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You don't usually talk about yourself. Years of moving from place to place, of chatting up strangers in taverns, and you’ve always been the listener. Weeks of traveling with this party, and what they know about you can be counted on one hand. And that’s always worked for you.
That’s why it’s so easy with the bard, you think. Why, sitting backwards on a chair in the dining hall of an interdimensional Temple of Eldath (but that’s neither here nor there), it was easy to prompt him with questions and curious expressions—to tilt your head, dark curly hair falling over your purple eyes, and urge him to go on without saying a word.
But after tonight’s impromptu party meeting and the days that preceded it, everything is different. Tonight Kalil finally told you who he really is: that his family, the noble house of Mostana, was entrusted with protecting magical stones before they were forced into hiding. That the party actually has one and a half stones in their possession, because searching for them is apparently Tanith’s mission, too. That they promised to help Tanith without knowing why.
But though Kalil has asked, Tanith isn't ready to talk about her mysterious mission, not yet. And he’s frustrated about not knowing all the facts. About not being able to ask without pushing. About refusing to push—but not knowing how to proceed without answers.
So, sitting outside the Tipsy Barrel with him, beneath the fullest moon you’ve seen in a long time, you find yourself telling him everything.
That your father is an inventor with his finger on the pulse of the magic permeating Silmaria.
That he learned how to utilize the magic in the mines of Eridu, twisting steel and stone so that each chrysm could harness the Weave on its own.
That he created the delicate silver bracelet that Kalil is wearing right now, infused with magic you cannot see or touch or even begin to understand.
“That,” you say, “is my father’s design.”
You tell him about how, after perfecting his invention, your father and mother had sent letters to House Mostana. That a chance acquaintance with a man from House Othagat had turned into a business partnership, then to friendship, then to betrayal.
That for years you have been searching for the man who betrayed your father, and that you will stay with the Nimrods as long as it takes. As long as you get what you want.
Because that’s what you’re really here for. Isn’t it?
You’re not telling Kalil this to make him feel sorry for you; like your mother and father, you have your pride. You’re telling him so he knows that you understand—so he knows that he isn’t on this journey alone, not with Tanith and He-Can and Ialug most likely asleep on the second floor of the inn. And Kalil’s mission is yours as long as they intersect, and so far, the sorceress who turned his mother to stone and the man who betrayed your father are connected.
He understands, you think, when he leans back, exhaling at the revelations you’ve laid at his feet. When he puts his hand on yours for a moment, as if to comfort you, before pulling away, expression carefully neutral. When he finally asks for the name you’ve kept to yourself all this time.
“It’s a stupid name,” you grumble. “Hassan Riahi. He’s an asshole,” you add unnecessarily; your furrowed brows and grimace make it clear what you think of him. “I’ll describe him to you better next time, but if you hear that name—”
“I’ll just imagine an asshole,” Kalil quips.
It’s unexpected, and you laugh, lips curving into your first smile in what feels like hours, and Kalil hastens to add, “Not a literal—I’m sorry, sorry, I’m just saying stupid shit,” but his laugh is warm and self-conscious, and the warmth in your chest expands, expands, settles.
Then he says, his voice soft, “This was a very enlightening talk. Thank you. I mean that. This helped me more than you know,” and you feel a little vulnerable for a moment. A little seen.
But you feel a little better, too.
If you’re being honest, you just gave the leader of The Brave Nimrods another shitload of problems to sift through. But at least he knows, you rationalize. That’s what he needed when he left you and the rest of the party upstairs earlier, Tanith as quiet as she usually is, He-Can unaware that he’s missed something, somehow, Ialug… blank. Quiet. That’s all he needed—to know.
But he doesn’t seem to notice that there’s more on his shoulders, because he’s still thanking you for… what, exactly?
“Hearing from you, uh… being able to tell you my own shit. I don’t usually do that.”
That’s true. Kalil talked to you about his life just once before, and you’d pushed him into it. You can remember that morning as if it were just yesterday: Kalil looking down at his hands, unable to meet your gaze, tripping over words he had never spoken before.
(Vulnerability is shitty, you’d said bracingly. Gods, how right you were.)
“Well, it’s better than keeping it all pent up inside,” you say breezily, “because one day, you’re gonna explode, and it won’t be fun.” You ignore the way your cheeks flush when you say it, because just last night, you had exploded—exhausted and drained from the fight with the creature from the Shadowfell, you’d pulled Kalil aside, shaking, and torn into him for being selfish, for being stupid, for nearly having died in front of you. You hope he doesn’t notice or remember. Every day is a long day with the Nimrods.
A small laugh escapes him before he turns to look at you. “Well, I’m glad you’re the one I talked to about it ‘cause you’re very good at talking.”
What a flatterer. You chuckle, not wanting to remember it, much less argue about it. Ignoring what feels like another olive branch, a small sign of forgiveness. “I wasn’t very good yesterday,” you joke, “but I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Then he smiles easily and says, “Hey, what’s one bad day. Happens to the best of us.”
—and there’s something about the way he says it, something about the way he looks at you in that moment, that short-circuits your stupid half-orc brain.
Alright, not fair—your mother is smarter than your father, so the part of your brain that stops working is probably from Baba’s half. Hell, it most likely is, this sudden lack of intelligence. But it doesn’t matter whose fault it is, because you’re already saying “Okay” very eloquently before he’s finished talking, and following up the end of that sentence with a very casual, very blasé, “So I was gonna ask if you’re done with your beer...”
He’s, frustratingly, smiling at you when he chuckles low in his throat—a calm, measured response to whatever you’re saying. Which is a very calm, very cool (read: not at all) “Ready to go back up?”
Kalil pauses, reconsidering, before he asks, “Were they all still there when you left?”
You think of the state he had left the party in—but more than that, you think about why you’d left them so quickly. To look for him, because, watching him leave, you’d felt that he needed you more. But you twist that realization into a joke, a small smile in your voice, “They were, but I can’t imagine He-Can and Tanith staying in the same room for a long time...”
Kalil exhales, nodding, his dark-eyed gaze thoughtful. A light breeze ruffles his hair a bit, and you find yourself answering for him instead. “Let’s just stay out here a little longer.”
He glances at you. Exhales. Smiles. “I was about to say the exact same thing.”
The two of you share these kinds of moments when you least expect it. More often, it’s laughter and banter and teasing jokes said with what you’re slowly realizing is affection. But you also have these: quiet moments stolen throughout the day, unrehearsed, unorchestrated.
And sitting next to him under a dark sky, the lamps of the tavern behind you aglow, feels like the most natural thing in the world.
So you let yourself smile, clinking your bottle against his empty one. Take a drink, exhaling with quiet satisfaction. And as the conversations inside The Tipsy Barrel subside into a murmur, you lean against the back of the bench, lift your gaze towards the darkening sky, and listen to Kalil talk.