The soft light of the afternoon filtered through the small window of Dorian's room, casting warm, golden hues over the modest space. Dorian stirred, his body aching as though every muscle and bone had been pounded by a warhammer. He winced, groaning as he tried to shift under the blanket.
His eyes fluttered open, and the first thing he saw was his father, Gorlan, slumped over in a chair beside his bed, one hand resting protectively on Dorian's. The lines on his face seemed deeper, worn by a night of worry, and the faint gray streaks in his hair were more apparent in the afternoon light.
Dorian blinked, swallowing the dryness in his throat before attempting to speak.
"Dad?" His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.
Gorlan stirred immediately, his eyes snapping open. His gaze softened the moment he saw his son awake, and a relieved smile spread across his face. "Dorian... You're awake."
"How—how long was I out?" Dorian asked, his throat tightening as he pushed the words out.
"Just the morning," Gorlan said, his voice low and steady. "You're fine, but you need to rest. Don't move too much; you've overdone it."
Dorian lay back on the pillow, his body screaming for rest even as his mind raced. "What about the hollow?" he asked, his tone betraying the urgency he felt. "Are the people alright?"
Gorlan's expression softened further, a glimmer of pride lighting his eyes. "It's healing faster than you think, thanks to you. Everyone's grateful, son." He reached forward to tuck the blanket back over Dorian's chest. "Now, you need to focus on recovering. Leave the rest to us for now."
But Dorian's brow furrowed, his fingers tightening on the edge of the blanket. "Dad..." he began, his voice trembling. "Was my magic... was it potent enough to bring back the critical? The ones who... who didn't make it?"
The air in the room seemed to grow heavier. Gorlan's face shifted from calm to something more subdued, a shadow of grief crossing his features. He didn't answer immediately, his gaze dropping to the floor before returning to his son.
"You've done enough, Dorian," he said gently, his tone deliberate. "More than enough."
Dorian shook his head, his hand clutching at the pendant resting against his chest. "But I could do better," he whispered, his voice breaking. "No... I should do better. I should've been able to save them all."
Gorlan sighed deeply, sitting down beside his son on the edge of the bed.
"You know," Gorlan began, his voice tinged with nostalgia, "when you were born, I was so scared. Terrified, really. I thought, 'What if I can't be a good father? What if I let this child down?'" He chuckled softly, though his expression was distant, his gaze turned inward.
Dorian glanced at his father, confusion and curiosity mingling with his lingering guilt.
"But then you were placed in my arms," Gorlan continued. "And you smiled at me, as if you could see my worries... as if you were telling me it'd all be okay. You grabbed my finger with that tiny hand of yours—so small but so sure." His voice cracked slightly, but he pressed on, his tone becoming steadier.
"You grew up brilliant, Dorian. Always full of light and dreams. You told stories about adventures when you hadn't even been outside Suntails Hollow."
He laughed lightly, the sound more bittersweet than amused. "I remember the time you got sick, during that storm. Your mom was crying, terrified. The winds were so strong, and we didn't have the medicine you needed. I took the wagon to Silverhill in the dead of night, thinking it'd be easy."
"What happened?" Dorian asked, his voice quiet, the vivid memories seeming to take his pain momentarily away.
"The wind knocked a tree down on the way back, pinning the wagon. I left it behind and ran through the storm, carrying your medicine in one hand and nothing but desperation in my heart. By the time I got home, you'd taken the medicine, and through that awful night, you slept... peacefully. Even while it raged outside."
Gorlan's voice grew softer. "I stayed by your bed all night, holding your little hand. You smiled in your sleep as if you knew... everything would be fine."
"Do you remember," Gorlan said, his lips curling into a faint smile, "the first proper bard gig you gave? Around the hearth. It was evening, and Elira and I gathered to hear you."
Dorian blinked at the memory, nodding slowly. "The mouse and the dragon..."
Gorlan chuckled. "You told it like you'd lived it yourself."
He closed his eyes and recited, as if pulling the lines from a locked part of his heart:
"There once was a mouse, so small, so spry,
Who faced a beast with fire in its eye.
The dragon roared, its maw agape,
Yet the clever mouse found his escape
A bridge of stone, cracked under flame,
The mouse knew well the beast's great claim.
He squeaked aloud with defiant wit,
'Your treasure lies just beyond this pit!'
The dragon leaped, its pride too large,
To see the danger of its charge.
The stones gave way, the bridge collapsed,
And into the depths the dragon was trapped.
The mouse then stood, though weary and worn,
And claimed his prize: a single kernel of corn.
For wisdom and wit oft win the day,
When swords and strength are swept away.
You were radiant that night, Dorian, spinning your words like they were treasures themselves. The laughter, the smiles, the way you brought us together... I'd never been prouder."
Gorlan turned to his son, his eyes glassy with unspoken emotion. "Dorian, the world is a dragon, full of fire and challenges. But you... you're that clever mouse. With wit and heart, you'll find your way. The realm may seem too much to face, but you're stronger than you know."
Dorian's eyes filled with tears, his breath hitching as his father placed a strong hand on his shoulder.
"It's not your fault, son," Gorlan said firmly, his voice resolute. "Don't let one night weigh you down. There will always be losses, but what matters is how you rise. This village is healing faster because of you. Remember that."
Dorian nodded, his heart heavy but steadied by his father's unwavering belief in him.