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HERE COMES THE SUN
She’s not what he expects, despite the words of his rescuers explaining the “slightly odd” seventh member of their adventuring party. When he arrives with the tiefling refugees and finds an elderly woman in the middle of the camp with the brightest, warmest smile he’s seen in a very long time, something in Halsin eases a little. Something he stopped noticing was wound tight a long time ago.
There’s sympathy in him, of course. He understands human lifespans, and he can’t imagine it’s been easy for the woman—Linda, Wyll told him, her name is Linda. An odd name, but pretty. It reminds him of music—to endure the hardships of the situation at her age. Her strength impresses him.
Her kindness impresses him more. It can’t have been easy, putting together a cheerful party atmosphere with such limited resources and under such time constraints, but she went out of her way to do so for people she’s never even met. And when he hears her sing, a strange and unfamiliar tune about the return of the sun, a song that nonetheless stirs something warm in him, something…hopeful? He finds his eyes following her afterwards, and his watching gives him further proof of her generosity and gentleness.
He doesn’t get a chance to speak with Linda until the celebration ends, and it’s not what he hoped. When he says he intends to sleep beneath the stars as nature intended, just the hint of invitation in his voice, she’s dismissive—of outdoors, not of his invitation. He's not even certain she notices the warmth in his eyes.
Her words about nature shouldn’t sting. Even many of his fellow Druids consider him…abnormal, for how he relishes the natural world, longing for the untamed wilds rather than find comfort in “civilization.” She is no Druid, nor an Elf.
But it does sting, a little.
The sting has long faded and his sympathy is out in full force on the day when Linda peers down into the depths of the well in a blighted village and gazes with pleading eyes at Wyll, desperate for an option besides climbing down the rickety, rot-eaten rope that will lead them to the Underdark. When the suggestion is put forth that they jump into the Whispering Depths instead, the other option obviously doesn’t comfort her.
On impulse, Halsin offers to carry her. If Gale casts Feather Fall on the party, it will be easy enough for him to lift her. She looks like she weighs as much as a dandelion puff compared to his own bear-like strength. It would be no hardship to hold a beautiful woman in his arms for a moment.
“All you’d need to do is close your eyes and hang on,” he says. When she asks for his promise that he won’t drop her, he offers it without hesitation, a hand over his heart. She accepts, and he feels no shame over the spark of pleasure at the thought. She is very beautiful—the soft cloud of her hair, an intriguing mix of color and snowy-white, fascinates him; a sure sign he’s just dipping toes into the beginnings of infatuation—and her heart is warm and generous. He can certainly do worse in pursuing a lover.
Alas, Gale has to cast Sleep on her before any carrying can happen. He can certainly understand. It’s been centuries, but after some of his experiences in the Underdark, it took him a long while to feel courageous enough to venture down again.
He carries her safe down into the Underdark, determined to fulfill his promise.
Disappointment itches along Halsin’s spine as he forages—alone, for he needs to settle himself—in the Underdark. His party remains behind, except Astarion, who prowls somewhere out there in the darkness, hunting prey to slake his blood-hunger. They’re to meet back in an hour to return to camp.
So, Linda has a husband. Of course. As beautiful as she is, as good-hearted as she is, what man wouldn’t want her for a wife? Well, except Halsin. Marriage is not his way. He can understand the desire, though. And it is so very obvious when she speaks of him that Linda’s heart belongs only to the man she married. Fifty years. Remarkable. Especially for people as short-lived as humans. He envies her husband, a little.
Well. Halsin had hoped…many things. To get to know her better. To pursue her. To court her. To kiss her. To do more than kiss her, perhaps. Nearly all such hopes are not to be, but he can still get to know her. He can still be her friend.
And if his heart quickens when she draws near enough that he smells the scent of the laundry soap she uses, if his breath catches a little when the firelight touches on the cloud of her hair or her eyes light up at one of Karlach’s jests…it matters not. Her friendship is enough.
And it is enough.
It’s enough when they kneel over the travelers’ chest to find an extra bedroll for her in the middle of the night because Scratch and the owlbear Gus have driven her out with their inconsiderate flatulence. He expects nothing when he arranges the bedroll for her at the perfect distance from the campfire; he just wants to do something kind for her. To see her smile.
It’s enough when he catches her by her thin shoulders when the elevator jerks and she loses her balance. He doesn’t let his touch linger longer than it needs to in order to keep her on her feet. Her grateful look when he murmurs, Steady now. Almost there, warms him even as the Shadow Curse draws near.
He isn’t even thinking of friendship or the discarded wish to ask to be her lover when they sit just inside the doors of the temple, the shadows crouched just beyond the doors, and Linda huddles in on herself and shivers in understandable fear of the curse waiting to swallow them all. She has more sense than most, recognizing the threat.
Instead, he murmurs softly to her in Syl-tel-quessir. He knows she cannot understand. Few besides Wood Elves like himself can follow Wild Elvish. But he’s been told before that his voice sounds pleasant, comforting when he speaks this tongue rather than Elvish or Common; he’s heard this from frightened children, from past lovers, from wounded friends. It seems to help her, seems to keep the full edge of panic from cutting too deeply into her, and that is all he wants.
And that’s what he tells her, in the language she cannot understand. That he wants to help her. To protect her from the shadows that threaten. That he will protect her from them if the Oak Father wills it. That she is braver than she realizes. That she is a marvel to him, because she has sense enough to realize this place is a death-trap but she cares for her companions enough to follow them anyway.
When the others leave to scout ahead, and there is only the pair of them and Astarion blended into the more natural shadows as another protector, Linda hunches her shoulders.
“Don’t worry,” he says, trying to soothe. He dares to put a hand on her shoulder. “They’ll be back soon.”
She sings for him in the dark, then laughs a little when she realizes she’s forgotten the words. A song about darkness and sorrow, fitting for this place. She teaches him what a Garfunkel is. And then somehow, despite how careful he has been to keep things easy and light between them in the face of her fear, she finds the thorn in his heart with gentle words.
Elves, Halsin has to admit, often look down on younger races, though they should not. He knows looking down on any other race is folly. Yet it still surprises him when Linda recognizes the guilt he tries to keep sheltered inside him where it will not burden others.
More than that, it stuns Halsin when she puts the entire problem of the Shadow Curse into a perspective he’s never considered before.
“I don’t know much about shadow curses or magic or anything, but I don’t see how you could blame yourself for something like that,” as if there is no possible way in which he can be culpable for such an atrocity.
He tries to smile for her. It’s his job to cheer her right now, not the other way around.
“I am a Druid. It is my calling to protect nature.”
“Well, I’m a mom, so you could say that it’s my calling to protect my kids. They still hurt themselves hundreds of times. Is that my fault?”
“Not unless you’re the one who hurt them.”
Her expression is…captivating. Despite her fear, despite the obvious wish to be anywhere but on the edges of these accursed shadows, there is warmth and sympathy and gentle understanding in her voice and in her eyes like the forest, and it pierces him. Is it any wonder he finds himself drawn to her, wanting her friendship in lieu of what cannot be between them?
“So I don’t see how this Shadow Curse is your fault unless you’re the one who…cursed it, or whatever.”
Halsin wants to whisper gratitude and warmth and, perhaps, the first embers of adoration. Wants to pull her into his embrace, resting his cheek against her tangled hair. Wants to cup her face, brushing a thumb over her soft, wrinkled cheek, and press his mouth so gently to hers until he steals her breath or she steals his.
But he can do none of those things. She loves another, and he is her friend, and content to be so. Truly content, because she is a light in the darkness he’s tried for a century to remedy. She has brought the sun back with her words, and he is so grateful. Will always be so grateful he met her.
Your husband is lucky to have such a wise, caring wife, he thinks but does not say.
So he simply murmurs, “Fair point.”
He wants to whisper thanks to her, but he fears too much will come through in his voice. He does not wish to discomfit her. So they discuss the finer points of dealing with the Shadow Curse, and talk of asking Wyll for help. It’s a good plan.
Somehow, she gives him hope. Things may not be as desperate as he fears. With their companions fighting for him, with her light easing his sorrow and her wisdom giving him new eyes with which to see the tangled thorns of the Shadow Curse…perhaps saving this place is possible, after all.