Chapter 37: Parting Gifts

Elira stood still, her trembling hands brushing tears away. Gorlan stepped into the room silently, his boots creaking softly against the wooden floor. He placed a steady hand on her shoulder, his weathered palm offering a reassuring squeeze before he knelt down beside Dorian.

Gorlan’s rough hands clasped his son’s, his expression a blend of pride and concern. Elira finally composed herself, reaching out to gently brush Dorian’s crimson hair. Her voice was soft but firm.

“You’re bound to go,” she said quietly. “I know it from the day you gave us your performance. But promise me—keep your heart as pure as light. Let it guide you through the darkest nights.”

Gorlan grunted, though his usual gruffness gave way to warmth as he gazed at Dorian. “The roads are rough, lad. You’ll be walking them alone. But if you sing with courage strong, maybe—just maybe—the world will learn your song.”

Dorian blinked back his emotions, holding tightly to the words and their weight.

…

One sunny afternoon, Dorian walked through the square and spotted Bogo sitting in Master Gresham’s shop, leaning over a table with a set of tools spread around him. Master Gresham sat patiently as Bogo took precise measurements of his arm stump, the elder leatherworker smirking and throwing sarcastic comments about “his fidgety tinkering.”

Curious, Dorian entered the shop. “What’s going on here?” he asked, tilting his head.

Master Gresham chuckled. “This one,” he said, gesturing with his good arm to Bogo, “thinks he’s got the brains to make me some fancy arm. Called it... what was it, lad?”

“A prosthetic,” Bogo replied, his brow furrowed in focus. “Master Gresham’s been patient enough to let me test my design concepts.”

“More like too old to argue,” Gresham joked, though his grin betrayed a sense of pride in the young craftsman.

Dorian laughed, watching them work together for a moment before clearing his throat. “Actually... I came to tell you something.”

Bogo paused his work, raising an eyebrow but saying nothing, knowing what Dorian going to tell. Gresham leaned back in his chair, his expression perceptive.

“I’m leaving,” Dorian said simply.

Gresham exchanged a glance with Bogo, whose slight nod confirmed the unspoken understanding. “Hollow’s too cramped for you, huh?” Gresham said with a grin. “Well, I can’t say I didn’t see this comin’. You were always meant to go out there, lad.”

He gestured to a high shelf with his good hand. “Grab that box there.”

Dorian blinked but did as instructed, reaching up to pull down a small wooden chest. He opened it, revealing a set of polished leather bracers lined with silver.

“Made these a while back,” Gresham said, his grin widening. “Was saving ‘em for someone who deserved ‘em. They’ll keep your arms from gettin’ chewed up too much on the road.”

“Master Gresham...” Dorian began, his throat tightening.

“Don’t start blubberin’,” Gresham said, his tone teasing but kind. “Go on, take ‘em. And when you find some big audience who listens to your ramblin’, you can say, ‘These came from a master of Suntails Hollow.’”

…

Over the following days, Dorian visited neighbors across the hollow to bid his farewells. Each interaction left him both heartened and humbled.

At the mill, he met Mrs. Yara Tulls as she tended to a large sack of flour. She wiped her hands on her apron before pulling out a small leather-bound book. “Dorian,” she said warmly, “this is my family’s recipe for our bread loaves. It’s brought us years of strength, and I hope it’ll do the same for you. Make it when you’re missing home.”

A nearby farmer handed him a black woolen cloak. “For the wind, lad,” the farmer said, patting him on the shoulder.

Even Borr, the black-scaled dragonborn hunter, came to see him off as the days dwindled down. He handed Dorian a sturdy hunting knife with an ornately carved hilt. “Not for singing,” Borr said gruffly, “but for when singing’s not enough.”

Others gave simple offerings: coins wrapped in handkerchiefs, pouches of dried herbs, or leather-bound journals for him to record his tales. Children ran up to him one morning, presenting carved wooden charms and handmade bracelets. “For luck!” they chirped in unison, their faces bright with admiration.

With every interaction, Dorian felt the depth of the villagers’ affection. He had spent his entire life surrounded by these people, and now, as he prepared to leave, they were pouring out all the love and pride they held for him.

…

One night, Dorian returned home to find Elira sitting by the hearth, a needle and thread in her hands as she mended one of Gorlan’s shirts.

“Mom,” Dorian began hesitantly.

She looked up at him, her eyes tired but warm. “Dorian, come sit.”

He obeyed, lowering himself onto a stool beside her. She continued working in silence for a moment before placing the shirt aside and turning to him.

“I can’t say it gets any easier, knowing you’re leaving,” she said softly. “But... seeing how the village looks at you, hearing the way they talk about you—it’s clear you’ve already touched their hearts. And I know you’ll touch more out there.”

She reached into her pocket and handed him a simple golden pin shaped like a crescent moon.

“This was my mother’s,” she said. “She wore it when she traveled. And now, I want you to take it. So no matter where you go, you’ll always carry a piece of home with you.”

Dorian took the pin, holding it tightly in his hand. “Thank you, Mom. I’ll make you proud.”

“You already have,” she replied, pulling him into a tight embrace.

…

Two days before his departure, in the morning Dorian sat under the great oak tree, strumming soft notes on his lute as the sun filtered through the leaves. He wasn’t practicing—just letting the gentle sounds soothe his thoughts. He looked up as he heard the familiar, hurried footsteps of his little sister, Selia, scampering toward him.

“Dorian!” she called, her voice bright and playful as always. She flopped onto the ground beside him, hugging her favorite stuffed bunny close. Her wide eyes sparkled as she grinned up at him. “Mom says you’re going on a big adventure.”

“I am,” Dorian replied softly, his lips curling into a faint smile.

Selia’s grin faded slightly as her gaze drifted to his bright red hair and the pendant hanging around his neck. “Do you really have to go?” she asked, clutching her bunny tighter.

He set his lute aside and turned to face her fully. “I do, Selia. But that doesn’t mean I’ll forget you—or the hollow.” He ruffled her hair gently. “And besides, I’ll come back and visit when I can. Maybe even bring you stories from all the amazing places I see.”

Her lower lip quivered for a moment, but she nodded bravely. “Okay... but only if you promise to come back with at least ten stories! And a new song just for me!”

Dorian laughed. “Only ten? How about twenty?”

Her face lit up again, and she giggled. “Deal!” Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a tiny ribbon. It was pale blue and frayed at the edges, clearly well-loved.

“This is for you,” she said, tying it awkwardly around his wrist. “It’s my favorite ribbon. You can wear it when you play your songs so everyone knows you have a sister who’s waiting for you back home!”

Dorian’s heart clenched at her earnestness, and he pulled her into a tight hug. “Thank you, Selia. I’ll keep it with me always.”

As she hugged him back fiercely, he realized that leaving wouldn’t be easy, but the hope in Selia’s voice gave him strength. He’d carry her laughter and her ribbon with him, a reminder of the love waiting for him in Suntails Hollow.

———…———

His mother wept, yet brushed his brow,
“You’re bound to go, I see it now.
But keep your heart as pure as light,
And let it guide you through the night.”

His father grumbled, his hands like stone,
“The roads are rough, you’ll walk alone.
But if you sing with courage strong,
Perhaps the world will learn your song.”

———…———