We had our first snow over the weekend. And after all the combat and doom and gloom I've been writing lately…I got a wild hair to write something romantic, sweet, and sappy. Chapter forewarning: there are buckets of cheese in this—but DM/husband has always told me that I am a romantic at heart, so it is to be expected! This chapter takes place approximately 4 to 5 months before the current running timeline in Gracklstugh. So, without further ado…
Midwinter
The Grey Warriors
Hammer 1485 DR (Midwinter)
Taras Aldar, Neverwinter Wood
The druid village of Taras Aldar celebrated the holiday of Midwinter as any other respectable place would—with feasting, music, dancing, and drinking. Midwinter was the first festival day on Faerûn's calendar. While nobility typically saw it as a day to commemorate or renew alliances, the common folk marked it as the midpoint of the cold season, with some hard times still ahead, but many of the worst days now past.
There were very few days when the sentries that guarded the outposts of Neverwinter Wood were called into the village proper. The Midwinter feast was one of them. Of course, a handful of rangers remained in the Wood. But shifts were rotated so that everyone could participate in the festivities. And so that is how Varan Fenhirel found himself trapped in the middle of a very incongruous scenario.
It was not often that the elves of Taras Aldar became loud and rowdy as they were at present. The village typically had an air of peace and tranquility to it as its inhabitants were hard at work doing their part to keep Taras Aldar running. But that all changed when Ansron's drink started to flow. The Master of Lore had earned a reputation for his potent homemade honey wine. It was only brought out on festival days. Thus, the denizens of Taras Aldar readily partook.
At present, a female elf stood before the impatient ranger. Two wolves flanked her. They rested calmly, but the ranger noted that their eyes were ever alert for danger despite the safe setting. She had the light blue skin of a moon-elf. Her fiery red hair was worn loose to tumble down nearly to her waist, and her eyes were a startling emerald green. Her oval face was young and youthful and currently bore a blinding smile. Like all the other villagers, the moon elf had dressed for the occasion and wore a flowing, navy dress trimmed with embroidered patterns of silver. And in her hand was a tankard full of Ansron's famous honey wine, which she presently thrust in Varan's direction.
"Come on, nobody turns down Ansron's drink!" the moon elf sang with a slight slur. "Not even you!"
"How many cups have you had now, Arlathan?" Varan asked tiredly.
The moon elf, Arlathan, shrugged. "I've lost count."
Varan resisted the urge to slap his hand on his forehead. "If I accept the drink, will you tell me where Zelyra is?"
"Why do you think I'd know?"
"You are her best friend."
Arlathan smiled. "I don't know—you could contend me for that title. Unless…that is…you were to finally fight for a more permanent role in her life." The dark-haired ranger was visibly startled by the bold insinuation, and Arlathan snickered, knowing she'd hit a nerve.
Varan all but ripped the tankard from the moon elf's outstretched hand and drained half of it before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Arlathan had no idea just how close she was to the truth at that very moment.
"Zelyra—where is she?" he repeated testily.
"Last I saw her, she was dancing with her father," Arlathan replied while gesturing lazily in the direction of the roaring fires where many elves had partnered up and were dancing to music played by Ansron and some of his assistants. In addition to lore, the elven master appreciated all arts and had spent countless decades studying them. Ansron currently played a pair of bagpipes while the others in his band had pan flutes, lutes, and drums. Well-known tunes wafted from the instruments, allowing the dancers to sing along. It was a picture of merriment, if any there ever were. [1]
"Thank you," the ranger said and intended to take his leave.
But Arlathan stopped the ranger with a hand on the arm. Her face turned serious at that moment, and Varan knew that for all that she had been drinking, whatever was about to leave her lips was the sober truth.
"Varan, for once in your life, just live a little tonight. You spend your days worrying about the village, fighting the evil of the Wood, and acting as if the whole world rests on your shoulders alone. Open up and enjoy yourself. Do something crazy. Like—like go dance with Zelyra! You, of all people, have earned that," Arlathan said. "We all see it. We see how hard you fight for the survival of our Circle, and we are grateful. But everyone deserves a little joy in their lives…."
The words struck the ranger, and though he did not outwardly show it, he was glad for Arlathan's council. She might be a mild drunkard—Arlathan's behavior this night was not out of the ordinary—but her wisdom came out when it most counted. [2]
Varan excused himself from the inebriated moon elf and weaved through the mass of villagers toward the fires. By the time the ranger reached them, Ansron's merry band had switched to a more somber tune. The lines of dancers reformed. Instead of constantly exchanging partners, they now stuck to one, with the males generally leading.
It took Varan a moment to pick Zelyra out in the fire-lit crowd. In fact, he recognized Laucian first. And that was because the golden-haired woman on the elder's arm was sans a braid. Zelyra's traditional tightly woven, pristine braid was what Varan had initially been searching for. But on this night, the half-elf's hair flowed freely as she twirled around on her father's arm. She wore an elegant green and gold trimmed dress with a brown fur wrap draped around her shoulders. A smile lit up her heart-shaped face, and in that moment, Varan could honestly say he had never beheld such fierce beauty. Zelyra always wore her hair in a braid—always. And so, to instead see a river of golden curls threw the ranger off his guard. He stood for a moment, unable to do anything but stare until sense once again caught him. The ranger drained the remainder of Arlathan's tankard before he tossed it aside on a nearby table and, for once in his life, took the moon elf's drunken advice.
The elder druid and Zelyra took notice of the ranger's out-of-character approach and immediately paused their dance. Zelyra notably brightened to see him as he had initially told her that he likely would miss the feast.
"Varan!" she cried excitedly. The druid's smile then fell as worry replaced it. She asked, "Is something wrong?"
"No," Varan said shortly.
"Then what—"
"Might I steal your daughter for one song?" the ranger briskly asked the elder.
"You may," Laucian slowly replied with a surprised, raised brow.
The elder druid released his daughter's hand and spun her to face the ranger. Laucian keenly regarded Varan's slightly flushed face and Zelyra's—whom he knew had consumed many tankards of Ansron's wine—before bowing and excusing himself. If the lovesick pair were to contend themselves to just one song, the elder would eat his own tongue. Zelyra had a fine way of twisting people's arms into just a little bit more. And though the ranger tried to hide it, the entire village knew that Zelyra had him hooked around her finger, hook, line, and sinker.
Laucian left the excitement of the fires and sat down at one of the long tables laid out for the feast. It was lightly snow-covered as a light dusting had occurred about halfway through the feast. And yet, the elder thought that appropriate. It was a sign of the Wildmother's approval. So, he sipped on a tankard of honeyed wine and fondly watched Zelyra and Varan's dancing forms amid the bright fires until a more prominent presence interrupted his silent spectatorship.
The wood elf that sat down adjacent to Laucian had long, auburn hair crowned by an elegant circlet made of rough-cut crystal and wore long, emerald-green flowing robes. The elder druid had not even registered that the bagpipe addition to the merry band had stopped until he saw the Master of Lore himself sitting across from him.
"You should be happy for her. Varan is an honorable man," Ansron said. "Perhaps we might soon see elflings running around the village for the first time in a century."
Laucian snorted. "I hadn't expected you to be so invested in my daughter's future."
"Why would I not be interested in my granddaughter's pairing?"
It was not a secret amongst the peoples of Taras Aldar that Laucian was the only son of the Master of Lore. Yet, Ansron had never formally acknowledged Laucian's decision to adopt Zelyra and Zelphar as his own. This was a first, and the elder druid was understandably confused.
"In the decade she's lived in Taras Aldar, you've never once referred to her as such," Laucian replied in surprise.
"Just because I have never said it aloud does not mean I do not feel it in my heart. I always doubted her brother. But Zelyra—her understanding of our magics is unlike anything I have yet to see among our people. She is destined for great things. Terrible, but great," Ansron said cryptically. Before Laucian could ask what his father meant by that, the loremaster added, "The entire village has been making bets on her pairing for years. I have always betted on Varan. And I think it shall happen tonight."
"Elflings?!" Laucian exclaimed.
Ansron barked out a laugh. "His proposal! Though I dare say the horrified look on your face just now was priceless."
"It's not that I disapprove of their union. It's as you said, Varan is an honorable man. There is no one I'd sooner entrust my daughter to. But sometimes—"
"Sometimes you still see the little girl you found in Neverwinter."
"Yes," Laucian admitted.
They quieted for a while, sipping on their tankards of honey wine and watching the villagers happily dance and twirl and sing.
"What makes you think it will be tonight?" Laucian eventually asked.
The loremaster smirked. "Did you know that Varan asked for my help with a special project?"
. . .
"I have something for you."
He sounded nervous, Zelyra noted.
The Midwinter feast that night had already been full of so many surprises. It began with Varan voluntarily accepting mead from Arlathan and only got odder when the ranger cut in on a dance that the druid had been sharing with her father. So, when he asked her to go on a walk with him after their dance, Zelyra rolled with it. After that, there was no possible way that the night could get any stranger.
"It's nothing special," the ranger muttered as he dug around in the dark for something in a pouch at his side. "But I thought you might like it."
Zelyra's confusion mounted as Varan produced two arrangements of holly. Each stem had six tiny red berries and a spread of white-veined, verdant leaves. The druid's brows rose in silent question.
"They're for your headdress," Varan clarified as he gently tucked an arrangement on either side of her leather band. "To commemorate your first completed mission for the Circle. Laucian said that you and Arlathan had a fun time in Goldleaf."
"Did he now? I don't know that I'd call licking blue goo from a wall and throwing up frogs a fun time." The ranger's expression twisted in utter bewilderment. So, he hadn't heard that part of the story, apparently. She continued, "And don't get me started on that goliath barbarian they sent with us! He couldn't hit anything—even with that big axe of his. We druids did all the work."
Varan smiled faintly in amusement. He would be sure not to pass Zelyra's criticism on to Kol.
Zelyra felt her cheeks begin to burn. She knew that she was babbling, but for the life of her, she couldn't think of anything else to say.
It was tradition to add to their headdresses to commemorate one's journey as a druid—at least within the Circle of Swords, anyways. Sometimes, such additions were trophies taken from a defeated foe. Other times it could be something to remember a lost loved one or an object from a meaningful place. But the first item was almost always gifted by a mentor or family member. Consequently, Zelyra had expected Laucian would be the one to give her the first piece. But the fact that it was Varan. The fact that he'd remembered what the holly meant to her, what it meant to them…well, Zelyra didn't quite have the words. [3]
Eventually, she lamely choked out, "They're perfect, Varan. Thank you."
The ranger shrugged, "Ansron enchanted them to stay evergreen. I just…thought it was a good fit." A slight flush of his own spread across his cheeks that had nothing to do with the cold or honey wine he had consumed.
Her stomach flipped, seeing that red appear.
The ranger had politely given her his grey cloak as they left the warmth of the fires, leaving him in just a simple embroidered silver tunic and belt with light-colored pants tucked into knee-high boots—the nicest clothes he owned. Not once did he complain or shiver. Zelyra could not say the same. Whether it be the snow falling around them or the look he was now giving her, the druid trembled before him.
Silent debate raged in the ranger's blue eyes.
Varan reached out and gently tucked a stray lock of golden hair behind her ear. But he didn't pull away. Instead, his hand remained poised near the pointed arch of her ear.
"I was surprised to see your hair loose tonight," Varan muttered. "It's strange to see you without a braid."
Heart in her throat, Zelyra asked, "Strange, as in it looks bad?"
"No," he eventually answered.
And then, before the druid could blink, Varan dipped his head and softly kissed her. It lasted only a fraction of a second, but it was enough. Throughout their decade-long friendship, Zelyra had initiated many quick pecks to the ranger's cheek and even a few daring kisses to his lips. But this was the first time that Varan had ever been the one to kiss her. It was unexpected but certainly not an overstep.
Zelyra shyly beamed up at him. "What was that for?"
Varan shrugged.
"I—well, thank you."
"Thank you?" the ranger echoed, his dark brows drawing together.
She silently gestured to her headdress.
Varan coughed nervously. "It was nothing."
They stared at one another for a moment, torn between giddiness and uncertainty. This was new territory for them.
"I know you'll have to go back to the outposts eventually, but…not tonight. Stay tonight," the druid requested. Nervous energy bubbled in her stomach. A part of her couldn't believe she was about to be so bold. "There's plenty of room in my trazaethe. You're welcome to stay there…with me."
The ranger's throat bobbed as he swallowed but offered her a nod. He'd stay.
"Should we continue our walk?" he asked.
Zelyra slipped her hand into his and replied, "Yes. Do you want to hear about Goldleaf?"
"Sure," Varan chuckled lowly.
"Well, you see, it all started with the damn golden apples…."
Hand in hand, the druid and the ranger strayed further away from the flickering fires of the feast to continue their moonlit stroll amidst the tall snow-covered trees.
. . .
When the hour drew late and the chill of the night had them both shivering, Varan and Zelyra retreated to the warmth of her trazaethe. Though outwardly, the ranger appeared calm and collected, Zelyra could feel his fingers tremble against hers as they climbed the endless spiral staircase hand in hand. Deep down, she knew it was silly. They were adults and had known each other for years at this point. But true intimacy of any sort…was very new to both of them. Yet, somehow, knowing that he was just as anxious as she was eased the druid's nerves.
Soon, a familiar arched doorway loomed before them, serving as a welcoming and nerve-racking beacon. They crossed the threshold, and as Varan turned his back to latch the door, Zelyra darted for the privacy of her dressing screen. The druid listened with an ear pressed against the wooden slats as Varan took a hesitant step forward and paused, undoubtedly familiarizing himself with the new surroundings.
When they were younger, Varan had been in the multi-platformed trazaethe that she and her brother had shared with Laucian many times. But he'd yet to visit the modest tree-dwelling she'd been assigned when she reached adulthood. Containing little more than a bed pushed to one corner, a small table and bookshelf cluttered with tomes borrowed from Ansron, a wash tin, and a dressing area, there was nothing spectacular about it. And yet, Zelyra knew it was far more luxurious than what the ranger was used to.
There was an actual bed, for one.
A bed they were about to share.
Goose pimples erupted on every inch of her bare skin as Zelyra changed out of the flowing dress she'd worn to the feast and into her sleeping clothes—a longer tunic and warm wool leggings.
What if inviting him to stay was a mistake?
A part of her was stunned that he even agreed.
When she finally peeked around the screen, Varan had removed his cloak, belt, and boots. His longbow, quiver, dagger, and swords rested in a neat pile on her dresser. The ranger himself sat upon her bed, back against the headboard, with his long legs stretched before him.
Zelyra almost made a noise of protest. He was in her spot—the spot closest to a solid wall that allowed a direct line of sight to the door of her dwelling. Though the druid knew she was safe within Taras Aldar, this was a habit from her vagabond days that she could not shake. But Varan looked over at her then, fixing her with a challenging stare that clearly said: This was your idea. Are you going to stand there all night?
Thus, the druid bit her tongue as she padded across the wooden floor. Then, after carefully placing her holly-adorned headdress next to Varan's belongings, she crawled onto the cot next to him and lay down. But Varan remained quiet for a long while, not moving from his stiff positioning at her headboard.
She waited.
It was warm and cozy beneath the furs compared to the chill outside. Varan's body radiated heat, and his familiar, comforting scent was on her every breath. Zelyra found herself relaxing as the urge to sleep drew ever near. In fact, Varan remained in silent contemplation for so long that Zelyra had nearly succumbed to the urge entirely when at last, he spoke.
"I am not the kind of person who is able to converse with others easily."
Zelyra peeked one eye open to look at him. "I know," she murmured sleepily. "You don't have to try hard with me. I speak enough for the both of us."
Varan glanced down at her, saw Zelyra snuggled into her pillow, and let out a snort. For but a moment, there was a sense of quiet joy on his face that instantly warmed her all over. Then it dropped as his expression turned serious once more.
"True. But it is a weakness. Perhaps there are things that I wish to tell you, but I don't know how."
The sheer weight in his tone made all thoughts of sleep disappear. Zelyra rose, the furs falling off her, to look the ranger fully in the face.
"Then try. Whatever it is, just say it however you think is best," the druid beckoned. Then, after a breath, she gestured between their hands and signed, "Or show me."
Varan wrung his hands together in his lap. Fidgeting. It was so strange to see him do so.
To her astonishment, he spoke aloud. "My mother kept me secluded growing up. The villagers were not fond of her—or me. We were foreigners living amongst sheltered humans." A pause. "I didn't have an opportunity to practice interacting with others until I came to Taras Aldar." A deep breath accompanied by a pinched brow. "But by then, even if I'd wanted to speak, I couldn't."
Couldn't speak? Zelyra thought back to an offhanded comment Laucian had made the day he brought her and Zelphar to Taras Aldar. That's the most I have ever heard from that one's mouth. At the time, Zelyra had thought little of it, but now…she wondered.
But before the druid could question him further, the ranger suddenly blurted, "Her name was Iarlyn."
"Who?"
"Mother," Varan signed, his stony expression abruptly crumpling with emotion.
Zelyra sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth.
The ranger's head hit the back of her wooden headboard with a loud thud as he stared blankly up at the thatched ceiling of the trazaethe. "My mother was the reason that I excelled in Bael's lessons," he admitted tightly. The past tense phrasing was not lost upon the druid. "I was taught tracking and hunting from a very young age. I had all the makings of a ranger before I even began my training."
"She was a gifted instructor then," Zelyra praised, fighting to keep the anticipation out of her voice. "Because excelled is an understatement. You wouldn't have been offered the sentry oath at seventeen if you had merely excelled."
But Varan did not hear the compliment. Instead, he stared upwards, unseeing, as a dark memory took over.
"When I was fourteen, we went on a routine hunt. It was dark when we returned to the village. There were fires…and screaming. Orcs," he clarified, seeing Zelyra's mounting confusion. His voice was calm and quiet, but it was a mask. Zelyra plainly saw his hands shaking. "Mother ordered me to run, but I was determined to protect her. The orcs noticed us just after that. She tried to fight them off. My presence was a…distraction," he said bitterly. "Mother was quickly wounded, and they…held her down and—and—" Varan took a quick, shuddered breath. He couldn't say it. Zelyra could have sworn tears glimmered in his eyes. "I failed to protect her. I failed her."
Even if she had wanted to speak, Zelyra knew she couldn't have found the words. So instead, she reached for his hand and waited patiently for him to continue.
"I leapt from my hiding place and took up Mother's longbow in a fit of rage to put arrows through the skulls of the orcs who slaughtered her. But I missed one. We fought, and…somehow, I still made the kill shot. Then I fled. I ran with no direction or purpose in mind. I was…disoriented. I didn't realize that I was wounded until days later. At that point, it had begun to fester." Varan gestured to his mutilated cheek. "It's why the scar has never fully healed. Too long without treatment."
Zelyra realized then that she had never given much thought to his scar. He'd had it since she'd first met him. It was just a part of who he was. But now knowing how he'd come by it, what he'd sacrificed, her heart bled for him.
In her mind's eye, the druid saw a young Varan with tears and blood streaming down his face, running, lost, and without purpose. Alone. At least when Zelyra had lost her parents, she'd had Zelphar. Varan hadn't had anyone.
"Gothi might be able to heal it with magic if you wanted." It was a meek offer to distract her from the horrifying vision running through her head.
Varan shook his head. His hands nimbly formed the words, "No. It's a reminder."
Zelyra was quiet for a moment, taking it all in. Then she reached up to gently brush the pad of her thumb against his temple, where the scar began. Varan flinched, fully prepared to pull away, but Zelyra stopped him with fiercely spoken words.
"I meant what I told you the day I met you."
Scars show the pain we've been through. They show what we've survived. You should wear it proudly.
She traced the puckered line of flesh from his temple to the edge of his jawline before offering the ranger a small, encouraging smile. It didn't bother her. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, for him to be ashamed or embarrassed about.
"I remember." Varan's blue eyes focused upon her then. Within them glimmered a kind of tenderness she'd never seen in him. Then, speaking aloud, he said, "You had no context, and yet you spoke words that I desperately needed to hear."
Zelyra reached for the other side of his face and drew him to her. Their foreheads touched, and breath intermingled. A shiver ran down her spine, but not from any sort of cold. Rather, it was a connection she felt so profoundly that it touched her to the very core.
And it terrified her.
The room suddenly felt much too warm. Her hands dropped from his face to her lap as if his skin burned her. "You never mentioned your father," she blurted while stifling the fluttering in her chest.
The druid regretted the words as Varan abruptly pulled away to lean against the headboard again. A nasty scowl fell upon his features. Then, his fingers furiously traced, "He left Mother before I was born."
She could tell she had hit a nerve as he reverted to sign language. Again, her heart broke for him. Zelyra was well aware of the pain of being abandoned. "I am so sorry." It felt trivial, but what else was there to say? She desperately tried to change the subject and asked, "Earlier, you called your family 'strange foreigners' amongst sheltered humans. Were your parents' half-elves as well?"
Varan shifted, crossing and uncrossing his long legs uncomfortably. The scowl remained set upon his lips. And yet, he still answered her in Sign.
"Human sire. Wood-elf mother."
Sire. The term felt so cold, detached. But instead, she remarked, "A full wood-elf? That would explain how you inherited such skills." Varan shrugged in half-hearted agreement. The druid continued, "Again, I—I'm sorry. I can't imagine the pain that you went through."
"It was a long time ago," he said evenly.
"Some wounds stick with us, no matter how much time has passed."
Zelyra folded her legs beneath her and dared to tuck herself against his side. Varan's willingness to open up had her admitting something that no one, save Laucian and her brother knew.
"I realize it is not comparable by any means, but…it still hurts to think of any part of my life before Taras Aldar. I was only seven when Mother and Father abandoned us in Mirabar," the druid said.
Varan knew that Laucian had found her and Zelphar in Neverwinter, but nothing else, not what came before. In a shaky whisper, Zelyra told him of the terrible man at the inn and the townspeople who had looked at her and Zelphar as they were thrown on the streets and did nothing to help. She told him of what life had been like as an orphaned vagabond, a street rat. How they had lied, cheated, and stole for their survival. How after all this time, there were certain habits and ticks that she could not shake. How for so long, she had felt as though she would never live up to anything.
And then she pulled out her mother's gold necklace, which Varan had seen a hundred times but never knew its significance. "It is all that is left of my family, especially now that Zelphar has left as well," she told him.
The ranger's jaw clenched at the mention of Zelphar, but Zelyra did not notice his reaction in her sudden urge to open up as he had with her.
The druid continued, "We easily could have sold it off and made a pretty penny, I'm sure. And yet, no matter how bad things got, I couldn't bring myself to part with it. Zelphar always feared our parents left us because they didn't love us. But if that were true, why did Mother give me something as precious as this?"
"It doesn't matter if they did or didn't love you," Varan replied matter-of-factly. "You have a new family now that does."
The blunt words were spoken nonchalantly, yet they forced all the air out of Zelyra's lungs.
"You do as well," she boldly confessed as a fiery blush spanned her cheeks. It was perhaps the closest she would get this night to admitting aloud what she knew deep down, had known for years.
Varan considered that for several frantic heartbeats before, at last, he said, "It's late. We should rest."
"I am resting."
He gave her a look.
On a whim, the druid said, "Give me your hands. And close your eyes."
The ranger eyed her suspiciously for a moment before complying. Zelyra carefully unhooked the golden chain from her neck and pressed the precious possession into Varan's waiting hands. His eyes flew open with a start. "What are you—"
"A gift in exchange for a gift," Zelyra said as she gestured to the medallions on her headdress.
Varan shook his head. "Z, I can't—"
"A family can grow," she breathed.
The ranger was at a loss for words, so a sweet kiss on the druid's forehead sealed their silent agreement.
Eventually, they settled beneath the furs, Varan with his back to the wall with Zelyra pulled tightly against his chest so she could maintain her line of sight on the door as he understood her fear. Again, her heart was pounding. But to her surprise, as it would have never been evident from his calm expression, so was Varan's. She could feel the uneven beat even through the back of her nightshirt.
"Will you be here in the morning?" she whispered, twinning her fingers through his where they rested against her ribs.
"I don't know."
"It's okay if you're not. I understand."
"Z—"
"I mean it," she interrupted, squeezing his fingers.
"I'm sorry. My duty is out there," Varan strained, gesturing with their joint hands vaguely in the direction of the outposts.
"I know. It's the oath you took. To protect the Circle."
"Zelyra," the ranger murmured her full name as he pulled her close. "I won't fail again."
She believed him. The life of being a ranger of the Circle—especially a sentry, one of the senior rangers, as Varan now was—often took him away from the village for tendays at a time. Earning such a title was no easy feat. And yet, Varan had been offered the oath at seventeen, making him the youngest senior ranger the Circle of Swords had ever had. It was a charge he took on with the utmost seriousness. If there was a mission to go on or a task to complete, Varan was typically the first to volunteer for it.
And now, after their conversation, the druid could finally understand why he was so duty-driven and desperate to excel and to be the best at anything he was taught. To him, the Oath of the Sentry was not just a job. It was his calling. He did it for them all, to protect his people and home. He had failed to protect someone he loved once. He would not allow that to happen again. Zelyra understood that, and it made her admire him even more. And so, they might still spend much of their time apart, but that thought did not bother her as it once had. Absence only made the heart grow fonder.
"You gave me tonight," the druid sighed contently as sleep once more tugged at her eyelids. "That's all I could've asked for."
Indeed, when Zelyra woke the following morning, Varan was not there. The space behind her where he had slept was cold, meaning the ranger had left hours before—perhaps before dawn. But there, on her dresser where his belongings had lain the night before, were six golden feathers.
[1] I blamed the snow for inspiring this, but I think it was my longing to write something that depicts a pub sing-along at a Renfair, LOL. You're not going to get that in Gracklstugh…
[1] Might I introduce Arlathan! My IRL best friend played the character in a one-shot that DM/husband ran her husband and us through around the time of the Gracklstugh arc. I played Zelyra, she played a moon elf druid, and her husband played a goliath barbarian. Our adventure is referenced later in the chapter (blue goo, throwing up frogs, and golden apples! LOL). We always made jokes that our druids were best friends and lived in the same village. She also randomly decided that Arlathan was an alcoholic and was initially raised by wolves during the one-shot, so I've honored that in the narrative.
[2] The sprigs of holly refer to chapter 20 (Roots) of The Grey Warriors, in which a young Zelyra makes flower crowns for herself, her brother, and Varan while sitting under a holly tree.
I wrote the latter half of this years ago. My writing style has changed! But I like the scene the way it is, so I didn't switch it to an omniscient view. Hopefully, having both omniscient and third-person points of view in one chapter isn't too jarring. If so, I'll go back in and adjust accordingly.
Now that I have a small collection of these vignettes, I'll ask your opinion. Should I put them all together and (possibly) delete the interludes that are currently in The Grey Warriors? I also have a seven-chapter outline for a short story that would include the Goldleaf adventure, this chapter, Laucian's capture, and Zelyra's flight from Taras Aldar. Thoughts would be appreciated!
When I posted chapter 20 of the Grey Warriors (Roots), the question was raised: why wouldn't Zelyra's betrothed want to help her find her father? I hope this answers at least part of that question. Varan is extremely duty-driven and does not often put his selfish desires above his responsibilities. The rest, I want to keep under wraps for just a bit longer.
But now I bet you're thinking—wait, didn't Derendil give Zelyra a semi-romantic confession before they entered the Tomb of Khaem? So is this going to turn into a Mary-Sue YA novel love triangle? Rest assured, the answer to that is absolutely not! A) I hope Zelyra never comes off as a Mary Sue. B) Both Derendil and Varan are gentlemen. And C) I'm old-fashioned in my taste in romance, lol. So while there may be future scenes that could read as love-triangle-ish, that is not my end-game.
Gah. Now that I got the buckets of cheese out of my system, back to the unforgiving dark!