Work Text:
Worn out boots shuffled nervously outside the bar – after everything that had happened of late, Fist Orvil was certain that he shouldn’t have any fears left. Narrowly escaping death in a Bhaalist dungeon had been the cherry on top of a rather unpleasant cake, but surely this simple task paled in comparison to that daring escape.
He tried desperately to stop his nervous fingers from crushing the bouquet he had spent a whole week’s salary on.
Simple, easy…just…just walk in, take a seat, watch her performance, and give her the flowers after.
Orvil was quickly becoming convinced that taking on the Netherbrain single-handedly would be less daunting. But that problem had already been dealt with by the very people who enabled his freedom, clearing out the nest of cultists and leaving him free to pick the lock of his cell and stumble to freedom clinging to the last shreds of his mortal life as tightly as he clung to the flower stems.
Bollocks.
At least the paper wrapping would hide bruised stems until they could be trimmed, and the flowers were still in perfect condition.
The door to the venue swung open, a bemused young man looking at him with a half-hearted smile – Orvil assumed there would be a long line for the performance, so turning up early to get the best seat in the house was the only logical solution. He adjusted his jacket, hoping it looked good enough for the occasion that he was certain he would remember until his dying day.
—
Quil Grootslang checked her songbook for the fifth time in as many minutes, wishing she had another hour to rehearse with the acoustics before making her city-side debut in one of the more popular taverns in Baldur’s Gate. A stack of printed and bound copies of her book seemed to watch her silently from the corner of the room, awaiting her signature upon their front page for the adoring fans she so desperately hoped would fill the seats by the bar.
So many seats… She hadn’t forgotten how big the space felt when she was rehearsing. Even if the stage was small, the area cleared for seating was beyond any performances in the past.
But Quil had faith – in herself, and in the music she knew could fill the hearts of those who listened closely to every verse. Besides, the hard part was over. The journey to the city had nearly ended her life several times, and she counted her blessings every day that a small group of travellers had given her a place to sleep when she was lost and alone, and protected her from that wild beast… No, not a wild beast. One of her own kind, at least that’s how they appeared. Snow white scales and blood red eyes, a dagger in their hand and wicked teeth—
Quil banished the memory from her mind. She had been saved, that’s what mattered, and by all reports that wild dragonborn had not been seen in half a season. The whole city was safe now, and the publisher had loved her work – this time next tenday her songs might grace the stage of a dozen more bards sharing them with hundreds more patrons! The very thought was a thrill in itself, stoking her thirst for the stage and all that would follow.
—
The depth of her voice thrummed through every fibre of Orvil’s body, as if the music became a part of him, sewing itself into his soul with each new refrain. The seats around him were relatively full at first, though the moment Quil had begun to sing, he was certain he was the only one in the room.
Her scales glittered like jewels, eyes even brighter reflecting the torchlight and – in moments that nearly made his heart stop entirely – catching his gaze as he remained transfixed on the performance. The emotion of the performance carried him away from reality, floating in the ethereal stories that sang of love and longing in ways the common tongue could never hope to match.
Hours spent hunched over books, studying her language and the meaning of the lyrics…every moment of sore eyes and aching joints were worth it in this moment. The humble Fist was transported completely into Quil’s beautiful dreams, knowing now exactly why he had felt so utterly captivated by her performance the first time he had seen it in that small village inn…
In every quiet moment between songs, in the agonising wait of the interval when the crowd began to thin, his mind strayed again to those worries. Would she remember him? Was she only being polite to a fan when he had spent the whole night talking and—
Every worry was silenced again as Quil returned to the stage, guttural melodies filling his heart with delight.
—
Despite some of the crowd coming and going – which was only natural, given those outside of her race often had little appreciation for the true scope of an epic ballad – Quil noticed that familiar face. Did he just look like someone she had known? Or was there some other reason that his gaze never strayed from her performance?
She had to sing for the entire audience, but she allowed herself more glances in his direction, tugging on the frayed thread of an old memory as shadows danced across his enrapt expression. Her voice rose and fell, but the peaks of the chorus, the swell of emotion in her favourite verses – she directed them towards her most dedicated fan.
By the time the final echoes of her encore fell away to the brief silence before enthusiastic applause, Quil felt more breathless than she had in years. Her heart pounded in her chest, blood rushing through her with renewed energy, feeling that her song had finally made that magical connection that she heard bards talk about in long nights after hours. Back then, she had no idea how thrilling it would be, how intoxicating the rush of knowing every note of her refrain had been devoured by an audience ravenous for her work, her music.
She gratefully took the chilled drink from the bartender, feeling it soothe her throat the instant she took the first sip, already stepping down from the stage area to the table her books were waiting.
And there he was again, at the front of the line, an array of beautiful flowers – their names and meanings both a mystery – held in his arms as his feet scuffed the floorboards with nervous energy. Soft curls of dark hair just reached his shoulders, framing an expression that only further betrayed the emotion written clear in wide eyes.
—
Orvil regretted not leaving his seat to get a drink during the entire performance; his throat was so dry he could feel every syllable of a well rehearsed speech evaporating before it reached his lips. So in lieu of a greeting, he held out the bouquet with a smile, hoping Quil would be able to divine their meaning.
“They’re beautiful,” she exclaimed, her expression almost shining with delight as she took the flowers and savoured the scent in a long pause that had his heart briefly pausing in its race through his chest. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but…have we met before? I see so many faces in the crowd but I feel like I remember yours.”
Torn between the surge of joy at recognition and the crushed remnants of what had been impossible hope she would remember right away, Orvil finally found his voice again. “It was three seasons back, Nashkel Inn, outside Amn,” he tried his level best not to let the nerves get the better of him, to be here, to have a second chance. “Please forgive me, but I haven’t been able to forget about your songs since. The lyrics, in your voice, and the evening we were talking—”
“Of course! Forgive me, dear saer, but I have forgotten your name – but I remember the evening well,” Quil set the flowers to one side, reaching now for the book he still held close to his chest in one arm. “It’s so rare I get the time and opportunity to talk, the journey was long…”
There was a hint of something in her bright eyes as her voice faded, the thought left unfinished before she blinked it away. He watched as she opened the book to the cover page, looking up expectantly with her ink at the ready. “Orvil,” he broke his reverie to answer her question, “my name’s Orvil, and it is an honour to meet you again.”
—
The sincerity in the man’s voice was touching, stirring deeper feelings within Quil as she penned her message and his name within her debut publication. Behind him, a handful of other patrons were waiting patiently, but with so few and such dedication from her first true fan…
“Meet me in an hour,” her decision was made in a heartbeat, faster than her more rational thoughts might have cautioned her against being so hasty, “I would love to hear what you thought about the songbook.”
Orvil was silent for a moment, as if he could not quite believe what he had heard. “It would be my honour, and I know the perfect place – good wine, a quiet place to sit, and the food is at least passable.”
“Then it’s a date,” Quil smiled, closing the book carefully now the ink of her autograph had dried on pages that had clearly been read a hundred times in the tenday since publication, barely noticing how her own heart raced at the choice of term and the slightly stiff bow born of military discipline.
“I did not want to presume to—”
“Dinner and drinks after hours, with such a wonderful bouquet?” It was hard not to feel giddy, every romance novel Quil had ever read already made her feel as if she was being swept off her feet by a fairytale knight. “Though when we put it like that, I’m the one making presumptions.”
“One hour, then,” Orvil bowed again, with a little more elegance despite the formal motion, “I’ll count down the minutes til we meet.”
—
The clocks seemed set to move in a blur, as Orvil waited by the bar – several very large glasses of iced water attempting to cool his nerves and soothe his dry throat. He hadn’t imagined…he couldn’t have been so bold to hope…
Quil took her time with each guest that came to her table, a bright smile on her face, and an occasional stolen glance towards where he sat. Bards and scholars alike seemed keen to speak to the musician, and he could hardly blame them for that. He hoped a hundred more might come, that her songs might find their way far beyond the edges of the realm, whilst also wishing the seconds might move a little faster.
Two hours later, the pair were seated in a corner booth of one of the smaller taverns at the outskirts of the rebuilt Upper City – a full bottle of a fine vintage was shared along with a meal, the conversation flowing as freely as the deep waters of the Chionthar. Orvil counted his blessings – namely the good fortune that had brought him to the city, to meet her once more, and to feel the electricity of their connection.
Minutes turned to hours, staff reluctant to usher them out even as the first light of dawn began to creep through the windows.
Those hours soon became days, finding moments to steal and treasure, finally giving voice to the words in letters that had remained half written and unsent in his desk for far too long.
The stories of love, longing, and romance that had moved him from her lyrics began to find a life outside of the page, as he learned the warmth of her hand in his, the bubbling joy of her laugh, the depths of songs that Quil had yet to finish. There was an unexpected harmony, something Orvil treasured even more than the feel of her lips when they first kissed under the moonlight, new chords rising to the crescendo of love composed in the empty staves that merciful fate had left for them.
Shadows beneath the city, the darkness that lurked in their less fortunate pasts, the tragedy of other lives cut short before their time – all were chased away by the light of fairytale romance.