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Halsin had never been a man prone to tears.
Even as a child, when he stumbled or hurt himself, Thaniel had been there to soothe him.
His gentle wisdom shaped Halsin’s understanding of the world, teaching him that balance was the essence of nature.
Pain was not an adversary but a companion to joy, hunger a reminder of fulfillment, restlessness a precursor to peace.
To be alive was to embrace these cycles with patience and reverence.
As a bear, Halsin had known the stillness of hibernation, the long sleeps that healed both body and soul.
But as a man, he had learned that the heart was far more complex.
Matters of love and connection required gentleness, not just instinct.
Love wasn’t about grand gestures but the small, quiet acts of devotion that nurtured it day by day.
To truly love someone was to see them, to understand them deeply, and to remain steadfast in both the light and the shadow of their lives.
When Halsin met Tav, it was in the depths of despair.
He had been captured by goblins, imprisoned, and resigned to his fate.
His failures hhad weighed heavily on him. His inability to lift the Shadow Curse, the suffering of Thaniel, and his retreat to the Emerald Grove, where he had found refuge but not peace. Silvanus had trusted him with a duty to protect the balance of nature, and he had failed.
When Tav freed him, it felt like the Oak Father himself had sent them.
They were determined, resourceful, and compassionate, offering him aid without expectation.
Despite his inability to help with their pressing issue, they took him in, fought by his side, and showed him a kindness he hadn’t known in years.
During their travels, Tav noticed everything.
They ensured he had honey at camp when they learned of his fondness for it, even arranging for mead at celebrations, though they knew he didn’t drink.
Their thoughtfulness was quiet but constant, woven into every interaction.
It was a reflection of their character, a relentless need to care for everyone around them.
When Tav answered his subtle issued hints, Halsin’s heart stirred, but his mind dismissed it.
He was consumed by his duties, his thoughts preoccupied with the Shadow Curse and the suffering it had caused.
He answered their flirtations politely, even warmly, but he did not allow himself to dream.
When Thaniel was finally saved, Halsin felt a glimmer of something he hadn’t allowed himself in years: hope.
His friend was safe, after all those years the land could begin to heal, and perhaps, for the first time in a long while, so could he.
Tav’s firelight became a sanctuary, their presence a source of quiet comfort.
In Baldur’s Gate, surrounded by the chaos of the city, Tav became his anchor.
They showed him the delicate balances of life within the urban sprawl, moments of beauty and community hidden among the chaos.
When he finally confessed his feelings, they declined.
Gently, with all the kindness that defined them, they explained that it wasn’t the right time. It hurt, but Halsin understood.
There were greater battles to fight, and their bond remained unbroken.
He stayed by their side, supporting them through every victory and setback.
When Orin captured him, he feared for his life but prayed only for Tav’s safety.
He was certain he would die on Bhaal’s altar in the foulest of all temples.
They cut through Orin’s forces with unwavering conviction and embraced him tightly when they freed him, promising they would always come for him.
And they cried.
When they freed Halsin, they sank into a deep embrace, clinging to him.
That moment confirmed what Halsin had known all along: Tav loved him deeply.
Not in the way he had wished the reciprocated his love but still.
When the Netherbrain fell and the world began to heal, Halsin found new purpose in rebuilding Thaniel’s realm.
He dedicated himself to caring for the orphaned children who had lost their families to the curse.
He told them stories of Tav, recounting their bravery and compassion with pride.
Seasons changed, and Tav visited when they could, bringing light and laughter with them.
Halsin cherished their presence, though he kept his feelings buried.
He indulged the occasional “what if,” but he always returned to the present, content to share their friendship.
One spring morning, Halsin returned from patrol to find Tav standing in Haven’s square. Their pack was slung over their shoulder, and they were looking around with a thoughtful expression.
His heart swelled at the sight, and he approached with the joy of seeing an old friend.
That evening, as they shared a fire, Halsin felt truly at peace. But as the night deepened, Tav moved closer, their voice lowering as they looked up at him.
There was something different in their gaze.
A longing that took his breath away.
“I have come to apologize,” Tav began, their voice soft but steady. “You were always there for me, the most brilliant friend anyone could ask for. And I told you I wasn’t interested in more. That was… a lie. I was afraid. You are so experienced, so gentle despite all your strength, all you wisdom, and I…” They cleared their throat, fiddling nervously with their tunic. “I wanted to talk about what you said, in Baldur’s Gate. About sharing more than a fire.”
Halsin’s throat tightened, but he forced himself to respond. “You do not have to, Tav. I apologize if it feels as though I have overstepped.”
“You haven’t,” Tav replied with a small, shy smile. “I came to ask if you’re still willing to indulge these feelings. With me.”
For the first time in years, Halsin felt the fragile hope he had long buried bloom once more. Their words, tentative yet heartfelt, struck a chord deep within him.
The walls he had built around his heart began to crumble, and he realized that perhaps the Oak Father had led Tav to him not just to save him but to show him the path to a life he had thought unattainable.
In that moment, surrounded by the warmth of the fire and Tav’s presence, Halsin felt a peace and joy he had never known.
He allowed himself to cry with joy and relief.
Maybe for the first time in his life.