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Willa's room was filled with the scents that Anomen had come to associate with the druidess. The dirt of the road. Bunches of freshly picked herbs, hung up in bunches to dry. The earthy tang of a recent shift. As he waited for her to return from her flight he stared into the flickering shapes of the tavern fire and considered the choice he had made just hours before.
Moira—his sister's killer—would go unpunished. In the end, he simply could not bear the thought of what it would mean, were he to take vengeance, only to later be proven wrong about the murderer's identity. And without evidence—
It tore at him. How could it be right that the law—the line between right and wrong—would keep him from avenging one of the people he most loved?
He closed his eyes. "I hope that she will find peace, in her rest. Helm watch over her."
"I don't know her well enough to say, but I'd hope that she would not wish her only brother to become a murderer for her sake."
Anomen twitched, jerking in the sitting chair. He had not heard Willa light upon the windsill, nor her transformation back to human form.
"Oh! My lady—you startled me. I shall leave you to—"
"No, no. You're welcome any time." She waved him back as he began to stand. "Now where did I leave those…"
He watched her as she hunted through her pockets for her glasses. He had not met a druid before her, and from the first he had to admit she had not fit his notion of how they would appear. Willa looked as if she had stepped out of a library and tripped into a nearby bush—especially now, as her hair formed a wild cascade of dark tangles about her face, freed from her typical braid. Her smock and cloak were both lined with buttoned pockets, and whenever she moved he could hear the crinkle of dried herbs.
"Was your flight a pleasant one?"
"Yes, it was." She glanced back at him, temporarily pausing in her efforts to clear the other sitting chair of its holdings: scrolls and texts, unsorted magical items—the detritus that naturally built up at the bottom of a bag of holding throughout the adventurer's life.
"It can be...refreshing. The mind of an animal is not like our own. It is uncluttered by the vagaries of human indecision. The change in perspective often provides me a measure of clarity."
"Then I pray to the guardian that you would share some of that clarity with me. My oath tells me I have done the right thing, and yet I cannot escape the fear that my sister will suffer in the beyond for not having been avenged."
The image of it haunted him. How could he be sure that what he had done was the right thing? It was as if he were missing something fundamental—a quality that all others seemed to possess that let them act with confidence. Anomen was at his best when the stakes were simple: a dragon to slay, a town to defend, the boundary between order and chaos. There was nothing simple about any of this.
Willa settled into the chair next to him, and began to separate the strands of her hair for a braid.
"Would you...tell me of her? Your sister?"
"She…"
He stumbled to find the words that would summarise the whole of a person who was once the only part of home he could look forward to. Willa, perhaps mistaking his hesitation as unwillingness, scrambled to backtrack on her question.
"It is all right, my lady. I think I would like for you to know of Moira. It is merely..." He sighed, rubbing his brow. "Were that I were more skilled with words."
"I can't speak for everyone, but for my preference I would say that a pinch of honesty is worth a cartload of cleverness."
"Ah. I feel that I've been granted a better insight into how you've managed to put up with me for so long."
"Well." She quirked a brow. "That's not the only reason. It's awfully tiring to have to do my own glaring."
He laughed, and straightened in his seat, as if to stand to attention. "At your order, my lady."
She inclined her head. "Take your time. There is no pressure."
"It is impossible to separate my memories of her from the circumstances we shared. I think that it was the chaos of that place that revealed what a special person she was. Even in the midst of Lord Cor's petty cruelties and unpredictable tirades, she had this...dignity. She was a centre of calm, even as the storm lashed around us."
It was a quality Anomen had long admired and envied. No matter how hard he tried to keep his composure, Lord Cor never failed to nettle him.
"She loved art and things of culture. Not as many of the nobility do, for their worth as a symbol of status, but for their own sake. We spoke often of visiting Waterdeep together, to see the great halls and tapestries. Though, that never came to be...after our mother passed, she stayed behind to look after Lord Cor. And even after so many years, that she could still show that man compassion...I admit, I cannot understand it."
Duty? Yes. But to give kindness to that which only brought pain...it soured his stomach to think of it.
"The estate gardens were our favourite escape. Many an hour we spent in shared stories. Dragons, princesses, haunted towers...other such childish nonsense."
"Is it so nonsensical? At the rate we're going, I wouldn't be surprised if we don't face dragons sooner rather than later. And I've already delved into a haunted tower."
"It was...the ideal of the heroic knight that spoke to me, my lady. I thought that, perhaps, one day I could...ah, it is foolish."
"Anomen." Willa leaned forward in her chair. She reached out and gently laid her hand over his. "I swear on—on Imoen's life, that should you speak your heart, I will not laugh at what you say."
It was at times like this that Anomen felt most keenly the resemblance between his sister and Willa. It was not in their appearance—where Willa was dark, and bookishly practical in her dress, Moira had been fair and a keen follower of seasonal fashions. Nor were his feelings for Willa analogous to sibling affection. No, it was their nobility in the face of trials, and how they responded to his bungled words with gentle seriousness: teasing without bite, advice without command, kindness without judgement.
Nevertheless—
"I would forgive you if you did laugh, my lady. It is only—as a boy, I was without guidance on the kind of man I wished to be. I only knew that the life of a merchant was not one that called to me. And when we played, and I acted the part of the noble knight, I thought—perhaps, I could become that very kind of man. Heroic, brave, true. Quick of wit and chivalrous to the last."
"I don't see how that would warrant mockery, Anomen. If anything, you should be proud. Have you not worked to make that ideal your reality?"
"Time has shown me that there are...pieces of myself that will never live up to that ideal. No matter how hard I try I...remain rough, brittle of temper, where I should be refined, as steel. In those moments when I snap, I fear I am less of myself and more of Lord Cor. Would that I could excise him like a tumour—!"
"Oh, Anomen."
"But I fear such a thing is impossible. And I fear that I am cursed to one day wake up and see my father staring back at me from the silverglass."
Already, each day he would find himself flinching away from the reflection. The ghost of Lord Cor lurked in the shape of his jaw, haunted the line of his nose. Every time he would feel incensed the grip that man continued to hold over him, and at his own foolishness.
But no amount of rage could kill the fear.
Willa gently squeezed his hand, bringing back to the present.
"Oh, my friend. You are much, much braver than you give yourself credit for." She stared into the fire, her eyes distant and hollow in their darkness. "Trust me."
Of course—with her own heritage hanging over her—
"Please, forgive me, my lady. With your own circumstances, I should not have been so thoughtless—"
She blinked, as if coming back to herself, and shook her head. "It is because I have those circumstances that I can say with confidence that I know your pain as if it were my own wound. It is...a terrible thing to want to...to split from yourself, is it not?"
"I would ask—how have you...have you been able to come to terms with your origins? I have seen that there are moments when you seem to struggle with a baser instinct, and yet—yet I would be proud to follow you to the very hells themselves."
She let out a hollow chuckle. "Would that I had such confidence in my own ability."
"As you said—a pinch of honesty..."
She laughed, more genuinely, and it brought a matching smile to his own face. She mock glared at him. "Very clever. I suppose...my method hasn't been too much different to your own." She turned her head to look at him directly. An impish smile twitched at her lips. "Did I ever tell you I was intended for the priesthood?"
"No—though I would like to hear of it, if you would tell me."
"I suppose Gorion thought it would be a comfortable fit for me. And I can see it—I was a bookish child, and surrounded by the great archives of Candlekeep. A more perfect fit for an Oghmanyte, there could not be."
"So what changed?"
A slow, fond smile crept onto Willa's features as she slipped into memory. "One day, a man arrived at the keep, garbed in worn leathers and carrying a hawthorn stave that still budded. And like the nascent scholar I hoped to be, I diligently pestered him for the entire tenday of his stay. At first, he would transform into creatures, or conjure berries for mine and Imoen's entertainment, but...I suppose he must have seen something in me, because he began to explain the tenets of the druidic order.
"I can only say that the concept of the balance—it spoke to me in a fundamental way that, even now, I still cannot properly explain."
"When there has been a moment to spare, I have asked our companions—Jaheira, and Cernd—of what that means. I would say that I still do not feel as though I understand it."
They had also told him that Willa was unusual in her dedication to the ideals it represented—though he, for once, recognised when a detail should be kept to himself.
"How do I put this...to me, the ideal of the balance is a perspective that seeks to look upon the various creatures that live their lives within the multiverse without bias. No good, no evil; no monsters, no people. Only their drives and needs and the conflict that arises when one cannot support the other. In such a perspective...it might be that a child of murder is not a monster—it might instead be said that she is a predator that is not compelled to act upon the skill of her teeth. That she might simply...be. That we might all simply be what we are."
In her eyes, he saw what could almost be pleading—a yearning to be understood that he knew like he knew his own heart. Fearing that his words might fail him, he instead chose to turn his hand so that now it was he that held her. And as he squeezed, he hoped it convey the support he felt.
She closed her eyes, sighing and sinking back into the chair. "Or maybe I am a tree."
This brought him a chuckle. "This, you will need to explain."
"A single trunk with many branches. This branch says: I am a sister to Imoen. This one says: I cannot stand the smell of pipe smoke. This one is for the daughter of the mage, Gorion—a good man who always did his best to understand me. And this branch, blackened and gnarled and covered in thorns..."
"I see."
"We cannot decide the pieces that make us up. But, perhaps, we can decide which parts we cultivate. Decide the shape we might take, day after day, one branch at a time."
It brought to Anomen's mind the test—after so long spent with it as a distant future, now it approached at an alarming pace. A shiver ran down his back.
"My lady...how shall I decide what shape I wish to take? What if it is not even truly my own choice?"
What if I am found unworthy?
"If I was to offer advice...?"
"Please. I...trust you. Truly."
"Your goal is a noble one, Anomen. Please do not think I would ever try to dissuade you from it. I do wonder, though, if it might be that at times you would allow yourself not to be the knight from those tales, but to simply...be. Be, Anomen."
"I don't know that I would agree that was such a noble thing to be, my lady."
"This lady asks that you accept her pinch of honesty: I like you, Anomen. Just as you are. If this is presumption, then forgive me, but—I think Moira did too."
Had anyone ever said as much to him? Her words slipped beneath the layers of his tunic and under his ribs—filling like a balloon until he could hardly breathe, and he had to turn his thoughts elsewhere, lest he burst.
"I—I shall take my test soon. I hope that in the end...I will be found to be worthy. Though afterward...who knows what the future will look like?"
Though she smiled, it seemed to him to have a wincing, tender quality. She would not meet his eye.
"To me, the appeal of the balance is that all things may one day find their place within it. My knight...if you have found your place, then that is...it is all I could wish for you."
—
Anomen's chest and shoulders were ringed with an icy chill, yet he couldn't stop sweating. He couldn't seem to fill his lungs properly with air.
This was it. In mere minutes he would stand before Prelate Wesslyn, and be judged.
All his life, he had worked toward this moment. Through the divine senses granted by Tyr, the Prelate would see past the facade he worked so long to make true and see Anomen for who he truly was—all the myriad failings and doubts, the ways in which he stumbled as he ever reached for the ideal. He could not be free of the fear that his efforts were not enough—that he was not enough.
"Squire Anomen."
Sir Ryan Trawl's boots clicked on the polished floors as he approached, a harbinger.
Anomen's shoulders stiffened. A tremor ran through him, though he managed, somehow, to keep his voice even.
"Is it time, Sir?"
The older knight offered a brief smile that did little to reassure him. "It is. Hold true to your faith in Helm, and all will be well."
Anomen turned to look at Willa, who waited a few paces behind him. She looked so out of place here—her dirt and smocks an ill fit for the gleaming halls. Her eyes followed a group of paladins as they strode up the hall. She smiled at him, but he could see she was wary. On edge, as he was.
Nevertheless, when he turned to her, she smiled at him, and in that moment, her bravery became his.
"I am ready. Would you accompany me? I would appreciate your witness."
She dipped her head. "Of course. This is your day, Anomen. Don't be afraid."
"Just be?"
The two of them shared a smile.
"Aye, my knight."
—
"And these, Ser Anomen, will be your new quarters."
"Thank you, Sir Trawl."
"You have done well, Anomen. You’ve made us all proud—I know you’ll continue to do great things.”
It did not feel as he had expected it would. When the Prelate pronounced him worthy it was a relief, certainly. But not the overwhelming joy that he had anticipated would come with achieving his lifelong goal. The weight that hung over him was gone...so where was the sun?
Willa had waited for the Prelate to leave and the knights to disband with a bubbling energy, and when the hall was mostly empty she had exploded into clapping.
"Anomen, I'm so happy for you! Oh, thank...thank Helm, I suppose!"
He grinned, and for a moment in his happiness he had forgotten himself. She was in his arms, and he lifted her off the ground, spinning her around. When he realised what he was doing—in the midst of the High Hall, no less—he quickly set her down and stepped back.
"You—" he coughed into the back of his fist. "Did you doubt me, my lady?"
Willa looked up, though red still dusted her cheeks and she was trying, and failing, to contain a giddy smile.
"Not for a moment. I only feared I'd start crying and make a fool of myself in front of so many dashing knights."
“Ah, my lady. You would honor me with such honest emotion. I...truly cannot thank you enough for –for everything.”
“‘Everything’ seems a little excessive. I can’t take credit for...for good weather. Or magic. Candlelight?”
“Nay, though I would not be surprised were such accolades to be laid at your feet. Truly, though...I would not have made it this far without your kindness, or patience, or care.”
“I am truly happy for you, Anomen.” Her smile wobbled. "Though, I must ask...what does this mean for...us?"
With great care, he took her fingers in his hand, and raised it between them. He could not look her in the eye. “In truth? I do not know...I am a member of the order, now. There are...expectations…”
Her thumb raised to briefly brush the edge of his hand, before dropping back. “I had always expected as such. I had thought—but…”
“Would...would my lady grace me with a pinch of honesty?”
His attempted levity fell flat between them. She looked away.
"I had wishes...selfish wishes. I would not ruin your moment by speaking them aloud."
In that moment his victory was forgotten, and all he could have wished for was for her to give voice to her selfishness. But there were no more words. She leaned forward, on tiptoe, and pressed a brief kiss against his cheek.
"You...you've found your place. I could wish for nothing more for you."
Now he looked over his new quarters. This would be his new home. It was simple, neat, bordering on spartan.
His old mentor waited for a moment, watching him survey the space, before turning to leave.
"Sir Trawl, before you go—forgive me if I overstep, but might I ask you a question?"
The senior knight's lips quirked in the hint of smile, which from him was the closest equivalent to a friendly clap on the shoulder. "There's no need to be so formal, Anomen. You are a brother in the order, now—one of us."
"Indeed. Though I still feel the need to ask, given that my question is of a...personal nature."
If Trawl's face was of stone, a slight raise of his eyebrow was the only crack. "Go on."
"Such words were never spoken openly, but I know that you and my mother were once acquainted. Forgive me, but—were you ever more than simple acquaintances?"
For a second, Anomen truly feared he had overstepped. But then Trawl let out a rattling sigh. And in that moment, Anomen saw not a proud knight, but an old man.
"It...is true. We cared for one another, once, long ago. Moirala—she was a good woman. I thought that perhaps we might...but she was engaged to another, and I had the order. I know you and your father have had...difficulties, Anomen, but I think now that it was for the best. This life...it doesn't leave room for much else."
Was it worth it? Anomen wanted to ask. But no, he felt he already knew what the paladin's answer would be. He could see it in the lines of the man's face, in the set of his jaw: steely and resolute. Sir Ryan Trawl was the order, and the order was Sir Ryan Trawl.
And in that moment, Anomen was just a man. So instead of asking, he simply bowed his head.
"Thank you, sir. For everything you've done for me."
The paladin nodded his acknowledgement.
"Rest well tonight, Ser Anomen. We'll begin early tomorrow. It's the start of a new life."
Anomen let out a deep breath as he stepped into his quarters. The door clicked shut behind him.
—
The joy that Anomen had hoped would come with time never did. There was satisfaction in the work of the order—on the occasions that circumstances actually allowed for their intervention.
Pockets of troll population remained scattered about the countryside after the failed invasion of De'Arnise keep. As worked alongside his fellow knights, driving the creatures forth with the acid and fire of his flail, he remembered that day—creeping through the keep's halls, facing down the monstrous shaman, not knowing what to do as the young De'Arnise heir cried on his shoulder for her lost father.
This was not that. It was simple. Satisfactory.
What was not so simple, were the many times he came to witness the wrongs committed by the wealthy of Athkatla and yet he was helpless to intervene. The clever snakes twisted the words of law, meant to be the line between right and wrong, and instead used them as merely another sharp implement with which to bleed their prey.
"Please," the man begged him as the guard herded him by, his landlord waiting by with eviction notice on hand, "Winter approaches. If we do not have a place to stay—"
But the law was clear. There might be a bed for the man's children in the poorhouse, a place for his wife as a noble's servant—but this man had taken grievous injury to his right arm and leg. He could not work, and Anomen knew there was no place for him to stay.
The slaves were freed, but the slavers escaped. One woman gave a description that matched the noble scion of house Jysstev, but without proof it was the word of a penniless peasant against one of Athkatla's most prominent families.
A boxer is let out on a clever technicality. A trader puts his rival out of business through intimidation, for there is no law against dangerous men lurking in shop doorways, glaring potential customers away. A woman's only chance to keep her family home is conveniently lost in a slurry of paperwork.
So many things Anomen had become accustomed to, he now saw through new eyes. His time with Willa had changed him. And each day he came back to his quarters—as cold and sterile as he first found them—and slipped into bed alone.
—
The Order of the Radiant Heart was in a flurry this day. Even before Anomen spoke to his fellow knights he knew the tension from their faces; the stiff jaws, a tightness around eyes that would not meet his wherever he went.
The feasthall quieted for a moment as he entered, and though the conversations started up again almost immediately after, the chill it left with him remained.
"Merrick," he said as he sat down beside his hall neighbour. "What has occurred that should send the order into such a state?"
"Ah, Anomen. There is news indeed, and it is grave. It is of a matter...related to you, in fact."
"To me?" Was it his father? What had Lord Cor done now? "You must explain, or my mind will not find rest."
"There have been deaths in the order. Five squires and knight."
"By Helm. Such a loss—is the cause known?"
"Aye." The heavyset man nodded. "They were out on patrol out around the Windspear Hills—following rumours of ogres and trolls. Though the details are not yet known, they were last witnessed clashing with...an old associate of yours. A young woman of the druidic order."
"No, it—it simply could not be. It isn't possible!"
Not Willa. To think of her—no. He had seen her hold back against otyughs and hobgoblins, had argued for the lives of rabid wolves and spiders. Surely there was no way that Willa—his Willa—could be responsible.
"Calm yourself, brother."
"I refuse to believe such a thing! I shall speak to the Prelate, there must be—"
"Anomen." The other man's voice was like granite. "The others will be watching you for this very reason. They likely wonder how much of her true nature you were aware of."
"Her true—!" Did they know of her parentage? The thought was ice down his spine. She was in incredible danger.
"I'd wager that you'll soon get your wish. The Prelate will want to speak to you on the matter." His voice softened a touch, though it did not serve to comfort Anomen's bruised heart. "I know you had nothing to do with this. Give the others time, and they shall see as much for themselves."
Peril she faced without him to help her.
—
Harsh words were thrown back and forth within the Prelate's office that day. After near a month of calm, Anomen remembered what it felt like for rage to choke the air from his throat. All that stopped it was a message arrived from an out-of-breath courier: The former Lord of the Windspear Hills did vouch for Willa's innocence. It would be enough to stave off a hunt, for now.
For the first time since his induction into the order, he left the halls without senior approval. He stalked the streets for hours, disconsolate.
The unease that had wormed its way into his heart now sat like a stone at the pit of his stomach. The order was all he had wanted for so long, and yet—
And yet he could not deny that, if he were to be truly, nakedly honest with himself—it no longer felt like a place he belonged. Maybe he never truly did.
Further down the street he saw a ragged old man, curled up in upon himself under the door stoop of a boarded up shop. A wound on his leg—what might have begun as a simple cut—had degenerated, turning sickly and weeping. Anomen stopped, kneeling beside him.
"Friend. May I..." he indicated the wound.
The man looked at him through bleary, unfocused eyes. When Anomen caught the smell of his breath it carried the familiar burn of drink. "As ye like, m'lord."
This man might as well be my father. Ten years from now, it may very well be him. The thought did not bring him the righteous satisfaction it once did. Now, he mostly felt tired, and sad, for all that had been lost for one man's failings.
Anomen reached out, spoke the words, and watched as the power of Helm flowed through his hand and into the wound, cleaning and closing it. Moments later, where it once threatened with sickness and death, now only a pale scar remained.
"You should...if you will permit my advice, friend, you should drink only water from now on. There is no hope at the bottom of a bottle. And its excess aggravated your injury."
The old man shrugged. "'s all I've got."
Anomen considered for a moment. It was no dragon, and yet in that moment he felt certain of what the right path looked like.
Helm was beside him, even in his doubts.
Anomen held out a hand. "If it isn't too much trouble for you, I've got a room you might stay...at least for now."
—
"Ser Anomen."
"Sir Trawl? What is the matter?"
Anomen reflexively straightened his shoulders at the paladin's voice. For as serious as the his old mentor usually was, today his resolute expression held a grim edge.
"We must speak." Trawl indicated toward and empty hallway with a jerk of his head. "Come."
The two walked in silence until they reached the door the door out of the stables, leading into one of the more isolated winding paths that linked the Temple district with the rest of Athkatla.
Trawl did not dither with absent pleasantries. "There are two things we must discuss, Ser Anomen. The first, and of greater importance: the order has been given reason to question your conduct of late."
Anomen had been ready for this. Part of him struggled to cringe away from the coming recrimination—the part of him that would always be a young boy, desperate for someone to tell him he was worthy. But he was no longer solely that boy.
"I have followed the spirit of the order—as my conscience dictates, and as Helm empowers. Is there a specific area in which I require guidance?"
"I think you know that you know that you have not been living up to the promise that we saw in you when you were accepted into the order. Intervening without the Prelate's permission, acting on your own concerns without prior proof of wrongdoing—"
"My intention has only ever been to further the cause of righteousness."
"—to act without support or certainty is to risk what might otherwise be a long and worthy life of service through political entanglement. This is something your seniors know. That you have been accepted into the order does not give you leave to argue with them."
"I...yes. You are right, Sir Trawl. I shall endeavour to better control my conduct."
"As you should. Now, tell me—is it true that you allowed a pair of trolls to leave their lair without slaying them?"
"It is true, yes. They were not hostile to me, and I found no evidence of human remains in their den. I chose to allow them to relocate, rather than risk unnecessary confrontation."
"Unnecessary? Simply because they have not devoured humans within the last month does not mean they will not go on to do so immediately after you peacefully gave them leave to do so! Your mercy may cost travellers their lives. Did your courage fail you?"
Anomen stiffened, a spike of anger rising in him. But he stopped before the retort reached his tongue—breathed them out. "Helm knows the strength of my heart, Trawl. If you have doubts, I suggest you take it up with him."
Trawl bristled. "Not to mention that it is well known and obvious that you are housing a man who is not a member of the order within your quarters. Putting aside questions of conduct—"
"It was this, or let him freeze to death. Knowing that there was something I could do, to do nothing would be tantamount to—"
"This is a military force, Ser Anomen. It is not a flophouse for any drunk to come and go as they please. You could have taken him to the Illmatri."
"In your wisdom, Sir, you know as well as I that they are at capacity. He would be out again within the day. And then—"
"Anomen. This is not the place for him. Do you understand?"
"I...believe I do." And, for once, perhaps he did. To experience certainty—a rare and blessed event. This was not the place for him.
He inclined his head. "I suppose you are right, Sir Trawl."
The other man blinked, his words catching. As if he were surprised that Anomen had not responded more forcefully. The lapse lasted less than a breath before the paladin's discipline once again reasserted itself.
"Good...good. Your heart is in the right place, my brother, but this is not the way. I admit, I had trepidation about bringing this second bit of news to you—given your...previous loyalties."
Anomen's heart sped up. It could only be Willa. If her guilt had been decided by the Order—already his mind raced ahead, considering how he might acquire a horse, race to make it to her side before—
"...are you listening, Anomen? I would have thought you would appreciate this news."
"My apologies, Sir Trawl. I was merely considering your words from earlier. Please, tell me."
"Your acquaintance, the druidess—she has been cleared of guilt for the murder of our men. A witness came forth and her conduct has been backed by the previous lord of the region."
"Then she is—"
"Apparently she has returned to Athkatla. Our priest in the Bridge District said she had a fantastical account of the true hand behind the chaos. It may be that we will have to organise a campaign of our own—Ser Anomen? Where are you—Anomen!"
—
The Coronet, went the word on the street. The druidess was last seen at the Copper Coronet.
How right, he thought. To return to the place where a new branch first began to grow.
He ran through the streets of Athkatla, desperate to catch her before she moved on. In their time together they had ventured out to so many different places. Who knows where she might go next? He wouldn't be surprised if it wasn't even on this plane of existence.
Out of breath, he scanned the dregs of the Coronet, searching for those familiar features—he caught a whiff of dried herbs—
“...Anomen?”
Willa emerged from the crowd, stopping a foot away from him. So close, and yet he almost doubted the reality of her.
“What are you doing here?”
“I—I came as soon as I heard you were back in Athkatla. There were accusations, and the order—I had to ask you the truth of it directly.”
"You didn't hear? I would have thought..."
Anomen shook his head. "I didn't believe it. Not a word—not without hearing an admission directly from you." He stopped, a cold sensation creeping up the back of his neck. "Was I wrong to doubt?"
"Such doubts are the kindest gift you could have given." She sighed, and sagged. The dark circles beneath her eyes had deepened since he last saw her. "What you heard was not entirely wrong. We—both the men of your order and ourselves—were tricked into battle by a powerful illusion that each disguised the other party as...monsters."
Her voice tripped on the final word.
"Such cruel trickery. It grieves me that you were deceived in such a manner."
She nodded, not meeting his eyes. "I cannot describe the sickening pit I felt when the spell wore off."
He ached to reach out, to offer comfort. But he held back. He did not know if it was still his place to offer such.
She looked up at him, her smile wan. “It is good to see you, my...my friend. It was good of you to take leave from your duties to come check on me. Though I suppose this is only a temporary.”
“Please, tell me what plagues you, my lady. What foe is it that inflicted such cruelty upon you?”
She smiled, then, a hint of the impish gleam returning to her eyes. “You will not believe it, my knight. The architect of the scheme—Lord Jierdan Firkraag—is an ancient red dragon.”
He could have laughed. If ever there were a sign, this was it.
Praise be to Helm.
“I have returned to Athkatla to gather resources and allies to face him—though there is a temporary peace I do not mean to let—”
“I would be such an ally, if you would allow it.”
“But Anomen, the order—I cannot ask—”
"It may be that you do not have to. Those selfish wishes you spoke of? I have a few of my own. It would be all I could want to hear you give voice to that which you desire...If it is not too late, of course."
She looked at him straight on, as if measuring the depth of his sincerity. He met her gaze, imploring that she see his determination.
“I did not wish to burden you. But...if you would hear it...I had hoped that perhaps our time together might outlast the concerns that brought together. That we might be...more than mere comrades. But...I care for you too much to ask you to choose between certain destiny and the slim possibility that I scarce hoped to believe in. Your place—”
"I have left my cup behind." And he felt all the lighter for it. "And with it, my place in the order. I stand before you, well, as free as a man can be."
“Truly? But why—? Are you all right? And what will you do now?”
"That is what I am here to speak to you about. My lady—"
"Anomen. Still, after all this time?"
"...Willa. I wondered if, perhaps, there was still a place for me...by your side."
"Always." No doubt in her voice. Her hand moved up—hesitating for just a moment—and then she reached out, tenderly cupping the side of his face. "And...not just by my side. I..."
There was a tremor in her intake of breath.
"I missed you."
"You do not know what joy that brings me to hear you say that. I had feared—but no more. And if you'd permit me—I would tell you the same. I missed you."
She smiled, big and genuine, her teeth bright like pearls, and he knew in his heart that he had made the right decision. Her hand slipped from his cheek.
"Welcome home, Ser Anomen."
"No," he said, catching her fingers as she pulled away. Reverently, he brought her knuckles to his lips. Her sigh was a world of possibility.
"Just...Anomen."