A/N: This fic is something of a character/relationship study of my Charname and Rasaad. It details what happened between the end of Throne of Bhaal and the beginning of what is laid out in Rasaad's romance epilogue. There will be no explicit sexual material at any point (though lots of implied things), but there will be discussion of various mental illnesses, including PTSD, and intense violence (though nothing too graphic).
Hour 9 Uktar 18, 1370 DR
There was something utterly splendid about the normalcy of being awoken by the sound of chirping birds. That's what Syrin thought, anyway, as she sat up and rubbed the last vestiges of sleep from her eyes. Two years of a life that had seen her waking up early in the morning in a cold sweat, shaking from nightmares, had caused her to almost forget what ordinary felt like.
The singing of birds and the content sensation of a good night's rest was almost worthy of a few tears of joy in that moment, but Syrin was not the sort of person to shed tears. Her pale, elven features betrayed little of what she was feeling. There was no reason for her to wear this mask, nor anyone to wear it for at the moment, alone in the room as she was, but it was a difficult habit to break. In fact, there were many habits she possessed which were completely unnecessary in her peaceful cabin room, all a result of two years spent wondering if the next moment would be her last. Months of living quietly in one place hadn't been enough to change that.
Syrin eyed the twin swords that sat atop the nearby table and reminded herself that today she was supposed to start afresh. Today would officially mark a new chapter of her life, and with any luck, a better one. Today, she was going to marry the man she loved. As she thought of him, her angular cheeks tinted pink and her fingertips touched the tiny silver charm which hung from her neck on a fine chain. The little hollow circle with its four rays was a symbol of not just Selûne, but of her beloved's kindness and sincerity. Whenever she touched it, she was reminded that that there were those who genuinely cared about her. One of those people chose this moment to come bursting into the cabin.
"Syrin!" a pink haired human woman sang out cheerfully, paying no mind to the poor door, which had nearly fallen off its hinges. "Rise and shine, sister! It's a beautiful day and you're getting married to the best abs in Toril!"
"Imoen, I hope you don't think I'm marrying him for his perfectly sculpted body," Syrin replied with a sigh, not quite realizing what she had said until her sister gave her a knowing grin. "Alright, I may like that quality about him, but to me, he is first and foremost a good man," she then admitted, thankfully not stuttering in the process.
"I know. I just thought you could use a little reminder of the more tangible things, since you tend to get wrapped up in your philosophizing." The young woman perched herself on the end of the dining table as she spoke, still bearing a grin, and let her legs swing back and forth underneath her.
"What, were you afraid I was going to spend so much time sitting around, thinking about today, that I'd actually miss my own wedding?" Syrin challenged, quirking an eyebrow.
"You were definitely at risk. Look at you. You're still in your night things. You've only got a little time left to make yourself all pretty."
"Are you saying I'm not normally pretty? Some sister you are."
"I hate to break it to you, but you're a lumpy toadstool," Imoen deadpanned, but then broke down after a moment of heavy staring between them and let out a string of giggles. Syrin followed with her riotous cackles, throwing her head back in her mirth. Just as it was becoming hard to breathe, another woman entered the cabin.
"What is going on in here?" came the strict tones of none other than the druid warrior Jaheira. She wore a heavy scowl on her sharp features that had always been able to force Syrin and Imoen to settle down and now was no exception. Syrin almost immediately schooled her face into a serious expression, but Imoen had some difficulty in doing the same, her smile refusing to die, leading to some interesting facial twitching.
"Nothing to worry about. We were just having a laugh," Syrin answered calmly. This seemed to satisfy Jaheira, because the older woman's frown faded and she held up a small wicker basket, the contents of which were covered in a cloth.
"Good. I've brought you a proper breakfast." The druid handed off the basket to Syrin, who found it filled with a half loaf of fresh bread and a plentiful array of nuts and berries, which had no doubt been picked on the way up to the cabin. Imoen did not look too impressed, probably wondering how anything that didn't include eggs and sausage could be considered a proper breakfast, but Syrin, a ranger who very much believed in avoiding taking from other animals if at all possible, thought it was perfect.
"Thank you, Jaheira. It looks lovely." The half-elf's eyes softened at this genuine expression of thanks and a smile even played at the corners of her lips. Syrin suspected it was a moment of motherly affection. After all, Jaheira had been something of a mother figure to her ever since Gorion's death and it wasn't too much of a stretch at all to assume that Jaheira thought of herself as such, especially given how she had been acting in the tendays leading up to this day. "Did you bring anything to make me pretty? Imoen and I were just discussing how much I resemble a fungus." This earned Imoen a sharp look from Jaheira, but the pink haired woman shrugged it off lightheartedly, signaling that Syrin was not actually offended.
"As it happens, I've...brought you something rather special for the occasion." From her satchel, Jaheira produced a carefully folded piece of pure white cloth that rivaled Syrin's silvery hair for brightness, though it was far more elegant than her wild, wavy bob. The elf stared at it in wonder as it was placed in her hands. With one finger, she traced the intricate vine motif embroidered in silver thread along the edge.
"What is it?" Imoen asked simply, also looking rather intrigued by the beauty of the thing.
"It's...it's the veil I wore when I married Khalid." This admission brought expressions of shock to both the younger women's faces.
"Jaheira, I can't-" Syrin began, but the druid cut her off.
"I want you to have it," she insisted in a firm tone that quite clearly indicated that she would not be swayed on this.
"Thank you. It's very beautiful," Syrin responded with a soft smile.
"I can't wait to see you wear this, Syrin," Imoen commented, fingering the fabric.
"We have much work to do before then, so have your breakfast and let us begin," Jaheira reminded and Syrin dutifully tucked into her meal.
It was rather surprising the way the time seemed to fly by as Imoen and Jaheira fussed over Syrin's appearance. She was not used to such pampering, practical woman as she was. The only purely cosmetic habit she had ever had was her penchant for outlining her eyes with thick black ink, which her companions insisted she tone down for this occasion. They spent hours braiding autumn flowers into her short, silver white hair and debating over what jewelry she should wear, though it didn't matter terribly to Syrin.
To be honest, the ranger didn't see why the wedding had to be such a big affair. It seemed like a rather private thing that need not be shared with the entire village. Alas, that was not the way of things. She was the Ranger of Imnesvale and the villagers insisted on a public wedding for their official. The more Syrin thought about it, the more nervous she became, though she continued to wear a serene smile on her lips, nodding passively at whatever Jaheira was saying about the sleeves of her white gown.
When midday arrived and Imoen finally held up a mirror to show Syrin how she looked, the ranger realized just how out of her element she was. She almost didn't recognize herself but for the ice coloured eyes staring back at her. She didn't look like a woman who spent her days crawling through undergrowth, observing the world without being detected. She looked like some sort of Evereskan noble who was meant to be seen and admired. Taking a deep breath was all she could do not to break out in a nervous sweat at the thought of so many eyes on her. She didn't do public attention. It was one of the most uncomfortable things she could think of.
"When he sees you, he'll think you're Selûne incarnate," Imoen told her brightly, snapping her thoughts back to whole point of these festivities. Maybe if she focused her mind on him, she would make it through this without melting into a puddle of embarrassment.
"Well, I was actually almost a god once," Syrin replied with a small laugh, adding in her head that she was getting married precisely because she hadn't chosen to become a god.
"Now you can have your cake and eat it too," Imoen pointed out playfully, though Jaheira, as usual, took the topic much more seriously.
"You made the right decision, Syrin. I'm proud of you," the druid said, placing a hand on the elf's shoulder.
"I know. I know. I'm never going to have second thoughts about it. Trust me." This earned Syrin's shoulder a squeeze and a brief smile.
"Come then. It is time."
The next few minutes would later be something of a blur in Syrin's memory, muddled by high levels of excitement and anxiety. She followed Imoen and Jaheira from the cabin and they came to flank her as they made their way to the village center, making sure as they went that Syrin's gown didn't get wet or snag on anything. The whole village had turned out to watch, as if this was the coronation of a queen or something. Really, it was not that many people, small as Imnesvale was, but it certainly seemed like a huge crowd to Syrin at the time.
Then she saw him, standing there, waiting like a statue, clad in white robes. His brown eyes lit up like nothing else the moment he caught sight of her. Before she could register what was happening, her thin fingers were enveloped in his large, warm hands. She didn't realize how hard she was smiling until her cheeks began to hurt. The portly man who was officiating the ceremony began to speak, but Syrin was only half listening until it came time to make the vows, as her thoughts were in a loop of "by the gods, this is actually happening".
"Do you, Rasaad yn Bashir, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, in sickness and in health, and promise to love and protect her, in this life and beyond?"
"I do," Rasaad answered, not breaking eye contact with Syrin for even a second.
"And do you, Syrin A'Gorion, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, in sickness and in health, and promise to love and protect him, in this life and beyond?"
"I do." It came out almost a whisper, but it was thankfully loud enough for Rasaad and the officiator to hear.
"Then by the power vested in me, before these witnesses, I pronounce you husband and wife." Syrin felt cool metal slide down her finger and Imoen pressed a ring into her other palm, which she deftly placed on Rasaad's hand. "You may now kiss." Slowly, but gently, Rasaad pulled away the veil that covered all but Syrin's eyes. In a burst of impatience, she took the initiative and stood on the tips of her toes to collide her lips with his. She tuned out the sound of the others cheering and the tickle of the shower of flower petals now raining down on her and her new husband. This was too happy a moment for her to care about anything but the source of that happiness.
It wasn't until Imoen elbowed her that it became apparent that she had been rendered momentarily oblivious to the rest of the world, because she had been locking lips with Rasaad for somewhat longer than was considered proper. When the pair pulled back from each other, Syrin noted that Rasaad had gone a bit red. For her part, Jaheira looked like she had witnessed an intimacy that she wished she hadn't.
"Alright! Let's party!" Imoen exclaimed and the crowd whooped and suddenly everything was a whirlwind of people, flowers, food, and drink.
"Shall we dance?" Syrin asked Rasaad, offering him her hand. He took it with a playful smile.
"If my lady wishes it," he said, kissing her knuckles.
"I dare say she does." With that, they began to jump, slide, and spin with each other to the beat of the tune the bards were playing, along with many of the villagers. Rasaad was just as graceful in this as he was in combat and Syrin did her best to keep up with him, but there was a marked difference between fighting with two swords and the steps required of a jig. Twice, she nearly fell, but Rasaad kept a firm hold on her and ensured that she didn't embarrass herself.
"You look beautiful," he commented, as if he had heard her think of what a disgrace she was to the elven race for her lack of elegance.
"You know, I'm not sure I'll ever get used to hearing that," she sighed.
"Then I will tell you every day until you do." She knew that he'd do it too. She had never met anyone more sincere. "You are as a star, Syrin." That was enough to make her blush.
"And you're a huge, muscly teddy bear," she responded, poking him in the chest.
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying you're a big softy and the sweetest man I know, but you could singlehandedly level an entire orc camp if the mood struck you. You're honestly a heartthrob."
"Such words from you are a high compliment indeed. I'm humbled." Syrin couldn't help but let out a small, self-deprecating laugh at this.
"Don't be. I'm most definitely not without my faults." These words summoned a look of concern in Rasaad's eyes and he stopped dancing for a moment, pulling Syrin aside and gripping her shoulders firmly.
"Do not let your thoughts wander down that path; I beg you. You are everything that is precious to me and I do not wish to see you unhappy, especially on this day of all days," he told her quietly, his tone quite serious. It was a testament to his wise nature that he had immediately detected the underlying darkness in her comment. His right hand came up to her cheek and she closed her eyes, savouring the warmth in the gesture.
"You should give yourself more credit for being such a good man, Rasaad."
"Syrin..." Damn. Well, she never had been able to get anything past him. She should have known better by now than to try a deflection.
"I know; I'm sorry. Come on, let's keep dancing. It'll chase away my darker thoughts."
"Very well." Adjusting his hold on Syrin, Rasaad pulled them back into motion.
For the rest of the day, the monk did everything in his power to make his wife smile, and smile she did, especially after a little mead. She forgot her anxieties for a time and danced until her body burned with exhaustion and she sang her heart out to any tune the bards would consent to play. The wind of the hills caressed her face, carrying her lovely alto notes above the rest and she felt alive.
By dusk, she was so worn out that she had to rely on Rasaad for support and didn't have enough energy left to be much embarrassed at the suggestive comments made by others about the newlyweds as the last light of the sun disappeared.
"Selûne watches us tonight," Rasaad remarked as he and Syrin sat on a log and gazed up at the clear sky, which held a full moon and innumerable stars.
"That she has. I remember you once saying that you hoped we would one day bask in full moonlight together. Well, here we are." Syrin had to admit that there was something intensely satisfying and reassuring about a dream of someone she loved coming into reality.
"I am willing to admit that this was not quite what I imagined when I said that to you."
"Oh? What did you imagine, then?" Syrin inquired teasingly, causing Rasaad to become flustered in the way she had always found endearing.
"W-Well, I...my feelings w-were young then..." he stammered, clearly struggling to explain himself in a way that wouldn't come out wrong.
"Why don't you show me what you were thinking of?" Syrin suggested, smirking up at him.
"Yes, perhaps I should." Leaning in, he captured her lips with his own and she hummed in delight. She would have threaded her fingers in his hair if he had had any. It had always amaze her how his kisses could be so polite and reserved and yet make her burst with affection for him.
"What do you hope for us now that we're officially a unit?" Syrin asked, resting her forehead against Rasaad's and lacing their fingers together.
"I do not think this is the appropriate place for me to show you that," he replied, his brown eyes alight in a way Syrin would have called a leer if it had been anyone else.
"Why don't you take me to an appropriate place? I'm sure no one would mind that we've gone. They're all quite engrossed in the party and will carry on just fine without us." Rasaad chuckled lightly at this and got to his feet, pulling Syrin with him.
"As always, you know my mind before I have spoken."
"Well then, give me a five minute head start and then catch me if you can." The elf tapped the end of Rasaad's nose with her forefinger, grinned mischievously, and then sped off in the direction of her cabin. She knew she didn't stand a chance against the monk, even with a head start, but that was rather the point, and somehow that filled her with adrenaline all the more and allowed her once tired limbs to carry her at top speed between the trees and over the hills. She splashed recklessly across streams, no longer caring about the state of her dress. The autumn night air had a chill to it, but it was welcome against her burning skin.
Syrin had just caught sight of her cabin in the distance when she was suddenly tackled from behind. She let out a cry that quickly morphed into laughter as she went down and tumbled with her pursuer, who matched her mirth as they each struggled to gain the upper hand. It was futile, however, because Rasaad easily outstripped her in raw strength, and so she quickly found herself pinned beneath him.
"Alright, you caught me," she submitted breathlessly. "You can collect your prize."
"You are unhurt?" he checked in a gentle tone.
"Never better," she answered, punctuating the statement with a heated kiss.
A/N: So, what do you think? Worth posting more? Things get much more adventure-y after this, I swear.