Chapter Text
It was another sunny afternoon in Baldur’s Gate, the Lower City bustling with activity.
Oxen-pulled carts kicked up tremendous clouds of dust that made people cough and reach for handkerchiefs. Vendors called at passersby from stalls decked out in vibrant cloth banners to promote their various wares. Street urchins ran around with copies of the daily news rag, shouting the front page headlines at the tops of their little lungs.
The intermittent KLUNK KLUNK KLUNK of the Steel Watch’s heavy footfalls on patrol almost drowned out the arguments between locals about whether or not Lord Gortash would save the city. Pigeons of all shades and patterns cooed from rafters, while blackbirds sang to one another in the few trees that dotted the avenue. It was a gentle yet constant cacophony of sound.
Splatters Doolug, known as simply Lug to most everyone except his mother, was busy working on his largest mural ever-- the first one he’d actually been commissioned for. And the first one he’d done in a public place. This was a big deal not just to his career, but for his personal finances. Lug had been scraping by for years, the “starving artist” stereotype more true for him than he might have liked. His mother didn’t mind that he’d never moved out, yet Lug often felt guilty about being unable to support himself. He’d even tried his hand at other careers in the past, but being a half-orc who had issues with authority figures was a bad combination. Now things seemed like they might finally be changing for the better.
The owner of the building this alley connected to, a rich merchant who owned a successful custom woodworking shop, had paid Lug up front for the entire mural after seeing some pages from his sketchbook at a local art fair. Lug had almost skipped it this year due to the expensive booth fee. He was so glad he had attended, because this single commission was over quadruple what he’d paid for the fee. If he got a couple more commissions like this he’d be set for the rest of the year.
His work was in progress, about two-thirds completed: in total, there were going to be three massive figures on the stone wall. At the moment there were two, each standing over double his height. Lug was adding details on top of the first layer he’d painted yesterday. He hadn’t decided on the placement of the third figure yet. Having several days to get this finished, he wasn’t going to rush through it. The merchant wanted to celebrate his store’s three year anniversary next week with a huge party, and he’d created quite a generous budget for decorations. The details were chosen in record time, allowing Lug more creative freedom than he’d been expected to have-- the artist could pick both the race and gender of all three figures, with the merchant saying it truly didn’t matter as long as they were all different in significant ways. And that it would “look like they were having a fabulous time at a party”. An easy enough prompt to fulfill.
With a long exhale, Lug realized his brush had gone dry and needed more paint. Carefully he climbed down the rickety wooden stepladder that he’d been using to get up to the proper height. The merchant had made the ladder himself from the finest materials… but had admitted it was several years old and that he should make a new one for the shop soon. Lug was just glad it hadn’t broken under him, as he far outweighed the short merchant.
“Okay,” he grunted, relieved when his foot touched solid ground. “Time for a short break, I think.”
The sun was sinking slowly in the sky, not quite sunset; it was golden hour, when the city looked prettiest to Lug. It was this time of day that always inspired his art. He’d attempted to reflect that inspiration in this particular mural by outlining each figure with bright gold paint that glittered in the leaf-dappled sunlight.
A bugbear stood wearing a flowy loose outfit of a red pair of pantaloons and a blue shirt cinched at the waist with a rope belt. One hand lay atop a tall staff and the other clutched a wooden tankard of ale, his beard and hair and facial features sharp yet somehow also undefined.
Next to the bugbear was a brown-skinned elf bard with druidic antlers. The androgynous lute player wore a red tunic with a blue hooded cloak in the same colors as the bugbear’s clothes, facial features equally mysterious.
The merchant had been very specific about his desire to keep the mural as few colors and cans as possible, because he hadn’t wanted to pay a bundle for lots of shades in fresh paint-- yet had insisted on the fresh paint. Lug had brought his old dark grey nub in a rag anyway, using it for the finer details of shadow that he didn’t want to put the gold on, such as minor folds in the clothing. He wasn’t able to talk the merchant into adding in an extra white and black paint can each for an additional twenty gold pieces. It would’ve bothered him if he’d left his perfectly good dried up paint at home and the mural had suffered in quality because of it!
No, he was going to knock this one out of the park so that people would notice his art and want to commission him for other projects. Maybe ones with more color variety. Lug leaned against the opposite wall in the shop’s alley, sighing as he admired his work. The small batch of green he’d made for the tiny leaves on the antlers using color theory had turned out so well that he couldn’t help feeling proud for a moment before his inner critic spoke up.
Shouldn’t be too proud of it til it’s done, Lug. Don’t get ahead of yourself.
That night he could barely sleep, he was so excited to get back to it. He’d washed the wall for the third figure and primed it just as the streets were growing dark: in the morning he’d paint the primary block colors, then wait a few hours for it to dry and finish the details before sunset. And he’d still be a full day ahead of schedule! He was almost sad to be making such a fast pace, because he was having fun with this, but it was also exhilarating. Lug was in his element like he hadn’t been in months, or perhaps years. When was the last time he’d been this invested in a creative project? It felt like it had been ages.
Finally, it wasn’t just his extended family and friends booking him to do portraits or holiday cards or murals in their bedrooms. Of course he loved to do that for them, and they were always thankful for the results. But it felt like they were paying for his art out of obligation… or worse, pity. Sometimes he didn’t even get paid at all though, accepting requests as a favor to his ailing mother whose elder pension from her lifetime career as a seamstress kept a roof over their heads and food on the table.
She still had many of her fancy custom frocks that she’d made over the years. They still fit her too, but she was in such bad health that she could no longer wear a corset or heavy layers, so the dresses gathered dust and moths in the armoire. Lug didn’t want his art to suffer a similar fate.
This commission was going to be huge for him. Lug was going to make a genuine artist name for himself this time… he could feel it.
--
The following afternoon Lug kept a steady hand while finishing the third figure, a feminine hobgoblin who was playing a drum. The merchant, whose name was Tuttlec Grimebiter, stopped by to see his progress and clapped his hands with delight.
“Magnificent! They look just how you sketched it,” Tuttlec gushed, and Lug smiled.
“Thanks, I’m glad you think so. I’ll be done soon. Just adding a few more tiny details.”
“I can see you’re making sure to get every part perfect. Take your time! Don’t forget to sign it,” the Deep gnome said with a wink as he turned to go back to his shop.
Lug startled as he realized he hadn’t actually planned to do that. But of course now that it had been mentioned, he should. That was the obvious literal move to get his name out into the public eye. So why was the thought of doing it making him nervous?
But he did less than an hour later, adding small letters with a splash of gold-backed black on the lower edge of the third figure so that it would all dry together. He propped his WET PAINT DO NOT TOUCH sign against the wall next to it, grateful there was no breeze today to knock it over.
Almost as soon as he’d stood back to admire his work, feeling accomplished that he’d finished this thing of beauty, someone came up and scoffed.
They fucking scoffed. And had the nerve to fold their arms in irritation.
“Bit cheery, eh? Don’t you know there’s a war on?”
Lug deflated, his eyes blinking rapidly in a trauma response he recognized far too well from dealing with his drunk father growing up. His voice was slow and weary when he spoke.
“It’s precisely in times of trouble that we need images of peace.”
The pale human’s eyes narrowed, their scowl deepening to cause lines in their dirt-streaked face. “You’re making that up on the spot.”
Yeah, and so fucking what if I am, Lug wanted to say, but he bit it back out of respect for this job.
The truth was, the owner of this woodworking shop was an incredible pillar in the community-- it had only taken a few days of hanging around outside the shop to witness it for himself.
All kinds of people patronized this shop, and the owner was on a first name basis with most of them. Some customers would show up just to say hello or make conversation, and Tuttlec Grimebiter never seemed to mind whether a transaction occurred or not during their visits. In fact, he’d tell anyone who’d listen that Baldur’s Gate was his favorite place in the world, how you couldn’t pay him enough gold to return to the Underdark where he was born.
When Lug took his morning breaks, Mr. Grimebiter gave him a pitcher of cold water with fresh lemon wedges that the artist insisted he did not need, but the deep gnome kept cutting them up anyway muttering something about how the lemon tree in the garden had too many.
Lug never used them for his water but, they did smell nice. And kept the flies off his paint. So he didn’t want to cause any problems for Mr. Grimebiter or the shop.
“It’s street art,” Lug sighed, going to clean his brushes at the water bucket since he hadn’t even finished packing up before some critic swooped in.
“You can literally just walk away.”
“I like it. Very striking and bold,” someone walking past called out, and Lug’s expression melted into a smile.
“Thank you, that’s nice to hear,” he called back to them, refocusing on the person in front of him.
Who let out a mean laugh. “You artist types are always so soft, aren’t you? I make one little comment that’s not pure praise and your egos crumbles to dust. Like, is that supposed to be a bard or a druid?” they asked, eyes flicking up to the figure with the antlers.
Lug’s lip curled in disgust at their arrogant attitude, his cadence a bored monotone when he replied “It’s open to interpretation.”
“Sounds like something you’d say if you had no idea.”
Lug shrugged and focused on rinsing paint from his brushes, hoping it was over, but still they kept going.
“The hands are too big. And I don’t like the colors.”
“Everyone’s a critic these days,” Lug muttered under his breath before raising his voice to respond.
“You don’t have to look at it, you know.”
“Why’d you make it so big then?” the critic asked while tilting their head to the side.
“If you can’t take feedback, how do you ever improve, eh? May as well paint in your bedroom and never show a damn soul.”
Gods above, it was a good thing Lug had a sweet mother at home to take care of, otherwise he might have hauled off and spit at this insufferable critic. Instead he paused to take a deep breath.
You can’t try to please everyone. You’ve just got to love the process, he thought to himself, one of his mantras against hostile ‘feedback’ like this.
“I was commissioned to paint this, by a very nice woodworker who’s shop is just round the corner there,” Lug said, pointing towards the entrance. “He wanted to brighten up this alley.”
“Hm.” The critic seemed satisfied at last, giving a haughty sniff before unfolding their arms.
“Well. Everyone spends their money in stupid ways sometimes I s’pose.” They turned and walked off, leaving Lug stunned at the sheer audacity.
Unfortunately, the sour comments stuck with him. Even though Mr. Grimebiter was effusive with praise and gratitude, Lug found himself hardly able to smile or accept the compliments. The sting of criticism when his work was so fresh, the paint still literally drying, had affected him more than he wanted to admit.
Even his mother noticed his bad mood when he returned home that evening.
“Splatters, you’ve hardly touched your supper. I made your favorite,” she said sadly, looking at Lug stirring his bowl of fish stew without eating much.
“Sorry Mum. It tastes good, I’m just… not hungry. Long day.”
Lug felt guilty even though what he’d said wasn’t a lie. He just didn’t feel like articulating the whole truth of what was bothering him, when even his mother couldn’t understand struggling to be praised for her talents. She’d been lauded for literal decades at the seamstress shop she’d co-owned. People had traveled from all over the world to purchase her clothing, or to get her expert tailoring done on their favorite pieces. When she’d announced her retirement, some of her regular customers had burst into tears.
“I’ll eat the rest tomorrow, I promise. Thanks for making it for me.”
“Any time. Just put it back in the pot then dear, I’ll add more wood to the fire.”
Lug washed their dishes, gave his mother a hug and a kiss on the cheek to say goodnight, then retreated to his room. He was exhausted from standing on a ladder for hours. Yet when he laid in bed he couldn’t sleep. Those negative comments kept running through his mind, especially the last one: Everyone spends their money in stupid ways sometimes.
Was that all his art was to people? A stupid way to spend their money? Lug felt hot wetness leaking from his eyes and turned on his side to roughly wipe his face against the pillow.
Mr. Grimebiter had invited him to the party next week, saying he’d give a proper flourish of an introduction in case any art lovers were in attendance-- the implication being he’d try to get Lug another commission from someone in the crowd. But surely no one would be interested, and Lug should just spare himself the embarrassment of attending.
It had been a random fluke that he’d gotten this commission in the first place. To think he’d be able to sustain himself on art alone was folly. He should just get a regular job again… maybe Mr. Grimebiter would take him on as a woodworking apprentice.
Or maybe he should just go work the fishing docks like his Dad had. Even though Lug had spent every day of his youth swearing that he’d never end up on a smelly fishing boat, and dreamed of better, it was becoming obvious that the world wouldn’t allow him to evade his destiny.
Lug’s mind became consumed by thoughts of piteous self-loathing as he cried himself to sleep.
--
His mother allowed him to wallow in his emotions for the next several days, being gentle in her prodding for him to eat and do his daily chores around the house. But when she brought up the party a few hours before it was supposed to start and he was dismissive, acting like he might not go, she finally put her foot down.
“Splatters Doolug,” she said crisply, using his full name when she was cross with him-- Lug sat up immediately.
“It would be rude of you to turn down Mr. Grimebiter’s invitation. You’re going, you’ll look nice and act presentable, and that’s that.”
“Yes Mum,” Lug said, sighing as he stood to chop firewood for a hot bath.
Two hours later he was clean, the tub scrubbed out and ready to use again. Lug put on his best outfit of a silk orange tunic, brown pants, and a brown leather overcoat with matching brown leather boots. The colors complemented his fluff of orange hair, which he wasn’t hiding under his beret for once, and his olive skin which usually looked more yellow was contrasted to look a deeper green, which suited him.
His mother beamed at Lug in his finery, kissing him once on both cheeks after her goodbye hug.
“Oh, don’t you look marvelous. Have a wonderful time, sweetheart,” she said, patting his shoulder.
“I will, Mum, thank you. Love you.”
“Love you too dear.”
--
The party was much more well-attended than Lug had anticipated, the crowd barely contained by the alley outside the store. There had to be over a hundred people here. Maybe two hundred.
On his approach, Lug’s back stiffened as he noticed a small group of people looking at his mural. At first he was prepared for the worst, then he saw someone pointing at a specific part while the rest nodded eagerly, and he realized… they liked it.
One of the group was a half-orc like himself, a man about his height with long shocking pink hair and bright blue eyes. Lug had never seen a more beautiful orc in all his life, immediately deciding to walk closer.
“—think it’s a bard or a druid? I love the ambiguity,” the pretty orc was saying in a voice deeper than Lug had expected.
“Yes, it could equally be a nature-inspired bard on the clock, or a druid that just so happens to enjoy the lute. A fascinating commentary on career-based gender expression.”
“You think so?” Lug couldn’t help asking the human who had spoken, surprised that his art was being discussed with such an academic tone.
The human nodded, thick black curly hair bouncing as they gestured towards the mural for emphasis.
“You see how all the faces are so undefined, yet when you look at the three of them together at a distance you can spot similarities? They’re purposefully androgynous and could be of multiple trades based on their uniforms, their features fluid to represent any gender. That’s intentional from the artist, it has to be.”
Lug smiled, wanting to reveal that he was the artist but not being able to form the words. “Yeah, I-- think you’re right.”
“Now this party’s getting interesting,” the pink-haired orc said as he noticed Lug.
“I’m Jord. What’s your name?” he asked, reaching out a hand to shake.
“Name’s Lug. Nice to meet you Jord,” Lug said as he took it, enjoying the soft warmth of the man’s hand.
“A pleasure. You a friend of Mr. Grimebiter?” Jord asked with a thumb pointed at the shop for emphasis.
Lug nodded. “Yeah, I uh, met him at that art fair that happened recently. Great guy. He invited me.”
“He really is the best.” Jord smiled, revealing teeth slightly smaller and more even than Lug’s.
“Did you get a drink? They’ve got free kegs over there.”
“Oh, not yet, but thank you. I’ll go find that now.” Grateful that the conversation hadn’t dragged on long enough for him to trip up on his own awkwardness, Lug took his leave to go find the kegs.
Mr. Grimebiter had gone all out for this party, decorating the alley with fresh flowers and fairy lights, even hiring a string trio to play live music. Wooden tables and chairs made by the Deep gnome had been brought out of storage to accommodate the party guests, draped with tablecloths. Lug noticed the colors of the tablecloths matched his mural paints perfectly, smiling as he realized he’d underestimated the shop owner’s choices. It looked truly magical in the twilight.
There was a line, so it took a few minutes to get a tankard full of ale. It was well worth the wait though. A golden beer that fizzed with hoppy goodness, tasting lively on the tongue. There were snacks too, hot fried pretzel dough and sugar-drizzled fruit sticks. Lug got one of each and sat down to eat, not being shy about taking large bites or sucking every last bit of salt and sugar off his fingers when he finished.
He was just polishing off his beer when someone yelled “Speech! Everybody get close!” and then the crowd began shifting inside the store.
They were packed in like sardines, filling every corner of the rather modest storefront. Lug was about to be upset until he realized that attractive orc Jord was right next to him.
“Hi Jord,” he said with a wave, or at least, as much as he could wave without hitting the other orc.
“Oh hello Lug! Glad I didn’t lose you in this crowd,” Jord said, and Lug could feel his face getting hot.
Gods, be normal, he’s just being nice. “Yeah, good to see fellow orcs out and about,” he said in a quiet voice, knowing that in mixed company the sentiment was considered rude.
But after the shame and subjugation that orcs had gone through at the hands of other races, Lug wasn’t going to censor his true feelings. If the way Jord’s face lit up in a grin was any indication, the other man felt the same way he did.
“Indeed. Glad you’re not afraid to say such things out loud either.” His conspiratorial tone made Lug smile.
“Are you from Lower City too? I haven’t seen you around, but then again I don’t tend to get out much.”
“Yes, I’m Baldurian born and raised,” Lug said with pride. “You?”
“Well, I don’t quite know if I was born here, but-- I’ve lived here all my life,” Jord replied. “I’m adopted. My family’s house is just up the street. We bought furniture from Mr. Grimebiter the day his shop opened three years ago, and each piece is still in excellent condition. Last year I begged him to make me some custom trellises for the vine plants, which are taking to them like a duck to water.”
“Oh, so you garden? Are you a druid?” Lug asked, having noticed that Jord was wearing a sleeveless tunic embroidered in natural motifs and a crisscrossing leather strap embellishment adorned with a leaf-stamped brooch, a popular choice for modern druids.
“Correct. I get along with plants better than people half the time,” Jord said with a smirk. “This is the first time I’ve been outside my house all week except to get food and take my trash to the dump.”
That made Lug laugh, because he’d been assuming such a vivacious and pretty man would have a stacked social calendar… yet things weren’t always as they seemed at first glance.
“I can relate to that,” he said with his own wry smile. “I still live with me Mum, and when I’m not working or running errands I’m a homebody too.”
“And what do you do for work?” Jord asked, but before Lug could reply there were yells of “Speech! Speech!” and then Mr. Grimebiter was calling out to the crowd.
“My friends, my friends! If I could just have a minute of your time, please, lend me your ears.”
Everyone quieted down quick, not wanting to be disrespectful to the man who’d thrown them a rather extravagant party.
“Ah, if only I could be taller to see you all… oh wait! I can!” Scrambling up onto a stool he’d made himself, Mr. Grimebiter cleared his throat.
“Much better. Now I can see most of your lovely faces,” he said, and a few people laughed.
“I’m so thankful for each and every one of you being here. Loyal customers, friends, family, I’m so glad you all could make it out to celebrate my anniversary. Three years I’ve had this shop, and it’s been the biggest blessing. If the gods are willing, it’ll be open many more years.”
“Hear hear!” a few people shouted out, and some clinked their tankards.
“Yes, yes, we will do a toast in a moment, but first I must shout out the people who made tonight possible. Starting with the Lower City Rovers, thank you so much for coming out to play for us! Please, check out their upcoming performances in Rivington and the Blushing Mermaid.”
The string trio members held their instruments up, smiling as the crowd applauded.
“Thank you to my dear friend Averey for the lovely flowers and lights, doesn’t the décor look amazing?!”
The crowd shouted out its agreement, and the gnome named Averey was boosted onto someone’s shoulders, looking bashful but happy.
“All the delicious food outside was provided by Silas and Hannah, where are they? Ah, there they are, give us a wave my darlings.”
Two humans, probably a married couple, held hands as they waved at the group, to more whistles and clapping.
“Yes, truly fantastic. Thank you as always for filling my belly with goodness. Tank, thank you for bringing the kegs, and please give my regards to the brewery!”
“Will do,” the green-scaled dragonborn called Tank said with a nod, leaning back against the shop wall.
“And last but not least,” Mr. Grimebiter said while standing on his tiptoes to look around, “I hope he’s here but I can’t see him right now-- the artist whom I commissioned for that lovely mural in the alley, Lug! Wave if you’re here please, so that we can put a face to the talent.”
Lug almost hadn’t processed what was being said, but then Jord gave him a gentle elbowing and the reality of the situation sank in.
He raised his hand to wave, and the scattered cheers and murmurs were almost overwhelming even though less than half the crowd had turned to face him.
“Ah, there you are, excellent! So if you’re keen on visual art, go and talk to Lug,” Mr. Grimebiter said while accepting a fresh mug of ale from someone next to him.
“All right, time for a toast! If you don’t have a mug, just raise your fist and pretend for the moment, would you? I promise there’s plenty of beer left outside.”
Neither Jord nor Lug had a drink, but they did as the Deep gnome had asked and raised their fists anyway.
“To Tuttlec Grimebiter!” someone cried out, and the whole room roared out the chant in response.
Someone’s ale was looking precariously close to spilling, and when it sloshed out a moment later Lug pushed Jord out of the way so the beer wouldn’t ruin his hair or outfit.
“Hey-- oh! Thanks,” Jord said when he noticed the puddle on the floor, shaking his head and laughing. “Let’s get back outside,” he added, and grabbed Lug’s hand before turning to press through the crowd.
Lug was trying not to overthink the hand grab-- they were in a large group and didn’t want to get separated-- but gosh was it nice to be holding hands with someone this hot.
Finally they got back to the alley, but even though there was more space now Jord stayed close.
“So you did that mural! Are you not used to people critiquing your work, or were you just fishing for compliments back there?” the pink-haired orc teased, eyes alight with interest.
“Maybe a bit of both,” Lug admitted, and he swallowed hard at the way Jord’s nose crinkled when he laughed again.
Was he swooning over this beautiful man? He hadn’t had a reaction this strong to anyone in… ages. But then again, he didn’t often see orcs this pretty walking around Lower City. Or anywhere, really.
“Well. Knowing you’re an artist, I’d be remiss not to mention that my friend is a curator for a small gallery over by the Mermaid,” Jord said.
“You should apply for an installation spot! There’s a few open for next month.”
“Oh, um, you think so? I haven’t heard of that gallery,” Lug said, wondering if he should have.
“It’s only been open since last year and their marketing is shit,” Jord scoffed while shaking his head. “Nobody knows about it except me and everyone I tell.”
“Ah. Sounds like they should pay you for the advertising,” Lug joked, and the way Jord beamed at him made him go weak at the knees for a moment.
“I like you, Lug. Maybe you could come to the gallery and tell them that yourself?”
Lug laughed, feeling bold from Jord saying I like you. He knew the orc most likely didn’t intend it in a romantic way, yet it still felt amazing to have someone so wonderful say it to him with an earnest tone.
“Anytime you want,” he said seriously, and he thought he could see Jord’s breath catch but, there was too much noise from the party to hear if it did.
--
Lug practically floated home, feeling drunk even though he’d only had the one tankard of ale-- he’d ended up chatting so long with Jord that the kegs ran out. But he hadn’t minded one bit, feeling happier than he’d been in years.
They’d talked about all sorts of things, sitting down in a quiet corner while the party went on around them, off in their own little world.
Lug had told Jord about the mural critic, and Jord had said if anyone acted like that at the gallery they’d be banned, which made him feel much better about applying there. When the subject rolled back around to Tuttlec Grimebiter, Jord surprised Lug by revealing that he’d known the Deep gnome long before he’d opened his shop-- because they’d met in the Underdark. The druid used to make treks down there to forage for unique plant materials and supplies, but since his younger sister Jhessem was added to their family he’d stopped. The two half-orcs realized they were both close in age, each in their mid thirties, with Jord being the older one by half a year.
Lug talked about his mother, and Jord remembered walking by her seamstress shop in his teenage years before she’d retired. Jord also talked about his family, how he took care of his younger siblings, and how their guardian Jaheira had been gone a long time. Lug heard the pain in the orc’s voice as he spoke of his adopted mother, and told Jord he hoped she would return from the front lines of battle soon.
Living in Baldur’s Gate, the biggest city in the region, sometimes Lug felt isolated from the fact that the continent was at war. Sure, Gortash and his cronies were always jabbering on about how they needed to “exterminate threats” and all that, but hearing Jord talk about his guardian fighting cultists and monsters in the old days made him realize that the fights of their ancestors had never truly ended. Balduran himself might be long dead and gone, but the chaos he’d rallied against remained.
Spurred partly by curiosity and partly his own guilty conscience, he’d asked Jord, “D’you think it’s a waste of time to make art when there’s war all around us? Sometimes I feel like I’ve squandered my life, that I should’ve learned a more useful trade.”
“Lug, look around. People need a break from nonsense now and then, and you’ve helped give it to them,” Jord said in a quiet yet determined voice. “Believe me, I think the same thing, working with plants all day. But life isn’t equivalent to war, or suffering, or hopelessness. The only way we ensure a better world, a better future, is by creating it ourselves.”
Those words echoed in his ears now as he got ready for bed and laid down, pulling the covers up to his chin with a sigh. Lug closed his eyes, remembering the hug Jord had given him in farewell, and wished he could still feel the other man’s warmth.