Chapter Text
When Wyll goes down in combat, Azrael notices it first.
Astarion and Karlach are surrounded by wretched creatures. Karlach’s roar is loud and furious, serving as a useful distraction for Astarion to slip in and out of the shadows with his daggers.
From their position, neither of them can see Wyll and Azrael. The gash across Wyll’s side is an open maw, and blood red gore drips down onto the ground—no one would know, if Azrael dug his fingers into it. If he brought his blade down upon Wyll next. He could claim Wyll succumbed to his wounds. Say that they were attacked, that one of the shadowlands’ myriad of hopeless creatures crept past their line of defense and got to Wyll before Azrael could. It would be so easy.
It would be so horrible.
Azrael’s fingers twitch. His vision blurs, and his stomach twists. He breathes in and out, slow. Reminds himself that he doesn’t want to hurt Wyll.
He can’t trust his hands. But Wyll needs him.
Azrael drops into a crouch beside the other man. His hands shake as he places them gently on Wyll’s skin, letting healing energy flow through them. The relief he feels might parallel Wyll’s own. Sometimes, when Azrael looks down at himself, he can still see Alfira’s blood. But those are his hands now—healing Wyll. Proof he doesn’t only bring ruin.
“My thanks,” Wyll grunts, pushing himself upright into a sitting position as his wound knits together. He’s still injured, but it’ll be enough to get them back into camp. “Although I’m not sure I’m ready to re-enter the fray.”
When Azrael throws himself back into the fight, it’s with a new level of ferocity. Killing is still what he’s best at, after all.
“You’ve been terribly boring lately, Azrael.” Astarion’s voice floats from somewhere behind him. Azrael glances back, but soon enough his focus is drawn back across the campfire. In the flickering light, Wyll is dueling an invisible opponent. The flick of his rapier catches and reflects the flames.
Azrael’s spent the better part of the night working up the courage to talk to Wyll after their scrape in the shadowlands. He’s bitten his tongue raw too, the sharp pain distracting him from the unwelcome—unholy, bloodthirsty—thoughts his mind conjures at the sight of Wyll tonight. Purging the monsters they’ve found in the dark did little to satisfy the bloodlust in his mind, but it helps.
“My, my,” Astarion says, settling down beside him now. “What could you be thinking of? You’re practically drooling over our dear warlock.”
Azrael tears his gaze away. “I wasn’t—” He stops himself. Isn’t it better if Astarion mistook his violent hunger for simple lust?
“You needn’t waste away pining over Wyll.” Astarion’s grin is sharp.
It wasn’t that long ago that Astarion would’ve leaned dangerously close to Azrael, treading the line between flirtation and jest. Now, he keeps his distance. Maybe Azrael flinched back one too many times. Maybe Astarion realized Azrael for the threat he is. Maybe Astarion’s simply given up on him.
Still, Astarion talks. “If you’re looking for a bit of fun, I’m right here,” the rogue says, stretching his legs out before him in the firelight. On display, but from a distance.
Whatever’s caused the shift, Azrael’s grateful for it. Azrael can tolerate his fangs, but little else. It’s worse—when people touch him, his thoughts are always worse. His broken brain doesn’t differentiate between those who would help or harm him. It only wants blood.
Is that what happened with Alfira? Did she place a hand on his arm in companionship, or readjust his fingers on the lute she’d taught him to play? Did he repay her by stabbing her over, and over, and over again?
Astarion is his friend. But who knows what Azrael might do to him?
Too late, Azrael realizes he hasn’t responded—that Astarion’s waiting for a response.
“Suit yourself,” Astarion says, his tone light and easy still. If Azrael’s offended him by his silence, he hides it well. “You know where to find me, if Wyll can’t satisfy someone like you.”
At the edge of the firelight, Wyll glances towards them. He grins, raising his hand in familiar greeting. The sweat running down his skin glints in the firelight. The rapier rests in his hand, at ease now that he’s finished running through his routines. Between Azrael’s battlefield healing and Shadowheart’s ministrations back at camp, the wound from earlier today is all but forgotten.
Wyll’s a fighter. A hero. A defender of the innocent and bane of the damned, all at once.
Azrael forces himself upright before he can think better of it. He thinks of Alfira—he thinks of her brutalized body. He thinks of Wyll’s smooth voice, saying I slay monsters, I don’t consort with them.
Azrael isn’t the victim in this story. He doesn’t need a defender, he needs a warden. Possibly an executioner.
“Well met,” Wyll says as he approaches, with the same easy smile on his face. “If you’re looking to spar, I might still have energy to spare. For you, at least.”
“I need to talk to you,” Azrael blurts. He should’ve eased into it, but he doesn’t know how to craft a convincing argument. Doesn’t know how to make his words pretty or gentle, like Wyll and Gale—or even Astarion, when it serves him—can.
And he knows that Wyll dislikes that particular quality of his. That Wyll thinks he’s too blunt, too quick to anger. Too violent, although Azrael’s tried to point it in the right direction. In a direction Wyll would approve of. He trusts Wyll's judgment more than anyone else's, especially his own.
But that’s why it has to be Wyll. The man sees the truth of him better than anyone else. Lae’zel or Shadowheart might kill Azrael if the tadpole wins, but Azrael needs someone who can recognize his darkness right now. Azrael doesn’t need to transform to be a threat. He should be treated accordingly.
It’s well enough that they need to stick close to camp and the comforting safety of the lantern. Azrael doesn’t trust himself to be alone with Wyll right now. With any of them. As he leads Wyll away, they can’t go far.
“Is everything alright?” Wyll asks, ever the kindhearted soul.
No, that isn’t fair. Wyll has steel to him, too. He isn’t afraid to grit his teeth and fight—isn’t afraid to be judge, jury, and executioner, either. Azrael needs to appeal to that side. The Blade of Frontiers, not Wyll Ravengard. The warrior, not the man who daydreams of dancing.
“No,” Azrael says. “I want to talk about Alfira. About what I did to her.”
“That was the parasite,” Wyll says, but his face is conflicted. Frowning, now. They were all so eager to imagine the best of him that night.
Fortunately, it’s a flimsy excuse, one that Azrael should’ve torn down long ago. “Why only mine, then?” Azrael snaps. “Why not yours? Or Shadowheart’s? Why am I the only one with a murderous worm in my brain?” It isn’t the parasite. Azrael is made of emptiness and blurry memories, but he knows that much for certain. “There’s something wrong with me. I need you to swear that you’ll stop me, if it comes down to it.”
Wyll reaches out. Azrael nearly flinches back, but he lets Wyll’s hand settle on his shoulder. It’s warm. Solid. The things he wants are unspeakable, and they aren't all blood-red. Some are softer. Equally unbearable, though. He might lose control any night. With that knowledge, how could he invite someone to his tent?
The parasite behind Azrael’s eye twists. He can use this. He can make Wyll see.
When he swallows, his mouth is dry. Every inch of Azrael's foul body is begging him not to confess his would be sins, but to indulge them. Azrael chokes the bile back.
“Right now, I’m thinking about tearing your hand off,” Azrael rasps. He maintains eye contact—a predator refusing to hide away. This isn’t some passing fancy; this isn’t simply insecurity. Azrael is dangerous. “I want to pull your fingernails out one by one. I want you to hurt. Sometimes, hurting people is all I can think about.”
The parasite burns with the desire to connect, and for once, Azrael lets it. To show Wyll, so the other man won’t shy away from putting him down. Azrael’s resisted using the tadpoles so far, if only because he’s ashamed. Wyll doesn’t deserve to see the thoughts that linger in Azrael’s mind. But he needs Wyll to understand. So Azrael lets go—feels the dizzying closeness as Wyll gives way too, letting Azrael tangle their minds together.
Blood and sleeplessness; terrified to rest, terrified of what your hands might do . An empty mind, strewn with corpses. There is something unknown and unspeakable, deep within your heart.
Something echoes back. Memories that aren’t his, but feel like it for a brief moment.
The bartender laughs when you introduce yourself by your new name—the Blade, like the protector you pretend to be for approval that will never come again—but he serves your drink all the same. It does little to improve your spirits. The lonelier you feel, the stronger the scent of sulfur and orchids becomes.
Wyll frowns, slowly lowering his hand. The connection breaks. Without Wyll’s hand on him, it’s easier to focus on his own thoughts. Azrael can’t tell if he misses that touch, or if he misses his morbid fantasies.
“This isn’t you,” Wyll says. “You can fight this. You are fighting this. It wasn’t only horror I saw in your thoughts—there’s hope too.” Azrael’s heart sinks, until Wyll continues speaking. “But you have my word. Should you lose control, I will see to it that no innocents are harmed.”
Azrael sags with relief. “Thank you.” It’s a cruel thing he’s asked of Wyll, but it’s necessary. Of all of them, Azrael trusts Wyll to do what is needed.
“But Azrael—please. Resist,” Wyll says. The line of his mouth is drawn, but his eyes are compassionate still. “I have no wish to kill a friend.”
Astarion’s by the entrance of his tent, bored gaze flicking towards Azrael when he crawls back to his own. “How noble the two of you are,” Astarion drawls. Of course; there’s little privacy in camp, especially from elven ears and eyes. “I just hope The Blade of Frontiers doesn’t get any ideas. It’s all well and good if you’re into self-sacrifice, but some of us are perfectly content being monsters.”
“Fuck off, Astarion,” Azrael says, kneeling to unlace his boots. With Wyll’s assurance weighing him down, he’s exhausted.
“There’s our prickly paladin,” Astarion coos. “I’ve so missed our bantering.” He slips back into his tent, though, leaving Azrael alone in the darkness.
Azrael falls asleep thinking of Wyll’s steady gaze. Wyll’s graceful steps, and the firm grip on his rapier in battle. Wyll’s promise. Azrael sleeps better than he can ever remember.