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Shaun sighs, back aching as he slides the desk in the tiny back room in a bar to the side so he has enough space for the spell. The tavernkeep at this particular inn and bar has been gracious enough to allow him to use the backroom to have some privacy for his teleportation, ever aware of Vasselheim’s frowning on arcane magic. In exchange he's used Mending to repair cracked cups and dishes that fell during the fight.
He’s been traveling back and forth from Emon or Whitestone to Vasselheim daily since the battle, spending his waking hours assisting in the rebuilding effort but not wanting to take up any space in an inn. He’s already filled his home in Whitestone with a young couple who lost everything in the attack; a pregnant woman and young man who had nothing more but the clothes on their backs. They were helping clear the rubble alongside him that first day, having nothing else to do with their home and work destroyed, and he enjoyed chatting. They weren’t skittish of his magic, in fact, rather impressed by it, and were remarkably good conversationalists. He’d lost his own home, livelihood, everything, just recently himself. They connected over the loss.
When the couple expressed considering just leaving the city and starting over, he immediately offered up his home in Whitestone until they built up funds to find their own place to live. He checks on them every once in and awhile, but for the most part he’s been sleeping in his newly rebuilt shop in Emon. He’s never been one for roommates, no matter how much he’s enjoyed Hagmar and Bran’s conversation, and figures they might appreciate some privacy to process.
The recovery effort was a grim affair. Mostly he’d been assisting with the morbid task of recovering bodies from piles of stone and rubble. He'd been using magic to help lift the rocks and pieces of building that weighed hundreds of pounds and were difficult to handle by hand. That first day back, the first crushed body he recovered, Shaun vomited at the sight, choking out apologies when he had to pause his work to catch his breathe. By now he feels a numbness to the gory sights. The smell of blood is not less noticeable so much as so encompassing its the new normal now, as though he can’t quite remember what fresh air is. He’s exhausted each day, using all his available spells he can spare then finishing off lifting with his hands.
He’s missed the presence of Hagmar and Bran these past few days as they’ve settled in Whitestone. They were fascinated by his magic rather than terrified of it, and the glares from strangers cut harder without them there to give a reassuring smile. Today though he’s had a break. Families starting to recognize him, become comfortable with him, or more accepting of magic users after hearing the tales of his friends saving the city. Instead of surrounding himself by death he’s surrounded by life, taking on the task of entertaining children during the day while parents attempt to recover any potential belongings from destroyed houses once much of the wreckage has been cleared. He feels a bit of shame about how much he revels in the attention as they watch fascinated by his little tricks and cantrips he’d been doing since he was their age himself. The past two years have been quite a struggle for him, more than he’d ever imagined as a young man leaving his home for a new continent and new adventures. He forgot how much his ego feeds on attention and approval, even if he’s only getting it from five year olds now.
When he saw Vox Machina today it was a bittersweet reunion. He kept up entertaining the children after they left, and even helped the tavernkeep Georgie cleaan up after closing until he politely but pointedly told Gilmore the backroom was free and he was going to head out for the night. As he finishes moving the desk out of the way he feels like he’s carrying the weight of that Titan on his shoulders. He wants to work. Wants to do anything but think or feel or have to reflect on the fact that this is real. This is permanent. He’s never coming back.
Once he takes time to tidy up a few nick knacks on the desk that slid out of place and thumb through the book he’s looked through five times before he finally takes a deep breathe and gets ready for the spell. He dreads going home, whether it be to Whitestone or Emon, and the barrage of memories those places carry. He pauses, unsure where he even wants to go, and is tempted to just curl up on the floor until Georgie kicks him out in the morning. He doesn’t know what he wants to do until he gets a flash of a thought and makes the incantation on instinct, unwilling to wait and think himself out of the idea.
He feels the comforting pull of magic and blinks into the stuffy darkness of a wardrobe. It’s quite a bit smaller than he can remember, he was barely 16 when he carved this sigil in the bottom of the wardrobe in his bedroom. Back then, it seemed the easiest place to keep in hidden. He’s gained a couple inches and more than couple pounds since then. He still doesn’t have to look to open the latch though, automatically steps over the spot in front on the floor that creaks. He sits down on the unmade bed, taking in the empty room and letting the familiarity rush around him. It was the only place he could think to go.
Emon is filled with memories of the screams of children watching their father die in front of them, the unimaginable pain of claws piercing his belly, the sight of the lifeless body of a leader he looked up to on the ground, everything he's built in life burnt to ashes. Even as he rebuilds his shop and life returns to normal there are days he looks at the again bustling streets but can see nothing but fire and rubble. He could deal with it before, but tonight, with this added knowledge, it seemed too heavy a burden to bear.
Whitestone would be even worse. Everything in it was touched by Vax. Time spent in the castle, at home, drinking in bars, strategizing against the dragons. Preparing to rebuild Gilmore’s shop, or to be more accurate Vax interrupting his planning to drag him to a tavern and talk. Even the year he went away he visited often enough. Plus Keyleth would be in Whitestone, and he couldn’t dare face her again. Not with this pain coursing through him he has no right to bear. Vax was never his. He was always hers and he can’t stand the thought of looking at her again, seeing the heartbreak in her eyes, the empathy he has no business deserving.
Here there are no memories of dragons or wickedly handsome half-elves. There is pain here too, deep pain, but of a kind he can bear. The kind of pain that comes from parents and children not understanding each other, from childhood bullies, from the memories of the agony of falling in and out of love for the first time. It’s a steady and tolerable, not sharp and overwhelming. And while he doesn’t want to admit it, he feels a sense of safety even just from being in this home again. From that unique smell of sand he doesn’t know a word in common to describe, to the dry heat even in the night that he has so desperately missed some winters away. From memories of his father reading him bedtime stories on this bed, and mother kissing his forehead and tucking him in after. As much as he’s run from his past now when he’s at his lowest he ran towards it, and somehow after everything he’s been through its that thought that finally seems to break him.
Its not until he starts to absentmindedly rub his thigh, right where there’s a small scar still from the dragon’s tail, a swing he didn’t even realize hit a midst the blinding pain in his belly at the time, that he notices the wetness on his robes. He’s been crying, tears dripping down as he’s been leaning over his legs, curled up in almost a ball on the bed. He moves his hand automatically to cast prestidigitation on his face but his hand is shaking so hard he can’t form the required gesture. The weight on his back starts to feel like its moved to his chest, crushing him until he’s gasping for breathe as he sobs. He’s vaguely aware there’s snot dripping from his noise and his eyes are stinging from the makeup on his eyes sliding down. He hates it, hates that he can’t fix it, can’t magic it away, just like he can’t fix Vax being gone and how he couldn’t stop his adopted hometown being destroyed in front of his eyes. The way he couldn't stop assassins from sneaking into his bedroom and keep himself from being kidnapped in his own store. He keeps gasping for breathe rocking on the bed, pulling his hair with shaking hands until he can at least feel the physical pain cut through, feel anything aside from what must be him drowning in the middle of this desert.
When he finally begins to come out of it he realizes he’s not alone. His parents have been there for a while, they must have given father has been gently whispering to him, guiding him to breathe in and out. Mother has his hand clutched in hers and she’s using her other hand to gently wipe the sweat off the back of his neck with a cool cloth. He turns to his mother, stares at his hand shaking violently in hers. Father seems to notice he’s becoming more aware and asks, still in a gentle voice, “Can I touch you?”. Shaun nods jerkily, unable to speak, and he feels his father groan at his joints popping as he climbs onto the bed. He leans Shaun back and against him so Shaun’s back is on his father’s chest, but also supported by the headboard, and Soren brings one hand over to gently rest on Shaun’s sternum to steady him. “Breathe with me okay? Just like before. Here we go, in and out.”
And they breathe together. Shaun closes his eyes and lets himself hear the rhythm of father inhaling and exhaling, feel his chest move against him, feels his hand and tries his best to follow along. Inhale. Pause. Exhale. Pause. Again and again until he’s no longer gasping, until his breathe slows. The shaking in his hands starts to recede, and when father pulls his hand away and gently moves Shaun back until he’s sitting on his own he can still keep breathing, keep the steady pattern going.
Just like before. It’s been decades since he’s had this bad of an incident. One that he couldn’t pull himself out of. Long enough that the last time they’d did this Shaun was small enough for his father to pull him in and just set him on his lap so they could breathe together, slowly guide him from hyperventilating to normal breathes by imitating his papa. Back then his father seemed so big and tall just his presence felt soothing. Now, he feels a flash of guilt when he see’s the frailness in his mother’s hand holding his, and how it seems to have taken all of father’s strength just to have Shaun leaning partly against him. Its been too long since he’s seen them, they’ve aged in a way that shocks him now that he can start to process what is happening.
He tries to mutter something. An apology for not coming home for so long, for coming home like this, for not being able to contain himself. But whatever apologies he tried to stammer out are shushed away and father just keeps timing his breathes, helping him settle. They sit with him through it until the end, until his hands are still and he can feel the bed underneath him again. Opesa dips another cloth in the bowl of water and gently wipes his face, cleaning away the tears and mucus and humming some kind of gentle nonsense under her breathe. He doesn’t recognize it as any tune but its still as soothing as the coolness on his face is.
Eventually he lets go of his mother’s hand, giving it a final squeeze. One of them moved his hair out of his face, brought his hands down to stop from pulling, and now he notices for the first time an ache in his scalp. He brings his hands up and quickly ties his hair back with a piece of leather on his wrist. He’s easily able to cast prestidigitation now, not bothering to fix his makeup but just getting rid of it entirely, whatever was left after mother wiped his face. Opesa gives a gasp when the magic flows from his fingers in purple sparks but when he looks over expecting the fear or disappointment he got using magic as a child instead she looks on with almost… wonder.
“That is beautiful my dear. Just your color too.” she sighs.
“Thank you.” he croaks out, the first words he’s spoken to them all night. It startles him to hear himself speaking in Marquesian. He realizes they’ve been speaking to him in Marquesian this whole time. He hasn’t lost the language, despite not visiting often he sends letters regularly. More so, he uses it in business, he built up quite an import export business within his shop, and spoke with merchants from Ank’Harel, sometimes weekly, until the attacks destroyed the store. But he hadn't consciously made the switch, he simply found himself thinking and talking in his first language.
There’s a steady silence for a moment before his mother stands slowly, clapping her hands together. “Tea. We all need some tea now. Have you eaten darling?” She doesn’t give him time to answer before she continues on. “Soren, come help me get the big pot down, I’ll put on the lentils we got. We’ll make enough for tomorrow too. And Shaun dear you must try the fruit from the market your father bought this week, the pomegranates were so sweet. I think we have bread left too.” He lets out a breathe of a laugh, relieved to see one thing still has not changed. His mother still cooks when she’s worried or anxious. When he was ten his aunt broke her leg falling off a horse she was riding. Opesa cooked up such a storm in her worries Shaun was eventually tasked with bringing the extra soup and roasted meats to practically every house in the village. He’s really quite the same but he channels it into his magic, casting cantrips and spells just to give his mind and hands something to do.
She steps out briefly but doesn’t head to the kitchen, instead going to the stack of drawers in the hallway. He can see her pull out bedding, neatly folded and in the same purple hue he remembers from his youth. They were originally a sandy orange color, Gilmore is pleased to see his enchantment held up all these years. She brings them to the bed and gently nudges him to get up so she can lay the blanket down. He takes over for her quickly, seeing how her achy joints make bending over a pain. She gives him a gentle kiss and pops off to the kitchen to join Soren.
It takes Gilmore some time to join. They give him time too. They might glance into his room but never ask him to come out or ask him how he’s doing. He’s appreciative of the space. Soon though the smell of the spiced lentils draws him out to the kitchen. He is hungry, and while the cooking may be comforting to his mother, eating a good meal has always been Shaun’s preferred form of relaxation. Father pulls out a chair next to him and pours him a cup of tea from the pot and tops off his own. He talks to him about the unusually temperate weather they had this winter, how he thinks its made the fruit harvest sold at the market extra sweet. He updates Shaun on his cousin that moved to another village, and proudly boasts about winning his weekly chess game with the neighbors three times in a row. Its calming and helps keep Shaun from slipping back into his spiraling from before. But its clear he’s avoiding any news about current events, he’s not asking Shaun any questions, and makes no mention of the recent visit by Shaun’s friends. Knowing Vox Machina, he cannot imagine it did not leave an impression, so it must be on purpose.
He eats his meal in silence, mother and father sharing a plate and he with his own. The pomegranate seeds are in fact delightfully sweet and he makes a mental note to buy enough at the market tomorrow morning to make some juice before he leaves. If he leaves. The thought of going back exhausts him at the moment. The food helps thought and he feels grounded by the end of his meal, more like himself and in control. “Thank you mama.” he says, voice full of emotions as if to convey he meant thank you for everything, not just the meal. She just squeezes his hand tight.
“We are so happy you are back to visit.” Soren adds. Shaun smiles, trying to shove down the shame he feels at staying away for so long. He busies himself with cleaning up so he doesn’t have to dwell on it, casting prestidigitation on the dishes. He sees the stirring spoon leaning on the side of the pot over the fire and moves his fingers to send off some arcane energy. The spoon starts to stir itself in the spot slowly. Every few minutes it glows and changes directions, with a few built in pauses. Its a nifty spell he came up with himself, tricky to get it to work right but it makes cooking while working the shop a breeze. His eyes flash as he focuses on the fire next, lowering it so its just enough to keep them warm but not overheat. Finally he focuses on the rest of the kitchen, lifting the plates on the table back to their spots on the wall and going through a few castings of prestidigitation the table and counter are spotless.
He does it automatically, on instinct, and doesn’t realize the gravity of it until he can feel his parents stares on the back of his head. He sighs and lets his shoulders hang for a moment before turning.
“I’m sorry. It’s just..habit after all this time on my own. Don’t worry, those were my last spells for the day, I’m tapped except for cantrips.” He says it looking at his feet, uncomfortably aware of how quickly he’s transformed from the exuberant and prideful version of himself back into a more meek version he thought he left in Marquet years ago. There’s a moment of silence but then father speaks.
“No, no it’s okay. Don’t apologize I…” he trails off for a second and Shaun risks a glance up. His father looks pained, but there’s no hint of the disappointment or anger he was expecting. “We are grateful for the help. And you are talented. I’m happy to see.”
He stares at his father blankly. Happy to see. Its almost too much to process.
As if seeing he doesn’t know how to respond mother speaks up now. “Yes, Shaun we are so happy to see you. Will you sit?” She asks hesitantly, the unspoken message in her voice that this next conversation will not consist of mindless small talk about the quality of produce. He nods and sits, remaining silent. Opesa continues.
“I.. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable when you’ve had such a long day. I don’t want you to feel like you have to talk. But there are traders from Vasselheim that stop by the market and news travels fast.”
He inhales sharply at hearing the name. His mother pauses and he takes a deep breathe and nods at her to continue.
“I know we had a difficult time with your magic growing up. Please know it was because we wanted to protect you. There were so many stories of children like you.. being hurt. Taken advantage of. We wanted to protect you. And so we tried to stop it. We thought if we discouraged it then you wouldn’t be so open about it, you wouldn’t be a target. But your friends, when we met them, they told us you’ve done such wonderful things. That you help them. When we heard what they did saving the city. With their magic. Well… we’re just so proud you had your own part to play in that. We were perhaps too harsh with you when you were younger. What you can do, it’s not that we don’t approve so much as we just want you to be safe. We want you to live a good life. When you were growing up we were just trying to protect you. You have become a good man. You do not have to hold back in front us anymore. We know you can take care of yourself Shaun.” Opesa lets out a long sigh after her statement. She opens her mouth as if she has more to say, but after a moment simply lets out a breathe and squeezes his hand again.
He stares for several moments at their hands linked together on the dinner table. He can’t seem to speak, taking in a sharp inhale and opening and closing his mouth several times before he settles on squeezing her hand back and giving her a nod. He makes eye contact and gives her a small smile. He looks over to his father as Soren reaches over and grabs his other hand to give it a quick squeeze. Shaun lets out a smile towards him as well.
Soon his mother cuts the tension by sighing loudly and declaring it was time for her to go to bed. She squeezes Shaun’s shoulder and leans over to give Soren a kiss on the check before getting up and making her way to her bedroom. His father mutters goodnight to Opesa and turns back to Shaun.
“I think I’ll have some more tea first.” Shaun nods and refills father’s cup and then his own. The pot is almost empty so he goes to fill the kettle from the pitcher of water on the counter and leans down to secondary smaller fireplace used for smaller dishes and boiling water. He sets up the kettle and grabs a little piece of kindling to transfer over the fire. He sits back waiting for the kettle to boil, taking the chair his mother was in so as to be facing him directly now.
“Your friends were lovely visiting. They left us lots of water. And thank you for the locket. Always such a handsome boy.” Shaun smiles, pleased to hear his friends took his advice to heart.
“I’m glad.” He sighs, imaging his friends all cramped in the small kitchen. “They must have been quite a sight. Sorry I didn’t have time to give you a heads up but it was all a bit sudden.”
“Yes, that tall fellow, he was a bit odd. But a gentle soul.” he adds reassuringly.
Gilmore can’t stifle his laugh at hearing Grog described that way. “There are some ancient dragons that might disagree with that assessment, were they still around to tell the tale. But he can be kind. To those who deserve it.”
“Dragons? I thought they were making that up.” His father response, with a big of wonder in his voice.
“Oh how I wish.” His father looks up sharply at him at that, apparently hearing the anger and sorrow he tried to keep out of his voice. He continues anyways. “The news didn’t travel then?”
“No, no. Really we only get traders from Vasselheim coming through here. I imagine any traders from your Emon would just go straight to the City.” He pauses for a moment then continues. “Did you.. did you deal with these dragons too?”
Shaun pauses, considering, and his father hums a saddened acknowledgment as though his silence was an answer itself. He sighs, switching to common to mutter ‘fuck it’ under his breathe, and undoes his robes enough that he can shove the fabric down so his torso and arms are now bare. His father lets out a gasp and Shaun hears a sharp clank as Soren drops his cup in shock. He takes no notice of the mess, just stares at Shaun for a second before clambering to get up. He groans as he stands but he crosses the space of the table towards Shaun quicker than Shaun’s seen him move all night.
“I’m fine, it’s fine now! Just left me with a nasty scar.” Shaun says even as his father is leaning down to look closer at the thick raised scar running across his body, tears already spilling out of his eyes.
“Oh my boy, my sweet sweet boy.” Soren lets out, pulling Shaun into him and hugging him as tight as his frail arms can. Shaun grasps his father’s arm, squeezing it, and continues reassuring him that he’s fine.
They’re interrupted by the boiling kettle. Soren straightens up and wipes his eyes, leaving Shaun with a squeeze on his shoulder before getting out a couple of kitchen rags and gently removing the kettle from the fire, pouring the water into the tea pot before setting it down on the stone by the fire. He brings the leaves over, waiting for the water to cool slightly before adding them in. Shaun watches the familiar sight as he pulls his robes back on fully. Soren seems to finally notice he spilled his tea, using one of the rags to wipe it up slowly. He sits back down just as Shaun starts to speak up again.
“He’s dead. The one who did this to me. It wasn’t Grog that time, it was Vax. He was the half-elf with the dark hair, one of the twins.” He sees Soren nod in recognition. He’s not sure what is compelling him to tell this story. Its like a compulsion to pick at a scab until you bleed again, he just keeps going despite the inevitable pain. “I was there, I helped, but Vax...Vax got the final blow. He was very skilled. All of Vox Machina is. But Vax.. he was something else with that dagger.” Shaun trails off for a moment and Soren speaks up.
“Was.. is he dead? Your friend?” Shaun inhales sharply then nods. His father reaches over to take his hand again. “I’m sorry.”
“In Vasselheim. Right after the battle. I wasn’t there at the battle, well, for a bit I was..” and he trails off with a shudder, unwilling to go into his kidnapping any further. “but I had to get others to safety. People who couldn’t fight. I went back the next day to help with the clean up. It’s.. Well, it’s bad there. But the city is safe now. I’ve been doing that ever since but it was such a big battle and everyone got spread apart and busy rebuilding. I didn’t find out until today. About Vax being gone.” He chokes on the last sentence. His father squeezes his hand again.
“I’m sorry. He was a good man. He died for the city yes? To save them?” Shaun nods. It’s not quite the full story but he can’t bear to talk about The Raven Queen and pacts to defeat Vecna. At the end of the day Vax is gone, and he’s never coming back.
“Then he was a good man. A very good man.”
Shaun nods again. He stares at the table and he’s speaking before he really knows the words are coming out of his mouth. “I was in love with him, Papa.”
He wonders how its physically possible for his body to create more tears after this evening, but here they are, streaming down his face. “He wasn’t in love with me back, he was with someone else. He still cared for me very much. We were very good friends. But I was in love with him.” For all the pain there is something of a relief in finally saying the words out loud, in admitting just how deeply he cared for Vax’ildan.
Soren is silent for a while but then gently asks “Did he know?”
“I think so. He was just so gentle. He came to me about it you know. He told me we couldn’t be together like that because he was in love with someone else. He didn’t want to hurt me. Didn’t want me to think he was leading me on. It was so thoughtful really. He loved me in his own way. He did. Just not the way he loved Keyleth. Not the way I loved him.”
Soren nods along. “He respected you. Respected your feelings. Now I know he was a great man. I am sorry for your loss Shaun.”
He nods, breathing deeply. Once he stops crying he runs another quick prestidigitation over his face.
“That is a neat trick.” He hesitates for a moment then adds, “I certainly prefer it to your fire phase.”
Shaun gives a startled laugh. “Yes. Yes I imagine so. Can’t have been easy dealing with 9 year old who sometimes spontaneously casted Fire Bolt during a temper tantrum.” They both laugh at that. Shaun finishes his tea and tilts his head across the way to his old bedroom. “Time for sleep I think?”
Soren nods and they get up slowly.
“Goodnight Shaun. It is good to see you again.”
He sighs and gives his father a quick hug. “It is good to return home.”