Recall

"Now, young man, I need y.... Excuse me. Boy. Gerhard!" the headmaster barks, a vein on his forehead pulsing with his steadily increasing heart-rate. "Pay attention when I am speaking to you."

Gerhard snaps his head back to face forward, trying his best to ignore the bird that has perched on the windowsill. His eyes, though, drift back to it; back to the small twig that it carries in its beak; back to the soaring rooftops of Waterdeep. With great effort, he returns his attention to the headmaster. "Sorry, sir."

The wizened half-elf sits across a large mahogany table, intricately carved with designs detailing its own history: the great trees from which it came; the great ships that carried it; the great school within which it now resides. It has seen many children sit where Gerhard does now, under the dutiful gaze of the headmaster. It will see many more before its time is through.

"Eye contact when you are speaking to your elders, boy." The headmaster sits back in his chair, attempting to regain his composure. He runs a hand through his short silver hair, smooths his pure white sleeves, and places both hands on a knee as he settles into the high-backed leather chair. Gerhard's eyes flit back and forth between the man sitting in front of him and the enormous painting above. Is that him? Or his father? No, the cuff there is from... "Boy!" comes the headmaster's quick rebuke.

Gerhard sits back straight, doing his best to stare not in the headmaster's eyes but instead at his collar. "Sorry, sir."

"Better. Now, as I was saying. I need you to understand, young man, that the Fitzroy family is doing you a favour. We do not normally allow..." he says, pausing to look over his half-moon glasses at the boy in front of him. "Commoners, to walk our hallowed halls. But...", he trails, peering over to the wall to his left, "our beloved donors are welcome to certain... perks." The words drip out of his mouth like bile, but Gerhard pays him no mind. Instead, he takes the opportunity to focus on something else: the portraits on the far wall, each painted with a different hand. It is too far to read the plaque, but Gerhard knows the face of who he is looking for. Emil Fitzroy. His onyx black hair sticks out in the sea of greys and auburns; his goatee frames his alabaster skin.

"These... perks, however, end at my door, boy" the headmaster continues, pulling Gerhard's attention back to him. "Know this," he says, leaning forward over the desk, fingers splayed out amongst the parchment and quills, "If I see you again, if I so much as hear a whisper on the wind that you are not living up to the standards of our magnificent Institute, I will relish sending you back to your broken father and your peasant mother." The words drip out of his mouth once more, but this time it is as a dog salivating for a bone. "Do you understand?"

Gerhard nods once. "Yes, sir."

"Good. You are dismissed."

The well-wishes pour through after Gerhard's father passes, though it is not long after the funeral that they begin to subside. Where once there were flowers now lie only petals, dried and pressed into a book by his mother. The docks are a bustling, noisy place to raise a family, but it feels quieter than the grave now.

The funeral, though more than a tenday ago, feels fresh, and recent. Gerhard and his mother still don their best blacks, though Hana has seen fit to remove the veil. Most days, she is content to wear simple clothing, but today is different. Today, she selects a floor length dress, the simple white stitching running up the side and along the arms. Gerhard tries his best, too, finding a crisp white shirt to wear beneath the woollen coats he and his mother pull on. By docks' standards, their very best. The two step out into the autumn air, and begin their walk north.

Gerhard and his mother walk, slowly, up through the Trades Ward and into the North Ward. Gerhard is used to the walk: most mornings, he makes the trek himself to attend his classes. His mother, though, rarely has the opportunity to venture outside of their neighbourhood. She stops at most of the shop fronts that they pass, peering in the windows to see what is being sold.

"Master Fitzroy has invited us for dinner," she had told him that morning. "Now. He's been very good to us ever since your father was injured. Very good to you. I want you on your best behaviour."

"Yes, Mother." was Gerhard's reply.

The two of them walk past the homes of the nobles, past their shops and stalls, to the gated villa of the Fitzroy family. The large stained wooden gate looms above the street; wrought iron pressed into its intricate carvings. The walls that frame it are made from the same chiseled stone as its neighbours; not a glance can be had at the homes on the other side. Gerhard reaches a hand out to knock on the wooden gate, but before his knuckles can make contact, it is pulled open.

"Hana. Gerhard. Please, come in," is Emil's greeting. He pulls the gate open, waving them inside. "I am so sorry. I meant to send a carriage, but I fear that my driver has run off with the cook." He winks to Gerhard, who is unsure if the man is joking or not. "But fear not, I know my way around the kitchen."

Emil's hair has silvered since the Institute portrait was taken many years ago, his temples a stark white against his black, thick hair. His face is lined, though as he greets his guests, it is clear that it is from many years of kind looks and wide smiles. He leads the mother and son through the courtyard, opening the front door himself, and ushering them in.

"Henri?" he calls up, "Henri! Can you give me a hand, please? Come greet our guests."

He turns to Gerhard and Hana, holding his hands out. "Please, let me take your coats. The lounge is just through there," he points, his head motioning a door to their right. "I'll be there in just a moment. Henri?" he calls up the stairs one last time, before stepping into a nearby closet.

Slow footsteps come from upstairs, approaching apprehensively as Henri pokes his head out from around the upper hall. He locks eyes with Gerhard, and the two of them look away with haste, focusing instead on the rest of the room.

The villas of Waterdeep's lords are ornate, and this is no exception. Where this differs, though, is the signs of life that decorate the bones of the Fitzroy home. Boots, scattered aimlessly by the door. Books and parchment stacked on a nearby table. A lute, placed against the far wall. A few too many dust bunnies under Emil's feet, who can surely afford a maid or two.

Above them all, framed by the grand staircase ahead of the two dinner guests, is a painting, though the word does it no justice. It stands tall, reaching from the landing half a story up all the way to the ceiling on the second floor. The frame is made to look like it is carved from a single block of marble, though a discerning eye can tell that it is just wood with a clever stain. A much younger Emil stands proud, one hand placed on the sabre decorating his waist. His waistcoat is a deep, rich blue, befitting a man of his stature, punctuated by a thin gold chain that disappears into his breast pocket. The other hand holds on to the shoulder of an equally young woman, her platinum blond hair curling away from her face with grace. A deep green dress drapes over her shoulders, flowing around her seat and arranging in a neat pile at her feet. Her jewellery is not gold, but silver, a locket that rests just below her neck. Her eyes look out, deep into the soul of the viewer, and Gerhard cannot help but feel as though she is watching him as he steps further into the room.

In her hands, she holds a small baby. A shock of black hair on an alabaster face; the spitting image of his father. A kind smile, and piercing eyes; his mother's son, there is no doubt. That same child, grown, takes the final few steps to the landing, passing in front of the portrait to greet his guests. "Welcome, Hana, Gerhard. Please, come with me, and I will get us all something to drink."

Henri leads them into the lounge, gesturing to one of the overstuffed sofas as he continues to the small bar set up in the corner. "Please, sit. Hana, may I get you a drink? We have some Zzar?" She nods, and Henri prepares the drinks before coming back to the sofa with a tray. He hands a wine glass to Hana and a glass of water to Gerhard before placing identical glasses in front of himself and the empty seat his father will occupy. He stashes the tray and returns once more, sitting across from Gerhard in a deep, red, plush chair.

Henri looks between them, avoiding Gerhard's eye and smiling whenever he meets Hana's. The silence between them grows, the two boys not sure who will speak first, and Hana content to sit and sip her drink. Henri opens his mouth, about to compliment Hana's dress, when his father steps in, settling into his reserved place and picking up the wine.

"Henri, please do not tell me that you let our guests sit in silence?" He winks at Gerhard again, turning to Hana. "Our children, hmm?" He smiles with the practice of one who is used to hosting, but as the lines of his eyes tell the room, it is genuine.

Hana smiles, raising a glass in Emil's direction. "May they never change," she toasts, as the two taking a sip. They make small talk, as only friends of friends can: changes in the neighbourhood, a stall that was robbed.

"Now," he says, rubbing his hands together, his face falling serious. "I don't want you to be worried over dinner, Hana, so I will say my piece now, you can think it over, and then we can enjoy the lovely pork I have roasting."

He folds his hands, looking back and forth between Gerhard and Hana. "First. Gerhard's schooling is not in jeopardy in the least. I made a promise to you and Harold, back when he was injured, and I intend to keep that promise so long as I still have breath in my lungs." Hana casts a glance to her son, grasping Gerhard's hand. She is breathing a little easier, now, and the lines of worry that have deepened with grief these past few tendays ease slightly.

"Second. Harold was my best captain. It was Tymora's own luck that I brought him on as a deckhand after you two married, and I owe... much of my success to him. I... I consider myself at fault for his injury." He wipes a small tear from the corner of his eye. "I will never forgive myself, Hana." He pulls a small handkerchief out of his jacket pocket, dabbing at his eyes. "I owe your family. I would like to start paying off that enormous debt."

He looks to Hana now, his handkerchief held between two outstretched hands. Were he dressed more modestly, were his hands dirtier, one would think he was begging. "It's true that my cook has left, Hana. And yes, he did run off with my driver, but that's not the point. The point is that I have a job opening, and I want you to take it."

He leans forward more, conspiratorially. "I know you won't take my charity. I remember how hard it was to get you to agree to let me pay for Gerhard's schooling. But this isn't charity, Hana. This is a fair wage, and a fair offer, to someone I know needs it right now."

He sits back again, picking up the wine glass where it was left, and looks deep into it as he swirls the liquid around. "You do not have to accept immediately, and I won't pester you. But please, think it over."

His eyes flick up, meeting Hana's before settling on Gerhard. A hand reaches out, clasping Henri's shoulder, as though he is pulling the boy close. "That is not all that I wish to offer, either." He looks to Henri, who nods at his father's upturned eyebrow. "My son and I would be delighted if you would live here, with us. I know the Docks are home, and I understand if it is... soon. But as you can see," he says, waving his hands around the room, "I have more space than I know what to do with."

He looks to Hana, and to Gerhard. "I know Henri would love to have a friend from school to study with here at home."

Hana looks at her son, trying to read his face, but struggles. Young Gerhard's thoughts are away, far away, at his father's bedside.

He looks back to his mother, giving her a small nod. She looks back to Emil, and Henri, smiling at her hosts. "We accept."

Graduating from the Institute is a pompous affair, which should not come as a surprise given who's children are graduating.

The Fitzroy party consists of Emil, Hana, Henri, and Gerhard. The former have aged with the days. Emil's temples are no longer the only white in his hair; Hana's lines are deeper, but they've changed: her worry, her fear, has been replaced with simple marks denoting the passage of time.

The two young men are dressed in their finest school dress uniforms. Gerhard's tattered hand-me-downs have long been replaced with much finer stock - the benefits of Hana's new role as head of staff.

While the pomp and circumstance is joyful, the mood is sour. Emil's jaw is tight, his lips pursed, and he walks towards the event with a stiff gait. "Henri, I have already told you. I can't run things without you."

Henri, incredulous at his father, scoffs. "You've been doing fine without me for years. What's another few? Gerhard and I won't be long, maybe a year or two."

"A year or two? I think I said something similar to your grandfather. Do you know what I told him? 'It's a small little fishing boat. I'll hire a small crew, and once they're settled, I'll come back and help run the tavern.' It's been thirty years, Henri."

Henri's eyes roll, and he turns to Gerhard for support. "G, please help him see sense."

Gerhard smiles anxiously. "Well, Emil..." The 'sir' was a habit he had dropped years ago. "We have a contract only until the spring. We might even be back before then, just in time for the next season." He looks to his mother, who extends a hand onto his shoulder in support. He returns to Emil, stepping quickly to catch up to him. "I'll take good care of him, sir, and it's just a few days ride away." Some habits are hard to break.

Emil sighs, his hands in his pockets as he looks up to the crisp autumn sky. "I suppose I can manage until the spring." The two boys - now men - look to each other with excitement. "But, I want you home for Wintershield, and by Tymora be careful."

He looks to Gerhard first. "Promise me you’ll keep taking good care of my boy?" Gerhard nods. "I'll keep him out of trouble, sir."

He looks at Henri next. "And you watch out for Gerhard, yes? I want you both coming back in one piece."

Henri waves his father off. "Father, we will be fine. It's Gerhard! The most trouble he's been in was an overdue library book."

Emil chuckles, winking at Gerhard. "Well, alright. Now run off, I have business to attend to with some of your friends' parents. Off!"

Henri catches up to his father, giving him a quick hug from his side ("Haha, yes, yes, alright, get along then") before the two young men veer off to join their peers.

Hana and Emil, proud parents of two proud graduates, watch the two run off. Henri's hand, curled in a fist, pounds the air in excitement; Gerhard's playful shove pushes him off balance, and the two men grab each other to steady themselves.

"I worry about them, Hana," comes Emil's slow admission, looking over to the woman walking alongside him. "Well, I worry about Henri, at least."

Hana laughs, a habit she has grown more accustomed to in the intervening years. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

Emil joins her laugh, the two of them catching strange looks from the other parents as they make their way to their seats. Emil dusts off a chair next to a severe looking man, his red hair and beard marked with thick streaks of grey. "No need to ask permission today, Hana. Please, sit."

She takes her seat, nodding to the man beside her as she waits for Emil to sit down. "I'm worried about Henri, too. At least they have each other. Henri may be... reckless, and impatient, and..."

Emil laughs. "Now, now! These all may be true, but he is still my son."

Hana blushes. "Sorry, sir. What I mean to say is, Gerhard is... quieter. He takes his time, for better or for worse. But when they have each other, they... they can balance out the other's flaws."

Emil nods. "You know, your son is quite remarkable, Hana. The only reason I let Henri go on that... blasted expedition is because he'll be there too. They're... good, together."

From their seats, they can see the hats of the graduates. Two have just found their seats. One, thick black hair sticking out from under his cap, bubbles over in excitement. The other, long chestnut hair tied into a neat knot, places a gentle hand on the other man's shoulder.

Gerhard's eyes open, slowly, his pupils shrinking in the harsh light.

"Mm? Wha.."

His tongue sits thick and heavy in his mouth, dry and rough like sandpaper. It hurts to swallow, but he tries anyway. It feels as though he's swallowed a stone.

He tries to raise a hand, tries to wipe the fog from his eyes, but they are bound and bandaged. His fingers are thick, wrapped in cloth, and it... hurts to move.

"Wha.. where..."

"Shh, shh, it's okay." A figure enters his vision, clad in white robes and a simple white hood. "Try not to move too much." She rings a small bell, setting it down gently next to Gerhard. "You've been through a lot. Just take it slow."

Gerhard's vision is beginning to clear, and his eyes dart around the small room, trying to find something familiar. The figure moves around the room, pulling vials and herbs from her pockets. "Wha.. where am I?" he is able to ask, gratefully accepting the sip of water he is offered.

"Baldur's Gate." She gestures to the sigil on her robe: crossed branches, one of oak and one of mistletoe. "The Temple of Diancecht, to be precise."

Gerhard sips more, his mouth feeling better with each draught. His mind feels.. clearer, too. But... "How... did I get here? Last I... remember, I ahh..." He closes his eyes tight, his head pounding. He moves to bring his hand up, but that causes pain to shoot up his arm, and he lowers it back down.

The figure, clearly a healer now that the blur is fading from his vision, hands him a vial and a sprig of something green. "Drink this, and chew that."

She wipes her hands on her robe, looking her patient over. "Your friend brought you in. Dragged you into the temple and demanded we help you. I don't think he quite understands how temples of healing work..."

She smiles. "You're on the mend, though. I'll send him in, he can tell you the rest. I'll be back soon to check on you."

She opens a simple door at the end of the room, stepping through and holding it open for another man to bound in.

"Gerhard! Gods, you're awake." Henri crosses the room in a few long strides, kneeling by the bed. "I thought... I was worried that..." His hands grip Gerhard's, two needed to hold the injured hand through its bandages.

Gerhard turns his head slowly to meet his friend's eyes. "What... happened, Henri?"

Henri breaks their gaze, looking down at his hands. "Do you remember the job we took? A wealthy noble from Baldur's Gate? He had stories passed down from his grandfather, from his grandfather, about their ancestors and the battles they fought on the Fields of the Dead."

Gerhard's brow is furrowed - some of this he remembers, yes, but... "Okay.. that explains... why we are in this city... but why am I here."

Henri mouth is a thin line, his jaw set. "We were excavating a plot that the noble told us had artifacts. I... thought I had seen something, so I walked off. When I eventually turned towards you, you..."

Gerhard remembers, now. The orb, shimmering in the dust. The glow that it gave off when he picked it up. The deafening explosion, the landing on his side in the dirt.

He shakes his head, an action that he immediately regrets as his vision sways and a dull throb returns. "That orb should have... it should have killed me, Henri."

Henri stands, towering over Gerhard in his bed, his fingers spread as his hands steady him above the sheets. "Yes, but it didn't! And now that you are awake, we can get back to digging. That explosion uncovered so many artifacts, G. We'll have enough work for weeks!"

Gerhard looks up at his friend, the harsh light of day making it difficult. He can't meet his eye; can't see his face save for the halo of light that surrounds him. He submits, settling deeper into the bed, casting his eyes back to the sheets and walls.

"I told you it was a bad idea, Henri" he whispers, more to himself than the other man in the room.

Henri's jaw drops, the usually silver-tongued partner at a loss for words. "You... you... yes, you had your doubts, but we talked about it and we agreed." His voice rises in volume as he speaks, the sound hurting Gerhard's ears.

"No... no, Henri. You decided, and you brought me along like you always do. Now look at me. Will I even be able to hold a quill, now?" Gerhard, as hard as it is to move his arm, waves the bandaged hand in front of Henri's face. His voice begins to rise too, coming out hoarse and strained. His face is red, his eyes bloodshot, though what is from the accident and what is from his frustration, it is difficult to tell.

Henri turns away. "I was just trying to get us some work. Something that finally paid. I'm sorry that is un-appreciated."

"We have work! More than we know what to do with. Why is that not enough? Why do we need to start picking up vanity projects... cough vanity projects for Lords that care not if we come back alive?"

"Because there has to be something MORE!" comes Henri's angry reply. "More than long abandoned druid circles, more than tombs that contain nothing but the footprints of the grave robbers that beat us there. More than, than... than THIS!" He stands, eyes fixed on Gerhard's, his shoulders heaving as he shouts. His face is red, flushed, as he pants through his frustration.

Gerhard raises his hand, bloodied and bandaged, holding it out to close the gap between them, to grab hold of the other man. His fingers grasp at air, managing only to take Henri's focus. "Henri.. what we have, the jobs we take... that's enough for me. That's... all I need. You... you're..." The words die on his tongue, once more thick and heavy in his mouth.

Henri looks at the outstretched hand, considering the offering. But he turns away once more, pacing in the small room. He takes one last look at Gerhard, his eyes bloodshot and angry, before taking a single brisk step towards the door that he pushes open, stepping through out of sight.

The healer steps back in, a hand held to steady the door, still vibrating after its violent opening. She looks down the hall at Henri's leaving, tutting under her breath as she watches him go. "I'm surprised he is up and moving like that. He was asking the whole time we were treating him if he could be moved into your room."

Gerhard blinks, the harsh light making it hard to listen to her words. "Treating him? What for?"

"Didn't he tell you? Half-dead, the poor thing. Nearly in worse shape than you."

The red flush in Gerhard's cheeks, the burnt skin still smarting from the explosion, drains of all colour. He can remember the explosion, remember hitting the ground, remember... not remembering any more, but... did Henri get caught in it too? "What... what happened to him?"

The healer shuts the door, carrying in a pewter jug filled with cool water that she uses to refresh Gerhard's cup. "What happened? You mean... Well, I only heard from the other healers, mind. But they said he carried you here. From the Fields o' the Dead. Must be nigh a hundred miles as the crow flies. He had a cart, I hear, for the first while, but by the time he arrived here with you he was on his own two feet. Like I said, half-dead, the poor thing. Collapsed soon as we took you in. Now, drink this, and chew that."

The service is simple. A dedication by a priest of Tymora, the favored god of the Fitzroy household. A hymn, sung in somber tones by a contingent of family and friends dressed in their best blacks.

Emil moves to the front, slowly, his feet dragging with each step as he makes his way past the assembled masses. Lords. Friends from school. Customers of their work. All have come to pay their respects, to say their final goodbyes, to Henri Fitzroy.

Henri's father, his hair now a stark white, clears his throat before addressing his loved ones.

"Thank you all for coming."

The masses shuffle out, each taking a turn to shake Emil's hand, to leave a flower at the grave, to impart their final sorrows. To his credit, Emil remains resolute through each and every one. For the lords, a formal greeting; for his staff, a quick embrace; for loved ones from afar, a kiss on each cheek. By his side, reminding him of the names of those he is less certain of, stands Hana. His right hand, she has long since made herself an irreplaceable part of the household.

"Lord Housen and his son, Frederick," she whispers, as the next two approach. Emil greets them warmly.

"We are very sorry for your loss, Lord Fitzroy. To lose a wife and a son, both so young..."

"Yes, well. I have my work to keep me company, don't I?"

They shake hands, and are gone: scattered to the wind like so many others, hanging their grief by the door before they show themselves out.

As the last few guests trickle out, leaving only the closest family to begin the slow process of tidying, Emil sinks into a chair. "Hana? Where is your son? I would speak to him."

She fetches Gerhard, her son's faced streaked with tears that he furiously rubs off before moving to stand in front of Emil's chair. He had attended the service from the back, afraid to show himself. Afraid that the others knew what he had done.

He stands before the father of his friend, the man that has given him so much, and stares at the ground. He cannot bare to look up; cannot bare to meet the eyes of the man he has broken so thoroughly.

"Gerhard." The word is not as cruel as he feared, nor is it as sad as he may have hoped. The word is quiet, and steady. There is no disappointment, no guilt. No blame given nor retribution asked. It is simply a word, and it hangs in the air between the two men for some time.

"It was not your fault."

Gerhard's tears renew once more, streaming down his cheeks and settling into his beard.

"It should have been me," comes Gerhard's hoarse whisper. "It should have been me."

Emil rises, his arms out to embrace his second son. The man he long hoped would be a son-in-law. "It was not your fault. Henri was- no, is, very... strong headed. You balanced him. And, I dare say, he balanced you, too. But..."

Emil pulls back, holding Gerhard by the shoulders, the two men's tears flowing freely in the evening air. "If he wants something, he runs headlong into it. You know this. You couldn't have stopped him if you tried. And I am forever grateful that I didn't lose you too."

The two men embrace. They hold their positions, afraid to let go, lest they drift off into their grief. But, time passes, and they withdraw, their shields donned to hide their true selves.

Gerhard wipes his face, a hand resting on Emil's shoulder. The two men share a laugh at the state they are in - eyes puffy, hair askew, streaks running down their cheeks. It is a bright light in the middle of a grey day; a high note in a minor key.

"I'll find him," Gerhard says, looking Emil in the eye as the two find their bearings. "I'll find him, I promise."

Emil's eyes go hard, the brief moment of levity broken. They pierce into Gerhard's own, the iron stare of a man who has not lost a negotiation in many years. "You will do no such thing. He could be anywhere amongst the gods by now. I will not send another son into the yawning void." He spins, a hand outstretched to where Hana organizes the staff. "Have you even told your mother? Told her that you intend to walk into the great unknown? Told her that she must suffer the loss of the only family she has left?"

With each question, Emil shakes Gerhard's shoulder, trying to shake sense into the man. "Do you understand? I will not lose you too."

Gerhard steps forward, a hand now on each of Emil's shoulders.

"And if I promise to come back?" Gerhard stares after his mother, deep into her own work. His jaw sets, the strength of his convictions clear. "I made a promise, sir. I promised to keep your boy safe." His own eyes, red and puffy, are locked now with Emil's. "And now I make another. I will bring him home."