sforzie - Tumblr blog

sforzie · 20 days

Text

I've been online as 'Sforzie' now for... well, since 1996. 27 years or so? Always just me, just Sforzie. Most of what I posted back then is long gone unless you know where to look for it. I don't even have the files for most of it anymore. But every now and then I will get a random email or message from someone who will go 'didn't you write X back then? I loved that. It inspired me to write too'. It always makes me smile, to know that the things I created so long ago still echo a bit in the memories of people out there...

You know, I've been reading things written by people on the internet for my whole life, or at least my whole life after I was about ten. I'm thirty three now. That means there are people whose words I read on the internet twenty years ago who are presumably still around and occupying the internet—sometimes using names I can recognize from back then, too. (hat tip to my fellow "changing usernames is unnatural actually" brethren; I've only changed one myself twice in the whole world since I was about fourteen or fifteen.)

Sometimes I think about a person I see around occasionally on the internet. That person wrote a story about a character in a rather silly fandom we shared, and I read it as a child just beginning to conceptualize being someone whose opinions might matter. And I remember reading that story at some point, because at that age I had a hyperfixation on that character in that fandom at that time and I read pretty much everything in the genre. I never really got to talk to anyone but the inside of my head about it. My friends didn't read fanfiction, and my parents viewed my reading fanfiction as some kind of depraved, shameful secret. Anyway, I read that story and I remember having some kind of deep realization about how adult humans work while I was reading it.

I learned something about the world from that story. (It was one of those insights that are now so molten alongside my core that it's difficult for me to disentangle them from myself, like "people outside you have their own perspective on your behaviors, but that doesn't mean they have to be right.") And I remember that they know it, because they taught it to me, without meaning to. One of the anonymous impacts on readers that writers never see unless they're extraordinarily lucky.

And I smile, because it's lovely to see them again, and they showed me a skill I still use today. We don't have a relationship of any kind—it would be very difficult to recognize me, I think—but they did me a favor a long time ago. And I remember. Now I get to be reminded that this person still exists, and is still a pretty cool human to be around today, at least for the specific circumstance of internet neighbor. Well, and our modern level of concern about once beloved elders from the distant past going terrifyingly cult-addled and bigoted on short notice.

That has not happened in the slightest. They're just still a pretty nice fandom person who is a bit older than me, who is recognizably the same person they have always been, but more intensely and thoughtfully—like a distilled brandy, not a sour vinegar left out on a countertop too long.

Weirdly, that's a thing I find comforting: this tiny, one way, invisible affection. Every so often I feel this intense affection for a person I've never spoken to or about, because I see them and I love them intensely for a moment and then we both go about our days.

Think about how many interactions you have with people as you go about your day. Wouldn't it be nice to imagine that other people feel like that about you?

I think I'm going to imagine that there's one person that read something I said and thinks that about me. I don't need to ever actually know if it's true: I can just imagine someone who happened to be at a formative moment when they learned something against the background of my words. We'll never know each other as our screennames are lost along the years and we move in and out of touch with parts of ourselves, but we still have that little fond impact on one another, those fingerprints in one another's clay.

It's a nicer world to imagine than the one where no one is paying attention to me, or the only people paying attention to me are mean. And there's really no way to ever know for sure, so why not inhabit the pleasant end of the imaginatory pool if you can?

293 notes · View notes

sforzie · 2 months

Text

Keep on Living

Summary: Set in Elturel roughly 15 years before BG3, Zevlor tries to comfort his best friend after the death of his wife.

[soft warnings: mentions of death, bit of gay angst]

-----

Illness had claimed L’vini’s wife swiftly, and from one month to the next she was gone. There was some concern for the health of their children, as they had remained in the house while their mother rapidly wasted away. For now, though, the girls remained as bright eyed and whip-tailed as ever. That was a blessing, Zevlor supposed. It had to be–L’vini was a strong man, a great Hellrider, but even he would have likely succumbed to the grief of losing his whole family in one senseless swoop. As it was, he did not know what he would find upon arriving at the Redblade household.

Though the rest of the street of crowded houses was bustling with the usual afternoon traffic, the area leading up to the Redblade front door was almost eerily quiet. He knocked on the door, but there was no answer.

Be bold, Zevlor, he thought to himself. L’vini needs you to be bold right now.

He retrieved his little loop of keys from within his gear and hastily flipped through them. The Redblade housekey was worn and familiar in his fingers, and he used it to open the front door with no further hesitation.

Zevlor locked the front door again behind him before proceeding into the house. It was quiet and dark, and both sensations weighed heavily in the air. He could not help but feel as though death had indeed claimed the whole household. He shook his head to chase away the unpleasant thought.

“L’vini?” he called from the unlit foyer. “L’vini, are you home?” No response, but he tried again: “L’vini, are you here?”

Still no answer.

Zevlor crept away from the front door, his steps certain despite the lack of light. The kitchen and dining room were empty, and the fireplace was dark and cold. The sitting room, where he had so often sat and listened as L’vini plucked awkwardly at his lute while Mille had sung along, was also vacant. The little bedroom shared by the girls was empty, and fear clenched at Zevlor’s heart as he made his way to the final room of the hall.

Please be alright, he thought. No, that was not it, would not be possible. Please be alive.

“L’vini?” He rapped his knuckles against the door before pushing it open.

The bedroom was as dark as the rest of the house. The curtains were drawn closed and blocked most of the afternoon light, but Zevlor could still see that the bed was empty. Not just empty, but stripped of its dressings, leaving just the bare mattress and pillows behind. He swallowed and pushed the door open, eyes sweeping over the room again.

There, on the side of the bed opposite the door. A figure sat on the floor, hunched over against the wall.

Tentatively, he called: “Vini?”

The figure’s shoulders jerked, but there was no response.

“I’m sorry. It’s just me.”

There was another moment of shuddering hesitation, but then the figure’s head lifted from its knees. Zevlor was greeted first by the cherished yellow glow of his friend’s eyes.

Then, a soft croak of: “Zev.”

“May I come in?”

“Yeah.”

L’vini did not move as he approached, and truthfully Zevlor wondered how the other tiefling had managed to cram his bulk between the bed and the wall. His knees were pressed against the side of the bare mattress in a way that did not look comfortable.

Perhaps he did not want to be comfortable. Not then.

“I–” He stopped, and was uncertain of what to say. Zevlor swallowed against a tightness in his throat. “That is, um–Sorry, Vini. I let myself in. Hope you don’t mind?”

Nothing.

“I admit, I was worried when I came in. Where are the girls?”

The yellow eyes flicked to the empty bed for a moment before returning to Zevlor’s face. “They–they’re staying with the family of one of Livia’s friends for a few days. The Chillwaters, I think.”

“Ah. That was very kind of them. We’ll have to thank them later, won’t we?”

“Y-yeah.”

He pointed at the rug next to L’vini. “Mind if I sit?”

L’vini shrugged. Zevlor took that as permission enough and carefully deposited himself on the floor. The other man tucked his knees away from the bed and scooted closer to his side. Even through his armor, Zevlor could feel the muscular power of his tail as it curled across his posterior in search of comfort. He flexed his own tail in reassurance.

They sat in mutual silence for several minutes.

Then, softly: “Zevlor, I–M-Mille, she–” L’vini’s voice choked off in a broken sob. He pressed his face into his hands and folded forward once more toward his knees. His keening wail was sharp enough to pierce Zevlor’s heart.

“I know,” he whispered sadly.

The man’s big body shook next to him. Zevlor immediately reached for him, wrapping an arm around his broad shoulders and pulling him against his chest.

“Shh, shh. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

L’vini’s sobs were half muffled by his breastplate. “What am I to do now?”

“Keep on living,” Zevlor whispered. “That is all we can do, no matter how much it hurts.” He swallowed again. “And I know it hurts, darling, I know it does. I can feel it too. But, as much as it might seem easier to just give up and let the darkness take you, that would…” He tried to keep selfish thoughts from creeping in over the comforting ones. “Think of your daughters. What would happen to Livia and Lithia were you to die, too?”

The other man sobbed and shuddered against him.

What would I do if you died, too? Zevlor thought.

“It should have been me,” L’vini croaked. “Me and not Mille. The girls need their mother so much more than they could need me.”

“That isn’t true,” Zevlor said quickly. “You are needed just as much as she. And now–now you are needed even more. Your girls need you, L’vini.” Into the man’s black hair, he added: “And so do I.”

Another sob.

Zevlor cleared his throat. “Don’t make me pull rank on you, Vini. I’ll order you to live, if it comes to that.”

“You can’t do that,” came the muffled reply. Zevlor smiled despite the situation.

“I could try. I would try.”

“....thank you, Zev.”

“Mm-hmm.” Zevlor pressed his lips to the tangle of dark hair accessible between the man’s horns. “And I promise, I will be here for you in turn. I will help you, however you need. Anything for you, my dearest friend. I’ll start by making sure your duty shifts are covered for the next week or two. We don’t need the commander coming after you when you’re like this.”

“Thanks.”

“You can thank me by getting up from the floor. Your bed is far better suited to take your tears than the rug.”

“They stripped the linens,” was the soft protest, still strained by tears. “When she–to take her away.”

“Well, I can get the spare set of sheets from the linen closet and remake it for you.”

“You needn’t trouble yourself, Zev.”

“It isn’t trouble if I want to do it.” He squeezed L’vini’s shoulder. “Help me, if you want.”

The widower nodded in muted agreement. It took a few minutes for the men to get up from the floor, as L’vini had been down there so long his muscles had begun to cramp. He sat on the edge of the mattress as Zevlor made his way to the closet and retrieved the other set of sheets and a blanket. Together they redressed the bed.

When it was made, L’vini stood and stared at the undyed sheets and the dark blue blanket. There were still tears tracking down the sides of his nose.

“Will you stay with me?”

Zevlor hesitated, though it was his immediate desire to say yes. “You wish me to?”

“I cannot bear the thought of being alone again right now.” His face pinched for a moment. “Please, Zevlor.”

“Of course. I would not dare abandon you in your time of need.”

“Th-thank you.” L’vini stumbled on the simple words and bowed his head as he choked on a fresh sob. Zevlor flew to his side and took his tear stained cheeks in his hands.

“Shh, shh. I’m still here. I’ll always be here if you need me.” He leaned in and pressed a kiss to the other man’s chin. “Now, let me get out of my armor and I will join you under the covers.”

With another murmur of thanks, L’vini again sat on the bed. He watched in quivering silence as Zevlor carefully removed his gauntlets and breastplate, and then stepped somewhat awkwardly out of his unfastened boots. He set each piece in a careful pile near the door, until finally he was garbed only in the linen undershirt and trousers he had put on under his armor during the dark hours of that morning.

L’vini’s gray hands reached for him as he returned to the bed. Zevlor let himself be snagged in the man’s claws and dragged into his arms. He could feel the tension in his friend’s body, the tight winding of a sob that he fought to hold in.

“It’s okay, Vini. You can cry.”

“I know, I just–” His body shook and his chest snapped with a sharp inhalation.

“Let’s lie down now.”

L’vini managed to hold himself together until they were both under the blanket. Then his keening broke anew, and he pressed his face so snugly into Zevlor’s shoulder that the man thought his horns might leave a bruise. Despite the force of his friend’s misery, Zevlor did not pull away. He could not–he would not have been able to live with himself were he to even entertain the idea of doing so. Such an idea would be traitorous to his own heart.

The clock ticking on the wall near the bed told him that the afternoon had long given way to the night by the time L’vini stilled in Zevlor’s arms. He felt a pang of relief as the grieving man’s breathing slowed as his body gave way to exhaustion. The front of his shirt was damp and growing cold, but he did not care. He was where he needed to be, wanted to be, was meant to be.

“Sleep, my friend. I will be here when you wake.”

#bg3 zevlor #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #zevlor #tiefling tav #bg3 fanfiction #fanfiction

14 notes · View notes