Forsaken by Shadows 67: Don't Think

~32. Don’t Think~

Mazira

The trick to disassociating was staying busy. If Mazira’s hands were busy, her head didn’t have the leisure to wander. Blood wasn’t blood when she had something to do with it, like scrub it off an altar or sing it back veins. It was just the next task on her long list of tasks.

But blood was absolutely blood when it stretched before her, an ocean of red between herself and the Xarrin’s, who sat opposite the bench she shared with Dreder and Rismyn in the gatehouse. Deep crimson liquid, like the color of midnight in Launa, or the folds of her dress, or the irises of a drow’s eye. Staining. Blaming. Decaying.

No. Don’t think about it.

Her breath tripped on its way out of her lungs. No, this waiting wasn’t enough. She needed something to occupy her hands, to keep her trembling mind at bay. Perhaps a bucket and a brush would do the trick. The blood wasn’t going to clean itself, after all. The longer it remained the harder it would be to remove. And it would stink, as whatever lived in it died off.

Or maybe she should go after Vaylan. She was probably the only person in the cavern who truly understood his pain. It was wrong to let others deal with him. Right? She should never have let him go. She should have tried harder to… what? Make him feel better about Toloruel haunting their city?

No. Don’t think about it.

She recalled her staggering breath, which was a mistake. With the influx of oxygen came the all too familiar taste of sour iron. Scents that drew her back to days long lost, where her own blood saturated the floor. Knives in the dark. A sword in her stomach.

No. Don’t think about it.

Yet her hand went to the scar that remained over her navel, a long, vertical divot in her skin. Eilistraee’s mothwing marks around the old wound left no physical pattern to remind her they were still there. Nothing tangible to overshadow the price of her freedom.

Toloruel is here.

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep the rising tide of tears at bay. No point in crying over it. Weeping would change nothing about her situation.

Toloruel is here and killing innocents. Because you ran away.

No.

Her grief escaped in a soundless puff of air, for she dared not articulate the word that wanted form, the desperate cry of denial. Her arms ached to wrap around herself, her spine threatening to curl her into a little ball like she’d used to do when her master came for her. A pointless, deceiving attempt at defense. It had never saved her before.

You should have stayed in Menzoberranzan. Now everyone you love is going to die.

She was unraveling. Idleness had done its work, clawing into her head and cleaving apart her shields. Forcing her to mull over the impending tragedy. How perfectly symbolic, that her eyes should behold a carpet of blood while her head contemplated the wrath that was to come. A conclusion that was impossible to deny.

No, don’t think about—

The door swung open and Mazira jumped, latching onto Rismyn. Panic surged as the form that materialized against the red light was distinctly masculine.

Toloruel was here. Now. Already. Coming to finish her off and kill the ones she loved.

But as the man stepped into the white faerie fire light, he resolved into the image of someone entirely different. His coloring was all wrong, for one thing. An ashen blue-grey rather than deep drow coal, with glimmering sapphire eyes.

She’d seen him before, but only once up close. Kalos, the mercenary captain.

Dreder stiffened, his hand clutching at the remains of the wound Mazira had failed to heal completely. “What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?” Kalos repeated, his eyes roving around the room before settling on Dreder with a decidedly unimpressed stare. “You’re supposed to be on patrol. What are you doing here?”

“Uh, hello.” Dreder scoffed, brandishing his hook at Torafein. “Isn’t it obvious? Being generally awesome? Single-handedly saving the day?”

Ardyn snorted and Kalos smirked, but before either could speak, Dreder scowled.

“Pun. Not. Intended,” he said, over emphasizing each word. “I’m doing my job, okay? What’s it look like?”

“Bleeding out, mostly,” Rimsyn muttered, his first spoken words since he had informed Torafein they weren’t going anywhere.

“Shut up, Tear,” Dreder hissed through gritted teeth. “Mind your own business.”

“Boys,” Kalos chided. He sighed and shook his head. “Honestly, I don’t know what else I was expecting. Every time the three of you get together”—his gaze swept over Rismyn and Mazira, including them in his speech—“there’s always trouble. Bar fights, severed hands, stab wounds. One can’t help but wonder what might happen next.”

Mazira looked away, her throat tightening. Trouble? That wasn’t Rismyn or Dreder’s fault. It was hers. All hers. She was the one they had fought over, the one who Toloruel had come to claim. She was the common denominator in all these tragedies. The lynchpin that destruction hinged on.

I should have stayed in Menzoberranzan.

“Well check one off the list,” Dreder said, interrupting her thoughts with a roll of his eyes. “I’ve already been stabbed. So I guess we’re three-for-three.”

“I noticed,” Kalos said. “And I suppose the little lady is responsible for destroying my hope that I was coming here to collect a corpse? Pretty nice of her, considering your history. Have you said ‘thank you’ yet?”

Mazira’s cheeks warmed, but whether it was from the shock of his harsh words—she really had been in Launa too long—or just the general discomfort of being acknowledged, she couldn’t say. Regardless, she shrank into Rismyn’s side, as if his presence could overshadow hers when she’d dressed intentionally in a way that made her stand out.

“I’ve been busy,” Dreder grunted.

“Right,” Kalos said, drawing out the word. “Dare I ask where the rest of your patrol is?”

The younger mercenary shrugged, then winced, his fingers tightening over his wound. “I dunno. Probably still patrolling. We got separated.”

“You got separated,” Kalos repeated.

“He stayed back to hunt for gemstones in one of our copper veins,” Ardyn chimed in, drawing Kalos’ azure gaze away from them, allowing Mazira a brief reprieve from his piercing stare.

Dreder made a sound like a snarl. “Does no one know the meaning of discretion around here?”

“I stayed with him to watch his back,” Ardyn continued, as though oblivious to the daggers in Dreder’s eyes. “When we found my father, we deemed it a higher priority to bring him back, rather than find the others. We were… ignorant of the enemy following us.”

A whimper escaped Mazira’s lips, her fingers curling into the folds of her dress. Rismyn leaned toward her, but she refused to acknowledge his concern, or anyone at all, as she stared at her knees.

Ignorant? Of course they were ignorant. They were always ignorant, like when she was as a child and Toloruel stalked her family through the night. Or when she and Rismyn were in the Wilds, and Toloruel followed them through the darkness. When would they learn? Why hadn’t anyone asked her? She could have warned them if they had just asked her.

“We were ignorant of a lot of things,” Dreder cut in. “Did you know we were hunting Toloruel Tear?”

Fear electrified Mazira’s nerves at the mention of that name, and around her, Rismyn’s body went taut.

He said it. Why did he have to say it? It wasn’t real so long as they didn’t say his name.

“Of course I knew,” Kalos said, silver-ringed fingers drumming on his bicep. “And if you’d been paying attention, you’d have figured that out, too. Or did you forget who tried to hire us to find this place last year?”

“What?” Rismyn cried, rocketing to his feet. His sudden absence from her side left Mazira cold in more ways than one. “He tried to hire you?”

“Technically your sister tried, but he was there.” Kalos regarded Rismyn, then smirked. “Why so angry? Obviously we turned them down.”

“Which sister?” Rismyn demanded, though Mazira thought she could probably guess. Toloruel only tolerated one of them. Something else she could have told them, had they asked.

“Mind your manners and maybe I’ll tell you.”

“Enough, Kalos,” came Torafein’s gruff rumble from the corner. “You know how this goes. We must wait for Mother Lara.”

“Maybe you must,” Kalos said, uncrossing his arms and stretching them outward until his interlocked fingers cracked. “But I don’t call this place home anymore. I have a right to know what happened to my men. Oh, and, welcome back. Glad you’re not dead.”

“You used to live here?” Dreder asked, sounding genuinely curious, but his question went ignored.

“This is—” Rismyn finished his outburst with a curse, making Mazira wince as he compared their situation to animal excrement. “It’s my family we’re talking about. I have a right to know! I should have known from the very beginning.”

A dreadful silence fell as he aimed his baleful gaze at Torafein, who met his stare without flinching. Beside him, Ardyn appeared conflicted, anxious eyes flicking between his father and Rismyn, as if unsure of whose side he ought to take.

He never got the chance to decide. The door swung open again, this time crashing with a bang, and Mazira whipped her hands over her head.

Her caution, it turned out, was unnecessary.

Mother Lara stood imperiously in the doorframe, surveying them all with a shrewd expression, eyes narrowing as they raked over the blood on the floor. Solaurin edged in behind her, shutting the door in his wake.

At the sight of her surrogate father, Mazira’s muscles bunched as though to spring up and rush to him, but she found herself frozen. Indeed, no one moved as the Reverend Mother strode inward, raising her hands as if she intended to conduct an orchestra.

Yet instead of music, a litany of arcane words fell from her lips. The sound sent shivers down Mazira’s spine, and she succumbed to the urge to draw in on herself, lifting her feet to perch her heels on the edge of the bench so she could hug her knees.

Foot by foot, the blood dried, cracked and disintegrated, as Mother Lara waded to the center of the gatehouse, her magic instantly invalidating about a decade or so of Mazira’s life work. Even the taste of iron vanished, replaced with leather and oil, scents that reminded Mazira of Rismyn after he returned from a Blue Light spent training at the Cove.

Could she learn that spell? It would come in handy when Toloruel enslaved her again.

Assuming, of course, that he didn’t just slaughter her.

“Reverend Mother,” Torafein rumbled, attempting to stand. He didn’t quite succeed, however, as he wobbled and slumped back down. “Rev—”

“Hush, old friend,” Mother Lara said, and despite the coldness of her regality, there was tenderness in her voice. She glided toward him. “Let me heal you first. Has anyone gone for broth and water?”

“We tried,” Ardyn said, glancing askance at his father.

“There is no time,” Torafein insisted. “I must return to the Wilds with a full company of soldiers. Crysla is—”

The Reverend Mother cut him off with a simple touch to his face. “Healing first.”

Torafein looked as though he meant to argue, then grunted, crossing his arms and nodding assent.

Her music soon followed as Solaurin made his way toward Rismyn. The priest opened his mouth, then caught sight of the blood still leaking between Dreder’s fingers, and changed direction.

The next few minutes passed in a blur of music and magic, as the elder clerics finished the work Mazira had failed to complete. Dreder shuddered under Solaurin’s attention, swearing in wonder as he experienced, apparently for the first time while conscious, the euphoric bliss that accompanied Eilistraee’s magic.

Mother Lara’s song rang out longer, as Torafein’s wounds ran deeper, the black veins of infection receding slowly, like brambles resisting a flame. Yet recede they did, vanishing until he was left with nothing but a crisscross of fresh scars over old lines.

When at last Mother Lara’s music trailed off, she nodded and rose to take in the whole room.

And to Mazira’s complete horror, the Reverend Mother’s eyes anchored on her.

“Daughter,” she began. “Ti’yana told us you had been sent ahead to heal. From what I saw the wounds were severe. You did well.”

Mazira hesitated, then forced herself to lower her knees and sit properly, bowing her head and murmuring a demure, “Thank you, Reverend Mother.”

It was what they expected of her, after all. Humble pleasure at praise she didn’t deserve. A proper fledgling priestess delighted to have done her duty.

It didn’t matter that she was dead inside, the cavity where her heart belonged empty of all sentiment. She had no room for such feelings. If she let one out, the rest would come, and she would fall apart.

“You must be exhausted,” Emmalara continued. “Rismyn, why don’t you take her home, and—”

“No.”

Mazira’s head whipped up. Rismyn had yet to return to his seat beside her, standing with hands balled into fists, staring down the Reverend Mother with an expression so stoney he could have inherited it from Torafein.

“Excuse me?” Mother Lara said, polite as though she genuinely hadn’t heard.

“I’m not leaving. And neither is Mazira. Not until you all come clean with what you know about Toloruel.”

If the Reverend Mother was surprised to hear Rismyn say his brother’s name, she didn’t show it. Nor did Solaurin, whose only reaction was to bow his head and pinch the bridge of his nose.

“You are in no position to make such requests,” Emmalara said, squaring her shoulders and crossing her arms.

“He’s my brother,” Rismyn growled. “He’s here for us. I think we have a right to know what is going on.”

“There isn’t time for this, Emmalara,” Torafein interjected. “I need soldiers. Crysla is alive. We must go back for her.”

“I want to know why you felt the need to hide this from us,” Rismyn demanded. Solaurin moved to lay a hand on his shoulder, but Rismyn jerked out of his grip, glaring at him. “And I want to hear it from all of you.”

“Silence!” Emmalara barked. Apparently, her patience had come to an end. She turned on Torafein first. “You will not be leading soldiers anywhere. You are in no condition and your wife would murder me if I allowed it.”

Torafein had opened his mouth to argue, but snapped his jaw shut at the mention of Tsaria.

“And you, boy.” Emmalara rounded on Rismyn. “You do not give orders here. You will give your elders the respect they deserve, if you have any hope of changing my mind about what information I allow you to know.”

Mazira winced. If she had learned anything from living with Rismyn over the last year, it was that he fought fire with fire. If voices were raised at him, he would raise his right back.

And so he did, doubling down on his demands, as Torafein interjected his own desires for action. An argument in desperate need of diffusing. But Mazira didn’t know how. She hunched forward and covered her ears, willing them to stop the viscous words, when a gentle tap landed on her bare shoulder, startling her upright.

“Hey,” Dreder asked, leaning in. “Can I ask you a question?”

She blinked, eyes wide. Rismyn had told her not to talk to Dreder. Not to even look at him. But that was before she’d raced to his aid. Surely Rismyn couldn’t expect her to avoid Dreder now, at least in this setting. Not that Rismyn would notice. She glanced at the arguing drow—Solaurin had entered the fray—and then back at Dreder. “Um… yes?”

“Why’s everyone dressed like, uh… y’know…” His eyes snaked down her plunging neckline and back, and Mazira blushed. A strange reaction, considering her current state of dead-inside.

“It’s… it’s Festival tradition,” she said, folding her arms to cover herself. Of course there was more to it than just that. All those deep philosophical reasons she’d memorized in preparation for this event, but the words jumbled up in her mind.

“Ah, I see.” Dreder nodded his head sagely. “So, uh, that means, like, everyone is dressed like this?”

Mazira bobbed her head. How could he be thinking about this when he’d just had his insides put back together? He’d been on the brink of death not more than an hour ago. Was he not aware that there were more important matters to worry about?

Apparently not, as he continued to nod thoughtfully. “So,” he said. “Uhm, totally unrelated but, have you seen Ti’yana recently? I have something for her.” He fished in his pocket and held up a rock. A literal, actual, rock.

“Ti’yana?” Mazira repeated, unable to fully grasp the conversation. On one side of her, tensions sizzled and crackled like witch-lightning. On the other, Dreder stared at her earnestly, asking after Ti’yana with a rock.

“Yeah, ya know. Is she, like, around? Or…” His gaze trailed past the arguing elves to the door on the other side of the gatehouse, as if hoping Ti’yana might waltz through it.

“I… don’t know,” Mazira answered honestly, feeling like she was watching this conversation happen from outside her own body. “I left her behind when… well, when I came to heal you. In the temple courtyard.”

“Ah, rats.” He sighed and pocketed the rock, leaning back against the wall. “I don’t suppose you feel like sneaking out with me, eh?” He winked at her.

He winked at her.

“She’s probably more likely to talk to me if you or Riz are with me. Plus I’m supposed to have an escort and all my usuals are busy.” He nodded to where Solaurin had pulled Rismyn aside to have a heated, albeit whispered, conversation.

Mazira just stared at him, feeling creeping back into her heart cavity. Not fear or trepidation, or even misery. Just genuine confusion. “Sneak out? But don’t… don’t you want to hear Torafein’s report?”

“Nah, I’m kinda over it,” Dreder said, kicking his feet out and crossing his ankles. “This is all pointless anyway. ‘Cause”— he sat up abruptly—“ooh, wanna know a secret?”

Nothing in her dumbfounded expression changed, but he must have taken that as an affirmative. He scooted closer and grinned.

“That bastard you’re all in a tizzy over—he’s probably been captured or killed by now. ‘Cause I shot him.” He mimicked the pulling of a crossbow trigger. “Right in the gut. With a sleep dart.”

“You what!?” Mazira cried, leaping to her feet. The heart she had thought she’d tamed roared against her ribs, sending tremors through her whole body.

Toloruel had been shot?

Silence fell around them, and Mazira became acutely aware of the sudden influx of attention. Her blush seared her skin from the inside out and she shrank back. Mercy, she hadn’t meant to cause a scene, but stars.

“Mazira…?” Mother Lara asked, the concern in her voice alien after her long bout of severity. “Is everything alright?”

Mazira looked from Dreder to Mother Lara, twisting her fingers in the fabric of her skirt. “I-I…” she stammered. Then she swallowed and looked back at Dreder. “Tell them what you just told me.”

Dreder frowned, but at a look from Kalos, he spoke. “What? About Toloruel? Or how stupid their arguments are?”

“About… him…”

Dreder rolled his eyes. “I said he’s probably passed out in custody already, since your soldiers don’t seem like the stab-you-in-your-sleep kind of soldiers. I shot him with a laced dart.”

Everyone stared at Dreder for a long, taut silence, until Kalos finally broke it, smacking the younger mercenary upside the head. “When were you planning on telling us this?!”

“Ouch—hey, I’m injured.”

“Not anymore you’re not. But you will be when I get done with you.”

Again, Dreder rolled his eyes. He seemed quite good at that. “You’re all being so dramatic. Acting like he’s some sort of god or something. Well he sure bled like your average mortal when I shot him. Ran like a coward, too.”

That sense of her soul vacating her body overwhelmed Mazira once more and she staggered, falling back onto the bench. Rismyn was at her side at once, calling her name, but she waved him off.

Toloruel… could bleed. Of course she already knew that. She had seen it. Though not often, and in very small increments. She was under no illusions that he was immortal and yet… and yet…

Hearing Dreder say it had a profound effect on her psyche. Like it suddenly became real. She blinked, and her broken world snapped back together. Toloruel was horrible, but he was just one elf. One elf before all the might of Launa. One blade against a whole city.

And she wasn’t the same helpless child she’d been when he’d first taken her.

“Let us begin again,” Mother Lara said, pressing her palms together and drawing them to her lips. Her ruby eyes glittered with anger, but she seemed to be making an effort to contain herself and retake control of the conversation. “Who is currently outside the wall?”

“All of Magma and most of Venom patrols,” Ardyn reported. “And Bregan D’Aerthe, of course.”

“Good. We have time, then.” She took a deep, measured breath. “Torafein, I want your report. Sequential. Followed by Ardyn’s and…?” She trailed off, lifting her eyebrow at Dreder. “Your name, boy?”

Dreder blinked. “Uh… Ti’glath. Dreder Ti’glath.”

“Hmpf.” Her gaze shifted slightly, catching Mazira’s. “And you, daughter. You should know that everything I have done up until now has been to spare you pain.”

She aimed a hard look at Rismyn, who wove his hand with Mazira’s, interlocking their fingers together.

“If you do not wish to hear what we have to say,” Mother Lara continued, “then this is your opportunity to leave.”

Rismyn’s hand squeezed her own, and Mazira squeezed back, acknowledging the gift of his strength that he offered. Yet, oddly enough, she found she didn’t need it. Her cracks had sealed. Her poise returned.

“There is nothing you can say that could be worse than what I have lived through,” she said. She lifted her chin in defiance of the fear which nipped at her heels. “I wish to stay. And then… I wish to help. No one knows my mas—him—Toloruel better than me. I’m a resource to be used, not a victim to be guarded.”

Mother Lara regarded her with a flat, guarded expression. “So be it. Torafein, proceed.”

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.