Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

This was stupid.

This whole thing was stupid.

Lucius wades through the knee-high murky waters of the swamp, trudging through with more force than when they entered. Astarion, Gale and Wyll flank him, each of them covered in their own fair share of today's bloodshed. Rightly earned bloodshed.

That monster. Twisting everyone's desires. Taking advantage of Mayrina while she's with child.

Ohh, but even worse , how Mayrina raged at them for rescuing her. For daring to interfere with the sick deal she'd struck. Auntie Ethel was to kill her. She was to take advantage of her, pass her a zombie and steal her child. And Mayrina, blinded as she was with grief, was willing to sacrifice that child to be with a fallen lover. An entire child! Unborn, and she had already dared to trifle with its fate! Were children not sacred? Were children not meant to be nurtured and loved and homed by their parents? Was a dead man really worth that of an unborn child?!

Lucius hacks at the reeds and foliage, clearing a path through the swamp. He mutters these grievances angrily under his breath in Elven. It spares Gale’s and Wyll's ears from his lament, and Lucius knows anything Astarion picks up from it won't interest him enough to grief Lucius over. So he simmers. He rages and simmers and kicks at the shit in his way and searches for which bloody way is east.

Folly. Stupid. He didn't even get to tell her that her brothers are dead. That they died looking for her. She doesn't know the collateral. She screamed at them for killing the hag. They didn't have to save her. She didn't care for her child. She's selfish . She condemned her child, her brothers, and has brought her lover into the suffering of undeath.

He hates her. He hates her.

After enough hacking and swearing and making their way further from Ethel’s filthy house, Wyll finally speaks up.

“For what it’s worth, Lucius, we did the right thing,” He says, his voice calm and earnest. Always so full of valiance and chivalry, ever the shining example of what a good man should be. “Not everyone takes kindly to a rescue. I’ve saved many a person who cursed and wished me dead for bringing them from the throes of death. It comes with it, it happens.”

“That’s not — That’s —” Lucius throws his head back and groans. “That’s not it, Wyll! Gods — you think I’m not used to that? I’ve hardly met any kind people out here thus far that aren’t all of you guys. I don’t need thanks or cheers or roses, don’t mistake me. I’m — She — Gods!”

Lucius spits. This place is disgusting. It feels like he’s splashed himself with the swamp water and his mouth feels dirty. Every second spent here further and further enrages him. He can’t stand it here.

“Why can’t you just get over it then?” Astarion chimes. “ You’re the one who decided to go out all this way and save her. You put yourself in your own hell.”

“Man, shut up.”

“No, you shut up. We’re the ones that have to hear you pissing and whining about the entire damn thing! Me especially! And I didn’t even want to do this!”

“But you still did. Shut up.”

“Alright, alright,” Gale pipes up, wading through the water to try and get between Lucius and Astarion. “Now’s not the time to be arguing. We need to focus on getting up and out of here, while still minding our step . We don’t know if we disabled all of the traps.”

“Gale’s right,” Wyll says. “All this reckless hacking can’t be safe. We came in, we did what we set out to, now we can go home. Let’s focus on that.”

“Hear hear!”

Lucius sulks, giving one more final kick to something in the water before squinting out for direction. Be calm and cool. Yeah. Sure. Whatever. Gale pats him on his armored back, and Astarion takes to lurking behind rather than beside him. Better that way, he supposes. Hard to stay mad at Gale. Harder to stay chipper in this environment though.

“We left her with a fucking zombie…” Lucius mutters.

“Good,” Astarion says. “She wanted her husband back so bad, we gave it to her.”

“Those are her own consequences to deal with,” Gale adds. “You gave her the wand, so it’s up to her now to decide what to do next.”

“She’s with child. ” Lucius hisses. “Fuckin’ hell.”

“The witch is dead,” Wyll says. “ That should be your focus.”

“Witch is dead…” Lucius repeats. “Yep. All tied up nice and neatly with a bow and all.”

“Oh for the love of — give it up already!” Astarion snaps. “Are we going to do this the whole fucking way? Really? All the way to camp? This is how you’re going to be?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t expect you to get it!” Lucius barks back at him, whirling to face him. “You don’t give a shit about people! You don’t care what happens to people!”

“And I’m supposed to pretend like you do? Spare me the lecture! I know that look in your eyes, Lucius. You don’t care either. You’re just as crooked as I am.”

“Guys, please —” Gale tries to intervene.

But Lucius is already closing the distance between him and the vampire. “You wanna try that again, Astarion?”

Astarion meets his gaze easily, not giving an inch. “The only “good” that comes out of you, dear cleric, is what was already prewritten for you in a text. You have something to prove. I don’t .”

“Save it!” Wyll shouts. “Come off this! This is stupid and you know it.”

“Don’t act like you know who I am,” Lucius growls, lowering his head to meet him at eye level. “Because I can assure you, you don’t know a damn thing. It’d be wise not to make assumptions.”

Astarion scoffs, lifting his head so he may still look Lucius down his nose. “Right. Assumptions. Well, don’t we know a lot about those —”

A sharp whistle cuts through the air, snapping their attention to the wizard before them with two fingers in his mouth. “Ooh, I still had it in me,” He murmurs before returning his attention properly with a clap of his hands. “Boys! I think we’re all very tired. But worry not! I can see we’re not far off from leaving the swamp. How about this: Once we get back, I’ll start up a big ol’ pot of stew to start slow cooking. I think we still have some meat leftover — I know the perfect way to make it fall off the bone. Delectable! It’ll make you feel right at home, I promise!”

He’s taking a few steps back, trying to urge the others to start following his lead. “We eat, we clear our minds, get some rest, and clarity will follow! Let’s not let a moment of agitation squander our day —”

One step back. Two steps back. Lucius sees it too late.

There’s something in the water.

“Gale — !”

“ Trap! ”

Astarion must have seen it at the same time, given how they both react at once, lurching forward in an attempt to grab the wizard. Gale hasn’t responded properly, too stunned to register the shouts’ meanings. His heel makes contact — Astarion hasn’t gotten to it in time. Gale’s brows shoot up. He realizes now what’s just happened.

It’s lightning quick. Lucius is fastest to the draw. He seizes Gale by the collar of his robe and pulls him close to his body, whirling them as fast as he can so his body faces the blast. He can’t draw his shield out fast enough — the trap detonates, blasting the four of them back into the swamp. White hot pain burns and blisters at Lucius’ side, and he lands gracelessly into the water, partially on top of Gale. He tries to scramble off of him. He can’t see anything. He tastes the salt, the algae, the bitterness, the grime and filth of the water. It’s in his eyes and up his nose. Gale is submerged, he needs to get him out. Astarion is — where’s Astarion? He got too close, where did he — Where’s Wyll ?

There’s a terrible answer to that question. Before they get the chance to recover, another sickening blast sounds off in the direction where Wyll must have fallen. It rocks them — Lucius shields Gale instinctively. His ears ring, he can feel something hot and wet on his forehead that isn’t water. He has to bite down to keep from shouting out as something burns with pain. His torso, to his belly, up his side, to his armpit and shoulder, it burns and aches, it’s damaged against his armor and scrapes with every movement.

He has to move. He has to get up. Damn the pain, damn it all, damn it all —

Lucius grips Gale’s arm and pulls him out of the water with a grunt, dizzy with the strain it takes to get both of them on their feet. He scrunches his eyes tight in several blinks, trying to get the water off to see. The light catches on Astarion’s armor in the water, and Wyll is curled in on himself just an arms reach away. There’s a pang of fear that comes with the sight. Surely they’re not dead. Surely, right? They’re okay, they’re okay, please —

Lucius pushes Gale towards the soil, divinity pouring from his fingertips to wrap a shield around him. “Get out of the water! I don’t think we disarmed this part of the swamp!”

“Evidently!”

He splits from Gale and pushes forth through the murky water, biting down as roaring pain blisters through his body. One hand reaches for Astarion, the other for Wyll, and he does well to hold back the shout from the effort of hoisting the two of them up to their feet.

“Are you okay?” Lucius shouts. They’re alive, they’re getting to their feet. Blood pours from Wyll’s nose freely, and Astarion cringes in pain, fluffy hair now fully flat against his head with water. Worse for wear, but they’re alive. If the blistering pain in his side wasn’t so intense, perhaps he’d feel the relief in his chest wash over him.

“What did I say about traps…” Wyll coughs. Lucius holds his arm out for Wyll to lean on, and he takes it graciously. “Back to back…”

“I’ve had enough of this…” Astarion groans, still clinging to Lucius for balance. “I’m going to bed the second we get back to camp.”

“Okay. Okay, okay. It’s okay. You guys are alive, that’s what matters.”

Lucius holds a hand out, holy power coursing through his body, blessings of Ilmater, and he springs it outward in a blossom. The magic flows into Astarion and Wyll, alleviating them of their wounds for now. It brings him relief to see them stand a little taller with the spell, and he urges them closer to the land. “Come on, come on, Gale’s cleared a way.”

“Tell me we’re never coming back here…” Astarion mutters.

“Ugh. You don’t even have to ask.”

They peel themselves out of the water. Wyll mumbles something about the risk of infection in these waters, and the party hurries to retrieve their healing potions. Recover swift, and make it back home. Lucius goes the extra mile to expend his remaining magic on healing spells for the team, since it won’t be long before they make it back and put an end to this wretched day.

They press forward. Camp won’t be too far from here. He counts the marks he left on the trees to ensure he can navigate his way back; an old code he and his old gang had run with back in the day.

It’s not too far.

Just a little while longer, and Lucius can sleep.

He tries not to drag his feet. Every step brings a shock of agony through his body. Pain shoots up his legs upon impact, tensing his muscles and aggravating the massive site of injury at his torso, worsened by feeling his armor move and grate against him. It makes Lucius want to drop, to shiver and to let out a cry, to stop moving and to put something cold on the site. It hurts, it burns — yet, with all the might and strength that is him and the will of his God, Lucius makes no sound. He wills his face into a strong, smooth mask, unfazed, unshaken. Not a grimace to be seen; just the stalwart cold gaze of a leader. One that his companions need. One that he has taken to with valiance – if one can call it that.

The pain is repentance. It’s his fault it happened. Had he just kept himself in check, he wouldn’t have distracted everyone, and they would have seen the traps. The injury suffered from such a blast is well deserved, and each shock of pain is penance for his folly. He will endure it. This is what is just.

After all, if it wasn’t going to dissipate from the healing spells and potions they’d already taken after the fact, then it means it was simply a pain meant to be.

One foot after another. Don’t wince, don’t make a sound. Chin up, shield out, sword ready. Anything can be in these forests. Look around. Be aware. Blink the tears out of your eyes. Steady your breath. Steady your hands. Bear the burden, let none others see through the cracks. Endure. Endure , Lucius Skorn, and the pain will begin to numb.

Perhaps he’s starting to get used to it the more they walk this path. Perhaps Ilmater has granted him more strength to bear the burden put upon him. Either way, it’s the strength he needs to keep going. Even if it means drowning out all other sounds to focus solely on making it back home.

Hah. Home. As if there’s truly one to go to.

It sounds like the others are exchanging a few words with each other, though nothing Lucius can pick up on. He’s stayed quiet since the explosives went off, and perhaps they’re finally enjoying the peace from him. He’s put them through enough hell today. 

He thinks this, at first, until Wyll’s voice gets closer and into focus.

“Lucius,” Wyll says with the force of someone who’s been calling the name out multiple times. It’s met with a hand on his shoulder, one Lucius instinctively winces at. “Sorry. Hey, are you listening at all? I’m pretty sure we’re going the wrong way.”

Lucius blinks a few times. Why is it so hard to look at his face? “Are we?” He asks dumbly, looking around. Come to think of it, nothing looked familiar. But then again, Wyll barely looks familiar right now. “We go in this direction.”

“Not a path I’d take,” Wyll rebukes, patting his back and ushering Lucius the other direction. “Don’t shut down on us, Lucius. We still need you alert right now, okay? We can talk about everything once we’re rested and safe.”

He lets Wyll turn him the other way and follows. Lost in thought, he supposes. He endeavors to keep his expression flat when he feels another wave of pain wash over him. If anyone notices it, they don’t mention it. Or rather, Lucius hasn’t noticed if they have.

“You know, if I didn’t know any better,” Astarion quips, lifting his head at Lucius as they all regroup. “I’d say you were trying to lead us into another trap.”

“Give it a rest, Astarion,” Gale says tiredly. “Not everyone’s a master at directions.”

“Well, you’re not. He is supposed to be.”

Any other time, that would’ve pissed Lucius off. Somewhere, dully, he can feel the licks of the flames of anger in the back of his mind, but the heat isn’t enough to melt the dull, numbness of his thoughts. After everything that’s happened, he ought to cuff Astarion on the cheek for that. The man was constantly instigating, and for what? Does he get joy from it? Does he enjoy poking and prodding at Lucius? At the rest of the camp?

His head spins. He’s not wrong. Lucius is good at navigating. He should’ve known where to go. Sure, they got spun around in the swamp — he thinks he can hear Wyll say so — but from there, he should’ve been able to sniff the path back to camp. It’s not hard. He was following a — shit. Where are the marks he left? When did he stop paying attention to them?

He wipes his brow. It must be a hot day, with how much sweat he finds on his head. Maybe it’s blood. Maybe it’s finally over. Has anyone noticed it? No, if it was blood, they would’ve said something. It was blood earlier.

“ — hm? All quiet now that you got us into trouble?”

Lucius blinks blearily, looking up at Astarion. He’s instigating, yet somehow, he can’t shake the feeling that there’s a different tone to the man’s voice.

“Think I opened m’ mouth enough…” Lucius mumbles, rubbing his face. Astarion hums at that, but he can still feel his piercing gaze on him. He wishes he’d leave him alone already. Just stop looking at him. Enough has happened already, leave it alone. He’ll apologize later when he gets the energy.

“Well you certainly did… ” Astarion says, finally looking away from him. “I’ll certainly be enjoying the silence then.”

“You do that.”

He can't do this. Something hurts badly, and all he wants to do is find a ditch to lie in and sleep. Or die. Dying sounds rather tempting. Up ahead, he can hear Gale and Wyll murmuring something to each other, no doubt trying to figure out how to get out of this place. Lucius looks around. The wilderness blurs rogether, everything looking dreadfully the same, indistinguishable. If Lucius wanted any hope of recognizing where he is, it's swept away. There's no hope. For all he knew, he could be back at camp. He could be in the Dalelands, back at home.

Huh. Home. He hasn't had any place to refer to home in a while. Is he so delirious that he'd call an old memory home? Maybe he misses it more than he thought.

Lucius plants a hand on the trees as they pass through, searching for balance. He has to blink hard to chase the waves of pain away, find any semblance of relief. Oh how it makes his whole body shudder. There should've been markings on these trees, but all he sees is bark and green. They're lost. They're lost and it's all his fault.

Breathe.

“There's a cave this way,” Gale announces, sweeping away foliage with his staff. “Well, it looks more like a little pass through this hill. Perhaps a shortcut?”

“Or another walk straight into our deaths,” Astarion mocks. “Keen eye for death traps, Gale?”

“This spot looks vaguely familiar,” Wyll says, taking the lead. “It might just be the way back to camp.”

“Oh yes. Let's just walk right into it!” Astarion claps. “If there's more traps inside, I'm leaving you all behind.”

Unfortunately for them, there were more traps inside.

Gale spots the treasure first. Wyll sees the explosives too late. Gale manages to get a shield around himself and Wyll, and Lucius barely whirls around in time to shield Astarion. The four of them are blasted back, scraping uselessly across the dirt, and for a long moment, none of them bother to get up.

Why bother? Everything hurts.

Astarion shoves Lucius, and he has to bite back a whimper at the pain in his side. “Off me, you oaf.”

Lucius rolls to his side, spitting on the dirt. “Fuck you. I was trying to help.”

“I don't need any more of your help .”

His back hurts. He took the brunt of that blast so the rogue didn't have to, and now Lucius finds himself genuinely worrying whether he'll make it back to camp. “You're welcome .”

The four rise to their feet, Lucius willing himself not to limp. There were some chests in the cave, no doubt a hiding place for someone's riches. Well protected too — how the four of them are still alive is beyond him. 

“Well, there's definitely a clearing to travel through,” Wyll says with a huff, pointing up ahead with his chin. “I recognize the area up ahead. Near the goblin camp. I reckon we’re facing north.”

“Something familiar at last,” Gale says, clearly trying to remain optimistic. “Our efforts soon won’t be in vain.”

“Let’s just get there quick,” Lucius says, touching a hand to his side. It feels like it must be bloody underneath his armor. Thankfully, nothing has stained the outside just yet. “Unless you want the treasures, Astarion?”

“Don’t look at me. Don’t leave that decision to me.”

“Up to you.”

“Ugh.”

Astarion ends up grabbing the treasure. Lucius doesn’t catch what the haul yields, and knows he’ll have to deal with the inventory log later. Normally, he’d be on top of it, but right now, everything still feels faint.

At least they’re close to camp. And a few gold pieces richer at that.

Lucius plants a hand on the rocky walls as he walks to keep balanced, finding himself unable to keep a hand off his side, clutching himself as if letting go would let all of his guts spill forward. Anxiety seizes him: what if it’s really bad? What if it’s a death sentence? He can’t die now, he has everyone in the party he needs to save first. 

Fuck. Maybe he should say something after all.

But before he can open his mouth to voice any concerns, Lucius lifts his gaze to see a pack of goblins drinking at a table.

And sees their gaze meet his.

“Guys.”

It’s too late to hide. The goblins spring into action, gathering scimitars and bows and begin to fire. There’s no avoiding a fight now.

“Shit!”

His mind should be on the battle ahead of them. There shouldn’t have been any more goblins left after how they desecrated their camp. Astarion’s getting into position as best he can, Gale and Wyll ready their spells beside him, and all that’s left is for Lucius to rush forward and take over the front line. 

He lets out a shaky breath. Arrows fly. Lightning passes by him. Lucius needs to move.

Move.

The sprint pushes his muscles against the wound under his armor, and he lets out a strangled shout — a war cry, one could interpret it, of which, he hopes the others do. As he charges forward, shield out and mace held high, his mind drifts to another battle earlier in the year. Cleric for hire, Lucius attended dozens of other small adventuring parties as their escort and healer, allowing them to get from one place to another in one piece, as was the will of Ilmater. As he clashes with the goblins, he hears another arrow whiz past him, followed by a shout from Gale, and all he can remember is blood. Blood in the grass, in the dirt, on their clothes — an ogre had mangled the young paladin and a club to the head sent Lucius useless to the ground. The world spun around him as it does now, and Lucius could only watch as one by one, each of the young adventurers went down before he could get up. Blood, blood, blood —

A goblin tries to slip past him to get to Wyll. Lucius seizes it by the throat, and with a roar of pain he summons his strength to slam it into the other in front of him, the sounds of their armor clamoring together raging loud in his ears. He huffs and pants, feeling the burn through his torso and his vision threatens to give out. The pressure of pain only exacerbates as an arrow pierces his shoulder, blood blooming through the armor. The goblins swing – one hits his shield, Lucius parries another, but one manages a mace to his injured side, and it’s all it takes for him to go down.

The world spins and twirls and melts. His heart thuds in his ears. Fire blasts over his body and makes contact with a goblin. The battle continues and continues, and he can’t get up, he can’t move. The goblins surrounding him take advantage; he feels their clubs and feet strike and strike at him again and again while he’s down, pain erupting through his body with no relief. Someone shouts his name in horror. He can't move, he can't breathe, he can't even shout.

Once upon a time, Lucius was on the floor just like this. Surrounded by his Lockjaws,  those he ruled through fear and chaos, now turned against him. How the mighty fall. Mauverne, his right-hand man, his confidant, his everything, stood and watched as the others beat and bound him, just like this. Strike, strike, strike . How he fell from Lord Skorn to simply dust, ash, and meat — if he looks up now, he swears he can almost see Mauve still standing there, still watching him, that satisfied smile on his face.

Lucius reaches for his mace. He can hardly lift it. The goblins wrench it out of his hands and there's a boot to his face. His world spins again, only barely catching that horrible red glimpse of eldritch magic that blasts the goblins back away from him.

“Lucius! Hold on!” Wyll shouts, finishing off the goblin in front of him.

Astarion is quickest to the draw. In an instant, he's by Lucius’ side, slicing through the goblins in his wake.

“Up, damn you!” He shouts, wrenching a hand underneath the cleric’s arm. “Up! What's wrong with you?!”

Astarion’s tadpole probes his mind, no doubt scolding him and seeking answers, and Lucius can't keep him out. The connection opens in full, and every sensation, every emotion, every feeling of pain washes through the connection all at once. Astarion staggers back with a shout, and a goblin nearly advances on him, were it not for a well timed arcane missile from Gale.

Lucius can’t hold onto their voices anymore. He can hear Gale call something out, Astarion muttering something to Lucius, Wyll commanding his attacks — but nothing sticks. He wheezes, planting one fist into the ground to raise himself up. His muscles tense, the wound flares white hot, and Lucius sees nothing.

“ — to me Lucius. Lucius! Can you hear me? Lucius!”

Everything feels too hot. Sweat trickles down his forehead, and his body aches in pain. No doubt there are bruises across the entire expanse of his body — he dreads to know what damage lies beneath his armor in that sickly spot on his side. It burns and burns so much he wants to gag. Every second spent conscious makes him want to die.

He tries to speak. He mutters something unintelligible, struggling to form the words properly. He can barely open his eyes to see Gale over him. He registers idly that he’s being carried, a two person effort to haul his form from how his body is balanced. Combat must be over. He missed it.

“Is everyone… okay?” Lucius manages to ask.

Gale lets out an exasperated huff and says something in response that Lucius can’t hear. But he can hear Wyll and Astarion, so it means they’re alive.

They’re all alive.

Good.

Good…

“Someone! Find Halsin! Now! We need healing now! ”

Lucius’ eyes open as he’s laid down to a bedroll. They must be at camp now. They made it back.

The pain in his body racks him, leaving him almost numb. The heat in his face and shivers down his spine feels like a fever, the cognitive scraps left of him think. This is bad. This is really bad. He can barely even open his eyes. 

“Lucius,” a voice says to him. There's a hand on his shoulder that burns. “We have to remove your armor, okay? Halsin will be here and we're going to help you.”

Remove his armor?

His eyes flash open, and he scrambles to grab that hand. He shakes his head frantically, feeling dizzy with the motion. They can't take off his armor. He's tattooed, inked on every inch of skin — there's a reason he doesn't wear anything too revealing. It's bad enough the beholder tattoo on his throat is in clear view, but to show the rest of the ink? What picture would that paint? The image of the Ilmatari cleric Lucius has so carefully built will crumble in seconds. 

They can't know. They can't see.

“Don't…” Lucius wheezes, mustering the strength to put force in his glare. It's Wyll who he grabs onto, pulling him down to look at him. “Don't do that.”

“We have to, Lucius,” Wyll says gently, clapping a hand down over Lucius’. “Halsin is on his way, okay?”

Then he has no choice but to run.

Lucius breaks away from Wyll, rolling over onto his belly in an attempt to crawl away. There are shouts — is one his own? — and he can't make it far before he's hauled back up and placed back on the bedroll.

His world blurs. He must have blacked out for a moment, because he hears more voices now surrounding him. They're all going to bear witness to the horrible, ugly truth that is Lucius Skorn,  and he can't stand the idea. He has to run. He has to run.

But everything spins. Everything hurts. He gags and spits at the pain. He has to leave. He has to find a way to get everyone off of him and leave .

It's a childish panic that takes over him. He's been sick many times before in his childhood, and though centuries pad the memories by now, his bones still remember the imprint of fear. Feverish, tossing and turning and throwing tantrums as his father and whatever healer he'd hired tried and tried to wrangle this boy and get him help. An infection, a disease, a nail stuck in his hand, a broken shin — no matter the ailment, they'd never been gentle. No one had the patience for him. He couldn't blame them.

It's childish now. It sounds like Halsin, who tries to wrangle Lucius into laying down, but in this instant, it feels no different, and every movement burns. He can't let them touch him. He can't let them see. Let go. Let go.

“Lucius, please , you’re badly injured. Let me help you.”

“I’m fine!” Lucius rasps, shoving those hands away from him. They seek to remove his armor, to expose him, to reveal his truths. He can’t let them. He can’t let them see.

His vision swims. Hells, to call it vision at all is far too generous. He’s lost all sense of space and awareness, he doesn’t know where he is or what direction he faces or what he’s on. All he can feel is fear and overwhelming pain. His face is hot, his ears are hot, his hands and feet are cold, and there are too many hands on him.

“You’re not, Lucius. Stop moving, you’re only going to hurt yourself.”

A hand lands on his shoulder, making way for the seam to unclasp his armor. Lucius jerks away violently, unable to choke back the sob of a cry he lets out when such movement aggravates the wound. It leaves him stiff and breathless, desperate for relief, shaking in shock as he waits for the waves of pain to release him from its vice grip.

“That’s what happens when you don’t listen,” a voice that sounds like Shadowheart says.

“Please be kind. Suffering is still suffering.”

Suffering is all mine to bear. Leave me alone, the suffering is mine and mine and mine. It’s my burden and mine alone.

He feels delirious. The armor is coming undone, and he’s defenseless. He can’t tell what’s what, who’s who – he’s not even certain if those words were thoughts or something he said aloud. He must’ve said something aloud, because he swears he hears Halsin murmuring something of comfort, but he can’t pick up the words. Kind, comforting words in Elvish. He’d almost forgotten he was an elf. His accent is longer and swirly, more drawn out than Lucius’ own, which is staccato and choppy. It’s almost endearing, were it not for the exposure incoming.

“I’m begging you,” Lucius whispers, feeling his throat begin to close up. “I’m begging you, I’m begging you.”

“Please let me help you, Lucius,” Halsin says, petting a hand through his blood-matted hair. “I need to see the wound. I’m not going to hurt you, just let me see it so I can cure it.”

Lucius swallows hard and shoves his hand weakly with a cry, trying to turn and crawl away. There’s another set of hands on him now, rough and calloused, but still careful in how they try to hold him. As if anyone here deserves to hold him. As if anyone here has any idea what they’re asking of him, what they’re doing to him. They don't even know. They don’t even care to know. And once they do, it’s over. It’s over, and he’ll have to run again, and he’ll never, ever find companionship or belonging again. He’ll run and die in the woods or he’ll turn into a mindflayer and it’ll be peace from there and he will never think again, and it will be mercy, not to himself, but to everyone —

“Lucius, you’ve got to stop moving,” says Wyll’s voice, kind, yet firm. Valiant man. Too good for this place. “Please, don’t make us have to use a spell. We’re just trying to clean the wound. Let us do that for you, please? We’re going to take care of you.”

Tears spring to Lucius’ eyes, hot down his face as he shakes his head and trembles, dropping until his forehead touches the ground. Wyll eases him back to Halsin, and Lucius aborts the attempt to shove them away when another shock of pain holds him in place. The armor starts to come off, piece by piece, carefully and dexterously, and Lucius weeps as it does. Nothing will ever be the same after this. He can never recover from this. They will see him for who he is, and he will have to live with it forever until they’re done here.

Maybe they’ll realize who he is. Maybe they’ll finally understand. Maybe they’ll witness this, and kill him now. It’d be easy. Lucius would do it. It’s the right thing to do. He’d kill him if he knew. And soon, all of them will. He’s vulnerable and weak, and he can’t see. He’d kill them all if he could, before they could touch him. He’d kill them all.

Halsin is about to peel away the last of the chainmail, the last sheet covering what little dignity Lucius has left, the last piece of armor that protects the cleric from the truth of Lord Skorn and his chains. Lucius catches Halsin’s wrist, and with a strain of effort, manages to find his eyes and glare into them.

“If you take this off,” Lucius wheezes, throat strained from pain and crying. “I will kill you.”

Perhaps the venom doesn’t carry. Perhaps Halsin doesn’t believe him. Lucius would. Lucius could. But the chain shirt comes off, and all he can do is drop his head back in defeat.

“By Silvanus…”

“Oh Gods…”

Lucius presses the heels of his palms tightly against his eyes, feeling the heat on his face, the cool air against his exposed skin, and the sickly wetness of his wound. It’s over. It’s all over. He’ll never be respected again. His chest stutters as he sobs, delirium throttling him as he hears the chatter and assumes the worst, knows it's the worst, and braces himself, braces for the fury, braces for the penance and everything in between that’s coming.

“This is worse than I thought…” Halsin says, and Lucius digs his hands further into soft flesh. Of course it is. This holy and good cleric is a lie. Everything about him is a lie. The truth comes undone, and he unravels like a worn, torn linen cloth into nothing but string and thread and he will die, and he will die — “Wyll, I need you to get my medicine bag in my tent. The large, green one with a white patch on its corner. I’m going to need more if we want to stop the rot.”

The… 

Oh.

“Lucius, why didn’t you say anything?” Wyll says, and he hears his boots hastily scrape and rush away. 

I couldn’t. You would all hate me if I did. You should hate me.

He feels something soothing wash over him. A spell, Lucius understands, and it eases some of the pain.

“Don’t worry, we’re going to help you,” Halsin says gently, and Lucius has to swallow down his emotion. “Just don’t move anymore, okay?”

“You don’t hate me?”

“ Lucius ,” his voice is tired and almost sad. “Why would we hate you?”

There’s a new tightness to his throat and chest, something beyond the anticipation of recompense and fury. It’s overwhelming and makes him dizzy, and he doesn’t know what to do with it, and he doesn’t know how to define it. He just knows it… it…

Lucius takes his hands off his eyes to try and meet Halsin and level him with an answer, because kind men deserve to know what they’re doing, who they’re dealing with, they deserve to know the truth and understand, but the second he takes his hands off, the lack of pressure sends him spiraling and drowning. Before he can open his mouth, his vision darkens, and everything feels weak.

“Lucius? Lucius, stay with me. Lucius!”

Maybe it’s better this way.

Chapter Text

Lucius has been out for an entire day, and still has yet to wake.

Anxious is the mind that buzzes restlessly with what-ifs and worries. Gale could barely focus on his normal activities after what had followed with Lucius’ terrible injury. He couldn’t help but feel responsible; if he hadn’t triggered that damn trap, they wouldn’t be in this mess. The murky waters of that swamp was no doubt what was responsible for the flesh rot, if Halsin’s word is anything to go by. Which it is.

Gale groans. It’s his fault. If he’d just been paying more attention…

But it doesn't matter. This blunder has its consequences, and they will have to deal with it as they are. The best thing Gale can do without any healing capabilities is put his own talents to use. He opted to spend the day cooking, making a fresh, healthy soup with all the ingredients they had managed to gather, and tried his hand at making Evereskan bread – or at least, his take and attempt at it. Resources are scarce, after all. He doesn’t know where Lucius is from, exactly, so he hopes Lucius will forgive the generalization, but he came somewhat close to replicating the bread. It lacks the proper flaky texture and the right cheese filling, but perhaps it will still be a familiar taste for Lucius to enjoy.

He wraps everything in a basket neatly, and applies an adjusted holding spell over the casing, one that will keep the food as fresh as the moment it was served. Once Lucius wakes, he will have dinner ready, just for him. 

Gale pens a note for Lucius and attaches it to the basket, and brings it into the tent where Lucius is being held. He pauses at the sight of the cleric, lying motionless on his bedroll, covered in bandages over his torso and left arm. It makes his heart sink to see him in such a state, when the man is normally so animated and so… lively.

The events of the night before replay in his mind. Lucius’ desperation to get away from the others as they undressed him. The reveal of all of those tattoos across his body… Gale can’t scrub it from his mind.

He looks around. No one else has come to pay Lucius a visit, and Halsin isn’t anywhere near the camp, so Gale opts to take a seat beside Lucius, setting the basket down.

He watches the rise and fall of Lucius’ chest, taking comfort in the sight. He’s still alive, despite how close he’d come with death, and despite how ghastly he looks now.

Gale suddenly finds words tumbling out of his mouth.

“Why do you feel the need to hide so much?”

The question Gale asks goes unanswered. Lucius has his head turned away from him in his peaceless slumber.

“We're in this together, you know…” Gale continues, his voice quiet and careful as he monologues. “You don't have to hide. You don't have to run from us.”

Silence hangs in the air. A small fire nearby crackles, and the bugs and crickets all chirp and chitter in the wilderness that surrounds them. Lucius still sleeps.

“I can’t stop thinking about that day, Lucius. How you retaliated against everyone when we tried to help…” Gale looks over Lucius, following the trails of tattoos over his skin. A skull on his right shoulder, a snake that slithers and covers his arm, demons of Avernus and candles on his wrist. Inked on his chest is the holy symbol of Ilmater, rays of holy incantations inscribed on his belly that disappear under the bandages. The beholder tattoo across his throat, and on his collarbone reads text in Elvish that Gale roughly translated to: “Trust No One”. Every tattoo tells its own story, and there are even more on Lucius’ back that he can’t see now.

“Was this the great secret you were trying to keep?” Gale asks, looking over the side of Lucius’ face. “It’s just art, Lucius. Why were you so afraid?”

He sighs, patting the basket of food beside him. “But there’s more to it. Obviously there’s more to it. They represent something to you, don’t they? Something dark, I would presume. Something you want to keep from us. But you’re safe here, Lucius. Of all the bloody things in this camp, some tattoos aren’t going to scare us off.”

He closes his eyes. “You asked Halsin if we hated you. Why? Why would you ask such a thing while they were trying to save you? You almost died. You were going to let yourself die to keep us from seeing… all of this. Why? What does it all mean, Lucius? Just who are you, really —”

“Ah! So you’re one of those! ”

Gale jolts, pulse skyrocketing at the familiar voice that interrupts his thoughts. He slaps his hand to his chest, looking up at who had spoken.

“Astarion! By the gods — how long have you been there?”

“Oh, long enough,” Astarion says languidly, sauntering over and dropping to a seat beside Gale. “I never understood why people do that.”

Gale feels his cheeks color. “Do what?”

Astarion gestures to him. “Ugh. Monologuing in front of an unconscious person. It’s like you people do it for attention.”

“Why, I don’t —”

“Oh, spare me the lecture, wizard. You know he’s not going to hear you.” Then, Astarion eyes him up and down, leveling him with a particularly amused look. “Unless you’re hoping he’s just pretending to be asleep so he does hear. Hoping that by some miracle he catches your words without having to ever open his darling little eyes.”

Gale sighs, rubbing his face. “You ought to lower your voice a little, Astarion.”

“Oh, he’s not going to wake up. If he hasn’t woken up to your blathering, he’s not going to wake up to mine.”

A touch of irritation brews within Gale. “Why exactly are you here?”

“What? I can’t visit our happy little cleric while he’s down?”

“You don’t strike me as that type of person.”

Astarion plants a hand on his chest in faux offense. “Why, I’m hurt. I have just as much empathy as the rest of you.”

Gale folds his arms and looks him down. Astarion only grins.

“Unlike you, I have words for an awake Lucius,” Astarion says, waving a hand. “And we have a very much sleeping one. Disappointing. I was merely checking in to see if he’d finally stirred.”

Astarion leaves his spot to stalk towards Lucius, peering his head over to loom. Gale feels his chest tighten at the sight, anger and possession taking root where he doesn’t expect it.

“You would do well to get away from him,” Gale warns, sitting up. “If you think you’re going to get even an ounce of his blood, you’re sorely mistaken.”

“Oh please. With all of… that in his blood?” Astarion makes a grossed out expression. “No thank you.”

“Then you have no business being that close to him.”

But Astarion doesn’t move. He reaches out to turn Lucius’ head to face upward. “I’m just checking on him. Why, don’t you want to know if he’s pretending to be asleep?”

“Leave him alone.”

“Or what?” Astarion cranes his head to meet Gale. “You’ll fire blast me?”

A tired voice joins the fray. “What are you doing?”

Astarion backs away from Lucius, resting on his haunches beside Gale as Shadowheart enters the tent. “Oh Shadowheart, how lovely of you to join us, we were just —”

“Save it,” Shadowheart says, carrying a pack of medical supplies in her hands. She circles around Lucius and takes a seat on the other side of him, facing the other two men. “I don’t actually care what you’re up to.”

Astarion flashes a grin at Gale. “See, Gale? Why can’t you be more like Shadowheart?”

“I think this is the time to take your leave, Astarion,” Gale says through a fake smile.

“Why? We’re all gathered here now. It’s a full party!” Astarion sits cross-legged and plants his chin on a fist. “Shadowheart, did you hear all the things Gale was saying here? Monologuing in front of dear Lucius — why, I think you missed all the fun!”

Gale feels his chest twist and his cheeks heat. His temper rises, and he wishes that Astarion would just leave . “You’re the pinnacle of maturity, aren’t you, Astarion?”

“ What does it all mean, Lucius? ” Astarion drawls, dramatizing his voice with the back of his hand on his forehead. “ Why, Lucius, oh, why? You’re so mysterious and so handsome, why don’t you love me?”

“Not what I said.”

“It’s not what’s said, it’s what’s implied .”

Gale grimaces, and tries to hide it behind a smile that’s all teeth. “Still not what I said.”

“Knock it off, both of you,” Shadowheart cuts in. She’s taken to unpacking her supplies, retrieving each of the salves and cures she needs for Lucius’ healing session. “I don’t need any distractions.”

“Aren’t these pesky tattoos distracting?” Astarion continues, pointing at Lucius. “I know they’re quite distracting to Gale, aren’t they?”

Gale lets out a long sigh. “Astarion —”

Astarion laughs. “What’s wrong? Embarrassed now that we’re all here? Please, do continue what it all was that you were saying. Pretend we’re not even here.”

Gale sets his jaw. “You’re insufferable.”

“Am I?”

“You are,” Shadowheart says. She’s started to unwrap Lucius’ bandages now, moving to disinfect and clean the wound. Gale casts his gaze away; the sight is still too grisly for him to stand. Just the mere thought of what it looks like under there is enough to make his skin crawl. “You must think you’re some kind of jester. Perhaps one that the nobles would have executed by now.”

“Is everyone here out to hurt my feelings today?”

“Just be quiet for a moment, won’t you?”

Astarion still wears his grin, but mercifully, says nothing more. Shadowheart continues her work with deft hands. It feels like a slow process, though Shadowheart is swift, and after she finishes, she utters the incantation for a healing spell. Her hands glow and illuminate the four of them in a flash, but Gale catches her frown when the spell completes.

“What’s wrong?”

She shakes her head. “Same as before. Normal spells don’t stop the rot. It’s something his body has to fight off on its own.”

“How tragic,” Astarion remarks. “Any idea when he’ll wake?”

“I can’t say for certain. Perhaps when Halsin returns, he’ll stir.”

Shadowheart reaches for a set of clean bandages and begins to wrap them around Lucius. The tattoos were surely destroyed from all the rot on his side and on his arm — would Lucius be devastated or relieved over such a fact? He shudders to think about what pain the cleric must be under, enduring all of that horror.

“Halsin sent you to take care for the night, I suppose?” Gale ends up asking.

“He's out searching for more herbs he needs to cure flesh rot,” she replies, not taking her eyes off her work. “And as I'm the only other healer in this sorry group, it's only natural that it falls to me. Else we'd just have Lucius do it, wouldn't we?”

“I appreciate you coming to help.”

She shrugs, wrapping up the bandages. “Would be awfully inconvenient for one of us to die out here. We need each other.”

“That we do.”

“Well, we could do without his drama,” Astarion remarks, pointing his head towards Lucius. “Remember, we wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for his pissing and whining.”

“Tensions were high, and mistakes were made,” Gale counters. “We also wouldn’t have gotten out of a lot of other troubles without him.”

“We’re getting into trouble because of him! None of us needed to go after the hag, and yet, we went, didn’t we?”

“We couldn’t just leave a pregnant woman in distress, Astarion.”

“Sure we could. By just leaving it alone ,” he scoffs, folding his arms. “We have our own problems. Now look at him.”

Astarion leans over to peer at Lucius once more, practically hovering over him. “You just had to drag us out into that place, didn’t you? Are you happy? Are you happy now, Lucius Skorn?”

Lucius’ eyes suddenly snap open, and all at once, he jolts upwards, slamming his forehead into Astarion’s. They both let out a shout in pain, Astarion staggering back, and Lucius writhing and clutching his side. Shadowheart throws her hands in the air with a scowl.

“You damn fool!” Shadowheart scolds, ushering Lucius to lay back down. “I just finished dressing your wound!”

“Who the hell let Astarion near me?” Lucius growls, breathing heavily. “Fuckin’ creep!”

Astarion rubs his head, gritting his teeth. “ Someone isn’t happy to see me.”

“That’s what you get,” Gale says, folding his arms. “I told you to leave him alone.”

“Gale?” Lucius cranes his head up, looking around with bleary eyes. Then, his brows furrow in anger. “What the fuck is everyone doing here? Get out of here!”

“Why, we just wanted to see how you were recovering, my dear,” Astarion says, finding his charm once more.

“That is not at all what you came here for and you know it!” Gale snaps, pointing an accusing finger towards Astarion. “You weren’t of any help here!”

“Oh, and you talking to him in his sleep was helping?”

“Please, neither of you were helping,” Shadowheart huffs, casting a minor healing spell on Lucius to cover the most recent damage. “I’m the one who did all the work while you two bickered.”

“Get the fuck out of here!” Lucius barks, his voice breaking with the effort. “Where’s my shirt? Why am I not covered?”

“Oh calm down, Lucius,” Shadowheart says. “Don’t be dramatic. We’re leaving.”

“Lucius, I promise, I didn’t want any problems here —” Gale tries to insist.

But the cleric will have none of it. His voice can barely form the shout. “I said go away!”

“And here I thought the Ilmatari were supposed to be kind and patient…” Astarion mumbles, humor still laden in his voice. “So much for friendly conversation.”

Shadowheart rises, dusting off her knees. “I’m not dealing with this mess. You two best take your leave.”

“Fine!” Astarion relents, standing to his feet. “I suppose I’ll get my conversation another day.”

“I’m sorry, Lucius,” Gale says, scurrying up to leave. “Please forgive me.”

But Lucius doesn’t look at them as they leave. He keeps his arms folded over his chest, and Shadowheart gives Gale a push to keep him from looking back.

An hour or more passes after the incident. Gale hardly finds himself able to concentrate on the alchemical supplies left to his care. He needs to focus on making these suspensions to create more potions for the road — the incident with the hag left them with a startling lack of healing potions, and Gale intends to amend the fact. Perhaps they’ll have to scrape together some gold on their travels to find a merchant who can sell them potions. Or, if they’re lucky, a merchant in possession of the ingredients needed for all their alchemical needs.

But all he can think of is Lucius. Lucius and those tattoos, and his reaction, and the fact that he’s awake now.

He hopes that he at least enjoyed the food he left for him.

Gale retrieves the mortar and pestle to get to work on the elixirs. Karlach had expressed interest in the bloodlust ones they made earlier in the week, and Gale intended on delivering more for their group to utilize. 

But just as he brings the tools and ingredients together, Gale feels a tingle at the back of his skull.

‘Gale?’

Lucius’ voice.

Gale snaps his head up, looking around. No one was near him, and Wyll wasn’t in his tent for the time being. The presence lingers in his skull, the connection weak from the lack of proximity. His tadpole squirms as the voice in his head echoes, searching for more.

‘Lucius?’ Gale answers through their shared connection.

A spark of elation floods through their tadpole link from Lucius. He’s happy to hear him reply. ‘Could I talk to you for a bit?’

Gale sets his tools down, dusting himself off and hurrying to a stand. ‘Of course! Of course, of course.’ His heart races for reasons unknown to him. ‘Through here, or in person?’

‘In person, if you don’t mind.’

‘I’m on my way.’

Gale enters the tent, finding Lucius propped up on his bedroll with the basket of food opened beside him. In his hand is the letter Gale left for him, and Lucius takes his eyes off of it to meet Gale’s as he enters.

It takes Lucius a few tries to get his voice to work. “I got your present.”

Gale smiles fondly, slowly moving to take a seat beside him. “I was hoping you’d enjoy it.”

“A holding spell to keep food fresh is very interesting,” Lucius says, his voice breaking off at the end. He clears his throat, then coughs. “I liked the soup.”

“That makes me delighted to hear,” Gale beams, dipping his head down to Lucius. “I hope the extra spice I added was to your liking.”

“It was.”

Lucius clears his throat again, grimacing when he doesn’t get the desired result. The tadpole squirms again, and Lucius’ voice floods through Gale’s mind once more. ‘Do you mind if I just… use this? I’m having a hard time with my voice.’

“Oh, I don’t mind one bit,” Gale replies, waving a hand. “I trust you to stay within your respectful bounds while in my mind.”

‘Not afraid I’ll take a little looksies around?’

“If you did, you’ll find that I have ways of casting you out. I’m a wizard; these sorts of mind tricks are easy to me, tadpole or not.”

Lucius hums. Through their shared connection, Gale sees a memory. A temple in Rivington, standing proudly in the morning sun. The Open Hand Temple, as Lucius knows it — monks and priests fill through the halls, and through this memory, Gale sees its interior, the faithful seated patiently at their seats as a man preaches a wonderful sermon, one Gale can’t quite catch the words of.

‘I’m no wizard, I don’t do mind stuff,’ speaks Lucius’ voice. ‘But I know a little of it. The process for becoming adorned within the Ilmatari requires a senior priest to peer into your mind, see if you are true and faithful. That you aren’t being deceptive. Father Lorgan did so for me, and found me true.’

That’s the man holding the sermon. Father Lorgan of Rivington. Lucius holds him with great reverence and respect, and a feeling of peace flows through their bond.

“It must’ve been quite the experience,” Gale says. “To share your mind with someone. A stranger, perhaps. To have them look through everything that is you. I’ve read about Ilmatari initiations, but never quite encountered any Ilmatari priests myself.”

‘It’s scary now, to share my mind with you,’ speaks Lucius. ‘The thought that you might get curious and see if I’m true — I was… terrified when Father Lorgan told me this was something he had to do. I was terrified he would see me, and not believe me to be faithful.’

Gale thinks of the ink across his body, thinks of his ruthlessness in combat, his hesitation when asked how he felt about taking a life, and the earth-shattering fear Lucius had when his tattoos were finally revealed. Sometimes things in Lucius’ story didn’t add up. He claimed to be raised by Ilmatari monks, but would say so as if it were some kind of joke. He excelled in picking locks, and proved himself to be quite the pickpocket, to the point of judging Astarion for his own techniques and moves. He bears the scars of a fighter and the instincts of a monster, yet bears the symbol of the Sufferer — who is he, exactly?

“But you are faithful,” Gale decides to say. “You’re adorned now.”

‘I am.’

A beat of silence. There’s an anxiety within Lucius that leaks through their bond, half-formed questions bubbling to the surface as he tries to parse what words he wants to say. There’s that fear of having been exposed, with Gale and the others having seen what he looks like under his armor, and then a curiosity to what Gale must think of it now. Then, a curiosity is cast elsewhere.

‘Astarion said you were talking to me in my sleep.’

There it is. Gale finds a quivering smile on his lips and waves a hand. “Well, I — It wasn’t anything, I simply — I was just getting some words together, some thoughts, just expressing certain things that — Well, yes, I was.”

Lucius chuckles. ‘I didn’t hear any of it, if that makes you feel any better.’

Gale huffs. It does make him feel a touch better, and such knowledge pours through their connection and makes itself known, to which Lucius only chuckles some more.

‘I appreciate you, Gale. I’m sorry I lashed out. Seeing all of you there around me… freaked me out a little. But I didn’t want to shout at you. Not when you’ve been so kind to me.’

“All is forgiven, Lucius. You needn’t worry about a thing. I understand.” Gale snickers. “Astarion was getting close to ruffling my own feathers, if I’m being honest.”

‘He has a talent for doing that, I’ve noticed. You ought to throttle him one of these days.’

“Bah, not quite my style. I’m a patient man, I can tolerate him.”

He still can’t help but feel that tinge of anger when Astarion kept messing with Lucius. Such a temper still remains, even if a couple hours have passed since. But all is well now. Lucius is safe, and it’s just the two of them.

‘Well. I ought to.’

It’s then that Lucius moves, shuffling and attempting to sit up. The slightest curl of his body sends a shock of pain through him and he hisses. The wave of pain translates through their psionic connection, and for a brief, horrible moment, Gale feels the pain in his own torso, how it burns and aches and pierces at his flesh and muscle. It punches a small cry out of him in shock; the visceral, guttural feeling of his own flesh torn and blistered is almost enough to make him gag.

“No no no!” Gale ushers, his voice strained with the phantom pain, placing a hand on the cleric’s chest to settle him back down. “Don’t go doing that. And don’t try to act like that doesn’t hurt, I felt that!”

Lucius squeezes his eyes shut. ‘Sorry.’

Gale sighs, settling back in his seat. It was only a brief moment that the pain was shared. There’s no injury for his body to remember, so he’s relieved, but now he knows well enough just how much moving hurts for Lucius. He lets this thought flow through their connection, so Lucius knows. “It’s alright. Guess I don’t have to imagine what it’s like. Got a taste of it.”

A flash of humor flows through their bond. ‘Do you think my new scars will look cool?’

Gale can’t help but laugh a little at that. “Certainly dastardly . Gruesome. But… I suppose one could deign it ‘cool’. Remains to be seen though.”

He peers over Lucius with a touch of worry and curiosity. He’s scarcely seen wearing anything revealing skin beyond his neck, wrists and ankles, so seeing him without a shirt has been… well, a mix of all sorts of emotions. For one, the damage was so terrible, Gale can barely stand to look at it without feeling something tug in his gut and cold shivers take over his spine and arms. But beyond that… he can barely find an inch of skin that wasn’t covered in tattoos. Artistic renditions and even more details he can barely keep track of all traverse and travel across strong muscle, covered by the many white bandages that have wrapped around most of his body.

It makes his mouth feel dry in ways Gale couldn’t have possibly anticipated.

He forgets, for a moment, that he’s still connected to Lucius until the man prods back at his skull.

‘Like what you see?’

Gale snaps his gaze back up at him. Lucius is staring at him with a smirk. Those tired eyes are still clouded with the haze of a fever, yet still so impossibly alert. If Gale peers further into their connection, he can see exactly what Lucius does through his eyes: Gale sat with one leg out and the other propped up, the slouch he’s made a terrible habit of, and the most ridiculous look on his face. Like a dog being scolded.

Woof. Better wipe that look off your face right away.

“I was just thinking. About the scars, I mean. I reckon they might put a dent in these pretty pictures you’ve got all over,” Gale says, gesturing to him. There’s truth to this; the damage was so deep, he can’t imagine how much of the ink will survive, if any at all. “You might just be left with some patchy blank spots.”

Lucius tosses this information back and forth, his gaze leaving him to lull his head over to the side. He’s trying to get a look at himself. After a moment, clarity to his thoughts form back to words. ‘Just means I’ll finally have room for new tattoos.’

Gale scoffs. “You’re going to stick a needle on sensitive scar tissue?”

‘Art is art. If I endure this, I can endure another tattoo.’

Gale shakes his head, an airy laugh on his lips. “What do you think you’ll get a tattoo of?”

Lucius rolls his head back up, staring at the ceiling of the tent. A flurry of images flood through their connection, each of them vague, half-formed concepts of ideas to put on his body. He has a rough guess of how much space he’ll have on himself, and in the jagged edges of scarred skin, he imagines bordering it off with some kind of decal or pattern. Perhaps arrows. Or swords. Or lightning magic. His mind settles on lightning magic. The magic flows, and connects to a hand, which connects to a man that looks a lot like Gale. Well, because it is — beside him, Astarion with a blade drawn, to his right, Wyll holding a sword like a knight, below them, Shadowheart poses with her hands in prayer, Lae’zel poised for combat, and above them, Karlach raises a greataxe high over her head.

The positions of everyone rearrange, the background filled with various details of buildings or wilderness, and even the nautiloid for a moment. Then, the concept is overhauled, replaced with a dead mindflayer before quickly being scrapped. Lucius cycles through different iterations of his companions, trying to find a way to fit them into this jagged area of scars before deciding the skin may be too damaged to detail faces in there. He tries wolves with decals that correspond to each, then scraps it. Too corny. He does skulls next, then scraps it. He’d rather not imagine anyone dead. He fits the nautiloid somewhere in, then imagines just the nautiloid alone in the stars, smoke billowing from its broken structure. 

He goes through one more cycle of his companions before finally giving up on the vision, his energy feeling spent.

‘Not a clue,’ his voice filters through. ‘It’ll come to me eventually though.’

Gale smiles, dropping his gaze away. Idly, he places his hand on the grass, tugging at them and brushing his fingers through. Something to fidget with.

He has so many questions for him. There’s so much he doesn’t know about Lucius, and every crumb of information he gets has him starving for more. What happened to him? He saw the scars on his back while they were treating him. What’s with all of the tattoos? Why was he so mad about Mayrina? What’s actually the story behind Lucius Skorn?

Though Gale does his best to reign these thoughts in, Lucius catches them and holds onto them tight, reaching out to collect them all as best he can. It’s a tug of war, trying to pull the thoughts away, guard them, leave them for another time. Not the time right now, you’re injured, you’re hurt and feverish, these are personal questions and you don’t need them right now.

But he plucks them anyway. Different emotions flutter through their connection. Humor, at first, that Gale wants so badly to know about him. He’s amused by it, certainly, and there are half-formed jokes at bay that he’d like to make pertaining to the idea of Gale being obsessed with him, which Gale, obviously, psionically rolls his eyes at. There’s also a touch of fear in there. The idea of being known , especially by someone who Lucius feels rather fond of — Wait, that wasn’t for you — then guilt, that he’s not let a single person in this camp in on his life. And underneath it all, a deep, profound sense of sadness. The very foundation of everything that is Lucius Skorn.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Gale says before Lucius can form any responses. “I’m a curious man, and my mind wanders. Not often I have someone privy to how it wanders, so… It’s fine. It’s far more important that you rest.”

Negation flows through the connection. Lucius would shake his head, but he hasn’t the energy for it. But slowly, Lucius lifts his hand up, holding it out for Gale to take. Gale stares at it for a moment, stuck in inaction for one reason or another before his mind clicks back into gear and he, very gently, takes his hand. Lucius’ hand is calloused and rough. Dry. When was the last time he took care of them? 

There’s a hesitation in their connection. More silence from Lucius now than since they started it. Gale says nothing, finding himself with his breath held tight in anticipation. He should have held a better grip on his wandering mind. He doesn’t want to force Lucius to say anything, especially not when he’s been so patient with everyone else’s baggage in the camp —

Lucius squeezes his hand. ‘My given name is Lucius Silverleaf.’

Gale looks up at him. Lucius has his head turned the other way.

“Silverleaf?” He feels the name roll off the tongue, so much intrigue and more questions and theories bubbling to the surface.

‘It was my father’s name. Everyn Silverleaf. The single, sole person responsible for raising a child.’ A flare of rage. Pure hatred and resentment. Lucius’ hand shakes. ‘A bastard who couldn’t do the one job he had.’

The visage of a tall, older, elven man comes to his vision. Long, black hair, deep set eyes, a square chin and a crooked ear. He feels tall, but the perspective of him feels like that of a child’s. He towers and looms, a scowl on his face. There’s the smell of warm alcohol. There’s a flash of fear, an ancient, childlike one, the fear of the one person you’re supposed to trust. It evolves into the flame that it is now, the anger, though tempered by years of distance.

The man raises a hand. There’s a bottle in it. The vision fades before it makes contact. Lucius pulls Gale’s hand, and he has to sit up on his knees in order to reach, allowing him to bring his hand over to a spot on his collarbone. He adjusts his hold on Gale’s hand, bringing his fingers to touch over a raised, jagged streak of scars.

‘Broken beer bottle. I was nine years old.’

Gale involuntarily shudders. Lucius moves his hand again, this time lifting his other arm out for him to touch a scar at his forearm. There’s a feeling of claustrophobia that floods through, the smell of undisturbed wood and dust and stale air.

‘Rusted nail. Used to make me sneak to steal things in small areas because I could fit in them. Yelled at me for this one. Blood everywhere. I was probably six.’

“Lucius…”

Lucius moves his hand again, and Gale can already feel his stomach flip at its trajectory. His hand is brought to his neck. Hidden under the beholder tattoo is a Y-shaped scar at his throat. He can feel Lucius’ pulse, feel him swallow, his breath quick. Gale dares to steal a glance at his face. His expression is twisted, brows scrunched tight and tears prickling at the corners of his closed eyes.

‘He tried to kill me,’ Lucius continues, and the connection wavers. He’s closing something off here. ‘He was drunk. He didn’t mean to, not really. He cried when he realized what he’d done. He cried and held me close while I bled.’

“My Gods…”

‘I don’t need any pity,’ A flare of anger, but it’s not directed at Gale. It’s an anger deeper in the pit of his soul. An old, tired anger. A frustration with himself. Perhaps a frustration at the tears. ‘He was my father. He said he was doing his best to raise me with what he had. I don’t believe it for a second. I still don’t. Children… Children are sacred. Innocent. It’s your duty to protect them, to keep them from harm. To raise them into adults with a clear vision of who they are. A parent should never betray their own child.’

Now, the events with Mayrina replay. The memories of her, the revelation of her deal with the witch, and how she’d fully intended to give up her unborn child. The severe injustice that broiled within Lucius, the rage, the sadness, the grief, the pure, unadulterated hatred — it’s so potent through their connection that Gale feels it too. A burning in his chest, a frustration that claws in his ribcage and begs to be let out. An itching in his hands to do something. To throw something. To… To…

Lucius severs it. In an instant, the shared emotion is snapped, and Gale reels back from the whiplash. The anger left within him is all his own, born of witnessing the injustice Lucius faced, born now of a different perspective of Mayrina’s deal. But more than anything, it’s sorrow that settles in Gale’s chest.

Gently, he turns Lucius’ hand, folding it into both of his own and bringing it tenderly to his lips. He kisses his knuckles, because for whatever reason, that felt like the right thing to do. The only thing he could do. And to his mercy, it seems to do something. Lucius quakes, tears flowing freely now, and he brings his free hand to his face to cover them.

The connection reopens slowly. ‘I’m sorry.’

“Oh, dear, please don’t apologize,” Gale whispers, leaning in. “This isn’t your fault.”

‘Yes it is,’ Lucius pushes. ‘I should’ve kept it in check. I let my anger take over, and I nearly got us killed. You wouldn’t have stepped in that trap if I hadn’t —’

“I stepped in that trap because I’m a bumbling wizard in a swamp who hadn’t been outside in over a year,” Gale interrupts, squeezing his hand. “You were angry. I don’t blame you. It’s… It’s hard to control that. But… you saved me. You saved me when you didn’t have to, and you went back for Wyll and Astarion. Astarion! You two don’t even get along. ”

‘Of course I did, Gale, it was my mess. I didn’t want any of you to get hurt.’

“And we don’t want you to get hurt,” Gale sighs, dropping his head. “You should’ve said something, Lucius. It didn’t have to get this bad.”

He sees a vision of two open hands, red rope tied around their wrists. The holy symbol of Ilmater, the God on the Rack. The God of Endurance. Lucius sought to endure the pain as penance, to simply ‘walk it off’. He also didn’t quite seem to know just how bad it truly was.

“Oh come on. It’s not your holy duty to suffer —”

‘Yes it is,’ Lucius snaps, though, there’s a touch of amusement in those words. ‘That’s. That’s literally the whole thing. Kind of the whole point.’

“Hmmm, I don’t know. Surely not to that extent. Not like how it happened here.”

‘It was my fault that —’

“Suffering,” Gale interrupts, patting his hand. Lucius turns his head sluggishly to meet him. “Is supposed to have meaning .”

Lucius ponders this. Tosses it over and over in his head. Finally, after a long moment, he pulls his hand away. Gale releases him easily, watching him shift minutely and rest his hands in his chest. Their psionic link fades, and Gale finds himself feeling a little empty and quiet with the lack of it.

“I should sleep,” Lucius says out loud, his voice hoarse and tired. He smiles softly at him, and Gale returns it all the same. “This was nice though. I like hearing your thoughts.”

“A lot easier than talking, that’s for certain,” Gale says with a huff of a laugh. Still, his mind lingers. Though some questions were answered, there were still more lingering at the surface. He was already able to guess that Lucius didn’t come from very kind beginnings, but to have had such an intimate glimpse at his early life… He’s not entirely sure what to do with it, or where to go from here. Though the cleric is dismissing him now, it’s no small matter that Lucius decided to share this piece of him with Gale. Perhaps their bond is stronger now because of it. “I wouldn’t mind doing this again. Or keeping you company for the night, if you’d like.”

“You want to talk to my unconscious self again?” Lucius teases with a cough.

Gale lifts his head, ignoring the heat in his cheeks. “I would leave you be silently, this time.”

“You’re a good man, Gale. Don’t change.” Lucius lets his eyes flutter shut. “You can stay if you want. Keep that prick Astarion away from me, won’t you?”

“Certainly, my friend.”