Niks felt better in the city, the sounds and the rush of people keeping him company more pleasantly than the open wind he’d been wandering through. The leads he’d been following had led him to this city, and some asking around led him here.
'Here' was a large market deep in the tunnels that made up the city of Karim. To call it open-air was generous, but it was certainly an enormous cavern. Small shafts of sunlight sliced through the air and onto the dim throng of people below: evidence of a multitude of skylights cut into the stone of the roof.
Niks had never been in a proper dwarven mountain city, and he found himself standing on one of the many staircases leading down into the market commons, gawking at the brutally but deftly carved architecture. It wasn’t the same kind of overwhelmingly detailed, delicate, colorful stonework of Kahuali: it was stark and strong and dared anyone to break its confident lines. He felt emboldened, and continued down the stairs, cutting through the crowd as he scanned the walls for his goal.
Stalls and carts and spreads made up most of the shops here, rows of temporary structures through the main campus. Alcoves carved off the main hall, into the cavern’s walls, made the spaces for the more established shops, and it was one of these he was looking for. So he walked parallel to the wall, with his head cocked to the side, scanning the painted text over each of the doors. He was happy he’d chosen a human face this time, it made it easier to see over the mostly dwarven crowd.
Finally, just when he was starting to get annoyed that he may have been given a false lead, he found it. “Works by Bajpur,” written in Common, small but making the breath catch in his lungs. They had never used that surname, not since he'd first met them. What else had changed in all that time?
He came up to the entrance, which was curtained off from the cacophony outside by a heavy velvet curtain. Stepping through was stepping into a completely different world: quiet and pleasantly dark, lit only by floating motes of yellow arcane light. The quiet ticking of clockwork was somehow louder than the crowd outside, and he wondered if that was magical as well.
The space inside was small with a counter near the back wall. A simple wooden door, closed, presumably lead to an adjoining office or storeroom. Lining the other walls, like an immaculate museum, were glass cabinets holding a dizzying array of firearms. In between these were other items of obviously fine make, though he couldn’t discern their use from a quick survey.
He was looking into one of these cases, faking a browsing interest, when the door to the back opened. There was a mumbled apology, and again his breath caught in his throat. There they were, caught up in looking over a scroll in their hands. They put it on the counter, scribbling on it with a quill, not bothering to look up as they told him to let them know if he needed anything. Ink stained their fingers and their face, their hair was still in that perfectly messy bun, their eyes still glowed in the dark.
“Oh, Right,” he breathed, a whisper to himself, but accidentally just loud enough that he saw their ears swivel.
“I’m sorry?” They looked up, staring him down like he’d been stared down so many times before. Oh.
“Pardon me,” he started, quickly deciding his lie, “I was just admiring your work. It is yours?”
“Yeah,” they said, looking back down at the paper, seemingly satisfied with that exchange. He blinked. They’d never not been able to recognize him. He felt an unexpected heartache that they didn’t seem to now. He wasn’t sure where to go from there: he knew that some explosively romantic reunion was a fantasy, but he had apparently still held onto the hope.
He feigned more interest in the cabinets, before moving closer to the desk and venturing further.
“How long have you been doing this?”
The quill scratching stopped as they looked back up.
“Doing what?”
He had missed this. He motioned at the cabinets, “Making these things.”
They squinted at him, eyebrows starting to furrow. A flutter of excitement, tempered by anxious anticipation, rose in his chest.
“Eleven years.” They leaned forward over the desk, staring him down. “You didn’t say goodbye, eleven years ago.”
Niks leaned forward, mirroring them, hands on the desk. “But I loved you for the twelve before,” he answered with a smile.
Their face was stony for a moment, before it broke with a smirk. “Bastard,” they said.
They dropped the quill and moved to close the door that would hide the curtained entrance, closing the shop. This also had the effect of locking him in, accentuated by them crossing their arms and leaning back against the door, blocking it.
They looked him up and down, still wearing that wry smile. “So you’re here now,” they said with a lazily questioning gesture.
“I am,” he stated, simply.
“Why?”
He should have expected that question, even as obvious as it was to him that he should return.
“I wanted to know where we stand,” he said. “Or, I wanted closure. Whatever you want.”
“Sounds more about what you want,” they mused, lackadaisically scratching at a spot on their chin. His smile grew broader. It was this type of little game that he knew meant hope: they didn’t play like this when they wanted a conversation over.
“Like when you framed me. Got me out of Kahuali, you did. More of what you want,” they continued.
“Do you regret it?” he asked.
“No,” they replied in turn. “I’m not a doormat anymore.”
Oh, he loved them still. He loved them as they were then, as they were now: proud and playful, happy. He could tell. They were happy. His chest ached, his smile grew. So did theirs.
“So this is going to be about what I want, if you’re going to do this,” their teeth showed behind a smirking curl of their lips.
Niks spread his hands in a mock defeated gesture, “I’m yours.”
“I know.”
Right headed down the edge of the marketplace, a satchel of records and papers slung over their shoulder, Niks by their side. He was busy telling them about how he had found them, and they were just happy with how long and convoluted the story was. They didn’t want it to be easy, or cheap, to track them from Kahuali. Part of them was happy with the effort, the other part annoyed, but mostly they were satisfied.
“You’ll need to meet Mavi,” they interrupted him.
“Mavi?”
“My son,” they said flatly
“Oh,” Niks slowed for just a moment, before catching back up to them. They laughed.
“Is there-” he started, stumbling a bit. “Is there someone?”
“Maybe,” Right said, turning to study his face. “My life didn’t stop with you.”
The initial surprise was already wearing off, and it was more of a pleased sort of confident pride by the time he answered.
“Okay, I’ll meet them too,” he laughed with them.
“There isn’t anyone, I just wanted to see your face.”
“Bastard.”
“Mav will like you,” they continued. “He likes anyone who gives me shit.”
“How old is he?”
“Seven. Been the two of us, that long.”
A comfortable silence followed, as the two moved out of the marketplace and down quieter residential streets.
Niks looked them over. He knew it was almost patronizing of him, but he couldn’t help how proud and impressed he was. This was still the Right he knew, the snarky, blunt, beautiful tiefling he’d grown up with, but this time that same Right was out in the open. Not locked in their room, not hiding behind stoicism, not as ready to jump at every little noise. It was nice. He loved that. He didn’t want their life to have stopped with him. He just wanted to be there again, if they would have him.
Right stopped at one of the many, nearly identical iron gates and stone fences. It seemed like a nice neighborhood, one that must be close to the surface judging by the large skylights along one side. These skylights let in enough sun that behind the archway was a small, scraggly sort of lawn with a wrought iron bench. Behind that, a window with matching ironwork and wooden door with a heavy gargoyle knocker.
Right undid the latch on the gate, before starting to unlock the door.
“Mav is with a friend right now,” they said, fussing with their keys, all of which looked very complicated to Niks. “I wanted a quiet day at the shop.” They shot him a playfully angry look, then pushed the door open.
“I’ll pick him up in a bit,” they continued, hanging their keys on a hook just inside the entrance. Niks stepped in. He smiled as he followed.
“You can drop that face, if you want,” they said, shrugging off the satchel and formal shawl they’d been wearing, hanging them next to the keys.
When they looked back, he was back in the shape they knew most well. The angular, chalk-white features, inky black eyes, pointed ears, the left one folded over at the tip. Shoes had been kicked off, as bony paws took their place. Right wasn’t sure if all changelings were handsome like he was, or how much of that was intentional, but had decided it really didn’t matter.
“Is it a new one? You liked the elvish one before.”
“My life didn’t stop with you,” he teased.
“Liar,” they shot back. “Guest room is upstairs, second door on the left. You’ve been traveling today?”
“Came directly to you from the city gates,” Niks confirmed.
“Settle in. Get some sleep. I want to talk to my kid,” they stepped aside to let him start up the stairs, before turning back to the door. “See you later.”
When Niks woke up, he had the feeling it was late. The quiet neighborhood was even quieter, and the only light was artificial. He rolled in bed, groaning slightly as sore muscles stretched. He hadn’t rested this well in quite a while. If ever, he thought.
The room was sparsely decorated, a woven rug over a wooden floor and small, geometric motifs carved into the back stone wall. It was just big enough for a bed and end table. But the blankets were warm and Right was nearby, and he found that’s all he needed at the moment.
Eventually he made his way downstairs, looking through a doorway in the entry hall and finding the warm living room. A hearth, vented out the same wall in which the skylights were carved, glowed with a few remaining embers. In a large, plush chair next to it was Right, sleeping, holding their also sleeping kid.
Mavi looked human, with their parent’s curly black hair. Niks decided that this was something that could melt even the coldest hearts.
He quietly turned around, choosing not to wake them up, even if they had probably tried to stay up to see him. Instead, he searched for the kitchen. Easy enough in the small apartment, he only had to go through what looked like a mix of a study and dining room before finding it.
He figured it was probably fine for him to nick an apple and some cheese, and made his way back upstairs.
Sitting on the bed, chewing, he took stock of the situation. It had gone remarkably well so far, and he found he was most nervous about making a good impression with Mavi. Right seemed at ease, but he understood he’d be a secondary concern in Right’s life now, if even that much. He mulled that thought over, prodding himself to see if he could find any resentment.
Perhaps a little, though he wasn’t sure if it was resentment, exactly. He argued with that feeling, thinking about how he couldn’t have possibly expected Right to have put their life on hold, waiting like a princeling in a tower for him to come back. He hated that thought, hated that he felt anything negative towards what they’d built without him. After all, he was the one who forced them to. He snuffed that feeling out, angry with himself.
It hadn’t been resentment, exactly. Perhaps it was just a manifestation of the uncertainty of the situation. He didn’t know what he had expected, he had tried not to expect anything at all, but it is hard not to hold some expectations in your heart. Perhaps he shouldn’t be so angry with himself, as long as he was aware that he couldn’t let himself become resentful.
Gods, that apple was sour.
He laid back on the bed, kicking his feet up, staring at the ceiling. He sighed, halfway between contented and tired. He closed his eyes, and slept the rest of the night.