Archive of Our Own

The sounds of the celebrations were filling the camp. Songs and laughter, drinks raised, stories swapped between old friends and new ones. But for Wyll… It was all a little too much, at least for now. He slipped away not long after the first bottle was opened, taking a lesser vintage for himself and a few pieces of simple food from the table. 

It was quieter to sit by the water’s edge, looking out at the moonlight reflecting on the rippling surface, grateful that it wasn’t mirror-smooth to show his reflection. He subconsciously reached up and touched his horns, pulling back in an instant as if he had touched a heated pot on the stove. His head ached, still unused to the balance of extra weight curling around and back;, the horns themselves were sensitive at times, too. 

Everything had changed. Again. 

Wyll had just about accepted his fate in leaving his home behind and taking up the mantle of the hero, stepping in to help the refugees from Elturel the moment he found them after escaping the grasp of the mindflayers. Out of the frying pan, into the fire, though. Or in this case, out of Avernus and into the pitfalls of a contract written by one who stretched the truth to its limits.

He didn’t regret it, not for a second. The loud laughter booming from the Tiefling woman in the middle of the party was a comfort. He would gladly accept the torture of feeling his entire body being transformed before killing Karlach, who was a victim of the Blood War as much as he was. She was having fun. Laughing, smiling, making friends with anyone who took long enough to realise she was more than she appeared to be on the surface. The irony of the thought escaped him as he continued to fret over his own changed looks. 

“He looks sad.” The voice of one of the children - he couldn’t remember which - broke him out of his thoughts. 

“Come on, quickly!” Several more followed, giggling, the sound of small footsteps carrying mischief quickly came closer. 

“Now hold on just a moment-” Wyll tried to stop them, though he feared reaching out in case one of them got hurt. 

“Nope!”
“Not gonna!”

“Come on, Mister, you’ll look nice!” 

The group of them were working like a terrifyingly efficient team, leaping and scampering around him, weaving vines around his horns before taking his hands and pulling him to his feet. 

“Careful, I don’t want to-” They cut him off again with their giggling, as the vine wove around his outfit, each of the children swapping around to dance with him as he was wrapped and decorated. “What is all this?”

“You weren’t at the party.” 

“So we brought the party to you!”

“You look pretty…” 

Wyll couldn’t help but laugh. “Pretty? The stone eyed monster is pretty now?” 

“Mmhmm.” The children nodded, all in agreement with their assessment.

“Thank you, I think.” He patted each of them on the head in turn, a little regretful that he didn’t have any treats to give them. 

“Alright, tiny soldiers, hup hup!” Karlach appeared with a beaming smile, ordering her small army to line up with sharp salutes. “At ease, now go on back to the party - Gale and Rolan said they’re going to do some magic tricks soon!”

“Magic’s a bit boring…” 

“Everyone will be distracted though, not looking at their pockets.” 

“Oooh! You’re right!” 

Before either of the adults could stop them, the miscreants scampered off back to the main party, giggling and conspiring with one another as they went. “Are you sure it’s safe to let them go pickpocketing?” Wyll raised an eyebrow towards Karlach, but her smile didn’t fade.

“Oh, they’ll be just fine! Didn’t you get into a little trouble at their age? Or were you running around with a pot lid and spoon playing the hero to stuffed toys?” She gave him a playful nudge with her elbow.

“I didn’t go around stealing from anyone, if that’s what you’re asking.” He sighed a moment, taking a seat back on the fallen log he’d been on before. “Sorry, Karlach, I’m not the best company right now. Go on and enjoy the party, please - don’t stay out here on my account.” 

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily.” She took a seat nearby, leaving enough space to not worry about an accidental touch burning him. “So, what’s eating you? Is it the horns? Gods, they’re a pain sometimes.” 

Wyll watched her as she talked a mile a minute, the brightness of her eyes never dulled, her gestures adding to the feeling of how passionate she was as she spoke. 

Karlach pointed to the stump of her horn, rough from the break. “When I first lost this one, gods it was so hard to get used to. My balance was off for weeks! And I kept reaching up or ducking through doorways on that side like it was still there - ridiculous, right?” 

“No, not ridiculous at all.” He looked at her with concern. “Does it still hurt?” 

“Come on, Wyll, that was meant to make you smile at least a little!” She poked the stump of her horn. “I feel it, a little, but less and less with time. Part of my devilish charm now, might as well own it.” 

“You’re not a devil, Karlach.” He looked deep into her eyes, the softness in them clearer than ever as she blinked, perplexed. “I wish I had seen that sooner.” 

“No use dwelling on the past, soldier. Plenty more problems ahead to kick us in the arse all over again.” She looked over his shoulder for a moment, leaning around and plucking something from the bushes behind him. “Well, will you look at that. Just like us!”

The flower she quickly placed in his hand - before it could char in her grip - was strangely familiar. The centre of the blossom was a large pale yellow petal that curved in an almost egg-like shape, with a hole like an open hood in the middle. At one end of the oval, there were three dark burgundy petals, one rounded and curled, but the other two were thin and twisting, curled out to the sides-

“Just like our horns.” She repeated, quieter this time, her eyes fixed on the delicate bloom. “Well, you’re already decorated with leaves, why not add that one too?” 

“An infernal flower for a cursed fiend?” He contemplated it, hesitating until she corrected him.

“Enough of that. You know already, don’t you - it’s not what we look like that makes us who we are. Besides, it’s pretty, right? So it suits you.” Karlach patted him on the shoulder, standing up to leave again. “I’ll leave you to it, but you know they’d love to see you. Out there. Where the actual party is.” “I’ll…” He paused, looking at the flower once more before tucking the stem into his hair at the base of his horn. “I’ll think about it. Thank you, Karlach.” 

“Don’t mention it, soldier!” She beamed, smile brighter than the moon, tail swishing behind her with a spring in her step as she left him to his thoughts for a while.

He didn’t have long to himself before another voice cut through the bubble of quiet by the water. “So this is where you’ve been? And you took the good wine, I see.” Wyll turned to see Shadowheart approaching, empty chalice in hand and a wry smile. “Mind sharing a drop?” 

“I’m sure they have a better vintage back there.” He said, even as he was picking up the bottle to top up her goblet as well as his own. 

“Maybe.” She replied, already taking a seat beside him. “But then you’d be out here on your own, wouldn’t you?” 

“You don’t need to be here on my account.” He countered, watching her expression for any clue as to what she was really thinking. The cleric kept everything close to her chest, so it was hard to tell what she really wanted.

“You don’t need to be so suspicious - Karlach mentioned you might be getting some headaches from your…situation.” She gestured to his horns, pulling a couple of herbs from her pack. “The wine certainly won’t help with that, not by morning anyway. So take these, and make them into a tea. Consider the drink as payment, if you must.” A wry smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. “Oh, cheer up, Wyll. They’re celebrating all of us, you know.” 

“I feel more like a decoration than a guest right now.” He gestured to the new adornments to his outfit.

“So you do.” She smiled, reaching back into a pouch at her side and drawing out a stem of large violet flowers. “Do not touch this one with your bare hands, and definitely don’t get it near your food.” 

“You’re giving me poison?” Wyll leaned back involuntarily as her gloved hand came closer with the plant. 

“It’s not poison if you treat it with care.” She took a little of the vine that was around his right horn and wrapped it gently around the blossoms, being cautious to secure the stem without damaging them. “Call it…a reminder. That even though something might be dangerous, it can also be quite beautiful.” She wiped her glove carefully with a clean cloth, rinsing with a little water from her flask. 

“Are you still talking about the flowers?” He took a sip of his wine as he watched her stand. 

“Maybe,” she smirked. “Hold still.” She laid her bare hand on his forehead for a moment, a wave of cooling and soothing magic washing through him, the dull throb at the base of his horns melting away, and even a few lingering bruises from the day’s battles healing in an instant.

“You didn’t have to do that.” Wyll looked up at her, trying to find the right words for gratitude but falling somewhat short.

“No, I didn’t. But I wanted to.” Shadowheart began to walk away without leaving a chance for him to reply, though she did call back over her shoulder. “Thanks for the wine, Wyll. Perhaps next time we can share more time with it as well.” 

—

The next voice to disturb the peace carried a familiar lyrical quality. “Wyll, darling, why are you out here all by your lonesome? No dance partner catch your eye for the evening?” 

He looked up to see the owner of the voice sauntering over, carrying with him half a bottle of wine and a few white flowers. “Not you as well - is this entire camp determined to turn me into a bouquet?” 

“And what would be wrong with that?” Astarion grinned, a hint of sharp fangs glinting in the moonlight. “Have you forgotten the old tradition of fair maidens giving flowers to their gallant knights on the eve of battle?” 

“You’re not a maiden, it’s not the eve of battle - it’s the night after it - and I’m hardly a knight.” Wyll argued, though he made no move to get up or leave as the pale elf began to place the blossoms at different points on his outfit.

“Oh, details, details. Does it matter? They suit you.” Astarion took a couple more moments to check the positions of the flowers, before standing back with a satisfied nod to himself. “And you, my dear warlock, have plenty of the qualities of a knight. Heroic, chivalrous, and that dreadful habit of being all too ready to throw yourself onto the sword to save someone else’s sorry hide.”

“We all have a duty to protect those who are weaker than us, to stand up for what’s right.” Wyll sat up a little straighter, feeling the slight swell of an older pride stirring in his chest. “You would do well to remember that, yourself, sometimes.” 

“Perish the thought - no, I’ll leave the good deeds to you, darling. The whole shining armour thing never suited me anyway. Clashes terribly with my complexion.” He ran his fingers through his hair for a moment for emphasis on the last part, smoothing it to just the way he preferred his waves to fall. “It suits you, though. Better than that stern look, at least.” 

“It’s never too late to change, Astarion.” The warlock tried to appeal to the vampire’s better nature - if he had one. The man didn’t seem entirely evil, but he was harder to read than Shadowheart.

“That wine really is going to your head isn’t it~” Astarion laughed, brushing off the comment and turning to leave once more. “Do remember to have a little fun sometime, Wyll. Happiness isn’t deadly, you know.” 

Wyll leaned back, taking a moment to look up at the stars. He wasn’t unhappy, not entirely. But if even Astarion was trying to cheer him up then maybe he should at least make more of an effort.

The sounds of the party grew louder again, the bard starting a new bawdy tune, with the crowd clapping along. 

Later. An effort can be made later, when it is a bit calmer. He reasoned to himself. Plenty of night left. 

—

Dammon’s footsteps were so soft that Wyll barely noticed the Tiefling approach until he was standing right next to him. “Do you know what they mean?”  The blacksmith asked quietly, gesturing above. “The stars, that is.” 

“I have no idea,” Wyll laughed, the warmth of the wine making the corners of his mind just a little fuzzy around the edges now. “Do you?”

“They’re beautiful, I know that much.” Dammon turned to look down towards him, the sparkle and warmth in his expression not so dissimilar to the twinkling of the constellations above. “We can give them our own meanings, though, can’t we?”

“Then what meaning do you see up there, out in the dark?” He couldn’t help the curiosity, and the blacksmith’s presence alone felt somehow calming.

“Freedom.” Dammon replied simply, a hint of something deeper behind bright eyes. “To be out here, looking up at the stars - it means we’re still alive. And that we’re no longer trapped in Avernus.”

“We’ll get you all to the city, somehow.” Wyll felt the need to reassure him, noticing the edge of fear between calm words. 

“We should be able to make it most of the way.” A new voice joined them, as Zevlor strode into view. “So this is where the man of the hour had disappeared?” 

“It is quieter here, at least.” Dammon reached into the pocket of his apron, pulling out some small pinkish red flowers, similar to daisies but with a deep orange centre of pollen, the petals curling back a little. “These make a nice addition, if you don’t mind?” 

“Please, go ahead.” Wyll shrugged, accepting his fate to become a walking bouquet, but not averse to the gentle nature of the Tiefling threading them into the back of his locs with care.

“A fitting choice,” Zevlor hummed, nodding his approval.

“Our Blade needs to remember that the same sword that cuts flesh can also slice a cake.” Dammon stood back, looking to be in deeper thought for a moment. “I hope someday that’s all you’ll need it for, and that I can go back to making tools and decorations, rather than instruments of war.” 

“Your steel has been a great help to all of us.” The old warrior patted his shoulder kindly. “Go and check on the young ones, won’t you? They’ve been giggling to themselves a little too much for comfort. I need to rest my old bones a while, and that looks like as good a place as any.” 

“I’m not sure I can keep that lot out of trouble, but maybe I can distract them for a minute or three.” Dammon gave Wyll a short bow, his tail raising behind him as part of the gesture. “Take care of yourself, my friend. I hope we meet again soon.” 

“You, too.” Wyll replied, a little lost for words for a moment as he considered how easily, and sincerely, Dammon had called him friend. 

“Good fortune is hard to come by, but serendipity found us with both of you.” Zevlor mused, watching the blacksmith leave before taking a seat next to Wyll.

“Serendipity? It feels more like one long nightmare to me.”

“I know nightmares. Mine are filled with my mistakes…” The old warrior softened, the edge of pain carefully hidden again behind a kind sincerity. “You are no mistake, Wyll, nor are you a nightmare. Only a knight, and a fine one at that.” 

“That might depend on who you ask.” He felt the old conflict in the shadows of his mind - the wish to live up to an impossible standard, and the fear that he had already lost that chance.

“We’re the only two on this log - and of the two of us, you’re far more worthy of the title.” Zevlor laid a hand on his back for a moment, careful to avoid the vines and flowers, a gesture akin to a proud parent. “You will find your way, in time. Ah, and of course there is this.”

“Not you as well…” Wyll sighed with half a smile as the paladin pulled out a single beautiful violet flower. Three larger petals on the outside - with dark veins, a white band, and a yellow centre - surrounded narrower violet and white striped petals in the centre.

“I’m afraid so. If you’ll allow an old man to be nostalgic for just a moment, I’ve always been fond of these.” The tiefling fixed the stem to Wyll’s shirt over his heart with a small pin. “They suit you perfectly.”

“You make it too hard to argue.” He looked down at the new addition to his outfit, a question tugging at the back of his mind. “Do they mean something to you?” 

“A simple flower can mean a lot.” Zevlor smiled, a far off look returning to his eyes again. “But I think perhaps you should make them mean something to you.” Wyll touched the edge of the petal with a careful thumb, thinking over for a while what a blossom might mean beyond just something pretty to look at. 

The two sat quietly for a while together, sharing a bit more of the wine and enjoying the sounds of their friends having a much louder gathering in the centre of camp. The laughter, cheers, and even the sounds of pointless arguments between friends who didn’t mean a word of insults thrown with drunken vigour - it was a comfort just to be near. “It has been a pleasure, Wyll. I should go and make sure that everyone stays in one piece until morning at least. Should our paths cross again, I would consider us to be more than fortunate.” Zevlor groaned quietly as he stood up with a stretch. “Perhaps it would be even more fortunate should we meet again somewhere with comfortable seats.” 

“I’d settle for a rickety bed at this point.” Wyll complained with a smile.

—

It was a little longer before the next visitor arrived to Wyll’s little corner of serenity. “Lae’zel? I didn’t expect you to drop by” 

“Tchk. Expectation would mean being predictable. A swift way to earn defeat.” She admonished him for his words, but not unkindly. A hint of playfulness flickered across her eyes. “I hear we are to pay tribute. With these.” 

“Is everyone in on this?” He raised an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly as if trying to work out who had come up with this devious plot. Not that he was going to complain; it felt rare for the Gith before him to make such a gesture, and he had no intention of insulting someone who wielded a sword that large without breaking a sweat. 

“Perhaps. I was intrigued. Is this a usual custom?” Lae’zel came closer, carrying several long stems with a ball of tiny blossoms at the top of each. The smell of onions was strong which he quickly realised were from the flowers themselves.

“These are…unusual?” He stayed still as she threaded them through the vines on his shoulder, like a decorative pauldron of petals. 

“And what exactly is usual?” She hissed, though without any malice in her meaning. “Should we not be celebrating? There is strength in knowing what you’ve won…and enjoying it.”

Wyll shifted slightly as he caught her eye and the hint in her words, a little unsure of what to do with it. “Hard to join the party when I look like this. Like a monster.” 

Lae’zel laughed, her face breaking into a genuine and wide smile of amusement. “This? These horns, a few scars and ridges? Your horns are weapons, should you need them, and scars proof you are alive. That’s no bother to me, no more so than the fleshy noses and small ears of your kin.” She peered closely at his face for a moment, a little too closely. “As long as there are no ghaik tentacles, you are just fine.” 

“Well, that’s…reassuring?” The smell of the flowers was clearer now they were so close, but he found himself not minding the unusual scent. It was interesting to learn more about what his companions liked, and to a degree how they saw him.

“They suit you.” She stepped back, nodding firmly with her choice. “Come and find me later, if you want to share a fresh bottle.” She indicated the empty wine by his feet, long since emptied with Zevlor’s help.

“I’ll keep it in mind.” He gave an appreciative nod as she turned and walked back to the main celebration, seemingly satisfied with the brief conversation.

—

“Would you like to see a magic trick?” Gale’s smile was wide as the great Wizard of Waterdeep stood in front of Wyll dramatically, cheeks a little flush from the evening’s events.

“Don’t tell me - there’s something up your sleeve? Behind my ear?” He teased, already checking behind his head just in case.

Gale rolled up his sleeves with more performative flair, demonstrating there was nothing there. “Not at all, my dear warlock! That would be far too derivative and predictable, so no, far be it from me to bore you with those old parlour tricks.” 

“You do remember I know magic as well, don’t you?” Wyll smiled, still wondering where this was going, but entertained nonetheless.  

“Well, yes. But do you know…THIS!” Gale’s hands moved in the quick gestures of prestidigitation that Wyll knew well, the faint hum of an old melody singing through the Weave around them as the Wizard looked perplexed. “No, wait, that’s not right…it was…THIS!” A rather crude symbol appeared on Gale’s own forehead this time.

He stifled a laugh, as best as he could. “Are you sure that’s what you-”

“No, no… No idea what that just did, but I’ve got it this time!” The third casting produced a shimmering blossom in the Wizard’s fingers, the illusion sparking around the edges with the frayed Weave pulled into shape by his drunken spell. “There. This will do just perfectly.” 

The rich pink petals were soft and layered on each bud, open and closely packed around the stem. Wyll took it and fixed it to one of the few remaining spaces on his outfit carefully, hoping the magic might stabilise a little more. “But this one is an illusion, it’ll only last an hour, won’t it?” 

“Well, that’s the beauty of all flowers, is it not? Are they any less beautiful just because you know they’ll be gone in a few days? Are the petals less bright because they’ll wilt?” He wasn’t sure if Gale was still talking just about the plant any more, as his smile slipped for just a moment into a far off look. “Personally, I think they’re more special because we only have them for such a short time. We treasure them whilst they’re there, make the most of every moment we have to admire their beauty, burning them into our memory where they can never truly wilt.”

“I must admit, I’ve never thought of it like that.” He found himself a little lost for words, fingers lingering on the edge of soft petals.

“Well, it would also be a shame for them to be all gone before the night is over, so I did bring some real ones too.” The spectral form of Mage Hand floated out from where it had been hidden behind the wizard, carrying three more of the same flowers in a small bouquet of pale pink, rich magenta, and a vivid violet. 

“You are full of surprises, Gale of Waterdeep.” Wyll couldn’t quite hide the genuine astonishment at the gesture. 

“I told you so.” The wizard winked. “I dare say there’s plenty to all of us that we don’t yet know - some more than others, of course - but that’s where the fun is. Although, it really is more fun out there, with all of our companions and their secrets. Who knows what Shadowheart might let slip if we give her just a bit more wine!” 

“Soon.” Wyll nodded. “I just need a little more time, if that’s alright.” 

“I shan’t force you.” Gale smiled, leaning down a moment to straighten the magical flower, the magic symbol still on his forehead. Wyll contemplated telling him, knowing the spell would last an hour if not erased, but truthfully he didn’t want to ruin the moment. “Thank you for allowing a humble wizard to entertain you for a while, at least.”

It was hard not to laugh again at the bow and flourish that followed his parting words, but perhaps it was intentional after all? Well, he thought, someone’s going to tell him soon enough. 

—

Sure enough, the laughter from the camp - and the indignant cry of mock-injured pride that - followed it carried clearly on the night air.

“You could have told him.” Halsin chided gently, sitting comfortably on the log beside Wyll.

“And deprive everyone of the fun?” He replied, a hint of a mischievous smile playing on his lips. 

“You sound brighter than you did earlier - and you look it, too.” Halsin gestured to the array of flowers adorning Wyll’s body and outfit. 

The look brought forth a question, one that had been playing on the back of his mind for a while now. “Did you put them up to this, Halsin? Turning me into a walking bouquet?” 

“Don’t you think I am a bit old for pulling pranks?” The druid smiled warmly, his deep voice just as welcoming and soft.

Wyll nudged the large elf gently with his elbow. “You’re only as old as you feel, or so they say.” 

A low laugh bubbled up with the response, still neatly evading the question. “In that case, I must be older than the Oakfather himself!” 

“He’s preserved you well.” The wine brought the words forth without much more thought beyond how the moon lit the druid’s admittedly handsome face. “Sorry, what I meant to ask was why? Why has everyone been so insistent on giving me flowers?”

“The children started it, I believe, when they decided to cheer you up with some games. They remember you looking out for them in the Grove, standing up for them, telling them all sorts of stories in the short time you were there.” Halsin began. “Did you know that ivy is known to represent loyalty? One of your many strengths. A fine choice.” 

“Plants have meanings now?” Wyll looked across the array of leaves and petals again, already wondering what they might be. 

“They do, and they always have.” The druid pointed to the first, the one Karlach had plucked from nearby. “This one here, Cypripedium, the Lady’s Slipper Orchid. It means protection against curses, hexes, and malevolent spells.”

“Isn’t that ironic? That something that looks so devilish is meant to be protective against them?” Even the petals looked like the curling horns of an infernal beast…

“Are your horns, or Karlach’s, or even Zevlor’s, are any of them a mark of true evil? There is more to nature than what is on the surface.” Halsin reminded him of how Karlach had spoken, how there really was no match between her hellish traits and the boundless positivity and kindness that radiated even brighter than her mechanical heart.

“Then what of this one? Shadowheart told me it carries deadly poison, hiding behind the pretty appearance.” Wyll was careful not to touch the flower that the cleric had carefully bestowed on him, just in case.

“Fitting for her, isn’t it? Look at the layers. A beautiful flower, hiding deadly poison, almost the opposite of your devil horned orchid. Aconitum Napellus, monkshood. To some it might mean misanthropy or treachery-”

“That’s hardly a comforting thought.” A slight shiver chilled his spine, fears yet to ease until Halsin continued. 

“But to others, it represents chivalry and knights who stand against those principles.”

“I wonder which she will turn out to be…” Wyll wondered aloud.

“No doubt your influence may be of help there.” Halsin patted his shoulder gently, cautious to avoid the various carefully woven plants. “Similar to Astarion, perhaps - those ones were his, were they not?” 

The warlock looked to the delicate white flowers, placed carefully and deliberately to balance the aesthetic like a florist arranging a bouquet. Quite unlike how some of the others had simply found a space to add their own offerings. “They remind me of stars.” 

“As well they should, they’re often called the starflower. Ornithogalum umbellatum, they represent trauma, mourning, but more importantly welcoming pain without repressing it.” Halsin’s voice grew quiet for a moment, dropping to almost a whisper. “I cannot tell you if they are more for you or for himself, but it wouldn’t harm you to work through everything that troubles you, unlike the man who hides it all behind an easy smile.”

“That’s not a very comforting thought.” Wyll felt a pang of that pain sting at his heart like a thorn. There was a lot he still needed to mourn, and that was no secret. And they had all witnessed… He wasn’t quite ready to think about that just yet. “Please tell me that at least Dammon’s isn’t so depressing?”

“The starflower is still beautiful despite the pain, and perhaps it is more symbolic that Astarion trusted you with something so personal…but the blacksmith’s gift was far more positive, much like the giver.” The druid’s voice grew a note more hopeful again, along with his words. “Echinacea, the coneflower. It represents a spiritual warrior and a shield, and the blossom is also well renowned for its healing properties. It represents protection as much as strength.” 

“Almost like he gave me a shield…”

“Your well-being is important to your friends, Wyll, you would do well to keep that in mind before you make any risky decisions.” Halsin seemed to be looking right through his eye in that moment, past the flame-tinted iris, and speaking directly to his heart. “Zevlor, too, his gift is one of protection. The Iris may have a simple name, but the meaning is layered. There are some who see it only as hope, valour and victory, but it may also represent pain, wisdom, and protection from evil spirits.” 

“A gift as complex as the one who gave it,” Wyll smiled. “I can think of none better from a paladin of his experience.”

“And I am certain he would be grateful you called it experience instead of age.” The druid smiled and pointed to the next flowers, the faint smell still clear in the night air. “Lae’zel chose an interesting one for you, Allium, the same plant as the onion in your stew.” 

“That explains the aroma.” He had to admit it was surprising for a beautiful flower to have such a strange scent, but it was beginning to grow on him as the night wore on. 

“The interpretation is fitting too. Mostly referred to as simply strength, those little blossoms are also nature’s way of saying you’re elegant, you’re perfect. You do not have to be a rose to be admired by those who appreciate you.”

“That is…surprising.” Wyll considered the words, wondering if she knew all of those meanings when the gift was presented.

“I should say that your companion is more surprising than you give her credit for, too.” Halsin winked, the meaning behind it completely lost on the warlock who was already looking at the next flowers. The last ones to be given, one magical, and three more entirely natural. “Gale already talked more about these a little, though I couldn’t tell you if that was anything accurate or just the wine making its what into his thoughts.” 

“Those come from the same family as the humble cabbage.” Halsin began, already hinting a little of his own interpretation in the origin. “Matthiola incana, to give it the proper name, quite simply represents lasting beauty. His way of saying you'll always be beautiful to me.” 

Wyll felt the blush rise to his cheeks, each and every person who had visited him had given him something quite wonderful and filled with meaning. Whether they knew it or not, they had covered him head to toe in affirmation, validation, and a warm feeling of acceptance that threatened to sting at his eye with tears…he could probably blame that one on the onion, at least.

“There is one more.” Halsin held out his palm, a small seed growing in his hand and rising to a tall stem with a cone of tiny pink flowers. “Epilobium angustifolium, fireweed. I think this one most fitting for you. Bravery and humanity, Wyll, qualities that you embody entirely.” The druid fixed the flower front and centre, before standing up and offering a hand. 

“I’m not sure…” Wyll hesitated still. The party was still loud, and he felt almost a fool to walk in there as a living bouquet. Reluctantly he stood, careful not to let a single petal fall to the ground.

“Just for one song?” Halsin offered hopefully. “Although you may find yourself hard pressed to leave after one alone… You will not find yourself lacking in dance partners.”

Karlach's Flower - Cypridedium, the Lady’s Slipper Orchid.

Shadowheart's Flower - Aconitum Napellus, Monkshood

Astarion's Flower - Ornithogalum umbellatum, Starflower

Dammon's Flower - Echinacea, Coneflower

Zevlor's Flower - Iris, Iris

Lae'zel's Flower - Allium, Onion

Gale's Flower - Matthiola Incana, Cabbage

Halsin's Flower - Epilobium angustifolium, Fireweed