Forsaken by Shadows 56: Brutal and Brilliant

~21. Brilliant and Brutal~

Mazira

Mazira’s feet hastened to carry her down the marble steps of Eilistraee’s temple, her heart still racing from the adrenaline-inducing activity of discovering Festival Wear. 

No, that wasn’t entirely true. The Festival Wear hadn’t caused the flight in her chest. It had merely been the pebble that began the landslide that had crumbled into either the best or worst idea she had ever had. Her conviction swapped with every step taken.

Left foot. This was madness.

Right foot. No madder than anything else in her life had been.

Left foot. Solaurin wasn’t going to allow it. 

Right foot. Solaurin had more faith than most.

Ti’yana hurried after her, peppering her with questions, but Mazira could only handle one conversation at a time, and the one in her head was currently winning. Her mouth mumbled non-committal answers, platitudes from her store of automatic, well-rehearsed responses, while her mind occupied itself with the rush of tangled emotions wound up in the most complex and contradictory of knots. Hope and fear. Delight and dread. Anticipation and the overwhelming urge to swallow the idea and never speak it aloud.

Yet regardless of which foot she landed on, which side of the incredulity, one fact remained.

Whether it be brilliant or brutal, she had to do it. And not because of vanity. She was going to become a cleric. Her soul needed to be scrubbed clean. 

“Mazira!”

The voice from across the courtyard snagged her like a lasso around her waist, and Mazira was yanked to a halt. The maelstrom whirling in her head suddenly iced over, smothering her with shame as she swiveled to receive the red-faced, golden-haired elf who stormed through the gardens.

Oh no. Oh no. She’d completely forgotten about him!

“Staying late, Mazira?” Vaylan asked as he reached them, his tone laced with acid. “Would have been nice to know.” 

Mazira flinched, unable to shake the strange sensation she’d just been roughly awakened from a dream. She’d been so focused on what she was going to do, she had failed to remember what she ought to have been doing, and the reminder of her mundane schedule slapped like one Toloruel’s calculated strikes. 

And as if she had actually been hit by her demon’s hand, she failed to lift her eyes and face the wrath of her friend.  “I’m sorry, Vaylan, I didn’t have time—”

“I’ve been waiting here for over an hour,” Vaylan seethed. “I almost walked all the way to your house before someone was kind enough to mention you were still here. I thought we talked about this, that you weren’t going to make me worry like this again.” 

“I’m… I’m sorry,” Mazira tried again. The pressure of his ire made it difficult to catch the breath she’d left behind with the Festival Wear. Her lip trembled, but she blinked away the tears that wanted to form. There was no reason to cry. This was just a simple misunderstanding, one she could clear up, if she could unscramble her words. 

“They said you were in some sword fighting class for clerics.” Vaylan spat the last word like it disgusted him, then narrowed his eyes at the saber she clutched in her hands, as though he only just noticed it. “Don’t tell me…”

“I was…” Mazira said. Why was it so hard to explain herself? Attending the sword dancing class was a good thing. A triumph in her mediocre list of ridiculous fears. Why was she suddenly so ashamed to have gone?

“Why?” Vaylan asked, his genuine surprise as painful as his anger. “If you wanted to learn how to fight, I could have taught you.”

Another nail hammered into her heart. She hadn’t even considered asking Vaylan for help, and not because the thought never crossed her mind. She just didn’t think he’d want to. He’d quit the Militia because he wasn’t interested in learning their bautha z’hin style. Said he already knew how to fight and didn’t need to start all over, especially when he preferred his fists. It had seemed silly to ask him to be her tutor when she already had Rismyn, who lived and breathed the art.

“Well?” Vaylan demanded, when she didn’t speak right away.

“Hey, maybe if you give her a chance to talk, she’ll tell you,” Ti’yana growled. Her arms had been crossed since the moment of his approach, and her eyes could have cut glass. “Honestly, what’s your problem?” 

“My problem?” Vaylan retorted, but when he rounded on Ti’yana, he hesitated. Not because of her charm, at least, not anymore. Mazira had watched that fade away over the cycles they spent sharing lunches together. It was something else. A wariness crept over his expression, as he beheld her friend’s raised hackles. He took several deep, measured breaths, before his body noticeably relaxed. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, though he turned in a way that made it clear he was addressing Mazira, not Ti’yana. “I just… I get so worried. We just found each other again, and I’m still not convinced I won’t wake up one day and realize it’s all a dream, and I’ll lose you all over again.” 

Mazira bit her still quaking lip, daring to peek up at him. She wanted to smile, to tell Vaylan it was okay, because she understood all too well how fear could manifest as anger. Hadn’t she walked through it herself, for four months in the untamed Underdark? Yet while she did understand, she couldn’t quite coax her mouth to curve upward. 

Not before Ti’yana reacted, at least. Her eyes rolled and she scoffed, a hand going to her hip. “Well you have a funny way of showing it. And what’re you so worried about, anyway? We’re in Launa.” 

Vaylan shot Ti’yana a dark look. “Right, Launa. A city so safe they invite mercenaries for a holiday. Or have you forgotten Ardyn’s father is still missing?”

And Crysla, though he didn’t deign to mention that.

Ti’yana swelled with indignation, but before she could say anything, Mazira darted between them.

“Please, stop,” she said, though it came out more as a squeak. “It’s alright. Vaylan, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I would be staying later. I… I only just decided at breakfast to tell Solaurin and Ti’yana about it. Rismyn’s been suggesting I stay, but I only just worked up the courage to go through with it today, and feared if I waited I would lose my resolve.” 

Vaylan’s whole body tensed, and only then did Mazira realize her mistake. But it was too late to take the words back. She could only brace herself as the sun-elf said, “So you told Rismyn about this?” 

Why did they have to hate each other so much? Their mutual animosity made her heart physically ache, but Mazira weathered his heat like a reptile on a rock, cold-blooded and patient, now that she was prepared for it. “Yes. When I decided I wanted to be a cleric, I asked him to help me learn the sword. He’s an instructor now, it only made sense. I wasn’t ready to tell anyone else until today. I’m sorry this is how you found out.” 

There. She’d finally said it. A perfectly reasonable, well thought out explanation as to why she had done as she had done, though it only covered some of the truth. The whole truth was that it hadn’t even occurred to her to mention her change in schedule to Vaylan, despite their new cyclical routine. She’d been so worried about getting herself to the class she didn’t think about who else it might affect.

Now her carelessness had made him worry, and her lack of trust had wounded him. What if he decided she wasn’t worth the effort of their friendship anymore? He was all she had left of her past, the only one who remembered her before the scars and bruising.

Scars. That’s right. Vaylan didn’t even know about her scars. With all they had been through together, she’d never mentioned them to him. Every outfit she owned was carefully curated to hide them from view, and it wasn’t exactly a subject that just came up in conversation. How could she possibly explain now?

Vaylan’s expression gave none of his thoughts away. “A cleric? You’re planning to become a cleric?” 

Mazira’s right hand hooked around her opposite arm. “Yes. Mother Lara said I could try.” 

Vaylan’s stoicism gave way to one of incredulousness, and he laughed, like he didn’t believe her. When Mazira and Ti’yana just looked at him, Vaylan shook his head. “You’re serious? You’re really going to tie yourself to her?” He jerked his thumb toward the temple. 

“And what’s wrong with that?” Ti’yana asked.

“Well nothing, if you’re a drow,” Vaylan said. When Ti’yana’s expression hardened, he quickly added, “and there’s nothing wrong with being a drow. It’s just… Mazira. C’mon. Are you sure you really want to do this?” 

She probably should have been expecting this kind of reaction from Vaylan, given his still somewhat hostile nature to everything dark elven, but Mazira was genuinely taken aback by his question. Perhaps because it echoed every doubt she’d wrestled with over the last six cycles since she’d come to her decision. A reminder that she didn’t belong, even if the Weave beneath her skin whispered that she did. The glaring reality that Eilistraee had exiled herself for lost dark elves, not lost half elves. 

But even as she thought it, she recalled the very real voice that had summoned her by name earlier that same cycle, the one that was worthy to be obeyed. The way the magic in her had reacted to the presence of something ethereal, and her heart responded to the pounding drums. 

No, she didn’t know if this was really what she wanted, and no, she didn’t even know if she’d make it past her Ordeal. But regardless of her doubts and Vaylan’s opinions, she had to try. If Eilistraee didn’t really want her, she’d make it clear soon enough.

“Yes,” Mazira said. “This is what I want. And if I make it, I won’t be the only non-drow cleric in the Order. There are others, and who knows what the other churches look like, the ones on the surface.” 

Valyan’s good nature was rapidly deteriorating back to the wrath he’d worn when he first confronted her. Scoffing, he folded his arms, as rigid as the stone beneath their feet. “I dunno. I think maybe you should reconsider. You’ve been underground for a long time, after all. There’s a lot more to the world than this, and you’re still so young to be making such big decisions.”

Mazira blinked, not quite sure she had heard what she had just heard. Not because his voice wasn’t clear, but because the way it made her feel… 

Her throat tightened, but she couldn’t say why. There wasn’t anything inherently hurtful or insulting in his words, not even anything untrue. He was only looking out for her best interests… right? 

Or maybe not. Ti’yana surged forward, looking just as offended as Mazira was feeling, her glower screaming hate that was unbecoming on her sweet face. “Well no one asked you what you thought, Vaylan. Look, if you’re not going to be supportive, then go away. We have stuff to do.”

Vaylan rocked back on his heels. “Well excuse me for trying to offer a different perspective,” he said. He glanced at Mazira over Ti’yana’s shoulder. “Hey, why don’t we eat out today.” 

Once more, Mazira’s breath escaped her lungs and failed to return. For a moment, she considered agreeing, just to escape the consequences.

But she’d been heading home to talk to Solaurin about her Ordeal. Her rather intimidating, incredibly painful Ordeal, that she may not have the courage to go through with if she didn’t ask about it now. Her confidence waxed and waned with the moon, and she didn’t have enough time to hope it came back if she missed her opportunity now. 

“I’m sorry, Vaylan, but I can’t today,” she finally said. “I need to talk to Solaurin.” 

“What?” Vaylan asked, in total disbelief. “Now? You live with him. Can’t you talk to him whenever you want?” 

Mazira winced, squeezing her eyes shut as she willed herself not to lose her resolve. “I’m sorry, but this can’t wait.”

Vaylan looked between her and Ti’yana, his mouth hanging open. When neither of them said anything else, he tossed up his hands. “Fine,” he said, before spinning on his heel and marching away. 

Despair crept from Mazira’s lips at the sight of his stiff shoulders, and she curled in on herself, on the verge of total collapse. What if he never spoke to her again? She should have just gone to lunch and talked to Solaurin later. Why did she have to be so selfish? 

Ti’yana huffed and tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Don’t be upset, Mazira. You haven’t done anything wrong.” 

“But he…” She choked on her words as Vaylan vanished from sight. “He’s my friend…”

“Well your friend is being a brat. He’ll get over it. Come on, let’s go home.” 

Mazira didn’t move until Ti’yana to put her arm around her shoulder and pulled her in the direction of their house. It was all she could do to keep her tears inside as they went, as she tried to blink away the image of Vaylan walking away from her.

Possibly never to smile at her again. What was wrong with her? 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Ti’yana asked, more gently as her own temper seemed to dissipate.

“No,” Mazira said, hugging herself. She didn’t want to think about it, either. “No I… I need to think over what I want to say to your father.”

“Okay. But if you change your mind…” Ti’yana’s hand reached hers with a comforting squeeze, and Mazira returned the gesture, grateful to have a friend like her. 

But the gratitude of friendship only reminded her of the one she had probably just lost, and pain lanced across her gut. She scrubbed at her eyes to keep them dry, and did her best to do exactly what she told Ti’yana she was going to do; consider her words to Solaurin. He was going to need to be convinced, and Mazira wasn’t sure she had enough spirit left in her for another confrontation. 

Unfortunately, her cycle of turmoil was only getting started. 

When at last they reached the street she’d come to call her own, Mazira’s despair eased at the sight of it. Solaurin’s house stood midway down, her own little slice of personal sanctuary, where she was safe to be herself. Yet when Ti’yana lifted the latch and ushered her inside, voices were heard upstairs. Multiple voices, as though Solaurin had guests.

Had some of his apprentices stayed over for the meal? Or had Rismyn come home? A sliver of hope revitalized at the thought of him being home, though the reviving sparks smothered under a new fear. Much as his presence was a tangible bastion of peace, there was no way she could tell Rismyn what she had planned for her Ordeal. 

He wouldn’t understand.

Or, maybe he would. She’d already underestimated the depths of his empathy once before. 

No, she couldn’t risk it. If Rismyn was home, she would have to risk offending him as well, by asking him to leave. Stars, could the cycle get any worse? 

The answer to that unspoken question was a resounding yes, as they reached the top of the stairs. She had been partially right. Rismyn was indeed seated at their kitchen table. But the elf sitting between him and Solaurin was not an apprentice.

It was the mercenary Rismyn had expressly forbidden her to go near. The same one he had assaulted at the Sunglow Tavern, the one he had looked ready to kill. Yet by the appearance of their mostly empty plates, they had served him lunch. 

She and Ti’yana froze as the men looked up from their conversation with markedly different reactions. 

Rismyn tensed, his withering gaze cutting straight to the mercenary. 

The mercenary dropped the fork he had been holding, his jaw going slack, his attention fixed firmly on Ti’yana.

Yet unlike every other male who had only recently met Ti’yana, at least in Mazira’s brief acquaintance with her, the mercenary managed to do something she had never seen before. He tore his eyes away, glancing briefly at Mazira, before dropping his gaze to his plate without saying a single word. 

Solaurin didn’t react at all, except to raise his silver cup and drink deeply from whatever beverage he had poured for himself, taking in everything and nothing all at once. “Welcome home,” he said, as if there wasn’t a wicked elf sitting at his table. 

He was wicked, right? That’s why Rismyn had told her to avoid him, even though she couldn’t recall meeting him specifically before. He seemed somewhat familiar, but there had been a lot of elves in Rismyn’s class, and she hadn’t exactly been looking directly at them. 

“Hi…” Ti’yana said, as apprehensive as a mouse in Eilistraee’s cat-crowded temple. A war waged across her face; her desire to not be rude versus her desire to understand what bizarre situation they had stumbled upon.

“Ti’yana, Mazira, this is Dreder Ti’glath,” Solaurin said. “One of Launa’s guests.” 

‘Guests’ were what the mercenaries were called in polite company, which meant Solaurin absolutely understood—like he could forget—who was at his table. 

As if the scenario couldn’t get weirder, Dreder glanced at Rismyn, something akin to contrition in his eyes, and Rismyn gave him a nod. 

With what appeared to be Rismyn’s permission, Dreder raised his eyes and nodded in their general direction. “Afternoon, ladies,” he said, before looking anywhere but directly at them. 

What in the world…? Was this the same mercenary Belnir and Beltel were going to let Rismyn cut down? The boy who had stirred up the Do’ar patrols and said such ugly things? Or was she so rattled from her fight with Vaylan she was starting to hallucinate? 

“How was your sword dancing class?” Solaurin asked, continuing on as if this wasn’t one of the strangest encounters Mazira had experienced. 

Exchanging a mystified look with Ti’yana, they both mumbled something along the lines of, “fine.” 

“Where’s Vaylan?” was Solaurin’s next question. “Did he not wait for you as usual?” 

Mazira paled. Her grief over Vaylan had been temporarily overshadowed in the shock of seeing the mercenary in their home, but the mention of his name brought it flooding back, threatening her composure.

“We told him we were busy,” Ti’yana said, answering before Mazira could collect her emotions enough speak for herself. “Mazira needs to talk to you, Father. Alone.” She shot a pointed look in Dreder’s direction, but he still wasn’t looking at them. 

“Oh?” Solaurin sipped from his cup again, but the slight narrowing of his eyes gave away his concern. “Is everything okay?” 

“Y-yes…” Mazira said. “It’s… cleric stuff.” 

“Well,” said Rismyn, pushing away from the table. “It’s about time I get going anyway.” He flashed Mazira a quick smile, as though to reassure her he was giving her space, not running from the mention of clerics, and her heart swelled with joy so full it bled into her sorrow.

She wasn’t going to have to ask him to leave. She wasn’t going to hurt him the way she’d hurt Vaylan. 

Oblivious to what his simple smile and kind words had done to her, Rismyn nudged the mercenary’s shoulder. “C’mon, Dreder. I’ll walk you back to the docks.” 

Dreder looked like he wanted to protest, but after another furtive glance at Ti’yana, he rose as well. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he said to Solaurin, and unless Mazira was continuing to hallucinate, his manners had surprised Rismyn as well. He did a slight double take, before moving toward the stairs.

“You are welcome to it again,” Solaurin said, his expression half hidden behind his cup. “But next time, let’s not pretend anything, shall we?” 

There was subtext there that Mazira didn’t get, but presumably the boys did. Dreder nodded and followed Rismyn to the stairs, which Ti’yana and Mazira shuffled away from to give them space. 

Those that were left in the kitchen remained still and silent, as if their likenesses were being captured in a painting, as Rismyn and Dreder transitioned from tangible apparitions to formless footsteps, and some not so subtly whispered words. 

“Why can’t we stay?” Dreder asked, with what sounded like accusation. 

“Because I have work.” 

“Work?” The mercenary sounded scandalized.

“Yes, work. As in, my trade. This might come as a shock to you, but there’s more ways to make gold than killing for it.” 

“Ha, ha.” There was a beat of silence, and then a more curious, “What kind of work?”

The door below opened and shut, snapping the spell of stillness in the kitchen. 

Ti’yana rounded on her father, and all of the tranquility she had recollected on their mostly quiet walk home vanished. “What was he doing here?” 

Solaurin set down his cup. “An excellent query. One I’m sure Rismyn will be answering in great detail when he gets home this Red Light. Are you hungry? We warmed up some of yesterday’s flatbreads.” 

“No, I’m not hungry,” Ti’yana said. “I’m confused! How could you let that person into our home?”

Solaurin’s fingers began a rhythmic sort of tapping on the table. “Are you acquainted with that young man? Do you know something I do not?” 

“I mean… no.” Ti’yana’s arms crossed as she puffed out her cheeks. “But I saw Rismyn try to kill him. And you didn’t hear what he said to me when I intervened!”

“You are right that Rismyn threatened him,” Solaurin agreed. “It was not the first time, either, nor was it the first time that boy has provoked Rismyn to such action. We had a very interesting discussion on their history… But no matter. If Rismyn is willing to show civility to an old enemy, who am I to act otherwise?” 

“Uhm… our guardian?” Ti’yana pressed. “He’s a mercenary. Now he knows where we live!” 

A cloud seemed to overshadow Solaurin, a subtle shift in his countenance that warned of the end of his patience, yet his words remained calm and endearing. 

Even still, Mazira flinched.

“Eilistraee gives grace to all manner of peoples,” he said. “As her disciples we ought to do the same. The boy already found his way here without our help. Offending him doesn’t seem like the wisest way to keep him from using that knowledge for ill gain.” 

“So instead you just let him have free rein in our home?” 

Solaurin’s tapping fingers stilled as Ti’yana’s voice rose, clenching into a fist. “That is enough, Ti. I have reasons for my actions, and you must trust my wisdom on the matter.”

Ti’yana looked on the verge of volcanic eruption, jaw tight and hands balled. 

Mazira took an involuntary step backward, preparing to flee down the stairs. First Vaylan, and now this? Her question for Solaurin could wait. She needed to get away, to get somewhere safe where volatile emotions couldn’t fracture what was left of her resolve.

But her motion attracted their attention, and Mazira froze as red and silver eyes darted in her direction. Ti’yana deflated at once, and Solaurin grimaced.

“I am sorry,” he said, rising from the table, though it wasn’t clear to which of the girls he was apologizing. His gaze took them both in, before settling on his daughter. Without another word, he opened his arms, and though they had just been in fierce conflict, Ti’yana rushed to him, allowing herself to be enveloped in a hug, shattering the tension with a single act of unity. 

“I do hear your concerns,” Solaurin said into her hair. “But there is more at work than we yet see. I have no intention of allowing harm to anyone in this household.” 

“I still don’t like it,” Ti’yana insisted. 

“I’m not overly fond of the idea myself,” Solaurin admitted, as he let her go. “But what would faith be if we only exercised it when convenient?”

Ti’yana’s nose crinkled, and her arms crossed. “Safe,” she muttered, but her heart wasn’t in it.

Solaurin chuckled, cupping her cheek, then turned solemn eyes to Mazira. “I am sorry we raised our voices. I know how it upsets you.” 

Mazira looked away. Technically speaking, only Ti’yana raised her voice, but volume wasn’t what set her on edge, and her nerves had been spent well before she’d walked into the kitchen. The temptation to scurry to her bedroom and hide under her blanket was nearly impossible to subdue, willingly buying the lie that the plush fabric would protect her from the evils of the world, the way she’d believed it about her scratchy wool blanket when she’d slept on a rug in Toloruel’s corner. 

But she’d come here for a purpose. She’d followed the call of the voice, at the expense of Vaylan’s happiness, to bring her to this moment. This conversation about her future, about brilliance and brutality, and everything in between. She couldn’t run away now. 

Rubbing at her shoulders, she shrugged, hoping her face wasn’t as red as it felt. “It’s okay,” she said, meek as a minnow. “I’m not upset.”

Silence greeted her words, and she could imagine the looks flitting from father to daughter, seeing right through her feeble lies. 

“Do you have concerns you wish to share as well?” Solaurin asked. “You have the right to express them, as a member of this household.”

Mazira shook her head. She was definitely red now, but at least this time her answer was truthful. The mercenary’s presence certainly surprised her, and she hadn’t quite settled on how his appearance in their kitchen made her feel, but he had been with Rismyn and Solaurin. If there was one thing she would bet her life on, it was that both of those elves were committed to keeping her safe. 

“No,” she finally managed. “I’d rather… I’d rather talk to you about my Ordeal. I think I’ve decided on what I want to do.”

Solaurin’s eyes sparked with genuine enthusiasm, the first she’d seen since she’d come home. “Have you, now?” he said, clearing the plates from the table to make room for the kitchen’s new occupants. “Wonderful. Please, sit. I can warm some water for cocoa, and the flatbread won’t take but a moment to reheat.”

But Mazira didn’t want to sit. She was too agitated to be contained within her own skin, let alone seated at the table. Her stomach couldn’t fathom receiving food at the moment, or ever again for that matter. Wringing her hands, she declared, “I want to remove my scars!” 

Solaurin froze and Ti’yana gasped. 

Mazira squirmed beneath the looks they gave her, but she forced herself to return their stare, to withstand the stark pity and mournful expressions that she was tired of receiving.

“Mazira, dear child,” Solaurin said, in the patient way one adopts when speaking with children. “You know that magic can’t do that.” 

“I know,” Mazira agreed. Now that it was said, she couldn’t back out. Her nails dug into her skin as she articulated her full intentions. “Magic can’t heal what the body has already healed. But… but… magic can heal new wounds.” 

Solaurin’s brow furrowed with confusion, then smoothed as his eyes popped wide with understanding. “Great stars,” he said, the closest he ever got to uttering oaths. “You can’t mean—”

Mazira nodded, though her body shook. “I think… I think fire will do it best. A quick cleanse. And then—”

“Mazira, no!” Ti’yana said, just as shocked as her father. “That would… that would hurt!” 

The irony in that statement, coming from a drow daughter, one who had been meant to one day rule houses, was not lost on Mazira. In spite of everything, she almost laughed. A dark, humorless laugh. But she kept it to herself, lest she appear out of her right mind. “No worse than receiving them did.” 

“This is different,” Solaurin said, collapsing back into his seat. His ebon skin had gone ashen. “What you’re asking… we do not do such things in Launa. There’s no guarantee it would even work.” 

Mazira had expected to have to argue her case, but now that the moment was here, and on the heels of her disagreement with Vaylan, she found herself wilting beneath her benefactor’s gentle refusal. He wasn’t wrong, there was no guarantee of success. She could quite possibly get her way only to learn—after the fire had been applied—that her skin would always heal the way it currently appeared. As though the acid had dripped beyond mere flesh and scarred her soul as well. 

But that was the curious thing about magic. It couldn’t always be predicted.

Mazira placed a hand over the brand hidden beneath her clothing. If there was even a sliver of a chance she might one day awaken to an unblemished body, she wanted to try it. So what if it would hurt? Pain was a close acquaintance, and fear an old friend. Mazira was no stranger to butchery.

But faith… That was something new. Unexpected. A peculiar warmth thrumming like an undercurrent to her pulse. A quiet whisper urging her on, despite her desire to give up.

Hadn’t Solaurin just spoken of faith? 

“What would faith be,” she found herself repeating, “if we only exercised it when convenient?” 

It had felt like the right thing to say, but Solaurin wasn’t amused. His countenance became rigid and he took up his finger-tapping again, staring her down. “There is a difference between faith and insanity.” 

Of course. He was well practiced in the art of standing his ground, whereas Mazira was learning on the spot. A crash course in defiance, with an opponent she’d never wanted to spar with. Vaylan had walked away from her. What if Solaurin turned her out?

She looked to Ti’yana, but her friend only stared back, stricken. There would be no rescue from her this time. Mazira had to fight this battle alone. Perhaps against them both. 

“I thought…” she began, “that the point of the Ordeal was to challenge your fears and reckon with your past. These marks”—her fingers curled into the fabric of her tunic—“are my legacy. The shackles that haunt me. They were given to the slave I no longer am. I don’t want to live in their shadow anymore. I want them gone. And I want you to do it, Solaurin. Please. There’s no one else I trust.” 

“Is this about the Festival Wear?” Ti’yana asked. “I told you, I can make you something special—”

“I don’t want special,” Mazira said, then clapped a hand to her mouth when she realized what she’d done. She’d just snapped at Ti’yana. Her dear friend, who had always been so kind and considerate of her. Who had been by her side this entire wretched cycle, a stalwart pillar of strength to sustain her. Mazira’s eyes welled, and this time she failed to keep droplets back. Yet through all of the emotion constricting her throat, she managed to force out, “I just want to be normal.” 

And strong. And useful. But everyone around her was already those things, so as far as Mazira was concerned, normal was synonymous. 

Solaurin rose from his chair, and Mazira flinched. Even though she knew him. Even though she believed, with every fiber in her being, that he would never hurt her, she still flinched.

His expression twisted at the sight of it. He wavered, as if he intended to sit back down, but then his shoulders stiffened. He took a tentative step forward and reached for her hand. 

Mazira gave it without hesitation, grateful that this day hadn’t been grey. 

“My dear,” Solaurin said, pulling her to him. “What you ask of me, I cannot do. You want me to… to melt your flesh.” 

Ti’yana clapped a hand to her mouth. Apparently, she’d been doing an excellent job disassociating her thoughts from Mazira’s intentions. 

“My hands can do no harm to the innocent—never again.” As he spoke, he squeezed her hands within his. They were surprisingly soft and smooth. Nothing like Rismyn’s or Vaylan’s.

Or Toloruel’s.

“And not just because of the oaths I have sworn,” he continued. “To put you through such pain, to see you in distress by my doing… No. I beg you, Mazira, choose something else.” 

But there was nothing else. Mazira was as sure of that fact as she had come to be sure of the sun above their heads. Distant and far away, but unmistakably there, whether she could see it or not. 

This was going to be her Ordeal. 

As her conviction solidified into steel, a strange peace overshadowed her. Yet strange as it was, the feeling was not unknown to her. It was the same sensation that had pushed her into her and Rismyn’s first hug, all those years ago in the dark alcove of House Tear’s chapel. The same curious calm that had allowed her to stand up to Toloruel, when he’d found them in the Wilds, and she declared her soul wasn’t his to rend.

This moment was far too mundane for such miraculous peace, but it overcame her trembling. Her breaths sounded thunderous in the dead silence of Solaurin’s pleading, and in the stillness, she moved. 

She closed the distance between herself and Solaurin, pulling her hands from his and throwing her arms around his neck. The first time in her knowing of him that she initiated such a display of affection. 

“All my life,” she said, “pain has been something that was done to me. If I had my way, I would never feel it again. Thank you for trying to spare me, but life doesn’t work like that.”

She thought of Vaylan walking away from her, and the mercenary Rismyn had threatened with violence, then invited into their home. She thought of Tsaria, who had gone into seclusion since the news of Torafein’s disappearance, and of Ardyn, of whom gossip and pity surrounded like wildfire, as he raged through the city with no outlet for his pain. 

She thought of the sleep Solaurin would lose if he did this for her. And he would lose sleep. Because he cared for her. Not as he cared for a torn tapestry he’d been tasked with mending, a temporary project he’d work and then set aside, but in the permanent way in which he cared for his own daughter. Unrelenting and forever.

What a cruel thing she was asking him to do. But life was cruel, and there was nothing to be gained by hiding under a blanket that could be easily taken away. 

“This is my decision,” Mazira said. “My choice. My Ordeal. Please do this for me.” 

Solaurin had been slow to return her embrace, though in his defense, Mazira normally hated to be touched. Yet when he finally encircled her in his own arms, she was no less engulfed than Ti’yana had been.

He said nothing when he let her go. He merely stepped back, bracing his hands on her shoulders, before releasing her fully and walking away. 

Mazira’s heart plummeted, watching his back recede as Vaylan’s had, but Solaurin didn’t go far. He didn’t even leave her vision as he stepped into the sitting room. Mazira made a motion to go to him, desperate to plead her cause, to beg his forgiveness for not acquiescing to his will, but Ti’yana caught her hand. 

“Just wait,” she whispered, watching her father with heavy eyes.

Solaurin paced the small room, standing before the elaborate mantle that felt so out of place. He trailed a hand over the carved stone, then turned and contemplated the scarlet rug. After a moment, he paced again, halting once more before the fireplace and repeating the motions. 

“That room was his Ordeal,” Ti’yana said, still low enough to not disturb her father’s contemplations. “A recreation of the room where he… where my mother died. I think he is thinking it over.”

Mazira’s mouth went dry as the red threads of the rug she so often curled up on took a vivid new meaning. She had, eventually, been told the story of how the Zovarr’s had come to Launa. After she was well invested in her liking of them. But knowing the story, and realizing she lived in a skeleton of the drama were two very different things. 

She wanted to forget her past. Solaurin had memorialized it. She wanted to erase the marks. Solaurin lived in a ghost every day, defying its power over him. 

Maybe she’d been wrong about her Ordeal choice, after all.

At last, he stopped his pacing, moving to stand in the doorway. “Okay,” he said. “I will consider your request. But only if Mother Lara approves. This may need to go before all of the Eleven. You should come up with an alternative if they strike it down.” 

Relief brought a real, genuine smile to her lips, and Mazira finally succumbed to a kitchen chair, completely bereft of the energy to do anything else. “Thank you,” she said, hardly daring to believe she had survived it. She’d insisted on her way, and won, and no one around her seemed to like her less for it. 

Ti’yana sank into the chair beside her, looking dazed, but still present. Solaurin moved through the kitchen, lingering just long enough to rest a hand on her shoulder, a silent reassurance of his goodwill toward her, before vanishing down the stairs, probably in desperate need of his pipe.

And Mazira smiled all the more. Little by little, she was making progress. One Ordeal at a time.

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.