Forsaken by Shadows 46: The Giving of Gifts

~11. The Giving of Gifts~

Mazira

The light of Launa had drifted into ruby, though there were still deeper shades of red to come, yet Mazira sat alone on the front step of Solaurin’s house. Her sense of triumph over successfully walking home unaccompanied had long since drained away, her knee bouncing rapidly as she waited.

And waited.

And waited. 

She thought she had been craving loneliness after a full cycle of constant social interaction. Vaylan had wanted to walk her home, but she’d adamantly insisted she’d be okay, and not just because she had something to prove to herself. 

She was tired. Tired of talking, tired of bearing the weight of half of a conversation, tired of conjuring answers for well-meaning questions. By the time she worked up the courage to indicate to Vaylan and his friends that she was ready to leave, walking home alone was more desirable than terrifying. 

Besides, she had a mission to accomplish, a secret task given to her unexpectedly before the Evensong. One she was rather excited about. Or, one she had been excited about. 

But as she twisted the fabric of her dress between her fingers, she realized it wasn’t loneliness she had been craving. She’d wanted solitude in the company of her people. Not direct interaction, but the knowledge that she was surrounded by those who cared for her deeply, and that she cared for in return. 

What she had now was isolation. No one was home, not even Ti’yana, and the thought that she and Rismyn had abandoned her at the Sunglow hurt more than she cared to admit. 

She’d asked Belnir where they went, and he’d told her Rismyn left with Beltel and Ardyn, though he couldn’t speak for Ti’yana’s whereabouts. He’d only known of the other three because they’d stopped by the table so Beltel could collect his belongings and evade questions about where they were going. 

Well, if Rismyn and Ti’yana hadn’t left together, that meant they probably weren’t together. Without her. Right? 

Of course not. Rismyn had probably just gone to the other tavern with his friends, though that thought wasn't really all that comforting, either. She shuddered at the memory of  Launa’s second drinking hole, the Overdark, with its throbbing drum beats and smothering darkness. She’d only visited it once, with Rismyn and Beltel, and that was enough. Nothing else in Launa felt quite so much like the city of her captivity.   

Which was the point, apparently. The Overdark stood in the gap between those who actually wanted to come to Launa, and those who ended up here because they had nowhere better to go, who generally abided by the cultural rules but still craved a bit of the darkness of home. Why Rismyn was willing to go back whenever Beltel asked, she’d never understand, but the choice was his, not hers. 

Just like the choice to leave the Sunglow was his, and Ti’yana’s, wherever she was, and it shouldn’t matter that they did. 

Though neither of them had said goodbye, or even thought to tell her where they were off to. 

Not that they weren’t obligated to, of course, but still… It would have been nice to know. She hadn’t once been home alone in the entirety of the last year she’d lived here. Whether that was by design or coincidence, she didn’t know. 

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, movement at the end of the road caught her attention. Mazira stiffened, then stood, as two very familiar forms materialized through the red haze. 

So they were together, after all. 

An odd, falling sensation sliced through her gut. The drow were deep in conversation, their voices pitched too low for Mazira to make out their words, but whatever it was they were discussing, it took all their focus. They got as near as the third house from their own before Rismyn suddenly started, elbowing Ti’yana into silence as his gaze landed on Mazira. 

Not only were they off together, but they were speaking about something they didn’t want her to know. 

Mazira’s cheeks warmed, and she was tempted to retreat inside, to pretend she hadn’t been waiting at all, but it was too late for that. So she just stood there, and though Rismyn flashed her a smile and picked up his pace to meet her, it seemed like a forced reaction. 

“Mazira, you’re home,” he said, and he at least sounded delighted to see her. “Did you walk here by yourself?” 

“Of course I did,” she said, with far more bite than she’d intended, but she couldn’t help it. What had seemed a breakthrough in her recovery an hour ago now felt like a childish thing to celebrate.

Rismyn froze, and he and Ti’yana exchanged guilty looks. 

“Is… everything alright?” Rismyn asked. 

“Yes.” But her arms crossed and she looked away. “I was just waiting, no one was home, so...” she trailed off, unsure of what else to say. 

An awkward silence fell, in which Ti’yana glanced between them and cleared her throat. 

“Well,” she said, “I’m going to go inside and get ready for bed.” 

When no one protested, she slipped past Mazira and into the house. 

And now Mazira was alone with Rismyn, something she had wanted. But instead of the eagerness she’d anticipated, her stomach churned with a sense of dread. Dread, and something else. Something sharp she couldn’t identify that solidified the moment she saw Rismyn and Ti’yana alone together. The awkwardness wasn’t improved by Ti’yana’s absence. If anything, it grew worse. 

“I’m sorry, Zira,” Rismyn said, running a hand through his hair. “I should have said something before I left.” 

“Why?” She couldn’t get the stiffness out of her voice. “I’m not your minder. You don’t owe me an explanation every time you leave the room.” 

“But you’re upset.” 

“I’m not upset.” 

He just stared at her, eyebrows raised. 

“I’m not,” Mazira insisted. “I was just worried. Launa is supposed to be safe, but anything can happen.” She said, to an elf trained in the art of killing. Ugh, what was wrong with her? 

But Rismyn didn’t look offended. Instead, his expression twisted into something that looked… pained? It vanished quickly, and before she could ask, he changed the subject. 

“How was your cycle? Was Vaylan what you hoped?” 

Though still uneasy, Mazira shifted and allowed the subject to drop. “Yes,” she admitted, unable to stop the small smile from creeping onto her lips, though it faded as swiftly as it came. “And, also no. Is that weird? Like, he was everything I remember him being, just grown up, but also…” Her words faltered again. 

“Tainted?” Rismyn supplied, with a grim look. 

Mazira’s eyes widened in surprise, but then she nodded. It wasn’t the word she would have chosen, but it was an apt description. “He told me what happened. About seeing all of them… My father… And how some strangers came along and buried them all.” 

Though she’d delivered the words without inflection, without a hint of the deep rivulets of hurt that still ran through her heart when she thought of the last of her dashed hopes, Rismyn knew her better than that. Without prompting, he took a step forward, then hesitated, a question in his eyes. 

Mazira tensed, bit her lip, then nodded. When his arms folded around her, she breathed a sigh of relief. No skin-crawling misery. No beads of cold sweat. Just the sweet, contented joy of being in his presence. 

Rismyn made everything better.

“I see what you mean about his hatred for dark elves,” she said, when he let her go. “I understand why you were so reluctant to trust him.” 

Rismyn only shrugged, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze. “I overreacted. I’ll do better next time. I am happy for you.”

Mazira just offered a weak smile. “No, it’s okay. Though I had hoped you’d join us,” she admitted. “I kept expecting you to, and then…”

Wait, no, this wasn’t coming out right. She sounded like she was accusing him, which was the opposite of what she wanted. He didn’t owe her anything, not his presence or his reasons for leaving, and she had meant to let it go. 

And just as she feared, Rismyn’s jaw clenched, his eyes hardening ever so slightly. “Sorry. I assumed I wasn’t welcome and didn’t want to intrude.” 

“You wouldn’t have–I didn’t mean that—”

“It’s alright.” The stone in his expression was gone and he waved her concern away. “You didn’t do anything. It’s… Never mind. There will be other chances.”

Mazira just nodded. Now that she’d had her opportunity to have Vaylan all to herself, she desperately wanted to share him with her favorite people, to ingratiate her old life with her new life. It had become as important to her as breathing, something she needed to be whole. 

Silence fell once again, and Mazira rocked back on her heels. She was tempted to ask where he’d been, or what he and Ti’yana had been whispering about, but the questions lodged in her throat. She didn’t want to pry, and it really wasn’t her business. 

Besides, she’d learned a long time ago not to ask questions she didn’t truly want to know the answers to. 

As the silence threatened to stretch to an uncomfortable length, Rismyn cleared his throat. “Well,” he began, in a tone of finality. “We should—”

“I have something for you,” Mazira blurted. 

He stiffened, looking first surprised, then amused. “Oh?” 

“Yes,” she said, her cheeks burning. Why was it so hard to say? It was the whole reason she’d been waiting out here instead of inside, or even just giving up and going to bed. She was utterly exhausted, but had one more thing to do before this strange and wonderful cycle could conclude. “That is, I have something to give you. It’s not from me, well, actually, it’s kind of from me.” Her teeth clicked as she bit down on her rambling words. “Uhm, just, come with me?” 

She had his full attention, the intrigue shining in his eyes. “Lead the way.” 

It was enough to dull the sharp ache that had been gnawing on her since he’d come back with Ti’yana. Mazira covered the smile creeping onto her lips with her hand, acutely aware that what she was about to do was ordinarily meant to be a solemn ceremony, but the delight fluttering in her chest was too hard to subdue.

She beckoned him to follow, then led him around to the back of the house to the scarcely used outdoor seating area that was tucked in the corner where the warehouse jutted out from the main house. It consisted of four stone benches circled around a faerie fire pit, with a mushroom garden that only existed because their halfling neighbors insisted on tending to it. Solaurin went to great expense making his indoor life comfortable, but he couldn’t care less about the outdoors. 

“Okay,” she said, gesturing to one of the benches. “Wait here.” 

Rismyn sat, watching her expectantly, which wouldn’t do for the surprise, so Mazira added, “Close your eyes.”

“Close my eyes?” he repeated, in mock horror. “But how will I stay vigilant for danger?”

And even though it was a full year later, and the wild, open cavern beyond Solaurin’s house was only full of benign creatures and was carefully monitored, Mazira still flinched. But rather than spiral down the path of uncertainty, she swallowed her unease and forced a smile. “Did you forget I’m magic now?” 

Rismyn laughed. “No, never. Especially not after you almost roasted me earlier.” 

At that, Mazira’s excitement dropped like a pebble from a cliff. Her breath caught and the color drained from her face. “Oh my gosh. I’m still so sorry, I’ll be—”

“Hey.” He reached out and took her hands, his grip strong and affirming. “I’m teasing you, Zira. I thought you were fantastic, and I would have deserved it if I got hit.” Then, as if to emphasize his trust in her, he shut his eyes.

Mazira chewed her lip, then nodded, not that he would see, and slipped her hands out of his. “Okay, hold out your hands.” 

“Like this?”

“Mmm, more like this.” She took his palms and extended them flat, facing the ceiling of the cavern. “Now, wait here.” 

He stayed obediently still, but Mazira took a few cautious steps to make sure he wasn’t going to peek, before dashing to the backdoor of the warehouse. She unlocked the door, reached inside and groped for the slender, black-sheathed sword she’d left there earlier, then slid the door shut again, making sure to lock it.

Though most blades made her sick to hold, this particular one felt right in her hand, perhaps because she’d participated in crafting it. It was hard to hate something she’d watched come to life, as if seeing its origins as a block of metal had somehow made the killing device less intimidating. 

But it was made for killing, and that was the purpose Mazira knew this blade would be used for. She held it reverently, her previous swirl of excitement and unease washed away by the responsibility she had been given. 

Mazira returned to Rismyn, standing before him with her hands mimicking his posture, the blade resting in her open palms. 

“Mother Lara came to me before the ceremony,” she began. Rismyn scowled at the mention of the Reverend Mother’s name, but Mazira didn’t give him time to dwell on it, or ask questions. “She asked me to give you this.” 

She set the blade in his hands, and his eyes snapped open, his glower completely transformed into wonder. 

He was on his feet so fast Mazira had to step back to avoid knocking into him, but he didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were for the weapon he’d just been given, staring in disbelief. 

“Mazira,” he breathed, “Is this…?” He tore his gaze from the sword and met hers, his childlike excitement thrilling her.

She nodded, unable to hold back a grin. “It’s the singing sword that was forged for you. It belongs to you, regardless of circumstances. Mother Lara asked me to pass it on with a message.” 

From the folds of her dress, Mazira produced the sealed note the Reverend Mother had given her, offering it to Rismyn. He took it as eagerly as the blade, tearing into it and turning a little to get a better light for reading. 

Though Mazira had been wildly curious, she hadn’t dared break the seal. Even now, it was all she could do not to crane her neck to try and catch a glimpse of what it said. It must have been a short script, for Rismyn was turning back to her soon after, his delight clearly tempered, though he trembled visibly. 

And though it wasn’t her business, Mazira couldn’t keep the question back. “What did it say?” 

Blinking absently, Rismyn handed the paper to her, his attention fully focused on scrutinizing the detail work on the guard and handle of the sword. 

Mazira took the page and read: 

You have earned this by right, and I will not withhold it from you. Accept it as a promise that your service is still desired, and wield it as you will. When the time comes, all will be made right. 

Mazira frowned. “Well that’s… cryptic.” 

“Rather unhelpful,” Rismyn agreed. But he shrugged, lightening considerably as he regarded her. “Thank you, Zira.” 

“Aren’t you going to draw it?” Mazira asked, the slight tremor in her voice betraying her nerves. 

Rismyn hesitated. “I… was going to wait,” he said, with a significant look. 

Oh, right. Because blades made her nervous and Rismyn knew it. Her proximity to violence had been unavoidable as they trekked through the caverns, but ever since, he’d gone out of his way to make sure she never had to see steel again, as impossible as that was in a community that worshiped a goddess of swordplay. But while that was still true, her eagerness to see his face when he discovered her part in the forging process outweighed her unease of a weapon in the hand of someone she trusted implicitly. It hadn’t been the sword that had made her voice tremble, but the anticipation of his reaction.

“I want to see,” she assured him. “Please?” 

Rismyn studied her for a moment, then nodded, drawing the blade. He went as stiff and rigid as when Silverpaw brushed against him, but rather than disgust, his eyes held mild surprise. 

Then shock. 

Then unabashed delight. 

“This is your voice,” he said, staring at her. “Your voice is singing in my head.”

Mazira nodded, a little sheepish. “Traditionally, the Songblades closest to the intended wielder enchant the weapon. I know I’m not really a Songblade, but Satara asked me too. And, Solaurin helped, you’ll hear his harmony, and of course, Forge Mistress Elynia.” 

But Rismyn didn’t seem to be listening past her initial statement. He hopped up onto one of the benches and performed a series of test swings, each shimmering flash of the blade as smooth and methodical as the folds of one of Solaurin’s silken creations. 

No wonder the Songblades called it sword dancing. 

Mazira had always been impressed with Rismyn’s skills, even though he insisted he was barely above average. Still, there was something in the way he handled the weapon with deadly grace and sleek efficiency that mesmerized her, even as it sent chills down her spine.

After completing a particularly complicated set of strokes, Rismyn sheathed the weapon and stepped down from the bench. This time, he didn’t ask. He just engulfed her in a tight embrace.

She could hear his heart pounding in his chest, racing as fast as her own, but for completely different reasons. His came from exertion, from the exercise he’d just performed. Her heart skipped and tripped all over her ribs, beating wildly with the excitement of his joy and nearness. 

“I have something for you, too,” Rismyn said, as he let her go. “It’s not nearly as special, so don’t get your hopes up.” 

Well, too late for that. Mazira perked up, her somersaulting heart tumbling over and over. 

“Do I need to close my eyes?” 

Rismyn laughed. “No, it would only be disappointing when you opened them again.” He reached behind his head and fidgeted with the collar of his coat, before lifting a leather cord that had been concealed beneath his clothing, holding it out to her. 

Dangling from the makeshift necklace was a single silver ring, set with a dark stone whose true color was difficult to discern in the red glow. But regardless of the gloom, it twinkled and sparkled, casting a spray of tiny lights on the stone between them. 

“I made this for you,” Rismyn said, sounding as nervous as she’d felt just a moment before. 

Mazira cupped her hands and accepted the ring, a strange, twisting feeling writhing inside of her. “For me?” she echoed, disbelieving. 

“Yes.” He wouldn’t quite look at her. “To… to commemorate one year of being free.” 

He watched her anxiously as she studied his gift. 

A ring, which he had made. For her. Specifically. 

Which meant he’d gotten the stone–an amethyst, she thought–and carved it himself. Bent the metal and shaped the edges. She knew what Jasper was teaching him, had even been a little jealous that he got to spend his days surrounded by such beautiful works of art. But she had never imagined that any of his work would make it into her hands unless she sacrificed coin for it. It was all meant for the tabaxi’s shop, wasn’t it? 

“You don’t like it,” Rismyn said, dejectedly, and it was only then that Mazira realized she hadn’t let her expression move. 

“No,” she said quickly. “No, the opposite.” She sat down, staring at the small piece of stone and metal in her hand. The design was simple, just one round cut mineral on a silver band, but it was perfect, because it was hers. 

She glanced up at Rismyn, who still stared at her with apprehension, and patted the bench beside her. “Sit. I want to tell you a story.” 

Rismyn did as she asked. 

Mazira fidgeted with the knot of the cord, her mind far away. “When I was a little girl,” she began, “I found a hidden drawer in our wagon. Inside was my mother’s jewelry box, and I thought I’d just uncovered buried treasure.” 

The knot of the cord came undone, and Mazira slipped the ring off of it. Rismyn took the cord from her. 

“You should have seen the things she had,” Mazira said, squeezing her eyes shut. But, just like the memory of her parents’ faces, the heaps of gold and silver were blurred in her mind’s eye. She still remembered the feeling of awe that had overcome her six-year-old self whenever she beheld them, but the fine details were washed away with time. 

“I would sneak into the box and play dress up when my Mama and Papa were out. I put on everything. Every ring, every necklace. It was so heavy, but that just made me feel more regal. And I was always careful to put it all back exactly as I found it before they came home. Then, one day, Mama came back unexpectedly and caught me, and I was so scared. I thought I was in trouble.” 

She glanced at Rismyn and found him listening attentively, his expression serious. She tried to smile, to lighten his mood. 

“She made me take everything off and lay it out on the table. Then, she told me I could choose one thing to have for myself, and then I had to leave the rest alone. It was our insurance, something to barter with when gold ran tight. But the piece I chose would be mine forever.” 

Though Mazira hadn’t intended the story to hurt, the vague memory of the gold pendant she’d picked–because it was shaped like two bees and she liked flowers–dredged up a new river of heartache. That piece, along with everything else her mother had owned, was probably scattered throughout the Underdark by now, stashed away as plunder in someone’s vault. Her inheritance lost forever.

But now she had a new piece. A silver ring. An amethyst stone. The first in what could become her own collection, a treasure box for her own daughter to one day discover and play ‘princess’ with. 

Her skipping heart screeched to a sudden halt and she sucked in a sharp breath. 

Her own daughter. 

That thought implied a future, one that wasn’t full of misery and pain. A dream of something more than just trying to survive walking home alone. A fantasy she’d never allowed herself before, a hope she hadn’t dared wish for. 

Something broke in her heart, but it wasn’t flesh. It was hard and brittle, like limestone chipping off of quartz. A solid stone that carved away, revealing something precious beneath. It ached–oh how it ached–but it ached in a way that was beautiful, not terrible. 

A daughter. A future. 

She closed her eyes, as if her lashes had ever stopped her tears before, but she didn’t see darkness. She saw a little girl, with curled hair and faerie fire eyes, and skin the blue-grey shade of the gloaming, for which such elves got their name. The image was so clear, so real, she almost felt like she could reach out and touch the child. 

Mazira’s tears escaped down her cheek, and this time it was she who threw her arms around Rismyn. “Thank you,” she managed to choke out. “This means more to me than you can possibly know.” 

He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t mock her tears. He just held her for a long time, stroking her hair as she wrestled with the cracks of light breaking through her soul. 

Vaylan was alive, and Rismyn had made her jewelry. Could life get any better than this?

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