Art Cullagh was a dead man.
He breathed, he talked, he woke each morning to the blissfully unveiled Reithwin sun; but he knew in his heart of hearts that his time on Faerûn was coming to an end. Frankly, he was surprised he had lasted the six months that he had, but death did not wait forever; especially for someone so… Broken.
He forced himself to be reassured. He had done what he had waited a century to do; stumbling through an impossibly dark place with naught but two names on his lips and the fading scent of lavender in his nose. Halsin was found, and Thaniel was saved. Even Oliver, Thaniel's corrupted other half, had been given another chance. Just him, though. Nothing but a slow death for poor old Art, though.
The young-yet-old man pressed a palm, clammy with sweat, to his eye. He couldn't think like that. He had accepted this months ago, when the victory over Ketheric was still fresh in his mind and he still thought he only had mere weeks to live. But, take it from a man cursed to wander for a century, nothing dimmed optimism like waiting.
He jumped at the sound of a door opening; only to relax when he saw it was just Halsin. The large druid had a smile on his face, but the frown in his eyes made it more akin to a grimace.
"Good morning, Art. Did you sleep well?"
"Like the dead."
Halsin winced at that, and Art cursed himself for his bitter tone. "I'm sorry. It was a… bad night."
The elf's eyebrow raised. "The Shadowfell, again?"
"No, actually." Art's blurred eyes drifted over to his lute, set against his bedside table; accumulating a fine layer of dust. Halsin's eye followed his. "I… I was twelve again, learning how to play. Then I wasn't in the Lower City, I was in Reithwin. in the old House Of Healing, but before the curse. There was this… surgeon. Fingers like knives."
Halsin nodded gravely. "Malus."
Art vaguely recalled the name, but he continued. "He was cutting up one of my old mates, i-in the Fist, but I was still me when I was twelve. He saw me, and I ran. I screamed for my mum. Then I woke up."
At some point, he had started weeping, but he only realised when his voice cracked on the last syllable. He wiped at his eyes with his right arm, the left having stopped working in the last week or two. Halsin remained silent, that sad smile still on his face.
"I-I'm sorry."
"Art, I can't think of anything less you need to be than sorry."
"Still. I… I thought I had made my peace with this months ago."
Halsin hummed at this, pulling a seat up. It was a seat far too small for him, and Art had to suppress a chuckle at the biggest elf he had ever seen on a stool about a fifth of his size.
"I do not think one could ever truly be at peace with their own death."
Art scoffed, his bitterness returning. "Isn't that Oak Father's will? For things to die, so whatever comes next can flourish?"
Halsin levelled his gaze. "Those two things are not in conflict. We live, and we wish to live as long as possible; so that we can catch a glimpse of the impact we could've made."
"Even you?"
A sigh. "Especially me. I know this place will not be able to truly shed itself of all the horrors the curse entailed within my lifetime. I hope it does, more than anything else, but I know it will have to wait until it passes from living memory. For now, I just hope I can plant the seeds for that to happen. It will just be after I am already in the Oak Father's embrace that I can watch those seeds truly sprout."
Art's finger tapped against his leg, the feeling of the impact numb. "When… When I go, do you think he would take me? I'm not- not right."
Halsin chuckled, almost in disbelief. "Take you? I don't presume to know Silvanus' will, but I wager he'd celebrate your coming more than he would most of his own druids."
Art grimaced, unconvinced.
"Even if he didn't, I'd wager Selǔne would be more than happy to have you. She seems to have great fondness for those who spit in her sister's eye." The smile remained on Halsin's face, but that sad gaze remained in his eye. The young man forced himself to look away.
"Do you think either of them took J'ehlar?" He hardly knew the woman, but he gathered that it was her that looked after him when he was still catatonic; before Halsin and his group arrived. She had died during the assault on Moonrise Towers, a mere couple of days after he had woken up and been able to speak with her.
She was nice. In another life, maybe they could have enjoyed the curse being lifted together. In another life, maybe the Ketheric would have never existed; and he would've been an old man when she was born. She would've lived a long, happy life; free from Shadow Curses and god-like Elder Brains.
Halsin didn't reply for a moment. In fact, he didn't reply at all; and Art got the sense he was staring.
He took it as a sign to continue.
"I just… Can't help but think. Got nothing else to do with my time. What if Duke Eltan had sent someone else? What if Ketheric never lost his wife, or was able to just move on with his life? Why did he have to make so many others suffer, and for what? Another Goddess he would end up turning his back on anyway?"
He was rambling now, and Halsin stood up as a cough racked its way through his body.
"-I'm fine. I just…"
A breath.
"I don't want to die, Halsin. Not alone, not here."
A moment of silence.
"I will be there, Art. Thaniel will as well. And Oliver, too. We would never let you go alone."
The Fist looked over. Halsin was looking at the floor, his jaw set as he pondered.
"I know a place, from our journey. It's not too far from here, and the curse never reached it. It's near the old Rosymorn Monastery."
Art nodded. His body creaked.
"I think it's happening soon."
"Today?"
Another nod, another creak.
Halsin gave a sad smile. "Then I suppose we ought to be off then, hm?"
The journey was tranquil, but agonising. Frankly, Art hadn't thought such a thing to be possible. Every jolt of the small cart shot a white-hot fire through his abused nerves; but at the same time he couldn't tear his eyes from the retreating form of Reithwin in the distance. A small smile snuck its way onto his face as he saw the almost comical amount of children that kept badgering Halsin about where they were going. The Elf, of course, dismissed each and every one of his growing collection of orphans with a good natured laugh and a non-committal non-answer.
"There's been a dozen new ones every time I've been outside." Art joked, his voice beginning to fail.
"And every dozen is a treasure. Silvanus willing, they will grow beyond the tragedy that brought them here."
Art shook his head, but couldn't quite discern the reason why. The Reithwin settlement disappeared behind dead trees, now regrowing. Art fell asleep.
When he woke up, he was propped up against a small tree. A muscular form stood to his right, and he was worried for a moment. It was an Elf, surprisingly; Art didn't even know they made them that size. The elf smiled at him strangely.
Halsin. A voice reminded him. The name sounded familiar.
He felt a strange presence on his left, then. He forced his sluggish neck to look. It was two boys, identical in appearance and essence; but equally as opposite. They both smiled, though a tad more easily. He vaguely remembered climbing a tree in a dark place; and the memory put him at ease.
Something tugged at his sleeve. It was one of the boys, or perhaps both of them? They pointed at something, and Art's eyes followed.
It was there, on the old mountain pass, beneath a tree that had been growing for the past one hundred and thirty-nine years, that Art Cullagh watched his last sunset.
He remembered when his dad had bought him his lute, during their only holiday to Neverwinter. He felt his first kiss with a pretty Half-Drow he met during his initiation ceremony. He felt his knee against the ground when Duke Eltan entrusted him with the most important mission of his life. He heard children playing outside, apparently elated with their new Owlbear friend.
He saw the sun rise over Reithwin.
Art Cullagh was a dead man.
Art Cullagh was a man who had lived.