Chapter Text
Through sheer force of will, Barcus collected himself.
In a few frantic minutes he and Obelia were out the front door, him carrying the lantern for her as she — appalled by his lack of proper winter gear — insistently tugged her own thick knit cap over his bald head and naked ears.
“Won’t do to have you freezing anything off!” she fussed loudly enough for everyone to hear — to Barcus’s mild embarrassment — as they made their way down the icy front steps. She’d wrapped her scarf around her head to make up for her sacrificed hat, which left more of her own face exposed, though she seemed content with the exchange. As Barcus had expected, a small handful of the Ironhand gnomes had chosen to follow the material from the forge, and though he saw their eyes glance off of his face, they focused on Obelia for much longer, judging her warily.
It wasn’t exactly friendly, but at the very least it wasn’t outright aggressive.
Barcus and Obelia walked the slippery path to the gate, where Wyll and Rolan stood waiting patiently for them along with the curious little cluster of Ironhands: Laridda, Thulla, Nickels and Bumpnagel. Wyll and Barcus merely exchanged a polite nod, but Rolan offered a bit of a simpering look as he carefully opened the gate for them.
“Pleasant day for a stroll through the city, no?” he asked sarcastically, Barcus assumed by awkward way of reintroduction. He did recognize Rolan at the sight of him, of course, but only partially, and he was certain it must have shown on his face. He wasn’t sure what he could say that might be appropriately polite, humble, and apologetic as Rolan deserved to hear, so he made himself busy with his own scarf instead. At the very least, Obelia offered Rolan an amused little laugh for his trouble.
As the gate closed behind them, though, she stopped to look at it warily. “Ah, damn…the snow must’ve been too heavy for it,” she said, and Barcus turned back in alarm: she was quite right, much to his upset. The upper hinge had finally broken, leaving the leaf hanging limp and crooked even while latched shut. But there was no time to fret over his broken gate. It would have to be addressed much later. He waved his hand at it in dismissal.
“The work never ends,” he muttered. “Not a moment’s peace around here.”
Wyll’s group made a considerable band of snowfarers, with Obelia and Barcus among them. The eight of them were all bundled from toe to ear-tip in thick wool felts and quilted layers to keep the bitter frost out. Blessedly for Barcus, once they departed his front lawn this meant that no one would be particularly inclined to speak while outside in the thick of it, though he was certain he still sensed the Ironhands’ eyes resting heavily on Obelia’s face as they prepared to make their way down the street. Surely, he thought, they would have questions for him about her when they all arrived at the High House.
But that was fine. He could placate them, he was confident.
The parts they were ferrying were all blanket-wrapped and strapped to the bed of a long, flat skid, which Wyll was leading unceremoniously by a rope. He looked a bit cute, Barcus thought fondly, almost like a child making his way out in search of a pristine hill to ride down, but really it was likely the smartest way to transport them from Rivington to the Upper City in weather like this. And Obelia’s lantern…there was a second similar device strapped to the back of the skid, already giving off some subdued heat to keep the party a bit more comfortable, but Barcus admittedly stared for a good moment when he saw the one Obelia held spark to life in the street. It glowed with bright fuchsia heat as Obelia commanded it; not so much the whipping, wild warmth of a growing fire, but rather like the radiant glow of a single burning ember, magnified by a thousandfold. It melted the snow all around them and warmed their party, but did not burn them.
Barcus noted that even the wizard seemed impressed — and he had already seen it once before! And, well. With Zanner absent and unable to offer his fatherly adoration, Barcus naturally swelled with pride in his stead. Obelia was an incredibly smart young woman, wasn’t she? Impeccably clever, to have made such a thing. And of course she was. She was her father’s daughter, after all, a Toobin through and through. And Barcus had the honor of working alongside her…of calling her his friend!
There wasn’t enough time to bask in the true satisfaction of it all. After only a quick moment, Wyll nodded to the gnomes at his back, then to Rolan, who turned readily to his task of casting controlled waves of fire out into the street in front of them. This cut through the bulk of the snowfall and made it possible for the gnomes to traverse the street in his wake, as Obelia walked alongside Wyll with her more powerful lantern and melted away even more of the slush and ice. Barcus resisted the urge to stay at Obelia’s side the whole way up to the Upper City, instead falling back beside Laridda and Nickels, who had taken up the rear of their little caravan. Bumpnagel and Thulla walked on either side of the transport, keeping the skid moving steady and straight, and it was a bit funny to think of the Baldurians peering out their kitchen windows to see a bunch of tightly bundled gnomes protecting a transport of goods through the snow as a tiefling wizard cast his fire out in front of them and paved their way. Not the oddest thing to traverse the streets of Baldur’s Gate, of course, but strange nonetheless.
Barcus’s home was not particularly far from the Upper City, but it was a rather tricky walk uphill in the heavy snow, and very quickly Barcus could tell that despite measures to keep them as comfortable as possible, the Ironhands were already beyond restless from the cold. Being folks of the Underdark did not make them naturally inclined to enjoy the winter, unfortunately…there was a distinct difference between the cool darkness and damp stone of a fine grotto and the bitter harshness of the surface’s thick winter snow and icy winds. Laridda nudged Barcus gently as they passed over the last stretch of bridge into the upper district, pulling her wet scarf down to speak quickly into his ear.
“I dunno if we’ll make it all the way back to Rivington on our own after this, Boss,” she said hoarsely. “Bump’s knee’s been acting up, and Nickels got a faceful of steel turnings the other day and is still having a hard time seeing right outta one eye, even after we patched him up.” She gestured to Bumpnagel, who had in fact been limping awkwardly for the greater part of their journey, and to Nickels beside them, who had his eyes shut tight against the freezing wind and was navigating purely by holding onto the skid for guidance. Barcus nodded, meeting Laridda’s glance knowingly; he said nothing at the moment, but she seemed content that he understood what she was asking.
And he did, in truth. On the most pleasant of days, at least for small-statured folk, it was a long two to three hours’ walk round trip from Rivington to the High House, then all the way back again. On a day like this, with snowdrifts taller than the Ironhands themselves, it was a full treacherous day’s journey by any means. Without—and perhaps even with—Wyll and Rolan to guide them, they would need a place to weather the storm and likely medical attention before making the journey back to the forge.
Through his coat, Barcus idly felt his breastbone, where Wulbren’s medallion lay snugly bundled against him. It would be no matter at all for a strong and competent leader to find shelter for his men. Though not at the House of Wonders itself, Barcus thought uncomfortably. Apart from simply not wanting to stay there, the Ironhands would never be accepted there as guests, what with the High Artificer still being so wary to trust them. It was simply a matter of it being too soon to press their luck, though, Barcus told himself. Nerves from the fallout of the Steel Watch were tense and hot as ever.
Still, he had to fight to suppress the vicious doubts that threatened to bubble up from deep inside him; the echoing jeers in Wulbren’s ghost-voice that of course the Gondians wouldn’t offer us anything! They’d sooner see the Ironhands freeze and starve in the streets!
Yes, of course. Of course they would, at this point, Barcus pushed back, feeling his gut sink further into his body as the High House’s grand white columns and sculpted bronze doors came into view through the storm. What you tried to do to them was absolutely appalling. Ghastly. To misplace your hatred so egregiously, and to threaten the lives of helpless hostages…it’s a blessed miracle that they withhold from protesting about us remaining in this city, let alone that any of them speak to us.
He could almost see Wulbren folding his arms and looking down his nose, violet eyes narrowed in disgust. You’re still licking their boots like the sad little brown-noser you are, Barcus. You have no integrity or shame where you ought to. It’s little wonder they deign to speak to someone so pathetic…you pose no threat at all!
Barcus frowned. I don’t WANT to pose a threat. I want to see our factions at peace.
A coward’s excuse. Not a single Gondian shares that pitiful, idiotic sentiment, you know. It doesn’t serve them.
Barcus sighed. I won’t hear that nonsense, I’ve already made clear. You’re wrong about Obelia and Zanner. They’re fine people with good hearts. And if they are, I’m certain the majority of their fellows are, as well.
What a sad little joke! If you weren’t so pathetic, you might’ve made me laugh.
Well, you may have forgotten it, but I still recall that I used to be quite good at that.
Then there was silence, blessedly, at the very least between Barcus’s ears. The eight of them had come upon the High House of Wonders at last, its massive entrance stretching up and out before them, and Rolan curbed his fire-casting to help Obelia up the first several steps of the grand front stairway. She held her lantern tightly, peering at the stone as the snow melted and sloughed away, and finally she looked to the Ironhands.
“Here, take it slowly, but the ice should be manageable from here,” she said, gesturing up the steps. “Just watch your feet on the landing. Then Wyll, you and I can pull the skid from the front, and Rolan and Barcus will push from the back. Once we’re at the landing, we’ll have more hands to help pull.”
“Straight through the front?” Bumpnagel panted, wary. “Would be much easier to unload at ground level…we can’t deliver at the loading dock? Is the gate froze up?”
Obelia hesitated. “I wouldn’t be able to take you all inside the building if we went that way,” she said apologetically. “Through the front, you’ll have a few moments to rest and catch your breath from the storm before the Seekers start making a fuss.”
Bumpnagel opened his mouth again for a moment, but then he glanced at Nickels — who was still squinting and in obvious pain from the cold — and he seemed to think better of arguing.
“Come on, then,” Barcus urged, waving his hands to usher Bump and the others toward the steps. “You all get up first, then we’ll follow with the cargo.”
Obelia was a natural leader, Barcus thought, again feeling a pang of pride in Zanner’s stead. Level-headed, logical, quick to see the strengths of the people she was working with, and — perhaps most importantly — empathetic. Getting the skid up the long stairs seemed daunting at first, but in no time the Ironhands had made their way safely up to the wide landing, and like clockwork Wyll and Rolan followed, with Obelia and Barcus supporting. The quiet ease of their efforts made Barcus want to say something about it — it reminded him of how loud the Ironhands’ workshop would get only a year ago, with Wulbren shouting and criticizing every little thing gone awry as if it were some purposeful slight against him and his mission — but when he glanced at Bumpnagel and Laridda, he saw in their faces that they had inadvertently been reminded of the very same thing. They looked at Obelia in wide-eyed bewilderment as she paused to shake the hand of each of the Ironhands, thanking them for their assistance with the cargo’s safe delivery.
“And Masters Wyll and Rolan, of course!” she added, smiling brightly at the two of them as she ushered their entire group toward the temple’s massive metal doors. “We wouldn’t be here without a single one of us. Much obliged for your cooperation, everyone.”
Barcus had not been to visit the High House of Wonders in many, many years, but he hadn’t forgotten its majesty. It was a gorgeous building, one that lived up to its name even from the outside, with all the white marble columns and artfully sculpted reliefs that flanked the entrance, but the doors themselves were a magnificent centerpiece. Forty feet high and made of thick, hollow bronze, they were more like freestanding bells than doors to the naked eye. And they functioned as such, Barcus recalled. To mark the top of each daytime hour they would make their low, resonant music, their insides vibrating with the sounds of motion, massive chains dragging chimes and clappers over the inner walls of the slabs. Their faces were carved with intricate decorative holes that exposed parts of the elaborate pulley-leads and weights within them, only offering a glimpse at the complex mechanism that let them sing so hauntingly.
Standing before them like this, the doors seemed to float above the landing, and Barcus and the Ironhands all peered up at them in unabashed awe.
“Spectacular,” Rolan said softly at their backs. “I’ve not been so close before.”
“It’s no small miracle that the temple survived the attack on the city,” Wyll replied. He said something else after, but Barcus couldn’t quite hear him as Obelia stepped up to the cleft between the frosted bronze door-slabs and took a long, braided rope from within it; she pulled it with all her might, and the great doors clanged and hummed, the winding and unwinding dance of weighted bell-chains creating a sound inside the metal like the song of thousands of insects.
Seconds later, a haughty voice resonated through the slabs, stifling the wistful ringing of the doors.
“Um. No solicitors,” the voice said curtly. Then, the owner of the voice seemed to reconsider her answer. “…The House and Museum are closed to the public until the storm has passed. By order of the, um. Board of Artificers.” She paused again. Barcus and Wyll exchanged a look. “…His disciples rest, in His name. Blessed be the Holy Maker of All Things.”
Obelia leaned close to the gap between the doors again, and she whistled three notes sharply into it; her whistling echoed through the doors the way the sentry’s voice had. As the sound dwindled, the sentry spoke again.
“You are recognized, disciple Toobin. Uh. Speak, child of Gond.”
“Marsella, it’s Obelia,” Obelia said. “Open the doors, please. I have Wyll Ravengard, Master Rolan of Ramazith’s Tower, and Barcus Wroot of Clan Ironhand with me, as well as several of Barcus’s fellows and the material the lab is expecting.”
The resonance of Obelia’s voice faded away. The woman behind the doors considered this information carefully before she responded again. “Well. Um. Yes. You, Master Ravengard and the wizard are allowed inside. But I’m not supposed to let the others in,” she said slowly. “You know I’m not.”
“I’ll take the chastisement from the Seekers on your behalf,” Obelia argued, and the Ironhands shifted uncomfortably near Barcus. “It’ll only be a minute, and I won’t leave them alone. Open the doors, now.”
Another long, uneasy pause settled in, but Obelia did not turn back from the doors, and at long last the woman gave in; one of the massive slabs swung gently open, just wide enough to let the eight of them inside.
The vestibule of the temple was deafeningly quiet once the bell-door had shuddered back into place. The white marble of the outside structure continued inside, through columns that framed the walls and tiles laid cleanly out to form the floor. There was color inside, though — a plush crimson rug spanned the marble from the threshold to the wide oaken desk that the sentry, Marsella, scrambled to hide herself behind, and the walls of the room were decorated with vibrant glass-tile murals of Gond himself. Blessedly, there was also a wide hearth to one side of Marsella’s station, as well as a few short-legged chairs, which Obelia gestured to for the Ironhands’ sake; Thulla, Nickels, Laridda and Bumpnagel did not wait to be offered again before they rushed to sit before the fire and warm themselves.
The pale Marsella — who from what Barcus could tell was a young halfling woman with a shock of spiky red-blonde hair — peered distrustfully around her desk, her icy blue eyes flickering over Wyll, Rolan, Obelia and Barcus before settling unhappily on the fireside Ironhands. Obelia pulled her scarf down and frowned at her.
“Have you seen my father since I left this morning? He and I need to inventory this material and get it down to the lab—”
“No,” Marsella interrupted, and she sounded very exasperated. “Seeker Arlowe asked that he be told immediately when you returned, Obelia. So, um. He needs to be informed.”
“Oh. Well…” Obelia glanced at her companions. “Just make yourselves comfortable in the foyer, then,” she said gently. “I’ll run and fetch Seeker Arlowe, and my father—”
“Um. But I’m really not comfortable keeping an eye on your guests, Obelia,” Marsella complained. “Again…Seeker also said we shouldn’t be letting outsiders in during the storm. So you should all stay here until he arrives.”
Obelia met her eyes in annoyance. She clenched her teeth, and for half a second Barcus saw her face darken with agitation — maybe even real anger. “Yes, Marsella, I recall him saying that. But we aren’t having them inside to visit, yeah? They’re here on business. It’s important that we follow procedure.”
Marsella sized Barcus up. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, uncomfortable. “Just, um. Just wait,” she finally said. “I’m going to call for the Seeker first.”
“Well…fine,” Obelia said tersely, stuffing her gloves into her coat pocket. “But send for my father after. He’s expecting to see Barcus.”
“ He’s not supposed to have visitors, either,” Marsella muttered as she settled herself back behind her desk. “No one is.”
Obelia’s expression tightened. “Barcus isn’t visiting, like I said. He’s here in a professional capacity.”
Marsella did not look convinced, nor did she look any less annoyed. Wyll tried his luck instead, stepping forward with a winning smile on his lips.
“We’ll be gone before long,” he offered. “And we greatly appreciate your help.”
She didn’t even acknowledge him, clearly not swayed by his charms, and after an awkward silence Wyll wilted quietly in defeat.
The eight of them unbuttoned themselves to the point of comfort, unsure what else to say. With eyes downcast to her work station, Marsella seemed to press a series of buttons that none of them could see, her untrusting gaze boring into them all in turn once more once she’d finished. “…Better if you sit and wait for the Seeker,” she said curtly. “He’ll be out shortly.”
“And my father?” Obelia urged, her back teeth tight. Marsella blinked lazily at her.
“He’ll have to do something with this delivery. After he’s finished, they all need to leave.”
“We can hear you, y’old stick-in-arse,” Thulla grumbled from beside the hearth. “We’re just warming our sorry selves up.” Laridda nudged her meaningfully, shaking her head, but Thulla didn’t care to apologize. Barcus wasn’t about to ask her to, either, though it hardly mattered: Marsella seemed to pay Thulla no heed at all.
With nothing to do but wait, Obelia sighed as she went to join the Ironhands by the fire, and for a few seconds Barcus watched her like a hawk. She smiled warmly and spoke in a low voice to each of them, so gently that Barcus couldn’t hear her even from only a few strides away, and again she shook each of their hands in turn, introducing herself to them properly. Seeing her treat them all with such respect had Barcus’s heart stirring with pangs of pride and affection yet again, and for half a moment he had a great urge to puff out his chest and strut over there to sing her praises properly, so his compeers could know how talented and incredible she really was. Thankfully, that urge was muffled by an appropriate balance of guilt and embarrassment; it wasn’t his place to put her on a pedestal like that, after all. She wasn’t his daughter.
Wyll laid his hand gently upon Barcus’s shoulder, which nearly sent him leaping out of his boots. It was far too easy to disregard what was going on above his own head sometimes; in such a brief moment, he’d completely forgotten Wyll and Rolan were still there.
“It’s a long walk back to Rivington, but a brief stroll through the Temples,” Wyll said quietly, and Barcus looked up at him in abrupt remembrance of his obligation to find shelter for the Ironhands. “I’ve already invited Rolan to make use of the guest quarters at the Ravengard estate, and we’ve hot food, good wine, and plenty of beds at the Ironhands’ disposal as well until the snow clears out. Even if they were in twice as good shape, in good conscience I wouldn’t dare send them back out into that bedlam to make the journey back to Angleiron’s.”
Barcus opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came out. Wyll did not stare at him as a lesser man might have; rather after a moment he simply patted Barcus’s shoulder again as if his mind was already set, and that was the end of it entirely. He smiled and nodded when Barcus made eye contact with him, and Barcus shut his mouth, then opened it again only to mutter a soft “thank you”.
He’d only just remembered and removed Obelia’s hat from his head when the doors to the inner temple opened at last, letting three men into the vestibule: two taller and one smaller, the latter stumbling behind the former. The larger men, a human and a half-elf, both wore what Barcus recognized as the traditional yellow vestments of Gondian clergy, while the shorter bore a scruffy beard and seemed to have an odd series of scars over his—
“Dad!” Obelia said, springing up from beside the hearth. Barcus looked on, puzzled for half a moment before he realized that in fact this was Zanner. No blindfold or goggles, beard grown half-out, hair falling in his face.
It was like seeing him naked. His eyes, Barcus saw only for a moment, were in fact completely gone, with pale and jagged scars left thick over both sunken sockets, warping what was left of his eyelids into the rest of his face as if he’d never had eyes at all. Obelia rushed to him, reaching out with her scarf in hand, blocking the others’ view of his bare face. Barcus heard her whisper his own name, and at the sound of discomfort Zanner made he turned abruptly away to stare at the carpet in embarrassment.
The snow had been falling for almost three days now, hadn’t it? What a difference that time made. Because of course, of course this was Zanner. He bore that time on his face, short stubble growing in over his cheeks and chin and upper lip as handsome, disheveled whiskers. In his restlessness, having no work to focus on as they awaited the completion of the final smithwork, he must have been distracted while he and Obelia prepared to relocate to the High House and left his shaving kit at home by accident. It made sense. Such things happened, even to the most cautious of men.
And yes, Zanner’s eyes were in a shocking state. But Barcus hadn’t been staring at that. His gaze had caught instead on the beginnings of that beard like flies in honey. Heat rose through his neck and into his face as he bore humiliated holes in the carpet with his eyes, unable to stop his own sharp, vivid thoughts about the pleasant coarseness of hair like that, and how it might feel rubbing against his own skin…beneath his palms, over his neck…
Down between his thighs.
Oh, gods.
For the first time in a long, long time, arousal rushed just under his skin in a slow, hot wave, and Barcus thought he might die on the spot.
Gods, GODS—!!!
He put his hand over his heart in a desperate bid to ground himself, grasping the lump that Wulbren’s cold medallion made against his chest. His heartbeat pounded through the metal. He forced himself to calm.
Marsella slunk from behind her desk, curtsying at the two clergymen. “Seeker Arlowe…Wonderer Orvys,” she named them, and they nodded at her briefly in recognition. The human man, Arlowe — a rotund, dark-skinned man with close-cut hair and a dense, finely sculpted beard — turned his attention then to Obelia, who had lowered her scarf from Zanner’s now blindfolded face. She fumbled a bow in his direction.
“Seeker,” she said reverently. “You wished to speak to me?”
“I did,” he replied. He did not look at the Ironhands, who had all turned to stare at him in nervous silence. “You were told not to leave the grounds before it was safe, child. I understand you disobeyed the Artificer’s instructions?”
“I asked her to assist me,” Wyll spoke up. “The Artificer is aware of the initiative’s timeline, and we were eager to—”
“—And I see you took private technology with you out of the laboratory,” Arlowe continued, completely disregarding Wyll without so much as a wave of his hand. “I know you weren’t given permission to show it. Especially not to followers of Gaerdal Ironhand.”
Proprietary Gondian technology. The lanterns, Barcus realized, his thoughts finally cooled down enough to recognize the tension of the situation. Obelia was making herself smaller, though she looked up into the face of the Seeker with firm conviction.
“I was not,” she said. “But the situation called for it, sir. I reasoned that an exception could be made so long as we didn’t discuss its make.”
“It was not your place to reason. Not in this case.”
The other clergyman, the Wonderer, had spoken. He was a half-drow man, tall and slender with long, pale hair. His skin was a cool slate grey, but what struck Barcus unexpectedly was the color of his eyes: beneath his white-blonde lashes, his eyes were deep, cold amethysts. He watched Obelia intensely as she looked to him instead, hands now clasped together before her.
“I can assure you both I meant no harm,” she said. “My sole intention was to deliver the Ironhands’ material to the laboratory so we might begin the next stages of our work according to schedule.”
“I asked her to go in my stead,” Zanner spoke up, standing as tall as he could. “I would have gone myself, were the storm less severe.”
“Your complicity will be addressed later, Brother,” Seeker Arlowe said sternly. “The Wonderer and I need to have a more thorough discussion with your daughter about her indiscretion.”
“See these outsiders on their way,” Orvys said icily. “The High House is not a shelter for Maker-scorning vagrants.”
Laridda, at the front of the cluster of fireside gnomes, clenched her fist and opened her mouth to speak, and Barcus saw her lean forward with intent. He stepped forward instead, his hand still pressed to the medallion on his chest. “We’ll depart once we’ve cleared this delivery,” he said loudly, and every person in the room turned toward him in surprise. “I won’t have anyone saying the Ironhands didn’t fulfill our obligation. Can you authorize Marsella here to validate the bill of lading?”
A frigid moment passed, though at last the Seeker nodded in agreement. “Very well,” he said gruffly. “Marsella, check it thrice. Obelia, come now.”
“Yes, Seeker,” Obelia said quietly, and she glanced meaningfully at Barcus as she was guided deeper into the temple by the billowing sleeves of the Seeker and Wonderer.
Barcus fought the urge to chase her as the door shut in their wake. “Is it…is she alright? She’s not going to be punished…?”
“She’ll be fine,” Zanner said quietly. “She knew to expect unrest when she returned. They didn’t want us to go out in the storm, but…well. You know how charming Wyll can be.”
He touched Barcus’s arm. Barcus looked to him, and the world narrowed softly to Zanner; his face, his hands, his smile.
“And speaking of charming…Barcus Wroot. Aren’t you a tough one, springing out of the snow as fresh-faced as a winter turnip?” Zanner said with a grin, and Barcus went bright purple from his nose to his ears. “Thank you and the Ironhands for all the trouble you’ve gone through to come here. I know it must’ve been arduous.”
“No trouble,” Barcus muttered sheepishly. “Never any trouble. It needed to be done.”
“Wyll and Rolan’s efforts are much appreciated as well, of course,” Zanner said, “though I think I might exhaust them if I thanked them even one more time today. Now…forgive my brevity, but could one of your fellows review the delivery with Marsella? I’m afraid I need to steal a moment of your time, ah…a bit more privately.”
Barcus’s heart leapt and danced inside him. He didn’t even look to see if anyone was staring before he nodded. “Laridda, Bumpnagel, one of you take care of it,” he called, his voice cracking with shameless excitement as Zanner took him by the hand.
Incredibly, for the first time that Barcus could remember, he didn’t hear Bumpnagel protest at all.
Zanner took him swiftly out of the vestibule into the side hall just beyond it; a long stretch of white marble with tall windows along the front of the building and small nooks outfitted with seats and tables built into the opposing wall. They didn’t travel far, and Barcus was glad for it, as his heart was already pounding at how surely Zanner clutched his hand. Only a few alcoves past the first, and Zanner gently pulled him inside; the torches in this one weren’t lit, but that was perfectly fine by Barcus. The dim light felt cozy. Intimate.
Away from everyone else at long last, he let himself look at Zanner again. That rugged little beard made him look like half of a different man, but the line of that jaw was still distinctly his, and that crooked smile besides. It was flustering. Had he been faced with the Zanner he’d expected, maybe Barcus could have spoken up as he’d planned to. As it was, his eyes followed the dips of his blindfold, distracted by thoughts of the full face he’d seen before.
Zanner patted his hand, startling him.
“I apologize for rushing you out of there,” he said quietly. “Marsella won’t give us much time to ourselves, I’m afraid. Better to step out for a minute while she’s occupied, and I didn’t want to have this conversation in the snow.”
“Oh, no. I understand,” Barcus said. Truthfully he only half-understood, as he couldn’t imagine what conversation Zanner meant, but he couldn’t have chosen a more comfortable spot to talk than this.
“Just…quickly, I wanted to…” Zanner began patting his pockets, searching until he found what he was looking for and he fished to get it out. “I’ve made you a gift. I hope you’ll accept it as a small token of my appreciation.”
“Oh!” Barcus blinked in surprise. “I wasn’t expecting anything right…not this minute, I thought you—?”
“Please.” Zanner held his hands out in offering, something wrapped in plain linen in his grasp. “I’d meant to wait until we were back to work, but having you here, now…it would make me incredibly happy to know you have it.”
Barcus looked at him, taken aback. Obelia had mentioned this, yes, but the way Zanner’s voice had dropped felt much more serious than he’d expected it would be. “Of course,” he said quietly, careful as he accepted the parcel. “This is very kind of you.”
“Obelia helped me a great deal,” Zanner clarified, still holding out one nervous hand. “I only hope it isn’t too ostentatious. I wanted…” He trailed off strangely, and Barcus glanced back up at him, wide-eyed. “Well…I suppose what I wanted most of all was to express my gratitude. I know I’ve said it countless times already, but truthfully it never quite feels like enough. It just seemed prudent to offer you something a bit more permanent.”
“Your gratitude? Well, I must admit…I’m touched,” Barcus said softly, hands beginning to unfold the linen. “I’ve not once felt that you didn’t appreciate me, you know. I suppose now I’ll simply never forget it.”
“I hope you won’t,” Zanner replied, gently withdrawing his hesitant hand.
Barcus stared at what he’d unwrapped.
It was a pocket watch, perfectly sized to sit in the palm of his hand. The front of the case was dark brushed silver, an emblem of a sturdy four-spoked gear interwoven with flowering vines etched painstakingly into the metal; the timepiece itself had thin numerals cut out from its mother of pearl face to reveal an enticing peek at the intricate mechanism inside. It was a sturdy little piece of work, hefty in Barcus’s hand, and he could feel the clockwork ticking busily away inside it like the heart of a hummingbird. He held it close to his face for a good long while, taken with it, studying the precise details of the case’s design more carefully, and it was only on his third look that he noticed his own initials in delicate, silver-on-silver filigree within the wheel of the engraved gear.
B.W., the wheel proclaimed, and filling out the remainder:
REASON — CREATIVITY — INVENTION
“Zanner…!” he finally breathed, still marveling. “Good…blessed gods, I’m at a loss…!”
“Then, do you like it?” Zanner asked, earnest, and Barcus looked up at him. How gentle he looked. How fragile. Every ounce of him visibly longing, needing to hear he’d done well. It was deeply familiar in a way that made Barcus ache.
“This is…Zanner, it’s gorgeous,” he said, turning the watch over in his hands. The back of the case was smooth and untouched, save the groove where the backing fit into the frame. The gear train ticked happily away just past it. “I haven’t enough words, I fear. I…th-thank you, for one.”
“You’re quite welcome, dear Barcus,” Zanner replied. “I’m very glad it’s to your liking.”
In that moment, Barcus was quite sure that Zanner could have gifted him half of a tin buckle off a tattered old boot and it would have been to his liking, but that only made the deep thoughtfulness of his gift all the more remarkable. Warmth rushed through Barcus’s whole body with greater and greater strength the longer he looked at the watch, and even when he closed his hand around it and tucked it gently into the inner pocket of his coat.
Zanner had to know just as well as Barcus did what this sort of thing meant. Different though rock and deep gnomes could be, presenting a handmade gift of jewelry or precious metalwork of any kind was a very particular statement for a gnome to make about his feelings for a friend. And for said gift to be engraved with a name or initials, well…that was a bit more old fashioned of a remark, but quite a bold one nonetheless, further emphasizing the intimacy of the gift-giver’s affection for the recipient. It was a way to show the utmost loyalty and trust. Wulbren had very much liked the medallion Barcus had made for him, once upon a time. Hadn’t he? And he’d known what Barcus had meant by it, though Barcus’s quiet declaration of affection had wound up bearing no fruit at all. In his own lifetime, Barcus had only wistfully dreamed about being given something half as sentimental. This gorgeous thing…he put his palm over it, feeling its sturdy ticking through his coat. This was full of adoration, wasn’t it? It was made of all of Zanner’s gentlest thoughts about him.
Barcus tried to find the right words to describe how that made him feel, but he couldn’t. Still, still , even with the truth sitting in his own pocket, a dark hand seemed to reach out from behind his heart to grip his throat tight from the inside, keeping him from asking what he wanted to ask.
Is this truly what you mean…? Do you feel the way this tells me you do? Or…or am I simply imagining it, like I imagine all wonderful things in my life?
“I wish I could offer you something a bit more profound than a simple thank you, in return,” Barcus said weakly, and Zanner just smiled at him. “I’ve never…no one’s ever given me a gift like this, Zanner. I hope I’m not disappointing you with my response to it. It’s…I adore it, sincerely.”
Zanner didn’t seem troubled at all. He leaned forward. “Will you think of me when you make use of it?”
“I…o-of course I will!” Barcus said, confused. “And even when I remember it in my pocket! Hells, likely any time I hear a clock chime the hour, from now on.”
“Then I’m pleased,” Zanner declared, and for a moment his smile became a broad grin, though then it dropped slowly into an apologetic grimace. “…I know it must still seem a bit unusual to you, but I think I’ve become steadily more comfortable with my own preoccupation, the more we’ve gotten to know one another. Of course, I can’t deny it’s…only becoming more obvious.”
“Obvious?” Barcus asked, watching him carefully. “Perhaps not. I can’t say I know what you mean.”
Zanner bowed his head slightly, almost as if he were embarrassed. “Ah, well. To others, I mean, I’ve been told it’s plain as day how I…” he hesitated. Color came into his cheeks, his ears. “…I think of you always, Barcus. And I must admit that ever since we properly met it’s been second nature to me, keeping your insight, your feelings, your interests at the forefront of my mind, shaping my own every thought and consideration. I believe it’s been for the better. But some think…perhaps it’s unseemly, to feel so—” He cut himself off. Hesitated again. He cleared his throat. “…At any rate, I’m very glad to know that I’ll be on your mind.”
Barcus’s ears went hot, too. This man…what a thing to say!
But it isn’t the first time he’s said something so comfortable. He means it, doesn’t he? And his face…!
Swallowing as much of his rising nerves as he could, Barcus picked distractedly at a string on the lining of his coat. “Zanner…I don’t need a reminder to make me think of you,” he said cautiously. “I don’t believe a single day has passed in the last month or more that I didn’t spend wondering about you.” His fingers made a soft, dull scratching against the fabric of his coat. Without warning, Zanner reached out to touch his anxious hand, and against all sense of self-preservation, Barcus turned his wrist to touch him back.
He slipped his fingers neatly between Zanner’s to grasp him palm to palm, and all at once he was close enough to feel the tremor in Zanner’s hand…and how it seemed to steady just slightly against him. Zanner hesitated; his breath seemed caught in his throat for a moment. Then he gave Barcus’s hand a curious squeeze, and Barcus felt his heart jump against his ribs.
Zanner let out a weak little laugh. Nervous, happy, surprised. Barcus wanted to bottle the sound of that laugh, right along with the feeling that washed over him like daybreak in its wake.
That feeling…Barcus knew it well. He recognized it right away. He’d felt it for a good many decades after all, in wild bursts and dull, aching murmurs, every time he’d spared a thought or made a mistake or shed a tear for Wulbren Bongle. A shiver jolted down his spine, and he tried to swallow more of his swelling nerves. His heart was beginning to race.
Zanner…
It was nice and private in this little corner of the front hall, he thought idly. Nice and dark and private.
“Barcus,” Zanner finally said, easing a cautious half-inch closer. “I’m very glad you’re here. I’ve wanted to ask you something, if I could.” He stroked the back of Barcus’s thumb with his own. “Just…a small personal favor.”
“Yes…anything,” Barcus replied, his heart now pounding so loudly he was sure Zanner must have heard it through his ribs. “Ask me anything, Zanner.”
Zanner smiled at him, gentle as ever. His fingers felt good against the back of Barcus’s hand, rough and soft all at once; the worn, strong hands of a craftsman. He pressed just a little closer still, and Barcus leaned back against the wall, breathless. Zanner’s other hand had found Barcus’s arm, fingertips considering the thick wool felt of his coat sleeve, following it up to his shoulder.
“Forgive me if this is too forward,” Zanner said, and Barcus strained not to shiver again. “We’ve known each other a good while now, I think, and…it seems a little silly that it’s never come up more naturally, but I wanted to ask…”
“Yes…?” Barcus breathed. Zanner’s hand was now flat on his chest, just beneath his collarbone. He had to be able to feel Barcus’s heart thundering just past his ribcage. At the very least, surely he felt the hand now shaking in his grasp.
“Could I please…could I touch your face?” Zanner asked, barely above a whisper. This was something private. A secret, just for Barcus. “I don’t know if I can quite explain how much I’ve wanted to see you.”
Barcus just looked at him for a moment, dumbstruck. “You…” he stammered, “you want to know…what I look like?”
“I do. Please.”
Barcus hesitated. He hadn’t considered before that Zanner didn’t know how he looked, but all at once the thought of him finding out seemed daunting. Perhaps it was the pressure of being in this secret little space. It felt like being asked to strip naked.
But again, he nodded. He couldn’t help himself. Then he flushed at his own mistake. “I…y-yes. Yes, you can touch me,” he croaked. “M-my face, I mean. By all means.”
Zanner’s mouth stretched into another pleased little smile. His hands rose quickly, eager, and Barcus tried to will the hot color out of his cheeks in time but he couldn’t. Zanner’s fingertips were cool against his burning skin, delicate with him as they traced the flat shapes of his ears, and try as he might, Barcus couldn’t keep himself from leaning subtly into that gentle touch.
But it was fine, wasn’t it? To enjoy being touched like this. To close his eyes into the feeling and not punish himself for his own enjoyment, no matter how flushed he was.
Besides…in the dim light, as he shut his eyes, Barcus thought that maybe Zanner looked a little flushed, too.
Zanner’s fingers ghosted over Barcus’s worried brow, his strong nose, the slope of his mouth. “…You’re nervous,” Zanner said, his voice still secret-soft. Barcus felt gooseflesh wash over his whole body. What irony, for a blind man to be so observant! “Should I stop?”
Barcus shook his head. Zanner could feel it against his hands, this time. “No,” he replied, though he felt painfully weak. “I’m just…not used to being touched like this. It can’t be helped.”
“Really?” Zanner’s touch crept slowly beneath his eyes. Cupped the corners of his jaw. “No one’s ever been gentle with you, Barcus…?”
“No. They haven’t.”
Zanner softened. He grazed the heels of his palms against the hollows of Barcus’s cheeks, fingers tracing the top of his throat. “…You deserve to be treated gently,” Zanner murmured. “You deserve tenderness.”
“I’m just…I can’t help but be nervous, because I’m terribly…alone, you know,” Barcus muttered, helpless, and Zanner’s mouth tightened. “Lonely, I mean. I’m terribly lonely. Gods, you know I am. I’ve told you before. And you—”
“I know…I know. But you needn’t be,” Zanner breathed. Barcus swallowed painfully. His throat felt swollen and arid. Zanner touched his brows again, his forehead, the drooping slope of his eyes.
“…Sorry,” Barcus grunted, ashamed. “I always seem to just…fall apart, these days.”
“I understand. I’m lonely, too,” Zanner said softly. “I know how it can hurt.”
Barcus couldn’t breathe.
Zanner’s thumbs brushed his mouth; more intimate than before, taking in every detail. He felt the shape of it from corner to corner, both of his lips in turn, the long divot in his skin just under his nose. Barcus’s heart leapt like it’d been shocked, giving a great lurch to and fro inside him, kicking madly at the cage of his ribs both chest- and back-ward.
He fought, oh, he fought so hard not to grasp Zanner’s wrists and kiss his thumbs, his palms, each fingertip in turn.
“But…thank you, for this. It hurts less, to be able to feel a little closer to you.” Zanner stroked his cheeks again, felt back over the shape of his jaw. Barcus let out a soft, shuddering breath, and Zanner felt that too. He must have. “I truly meant it, when I said I wanted to know you. I’m sorry if I’m slow about it. It seems so foolish now, to have been missing this part of you that everyone around me already knows. Maybe I was taking it for granted, too.”
…Gods, if only those sweet hands might wander further. Over buttons and ties, the seams of his shirt, the naked hollow of his throat. If only those broad palms might rest against his chest and feel his aching heart, might learn how his breath quickened and his body tensed with desire for more, more.
Know me, Zanner, Barcus wanted to beg. Know all of me.
But Barcus still couldn’t speak. His hands were shaking terribly by his sides. Zanner touched his cheek one last time, then just beneath his eye, feeling the lines long ago drawn into his face from frowning. He slipped down to Barcus’s chin, then softly pulled away.
“I wish you weren’t so afraid,” Zanner said, every word slow and firm. “But I’m glad to see you at last. You have a very kind face, and handsome, just as I thought. Worried, and a little worn, but perfectly inviting. It suits you.”
But Zanner looked suddenly uncertain, like he was afraid he’d accidentally overstepped a line. Maybe he had. Barcus wasn’t quite sure. His stomach was in knots, but it felt…good. He didn’t care that he was so weak. Not right now. His mouth was tingling with the memory of Zanner’s thumbs. He ran the tip of his tongue between his lips, corner to corner, the way he’d been touched.
And he couldn’t help himself. Wordlessly, Barcus reached out and took hold of Zanner’s hand again, lifting it back up to his face. He closed his eyes. He pressed his cheek into the cool, tan skin on the back of that hand, giving himself just a few more moments with that feeling.
And Zanner didn’t pull away. Not even a little bit.
“Barcus…” Zanner sighed, quiet as could be. But he didn’t sound angry, or disgusted. He stroked Barcus’s cheek again, somehow even gentler than before. “Gond, you know, I…I’ve thought…”
When Barcus opened his eyes again, Zanner still looked conflicted, lips pursed, breathing through his nose. He seemed unable to speak any more.
Wouldn’t it be so nice, Barcus thought dreamily…to run his fingers through Zanner’s soft, thick hair? To trace the rim of one pointed ear with his thumb, and watch the gooseflesh prickle on Zanner’s neck? It would feel so good, to be allowed close enough to catch the scent of his hair, his skin…to hear his quiet breaths shudder in excitement at every touch. To feel him shiver in pleasure when he was kissed.
Kissed!
It would have been easy, wouldn’t it? To lean forward, to catch those soft, full lips carefully with his own, to guide Zanner one final step forward until their bodies met. It would feel incredible. To wrap his arms around Zanner, to hold him, and to be held…to be touched, and kissed, and cared for after so, so long. To finally know something so wonderful, so precious, instead of just imagining it again and again and again.
You deserve to be treated gently.
You deserve tenderness.
But Barcus couldn’t. All at once he found he was frozen against the wall, trembling in something very near to pain. All at once, all he could think about was the horrible, disinterested sneer on Wulbren’s face when he’d tried to check on him at the Last Light Inn. The way he’d been swiftly rejected and humiliated when all he’d wanted was to make sure his beloved friend was safe at last; how that humiliation had been decades in the making.
The uncertainty on Zanner’s face was more than enough to stop him.
And worse; in the back of Barcus’s mind, again, was that disparaging voice.
And now what? What do you think will happen once you confess your sad little fantasies to him, you damned fool? Do you think he’ll accept your pathetic behavior as something other than laughable desperation?
Barcus stared longingly, desperately at Zanner’s face, searching it. There was adoration there, wasn’t there? Just as Obelia had said. Hope, and fear, and maybe…maybe a yearning just like his own.
You’re more blind than he is.
“Zanner,” Barcus said, and Zanner nodded slightly. “For my own sake, I have to ask you, are…are you really, truly being sincere?”
Zanner looked so sad. Almost afraid. “About what?”
“Everything. Every damn thing you say to me.”
And then, he looked hurt. Barcus tried not to lose his mettle. “…Why would I ever lie to you?” Zanner asked.
Barcus shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know, Zanner, but the things you say to me, and…and how you treat me, it just seems so—?”
“Do you dislike me? For acting this way?”
Whether it was the tone of his voice or the words themselves that struck him more, Barcus wasn’t sure, but he was stricken nonetheless. He sounds like…me. The way I used to plead with Wulbren.
Horrified, Barcus sputtered in reply. He stammered. “N-…no! Dislike you, I—?!”
“Then is it too much?” Zanner worried his lip with his teeth, and it was like being gutted. Gods, Barcus’s mind croaked. God…Gond. Gond, help me. You’ve done this. You’ve put this man in front of me. “I thought you…well, truly, I…I suppose I only hoped you might…”
He trailed off again. Barcus reached out, driven purely by impulse, and he took Zanner’s scruffy face in his hands.
“That I might what?” he pleaded. “That I might enjoy being told that someone wants to know me, and that I’m understood, and that I’m…I’m thought of? Cared for? Is that it?”
“Yes,” Zanner said weakly. “Yes, Barcus. That’s it.”
“That’s what you’ve wanted? All you’ve wanted?”
Color flooded into Zanner’s face. He shook his head into Barcus’s hands. “Not…not all.” His mouth trembled. “But I can’t help myself. I despise how lonely you are. And no matter how frequently I say it, I still feel I’m not doing enough to tell you what you’ve come to mean to me. In…” He swallowed, his breath trembling. “Th-the stark, naked truth of it is…I feel you’re the nearest thing I’ve had to a partner in decades. Often I find myself forgetting that you aren’t a part of our little family.”
He looked devastated. Distraught. Barcus could only stare at him, taken aback. “I don’t mean to impose. I don’t want you to feel put upon, I only…you deserve to be happy, after all you’ve done. I can’t stand the thought that you feel so undeserving of praise and admiration. I’ve never known another man like you, Barcus. I’ve never wanted to be close to another person in this way. It’s like…a fever, how often I wish I could hear your voice, and how intensely my hands itch to touch you. It’s terrible. I ache with it.”
Barcus let go of him, shocked. Zanner let out a frail breath. “I don’t want this to be a mistake,” he said. “How could it be? I’m happier than I’ve been in years, every moment we spend together. But if I need to pull myself back…if you need space, I understand. And if I’m a fool, and I’ve overstepped and upset you, I can—”
Barcus swept Zanner into his arms, and in a moment, honey-brown hair was plush against his face.
Zanner stiffened. He froze.
Then he thawed, and clung.
Barcus tried to keep himself still, but his body felt suddenly loose and free. When he pressed closer, his nose bumped Zanner’s ear, and the fragrance of his hair was a pleasant blend of sage, honey, and young lemongrass. He felt his hands moving of their own accord, arms rising to hold Zanner as if they’d embraced a thousand times before, and that sweet smell was intensely calming the more he breathed it in. He pressed their faces together, he sighed against Zanner’s neck as if he’d taken a deep drink. On Zanner’s left temple, just before his ear, Barcus caught a glimpse of a small, pale birthmark half-hidden beneath his blindfold, and it took every ounce of strength Barcus had not to plant a kiss on that spot.
Zanner nestled into him, and Barcus held him tight. He was so warm like this. So peaceful, it could have been spring.
Zanner — who was so strong, so confident, so sure — felt so delicate in Barcus’s arms. Smaller, softer, needful, sweet. His hands moved slowly over Barcus’s back, feeling the strength of his body like this, and Barcus burned hot, his eyes closed against that soft hair, arms aching with relief, all of him fighting off the urge to sob, to laugh, to pick Zanner up and kiss him a thousand times.
At last, he found the strength to speak again. “Gods, Zanner…of course I enjoy it,” he managed to say. “I’ve never known a man as kind, or as shamelessly tender as you. You make me feel more important and more worthy of respect than I’ve ever felt. And what…what I need from you…I don’t need space, or distance. I don’t want you to be lonely, either. I need—”
“A little decorum isn’t much to ask for in this holy House, gentlemen.”
Barcus and Zanner broke apart as if they’d been pulled from either side, turning abruptly to the opening of the alcove to face the half-drow Wonderer from before. He sneered at them in plain disgust, his violet eyes dark with revulsion that he didn’t care to mask. It wasn’t the first time a drow-kin had looked at him like that, but Barcus was a touch relieved that Zanner couldn’t see it. This was a man of his same faith, after all.
“Forgive me, sir,” Barcus tried. “Your fellow and I had some unfinished business that we—“
“It’s well past time for this man and his friends to leave, Zanner,” Orvys said, his voice like ice. “Come now. Back to the entrance with you.”
Zanner withered. “If we could have just…one more moment,” he pleaded. “I need to explain—”
“NOW.” Orvys took a step further into the alcove. “You ask far too much of this House,” he hissed. “You’ve flagrantly disobeyed orders from the High Artificer again and again. You’re putting all of us at risk, and it won’t be tolerated any longer. Is that clear?”
He moved closer. Threatening. Without a second thought, Barcus stepped in front of Zanner to put himself between them, and Orvys looked down at him furiously. His eyes were cut amethysts, gleaming like prize jewels.
“I have nothing to say to you, traitor.”
Barcus froze. He stared into those eyes for a long, tense moment, overcome somehow by a dread that he didn’t understand. His eyes were so cold. So angry.
So…
Zanner took Barcus carefully by the arm, urging him to move out of the alcove. Barcus did as he was asked, helping him dart past Orvys and back toward the vestibule.
The Wonderer did not follow.
