"The greatest danger on Malbolge is falling."
Advanced Dungeons and Dragons Guide to Hell (1999), Chris Pramas
Zevlor stood, a tin cup of wine in his hand, the gentle night breeze at his back and the friendly warmth of the firelight before him, watching the people he had fought for so long and so hard laugh and drink and dance together, free for the first time in months from immediate duties and imminent threats, feeling thoroughly miserable, and with no one to blame for it but himself.
This had been his idea, after all.
It was he who had bid his people gather themselves and their belongings and make the short trek from the grove down the now-safe road to join Tav and her companions' camp. A practice march, he had called it wryly, to get them back in the habit before resuming their journey for Baldur's Gate the next day. And between his own uncommon good-humour, and the refugees' general state of stunned elation, this excuse went uncontested. But Zevlor's true motive was much less practical or prosaic: namely, a desire to stay as close as possible - for as long as possible - to Tav. Because she would not be coming with them; he had known it before the battle began. But, somehow, with the sun high overhead, and the cocktail of victory and relief still singing triumphantly in his veins, this had seemed as surmountable an enemy as Minthara and her goblin horde.
Now, Zevlor wondered what he'd been playing at. He was bone-tired; every inch of his back was sore and stiff, his muscles ached, his knees were viciously swollen under his armor. He ought to have left it off after he washed. He ought to have done a lot of things differently, Zevlor thought with a wistful pang, squinting through the torch-lit dark as another of the refugees - Ikaron, by the horns - took leave of the noisy celebration in favour of a few extra hours rest. Zevlor's bedroll, too, and the necessaries he had transferred from bulky trunk to more easily toted sack, waited outside the the ring of scrap-fabric tents, in the ruins of the blighted city beyond. But he could not retreat to them yet. That same irrational, inexorable urge that had brought them to the adventurers' camp in the first place kept Zevlor rooted to the spot.
Submitting to his tick of the night, he took another sip of wine and, as he lowered the cup, let his eyes find Tav: currently sprawled across a fallen log near the fire, tail curled in the pool of her patched skirts, turning her own empty cup idly in one hand as she listened to Alfira pluck experimentally at her lute and try out different prosy lines.
"Alright, how about … hearts a-quiver, we raised our bows -"
"Pfft - none of that poetic stuff," said Lakrissa, her voice too loud, swaying slightly over the women on the log. "C'mon Alfie, make it spicy!"
"Spicy? It's supposed to be an epic, not a backroom ballad!"
Tav giggled - a bubbly, buoyant sound that carried over the amiable argument. She tilted her head, loose hair tumbling over her shoulder and briefly caught Zevlor's eye.
Zevlor dropped his gaze to the dark amber contents of his cup, as he had every other time Tav had looked his way. An unfriendliness she did not deserve; any more than she had deserved his earlier awkward declination and abrupt dismissal when she had tried to coax him deeper into the evening's revels. But nor, he reminded himself sternly as guilt and regret wriggled holes in his resolve, did she deserve to have her celebration spoilt by his sour mood. However much he craved her company, he would not inflict himself upon her, make his misery another problem for her to solve. She deserved one evening of carefree happiness. If Zevlor could give her nothing else - and he had laboured over what to give her; considered even his own sword, before admitting something so old and cumbersome had little to offer a lithe, energetic duelist and leaving it behind in the grove with other useless detritus - he was determined to give her that.
So, resolved to keep a respecful distance, but unable to tear himself away from what would almost certainly be his last sight of her, Zevlor had stationed himself on the outskirts of the party and watched as Tav made her rounds: at Bex's request, she had strummed a few lively tunes on Alfira's spare lute, until laughter at the giddy, drunken dancing it inspired shook her hands too badly to continue; she had attended Rolan's regular - and unsolicited - displays of prestidigitation, applauding enthusiastically each time; she had watched, cheered, and occasionally catcalled along with the children as Karlach and Guex re-enacted, and embellished, their favourite scenes from the morning's battle; and she had lent her hands and powers of persuasion to Asharak when he corralled the boisterous youngsters off to bedrolls shortly after. Each interaction with the people under his care felt as intimate to Zevlor as a physical caress, and agonising as a twisted knife. They did not understand, the other refugees, what the morning would bring. Or, rather, what it would take away. And he dreaded the coming hour when they realised - when he would be forced to explain - their new friend and thrice-blessed saviour would not be accompanying them to Baldur's Gate.
A burst of purple light and silver stars from the far side of the fire made Zevlor's tail twitch; as had every other of Rolan's fireworks that evening. Though this time, unable to brace himself against the sudden noise, his hands jerked involuntarily as well. His tin cup tumbled to the ground, dark wine spilling from its mouth like blood. An image reinforced by Lakrissa's overloud declamation:
"Try this on for size: the goblins attacked, but we were brave, and blasted them all with a thunder wave!"
Zevlor, bending to retrieve his cup, could hear Tav's burst of laughter. He glanced up compulsively and saw her doubled over, shoulders shaking. Strange, how the sight and sound of her mirth could soothe his nerves and stick painfully in his gut at the same time. He righted himself, grunting stiffly, and another stolen glance as he straightened caught Tav sneaking a peak at him, mouth frozen mid-laugh.
"But no one even used thunder wave," Alfira was insisting.
"Oh, for Helm's sake, it's a song Alfie, not a history book. Have a little fun with it!"
"Well, I think you two have this particular piece well in hand," said Tav decisively, and got to her feet, smoothing her skirts, empty cup dangling at her side.
Zevlor's stomach turned over. Her abrupt exit, and the way she was studiously not looking his direction now, struck him as likely signs Tav was headed his way. And he could think of only one reason for her to approach him again: to say her final goodbye. Zevlor turned, and, swiftly as his legs allowed, shuffled past the line of torches to a nearby, overlarge rock under whose shadow a rickety wooden table holding uncorked bottles and mismatched cups was kept. He knew he could not put it off long, but he thought a second glass was warranted before enduring that ultimate hardship. He lifted a bottle, shook it, then set it aside when it proved empty, repeating the process again and again, and becoming more despondent each time.
Why hadn't they remained in the grove another night, where there was a private chamber for him to slink off to, a door he could shut in the others' merry faces to be miserable on his own? What had he thought could be gained from joining Tav's camp for one night? The calloused pads of Zevlor's fingers fumbled more smooth bottles. And what had possessed him to take such an excessive amount of time on his appearance - scrubbing his skin and armor to a shine, brushing his hair smooth, changing his shirt, even trimming his nails? What had he expected to happen? What had he hoped? Zevlor wasn't sure he had articulate hopes or expectations anymore, only feelings: this craving for Tav's presence, this undeniable desire for her that burned his blood, but offered no plan, no purpose, no executable action. He did not know what to do with what he felt, that was the crux of his frustration.
And, to top it all off, there was no more wine.
"Need another drink?"
Zevlor heard Tav's voice at the same time he sensed her at his shoulder, smelled the freshly cleaned scent of her mingled with smoke from the fire.
"I'd thought, just the one more," he said haltingly. "Before turning in. It's been … a long day." Tav edged around him to inspect the table herself, and Zevlor, needing something else to look at it other than the silhouette of her skirts as she bent down to search for more bottles, surveyed the party still piping on behind them. "But it seems we might have been too festive already this evening."
"Just festive enough, I think. Considering what everyone's been through."
Zevlor, unable to stop himself, looked back. Tav was still half-crouched under the table, but had turned her face to the cheerful crowd. Through the shadows, he could make out the curved edges of her little fond smile. It did something to him, watching her watch his people with such affection: warmed his limbs until his aches and pains were echoes, relaxed his tensions and tongue.
"You have no idea how good it feels to see these people smiling," he said, surprised at his own earnestness. "And we have you to thank."
A slight shudder ran from Tav's shoulders down her arms, and Zevlor thought her smile slipped for a moment. Unless it was a trick of the dark. The next second she was straightening, face pleasant as ever, though she ignored Zevlor's last remark and, instead, announced:
"I know where there's more. Come on."
A step sideways and a jerk of her head reinforced the command. Her smile softened it. And Zevlor knew no choice but to obey.
Nerves of a more pleasant sort than he'd experienced all day crept down his neck as he followed Tav, tripping over the occasional stone and clump of earth as they left the ring of torch-lit tents behind. A bend in the sheltering cliff-side ushered them down a short slope and deposited them by a tree-trunk bridge perched precariously over a swift-moving stream. Moonlight, spilling through a break in the tree canopy, revealed a pile of rocks gathered out of the way of the water and guarding a collection of bottles, like a stony bird's nest of glinting glass eggs.
"What is this?" he asked.
"Mol's stash," Tav replied, and Zevlor could hear her smile.
"Mol." His sigh held all his own amusement and concern about the mischievous young girl who'd been a minor thorn in his side since Elturel: pilfering from anyone and everyone she could and coercing the other children into her life of petty crime. "I shudder to think what she'll get up to in Baldur's Gate."
"From what I know of the place, she'll fit right in. Probably running it from behind the scenes in no time," mused Tav, clinking carefully through the stolen wines. "What do you fancy?"
"What? Oh - anything is fine." Zevlor, momentarily forgetting what they had come for in the joy of simply being with Tav, and the implication of her words, considered them while she held up bottle after bottle, reading the faded labels by moonlight, then indulged his curiosity at last. "You're not from the Gate yourself, then?"
"Oh no, I've never been. Or, rather, I was there for all of about an hour before that mind flayer ship came through and snatched me out. So, not quite long enough to call it home. Ah, there's the stuff."
Tav pushed to her feet triumphantly, clutching a fat-bodied bottle by its slender neck. She made a small arcane gesture over the cork and waited while it sparkled, then disintegrated into nothing, then held out her hand for Zevlor's cup.
"You have some skill at magic, too," he noted politely as she poured.
Tav wrinkled her nose.
"Not really. Party tricks. Illusions. Little things. Gale and Rolan put me right to shame."
She filled the cup nearly to the brim, returned it to Zevlor with a courtly nod, then bent to retrieve her own. Zevlor took a long sip. Ashaba Dusk - a wine he enjoyed, and all the more so for how the taste returned him to their first night of real conversation at the grove. And the rush of noisy water beside him brought back the memory proceeding it, the one which so often insinuated itself into the better of Zevlor's dreams. But which was hardly appropriate now. He drank again, trying to wash the vision from his mind. When it lingered, he asked, by way of distraction:
"So, what brought you to Baldur's Gate?"
"The circus," said Tav promptly, balancing her own full cup while stooping to tuck the bottle back into its nest of rocks.
"The circus?"
"The Circus of the Last Days. It's an extraplanar circus. It moves around a lot, but it's supposed to come to Baldur's Gate soon. I was hoping to join."
"You want to join the circus."
Clarification was required on this point before Zevlor, alcohol buzzing through him gently, could believe he had it right. Tav shrugged one shoulder, mouth hidden behind her cup.
"Is it so mad?"
"No! No, of course not. It's only ... just … I would have thought it a waste of your talents."
Tav let out a little chirp of laughter, but Zevlor thought the low swish of her tail was more self-conscious than genuinely amused.
"On the contrary, it's the only place my talents might be of some regular use. I can sing a song, tell a story, do the flashier bits of swordplay - hardly the makings of a trade or proper career. Plus, I thought a circus might be more accepting of - well," She tucked an errant curl around the base of one horn absently, and finished: "I thought I might not stand out so much." Her eyes flicked furtively to Zevlor's. "I suppose that would seem silly to someone like you."
Zevlor had no idea what sort of someone he was in this instance, but hastened to assure her, "It doesn't," then paused, wetting his lips, the drink he had so wanted minutes ago forgotten in his hand - he wanted other things now.
He longed to ask more questions. All their talks of the last tenday had concentrated on war, on military strategy, on the enemies of their present and his past - even his stories of Elturel had largely been related to its defence. Now, with battle behind them, and no time left ahead, Zevlor wanted a different sort of conversation. He wanted to know Tav: what she thought, what she felt, what she liked, where she had come from, her future plans - everything they would have talked about, every intimate detail they might have shared over tendays of travel together, had the gods permitted such a fate. Or, if that was asking too much of one night, he'd have been equally happy to hear her voice saying anything at all for another hour at least. But his melancholy musings were interrupted by the ear-splitting strains of a poorly-strummed lute, followed by an outburst of laughter from the camp they had left behind.
Tav cocked an ear towards the sounds, and Zevlor remembered his resolve to let her enjoy herself for once.
"I suppose I should let you get back to the festivities."
He did his utmost to keep any bitterness from his voice, but, as Tav regarded him steadily, Zevlor wasn't sure he'd quite done the job. The infernal quality of her eyes was stark in moonlight. The pupils swirled and glowed like cobalt flames, illuminating her face where a resolve of her own solidified.
"Oh, I think I've been festive enough for one night."
And, without waiting for Zevlor to argue or agree, Tav dropped in a heap of skirts to the stream bank. She stretched her legs out over the side, soft slippers hovering just above the dancing spray, and took a long, slow slug of wine. She said nothing, but the invitation was clear. Heart beating so loud under his armor he worried she would hear the muffled metal thuds, Zevlor gathered his legs and tail underneath him and eased himself to the sandy ground. A grunt escaped him as he unfolded his knees, though his wince had more to do with his unbecoming noise than his physical discomfort.
"Are you alright?" Tav's expression was suddenly serious as she twisted to take him in. "Were you injured? I have an extra potion back at camp, I can-"
Zevlor waved her worry away. They were close enough for his hand to swipe loose strands of her wayward curls as it passed.
"I'm fine. It isn't a wound, just ... age. Hazards of being old," he said with mordant humour, smoothing his own hair pointlessly back.
"Oh, please, you're not that old."
Zevlor watched those blue eyes widen, wisteria cheeks darken to iris, at this clearly wine-inspired slip, and could not help himself. He chuckled. It felt unfamiliar in his throat. Tav glanced quickly at him, surprise transmuting her chagrin into a sort of sheepish determination. She took another swig from her cup, then plunged ahead:
"Alright then. How old are you?"
Zevlor hesitated. But what was there to be gained from a lie except a false sense of pride? He told her.
"That's hardly old," Tav tittered dismissively, and tilted back more wine.
Ridiculously emboldened by her groundless defence of his age, and feeling the effects of this second glass more rapidly than the first, Zevlor found himself asking: "And, how old are you?" and, when Tav admitted a number, blurting, "Truly?" before he could think twice. Her laugh was distinctly self-conscious this time.
"Older or younger than you thought?"
"Older."
It took him the rest of Tav's awkwardly fading laugh to understand this had been the wrong answer. But even were he stone sober, Zevlor did not think he could communicate how irrationally heartening he found her age. It did not touch his by nearly two decades, but, nevertheless, relieved him of some of the guilt he felt for certain, occasional late-night indulgences in which the memory of her wet wisteria skin in the twilight had featured.
"You think less of me, now," was Tav's conclusion from his silence, however. Overriding his noise of protest, she pressed on: "I understand. It's always easier to forgive mistakes and recklessness in people when you think they're young. You raise your standards when you think they're old enough to know better."
Zevlor's brow furrowed as he attempted to parse her meaning. Another sip of wine did nothing to help.
"I promise," he said at last, when he thought he might have it, "I think no less of you for your actions in the battle. You took a risk going after your friend, yes, but risks are not inherently reckless. Nor are they monopoly of youth. You did the right thing. And it won the day."
The cloud across Tav's face abruptly cleared as if a lantern had been lit behind her. And when she looked at Zevlor now, there was an echo of that same open awe she had bestowed on him that morning before the fight.
"You've quite a way with words," she said softly. Her praise felt like some expensive, luxurious fabric - silk or velvet - brushed across Zevlor's skin; a sensation he wanted more of. "Sure you're not also a bard in your spare time?"
Her lips curled with her own light jocularity, and the thought appeared unbidden in Zevlor's mind that this was his last chance to taste them, his last chance for … anything. He wondered if he dared. If that would count as a calculated risk or recklessness in Tav's book. Resting his cup in the sandy dirt between them, he leaned in slowly… too slowly.
A muted bang from the direction of the camp made Zevlor jump. His tail whipped behind him, tangling in Tav's, at the same time his trembling hand knocked into his cup, sloshing wine across the hem of her skirts. Tav gasped - whether from the sudden noise and light overhead, or the dark seeping stain, or the tug she too must feel at the base of her spine as their tails fought to free themselves, Zevlor was too mortified to determine.
Then, "It's alright, it's fine," she was saying over and over amid his blustered apologies. Reaching around to extricate her tail, she scooted through the sandy earth and dipped the sopping edge of her skirts into the fast-flowing stream. "Really, it's nothing," she continued to soothe even after Zevlor's voice had died miserably away. "It's a cast-off from Bex. It's all over stains and holes already." She glanced from Zevlor's face - so furiously flushed he was sure she must see it even through his fiery skin - to the sky, and gave a small, shaky laugh. "They - they really like fireworks, that lot, don't they?"
Zevlor, grasping gratefully at this olive branch, shot a resentful look above them where the sparkling remnants of Rolan's latest light-show hung.
"You'll have to forgive the pageantry. All Elturians have a bit of it in them, I'm afraid. We are - we were - a city that loves to celebrate. And anyway," he prattled on, grappling at the remnants of the mood the fireworks, and his own clumsiness, had ruined, "you certainly deserve to be celebrated." Zevlor gestured at the little silver stars in their corona of purple and blue with his nearly empty cup, adding: "A light for every life you've saved."
He returned his eyes to Tav, hopefully, and nearly dropped his cup again at the look on her face - the same he had caught before they left camp. A joyless, smile-less, almost … lost expression. She blinked, and it was gone, but this time the threat of it lurked at the edges of her eyes and uncharacteristically hard corners of her mouth. She bent over her skirts, wringing the wet fabric out over the stream.
"People keep saying things like that," she said, her attempt at airiness audibly brittle. "I really wish they wouldn't. I didn't do anything more than anyone else. And less than some." Anticipating the argument ready on Zevlor's tongue, she hurried on, "Astarion and Karlach, they were incredible. We wouldn't have made it halfway through the fight without them. And Wyll saved Arka, and killed that spider all on his own. And I would have died myself if you hadn't saved me, and then Lae'zel. You're all real heroes. I'm just-"
She broke off with a grimace, dropped the soaking skirts and reached for her abandoned cup. She gulped down wine with the sort of desperation that came from the desire not to feel. Zevlor knew it intimately. But it hurt him like an open wound to see it on Tav.
"You may not have killed every goblin single-handed," he said encouragingly when at last she lowered her empty cup, "but you had a hand in every enemy that fell today. You're the reason any heroes were there at all. You found them, you kept them together, kept them from dying - and killing each other, by the sound of things. You're their leader. Their victories are yours, and yours, theirs."
Tav was already shaking her head before he finished.
"I'm not anyone's leader, it's just sort of … happened - this - me making decisions, being in charge, but it's only because someone has to. I don't have any qualifications. I don't really know what I'm doing!" The confession burst from her, as sudden and explosive as another firework, and Tav's free hand gesticulated wildly as though hoping to claw answers from the disturbed night air. "And I don't have any idea what I'm supposed to do next! They expect me to come up with some brilliant plan, but every plan I've had so far has failed. Halsin didn't have the cure. Neither did the goblin priestess, or the hag. Nothing I've tried has got us any further to getting these worms out of our heads. And every day there's some new distraction, someone needs something or has some secret or condition that crops up and they all want it fixed right now and it's all I can do to keep everyone alive!"
Her hand fell limp to her lap, exhausted. Zevlor waited for Tav to catch her breath - afraid she might not hear him over her great gasps - before saying gently:
"I'm afraid that's all a leader really does. Weigh the available options, cobble together plans, keep their people alive as best they can. It's much less glamourous, and much more thankless, than songs and stories might suggest. And it isn't easy. Especially with such a disparate group as yours."
Tav blinked up at him a few times before asking, "How do you do it?" and Zevlor's lips twitched as he assured her, "Not half as well as you, I promise."
Her snort of disbelief broke the delicate air between them. She sat back, groping through the rocks behind her, and produced the bottle of Ashaba Dusk. She lifted it at Zevlor in a question. He raised his own cup in answer. After she had poured him a generous measure and set to her own, he re-arranged himself to face her, ignoring the twinge of weary muscles.
"It's different, commanding soldiers," he said, no longer as concerned with flattering or impressing Tav as making her believe the truth in his words. "The Hellriders under my command were voluntary, enthusiastic recruits. They needed training, yes, guiding, and often encouragement, but never this coaxing or cajoling most of my camp now requires. Every day, Rolan needs a new reason why he ought not to just leave, but I can give an order to Tilses, any order, and she'll follow it without question. Civilians are just … different. They all come with individual wants and needs and conditions, as you say. It takes a different sort of charisma, a flexibility of mind to juggle them all. You have it naturally." He dipped his head at Tav; then shook it slowly at himself as he realised for the first time: "I'm afraid I don't. My strengths are more suited to a military setting: discipline … strategy … the upholding of an common faith."
"That's right…" Tav's tail perked up behind her as some sudden thought distracted her from her distress. "You're a paladin, I keep forgetting. You know, I - I've wanted to ask…" Zevlor took a hasty swig from his newly filled cup: sure he knew where this question was going and startled when it went an unexpected route. "Who was your god?"
"I did not have any one god." His response required no thought. It was second nature. "Elturel is a holy city, that boasts many lawful gods as patrons. I paid respect and due reverence to them all. But my oath was one of devotion to the city itself."
He paused, bracing himself, but the grief the memory conjured was more akin to the dull ache in his back than its usual evisceration. A result of the alcohol saturating his senses, Zevlor supposed. And perhaps it was also to blame for the compulsion swelling in his chest, the inexplicable urge to tell the story to Tav. She was leaning in towards him, outlined in silver moonlight, loose raven curls dancing lightly in the breeze - the sight was undeniably stirring, but it was a different sort of intimacy Zevlor now craved.
"In Elturel," he explained, "when a citizen comes of age, they sign their name in a book - a holy book - swearing fealty to the city. It's … a rite of passage. Not necessarily an oath of power, but … it was for me. I wanted to defend my city, strengthen it, serve it. And when I signed, I could feel the power of my oath straightaway. I joined the Hellriders soon after. There were few paladins amongst their ranks then, but to me, no lesser commitment would do. Being a Hellrider is for life. Or, it's supposed to be." Zevlor inhaled, slowly, savouring years-worth of memories: the bliss of knowing his place, his purpose; the safety and sanctity of power he understood, responsibilities he could fulfil. He missed the weight of it, like armor, and felt hideously naked, as he admitted: "But I devoted myself to a lie. That book - it was the contract Thavius Kreeg used to bind all the souls in Elturel to Zariel. He sold us all. I don't know whether it was the book's destruction or my own disillusionment in Elturel and its leaders that broke my oath, but the outcome was the same either way, so it hardly matters. My city was not what I thought it was. And I am its paladin no longer."
Zevlor wasn't sure he had ever said it in so many words before, even in his head. Above him, high tree branches rustled in a more insistent, faintly smoke-laced wind. His bare hands and face registered cold. He sought warmth in his wine.
"That's … devastating," Tav said at last, her voice unembellished. "It sounds like … a hell all its own."
"You're not wrong," he agreed between desperate gulps.
Tav sipped too, though more sedately, then asked: "Could you get it back, somehow, do you think? I mean, if you devoted yourself to something else? Or somewhere else? Like Baldur's Gate?"
"I doubt it," Zevlor sighed, lowering his cup and gazing morosely up at the starry sky. "Devotion is an instinct. It's inspired. It can't be forced. Or offered to just anything or anyone or anywhere. Baldur's Gate may hold a place for us yet, but even if it does, even if I lived out the rest of my days there, I don't know whether I could ever truly call it home."
"I can understand that."
It was Zevlor's turn to be struck by a thought, like a fallen tree branch, that knocked his own troubles askew. He blinked shadows of the past from his eyes, and, for the first time in minutes, gave his full attention to Tav. Her arms were looped round her knees, her cup dangling from careless fingers between them, considering the little stretch of earth between her slippers and Zevlor's boots without, he was sure, really seeing. And he was long past the point of worrying about intrusive personal questions.
"Where is home for you?"
"I don't have one," she answered with a preoccupied shrug. "I mean, not like that. Not like Elturel for you. Not a place I ever really belonged to."
"An orphan?" ventured Zevlor, but Tav shook her head.
"Technically, but - not really. I mean…" She shifted in her seat and closed her eyes for a moment, composing her thoughts before laying them out. "My mother did die in childbirth and I never knew my father, but I had my mother's parents and they raised me. It's just - they weren't like me. Like us. Tieflings," and this time her discomfort in the word sounded like an echo from someone else's voice. "It was a shock for them. Their kingdom - or, the place they live, I mean - there aren't any other tieflings there. Or not the born kind, just people who make actual deals with devils so there's a bit of a stigma, obviously. They tried all sorts of cures when I was young." Tav's free hand darted compulsively towards her head, but she caught it in time. She wrapped it safely around her cup, while Zevlor's gaze flicked to her stunted horns, noticing as he had once before their flat, filed tops. "And when that didn't work, they tried covering it up, but of course those things always get out. They did their best to make sure everyone treated me normally, at least to my face, but I knew what they - I knew what they thought."
She squeezed her eyes briefly shut again, and took a fortifying sip of wine before speeding on: "So whenever anything bad happened in the kingdom - animal attacks, hard winters, famine, illnesses - everyone always blamed me. Then when I was fourteen, we had a plague. A bad one. There was a - well, it wasn't quite a revolt exactly, but my grandparents didn't really have a choice but to send me away. I understood. I went to visit a neighbouring kingdom, then another, then schools, but it always ended the same: a wave of sickness, bad weather, some freak accident, and I'd be shunted off again. When I turned seventeen, I finally just took off on my own. And I've been on my own, on the move ever since."
"I see…" was all Zevlor could think to say. It was a difficult existence for his wine-soaked brain to comprehend - to have no anchor, no tie, no purpose. But, even inebriated, he didn't think this an appropriate comfort. As if Tav sensed his struggle…
"I don't mind it," she said, a little too heartily. "I've seen beautiful places, met fascinating people. I've had a hundred odd jobs, learned things I never would have otherwise. Amassed enough stories for a three-volume novel. It's been loads of fun." Then, as if this show of enthusiasm had cost her, Tav's shoulders slumped. "Although," she added, more subdued, "I admit, now that I'm not quite so young as I look," - she threw Zevlor a weak half-grin - "I have found myself looking for more of a - a permanent place. Somewhere to belong to. Hence the circus."
Tav raised her cup to her lips and cocked her head, surprised to find it empty. She reached around for the bottle. Zevlor wondered how much was left. A question answered when she refilled her cup, then leaned over and drained what remained into his without asking. She dropped the bottle clumsily behind her, where it rolled until it clunked against rock.
And for several minutes they simply sat, facing each other over their separate cups, listening to the stream break over rocks beside them and the trees whisper above; and though no part of them was touching, to Zevlor they felt intangibly connected; united against a land supremely unconcerned with their fates. They were two tieflings alone in a world that had no place for them, but alone together. That thought, or the third helping of wine, renewed Zevlor's strength. And - he blinked; abruptly dazed as if by some bright light - illuminated a heretofore unconsidered path. If this world and its gods would not make a way for them, then it was up to them - to him - to make their own.
"Well," he announced into the silence, setting his cup carefully to the earth - his hands were trembling with a sudden surge of excitement, "should the circus not be everything you hoped, I meant what I said before: you always have family in Baldur's Gate. I would have asked you to leave with us tomorrow, but I know your … condition takes precedence."
"The mindflayer incubating in my head, you mean?" Tav asked, sardonic and slightly slurred.
"That, yes." Zevlor's nod both acknowledged and dismissed the gravity of this problem. He refused to be discouraged from his new hope or dissuaded from his infant plan. At least, not until he knew how Tav felt about it. "But perhaps when you've wrapped up that adventure -"
"You make it sound so simple."
"Not simple no, but…" Zevlor smiled, and it felt easy on his face. "You've come this far. It's hard to imagine you failing at anything you've set your mind to. And once you've succeeded, it shouldn't be hard for you to make your own way to the Gate. The others would be terribly glad to see you. As would I. And," - his thumb absently traced the dented rim of his cup - "having been there some time already, I should have more to offer you than camp rations and stolen wine."
His words were so heavily laden with meaning Zevlor had the fanciful notion they might fall through the air and drown in his half-full drink. But Tav caught them. She opened her mouth and let it hang, temporarily incapable of speech. Her tail, rarely ever restrained and evidently feeling the full effect of this third draft of wine, curled and uncurled eagerly behind her, and Zevlor, nerves alight, was certain the picture he painted appealed to her, too. When she found her voice, it was breathless and raw, her answer almost indistinguishable around her wine-thick tongue and the smile growing up the sides of her face.
"Should I get this thing out of my head, I'd be quite happy to see you again anywhere, whatever you had to offer - more tents and caves in some new wilderness, or a house somewhere in Baldur's Gate. I mean, it's almost like a wilderness itself, that place." She giggled nervously, words tumbling from her now. "I mean, I got lost the second I arrived, those streets are a labyrinth. I spent the whole hour I was there looking for the Elfsong. Should we be able to find each other once I was there, do you think? What's your surname, so I can ask for you?
"I don't have one." Zevlor was barely aware of what either of them were saying - his mind, too, was already reeling towards the future; their future. Together. "Many of our kind don't have family names," he babbled on, "unless they choose one for themselves. You're not the only one of uncertain heritage."
"Oh, of course. That makes sense. I'm sorry," Tav stuttered nonsensically. "I mean, it shouldn't matter. I've never met anyone else called Zevlor, before. I quite like your name by the way. It's a good name for a song. Much easier to say than mine. It rolls right off the tongue."
She said his name again, and even slurred as it was by excitement and drink, Zevlor thought he would burn alive at the sound. Tav, in contrast, froze. Colour drained from her face and her tail drooped with almost comical slowness, as she passed visibly from confusion through shock and finally into horror, realising all she had just said. The reality of it seemed to sober her. She blinked rapidly, then lifted her cup, held it away from her and upended the contents into the earth.
"I think I've had enough wine for one night."
Zevlor would have laughed out loud were his own sluggish brain not been busy processing something else she had let slip.
"Tav is not your real name?"
"It's a nickname," she said, brushing dirt Zevlor could not see from her skirts and avoiding his eyes. And in spite of her previous display, apparently still unable to reign in her tongue. "I never liked my full name. It's long and pretentious, and no one ever gets it quite right. I haven't used it in years. Since I first left, in fact."
"Will you tell it to me?" asked Zevlor, and his quiet request was enough to still Tav's stumbling tongue in her mouth and her hands in her lap and draw her gaze to his.
She told him.
She had to say it twice before Zevlor could wrap his mind around the intriguing set of syllables. Then he tried them out for himself. A storm-cloud blush spread across Tav's cheeks, and their faces were so close together - when had that happened? - Zevlor could feel its heat. Her blue eyes were glassy and glazed as she said, in little more than a whisper, "It doesn't sound so bad when you say it."
And in that moment Zevlor knew every indefinable desire, every pleasure he'd barely let himself dream was his for the taking. All he had to do was lean in a few inches more. They could end the night like this: their new joint hopes sealed here in the dirt, by the water, under the stars; lips and hands clumsy, sensations vague with alcohol and fatigue; then part necessarily in a few hours, heads pounding, mouths dry, the experience half-remembered. And Tav... he could imagine her, cheeks dark with a different sort of embarrassment, unimpressed, disappointed, and wondering if it would really be worth the effort to find him in Baldur's Gate after all.
The image cleared Zevlor's head. He leaned away. He wanted that kiss, and everything that would inevitably follow; if he was honest with himself, it had always been his secret hope for the night. But now he wanted more. Tav was not a mere momentary pleasure, she was a whole world of possibilities. To risk that - to risk her - would be a reckless mistake, and Zevlor was old enough to know better.
"I think you're right," he said reluctantly. "We have had quite enough wine." And he held his own cup safely away from Tav's skirts and turned it over in the dirt with a little sigh.
"Oh! Yes. Of course. I'm sorry. So sorry, I've kept you up so late, and you've an early start tomorrow."
Tav's voice was breathless and quavery. She looked and sounded as though she had just been punched. She ducked her head, a waterfall of loose raven curls obscuring her face, and pushed unsteadily to her feet. She snatched up her cup and the empty bottle, clutching them close to her chest, then took an uncertain step away from Zevlor, clearly unsure what to do next. Zevlor stood quickly - too quickly: his knees cracked and his back screamed as it was forced to uncurl so fast, but he ignored his body's complaints. He would have endured a great deal worse before he let Tav leave like that.
"Tav," he said, and then, on a whim, tried her full name again; and when she peered, startled, through her curtain of curls, Zevlor reached out for her hand, removed the wine bottle from it, and, without giving himself time to second guess, brought it to his lips.
He left them pressed to her skin too long to be mistaken for any sort of politeness, and put into it everything he could of his hopes, his gratefulness, his own thwarted passion, and his - there was no point calling it anything else - his love for her. It was a lot to ask of one kiss to the back of a hand, but Zevlor trusted himself with nothing more. And by the look on Tav's face when he pulled away - that glowing adoration he would never have enough of - he thought she understood the gist.
"Thank you," said Zevlor, and had never meant it more earnestly. "For everything. Meeting you has been an honour and a privilege. I look forward to seeing more of you soon in Baldur's Gate."
And even with half a bottle's worth of wine still in her blood, Tav's endless well of words failed her.
She let Zevlor lead her back up the sloping path, along the bend in the cliff-side, and into the torch-lit circle of scrap-fabric tents. Snores issued from more than one of them. The party had ended. The fire was embers and both refugees and adventurers had gone. Bottles were scattered across the empty, open ground, but Zevlor would not let Tav stop to tidy them. He escorted her safely to her own tent, extracted her assurance she would not sneak out of it to clean, and left her - but not before Tav, a blazing look in her cobalt eyes, had reached for his arm and used it to balance as she stretched up to kiss his cheek.
Zevlor could not remember finding his own bedroll, after, but assumed he had because his last memory of the night was lying on his back, head propped on his arms, staring up into the sky, and feeling for the first time in months, the kindling of a long dead fire; a whisper, as if from another life, of ... faith. Faith in Tav. Faith in whatever had sent her. Faith that the world, after all, might be more than politics and power plays and leaders protecting themselves at the cost of their people. Faith that his own life might once again have purpose and meaning. It was a flickering echo of the white hot flames that had fueled him before Avernus, but, as he drifted to sleep, they were enough to keep him warm.
The Elfsong's crowd has only increased with the hour. The conversations of a dozen tables mingle and meld into one rolling thrum, interspersed with strains of music - a flute and lute - from somewhere above, and the shouts and drunken laughter and catcalls and cartwheels from the street outside. But in one corner privacy booth, all is silence. Not even a clatter of tankards or gulping of ale interrupts for several minutes that feel too long to its two occupants. But neither knows what to say.
"So," concludes Zevlor at last, voice hoarse. "I'm afraid Lakrissa loses her bet."
But any humour he might have found in this truth earlier now falls flat. And Alfira does not reply. Both refugees know what part of the story comes next, and it makes all Zevlor's bright hopes and plans of that long-distant night in the forest all the sadder.