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Elorin was sat on a rock down by the water’s edge, a mix of pebbles and mud beneath his boots, a throng of bullrushes to his side, still and stoic as they protruded tall from the river. It was day three of the ongoing nightmare since the nautiloid. His head hurt, his body ached, his stomach growled. The wizard, Gale, had taken to preparing some of the food they had managed to scavenge in a large pot, into some sort of stew. It smelled good, wafting down from the main camp. Unusual, but good. Surface food continued to seem strange to him, but he was growing more used to it. Strange, yes, but for the most part pleasant. Elorin was still struggling to trust it, not entirely convinced that Gale would not want to poison him for some inexplicable reason, but he was getting better.
He had at least done a fair job at keeping his suspicious nature secret, though as a drow at least it was a little expected.
There was the babble of conversation in the distance. The others were at least bonding a little. Or it sounded like it. There was no clang of blades, so he could pretend for a moment that all was well. He stared out at the water. For all that the surface was strange and frightening, it was beautiful. Especially on evenings like this, where the thick grey clouds overhead blocked out that blasted sun and the air was still instead of incessantly whipping around him. He enjoyed these quiet moments, these rare times he could ignore that wriggling behind his eyes.
Footsteps crunched in the distance behind him, drawing closer. His hand moved slowly to the rapier at his hip, but he stayed it just before he could grip the hilt.
Trust.
Reluctantly, he slid his hand away as he turned. He hated how naked he felt without it in his hand. Just three days ago, his strongest weapon flowed through his veins like lava. Since that damned tadpole had infected him, his magic had not only become weak, but dangerous.
“I quite assure you, no blade is needed,” Gale said in his rich timbre. “The stew is well prepared, and all you shall need is a spoon.”
Elorin huffed out a laugh through his nose. “Thank you,” he said, rising to his feet, body stiff from the long day’s activities. He rolled his shoulders back, stretching them out.
The two began the short walk back to camp together.
“You did not need to come out all this way to find me,” Elorin said, before internally cursing himself. Don’t, he thought. Contractions. More convincing. More real. Speaking common at all times was becoming slowly less exhausting, but keeping up the guise that he was no stranger to the surface remained tricky. His attempts to soften his accent were laughable, so he had given up on that to focus on word choice instead.
“Nonsense,” the wizard said flippantly. “I can’t have you eating it overcooked or—even worse—cold. Whatever would you think of my cooking?”
A smile quirked at the corner of Elorin’s mouth. “Well, you have me there.”
As they came back into the main camp, the others were already sat around the large stew pot, having been move to the side of the fire, helping themselves to bowls of Gale’s delicious smelling stew. Lae’zel and Shadowheart sat on opposite sides to one another, each firmly ignoring the other. Astarion and their newest addition Wyll were lightly jibing at each other, Astarion believing the human to be some silly do-gooder, Wyll of the opinion that the elf was a fragile fop. Wyll may have had a point, if Astarion’s constant complaints about the mud and the accommodations were anything to go by. After a little scavenging, they all had tents and bedrolls now – hardly seemed worth complaining about after some of the places Elorin had laid his head to rest in the past. Astarion also seemed to take issue with the stew, wielding his bowl without seeming to taste a drop, or even taking a spoon. Fragile indeed, as the stew smelled positively mouthwatering.
Elorin was just reaching for a bowl when there was a sudden, sharp cold on his hand, something tiny had struck him, causing him to jolt and look up. There was nothing there. And then another strike, this time on his cheek, and Elorin’s hand went to it and he took his finger away to stare. Water. He smelled at the drop. Clean, fresh water.
“Oh hells,” Gale grumbled. “Someone help me get a canvas over the stew.”
Elorin looked about, confused as all the others began with their whines and grumbles, lethargically moving to action. Gale and Wyll grabbed some of the spare tent posts and canvas, and sheltered the stew like it was some precious artefact. A question bubbled and died in Elorin’s throat. This was clearly something ‘normal’ and as such not something he should question. More drops fell from the sky, cold and fresh.
Their frequency rose, a gentle pitter patter beginning to build as tiny specks of water struck against the ground with force, having fallen from the maddeningly lofty heights of the sky above them.
“Rain?” he whispered, a reverence in his voice. He had read about such a thing in books, like the rare drainage seeping through the rocky ceiling of the underdark but instead of vile, foetid and toxic water, it was clear, pure, fresh.
“Yes, it’s going to be a downpour if those clouds are anything to go by,” Wyll said, his deep knowledge of roughing it in the area yet again a boon to their group. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to notice the wonder in Elorin’s tone. “I’d get under shelter before the heavens open, or you’ll be trying to dry off for the rest of the night.” As he spoke, he was quickly ferrying things under the canvas by the stew.
“I hope this ‘rain’ is not common here,” Lae’zel said, as if tasting the word with disgust. “It is impractical. Irritating.” She glared at her arm as drops fell upon it.
“Well, it’s certainly no fun to fight in, I’ll give you that,” Wyll agreed, huddling up near the stew pot on a newly moved crate. “This is your first time experiencing it?”
“No,” she said, the word slow and thoughtful. As a few more drops fell upon her, she moved herself under the canvas. “It was not uncommon in some of the regions we trained. I do not like it.”
As the drops came more steadily, hammering harder and faster against the ground and the canvas, the sound of it became a sheet of pleasant noise, the most gentle of roars, a soothing cacophony if there could be such a thing.
Elorin had not moved beneath the canvas yet. He stood, face upturned, as the water fell over him, beading through his hair and along his scalp, coating his arms, soaking his robe through. Different sensations on his skin and his scales. It was incredible. Cleansing. Elorin’s breath hitched, mouth opening just enough for a few drops to fall into his mouth. He’d never tasted anything so pure in all his life.
“Elorin, you’ll catch your death out there,” Gale called, voice gently muffled against the sound of the rain.
The drow couldn’t help but laugh. No, he didn’t think he would. In fact, he felt as though everything would be alright. There, listening to the full force of the rain as it ramped up further, what was once a gentle sprinkling turning to relentless deluge of wonderful, frigid water, feeling it washing over him, watching all the world turn both darker yet more coloured, he did not feel death looming over him. He felt alive. Truly alive. And he felt like life was worth living.
Tears poured from his eyes, lost among the rain as he looked up and watched the dizzying pattern of it falling down onto him. How woeful he had been to leave his home, forced away from the endless caverns and glowing flora of the underdark, yet there were moments like this where he realised that it was worth it. He was alive, he was himself , and he was experiencing things he never thought possible. He missed the underdark bitterly, but the surface had its wonders. The moon. The stars. And now, this. Incredible, wonderful.
He ignored Gale, pacing back toward the water.
The murmur of the rain as it collided with the river was hypnotic, and the patterns as the drops pounded and ripples swayed, hundreds of thousands of chaotic circles dancing upon the water. Elorin found himself laughing more, the sound distant and smothered by the rain.
He bent and untied his boots, sweeping them and his socks off before returning to his seat upon the rock, hiking up his robes and letting his bare feet be battered and bathed by the falling water. Gods, it felt so good. His hair was sodden, his clothes soaked through, the relentless heat from his veins gently smothered as the cool rain cascaded over him.
The water came in waves and waves, and just for a moment he could pretend it was washing everything away. The tadpole, the others, his family, the druids and goblins and everything else. All that existed was the rain and the water and the beautiful sounds and the wonderful smells.
And, just for that beautiful moment, he thought he could make it through this. Not just the tadpole, but the surface as a whole. His exile no longer seemed quite so bleak, the surface not quite as hostile.
In moments like this, it felt like he could have a future.