Forsaken by Shadows 22: Rest

To Susanna, the very first person to make me feel welcomed in Instagram’s writing community. Be sure to check out her debut novel, Caytee, a modern retelling of Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey. Every page has me cracking up.

Previously, on Forsaken by Shadows, from Mazira’s point of view.

We said we surrendered, and as it turns out, it was easier said than done. The cleric comes forward, speaking quickly and offering healing. Even Rismyn is nervous, I can tell by the way he moves to protect me. Always protecting me, though I don’t deserve his care.

But Rismyn is the one needing cared for. His strength is spent and it’s a wonder he hasn’t collapsed again. He’s unable to answer the cleric’s questions about his health, so I speak up instead, trying to explain what happened and how it is my fault.

But the cleric, Solaurin, won’t hear of it. He catches my eye, and though I know I am supposed to look away, for it is forbidden to look at a drow, I am captivated by his words. He tells me I’m not at fault, that I’ve never been at fault for the evil that happens in my life, and that I am safe.

The words unravel me, and I look away, afraid of the emotion surging in my soul. But just when I think I can finally hide, Rismyn makes a startling request. He tells the cleric he wants the cut on his face to scar, that he doesn’t want it magically healed. He won’t tell us why. Solaurin shrugs it off and promises to ‘see what he can do,’ and then the most alarming thing happens.

He begins to sing.

Since I have come to the Underdark, I have only ever heard another person sing in my dreams, save for Rismyn’s one attempt. He sings a lovely song, in a language that I don’t know, but it sounds ancient and beautiful. And as I look on in awe, I can literally see the wounds mending on Rismyn’s body before my very eyes. He goes from the brink of death to as sturdy as ever in the matter of two measures.

Rismyn is flabbergasted when it is over, and tries to tell me the healing didn’t hurt at all. But before this strange and terrifying magic can touch me, we are bid to journey.

And journey we do. We walk on, and on, and on. We walk so long my feet begin to drag, and I fear I will fall asleep where I stand. We encounter Darkmantles, but Beltel deals with them before we even know the threat is there.

And then we finally reach the end of the walking, in a cavern where a boat is moored to a column. And there we’re greeted by a tiefling woman and another drow, who looks remarkably like Beltel, even though Beltel is standing right there next to us.

And though we board the vessel and I am told to rest, I cannot. For while we might be on our way to somewhere safe, I knowheis still out there. Watching us. Stalking us. It’s only a matter of time until we’re caught.

~7. Rest~

“It’s not really sailing,” Beltel said, as he and Rismyn worked together to hoist the anchor. “She’s a sorcerer–y’know, one of those weird folks born with the Weave in their blood. Anyway, she uses magic to get us upriver, and then we just sort of drift on the currents to get back home. Costs us a fortune but, meh. It beats walking all the way.” 

“Right,” Rismyn said, because he didn’t know what else to say. He had thought the cleric had been chatty. Once the boat’s captain–who was apparently called Styx–had assigned him to assist Beltel in the ‘sailing chores,’ the scout had yet to let a silent moment pass. It was no wonder he had broken orders back in the tunnels. He probably couldn’t stand to be quiet for so long. 

“But she used to run a big ship on the ocean, before joining up with our, uh, organization.” He cast Rismyn a sideways glance as the lengths of chain coiled at their feet, before moving on. “So she always says we’re ‘sailing.’ Or at least, that’s her story. Personally, I think she was born down here like the rest of us–ow!” 

A glowing hand appeared behind the warrior, flicking the tip of his ear. The demon-woman strolled by without so much as a glance their way, but the smirk on her lips gave her deed away. 

Beltel rubbed his ear and grumbled, before returning to the task at hand with a rueful grin. “I s’pose I deserved that,” he said, good-naturedly, his eyes trailing after the woman. “Ah well. Hard to stay mad at such a fine–ow!” 

The spectral hand appeared again, and with its strike, Beltel’s eyes returned to more proper levels. He didn’t seem any less amused, however. 

Rismyn tried not to gawk too much. He had never met anyone like Beltel, and had no idea how he should react to this boisterous anomaly of a drow. Fortunately, it didn’t seem like Beltel cared whether he reacted at all.

He was rambling again, but Rismyn was only half listening. He glanced back to where Mazira sat on a bench on the other side of the deck. She hadn’t been given work to do, but was instead bid to sit and rest, for which Rimsyn was relieved. The female warrior, Lina, crouched near her, and Rismyn was certain she was posted as some sort of guard. Despite her glazed expression and the way she fidgeted with that stone in her hand.

There was something off about that one. Rismyn had suspected it before, but the more he watched her, the more certain he became. She didn’t carry herself with the same poise and air of disdain Rismyn was used to. Her hair was lank and dull, her features somehow less exquisite than the females he’d been surrounded by all his life.

And she took orders, rather than give them. It was all so strange, and Rismyn burned to know more about these elves who had come to his rescue.

“Here we go,” Beltel said, drawing Rismyn’s full attention back as the massive hunk of metal crested the waves. 

The boat jolted, caught up in the current. Rismyn almost lost balance as the weight of the anchor doubled in his grasp. He managed to catch himself just in time to keep from taking a second dive into the river.

For once, Beltel was actually silent as they focused their effort on heaving the anchor the rest of the way upwards. At last, with a grunt, they lifted it over the wall and dropped it on the deck. 

“There,” the scout said proudly, drying his hands on his armor. “Not bad, for an elflet.” 

Rismyn frowned as he brushed his hair back and caught his breath. It was hard to believe that just a few hours ago, he’d been on the brink of death. Well, maybe not death, but he was certainly in a bad place. It felt good to be working with his hands, and though he’d never hoisted an anchor before he thought they made quick work of it. 

“What does that mean?” he dared to ask, as they rested a moment against the wall. 

“What, not bad?” The other warrior grinned. “That’s called a compliment. You’ll get used to them. Probably.” 

“No, not that,” Rismyn said, trying not to sound weary. “The other word. Elflet. You keep calling me that.” 

“Ohhh,” Beltel laughed. “Elflet! Y’know, baby elf. Like, eaglet or owlet.” 

Rismyn only stared at him blankly, trying to decide if he was supposed to be insulted. “What’s an eaglet?”

Beltel blinked. “Uh, it’s a baby Eag? You know what, not important.” He waved his hands as if to wave the question away, and Rismyn wondered if he actually knew the answer. “Point is, you’re a baby elf, so that’s called an elflet.” 

Rismyn was skeptical at best and leaning towards being offended. “I’m not an infant,” he began. 

“I didn’t say you were,” Beltel corrected. He then straightened and pointed a finger towards the rock ceiling, and Rismyn thought he might be attempting an impression of Solaurin. “An infant is different from a baby. We dark elves live for centuries, and by my estimation, you’re just a quarter of one century old. Ergo, a baby.” 

Rismyn raised his brows, honestly unsure of how seriously he ought to be taking this elf. “And how old are you, then?” 

“Ah, I am wise beyond my years,” Beltel began sagely, “Centuries worth of knowledge–”

“Ninety-three,” said another voice. Rismyn looked up to see the mysterious second Beltel moving towards them, wearing a frown that was almost the mirror opposite of Beltel’s grin. “And we are also called elflets, by Styx. Don’t worry, she’s the only one, and she means it endearingly. My brother is just overly excited to not be the youngest aboard anymore. I’m Belnir,” he added, extending an arm in a friendly greeting. “As you’ve probably guessed by now, I have the misfortune of being Beltel’s twin.” 

“Misfortune!” Beltel cried, springing up and draping an arm around his brother’s shoulder before Rismyn could accept the hand. “You make it sound so terrible. Don’t listen to him, elflet, he’s just jealous because–” 

“Don’t say it,” Belnir groaned, putting his palm to his forehead.

“–I’m significantly more handsome than he is, despite us sharing a womb and a day of birth.”

Rismyn blinked, staring back and forth between them. As far as he could tell, they were completely identical. Was it...was it supposed to be a joke? Or was there some noticeable detail he was missing? 

“You’re not funny,” Belnir grumbled. “That’s never been funny.” 

“I’m also the only one in my entire family who inherited a sense of humor,” Beltel said. “Perhaps in the entire drow heritage, actually.” 

Despite himself, Rismyn was starting to be amused. He made a snap decision and extended his hand to Belnir. “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said, formally. “I believe I am in your debt–both of your debts–for the role you played in saving us.” 

The twins exchanged surprised glances, then Belnir grasped Rismyn’s wrist. “We all volunteered for this. But it’s Solaurin you should thank. He’s the one who had the vision and insisted a patrol be dispatched to look for you. None of us would be here if not for him.” 

“True,” Beltel agreed. “You’re a lucky one. We don’t normally run these kinds of rescue ops. Then again, your story is pretty famous back where we come from. I think everyone wanted a happy ending.” 

Rismyn was taken aback. Their story was famous? He figured the gossip would be all over Menzoberranzan, but where else? Where would his story be both famous and wished to end well? He was just about to ask when a sudden, sharp whistle caught all their attention. 

“Circle up,” Torafein called. 

It was the same whistle, the same rough command that he had used to summon the students at Melee-Magthere. Rismyn reacted without thinking, taking a few steps to follow the twins before he realized that he might not actually be welcomed in this circle. He wasn’t actually a part of this patrol. He was the mark. 

He hesitated, his eyes drifting questioningly to the commander. He didn’t know his place, and that was more unsettling than the deck rocking beneath his feet. His uncertainty didn’t last long, however. As soon as Torafein met his eyes, he jerked his head back, indicating that Rismyn was indeed supposed to report as called. 

Rismyn moved quickly to catch up with Beltel and Belnir, not wanting to arrive even a second late. To his surprise, the circle gathered around Mazira, so that she would be included in it as well. Rismyn moved to stand just behind her, close enough that hopefully no one would notice the hand he rested on her shoulder. 

Torafein gave them each an appraising look as they gathered, then said, “Excellent work, everyone.”

The praise sent Rismyn reeling. It had been nearly impossible to get the masters to praise any of the students, unless they set one student above the others to cause strife on purpose. It was all he could do to keep his shock off his face, as everyone else nodded as if this was their due.

“This mission has gone far better than we could have hoped,” Torafein continued. “But we’re not home yet. Stay vigilant.” 

A murmur of assent rippled through the gathered crew.

“Before we go to our places, let’s have formal introductions.” The commander’s gaze caught Rismyn’s. He glanced down at Mazira briefly, but her eyes weren’t leaving her lap. “You’ve met our cleric, Solaurin Zovarr, and the Do’ar brothers, Beltel and Belnir. Don’t bother trying to tell them apart, only Lina can do that, until Beltel opens his mouth.”

“Hey–” Beltel started. His brother elbowed him in the side and he fell silent.

Torafein didn’t bother to spare them another glance. Instead, he said, “You should know, Lina doesn’t speak, and she doesn’t sign. Don’t treat her unkindly for it. We’ve all been through something traumatic here, and it marks us each differently.” 

There was a stern warning in Torafein’s voice, and Rismyn’s curiosity burned brighter. He could still see the female warrior out of the corner of his eyes, and though she stood in the circle her gaze was just as distant and unfocused. He suspected there was more than just silence plaguing her. “I understand,” he said. 

Torafein studied him grimly for a moment longer before he nodded. “Good,” he said, and then his expression softened. “Now, then–” 

“Hey, don’t forget me,” the demon-woman interrupted. 

Torafein looked to her, but before he could speak, Beltel interjected. 

“A flower like you could never be forgotten,” he said, giving her a silly grin. 

“Oh, don’t you start.” She rolled her eyes, but a small smile told Rismyn she enjoyed his attention. “I’m Styx,” she said, not waiting to be introduced. “And this is my river-ship, so while we are on this deck you answer to me.” 

“That’s not entirely true–” Solaurin began, but Torafein raised a hand and the circle fell silent. 

“We’re not done with introductions,” the master said, regaining control of the conversation. It was remarkable how calm he remained. So much of his mannerisms were the same as Rismyn remembered, but these sorts of outbursts had not been tolerated at the Academy. Yet there was never any swift and painful retribution. All Torafein said was, “We still need to hear from our guests. What name do you wish to declare?” 

Rismyn blinked as all eyes fell on him. “Me?” he asked. “But you all know my name.” 

“We know the name you were given at birth,” Solaurin corrected. “But it is not uncommon for those that set out to begin a new life to take a new name, as well.” 

Rismyn stared at them, slightly uncomfortable with all the attention. He had never once considered not being Rismyn Tear. He supposed it made sense, just like cutting his hair and pleading to keep the scar on his face had made sense. But what would he be called? He wracked his mind for anything that might be suitable and came up empty. 

With no brilliant strokes of inspiration, Rismyn merely shrugged. “I’m still Rismyn Tear. I don’t have any other name to declare.” 

Torafein nodded, and Rismyn wanted to believe he saw approval in his eyes. “And you, miss? What may we call you?” 

The muscles of Mazira’s shoulder tensed under his hand. “I–,” she began, and there was no mistaking the wavering in her voice. She shook her head and then murmured, “Whatever you wish to call me, I will answer to.”

The words splintered Rismyn’s heart. How could she still say such things? She had just withstood a confrontation with her old tormentor, defiantly declaring her true name before him. She’d born it with pride and blazed as brightly as the name itself meant. Yet here, now, before these strangers who had been alarmingly kind and welcoming, she withered back into her old shell. 

He didn’t understand it. What had changed? What made her retreat like this? Rismyn considered answering for her, but a glance at Torafein made him change his mind. There was something in his stony expression that told Rismyn now was not his moment to intervene. 

“We only wish to call you what you prefer to be called,” the commander said. “This, like many other moments in your future, is a choice you are free to decide.” 

Mazira’s hands clutched at the fabric of her adamantine leggings. Her body was as stiff beneath his fingers as the cavern stone, but after a long moment, she raised her eyes and looked directly at Torafein. “My name is Mazira. Mazira Zylvaris.” 

The tension that was building inside Rismyn snapped, and with if came a flood of relief. She had said exactly what he hoped she would say. It was the name he had wanted her to be proud of, to use again freely as she was free. He squeezed her shoulder in what he hoped was comfort and approval. 

But the only response to this momentous occasion from his former teacher was a nod. “Then we are all well met,” he said, and then moved right along. “Belnir, Styx, were there any problems while the field team was away?” 

“All quiet in the cavern,” Belnir said, and Styx bobbed her head in agreement. 

“Good. Aside from some darkmantles, the tunnels were quiet, as well. No sign of pursuit.” 

Rismyn wasn’t the only one who looked relieved at that. It was as if they all released a collective breath, and that made him pause. What were they all afraid was pursuing them? Was it just monsters of the Dark? Or had they all heard rumors of his brother and his reputation?

“So,” Torafein concluded, a firm note of resolution in his voice, “we are clear to go home. Now then, you all know your jobs, so go do them.” 

And with that, they were dismissed. Everyone moved at once to various parts of the boat. All except Rismyn, who didn’t have any idea what his “job” was. He frowned, moving forward to catch up with Torafein to ask, when Styx stepped in his path. 

“Miss Mazira looks exhausted,” she said, cheerfully. “Why don’t you take her into the cabin and let her rest in my room. In fact, maybe stay with her, so she feels better.” 

Rismyn hesitated, glancing beyond the small horned lady to the back of his commander. It sounded all well and good, but he couldn’t shake the feeling they were being put out of the way. Something inside of him rebelled against the idea–he wanted to prove his worth. But rather than argue, he sighed, glancing back down at her. “Thank you,” he said, turning to Mazira and offering her a hand. 

Mazira took it and rose gracefully, and though Rismyn had only intended to help her up, he found himself unwilling to let her go. So they walked together with Styx to cabin.

“The linens are all fresh and there’s food and drink in the cabinets,” Styx was saying. “Please feel free to help yourself to anything you desire. I’m not just captain of this ship, I’m in charge of hospitality.” She grinned and winked, bowing them into the room.

“Thank you,” Rismyn said again, and while his stomach growled in excitement at the prospect of food his heart wasn’t in it. It wasn’t right for him to rest and eat while there was work to do. 

The demon-woman followed them in, and as soon as the door shut behind her, a soft, white light suffused the air around them, bathing them in the colors of the natural spectrum. Rismyn flinched and jerked his grip from Mazira’s, covering his eyes with the back of his hand as his vision adjusted.

“Oh, sorry, hope you don’t mind,” Styx chirped.

“It’s fine,” Rismyn lied, blinking his eyes open, relieved to find the light wasn’t as bright as he initially thought. But when he looked to Styx, he started, because her skin was red. Almost as red as his eyes. In contrast, her hair was golden yellow, as were her eyes, which were one solid shade. If she wasn’t a demon, she was certainly something strange. 

“Doesn’t matter how long I’ve lived in these caves,” Stxy was saying, oblivious to his concern. “I still can’t get used to living in utter darkness like you elves. Don’t worry, there’s not a single crack or seam for the light to escape through, so we’re safe.” 

The room was small, and as Styx said, completely devoid of any hint of an outside. There were no windows save for one shuttered that looked out on the deck, nor were there any other doors. It was furnished as a bedroom on one side, complete with a four-poster bed draped with gaudy velvet coverlets and a carved wooden wardrobe. On the other side were the cabinets she referenced and a table with four chairs and a bench. There was a crystal bowl of exotic fruit on the table that Rismyn had only ever tasted on high unholy days, and the sight of it made his mouth start to water. 

Styx noticed where his attention had fallen and she smiled. “Help yourself. They don’t taste quite the same, since I grow them with magic, but I bet it beats the moss you’ve been foraging.” 

“Thank you,” Rismyn said for the third time, and this time there was more enthusiasm. He couldn’t believe the generosity of these people. He also didn’t want to second guess it, even though prudence suggested that it could be a trap. At this point, he was hungry enough and desperate enough to be lured into the belly of a dragon. 

“My goodness you’re polite,” Styx exclaimed, shaking her head in wonder. “It usually takes a few months for the newbies to learn their manners. Not their fault, they mean well, just have to unlearn a lot of habits.” 

Her words reminded Rismyn of the questions he had yet to have answered. “What does that mean? Where is it we’re going?” He thought he could guess, but he was afraid to admit it and be wrong. 

The woman gave him a knowing smile and shook her head. “You’ll have to ask the commander. He’s the one who decides what gets shared when. I’m just the ferrywoman.” 

“I thought you said we all answered to you on this boat.” 

The woman looked taken aback, and Rismyn realized too late that he might have said something wrong. But then she laughed and put a hand to her hip. “Polite and sharp. I’ll remember that. Here.” She picked up one of the red glossy fruits and tossed it at him. “And another for the lady. I’ve got other hungry mouths to feed, but please, rest. There’s still a ways to go yet, but it's all sailing from here.” 

Rismyn handed both fruits to Mazira and quickly moved around the table to follow Styx as she went to one of her cabinets. “Wait–do you need any help with anything? I’m actually not all that tired–I can work.” 

Styx only smiled. “I’ve got more than enough hands trying to help me work out there, and between you and me, they’re better at swordplay than sailing. Honestly, the best help you can be is a good passenger. Rest. It’s all going to get better from here.” 

And with that, she rose and was gone, carrying a basket of what looked like baked goods out onto the deck. When she opened the door, he could hear the cleric singing again. Rismyn tried to catch a glimpse of what was going on, but the door shut before he got the chance.

Then, they were alone in the light and the silence. 

Rismyn sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He turned back to Mazira, who stood silent and still where he left her, clutching the red fruit and staring at the floor. 

He went to her, taking one of the fruits. “Are you hungry?” 

“No.”

Rismyn frowned. “Liar,” he said, digging his fingers into the fruit and twisting until it ripped apart. Mazira looked startled, and he took the opportunity to stuff one of the seeds in her mouth. 

She let out a little squeak and hopped back, her hands snapping to her lips. 

Rismyn couldn’t help but laugh as he popped one of the seeds into his own mouth. More tart than sweet, but Rismyn didn’t mind. It wasn’t moss or bluecaps, so as far as he was concerned, it was perfect. “Go on, swallow it. It’s good for you.”

Mazira’s face twisted over the flavor, which only made Rismyn laugh more. She swallowed with a scowl and crossed her arms. “It’s not funny!” 

“No, probably not,” he agreed, still smiling. “But we need something to laugh about. It’s been too long. Come, sit. You should eat before you sleep.” 

He pulled a chair out for her and gestured, but Mazira didn’t move. 

“What is it?” His smile faded. “We are safe, warm, and fed. What could possibly be troubling you?” 

“Are we safe?” Mazira whispered, her eyes drifting down again. “We don’t know where they are taking us. What if it’s all a trick? What if they’re bounty hunters bringing us back to Menzoberranzan? My father always used to say you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.” 

Rismyn’s heart plummeted as doubt crept in. She might be right. He might have led her into a terrible mistake. He didn’t have a great track record of making good choices.

But then he shook his head. No, he was certain these people were sincere in their desire to help. Torafein had helped before, and no cleric of Lolth could spin healing so blissfully, or utter music so lovely. Somewhere at the end of this ride was a place where people had heard their story and wanted a happy ending for them. He wanted to believe it.

And he wanted Mazira to believe it, too. But she still looked as frightened as one of Mindra’s feed rats.

“I thought you said you trusted me,” he said, before he could stop himself. 

Mazira stiffened, her eyes snapping up. “I did–do!” she corrected quickly. “It’s not you that I don’t trust...it’s just…” she sighed and her arms went around herself. “I don’t know. They seem different, and that man sings. But…I just…I can’t believe it. I’m sorry.” Her gaze drifted back down to the floor.

“Well, I trust them,” Rismyn said, a touch more defensively than he meant. “Or at least, I trust Torafein, to an extent. Why would he help me get out of the city just to take me back?” He popped a few more seeds in his mouth and chewed to mull it over. 

That caught Mazira’s attention again. “He did what?” 

That’s right, he still hadn’t told her. Rismyn nudged the chair out a little farther with his foot.  “Sit down, eat, and I will tell you about it.” When she didn’t immediately move, he shrugged. “Or just stand there. But if you want the story you have to eat.”

Mazira glared at him, and it actually made him smile. Any emotion from her that was genuine would make him smile. 

But then, to his dismay, she did sit–right where she had been standing, on the floor. She didn’t seem troubled by this at all, as she turned her attention to the fruit and tried to dig into it as Rismyn had. 

“What are you doing?” he asked, exasperated. 

“Sitting and eating,” she answered curtly, and he couldn’t help but wonder if she had done this purposely to vex him. 

He was tempted to snap at her, to tell her to sit in a chair like the proper and dignified person that she was, but he suspected that would only upset her. He’d never fathomed she would rebel against rebellion so defiantly. 

As tempting as it was to shake some sense into her, he was struck with a better idea. Rather than shame her for her choice, he sat on the floor in front of her. “Give me that,” he said, reaching for the fruit. 

Mazira stared at him, then, reluctantly she handed it over. “What is it?” she asked, eyeing the seeds in his hand distastefully.  

“A pomegranate, I think.” He ripped into hers and handed the pieces back. “They’re not from the Underdark. I don’t know how my mother got them to serve–ah, never mind. If you don’t like it, I can find you something else. Styx said she had more.” 

“It’s okay,” Mazira said, popping another seed in her mouth and wrinkling her nose as she bit into it. 

Which was absolutely adorable. Before he knew it, he was just staring at her with a silly smile on his face, delighting in the most civil interaction they had had since she had woken from near death. It actually felt like they were children again, back in the old broom closet they had claimed as their own refuge. 

“Well, Rismyn,” Mazira said, after her next seed. “I am sitting and eating. Now you have to tell me what you meant about Torafein.” 

Her statement snapped him right out of his enchantment. “Right,” he said, straightening and hoping she hadn’t noticed his staring. He quickly recounted the encounter, how Torafein had not only pointed him to the hollow stalactite but also lied to Enelel about which direction he would be going. There wasn’t much more to say, but Mazira looked thoughtful.

Until she took another bite of pomegranate and made that adorable face again. “That doesn’t make sense. He told me that he lost his position at the Academy because we escaped under his watch.”

Rismyn blanched. “He...did?” He suddenly felt guilty for some reason.

“Yes–but...well, he also said that it was okay because the Academy wasn’t his real work.” And now, Mazira looked guilty. “I didn’t actually believe him. He said...he said he was really there to look for others like him. Other...dissenters…” 

Rismyn went numb, but not out of fear. “He...did?” he breathed again, hardly daring to believe his assumptions were true. “Is that actually the term he used?” 

Mazira nodded, looking even more ashamed. “I’m sorry, Rismyn. I should have told you earlier. But I thought he was lying. I still don’t know that I believe he wasn’t–why would a drow dissent?” 

Rismyn only stared at her. He almost said, maybe he fell in love, but stopped himself just in time. 

Mazira seemed to realize what she had said and shook her head quickly. “No, no, not like, you. I know you. I know you’ve always been...different…” 

“Not always,” Rismyn said softly. He thought of his earlier days as a child, before he met Mazira. He thought of how he stood by and let Toloruel torture her without ever intervening, pretending he was innocent of her blood since he didn’t spill it himself. He thought of how he’d tried to use her, and then struck her when she didn’t go along with it. “You made me different. I’m only sorry it took me so long.” 

Mazira’s cheeks turned rosy and an awkward silence fell, where they both looked anywhere but at each other. 

When Rismyn could stand the silence no longer, he said, “Pearl told me I wasn’t special.” 

“What?” 

“The mercenary lady,” he clarified. “While I was there, at Bregan D’Aerthe, she told me that drow were leaving the city in droves.” She had also told him very few of them found happiness, but he didn’t want to think about that at the moment. “So, maybe it isn’t so hard to believe, after all.”

“Maybe,” Mazira agreed, but she sounded half-hearted. 

They finished their pomegranates in silence, and then Rismyn rummaged around until he found clean water and fresh bread and a block of cheese. Even with the strange aftertaste of magic-woven food, it still tasted better than any feast Rismyn could remember. 

When they had their fill, Mazira set her cup down and then curled up on her side. 

Rismyn frowned. “What are you doing?” 

“I’m tired,” she said, her eyes shutting. “I’m sorry. Is it okay if I rest and you take first watch?”

“I don’t think–” he began, and then realized it was pointless. There was no way she would sleep if she didn’t think she was safe. “Of course I’ll watch over you,” he amended. “But Zi...Mazi…” he stumbled over her name again, before taking a breath. She wanted to be called Mazira. She had said so. It was no longer an accident that he knew her name. “Mazira,” he said, resolutely. “You don’t have to sleep on the floor. Styx offered you her bed.” 

Mazira’s eyes snapped open, and she looked frightened. “That’s alright. I’m fine here.”  

“Mazira, she offered it. You’re not going to get in trouble.”

But she only shook her head. “It’s so soft,” she whispered. “I don’t think I can stand it.” 

“You haven’t even tried it.” 

“Really, I’m okay.” She closed her eyes as if to prove she would fall asleep right there.

Rismyn clenched his jaw, his irritation mounting. It was one thing to let her sit on the floor. He would not allow her to sleep on it, too. He rose to his knees and scooped her up in his arms, swaying a little too much as the boat rocked him when he stood. 

“What are you–” Mazira started, but Rismyn had already crossed the small space and dropped her onto the mattress. 

She tried to sit up, but he pushed her back down, holding her there as he stared intently into her eyes. “You are free now,” he said, firmly. “And free women sleep in beds. Understand?” 

She nodded, her eyes wide and full of fear. If he wasn’t so frustrated, he would have been ashamed. Instead, he let her go and sat beside her. The bed was pushed back into a corner, so he was able to lean back against the wall and keep her trapped between himself and the adjacent wall. 

“I’m going to protect you,” Rismyn said, folding his arms and staring at the door as if he was truly intending to keep watch. “Just sleep.”

He could see Mazira staring at him from the corner of his eye, but he refused to acknowledge her. After a moment, she got up on her hands and knees and moved a little higher on the bed, so she could rest her head on the pillow. She lay like that for less than a minute before she rolled onto her side with her back to him. 

Rismyn thought she meant it as a defiant gesture, but a minute later she rolled onto the side facing him. Shortly after that, she was on her back again. Then, her stomach. Then, curled up in a ball. Finally, she sat up and grabbed the pillow, trying to force all of whatever it was stuffed with to the middle.

Rismyn was watching now, bemused. “It’s not made to stay that way,” he remarked, as she laid her head on it and the stuffing spread to the corners again. 

Mazira turned her heated eyes on him and glared. “I told you, it’s too soft. Why don’t you listen to me?” 

“I do listen,” Rismyn said, stubbornly. “But you keep lying to me.” 

“I didn’t lie–”

“You didn’t know it was soft until you tried it.” 

“I made an informed guess,” she snapped. “I’ve slept on rocks and rugs for the last seventeen years of my life. I know what I find comfortable.” 

Rismyn didn’t have a response to that. He stared at her, feeling the guilt finally prick him. Even before he had earned his room, he had always been given something soft to sleep on. He shifted and looked away. “Well...you have to...re-learn comfort…” he said, awkwardly. 

This time, when she turned her back to him, he knew it was out of defiance. Her angry huff said enough.

Rismyn crossed his arms and tried to be vexed with her, as well. It wasn’t his fault, he was just trying to help. But after a moment of quiet contemplation, his fortress of excuses came crumbling down. He sighed and draped a hand on her arm. “I’m sorry. You’re right. You can sleep wherever want.” 

“I’m fine,” she said, though she shook off his hand and punched the pillow again. 

Rismyn smiled weakly. “Here, I have an idea. Sit up.” 

For a moment, she didn’t move, and Rismyn realized he must have underestimated how upset she really was with him. But then she sat up, turning her doleful eyes to him. 

He took the pillow and handed it to her. He then shifted his position so that he sat in the corner, putting himself where the pillow was. “I’m a lot less soft than pillow down,” he said. 

“Rismyn…!” Mazira gasped, looking scandalized. 

But Rismyn didn’t give her time to think about it. He put a hand on her shoulder and pulled her down so that her head rested on his thigh. For all her apparent embarrassment, she didn’t fight his guidance. “Just like old times,” he said, with a crooked smile. “Only you don’t have to tell me a story this time.”

“Rismyn, we aren’t kids anymore–”

“Do you want the pillow back?”

Mazira clamped her mouth shut, and after a moment she huffed again and turned on her side, facing away from him and hugging the pillow to her chest. 

Rismyn only smiled, running a hand over her hair to smooth it back from her face. It was so silky-soft that he couldn’t stop himself from stroking her locks again. 

This time, Mazira didn’t huff, she sighed. He felt all the tension relax out of her. “Thank you,” she muttered, and Rismyn took that as tentative permission to brush his fingers through her hair again. 

She was so beautiful. How could anyone ever want to hurt her? 

She didn’t protest his caressing of her hair, so he kept it up. This part wasn’t like old times, but he told himself it was helping her rest. Even after he thought she fell asleep–which wasn’t very long–he kept at it, unable to grow tired of marveling over how soft and perfect she was. 

He hadn’t touched her like this in so long. He’d been very intentional about it, fearing that he would remind her of the last time he had tried to touch her, before he left for Melee-Magthere. He could almost be glad for Toloruel’s attack since it was their escape from him that revived this intimacy. 

Almost. 

In the end, this was just like everything else Toloruel brought; a new form of torture for his soul. He could take advantage of the moment now, of Mazira’s need for comfort and sleep, but eventually, she would wake. Eventually, she wouldn’t need him, and he would be back to quietly loving her from a distance. 

“Rismyn,” Mazira said suddenly, startling Rismyn out of his thoughts. “Can I ask you something?” 

“Of course,” he said, his heart fluttering slightly for reasons he couldn’t explain.

She turned on her back and stared up at him, lifting a hand to touch the side of his face. “Why did you ask him to leave this scar?” 

Now Rismyn knew why his heart fluttered. He raised his own hand and covered hers, before gently taking her hand and laying it aside. He knew the answer, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell her. He didn’t want to see the look in her eyes when he confessed it. So instead he said, “It just felt right.” It wasn’t a lie, just not the whole truth. 

Mazira studied him a moment longer, and he was tempted to try and lighten the moment by cracking a joke, but her gaze was paralyzing. He was afraid if he opened his mouth he’d spill his whole soul to her instead. 

“Do...do you think he could heal my scars?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, as though she had been afraid to ask at all. 

Her question cut deep enough to leave its own marks, and Rismyn took a sharp breath as though he could ease the stinging in his heart. He squeezed her hand, trying to muster the words. “I don’t know,” he admitted, wishing he could offer more comfort. “But we can ask.” 

“No, that’s okay.” She turned back onto her side and snuggled her face into the pillow. “I was just curious. Mara lomë, Rismyn.” 

“Mara lomë,” he whispered back, an elvish phrase that meant “good night.” She’d had a hard time teaching him the concept when they were small. There was nothing but night in the Underdark and well wishes were scarce. But once he had grasped it, it had become their traditional farewell.

But this time, there would be no farewell. He was never going to let her go again. Rismyn let her dark locks twist around his fingers until finally, with the gentle rocking of the boat working against him, he leaned his head against the wall and shut his eyes.

Disclaimer: Forsaken by Shadows is unofficial Fan Content permitted under the Fan Content Policy. Not approved/endorsed by Wizards. Portions of the materials used are property of Wizards of the Coast. ©Wizards of the Coast LLC.