To my husband, Michael. There can never be enough dedications to you. Your love and support enable me to follow this passion of mine, and I can’t imagine doing life without you.
Previously, on Forsaken by Shadows, from Solaurin’s point of view,
It is late, and I am tired. After a long talk with Rismyn, we finally turn in for the night, only to find Ti’yana sitting up and waiting for us. I notice immediately she has prepared the sleeping arrangements we discussed, and that she has cut meters from my premium weave of blue muslin. I already had a buyer for that, and I am not thrilled, but the discussion can wait. First I need to get Rismyn off to bed.
When he is gone, I question her audacity and she explains she is making a special garment for Mazira. I can’t argue with her logic, even if I am irritated she didn’t ask first, but it’s done, and Mazira deserves it. But just when I think I am done for the cycle, Ti’yana’s tremulous voice requests a conversation.
I am required by my position in this society to counsel many people. My work and my ministry go long and deep. But I will never give to others what I cannot give to my own daughter. If she wishes to talk, we will talk, no matter how tired I am.
The reason for her sorrow rends my own heart. It is Mazira’s condition. How thin she is, having not been properly fed since far longer than their little excursion into the Underdark. Her scars, which I have heard of but seen very little of. The girl has been tortured every day of her life, and I failed to consider what impact that would have on my blessedly sheltered daughter.
I hold her while she cries, and offer precious little advice, because truthfully I don’t know how to help Mazira, either. But we will do the best we can, and trust Eilistraee with the rest. And then, at last, I finally get to sleep. I wonder if I’ll ever wake…
~18. Deep Crimson~
Mazira lay awake in bed, feeling like an utter failure.
She just couldn’t sleep.
But she had to sleep. And she had to sleep in this bed, with this shift. It didn’t matter that she felt as though the coverlet was eating her, or that the silk clung to her skin in uncomfortable ways. Ti’yana had given her this space to use, so Mazira had to use it.
She rolled over with a huff, staring at the dress form in the corner. It made her uneasy, like it might come alive at any moment. She’d considered getting up and moving it behind the wardrobe but was afraid she wouldn’t wake up in time to put it back before her hostess discovered it moved. So she rolled over again and stared at the wall.
But that didn’t help, either. Now she just imagined it watching her, slinking ever closer. Mazira squeezed her eyes shut and huddled under the blanket, chiding herself for her childish fears.
What was wrong with her? She’d slept soundly in Toloruel’s room for years. She’d slept in that oppressive, coffin-like closet. She’d even slept in the unprotected Wilds.
So why couldn’t she sleep in a bedroom in a house like a normal person?
Maybe it was because she was too warm. The blanket was too heavy. She didn’t dare remove it, though. What if Ti’yana saw? The dark elf had given up her own place of privilege for Mazira. She might fly into a rage if she thought Mazira spurned it for the floor.
It wasn’t worth the risk. Mazira would stay right where she was, drifting between drowsy stupors and wide-awake staring. She’d have to fall asleep eventually, right? She couldn’t go on like this forever. It had been eons since her last proper rest. Surely her body would succumb to darkness soon.
Maybe that was it. It wasn’t truly dark. The light outside the window grew gradually into a deeper shade of red, reminding her of Rismyn’s wine-colored eyes. A connection she only made because of Belnir’s game. She let out a little groan and turned onto her stomach.
That whole tea party had been mortifying. She wished she hadn’t let them draw her into speaking. Silence was safety. Words got you into trouble.
She rolled back over onto her back, trying not to replay the conversations, when the sound of the door clicking open made her whole body go rigid. A thousand terrible conclusions stampeded through her mind, each thundering to be first in her line of horrors.
But as it turned out, for once, they were all wrong.
“Mazira?”
It wasn’t Ti’yana coming to make sure she made proper use of the hospitality offered her. It wasn’t a burglar or a monster, or even Toloruel catching up at last.
It was Rismyn, his voice the barest of whispers.
Mazira turned her head to look at him, though all she could see was a sliver of his face as he peered through the smallest of cracks in the door. Her heart danced in circles; was this outcome better or worse than her thousand fears?
The door inched open enough for Rismyn to slide his hands in. ‘Are you awake?’
Obviously, she was. But though exhaustion made her patience thin, she kept the retort to herself and simply signed, ‘Yes.’
Relief flooded the half of Rismyn’s face that she could see. He started to step forward, then hesitated, raising his hands again. ‘May I come in?’
Mazira thought for a moment, then she sat up and nodded.
Rismyn wasted no time slipping in and shutting the door behind him. She blinked, taking in his new silhouette. It appeared he’d been given a change of clothes, as well. She’d grown so used to his sharp-edged adamantine armor that the flowing replacements almost made him a new person.
As he came closer, she noticed that the tunic he wore was just a smidge too small. It conformed to his shape and did little to hide the ridges of the muscles of his chest. Which suddenly reminded her of her own plunging neckline. Her eyes went wide and she snatched up the pillow, hugging it to her chest just as he sat on the edge of her bed.
“Sorry,” he said as he settled. “I didn’t mean to be away so long.”
Mazira averted her gaze. “Are you sure this is okay? Solaurin said you weren’t allowed in here.”
Rismyn’s expression darkened, making her wish once again she’d stayed silent. She hadn’t meant to upset him. Why did everything she do upset him?
“He only said I couldn’t stay with you,” Rismyn said. “And I’m not staying. I just couldn’t go to sleep without making sure you were okay. You are okay, right?”
His hand, rough and calloused, slid along her jaw and tilted her face towards his. Mazira sucked in a sharp breath as their eyes locked, his touch igniting sparks under her skin.
No, he couldn’t do this to her.
Rismyn’s eyes widened. “Zira, you’ve been crying.”
“It’s nothing,” she said quickly, pulling back. “I was crying, but I’m not now.”
“What happened? Is everything alright? Did that girl hurt–”
“No.” Mazira shook her head to silence him. “Ti’yana was very kind to me.” She paused, thinking back to the feeling of the elf’s arms around her. Embracing her. Offering comfort. Her throat seized up. “Very kind,” she managed. “I told you, it’s nothing. I’m okay.”
Rismyn’s hand still lingered where she’d pulled away from it. He watched her, his eyes smoldering as he studied her intently. She wanted to look away, to keep those burning eyes from lighting something deep within her soul, but she feared he wouldn’t believe her words if she broke contact. He’d insist on knowing what was wrong and then get frustrated when he couldn’t fix it.
Finally, his expression softened and he lowered his hand. “Alright.” He suddenly looked sullen, turning away from her and gripping his knees. “Well I…I just wanted to check on you. So…mara löme.”
He looked so downcast, so dejected. Mazira’s heart twisted into a knot. Rismyn started to rise and before she could stop herself, her hand darted out and snatched the back of his tunic.
“Rismyn, wait,” she said, a touch breathless.
Rismyn froze, poised on the edge of standing. He didn’t turn back to her, but she knew she had his undivided attention.
Now she had to decide what to do with it. Mazira hadn’t thought this far ahead. She’d just grabbed him, sensing that if she let him go, something important would be lost forever. Her fingers gripped the fabric tighter. A deep crimson, just like the light outside and the depths of his burning eyes.
She sighed and leaned closer, resting her forehead against his back. For a moment, all she did was breathe him in. His familiar scent was blended with incense and smoke, creating a new memory pattern of comfort for her desperate soul to latch onto. She could feel his torso rise and fall with his own breath, sense his heartbeat echoing within his veins.
It was like she was back in the quiet alcove of House Tear’s chapel, realizing all over again how the brooding, prickly little page prince was not so different from herself. He was just as scared, just as sad, just as vulnerable as her. He was broken in all the same ways, missing pieces of himself. Pieces she’d endeavored to fill with her own shards.
Together, they made a whole.
Maybe that was the secret Lolth didn’t want her elves to find out–that they were all the same. The same blood, the same ancestry, the same essence of being. There was no drow or faerie. There were just elves, made to exist together in a harmony sung by the ancient beings who created the realms. The great tragedy of the world was the sundering of family, the separation of light and dark which were always meant to dwell in balance together.
For the first time in her life, she acknowledged how glad she was to have met Rismyn Tear. Though it had come at the cost of her family and her freedom, her blood and her misery, she had gained one great treasure by coming to the Underdark.
“Thank you,” she whispered against him. “For saving me.”
Rismyn’s chest rumbled as he chuckled. He didn’t turn to face her, but she felt his muscles unwind beneath her touch. “Saving you? The way I understand it, you’ve been the one saving me. I should be thanking you.”
Mazira’s nerves trembled. How could he not see how glorious he was to her? “You gave me hope when I was on the verge of destitution,” she said. “You served me joy when I was fed only anguish. You refused to give up on me when I should have been left for dead. You didn’t listen when I begged you to take me back. You kept me safe, kept me warm, kept me fed. Rismyn…I…”
She gripped his tunic so hard she was in danger of ripping it. Mazira took a breath and forced herself to relax. The next words she had to say were terrifying. It voiced her fragile hope, hope she was afraid would shatter if exposed to the outside world. But she had to say it. He needed to hear the words from her.
Broken pieces, making a whole.
“I’m really glad you brought me here,” she admitted. “I…I think I like these people and…I’m scared to. I’m scared we’re wrong and this is all some clever trap or just a really, really wonderful dream. When I wake, this illusion of freedom will be over and we’ll still be hungry and alone in the Underdark or worse, trapped in a closet in Menzoberranzan. Toloruel will find us and ruin everything or…”
This was not going the way she imagined. She wanted to encourage him, to tell him she believed in him. But it was easier to talk about what could go wrong rather than what might possibly go right.
She was rambling now. She probably would have kept on rambling, too, except that Rismyn began to move.
He shifted and turned, and as her hands came to rest on the blanket he covered them with his own. “Zira,” he groaned.
The way he said her name set off those sparks again. Their foreheads touched, their hands intertwined. How had he done this to her again? Her breath went shallow and her skin pebbled.
“You’ve got an entirely wrong impression of me,” Rismyn murmured. His voice sounded strained. “You make me sound like some hero out of one of your legends.”
Her stomach fluttered wildly, as if it knew she was in danger and was trying to flee without her. “Well you are, aren’t you?”
Rismyn grinned, and then he laughed. “Fine. But only for you.”
His fingers slid up her arm and hooked in her hair, his thumb caressing her cheek. And then, Mazira knew.
He was going to kiss her.
Panic surged within her. Panic, and something else. Something raw and alive and electrical. She sat frozen, feeling every nerve in her body reacting to his presence. She’d done this to herself, she realized. She’d laid this trap out and baited him with her honest words. Or had this been his trap all along? How was it that for the second time in her life, she allowed the second son of House Tear to crawl inside of her and dismantle her from within? He was more dangerous than asp venom, more potent than Mindra’s spiders.
And she couldn’t look away.
Not because she was trapped, like last time. No, this wasn’t going to be like the last time. This time, he was going to kiss her…and she was ready for it. It was ludicrous. Absolute madness. She didn’t want this—and yet, she did. She even tilted her head up slightly, parting her lips in anticipation of receiving his.
For the span of eternity, they stayed like that. Frozen in time, feeling one another’s closeness, sharing each other's breath. Mazira waited, torn between terror and desire. Coherent thought had long since abandoned her. There was just Rismyn and this knot in her heart that she didn’t want to decipher.
And then, he pulled away. So quickly and suddenly Mazira would have missed it had she blinked.
Rismyn flopped back on the bed, his head landing in her lap, though she wasn’t convinced it was on purpose. He stared up at her with a mischievous grin, one she hadn’t seen since long before he left for Melee-Magthere.
“I have an idea,” he said, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Why don’t you tell me a story?”
Mazira blinked, feeling the same shocking numbness she’d felt when they crashed into the river. She almost touched her fingers to her lips, wondering if he’d kissed her and she missed it. Then she realized what an absolute fool she was.
Of course he hadn’t kissed her. He didn’t love her, and he was acutely aware of how she felt about kisses without love. Her face blazed with heat and she clutched the pillow that still protected her. Distantly, she heard herself say, “A story?”
“Yeah,” he said. “C’mon. When was the last time we just got to enjoy being with each other? No stress. No fear. No monsters. Just you and me.”
Mazira didn’t answer right away. She was still surfacing from the torrent of her humiliation. In the time it took her to collect her thoughts, Rismyn’s smile faltered.
“Oh,” he said. “You’re right, I’m being selfish. You’re probably exhausted and really, who's to say you enjoy my company?” He laughed as if to cover his sudden insecurity.
It didn’t work.
He started to rise but Mazira caught his shoulders and pushed him back down. “Don’t be silly,” she said, with the same kind of nervous laugh. “I always enjoy your company.”
Rismyn gazed up at her. “Not always,” he said softly.
Whether he meant it or not, his words sent Mazira right back to the ritual room where he had pinned her to the wall. It took all her effort not to flinch as she prepared for the memory to slice open the old wound, but strangely, it didn’t. The betrayal seemed so long ago, an action belonging to a different Rismyn.
But there was no other Rismyn. There was just him, the one holding her in his stare. The same little boy who had once held her in his arms as they cried together in united sacrilege against Lolth’s tyranny. That little boy had become a young man who made a mistake. She’d become a woman who clung to that mistake, raising it up as an anthem to remind herself why she could never show her heart to him again.
And yet here they were. Again.
No. Not again. Always. She loved him then, and she loved him now.
Mazira closed her eyes, accepted the memory for what it was, and let it go. Whatever else came next, she would deal with it when it happened.
“Rismyn,” she said, brushing the hair back from his forehead. “You are my dearest and best friend. You always have been, and you always will be.”
Her statement had the most radiant effect on him. His entire countenance lit up, and for once she knew she had said the right thing. All those months of wondering what he wanted from her, what his threads were, and she’d finally understood.
“Really?” he asked, beaming up at her. “Do you…mean that?”
The question hurt. He smiled, but she could see the uncertainty in his eyes, the fragility of his own hope. She saw in it all the ways she had been cold and cruel to him, all the ways she’d refused to accept the warmth of his kindness to her. She wasn’t the only one who desperately needed a friend.
Broken pieces, making a whole.
“Yes,” she said, feeling a weight settle the remnants of the fluttering in her heart. “I mean it.”
She didn’t think she’d ever seen Rismyn look so happy.
“Well, then how about this,” he said. “I will tell you a story for once.”
“You?” she laughed and was surprised to feel it was a real laugh. “You’re an abysmal storyteller.”
“Ah, Zira!” He clutched at his heart. “You wound me with your words. I can tell stories.”
“Oh alright, then,” she said, shaking her head. “Which story are you going to tell me?”
“I’m going to tell you about…” his eyes wandered about, then settled on the tapestry hanging on the wall beside them. “That!” He pointed to it dramatically. “That wall hanging is actually depicting a famous drow story. It’s the tale of…” he squinted at it, and Mazira already knew this was going to be good.
“It’s the tale of an angel,” Rismyn concluded, nodding resolutely. “Who fell into a lake and became lord of the salamanders. All those dots? Those are salamander eyes. And, uhm, a really big Salamander with one eye.”
Mazira could no longer hold back her mirth. “That’s an owl,” she corrected, holding her sides. “And it’s not swimming, it's flying in the night sky. Those eyes are stars, and that big one is the moon.”
“What?” Rismyn glared at the tapestry as if it had betrayed him. “No, it isn’t. You told me owls are night-birds.”
“That is a bird.”
“No, birds have beaks. That thing has a flat round face like a human. I do pay attention, you know.”
Mazira doubled over, in a complete fit of giggles. Maybe it was the hour, or the exhaustion, or just the expression of her embarrassment from earlier, but she couldn’t stop laughing. “That diamond is its beak. It’s art, Rismyn. The owl is looking straight at us, so the beak appears as a flat shape.”
“Alright, fine,” he huffed. “You caught me. I was making it up. I can make up another one, if you like.”
“Please, no.” She opened her eyes and sobered at once. She hadn’t realized how close her face had come to his. He didn’t seem to mind, as he stared at her with a crooked smile. The smoldering had come back to his eyes.
Mazira cleared her throat and gathered up the curtain of her hair which had fallen around his face. She straightened, twisting the curls around her fingers nervously. “Maybe you should try singing instead.”
Rismyn’s eyes went wide, and she was convinced she saw his face flush. “Absolutely not.”
“Why not?” she teased. She let her hands fall back to rest on his shoulders. “You have a beautiful voice.”
“It’s just not my thing.”
He actually squirmed a little. He really was embarrassed. It was adorable.
She laughed. “Would you like me to sing to you?” Without thinking about it, she stroked her knuckle down his cheek. “Like old times?”
Rismyn looked back at her. He didn’t answer. Instead, he covered the hand which lingered near his face and pressed her palm against his skin.
The fluttering in her core came back with a vengeance.
“More than anything,” he said, finally. “But I can see how tired you are. I should probably go.”
A lump formed in her throat. She didn’t want him to go. Not yet. “Wait,” she whispered. It was all she could manage.
He waited.
For what, she didn’t know. She couldn’t keep him here forever. Solaurin would be angry if he found out, and she didn’t think she could bear it if she angered the priest or his daughter. What if they withdrew their hospitality?
Rismyn’s hand released hers. She could sense him pulling away, and she wasn’t ready yet. Her fingers found their way to the sharp angle of his jaw, tracing the outline of his face. As she did, her thumb brushed over the groove of his new scar, and she found her words.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Rismyn frowned. “For what?”
She traced the scar again. “For letting him do that to you.”
Rismyn’s frown turned into a laugh. “Oh, that? Don’t be. I’m not. This scar is the best thing Toloruel ever did for me.”
Mazira blinked in surprise, genuinely taken aback. “You can’t mean that.”
“I do,” he said, turning his head aside so the scar stood out in stark contrast. “I think it suits me.”
Mazira couldn’t tell if he was serious or not. “Why?”
He grimaced, and Mazira wished she hadn’t asked.
“Sorry, you don’t have to answer that,” she stammered, her mind racing to change the subject.
“Yes I do,” Rismyn said. “You deserve to know.” His chest expanded and relaxed as he took a deep breath. Just days ago, he’d been incapable of taking a full breath without considerable pain. It made Mazira glad all over again that Solaurin had found them.
What incredible power the cleric wielded. Would she really be able to learn to do it, too?
“It really is okay,” she began, but Rismyn cut her off.
“I can’t stand looking like him,” he said. His eyes cut back to hers, and she didn’t need to guess who he was talking about. “We share a mother and a father. Or blood is the same mixture. Whenever I see myself, I just see them. Him. My family. And…” He closed his eyes and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t want you to see him when you look at me. I don’t want my presence to bring up memories. This scar marks me as different, so yes. I wanted to keep it. Anything that makes me look less like Toloruel is a success in my book.”
Mazira gaped at him. Whatever she had been expecting, it wasn’t this. “Rismyn…you can’t mutilate yourself for my sake.”
He opened one eye, peering up at her from under his hand, which still covered the scarred side of his face. “Well I’m not going to go out of my way,” he said, a shadow of a smile returning to his lips. “I still want to be pretty.”
Mazira sighed in exasperation. He did terrible things to her heart. “You…you’re…” but she couldn’t think of a proper adjective.
“I’m what?” he asked, amused.
She huffed again and shook her head. “You’re not like them,” she said finally. “And I don’t see him when I see you. I only see you. Okay? Just you.”
Rismyn’s amusement melted away, replaced by a haunted expression. For a moment, he wouldn’t look at her. Then, that lopsided grin returned. “But am I pretty?”
“Rismyn, I’m serious.”
“So am I.” But his smile said he wasn’t.
She wanted to shake him. “If I say yes, will you promise me you won’t disfigure your face anymore?”
“Hey, I didn’t do it the first time. I just benefitted from my brother’s insanity.”
“Rismyn!”
“You never told me if you thought I was pretty.”
“And you never promised me not to hurt yourself.”
They came to a stalemate. She glared down at him, arms crossed over the pillow while he grinned up at her. They stayed like that for several heartbeats, until Rismyn suddenly sat up.
“I just remembered,” he said, as if the last few minutes hadn’t happened. “I do know a story I can tell you. Lie down, it’s a bedtime story.”
Mazira arched a skeptical eyebrow. “I’m still waiting for my promise.”
Rismyn wasn’t listening. He put a hand on her shoulder and gently guided her down. “It's an old elven tale that I heard at the Academy. I think it was meant as an example of why we’re supposed to hate the surface elves, but that’s not the point.”
“Rismyn…”
“Hush, or I’ll forget how it goes.” He lay beside her, head propped up on his elbow. Ti’yana’s bed was not large. There was nothing but the pillow and blanket between them. “Long ago, during the time of the Netherese…”
Defeated, Mazira flopped on her back and glared at the ceiling. By the third sentence, she’d forgotten she was annoyed with him. His presence was a comfort and his voice drowned out her gloom. Gradually, her tension eased and her breathing slowed.
He really was an abysmal storyteller. But if nothing else, at least she was finally able to sleep.
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.
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