Forsaken by Shadows 53: Grounded

~18. Grounded~

Rismyn

The door had barely shut behind Rismyn, plunging them all in the black shadows of the weaver’s workshop, before Solaurin rounded on his charges. His red eyes sparked like literal fire as his darkvision flared, and Rismyn grimaced, well acquainted with the expression he wore.

“Now,” Solaurin began, his mothwing robes still swaying from his abrupt pivoting. “What. Happened?” 

Mazira cowered between them as Ti’yana and Rismyn exchanged glances. None of them spoke. For Rismyn’s part, he didn’t know where to start. None of what had transpired in the tavern felt like something he was particularly interested in rehashing, let alone the history that put it into context, and yet all eyes turned to him, waiting for an explanation.

When silence continued to reign, Solaurin crossed his arms. “Nothing to say? Fine. You will listen, then.” He brandished a hand toward the center of the room, and the quartz sconces warmed to a gentle, drow-sensitive glow, washing everything in natural color that contrasted with the priest’s cold iron stare.

Fortunately, though Rismyn knew it was wrong to think so, Solaurin started with Ti’yana. 

“Daughter,” he began. “I do not want to find you on Dock Road again until our guests depart.” 

Ti’yana’s jaw dropped, and Rismyn could guess what she was thinking. The sewing shop was there. “But father—”

“This is not negotiable.” 

When Ti’yana’s lip trembled, Solaurin took a deep, measured breath, and at least tried to look less livid. 

“My heart,” he said, softer. “You are beautiful inside and out, divinely so. But the men who arrived on that boat will only care about one kind of beauty. They will not care to preserve your soul in pursuit of their own pleasure.” 

Ti’yana made a face. “I’m not planning to court any of them.” 

“That isn’t what I am afraid of,” Solaurin said, barely above a whisper.

Ti’yana’s expression crinkled with confusion, before she paled as the realization of her father’s implications sank in. Her mouth fell open once more, and she looked to Rismyn and Mazira, whether for support or to confirm her horrors, Rismyn couldn’t say. 

Whatever it was she wanted, she got nothing from either of them. Mazira just gave her a sad look, and Rismyn’s lips remained set in a grim line. He knew all too well what darkness lay in the heart of drow, and what lengths they would go to sate it.

What might a mercenary do, with no matron to keep them in line? What would they consider permissible, so long as they didn’t get caught? 

“They wouldn’t—” Ti’yana began, struggling with her words. “They couldn’t—” She swallowed hard. “Why would you let people like that into our city?” 

“The decision wasn’t mine,” Solaurin said, though it partially was. Mother Lara had commanded it, but Solaurin had chosen to obey the command rather than fight her on it. A battle he might have won, based on the way the Council had reacted to the news. “And I am not saying they will behave that way. I’m saying the chance is greater, and your particular gifts could draw out the worst in men like that. That is why our Militia will be patrolling the city Blue and Red, and every shade in between. Please, my heart, just stay away from the docks.” 

“Yes, father,” Ti’yana said, hanging her head.

Solaurin took her hand and drew her to him, kissing her forehead. “Go upstairs.” He let her go and addressed Mazira. “You, too. Rismyn and I have to talk. Oh—and Mazira.” 

Mazira paused in the act of scurrying after Ti’yana, casting Rismyn a frightened look over her shoulder. 

“Given the circumstances, I think it would be best for you to avoid the docks, as well.” 

“Yes, sir,” Mazira said, before disappearing up the stairs.

Rismyn set his jaw and crossed his arms, waiting for the lecture to come. 

Solaurin gave him a weary look, shaking his head. “Come along. You know where this is going.” 

Reluctantly, Rismyn followed Solaurin through his workshop and into his storage room, where he now stowed his pipeweed, since giving the balcony room over to the Ti’yana and Mazira. He gathered the thin wooden box and went to the back door, opening it and gesturing for Rismyn to follow him through.

The last time Rismyn had been in the mushroom garden, it had been with Mazira, when she gifted him the sword that now hung off his belt. Hard to believe that had been less than two tendays ago. The memory failed to warm him, as Solaurin took a seat on one of the benches and indicated for Rismyn to do the same.  

Rismyn did as he was bid, and they sat in heavy silence while the priest attended to his pipe and lit it with flint. 

After leaning back and enjoying a long draft, Solaurin exhaled a single word. “So.” Sweet-scented smoke enveloped the garden, but Rismyn was used to it by now. 

“So,” Rismyn repeated, waiting for the criticism of his character to fall. 

“That boy had one hand.” 

Rismyn stiffened, then nodded. Was he going to get in trouble for assaulting a crippled elf? If so, he had his defenses ready. Dreder was anything but helpless. Even one handed, he could probably still best Rismyn in a duel. He’d been, infuriatingly, that good. 

“You told me once you severed a boy’s hand,” Solaurin continued, inhaling more smoke. “Can I assume that was the same one?” 

Rismyn went still. He looked at Solaurin, his defenses completely undermined. He’d forgotten how much he had told the priest, when they’d first come into Solaurin’s home. Desperate, frightened, and burdened by guilt, he’d unloaded his whole life story, looking for something he now knew was called absolution. The severing of Dreder’s hand had seemed trivial at the time. A small crime compared to the murder of the necromancer and the things he’d done—or tried to do—to Mazira. 

And yet Solaurin remembered it. He had listened, and he had cared enough to commit the testimony to his memory. 

This fight was not going at all the way Rismyn had expected. 

“Yes,” Rismyn finally said. “That was him.” 

“I see.” Solaurin swallowed another puff of smoke and tapped out some of his ashes. “Well. That is troubling. And did you attack him on sight or…?” 

Rismyn took a breath, then slumped forward. He wanted to rage that it was unfair of Solaurin to assume he was the instigator, but as he had been, physically, he supposed it was an accurate assessment. “I did try to ignore him,” he said. “Honestly, I did. But he saw me, and he came over, and…”

Unapologetically, Rismyn repeated the events that led to his loss of temper, while Solaurin said nothing. When Rismyn finally finished, Solaurin took longer to consider the tale than it had taken to repeat it. There hadn’t been too much to say, as it hadn’t taken Dreder much time to cross the line.

Several more smokey clouds billowed around them before at last, Solaurin spoke. “Do you know what I am going to say?”

Having had plenty of time to reflect on his actions on the walk home, Rismyn was well aware of his flaws and failures. He’d already analyzed where the Red Light had gone wrong, kicking himself for letting Dreder get under his skin. One would think, after five years of sharing a dorm hall with the arrogant brat and a full year of being reformed under Launa’s care, that he’d have been better equipped for tuning the mercenary out. But just like Vaylan, Dreder always found a way to wriggle under his armor and gnaw on his last nerve. 

He ought to be better than this, and the last thing Rismyn wanted was to listen to Solaurin tell him as much. So, slowly, as though every word were dragged out of his chest, he said, “That I was reckless and foolish and I need to hold my temper better?” 

Solaurin closed his eyes and nodded. “That about sums it up.”

Anger flared at the rebuke, even though he wholeheartedly agreed with it. But how was he meant to keep his temper when someone spoke like that about Mazira? How were any of them supposed to behave when drow of dark morals had come slinking into their home? 

Vexed and frustrated, Rismyn let it spill out on Solaurin, failing to live out the life lesson he had just confessed to. “Why did she even call them here, anyway? Why didn’t Mother Lara just send more Militia elves out there? Does she have no faith in us?” 

Again, Solaurin was quiet, long enough for his pipeweed to burn out for lack of attention. When he realized it, he set his pipe aside and crossed his arms. “Fear makes us do all manner of desperate things,” he said. “How much do you know of our Reverend Mother’s personal history?” 

Rismyn shrugged. “I’ve heard she was a Matron Mother before she walked away from it all. She found Eilistraee while sojourning on the surface and came back to build the Sanctuary.” 

“That is accurate,” Solaurin said. “But as I am sure you know, the sum of a life can never be expressed in two simple sentences. Especially when you get to be her age.” He cracked his knuckles and stretched his legs, staring out into the cavern beyond, and Rismyn sensed the beginning of a story. “Emmalara was the Matron of the first house of Oussghym, which I expect is a city you have not heard of before.” 

Rismyn frowned. “You suspect correctly.”

“Mm.” Solaurin seemed neither satisfied nor concerned that he was right about the hole in Rismyn’s education. “That is because, shortly after she left, the power vacuum she created led to an all out civil war, ending in the collapse of the cavern and the loss of thousands of lives. As with fallen houses, the name of the city has been stricken from drow memory.” 

“Oh,” Rismyn said, because what else could one say to a statement like that? He was surprised to find his heart aching at the revelation. Drow were not innocent by nature, but some might have become so. Some might have been like him, a deviant struggling for peace, or slaves like Mazira, who deserved more than a permanent grave. Learning of the loss of an entire city, while not shocking, was still sobering. 

“She bears much of the guilt,” Solaurin continued. “And she will not let anyone absolve her of it, at times it seems not even Eilistraee, though I wouldn’t repeat that if I were you.” 

Duly noted. “Why is it her fault?” Rismyn asked. “If she wasn’t even there, she’s not exactly responsible for what others do.” 

Solaurin’s expression darkened under the gloom of the tale. “The factions were led by her children,” he explained. “Each vying for her position and strong-arming other houses into alliances until everything was destroyed. Not one of her kin survived. She considers herself responsible for leaving without appointing an heir to keep such things from happening.”

He let out a heavy sigh, as if he forgot he wasn’t actively filling his lungs with pipeweed anymore. “Of course, the reason she left was because she feared what her children might do for her throne. It is a lonely place, the pinnacle of power. Her children were jealous of her, her string of husbands lay dead in the family vault, not one of them from natural causes. Emmalara hated what she had become, yet she hates the consequences of her choices even more.”

Rismyn’s forehead creased as he considered the story. But fascinating and depressing as it was, it still didn’t answer his original question. “What does this have to do with the mercenaries?” 

Solaurin shrugged, and as Rismyn knew he would, took up his pipe and relit it with magic. He was never patient enough to fuss with the flint twice. “In order to understand a person’s present actions, one must know the person’s past.” 

The garden fogged again with his breaths, and Rismyn tried not to wave the smoke away, lest Solaurin take offense. The pipe was a habit he would never understand. 

“Consider her now in light of what you have learned,” Solaurin continued. “She is once more a Matron, though we do not call her thus, and her reign extends further than one large house, even a First House, which makes her burden heavier. We are all, in a very real sense, her new family. Her sons and daughters lost to her, her sisters and brothers as they should have been. If she so grieves the loss of those who would have gladly stabbed her in the back, how much more should she grieve those of us she loves, and who love her in return?”

Rismyn remained silent. He supposed it did make sense, in a way, that someone who had lost much feared losing more, though it was difficult for him to grasp the weight of it all. He’d never been put in a position of leadership before, had never borne the lives of others on the words of his commands. 

What was it like, to be so important that people warred over replacing you? He shuddered, hoping he’d never find out.

“I think I understand,” he finally admitted. “But one thing I still don’t get. Why Bregan D’Aerthe? What makes her think bringing them in is less of a risk than whoever is out there?”

Solaurin gave a derisive laugh. “Aside from the exuberant tribute we pay to buy their silence? Kalos Seabane used to live among us.” 

“What?” Rismyn exclaimed, completely taken aback. That was a twist he hadn’t seen coming. He tried to imagine the audacious mercenary living in the streets he had come to love, enjoying simple life and working a common trade, but the image wouldn’t form. It was just too weird. 

And then another thought occurred to him, one he should have considered sooner, when face to face with the elf. If Kalos had known about a place like this, why hadn’t he told Rismyn about it, when Rismyn was so obviously desperate for somewhere safe to go? 

Oh, right. Because Rismyn didn’t ask. Mercenaries really were the worst. 

“Indeed,” Solaurin said. “I believe you met his lover, yes? A woman who goes by the name of Pearl?” 

Rismyn nodded, still dumbfounded. He would never forget Pearl, or the uncomfortable things she said to him. He still wore his hair in the violent way she’d fixed it. Had she and Kalos actually been lovers?

“She has her own struggles, a dark past she needed to contend with.” Solaurin leaned forward, chewing on his pipe as he looked back into distant memory. “They came to us, oh, maybe fifteen years ago? About the time the Do’ar’s arrived. She needed the kind of healing we offer, the healing of the heart. Unfortunately, our methods weren’t quite what they were looking for, so they left after a year, though not on bad terms. I’m not sure how they got mixed up with Bregan D’Aerthe, but Kalos is fond of Launa and the time he spent here. While not my favorite elf to do business with, I do believe that he will not betray us. As for his men… well… I cannot speak for them.” 

Rismyn’s head spun as he tried to wrap it around all of the new information he’d just received. Maybe Kalos had been different fifteen years ago, but the Kalos Rismyn had met had only seemed interested in relationships that led to profit. He didn’t even want to think about what Launa was paying to keep him silent. 

And yet… Kalos had let Rismyn go, when he could have earned a fortune with his head alone. 

Solaurin stood, stretching. “I would try to forbid you from the docks as well, if I thought it would do any good,” he said. “But I assume you’re going to want to be right where the rest of your patrolmates are, hmm?” 

Rismyn straightened, somewhat surprised the interview was over. “I’d like to be, yes,” he said, skirting around the fact that technically, he didn’t have any patrolmates yet. 

“Then I only ask that you mind your manners and avoid that boy. And only go in the company of those with good sense.” Solaurin fixed Rismyn with a piercing stare. “We don’t need any reason to make loose-lipped mercenaries spread gossip when their time here is done. And I meant what I said. Any more incidents like the one tonight will result in severe consequences, for everyone. Understand?”

Rismyn glared at a patch of blue cap mushrooms, the very fungi that had once been more valuable than diamonds when he and Mazira were lost in the Wilds, yet grew like weeds in the city. “Yes, sir,” he said, carefully controlling his tone. “I’ll… try. But if he comes after Mazira…” 

“Do not try. Succeed. And if he stirs up trouble, I trust you will do what you must.”

Right. Because that made the lines so clear. But Solaurin didn’t elaborate, and Rismyn didn’t ask, because so long as the interpretation remained vague, he could still gut Dreder for looking at Mazira wrong. 

“Now. Are you coming in?” Solaurin asked, as he turned to the warehouse door. 

Rismyn glanced out at the cavern and shook his head. He was too wired from the Light’s events to be contained by walls. “I’d like to sit here for a while.” 

Solaurin raised an eyebrow, then shrugged, notorious for despising the outdoors. Bidding Rismyn a pleasant Red Light, he went inside.

Sighing, Rismyn kicked his feet up and laid back on the bench, staring at the stalactites barely visible along the cavern ceiling. All things considered, it was a rather tame tongue lashing. He hadn’t even been chastised, not really, though that didn’t mean his mind was at peace.

Without the priest occupying his attention, Rismyn’s thoughts returned to the docks, to the run-in with Dreder and the disgusting things he had said. He replayed the conversation over and over, fantasizing a dozen different ways he’d wished he’d handled it, some less violent, most significantly more.

Dreder was in Launa, his old life colliding with his new, and Rismyn was less than thrilled about it. Yet somehow, he was supposed to be mature, and do the right thing, which apparently, was nothing. 

Solaurin was putting an awful lot of faith in his self control. Almost as much faith as he was putting in Kalos’ loyalty based on a brief history of citizenship and a fortune of gold. Both beliefs felt as flimsy as a bridge made of rope left to rot over time. 

Gradually, the smoke cleared from the stagnant air and the red in the light deepened its hue. The Evensong would be drawing near, if Emmalara could stomach the ritual after the events at the harbor. He hoped she would, and the cavern would fill with enough song to drive the mercenaries mad. Perhaps, if he lay there long enough, he might catch Mazira’s song if she stepped out onto the balcony to participate in it. 

That was what he needed right about now. Mazira’s songs. Rismyn closed his eyes, imagining her sweet voice and the feel of her hair between his fingers. He craved her like a starving man craved bread, and was tempted to go inside and ask her to sing for him just this once, when it occurred to him he didn’t have to, or even have to wait for the Evensong. 

Mazira’s voice followed him wherever he went. Wasn’t that the gift she had given him last time he stood in this miniature mushroom grove? He gripped the hilt of his singing sword, drawing it just enough for the music to play in his head, and at last, the heat of his ire cooled. 

Even when not physically present, Mazira lifted his spirits like nothing else could.

Rismyn’s thoughts drifted, swept away by her whimsical intonation. The other voices joined her, but they were soft and blurred compared to Mazira’s, filling him with a beautiful longing, like the feeling of missing a home he had never known. What he wouldn’t give to have her with him right now, perhaps sprawled over his chest like she had done when they crawled out of the river, only this time, they’d be warm and dry and in significantly less pain. They’d conformed so well together, her curves against his angles. He hadn’t been conscious nearly long enough to enjoy the fleeting intimacy of her head on his shoulder, her stomach against his, a distinct lack of fabric—

“Wow, was it that bad?” 

Rismyn shot up, slamming the blade down into the scabbard, his face flushed darker than pitch. So much for being an elite warrior, alert to all danger. 

Ti’yana stood before him, grinning wickedly at his expense. Her hands were on her hips, and she stood so close she had probably been looming over him.

Well, at least someone was in a better mood.

“Wha—” he began, before clearing his throat. Maybe she hadn’t seen the blade in his hand, or hadn’t put together that he’d been laying around soothing his frustrations with the enchanted voice of a girl he’d been pining for since he was eleven. “Was what bad?” he said, though his voice was still half an octave higher than usual.

Ti’yana’s smile became a smirk, and she nudged his thigh with her knee, indicating she wanted him to move over. Rismyn did so, allowing her to sit beside him. “You know.” She nodded to the house, where the light still shining in the workshop indicated Solaurin had gone to his loom, despite the long cycle spent preparing for their guests. 

“Ah,” Rismyn said. “No, actually, not so bad.” 

Ti’yana gave him a knowing look. “He made you lecture yourself, didn’t he?” 

“Doesn’t he always?” Rismyn asked, though truthfully, he preferred it to the times he’d had to sit and listen. At least this way, he got to control how miserable he felt. Somewhat. “But it went both ways. He listened, too.”

“Good.” Ti’yana bobbed her chin sagely. Then, without warning, she punched him in the arm, hard enough that it actually stung.

“Ouch—hey!” Rismyn rubbed the spot, giving her a scandalized look. “What was that for?”

“That was for scaring the life out of me!” Ti’yana seethed. “Seriously, what were you thinking?”

Ah, so this was why he got off so easy with Solaurin. Because fate knew Ti’yana was coming. Rismyn glowered, still holding the spot she hit, though the throbbing had all but vanished. It had been a good hit, not a spectacular one. “What do you want me to say, I’m sorry? Because I’m not. You should have heard what he said—” 

“I did.” Ti’yana crossed her arms and looked away. “Mazira told me.”

“Well,” Rismyn said, matching Ti’yana’s bite. “Then you know what I was thinking.” 

Ti’yana let out a dramatic sigh she’d clearly inherited from her father, seeming to deflate all at once. In a complete reversal of personality—something he still wasn’t used to—she leaned over, resting her cheek on the space of his arm she had just punched. “Boys say stupid things. That doesn’t mean you should get your throat slit over it.” 

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Rismyn grumbled, though it was hard to stay angry with her when she leaned against him like that. Strange, how just two cycles ago, Mazira had done something similar, and it had addled his brain beyond coherent thought. With Ti’yana the gesture was endearing, even companionable, but not overwhelming. 

“Nobody plans on getting murdered,” Ti’yana said, and Rismyn chose not to point out that where he came from, everyone planned on it, which was why their homes had such high walls and their doors had so many locks. “I’m serious, Rismyn. I saw it all. He was this close to killing you.” She pinched her thumb and index finger together. “And maybe you don’t care, but I kinda like having a brother.” 

Her words demolished the last of his anger, and made him warm in a strange way. Rismyn had always been a brother, before he was even a son, since per tradition his elder sister had raised him. As the secondboy of House Tear and the sixth child out of seven, the label had been integral to identity all his life. 

Yet for the first time in twenty-six years, the word didn’t make him bristle. It wasn’t used as a slur or a reprimand to remind him of his place. It had been a term of endearment, a place of honor in the heart of a girl whose esteem he didn’t deserve. 

And now, in place of anger, he was left with only guilt. 

Marvelous. 

Letting out a breath, he tilted his head to rest against hers, as he should have done when Mazira was in her place. “I owe you an apology.” 

Ti’yana scoffed, apparently committed to her pettiness in ways that rivaled his own. “That’s an understatement.” 

Rismyn smiled slightly. “Well get ready because I’m only giving you one. I’m sorry I wasn’t looking out for you, too. I was so worried about Mazira I didn’t even consider who else might be in danger.” 

Ti’yana jerked away from him and tossed her head back with a sound halfway between a sigh and a groan. She swiveled on the bench, straddling it so she could face him directly. “Look, that’s very sweet of you, but I’m not helpless. Just because I don’t have magic and have never actually been in a fight doesn’t mean I don’t know how to defend myself. I’ve been attending sword dancing classes since I was twelve.” 

Rismyn bit back a laugh, knowing that wasn’t the right response to her declaration. He couldn’t help it, though. Her naivety was precious. Not in the way a child was precious, but a diamond. She was a rare treasure, untouched and unscathed by sorrow, and a fierce desire to ensure she remained that way bubbled up inside of him. He studied her, a face that had become as familiar as his own, and became uncomfortably aware of just how much he had taken her for granted over the last year. Even as their relationship had grown, he’d always thought of her as Mazira’s friend first. He’d liked her because Mazira liked her, because she was good for Mazira. 

And Ti’yana had called him a brother. 

He’d never felt so unworthy in life, and that was saying something. Mindra had made sure his lack of worth was a lesson he reviewed each and every day.

Solaurin had once told him he’d been endeavoring to teach Mazira that she didn’t need Rismyn, that Rismyn couldn’t be her sole source of comfort, joy, or strength. Rismyn had railed against the statement then, but what if Soluarin had been onto something? And what if it was a lesson he needed to learn as well, in the reverse? He loved Mazira, but he couldn't love her at the expense of others. Or himself.

Rismyn moved to mirror Ti’yana’s position, matching her hard stare with one of his own. “Even in wicked drow societies, brothers are born to protect their sisters. Like it or not, I’m going to look out for you, and do it properly this time. I’m just sorry I didn’t consider you sooner. I should have.”

Ti’yana’s complexion was so perfectly shadowed that it was difficult to tell when she blushed. Unless he beheld her in infravision, he usually didn’t notice. This time, however, her eyes flickering away from his gave her away, and the tiny, uncertain smile she tried to hide. 

“Well, it’s to be expected, isn’t it?” she said. “I mean, you’re in love. Why should you consider anyone else?” 

Rismyn’s world tilted as the confession he’d been withholding fell so easily from Ti’yana’s lips, as though statements of such magnitude could be found in a market and bargained for. She hadn’t said it like an accusation, but a simple statement of fact. He was in love with Mazira, and she knew it. And like himself, up until about thirty seconds ago, she assumed that love meant all consuming attention and care.

“T-that’s not… I’m not…” he began, intending to deny her claim as his default, mortified of what admission would do to his bare soul. 

“Oh please, spare me your lies,” Ti’yana said, accompanied by an eyeroll and a giggle. “Even a blind dragon turtle can see that you’re completely—”

The sound of a latch lifting rescued Rismyn from eternal doom, and a second later, the warehouse door swung open, revealing (to his further mortication) the subject of Ti’yana’s accusations. Mazira had changed into softer clothes, her curls heavy and dark from water that refused to be wrung out, and even across the garden, the faint aroma of lavender and rose drifted across the open air. 

His jaw went slack, realizing just how close he’d come to having his secret exposed to her. Not that he didn’t want her to know, but he wanted her to know on his terms. 

Mazira stood for a moment, looking between them as color slowly crept into her cheeks. 

“Oh. S-sorry, I didn’t realize—” She started to turn away, but Ti’yana leapt to her feet. 

“No, stay!” she said, hurrying toward her. “Please. I’m just making sure Rismy understands how stupid he is for starting bar fights with mercenaries. I could use the help.” 

So much for their tender moment. Now it was Rismyn’s turn to roll his eyes. “I’m not apologizing for it, so you can save your breath.” 

“See? Hopeless.” Ti’yana grasped Mazira’s wrist and tugged her toward the benches. “You talk sense into him, Mazira. He listens to you.” 

To Rismyn’s increased sense of dread, Ti’yana winked at him. She dragged a reluctant Mazira toward the firepit and sat her on the bench between herself and Rismyn, though Mazira popped up almost at once, rubbing the spot where Ti’yana had touched her. 

“S-sorry…” she said, scurrying to the next bench over. “G-grey day. Uhm… I don’t… really want to lecture you, Rismyn. I just… just wanted to make sure you were okay… but if you two are… are talking… I can…come back…” 

Rismyn’s heart sank as he watched Mazira, who had not been suffering a grey day before his outburst at the tavern. At least, not a severe one. Had seeing Dreder reduced her to this? Or had it been his own violent reaction? 

But he couldn’t exactly ask. Pointing out her struggle was only liable to make it worse. So instead, he gave her a mocking look of terror. “And subject me to Ti’yana’s wrath for the rest of Red Light? Please, mercy me.” 

Mazira stiffened, then visibly relaxed before their very eyes, even offering him a genuine, if shy, smile. Her dramatic transformation caught him momentarily off guard, until Ti’yana asked a question that put what he said into perspective. 

“Mercy me?” she said, her nose scrunching as she repeated Rismyn’s grammatically incorrect phrase. “You mean, save me? Or ransome me? Or just, mercy?” 

Rismyn and Mazira locked eyes, and to his delight, Mazira giggled. Whatever fear or nervousness had possessed her upon coming into the garden seemed to have been short lived. 

“It’s a long story,” Rismyn said, leaning back and folding his arms, basking in the light of Mazira’s amusement. “When I was a kid, I didn’t know what mercy meant, and—” 

“Wait, wait, wait!” Ti’yana cut him off, waving her hands. “Hold on—yes, I want to hear this story. But first, Rismyn,”—she punched his shoulder again, though this time the hit was playful—“Light us a fire! We can’t have storytime without a fire.” 

Rismyn blinked, looking down at the stone firepit that was filled with glass-like crystals, specially enchanted to capture and hold faerie fire without it draining his concentration. “Me?” he said, momentarily confused as to why the responsibility fell on him. 

“Yes, you,” Ti’yana said. “I’m a lowly commoner, remember? I don’t have innate magic, and Mazira’s magic is sacred, and if you think I’m going all the way upstairs to get the enchanted lighter when—”

“Alright, alright, stop! I understand.” Rismyn shook his head, waving a hand almost flippantly as he willed harmless, heatless, violet flames to erupt on the faerie stones. They were at once bathed in the enchanted light, and Ti’yana leaned back with a contented sigh. 

“There, that’s better. Now, where were we? Oh yes, you’d never heard the word mercy before?” 

She sounded properly disbelieving, an expression that only grew worse as he and Mazira told her the story, as well as they could between bits of laughter at the recollection. He supposed he couldn’t blame Ti’yana for the shock. To an outsider, the tale was dreadful, laced with all the venom of what life under Lolth was like. Where there was once no concept of mercy, and a frightened slave girl trying to appease an immature, and frankly idiotic, drow prince who had not only called her a liar, but had stolen her healing balm, one of her few comforts. 

It was, objectively, aterriblestory, but to Rismyn and Mazira, it would always mark the day they had become friends.

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.