Champion of a Lost Cause

Four months after leaving the northern road, Effruin travels through the Empire’s wilderness without escort or challenge. Today, he is drunk, exhausted, and carrying aching scars beneath his ribs, he stumbles into a rough roadside brothel.

The common room smells of spilled ale, lamp smoke, and damp wood. Behind the bar, a tiefling woman wipes a cup while watching Effruin’s uneven steps with guarded attention.

Effruin reaches the bar, one hand braced against it as his ribs complain beneath the effort. Livia sets aside the cup and studies his travel-stained clothes.

Her offer is gentle, but her attention remains measured. Her eyes linger on him like she recognizes the shape of a dangerous traveler, somebody whose appearance betrays the threat they pose to those around him.

Livia studies his scarred drow face, the drunken sway, and the old marks that make imperial rooms dangerous. His need for liquor dulls his judgment, but he still speaks with the confidence and authority to get what he desires. The coin he offers, pilfered during his travels, also helps his case.

She leads Effruin upstairs, then calls a young adult woman from the common room. She waits beneath the landing’s dim lamps, dressed for work, alert to his condition and the weight of his purse.

A dark-haired adult woman, Sarah, with warm brown skin, a narrow face, and a small scar at her chin, steps forward, slim and composed, wearing a russet bodice and plain black skirt. She accepts Livia’s nod, takes Effruin’s offered payment, and enters the private room with him. The door closes, and she stands in the room under Effruin's watchful gaze.

The dark-haired companion studies Effruin's scarred face and unsteady posture. His request is plain, and despite his frightening visage, she cannot help but pity him in this moment.

She sets aside the payment, closes the shutters, and slips beneath the coverlet beside him. The narrow bed yields softly under their combined weight.

Effruin lowers himself with care, keeping the ache beneath his ribs from forcing a sudden movement. The room settles into lamplight, quiet breathing, and the guarded warmth of another body nearby.

The companion remains beside him without pressing for conversation or touching beyond what he permits. Outside, the brothel murmurs faintly, while the private room holds its small, deliberate peace.

The name catches in the quiet room. Effruin’s words falter as memory brushes against old commands and the helplessness of being made into someone else, as well as the love and safety he found in the companionship of fellow rebel slaves.

The liquor dulls his senses and softens his composure, leaving sorrow plain beneath the drunken request. He does not withdraw it; he steadies his will against shame and the urge to retreat.

She shifts closer beneath the coverlet, not pretending to possess the absent healer’s history, but accepting the name and the quiet role Effruin has asked her to carry.

The borrowed name settles over the room. Nothing in her voice claims to erase the past, yet her steady presence gives him a safe place to remain until sleep takes him.

Effruin leans across the narrow bed and kisses the dark-haired companion deeply. His single hand steadies against the coverlet while the room blurs around the face he wishes were Eve of the Willow.

The liquor dulls his senses, softening the kiss’s edges and slowing his exhausted judgment. He clings to the borrowed name, forcing sorrow and self-contempt beneath the tenderness he cannot truly reclaim.

For one breath, the companion’s warmth becomes the healer’s remembered presence. Then old helplessness catches in Effruin’s throat, a command-shaped echo that makes his composure falter before he masters it.

She receives the kiss without pretending to be the absent elf. Her hand settles lightly against his chest, offering steadiness while leaving him free to draw away.

The imagined presence fades, but the successful tenderness remains real enough to hold him. Effruin’s breath gradually steadies, and the companion stays beside him in the quiet room.

The room’s shutters remain closed. Intimacy passes between Effruin and the dark-haired companion without spectacle, and the night settles afterward into quiet breathing and shared warmth.

Effruin sleeps in broken stretches. His ribs ache whenever he shifts, and the single arm he has relied upon occasionally spasms, leaving a strain on him.

No command or memory drags him from the bed for long. Sustained safety lets the old trauma loosen its grip, though sorrow still troubles his composure in the dark.

By morning, rest has accomplished its work: his mind is unclouded, his breathing is clear, and strength has returned, though he is still mildly stiff and sore when he moves.

She remains beside him as the brothel wakes below. The room is still private, the road beyond the shutters unchanged, and the borrowed name rests gently between them.

Morning light presses through the shutters. Sarah remains beside the bed, while Effruin rises without the stiffness or confusion that marked his arrival, his face settling into cold clarity.

The words are courteous but empty of warmth. Sobriety restores his precision, while the old demand for liquor lingers beneath it, an unwelcome hunger he refuses to indulge before leaving.

Sarah gathers the discarded payment and smooths the coverlet. She studies his scarred face for some sign of tenderness, finding only the practiced indifference he wears like armor.

Effruin gives her no further answer. He collects his belongings, leaves the room, and descends toward the waking common room without looking back.