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Wyll Ravengard was many wonderful things. He was charming, of course, and the sort of person who wore his rightful confidence as if it had been tailored just for him. To the people of the Sword Coast not only was he a hero of no small renown, but a living legend, known as much for his smile as he was his prowess. To Alizira he was all of this and more: the gentlest soul she’d the pleasure of knowing, a deliberate and attentive lover, and more romantic a man than she could ever have imagined outside of the fairytales that had once kept her company. Fairytales she’d no need for any longer. He was far more than she deserved, she reckoned, though he was adamant of the contrary.
Wyll was the hero, the prince, and the happy ending, too. That’s why, despite the fact that she’d come to expect just about anything from the senseless world surrounding them, she hadn’t quite expected… this.
That morning he’d woken her later than most by the coaxing of his honeyed voice, his orcish darling still bleary-eyed though so many months had taught her well enough to rise with the sun, and no longer the moon. She’d needed the rest, he’d said, and while fate seemed content to starve them of respite most days this one, for once, was theirs. He’d asked her to breakfast—somewhere near the harbor—and helped her to get ready as he often did, braiding fiery locks as she struggled to greet the day. Then, beneath the clear blue sky, they’d walked the manageably busy streets of the Lower City, hand in hand with the promise of a pleasantly balmy day like a sweet scent on the breeze.
A perfect morning, the likes of which she’d only dreamed about when she had been alone, and lonely; one that was, day by day, becoming typical, though no less treasured. It was only once they’d arrived at their destination, heralded by the racy sign hanging above the door, that their romantic morning had shifted into something…different. Something odd.
That wasn’t to say the cafe he’d brought her to wasn’t nice, in its own way—the halfling woman who serviced them was friendly and attentive, and the kaeth they’d ordered fresh and strong. Such things, however, seemed overshadowed by the strange fact that no other patrons were present, and that both of their drinks were served to them in pig’s head mugs. All that, before she’d so much as glimpsed at the menu. Feeling her face warm as she perused the items and their risqué names, Alizira returned it to the table, eying Wyll as she took another sip.
The strangest part was the fact that he seemed entirely oblivious to it all. With one leg crossed over the other he stared out across Grey Harbor, soaked in the light of the rising sun from where it peeked over Dusthawk Hill with that wistful look that sometimes took him, now that he’d returned to the place he’d known as home. Though never one to complain whilst receiving the affections of her partner, his choice of venue had left her confused: but then, how much did she know of courtship, truly? For all she knew, such a date was quintessential for pairs of Baldur’s Gate, and she was merely inexperienced.
Whatever the case, it mattered little. Though bizarre, their morning together hadn’t been diminished, and in the midst of so much chaos she had enjoyed the quiet start to their day. Again the server came around to top them off, prompting Wyll to tear his eyes from the horizon to whisper a ‘thank you’, and with steam obscuring his face he lifted the scalding drink to his lips.
It was then he noticed her hands, folded neatly atop her closed menu. With a tilt of his head, Wyll returned his mug to the table.
“Not hungry this morning?”
“I’m afraid not,” she answered, and reached again for her own. “I think kaeth will serve me just fine today.”
“I find myself feeling much the same, if I’m being honest. Sometimes, it almost seems as if the beauty of the Gate itself could sustain me.” As he cast out again over the harbor with such a genuine smile lifting his face, Alizira took a swallow: bitter and black, but so very rich. She added just a touch of cream. “That is, of course, until about midday rolls around. For now, however, another cup’ll suit me just fine as well, alongside the welcome excuse to treat you to lunch.”
A blaze of loose hair shifted across her face, pushed not by the wind off the water, but by the arrival of another patron instead—the first, since they’d arrived. Eagerly they were greeted and seated, and waited upon just as fervently. “It’s surprising how quiet this place is at this time of day. When you mentioned breakfast I worried we’d struggle to find seating, so late in the day.”
“Anywhere else in this part of town and you’d be right, but not here,” he stated, matter-of-fact. “Seems they’re still struggling to fill house, since those cultists dumped their handiwork in the back alley. A shame, really. Used to be this was the trendiest brunch in Bloomridge.”
“Their…handiwork?”
“It was quite the topic a few months back, all those murders, even outside the city. I’m surprised you hadn’t heard—” Wyll’s eyes widened as he cut himself off, and noticeably winced. When he found his way back to her again Alizira could see the apology on his tongue already, even as he struggled to find the words to voice it. “I’m beginning to realize just how this might look.”
Wyll was many wonderful things; ‘careless’ was not one of them. “Wyll,” she said, before reaching forward to take the hand he’d left unattended on the table for her own. “Does this place mean something to you?”
He chewed on his answer, as well as the inside of his lip, seeking a clue from the grain of the wood. “Not to me, no. Somebody else. In all honesty, I’ve never so much as walked through the front door, before today.” Slowly, the tense knot of his fingers began to unravel, and weave together with hers. He watched it, eyes soft and lidded. “Do you…remember when you asked me about my mother? Near Reithwin?”
“Of course,” she said. “You never knew her. She passed away when you were born.”
“Yes, that. Father never spoke of her much and, more often than not, I didn’t ask. There were times where I grew curious, though, and he was known to get sentimental on rare occasions. Like when we’d pass the Smilin’ Boar.” His brow knit with the memory and he shook his head absently, voice dipping low as he traced circles at the meeting of her thumb and forefinger. “Father would get this look about him whenever we’d walk through this part of town, until one day, I asked. He and my mother came here shortly after they’d finished renovations—it was a tavern, before—expecting it to be some quaint little business.” A slight chuckle rose from deep within his chest, caught shortly after by a breath. “Quaint, maybe, but not in the way they’d expected. Father was appalled by its bawdy nature, but my mother…well, she was just delighted. And so they returned to this very spot, whenever they passed through the Lower City. He said the view and her smile was worth it.”
As again his cheeks lifted into a thoughtful smirk, Alizira understood the Duke. Only reluctantly did she tear her eyes away from him to follow the line of his sight back across the harbor, where the climbing sun flared across the gently lapping waves, and the fishermen on their boats bobbed, and rocked, and swayed. It seemed the waters were full of gold, flashing in the morning light, singing its subtle siren song beneath the clanking of the cranes. She felt her face crease into a smile of her own. Definitely worth it.
“I told you before I never felt anything was missing, with how close my bond to Father was. Not until I was cast from the Gate did I really, truly start to wonder about my mother. I’d seen her portrait, of course, heard the occasional story…but who was she, really, outside of those rosy recollections? As a person, and not a memory?” he continued, soft as a sigh. “Here, I think, I almost know. She had a good sense of humor, and she liked a nice view of the water. Must’ve been persuasive, too, if she could convince father to return. And she liked to sit right here, at the corner table on the balcony. That much I do know, of Francesca Ravengard.”
His hand in hers was a heavy weight, one she squeezed tightly. Once she’d been much the same, traveling alongside her mother with nary a wonder for the parent she lacked. They’d had each other, and that was more than enough…until her mother was gone, and she faced the world alone. Just as he had in exile, wandering the coast. She, too, had wondered of her father then, of who he was, and how her life might’ve been different had he a hand in it. Would he have been a stranger, who only shared the green of her skin? Or would he have loved her, as her mother had?
The difference between them came in that she, against all odds, had found her answer in a tavern in Rivington. Like wildfire her father had swept her into his arm, real as the boom of his voice and the stubble of his chin against her cheek. No longer a shadowy figure or an idea, but a man. Someone who, despite all their differences, she saw herself in, and who had taken to her as if he’d been there her entire life. It was a connection Wyll would never have, with its semblance only found in painted canvas, and the words of others.
…And, one other place, though it had taken her finding her own to recognize it. Before she’d met Uz’ral she had carried him with her in the red of her hair, and the way her eyes pinched when she smiled. The ties between them had been present in every mirror she passed, though she knew not to look for it. Just as they no doubt did for him, and Francesca. Shifting, Alizira tugged at Wyll lightly, pulling his attention back to her as she leaned across the table towards him.
“You’re forgetting one other thing, my dear.”
“Oh?” His expression, though curious, was pensive still. “And what is it that I’ve forgotten, about my mother?”
“That if she was anything like her son is,” she said, lifting her hand to cup his cheek and running her thumb along its scars, “then she must’ve been a wonderful person, too.”
A ripple ran across his brow, furrowing as his face tensed within her grasp; then, however, his wide-eyes eased, and he seemed to melt into her touch instead. Tilting his head as he closed his eyes, Wyll caught her hand, and twisted within it to press a kiss into her palm.
“And how wonderful you are, for having reminded me of that,” he mumbled, tucking the words between her fingers. “Thank you, my love.”