Author's Note: Thank you for your continued reading and support with this, and especially to everyone who has left a review or message regarding it so far :D It feels quite slow going right now, but this chapter is (believe it or not!) what I see as a turning point for the relationship, and things should a slight notch ahead in the next few updates!
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Give me just a second and I'll be all right
Surely one more moment couldn't break my heart
Give me until tomorrow then I'll be okay
Just another day and then I'll hold you tight
-- Daniel Bedingfield, Gotta Get Through This
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He could barely believe they still lived. Branwen's plan had worn down Nuila enough to persuade the girl to track down Tranzig the following day, and they'd cornered him in his room, accosting him about his involvement in the iron crisis. He'd sneered, mocked, and generally talked down at them until Branwen's warhammer had smashed across his face and Nuila had twisted his arm the wrong way up his back; then he'd been remarkably helpful and polite.
They'd still ended up killing him, though. Once again, Nuila tried to send Branwen off to find a guard, but somehow the usually careful war priestess 'tripped' on the rug and crashed heavily onto the mage, weapon first. Somehow, she managed to pull Imoen down with her, whose dagger had somehow slipped from her belt and into her hand. The very hand she'd extended out to prevent her heavy fall. The very hand that had been unable to miss Tranzig…
Needless to say, Nuila hadn't been overly happy that evening.
So now they were traipsing north towards the rendezvous point that the mage had mentioned. Kivan was being his usual silent self -- he'd barely spoken a dozen words in the group; unlike the bard, who was still chattering incessantly. Garrick had complimented Branwen on her luxurious golden locks, openly admired Imoen's skilful use with her bow and apparently amazing dexterity, and hovered around Nuila like an annoying fly since they set off that morning. What was worse, to Xan, was that she seemed to encourage him by not telling him to go away.
He walked behind them, far enough away to not infringe on their discussion, but close enough to overhear the conversation. They'd discussed music and poetry, two loves of the bard's life it seemed, then Nuila had gone through the various points on a man's body that she could manipulate to cause paralysis. It had quietened the human down for a few minutes, and Xan had been unable to suppress a sly smile. Unfortunately, Garrick had got over it, and had now turned the conversation to religion.
"So you follow the path of Tymora?" he asked, his charming smile fixed onto his smug, self-satisfying face. Nuila nodded amiably in return. "Isn't she the sister of Beshaba?"
He saw her wrinkle her nose and nod. "Though that is not a path I would have considered to take," she informed him quickly. "I couldn't worship a Goddess out of fear, in the hope that it would save me from bad luck. I could only pray and revere because I wanted to."
Garrick nodded solemnly. "You were not attracted by the mischief associated with her sister?" he asked. "Or is that a path more for your friend?" Xan glanced over to Imoen -- she was skipping beside Branwen, teaching the priestess a song about hedgehogs.
Nuila shook her head and frowned. "Beshaba's trickery is malicious... Imoen doesn't hurt people. She didn't even feel that Mask was the right kind of guidance she sought."
"But you knew Tymora was for you?"
"Instantly."
Garrick looked curious. "Why?"
Nuila offered him a smile. "Because She is the Lady of Luck -- I found myself in a loving home with a wonderful foster father and an almost-sister. How could that have come to be, if I wasn't blessed with Her luck?"
"If you are truly blessed with her 'luck', how do you explain the assassins that are being sent after you?" Xan couldn't help but ask, even though it revealed he'd been listening in to the conversation. Nuila turned to look at him and shrugged slightly. Garrick threw him a small frown, but slowed down as Nuila did, allowing the enchanter to catch up and walk along with them. He positioned himself in the middle of the two.
"I'd say that the fact they haven't killed me-"
"Yet," he interrupted.
"-shows that Tymora smiles down on me," she finished, completely ignoring his interjection. "And anyway -- by standing up against them, and following in the footsteps of Gorion and his adventuring... I'm taking risks, and She will look upon me favourably for this." She nodded, accomplished by her own logic.
Xan sighed heavily, but managed to alter his pace slightly, effectively cutting off Garrick before he could dart around to walk at Nuila's other side. She threw the pair of them a curious glance but said nothing, and turned her head back to her path.
"I think that it is a wise choice," said Garrick. His voice sounded odd to Xan -- almost as if he were talking through gritted teeth. "If I were a religious man myself, I am sure that my tribute would be offered to her." He managed to feint slightly as he spoke, causing Xan to quicken his pace and allowing Garrick to duck behind him and appear around beside the elven girl. Xan drummed his fingertips on the hilt of his moonblade. "And do not think I have not noticed your new hairstyle!" the bard exclaimed, randomly changing the subject and daring to reach out and run his hand through Nuila's hair slightly. "It is very pleasing to the eye!"
"Thank you," she smiled, patting her locks with her own hand in a slight display of self-appreciation. "Xan was kind enough to cut off the damaged hair last night after you retired."
"Oh, he was, was he?" asked Garrick darkly, throwing a decidedly hostile glance over to the enchanter. Xan only felt a slight amount of satisfaction from this as the bard continued. "Perhaps Tymora was... indisposed last eve."
Nuila gave Garrick a questioning look, but he only offered a charming smile in return. "I mean," he explained lightly, "that if you had been truly blessed with the greatest of good fortune, you would have had the expert hands of a master of crafts and style to gently remove the broken ends and lovingly nurture the finest of gold, which springs from the most beautiful of heads, this side of Faerun."
Nuila grinned widely. "You mean, Master Bard, that you would have helped me to sort out the mess that was my hair?" she asked teasingly.
"Why of course, my lady," he said, pausing in his gait to offer a swift and chivalrous bow. "How could I possibly have declined such a truly enticing request?" Nuila was colouring rapidly.
"Though I am loath to admit it," said Xan quietly, "perhaps there is more to this worship of Tymora than I initially suspected."
The girl turned back to him, her eyebrow raised and a look of surprise on her face. "Of all the people present, Xan," she said, "I would have thought you'd have been the last to accept my choice of deity!"
He shrugged uneasily. "Well, it is true -- you are an elf and yet you worship a human God when you could easily follow one of your own. You believe in the folly of luck and good fortune when neither exist -- most certainly not enough to place your continued well being in their hands -- and all that it can possibly give you in the end is a sudden and unexpected death, that, in reality, you should have seen coming."
She laughed slightly. His heart felt lighter. "So tell me, my dear enchanter," she asked gently. "Why do you say there might be more to worshipping Her than you initially suspected, when your feelings on the matter are so clear?"
Xan offered her the wryest of smiles, ignoring Garrick's glare. "Because, my martial leader, had she been a total myth, then you may well have had Master Garrick, here, tending your hair."
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Before long, Garrick had sloped off from their immediate company, attempting to work his charms on the unreceptive Branwen and the slightly suspicious Imoen, while Kivan carried on ahead of them all. Nuila seemed content to stay at Xan's side, much to his surprise -- pleasant surprise, however -- and he desperately tried to think of something to talk about that would entertain her as well as the bard had. Before he had a chance, though, she'd begun a conversation herself.
"So, you really don't have much time for Tymora?"
He cringed inwardly; she had to ask that, didn't she? He sighed, trying to compose an answer that managed to avoid the whole question, but he could feel her keen gaze on him. He gave in. "Not really," he admitted with a shrug. "I think it's even more hopeless to believe that anything as foolish as 'luck' has any bearing on our eventual demise."
She nodded thoughtfully. "You know, Xan," she said in a serious tone. "I admit that we all will die one day -- after all, it's just what happens. But there is this thing that happens before it, called 'life'. I know you might miss it in your eternal optimism, but it happens to be the thing you're doing right now. You know -- the whole breathing and existing thing."
He looked at her completely deadpan, and she burst into a fit of giggles, causing the others to look over at her in mild curiosity. He rolled his eyes in slight exasperation, but inwardly something was happening to him and he could feel a warm glow. The same feeling he'd had when-
No. He would not think of that again.
Eventually she composed herself, after much chortling and snorting. It really was an undignified display -- no other elven girls had allowed themselves to lose control so fully in their humour, and he found it oddly refreshing -- though it was also painfully... human. "Sorry, sorry," she said. He watched as she wiped her eyes with her sleeve -- a habit she seemed reluctant to part with. He found it... endearing, to an extent, though it made her appear vulnerable and fragile. Almost like a child. "You're so funny, sometimes, and you don't even realise it."
He wondered if he should be insulted -- but he couldn't detect any malicious intent in her words at all. Instead, he felt vaguely pleased -- the bard hadn't succeeded in making her laugh, but he had. Surely that counted for something? He wasn't sure why it was important that it did, but it was.
"I am glad I amuse you so," he remarked dryly, causing her to grin at him mischievously. He knew she'd see the twinkle in his eyes and not take renewed offence. "I will endeavour to continue at it, while we manage to stay alive -- and truly, I am surprised we still are. I expected us to die within a tenday, if not earlier... but your resourcefulness will never cease to amaze me, it seems. Quite an accomplishment for one so young."
"I'm not that young," she protested slightly, a small frown creasing her face.
"But you are," he replied gently, sighing mournfully. "It is not something to be ashamed of, Nuila. Believe me, it will pass away faster than you think... if you live that long, of course."
He flinched as she punched him lightly on the arm. "Of course I will," she chided. "Tymora watches over me, remember?"
She danced away from his glare, so full of life and energy and youth that he felt as if his heart would explode. Realising he wasn't going to rise to the bait, she weaved her way back over to him, walking closer by his side than she had previously, and in silence. He cleared his throat. "I was sent to the Sword Coast to accomplish a mission I thought to be impossible," he said quietly. "I still do, for the odds are not at all in our favour... but we go on, and that gives me a gleam of hope. It might happen that I will finish my task and live to see my home at Evereska once again."
She seemed to perk up at the mention of his homeland -- the curiosity she displayed for anywhere she'd never been shining through again. "Tell me of Evereska," she said, a trace of fervour in her voice. "I have not seen much of these lands... I know little of anywhere, but I wish to learn!"
He offered her a slight smile. "Alas, my words could not do the verdant valleys and beautiful structures any justice," he sighed.
Her face fell. "Oh," she said quietly. "Well, perhaps I will see it for myself, one day?" she said hopefully.
"We are doomed, Nuila," he reminded her. "But... but if we somehow survive..." His voice trailed off. She continued to look at him, and he sighed. "My apologies, but... perhaps we should talk of this later. It awakens memories of my home, and..."
She nodded slowly, reaching out to take his hand. With a gentle squeeze she whispered to him. "I understand."
He nodded in return, offering a weak smile. Silently, she withdrew from his company, floating over to Imoen's side as Garrick continued in his attempt to break through Branwen's icy exterior while Kivan diligently scouted ahead. He sighed heavily, suddenly weary with the travels and the company -- a simple conversation had become so difficult when he thought back to the city he called home -- the terraces of flowers, the pools of clear water that sparkled beneath the gaze of the sun. She would never see it... they'd find their death soon enough -- her foolish worship would do nothing but hasten her demise by giving her false confidence that would bring about her downfall. She would never witness the true beauty of an elven homeland -- something she'd been cheated from her whole life. Tymora, indeed. He snorted. It was enough to make his heart feel heavy again.