Chapter Text
Some folks were simply not made for adventuring. There was no shame in the fact of it. The work of tinkerers and scholars and tradesmen was what made the world worthy of exploration, after all. Why else should the bold leave their homes and venture out if not to seek thinkers’ truths untold and craftsmen’s treasures long lost? There was a symbiosis to life, even among men. Every person had their strengths, their purpose to fulfill.
Barcus Wroot had never styled himself as one of those bold and ambitious people. No, that had always been a more fitting description of his dear friend Wulbren Bongle, even when they were much, much younger. It had never bothered Barcus to admit it, truly; it was satisfying all on its own simply to know someone who was so clearly destined for a life of intrigue and wild splendor. After all, Barcus had convinced himself that Wulbren would never have left him behind, regardless of how far away his travels might take him. He would have Barcus’s support no matter where he went or what he did, and he knew it. Wulbren would never forsake his oldest friend Barcus, not when Barcus was so unconditionally dedicated to his success.
At least, that had been what Barcus believed. And he had believed it well after Wulbren had left their home in the underdark, and for all the time after finding the amulet engraved with Wulbren’s name in the lower city of Baldur’s Gate — a gift Barcus had given to Wulbren long ago, in hopes of staying near to his heart while they were separated. Surely Wulbren was in trouble, to have lost it. Surely he needed Barcus’s help.
Surely he would sweep Barcus into his arms and thank him most heartily, when next they met. And then they would laugh and drink and reminisce, and Wulbren would be so happy to have his amulet returned to him that his stormy violet eyes would soften and twinkle with grateful tears. He might even take Barcus by the hand for the very first time. And if he did, Barcus might find the courage in himself at last to declare the depths of his heart’s fondness for dear Wulbren out loud.
Surely, Barcus thought, to keep his tired feet moving. All through the heartlands, back into the underdark, and at last into the shadow-cursed lands with an odd band of travelers that had helped him out of a tight spot more than once. Surely, at last, this will be what brings us closer.
At the Last Light Inn, Barcus shivered when he recognized the sound of gnomish footsteps out by the docks. It took everything in him not to bolt outside at the sound of Wulbren’s voice rising in complaint, and in the end the Moonrise escapees all submitted to the Harpers’ parasite screening. Those footsteps made their way inside. And then all at once there was Wulbren, filthy and exhausted, his face stern and dark with thought as always.
Oh, what a great relief! Barcus felt his heart threaten to spill open inside him, every aching ounce of grief and fear from his long journey at last soothed in that one moment, that blissful sight of his dear Wulbren, alive, unhurt, unchanged. His hands shook as he fumbled to pull the old amulet from his pocket, so terribly ready to see it settled back over Wulbren’s heart, where it belonged.
Barcus had never imagined the way Wulbren’s body would tense when he called his name, or the way he would make the simple motion of looking in Barcus’s direction seem flat-out painful. His handsome jaw was tight, teeth clenched in his mouth. Barcus put on his best smile anyway.
“You must be exhausted,” Barcus said softly, holding his gift out with one gentle hand. “I’m so glad you’re safe, Wulbren. When I found this, I just…I worried myself sick, thinking of all the ways you might’ve gotten into trouble, but above all I knew you needed help. It’s such a relief to see you again, my…my dear old friend. Thank heavens.”
Wulbren looked down at the amulet for a long while, his expression so blank it seemed nearly bored. The longer he stood there in silence, staring into Barcus’s hand, the more Barcus felt the backs of his knees beginning to itch. Barcus shifted his weight uncomfortably, proffering the amulet again with a slight shake of his hand.
“I…I buffed out the worst of the scuffs for you. I thought you might want—?”
“Oh, Barcus, I swear,” Wulbren said. At last he looked up at Barcus, his eyes dulled with annoyance, his mouth a thin, dour line on his face. “What did I tell you, the last time we spoke? Stay home, I said. Don’t come running after me like a sad old dog. But the years refuse to change you, I see. After all this time, you still won’t listen. What a shame.”
Wulbren never properly thanked Barcus for the effort he’d made to free him from Moonrise Towers. He never took the amulet back, never took Barcus by the hand, never smiled at him. Instead he commanded Barcus to go home, to leave his side. He shouted at him in anger and annoyance. He did not speak to the other Ironhand gnomes above a whisper when Barcus was within earshot, and he did not offer him a seat at their table. But like moss to stone, as Wulbren would say, Barcus clung to him, still hoping for something, anything to validate him.
Nothing came.
And at the end of it all, outside the Steel Watch foundry, when they stood before each other for the final time, the hardest part for Barcus was not the physical cleaving of himself from Wulbren, as he was already so used to being pushed away. It was not that Wulbren would not see reason, or even that when passion finally flared in his eyes as he looked at Barcus, it was clear, virulent hatred.
No, the hardest part of all was turning away, only to be left with the simple fact of his loneliness. Without Wulbren, who was Barcus, after all? What life was left for him to live?
He did not know.
But the remaining Ironhand gnomes agreed that Wulbren was unfit to lead them. That his radical hatred of their Gondian rivals was not what would lead them back to glory in the eyes of the city. They stood by Barcus as he raised his voice to Wulbren for the first true time in his life. And afterwards, unexpectedly, they called Barcus their new leader, though he did not feel like one. But it had never much mattered how Barcus felt. At the very least, that was something familiar.
So once more, for the sake of everyone else, Barcus Wroot kept moving forward.
Duke Ravengard’s son — himself duke-to-be, by all accounts — was overseeing the building of a new structure on the rubble of the old foundry. Barcus thought it in poor taste, but as Wyll had explained it, it was quite a large piece of real estate to leave unused, and if the funds and stone weren’t allocated to it now, it could be years before the property saw use again. Barcus knew next to nothing of city development, but he did understand allocation of materials. It was a sensible enough explanation.
Ten months had passed since the fall of the Absolute, and Baldur’s Gate was still deeply entrenched in reconstruction. In some ways it had been a boon for both the natives of the city and the displaced scores of refugees that had once made camp just outside of Rivington. Reconstruction meant work to be done, and work meant jobs, and housing stipends for laborers. It meant steady pay and food on the table, which in turn meant steady work for farmers and fishers and tradesmen. In the face of the destruction that the netherbrain had wrought upon the city, the people could scarcely ask for better. Most were making ends meet, and morale was impressively high, despite the devastation the city had suffered.
As the de facto leader of clan Ironhand, Barcus had been enlisted into the rather exhausting ranks of a small council that Wyll had formed. He was supposed to meet with these people regularly — a ragtag little group of folks who had lent their support to Wyll and the other heroes who had saved the city all those months ago — but it was not Barcus’s nature to engage in politics, and in truth he felt ashamed of his penchant to be talked over by stronger personalities, of which many seemed to comprise this assembly. So after the first public meeting of Wyll’s city representatives, Barcus had quietly excused himself from attending any future gatherings.
That had all been well and good until one particular morning — several meetings past — when a rather daunting member of the Flaming Fist had arrived on Barcus’s doorstep, having trampled all through his flower beds and made a right mess of the entire front garden. Barcus glowered up at the burly woman, unintimidated by her armor or her insignia, even as he stood there in his housecoat and slippers, half-hidden behind his front door.
“What sort of ghastly brute stomps through a man’s garden when the path to the door couldn’t possibly be missed?!” he demanded, gesturing emphatically to the cobblestones that led neatly from his gate to his porch. “You came right through the gate and stood on it yourself, for heavens’ sake! Did you think I’d laid those stones out for nothing? Honestly, you’ve got some nerve about you. I’ve been struggling to keep those beds healthy all summer, and now you’ve ruined half of them! I’ll be having a word with young master Ravengard about this, you can be sure of it!”
“He’ll be glad to see you, sir,” the woman said, and the boredom in her voice made Barcus all the more frustrated. “In fact I’ve come this morning to collect you and see you straight to Wyrm’s Rock for an audience with him.”
“What?” That made Barcus hesitate. He adjusted his grip on his front door, still peering past it in annoyance at the Fist as he considered what she’d said. “I haven’t heard from him about any audience. What is this about?”
She sighed. “I don’t know, sir. As I said, I’m an escort, not a messenger.”
“Well you…you’re a very poor one,” Barcus scolded her. “Not even knowing the reason you’re escorting.”
Her expression did not change. “Sir, I’m meant to see you there by midday. Do you intend to go as you are?”
“In my housecoat?!” Barcus scoffed. “Good gods, no. No, I’ll need to change. And you…you will have to stand outside my gate while you wait for me to come out. I won’t have you destroying the rest of my flowerbeds.”
Blessedly, the Fist woman listened to his demand, milling about beside the gate until Barcus re-emerged from his house some minutes later, dressed at last. They went in silence through the lower city, which was just fine for Barcus as he had nothing pleasant to say to someone so rude, though he found himself worrying his hands together as they headed toward Wyrm’s Rock. Perhaps Wyll intended to formally sanction him for avoiding the small council meetings, after all. The only reason he had such a nice little cottage in the city at all was because he’d been granted a seat in the assembly, and he knew it. Did Wyll intend to officially dismiss him, and put him out of his home? Gods, where would he go afterward? He couldn’t bear the thought of asking to stay with any of the other Ironhands until he got back on his feet. It would be a terrible thing to explain to them all, too. He would have to admit that he’d been shirking his responsibilities for a good while now, neglecting not only his personal duties, but his promise to the Ironhands as a whole. He hadn’t ever wanted to lead them, though. Surely they knew that. All of this politicking wasn’t what he’d been made for. Wulbren never would have—
“The illustrious Wyll Ravengard, pride of Baldur’s Gate,” the Fist woman announced, and Barcus jolted to attention. He’d been so lost in his own thoughts he hadn’t noticed they’d already made their way into the fortress, and now here they stood in the doorway of the — blessedly empty — small assembly hall. Wyll sat alone at the long table, though he stood as Barcus entered. The moment the door had shut behind him, Barcus waved his hands at Wyll in agitation.
“Don’t make a fuss like that for me, now. You know I can’t stand it.”
Wyll smiled, warm and lop-sided as always. “I have missed you, Barcus. Come now, sit with me. And thank you for making the journey here to meet with me today.”
Fidgeting, Barcus made the long walk to Wyll’s end of the table, climbing unceremoniously into the chair just to his left. Nothing on the table, he noted with some relief. That meant no formal punishment was at hand, at the very least. When he’d settled himself in his chair, Barcus cleared his throat.
“To business, then, master Ravengard. The Fist you sent to my home absolutely mangled my flower beds,” he complained. “A wanton slaughter of my annuals, just trod them all to mush. I’m quite upset about it.”
Wyll’s smile broadened, and then he pursed his lips together, coughing to clearly mask a laugh. “Oh…my apologies, Barcus. I’ll be certain the city sees you recoup your losses.”
Barcus shifted in his seat. “Well, that isn’t the point, but I do thank you for making amends.”
“Of course.”
Wyll leaned over the table a bit, folding his hands together. He wasn’t a particularly intimidating man, even with the long black horns that curled back from his forehead, but he did exude a sort of regal authority now that he hadn’t when Barcus had first met him. He, unlike Barcus, was made for political work. Born to do it, in fact. It made Barcus nervous, and he cleared his throat awkwardly, looking down at his own hands as they fussed with his sleeves against the table.
“Right, well. I assume you’ve brought me here to reprimand me for my negligence, so…let’s get on with it.”
Wyll raised his eyebrows. “Negligence?”
“Come now, don’t be silly. My refusal to attend your assemblages every month.”
“The small council?” Again, Wyll sounded like he might laugh. Barcus looked at him, flustered. “Well…I suppose you’re right. I can’t say I’m pleased with your attendance on that front. But that isn’t at all why you’re here today.”
Barcus hesitated. “Oh?” His hands stopped fidgeting, and he laid his palms flat against the tabletop, straightening his back in his seat. “Well, I can’t imagine what else you might have wanted from me. You have my attention.”
Wyll smiled at him, nodding graciously. “Thank you, my friend. I wanted to have you here today to discuss a campaign I’ve been tasked to. It would be a long-term effort requiring the city’s best mechanical engineers and metalsmiths, and to achieve the greatest possible results, my intention is to propose a collaboration between the Ironhand gnomes and what remains of the Gondian congregation,” Wyll explained. “But first, obviously, I needed to obtain your approval, and then to gauge the interest of the Gondians themselves. I know tensions were high between you all before, and before my father and the other dukes will agree to fund the project, they’ve asked that we sort out the messier details together.”
Barcus took a long moment to take in what Wyll had said, unable to keep the surprise he felt from spreading into his expression. “Well…that’s certainly not what I expected to hear from you today,” he admitted, speaking slowly, “though I must say I appreciate that you recognize it won’t be so easy to make such a thing a reality. I haven’t been in contact with the Gondians myself since the end of the Steel Watch.”
“I know. Which is exactly why I brought you here to discuss this first. I want to draft a posting to display at the High House of Wonders, explaining the broad strokes of the project and seeing who all we can convince to work with the Ironhands.”
“You make us sound like such a nasty lot,” Barcus said, frowning. “We’re not such a rough and tumble bunch.”
“No, but avoiding the small council hasn’t exactly made you appear friendlier, even in Wulbren’s absence.” Suddenly, Wyll hesitated, watching Barcus carefully. He cleared his throat. “I…sorry.”
“Sorry? For what?”
“You, ah. You flinched, when I said his name. I’m sorry.”
Oh, gods.
Barcus felt his neck flushing with shame, and he tried to shake it off, straightening himself in his seat again. “Nevermind that. Tell me what you intend to accomplish with this collaboration, and I’ll deal with onboarding the Ironhands.”
Wyll called it a citywide safety initiative. A series of monitoring and messaging systems, designed to reduce the burden of the Fist’s patrolmen and enable citizens to call for help at the push of a button. Barcus did his best to keep his more unsavory opinions to himself — as part of it seemed to be a covert rebranding of the Steel Watch, though on a much smaller scale — but overall the concept was promising, although it would merit a good amount of work to improve upon. What mattered was that he found himself almost immediately drawn into the idea; not only of working on a long-term project for the city’s sake, but the thought of working with the Gondians at last, as he’d admittedly wanted to for a good long while. He’d tried, of course, to think of a way to bring their factions together, but none of his ideas had ever been anything more than fleeting thoughts. This, though…this was something solid, something real. Something that might truly, finally bring them both into the fold of benefit to Baldur’s Gate.
So Barcus agreed enthusiastically to participate, and Wyll explained that he would draft the posting himself, which Barcus was thankful for. He’d never been particularly adept with a pen, and he rather hated writing letters even when he had to, so much so that he had gotten into the unfortunate habit of rarely, if ever, checking his own postbox for dread of needing to respond to mail. In fact that revealed itself to be the reason why Wyll took on the task of writing this particular posting; he not so subtly revealed that he had tried to reach out to Barcus by mail several times in the past few tendays with no luck at all, and that had been why the Flaming Fist escort had so unpleasantly disrupted midmorning tea on this final occasion.
Regardless, Barcus reserved his right to stay angry about his petunias.