Twenty-Ninth Entry

Under the surface of the earth, worms thrive. Their simple bodies writhe, squeeze and dance throughout the topsoil, granting the perfect environment to bring about the boon of vegetation. Their respite takes the form of rainfall, which will have them come up to celebrate along with the rest of the world. But worms are also a common insult among so many different humanoid species… mostly for the sake of being beneath one’s boot. Too unsightly to be adored for the gardens that they make possible. Naught but feed for the majesty of birds or the necessity of the fishermen.

Worms, being the lowly creatures they are, still happily dance, breathe and reside above the bedrock.

The drow—cursed to belong underneath that bedrock—hold an iron grip upon their space in the Underdark. Though the high elves above would regard them as worms in the eyes of their blessed pantheon, the drow have managed to take their curse and breathe new purpose into their domain, expanding the wicked Spider Queen’s dominion over all other races of the Upperdark. They still tower over us. Their elven beauty still shows sharp in their features. They are not worms. They are the majestic birds feeding upon my people. People they slaughtered to near extinction, enslaved, and used as currency among the kuo-toa to be sacrificed. People who simply wanted to live, dance and thrive in peace. Much like the humble worm.

To think I… a dirt gnome… had the audacity to fall for a high elf. A being that sees a people far stronger, influential and beautiful than I… as scum.

What am I, then?

I should have just laughed. Shaken my head. Moved forward.

But heartbreak… is… a death in itself.

I recall I didn’t even have time to release a single sob. Because Garaele entered the shrine with her hammered brass plate and quietly sat before me.

My mind spun at the sight of her. “N-no, no-no-no, please. You don’t have to—”

“Shh, it is alright,” she tenderly insisted. “Raphael was the one who requested to postpone our excursion. He understands just how long you’ve been waiting for this.”

I did not answer. Just clutched the hem of my tunic as she took the heavy bag of incense and poured it upon the plate.

I am ashamed of that ache I clung to. I did not want to hate her. And I don’t. She’s good. So good. And if he’s going to pursue anyone, I want it to be someone like her. Someone brilliant, comforting, someone he can actually grow old with. She’s… perfect. But some part of me—small, selfish, ugly—wanted her to see ME as well. To see how I sought his company, his words, how I looked toward him whenever he wasn’t watching.

And for her to maybe, just maybe… back away.

I know it’s foolish. Cruel, even.

But I have never wanted anything before the way I want this NOT to be unrequited.

I would have given up Legend Lore.

I would have given up Tresendar.

Just for him.

I could hardly believe Raph’æl would give up the time he was obviously coveting for my sake. I did not know whether to feel warm or ashamed. Even with a fully-shielded face, I couldn’t hide the pain from his discernment.

I hate how easy it is for him to care.

I hate that he doesn’t know why.

And I hate that if he ever did… it would change nothing.

Sister Garaele took the strips of ivory and laid them deliberately at the edges of the plate, having it form a closed frame around the incense within. She lit it with a strike of tinder and before long, a thin pillar of smoke began to rise from the Shrine of Luck. The pillar plumed and grew. Minutes and minutes of tending led to the smoke thickening until the priestess was but a silhouette before me.

Description suggests tedium, but had circumstances not been what they were, my excitement would have been unfathomably loud. Instead, fury and shame pounded against my ribs, suddenly aware that my companions were nearby, looking in. I could feel their curious aura outside the shrine’s entrance… just expecting my secrets to be theirs to witness… after I had been so blinded by their everyday interactions until now.

It wasn’t fair.

It’s not fair.

Unable to lift my glare away from my clenched knuckles, I asked quietly, “Does everyone really need to be here?”

Garaele’s perfect silhouette paused the billowing. “That’s your call, dear. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to assume—”

“We’ll leave if you want us to, Fanesca,” I heard him say, a smile evident in his words.

I gritted my teeth.

‘No, please don’t,’ a part of me wished to cry out. The part of me that still heedlessly cherished the wonderful man I have traveled with for months on end. The man that, even in my most puerile dreams, I hoped would want to know everything about me as much as I do for him. The man whose attention I’d secretly longed for before Sister Garaele had ever become part of our days.

But I could not manage to rasp another word.

And I could not bear his presence… knowing that I would watch for every glance he gave her.

From behind that curtain, her perfect hands reached into the satchel by her side and pulled out a scroll. With flawless diction, she casted a dome of privacy around us—translucent from my perspective, but opaque from the outside—enveloping the entire shrine.

“No one can look within,” she reassured me as she fanned the dispersing cloud back to the center. “Let us begin.”

It is a strange thing, in hindsight. For months I had scraped together coin, leads, and endured every unanswered question because I longed—more than anything—to finally be known. Not merely by the voice that called to me, nor by whatever ancient truth waited behind its name, but by those I had come to regard as my family.

I had imagined them standing beside me when that veil was lifted, witnessing the answer with the same wonder that had sustained me for so long.

Yet the heart is a fickle steward.

One crack was all it took, and suddenly the thought of their eyes upon me felt unbearable. I no longer wished to be understood. I wished only to disappear behind the smoke, where no one—least of all Raph’æl—could watch me become someone they had never truly known.