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Despite his abrasiveness, Rolan only wanted to love and be loved. Every time he was almost close to you he ruined it in some way, until he didn't.
*°*°•.˜”*°•.˜”*°•.˜”*°••°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”°*
The so-called party after the Goblin leaders had been slain was as lackluster as Rolan had anticipated it would be. Your companions mostly drunk out of their mind and his fellow tieflings not far behind. Bringing some magic to the party was well within his repertoire and he intended to show everyone how skilled he really was. A beautiful illusion of a colourful firework show erupted from his fingers as he cast it. His siblings looked up at the display with the same look they usually had but it surprised him when he heard clapping. Turning he found your gaze, a smile he had not expected met his eyes.
“I didn't know you were so skilled in illusionary magic, Rolan.” You remarked, crossing your arms and raising an eyebrow.
“I can remember when he could hardly cast that, constantly having us sit around for a fireworks show.” Cal whispered to Lia but in his drunken state it was more of a whispered yell that you definitely heard. Rolan cringed and kept his eyes on you as the illusion faded.
“I thought I should diversify my portfolio before I got to Baldurs Gate. Might be a way to impress Lorroakan, well not impressed but at at least show I'm more than evocation spells.” He rubbed his hands together, the strange prickly feelings he got in his fingers after casting an illusion was still ever present.
“I can show you how to negate the horrible feeling you get after casting an illusion, if you'll accept some brief tutelage?” Your smile was mischievous but your tone was entirely sincere and his fingers did still feel odd. Maybe it wouldn't be so awful… he nodded and suddenly you took his hand and pulled him to the beach not far from the camp. Your hand felt oddly well suited to his. Rolan’s siblings’ giggles rang in his ears but he struggled to bring himself to care too much.
“Come on then, what am I missing?” Rolan asked, arms crossed as you let go of his hand and a cold feeling spread through him.
“You're concentrating too much.” You said simply as if it was the easiest thing possible.
“How is it possible to focus too much? On a bloody spell?” he breathed out a sigh of frustration but you just smiled and took his hands in yours.
“If you stop being so grumpy, I'll tell you.” raising an eyebrow at him you cast a quick illusion of a cat on the sand next to him, it purred and laced its way between both his legs before settling at your feet.
“And you don't get an odd feeling in your fingers when you do that?” He asked, overly eager to learn.
“No, because I'm not focussing on conjuring my cat like it's the last thing I'll ever do. The weave should flow through you without you thinking about it, it's hard to master in a sense. You're concentrating on a spell but it almost doesn't feel like it because you're so enraptured in it all that it comes naturally.” You knelt down, ghosting a stroke on the cat's back before it disappeared, you stood back up with a smile. You looked positively radiant under the moonlight, it bounced off the water behind you giving an angelic hue to your face. Rolan was beginning to get distracted and suddenly realised that he hadn't been listening to what you'd said…
“Rolan?” You snapped your fingers in front of his face and he was brought back to the present, your smile still ever present.
“Yes, apologies. I was lost in thought.” As he looked down slightly at your face he couldn't help but be filled with a sense of hopefulness. Your smile emanated joy that he hadn't felt in a while, he knew that behind the wide smiles of his siblings was a deep sense of anxiety at their uncertain future. But you didn't seem to be tainted by the cancer of hopelessness and loss.
“Give it a try, still your mind and just imagine what you want your magic to do. Focus on the feeling rather than the illusionary magic itself.” You placed a hand on his arm and turned to stand next to him.
How he was able to focus at all with your hand fixed to his bicep was beyond him but, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes imagining home. The small study he worked in back in Elturel, the deep purple of the fabric embroidered in his office chair, oak furniture and his prized precious gems and fossils.
“Rolan!” You exclaimed, and Rolan opened his eyes to look at you. You began twirling around, looking at every expanse of his illusion with a smile. Even he had to admit the detail was the best he had conjured. “You did it! I'm so proud of you.” Leaping forward you pulled him into a close hug. It caught him off guard and his illusion changed around him as he wrapped his arms around you. Deep lavender tones surrounded the two of you with bright sparkles of white and gold shining through it.
Deep inside of him a feeling began to spread through his body, annoyance and it turned into an anger he hadn't expected. You thought you were better than him, he could tell. Oh let me help you Rolan, you're clearly hopeless, a hellspawn with no magical talent. Was all he could hear in your last words regardless of the thoughts validity.
“Elementary, I assure you. A child could have conjured it.” He let go of you and the lights faded, his face steeled as he looked at you and your smile faded. It tugged at a muscle in his stomach as he saw your expression change but he ignored it.
“What do you mean? I thought you wanted help with your-” but he cut you off.
“Oh great angel thank you for bestowing your help unto me so that I may conjure a fucking illusion. I don't need your pity nor do I need your help. Do you enjoy poking your nose into everyone's business or is it just my family?” He yelled and you visibly shrunk backwards, wrapping your arms around yourself protectively.
“I wouldn't have done anything if you hadn't agreed to do it. You… I thought we were-”
“You thought that we were what? Having a fucking moment? What a nice naive thought that would be when you aren't homeless and have only one prospect that has been delayed by your sheer ability to insert yourself into everything!” His anger was deep and seething now, all he could see was your pity. But his subconscious could see the tears that threatened to fall from your eyes and the way you comforted yourself through his harsh words, urging him to reach out.
“I apologise, Rolan. Have a good rest of your night.” You didn't look at him as you walked away, going straight to Shadowheart’s tent and visibly crying. Rolan didn't sleep that night, whether it was due to his anger or his hatred for himself he wasn't sure. But he knew that seeing you upset had left a worse feeling in his stomach than anything before.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
After Cal and Lia had been safely returned to the Last Light Inn, Rolan tried to mask his relief and genuine emotional response- convinced that if he cried they wouldn't be far behind him. Of course when he saw you and your band of companions stroll through the door after his siblings he wasn't surprised. Perhaps a bit perturbed by the sheer amount of blood you were covered in but nonetheless he was relieved that everyone was alive and kicking.
That evening had erupted into more merriment than he'd expected, a tad more alcohol and songs than he would have liked but it was nice to see Cal and Lia happy (even if it was mostly due to the Firewine). Finding it slightly overwhelming when he was only tipsy he secluded himself to the only other bedroom in this whole bloody place beside Isobel's, hoping for some respite. But he wouldn't be so lucky, turning and being surprised by your form sitting cross legged on the bed with an orb of light hovering in your palm.
“Zurgan! What are you doing up here?” He exclaimed and you looked at him with a perplexed expression before slowly sending the orb of light around the room, lighting up every candle with an enchanted flame.
“I didn't realise the room was taken.” You smirked and it infuriated Rolan.
“Shouldn't you be down there, celebrating how bloody amazing everyone thinks you are?” He responded with slightly more malice than he intended but you seemed completely unphased as you uncrossed your legs and lay back on your hands, looking up at him.
“And what do you think of me Rolan?” Your eyebrow raised and you cocked your head to the side.
“I think you enjoy meddling and playing the hero.” He glared down at you but you once again seemed unphased and it was growing more and more attractive by the minute.
“Oh, come now my fellow spellcaster. Why be so harsh? Are you frustrated I did it before you could?” You were teasing him and it sent a bolt of arousal through Rolan’s body. It was entirely too warm in this room, your focused gaze and the wine was not helping at all.
“I- no! I do not meddle the way that you do. You think too much of your skills if you think that will get a rise out of me.” Rolan was a few steps from you and it felt more and more like he wanted to be closer.
“I think I've already got one.” You stood up and closed the gap between the two of you, Rolan went to speak but couldn't find the words to respond. “If I'd known how handsome you looked when you were quiet I'd have teased you more a long time ago.”
“Gods, why are you so drunk on your own ego?” His gaze was fixed on your lips and you smiled.
“Only when I'm talking to you,” reaching up slightly, you kissed him on the cheek as Rolans eyes grew wide. “If you want me to stop you only have to say so.”
He said nothing and so you carried on kissing up and down his neck. Paying particular attention to his jaw before licking his ear. Rolan let out a moan he didn't know he'd been holding in and it annoyed him a great amount when he saw your smirk.
“Can I kiss you?” you asked and it took all of Rolans strength to not pin you to the bed and fuck you. But he nodded and you placed a hand on his cheek before kissing him softly. He had never kissed anyone that was as bound to magic as he was, it felt like a melding of two energy sources. Intertwining with one another as they amplified their power.
“Why don't you hate me?” Rolan asked breathlessly between kisses.
“Because I can't be bothered too anymore.” You replied, running a hand up his chest and then across his shoulder.
“Why not?” His voice was smaller than he intended it to be.
“Why do you care? Don't you just want to sleep with someone and move on? It would be one of the only good things happening in this forsaken place.” You stood back, exasperated and sat on the bed looking at the floor.
“I- I don't know why I care. But I do. Why are you throwing yourself at me like this?” He regretted the words he chose the moment his mouth was closed. Your gaze slowly rose up to meet his, eyes so tired and there was a new look behind your eyes. No longer pity, but an anger mixed with sadness he had been the cause of.
“If that's truly how you feel, Rolan. Then I'll stop bothering you I promise,” you stood up and reached the door hoping he would turn around and take you in his arms. But he didn't, you left the room and stood on the other side of the door.
Taking a deep breath you could only remember how deeply embarrassed you had felt after the party a few weeks ago. You didn't plan on crying to Shadowheart again but it was definitely a possibility, you thought that maybe if you acted more aloof or something that he would want you. Maybe changing yourself wasn't the right decision, but you thought he might like you. If he just got past his judgemental front then maybe he would allow you to see him. Not the mask of anger that he often worem But he still pushed you away as easily as the first time.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
Dread rose through your stomach and into your mouth, an acidic taste of anxiety because you'd be seeing Rolan soon. Due to your previous transgressions- at least transgressions in Rolans opinion- you doubted that he would be happy to see you. Your last meeting was plagued with judgemental words from him and actions that weren't really in your nature. Regardless of your anxiety, you needed to visit Sorcerers and Sundries for Gale.
It was a beautiful day, sun streaming through the windows and the stained glass ceilings as Rolan stood at the entrance desk. He often thought as he started his shift that seeing an employee at the welcome desk with a face if bruises and burns would be moderately unsettling. But Lorroakan hardly seemed to care. Rolan supposed that humiliation must be one of his Master's great loves considering how this was a usual and common occurrence. As the bruises seemed to heal and hope would rise up inside that maybe this was the end of the test, that he had passed, the beatings started again. It was always nonsensical questions that Rolan had no way of knowing how to answer, knowledge he should have been taught by now but wasn't given the opportunity. The only saving grace for him was that no one be knew was ever in the shop, it was curious children or worldly Baldurians never someone that he- oh fuck.
When he saw you walking through the door, a backpack slung over your shoulder as you stood to the back of your group of companions. Gale strided forward to speak with him. Rolan wondered why you were hiding from him, but he supposed it wasn't so outlandish given the last time you spoke and maybe the state of his face.
“Rolan! It's nice to see you again, who should I talk to about rare tomes and spells?” Gale asked with a polite smile on his face as he attempted (badly) to hide that he was looking at the bruises.
“Welcome to Sorcerers Sundries, home to much magical information, items and spells. Tolna will be able to help you with any rare tomes, she's over there by the other counter. If you need any more help, be assured I will do my best to assist you.” Rolan's smile was so painfully emotionless that Gale sought only to smile and walk over to Tolna rather than stew in the awkward situation.
Gale was accompanied by Shadowheart and Astarion but you stayed, still looking slightly down and picking up a pamphlet on the front desk. The air felt thicker and not in awkwardness but with regret and a tugging feeling in his stomach that he once again needed to apologise. But you didn't look up and he wasn't sure whether to interrupt your thoughts or leave you to your reading about the Nightsong.
“How has your apprenticeship been?” You suddenly asked, your fingers grazing the top of the pamphlet delicately as you refused to reach his gaze.
“Most beneficial, Master Lorroakan is a wonderful tutor and I'm enjoying my time here as I said I would.” His lying was hardly with any effort, he didn't feel like he wanted to lie to you regardless of what you thought of him. He could only hope that you would want to speak to him more due to the very clear lie. It was after he said this that you looked up at him with a hard expression that immediately softened as you stood closer to the desk and lay your palms flat.
“Rolan…” you breathed before you hand gently reached up to cup his cheek. He wanted to shrink away, pretend that he didn't need help and that he didn't want your attention but he couldn't. He was so deeply starved of a kind touch or basic human decency that he leant into your hand. “What has he done to your beautiful face?”
“I-I assure you. This is the result of backfired spells of my own doing.” Rolan gently took your hand off his cheek and looked down, unable to meet your sympathetic gaze. Did you pity him once more?
“Rolan, we both know that you have never been that careless.” You stood firm and tilted his chin up gently so he looked at you, his eyes threatening to spill tears.
“Please, for once allow me to have my privacy!” He exclaimed suddenly and without warning. “Everytime you enter back into my life it's to butt your head into every aspect of it. My spellcasting, my family, my character, the autonomy of my own face! I can handle my own problems and I don't need your righteous help.”
Your face displayed the deep deep hurt that spread through your whole body. Tears pooling in your eyes as Rolan looked at you with misplaced anger and frustration. He couldn't take it back, once again he had ruined it all. You wanted to help him, everytime you showed up it had been his fortune and you were too sweet for him. Too kind to deserve a bastard such as he. Maybe it was for the best that he scared you away with his harsh words, it's not as if they would subside. He was a selfish, rotten man who couldn't accept kindness if it slapped him in the face.
“I'm sorry, Rolan. I didn't-.” You paused, seemingly considering your words carefully before sniffing. “I won't bother you again. I promise.” You'd said that before and he'd longed that you hadn't meant it, now he wasn't sure if you'd ever speak to him again. Slowly, you walked away with your head bowed over to your companions. Shadowheart hugged you extremely close whilst staring daggers at Rolan who just about shrunk in her accusatory gaze.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
When Lorroakan lay dead on the floor, Rolan had to take a moment and sit down near the body of his dead Master. It felt like his own body might collapse next to him if he stood up for too long. So mentally and physically exhausted but, with a stark realisation that his dream was over, he would never be a great wizard. Who else would take on a hellspawn with no formal magical education? He didn't mourn Lorroakan in any sense of the word but he mourned what could have been, his now forgotten future.
“You fought well, I'm sure you'll turn this place around soon enough.” Shadowheart stood over him with hands on her hips.
“What?” He asked with furrowed brows and she rolled her eyes.
“Don't tell me you're just going to give up and leave? You're the Master of the tower now so you better use that power well. Starting with apologies to people who deserve them, hmm?” She cocked her head towards you. You were standing in the corner, shoulders hunched and making yourself even smaller as you stood near La’zel. The Githyanki almost seemed to be standing protectively next to you.
Rolan nodded and Shadowheart offered him a hand to get up, that for once in his life he accepted and rose to his feet. Brushing off his robe he took note of the blood smatterings.
“Could I speak to you?” Rolan asked tentatively as he approached you, greeted by the accusatory glare of the Gith.
“Oh, me? Of course. Yes.” You walked next to Rolan and smiled to your companions as they exited through the portal with Aylin.
“Thank you. For what you did here today.” Rolan said so earnestly that you were taken back- no backhanded comment or snideness, just humility. “Without you all here today I… I don't know how long it would have all gone on.”
“Honesty, I thought you would scold me for being so meddlesome in your business.” You smiled to yourself, looking down at your muddy boots.
“Well, whilst that is true. It was only to my benefit in this case. As it has always been, no matter how cruel I have been, you have indiscriminately helped me and my siblings. There is no way to thank you that expresses my gratitude.” Rolan was looking at you now and you weren't sure whether to reach his gaze, too afraid he would say something like last time.
“I would have done it in every lifetime, I hope you know that.” You slowly looked at him, ready to wrap your arms around yourself protectively once again. But, he looked genuinely touched, tender even. It made you hope that you could really be friends even if it was never anything more.
“I know I've ruined things with you, I assume irrevocably given my behavior. But if you'll allow me, I would like to be your friend even if nothing more would come from it.” Now he was flicking his gaze from you to the floor and back again, anxiously fiddling with his fingers.
“If that's all that you want then who would I be to refuse,” you smiled sadly. “I think it's nice to imagine what could have happened between the two of us."
"What do you imagine?" Rolan asked, suddenly anxious but hopeful.
"Oh, I don't know. A date or two. Magic with one another and learning new techniques, spending time together etcetera etcetera." Your smile seemed to fade away as you looked into the distance.
"And that would be... favourable to you?" He asked cautiously and you weren't sure how to take it, was he horrified or curious?
"Very favourable. Regardless of everything my feelings towards you have remained constant and I think I would be remiss to act as if I only see you as a friend." You paused, "But that does not mean I don't want to be friends. I understand that my opinion doesn't necessarily line up with yours."
"I- I can't tell if you're joking? You have feelings towards me even when I've been such a cataclysmic fool?" Rolan scoffed with an expression of genuine bewilderment.
"Has that not been painfully obvious from the beginning." You stated wanting to run away to avoid the possibility of rejection but no, you needed this.
"You want me?" He was once again, bewildered.
"Gods, Rolan. Please listen, I've been thinking about you constantly since the moment we met. Ready to drop anything and everything to help you because it was the right thing to do but that didn't stop my real interest in you. That only grew and despite the fuck ups I knew you were in stressful situations and you can never predict how someone will react." You paused looking down at the floor.
"I tried to change how I acted around you whether it was being more flirty or more reserved and everytime I would feel the same afterwards. I wanted you as myself, maybe I'm too patient for my own good but I don't care. If you don't feel the same for me I would still love to be your friend and a friend of your family because you're good people and I adore being around you all." You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from word-vomiting any further.
"I- that is a great deal to take in." Rolan paused, pondering what to say next you assumed. "I can't believe that I'm not the fool who has fallen for someone who could never see me the same way." His smile began to grow and he slowly reached out his hand to brush against your fingers that dug into your arm. You looked into his eyes and struggled to find deception within them.
"I once asked you what you thought of me, what do you think of me now?" You asked, linking your fingers with his and letting your hands hang between the two of you.
"I still think you enjoy meddling and playing the hero but, you're considerate and kind, much too patient for a normal person to be. But more than anything when I think of you I want to be close to you." He squeezed your hand before laying his other hand on your cheek.
The kiss the two of you shared, the first true kiss was beautiful. The trust between two people built up through conflict and displayed through an expression of your deep care for one another. It didn't feel rushed or forced, you weren't pretending to be someone else and Rolan didn't feel as if he had to deflect his feelings into defensive anger. It felt whole.
Don't burn alone in the dark (Rolan x Geraldus, G, what-if one shot)
The wizard is hurting, drinking himself useless as he waits at Last Light Inn, refusing to let anyone get close to his pain. Geraldus, trying to hold on to hope in the dark, can't help but see it.
(Aka: What if Geraldus was with the Harpers at Last Light Inn?)
He was there again; at the bar.
Geraldus slid the bow from his shoulder, resting it on the table as he took a seat, glancing across the length of the inn at the figure at the other end, slumped over, a wine glass in hand, eyes staring into oblivion.
Tumeril was saying something, but he wasn’t really listening; distracted as he took in the tiefling and felt the familiar, aching pang of guilt in his chest.
They hadn’t been fast enough; by the time they’d made it to the source of the noise - the crash of thunder and clatter of swords that had echoed even in this place that seemed to swallow up all sounds - it was too late.
Bodies strewn across the floor already, and there, gathered in dark in a cluster - just a few left; a young woman with lavender hair was shielding two of the small children - children, mostly, were left - and there, chest heaving and eyes wide, flecks of fresh blood across his cheeks - the wizard.
He must have spent nearly all he had to fight them off, his limbs shaking as Geraldus’ compatriots rushed to their side, quickly gathering up the children and fighting back the last of the retreating cultists.
He could still remember what he said as he approached him - those gold eyes meeting his, glowing there in the dark.
“They took them,” he said, “I have to go after them I have to -”
Geraldus took a deep breath as he watched him across the bar now; recognising how absolutely defeated he looked. They hadn’t been fast enough, and the tiefling had lost his family for it. No amount of wine was going to change that, but he seemed determined to try.
“-again once the others are ready to take back over, I guess. We’re not going to find them, though.”
Geraldus glanced back at Tumeril, realising he’d barely heard a word of that, but understood his sense of defeat. They’d lost more than a few already to this place and the unending dark; he knew why Tumeril thought it pointless to try and find survivors at the cost of more lives.
“We can’t give up,” Geraldus said quietly, looking at a pair of the tiefling children huddled together in one corner, playing games together to pass the time, “there’s still…”
Tumeril laughed sharply, shaking his head.
“You’re too naive,” he said, “they’re already dead, Geraldus.”
Maybe he was right. It was getting harder, the more nights they spent in this place, to hold on to the threads of hope that Geraldus had always kept so tight, but he wanted to try.
It all felt like a nightmare that didn’t end, no matter how many times you woke up.
Every morning the sky was still black, and in this place it was always the middle of the night, all of them clinging desperately to the light; even as they bristled against one another in these confines - the Flaming Fist no less frustrated than they were, the refugees struggling to stay afloat, and the High Harper there in the middle of all of it - her sharp gaze overseeing everything.
She was talking quietly now to another; an elf finely dressed in an elegant dress, with dark hair who seemed to be responsible for the Fist. They’d arrived a few days back now, before they’d found the tieflings, and had spent most of their time gathered in one of the side rooms formulating a plan.
Everyone seemed to be looking for a plan; but as each day passed, the hours all starting to blend together, he could feel the weight of this starting to bury them all, one by one.
It wasn’t too late; Geraldus was sure of it. He’d picked up tracks this time - found a path towards the edges of Reithwin, the path to Moonrise Towers; some, at least, had not been pulled away with the cultists. Someone had made it to shelter there in the ruins; he felt sure of it, and he prayed that whoever they were, they were staying safe.
We’ll find you, he told himself, and we’ll find the rest of them, too.
His eyes drew back to the bar; the tiefling’s voice was raised, not quite a shout but close to it, carrying across the bar as he addressed the woman; the bard with the lavender hair.
“A song?” He was saying, voice sharp and filled with spite, “oh of course, what could possibly help more?”
“Rolan-” the bard was saying, a soft, sorrowful look on her face, “I’m just…”
“No please, Alfira,” the wizard replied, leaning back a little, his glass lurching in his hand, a little wine spilling across his hand that he was heedless to stop, “do play us a song, I’m sure this captive audience will appreciate your caterwauling.”
“It will help pass the time whilst we wait to find out just how many of us died for you to get here,” he said, every word sharper than the last.
Geraldus fiddled a little with the edge of his arm-guard, watching as the bard sighed deeply; watching her features crushed with hurt as she crumpled with defeat, slinking away, a glittering of tears in her eyes as she did.
“At least we’ve got quite the supply for them to drown their sorrows,” Tumeril said wryly across the table, eyeing this unfolding scene, “although at the rate they’re going, we won’t have that either soon.”
Geraldus watched the wizard’s face; the victory was fleeting - his face triumphant for only a moment at the bard’s retreating back before the spectre of reality set in, a shard of something impossibly lost, the rawness of mourning fresh and burning, flitting across his features.
The tiefling slumped back against the bar, lifting his glass to his lips, and, finding half of it across his sleeve instead, let out a string of curses under his breath, face turning spiteful again as he rolled up the edges of his cuff with a hiss.
Geraldus watched as he held his glass out again, demanding another. One of the children, glancing at the other nervously, reached for a bottle and poured it.
Geraldus thought faintly that perhaps someone ought to intervene, or at the very least, that the children shouldn’t be behind a bar at all.
“I’d get a drink myself,” Tumeril said, “but I don’t fancy being in that one’s blast radius.”
Geraldus glanced back to Tumeril then.
“He’s lost his family,” Geraldus said quietly, “he’s hurting.”
The tiefling had tried to rush after his family even then, as they had gathered up the others to pull them back to safety. He’d watched as Skywin had grabbed one of the children and lifted them onto her back, calling the retreat.
“Geraldus, there’s no time for this - we have to go.”
He’d reached for the tiefling just as his shaking legs gave out, and helped to pull him to his feet, listening as his compatriots had promised the wizard that they would go after them as soon as they could - that he just had to come with them now first.
Geraldus hadn’t made the same promise, only helped to hold up his arms as they pulled him with them.
“We’ve all lost people,” Tumeril said, a little sombre now, “they’re out there right now paying respects to the three we lost just today.”
Geraldus had seen them, clustered out there on the outcrop by the side of the inn, looking out on the strange light that surrounded them; this false sky conjured by the Cleric above, saying their prayers for the fallen.
“You don’t see the blacksmith drinking himself useless,” Tumeril added, blonde brow raising slightly.
But the blacksmith could still hammer; the bard could still play; the children still had one another to play with, the Harpers had their mission, the Fist had their charge to protect.
The wizard, though?
What could he do other than wait? No wonder he felt so powerless.
“No one should be powerless,” Geraldus said quietly. Tumeril let out a little sigh, reminded, glumly, of their tenets.
“No one should be powerless,” he agreed.
He thought of going to the bar - not that he wanted to drink, he never really did - but then thought better of it.
Tumeril had been right about one thing; around that man at the bar was a tempest, and no one that stepped close would be able to cut through those waves until the storm had passed. He’d condemned himself to facing it alone, and the thought of that created a little uncomfortable swell of sadness in Geraldus’ gut.
Try as he might, he couldn’t stop his heart from aching a little for him; sitting there, his pain spilling out behind the sourness on his face, a pyre burning in silence.
What had she called him, the bard? Rolan.
He committed the name quietly to his memory. Rolan.
–
Rolan’s head was swirling as he leant against the cold stone, letting his forehead press against it for a moment in a vain effort to stop the spinning.
Stepping outside had been a mistake - some loose headed notion that the air would help stop the sensation that he was on the deck of a lurching ship, the ground perilously close to rising up and meeting him as he took each step - but of course, there was no fresh air here - not in this place.
No wind. No stars. Just more spinning and darkness and the images of them - of Lia’s face, her amber eyes burning bright and wide, telling him it would be ok, that they would be ok, of Cal’s hands wrenched behind his back - the sword clattering from his side as he shouted in defiance of the face of his captors.
The feeling, like ice through his heart as he realised there was nothing else he could do to stop this, hearing the sounds of crying behind him - and knowing that no matter how his heart was tearing apart - if he left them these children would die.
Fuck, he thought, feeling the soft scrape of the stone against his skin as he let his forehead slide just a little down the wall, they could be dead already. They’re dying. I’m here and they’re dying and I can’t think and I -
Here, alone, with the swirling void beneath him and just the feeling of stone to anchor him before it swallowed him up, he had no more defences left to stop the tears. They were falling now, whether he wanted them to or not.
Crying, Rolan? You’re crying now like that means anything to them? A tear shed for their loss is as useful as one of Alfira’s fucking songs. It doesn’t help anyone but you.
His stomach was turning now, the spinning sensations starting to lurch in his gut too now, and he could feel it - the wine rising in his throat; his evening of poor decisions ready to stage an encore.
His hand went to his mouth, a vain attempt to stop it before it started, but it was too late - he felt himself retching already.
He span in place and gravity finally claimed him, feeling himself falling forward to the floor with his mind still half in the air, everything feeling a little as if it were happening a few seconds later and a few steps away.
He heaved as an unstoppable wave of wine and iron and bile rose up through his throat.
In his dizzy mind, he hoped, at least, nobody was around to see this particularly heroic display of vomiting.
Alas; that hope was quickly dashed.
He was still spinning, unable to even really look up as he felt a presence beside him, kneeling - fingers reaching, carefully and tentatively, to pull his hair back from his face. He felt those fingers drawing his hair together and gathering it at his nape; and wondered when it had even come loose.
He was still heaving; painful, sharp lurches through his gut that he couldn’t stop, a whole night’s worth of wine determined to make a second appearance.
He was aware of the fingers on his neck the whole time, a hand placed on his shoulder and guiding his wobbling body slightly to lean some weight against them, crouched.
“It’s ok Rolan,” a voice, soft, unfamiliar, was saying, “you’re ok.”
He was grateful at least his tears would be disguised like this; his eyes watering now from the sudden sickness just as much as the pain.
Finally, as it started to cease, he reached up and wiped at his lips with his sleeve. Well; at least he didn’t feel quite as swirling any more; the pain in his gut and the horrible, sharp smell of bile dragging him rather abruptly back towards something more sober.
He let his other hand steady himself against the stranger’s knee, feeling himself shaking a little and trying, desperately, to stop doing so. After a moment that felt far longer than it was, Rolan managed to lift his head, and braved himself to meet their eyes.
He blinked away the watering of his eyes, and found himself looking at a familiar face; one he’d seen only once before, but one he remembered.
He’d heard his saviours before he saw them - a sharp arrow shot striking into the chest of the looming cultist, sending it crumpling to the floor, a deadly hit. Then, to his side, a streak of magic, and the clattering sound of approaching footsteps and metal scraping, armour and swords.
A pair of wide, hazel eyes, dark hair framing soft features, drawn together in concern, a hand placed on his shoulder, the other still clutching a longbow.
“They took them,” he had said, trying to get the stranger to understand that it wasn’t him that mattered, “I have to go after them, I have to-”
Those same eyes were looking at him again now, dark brows drawn together in gentle concern.
He didn’t know what to say; his mind still too filled with haze, his body still wavering, the taste of bile on his lips reminding him just how little dignity he had in this moment.
“Don’t worry,” the stranger said, releasing his gentle grip on Rolan’s hair, and after a moment, whispering in a low voice, words echoing with arcane energy, “te absolvo.”
Rolan felt it; a wave of energy rippling out from the stranger’s grip on his shoulder, spreading out across his body, washing over his mind like water, soothing and cool against the heat and pain that occupied his skull.
As it lapped through him, he felt a little bit of his own mind returning, but not as it had been before the wine, not filled with shrapnel and anger, but simple, clean, feeling like the moment of waking, that blissful space before you remembered all of the details of life that waited in the day.
He was lifting him, slowly, carefully to his feet. Rolan felt himself wobbling, his legs not quite steady enough, and let his weight lean into the stranger's body a moment, unable to do anything else.
His body felt solid, and warm, and a much better anchor than the cold wall had been.
“We should get back inside,” the stranger said gently, “there’s a door, through the back - it’s quieter.”
Rolan pulled back, testing his own feet a moment, and the stranger released his grip. The strange false moonlight was reflected in his eyes, looking at him, aching and genuine in a way that made the creeping sense of shame in Rolan’s gut grow.
What are you doing? Rolan thought, what is the point of you, Rolan?
“I don’t need your help,” he managed, wanting the shame to stop and not knowing how else to get it to stop other than to get this man to stop looking at him.
The stranger smiled; just a small one, the tiniest curve at the edge of his lips.
“No, you don’t,” he said, “but you can have it, anyway.”
Rolan felt a twist now, in his chest; an unexpected sensation there he was struggling to identify, battling with the guilt and misery, and not knowing what to do with any of it. He was exhausted, now, and the world still felt too loose for him to stay in it much longer.
So, he nodded.
“I’m not thanking you,” he said quickly, even though he wasn’t quite sure why he did.
The man smiled again.
“You don’t have to,” he said simply, and then started walking, slowly, leading the way.
As Rolan trailed after him, doing his best to keep his steps steady, he noticed the half-elf glancing back at him, eyes darting across him, making sure Rolan was following him.
He was tall, dressed in impressive armour; a little more notable than many of the other Harpers he’d seen lingering about, not that he had paid any of them any particular attention. He hadn’t cared to learn anything about any of them - they mattered even less than he did.
Still, as they rounded the corner, heading towards the back door, he found himself asking a question.
“Who are you?” He asked.
The man looked a little surprised, but smiled, brushing a little hair back over a pointed ear as he reached for the door handle.
“I’m Geraldus,” he said.
Thank you, Geraldus, he thought, silently, holding the name in his mind a moment before it slipped back into the haze.
