Work Text:
Braid
A braided river, the complex braided strands of an embroidered strap – the interlinking relationships of the members of a strange and disparate family.
Or just a tangle of hair needing a good comb.
Setting: camp.
Camp tonight is on a small island in the middle of a deep reach of the river. To the west the sun is going down in a blaze of colour behind a small, tumbledown temple to who-knows-what god or goddess or goddex.
In the east, beyond the good swimming beach, across the slow-moving surface of the river, a full moon is rising behind some distant hills. Someone in camp is humming, “Down, down, down by the river,” over and over in a pleasant muted tenor: Gale, already settled amongst his books, dreaming sleepily over some old tale or other.
“Wolf Moon,” says Halsin, rolling his shoulders, and he should know. His stocky figure looks bearlike as he stretches and groans, but he doesn’t change. No need, here. Safe enough for the night. He growls quietly and shakes himself, turning away from the view to walk back to the centre of camp.
The fire crackles quietly, and Tav lies sleeping peacefully, though pale of face with a livid red dot on each cheek. This evening Astarion has been allowed to take his fill, a bargain that seems to please their Tav, given how valuable the rogue's skills are to the party. To some degree the bloodloss effect is offset by the pendant Tav wears, but Halsin knows they will need a good sleep tonight, if only to put a more normal colour back into that face.
The distant, rhythmic sound of steel against oil-soaked stone ceases, as Wyll puts his newly-sharpened sword back to sheath. He pulls a guitar from his tent and strolls over to seat himself on a stone, plucking each string in turn to tune it. Halsin seats himself on an old log, patting it comfortingly as he settles. “Old tree,” he murmurs. “Old friend.”
A little response comes back, of insect life beneath the drying bark, and a patch of moss hidden in a moist crevice, but the tree itself is long gone. Sometimes you get a sense of the living wood - gladness to be of service, or black-hearted resentment at a life cut short - though once a tree is down there isn’t a lot it can do about it. Some species can sprout new growth from fallen trunks, but this tree was severed from its roots by some previous no doubt two-legged inhabitant of the island. It’s not coming back.
A swish of desert-dry cloth and a faint creak of bones interrupts Halsin’s thoughts, as Withers wanders up the track from his dusty corner and settles on another fallen log. The old creature (man? Or whatever he was, or had been) keeps his distance from Tav most of the time, but is surprisingly friendly when camp settles into its evening routine. Shadowheart is on her spot, meditating, listening for her beloved lady Shar no doubt, and Lae’zel is... Well, he isn't entirely sure where Lae’zel is. Of all of them, the most likely to leave camp when Tav is asleep. And the least likely to reply if he asks her where she goes.
Wyll begins a slow, low-voiced ballad about a lord or a ford – or some other thing rhyming with sword – and some insects in the reeds just beyond the temple join in with a faint trilling song. Halsin sighs and stretches his legs out, almost into the fire, enjoying its fierce warmth on his soles.
“Gods. I can’t do a thing with it.” Astarion’s unmistakeable tones, as he strides from his canopied space to the fireside. He tugs long fingers through his mane, wincing as they catch in a tangle. “It’s all very well swimming in the river while the sun is up, but look what it does to my hair.”
He stalks past the fire towards Halsin, casting an expressionless glance down at Tav as they lie sleeping, and pauses to lay a blanket over their shoulders. Halsin notices that, despite his pretence of uncaring arrogance, the vampire’s face softens as he regards the figure at his feet. He snorts and turns away, catching Halsin’s glance through the firelight.
“Room for a small one?” he enquires, fingers already busy wrestling with another tangle. Wyll regards him without comment, only moving from swords to secret loves as the chords shift effortlessly to a minor key. They all know the vampire spawn’s nature. They each have their own opinions about it. But their Tav seems to like him, and that makes him one of them. One of their strange found family, at least for a while.
Halsin leans back and opens his legs wide. Astarion’s eyes open wider, but he makes no comment, lowering himself to sit on the ground and leaning back against Halsin’s broad chest. Halsin pulls a comb out of one of his myriad of pockets, and sets about separating Astarion’s half-dry hair into sections, combing each gently but firmly from root to tip. Astarion closes his eyes and sighs happily.
The druid works slowly, deftly easing each tangle free without pain, pulling a seemingly endless series of clasps from a pocket to pin the sections of hair back. When all the knots are gone, he runs the comb through the full length of hair, surprisingly long now that the river’s water has taken all its curl out. Then, putting all but a handful of clips away, he begins delicately to braid it. Picking up a section at a time he starts to create a crown-like braid at the brows, gradually adding more and more strands along each side as he deftly twists a complex interweaving plait.
“What are you doing?” The vampire’s voice rises in a question, as he lifts a hand to his temple to feel the pattern of the weave. Halsin takes Astarion’s hand and puts it firmly back in his lap.
“Braiding.”
Astarion wriggles. “Really? Are you sure?”
Halsin presses down on his shoulder and he subsides again. Actually, it’s such a nice feeling he doesn’t care what the big druid does. Though it’s annoying knowing he will never know what it looks like. He says so.
“Wait till you see the look on Tav’s face tomorrow,” Halsin suggests slyly. “It looks good on you.”
“Everything looks good on me.” Astarion yawns and relaxes, suddenly boneless under Halsin’s confident grasp. Wyll’s songs come to an end, leaving only a slow ripple of arpeggios from the guitar and the quiet trilling of the insect choir. The wolf moon rises higher and shines a buttery yellow light over the camp, almost drowning the stars that are coming out in their thousands overhead. A flurry of sparks rises from the fire and drifts off into the night.
Halsin eases the drowsy vampire’s head down onto the nearest bedroll and hauls a blanket over him, then nods to Wyll, who is packing up his instrument and heading in. At some point Withers has risen and wandered silently back to his post, as wordlessly as he’d come.
The night is Halsin’s now and he yawns peacefully. Somewhere in the middle of the yawn a deep grumble emerges, and by the end of the breath a bear is there, shaking its shaggy head in the moonlight, before padding off on four massive paws to seek whatever a bear looks for in the night when all the world is asleep.