Neverwinter Forest tiny dots on an endless timeline

Hope was a thing that Melisande always seemed to have an abundance of. Hope for the future. Hope for the prosperity of those in her life. Hope that the gods would always shine brightly upon her and Sólhárr. Her hope was rarely misplaced, a blessing from the very gods she prayed to. 

All the hope in the world couldn't replace the almost motherly worry she often felt for her brother. He was strong and smart, but she also knew he would work himself to the bone for those that relied on him. Callyope was good for him in that regard. Always there would be another heart looking out for her fierce brother. Still, it had been a while since she had the chance to check in with the man. Melisande was ecstatic when he agreed to escort her to the Whispering Pools. 


Ég skulda þér, Melisande started, a soft smile pulling at her scarred lips. Their shared steps were relaxed, leisurely. You've worked so hard for this. Everyone has, She amended thinking warmly on all the wolves who helped them in the final leg of their journey. Smile turning melancholy, she gave the man an all-too-familiar look. 

I worry about you. That you work too much. That you don't pray enough. Her words held no accusation, only concern.

sólhárr huffed softly, a sound somewhere between acknowledgment and amusement, as melisande’s words reached him. her concern was not unfamiliar; it warmed him in its way, a steady thread in the tapestry of their bond. he glanced sidelong at her, catching the flicker of worry in her eyes, the way her scar twisted slightly as her lips curved into that familiar look.

ég veit, he replied, his tone low and even, like the rumble of distant thunder. but you forget, systir, that my work is my prayer. his coral eyes softened as he spoke, the weight of his responsibilities woven into his voice. every tree we mark, every stone we move, every breath we take in forneskja—it is all a hymn to the gods. a hymn to what we’re building.

his pace slowed, and he turned his gaze fully to her now, searching her face, the scars that spoke of her own battles and sacrifices. but... you’re right to worry. lyelska reminds me of it often, and now you. perhaps it’s the gods’ way of telling me to listen. he smirked faintly, a brief glimmer of humor breaking through his seriousness.

melisande, he said after a moment, his voice quieter now, almost reverent, without you, without callyope, without the others... there is no strength in me to keep building. i’ll rest. i’ll pray. but you must do the same. he paused, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. ég skulda þér líka.

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