Forsaken by Shadows 42: For Better or Worse

~7. For Better or Worse~

Solaurin

The front door burst open with a clatter and slammed shut again before Solaurin could properly be annoyed at whoever dared to behave in such a way in his workshop. By the time he spun from his loom to glower at the culprit, they were already halfway up the stairs. 

Rismyn rolled through like a cloud of miasma, bitter and poisoned. He vanished into the house above, and a few seconds later another door slammed as, presumably, he disappeared into his room. 

Ti’yana and the apprentices who remained during the mid-cycle break stared after the boy, then, as one, turned to him with the same wide-eyed uncertainty, as if they expected him to react with equal measures of violence toward Rismyn’s uncivilized tantrum. 

To say he wasn’t tempted would be a lie, as Rismyn knew better and was generally well-behaved. Yet in the same breath, the young elf could turn as turbulent as the thrashing Lirdvin, and Solaurin, frankly, wasn’t in the mood. So he turned back to his weaving, putting the child out of his mind. Rismyn could be sulking over anything from tripping over his own feet to the caverns crashing down around them stone by stone, and as Solaurin didn’t hear any commotion outside, he assumed it was the former. 

A spool of cotton thread bounced off his head. It didn’t hurt, but it certainly got his attention. Once more, he was wrenched from his art, this time to glower at his daughter, the only one in the room brave enough to test his patience. 

Ti’yana’s expression mirrored his, as she sat with arms crossed at the great wheel, having taken over his Blue Light chore of spinning cotton. The apprentices worked furiously at their own tasks, doing their best to pretend they didn’t notice anything. 

Solaurin raised an eyebrow, feeling no need to speak his question aloud. 

Ti’yana gestured to him, before gesturing to the stairs. 

Ah, she wanted him to go speak to Rismyn. 

No, thank you. It wasn’t worth having his head bitten off for an offense he probably didn’t do. Rismyn might be volatile right now, but he’d work out his own crimes and come skulking back with an apology later. It would be much easier to speak with him when he was predisposed to correcting his errors. 

So Solaurin went back to his weaving, but his shuttle had barely completed half of its next circuit before another spool hit him, this time bouncing off his shoulder. 

He wheeled on his stool, reaching the end of his tolerance. Normally, he had more to give, but Ti’yana had refused to speak to him after their earlier discussion. They were so seldomly at odds with one another that it was eating away at him, gnawing his nerves raw. 

‘What do you want, child?’ he snapped in hand-talk, tired of this game of silence but unwilling to speak his ire aloud in front of the apprentices. 

Ti’yana seemed unperturbed by his sharp gestures, and merely signed, ‘Where’s Mazira?’

Oh. Well. That was a question worthy of investigating. He glanced at the door, only now realizing what his daughter had picked up on immediately. For the first time in their hosting of the pair, Mazira had failed to return with Rismyn. 

It was a ritual set in stone. Ti’yana left with Mazira and Rismyn brought her home, and though the probability of something terrible befalling her in the city was low, Solaurin’s paternal fears quavered at the realization that he didn’t know where she was. 

He stood before he even committed to his course of action, pretending not to see Ti’yana’s satisfied smirk. He’d deal with her next, apprentices or not. The rift between them was unbearable, and he was eager to see it mended. 

Up the stairs he went, pausing only to snuff out a lantern that had been left to burn on the kitchen table, a waste of precious oil, before proceeding into the hall. Rismyn’s door was shut, as he suspected, and when he knocked, he was greeted by a muffled voice. 

“I’m fine.”

“No one who is actually fine feels the need to defend himself before a question is even asked.” When Rismyn didn’t answer, Solaurin folded his arms. “Are you going to let me in?” 

Again, there was only silence, but a shadow under the door told Solaurin his request was being obliged.

The door finally clicked open and Solaurin caught a brief glimpse of Rismyn’s haggard expression before he slipped away, collapsing face-first onto his bed. It was all Solaurin could do to not to roll his eyes as he let himself the rest of the way in, picking up the boy’s discarded silver coat from the floor and hanging it properly on the knob of the wardrobe. 

As Rismyn offered him no hospitality, Solaurin took some for himself. He claimed the writing desk chair and sat back, letting his eyes rove over the bare walls and orderly surfaces of the room which had once held Ti’yana’s cradle and childhood things. Bright colors in her youth, more elegant swaths in her adolescence. Whatever mood his daughter was feeling inevitably made it to her walls. 

Now the room was empty and sparse, as all dark-elven men were taught to keep their spaces. Tidy, functional, and completely devoid of personality and sentiment. 

A work in progress. 

Solaurin’s attention moved from the walls to the young elf who had yet to acknowledge his presence. He lay in his shirtsleeves, his boots kicked off haphazardly at the end of the bed. A stray piece of folded parchment lay on the floor, the only evidence of life being lived within the room.

Solaurin drummed his fingers on the desk, mulling over his course of action. He’d like to start with Mazira, but that was probably the source of Rismyn’s wounded heart, so he opted for a more tactful inquiry. 

“So. Rough cycle?” 

Rismyn groaned and rolled onto his side, facing away from him. “I’m just tired. I didn’t sleep well, remember?” 

“Ah, yes. Fatigue. The enemy of good manners. I do hope you have a better excuse than that for behaving like a raging balgura in my workshop.”

Rismyn said nothing, and Solaurin prayed for patience. People often marveled over his great forbearance, but if they could see into his head they’d never accuse him of the virtue again. It wasn’t patience he possessed, but rather three centuries’ worth of learning the consequences of carelessness. Tempting though it was to snap his fingers and call down a mild rebuke in the form of sacred fire, cordial words would probably be more effective in the end.

“I am not a fool,” Solaurin said. “I know the difference between a fit of exhaustion and a fit of the heart. Something happened. I cannot help you if you won’t talk to me.” 

More infuriating silence. 

“And I will not be leaving you alone until you do,” he added, his words tinged with annoyance. “So the sooner you talk, the sooner you get rid of me.” 

Finally, Rismyn made a sound; a heavy sigh. He rolled onto his back and glared at the ceiling. Something violet sparkled at his throat. A ring, hung from a cord tied around his neck. As Solaurin had never seen it before, he assumed it was the project Rismyn had been so eager to recover. 

The boy didn’t speak right away, but Solaurin was content to wait him out. Sooner or later, Rismyn would open up. He ought to know by now he wasn’t bluffing.

Fortunately, Solaurin didn’t have to wait long. 

“I’m sorry I slammed the door,” Rismyn said, then amended, “Doors.” 

Well, that was a good start. “It is forgiven.” 

More silence, but if Rismyn thought an apology sans explanation was enough to placate Solaurin’s interest, he hadn’t been paying attention. Solaurin continued to wait, and Rismyn continued to glower, until at last, he confessed, “I’m not getting commissioned.” 

“What?” Solaurin’s drumming fingers stilled, his brows furrowed in confusion. He’d been expecting something petty, like an argument with Mazira. This statement was actually worthy of sulking over. “Why?” 

Rismyn raised two helpless hands and dropped them again. “I don’t know. They didn’t give me a reason.” 

Solaurin was at a loss for words, an affliction he wasn’t accustomed to. In all his time at the Sanctuary, he’d never heard of anyone being offered a commission only to have it revoked. They’d have to have done something truly deplorable to incur such a judgment, and it was hard to imagine Rismyn capable of something like that, especially when they kept the likes of Beltel around, and even promoted the buffoon to an officer. 

“I don’t understand,” he finally said, because he honestly, truly didn’t

Rismyn laughed bitterly. “Neither do I, and so far as I can tell, neither does anyone. Guess you’ll have to ask Mother Lara. The orders came from her.” Suddenly, he shot up, his look of misery transforming into hope. “Wait, can you ask Mother Lara? You’re on the Council and in her circle. She’ll tell you, right?” 

“Emmalara doesn’t have a circle,” Solaurin said, though he was still trying to work through the implications of what Rismyn was telling him. Why would the Reverend Mother personally order Rismyn off of the patrol? She certainly had the authority, but she didn’t generally bother with such matters. Running the military was Anders’ job.  

“But she listens to you,” Rismyn pressed. 

Solaurin frowned, his full attention returning to the conversation at hand. “She tolerates me out of necessity. Rismyn, I am happy to ask for you, but you know I may not be granted an answer. We must trust she has her reasons.” 

Reasons she’d better be prepared to share. How dare she not warn him about this? As Rismyn’s guardian, Solaurin had the right to know if there were concerns about the boy’s eligibility to join the Militia. The more he considered it, the more infuriated he became, but he tempered the emotion. Rash actions often did more harm than good. 

“That’s what Belnir said,” Rismyn said, the hope diminishing in his eyes. 

“Well, he is the wiser of the Do’ar twins,” Solaurin said, adopting a gentler tone. “You’d do well to listen to him.” 

With a sigh, Rismyn flopped back. “Yeah. Thanks.” 

He was so bereft, so dramatically devoid of life, that even Solaurin’s usually calloused heart softened. Leaning forward, he placed a gentle hand on Rismyn’s shoulder. “I’m so very sorry, Rismyn,” he said, and he really, truly was. He couldn’t have cared for Rismyn more if the boy had been his own blood. To see him set back like this was upsetting, to say the least, and he was just a bystander. “I know what this commission meant to you. I’ll do all I can to assist.” 

Rismyn merely shrugged, his expression neutral. “It’s alright. Belnir thinks it’s only temporary, and Ardyn doesn’t plan to stick around past the festival, so maybe I’ll get my chance when he leaves.” 

“Ardyn? What does Ardyn have to do with this?” 

“Oh, right. He’s taking my place, per the orders.” 

“Ardyn Xarrin is taking a patrol commission?” Solaurin didn’t mean to sound so shocked, but he couldn’t help himself. The last person he ever expected to see in the Militia was Ardyn Xarrin. 

“That’s what the orders said,” Rismyn said. “Clear as White Light. I read them myself.”

Solaurin opened his mouth to ask more questions, then changed his mind. He’d be better off questioning the source of this strange turn of events. Rismyn looked like he’d been tormented enough. 

“I’ll speak with Mother Lara,” he assured Rismyn. “Remember, I cannot guarantee success, but I will try.”

“Thank you,” Rismyn said, though he didn’t look or sound at all appeased. His eyes were distant and troubled, his hand fiddling with the ring around his neck, sending little lavender sparkles dancing around the bare walls.

Which reminded him.

“Rismyn, where’s Mazira?” 

The effect of this simple question was astonishing. Rismyn’s misery contorted into anguish, as though Solaurin had plunged a knife into his gut. He gripped the ring in his fist so hard his knuckles turned ashen. 

And this, Solaurin realized, was the true source of his despair. The commission had hurt, but whatever kept Mazira away was a wound more visceral. He’d probably hoped to distract Solaurin by offering half the truth, and it very nearly worked. 

“Rismyn,” Solaurin began, a warning in his tone. 

“It’s fine.” An obvious lie. “She’s with a friend.”

“Then why do you look like you’ve taken an arrow to the chest?” 

“It’s nothing,” Rismyn insisted, absolutely stricken. He wrenched the cord from around his neck and rolled over, stuffing it under his pillow. “I just had… never mind. Can we talk about it later?” 

“Unfortunately, you’ve piqued my interest. Did you have an argument with her?”

“No.”

“A disagreement?”

“No…” 

Less certain that time. 

“Is she cross with you?”

“I don’t think so…” 

Even more unsure. 

“Would you please just tell me what happened?” 

Rismyn groaned and sat up, frustration replacing his grief. “There’s nothing to tell. I just had plans, you know, because of the anniversary, but it didn’t work out. It’s not the end of the world.” 

He sounded like he was trying to convince himself. Solaurin raised an eyebrow, and then the pieces began falling into place. 

The ring. The anniversary. Plans for Mazira. 

Oh no.

Dread turned his blood to ice. Eilistraee have mercy, he hoped to have more time to prepare for this.

“Did she reject you, then?” Solaurin asked. 

Rismyn was so notoriously easy to read it was a wonder he’d kept his heart secret from his sisters and mother for as long as he did. His expression flickered through a series of emotions, each one more damning than the next: surprise, confusion, fear, and then carefully schooled disinterest, the look he wore right before he told a lie. 

For the last twelve months, Rismyn had been lying about his affection for Mazira, pretending his interest in her to be nothing more than brotherly concern. For the last twelve months, Solaurin had indulged the fantasy, waiting for Rismyn to trust him enough to volunteer the information himself. 

That game ended now. 

“Rismyn,” Solaurin said, before the boy could deny any knowledge of knowing what he was talking about. “You have twice now insulted my intelligence by denying what can be so plainly seen. Consider carefully how you respond. Did she reject you?”

For the span of three more breaths, Rismyn’s face remained hard and stubborn, his eyes flashing with the blend of frustration and fear that so often afflicted the vulnerable when their heart was in jeopardy. But then, dejected, his shoulders slumped. 

“I didn’t get the chance to tell her,” he confessed, and it took all of Solaurin’s self-control not to sigh in relief. Not because his plans had failed, or at least, not just because his plans had failed, but because he was actually being honest about it.

Rismyn held the ring between his thumb and index finger, pointedly avoiding Solaurin’s gaze as he stared into its shimmering surface. “I was going to tell her now, but there was an elf…”

Then, with all the trepidation of a child sneaking into the sweets pantry, Rismyn told him everything. How he’d crafted the ring for Mazira and stayed up all Red Light finalizing his plans for the cycle. How he’d gone to the Cove and been introduced to the new Voices, before receiving the orders removing him from the commissioning. From there he’d been asked to test the new Voices and discovered a deep dislike for one of them, the sun elf Vaylan Rivertone, who Solaurin had met the cycle before when the Council gathered to hear their testimonies. 

By the time he finished his tale, Solaurin didn’t know what to think. It was nothing short of miraculous and terrible all at once. Vaylan Rivertone had a shared connection with Mazira, another survivor of a raid that should have left no one surviving. The odds of him and Mazira finding each other here, in Launa, was so gargantuanly impossible that even Solaurin, who generally trusted in fate over statistics, struggled to believe it. 

It was only the timing that stole the joy from what should have been a shared celebration. Had Vaylan come the previous cycle or the next, Rismyn probably would have overlooked his poor first impression of the elf and seen the miracle for the wonder that it was. Instead, he was bitter and upset, sulking over the remains of what was meant to be his perfect cycle. 

It was no wonder he had slammed the doors. Solaurin would have done so and worse, at his age. 

“Well,” Solaurin began. “That is… something.” 

“Are you going to send me away?” 

Solaurin blinked. “Send you away?” The question didn’t make sense. Where would he send Rismyn away to? They were already in his room, and the boy was well past the age of needing to be ordered out of sight for any reason. 

Then Rismyn cast him a furtive, fearful glance, and Solaurin understood. 

It was easy to forget Rismyn bore his own internal scarring, like Mazira. The boy had adapted almost immediately to the Sanctuary lifestyle, soaking up the freedom and culture like he was born into it. He made friends easily and was eager to please. Solaurin still invited him to Red Light chats, but not as often as in the beginning, and generally more for the enjoyment of the company rather than a need to impart wisdom or counsel.

He seemed to have been doing so well. How had Solaurin missed this gaping insecurity?

“You’ll have to forgive my ignorance,” Solaurin finally said. “But I am not entirely sure what you mean. Why would I send you away?” 

Rismyn wouldn’t look at him. “Why not? Everything else has gone wrong this cycle. And I broke your trust, made plans behind your back even though I knew you’d disapprove.” 

Solaurin took a deep breath, stopping short of releasing it as an exasperated sigh. His heart truly did burn for the boy, but there was only so much sulking he could indulge in one cycle, and after his spat with Ti’yana, he was fast approaching his limit. 

“Disapprove of what? Proposing to Mazira?” 

“I wasn’t proposing!” 

“Semantics.” Solaurin waved his hand dismissively. “No, don’t make that face. Rest assured, young Tear, as much as I would have appreciated a warning that you intended to ignite a powder keg in our humble abode, you haven’t done anything wrong. You’re a grown elf, well past the age of accountability. You have a right to confess to and court whomever you choose.” 

Finally, Rismyn looked at him, surprise replacing his misery. “Wait… really?” He hesitated, as though unconvinced. “You’re not… mad…?” 

“Why would I be mad?”

“You’re always trying to keep us apart.” 

“Am I? Gracious, I’m not very good at it, considering the proximity with which we all live together.” 

Rismyn’s expression turned sour, and though he was probably a bit too fragile for Solaurin’s usual level of sarcasm, the look suited him far better than angst. “You know what I mean. You never let me be with her when she needs me.”

“That’s because I’m endeavoring to teach her she doesn’t need you.”

Rismyn recoiled, his jaw clenching and his nostrils flaring. “Of course she needs me,” he began. “I’m the only person who knows–” but he cut off suddenly, his eyes widening. “I… was the only person who knew… what she’s been through.” 

“If you’re referring to her recent reunion,” Solaurin said, “fear not. I will endeavor to teach her that she doesn’t need Vaylan Rivertone, either.” 

Rismyn’s irritation returned in full force, and so did his glower. But at least he had the boy’s attention, and for the first time, the subject of his feelings for Mazira was up for discussion. This was not an opportunity Solaurin was going to waste. 

“Mazira is a broken, Rismyn,” he said. “She has endured tragedy beyond remedy, burdens no person deserves to bear.” 

“Which is all the more reason she that needs me! I can help her.”

“You do help her. You have helped her. But you cannot be Mazira’s sole source of comfort, joy, and protection. You simply aren’t capable of it.” 

The words wounded him, and for that, Solaurin was sorry. Unfortunately, the best remedies often had the most bitter aftertaste. 

“I’d do anything for her,” Rismyn said, his voice thick. “Her joy is my chief concern. I’d die for her.” 

“And then you’d be dead,” Solaurin replied. “And she’d be forced to muddle on without you anyway.” 

Rismyn’s jaw dropped, and he struggled for words to say. 

Solaurin didn’t give him the opportunity. “This is not a criticism of your character. It is only a hard truth I learned too late. Mazira must learn to be her own person, whole and complete, able to stand on her own, within the whole community. That is the only reason I ‘keep you apart,’ as you put it.” 

Rismyn just gaped at him, and Solaurin waited, debating whether he should say more or leave Rismyn to work out the implications on his own. In the end, he opted for silence, letting his flat expression reinforce his stance. 

Finally, Rismyn straightened, crossing his arms. “So it’s a good thing, then. That my plans failed.” 

“I didn’t say that.” 

“But you meant it. My love only hurts her.” 

Gracious, he was hellbent on misery. Solaurin closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and prayed for more patience. “That’s not…” he cut off with a huff, groping for the words to make the boy understand. He was woefully under qualified to counsel on this subject, considering his own love affair had ended in a puddle of blood. But for lack of a better candidate, he racked his brain until a decent metaphor came to mind. 

“Love is like fire, Rismyn,” he said, inventing the image as he went. “Within the confines of the hearth, it is lovely, warm, and useful. But left to burn uncontrolled, it will consume all that is in its path. Do you understand?” 

Rismyn frowned. “No,” he said. “I mean, I understand what you’re saying. Love is dangerous if it isn’t controlled, but how do you control the heart? This feeling…” he laid a hand over his chest. “It doesn’t want controlling. I’m tired of trying.” 

“Control may not be the correct word,” Solaurin mused. “Guidance, perhaps. The mind was made to lead the heart, and the heart was made to stir passion for our pursuits. Too much of one or the other creates unbalance. If we deny our hearts we become cold and unfeeling, as our ancestors did. If we discard the mind, we become nothing more than a force of nature, subject to every whim and fancy. Only by embracing both, in their proper order, do we find harmonious flourishing.” 

Rismyn just stared at him, his expression blank. Perhaps using metaphor wasn’t the best course of action. Rismyn wasn’t unintelligent, but his sisters had worked hard to beat his creative thought into submission. It was still in the process of recovery. But before Solaurin could think of a less complex way to state his point, Rismyn’s spoke. 

“Okay, so, what do I do, then? Do I still tell her I love her? Or will that hinder her healing?”

Solaurin sighed. “That I cannot tell you. It is a choice you have to make.” Though, if he were being honest, he’d beg Rismyn to wait a while longer. The last thing Mazira needed in her life was a courtship to manage, along with everything else. Love was a beautiful thing, but it came with heartache and expectations, and even the most ardently impassioned would face their fair share of trials. 

But he wouldn’t tell Rismyn that. There was no winning. If he told Rismyn to go through with his intentions and Mazira rejected him, Rismyn would blame him. If he told Rismyn to wait and Mazira moved on to another, for there were always a plethora of young men seeking a lady to court in Launa, Rismyn would blame him all the more. 

And besides, who was he to judge the matters of the heart? He might be wrong and Rismyn’s undiluted affection was exactly what Mazira needed to overcome her demons. 

It was unlikely, but not impossible. 

“But I don’t know what to do,” Rismyn insisted. “I don’t know how to lead with the mind and not give in to the heart, or whatever you said. Why does it have to be so complicated? I just love her, and I want us to be together.”

The way he emphasized the word ‘together’ implied an endearing reverence. Solaurin didn’t doubt the sincerity of Rismyn’s affection in the slightest, only the timing of it. A rose planted too soon would wither and die when the seasons turned, or so he’d often heard the farmers say. But Solaurin was only mortal, and nature would take its course regardless. 

“You are far more capable of it than you think,” he said instead. “Consider your actions just this cycle; you’ve received distressing news, a challenge from someone who judged you unfairly, and a lost opportunity to secure future happiness.”

“You really know how to make me feel better,” Rismyn grumbled. 

“But,” Solaurin continued, with a raised eyebrow, “you didn’t let any of those distressing things dictate your behavior. You obeyed your officers without question, you repaid Vaylan’s insults with kindness, and you respected Mazira’s wishes even when they clashed with your own. All of those things are signs of maturity and growth, of a heart that is led by a sound mind.” 

“Maybe on the outside,” Rismyn said, stubbornly refusing to be comforted. “Internally… Well, I did slam your doors.” 

“Well, none of us are perfect,” Solaurin said mildly. Then, more gently, he added, “You’re doing well, Rismyn. I meant what I said earlier.  I am proud of how far you’ve come. A setback is not the end of the world, it is an opportunity to grow.” 

Rismyn’s nose wrinkled as Solaurin turned his own expression against him, but for once, he didn’t argue. 

“At this point,” Solaurin concluded, “I think the best thing for you is to rest. By your own testimony, you’ve only had one hour to trance out of the last thirty. Perhaps some of the answers you seek will come to you when you are refreshed. It certainly can’t hurt to try.” 

Rismyn nodded, but his silence was one of contemplation, not defeat. “You’re probably right. I’m sorry for being difficult.” 

“It is forgiven. Now, sleep. I’ll make sure you are awake in time for the Evensong.”

“The Evensong?” Rismyn scowled. “I don’t need to be there, remember?” 

Solaurin just stared at him. “Really? You mean you don’t consider it highly dishonorable not to attend the promotion of one of your dear friends, or the raising of your comrades-in-arms? Gracious, and here I thought they were teaching respect in that army.” 

Rismyn’s cheeks flushed, and he looked away. “Point taken,” he said, the familiar edge returning to his words. “I’ll go. Can I sleep now?”

Solaurin smirked, satisfied Rismyn was on the mend, and excused himself. 

But when the door shut behind him, he took a breath and leaned back, contemplating his words. In the silence of the hall, they swirled about his head, laced with insecurity and self doubt. 

Had he said too much? Or too little? Had he given Rismyn the right advice or led him down the path of folly? 

Not that it mattered. It was too late now. There was nothing he could do to help Rismyn with his romantic woes. That burden belonged to the boy to carry. But he could do something about the commissioning, even if it was only gathering information. 

Solaurin swept down the hall, determined to do so without delay.

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