Forsaken by Shadows Chapter 11: Sunberries

~11. Sunberries~

An eternity could have passed, and Rismyn would never have known. He was too busy counting heartbeats, though he’d gotten lost somewhere in the thousands. Now he just listened to the slow, steady rhythm of Mazira’s life fading away, holding her in his lap and caressing her hair absently. 

He’d long since cried all the tears he had in him. His throat constricted and his head throbbed, as it always had when he cried. He used to believe the headaches were punishment from Lolth for being so weak. Now he was older, and knew that the body required water to live. Water he didn’t have access to anymore. Or food, for that matter. Or safe shelter. The part of him that had applied itself rigorously to his studies at Melee-Magthere warned him that he needed to start locating those things as soon as possible, but he couldn’t move yet. 

Not while Mazira’s heart still beat. 

She hadn’t stirred or spoken again since she’d given up her name, but Rismyn still wanted to believe his presence made a difference somehow. He didn’t want her to be alone when she went. But with every new beat of her feeble heart, his own threatened to give way. 

She should have been dead by now. That’s not what he wanted, but death was better than slow agony. He could only hope whatever she was experiencing, she was too far gone to feel pain. Part of him wanted to believe he was wrong, that her wounds weren’t so terrible after all. She would sleep it off, take a few days, and be smiling again by the end of the tenday. 

Unfortunately, he knew better than that.

More than once, he considered returning to Menzoberranzan to find healing potions, a decision he still wasn’t sure if he should make. It could save her life, if he survived the journey and she were still alive when he returned. But it was risky. Even if her current wounds didn’t slay her, the Underdark was full of all kinds of vicious predators and foul carrion. The scent of her blood would invite them to a feast, and he refused to let her become a platter for cave-crabs and carrion crawlers. 

So he remained, telling himself every heartbeat would be her last. But after every one, another followed. It tantalized his hope in ways he couldn’t bear, but he was powerless to let her go. He would stay with her until the very last breath. What he would do afterward was a mystery he didn’t have the energy to contemplate. 

In fact, there was very little he had the energy to do at all. Now that the adrenaline had died away, he realized exactly how many bruises he had taken during his escape. Not to mention carrying Mazira all the way out of Tier Breche. He’d never pushed himself so far in all his life. His muscles throbbed and his bones ached. 

His eyes grew heavy, but he tried to fight it. He couldn’t afford to sleep. The Underdark was dangerous and deadly. He couldn’t let his guard down. Yet even as he thought it, he nodded off, his head snapping up suddenly. Mazira’s heart thumped again, and he tried to remember what number he had been on last, but it was lost to him. 

He was too tired even to trance. The moment he steadied his breathing and cleared his mind, his body plunged him towards the depths of sleep. He just had to hold out long enough to be there for Mazira, if she awoke again in her last moments. After that, he hardly cared what creature wandered in to devour him. 

---

He awoke to the sound of dripping water. 

Rismyn flung his eyes open, reaching blindly for the sword he had laid at his side. He flinched as he accidentally swept the blade across the stone floor, its cacophonous clatter likely alerting all of Menzoberranzan to his location. He glanced around wildly, the cave glowing in cool tones as his infravision flashed, but he found no discernable threats. 

Curse it all! When had he fallen asleep? How long had he been asleep? He'd pushed himself up into a sitting position when he woke, but he didn’t remember laying down to begin with. Frantically, he took hold of Mazira and pulled her close, listening for the steady rhythm of her heart. 

It was still beating. No stronger or weaker than before. 

He sighed, though he wasn’t sure if it was with relief or not, and reached out for the sword so it would be back at hand if he needed it. At least he hadn’t missed her last moments. Still, how could he be so weak?

Well, there was nothing he could do about it now. He settled back to continue his stoic vigil. 

The water dripped again. 

Rismyn seized like a startled cat, snatching up his sword. There had most certainly not been water dripping in this cave when he first entered it. He would have noticed it. He was a drow warrior, with senses honed for the slightest disturbance. Of course he would have noticed it. He was made for this.  

Drip, drip, drip.

Now he was getting annoyed. He gently extricated himself from Mazira and went to investigate, following the sound to the backside of the cave. There was a crevice there he had not noticed before, and the sound was dripping somewhere back there. Warily, he peered in. With his luck, he’d search for water and find some acid-dripping creature instead. 

But, to his surprise, water was what he found. And not just water, either. There was something growing back there, something that glowed a soft warm color against the cold stone and water. It was some type of fruit bearing vine, with clusters of little berries clumped around wide, three-pointed leaves. 

At least, that was what it appeared to be. But as Rismyn studied it, it occurred to him that plants didn’t normally glow in warm tones in his infravision.  

He muttered a curse and jumped back, wondering what sort of monstrosity he’d just stumbled across. The thing didn’t look like any plant he couldn’t identify, and he’d been well educated in the flora and fauna of the Underdark. Since most of it wanted to eat you, Rismyn had paid especially close attention to those lectures. 

He waited for a long, tense moment. Whatever it was, it didn’t leap out at him and or try to attack him. It just sat there, still and quiet. Eventually, he peeked back in, examining it again to see if he could place it, but he was clueless. It looked like no plant or creature he’d been taught about. 

After a while, he decided whatever it was would leave him alone if he left it alone. He returned to Mazira and checked her pulse, her breathing, and her bandages. There had been no change in her condition, but he knew it was just a matter of time before she worsened. He thought about trying to sing some of her songs over her, as she had so often done for him. But even as he thought it, he dismissed the idea as ridiculous. For one, he would probably sound like a fool. For another, making noise was suicidal in his current position. So instead he just sat quietly and waited. 

All the while, the water dripped. 

Even as Rismyn tranced through some of the hours, he could hear the dripping. Every drop reminded him it had been quite a while since his last drink, his last meal. His throat was parched, and his stomach gnawed on itself. He thought of the fruit and water more and more, fantasizing what it might taste like if it were safe. 

But it wasn’t safe, he reminded himself. This was the Underdark; it was always best to assume things weren’t safe. 

But he was so thirsty. 

As time eased away, he found himself pacing back to the crevice and peering in, only to shake his head and turn away. Maybe after Mazira was gone. He couldn’t risk it while she still needed him. Yet every time he looked in, it became harder and harder to resist. 

It might not be a deadly poison. Mazira might remain in her condition for days. He wouldn’t outlive her if he died of thirst…

Desperation won over discipline. It would just be the water, he decided. The water was probably some drippings from an aquifer. The natural filtration of the stone would make it pure. If it tasted bitter, he’d spit it out immediately. Just a taste shouldn’t hurt.

Slowly, he cupped his hands and pushed them into the dark hole. The water was shockingly cold, chilling his flesh to the bones. Its cool scent invited him to raise the few drops he’d capture to his lips at once, but he resisted. His eyes never left the strange, warm fruit, but whatever the thing was, it didn’t move. After several long, patient minutes, he’d gathered enough liquid in his hands to gain a decent taste. 

By the time he brought his hands back to his lips, he no longer cared if it was contaminated or not. He was willing to risk it all. 

The first swallow was the worst, for it wasn’t enough to quench his thirst. It merely reminded him of what he was missing. Rismyn reached back for more and found himself too impatient to gather full palmfuls. Every sip seemed to clear more and more fog from his mind, which turned out to be both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, he was able to link thoughts together again. On the other, it made him acutely aware of the very dire situation he had placed himself in. 

When Rismyn finally drank his fill, he turned back to the small cave. Mazira lay still and pale, as she had been for so long. The weight of his loneliness suddenly threatened to close in on him. 

He could never go home, and shockingly he didn’t know how that revelation made him feel. In the moment, when Dreder’s accusation hung in the air like an executioner’s blade, he had been completely fine with it. Eager, even. He was going to whisk Mazira away and they would finally know joy on the surface. He’d never felt so free, even though he knew he was likely about to meet his doom. 

Now Mazira was facing doom, and he was left alone. The surface seemed so far away. He wasn’t even sure if that was where he wanted to go. He’d only thought of it for her sake. But drow weren’t welcome in the world of the sun, everyone knew that. If the light didn’t burn him, the people would. 

Yet the prospect of living his days as a hermit in the Wilds didn’t sound appealing, either, though he knew it was possible. He’d heard stories of other mad deviants who had rushed out into the darkness, presumed dead, only to be found years, even decades later. Lolth always found her blasphemers, it was said. 

A chill ran down his spine. 

Blasphemer. 

That was what he was, now, and it was a strange feeling. He couldn’t go back on his declaration. Matron Xatel would give him to Lolth, just to be safe. It was no secret what happened to families who failed to clean up their messes. Lolth removed her favor, and then it was only a matter of time until the house fell to destruction. 

Would that happen to House Tear? Could his actions have spelled the end for his family? Did he even care if it did? Was there anyone among all his kin that he held any affection for?

Looking down at Mazira’s lifeless pallor, he accepted that there was not. They had done this to her, all of them, by allowing Toloruel to keep her like an animal. And he was no better than the rest, turning a blind eye to what he knew was happening behind closed doors. Holding her hands and asking her to soothe his wounds, when he knew she had wounds of her own.

He didn’t deserve any second chances. Not on the Surface, not in the Underdark. 

Frustrated, Rismyn began pacing the cave, trying to decide what to do next. There were other drow cities he could disappear into, but the idea was less appealing than the Wilds. He would be houseless in those cities. Worse than a commoner, perhaps worse than a slave. He could fight his way into one of those houses’ armies and find a comfortable living, but he was sick of drow and their ways. 

But what else could he do? 

Unfortunately, planning wasn’t his forte. He was made to obey, not scheme. He’d been taught tactics and strategies, but nothing in the books had given a hint as to what to do when you found yourself outcasted from society. 

He was tired, he was hungry, and he was quickly running out of hope.

But Mazira still needed him, so he continued to pace.  

Everytime he thirsted, Rismyn would drink from the spring. Everytime he stopped for it, he would eye the glowing berries, wondering about their origin. As more and more hopeless plans spun in his mind, he began to wonder if maybe he should risk the berries after all. In the unlikely chance they were good, he had a temporary food source. In the far more likely chance that they were poisonous, well, then he wouldn’t have to worry about planning anymore. 

Without really deciding it, Rismyn found his fingers plucking one of the berries from the vine. It came off easily in his hand, ripe and ready for eating. As his vision predicted, it was slightly warm to the touch. He had a little strength for magic left, so he used it to summon a tiny flame of natural-colored light, which he kept between himself and the entrance to the cave. 

The berry was golden-yellow in color, almost sparkling. Its skin was silky smooth, plump and inviting. He almost popped the thing into his mouth right then and there, but discipline made him careful. Rismyn turned the fruit over a few times, examining for signs of parasites or blight. It had an earthy, moist scent, much like the cave around him. Finding nothing alarming about it, he took the thing and seated himself beside Mazira, checking her vitals out of habit. 

He’d already snuffed out his magic light, but the memory of the golden color was still vividly in his mind. He wondered if that was the color of sunlight. Mazira had called it gold, and then searched the house for days to find something to show him as an example. She claimed she never found anything quite sunlight-enough, though. 

Sunberry, he decided. It was as good as any other name. The thing was likely going to kill him, anyway. It seemed appropriate for a drow to succumb to the sun. 

Okay, now he was just being melodramatic. One berry probably wouldn’t kill him. Just make him ill enough to know better the next time. 

Then again, this was the Underdark. 

“What do you think, Mazira?” he whispered, flinching at the sound of his own voice. “Should I give it a go?” 

Of course, she didn’t answer. She didn’t stir or flutter or give any signs at all that her soul still remained with her body. If she were here, she would most assuredly tell him not to risk it. 

But she wasn’t here, not really. So he popped the berry into his mouth. 

The warmth of the fruit spread from his tongue to his throat to the tips of his fingers. It was the sweetest, most delightful thing he had ever tasted. Gasping in shock, Rismyn was up and at the crevice at once, plucking more berries from the vine. Like the water, once he had started it he didn’t think he could ever stop. 

Yet, oddly enough, by the fifth berry, Rismyn felt as though he had eaten a full meal, completely satisfied and content. His whole body was warm and tingly, as though he lay just on the precipice of sleep on a soft mattress. He licked the juice from his fingers, marveling at the strength that had come back to him from just a few berries when he suddenly made a very, very important observation. 

His body no longer hurt. The bruises and aches of his muscles were gone, and his breath came without burning in his ribs. 

He’d been healed. 

He’d been healed! 

“Mazira!” he cried, not even caring about the sound of his voice echoing back on him. He reached back in for as much of the fruit as he could carry, hurrying back to her side. 

He was a complete idiot. How long had he looked at that fruit and decided it was poison, when it was clearly the opposite? If he hadn’t been so proudly stubborn, he could have made this discovery so much sooner. If Mazira died now, there would be no one to blame but himself. 

Was his whole life going to be this way? Always just a little too late to realize what mattered? 

He lifted Mazira into a sitting position and cradled her against his chest. His own heart was hammering as the floodgates of hope burst down, hope that would drown him as soon as lift him if he couldn’t save Mazira. He bit a small piece off one of the berries and took the piece between his fingers, then fed it to her, gently massaging her jaw and her throat to encourage her to swallow. 

The process was painfully slow, as he gave the berries to her bit by bit. The juice of the fruit dripped from the corner of her lips, wetting the blood that had dried there. Rismyn tore another corner of Torafein’s piwafwi and wiped her face clean, embarrassed that he hadn’t done so already. He’d been too absorbed in his own grief to tend to such things, a selfishness he was growing tired of confronting. 

There had been ten berries total, aside from the five Rismyn consumed, and he fed her every last one of them, pleading with her in a soft voice to wake up, to live. He couldn’t tell if her pulse was actually coming stronger, or if he just wanted to believe it was. She was still deathly pale, still ghostly quiet. When at last he worked the last berry down her throat, he held her a moment and let out a desperate plea that some deity somewhere would look down and have pity on her. As a drow, he didn’t have the right to address others on the pantheon. His ancestors had chosen to remain loyal to Lolth when she was betrayed and cast out of the heavens, and they suffered her torment with her. 

Wait, was that even the true story? Or just more lies he had been fed? It didn’t matter. All he could do was pray and hope the deity that heard him wasn’t Lolth. Mazira had a deity, right? Her people must have worshiped someone. He couldn’t fathom a society that didn’t revolve around the worship of someone or something. 

At last he laid her down to rest again, running his fingers through her hair. There was no visible change in her appearance, and his hope was threatening to wither away. Resigned to his fate but still in hopeful denial, he lifted her bloodsoaked blouse and peeled back the bandages, igniting another small flame of magic. 

He stared at the wound, his body going numb. 

Where there had once been a jagged laceration, sticky with ever-leaking blood, there was now raw, pink, freshly-regrown flesh. 

She was going to live.

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