Chapter Text
Orpheus, Prince of the Comet, demigod leader of the rebellion against Vlaakith’s reign of terror, hope of his people… He holds a lot of important responsibilities these days. He doesn’t mind most of them, trained as he is to carry these burdens since the day he hatched.
It still gets a little too much, every now and then. Those centuries in the astral prism have left him easily overwhelmed, both in victory and in defeat. The cheers and the sobs both grind away at his peace, causing a throbbing migraine to settle behind his eyes.
His medic says it’s all this noise after the quiet of his prison, that all he needs is rest and time to acclimate himself to the sounds of the living. Maybe he should visit a crèche and stay for a while - youth are notoriously noisy during their free time, but quiet during their drills, limiting his exposure to loud noises and giving him an environment where he could easily order the kids to shut up for a while if it got too much.
It isn’t a horrible suggestion. It’s not until the medic has left and he’s alone with Voss again when he admits that the sound was never the problem to begin with.
“The silent ones are the worst,” Orpheus murmurs, massaging his temples. The medic’s awe of him (a low chime just on the edge of his hearing, easy enough to tune out) was slowly replaced with disappointment (a high pitched drone that kicked off a new wave of migraine every time it grew in intensity) the longer they worked together and Orpheus is starting to consider the benefits of reassigning the man before his thoughts could turn treacherous. “They project their grief louder than anyone else, in these heart-rending screams of agony.”
“It's alarming that you sense them so acutely. Your mental barriers are cracking again,” Voss tells him, laying a blessedly cool hand on Orpheus’ forehead. As someone who was born during the giths’ enslavement to the ghaik, Voss knew how to keep his psionic presence to himself, calm and quiet except for the familial love he always consciously projected towards Orpheus when they were alone, the hummed notes of a gentle lullaby. “Have you been doing your exercises?”
Orpheus sighs.
“I've been trying, but my duties rarely allow me the time and the exercises are not designed to be done alone.” It goes without saying that he has precious few gith who he trusts to assist him with them: Voss, who is often busy running his own operations and Lae’zel, who remained on Faerûn to oversee a new crèche near Baldur’s Gate. “I think when Omeluum prescribed me these exercises, it assumed you would stick to my side and guard my back indefinitely.”
It’s clear that the Society ghaik had no idea about gith society and their customs. Voss no doubt wanted to stay by Orpheus’ side, but if he gave in to this desire and stopped his own skirmishes then he would start rapidly losing standing in the eyes of their kin, something neither of them wanted.
“Visit Lae’zel for a time,” Voss suggests, giving voice to the thought on both their minds. “The medic said you should spend some time in a crèche. I will tell our kin that you are personally overseeing the training of our new elites.”
An easy, convenient excuse to spend some time away from the stress of their war and with a friend they both cherished. Really, the best possible thing he can do in this current situation, without a shadow of a doubt.
Which is why he doesn’t understand why he finds himself walking past the fork in the road that would take him to the crèche. His feet have a mind of their own and they are taking him straight to Baldur’s Gate. I should turn back, he thinks as the guards wave him through at the gate, recognizing him from the mural depicting the heroes of the fight against the Netherbrain. It’s a really good likeness of him, considering it was the painter’s first time painting gith. I have no reason to be here, this is silly, as he walks up the stairs leading to the Society of Brilliance.
I should have my brain checked for psionic influence, as the duergar receptionist peers down at him from her high chair behind the desk. “Could you repeat that, please? I was up all night reading a fascinating report on an emerging pidgin among kuo-toa, I was spacing out.”
“My name is Orpheus,” he repeats with infinite patience. The duergar really does look like she desperately needs some sleep. “A friend of Omeluum and Blurg. I’m looking for them.”
The duergar rubs her chin and peers at the water clock. “I’m sorry, you probably missed them. They are setting out for an expedition today an- hey, Grazilaxx!! ” She leans so far to the side to look past Orpheus that the prince is surprised she doesn’t fall out of her chair. “Can you check for me if Omeluum is still in the city? There’s a friend to visit it.”
“Of course, just a moment.”
Orpheus turns around to see a ghaik floating down the stairs, dressed in the Society’s uniform robes and levitating a book at eye level. It’s clearly from a different colony than either Omeluum or Balduran, its coloring much darker and its entire build far more willowy, almost skeletal in its thinness. When it lowers the book, Orpheus can see the jewelry on its tentacles, golden rings drawing attention to the slim tendrils and a golden cap on one that was severed around the halfway point. “They are still at the Adversary’s house. I told them to wait for you.”
“Thank you.” Orpheus nods slightly, slamming his mental barriers shut - or as shut as he can manage them right now - but the ghaik doesn’t seem interested in probing his mind beyond a cursory sweep. “Can you show me the way, please? I haven’t been back since the battle, I’m not sure where they live now.”
Thankfully, the ghaik has already lost interest and floated off towards the library, so it’s the duergar who pulls out a page from one of her many notebooks and scribbles him a map of the way to the mansion Ansur and Balduran share.
“Are you sure you will be alright on your own?” she asks when he’s about to set out, squinting against the harsh sunlight to take a better look at his face. “You look a little frazzled, if I’m absolutely honest.”
“I got this far on my own, haven’t I?” he asks drily, but musters a smile for her. “I’ll be fine. Thank you for the help.”
“Don’t mention it.”
What am I even doing here? Orpheus wonders when he waves her goodbye.
I swore I would never come back. Balduran’s new home is much nicer than the damp hideout under the Elfsong. A mansion surrounded by a tall, evergreen living wall spelled with so many privacy wards it makes his skin itch to even look at it for long. I swore I would never allow him anywhere near my mind ever again. As he climbs the stairs to the entrance, he catches a glimpse of lush gardens. He’s not sure if it’s a naturally blooming meadow or some kind of magic, but it looks… peaceful.
The door opens before he can even touch it. He looks at the drow on the other side of the door - extremely handsome, like he should belong on a matriarch’s arm rather than here in Baldur’s Gate, even dressed in traveling garb as he is, if not for the spark of lingering madness in his eyes - and desperately fishes for a name in the soup of his memories. Ugh. Was remembering always this difficult?
“Kar’niss,” he finally manages, prompting a too-wide, too-sharp smile of elation from the drow. “You are looking… healthier.”
He very deliberately does not say that he looks ‘good’. Looking good, to his understanding of drow customs, is likely what put him in the position that got him turned into a drider in the first place.
“And you look horrible!” Kar’niss says cheerfully, but he’s careful not to tug too forcefully when he takes Orpheus by the arm to draw him inside. “Everybody, the prince is here!”
‘Everybody’ is Omeluum, Blurg and Ansur, all of them similarly dressed in traveling clothes as Kar’niss, each one of them carrying their own supply pack as well. It notably doesn’t include Balduran. “Your husband?” he asks the dragon after he’s done nodding his greetings to everyone, throat tight with anxiety.
“Sleeping in. He has been under the weather lately and raiding a library has never been his kind of adventure, no matter how ancient and well-hidden said library is.” It must not be anything really debilitating, considering the dragon’s smile. The ghaik is likely to make an appearance if Orpheus chooses to linger and he can’t tell if this thought fills him with relief or even more anxiety at the prospect. “We were about to leave when Grazilaxx called in that you are coming.”
“I apologize for showing up without due warning.” Something about the dragon’s attention makes Orpheus feel young and green again. Like all the centuries of his existence have never happened. Like the prism never happened. Has he really lived more than maybe thirty years total outside of his solitary confinement, after all? What is that if not barely more than an infant in the eyes of a dragon who lived two of his people’s lives already. “It was a spur of the moment decision.”
“ Grazilaxx said something to that effect,” Omeluum projects, handing its pack to Blurg, who takes it easily along with his own, much heavier pack. It seems the hobgoblin decided to keep up with his regular training after the battle (no doubt to the delight of his ghaik), because if anything he has packed on more muscle in the last three years. “ That your mind was unshielded and open to sudden impulses. ”
Orpheus starts. He hasn’t realized that the other ghaik has read this deep into his thoughts. “Is this an act of psionic compulsion, then?”
“ Not at all, no. People are simply more likely to act on impulsive thoughts and ideas when their mental defenses are compromised. ” It reaches out and Orpheus silently congratulates himself that he doesn’t flinch away when he feels its hands on his temples. “ Hmm, I see. The exercises are inadequate to mitigate the stress of your rebellion. I have miscalculated when assuming that other githyanki would have similar control over their mental projections as the kith’rak. I shall need to devise an update to your treatment… ”
Omeluum trails off, but Orpheus has no doubt about it that the illithid is racking its mind over how to help him. It’s hardly the altruistic sort, but it has come to regard Orpheus as a personal pet project of sorts, so it’s rather invested in his mental wellbeing.
Blurg clears his throat, gently reminding his mate that they are not alone. “I hate to interrupt, but I must remind you that our trip is rather time sensitive.”
“It’s a vast, ancient library managed by an obnoxiously quirky lich. The only finding place of many invaluable tomes, as I understand,” Ansur says, answering Orpheus’ question before he can even think to ask it. “He only allows people to acquire memberships once a century and only during a four-day window. The Society can’t afford to miss this opportunity.”
“I see.” Orpheus swallows down the rising panic. “It’s fine. I will be here - well, not here, but at the crèche with Lae’zel - when you get back. I will keep up with the meditation and the exercises and you can think of something during the trip.”
“ Thank you for understanding. ” Omeluum is tactful enough not to comment on the panic and anxiety leaking from Orpheus like he’s a broken sieve. “ We will be back in just a few weeks. In the meantime, however, you should ask Balduran to put up a reinforcing scaffolding around your mind. It would be unfortunate for all of us if someone took advantage of your weakness. ”
Orpheus swallows. “I will consider it.”
He must have spaced out, because the next thing he notices is Ansur climbing the stairs back up from the cellar - the ghaik’s personal dwelling place, no doubt. “He’ll be up in a few. Please, at least wait for him to say hi, he’s been wondering about how his work on your mind is holding up.” Orpheus never before wanted to run this badly from meeting a former ally again. “Sorry for being a horrible host and leaving already, but as Blurg said, we can’t delay this trip.”
“I understand,” he says, because he does understand. “I will be fine,” he says, because he’s a liar.
And then, from one moment to the other it feels like, they are all gone. Orpheus is left standing in the foyer, staring at the door. Someone carved waves into it, he notices idly.
“Well now. I didn’t expect you to actually wait for me.” It’s not the voice he expects. He doesn’t quite recognize it - familiar and not at the same time - the same way he doesn’t truly recognize the face of the man who approaches him, smiling warmly like he’s a welcome guest rather than an awkward intruder. He tries to overcome this sense of unreality by cataloging the figure in front of him. Human, male, his skin freckled and sun-tanned, scarred and showing fine wrinkles around his mouth and his eyes - laugh lines, he thinks. His hair is brown, threaded with strands of silver, gathered into a long tail at the top and shaved at the sides. His eyes are a vivid, almost unbelievably bright purple - the ghaik’s eyes. Balduran’s eyes.
He thinks he says something about illusions. Maybe he just thinks it, when Balduran’s expression morphs into worry. He tries to push him away, push his face and those hidden tentacles away now that the ghaik has leaned close to inspect him, knowing that touch will give away the ruse.
Then his fingers touch the fine hairs where Balduran’s side shave is growing out and he startles. His hand lingers, uncomprehending. It’s real, how can it possibly be real? , he thinks, bewildered. He probably says it too, because Balduran takes his hand in his - rope-calloused and warm and very, very human - and simply holds it there.
“It’s true polymorph,” the not-currently-ghaik says, and the fragments of this disjointed picture finally slide into place. “It was my idea. I didn’t think you would want to be alone with me as I usually am.”
“But. My mind. I need…” Orpheus tries to communicate something through the confusion blanketing his thoughts. He's vaguely aware that he's being steered towards a door. “Omeluum said…”
“Shows what it knows.” Orpheus is gently pushed down to sit at a kitchen table. “Before anything can be done for your mental defenses, we must address the other matter.”
“What other matter?” Orpheus can’t usually hear his own mind, but now its own dissonant clanging is starting to drown out everything else. He grasps, desperately, for something else and finds Balduran. Whether ghaik or human, Balduran’s mind sounds like the sea, like the waves in a conch. Orpheus clings to it, drowns the dissonance under the sound of the ocean until his mind quiets again.
When he comes to, he is being held. He has buried his face in Balduran’s chest and there are strong arms around him, grounding him in the moment. He feels safe there, against all logic. Protected.
“You are overwhelmed, plain and simple. Drifting. From the stress and anxiety of leading a bloody rebellion, no doubt.” Balduran’s thumbs are tracing the back of his neck, dissolving the tension where it threatened to bloom into a migraine. “It would happen to anybody in your position.”
“I’m not just anybody,” Orpheus manages weakly.
“I hope so. I wouldn’t do this for just about anybody.” When Orpheus tentatively tries to push him away he takes a few steps back without missing a beat. “What could I do for you to anchor you in the here and now? Talk to me, if you can. Gesture if you don’t have the words, but have an idea.” His smile turns a little sheepish. “I would read your mind, but as you might have guessed, I’m quite incapable right now.”
Orpheus simply looks at him for a while, trying to make sense of the words. Then his eyes flick around the room, looking for something that might grant him a spark of inspiration. This has never happened to him before - never where others could see, where they would try to render him aid - and his gaze eventually lands on a jug of milk on the countertop, apparently forgotten there after someone hastily finished their breakfast. It brings forth memories of huddling around the campfire, companionship in the face of impossible adversity.
“Ah, good idea.” Balduran has followed his gaze, apparently. “I do recall that you quite enjoyed sharing a cup of cocoa with the others.”
Orpheus hastily averted his eyes, not even trying to hide his sulking. It was only later that he learned of the childish connotations of the beverage. He would not have accepted it so readily if he knew that it was something usually made to soothe juveniles.
Balduran, despite his earlier claim, seems to read his mind without issue anyway. “There is nothing wrong with enjoying a good cup of cocoa once in a while. I have always much preferred it to the cheap rum people associated with sailors. Now, if you are talking about the good stuff, add a dash of that to the cocoa and we have something great, I tell you.”
Orpheus has no frame of reference for any of this, but allows that warm voice to wash over him. How strange that everything about this man reminds him of the sea, from the ebb and flow of his voice as he starts on some old tale from his adventuring days to the many sea creatures tattooed over his skin that Orpheus spies when Balduran rolls up his sleeves.
Voss once described the feeling of laying down on the warm sand of a beach and simply existing for a while, allowing the wind and the waves to take away the shaking of his limbs after the very first raid he ever led, one that ended in disaster. Something went wrong - Voss wasn’t even certain what, but one thing led to another and they had to flee with their insider contact in tow - and here he was, a failure. He admitted to Orpheus that he was thinking about falling on his sword there and then, his mind revolving around all the worst case scenarios until their contact sat down next to him. Don't think , they said, a blurry shape in Voss’ memories. Just listen and feel. The tide is rising. The waves come and go, regardless of us. The tide will rise and it will ebb again, then do the same tomorrow and the day after. It cares not for Voss. Our mistakes, however big they feel in the moment, are not the end of the world. The tide doesn't care.
Voss doesn't have the time for idle nonsense like laying around on the beach, but he often thinks about taking the time and doing it anyway. It helps to make our mistakes feel less debilitating if we are reminded once in a while how small we are in the eye of the universe. The tide cares not and neither does the wind and that's the way things should be. It makes the burden of hard choices a little easier to bear .
His thoughts wander briefly to the other timeline, to the stories Ansur told him about his other self. That Orpheus tried to be big, to shoulder the choices that would change the world, but he was too small still. He was ground down into something more fitting - into Orion, who was just as big as he needed to be and not a whit bigger. No matter how enormous his failures, the rain will come, the sun will shine. The world keeps on turning.
Orpheus surfaces from the memories to the gentle scent of cocoa, Balduran offering him a colorful mug with a smile. “Welcome back,” he says when Orpheus’ eyes focus on him. “Your thoughts wandered far away for a while.”
“Thank you.” The drink is less sweet than how Karlach or Gale made it, more like how Ansur preferred it. More to Orpheus’ palate.
His eyes sting and he can’t tell why.
There's a warm hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. It grounds him, just like the sweet scent of cocoa and the sound of the sea.
“Well, this is nicer than I remembered.” Orpheus glances up to see Balduran with a mug of his own, his expression turning complicated as he slowly sips his cocoa. Orpheus has seen him eat before, if only once or twice, bloody bits of flesh and gore disappearing into the mind flayer’s terrifying maw. Illithid have no sense of smell or taste in the sense that you do, he said when he noticed Orpheus staring. It must have been so long since he last enjoyed the taste of anything.
“You are the Captain, right?” Orpheus asks on a whim. It sounded ridiculous to him, the suggestion that a ghaik can have a high enough degree of partialism that it can be formed into a whole human personality, but there are a lot of things about Balduran that make no sense to him.
Balduran retreats from him, leans against the counter and stares into his mug in thought. Orpheus’ shoulder feels cold where his hand was a moment ago. “I assumed I would be, when I asked Ansur to polymorph me.” He closes his eyes and his brows furrow, his attention turning inwards. “How strange… I suppose you could say that I’m the Captain.”
“That’s not a ‘yes’,” Orpheus says. The sweetness is suddenly turning to ash on his tongue.
“I’m no danger to you either way,” Balduran says carefully. “But it would be more accurate to say that right now there is no meaningful difference between ‘the Captain’ and ‘the Emperor‘.”
Orpheus feels his mouth go dry. “That’s- I would know if I was talking to a ghaik.”
“That’s not really how this works, Orpheus. There’s plentiful evidence that the Captain’s self-perception as human is a sort of delusion to begin with.” Balduran sighs and drinks the rest of his cocoa in tense silence. “Even we can’t tell who’s who right now and we share a mind.”
“Your preferred choice of words and mannerisms are different between the two… facets of yours,” Orpheus points out. He doesn’t like being taken for a fool and he won’t let this matter rest until he gets to the bottom of it.
“We play that up quite a bit, to make us easier to distinguish. But also, our chosen mannerisms are as much a matter of preference as a matter of practicality.” He pulls himself straighter, the comfortable slouch set aside in favor of the rigid posture so typical of the Emperor. “As illithid, a deliberate, meticulously planned presentation is crucial in influencing how others perceive me. I am, regardless of whatever else I am, a predator. By acting controlled, I appear to be in control of myself. This impression gives my allies a sense of security. A mind flayer speaking or acting like a sailor would appear chaotic, unpredictable, at odds with the common perception of illithid, so more casual mannerisms would put others on edge around me.” He breathes out slowly and relaxes again. The slouch returns and the shadow of the illithid fades from one moment to the other.
“It’s all just manipulation, then?” Orpheus fights down the feeling of bitterness welling up inside him. Even in the most human parts of him, the monster remains a monster. He’s not sure why he hoped it would be something different.
“Not as such. It’s- look.” Balduran rubs a hand over his face. “Watch Blurg sometime when he’s around people he’s not friends with. He keeps his voice low and reins his enthusiasm in. He gestures less and never towards anybody. Most of the time when a human sees a hobgoblin’s hand move towards them, they will unconsciously brace for a blow. Flinch away. It’s only familiarity and trust that Blurg would never hit someone out of the blue that makes those bits of fear fall silent.” He holds up a hand and flexes his fingers to mimic claws. “People have expectations the moment they meet you. Often prejudiced and unfounded, but it’s up to you whether you play into them or try to circumvent them one way or another. There are advantages to both, on occasion.”
“I see.” Orpheus mulls this over, sipping his cocoa. When it’s gone, Balduran refills his mug with a smile, but doesn't pressure him to speak. “I wish to extend an apology,” he says after a while. “I did not mean to… it’s merely just…” He sighs. Shakes his head. Tries again. “After all I’ve been through, I’m tired of being manipulated.”
“That’s understandable.” While Orpheus was sorting his thoughts out, Balduran started washing the dishes at the sink. As Orpheus watches, he notices small mistakes, bits of clumsiness - he turns his head to watch as he reaches for something, or else he doesn’t reach far enough. More than once he flinches minutely when his pinky brushes up against something. He picks things up and adjusts his hold on them a moment later, as if remembering belatedly that he doesn’t have talons. It’s both a testament to how much he usually does with his hands - something a regular ghaik would find unthinkable - and a reminder that this is not an illusion at all. “Do you want me to cancel the polymorph? Arguably, this is also a form of manipulation, after all.”
“I’m certain Ansur would be thrilled to waste a ninth level spell and have it canceled as soon as he’s out the door.” Orpheus keeps his tone dry, but he’s a little touched by the offer. “Thank you, but not yet. You are more agreeable when I know that I can easily overpower you.”
“You might be surprised,” Balduran says with a hum, twirling a kitchen knife in his hand before he places it on the rack. “But I’m glad you said no. I wanted to cook for you again before you leave.”
“What is it about you and food?” Orpheus demands, trying to shove the memories of the evening at camp when Balduran borrowed his senses to cook for the group to the back of his mind. He hasn’t tasted anything nearly as good since. “Ridiculous ghaik!”
After some probing questions, Balduran decrees that he needs to raid the market before he can make anything suitable for a prince. He shows Orpheus to the guest room, but notes that it will need to be aired out and the bedding changed before he can settle down to rest. “We usually keep this room for Kar’niss when he’s on the surface and he still has spider pheromones in his sweat, gods only know why.”
Orpheus helps, with the clumsiness of someone who has never done household chores before. He tells himself that he does it to keep an eye on Balduran, but that’s a transparent lie. It helps to keep him grounded to do something with his hands. So he opens the windows and changes the pillowcases and when they are done he places all his shiny jewelry on the bedside table before they go out, because Balduran warns him that he will become a magnet for pickpockets if he goes to the market wearing them.
When they step outside into the sunlit street, Balduran takes a shaky breath and turns his face towards the sun. “Oh, I forgot… It's so nice. Warm.” There’s a smile settling on his lips and Orpheus feels guilty for a moment. Like an intruder. This moment should have been shared with Ansur, not him. “I should have allowed Ansur to transform me sooner.”
“You don’t go out usually?” he asks to cover for the awkwardness he feels.
“Not this late in the day. I can’t usually see anything in direct sunlight.” It soon becomes quite evident that he’s a familiar face in the neighborhood. Merchants, street musicians, orphans, well-meaning, bored housewives… everyone seems to know the Captain, many of them asking about his health or Ansur’s as they pass by.
He also seems to have a gaggle of children who swarm around him when they pass through an isolated back alley, unaware of the danger he would usually pose to them.
Or maybe not , Orpheus thinks as he spots a few crudely drawn ‘badges’ pinned to their clothes, clearly made by the children themselves, depicting something that very well could be a mind flayer. They whisper gossip to Balduran, handing him dirty envelopes and torn bits of paper that all disappear in Balduran’s pockets and in exchange he hands a very generous pouch of money to the boy leading this little gang of street rats, a boy named Halfpenny who looks marginally cleaner than the rest.
When Balduran shoos the children away, Halfpenny hangs back, staring at Orpheus in wonder. “I like your tattoos!” he says in a squeaky voice, running a hand over his own closely shaved head. “Boss, do you think I could get tattoos like that too?”
“Out of the question! Your grandmother would murder me.”
The boy seems to put Balduran’s words under serious consideration. “Maybe one day, then. See you around!” And then he is gone too, disappearing into the crowd of market goers like he was never there.
Other than that one boy, nobody pays any heed to Orpheus as he trails behind Balduran, not beyond a quick glance, not until Balduran catches him looking longingly at a stand offering refreshments and treats him to a cup of cool lemonade. Then, as if a floodgate has opened up, every other merchant calls them over to sample their wares; fresh fruits and enticing sweets and savory treats. Orpheus finds himself quite overwhelmed by the different tastes and also quite full by the time they reach their final destination, a butcher shop run by an elf and her drow husband.
“There is something different about you today.” She glares at Balduran with her eyes narrowed, crossing her arms with some difficulty. She is pregnant, quite far along if Orpheus can guess, and he tries not to stare too openly at her.
Balduran is completely unphased by her state or her suspicion.
“Lean over and I will whisper it in your ear,” Balduran says with a teasing wink. She seems unimpressed by his antics already, but does as asked. When she’s close enough Balduran presses a chaste kiss to her cheek and then swiftly ducks out of the way to avoid the strike immediately coming his way.
“You dare-!?! Rascal! You-” She places a hand on her cheek and thinks over the last few moments. “You are human.”
Balduran laughs at her astonishment.
“Temporarily, but yes.” She reaches over and grabs his hand, feeling out every calloused finger.
“Holy shit, you are actually human.”
“Please don’t make such a big deal out of it, you are making me feel quite self-conscious.” Balduran’s light tone doesn’t save him from the next strike from the elf, one he can’t dodge in time because of her tight grip on his hand. “What was that for?” His face has to smart from that blow, but he’s still laughing.
“You get that for being a bastard.”
“Am I a bastard or a rascal, then?”
“Both!”
Orpheus watches them with confused astonishment. This playful banter is so unlike the ghaik he knows that he doesn’t know what to do with it. Nonetheless, this kind of interaction between the butcher and Balduran seems to be rather commonplace, because neither the people manning the nearby stalls nor her husband seem even a little bit surprised by their antics.
“Are they always like this?” Orpheus asks the drow when he brings forth their order, carefully wrapped parcels of animal bits.
“It took him some time to loosen up, but yes.” He watches with a placid smile as Balduran flirts with his wife. “We are with the Society, actually.” He taps a pin on his lapel, the Society of Billiance’s eye symbol pinned next to a stylized sun. “My brother, her other husband, is a drider. So when Ansur suggested that it would do him good to start socializing with people again, it was hardly a difficult choice to introduce him to our sweet Imra.”
“She’s not the only one here who knows what he is.” It’s not really a question. Orpheus has noticed that most merchants haven’t bothered to offer food to Balduran, not until he tried some first.
“Not exactly. Most have a hunch that he’s something else, but I have heard some truly inspired speculation about what he is.” He leans against their stall and starts watching with a bit more open interest as Balduran pulls up the sleeve of his shirt to show off a tattoo. “I believe the most popular guess is lich. But whatever people believe him to be, they trust Ansur and Ansur trusts him, so until he betrays that trust, he is welcome here.”
Orpheus keeps thinking about that conversation on the way back to the mansion, only listening to Balduran’s chatter with half an ear.
“You have changed a lot in these last three years,” he says when Balduran turns to him with a question.
“I suppose I have,” Balduran admits, a little bewildered by the sudden change of topic. “Before our terrific adventure and the defeat of the Netherbrain, I isolated myself far more than it was healthy for me. My paranoia wasn’t unfounded, not after the way Ansur betrayed me, but it was still corrosive to my wellbeing.” He smiles and shrugs, as if he was talking about something that no longer bothers him, but if Orpheus focuses he can hear the way Balduran's mind changes, the sound of the waves turning stormy. The pain of that old betrayal runs quite deep; Orpheus has experienced it for himself when Balduran delved so deep into his mind that he couldn't prevent some spillover. “I can be quite singular in my pursuits, but I was never the lone wolf type. So it has certainly been beneficial to my mental stability that I can indulge in these small social interactions, no matter how shallow they might be.”
“Are you not tempted to enthrall them?”
“Why would I be? Ansur freely welcomes me into his mind whenever I crave that sort of mental stimulation.” His tone turns mischievous all of a sudden. “Now, if you were to invite me in, I might be tempted to take you and never let you go. Your mind is… delectable.”
“Don’t joke about such a thing!” Orpheus snaps, grateful that Balduran can’t read his thoughts right now, or sense the sudden heat that has flooded his face. Ever since they started interacting on friendlier terms - no, it began even sooner. Ever since he learned that his future self would be entwined so intimately with a ghaik, he has been plagued by some… fantasies . Fantasies that would see him ostracized and locked up, if his fellow gith would ever learn of them.
Balduran featured prominently in many of them.
“Apologies, that was a little tasteless. Anyway, how do you feel about lamb stew with potatoes?”
Orpheus refuses to correct this misunderstanding. He goes to peel potatoes as directed, tastes the food when asked to, listens to Balduran’s chatter when there’s nothing else to do. He never understood Ansur’s insistence that this man was a hero, someone others flocked to like moths to a flame. Even at his most agreeable, he found Balduran to be strange and inoffensive, for a ghaik.
Now, as he sits in the shade of a tree, with a bowl of stew made to his tastes and Balduran stretched out next to him in the grass like a lazy cat, telling another tale about lands far away, he thinks he gets it. He thinks he can finally understand how this man charmed so many people that he got a city named after him.
How he made a noble bronze dragon fall in love.
Humans are not something he ever considered attractive - nose too big, ears too small, skin too soft - but when Balduran flashes him a lopsided smile, he is starting to see the appeal.
“Did you know that your mind sounds like the sea to me?” Orpheus asks, leaning over Balduran when the food is gone and the sailor is about to doze off in the soft grass.
“I didn't. But I’m not surprised.” He peers up at Orpheus, striking lilac eyes opening halfway. He's all warm colors, his skin and hair both earthy browns and his eyes are warm too. “I know Ansur showed you my name. What else would I sound like, if not the sea?”
Everyone with even a modicum of psionic talent had a silent, telepathic name, a thought or feeling that encompassed who they were more than any singular word could.
Yearning for the Sea
A singular, powerful emotion. Much more intense than what was usual for ghaik.
What else indeed.
“I have never shown you my name in return. Or even described it.”
Balduran blinks up at him, trying to comprehend the direction of his thoughts. “I can hardly receive it right now, but I would be honored to learn it before you leave.”
“I can just say it. I can't project it clearly anyway.” Balduran raises an eyebrow at him and Orpheus feels his cheeks heat up in embarrassment. “It's a little…” He clears his throat. “It's a little grandiose. And. Mayhaps a little embarrassing.”
“Ansur still thinks of you as Orion - as Crushing Defeat - about 27% of the time. It can hardly be worse than that.”
Orpheus shudders. He knows enough about ghaik culture to know that it was a sign of respect that his other self had a new name at all. Crushing Defeat, Fallen Comet; names to commemorate his rebirth, so to say, from disgraced prince to benevolent wanderer.
He also knows that they must have stung, reminding him of his failures every time someone addressed him by those names.
“It's not. It's… my name is Hoping for a Kinder Future .”
Balduran doesn't rush with an answer. He hums quietly, clearly contemplating the name before he finally says: “It's a good name. A little open-ended, since hoping for something doesn't require that kinder future to actually come to be, but… who is supposed to do the hoping, anyway? You? Your mother? Your people?”
Orpheus is taken aback by this question. It's not something he ever considered, but…
“My mother, I think. There are days when I think I don't even know kindness at all and neither do my people.”
“Something to think on, then. Or even to strive for. The world can always use more kindness.”
Orpheus doesn't deem that suggestion worthy of comment. He simply flops down into the grass next to Balduran, allows the man to pull him close until his head is pillowed on a strong shoulder and dozes off under the gaze of the afternoon sun.
He was reared amidst war, in outposts and temporary encampments and training facilities, born to someone who was a god of war first and anything else very far second. None of this should be familiar to him.
So why, oh why, does this feel like finally coming home?