Right from the start you were a thief, you stole my heart,
And I your willing victim.
I let you see the parts of me that weren't all that pretty,
And with every touch you fixed them.
- Pink featuring Nate Ruess, Just Give Me A Reason
The Friendly Arms Inn had been a welcome sight to Xan when he saw the watchtowers rise above the forest canopy. The expedition to the mines had been a traumatic success, and an episode he wished firmly closed and put behind him.
The journey had taken them almost three times as long as it would have had they all been well and able to travel. Yeslick and Imoen were unable to walk unassisted, and despite Coran's bravado, the elf was easily tired and needed to rest often. Even with prayers being performed every evening and dawn and blessings for healing being renewed, there was little improvement in the health of the three. Jaheira's arm was mended, though, and Branwen's injuries had faded with her entreaties to Tempus.
Nuila had managed to come to an arrangement with Bentley, the innkeeper, to rent a small suite to ensure their privacy; four rooms sharing a small common room with open fire and comfortable seating. Jaheira had approved, though she chided Nuila for telling Bentley so casually of their accomplishments. The monk had shrugged tiredly; the recounting of a good deed had secured them the privacy they needed to recover, and she didn't expect news to keep quiet for very long anyway.
And so Jaheira had busied herself with making arrangements. Taking one room for herself and her husband, she'd allocated Ajantis and Coran to one room, Imoen, Branwen and Nuila to another, and informed Xan that he would be sharing with Yeslick. Without waiting for any objections, she'd turned on her heel and retired for the evening. The others had followed suite soon after, conversation minimal, rest sorely needed.
So Xan had spent half a candle pouring over his spellbook, and studying the scrolls Nuila had found on Davaeorn's desk. A couple of them were minor cantrips that he thought would be ideal for Imoen to work on when... when she was better. The pink-haired girl had frightened him the most; previous injury and suffering had always failed to dampen her spirits, but now she seemed to be a shadow of herself. The arrow had been poisoned, the same toxin that afflicted Coran and seemed to be beyond the reach of anyone in the group. She would try to make a feeble joke whenever she caught him looking at her, but her heart wasn't in it. It wasn't like her at all.
The same could not be said for Coran. The elf was the same as ever, though his weakness had caused him to be slightly less forward and a little more muted. But this seemed to bother him little; indeed, he was capitalising on the attention his wounded state gained him from the females in the company, even making big, moon eyes at Jaheira one day. He hadn't repeated that mistake, after she swatted him with her sling.
And Yeslick... Xan looked over at the dwarf, resting peacefully on the bed. Yeslick's physical injuries had been healed, but emotionally he was still lost to them. The spark he'd carried with him to get revenge seemed to have winked out, and instead of an angry dwarven warrior, he was more of an elderly dwarven veteran. It had begun after his injuries were dealt with, after his ancestral home had been flooded for the second time. Nuila had sat with him away from the others and listened to his story. He'd watched her take the dwarf's hands into her own, and say something to him, solemnly, seriously. He'd just bowed his head, aging a century in that one night.
His fight had gone.
Xan sighed and stood up. Though he felt world-weary, he was awake and sleep was bound to elude him. He put his spellbook down, and paced over to the window. It was slightly open, a pleasantly cool breeze bringing fresh air into the slightly musty room. The moon was hanging over the inn, its silvery light casting a glow across the grounds. A few patrons were standing near one of the large oak trees, the faint sound of laughing and voices carried up to Xan's ears.
He turned away from the window and opened the door to the common room, planning to sit a while beside the dying fire in the hope that peace and quiet would lull him into tiredness. The room was empty, the embers in the fire providing nothing more than a dull glow. He settled into one of the armchairs and tried to relax his whole body, closing his eyes and slowing his breath. Many minutes passed, but he felt no better and he wondered if he should just give in and try and slip into a reverie.
But before he could move, he heard another door opening and closing. Soft feet padded across the rug, and then stopped. He opened his eyes to see Nuila standing at his side, a vague look of surprise on her face.
"I didn't realise anyone else was still awake," she said. "May I join you?"
He nodded, shifting over slightly when she decided to take a seat next to him. She looked tired; dark lines encircled her eyes, and her skin was dull and dry. Her hair was lank and limp, the haircut she'd suffered at his hands looking even worse in its unkempt state.
"You cannot rest either?" he asked. She shook her head, but her eyelids were heavy.
"I tried," she said. "But..."
"Dreams?"
She smiled tiredly. "Dreams, I could cope with. But these aren't so pleasant."
He nodded. "Understandable," he sighed. "These past few weeks have shown the ugliness that thrives in this world." He paused, giving Nuila a half-look. "How do you deal with the thought that death could strike you at any moment? You walk alongside it in a companiable manner every day."
Her head cocked slightly to the side at the question. "Death? I... I am frightened, I suppose. For so long death was nothing to be feared; we were protected from it in Candlekeep to a large extent, though some of the older sages passed away while we were there. But it was... natural. They were very much at peace with their life and the... the end of it all. Nothing was sudden, nothing was unexplained. And then..."
He said nothing, giving her a few moments to sort her thoughts out. So naive...
"Losing Gorion was..." She frowned. "Difficult. And why do people say they have 'lost' someone, like they've put them down somewhere and had not the foresight to remember where? Such a flippant phrase for something so... so..."
"Final?" he offered.
"Final... yes. I am afraid of the end. I am afraid of not being."
It was his turn to frown. "But you are of the People, despite your upbringing. The realm of Arvandor awaits. Assuming we don't die a terrible, vicious death. Which I suppose is likely."
She snorted, but there was no humour in her expression when she finally faced him. "Death comes for us all, eventually," she said. "That's what Shistal used to tell us all the time. Imoen used to laugh, she used to..."
Her head dropped and he could see that she was fighting emotions.
"Imoen will... get better," he said, surprised by the effort it took. He long thought he'd lost all hope for anything, but Nuila's easy optimism had ignited something he'd long thought lost. He had dared to hope that Imoen would recover fully, but he kept the thought so close to himself for fear of being proven wrong. "Jaheira has an idea for purging both her and Coran of the poison. She is... confident of its success."
"And you?"
His throat was dry. "Oh Nuila, you know how I feel about such follies. Hopes are raised by someone's ill-thought out plan, and when it fails the only thing you are left with is a feeling of emptiness and despair."
Nuila looked as if she was going to cry.
"But of course," he went on quickly, "the druid is capable and experienced. She would not presume such a plan could work unless there was potentially a positive prospect."
"I just want her to get better."
"I know."
And then she was there, having slid over to be right next to him. Her head was resting on his shoulder as she stared at the embers and her left hand rested lightly on his knee. He swallowed, and then shifted slightly so he could put his arm awkwardly around her shoulder. She took this as an invitation to cuddle closer, her own arm draped across his chest and shoulder.
He was surprised; he was quite comfortable.
"I think I am a bit more tired now," Nuila mumbled. "But I don't want to move."
His hand idly caressed her hair without him even realising. "You don't have to. Rest, Nuila. I will be with you."
She mumbled something incoherently, but he didn't ask her to repeat it. Instead he relaxed, listening to her breathing as it became slower and rhythmic. He reached out to her, testing to see if she was open to his presence. She was.
He returned to Candlekeep with her.
"I don't understand," Nuila said, almost running as she tried to keep up with the older man. "What has happened? Why today? Why now?"
The man stopped and turned to face the elven girl, his robes whirling around him. His face was framed by snow white hair and a long, neat beard. He was frowning, but not unkindly, and as he stood still he leant slightly on the carved staff that he held in his right hand.
"Nuila, my child," he began gently, "I know you have questions. And you will have your answers—" he raised his left hand at her opening mouth, "—but not now. Time is of the essence. Take that gold to Winthrop and tell him it is time. He will know what you need, and you will know yourself when you arrive there."
"Need for what?" she persisted.
"Nuila – GO. Return to the keep entrance when you are done; I will be waiting in the rose garden. I will answer your questions, but you must trust me for now and do what I am asking."
The girl looked pained, but gave a grudging nod. With a turn she trotted off down the corridor, past the doors leading into the various reading rooms. She wasn't far at all from the entrance to the library and soon enough she was outside in the sunshine, the scent of hawthorn strong in the air.
She trudged through the gardens, scowling to herself and occasionally kicking the grass like a petulant teenager. A forced smile was managed whenever she passed one of the robed men on their way to the library, but it was quickly replaced by a dark frown. She looked down at the bag in her hands; a small money pouch that Gorion had pushed at her before he'd told her to get ready to leave. She had a peek inside; there was a modest amount of gold, which turned her frown into one more of curiosity.
"Ooooh, what chore did you do to get a pouch that fat?!"
Nuila's face immediately brightened at the sight of Imoen. The pink-haired girl's cheeks were red. And she sounded slightly out of breath. She stood on her tiptoes, looking over Nuila's shoulder.
"You haven't seen Tethtoril, have ya?" she asked. "He wanted me to organise some scrolls in the library – the really old, dusty ones. Karan came to get me, but I made up an excuse that Winthrop needed me to clean out the stables. 'Course when Puff-guts found out, he clipped me around the ear and sent me off to apologise and get started..."
Nuila tutted. "You'd better run then," she said, conspiringly. I just passed Karan talking to Tethtoril in the Main Hall..."
Imoen blanched. "Really? Ah, I'd better run, or they'll have my head... hey!" She gave Nuila a playful push as the elven girl giggled. "Where are you off to anyway? And why are you in such a bad mood? I almost didn't stop to speak 'cause you were glaring like a basilisk!"
Nuila's sombre expression returned and she sighed. "Gorion's said we're leaving," she said morosely. "He won't tell me why or where or anything."
Imoen's eyebrow rose. "That's today? Oh, er, I mean... that's strange," she said, stepping sideways past Nuila and her enquiring look. "Wonder what he has planned. Anyway, I better go, scrolls to check, you know how it is. Er, have fun!"
And with that, the human girl darted off. Nuila watched her go, looking hurt and confused.
"Apparently, 'it is time'", Nuila said, handing Winthrop the pouch Gorion had given her. He looked surprised, but then nodded and accepted the gold. "Follow me," he said, signalling for one of the barmaids to take over at the bar, while he led Nuila back into the storeroom. Without hesitating, he approached a large oak chest, and fumbled in his pockets for the key.
"Where is it," he muttered. "If that girl has gone an'... Ah, here it is."
The chest was unlocked and thrown open. Winthrop pulled out the contents, laying them on the table. Nuila watched in silence.
"All fer you," the barkeep said. "Gorion's asked me te keep an eye out fer anything ye'd.. well, find useful. The robes are plain, I know, but I got Firebeard to put a small enchantment on 'em last time he visited. They looked like they'd be a good fit; I got Imoen to try 'em on, and... well. There's not that much difference between the two of ye."
Nuila nodded.
"And those," he said, pointing to a pair of brass rings, "they came from Calimport, I think. Got 'em special order, you'll see the 'N' inscribed on 'em. Gorion asked for that especially, something for you to call yer own. Ye... ye do know what te do with 'em?"
"Yes," she replied, quietly. She picked the dusters up carefully, running her fingers along the spikes, then slipped them onto her fingers. She stretched and flexed her digits, a small smile creeping onto her face. "They're beautiful," she noted.
"An' deadly," Winthrop said seriously. "They ain't no toy, Nuila. You be careful with 'em."
"I will," she promised, slipping them off and putting them gently on top of the robes. "Is that bag for me?"
Winthrop nodded, pushing the pack to the elf. "There's a few bits and pieces in there," he said, shrugging a little. "Bits I thought might help – a potion or two, an old sling I found and a few bullets in case... well, ye know."
"Thank you, Winthrop. You've been very kind."
The barkeep snorted. "Ah, listen te ye. Ye'd charm the arse off a hobgoblin, ye would." He rummaged in the purse, nodding to himself. "Aye, it's all here as I expected. Yer fingers are too honest; if Imoen'd been asked te take it te me, it'd be at least five coins lighter." And with that he pulled out a handful of the gold, and dropped it into Nuila's backpack. "For emergencies," he said. "Though with Oghma's blessin', ye won't be needin' it."
She ran back to the rose garden, her new robes fluttering behind her. Her dusters were safely in her pack, and a piece of ribbon had been found to tie her hair back away from her face. There was no sign of Imoen, and the elven girl sighed and approached Gorion.
"You are ready?" he asked, nodding approvingly at her attire and packed bag.
"There are things in my room," she said, hesitantly. "And Imoen – is Imoen coming with us?"
The old sage shook his head. "No Nuila, not for now. But fear not, you will see her again, once we are settled. As for your belongings; if there was aught there of sentimental value, you'd already have it with you. Now, come – we must go."
"Can you not tell me where we are going?" she asked, following the mage as he strode along the path between the rose bushes. Their scent was heavy in the air, and a low buzzing noise was almost constantly present.
"I am not yet sure," Gorion replied honestly. "It is something I need to consider, but we must make our way tonight to The Friendly Arms Inn. It is a safe place for us to rest, and I am hopeful that we will meet friends there."
"Friends? Like Firebeard?"
Gorion chuckled. "No. Friends of mine from when I was... younger. You have met them but once, when you were still a babe in arms. They will be pleased to see how you have turned out, I think."
Nuila sighed. "I don't understand the urgency," she continued to protest. "And Imoen didn't even say goodbye. In fact, she acted like she knew I was going, which she can't have. Can she?"
Gorion's eyes narrowed momentarily, but he remained silent as they wandered up to the main gates. He nodded amicably to the guardsman, Hull, who in turn signalled for the gates to be swung open. Nuila fixed Gorion with a questioning stare while they waited.
"Imoen should know naught of what is planned," he eventually said. "Though she has a remarkable tendency to find out information," he added as a mumble. When the gates opened enough, he gave Nuila a bright smile. "Onwards, then. For adventure!"
They walked mostly in silence after they left Caqndlekeep, Gorion quickly diverting them off the road but only giving cryptic answers for his reasons. Though the day had started out bright, it soon became overcast and dark, heavy clouds gathered overhead.
"There will be a storm," Gorion noted. "We must press on."
And so their pace increased as the forest grew darker. Nuila was beginning to feel tired, stumbling occasionally on upturned roots and fallen branches. Her elven infravision combated the lack of daylight, but Gorion had no such natural aid. His magical torch bobbed along beside him until they reached the middle of a clearing, where he suddenly commanded it to fade.
"Take cover, child. We have been found."
Nuila looked all around but saw nothing. A flash of lightning briefly lit up the area, and for a moment she thought she saw the outline of a massive man coming from the trees ahead. But then it was gone.
"I see nothing, father," she said, keeping her voice low. "We should move on. This place—"
The arrow came from nowhere – a magical conjuration of fire that slammed into her shoulder and caused her to stagger back. She looked at the smouldering hole in her robes with confusion and fear, one hand touching the wound. There was a smell of burned flesh, and something wet was on her fingers. She felt sick.
"Flee, child!" Gorion commanded. "Go – NOW."
She stumbled backwards as they approached; four figures, three of them monstrously tall, all advancing on their position. Gorion squared up to them, the air around him sizzling with magic. Nuila scrambled away to find some cover in the undergrowth, a cold, deep voice booming after her.
"There is no reason for you to die here, old man. Hand over your ward, and you can walk away."
"You know that will never happen," Gorion replied strongly. "You will not have what you seek!"
Nuila pulled herself between the trees, throwing herself into the midst of a honeysuckle bush while she tried to watch what was happening. Gorion had begun casting almost immediately, spells lighting up the clearing in a rainbow of colours; missiles dancing through the air, acid spells leaving an eerie green glow, and bolts of lightning streaking away into the far side of the glade. She watched in horror as the smallest of the enemy fell prone to the ground, and then two of the massive creatures were soon felled by the mage's magic.
The remaining figure laughed; Nuila had no idea what kind of creature Gorion faced, dressed in monstrous armour, head covered by a grotesque helmet. It wielded a sword as large as Nuila, which it hadn't even bothered to use. Until now.
Gorion kept casting, but Nuila felt herself scrambling backwards as the man approached, hefting his blade into the air. When he raised it, she brought her own arms up as if the blow was aimed at her. When it fell, she screamed, her call drowned out by the thunder that rolled across the forest. She'd looked away, and couldn't look back as she got to her feet and fled further into the forest.
She knew Gorion had fallen.
He was ready for her; though he'd known what he was witnessing, he'd been unable to drag himself away, a macabre fascination with watching Gorion falling keeping him drawn into her reverie. But he managed to pull away, and when he came around he could feel her trembling, beads of sweat on her brow as she wordlessly mouthed her terror. He waited; to force her out could be more damaging than letting her naturally awaken. It wasn't long; he felt her body tense as she woke, a muted cry escaping from her lips. He put his arms around her; he murmured words of soothing and comfort. Eventually her trembling abated, her muscles relaxed again. He continued to hold her, and she seemed content to remain in his arms.
It was a long time before he felt her stir, and she gently pushed herself up to sit next to him looking even more dishevelled than when she'd first come through. She looked exhausted.
"Nuila..."
She turned to look at him, and gave him a sad smile which didn't quite reach her eyes. "No more," she said, shaking her head. "No more." Then she reached out and took his hand. "Take me to Evereska. Help me rest."