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“Even the soil in this place is shit. Can't grow a thing, I mean, would it kill Zariel to get a gardener?”
Wyll cracks a smile as he wipes his rapier clean of sickly black ichor; the remains of some poor lemure from earlier that morning.
“I think she likes the fire and brimstone look too much to hire one.”
Karlach's laugh is light, but he can hear a tinge of bitterness in it. “Right. Can't go ruining the picture-perfect wasteland with a few flowers.”
A beat.
Wyll slides his sword back into its sheath at his side and sighs. “Karlach.”
She is standing only a meter or so away, and yet she doesn't turn back to look at him. In fact, she makes a show of gazing intently at their path ahead. Like there's anything to see there that they haven't already. The idle tail swishing, churning up a plume of red dust, gives her away though. She's definitely heard him and she knows full well what he's about to say.
“You could always use some quartz, or obsidian. We passed a beautiful bunch of — ”
“Rocks would make a shit bouquet Wyll.”
They've been over this. Many times. Ever since the topic of marriage first came up.
“Weapons, then? We've got plenty of spare axes.”
At that, she finally turns around, golden eyes alight with both fondness and exasperation. Wyll can only laugh. She rolls her eyes and charges forward and steals him into a hug, clashing their horns together with enough force that it makes his head spin.
He takes it in stride though. More than that, he embraces her back with reverence and reckless abandon. Her joy has always been infectious, and there has been so much of it to go around lately. So much more than Wyll could have ever dared to hope for.
“You're ridiculous, you know that?” she says. She pulls back ever so slightly so she can press a featherlight kiss to his forehead.
“So I've been told,” he replies, lifting his hands to cup her face with grace, like she is as fragile as glass. She isn't, of course. She is as battle hardened as the jagged stone of Avernus and sharper than the greatest battle axe ever forged. But the sharper the blade the more delicate the touch as they say.
He presses his lips to her jaw and can feel the vibrations of her laughter course through his skin.
It feels like a dream, having her in his arms after all they’ve been through. With how close they came to not having her here at all.
In the months they’ve spent in Avernus it goes without saying that they have grown impossibly close. Without the threat of Mindflayer tadpoles, Karlach’s infernal engine, and his father’s kidnapping they have been…freer. Ridiculous as it may be to feel free when trapped in the Hells of all places he still feels eternally grateful
They had shared moments together on the road in the Sword Coast before — a dance, a near kiss by the fire, an embrace— but Wyll had never dared think further than that. Too much on both of their plates. Doubly so after he gave up his soul for the second time. But months have passed since they saved Baldur’s Gate and things have changed.
For the better, he thinks as he pulls away and takes in the tiefling's toothy grin. Much better.
“I’ve never been to a wedding you know,” Karlach comments while they walk. “My mum and dad told me about theirs a couple times, a shabby little celebration at the Blushing Mermaid with their friends and a drunk cleric they paid a couple silver to make everything official. Got mum’s dress off a tailor who owed them a favor and dad spent three months saving up for a vest from the Facemaker’s Boutique. Shame none of my mates got hitched before I got stuck here. ‘Should’ve told them to hurry up.”
Wyll hums. He’s seen plenty of weddings in his time, despite being forced away from home at such a young age.
Marriages were common and often arranged among the nobility of the Gate when you were born into it, for the consolidation of power and assurance of ties between families. And even when they were for love weddings were always a grand affair. Hundreds of gifts and blessings, the throne room decorated with drapes of silken fabric, and grandiose ballroom dances. Wyll had always enjoyed them. Especially the dancing. They always felt like a fairytale. Like being swept into another world, even just for an evening.
Here in Avernus though he imagines weddings aren’t much of a thing. Or if they are they’re filled with screaming souls and hellfire.
Until now.
“We’ll have to make it up as we go then,” he says, and takes her hand in his own as they continue their trek.
They are nearly at the top of the mountain now.
They’ve been traveling for days, as Karlach has been quite insistent that this would be the ideal wedding venue. It’s not the tallest in Avernus— those gigantic mountains are too close to the monument to Tiamat for comfort, and a ways away— but it is a damn long hike. And a damn good view, if Karlach is to be believed.
Initially, Wyll had suggested the River Styx. River weddings are always timeless, he’d said, even if the ones in Avernus were far bloodier than those in the material planes. A wedding forged in blood could even be quite romantic.
But Karlach had convinced him this would be better. Less filled with demons to interrupt the ceremony as well, which was a plus. Well, aside form that lemure.
“Think we could send word to Shadowheart and get her here to officiate?” he says.
“Ha! Think she would?”
“Oh definitely. The lack of a moon may be a problem but I’m sure Selune would give us her blessing, even from here.”
There’s a pause as Karlach helps him up a particularly tricky bit of rock.
After a moment she says: “...Wish everyone could be here.” Her voice is quiet, like she’s admitting a secret. “Wonder what they’re up to.”
“I miss them too.” He nods, “but I’m sure they’re well. They can handle themselves. We can celebrate with them once we’re rid of this place.”
She says nothing in reply. Only squeezes his hand.
The night Karlach proposed to him (though he wished he’d gotten the chance to do it first, if only to have seen the delight on her face) had been the night they slayed that cambion. The night they found those infernal engine blue-prints. She had been so filled with hope, with wonder at the idea that her engine could be fixed, that the fiends blood on her axe had barely had time to dry before she asked Wyll to marry her.
They’d talked about waiting until after they found a blacksmith, so they could have their wedding in Faerun, but that had seemed too long of a wait for the both of them. And even with the glimmering hope of a future together, that hope wasn’t guaranteed.
So they’d decided eloping here in the Hells was the next best decision. No matter what lay in store for them, they'd be sure to have their wedding.
“Almost there,” Karlach grunts as she staggers up the final stretch of dusty earth.
Wyll clambers over one last boulder, trailing slightly behind her, and is met with a sight that, for the briefest of moments, takes his breath away.
Beneath the two of them stretches the vast, endless wasteland of Avernus. Volcanic red rocks mix with beige dust ridden fields and huge crystalline formations tall as castles, sparkling in the far distance. The River Styx is visible from here. It’s a ruby gash cutting the whole of the realm in half as if it has been slashed through with a dagger. The sky is just as bloody, swirling with clouds of ash and raining fireballs down upon the landscape indiscriminately, wreaking havoc on wherever they happen to land. They are the closest thing to stars in this place. It is a testament to the horror of the Hells, and yet…
“It’s beautiful.”
“Told you the view was good, soldier.” Karlach is beaming at him with just a hint of smugness. It still never fails to send his heart racing.
Gods she is radiant. Sweat gleams on her fiery red skin but it sizzles away into the air the moment a drop stays too close to the vents on her shoulders. Her hair is windswept, utterly wild and covered with dust just like everything else in this forsaken place, but it frames her face like she’s been ripped straight from a painting, framed by the crimson light of the burning sky. His chest feels tight and it takes a great deal of effort to stop himself from getting teary eyed.
Despite his efforts, something must show on his face because her expression softens quite suddenly.
“Wyll…”
“I’m ready,” he says, “whenever you are, that is.”
“Right, right.” she chuckles, and takes a deep breath. Delicately, she takes both his hands in her own. She runs her calloused thumbs over his knuckles.
“I wish we could do this properly,” she begins. Wyll frowns, and goes to interrupt her, to quell her worries and assure her that this is proper (in its own way) but she stops him with a shake of her head and a smile. “Don’t give me that. I know how much you wish we could too. You love all the formalities and fancy shit. I wish we could have a proper wedding. With a bouquet, and music, and enough ale to kill an orthon.”
“But,” she continues, “I’d throw all that away a hundred times if it means I get to marry you now.” Her voice breaks as she speaks, and her lip trembles ever so slightly. But her smile is wide and her gaze is soft, and so Wyll does nothing except wait for her to continue.
“I love you, you know. I hope you know. I’ll say it as many times as I’ve got to to get it through your skull. I love you Wyll. Have for longer than I think I’ve realized. Knowing I get to be here with you makes those ten damned years of loneliness feel like nothing. Like— like it was worth it, now that I know that you were waiting for me. So, if you’ll have me, and I hope you will, I’d like nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with you.”
She is crying in earnest now, tears streaking down her face.
He must be too, judging by how blurry his vision is, but he’s too preoccupied to care. Instead, he lifts one hand away from her grasp and wipes the tears from her cheek.
“Karlach,” he starts, voice shockingly steady for how fragile he feels, “I have spent my life in pursuit of devils. Vanquishing them without a second thought nor an ounce of remorse. I was a fool to be so careless. To think that I would have felled you without so much as a single shed tear. I would have lost the greatest gift I have ever known and been none the wiser.”
“I love you, Karlach. More than words can express. And rest assured, I always will. Because while I sadly cannot give you my soul —” a hurriedly contained laugh, “—you have me. All of me. For as long as I live, and for an eternity thereafter. To marry you is more than I ever could have dreamed and more than I ever can deserve. So, for as long as you will have me, I am yours. Always.”
With a sniffle, Karlach nods.
He can feel her trembling as she reaches into her back pocket and pulls out two roughly forged iron rings. They are simple things. Full of bumps and barely smooth enough to wear comfortably without cutting into skin. But they are the most beautiful pieces of jewelry Wyll has ever laid eyes on.
Karlach made them herself, forged from the heat of her engine and a couple of iron rods ripped from a devil’s armor.
“D’you wanna say it or should I?” she asks, handing him one of the rings.
“Hmm. Why not both of us?”
“Well then,” she takes her ring and gently slides it onto his left ring finger, “do you, Wyll Ravenguard take me, Karlach Cliffgate, to be your wife?”
Wyll can’t help but laugh. It’s a wet, tearful thing, bursting with barely contained joy. “I do.”
“Do you, Karlach cliffgate,” he says, once he’s composed himself, as he takes her hand and slips the ring onto her ring finger, “take me, Wyll Ravenguard, to be your husband?”
“I do.”
“Then with all the Hells as our witness—” Wyll says, but he does not get the chance to finish.
Karlach pulls him in, one hand pressed into his while the other cups his jaw firmly, guiding his face upwards as she leans in and presses their lips together. Wyll allows his eyes to flutter closed and grips her waist with his free hand.
They both taste of heat. Of sulfur and brimstone. Of salt from freshly shed tears. But the kiss is soft and inviting, sending a wave of warmth through Wyll’s chest down to the tips of his fingers. Like he’s been electrified by her touch alone. At this moment, they are not in Avernus. They might as well not be in any plane at all.
They are in their own world.
Far, far away from the raging destruction of the Hells.
When finally forced to break apart for air, much to Wyll’s disappointment, they are both grinning like idiots. Karlach’s tail is wrapped around his leg and she pulls him in one more time for a rib-crushing embrace. Flames from her engine are flickering a deep azure blue.
He truly is the luckiest man in all of the realms.
He buries his face into the crook of her neck, preparing to speak but she beats him to it.
“What in the Hells—”
When he pulls away, he finds Karlach holding… an envelope? It’s utterly pristine, made of brilliantly white paper that can’t have come from anywhere in Avernus. There’s also a small wax seal on the front, shiny and a green-gold hue. Lastly, there is a small signature at the very bottom, signed: Withers.
Wyll’s eyes go wide and he turns to his wife (how wonderful does that sound) who looks just as shocked. They both rush to tear the envelope open.
The moment they finish reading the letter, a cordial invitation to a group reunion, Karlach lets out a cry of excitement.
“Oh Bone Man you glorious bastard!”
“Looks like you might get your bouquet after all.”
“Better yet, we’ve got a reception!” Karlach plants one last kiss on Wyll’s nose. “ Gods, I hope they have booze.”