Work Text:
“ROLAN!”
"NOOO!"
“ROLAN!"
His siblings' screams were still echoing in his head. Nothing would ever be able to silence the horror ringing in his ears - or blur the memory of his brother and sister being dragged away by the cultists. This moment, down to its tiniest and gruesome details, had been etched into his mind. And it would haunt him until the end of his days.
The moment they had entered the Shadowcursed Lands he had made sure to never let Cal and Lia out of his sight. The place really lived up to its name – it was so dreadful that each faint noise and every little movement in the shadows made his skin crawl. When their group had walked into the ambush, he had been prepared, countering attacks and shielding Alfira and the children by hurling an impressive Thunderwave at their attackers.
It could not have taken longer than a few minutes, but that had been time enough for Cal and Lia to rush the remaining attackers. Of course they had - bold, reckless and stupidly chivalric as they were. They had fought courageously; but alas, their bravery and determination had done little to counter their fanatical opponents.
He did not know what had happened to his siblings afterwards, the uncertainty gnawing at his stomach like a ravenous displacer beast. If the attackers had not killed them by now, they must have brought them to Moonrise Towers. He was not sure which fate was worse. Torturing prisoners, making them scream and beg for mercy was something these lunatic cultists would relish.
The very idea of it made his skin crawl, a surge of bile rising in his throat. Every wound Cal and Lia had to suffer, every wave of pain, every broken bone – it would be solely his fault. Because he had failed them. Once again. Worse still, instead of running after them and trying to rescue them like any good man would, he had escorted the other refugees to the Last Light Inn.
Gods be damned, he did not even care about them! Yet, he was still here, downing drink after drink, wallowing in a swamp of self-pity. How he despised himself.
Thud.
The sound of him clanking his tankard on the counter reverberated in the taproom - so loud that the others turned their head. He cursed them all:
The horde of Harpers and Flaming Fists that patrolled the building. They should have protected Cal and Lia instead of a decrepit inn. Jaheira, the High Harper, who was compiling military strategies with the calm of a seasoned hero, not caring that her precious plans had done nothing to save Rolan’s siblings. He cursed the tiefling children, too. He did not care that they were noisy and up to mischief wherever they went, turning the inn into their personal playhouse. He did not regret saving them, of course. He would do it again without blinking an eye.
Still, they were the living testament of his failure, of the treason he had committed against Cal and Lia. They should have been his first priority. For one moment they had not – the guilt he felt about it stuck in his heart like a barbed hook, aching with every beat and slowly hollowing him out.
He closed his eyes and swallowed to get rid of the sour taste in his mouth. Usually, Arabellan Dry was his favourite. Tonight, it tasted like vinegar and did not even ease his pain. He deserved it, of course. Why should he experience the comfort of being inebriated while his siblings had to suffer unimaginable horrors?
He did deserve to be tortured with the sudden appearance of that smug Tav with their merry band of heroes too, offering to save the day once more, not foreboding in their boundless hubris that nothing remained to be saved.
Yet, he could not stay in the taproom any longer if he wanted to keep what little sanity he had left. His dizzy head and sore legs did not want to comply but eventually, he managed to drag his weary body outside.
Breathing took some effort, it was as if the air itself wanted to suffocate him; a reminder that even here, they weren’t really safe from the Shadow Curse. He forced himself to take a deep breath nonetheless, hoping that it would help to clear his mind. The unmistakable sound of a hammer hitting on metal came over from the barn; Dammon was still working. The man even had the audacity to hum, as if everything was in perfect order.
Rolan stumbled forward, the urge to get away leading his body. Crossing the little bridge, he followed the river to the Inn’s docks when he stopped dead in his tracks. From the barren soil, hidden between dirt and dust, a dandelion sprouted. He blinked, but the plant was still there. As misplaced as an iceberg would be in Avernus, it was proudly rearing its yellow head into the pitch-black darkness of the Shadowcursed lands.
Kneeling down, he brushed his trembling fingers over the plant, the touch bringing back memories he had locked up in the back of his mind long ago because they were too painful to think about.
Memories of his mother, his real mother , the woman who had given him a new life and a family. Dandelions had been her favourite flowers. Countless times when they had gone for a walk through Elturel, she had asked Cal, Lia and him to collect some. She had created little bouquets from them to decorate their home. She had also crafted flower crowns and little bracelets for them, the only jewellery Lia would wear voluntarily.
He closed his eyes, desperately trying to hold back another wave of memories. To no avail, they flooded his mind with full force: his mother sitting with him in their little garden, breaking off ripe dandelions from their stem. “Blowballs” she had called them, telling him you could blow them into the winds and wish for something. If you concentrated hard enough, it might become true.
Tears were burning behind his lids. After their mother’s death, he had blown a dandelion into the winds countless times, wishing for her to come back. Another thing he had failed at.
He forced his thoughts back to when his mother had still been alive. Another thing she had told him about dandelions was that they were a symbol of resilience, always finding a way to bloom and prosper, no matter how barren the soil. Just like he, Rolan, had found his way to his new family, braving the dire circumstances of his life. She had been the first person who had believed in him, and probably the only one who had ever been proud of him. One of the last things she had told him before her death was that she was happy to know that Cal and Lia would always be safe with him.
The sob that escaped his lips rang loudly in the surrounding silence, the smell of the dandelion reminding him so much of his mother his heart clenched. He had promised her that he would protect his siblings, no matter the cost. Sure enough, he had strayed from this oath, more than once, but maybe – hopefully – it was not too late to right his wrongs. Cal and Lia were still alive, he could feel it in his heart. They had to be. After everything they had gone through together – their mother’s death, the fall of Elturel, the disaster in the grove – they could not be dead. He would not allow this. They had already made plans. They would go to Baldur’s Gate and he would find a place for them to live while he would start his apprenticeship with Lorroakan. Maybe the master of Ramazith’s tower would even allow them to stay with Rolan.
They had to be alive. A future without them did not make any sense.
Brushing the tears from his cheeks, he raised his chin and straightened his shoulders, drawing strength from the little plant in front of him and the meaning it held. He was Rolan. Talented and powerful wizard. Soon-to-be apprentice of Lorroakan. He had saved the tiefling children from the claws of the Shadow Curse using his magical prowess.
He would find and free his siblings and bring them back, alive and well. This time, he would not fail; woe betide anyone who would dare to hinder him.
His heart thumped against his ribs like a bird trying to break out of his cage. With still trembling fingers, he broke off the dandelion and held it over his heart, conjuring Cal’s and Lia’s image in his mind. Then, he put it into a hidden pocket of his robe close to his chest; close to his heart. When he got up, he did so with newfound fervour. Ahead of him lay the most important mission of his life - the rescue of his siblings.