Archive of Our Own

“I should have a stage name!” Zia grinned as she stood on their bed, bare feet gripping the sheets while she balances, “Stella Starlight, the Greatest Bard this side of Neverwinter! Nay, in all of Faerun!” She strummed the lute in her hands like she’d been doing it since birth even as it twanged unceremoniously in the confines of their little cottage.

Edgin surged up, grabbing her in her fit of laughter. His arms around her waist. His face already in her hair. That laughter filled his chest like the smoke it is, tumbling in foggy clouds against the lake of his heart. It choked him, yet he felt as if he couldn’t breathe any clearer. They fell to the bed in giggles, in nips and kisses. She is his symphony, not dashing the sky with her brilliant smile and tumbling laughter, but here on earth in his world, under his sky.

She was.

Today his lute felt out of tune. Or perhaps he just couldn’t listen right, even after an hour of twisting the pins, strumming, twisting again, strumming again. Under the amber skylight, bleeding into an orange-pink with that touch of frosted cold, Edgin didn’t know where to start. His fingers bend and unbend, feeling the creak of something familiar unfurl between the joints. He didn’t want to listen to that or let it sink into his chest.

Still, Edgin followed it anyway and let the callouses remember which string to press down on and which one to glide over. At first, it’s a mindless tune that floated against the iced breeze that carried away his breath. Then, somewhere along the way, Edgin found the melody of a quiet song he’d wanted to lock away forever. Zia filtered across his mind, so it made sense that his fingers would grab at any thread of her until they found something.

Treacherous things.

He didn’t want to sing, but the song hummed softly and words broke into bits and pieces under whispered puffs of air. Zia loved ballads, but this one in particular had been her favorite. Star crossed lovers rolling against the tides of the world. It ended as most tragic loves do, predictably. It broke her heart every single time, predictably. And in those glittering pieces of her heart, Zia would offer them to Edgin. She knew he would piece each and every sliver back together, kiss it anew until the cracks sewed shut, and give it right back to her.

Where, among the frozen wastes of his broken little cottage, were his silvery kisses. His mending lips to carefully, precisely press each crack and break back into place.

The song floated off into the sky to let the clouds whisk it away in some forgotten pocket of the world. Edgin stared down at his lute, at the pads that stilled atop the strings. Fingers gripped the neck, knuckles whitened. He frowned, wondering when he’d lost the pieces of his heart inside the echoing carapace of this damnable instrument. They’re scattered and lost and frayed.

Where does Edgin even start? Why isn’t there someone to pick it up for him?

“Got some potato soup on the table,” Holga’s voice rumbled behind him. There’s no answer from him and they sit in a long, quiet pause, “Heard Yendar’s out near Lonelywood. Some arch lich or whatever’s been making a muck up north of the Towns.”

“Oh?” Edgin finally offered, waiting a moment before he stood. There it was. His knees protested and he waved it off to the cold. Everyone blamed the cold for the ache in their bones. “You seasoned it this time, yeah?”

“I always season my potatoes,” Holga retorted. Edgin didn’t look at her. He can’t without—He tried to tug a smirk on his lips even as he hobbled forward. Damn foot fell asleep.

“I wouldn’t call burnt potato skins and bits of jerky seasoning,” He ribbed at her, finally offering her a glint in his eyes. A tease.

Holga rolled her eyes, shoving the door open. “You don’t like it, you don’t get none.”

“Now hold on, wait. Wait. It was a jest,” Edgin’s fumbling forward now, slamming the door shut as his muffled cries ring out, “Holga! I was joking. I’ll just take out the potato skins. Kira! Kira, tell her!”

With the evening sky having dulled to gray and finally engulfed itself in a glittering backdrop of inky black, Targos sat still and encased in a dull ice. The hearth crackled, conversing with the steady howl of wind and creak of wood. Edgin sits in a rickety stool behind Kira, hand in her hair. There’s a big goop of some kind of oil she’d made a few weeks ago. He didn’t ask exactly what’s in it or even where she got it, but she seemed content with how it held in her hair.

“Not too much, dad,” Kira instructed, working through the other side of her hair.

Edgin huffed, “Not too much. Not too little. You’re the one that put this much in my hands, Kir!”

“You're supposed to spread it around! Not keep tugging at one strand of my hair,” Kira gawked, giving him a nasty side eye as he laughed with his hands now splat against the top of her head. There’s more squawking filling the dimly lit room, quickly turned toward a spill of laughter.

A sudden pang hit Edgin’s chest, hearing that rasp of something familiar twist at Kira’s giggles. She sat away from Edgin now, on the other side of her bed with her hair twisting in her hands. There was a comb in her hands, teeth wide set. A bundle of flowers danced along the edge, etched in and painted a fine, soft green with the sparkle of a dragonfly flittering on the edge.

Thoughts of Zia flashed along his eyes, sitting just like Kira with one leg propped up and the other curled around. Her hands and comb carefully, gently brushing the tangles from her hair, spreading whatever oil she’d put in from scalp to tip. She said it was made with daphne, smelling so sweet with that undercut of something sharp that Edgin recalled made him heady, like he could lay there with his head in her hair forever. Daphne, she said, and something else that she didn’t know in all her giggling. And she’d laugh, just like this, while Edgin strummed some stupid little ditty of some dimwitted goblins marching off a cliffside like a bunch of lemmings. He felt himself marching off that same cliffside every time she smiled at him.

“Edgin…” She’d say, with something bubbling up on her tongue…

“Dad,” Kira’s voice pulled him back and he blinked. She’s looking at his hands on his knees, white knuckled and gripping too hard. “Are you okay?”

“What? Yeah! Course, Bug! Never been better,” He smiled wide and hoped the lack of light hid the dimness in his eyes.

Kira stared at him for a moment with a pinch between her brows. She stopped combing and detangling, now having parted and sectioned her hair. Her fingers worked deftly and focused, though fumbling just slightly. It was a wonder that even this past year she’d grown and changed, yet stayed alarmingly the same. No uncertainty scrawled her features or wavered her hands as she worked to twist her hair into tight coils. Still that little girl of his, too full of determination and stubbornness to let room for any doubt. She had so much hair, but Edgin wouldn’t tell her how long he thought it would take to fully twist every bit of it. He’d stay up as long as he could, help where he could.

As he climbed into bed with her, trying his best to part her hair the way she had—had to let her do it after a while—Edgin set to work, following the rhythm of Kira’s fingers to match. He was good at that, with his fingers working delicately. He’d be good at this, surely.

“Who taught you…” Edgin paused, gesturing for a moment at the wild chaos of Kira’s hair tied and sticking and parted in different ways, “this?” For he surely hadn’t and Holga definitely didn’t. He felt certain Holga would let her hair stick out every which way if it didn’t hamper her own vision.

“I taught myself the oils… mostly,” Kira started, moving onto another strand of hair, stretching it in her fingers. Wow, it was long. She twisted it slowly at first, speeding up as she got to the end, then dipped her fingers in the oil in front of her. He watched her play with it for a moment before applying it to the twisted strands. Satisfied when it didn’t twirl away on her, she focused on another strand. Edgin did the same, following her steps and instructions, let her do it if he wasn’t working to her satisfaction. “All this stuff, though, someone else did.”

At this point, Edgin felt Kira’s guard raise as her eyes focused on him. Like he’d feel some hurt that it wasn’t him who taught her this or that he’d think to Zia and how she should have. How she should have been there, doing this with her hair, doing more, putting it up in intricate little designs that made Kira giddy and giggly.

Yeah. Yeah that did hurt.

That settled in Edgin’s stomach. It weighed him down visibly as his eyes fell to his fingers in Kira’s hair. But he breathed. He breathed deep and allowed himself to look at his daughter, up and through his lashes. He offered her a smile, soft and barely there. He nodded for her to continue.

“It was barely a tenday ago, I think,” Kira recalled, letting her eyes refocus on the twists she worked her hair into, idly dipping her fingers in the sticky oil again, “I was just lookin’ for some plants or whatever on the docks. Some weeds grow there, lots of stuff to make cool things out of. Or… y’ know. Anyways…”

Kira drifted off into her tale, recounting of a man who’d grasped her just as she nearly tumbled over the side of a dock trying to scrape something off the leg of it. Apparently, she overreacted, lashed out at him with her knife in fear of her mugging him. Pride settled in Kira when she said she nearly nicked off his finger and cut through his coin purse before disappearing. Edgin didn’t quite know who was the more fortunate one, but he breathed and let her continue even through his own apprehension.

After the man had offered to retrieve what she sought, he’d asked her what she intended to make with her assortment of plants. When Kira told him about oils for her hair, he’d stared at her with what she could only describe as a mix between constipation and like he was actively thinking at her. He’d offered some of his own oils and asked her if he could have some of the concoction she planned to make. Kira seemed to preen at the compliment he paid her, that she looked a capable alchemist.

This led to that led to Kira sitting on the docks with this mystery man, who Edgin could very easily guess at with each description Kira gave. When he’d taught her how he did his locs, he dispensed a veritable sea of information that Kira, the sponge she was, absorbed with great interest. And then, just like Edgin expected, Kira recalled how the man left.

“It was like he had somewhere really, really important to be and knew exactly where it was,” Kira said, holding her arm out in a rigid line and Edgin knew exactly what she meant. His eyes flitted off to her bedside table, a rickety thing Holga had attempted to make, and wondered if Kira would have the chance to give away that oil she bottled up just for him.

Early morning slipped away into a late lull, nearing lunch as Edgin stiffly rose. Kira had already gone, and he wondered how that girl could wake up earlier than he could. There was something soft on the tip of his hand and he looked down at the long, silk cloth all crumpled in it, edges all frayed and wispy. If he put it up to his nose, he was sure he’d smell daphne stinging the back of his throat. That there’d be some ghost of it in the mixture of icy lake breeze and sweet berries that clung to his own fingers now.

The telltale stomp of boots brought Edgin’s half hooded gaze up. Holga was giving him a look, stopping frozen still like she’d scare off a gangly fawn she was trying to corral with her outstretched arms. Those arms fell to her side with a thump, and she let out a heavy breath. Edgin wasn’t fragile, she knew that. He knew that.

He wasn’t fragile. I’m not fragile. I’m not fragile. I’m not fragile.

Her eyes fell to the silk cloth and Edgin reflexively closed his fingers over it. She didn’t say anything, just looked at Edgin for a moment.

“Kira’s out lookin’ for more plants,” Holga finally said. Edgin just nodded, staring out of the window next to Kira’s bed.

Edgin wiped a hand over his face, “Yeah. Yeah, I figured.”

“Doric stopped by yesterday,” Holga said, untying the game she caught from her belt. She went to work, back to Edgin.

“Hmm,” Edgin hummed, swinging his legs to hang over the bedside, “What’d she want? Business for the Enclave?”

“Just checkin’ in. Mostly wanted someone to complain about Simon to,” Holga paused, looking over her shoulder for a moment, “Says Neverember still has us on his lips. Could get a favor if we play our cards right.”

“Wanna squeeze more money outta him?” Edgin smirked back at her, tying his boots taught.

“Could ask about apothecaries… alchemists,” Holga looked pointedly out the window by Edgin. Edgin went quiet for a moment, simply stared with her out into the distant woodside.

There’s a sting of something that made Edgin wince. It stopped him from saying No, she stays here. She’s gonna learn on her own. Set up shop here. To what? To this tiny ass of ice in the middle of a frozen tundra? There’s only so much old recipe books and mild ramblings of an old woman could teach her. Only so many damned plants in an icy wasteland.

So many people raged at their parents, screamed curses at them, forgot about them to forget about who they were becoming. How the mantle of parenthood slowly molded and pressed into it the worries of generations that weighed so heavy on his shoulders. That rage he felt at his father’s insistence. That disgust in his father’s face at the prospect of leaving this shithole of a town. How he remembered his father spit out “Silverymoon?” like poison from his lips. How Edgin did it anyways like he knew Kira would.

He remembered what he came back to. Emptiness. Nothing. No one. Before Zia came, before she lifted him up, told him, “Harper? Why the hell not?” Told him she’d follow him all the way to Baldur’s Gate if he wanted to tour the entire Sword Coast. All of Faerun. Cupped his face and kissed away every little doubt blooming to the surface. Begone, all of it, she willed with each press of her lips. Begone.

Why can’t anyone do that for him now? Tell Edgin that he’s a good man. That he’s a good father. That he’s good enough. He breathed in something shaky, wisps of a hand over a tome before it slipped away. 

“Fine…” Edgin said, standing now. Holga turned fully towards him now, bundled up and tense like she’d bolt if Edgin told her to. Pick up their cottage and drag it all the way to Neverwinter for Kira. “Let me think. I gotta… I gotta send a letter to Neverwinter. To Doric. Simon,” Xenk , was on the tip of his tongue. “We gotta find a horse. Two horses. Three!”

“Three?” Holga repeated.

“Four?”

“Edgin.”

“Okay, okay,” Edgin threw his hands up, “Just enough to get us there.” He knew they couldn’t live in Neverwinter, but maybe somewhere close by. He didn’t want to stretch his luck with Neverember thin. Nobility was fickle and favors were never a one-way street. They’d have to spend their goodwill on Kira and Kira alone.

The next few days came through in a whirlwind. Doric had stayed unknowingly (he’d be unsurprised if she spied on them, some kinda rodent skittering in their walls) and appeared when Holga relayed the news to her. Apparently, the common swift can travel 500 miles in one day. Doric sent the letter off quick and returned just as, winded, exhausted, but with good news. They didn’t reach the Lord of Neverwinter himself, that would be asking too much, but folks who knew Neverember and knew of them, had good things to say, confirmed a few apothecaries in the better parts of the city willing to take on a bright student.

Edgin let out a breath he didn’t realize puffed out his chest. Of course, they’d find a way no matter what. Find someone willing to teach and care for Kira, allow her to learn the trade and experience it fully. Knowing it would be close to the Enclave, to Doric and Simon, made his heart settle its heavy beat. They knew what she meant, what he did to get her back.

Packing everything they could took up the better part of a day. He could feel Kira vibrating with an anxious buzz beside him while they worked. Yet, he couldn’t come to her aid. Couldn’t press away the wrinkles at her brow or wipe away the frown that melted his heart. Holga did that for him, without words, just her attention. A distraction for the young girl.

Edgin stared at Kira, at her twists that flowed like she packed bundles of her energy into each strand. He’d helped her secure bands throughout, even a few sparkling beads that sat securely within each pack of hair. It was like looking at a map of stars bound together between the weave of magic that wove through their little universe. His universe, all mapped out for him there in Kira’s hair, in her eyes as she turned to look at him, in that nervous smile where she sought comfort in a man who could barely keep her safe.

Gods, he had to sit down.

They wouldn’t be able to leave today. Not yet, at least. Holga had already taken the horse and their belongings, what they could carry, with her and Kira to the nearest inn. Just one night and then they’d be off.

Night fell swift in the Dale, caring not for discerning eyes and tired limbs shuffling home. Edgin sat stiff on his porch. This would be the last night. He looked up, staring at the door to his cottage. A gift of a memory flitted through his mind. Zia’s lips to his, holding tightly to a bundle in her arms, Edgin donned in silver and deep, deep blues. His eyes bolted here and there, to the wood that creaked in the wind, then the window with the smallest crack in it. It always let a draft in, but he’d been too stubborn with money to fix it.

Maybe he’d be stubborn now. Barge into the cottage and lay down on the hardwood and never get up. That he’d roll his head to the right and see Zia there, staring at him, smiling at him even as black veins shot up her neck, threatened to choke the life out of her.

What right had he to abandon everything he’d laid his life down for. The small living they eked out here in the middle of nowhere. Long nights of her alone, quietly crooning for his return. Watching him along the horizon and wondering if this was the day. The day someone else in Harper gear rocked along the path to impart the terrible news to her. How Edgin ached to learn that it wasn’t her waiting for that boot to drop on their wood floors.

Edgin’s head fell forward, gripped in his hands while the pads of his fingers pressed into his skull. Intrusive thoughts begged to let those fingers press his head open and let all of that pain and hurt and memories and thoughts and fury spill away. Let the earth take it. Let it feed the grass beneath his rotten home.

But the pressure stopped. He willed it to. And instead, Edgin let a hand slip back to pull his lute free. He took a deep, deep breath, let it fill him as he leaned back while his hands and fingers gripped something familiar. They peeled the thoughts away one layer at a time and let it pour into the calluses at the tip of his digits.

Be still.

Start somewhere. Anywhere. Don’t ruin this.

Edgin called out to the night. Asking for some reprieve through the song in his throat. His lute accompanied his plea, letting the sweet minor of a ballad wrap itself around his voice. Tragedy and love, intertwined pair of twin comets hurtling their way into a dying star. The ice knew by now the old crowing of a bitter widower screaming at the dale like it would magically thaw that cold heart.

Pain prickled the corners of his eyes. The cold bit away tears, he knew that. They couldn’t flow the way he truly wanted to. He held it back. Held it in his voice as it trailed into the crisp sky, just as bitten by the frost. He waited there, quiet for once, staring up at the stars. There had to be an answer. A call and response. Anything to set his bones at ease, to stop the way he looked at Holga and wondered why she stood and Zia didn’t. How that venom bit his lip, begging to part them. She didn’t deserve his anger. So he turned it on himself. Always did.

The snow crunched, returning to Edgin the sound of his own heart bared to the frost. Edgin’s head fell, slow, eyes falling on the somehow glow of armor in the pitchblack. That wasn’t fair. He turned his head to the fire in the lamp still lit beside him. The source of that glowing reflection. Wallowing made him dumber, for certain.

“Xenk,” Edgin croaked out, clearing his throat.

“Edgin Darvis,” Xenk replied. There was a tug of something at his lips, like if they spread it would shatter the air between them. “That was a lovely song.”

“Oh, you… that’s kinda creepy, just standing there in the dark like that,” Edgin tried to retort, fingers fidgeting on the neck of his loot. His hand glided against the lacquer.

“My apologies. I didn’t want to intrude,” Xenk said, bowing like he’d committed an unforgivable sin. The way he looked at Edgin twisted the ribs in his chest. “You seemed enraptured in a moment. It would have been a greater sin to interrupt.”

“Can’t just say sorry like a normal person,” Edgin muttered, though he wanted to bite his tongue. He saw Xenk’s brow flinch just slightly, but Xenk’s face remained serene in the dim firelight. “Sorry. I… just, sorry.”

“You needn’t apologize to me, Edgin,” Xenk still stood above him, staring down at Edgin with too much understanding packed in his soft gaze.

There was a long silence between them. Edgin fidgeted slightly under Xenk’s watch. The man didn’t really seem to understand the awkwardness that hung between them. Or maybe that was because it was Edgin that was being awkward.

Finally, Xenk broke the silence. “May I ask what you were singing?”

Edgin looked back up, not sure if he should stand. He didn’t want to. Just wanted to let his bones rest here for a moment, melt into the foundation if he willed it hard enough. Truth be told, he didn’t know the name, just knew that Zia loved it. Knew the words from her broken lyrics and off key humming. Ballads, he found, were popular among budding bards. Something to show off their vocals as they crooned away long, melancholy notes and secrets of love professed upon an enraptured audience.

“Something Zia loved,” was how he knew it as he answered, “Just a sad song about sad lovers ‘s all.”

Xenk hummed, armor clamoring in the space between them when he went to sit. Right in front of Edgin, staring up at him now. “It sounded familiar. The melody reminded me of a lullaby my mother used to quiet me when I was but a babe.”

“Kinda weird singing such a sad song to a baby,” Edgin scoffed, though his lips etched out a wavering smile.

Xenk smiled back, dimples shadowed in the flickering light. “Children oft do not understand the undercurrent of themes woven into song and lyric. They merely absorb the sounds and emotions offered them. She wished a better life for me, I knew as much.”

“Yeah,” Edgin croaked as his hands gripped his lute tighter, “I know the feeling.”

Xenk stared at him now, quiet, with his brows knitted and lips thinning. Suddenly, Edgin recalled Kira’s description: constipation and this weird psychic thought-feeling like he was thinking things at him. He wondered if Xenk was attempting to learn some form of telepathy. Even in this weird stare down, Edgin’s chest tightened. Only Xenk could look this earnest at him, as if he could peel Edgin apart and will some good into him, extract that self-loathing out with the guilt and the pain.

He wondered now what god Xenk worshiped. Tyr, perhaps? Ilmater most fittingly. He didn’t want to ask, just wanted to stay there for a little longer, let Xenk stare deep into his soul and make everything better.

“You aren’t trying to silently smite me now, right?” Edgin jested, a hint of a smirk tugging his lips.

Air slipped past Xenk’s lips, a whisper of a laugh through a bright, glistening smile. That does Edgin in. He could hear a secret in that chuckle, a light baritone breeze raking along his ribs. Why did everything have to sound so familiar to him, like his brain wanted him to suffer each agonizing moment remembering her just as soon as he was allowing himself to forget for just a moment. Live like no terrible, trembling memory weighed against him.

Let him have this. A fleeting moment. Xenk laughing with him, like Edgin had said something silly that tickled the hairs at his chin.

“I would not dream of such an occurrence, Edgin,” Xenk smiled, shaking his head like Edgin was the fool he played so rightfully. Anyone else would truly think it so, but Xenk? He looked at Edgin as if the bard had lit the hearth in his soul, separating some little room devoted only to Edgin Darvis.

Was that really what he thought in that moment? Edgin stared. No, he succumbed to a moment of vulnerability. It would wane as a full moon could only do.

The shift of armor lifted Edgin from his thoughts and he found himself looking back up at Xenk. “You leave on the morrow, do you not?” Edgin only nodded, “Then I shall accompany you thence.”

“No, no you don’t have to do that,” Edgin said, already a number of excuses on his tongue, “We’ve traveled down the Long Road plenty. We’ll find our way through.”

Xenk merely shook his head. “You mistake my words, Edgin Darvis,” and the bastard smiled, bright like he was imparting some divine wisdom upon Edgin, “I make a statement, not a query.”

“Yeah, well what if I don’t want you to come? Not everyone’s dying to throw themselves into your company, Xenk,” Edgin spat some flimsy defiance, still unwilling to stand from his porch. They both stared at each other, Xenk’s face having fallen into a stiff neutrality. The longer he stared, the more Edgin doubted his own words, wanted to take the venom back.

“Is that what you wish?” Xenk asked. Somehow, by some force Xenk looked quite a bit smaller in the dim light by his door. Edgin did that and he surmised that only he could make Xenk curl in on himself, even straight backed and stiff lipped as he was.

Edgin let out a sigh. His hand raked over his face and he shook his head. “No,” he said, weak and quiet, “No, I don’t wish that, Xenk.”

“Then, what is it you wish, Edgin Darvis?” Xenk asked, sincerity dripping from his words.

“That’s a loaded question,” Edgin mumbled. He wished for a lot of things: for Zia, to stay where they are, for Kira to stay with him forever, for him and Holga to act normal again, for a bright sky and the trill of a lute on the wind as he sang to—Edgin stared at his hands, gripping and relaxing them repeatedly. To who, now, Edgin Darvis?

Finally, Edgin stood with a feeble attempt to hide the groan riding up his throat. There, in the dim light of his—no not his anymore. In the dim light of the cottage, Edgin let his eyes fall on Xenk’s own. “I’m sorry,” he sighed, moving his lute to slot against his back again, adjusting the straps, “I find myself doing that a lot. Saying sorry.”

“You needn’t…” the words died on Xenk’s lips as Edgin held his hand up.

“Just let me say it, please,” Edgin pursed his lips and furrowed his brow, then let his hand scratch the back of his neck, “I am sorry, Xenk. Will you take us to Triboar? I’d—we’d love your company. And protection. Cause, you know, you’re kinda…” Edgin waved his arm in the space between them, gesturing to Xenk as a whole.

“I am merely the sum of my devotion,” Xenk said, seriously as he always did and Edgin could barely keep from rolling his eyes. Self-righteous bastard had to be so endearing with his utter straightforward sincerity. It made Edgin smile, barely visible in the low light.

“I swear, if Holga makes me ride next to you the whole way…”

“As per our last ride together, I remind you once more that you have no need to ride with me.”

“You didn’t say anything about that, just strode up next to me, Xenk.”

“That is not how the events unfolded. I recall you finding your way next to me as we rode to The Orifice, Edgin Darvis. My memory is rather impeccable. If you wish, I may recite the prayers to Tyr, Torm, and Ilmater from heart as well as deities I do not worship: Chauntea, Selune—”

“Nope. Nope. Not listening. I don’t doubt. I never doubted. I’m leaving now.”

Travel through Icewind Dale took more than they anticipated—at least an extra tenday of travel and rest. They’d been beset by a storm that quaked over the Spine of the World, rolling a mountain of snow to impede their path. Kira had looked at Edgin, asked if this was an omen, if they should just turn back and never think of leaving Targos again. Edgin felt bare and frightened in that moment, uncertain of what to say to her. But, he did. He was Kira’s father and no else. Words and a song had hushed her to sleep that night, under shelter in a wide cavern they didn’t dare venture further beyond just the mouth of.

The next morning they plowed through snow and ice to continue forward. They’d had to detour toward Fireshear fore meager supplies before making their way along the coast line until they’d hit the Blackford Road, having missed Luskan entirely. Rather than head south toward Neverwinter, Kira convinced her father to continue toward Triboar, that she wanted a proper goodbye rather than worrying over getting her through the city with too much hitched to the back of a horse. It meant just a little bit longer with Edgin and Holga. Edgin complied and they set off along the road all the way to Mirabar.

They settled into a steady pace, Holga leading the bunch with Kira trailing her side. Doric stayed in the air, preferring solitude in a long journey. He couldn’t blame her. Edgin was certainly a lot, especially these days. Too many things to fuss over, to worry about, to gnaw away at him. He stared at his own hands gripping the reins, willed them to relax just a bit. He could see the whites of his knuckles again.

“You are a good father, Edgin Darvis,” Xenk said, horse ambling in step next to his. Xenk didn’t take his eyes off the road, daylight providing a wide stretch before them.

Edgin scoffed, “How would you know that?”

“Is it not obvious?” Xenk looked at him then, careening his head to the side. Then he looked pointedly at Kira, laughing at something Holga said or rather the sound she made.

“I’m just trying my best. She does most of it on her own,” Edgin sighed, rocking along with the step of his horse, allowing it to relax him into some rhythmic trance. Or trying to, at least.

“Is that not what we ask of our parents? That they try, the very least?” Xenk said.

“Yeah, that’s the bare minimum,” Edgin gave him a look, tilting his head forward slightly.

“Can you not see that you surpass that minimum, Edgin?” Xenk stated.

Edgin furrowed his brow, wanting to come up with some retort. Well, actually, he’d rather just yell incoherently at the sky. “Yeah,” was all he could say, staring forward again. He’d failed too much, was too selfish to be anything good, much less be a good father. He didn’t want to have that talk, not with anyone. Much less not with Xenk, who looked at him not with pity. He wasn't sure Xenk was capable of that. No, he stared at him like he could will Edgin to feel the way Xenk did about him, like his eye bore into the side of his head. There felt like no escape in this moment, despite desperately wanting to kick the side of his horse and beg her to gallop all the way to Triboar.

Then he felt that gaze fall, heard a little hum from Xenk’s throat. The paladin didn’t leave his side, not once in their trail, yet he didn’t spur any conversation. He listened, though, when Edgin graced him with music or simply wanted to fill the silence with a tale. That one got Kira’s attention multiple times and he found her riding by him, smiling and giggling at his silly string of stories.

Wounds of his kind never heal. They didn’t close unless he closed his heart entirely. That wasn't something Edgin wished, well rather he wished it, just couldn’t do it. Not to Kira or Holga or himself. Or Xenk. Yet, it would stop bleeding. It would need less dressing as he wove it around his heart, tied the knot tight. It throbbed nonetheless.

Some days, it felt like breaking all over again.

When they arrived in Triboar, Edgin felt a heavy stone settle in the pit of his stomach. Just one more day. Why’d they go off in a blur, blend together like mush in his head? The dread radiating from him must have caught Kira, cause he found her constantly staring off into the distance with a look on her features. Her brows knitted together as if she was about to stitch them in that pattern on her face, deep lines pulling down her lips.

“Hey, Bug,” Edgin offered, barely able to keep the shaking from his voice.

“Hey, dad,” Kira replied, not taking her eyes off the distance.

They’d settled in town, were to stay in an inn for a few days before finding some place to stay for good. Well, if not for Holga having found some abandoned cottage on the north side of town. It was about a good ride from town, but still within enough distance to be considered Triboar. Edgin made sure to talk to a few locals, ensure they weren’t trespassing. It looked abandoned, but one could only be certain. A merchant at one of the taverns told him it’d been like that for awhile, that a family just up and left. A son of theirs struck gold in Baldur’s Gate, supposedly. Never heard from them again. Edgin had left while the man grumbled about his lousy children.

When Edgin returned to them, he thought that he often could kiss Holga for her knack for survival and the forethought to tug him along with her, but this time he wanted to kick her swift in the crotch if he didn’t already know she was steel there. She was steel everywhere, like someone melted her down and molded her into a fully awakened statue of raw strength and iron will. Couldn’t have just let him amble around town dragging his feet for a new place before letting Kira go, could she? He was being a child and he just wanted to be a child for a little bit, wanted to savor the passing moments. Still, Edgin sent thanks to the heavens for sending Holga their way. All steel and iron and brilliant gold.

They sat there, on an actual porch this time, however dilapidated. Xenk had made himself at home making absolutely certain no spirit, wraith, phantom, fiend or whatever made its nest inside. Maybe they’d keep him company in these soon to be lonely nights.

Edgin reached out, letting his hand rest on a metal band that wrapped around a twist. Holga had surely made it for her, probably bent the metal with her bare hands. “I love you, Kir.”

Kira looked at him now, frowning, still far too young to be going off on her own. Yet, even now under dying, orange light, she looked too mature. Too grown. He wanted that little baby that would crawl into his arms and stare up at him with big, big doe eyes. Laugh as she tugged at his beard and he feigned severe injury. Edgin smiled, twisting the hair in his fingers.

“I love you, too, Dad,” Kira said, on the verge of crying but far too stubborn to let those tears fall. Still not stubborn enough to barrel forward into his arms to hide them. “I don’t wanna go.”

“Then stay,” he said, softly, knowing fully well she wouldn’t actually listen.

“Ugh,” she huffed, looking up at him with mock anger in her tear stained eyes, “You’re supposed to encourage me. Say something inspiring or whatever, dad!”

Edgin laughed, full and loud. No hollowness settled in his stomach. It felt full. “Your path is your own to forge, Kira Darvis. You mustn’t let any soul bear you down,” he said, attempting his best impression of Xenk as he straightened his back and looked at Kira with the most serious expression.

Kira groaned, muffled voice vibrating through Edgin, “I hate you.” She said it with no real bite to her words and a laughter spilling from her now.

They dared stay for one more night, huddled outside just to bask in the warmth they couldn’t have gotten from Targos. The night sky looked blotchy with stardust between the jigsaw silhouette of the canopy. Edgin pointed to what constellations he could find, told Kira of the stories each embellished in their shine. He found Xenk listening, quiet by the fire he’d made for them, unwilling to intrude upon their moment. Holga lay beside them, her and Edgin caging Kira between them. She said nothing either, but often bent down to press a kiss to the top of Kira’s head.

They all let Edgin talk, knew that he needed it for the moment, deep down.

When morning came, they ate what rations they had left and Xenk, with Doric having long gone before the previous night to prepare for a safe passage through the woods, gathered his things upon the bronze steed he’d rode upon. Kira stood then, between Edgin and the house and Holga, and Xenk who still offered them privacy despite his presence still radiating beyond them.

“You’ll visit?” Kira turned to look at Edgin, then Holga.

“I’ll wear myself thin just to see you as often as I can, Kir,” Edgin grinned. He paused, not sure what to do with his arms anymore. He looked at Holga who, very misty eyed, stared straight ahead. Then, he sighed, and spread himself out for Kira to rush into him. He wrapped her up tight, holding as long as he could, breathing her hair in, letting her shake in his arms. Or, that was him shaking. Fuck.

It took too much willpower for him to let go as Kira dove for Holga next who was already on her knees, arms outstretched. Edgin looked up, caught Xenk staring his way. Wondered if the paladin would rush to hug him. Quickly as it came the thought went. His hand fidgeted at his side and he fought to keep it still.

Kira broke off first, staring at them for a moment. “I’m not saying goodbye.”

“No goodbyes,” Edgin smiled.

“I’ll… I’ll see you guys at the end of this tenday,” Kira said with such finality, brows fiercely set.

“Yes ma’am,” Edgin mock saluted, unable to break the smile from his face. Kira rolled her eyes but let them linger on Edgin. He nodded, gave the smallest wave, and she was off.

She was off. And he stood there. She was gone. And he stood there. Holga vanished at some point. And he stood there. She came back, hand on his shoulder, and… he stood there, then looked down, then up at his friend, his sister.

“I’ll give you some time. Gonna stay in an inn tonight, just…” Holga trailed off, sounding soft and, for the first time, small. Edgin just tilted his head forward until Holga met her forehead with his. They didn’t say anything more, just stood there, knowing. Feeling some kind of forgiveness leave him, for Holga, for himself.

Yet, even as she left, hand up in farewell for the night, Edgin just felt numb. Barren.

It felt like letting go. Like he gripped and gripped for their hands, yet each slipped out. Away. And Edgin would reach again and again and again and find no purchase in the dark. Instead he found an empty cottage on the outskirts of a vibrant town that didn’t know him. And he reached out, finding the broken rail of a porch, green with age.

Why is it always a porch at the steps of a doorway, to a home that didn’t feel like home anymore. In this case, something new and uncertain. But not home.

Edgin looked down, stared at his hands and wondered. So many years had passed. He could see the gray of his lip if he crossed his eyes. Could feel it in his bones as they creaked and groaned. He gripped his hands, let the knuckles pale into a stark white as he felt his nails dig into the palm of his hands.

Without thought, Edgin stood and turned toward the cottage. It was run down, abandoned long ago. Not long enough to cave in on itself. It needed work, but there was the skeleton of something there, no matter how blurry Edgin’s vision got. And it would still be there, even as Edgin pushed the door open, slammed it shut, let his foot crack against a jutting floorboard until it loosened and popped skyward, broken and sharp. He grabbed it and let his vision blur fully.

He wanted to scream. Yell into the bare bones of this cottage. Rip its ribs open and smash his fists against the heart. Tell it to stop bleeding everywhere. Stop feeling every little jerk and jostle of a memory that lodged its seed into his brain until the roots curled around his ribs and sapped away at every thread that held him together. And the house let him. Let him crash against the window until it shattered silver tears across the porch. Let him smack at the flimsy, stupid wooden chandelier above the kitchen, like it would have given him and any family here some semblance of nobility. He's seen nobility. Wanted to cave its face in until it spat out gold. Gold for him, for his wife, for his kid, screaming and crying for a mother he’d lost her. A mother he thought he was giving her back yet yanked away again to the ends of a glacial prison for two fucking years.

Edgin gave back and got nothing in return. Got a stupid, broken down shell of a home that he’d die in tomorrow or years from now—decades. A stupid broken shell he sat in, let his back hit the moldy floor in, chest heaving in the tantrum he threw.

Edgin put his hands to his eyes, cursed at the dirt sprinkled in them. He scrubbed it away with the arm of his jacket and deflated against the floorboards. It was dark. The moon barely filtered in through broken glass to spill into the guts of his new cabin, exposed his face to the moonlight. Zia would laugh at him now, surely, but she’d also pick him up and press his head to her chest. He could get along without her some nights. This night, however, he couldn’t begin to convince himself.

A knock yanked him from his wallowing. Edgin groaned, rubbing at his face with his sleeves. Holga wouldn’t knock, just barge in and throw a potato in his face. Say, “Eat,” and be done with it.

Another knock told Edgin he wasn’t imagining it. It was insistent, yet somehow respectful. And he knew what kind of person awaited him beyond the threshold.

“You are injured?” was the first word out of Xenk’s mouth when Edgin opened the door.

“No, just look like shit,” Edgin pushed past him to thump his bottom against the porch stairs. He didn’t pay attention to Xenk beyond the quiet shuffling of armor in the background. He was too busy digging his palm, after wiping it clean, into his eyes. Why’d he come back here anyways? Didn’t he have some stupid paladin business to attend to after dropping Kira off? Why’d he ever come back, to be honest. Not like Edgin treated him with any of the respect and reverence the man deserved.

A groan ripped out of his lips, feeling soreness spread through each tired muscle in his body. He leaned back, only to collide with something heavy, to which he looked up and found Xenk staring down at him. He had his head tilted, and in his hand he held Edgin’s lute.

“Will you…” Xenk paused, sliding next to Edgin on the stairs. Xenk looked down at the lute, brows bunching up in thought. Then, he held it out to Edgin. “I would like to listen to you, once more.”

“Now?” Edgin looked at him, really looked at him.

“Yes.”

“I… well. I just,” Edgin floundered for a moment, hand hovering over his lute. He took it, staring at Xenk with a mixture of crazed disbelief and boyish shyness he’d not felt in years. Xenk had heard him sing, many others had over the years. He didn’t shy away from boasting his talents and yet, Edgin stared at the strings, fingers passing over them. This felt too vulnerable. But, Xenk looked at him with such earnest need and it made Edgin’s heart hurt. It both scared the shit out of him and made him glad. He could feel something. Something beyond pain and guilt and towering regret.

Both of them sat there long enough for the moon to have shied away, yet even in the darkness of the forest there was a glow to it all. Edgin wanted to say that it was Xenk sitting next to him, staring at him with all the weight of the world in his eyes. It was likely still just the full moon radiating near their spot on the porch.

Edgin didn’t sing, but his fingers found the notes easily. He strummed, letting the sound echo in the forest encasing them. He didn’t move his eyes from the strings of his instrument, just stared down while he played. From his fingers flowed the same song on his mind constantly, rolling over and over, tumbling and turning him into a garbled mess every single time. Breaking more and more pieces of his heart. But, he stopped, let the notes turn into something else—didn't force it, just let it go.

Music. Singing. It felt a lot like letting it go. Letting all of it slip through his fingers like hair, like sand, like sawdust. Like ashes he felt staining his palm a pallid gray. Then it burned up all at once again, caught up in his face like smoke as he held his breath, shut his eyes, palm closed, knuckles white.

Then he felt it. Fingertips brushing carefully along the ridges between his fingers. They were callused like his, yet different, smooth and rough all at once. He felt them curl over his hand and grip in a gentle reverence. He smelled of daphne, not smoke, then it melted away into a deep evergreen. He filled his lungs with it, chased the smell. Didn’t realize that his palm opened, and a hand slipped into his.

Opening his eyes felt like torture, desperate to stay caught in this moment. He didn’t know when the music stopped, when his hands tightened so hard against his lute. He didn’t realize that heaving, hiccuping sound was him, pumping against his ribs and aching the bones, aching the muscle in his stomach and chest.

There came no words, just a hand in his, holding on and the feel of eyes staring. No judgment. And then he felt himself pitch forward, bury his face in exposed neck. He didn’t care about the sudden, dull pain of something metal pressing into his thigh. Didn’t realize how rather than simply fall into an embrace, he’d climbed himself into Xenk’s lap. A desperate sinner begging for absolution in strong hands that burned like the sun against his cheek.

He must have looked stupid. Xenk didn’t say so.

Just let him sob into his neck with a steady breath and a cheek pressed to the top of his head. His arms wrapped solid, felt like a wall around him laid with care and deliberation. Edgin didn’t know if he’d be okay, but Xenk never asked. Xenk wasn’t saying anything. All he could hear were his sharp intakes of air and the sudden puffs that broke out of his throat that squeezed his eyes shut and squeezed the hand holding his tight.

It took time to peel himself away. It took longer for him to look up at Xenk. And when he did all he saw were gold rimmed eyes staring so deep into his own. There was a crease on Xenk’s forehead, just below the mark emboldened beneath a small curtain of locs. Hands hadn’t let go. Edgin didn’t want to.

Instead, he laughed. And that caused Xenk to start, head tilted in that way of his, like a puppy discovering some new and alarming sound. Edgin wiped his face with his other arm, still laughing, sticky with mucus and raw enough to hurt a little bit. The pain pinched him into reality and he looked at Xenk again. He had his lips parted just slightly and Edgin stared for a long time before looking up, laughing again.

“Is there… did you…” Xenk started, unable to form sentences. For the first time, Edgin thought. Like every part of him, it was endearing. It was gravity that tugged Edgin forward.

And then it was lips sliding together, notes of some kind flowing from his tongue. It was a surprised rumble in Xenk’s chest, uncertain hands hovering over Edgin as if not sure if this is entirely okay. Of course, paladins.

Xenk backed away slightly, not fully moving away, but enough to look at Edgin. To put a hand to the bard’s cheek and stare at him.

Edgin thought that hurt, pain, suffering was all so mountainous. Its shadows were cast long and stayed full in their darkness. But they shrunk, each day, in the sunlight peeking out just above the ridge. Edgin thought he’d bask in that sunlight for as long as he felt able. That Xenk could cast that light over him and envelope him for every moment of whatever life he had left.

“Stop thinking, Xenk,” Edgin said, another laugh spilling out of him because if he didn’t laugh he’s certain he’d start crying again.

“But, you… I would not want to take advantage-”

“Shh, shhhh, shhhhhhhhh, shut up for a moment,” Edgin hushed him, let himself smile because healing is so tortuously slow. But he could feel himself mending every moment Xenk touched him.

It was almost there. Almost in tune. It was not Zia’s delicate hands that wrapped fully around his waist, tugged him close. It was awkward with full plate in their way, but it was their kind of awkward. Xenk stared at him and Edgin nodded, letting his head fall forward to rest against Xenk’s forehead. He was different now. Kira was different. Everything was so different. But he felt willing to follow that change if it meant nights weren’t so lonely anymore.

“Would you allow me to court you, Edgin Darvis?”

“I think we’re well past that, Xenk.”

Silence.

“Yes, okay. You can court me and whatever the hell that entails.”

And laughter, full and tumbling out of them. No ache this time. Music in the dark and he felt certain, for once in his life, that he was almost there again. He was almost full and whole. This was some kind of happiness and he was okay exploring that, a hand in his. A tight assurance and another chance.