A/N: This was originally written and posted in the winter of 2022. However, when I started writing Origins, I took it down as I wanted to include it in this story. So, some of you may have already read this. The only changes that have been made are grammatical and some additional dialogue (i.e. related to the Goldleaf adventure). Warning—this chapter is very much a self-indulgent fluff piece. If you want insight into Varan's past… proceed. But if romance isn't your thing, I apologize in advance ;)

The Cult of the Gol'Goroth

Chapter Ten

Midwinter

Three months later…

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 who guarded the outposts of Neverwinter Wood were called into the village proper. The Midwinter feast was one of them. Of course, a handful remained in the Wood. However, shifts were rotated so that everyone could participate in the festivities.

That is how Varan Fenhirel found himself trapped in a very incongruous scenario.

It was not often that the elves of Taras Aldar became as loud and rowdy as they were at present. The village typically had an air of peace and tranquility 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 moon elf stood before the impatient ranger. Two young 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 how close she was to the truth at that moment.

"Zelyra? Where is she?" he repeated testily.

"Last I saw her, she was dancing with her father," Arlathan replied while gesturing lazily toward 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 and drums. Unsurprisingly, the half-giant barbarian, Krom, had joined the festivities as well and happily strummed away on his oversized lute. Well-known tunes wafted from their instruments, allowing the dancers to sing along. It was a picture of merriment if any there ever were. [1]

"Thank you," the ranger said, intending 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. 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. Hells, Krom and I had to endure an entire tenday of watching you two needlessly pine for one another! You fight hard for the survival of our Circle, and we are grateful for it. But for the love of the gods, you deserve a little joy in your life… And Zelyra does, too!"

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—the druid's behavior this night was not unusual—but her wisdom came out when it most counted.

Varan quickly 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 slower 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 druid's arm was sans a braid. Varan had initially been searching for Zelyra's tightly woven, pristine braid amongst the crowd. But on this night, her golden 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 again caught him.

Varan 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 noticed his out-of-character approach and immediately paused their dance. Zelyra notably brightened as he had initially told her he would miss the feast.

"Varan!" she cried excitedly. The druid's smile then fell as worry replaced it. "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 replied slowly 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 more. And though the ranger tried to hide it, the entire village knew that she had him hooked around her finger, hook, line, and sinker.

"I didn't think you were coming," the elder heard Zelyra say as he walked away.

"Krom forced me," was the ranger's reply. "Wouldn't stop nagging me until I came."

"Hmm, I'll have to get Krom a fruitcake."

"Why would you torture someone like that?"

The half-elves' conversation faded into the wind as 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 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 sitting 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 have 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 usage of our magics is unlike anything I have yet to see among our people and that has only increased since her encounter with the portal. 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, "Anyhow, the entire village has been making bets on her pairing for years. I have always bet 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."

Laucian frowned. "It's not that I disapprove of their union. 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, sipping their tankards of honey wine as they watched the villagers happily dance, 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 after sharing several dances together, Zelyra rolled with it. After that, there was no way 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 the leather band she always wore. "To commemorate your first completed mission for the Circle. I know it's a few months late, but…"

"Better late than never," Zelyra replied in a hushed tone, her cheeks pink.

It was tradition for the druids to add to their headdresses to commemorate their personal journeys—at least within the Circle of Swords, anyway. 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. However, a mentor or family member almost always gifted the first item. Consequently, Zelyra had expected Laucian would present her with her first piece and yet, three months now had passed since Goldleaf.

Now, she understood.

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. Eventually, she lamely choked out, "They're perfect, Varan. Thank you." [2]

The ranger shrugged, "I asked Laucian a while back and he agreed. Ansron enchanted them to stay evergreen. I just… thought it was a good fit." A slight flush 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. He reached out and gently tucked a stray lock of golden hair behind her ear, but 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," he muttered. "It's strange to see you without a braid."

Heart in her throat, Zelyra asked, "Strange, as in it looks bad?"

"No," Varan eventually answered.

And then, before the druid could blink, he 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 one daring kiss to his lips after the Goldleaf expedition. 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. "You kissed me."

"You kissed me first," the ranger replied.

The druid giggled. "I suppose I did, didn't I. I thought you'd forgotten about that…"

Varan slowly shook his head.

"I—well, thank you."

"Thank you?" he echoed, his dark brows drawing together.

She silently gestured to her headdress.

Varan coughed nervously. "It was nothing."

They stared at one another, torn between giddiness and uncertainty. This was new territory for them.

"I know you'll have to return to the outposts eventually, but…not tonight. Stay tonight," Zelyra requested. "Please." 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 how Arlathan and I cleared a goblin camp?"

"You did?" Varan asked in surprise.

Zelyra nodded eagerly.

"Okay, sure," the ranger chuckled lowly.

"Well, it all started when we met this triton in Neverwinter…." [3]

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 given when she reached adulthood. There was nothing spectacular about it. It contained little more than a bed pushed to one corner, a small table, a bookshelf cluttered with tomes borrowed from Ansron, a wash tin, and a dressing area. 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.

This felt very different than sharing a campsite.

Goose pimples erupted on every inch of her bare skin as Zelyra changed from the flowing dress she'd worn to the feast 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 now 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 at her then, fixing her with a challenging stare that clearly said: This was your idea. Are you going to stand there all night?

"Did you want me to take the floor?" he asked.

Zelyra thought she could die of embarrassment. "No! Of course not," she squeaked.

"Then what is it?"

"Nothing—it's nothing."

The druid bit her tongue and padded across the wooden floor. After carefully placing her holly-adorned headdress next to Varan's belongings, she crawled onto the cot next to him and lay down. But the ranger remained quiet, 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 near. In fact, Varan remained in silent contemplation for so long that she had nearly succumbed to the urge entirely when, at last, he spoke.

"I am not the kind of person who can 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 snorted. For 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 in the face. "Then try. Whatever it is, just say it however you think is best," she 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. Then, to her astonishment, he spoke aloud. "I promised to tell you about Goldleaf…"

The druid nodded but said nothing.

"My mother kept me secluded growing up. As I think you know, the villagers were not fond of her—or me. We were foreigners living amongst sheltered humans." A pause. "I didn't have much interaction 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 recalled an offhanded comment Laucian had made when he brought her and Zelphar to Taras Aldar. That's the most I have ever heard from that one's mouth. Zelyra had thought little of it at the time, 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 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 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 acknowledge 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. There were fires in the village…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. Instead, she reached for his hand and waited patiently for him to continue.

"I 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… somehow, I 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 had been 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 and 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.

"Naitha might be able to heal it with magic."

It was a meek offer to distract her from the tragic vision playing in 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. The ranger 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.

The druid 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 the 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 cold. Rather, it was a connection she felt so profoundly that it moved 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. "Roderic?"

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.

Suddenly a thought occurred to her, "Wait a minute, the elven sorceress that Hal mentioned—"

"Not a sorceress, just an elf," Varan confirmed.

"Wow," the druid breathed, eyes wide. "Hal tried to blame the kidnappings on your mother?!" His dead mother, though she dared not say that particular fact aloud.

"He deserves to rot in that pit," the ranger growled.

"And the magic sword? The one Hal promised us?"

"Belonged to her. Had been passed down through generations of wood elves."

The druid's gaze swiveled to her dresser where that very sword now lay sheathed amongst the ranger's belongings. It was back where it belonged. What were the odds?

"Again, I—I'm sorry. I can't imagine the pain that you went through during our time there," she murmured. "The memories it brought back to the surface…"

"It was a long time ago," he said evenly. "And the people of Goldleaf have changed."

"Still, 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 caused her to admit something that no one knew save Laucian and her brother. "I realize it's 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 what life had been like as an orphaned vagabond, a street rat. How they had lied, cheated, and stole for survival. How, after all this time, there were certain habits and ticks that she could not shake.

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.

She continued, "It is solid gold. We easily could have sold it off and made a pretty penny. But 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. 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. "You have a new family now that does."

The words were spoken nonchalantly, yet they forced all the air out of Zelyra's lungs.

"You do as well," she replied 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 finally saying, "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 item 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 arrangement. Eventually, they settled beneath the furs. Varan, with his back to the wall, and Zelyra pulled tightly against his chest so she could maintain her line of sight on the door as he now 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 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 the first to volunteer.

And now, after their conversation, the druid could finally understand why he was so duty-driven, desperate to excel, 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, to protect his people and home. He had failed to protect someone he loved once. He would not allow it 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 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 originally 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.

[2] The sprigs of holly refer to Roots (the prologue/chapter 20 of The Grey Warriors), in which a young Zelyra makes flower crowns for herself, her brother, and Varan while sitting under a holly tree.

[3] This comment relates to a follow-up DnD one shot where Arlathan's player and I returned as Zelyra and Arlathan, but Krom's player rolled up a new character. DM/Husband was running us through Lost Mine of Phandelver, but we didn't get very far LOL