Chapter Text
Wind hisses over their rooftop. Durge’s cheek tingles from the chilled touch of a draft entering from somewhere; he makes a mental note to look for it later. Bramble remains peacefully still in his arms. Once successfully coaxed to sleep, the little half-orc is determined to remain asleep for many hours. A great mercy, given the time it took to get her slumbering.
“Probably that one damned tile again. I told that boy Lexis to help with it ages ago.” Mum gripes over the shirt she is mending. “Don’t you go snatching his chore out from under him, Durge.”
“I don’t mind.” Durge says, gently lowering his baby sister into the worn padding of her crib.
“I know you don’t, but that’s not the point.” She mutters. Durge turns around to meet the sharp angles of her back. He follows her sigh as it rattles out of her thin frame. “He’s never going to learn if you keep on not minding. We all have to chip in around here.”
As if to make a point, Mum pulls herself to her feet. The abruptness of the gesture makes Durge’s breath catch in his chest. She does not waver, but takes a moment to simply ground herself, waiting for the blood to reach her extremities. As she makes her way to him, he is fighting every instinct to rush over and take her by the arm. He knows she would disapprove. Her steps may be over-measured, but each one is undeniably firm. Purposeful. Still, he does not miss how her hand very gently grazes the back of a chair. This room needs more chairs.
“Good work, little dragon.” Mum murmurs, standing over Bramble by his side.
“It was no big deal.” He says.
“I doubt it wasn’t.” She strokes his head. “But your sister is indeed an easier baby, generally speaking. Certainly easier than you were.”
Durge frowns at her accusation.
“Was I not easy?”
Mum’s laughter leaves her in one sharp exhale.
“Perhaps not ‘not easy’. But for such a little being, you were armed with many, many sharp teeth, my dear, not to mention a… mercurial temperament.”
He has no memory of being this mercurial small creature; he was probably not even capable of forming memories, back then. It feels a little unfair, the way she is teasing him for his past self’s sins. He does not relish the idea of a time in his life when he is not in control of his own actions.
“But you and Dad had fought monsters for years by then.” Durge bristles slightly. “I was a hatchling.”
“Oh, but a hatchling is no monster.” Mum smiles, her gaunt face bright and fond. “I assure you, they are completely different beasts. You can deliver death to anything within seconds. It is much harder to nurture a life, to keep that tiny flame burning for years upon years.”
Durge supposes he can sympathise with that, having helped rear his siblings.
“And let me tell you, a dragonborn infant was hard work! Though I suppose we were not equipped with all the knowledge we should have. Your father was gagging for weeks after we had finally figured out a way to make meat slurry. Then there was the time when he held you over his shoulder to help you burp, and you froze all the hairs on his back—”
“Mum!”
Bramble jolts in her crib; for a moment Durge fears his small outburst has woken her. Her eyes still closed, Bramble gurgles, her tiny grey lips smacking, blowing a cluster of saliva bubbles that cling to the corner of her mouth. Then, she laughs, before sputtering herself back to sleep. Durge’s shoulders sink in relief, even if he feels like she was laughing at him, somehow. Mum covers her own mouth with a hand. As Durge fetches a clean cloth to wipe his sister’s face, he is certainly not pouting.
“Oh, my little dragon.”
Durge feels Mum’s hand settling on his head, committing to memory how her warmth diffuses through each bony finger, recalling how the same warmth used to radiate from more substantial flesh. Some unthinking part of him even remembers how her skin first felt on his egg’s shell. All at once, his frustration with her disappears like salt on the surf. He turns fully to her, looping his arms around her waist and burying his face in her roughspun linen gown. He is embraced in turn. She likes to call him her ‘little dragon’, though he does not fully understand. She speaks of them—the dragons—as noble, powerful beings. A belief perhaps solidified back in her adventuring days. But Durge knows them to be fearsome, too, without anyone telling him. Nobody considers loveable their repellent scales or rending claws. All the things he has. Things that make him different. Yet, in Mum’s arms, he feels almost convinced otherwise.
How much longer?
“Durge, look at me, sweetheart.”
He lifts his head obediently, forces himself to face the ravages of her affliction. But she does not look afflicted: bright and alert remain her hazel eyes, her dark hair neatly gathered low, a few strands left to purposefully frame and soften the sharpening angles of her cheeks. She is, as always, beautiful. Guilt seizes his heart.
“Go enjoy the rest of your day off. The gods know you’ve spent the whole week picking up after everyone else.”
“But—”
“No buts. I’d hate to keep your little friend waiting.”
The heat pooling behind Durge’s eyes migrates to his cheeks.
“I…” He pulls a deep breath, steadying himself. “You will be alright?”
“Of course I will.” She chuckles softly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Go, before the weather turns on you. We are getting fewer hours of daylight as is.”
Another razor gust scrapes across their rooftop. Durge turns to a window, peering out at an outcrop above the closest inlet. There, a single large oak stands tall, its great canopy slowly thinning as the season turns. The wind has made even its thick, ancient limbs dance, stripping off a flurry of browned leaves and sending them skyward. Mum is right; the threat of ill weather hangs in the air.
“Then I will see you at dinner.”
“Yes yes, go, before your siblings—”
“Durgey!”
Durge straightens himself, schooling his expression before turning to face his sister. Mel stands at the chamber’s threshold, her little face pinched. Durge brings a finger to his smiling lips. Her eyes widen, shifting from him to Mum to the sleeping Bramble. Her small hands loosen from their unhappy fists to clasp over her mouth.
”Durgey…” Her volume drops to a whisper.
“Yes, Mel. What’s wrong?” Durge says.
Mel scowls emphatically.
“It might rain soon, but the stupid clotheslines…”
His younger sister so dislikes admitting to any inability, no matter how trivial. Lexis must have strung the clotheslines up too high again, Durge muses. He liked to watch the laundry flap in the wind since they could not afford real flags, or so he claimed. Durge half suspects whether mischief is ever far from Lexis’ intentions.
“It’s okay, I’ll get the laundry.”
“And Lexis. He went on the roof saying he’d fix it, but I think he’s just napping now.”
“I’ll get him.” Mum interjects.
“Are you sure—”
“I will be fine, son.” She cuts short his protest. “And just go, will you? I have been feeling quite well today, in fact, not so feeble that I cannot grab some laundry on the way, either. See you at dinner.”
“Where is he going?” Mel teeters on the verge of an objection, looking slightly panicked. “Where are you going?”
“Nowhere scary, I promise you. Right, Durge?”
“Right. Nowhere scary.”
“See? Your brother will be back before dinner.” Mum smiles at Mel reassuringly, walking to the door to take her gently by the hand. “Now, I still have some of these to mend. Would you help me?”
Durge takes in one last time the sight of his mother and sister, conceding to the rare colour in the latter’s cheeks. He can almost see the shadow of her sword hilt at her hip, the undeniable steadiness of her bearing. Turning for the exit, his mind’s eye envisions her and Mel beginning another long-deferred lesson in swordplay. But as his imagination grants this hopeful tableau more vivid definition, it verges into the territory of remembrance, pulling in a silhouette in the vague shape of their father. Durge shakes himself free of the vignette, taking hasty leave.
—
“Ouch!”
Astarion yelps, yanking his hand from the hoop. A small, crimson bead wells from his fingertip, falling invisibly upon the dark garnet of the embroidered bloom. He would make much bigger of a fuss over any injury normally, but Astarion can hardly complain in the face of success. That was his last stitch; his masterpiece is complete at last.
“Not too shabby.” He admires his handiwork, his chest tight with pride.
A single, geometric rose of glossy red thread blooms over ivory silk. Sure, its stylised sharp angles and lack of curvature denote amateurishness, but given that no one has bothered to teach him—Astarion’s education has come wholly from observation—it is an impressive first project. Or at least he thinks so; Astarion has no empirical benchmark for first embroidery projects, though he likes to think of himself as above average in any skill he takes on. His rose must be splendid indeed.
“Look what I made.”
Lucas—caught with a tea tray in the middle of a corridor—stares at Astarion’s embroidery hoop bewilderingly.
“That’s… lovely, Young Master.” The man gives him a tight, polite little smile. Politely imploring him to get out of the way. “Now, if you would excuse me…”
Lucas’ feet swiftly ferry him off, leaving Astarion alone to his hoop and displeasure nipping at him. No matter, there are at least a dozen other people on the estate; some of them could spare the time to be impressed.
“Look!”
He tries the kitchen maids this time, planting himself in the middle of their zipping to and fro between workstations. They remind him of swarming bees, each one agitated and frantic with purpose. It is mostly from them that he has secretly learnt how to embroider; Mother is not so keen on doing needlework in the company of others, even her own son. Some shameful, greedy corner of his heart wants the maids’ acknowledgement especially. He craves it desperately enough to subject himself to the kitchen’s stifling heat, and overwhelming sounds and smells of so many clamouring pots and pans and people. Yet, they only pause to look at him as though he were insane, pitiful, or worse, an impediment.
“Young Master! You shouldn’t be down here.”
“It’s dangerous. You might slip—”
“Such fine silk. We wouldn’t want it stained—”
“Did you get lost? Let me show you the way out—”
Astarion is graciously banished from downstairs. Unwilling to dwell on the ugliness creeping into his heart, he huffily stomps over to the parlour. A steady stream of servants seems to be headed in that direction, which means his parents must be there. A few alarmed maids and butlers try to stop him, but Astarion easily slips past their reaching fingers. The hired help might have cause to deny him their attention, but his parents do not. Surely, paying their only son some acknowledgement is a better use of their time than scowling at each other over tea and crumpets, or whatever else is keeping them occupied.
“Young Master? Wait, please! You have not yet been summoned—”
Before Lucas could grab him, Astarion ducks under the valet’s arm and slams through the dark, oaken doors. He sucks in a large breath, ready to announce his accomplishment. But as Astarion settles into his surroundings, his enthusiasm quickly deflates. His parents are indeed in the parlour, wearing their best clothes and their most amiable smiles, entertaining.
By instinct, his keen eyes home in on his father’s expression: the beginnings of a withering glare, the tight set of his wide jaw, the singular twitch of a puffy lower eyelid. Father’s displeasure is a gravitational pull from which Astarion’s focus can never pull away. It rakes over his skin, leaving it raw as a burn. He is only jolted out of that mortifying moment by one of their guests clearing his throat. Guests. There are two of them present. He hides his embroidery hoop behind his back, feeling underdressed, small, and foolish.
“This must be your son. Would you mind introducing us, Armand?”
The moment the senior guest turns to him, Father’s disdain retreats under the surface. Astarion can still see it anyway, lurking there, behind the smiling mask of Father’s thick, stodgy face, in a knot of tension just under his close-trimmed grey beard. A blessing that Astarion seems to have inherited all of his mother’s softness, his every feature fine as a clever brushstroke, though the propspect of his nose eventually broadening to the flat, blunted shape of Father’s still looms large in his nightmares.
”Ah, yes. This is Astarion.”
Mother has to beckon him for Astarion to remember to join his parents’ side. He takes a quick bow—far too curtly and begrudgingly for Father’s taste, for certain. The guests bow back, the man more assuredly than the boy beside him. Mother addresses him, in a voice like a faint breeze through the rafters, colourless and uncertain of its welcome.
“Astarion, darling? These are Mr. Bormul and his son. You have met them before, at Lady Caldwell’s last summer.”
If he has met them, Astarion surely does not remember, though he vaguely recognises the name as aristocratic and wealthy. They are dressed opulently enough for the part. Two elves whose faces will, once again, inevitably sink to the bottom of his conscious memory, like so many of Durge’s unsuccessfully skipped stones headed for the ocean floor. The man is still trying to negotiate his progressing baldness with a paper-thin wisp of hair, combed and plastered across the top of his head, so pale it might as well be translucent. His swollen face and body are barely contained by the rich brocade of his clothes. There is an unremarkable quality to the man’s grotesqueness; Astarion has seen countless like him—men of the same age and tax bracket—at fancy dinners and soirees before. It is only the way that his beady, granite-coloured eyes scans him from head to toe that prickles his skin with gooseflesh.
“Please, call me Ulis. No point in formalities, I say. We could all start getting used to being on a first name basis.” Ulis Bormul smiles at him with too many stained teeth. “I’m sure young Astarion agrees, eager as he is to meet us. I’ve said it before, Priscilla, but he does have all of your loveliness indeed.”
Astarion hears Mother’s feeble denials as if uttered from some distant, windswept knoll. He looks to the other guest: an elven boy around his age, if slightly older. He has the same limp, platinum blond hair as Mr. Bormul, only a fuller head of it; the same slate-grey eyes speckled with silver, presently fixed to the tips of his own buckskin boots; a less bloated face of inoffensive, forgettable symmetry. He is astonishingly tall on closer inspection, nearly as tall as Durge, his height only diminished by a horrendous slouch. It is in the boy’s outward unhappiness that he finds a twisted morsel of relief. Desperately, Astarion tries to meet his eyes. Exactly for what purpose he does not know, only, there is a faint hope of finding some manner of solidarity in the discomfort they both occupy. It is just his rotten luck that Ulis catches him staring before the boy does.
“Ah, but if you do not remember me, you must surely remember my son, Morlan.”
Morlan’s posture snaps into order at the mention of his name, drawing him to his full height. As their eyes finally meet across a now very slanted sightline, all of Astarion’s hopes wither, quietly replaced by a new flavour of disquiet. Their stark height disparity makes him feel almost threatened, prey animal-like.
“Morlan Bormul. A pleasure to see you again.” Morlan wears the same mask as his father, as Astarion’s own parents.
“Pleasure.” Astarion mumbles. He already misses the slouch, the insecurity that clung to this boy like a cloud of gnats but a moment ago. They at least reassured him Morlan was a living creature. There is no solidarity here, only another still-warm body being moulded into the gilded coffin destined for all patriar-kind. It takes all of Astarion’s power not to take a step back when Morlan takes a step toward him, then another. Before his mind could engage, Astarion’s hand is taken by the other boy, a kiss pressed to the back of it.
The parlour tilts slightly, swelling around him like a bruise. Beside them, someone is laughing. Must be Mr. Bormul. Astarion’s parents never laugh; they are pathologically unable to, he thinks. Or, he tries to think, amidst the whirring of unseen cogs clicking into place in his mind. He knows why the Bormuls are here.
“See, Armand? There is no need to overthink these things. I believe they will get along just fine—”
“I have to go.” Astarion announces, far louder than he intended.
“But my dear, you just arrived.” Mother says through a tight smile. “You haven’t seen Morlan in so long—”
“Good bye.”
The proper thing to do would be to feign some regret, scrounge for another perfunctory excuse, then bid their guests farewell individually. Astarion cannot care less. He cares even less that Father’s glare is surely singeing his back as he bolts out the door. He needs to be out of the room before it smothers him. For some time, Astarion does not care where he is headed. One long, cavernous corridor gives way to another, all of them identically opulent and austere.
He ends up in the solar at some point, before the same chair where Mother likes to sit for her needlework. It is deafeningly quiet here, the muted hubbub of servant activity drawn to the opposite direction where he came. The solar’s high ceiling—an unfortunate architectural choice that produces too many a desolate echo—is for once a blessing, giving Astarion the sense of being surrounded by enough space to draw breath again. Sunlight streams in from the windows lining the southern wall, thin as beaten gold, warming to the touch the redwood furniture where it drapes. Astarion pulls out Mother’s favourite chair and shuffles into it. Closing his eyes, he imagines the sun’s warmth is actually hers, that she was just here, doing her needlework but a moment ago. His fingers trace the curve of his own embroidery hoop, each corner on his geometric rose of smooth, red thread. A few moments pass, and then more. Gradually, Astarion starts to feel like himself again.
A shift in the light filtering through the red of his eyelids. Bereft of an accompanying flutter of wings, Astarion knows it was no bird’s shadow. He opens his eyes—squinting a little from the slight glare of diluted sunlight hitting polished redwood—and steps out of Mother’s chair towards the offending window. Nothing seems to be out of the ordinary. A knot of clouds drags its ashen weight over the sky, poised to swallow the watery sun. The swelling wind pulls free withered foliage from the garden below, but he is too high up to be reached by any dislodged leaves or branches. The air is restless. Yet, the threat of storm would not explain how the waning sunbeams sit on the windowsill—slightly stilted, as if filtering through another pane of warped glass. Reaching out with one halting hand, Astarion’s fingers rake at the air. When his fingers bump against an unseen limb, he grabs it and yanks hard. Durge breaks out of invisibility, tumbling with Astarion into the solar in a tangled heap. Their joined laughter rings cacophonous under the atrociously high ceiling.
“That was not a very gentlemanly way to greet someone, just so you know.” Astarion giggles under the arch of Durge’s arms.
“I was about to do it properly.” Durge grins down at him, the lambent flames of his eyes dancing with mischief.
“You were not.”
“Was to.”
“You would’ve liked to see me spooked.”
“Maybe a little bit.”
“That’s what I thought, you devilish lizard.”
Pinned down, there is very little Astarion can do but thrash against the other boy’s tickling fingers. The solar fills up with gleeful shrieks, first his own, then Durge’s, once Astarion can muster a counterattack. They wrestle on the carpet for a while, flipping each other, bumping askew any furniture they roll into. It ends with both of them heaving on their backs. Astarion no longer feels foolish or small, his prior woes already a distant memory next to Durge’s unassailable warmth.
“So you were not spooked? Not even a little?” Durge asks between heavy breaths.
“No.” Astarion says.
“What if it was some dangerous person? Someone looking to kidnap you, or worse?”
“Bah, I knew it was you.”
“How come?”
“I just knew.”
Astarion could simply tell. Not owing to their pre-planned playdate—the day’s earlier drama had completely monopolised his mental faculties. Not even owing to the distinctive smell of Durge’s magic: rain-damp earth, a touch of decaying leaves, ozone astringency—scents in natural abundance given the coming rainstorm. His skin seems to know the way Durge’s shape, his movements, displace air. It is heartening reassurance that Astarion would probably know him blind, drawn to the other boy as a compass needle to its true north.
“That’s good.” Durge sniffs, clambering back on his haunches to give Astarion space. “Because I didn’t mean to scare you. I got a little restless waiting by the garden wall, so I flew to this window because I saw you here, but you seemed… preoccupied. I just couldn’t find a good time to announce myself, and before I could...”
“I caught you.”
“You caught me. I’m sorry.”
Astarion chuckles.
“Don’t worry about it. Next time, just tap on the window or something.”
“You seemed very focused, though. I would hate to be disturbed myself, if I were you... What were you looking at?”
They both know the question to be rhetorical, Durge pushing to his feet to find the answer himself. Astarion’s pulse begins hammering in his ears. His eyes train upon Durge’s expression as the other boy picks up and examines his embroidery, anticipating any sign of judgement. Durge gives him none. His draconic visage—alien at first glance, at times difficult to parse—is somehow far more willing to surrender genuine feeling to Astarion than any humanoid he knows. Slight surprise gives way to curiosity, then delight. For a moment, Astarion doubts his own eyes, but there is no question of Durge’s pleasure in the way his tail swings leisurely behind him. Astarion surprises himself for knowing that, too.
“This is beautiful.” Durge exclaims. “Did you make it?”
“Who else?” Astarion retorts instinctively before checking himself. The liquid unease in his stomach has turned to a warm, airy fluttering. “I mean… Yes, I did. Thank you.”
“It looks so real.” Durge says, his fingers skimming reverently over the embroidered rose’s surface. “We have a small rose bush out front, you know, though I have never managed to make it bloom. Its flowers would probably look like this.”
“Come, now. I would take high praise any day, but calling this ‘realistic’ is a bit much.” Astarion laughs. “You are rather easily impressed, aren’t you?”
“Is that a bad thing?” Durge cocks his head to the side.
Astarion hums, giving Durge’s snout a light tap with his finger. Durge blinks at him wonderingly.
“I suppose it isn’t.”
“—Young Master? Young Master, are you in there?”
Astarion is pushing Durge down by the shoulders and shoving him under the table before he could think. Durge wedges himself clumsily between the chair legs with a small ‘ow’, the tabletop rattling from the scrape of his horns.
“No.” Astarion calls out. “I mean, yes. What business do you have with me?”
Brief silence on the other side of the door. He can neither see nor hear it, but Astarion knows the servant’s sigh of exasperation occupies that pause.
“The Lord and Lady Ancunin have called for you, sir. They would like to have you bid our guests a proper farewell before they leave.”
The thought of returning to the parlour tightens his stomach into a hard knot. Drawing a long, steadying breath, Astarion braces himself for another lie.
“Give me a moment. I will be with them shortly.”
“…Very well. However, they also instructed me to accompany you. I am ready to go when you are.”
Under the table, Durge’s field of view is restricted to Astarion’s hands balling into shaky fists at his sides. Sensing that there is no immediate danger of the servant entering the room, he carefully pokes his head out. Astarion’s lips are pressed into a tight line, all traces of mirth having been wiped from his features. He looks to be on the verge of tears. Durge’s heart sinks.
“Are you alright? If it isn’t a good day to hang out, we can—”
“Get me out of here.”
“Pardon?”
The moment Durge crawls out from under the table and gets to his feet, Astarion’s pale hands seize him by the biceps. As their eyes meet, Durge feels like they were once again in the middle of The Wide, surrounded by gawking bystanders, Astarion’s breathless caretakers only a couple of blocks away.
“You can carry me down, right? Please…”
Needing no further convincing, Durge takes hold of Astarion and leaps out the nearest open window, into the arms of friendly winds.