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Shadowheart returns with Lae’zel nearly six hours after Halsin and Astarion started to cuddle. She looks delighted and giddy with the energy of someone who has finally had sex with the person they have wanted to have sex with for a while. If the circumstances were completely different, Astarion would be happy for her. As it is, he struggles to try.
He wants to be understanding. It’s not as if she would want to leave Halsin in agony longer than she had to. Shadowheart likely wanted to spend as much time with Lae’zel as she could before the githyanki was honor bound to aid her prince. That does not mean that Astarion refuses to feel indignant for the cleric returning in her own damn time. If it had been Lae’zel who had lost her legs, she probably wouldn’t have gone drinking. She would have slept beside her and healed her as soon as she was able.
The cleric comes over as soon as she and Lae’zel have set down their things. The half elf smiles apologetically and gently rouses Halsin with a hand on his shoulder. The druid jerks to full consciousness, his mind hovering on the edge of awareness as the occasional soft moan of pain escaped him. The elf smiles in a strained way at the cleric and squeezes her hand.
“If you are ready, I am prepared to try regrowing your legs.” Halsin nods and sits up with her and Astarion’s aid, face pale with strain and pain. It’s alarming to hear and see the elf heave with effort to sit himself up; deep, nearly masked groans of agony escaping him as he is gently manhandled on the bed. Shadowheart steadies the massive elf, her brow creased with thought. Her gaze shifts to the vampire.
“Astarion, I need you to sit behind him. Provide a backrest of sorts.” Astarion sits on his calves as Shadowheart takes one of Halsin’s hands in hers and places her other on his right leg. Her expression is serious as she explains what she will try.
“I cannot guarantee this will work. I’ve never had to do this before, and I am not sure what it will feel like, but I will guess it will not be pleasant.” She levels Halsin with a stern expression, and the elf responds with a hum of understanding and consent, although it is rather obvious he is mildly delirious with pain. The massive elf leans heavily into the vampire behind him. Astarion realizes in that moment; he is not struggling to prop up the elf twice his size.
“When you need to stop, tell me.” With that rather useless affirmation, Shadowheart starts to pray. Silver and blue light shines from her palms as she calls down a mighty power. Halsin’s body tenses and his heart rate increases; immediately in acute pain. Astarion can feel the elf’s body grow hot and start to sweat, but Halsin does not stop the half elf. Astarion drapes his cold form over the druid’s shoulders; cold palms over his heart and throat in an effort to provide some form of physical ease. The druid places his huge hand over his and focuses on breathing; the shaggy maned head leaning back to rest on his shoulder. Hazel eyes are shrouded in pain until the druid closes his eyes and controls his shaking breathing.
Under Shadowheart’s hand, Halsin’s leg begins to regrow, and Astarion lets out a relieved breath he didn’t need. It was going to be okay. Halsin was going to be okay.
The process takes about an hour until Shadowheart grunts in frustration and removes her hand from Halsin’s right thigh. Even Astarion had noticed that the limb had stopped growing. He hadn’t said anything because he wanted to be wrong, but the limb refused to grow a knee. The only true benefit to Halsin’s limbs seemed to be that he was no longer in pain due to his right limb. The druid was categorically more comfortable; his heartbeat slowed to a steadier rhythm. His breathing had eased to something less ragged to something mildly labored.
“Let me try the left. Maybe we just need to try again tomorrow for the right.” The cleric’s voice sounds false to his ears, but the vampire says nothing. He won’t voice his doubts. He doesn’t want to make it real. He doesn’t want to tempt fate to spite the victory any further. The brain is dead; the heroes should win the day, not suffer losses.
Halsin consents to Shadowheart trying the other leg, smiling and saying that at the very least, the pain will stop even if he does not regain his foot. Shadowheart smiles back at him, grateful for the druid’s understanding. Again, Astarion keeps his mouth shut. He can argue about accepting unfair realities later.
Halsin’s left leg stops regrowing around halfway down his calf. Astarion bites back curses. It’s not fair, damnit. Halsin doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve to be helpless.
“I’m sorry, I can’t seem to fix it today.” The half elf apologizes, tears struggling to escape her eyes. Halsin chuckles, warm and bright; clearly relieved. He reaches up to the half elf’s face and gently brushes away an escaped tear. She smiles sadly and gently takes his hand from her face; not denying his kindness, but saying she had had enough.
“I guessed this may be the case, dear girl. You have not failed to aid me; on the contrary, I may finally be able to rest. If my limbs are not able to be regrown, it is far from the end of the world. I thank you for what you have done for me. I would be lost without it.”
Halsin easily shifts himself to lay down once more; his missing limbs free of pain; the wounds fully closed and scarred flesh aged as though it had been years ago he had lost his feet. Astarion shifts to the other side of the bed, expressing that he should be able to easily escape without waking Halsin when Solace rouses.
The druid rests, nearly completely unconscious when Astarion has to wriggle free of his grasp and join Shadowheart at Solace’s side. The paladin had jolted into awareness with a shout; eyes flaring white with panic. Shadowheart lays a calming hand on her friend’s shoulder, soothing the fearful paladin.
“You’re alright. We’ve got you.”
Solace focuses on the cleric, heart calming at her gentle countenance and aura. Eyes still wide and panicked. Their hand desperately clings to the woman, trembling with an emotion or exhaustion Astarion cannot name.
“Please. Please tell me it’s over.” Haggard voice; wrought to their core. They need to be told that they finished the plot. They stare at him; expecting the truth and needing his confirmation. Astarion holds his paladin’s face for a long moment; cold palms on burning hot cheeks. Looking them directly in their eyes. Unwavering. Proud. Resolute and finally, finally, able to say it.
“It’s over, Solace. It’s over. We can rest now.”
Tears slide down the paladin’s face; hitting his skin and sliding between his palm and their face. Warm and alive; the tears are proof they survived: and they blubber as they reach for him to embrace them. He can’t deny them. He doesn’t want to. He needs this just as much as they do.
It’s exceedingly strange to hold his paladin when they have only one arm around him. Even as he is practically sitting in their lap, his left shoulder feels cold and bereft of Solace’s touch. The only arm they have left circles around his shoulders and hot fingers twine in his hair. Their nose presses into his collar and he can feel the hot tears soaking into this shirt and down his chest. He holds them close; smiling into their hair as their body relaxes.
It's over.
Eventually, they will be able to accept it.
It takes a few minutes before Solace is capable of speaking clearly again; voice hiccuping and nose streaming snot they awkwardly try to clean with their non-dominant hand. They blush furiously when he takes a cloth and wipes their face for them.
“There now, darling.” He hears himself coo, a thick emotion in his voice he wasn't expecting. Relief. In all reality, he hadn't actually realized that the threat was gone. It hits him now as he gently helps his darling partner blow their nose.
Solace was awake. Alive. Crying unstoppably as he gently wiped the tears and snot from their face. There is no brain worm trying to turn them into monsters. There is no Cazador to enslave him again. There is no Bhaal to force his child to slaughter.
A hot hand cups his cheek and a thumb wipes away a tear from his face. Solace smiles at him with trepidation and wonder.
“I didn't think I'd make it, you know.” They whisper, shame guiding their gaze to the bed and away from his eyes.
“I thought I'd burn into ash under that dragon. Or melt from Selüne's fire. I thought… I thought I was going to break my Oath to you…”
Astarion leans forward to press his forehead to theirs, their tall horns a jagged texture compared to their soft skin. The vampire soothes his paladin for a moment, carefully shushing them. His lips press to each cheek and their forehead as their voice trails off.
“It's alright, darling. We can talk about this in time. Let's not keep dear Shadowheart waiting when she should be busy with Lae’zel.”
The tiefling sniffles and lets out a small laugh, nodding against his forehead. Solace takes a deep breath and turns to their friend, smiling sheepishly at the cleric who has plastered a mildly convincing serene smile on her face to hide her discomfort at intruding on a moment between the two partners.
“Sorry, Shadowheart. What do you need me to do?”
Solace doesn't need to do anything as Shadowheart lays a hand on the paladin’s armless shoulder; silver light shimmering from the cleric's touch.
Solace doesn't seem to be in any pain as they witness their friend attempt regrowing their arm. They watch, almost casually interested as ghostly silver light drifts down from their shoulder into the suggestion of a right arm; magic intended to remake what was lost. Their left hand holds his to their chest; their heartbeat steady.
Half an hour passes with no signs of limb regrowth. Shadowheart’s expression is a mixture of frustration, fury, and heartbreak. She continues to mutter prayers until Solace chuckles and calls an end to the cleric’s efforts.
“I can’t feel anything regrowing, Shadowheart. I think you should go be with Lae’zel before she has to leave. If this can be fixed, I have time. Go on. I love you. Thank you. For everything.”
Shadowheart looks up to meet his gaze and he hates that he wants to keep her here to try again. He has no magic he can do. Nothing he is good at can fix his partner’s lost limb. Red eyes look into soft, sad green and he nods to agree with his partner.
He’d be a fool to go against their wishes.
“I’m willing to keep trying when you are.” The cleric states, setting a hand on Solace’s armless shoulder before turning towards Lae’zel and following the gith woman out of the room.
Solace doesn’t say anything for a moment, only taking their hand from his and touching their neatly cleaved shoulder. A violent scar mars their flesh; a rippled, bubbled, jagged, fresh scar zigzagging down their right shoulder as if the wound had been uncared for and left to mend itself. The paladin smiles ruefully, a deep but quiet laugh building in their chest. He doesn’t know what’s so funny, but the sound is peaceful. It’s warm and bright.
“I think it’s fitting.” The paladin murmurs, soft and calm. Their silver eye gleams with warmth and the blue attempts the same. He can’t help but smile back at them, despite having to consider that his beloved partners are crippled.
“I killed a lot of people with that arm. I’m alright not having it. Although I’m sure it will be complicated to adjust to. I’m sitting and I feel off-kilter.”
Astarion isn’t sure what hurts when they just… accept it. Accept being broken. His eyes burn with tears and he wraps his arms around their shoulders; his touch trembling and desperate. He can feel Solace momentarily tense against him, but they relax and settle their arm around his waist. Warm, solid, unbothered.
“I’m sorry I can’t fix it, my darling. I can’t fix anything.”
They offer no immediate response. He feels their horns pressing against his chest as they nuzzle into his touch. He should feel their right arm around him. He should be embraced by the intractable heat of his beloved paladin. The left of his body feels the chill of the tavern room and his expression creases into one of discomfort and sorrow that his beloved cannot see.
Muffled words reach his ears when Solace speaks once again; lips moving against his shirt lapels until the cheeky paladin noses open his shirt and finds his skin. It’s very difficult to focus on feeling upset when they are decorating his cold flesh with warm words and kisses.
“You don’t have to fix anything for me, Astarion. I am okay. I’m alright. I would rather never have my right arm again than be dead, darling. I’m alive. We’re alive. Let’s focus on that for, I don’t know, five minutes?” A smile presses into his collarbone and he allows the relief and humor of the paladin’s words touch him. He doesn’t reply with words, pressing his cheek to the top of their head. He nods and lets his weight rest on Solace for the first time since they awoke. The paladin sighs in appreciation and wordlessly folds the both of them into the bed, limbs tangled together as the exhausted tiefling drifts into a calm, gentle doze.