#cerela

Growing up in Baldur’s Gate, their local academy was known more as a place for noble families, primarily of well-bred elf and human stock, to send offspring who were too snobbish for knighthood but too ill-mannered for politics. It wasn’t unheard of for some merchant or tradesman to roll the dice at their child being the exception, but few put up with the toxicity for more than a couple of years.

So no one but herself saw it as a failure when Cerela, the dwarf, the fisherman’s daughter, the soft-hearted baby of the family, lasted nearly five. 

It would be easier if the proof of that failure didn’t stare back at her in the mirror every day. She knew there were rules against altering spells, but the hours that immediately followed a particularly brutal round of insults from one's peers are never ideal for rational decision-making. Recreating something like a Disguise Self spell using transmutation magic should have, by her teenage reasoning, created a more permanent appearance-altering effect. She decided to start small; turning the mismatched eyes she got from her father into the bright, symmetrical blue she so desperately envied in her elven classmates. 

To her credit, she did get the blue to permanently cover one eye. But when she tried to bring it across to the other, it began to spread uncontrollably. A cloud of cerulean shadows reached across her face like monstrous two-dimensional tentacles. It extended beyond the boundaries of her body; onto the wall behind her, the bed beneath her, over every surface before spilling out under the door into the rest of her dormitory. It had taken several faculty members to contain the spell’s effect to its source: the swirling marks that, over a decade later, still cover the left side of Cerela’s face and spill into her hair like a stain. She was expelled the next day.

It’s those marks she sees now in the mirror. As she takes in the rest of her reflection, she remembers every word that’s been said about her short stature, the broadness of her chest, the gracelessness of her movements. It all looks so comical when placed up against the sophisticated gown she was fumbling into. Like a street cat that’s been given a lordly name. Even those endeared to it understand that it’s, ultimately, a joke. 

On any other day, she would welcome feeling a little foolish. Embracing the whimsy in her flawed appearance was the only way she’d learned to accept herself. But this would be Gale’s moment. She cannot risk him becoming part of the joke.

As she worked herself into an anxious lather, all she could think was what would happen if she failed at playing her part, and she was sure she would. She imagined fellow attendees sniggering over wines she couldn’t name, gossipping in their oafishly posh accents.

‘Have you seen that odd little thing Dekarios brought? Where in all the realms does one even acquire such a creature?’ 

‘Some tart he picked up in Baldur’s Gate, most like. A clumsy little street magician, judging by that dreadful eye, or else, uneducated enough to fall victim to one. 

‘Yes, she did seem quite simple, poor dear. Unthinkable of our man to keep such rabble among polite company.’ 

‘And says he’s to marry her! His reclusion must have cost him half his wits.’ 

‘Such a pity how far Mystra’s chosen has fallen.

On the other side of the divider, concern was cooling Gale’s impatience as he struggled to make out the frustrated mumblings emerging from behind the screen. “I’d love to help if I can. Did I misremember your measurements? “Or are the styles just not to your liking? I figured I would have procured at least one that suited you.” 

Cerela sighed heavily. Of course he would assume he’s at fault, gods bless him. “It’s not-” a breath,  “They’re all beautiful, Gale. It’s just that I’m- Oh! But what if…!” She trailed off excitedly and Gale heard her rummaging for something. A deep affection rose in his heart, melting away the day’s exasperation. 

It reminded him of her at camp, single-mindedly hunting through drawers and packs for some elusive elixir component. He imagined her doing just that back in his tent, wearing one of the dresses he brought her; the red one with an open neck he knew would frame the slope of her shoulders. In her enthusiasm, she would forget to accommodate for the restrictiveness of the garment. The skirt would quickly become rumpled by her constant movement, as her hair always did. Her bodice would threaten to spill over at every extension of her arms. 

Perhaps he’d let her finish her work and take the opportunity to tell her how brilliant she was, how she was one of the most brilliant, beautiful people he’s ever known. She would grin at him disbelievingly, like it wasn’t the most obvious truth in the universe. She would look at him like he had just given her the entire world.  

Or perhaps his propriety would fail him. One can’t always be a gentleman, after all. Perhaps he’d sweep her up into a heated kiss and place her down on the worktable, knocking aside any the vials or potions that dare be in his way. She would pull away from him flushed and breathless, the heaving of her chest straining at her bodice. It would only take one sharp tug…

“My knight, Could you hand me that hatbox over on the dressing table?”

His thoughts were interrupted when the subject of his daydream had popped her head out from behind the partition. 

He retrieved the box in question. But as he turned to walk it over, he could see just enough of her to tell she was, in fact, wearing the red dress he’d been picturing. He halted in place and, giving her a teasing smile, held the box out in front of him. 

“Dearest, I can’t quite seem to reach you,” he says with a sweet, casual smile. “Why don’t you step out a bit more?” 

She narrows her eyes at him. If they still had the tadpoles to connect them, she would undoubtedly be filling his head with all manner of curses and threats. But without psionic influence, all she had was what little intimidation her half-dressed, 4-and-a-quarter-foot self could muster. Which was to say, none. 

She turns her eyes away from him, looks back, looks away, and takes her first tentative steps out from the partition. When she meets his eyes again, Gale’s smug expression has vanished and he’s looking at her with unabashed awe.

“Gods, look at you.” He put down the hatbox so he could steady himself on the dressing table.

Suddenly feeling very vulnerable, she tugs at the garment. “I’ve already done far too much looking at myself today, but thank you, love,” she responds, barely resisting the urge to argue away his compliment. “Besides, I’m not even in it properly. These damn laces in the back.”

Gale exhales into a laugh, “I assure you, there are no complaints from present company,” He extends a hand to the empty room before giving her a small but gentlemanly bow. “Perhaps the lady may even allow me to offer some assistance?”

Cerela smiles despite herself and does as much of a curtsy as she can manage without losing her hold on the dress. As she crosses the room towards him, he knows his imagination didn’t do her justice. The draping shoulders of the gown created a neckline that perfectly matched the heart shape of her face, while leaving an open expanse to admire the contrast of soft, delicate skin over a strong frame. Deep red silk brought out the blue that swept across the left side of her face and into her hair. Like rivers into a bright, brilliant sea. 

Unlaced, the bodice dipped and hugged in unexpected places as she clung to it. She was always most irresistible when slightly disheveled, he found, like he had caught her in the middle of something. Unposed and perhaps a little scandalized. 

She walks over to stand at the dressing table with her back towards him. As he navigates the tangle of crisscrossing ribbon on her bodice, she removes the bejeweled tricorner from the hatbox and places it strategically over the most eye-catching parts of her hair. 

It was ‘Birthright’, the hat she’d purchased from Rolan at Sorcerous Sundries. Conveniently, she had dyed it a soft tan with red accents, which suited the dress well. It was a favorite accessory of hers as they bluffed and bartered their way through the final days of the Absolute. Whenever she wore it, people seemed to take her more seriously. She didn’t stumble over her words like she usually did. It made her feel almost charming. 

It also didn’t hurt to know it obscured the ‘worst’ of her face. 

A somewhat patronizing chuckle escapes Gale involuntarily and Cerela bristles. “Laugh if you like. I’m going to look ridiculous no matter what. At least the enchantment on this will keep me from sounding ridiculous, too.” She turns to make her retreat, but doesn’t get two steps before strong hands encircle her waist and bring her back against his front.

“I assure you, your eyes are much more enchanting than any imbued trinket.” he lifted the piece from her head and held it out in front of them both for inspection. His movements were gentle and his voice, even gentler. “But even if such powers were necessary, I would recommend against a sorcerer’s cap for an academy event.” 

Cerela’s heart sank. Idiot, she thought to herself. How had she missed such an obvious faux pas? She stared daggers into the ugly, stupid, retched hat as Gale placed it off to the side. 

“Oh. Right. Of course.” she replies, flatly. Though inside, a hellfire of shame and anxiety was screaming white hot in her mind. It was a small thing, she knew. But how many more unintended offenses would he have to save her from? How could she be anything but a complete embarrassment to him?

He walks them backward so he can sit on the edge of the bed, facing them both toward the vanity mirror on the dressing table. Now at eye level and with an unobscured view, he sees the misery written on her face. 

He presses a kiss into her shoulder. “What is ridiculous” his hands set to work again on the lacing, “Is my brilliant, beautiful fiancee thinking she would need any assistance in dazzling a room full of doddering old swotters like me.”  

Cerela fidgets uncomfortably with the sparkling tulle overlay of her skirt. She tries to play along with him, but her words come out more pained than she meant them to.

“If only all the wizards I’d met really were like you, my knight.”

Seizing the opportunity to distract from her ruminations, he uses the laces to pull her against him and melts at the gentle “Oh!” that escapes her as she stumbles. 

“While we could certainly do with fewer of those foul creatures you had the misfortune of encountering,” He says with a kiss to the marked side of her face, “I’m not sure I’d welcome the competition of all wizards.” 

She stifles a laugh and he lowers his lips to her neck, “As it is, I’m already dreading the cavalcade of hapless fools that will be vying for your attention all evening.” He smiles against her skin, “Gods know what I’d do if any of them had my smoldering charm.” 

That does get a full-bodied giggle from her, but as she bends forward, it pulls the laces, sinching the dress sharply. She gasps back upright and he quickly drops the ribbons to allow the bodice to expand back out. Laughter bubbles back up from both of them. As it calms, he slides his newly unoccupied hands around her waist and pulls her even closer against him. 

“Perhaps I might steal you away at some point in the night, if it becomes too much.” He perches his chin on her shoulder so he can see her reaction in the mirror; the reluctant smile and deep blush he’s made it his life’s mission to wring from her as often as possible.  

“Would you like that, my love?” He asks, with that edge of smugness he knows she’s weak to. “For me to sweep you away from the riff-raff so we can have a quiet moment of… mutual reassurance?”