if he had a hundred years

In the warm glow of their bedroom, Wyll stands tall, a blend of anticipation and determination in his eyes.

“How do I look?” Wyll asks, gesturing to himself. He donned a taupe suit, embroidered with threads of gleaming gold—a balance of practicality and elegance that his father always observed.

His husband steps closer with an affectionate smile. “Handsome as ever,” he says, running his fingers along Wyll’s stubbled chin. “Are you ready?”

Wyll takes a deep breath and nods. “Always.”

“Will you be all right going alone this time?”

“Of course.”

His husband pulls him in for a hug, holding him close. “Are you sure you don’t want me by your side?” he says, whispering softly in his ear.

Wyll returns the embrace, caressing his husband’s back, seeking comfort in the familiar touch. As he leans into his shoulder, he responds, “I’m certain, darling. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

They share a tender moment before pulling away, and his husband gives him a lingering kiss. “See you later, then.”

“Later, my love.”

Just outside their quaint house, Wyll passes by Umi, engaged in a spirited bout with a straw dummy.

“This is your end, villain!” Umi declares with a theatrical shriek. The tiefling grunts as he thrusts his rapier into the dummy’s chest, bits of hay scattering in protest.

Wyll, observing with a smile, comments, “Good form, Umi. But you might want to work on your lines a bit.”

“Father!” Umi exclaims, abandoning his training to rush into a hug. “Are you going on a hunt today?”

“Not today, Umi.”

Stepping back, Umi looks his father up and down with a curious expression. “Why are you dressed like that? You look like you’re going on a date.” He glances pointedly at the empty space beside him. “Without dad?”

“I would never,” Wyll says with a chuckle. “I’m off to visit your grandpa.”

“Oh. Can I come with?”

“Another time, little one. You keep practicing. We can have a spar when I get back, deal?”

Umi looks away, hiding his hands behind his back. “Actually…”

Wyll crosses his arms, an amused smile splayed on his face. He recognizes this tone by now. “Where are you going, young man?”

“Well, I kind of… sort of… am busy tonight. With, erm. Fig.”

“Fig? Jaheira’s youngest, Fig?” Wyll raises an eyebrow. “Is this a date?”

“And if it is?”

Wyll laughs. “Aren’t you a little too young to be going on dates?”

“Father! I’m seventeen! That’s old enough, I’m sure,” Umi says, pouting.

Raising his hands in mock surrender, Wyll grins. “I jest, I jest. Make sure you’re back before—”

“Before ten, I know.”

He ruffles Umi’s hair and then leans down for a forehead kiss.

“Take care, Father,” says Umi. “Say hi to gramps for me.”

Wyll smiles. “I will.”

Wyll strolls down the quaint, cobblestone streets of Baldur’s Gate, the sun casting long shadows from the buildings. The familiar scent of blooming flowers fills the air as he approaches the flower stand near the entrance.

The florist Maude looks up from arranging a vibrant display of tulips. Her eyes light up with recognition when she sees him approach. “Well, if it isn’t our beloved Blade of Frontiers! What brings you here today, saer? Orchids for your dearest husband?”

Wyll can’t help but smile. “Not quite. This one is for my father.”

Maude clasps her hands together. “Ah, yes, the annual visit. Your father must have quite the collection by now.”

“Indeed, he does,” says Wyll. “He always appreciates a fresh bouquet. Keeps things lively and beautiful, he’d say.”

“Daisies, then?” she suggests, her fingers selecting the blossoms. “The duke’s favorite, if I recall correctly.”

He nods gratefully. “Yes, daisies would be perfect.”

Maude hands the arranged bouquet to Wyll, her smile reflecting a mix of sympathy and warmth.

“Splendid work as always, Maude,” he says, handing her the payment and then some. “Thank you. Father will love this.”

She lays a hand on his shoulder and gives him a reassuring squeeze. “He’s lucky to have a son like you, Wyll. Don’t be a stranger now, and give my regards to your father.”

Wyll navigates the intricate labyrinth of tombstones, his feet moving by rote towards his destination. Duke Eltan offered a grand mausoleum for the late Grand Duke, but Wyll declined. Before Ulder Ravengard was a duke or a marshal, he was first a laborer, a man deeply rooted in the lives of the common folk. And so, Wyll opted for an unassuming tombstone, blending in with the tapestry of markers that dotted the cemetery. A tribute to a duke who remained amongst his people even in death.

There it is. As he approaches the grave, Wyll pauses, casting a glance across the serene expanse of the cemetery. The last vestiges of sunlight casts a shadow that dance upon the burial grounds. The mortarch walks in solemn patrol, occasionally offering solace to a weeping widow or two. A few other people are present, all paying a visit to loved ones that have passed on. Wyll is not alone in this.

With a deep breath, he settles on the grass before his father. The headstone bears his father’s name: Ulder Ravengard, and below it: beloved duke and father. He brushes off the fallen autumn leaves, and with practiced care, he unveils his tools. It’s been five years since, and every year he has made a ritual with his visit.

Wyll unfurls a scroll to create water, and with a whisper of the words, “Aqua pura,” he conjures water out of thin air. A gentle cascade splashes over the headstone, washing away the top layer of grime and mud. The remaining residues he scrapes away with the precision of his spatula. Finally, he gives the headstone a meticulous scrubbing with a brush until the stone regains its pristine state.

Satisfied with his work, Wyll places the vibrant bouquet at the foot of the tombstone, with a lit candle on each side. The warm flicker of the candles casts a modest glow over the etched letters, the sun dipping beneath the horizon behind him.

“Hello, Father.”

The cemetery is quiet, save for the gentle rustle of leaves and the distant melody of chirping birds.

“It’s been a good year for me. For us. Umi is growing more and more each year. He’s shaping up to be a formidable fighter and adventurer. He’s seventeen now, can you believe it? Last time you saw him, he was just a small timid lad. Well, in my eyes, he’s still that little boy. I wish you could see him now, see the man he’s becoming. I think… I think you’d be proud of him.”

His gaze lingers on his father’s lived years, now mere numbers etched on stone.

“Time truly is gods-damned greedy. In just the blink of an eye, I’d be closer to your age than I was when I left the city all those years ago.” He sighs. “You were right, you know. Raising a child is difficult. I share the responsibility with my husband, which makes it easier. But you… you were alone. And you didn’t just have me; you had to attend to the Flaming Fist too. And soon after that, you had to serve the entire city as the Grand Duke.”

Children chase each other around the graveyard, laughing and shrieking in glee.

“I thought I understood it all back then, but after years of being a father myself, I think I truly understand it now. The sacrifices you make to secure a better world for your son. Every day, as I venture out to hunt monsters and defend the people of the Coast, I feel that burden pressing down with every swing of my blade. It’s hard, but it’s a decision I choose to make. For Umi. I can only imagine how much more demanding it was for you, a grand duke with even grander duties to uphold. I understand, Father. Truly, I do.”

A gentle breeze passes over him, enveloping him in a cool embrace.

“But what I don’t understand is…”

His fingers dig into the grass and dirt, struggling to maintain composure.

“I look at Umi, and the love I feel for him is beyond measure. I know I would stop at nothing to protect him, to keep him safe. I raise him with the hope that he’ll become a better man than I am. And it makes me wonder… did you ever feel that way about me, Father? Did you want to shield me from harm, only held back by the weight of your duty to the city? If you weren’t the duke… surely, surely, you would have. I know you would have. You taught me everything I know. You made me who I am today. And every day, I am proud to call myself your son.”

In the distance, a woman weeps at the foot of a gravestone.

“But if I can fulfill my duty as the Blade while also being a father… then… then you could have, too.”

Wyll bites his lip, stifling tears.

“So, why didn’t you?”

His voice breaks under the weight of his heavy heart.

“Gods. It was all I wanted. By the time you were my father again… well, it was too late, wasn’t it? We tried to mend the rift, and for a while, it was good. I cherished those precious moments with you, truly. But time, Father, time has changed us both. I’m glad you made an effort, and I know you did your best. Gods know it was all we can do. But… But why… Why couldn’t you have given it when I needed it the most? I told myself it was the duty that kept you from being my father when I was young. But now that I’m here at your age, with a son I love more than anything… I don’t think I could bring myself to do such a thing to Umi.”

His voice wavers, stunned at the deluge of words that had poured forth.

“I’m sorry, Father. I just… I don’t understand. I want to understand.”

Tears stream down his face, his lips trembling as he struggles to speak.

“Father… why’d you let me leave?”

Wyll pulls his knees close to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. The evening air feels cold against his back. How he longed for the warmth of an embrace.

“I needed you, Father. And you left me. How? How could you have forsaken me so easily? I did it for the city, for you. I only did what you raised me to be. A protector.”

He buries his head between his hands, shame and guilt and resentment engulfing him whole. The storm of emotions settles in the pit of his stomach, roiling within.

“But you didn’t understand. You didn’t, not when I needed it most.”

His lament grows from a whimper to a wail, one that he tries to stifle still. But the deluge overwhelms what little restraint he has left. His grief reverberates through the graveyard, an untamed force breaking free.

As he weeps, the tapestry of his life unfolds before his mind’s eye—the uphill battles, the hard-fought victories, and the weight of the exile that bore down on him. But with the hardships also came triumph—a newfound family, reconciled relationships, and the elusive freedom he once longed for. Each memory surfaces, a mosaic of joy and pain, of love and loss. Time presses on, despite everything.

And like the relentless march of time, he too must press on.

“I know. I know you did your best. It’s all we can ever hope to do.”

Wyll sits in the quiet of the cemetery, letting the echoes of his grief fade away with each measured breath he takes.

“I love you, Father. I miss you more with each passing day.”

He reaches forth, his fingers tracing the letters of his father’s name engraved on the weathered headstone.

“Till I see you again, Father.”