sword_logic | from ashes: interlude

A bright spark of blue bleeds into the shaft of the last arrow, jumping eagerly from his fingers to sink into slim, straight wood, sinking into the soft, rich earth to bury itself into the arrowhead. Energy hums warmly along his arm for just a second longer, and the sensation fades along with the last whispered words of the spell.

Erlkazar keeps a tight hold on their borders. Even camped just on the other side it’s unlikely they’ll come to harm, but habits are hard to break. The forest and mountains around him are full of life, trees sheltering so many bright sparks.

“All set,” Sunset announces quietly, once he’s close enough for his voice to not carry, and an entirely different kind of hum builds under his skin as he sits in the warm lee of Arkadia’s body, bracketed between him and the fire.

“I miss the Tiny Hut already,” Arkadia signs wryly, and Sunset feels his chest swell at the familiar faux-irritation, that pleased crinkle to his eyes.

“I don’t know if I miss the Seer,” Sunset muses, and Arkadia gives him a firm nudge as he reaches out to coax the fire hotter, coals flickering briefly blue-hot to match the faint luminescence under his knuckles before heat washes over them both.

“You do,” Arkadia replies simply, and punctuates his statement by wrapping his hand around Sunset’s knee. His touch is a cool shield against the tangible press of the fire, and Sunset turns his head into the familiar worn weave of his shirt.

“I don’t think this will end well for them,” he murmurs. Arkadia shifts to pull him closer, and offers silence for Sunset to finish his thought. “Oberon has too much riding on this. Whether Auril knows and refuses to do anything, or doesn’t know at all – I don’t know which prospect is less… troubling.”

“Lots of strings are being pulled,” Arkadia says, fire casting deep shadows on his hands. “Something will snap if this keeps up.”

“Let’s hope it’s Cyric’s strings snapping,” Sunset snorts, and rests his cheek on the swell of Arkadia’s collar. “I still don’t understand how a madman and a liar inspires loyalty like that.”

“Zealotry,” Arkadia corrects. “People will believe in anything if it’s a means to their end. You know this.” Sunset feels a shift as Arkadia moves, and then the brief, oddly cool press of lips against his fire-soaked forehead.

“An entire clergy is predicated on a lot more than a means to an end,” Sunset retorts, tipping his head up, and he briefly lets his eyes close. Arkadia sighs.

“All we can do is stop it from spreading,” he says. “Should have done something earlier.”

“Anyone could have done something earlier,” Sunset replies, anger curling in his gut. “This isn’t on us. Anyone could have done something. Ao himself could have refused to apotheosize that stinking rat of a man.”

Distantly, thunder rumbles. The sound rattles as it echoes through the clear night air, through the earth, through the spaces between Sunset’s ribs.

He scowls.

“If we’d killed Lux when we had the chance, someone else would have taken her place,” Sunset continues. Arkadia loops his arm under Sunset’s and nudges him closer, hand pressing briefly against his heart. “If we’d known Den Arnerym and his company were going to bring all this about when they joined the Zhents, Cyric would have found someone else to twist to his purposes. It’s always been bigger than us.”

“But not bigger than them,” Arkadia says, his signs slow and thoughtful, and Sunset thinks about the naivete of grieving, far-flung elves, of people seeking shelter, of people seeking home, of fortune-tellers and druids and sharp swordsfolk, of artificers, of fertile earth and fire.

“No,” Sunset replies, “not bigger than them.”