, and shakes his head, pressing back further, though there’s nowhere to go.

“Nein , no, please- ”

Jester tries to stay in front of him but fierce as she is, she’s easily thrown aside. Their captors may be immensely stupid and easily manipulated, but they’re strong, grabbing him with ease and carrying him toward the door. He plays it up, yelling and pleading in a way that normally would fill him with shame, but he’s fueled by his need to keep them focused on him and their attention away from Jester. He gets a last glimpse of her as they pull him through the door and she looks utterly stricken; he hopes she’ll forgive him eventually.

He’s taken down the hall to a room that's bare except for a wooden chair in the middle of it. They throw him onto it, and one of them hauls back and punches him in the jaw, snapping his head to the side and setting his ears ringing. By the time his head clears, his arms have been wrenched behind him and his wrists tightly bound and anchored to the chair. He struggles and they laugh, each grabbing an ankle even as he tries to kick at them; they tie those to the chair as well until soon he’s completely helpless. He tries not to panic, reminds himself he wanted this, that this was his preferred outcome, but it’s difficult to remember when one of the men is standing in front of him grinning and the other is behind him with a large meaty hand clamped on his shoulder. The hand on his shoulder slides to his throat, gripping and pulling his head up and back and for a split second he feels a flash of real fear, thinks he's miscalculated terribly, but then the other man slams his fist into Caleb's stomach, and the fear is replaced with a calmer resignation. His body tries to fold over, but the ropes at his wrists and the hand at his throat keep him from moving, so all he can do is choke on a cry and shake. They work him over with the ease of long practice, moving in tandem and causing pain with little break between. He's quickly breathless, screams caught in his throat as blows rain down faster than he can process. At one point a blow knocks him sideways and the whole chair tilts precariously before it tips, taking him with it. He feels it as his left arm snaps at the forearm when his whole weight, chair and all, land on it; he's screamed himself hoarse but still finds voice enough to cry out. The men just laugh and continue, and throughout the beating the thought Caleb keeps firmly situated in his mind is, ‘At least it’s not Jester.’

The men start to slow down, tired and covered in sweat, and Caleb would breathe a sigh of relief if he could; his ribs scream at him when he draws breath, his broken arm a throbbing misery at his side. He hurts everywhere, bursts of pain so prevalent it’s difficult to tell where one begins and another ends. They untie his legs, then his arms, and his vision goes dim and watery as they pick him up again, heedless of his broken arm, and drag him back through the door and down the hallway to the cell.

He desperately wants to pass out, to get away from the pain if only for a little while, but he can’t yet. There’s still one more part of this to do before he can allow himself the respite of unconsciousness.

They slam the door to the cell open and toss him through it. He's unable to catch himself and lands awkwardly on his front, his broken arm hitting the ground with enough force that he thinks he does pass out, if only for a few seconds. The next moment he’s aware it’s to find gentle hands on his face, warm and careful as they feel around his cheeks and jaw.

“Oh, Caleb- ” That’s Jester, and she sounds anguished. He forces his eyes open to look up at her and she’s blurry, but he thinks that’s mostly do to his eyes being partially swollen shut than anything else. She looks like she’s been crying, her face crumpled in distress, and he reaches for one of her hands with his good one.

“Jester, it’s okay.” It’s hard to speak, his voice barely there, his throat burning with the effort.

Her face twists, grief and anger warring with each other for dominance in her expression. “Caleb, it is not okay.” Her hands flex minutely on his face and he winces at the pressure on the bruising he can feel painting his skin. “Do you even know what you look like? Look what they’ve done to you, Caleb, your arm, and your face, and, and-” She looks perilously close to tears, and while it guts him to see it, he holds tight to the fact that it’s him here on the floor beat to shit, and not her, that it’s him with the broken arm and ribs, not her. He remembers- because he always remembers, doesn’t he?- what she looked like when they found her and Fjord and Yasha at the Sour Nest. Dirty, bruised, tear-streaked and devastated, and there’s not a lot he’s proud of in his life, but this is one thing he can hold onto. He kept this from happening to her, from happening to her again. She may have experienced this kind of cruelty, but he’s had practice, and if there’s any benefit to the things that have happened in his life, it’s that it’s prepared him for this, has put him in a position to be able to spare Jester.

He manages to pull a smile out for her, squeezes one of her wrists in a shaking hand before letting his arm fall back to his side.

“It’s alright, Jester. It is- it’s better this way. You are stronger anyway, ja? If we need to fight to get out, it’s better that you be strong and healthy.” He’s trying to focus, to stay awake to keep her company, but it’s so hard. His words are slurring, and it’s probably not a great idea to fall asleep, but he doesn’t think he’s going to have a choice in a moment. “You were wonderful, blueberry. Du warst perfekt.”

His eyes slide closed, and he passes out to the feel of Jester’s hands warm on his face.