Archive of Our Own ^beta

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The dark clouds have been gathering for hours. The heavy atmosphere makes his scars itch. His clothes, made for the gentle streets of the Upper City, are useless against the cold winds.

Wyll has never been more alone.

He huddles in the cave he found when the weather started turning. This isn't enough to kill him. He has years of lessons in survival and combat behind him, even if joining the Flaming Fists is now impossible.

But he can still survive. He can still be just and protect the weak.

And maybe one day, he’ll make his father proud again.

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‘Don't play by the docks.’

Usually Wyll is good at following orders. He hates his father's disappointment more than anything.

The ship's remains are too enticing, though. He jumps on the rotting timber after the fishermen's children, joining their search for treasure.

His foot slips on the mossy surface and he careens to the water. The surprise makes the air explode out of his lungs and the water burns its way down his throat.

Before he can panic, strong arms close around his middle, pulling him up.

"I've got you, son.”

Even after he starts sobbing, Ulder doesn't let go.

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The real enemy in Avernus aren’t the demons or the treacherous terrain.

No, it’s the lack of supplies that kills you.

Wyll’s heart pounds. His tongue feels swollen, sticking to the roof of his mouth.

“Here,” Karlach hands over her canteen. Water sloshes inside, but it’s still worryingly light in his hand.

“Karlach, I can’t—”

“Don’t be an idiot. I’m a tiefling and I’m used to this place. If you dare die on me after everything, I’ll never forgive you.”

Wyll yields, drinking slowly. The dizzy spell recedes.

Karlach claps his shoulder.

“Hang in there, soldier. We won’t die today.”

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A panicked child leads him to the mine, where the townspeople are struggling against the boulders blocking the entrance.

One by one, they stop to stare as he approaches. Their gazes linger on his scars and missing eye.

His borrowed power builds on his fingertips. It takes all his concentration to leash most of its destructive nature so it’ll save lives instead of taking them.

The trapped miners spill out of the open path, soon joining the cheers.

“It's the Blade of Frontiers!”

“The Blade saved us!”

Mizora’s magic nests near his heart.

The grateful voices never stop sounding hollow.

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“You’re the most foolish man I’ve ever met,” Astarion chides.

Wyll groans. He’d make a witty retort, but he’s too busy feeling his guts trying to burst out of his belly.

“Don’t listen to him,” Karlach says, cleaning the sweat off his brow. “He wouldn’t have outdrunk Thisobald and he knows it.”

“I would’ve known better than to poison myself—”

“Though you should have let me do it, Wyll.”

“...were injured,” Wyll manages, lifting a hand to the barely healed wound on Karlach’s side.

She sighs. “Foolish man.”

Their words are belied by their caring touches.

Wyll drifts to sleep.

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The blood pouring from his leg coats the forest floor, catching the light of the fading sun.

Wyll has no healing potions. He’s too far away from the village to drag himself to safety, and they were so terrified of the werewolf that no one’ll come looking for him until the morning.

He doesn’t have that long.

He takes his backup dagger from its sheath with trembling hands and breathes out the spell, almost like a prayer.

“Ignis.”

The blade becomes molten-red. His scream echoes on the desolate forest when he presses it to the wound.

He’s won't die here.

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'Why did you betray me?’

The barbarian falls behind, pleading with an imaginary enemy.

Were you so quickly corrupted by power?’

The sorcerer grabs his hair, sparks of wild magic surrounding him.

'What did I do to deserve such a son?’

The curse’s anchor emits a sick purple light as its illusory puppets continue the psychic assault. The paladin freezes near the altar, a woman’s voice echoing around her.

Wyll pushes onwards. The specter of his father's disappointment heckles him every step of the way.

He grabs the anchor and the illusions break.

The heavy feeling in his heart remains.

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The owlbear struck with one mighty claw, rawr!

The owlbear is enraged. He tramples towards Wyll, uprooting trees from the base.

The hero nimbly evaded it and raised his sword, wooosh!

He fails to dodge and blood blooms under his torn armour.

He fought the owlbear with an iron will, bam!

Wyll tumbles down a slope. Only a fool would fight an owlbear head on.

Wouldn’t you be afraid, son?

He crawls into a small cave and waits, upending a healing potion over his shoulder.

Why? You’ll be there to help me, won’t you Father?

Reality is bitterer than dreams.

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The rain pours heavily outside the inn.

It’s been an unusually dry summer, and there’s a sense of relief spreading among the village — if this rain lasts long enough, the crops can still recover and winter will be easier to survive.

Wyll presses a hot compress to his eyes, breathing heavily. There’s a tray of food slowly cooling by the door, brought by an apologetic maid hours ago, but he doesn’t have the will to get up from bed while all his old wounds are screaming.

This pain is part of the Blade of Frontiers. He can endure this too.

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“Come here,” Shadowheart orders.

Her annoyance isn’t unwarranted; the wound was preventable. Between the tadpole in his brain and the way his body has warped, however, he’s clumsier than usual.

Wyll has benefited from healing spells more times than he can count, so he’s not expecting it to burn.

The magic tries to dispel the fiendish stench clinging to his soul; but this is his nature now. It only makes his blood boil even as the wound knits itself together.

“Everything alright?” Shadowheart frowns.

Wyll looks at Karlach across the campfire. She doesn’t deserve to shoulder more regrets.

“Of course.”