Forsaken by Shadows 25: Camaraderie

To Ellie, my very first D&D character. You taught me to love the drow, and now, three years later, look how far we’ve come.

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

I’ll be honest. Almost everything is a blur after the boat crashed. I barely remember following Torafein to the deck to see what happened, or the strange angle of the prow of the boat. I barely remember the panic in Solaurin’s voice when he called his warning, but it was too late.

We’d struck more than a rock; we’d struck an ancient dragon turtle. Mendroktovin, to specific, a creature Solaurin was familiar enough with to know that the situation wasn’t good. And though our chances of escape were nigh impossible, we took up our blades and fought. It was that, or fall prey to the depths.

So we fought. The details are lost on me, as I swung blow after blow with Torafein’s borrowed sword. Nothing we did made a difference. We only managed to annoy the monster.

Back on the deck of the ship, Styx summoned balls of fire while Solaurin sang his ethereal songs, flinging radiant magic that had more of an effect than our blades. Beside him, Mazira clung to his arm, and what I didn’t know was that she was struggling within herself. In her desperate state, she prayed for a miracle, and discovered she knew the words to the song Solaurin was singing. But fear of the unknown kept her from crying out with him.

While I don’t remember much of our fight, I do remember Belnir’s death. He had fallen to the riverbank, and Lina went to aid him. But before they were on their feet, Mendroktovin breathed a cone of boiled steam breath over them. Lina only survived because Belnir protected her.

We watched in horror as he fell into the water. We tried to go for him, but Torafein called us back. We still had a fight on our hands.

Fortunately, Lina got to him and brought him to the boat. Though I knew he was dead, Solaurin didn’t seem to care. With three hundred diamonds and a song, he spun his spells over the body, calling out to his goddess to return the soul of our fallen companion.

But his voice attracted the blind dragon’s attention, and Mendroktovin summoned another breath of scalding steam. I couldn’t do anything to stop him, and I couldn’t get there in time to save Mazira.

But in that desperate moment, Mazira flung out her arms. I saw her mouth move, but the sound she made was drowned by a thunder of new voices. Female voices, as a dozen armored women appeared in the cavern and descended upon the dragon.

When I next looked, Belnir was alive. The newcomers ordered us to make a break for it and succeeded in driving back the dragon long enough for us to escape. I know not who they are or where they came from, but the others seemed to take it for granted that their allies came to their aid. Songblades, they were called. Priestesses of Eilistraee, the goddess whom Solaurin serves.

The goddess whom he claims Mazira serves, as well. When we gathered to catch our breaths, the cleric declared her one of his sisters, citing her magic as proof. And though Mazira wanted to deny it, and though the thought of clerics and gods makes my skin crawl, I’m overjoyed when she takes his hand and accepts his words…

~10. Camaraderie~

“Hey...Rismyn…” 

Rismyn jolted out of his trance as Mazira’s lips brushed against his ear, his hand darting instinctively for the weapon he didn’t possess. He’d already returned his borrowed sword to Torafein. Panicked, he glanced around for the source of trouble, before realizing there was none. Everything was as it was when he and Mazira first settled down on this patch of deck to rest, per the commander’s orders. 

Mazira’s gaze bore into his, her eyes earnest, her mouth drawn into a thin line. She was so near to him their bodies brushed every time the boat rocked. But she didn’t tremble, and her cheeks were full of color, not bleached like bone as when she was afraid.   

There was no danger. She was just trying to speak without being overheard by others.

Releasing a breath, Rismyn let his head fall back against the wall of the cabin and winced. He’d forgotten about the tender lump that lingered there, courtesy of Mendroktovin’s dramatic entrance. The cleric had offered to heal his scrapes, but Rismyn had declined. He was barely hurt, and there were others that needed the magic more.

Mazira’s eyes widened with concern, and from his periphery, he saw her raise a hand as though to lay it on his arm. But she hesitated, her fingertips lingering over his forearm, before drawing back.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have woken you.”

Her voice was the barest whisper, only audible because of her nearness. Again, the boat tipped favorably, and the minuscule gap between them vanished, before bouncing the other way.

“No, it’s okay.” He tried to smile at her, but all those aches he’d elected not to have healed were starting to clamor for his attention. He shut his eyes and willed his nerves to stop complaining. They’d suffered far worse. “I don’t mind. What’s going on?”

Mazira shifted a little, glancing around the open deck, before leaning in so close her breath tickled his earlobe in ways he was trying very hard not to notice.

“Did I…” she bit her lip. “Did I say something wrong earlier?” 

Of all the concerns she could possibly have had, this wasn’t what Rismyn was expecting. “What?” He didn’t hide his surprise well. “When?”

Mazira looked around fretfully once more and then practically put herself in his lap. “I was just wondering,” she breathed. “Because...well...everyone is staring at me. I don’t know what I did wrong.” 

“Uh…” Rismyn said. One of his more eloquent moments.

He glanced around at the others, failing to see what Mazira was claiming. Beltel and Lina had gone into the cabin with Belnir, who had been ordered to bed despite his claims that he was feeling much better. Solaurin had laid out a short distance from them, seemingly asleep, using the tangled pile of netting as a pillow. Torafein kept watch over the front of the boat, his back to them completely, and the last Rismyn had seen of Styx, she had floated a chair up to the helm and slumped in it, using her magic to steer.

They themselves had claimed a spot on the deck just to the right of the cabin door, beneath the shuttered window. It was as far back in obscurity as could be managed on the open floor.

And sure enough, not a single eye was turned their way.

“I don’t see anyone staring.” 

He had spoken under his breath, but Mazira still flinched, shushing him with her hands as she looked around again. After a moment, she took his hand and traced the words, ‘They keep looking over at me.’ 

Rismyn raised an eyebrow at all the distinctly not-looking-at-them drow and shook his head, baffled. “Well, even if they are, it’s not because you did anything wrong.” 

In fact, so far as he could remember, she hadn’t said or done anything since Solaurin made his strange and powerful declaration about her being a cleric. Mere seconds after the words had passed his lips, the whole boat shuddered and every warrior jumped like startled rats.

But it had only been a magic barrier, Styx had said. Something called the Outer Rim, which meant something to the others because they all immediately relaxed and Torafein gave his orders for rest.

With the adrenaline wearing off, Rismyn had been quite content to table his questions for later.

Back in the present, Mazira shot him a sideways glare and shoved her hand at him. As though he hadn’t realized she’d intended to go silent with their conversation.

But Rismyn didn’t have the energy for tracing letters. The only touching of her hands he wanted to do was to hold them tight and never let go. He suspected that wouldn’t go over well. So instead, he sighed and kept his hands to himself. “You’re worrying too much, Zira. Just rest.” 

Mazira huffed, but she settled back against the wall, hugging her arms around her knees. She didn’t relax, though. Her muscles were stiff against his. 

Rismyn held back a sigh. It was tempting to be frustrated with her, but Torafein’s words still echoed in his head. It is not uncommon for the victims of our people to need time to readjust to freedom. And this, he could relate to. He’d felt similar pangs of paranoia every time he stood in his mother’s throne room, under the baleful eyes of his matron and sisters. Mazira would adjust.

He just privately wished she’d adjust sooner.

Silence stretched, and he was just on the verge of slipping back into a trance when Mazira tugged on his elbow. “There, see? It happened again!” Her voice was still a whisper, but not quite as soft or close to his ear as the last time. “I must have done something wrong. Was it when I raised my eyes? Why do they keep staring–” 

But before she could finish her statement, the shutters of the window above them burst outwards. They both jumped and pulled back, staring up at the smirking visage of Beltel, who was now easily recognizable as the less-battered twin.

“You’re probably not wrong, sweetheart,” the drow said, his chin resting in his palm as he grinned down at them. “About the staring, that is. It’s just something you’re going to have to get used to, though. You’re a genuine anomaly.” 

Mazira looked startled, and the color was leeching from her skin.

Rismyn just glared at the warrior. He wasn’t sure which had offended him more, Beltel’s calling her ‘sweetheart’ or an ‘anomaly.’

Before he could decide, Beltel went on. “Oh, no, don’t worry. It’s not a bad thing to be an anomaly. Solaurin’s an anomaly, too, even stranger than you. Although, I guess if you really think about it, we’re all anomalies in our own way…” he trailed off, looking wistfully into the distance, before snapping his eyes back. “But then that would defeat the purpose of being an anomaly. Do you follow?” 

“No,” Rismyn said, quite truthfully. And he didn’t think he wanted to. “Don’t you know it is rude to eavesdrop?” 

“Me? Eavesdrop?” Beltel put a dramatic hand to his chest, blinking innocently. “Why, I would never! It just so happens that I had my ear pressed against the wall because that’s how far back you gotta stick your head into this cabinet to pilfer Styx’s best spirits. It’s not my fault I happened to hear what I heard.” 

Rismyn raised a skeptical brow, his words dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, really?”

“Of course. It’s the truth. The wood is porous and my senses are honed to the sharpest point, as any good warrior’s would be.” With that, he bent down, temporarily out of sight, before resurfacing with a crystalline decanter full of amber liquid. “Care for some brandy? It’s sure to be smooth, Styx only imports the good surface stuff for herself. Come in, Belnir’s awake and we’re celebrating.” 

Rismyn’s jaw dropped, genuinely unsure of what to say. He hadn’t actually expected Beltel to provide proof for his story. He glanced at Mazira, who still looked caught in the throes of fear, and made a snap decision. But just as he opened his mouth to speak, there was a clatter above them and Styx poked her head over the upper deck. 

“Beltel, you rat! Don’t you dare break into my stash!” 

The look that came over Beltel’s face could best be described as childish glee as he danced back from the window. “Too late, darling, shoulda hidden it better.” 

The demon-woman snarled and jumped down onto the deck. “I’ll skin you alive, you imp.” 

“Ohh, promise? You know how I feel about your hands on–”

Styx raised her fists, and they crackled with blue energy. 

The smile vanished from Beltel’s face. “Uh oh,” he said, before slamming the shutters shut. A second later, they heard the click of the door locking. 

“How dare you!” Styx shrieked. “On my own ship! Torafein!” She turned towards the commander. “Order your imbecile to behave!” 

Up until now, Torafein had been doing a remarkable job of appearing as though he heard nothing. Even now, he didn’t turn to acknowledge them but merely waved his hand in a simple gesture that communicated much.

I’m busy.

A response that shocked Rismyn, though by now he ought to have adjusted to this milder version of his former teacher.

Styx squawked, her hands tangled in her hair as she spun to Solaurin next. The cleric, still giving his best impression of sleep, rolled onto his side away from them. He covered his face with his arm as though blocking out their sound.

Now spluttering with incoherent rage, the demon-woman rounded on Rismyn. “Well?” she snapped. “Don’t just stand there, break the door down!” 

“What, me?” Rismyn gasped, incredulous.

“Yes, you. I’m a damsel and I am clearly distressed. So do something about it.” 

The logic made no sense to Rismyn. He glanced at Mazira, who seemed just as flummoxed by the antics as he was. “But your magic,” he tried, raising his hands to imitate her casting. 

“Seriously? I don’t want to blow up my ship. Just kick the door in.”

Rismyn hesitated, but he couldn’t see any other choice. Styx might not have been drow, but she was female and in control of the boat. She had given an order, so that meant it had to be obeyed. 

With his mind made up, he turned to the door and thrashed it twice with the heel of his boot. On the second hit, it splintered inward. Styx rushed past him into the room, her fingers crackling with magic again. 

Not knowing what else to do, Rismyn followed, with Mazira close behind.

The sight inside the cabin was nothing short of comical. Debris still littered the floor, a mess the rivermaster had insisted she could make vanish when her strength recovered. Beltel stood perfectly centered, looking like a wild rothé caught in a snare. The crystal decanter sparkled almost supernaturally in his hand, drawing all attention to it for a brief, quiet moment. 

Then the moment burst. 

“You’re dead, Do’ar!” Styx snarled, lunging for him with her crackling fingers outstretched. 

Beltel yelped. 

He actually yelped. 

The drow with whom Rismyn had just faced down an ancient threat from bygone eras was now trying to flee the grasp of the furious demon-woman. He couldn’t decide what that meant–either Beltel was a lunatic or Styx was truly that terrifying. 

“That’s rather insensitive, you know,” Beltel said as he skipped just out of her reach. “Belnir’s a Do’ar, too, and he’s only just recovered from being dead. You should really think about how your words might wound others.” 

It was only then that Rismyn noticed the other twin, perched on the edge of the bed with a tight grip on Lina’s arm, who looked as though she had just lunged to her feet. Not knowing how to process the scene, Rismyn made his way around the scuffle toward them. 

“They’re just playing, Lina,” he heard Belnir say. “Please don’t take off her head. Styx is our friend. You like her.” 

The female looked blankly between Styx and Belnir as if trying to decide if she trusted his words or her eyes more. Finally, she dropped down beside Belnir and let her head flop onto his shoulder, twirling the hem of her sleeve.

Belnir smiled in relief, until he had to duck to avoid a book that had been flung their way. “Watch it!” he hollered, before glancing up at Rismyn. “Oh, hello. Come to join in the festivities?” 

Rismyn’s attention was riveted on the squabbling pair. Beltel had just made a fatal error. He jumped onto a counter to get away from the woman but now had nowhere to go. His feet moved in a ridiculous sort of tap dance to keep her from flinging her arms around his knees and pulling him down. It was only a matter of time before she succeeded. 

“Should we...help?” Rismyn asked. 

Belnir laughed. “Oh, no. They’re fine. It’s how they flirt. She won’t really hurt him.” 

There was a crash as Styx succeeded in toppling the warrior to the ground and pounced on him. The prized bottle of brandy hung safely in the air, thanks to one of Styx’s spectral hands. Meanwhile, Styx’s actual hands clamped down on his shoulders and Beltel yelped again as white energy sparked from her touch.

“Er…” Belnir winced. His hand shot to Lina’s arm again, but the woman was still fixated on her sleeve. “She won’t hurt him more than he deserves.”

Styx leaped to her feet, triumphant, and snatched the drink out of the air. “Stay out of my stuff, Do’ar,” she ordered, as she marched back to the cabinet–which really was right below the window–and stashed the bottle away.  

Beltel dragged himself to his feet, smoothing down his hair which had puffed up in the most unnatural of ways, thanks to Styx’s lightning grip. “Aw, c’mon, Styxy, we’ve more than earned it.” 

“Absolutely not.” 

Beltel turned pleading eyes to his brother. “Tell her, Belnir. It’ll ease your agony, soothe your wounded soul.” 

“Oh no, I’m not getting in the middle of this,” Belnir said, shaking his head. “My soul is fine, thank you. And for the record, I told him not to do it.” 

“Traitor,” Beltel whined. “I thought you were supposed to be my blood.” 

“Sharing your blood doesn’t mean I share your intelligence,” his brother replied. “Or did you forget, we’re still dependent on her to get us home? Maybe don’t offend the tiefling with fire in her hands.” 

Tiefling? All at once, Rismyn realized what a fool he’d been. Of course she was a tiefling, not an actual demon. He’d heard of the race but had never seen one before. Tiefling made infinitely more sense, now that he thought about it. 

Beltel sulked. “Bah, we’re close enough to walk. Besides, it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission.” He sighed, then suddenly flashed Styx a winsome smile. “What do you say, precious flower? Can we crack her open and celebrate life?”

The tiefling raised her chin defiantly and crossed her arms under her bosom. “No,” she said. “I’m saving this one for something extraordinarily special.” 

“What?” Beltel raised his eyebrows. “What’s more extraordinarily special than not getting eaten by a dragon turtle?”

Styx sniffed. “I’m not telling you.” 

“You just don’t want to share.” 

“You’re still on a mission.” 

“The mission’s practically over.” Beltel waved his hand dismissively. “We found the children and we’ve made it to Safe Waters. What could possibly go wrong now?” 

It took Rismyn a second too long to realize he and Mazira were the children Beltel referred to. He frowned, but there was no getting a word in edgewise between the sparring pair. 

“Oh, I don’t know.” Styx rolled her eyes. “Maybe some other ancient evil monstrosity found its way into the Channel. It’s the Underdark! Don’t challenge it.” 

“But how are we supposed to celebrate Belnir’s recent recalling of his spirit without spirits to do it with?” 

“You can celebrate when you get home. In the meantime, I’ll make you tea.”  Her tail swished. “And if you’re lucky, I won’t poison it. Now sit and be good.” 

“Tea!” Beltel cried. “How’s tea gonna–” 

His complaint was interrupted when Styx swept up a canister from the wreckage and tossed it at him. Beltel caught it purely on what appeared to be instinct, but once it was in his hand it held all his attention. He took the canister, cracked the lid, and inhaled deeply.

“Oooh. That’s a good blend. I take it back. I’ll have some tea, please.” 

“That’s what I thought,” she smirked. She caught the canister as Beltel tossed it back to her and went to find her kettle. 

“But…” Rismyn began, before he realized he was speaking. All eyes turned to him, and he suddenly understood exactly why staring had made Mazira feel like she was in the wrong. “Sorry...I don’t mean to interject. But if you’re down here, who's steering the boat?” 

Styx smiled warmly at him, which was at least reassuring, if not a bit patronizing. “Not to worry. We’re in the Channel now. The ship practically steers herself.”

“Oh,” Rismyn said, trying to look as if that answered all of his questions.

“She’s not exaggerating,” Belnir said, also smiling kindly. “The Channel is the part of the river that flows between the Outer Rim and the Gates. I know these landmarks don’t mean anything to you yet, but they will. All you need to know is that a lot of mages have worked hard to keep this stretch of water safe. It’s not perfect, but there’s a reason we call home the Sanctuary. It’s about as safe as the Underdark gets.” 

“The Sanctuary,” Rismyn repeated. The word left an odd, reverent feeling in him. So that was where they were going. It was as though several pieces of the puzzle fell into place at once.

“Hey, that’s right,” Beltel said, as he righted a chair and dragged it towards them. “We’re in the Rim. We can talk about it now.”

He offered the chair to Mazira, and Rismyn had a painful flashback to his own attempt to offer her a chair. For one, horrifying moment, he feared she would deny Beltel, too. Instead, she took the seat demurely, keeping her gaze cast down. 

Which was even worse.

What happened to the Mazira who had accepted Solaurin’s hand not more than a few hours ago? The one who stood up to himself when he had insisted she sleep in a bed, even if he had gotten his way in the end? It was as though instead of leaving her shell, she cracked it open, peered outside, then decided she much preferred her cloister of darkness. 

It was all Rismyn could do not to smash the shell to smithereens and force her into life.

“Not so fast,” Styx chided, drawing Rismyn back to the conversation at hand. “Just because we can talk about it doesn’t mean we should. He’s still Torafein’s ward. Remember, it’s the Guide who decides what gets shared and when.”

“You, my flower, are a destroyer of fun,” Beltel complained. “We never get to break the good news.”

“Because you’re not a Guide.” Styx rolled her eyes. “Rismyn, would you be a dear and bring this table over so Belnir doesn’t need to move? Since Beltel can’t be bothered to stop talking long enough to be useful.”

“Hey, I’m getting there.” Beltel hurried to the table, and Rismyn followed him to assist. Together they heaved it over and then gathered chairs for the others.

“But seriously,” Beltel said as they set the last chair in place. He chose his own seat and conveniently left the one beside Mazira open.

Rismyn claimed it immediately. Mazira’s fists were clenched in her lap, her eyes drilling holes into the table. He wished there was something he could do to prove to her once and for all that she no longer needed to be this way. This frightened, timid girl. He missed the days of their closet escapades more than ever, the days when she relaxed in his presence and laughed more easily.

But Beltel was still talking, keeping him from sinking too far into bitter nostalgia. “Among other things, the Outer Rim prevents scrying, so we can speak much more freely about ourselves. You must have questions.”

Rismyn did have questions. So many questions he wasn’t sure where to begin. His thoughts chased each other in circles, each inquiry vying to be the first expressed. Sanctuary, Songblades, Eilistraee. He wanted to know everything all at once, and his desperation to know all somehow jammed up his ability to learn any one thing.

“Actually–” 

Everyone froze when Mazira’s tremulous voice rose between them. Even Lina’s eyes focused on her, her fidgeting going still. Styx had been on her way to the table with the teapot leaking steam from its spout.

Beneath the table, Mazira’s hand latched onto Rismyn’s knee, and she dug her fingers in so sharply he almost winced. Instead, he covered her hand with his, hoping that would be comforting enough that she might relax a little.  

But of course, she did not. 

Mazira only gripped even tighter, her breath picking up as she finally managed, “I would like to know, sir, what you meant. About me. Being…anomaly…” 

And then she flinched ever so slightly. The motion dug her nails deeper into his knee.

Rismyn was no longer burning with questions. Instead, he was burning with hatred brother. This was Toloruel’s fault. Evidence of his damage. The feeling of his brother’s throat crushing under his grip hadn’t lasted long enough to leave a satisfying impression. 

Rismyn wouldn’t fail next time. He would make Toloruel pay his debts.

But just as the vengeful thoughts threatened to paint his whole mood black, a new idea suddenly occurred to him. 

The fact that Mazira voiced her question at all was nothing short of phenomenal. 

As the realization struck, he looked back at Mazira as if seeing her for the first time. Her eyes were still cast down, her muscles still rigid, but her jaw was set with determination. She wasn’t a helpless victim, fearful of even breathing. She was a survivor, fighting through a den of monsters, learning what it meant to live again. 

How had he never noticed before? 

He glanced at the others and realized–to his chagrin–they had all seemed to see it before him. Not one of them appeared concerned or put off by her mannerisms. Instead, they all smiled, as though they understood completely the significance of the moment and were joyfully celebrating it. 

All but Lina, of course, whose gaze had drifted off and glazed over.

“That is an excellent question,” Styx said, setting out the teacups. Betel reached for the teapot and she swatted his hand away. “It still needs to steep,” she chided, before addressing Mazira again. “One that I have been wondering myself considering how very rude it was to say.”

“Rude?” Beltel spluttered, rubbing his hand as though she’d actually done him damage. “It was not rude, it was an honest assessment.”

“It was kind of rude,” Belnir said. He took a cup from Styx with a nod of gratitude and set another before Lina. “What was it you said? We should consider how our words might wound others?”

“How dare you,” Beltel said, clutching his heart. “Honesty is my paramount concern.” He spoke directly to Mazira, though she didn’t look up. “There are many clerics of Eilistraee. Songblades, we call them. But very few of them are actually gifted with the ability to touch the Weave. Therefore, that makes you an anomaly. A very good anomaly that we’re delighted to know. But still an anomaly.” 

“You’re using the wrong word,” Belnir sighed. “She’s not an anomaly. She is gifted and special. Connotations matter. Seriously, Mazira, don’t listen to him. My brother is an idiot.”

Rismyn’s eyes bounced between them and he tensed when Belnir insulted his twin. It was the second attack on Beltel’s intelligence in the span of a few short minutes. He fully expected for the smile to fall from Beltel’s eyes and blades or a fist to rise in its place. 

It was what drow did.

Instead, the other warrior laughed merrily. “I might be an idiot but I’m not wrong,” he said. “Solaurin will tell you. Only one-in-twenty clerics are able to wield magic. Most of our mages are wizards or blood-born like Styxy here.”

“You just made that ratio up,” Belnir accused.

“I absolutely did. Is the tea ready yet?” He reached for the pot and was smacked away again.

“I’ll serve it when it’s ready,” Styx said. She smiled reassuringly at Mazira, who still couldn’t have seen it with her gaze anchored to her lap. “Don’t pay him any mind at all. What you’ve been gifted with is rare in the Sanctuary, but it’s rare in the way diamonds and mithril veins are rare. Hard to find but a marvel to behold.” 

“So rare, one might call it an anomaly,” Beltel said. He ducked as Belnir hurled a pillow at him. 

“You’re the worst.” 

Rismyn watched their antics, content to marvel in silence. Jabs and insults, yet not a single person had lost their temper. This was quite possibly the most enjoyable conversation he’d ever participated in, and he didn’t know how to handle it. He looked sideways at Mazira, to see how she was taking it all, but her face was a cipher. 

“May I ask you a question, Miss Mazira?” Belnir asked suddenly, startling both of them. “What color are your eyes?” 

Mazira stiffened even more, if it were possible, and Rismyn saw her brows shot up at the question. She tilted her face ever so slightly to Rismyn. 

Rismyn grimaced, deliberating her unasked request. She wanted him to speak for her. Perhaps it was innocently out of fear, but he was acutely aware it was also how a master would treat their pet. 

The way Toloruel had shown her off for his class.

He wouldn’t do it. He ran his thumb over the back of her hand and murmured, “He asked you.” 

Mazira’s lips thinned, and he could tell she was cross with him, but having decided it was for her own good, Rismyn thought he could live with it. Finally, she took a breath and said, “I’ve been told they’re faerie fire.” 

Rismyn bit back a smile. He had told her that. When they were children. She still remembered! 

“Faerie fire!” Belnir exclaimed, and Rismyn found himself incredibly glad that Solaurin had brought this elf back from the dead. “That’s exquisite. May I see?” 

Maybe it was because he sounded so earnest, or maybe because Mazira was just shocked by the request, but her eyes snapped up immediately and met his. Rismyn had never seen her obey such a request so fast. 

Belnir beamed at her. “Stunning! Like fresh cut amethyst. Such a lovely shade.” 

Mazira’s cheeks colored as she blinked uncertainly. She started to look down again, but Belnir spoke. 

“Another question, what color are my eyes?” 

Again, she looked startled, glancing uncertainly at Rismyn. But Rismyn wasn’t sure where this was going either, so he merely shrugged. 

She looked back at Belnir and studied his eyes carefully. “They’re red…sir,” she said. 

“Can you see the difference in my eye color and Beltel’s?” 

Mazira’s gaze shifted to the other drow. Her own eyes narrowed as she looked back and forth between the identical faces. At length, her countenance fell. “No,” she said, and it was plain she felt she had failed. “They look the same to me.” 

Rismyn himself hadn’t noticed a difference, and he was just about to jump to her defense when both twins broke out into grins. 

“That’s a good thing,” Beltel chortled. “Because something would be wrong with your eyes if you could.” 

“Sorry,” Belnir added. “It was a bit of a trick question. We just wanted you to know it’s okay to look us in the eye without concern for repercussions. We don’t hold to that custom in the Sanctuary. No one does.” 

Mazira blanched, her jaw dropping into a little ‘o’ as she realized where her gaze was. She started to look down, but Belnir put out a hand and tipped her chin up. The motion was so quick and smooth that Mazira didn’t even have a chance to flinch. 

“Now, now, you’ve already started. Don’t deprive of us faerie fire. You have beautiful eyes, they should be seen.” He took his hand away before Rismyn could be properly irritated that he had touched her at all. He didn’t like the idea of anyone touching Mazira that wasn’t himself.

Mazira, on the other hand, didn’t seem to share the sentiment. She stared at Belnir, her hand going to where he had touched her, but she didn’t look afraid. More contemplative, and that also didn’t sit well with Rismyn. 

“Drow eyes are all the same,” Beltel lamented. “Always red. No variation. Even in skin or hair. We all look the same. Not like you blessed surface folk. You get color and texture. We just get”–he gestured to himself,–“and it’s even worse when you have a twin. No originality.”

“That’s not true,” Mazira said, breaking out of her reverie. She flushed when she realized all attention was on her and drew in on herself.

“Oh?” Belnir asked, and he was the picture of congeniality. 

Mazira turned almost the same color as Styx. Her words hurried out in a rush. “T-there are differences. Rismyn’s eyes are the color of wine. Yours are brighter, more ruby than wine, and Miss Lina has gold in her irises.” 

A knowing smile passed between the twins, and Rismyn couldn’t tell if they were impressed or if this was part of their game. They looked at each other, at Rismyn, and then at Lina, who had turned her teacup over and was stacking sugar cubes on it. 

“She’s right, you know,” Styx said. “Your matrons try to stamp out anyone who doesn’t assimilate, but there are still differences. You’re just not used to looking for it.” And with that, she conjured a mage hand and began to serve tea. 

In the small flurry of action that followed, Rismyn managed to catch Mazira’s eye. She smiled ever so slightly, ever so triumphantly. 

She was radiant when she smiled. His heart warmed faster than the tea could warm his cup. He no longer cared that Belnir had touched her. The warrior had drawn her out of her shell without smashing it the way Rismyn would have, and for that, Rismyn would happily forgive the drow anything. 

So long as he didn’t make a habit out of touching her.

“Do you take sugar, Mazira?” Styx asked, as the teapot bobbed to a rest. 

Mazira blinked, contemplating the liquid before her. She had relaxed considerably, though not entirely. “I…don’t know…” she said, glancing at Rismyn.

It was then he realized that, among other atrocities his family had done to her, they had deprived her of tea her whole life. Probably sugar, as well, despite the crystal garden of sugar and salt they had cultivated in House Tear’s courtyard. 

It seemed like such a small thing, but he had been given tea to enjoy, even during his worst years. He’d never once thought to share the experience with her. 

In the awkward silence that fell, Styx seemed to realize something was wrong. “Oh, well, it’s up to you–” she began, flustered. 

“No way, sugar ruins the boldness of the flavor,” Beltel interjected. 

“You mean it makes it drinkable,” Belnir argued, as he dropped a cube into his own drink. 

The brothers descended into squabbling over the proper way to enjoy tea, and Rismyn was grateful for it. They seemed to be masters at covering small blunders. Perhaps it was an art they taught at the Sanctuary.  

Mazira tapped his knee, drawing his attention back to her. Her hands shook slightly as she signed under the table, ‘What do I do?’

Rismyn took a breath. There was a whole world of tiny wonders that she had never experienced. He had been too busy drowning in his own misery to even consider what small comforts he had. 

Never again. If it took every drop of blood in his body, he would make sure she experienced the life she deserved to have lived. ‘Whatever you want,’ he signed back. ‘There’s no wrong choice. Try it as it is and then try it with sugar.’ 

Mazira nodded slowly, then took up her cup of tea and brought it to her lips. 

Everyone stopped, as though the momentous occasion required solemnity, and watched as she took a sip. Fortunately, Mazira didn’t notice the attention this time.

Rismyn was the only one with the angle to see the way her lips turned down in disgust. She covered it well, smiling politely at Styx. “It is very good, thank you.” 

“No, no, no, try it with sugar,” Belnir insisted, pushing the dish towards her. “It’s nothing but bitter leaf water without sugar.” 

“Lies! Atrocity!” Beltel snapped, slamming his palm down on the table. “I can’t believe we came from the same womb. You have no taste in quality.” 

Mazira looked back at Rismyn with concern, and he could tell she was afraid of displeasing one of them as they returned to their bickering. 

“It’s a matter of preference,” he assured her. “I prefer sugar. Would you like help?” 

Relief washed over her face and she nodded, and the next few minutes passed pleasantly as he dressed Mazira’s tea the way he had dressed his own and bore the brunt of Beltel’s criticism in her place. It was easy to get swept up in the good-natured banter. So much so that he forgot to weigh his words and sift through theirs for double meanings. It was as if the present company disarmed him of everything that made a drow drow. 

And as the boat creaked and rocked them along, and as he offered Mazira her first cup of properly sweetened tea, he thought to himself how dearly he’d like to get used to this. 

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.