🤝interlude: amends

this is a text-rp log between sessions! purple - soren | black - will | orange - sildar

Some ways into the forest, as the party and its diverse menagerie trudged along atop soft moss and lichen, Soren—who had been fussing over Sildar all morning—finally allowed himself a moment to think.

This surprised him, because he had made it a point for most of his life to stop thinking; about the past, at least. When your days are poisoned by guilt and regret and fear, when you breathe without ever knowing if you would be struck down on a whim by a cruel master or malevolent goddess, there is very little left to do but to stop looking back.

Today, however, Soren forced himself to peer back in his mind’s eye at the debacle of “yesterday”. His back stripped cold against the woodland air, his shame and his sins laid bare for his companions to see. His words, cutting and harsh in the way he knew they would be; and how in his blind fury, he had aimed them at Willow.

Yet they did not run, none of them. Never did they run from the ugly volatility of his turmoil.

Slowly, Soren peeled himself away from Sildar’s side before quickening his pace so that he fell in line next to the ranger. “Will,” he drawled, “could I have a moment of your time?”

How many days had passed since they had gotten stuck in this time loop? Every day coming back physically refreshed yet, with each day that past it wore on his mind. His thoughts swam on the events that had taken place, the words that were crossed, the fire, the people who had died… Arabel’s charred body and then watching Sildar disintegrate at the hands of that foul Gnome had been…a lot.

His heart ached but all Will could do was continue to walk forward. This needed to end. That was his main priority at this point. How much longer would they have to continue? If he thought about it then he’d lose focus. There were too many variables, Gran Pappy finally agreed to let the group help him. He didn’t have the time to think that they were very much walking in the presence of a God. The ranger just didn’t want to see anyone else die.

After hearing his name did he snapback, his light eyes peering down to his drow companion.

He faltered his steps to allow the rest of the party to move to the front, allowing for him and Soren to be in the back and allow the exhausted bard to not have to exert himself.

"How are you doing?"

The automatic, sardonic reply of “oh, excellent” did not, thankfully, make it past the drow’s lips.

“Well, we’re alive today, all of us,” Soren allowed, “so it could certainly be worse.” There was now a slight quiver to his voice, the drow noticed, that he couldn’t seem to get rid of—not since he’d seen his sweet human shredded into ashes upon the dirt. Or had it started earlier, when he’d learned about the new addition to House Catanzaro—?

There were some things, Soren decided, thumbing the paper bird in his pocket, that he wasn’t quite ready to think about.

“Since we could all get decimated at any moment,” Soren continued, and saw Sildar wince in the corner of his eye. Great start. “I thought it best that we get everything off our chests, lest we lose the chance to do so—”

(It had been much easier to be good at words, Soren was realizing, back when he didn’t really care about what the surfacers thought; didn’t really care about them at all. Back when any interaction with a surfacer involved, at best, a steamy night at an inn and easy access to some idiot’s coin purse. Back when the thought of apologizing to an iblith was unthinkable.)

“—I’m rambling. What I mean to say is: I am sorry, Will. You made it clear that you wanted to know nothing of the slaving practices of the drow, yet I hurt you to prove an inane point.” Finally, the words came, flowing like a river. “But I cannot take back what I said, for it was the truth, and I won’t lie to you; I can only wish that you never had to find out.”

It had been a stupid question to ask but Willow found himself unsure of what Soren wanted to talk about. Hence the awkward question. Well, he had an idea, but it was raw and even he was still processing the news. Soren was her brother.

As Soren began to speak, his stomach flipped with the bard's honest words. As he spent more time with the drow, Will was coming to realize how much of Soren's words came in as a shield, a mask. His display yesterday showed another side of him. One of despair and that all to known feeling of guilt. One that left Willow unable to fall back on his anger or hurt.

Instead…

We are alike in a way.

A defense mechanism, a way to push everyone away…to punish himself and give the poisonous thoughts in his mind the reason.

But, he was surprised when Soren finally got to his point. An apology? His eyes softened, though he frowned, "It's…alright. I'm not angry." He said honestly. "It's the truth…like you said, and not far from what I expected."

He was quiet for a moment, his gaze still on Soren as he murmured, "You're really hurting."

Words of comfort and consolation rose and died in Soren’s throat, at Will’s reverse uno card blunt observation.

“No more than I deserve, and not so much as you,” he finally said. “The drow are born into misery, and I have done my share of inflicting it. Your life was taken from you. How haunting it must be.”

When he first met Soren, he had immediately judged him, something he recognized but done out of defense. Something…he hadn’t really apologized for either. Will would, but, maybe at another moment. He had a feeling that his companion would say that he was right too.

“My life wasn’t taken…I’m still here.” He said immediately, his hand clenching the strap of his quiver, “I still breathe, and feel…and have an opportunity to do something with it.” Even if he felt like he hadn’t been doing much with it to begin with. “I…haven’t forgotten and sometimes it feels overwhelming but we can choose to be more, even when we don’t think we deserve it.”

Soren felt his brow furrow. “You, an Enclave ranger fighting in defense of the natural world, who would reveal dangerous secrets and give your life in the pursuit of the greater good—and all this, in spite of the hand you’ve been dealt,” he mused, gaze boring into Will’s. “What in the world do you not think you deserve?”

The way Soren spoke made him sound much more important. He mused Soren’s question and sighed, “Guilt is a funny thing.”

“An incomprehensible thing, especially when undeserved and ungrounded,” Soren felt his ears flick in vexation—wondered briefly what it looked like on his human guise. “Excuse my dogmatism, Willow, but I, not too long ago, went through this very conversation with someone quite dear to me—“

—Who, speaking of which, was presently looking far off into the forest, fiddling with the hilt of his longsword. And stealing doe-eyed glances at Soren in the way that the drow knew, by now, meant that Sildar was trying to be sneaky about eavesdropping.

Good. Sildar could stand to hear this, too. “—So I will tell you, too, what I told him. Do not do them the favor of carrying the heavy mantle of blame. They chose to commit those horrors. They hurt your loved ones. Not you.”

“Maybe, you should extend that same understanding to yourself.” He said gently. There was plenty that Willow didn’t have a clear picture of everything but Soren had lost as well. “ And don’t argue with me about it.” His brows furrowed, taking on a more serious expression, “because I know you’ll say you don’t deserve it, because you’ve hurt people. At the end of the day, much of what you did..you did it out of need- You feel remorse and want to do right so just be patient with yourself…Kinder. We can help you.”

Willow himself was surprised with his words but it was hard to see the pain that Soren held as much as he tried to hide it. Innocent people have died because of his actions..but nothing in this world is black and white.

The number of times Will had rendered him speechless today was unfair, Soren thought.

“I would never dream of arguing with you, Will,” Soren articulated slowly, aware of the frigidity that came over his voice sometimes, the same way it did when he cast in the heat of battle, infusing his words with enchantments meant to hurt.

Will is not your enemy. You don’t have to defend yourself, not here.

“But in case I was not clear before: all drow wretched enough to be born male are consigned to partake in raids outside of the city, and though I would give anything to say I stood up against it all like the Do’Urden traitor—”

Soren took a rattling breath, and could not meet Will’s eyes any longer.

“I did not. I joined them in laying waste to innocents, and Hells, when the tides turned, I was content to stand behind my brethren while they died. There are none whom I have not wronged, Will, in my pursuit for survival—not family, not drow, not surfacers. And when Master— when the Spider—”

Once, he would have been ashamed of the fear that stained his voice. Now, even without looking, he knew there would be no scorn or judgment in Will's eyes, knew that fear was not met here the way it was in Menzoberranzan. Sildar had taught him as much. And so, feeling the human’s gaze upon his back, Soren kept his voice steady.

“When the Spider pushed me to the brink, I did anything to stop the pain. People who cared about me, who said they loved me, my own little brother, I laid them all out on his altar. So if remorse could change all of that—any of that—Willow, I would repent like a dog at their graves for the rest of my life. But it can’t, can it?”

Sildar’s mind is in turmoil. From the moment of the new day till now, as the party trudges through the forest on the way towards the thing which killed him only hours ago. He had agreed to go beg and praise it, knowing all well that one slip up and he might just die once again. He was scared, of course, but he had to do this for the party. After all, it was his job to make sure they were safe.

Sidar could not stop reliving the events that happened only a couple of hours ago. He so badly wanted to forget what he went through, the memories of himself being torn apart in front of his very own eyes. As he watched, he tried to grab the ashes that were coming from his body but there was nothing he could do in that moment as the ashes disappeared just as quickly as they had come. Soon there was nothing left to grab with, as his hands deteriorated and soon after his body followed. The world went silent and dark. It was this part which scared Sildar the most, the cold and lonely darkness that he only experienced for mere moments was enough to make his question his place in the afterlife.

Sildar was brought away from his thoughts as Soren peeled away from him asking Will for a moment of his time.

Sildar tried to stay out of his conversation like the respectful Lords Alliance member he was supposed to be. But their conversation was a nice distraction from the memories fresh in his mind so he kept listening, sometimes making sorrowful glances towards Soren. So he walked as they talked, till Soren said some words which he couldn’t help but to intervene in.

“Soren.. The past is set in stone and no one is able to etch new stories where the old ones lay no matter how much they try. This life that you have now, this life where you are capable of so many things was only possible because of them. You should look back on them and be sorry for what happened, but also thank them for their sacrifice which allowed you to be here today. Despite all that has happened, I believe they would have wanted you to go forward carrying them along with you to make a brighter world than they had left.”

After saying this, Sildar could not help but to feel like a hypocrite. How many years did he live in hate, loathing the people who had killed his siblings. He hated the world which always seemed to take the things he cared most about. First his parents that had died from curable diseases then his adopted siblings which replaced the love that left with his parents. They too died unfair deaths which never should have happened. He carried on with this new found hate till it had almost killed him. With the help of Sister Garele he was able to look back and reflect on his life, realizing that Vulmar and Aire wouldn’t have wanted him to live his kind of life, they would have wanted to see him happy.

In this moment, he thought to himself

“Though the world has taken so much from me, I promise that I will not allow it to take this party, and especially Soren, away from me.”

Willow frowned as he listened. He had never thought he’d hear from what the other side looked like. It had been easier to believe that the drow who raided his village didn’t feel or care. Likely most might not have but everyone felt and as he listened to Soren continue, watching his expression and the way he spoke.

Fear

Fear was a powerful thing that blinded and made it easy to not think twice. It was easy to pretend that the others didn’t matter and that was the case for everything, why wars happened. Empathy was something that needed to be cultivated but listening to Soren proved that he did.

His fingers twitched restlessly and just as he was about to speak, he heard Sildar’s voice. Instead he listened to what he had to say.

The older man’s words were touching, although they were for Soren, Willow couldn’t help but feel that it applied to him as well. A flash of his Father passed through his mind and he swallowed once, his heart aching once more.

“Sildar is right, you can’t change the past, living in it doesn’t help either…they wouldn’t want that .” His tone started uneven but with another deep breath he finished, “ You said you wanted to be like Drizzt, you can still be like him. It’s never too late.”

Soren bristled. He was certain that he had said nothing of his guilty fondness of Drizzt. But, as he started to formulate an affronted defense—that he cared little for the traitor, that Drizzt was nothing more than fen qu’eloryn rathrae—he realized: that this was not Menzoberranzan, and so, he no longer needed to lie.

The pause grew heavy. There’d been no small amount of moments, in the Underdark and during hunts, when Soren had been forced to take a leap of faith; moments of no return wherein the seconds grew long and you weren’t sure if you would still be breathing when you hit the ground.

But somehow, navigating this web of surfacer social convention, fiddling with emotions and hurt—it all took the air out of Soren’s lungs the same.

Briefly, he tried to imagine having this emotional talk with Nadhiir, or Dresnan, or—Lolth-forbid—the Xorlarrin fifth-born with whom he spent many a silent hour with; and had to bite back an ugly snort.

“Come on now, you two, when I said I wouldn’t mind being double-teamed, this is not what I had in mind,” Soren said, and was promptly disappointed in himself for falling back onto dry humor; but his head was abuzz in the way only Sildar could could make him feel, and suddenly he could not, would not say the wrong thing and burden the human with more than was already on his shoulders.

Sildar waited for a response from Soren, grateful that Will was backing him and vice versa. For as long as the truth has come out back at Stonehill Inn, Sildar has been trying to show Soren his worth and to remove his guilt that weighs him down. This might be the moment, other conversations like this have led to progress and better understanding and even someone who has been scarred by the Drow wants a better life for Soren and sees the pain he has put himself through. So Sildar waits for Soren’s reply wondering if he sees what he and Will are saying…

Then the dry humor came out. Not only was it not funny, it was horribly timed, and missed the mood. It was somehow worse than the comedian that the group had heard at the stage a reset or two ago. If he had been up on that stage he might have just caused a riot among its listeners. Honestly it might have made the comedian seem funny in comparison, for Sildar could snicker at her jokes but he only felt his mouth grow dryer at Soren’s (joke).

“Soren, it seems these jokes are what you always fall back to when you are put in a spot of discomfort. I do not know if you are trying to lighten the mood, because it seems like you can also see just how bad the jokes actually are. I understand this conversation is hard but it is also upsetting to have such conversations only for it to always end at some tasteless sexual comment or joke. It makes it seem like our feelings are missing you or that our concerns are meaningless.”

And there it was: he had said the wrong thing, again, regardless.

“Ah,” Soren said, a little wistfully, “and here I thought you found my diversions at least a little cute.”

“Your feelings reach me, Sildar, and your concerns mean more to me than either of you know.”

Another long pause. The things he had to remember, the way he had to speak now, all of it rang a steady mantra in his mind: Think. Do not lie. Let yourself feel. Do not lash out. Your pain is not their fault. They are not your enemy. You are not better than the iblith—and also, stop calling them that.

Caring about the surfacers was exhausting, sometimes.

He regarded Will first: “You are right. For eighty years I lived in the past, much too terrified to peer forward at the next manner of torment at the hands of the Spider. No longer do I do so. I am ready to fight him with you. And after he is buried, I will spend the rest of my days, if the Alliance will have me, atoning for what I have done.”

The confidence with which he delivered this was surprising—because it was a lie. He could scarcely think of being in the same room as a Xorlarrin without buckling at the knee. But that was a worry for another time, another day.

“But if it is blunt solemnity you want, then here is the truth: the people you lost died in spite of your efforts, while the ghosts that haunt me died because of me.” Pausing in his march, Soren reached up and tucked a stray lock of Sildar’s hair tenderly behind his ear. “It’s an ugly thing, my love, to call them ‘sacrifices’ for my sake. Most of them died cursing my name.”

Will took a deep breath and looked to the sky after hearing Soren’s poorly timed joke. It wouldn’t be the first time that the drow had used those kinds of jokes. Another defense mechanism, but the Ranger found that he needed to give himself a moment before responding. Because, this conversation wasn’t easy for him either and both his heart and mind were exhausted.

As he looked back to Soren, it seemed that Sildar’s words had hit home but something that Soren’s said reminded him that it will take time. Soren had spent so many years in the same situation, it wasn’t something WIll could comprehend[ but patience was needed to help break down the barbed walls that Soren had put around himself.

“Soren, you can’t take back what you’ve done but you can honor them. Give yourself that much at least…let yourself feel - You can have happiness and love while still remembering and doing what you can so that way it doesn’t happen to another.”

He goes quiet, but gently looks at Soren and murmurs, “You won’t be able to save everyone, there will always be injustice but every small thing you do does make a difference to someone and that’s enough.”

Soren considered this, the notion that he might be able to honor those whose blood he’s spilled.

“It’s a comforting thought,” Soren allowed, with the tiniest of smiles. “I hope you are hearing yourself, Will. It seems that we are all preaching for remission here without granting ourselves the same mercy.”

"But when all is said and done--" he continued, voice growing uncomfortably soft for the grimness of what he was saying, "if I were to die today, and if Lolth does not have claim over all of her childrens' souls regardless: we all know that it is not Celestia who will claim me; not Torm or Lathander or Ilmater, nor any god of life or light.”

He glanced at Cowslip, trodding along in the back, face dark as a thundercloud—and briefly, at the remembrance of what the gods could do and have done, he could not breathe. “The gods do not care if I tried or not. The scales of justice do not budge for remorse and regret. And even if I spend my last breath helping people, we don't know if it will be enough to weigh against what I have already done."

Then there it was, what he did not want to say to the human: "when we die, you are going somewhere I cannot follow. And for that, I am terribly sorry."

Sildar listened to what Soren was able to say and he understood where he was coming from. The darkness that came in his death made him fear the afterlife. He had always believed he would go to Celestia because he decade his life to doing good and set forth into the world with that goal. But what if he was wrong about all of that, what if the little good he achieves is not enough to have a place among the angels. What if the afterlife was nothing but void and the gods promise ever so grand things in order to get the mortals to follow their wills? How can he be sure that these gods which watch the mortals suffer everyday, dying of vast evils and plagues, are telling the truth?

“Soren, your past is scarred with horrible events which you had to face and these things may indeed cause you to end up in Hell if you die right this moment. But what it doesn’t mean is that this can’t change, at the very least we can attempt to change the outcome so we may both attempt to find our places in Celestia. But there are no tellings how these cruel gods might look down on our lives. In the end, we both may miss Celestia and end up somewhere worse, but isn’t it good enough to say we tried to be the best people we could be?.. And so help me, gods, if at the end of this life with you I end up in a place where they claim you do not belong, I will claw my way through the heavens and hells to put you in your rightful place. Whether that means I have to take you from Lolth’s webs or the fires of Avernus.”

It was easier to tell someone the exact same advice that you needed because it was easier to see. He gave Soren a small nod in acknowledgement but Willow knew what he felt, just like the Drow wasn’t something so easy to soften.

He hadn’t expected Soren to speak of where his soul might land, it really wasn’t something that he spent much time thinking about. He could understand the concern that the Bard had and it was terrifying to think that he could land somewhere he’d be unhappy with.

Putting on an expression of confusion and concern, he listened to what SIldar had to say on the matter as he tried to comfort Soren. Willow himself wasn’t sure what he could say to help. His mother may have been a deva but it was something he preferred to not think about.

A small smile appeared on his face as Sildar said his passionate piece. He truly did care for Soren. “I think…we should just focus on what we’re doing. Like SIldar said, we tried our best, tried to do good. That should be enough.” He paused and sighed, “So maybe just enjoy each other, the time that you have.

“Sorennar, remember this: your music only goes as far and as deep as your love goes.”

Ah. Ah. It was at times like these that Soren could feel himself beginning to finally, after a century and a half, grasp Gwynthel’s teachings—the ones that he absently took in stride as he fumbled with a lute bridge too big for his hands.

(He had thought her a bit of a fool, back then, for he could pluck a beautiful tune even though he was certain that the drow could not love.)

Soren allowed himself a lingering moment to behold his companions, every one of whom had every reason to abhor him for all the things he had done. Yet, as they peered back at him in earnest, there was only a genuine want to help him.

Briefly, before the warm feeling of endearment he had somewhat gotten used to, there was a flash of frustration. What had he done to deserve this? Who was he to be cared for, to be loved, to be looked at with that softness in Will’s gaze and the devotion in Sildar’s?

But, the agitation left a bright, biting clarity in its wake: that they did not care if he didn’t deserve this, did they? That if he didn’t deserve their love, he could work harder and longer and better until he did. That’s what they have been saying, what he loved about the surface: everything could change, wildly and vibrantly.

Perhaps, so could he. He would try, at least. He owed it to them to try.

It took tippy toes for the drow to press his lips gently against Sildar’s, which was difficult to do when walking, but Soren managed.

“Why, you didn’t tell me you were a poet, Sildar. Though, if you forgo your chance at the happy afterlife you deserve,” Soren murmured into the human’s cheek, “I’ll drag you back myself.”

But though the drow could hide the twitch of his ears in this human guise, he could not hide the pleased warmth that spread across his cheeks. Quickly, he turned to Will.

“And wise words, Willow. Your mentor said something much like it, when I had some similar misgivings about death, and I asked his help in—“ Oops. Soren caught himself, glancing at Sildar to see if, just maybe, he did not hear.

Of course he heard, how couldn’t he? He wanted to hear these words to come out Soren’s mouth for the longest time, it seemed like we were getting through to him. He waited for what he had to say next but he did not expect this topic to come up again. Of course they would need to talk about it soon enough..

“Soren, I understand that our differences will be hard, but did you really ask that of Reidoth? Did you really want to shorten your own life in order to die with me? Do you think I would want to see that, the one I love die early for me? That is stuff of nightmares Soren.. I wish for you to live your life till the complete end, enjoying and experiences everything you can. I would hate myself if you ended it early because of me.”

Sildar could not meet Soren’s eyes, he did not know how to feel. He understands how Soren feels but he certainly did not want Soren to sacrifice anything for himself, especially something like countless years which he could enjoy his own life and do so much. Sildar knew where Soren was coming from though, because certainly that life seemed hard to live right now, but he knew Soren would come to want to live those years even if it was without him.

Soren didn’t want to do this, not now. Not here.

If he had his way with things, this matter—that he would live a long, long life without Sildar—would be forgotten until he was standing, alone, at Sildar’s grave. It made his heart ache to think about, and so he did not want to think.

He always dealt with these things later, if at all he allowed them to creep into his mind between drinks and music and warm bodies.

So the beginnings of a hideous response flitted about in his mind: “awww you said you loved me” and ``well, what can I say?” and “can’t live without that dick anymore” and “oops, you’ve ruined me for anyone else”. The human would scold him, certainly, both Will and Sildar would be thoroughly disappointed; but why not let them be? Everything would be easier if they expected nothing of his emotional intelligence, expected nothing more of him than an inappropriate joke each time they tried to connect.

But then he caught the human’s earnest aegean gaze, for just a moment, before Sildar drew it away and cast it upon the mossy forest floor; and all the filthy words in his throat settled and curdled.

“I told you once that you lit up the darkness I festered in for decades, that you were my light and so, if you would have me, I would be honored to tend to your flame until it burns out.” Soren said. “And though these are the truest words to ever leave my mouth, you are the first person, in centuries, to offer me my freedom. I don’t know what I would do with it without you. I am sorry that I went behind your back with Reidoth, but I am not sorry for the inquiry. Because, my love, I think the stuff of nightmares—as you say—is always having to be the one doing the burying.”

It was at this time that Will decided to give the other two a bit of privacy, instead looking at the menagerie of animals that were walking with them. There was a small tinge of guilt that he felt having accidentally revealed Soren’s conversation with Reidoth. And while it hadn’t been him who actually spoke the words, he had been the one to prompt Vyreth to read his mind and reveal what Soren had asked to keep private. Another thing to apologize for.

His eyes slid back over to Sildar and Soren, giving a brief nod as he then fiddled with his quiver strap going back to watching the swishing tail of their new Panther friend. Both Soren and Sildar’s confessions were both passionate but he also couldn’t help but wish their circumstances were different.

Sildar knew what Soren was feeling, but he could not help but feel sad. He liked that Soren cared so much for him, but he wanted so much more for Soren, much past what his human lifespan can provide.

“Soren, I am glad I was able to do that for you but I really hope that one day you can find enjoyment in the world, regardless if I am in it or not. I do not want your flame to end with mine, and when mine does I hope you can find a purpose which you want to live for.”

Sildar pauses for a couple of moments, sad and worried, before continuing:

“If I happen to pass on before my time, I want you to promise me that you will continue where I left off. If I don't make it back from this fair, at least promise me that you will have the strength to kill off the Spider and end his hold over you. I will try my best to not have this outcome, but I honestly can't promise anything if I step in front of this god.

Sidar pauses again, taking a deep breath before looking over to Will and then Droop and Hugh

“You have plenty of amazing people surrounding you Soren, people who love and care about you so I am sure they will be able to help you with anything, whether I am there or not.”

There were terribly many ways to kill a humanoid.

All drow, common or noble, are taught as much, at the Tres Brache.

(The students of the prestigious Sorcere learned a little more—how to bring a man to the precipice of death before bringing him back, so as to go at it again, and again, and again. Soren was never once allowed to darken the doorstep of the mage academy, of course, but he knew these methods well: for each time Nezznar visited his alma mater, the Xorlarrin would return with new inspiration upon how to twist the Weave into crackling electricity, or potent poisons, or sizzling heat to rack Soren with.)

At the Melee-Magthere, where drow boys from Qu’ellarz’orl and the Braeryn alike are forged into soldiers, you’re taught to be a little more efficient. The spinal cord is cleanest; the jugular veins or carotid arteries for a little extra gurgle on the way to the hypoxia, if you had the affordance of being loud—which, in the emptiness of the Underdark, you often did. And when you had the affordance of time, there were other ways to kill, of course; slow, leisurely methods of which Soren now preferred not to think about.

Soren had seen killings, ritualistic, brutal, efficient and all. Soren had partaken in them.

Yet ironically: none were ever so agonizing and drawn-out, Soren thought bitterly, as the long wait of seeing a loved one wither away to the unyielding allegro of time.

But what Sildar was saying—it was as much of a dying wish as anything, and it was human custom to honor these, no? Soren, carefully and with practice, drew the corners of his lips into the bright, toothy grin that he knew tended to make surfacers a little breathless.

“I will not let this god kill you again, Sildar.” he said, tugging at the Weave to form a little swirl of pink monarchs around his outstretched fingers. “I’m very good at not letting things get to you, remember?”

(Both of them knew that his illusions and enchantments would not so much stand against a sneeze from a god, but he hoped that the lie was a little comforting, regardless.)

“But yes. I promise you, I will, Sildar. I’ll hunt the Spider down like the beasts he once had me hunt, and I’ll kill him. For me, and for you, and for all the innocents whose blood he’s spilled.”

Promises did not mean very much to Soren. At least, not since he shattered his promise to Rizoyn with his own two bloodstained hands and woke up still the next day, alive and breathless and like a hole had been burned through him through and through.

So when Soren said what he did to Sildar, he knew that he did not mean it, not really. He knew he did not have the strength, not without the human by his side, both physical and psychological, to stand in front of a Xorlarrin noble and strike them down. If Sildar died here, most likely, Soren would leave in the night, would spend the rest of his days in taverns and alleys, scrounging up the gold to bring him back.

But even as the empty words left his silver tongue, he thought, I could at least try, and realized that maybe, just maybe, he would. For Sildar, for Will, for Hugh, for the benevolence and kindness and misplaced confidence that they had placed upon his shoulders, he might just be able to face all the terror and nightmares in the world.

It was illogical. He would not stand a chance. The Spider would flay him alive while he stood there, frozen in fear. He knew this well enough. He knew himself well enough. And still, he might try.

The drow were irrevocably correct about one thing: that caring, the way the surfacers did, made you soft and inefficient.

Soren took Sildar’s hand in his, and flashed a grateful, soft smile at Will.

But soft and inefficient he would gladly be, Soren thought, if it meant that he could keep walking alongside his companions, under the brilliant sun.