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It was a strange feeling, to be walking the tightly-packed streets and still see a long shadow stretched out on the dusty cobbles. To hear the clatter of shutters latching, the rumble of carts heading towards the gates, and the fading of boisterous play as children were beckoned in for supper. Those unfortunate enough with no one where to go remained squatting under deserted market stalls, malnourished fingers reaching out under tattered hoods like withered sprouts twisting to find the sun.
“Please, miss!” and “Begging your pardon, miss.” and “Anything helps, miss.”
Lia always dropped them a coin or two.
They always knew she would.
Eyes like two lit matches when they realized it was her - the one Fist they could trust - though she wasn’t on her usual beat, walking home with the weary crowd after a sensible day’s work, still time left in the dying daylight to enjoy or endure loved ones before she crashed for good.
The pauldrons of her half plate compressed the stiff knots of her shoulders, her aching feet pulsed with heat from within her banged-up boots. The tower looked different in the evening; less silent, less imposing. A place where people lived and learned. It almost shone in the approaching sunset; a lighthouse if you ever were to lose yourself in the warren of streets.
Lia collapsed her side against the heavy door and as she turned the handle she practically fell inside the grand foyer of the former Ramazith’s Tower. Her exhausted entrance echoed up the vast central chamber that rose up, high and airy past the balconies of the studies and bedrooms and vanished to the kaleidoscope of colourful glass and painted vistas of Gods and Goddesses, of the Weave and of wonder.
Currently the centerpiece of this stunning marvel of art and engineering, Cal’s tongue stuck out as he teetered precariously on his tippy-toes atop a wonky stool.
Lia watched with tired eyes as the wooden legs under her brother trembled when his weight shifted, wobbling precariously as he reached up high. “Don’t fall.”
Cal didn’t break concentration. “You’ll catch me,” his sure voice strained. “There.”
He hopped down from the step-stool with a graceless if controlled tumble and admired his handiwork, hands proudly on his hips. Joining at his side, Lia cocked her head. “Think you used enough pins?”
Cal scratched into his hair as he gazed uncertainly upwards. “Do you think it needs more?”
His sister snorted. “A smokepowder bomb could go off and the entire tower crumble, crushing half of Baldur’s Gate with it, and that banner would still be hanging.”
He had a bashful grin. “Just feels like a long time since we celebrated, well, anything.”
A rueful hum came from beside him. “Seemed like poor taste for so long. Tempting fate.” Lia nodded as she looked up at the painted words, as though it would reassure herself. “Safe now. Time to relax every once in a while.” She felt an elbow nudge her side.
“Know it’s time when that’s coming from you.”
Lia gave his arm a playful jab with her knuckles and Cal recoiled with a yelp.
It may not have matched the frescos of the ceiling in intricacy, but it was immeasurably more valuable. The banner had initially read ‘Archmage Rolan of Ramazith’s Tower.’ Ramazith had been spelled incorrectly; Cal was dismayed to discover it included two ‘a’s rather than two ‘i’s, but with some prompting from his sister, he had managed to disguise it with a splash of fireworks. Then, in a stroke of unparalleled genius, he turned the entire middle of the thing into an explosion of colour and added an ‘s’ after his brother’s name. Lia then pointed out it also needed an apostrophe.
Archmage Rolan’s Tower.
“Just in time.” Cal smiled. “Didn’t think you were going to make it.”
“Swapped shifts.” Her eyes caught on the table nearby and the hearty display arranged atop it. “You did good, Cal.”
Outside, a commotion of voices drew closer to the tower. Between the hurried calls for attention a familiar sibilance hung on haughty replies.
“Shit,” Cal hissed, the flames in his eyes flickering with glee. “He’s here.” He stuffed his fists into a basket waiting near the table and took up a squatting position, ready to pounce.
The iron knocker on the outside clattered against a sudden force, the well-worn hinges complained as the door swung open, this time swift and purposeful.
“... of course, of course, you’re too kind. I shall be sure to stop by when the time allows.”
Cal beamed as his brother appeared, a statuesque figured framed by the grand entry of his tower, stout and formidable in the middle of the city, horns curled to the sky, immaculate material flowing from proud shoulders.
By the time the door swung back into the frame, Rolan had turned his back on the admirers outside, crossed the threshold, passed his siblings, and was almost at the bottom of the staircase that swept up and around the vast main chamber.
“Welcome home, Rolan!” Cal erupted and tossed a handful of colourful petals - and a few squished flowerheads he’d accidentally pinched off as he collected them - and they rained down like a meadow in a spring breeze; the closest thing to fireworks Cal imagined he could get away with without actually setting something on fire.
Eyes fixed downwards, Rolan muttered absently as he counted some invisible number off on his fingers. “I suppose.”
“Rolan?” Cal took a step forward, swatting a squashed dandelion from his palm. “Everything alright?”
Spinning on his heel, Rolan’s robes flared. “What?” he snapped. “I have just stepped in the door. Can you not allow me a moment of peace? A single one?”
“No need to shout,” Cal pouted. “But you’re right, sorry.”
Lia turned to her younger brother, pointing a defiant finger. “Don’t you dare be sorry.”
“I’ll ask that you don’t start,” Rolan shot a fierce look at his sister. “I cannot emphasize how much I am not in the mood for one of your tantrums.”
Whipping the tails of his robes, he hustled up the stairs as though he couldn’t hear the thundering that pummeled the ancient steps behind him. At the top of the staircase Rolan turned immediately for a door on his left. Storming into the dark room, as he tried to close it he felt the door shove violently back against him. He stumbled towards the far wall packed with thick tomes as Lia barged in behind him. The timber rattled up the tower as she slammed it. Fists balled, she advanced on the mage. “What the bloody Hells is wrong with you?”
The points of Rolan’s teeth bared under his curled lip. “Are you quite serious, Lia? Not five damn seconds! And Cal sent me on a trek to the postmaster, if you must know, as though I don’t have a thousand more important things to do.”
“Didn’t happen to notice the enormous display? The food? The bloody bouncing like Cal was five fucking years old, you overgrown pillock?”
Confronted in his own study, attacked in his only damn sanctuary from the world, Rolan threw his hands out. “What on Toril are you talking about?”
Lia tore open the door to the study and walked out. She jammed her palm in the air, gesturing down into the grand lobby of the former Ramazith’s tower. “Cal and I spent all afternoon getting it set up.” She glared as Rolan peered out of his office. “Well, Cal did. I humoured him after working half to death to pay for it.”
With a huff and a few indignant steps, Rolan also chose to humour his sister and joined her on the landing. There was a maroon carpet running the length of the balcony, affixed in place by brass trim. When he stepped forward onto it, he raised his hands to rest on the oak handrail; the intricately carved banister wove up the endless interior layers of the tower. The wood was matte where the polish had worn away. Several of the staircases were missing spindles.
Peering over the railing, it surprised Rolan to see that the large table from the dining room had been, presumably with great effort, dragged into the foyer below and covered with a swarth of purple fabric. Atop it, a selection of plates and dishes of bite-sized morsels, dips, and condiments had been spread out with freshly-cut sprigs of Privet to fill out the display. He had somehow missed it entirely in his urgency to retreat for just a moment of peace. His younger brother was raised up on his tiptoes, reaching far outside his centre of balance to pluck a pin out of the beam over head, which jutted out at an angle from a supporting column. As he jiggled it, the stool Cal was on rocked uncertainly. When it popped out between his fingers, the sign it had been holding sagged despondently away from the dark wood.
Rolan turned away and disappeared back into his study. Hearing the frustrated growl of his sister following him again he spoke without turning around. “Are you expecting an apology? You decided to throw yourself on a pyre.” Rolan huffed a frustrated, pointless few steps around the room, then placed his palms heavily on his desk. Rolan gestured at the heavy furniture and the packed bookshelves. “We have funds, Lia.”
“Obviously the point, you odorous arsewipe. You’re welcome, by the way. Almost got my block knocked off by some drunk sellsword two nights ago.”
“Handing out gratefulness, are we? I suppose I’ll wait for my award. Must be held up somewhere.”
“Go throw your pity party somewhere else.” As she marched out of his study, she flung a few final, biting words back into the room. “Some people care enough about you to try and have an actual one.”
Lia’s feet slammed down the stairs. She stormed across the foyer. Cal offered a half-hearted smile as she passed. He pointed his thumb towards the banner he had pain-stakingly painted onto an old curtain he didn’t think Rolan would notice missing, folded-up on the stool with a small mountain of pins. “Maybe I’ll put it up in his office when he’s a bit less swamped.”
“Don’t bother, Cal,” Lia said defiantly without breaking her stride. “Rolan can go fuck himself. Might be able to get my shift back.”
Before the front door could close behind her, an almighty roar of aggravation burst from Cal and he shouted loudly into the towering, empty chasm. “You know, I hate it when you both do this!”
The enormous kitchen was uncomfortably quiet. The solitary rasping of coarse fabric and slosh of tepid water seemed too small for a room made for servants and the spoils of banquets. The only thing spoiling in it now were the dishes and ramekins that had been prepared earlier in the day, abandoned. Cress had started to wilt. A fly crawled over a crusty cob. Rolan frowned and swatted it away. A grumbling pinched his stomach; the smell of egg and bread and cheese and sweet raspberry jam was still strong. “Where’s Cal?”
“Supposed to be his babysitter am I?” Lia shot back from where she was scrubbing a stubborn stain from her shirt in the sink. She long suspected it to be blood, and was sure it wasn’t hers. It never seemed to fade, no matter how she wore through the fibre with sponge, cloth, or stiff, frayed bristles. “Not kids anymore, Rolan.”
“No,” he replied, with definitive bluntness. “We’re not.”
Lia leaned heavily on the wide, cold edge of ceramic, her head hanging. The sink was cracked, but thick enough to hold firm for another few centuries. Another few fights.
“I’m sorry,” Rolan said, shaking the earnest embarrassment from his voice. “I… didn’t even notice.”
“That’s the point. Well, part of it.” The cloth smacked the sink with a wet slap as she threw it down. She turned to her brother. “What’s going on, Rolan? Even when you’re here you might as well not be.”
“Lia…”
“Don’t ‘Lia’ me.” She pointed squarely at his face. “Tell us who to fuck up. We’ll make up for that Lorroakan prick.”
Rolan coughed through an unexpected emotion and waved away her concern, quickly regaining his composure. “Everything is under control, at least as far as that goes. Eventually you’ll have to believe that if that were to happen again you would not remain in the dark.”
“Still pissed at you for not saying anything.”
“Are you?” He raised an eyebrow. “I had no idea. Do let us know when you decide to be anything other than monumentally pissed off at the world.”
“You cannot be serious, Rolan.”
“Let’s…” Rolan held up his hands, a vague gesture of apology that wasn’t quite surrender. “Perhaps we can go one conversation without being at each other’s throats?”
“You tell me.” She folded her arms tightly across her chest. “Think you can explain yourself?”
“Can you?”
“Fine. Deal. No bullshit.”
For a moment they exchanged a defiant glance before Rolan’s eyes slid across the table. “Perhaps a few nibbles would inspire our little chat.”
“Gods,” Lia released a breath. “Bloody starving.”
Gratefully leaving the stain to soak for another day or few, they piled dry hunks of cheese and spooned out generous globs of fruit preserves onto plates, alongside the traditional humble scone and some more unusual offerings that appeared to be miniature tarts of some description. Taking their meals and a generous pour of red to the reading room, with a rudimentary dance of his fingers Rolan ignited the kindling in the lounge as Lia drew the curtains over the thick leaded windows. Curling up into an armchair, Lia tucked into the plate balanced on her legs. Rolan’s was resting on a side table, instead nursing the goblet in his lap. A steady fire crackled in the hearth.
Picking over his food, Rolan moved a slice of what he suspected was quiche around the plate. He had somewhat expected either their hunger to negate their sudden need for an uncomfortable chat, or that they would simply eat until they passed out. Sitting with his sister in silence, he found that his appetite had betrayed him entirely, the wretched gall of it. He sipped his drink and gazed vacantly at the bright flickering in the fireplace. Swirling the cup absently around his palm, Rolan audibly exhaled. “I’m trying. You must believe that, however little you think of me and what I’m trying to achieve here.”
The way Lia’s eyes rolled to the back of her head may as well have been audible. “Oh, please. Don’t put it on me. Just spill.”
“It’s just…” Rolan managed two words before retreating. He scoffed. “You’ll merely dismiss it.”
Lia jammed her knuckles into her hip and shot him a look. “Try me.”
He brought the rim of his goblet to his lips, speaking dry words into the dry liquid. “You won’t like what you hear.”
“Then let me drop dead with shock, Rolan. Out with it.”
“Lia, I…” Rolan’s voice cracked with the fire. “Everything. Everything has been… I thought there might come a certain point where I’d feel it. Or rather, wouldn’t feel… the immensity of it. The awfulness of it.” A defensive snap appeared on his tongue. “Do you know what I’m even talking about?”
Lia bit into her lip. “Think so. Waiting for it to be over… only it never is.”
The blaze in Rolan’s eyes lit up. “Precisely.”
There was a cautious nod on Lia brow. “Feel the same. About being safe.” She tried to swallow the tension in her throat. Fingers pinching firm the edge of her plate, Lia twisted in her seat. “Rolan, There’s not a night I sleep through. Wake up, cold, retching in my own sweat. Cal says he hears me scream before I wake. And it’s not because you failed. Don’t know what it is. Can’t shake it.” Lia’s tail twitched, wound tightly around the chair leg. Her voice softened, a hesitant whisper under the roar of flame. “I’m afraid, Rolan. Every second of every day. Not because you haven’t kept us safe, know that’s what you’d think. It’s as though there’s still a goblin blade to my throat. See it in the darkness.”
As if commanded by the demon armies of Avernus to witness it once again, Lia’s eyes fell closed. “I’m afraid I’ll never stop being afraid.”
Glancing over at his sister, Rolan saw an uncharacteristic silhouette. The clenched knuckles, defensive spine, the avoidant gaze that surely did not belong to the person that chastised him for forgetting to apply the second lock to the door last night. “Cal’s not the only one to have heard,” he said quietly.
The steady oak beneath her groaned as Lia sat up, blinking her eyes open. Resting her back solidly against the fading embroidery, she tucked her hands firmly across her chest. “Deal’s a deal. Your turn.”
Rolan’s head rolled back against the chair. He stared up at the intricate design carved into the ceiling trim, barely noticeable in swirling flickers of shadow above. “I feel as though I could own every scrap of gold in Baldur’s Gate, still I could not buy your affection as a sister.”
“It’s not for sale, you bloody idiot.”
He continued as though she hadn’t spoken, brow furrowing. “I feel as though… There’s this threat. Nagging, always. That things may have been immeasurably better for the two of you had I never…”
“Not possible. Not ever.” Lia snapped her fingers, demanding him to see the ferocity of her stare. “Rolan, ever.”
He waved her insistence away as though she had offered to refill his drink with spring water. “It just never seems to quieten, no matter how hard I try.”
Lia snorted. “Or how much you drink?”
With a coy twitch at his lips, Rolan glanced to the object in his hand. “Or that. I just wanted to earn… to be worthy of a…”
“Family?”
Rolan’s finger slid around the rim of his goblet. “Your word, not mine.” He knocked back the remainder of his wine.
“Fucked up.” The fire in Lia’s eyes was a mournful heat. “The both of us.”
“Yes.” Rolan’s bittersweet smile lacked any unkindness. “Quite.”
Their attention slid over their shoulders as hinges groaned and a rush of cool air pooled around their feet. A bright face stopped, hand curled around the door. “Am I interrupting?”
“Do join us,” Rolan said flippantly. “We’re discussing our deepest, darkest fears.”
“Fun.” The door clicked softly as Cal joined his siblings in the reading room. Pulling up a vacant chair, the thick timber cocooned them around the burning hearth.
“Go on,” Lia leaned onto her thighs. “You’re up.”
“Yes, do tell.” Rolan made a grand gesture with his empty cup. “What are the most desperate thoughts that stalk you as you try to sleep.”
Cal plopped down and started speaking before his arse had settled into the cushion. “That the two of you will fall out. For good. And you’ll make me choose between you.”
“Cal,” Rolan hissed. “How could you say that?”
“Obviously not going to happen,” Lia added, forcefully.
Cal simply shrugged. “Not stopped you both still being wrapped up in your heads though, has it?” He tilted his head curiously towards them, as might a loyal hound. “Let me guess. Rolan’s afraid he’ll never live up to our expectations. That he’ll never really be part of the family. And Lia’s worried we’ll never be safe again, not really.”
Rolan’s mouth opened, then closed. He gave a coy gesture. “I give you points for effort.”
“Nailed it,” Lia muttered. “Swot.”
“Rolan…”
“Don’t bother,” she said, bluntly. “Put him to rights already.”
Cal made a short hum of displeasure, then looked at his sister. “What about you?”
“What about me? Be alright. Always am.”
“Lia.” Cal leaned forward in his chair. “If you’re not, it’s okay. Not going anywhere. Know it’s scary. Sometimes I think I’ll wake up and we’ll be back in Avernus, or in the cell. In Moonrise. Wish you’d let yourself realize we’re not there, but I know it’s not that simple. And if you can’t sleep, I’m more than willing to, I don’t know. Make you tea, or maybe, you know, a hug.” He gave a sheepish half-shrug, fear seeping through the veneer of concern on his face.
“Cal…” Lia quietly placed her plate on the floor. She slowly tucked her dark hair behind her ear. “Feels like I’m back there. Like being punched in the gut until I want to vomit. Like being strangled. Being run through with a goblin blade and can’t raise my blade to stop it. Over and over.”
Cal reached out his hand, and when she placed hers in it her palm was damp. “We’re here. We made it, Lia.”
Rolan grunted softly. “Just not all in one piece.”
“Still fit together, though,” Cal insisted.
Lia scoffed. She caught the side of Rolan’s eyes and offered a conciliatory smirk. “Nauseating.” When he returned one, she reached out her hand. “Bring it in, idiot.”
With a reluctance so dramatic it could only be for show, Rolan flicked his billowing sleeve up his arm and gave a theatrical grimace as he slid his fingers around hers. Shuffling forward to the edge of his chair, Cal offered his free palm, and as the three of them connected a squeeze traveled through their hands, the most gentle of constrictions flowing through their arms.
Breaking the chain that linked them briefly together, Rolan cleared his throat. “Honestly, even if she became unbearable, I could never make you pick.” Rolan said, raising his chin. “You’d obviously choose me.”
“Rolan,” Cal said flatly.
“A joke,” Rolan announced to his siblings. “Try not to be overcome by how hilarious I am.”
Lia picked up a curl of lemon rind from her plate and threw it at her elder sibling. “He’d obviously pick me, because I’d have beaten you to death.”
Picking the discarded curl of fruit from a fold in his robe, Rolan flicked it onto his own plate and unnecessarily brushed the creases from the fabric. As he crossed one leg over the other, his eyeline caught on the fervent twitching in Cal's hands. His younger brother was hunched over, shoulders curved to the bold taper of his ears. He was picking at the already raw skin between his fingernails.
Rolan lip's pressed thinly together. “Sorry for ruining your plans, Cal.”
“Couldn’t if you tried.” Cal attempted a genial look as he raised his head, then winced. “Well, next time you could at least pretend to be surprised.”
“It really was thoughtful.”
“Couldn’t have done it without Lia.”
“Obviously.”
Rolan turned to his sister. “Thank you, Lia.”
She made a move as though another piece of citrus peel were about to be flung in his direction. “Better show some gratitude next time.”
Rolan glanced down into his cup before remembering it was, in fact, empty. “I believe the next occasion to celebrate would be the day of your birth if I’m not mistaken.”
“Don’t bother,” she replied. “Let’s just skip to Cal’s.”
Cal rolled his eyes. “As if that’s going to happen.”
Placing the goblet on the carved walnut table beside him, Rolan plucked the final bite-sized pastry, half melted and gooey from the warmth of the fire, and popped it on his tongue. An indulgent sound vibrated from his lips as true gratitude flashed across his face. “Truly these are delicious, Cal.” He didn’t even bother to finish chewing before he spoke. “How did you make them?”
“Dunno,” Cal shrugged again. “My attempt looked like a dog’s dinner. Bex made them.”
“Would’ve preferred yours,” Lia said.
“You say that now.”
“Alright. My birthday’s next. I’ll have…” Lia gestured to her brother licking the jam from his fingertip. “Whatever that was. Cal style.”
“You asked for it,” he said with a smile. “You done with that?” He was pointing to Rolan’s plate. As his brother passed it over, Cal inhaled the food so fast it hardly touched the sides of his gullet as it went down.
Rolan raised a suspicious eyebrow as his brother swallowed. “When’s the last you ate?”
“Uhh…” Whatever word Cal might have attempted was garbled behind a mouthful.
“Cal,” Lia snapped.
“Don’t know how it is with the Fist.” Cal was using a slab of bread to mop up the smears on the plate then stuffed it in his mouth. “Ansur’s don’t exactly make time for snacks. Besides, always busy worrying about you two.”
Preoccupied with forcing down everything edible as quickly as he could, Cal didn’t notice the flash of concern that was shared above his head. Whatever it was that kept them tugging destructively back and forth they released for a brief moment as Rolan and Lia caught the worry in each other's faces. The sullen, shameful realizations of unspoken guilt.
The plate clattered to the floor as Cal groaned. Slumping back into his chair, his eyes closed with relief. “Please tell me there’s more.”
“I couldn’t possibly fit another bite,” Rolan said, patting the hollowness under his belly.
“All yours, big guy,” his sister added. She'd already tightened her corset earlier that morning.
A broad grin stretched out over Cal's face, already tasing his second helping. “So, uh…” He stretched out the tension in his arms over the back of his seat. “Who’s doing the dishes?”
Fire and wine rosy on their cheeks, the three tiefling were bundled together, snug in the warm reading room of the Archmage’s Tower.
“I think they can wait until tomorrow,” Rolan said, eyes sliding over to Lia, a sassy curve to his lips.
His sister gave a wry smirk back. “Thinking the exact same thing.”