Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“To all who at his longsword’s tip have met a frenzied end,
We raise a glass and pray the gods to us that luck extend!”

The air around you is thick and warm with the heat of dozens of bodies, all singing at the top of their lungs. As you shift, trying to relieve your aching feet (you worked a double at the shop today, afternoon and closing), your shoes stick to the floor. You’re getting too old for the Blushing Mermaid.

You would never normally let Val drag you out with her, but you’d heard good things about this bard troupe. They aren’t disappointing—in fact, their performance is raising some concerns about the structural integrity of this bar. You crane your neck to track down your coworker, only to find her hanging off the arm of the lute player. As she sings, she’s waving her mug of ale around like gravity doesn’t exist, splashing everywhere, and the poor musician is so entranced by her he doesn’t even notice how much she’s spilling on his instrument.

He’s barely playing, but he doesn’t really need to at this point. Songs about The Blade of Frontiers are popular—especially in the lower city, especially at the Blushing Mermaid, and especially at this time of night. Or morning, technically. The entire bar is singing along, almost drowning out the bards entirely. Exhausted and sober, you were seconds from ducking outside when they started up with Lucky Longsword. Not your favorite, but a classic. It would be disrespectful to leave during a masterpiece like that.

The second it’s over you’re wading through the crowd to Val, tapping her on the shoulder and miming your exit with a point to yourself and then to the door.

“No!” she cries, the poor bard forgotten entirely. “Stay, they’re doing your favorite next!”

You sigh. “I’m opening tomorrow.”

“Ugh,” she moans, tipping her head back dramatically. “You’re no fun.”

“I’m plenty of fun, just not when I have to work in five hours!”

“Fine, I’ll walk you home. One sec.”

“You don’t have to—“

“I’m walking you home, don’t be silly.”

She sets her ale down on a nearby table and gives the bard a kiss on the cheek. “I’m here every tenday. I hope I see you again.” He’s speechless behind her as she joins you in heading to the door. It’s not the first time she’s left a man looking shell-shocked, and you know it won’t be the last.

You nod to the doorman as the opening notes of “His Noble Blade” play, and you really do consider staying for a second. It’s only the thought of your bed that keeps you moving, even as the bar patrons begin to cheer, even as the first verse begins.

“One morning, not a tenday back
I met an orc with eyes of black…”

Dozens of drunk voices unite, chasing you into the street. You hum along, tail waving like a conductor’s baton, and Val giggles. She’s not quite a friend, but you enjoy spending time with her outside work and make a point to do so regularly. You also live close, which makes it convenient to walk each other home late at night. It’s something you’ve grown accustomed to, the quiet darkness of houses interrupted sporadically by the chaos of taverns and inns. After the sun goes down all the energy of the city shifts, consolidates into a few concentrated places. There’s something comforting about it.

Val sighs as you walk. “You know it’s a rapier he carries, not a longsword. They just say that for the sake of the double entendre.”

It takes you a moment to piece together that she’s talking about The Blade of Frontiers. You frown. “How do you know?”

“I hooked up with someone who met him. He saved her village from something-or-other a few years ago, before she moved to the city.”

“You sure that wasn’t just a story to get you into bed?”

“Nah, I’d already fucked her when she told me about it.”

“Angling for a repeat performance, then?”

She shoots you a stern look. “Let me have this.”

“Alright,” you say with a laugh. “I’m sorry, I’m sure he’s at least partly real.”

“She said he had brown skin and long hair. The stone eye thing is true, apparently.”

“The stone eye thing?”

“Yeah, you know in that one song there’s the line about his ‘noble brow and eye of stone’?”

You raise your eyebrows. “I guess I thought that was metaphorical. Like he’s got a cool, stony gaze sort of thing.”

“Nah,” she answers, pausing in front of her apartment to fish out her keys. “It’s like a carved stone eyeball.”

“Sounds heavy,” you speculate. Most of your brain is already occupied with planning what you’re going to do once you get inside your apartment, just one block further.

“If I ever meet him, I’ll ask if his eye gives him headaches and then use it as an excuse to give him a shoulder massage. That’ll be my move.”

You laugh. “If he’s as horny as he sounds in the songs, you won’t need a move.”

“She said he was hot, too. ‘Hot as the hells,’ I believe was her phrasing.”

“I should hope so, if they’re writing all those songs about him.” You try to sound engaged, but you’re sure your exhaustion shows anyway. She smiles.

“Alright, I’ll stop talking your ear off, I know you’re tired. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you,” you say as you start towards your apartment, listening to make sure she gets her door open okay.

You take a deep breath as you hear her door swing closed, taking in the peace and quiet of your street. To your right you can just see the Chionthar between the buildings across the street, sparkling with moonlight.

You turn away before you can see the moonlight disappear. Don’t see the massive shape that appears suddenly, silently, in the sky, blotting the moon out altogether. You don’t sense the enormous tentacles reaching down, disappearing people across the city with just a touch. Some see it coming; you hear a scream a few blocks away, but it’s cut off so quickly you think it must be a scream of laughter. Anyway, you’re almost home.

Then you blink, and when you open your eyes, you’re not on your street anymore. You’re looking through domed glass, at what can only be a mindflayer, though you’ve never seen one in person. As wrong as it all is, you’re too confused to feel any fear.

The fear doesn’t really hit until a minute later, when there’s a parasite burrowing through your eye, splitting your skull with pain.

You think blearily of the Blade of Frontiers. However handsome he is or isn’t, you could use an asshole with a sword right about now.

Chapter Text

The asshole with a sword is taking his sweet time showing up, you think to yourself as you crouch behind some shrubbery at the edge of a clearing. You look around at a group of strangers that are rapidly becoming much more than strangers. One of them even drank your blood last night. If that’s not grounds for friendship, you don’t know what is.

All of them are wearing expressions you’ve become very familiar with over the past few days. You’re already used to the way Astarion purses his lips and narrows his eyes when he doesn’t approve of something. You’re accustomed to Lae’zel’s muttered Githyanki cursing when she feels the same. Shadowheart is a little more stoic, but she goes quiet. Gale just avoids eye contact.

You’d been trying to track down some semblance of civilization, in the hope of finding a cure for the mindflayer parasites currently inhabiting your skulls. The sound of raised voices drew your attention, and now here you are. Things seem to be escalating at the gate up ahead. There’s a group of scouts seeking shelter, panicked at the prospect of having to face whatever’s on their tail. Still, the commander who’s blocking their way isn’t about to be swayed, his anger palpable even from a distance.

It’s this man who’s kept you from turning away. Him, and his compatriots along the top of the gate. They’re tieflings like you. It’s not like there aren’t tieflings in the Gate, you’ve seen plenty of people with tails and horns like yours. You grew up in the Upper City, though, and things are a bit more homogenous there. Even as an adult, even with your very intentional choice of job in the lower city, where you’re far less likely to get strange looks, you’ve rarely seen this many tieflings in one place. It compels you to stay, to help. To figure out who they are and where they’ve come from.

Apparently against their better judgement, your companions have decided to do the same. By the time the goblins arrive at the clearing, they’ve already started spreading out. You head for a rocky outcropping that will allow you a higher vantage point from which to cast, keeping hidden as long as possible. You crouch and crane your neck over the edge as goblins pour into the clearing, worgs and bugbears at their sides. As you do, there’s a twinge below your ear where Astarion bit you.

You stifle a tired sigh. It’s been a very eventful few days.

It’s then, as you kneel at the edge of the rock, that you hear a familiar voice. “Provoke the Blade…suffer its sting!”

You stare across the clearing, trying to make sense of what you’re seeing even as the ground seems to shift beneath you. The man is whirling, hair flying. The rapier, the catchphrase, the stone eye…it’s impossible, but it has to be him. It’s The Blade of Frontiers. Here, in the flesh. You’re dizzy with realization. He’s fucking real. You need to tell Val, you think absently.

That’s a lot on its own, but there’s something else that has you reeling, putting a hand to the ground to try and stabilize yourself.

You know him.

The sound of his voice brings back a thousand class discussions and group projects, sending you back to the halls of Balduran Academy, where you spent your entire youth. 12 years as a student, and he was there for all of them.

Your former class president is apparently the folk hero you’ve been singing drinking songs about, and he’s skewering a goblin right in front of you.

“What the fuck,” you mutter, dumbfounded. This you don’t manage to stifle, and it catches the attention of the goblin lurking beneath the rocky overhang where you’re crouched. She turns to look upward as you grasp frantically at the weave, pooling enough magic in your palms to reach down and send a wave of necrotic energy through her. She crumples like a puppet, and your eyes return to Wyll Ravengard as chaos breaks out in the clearing.

For the few seconds it takes to let more magic gather in your hands, you watch him fight. You took fencing classes together for years, but you’d forgotten how good he is. He’s fun to watch, graceful and playful and instinctive. There’s some texture to the way he moves that scratches a nostalgic itch in your brain, and you find yourself predicting his moves like you used to do when he’d dominate class tournaments, advancing round after round. Spin, dodge, parry, feint–he always loved a feint–then thrust. He’s cutting through enemies left and right, as efficient as you remember, but in the 10 years since you last saw him, he’s gained strength that’s made him even more mesmerizing.

There are other changes, none of them enough to make him unrecognizable. His hair is no longer braided close to the scalp like you remember, instead hanging in locs tied loosely away from his face. The eye thing is definitely new. And he was always such a gangly kid, but he’s filled out in a way that’s honestly a bit distracting.

“A little help down here?!” Shadowheart’s cry brings you back to reality, and you look down over the skirmish, calculating your best move. You get to work incapacitating enemies, blinding a worg or two and putting one unlucky goblin to sleep.

There’s a pleasure to the work that you try not to think too much about. Combat magic was always a strength of yours, something about the rhythm of it. It reminds you of watching your grandfather spin yarn, the way he would tug gently at the wool, portioning it out with deft fingers before releasing it to the spindle. You pull at the weave a bit at a time, shaping the magic and then letting it go, sending it wherever it’s needed. Your eyes are darting around, your mind focused entirely, and you don’t even realize who you’re helping when you blind the bugbear attacking Wyll. As it staggers and cries out, Wyll hesitates for a split second before driving his blade into its chest. You’ve already moved on to helping Gale.

The rest of the skirmish is a blur, just chaos and yelling and spells flying, blood everywhere, and then, all at once…it’s over.

You keep a hand extended, eyes still darting around the clearing, but none of your enemies are moving. Shadowheart runs to Gale so she can magically close a particularly nasty cut on his shoulder. Astarion is looting enemy pockets as Lae’zel cleans her blade. As for the Blade himself, he’s helping one of the scouts through the slowly opening gate, giving him a dashing smile that’s no doubt distracting from the injury that has him limping. You watch him go before standing up and heading down the rocky embankment to join your friends.

Will he remember you? Will he recognize you? It’s been ten years since you last saw him, but it’s not as if you’ve changed that much. For the twelve years before that, you saw each other nearly every day. That has to count for something.

Maybe, if you’re very lucky, you’ll finally get some kind of explanation. You still remember the day class president, fencing team captain, and generally friendly overachiever Wyll Ravengard stopped coming to school, just months before graduation.

Then again, perhaps you won’t. He never liked you much, though you’re still not sure why. The fact that the friendliest person in the world didn’t seem to want to interact with you at all was always something you tried very hard not to read into.

You rejoin your companions, trying to put your schoolgirl insecurities as far from your mind as possible.

It’ll be fine. You’re adults now. There’s no reason it has to be weird.

You take a deep breath and head through the gate.

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Whatever you were expecting when you finally came face-to-face with Wyll Ravengard for the first time in 10 years, it wasn’t a hug. He glances up from the tiefling kid he’s teaching to fight and steps forward immediately, wrapping his arms around you. You stiffen in surprise, but return the gesture. Have you ever hugged him? You don’t think you ever had a reason to. Still, it’s strangely familiar. He’s warm with exertion, and there’s still some blood on his sleeve, but otherwise it would be impossible to tell he just fought off a small horde of goblins. He smells better than he has any right to. Sweet and spicy, with a hint of jasmine.

He pulls back, smiling. Gods, you forgot how pretty that smile is. Arguably even prettier now, despite (or because of) the extra years and the extra scars he’s collected. You feel your cheeks start to warm, and you hate it. “I apologize for my enthusiasm,” he says, letting his hands brace your upper arms for a second before falling. “It’s just nice to see a familiar face. I recognized your magic, but I thought it was too good to be true–the one and only Tav, coming to my rescue.”

“Sorry,” Shadowheart interrupts, and when you turn back to your companions they’re all looking at you and wearing matching expressions of confusion. “You know The Blade of Frontiers? You didn’t think to mention that during any of those breathtakingly boring icebreakers Gale made us do?”

“Um,” you respond intelligently, ignoring Gale’s noise of protest as you look back at Wyll. “It’s news to me too, actually. We went to school together, but that was a while ago now.”

Wyll smiles ruefully. “It’s been a strange decade. But yes, this is what I’ve been up to.” He looks around at your group. “Please, call me Wyll.”

That’s when you feel it. The stomach-lurching, brain-clenching feeling of your tadpole recognizing another. For a breath that feels like a lifetime, you’re seeing the world through the eyes of Wyll Ravengard.

You’re pursuing a woman–a devil–through the hells. You’re single-minded and brimming with confidence. You can do this, because you must. Because there’s no other option. Your father’s face flashes through your mind, rare smiling wrinkles in rich brown skin next to an eye that looks like yours. A presence like a mountain, glorious and casting a shadow so large you can’t see the edge of it. At the sight of him, pain lances through your chest, and you channel it, willing your feet to move faster. It’s a vague impulse that drives you. For her, for him, keep her happy, make it up to him, be enough–run and run and run until you’re free, because surely that day will come. It will, because it must. It must. I must. Failure is not an option.

Abruptly, you fall back into reality, slightly dizzy, and his eyes widen.

He rubs his temple as he looks at you with something like dismay. “Well, that certainly explains some things. You were on the ship?”

“I–yeah, we all were,” you respond, still shaken from being dragged into his mind like that. Is this the longest he’s ever talked to you? Why is he being so friendly?

Gale, taking pity on you, steps forward. “We’re actually looking for a cure for our little worm friends, do you have any thoughts?”

Wyll looks to Gale, but glances back at you periodically as he responds. “Apparently the druid Halsin, who usually resides in this grove, is a gifted healer who’s been studying mindflayer parasites. Unfortunately, he’s gone missing. I’d planned to seek out the goblin encampment where he was last seen, in the hopes of tracking him down.” You feel a little thrill of vindication that your desire to help the tieflings has led you to a potential cure. You’ll rub it in everyone’s faces tonight over dinner.

“Seems prudent to join forces, no?” Gale offers, looking between you and Wyll.

Wyll hesitates. “It does…however, I do have another goal to accomplish.” He turns to you again. “That woman you saw, the devil–I’m to hunt her down and end her. I had tracked her all the way to the hells, but when I was infected I lost track of her. Presumably she’s somewhere around here, murdering her way across the countryside. I need to find her.”

“More than you need to get a deadly parasite out of your brain?” you ask, raising your eyebrows. He was always an overachiever, but that seems a bit extreme.

He looks down for a second like he’s formulating a response. “I’m in a life-threatening situation, yes, but so are many others if I don’t stop her.”

You and your companions exchange looks. Lae’zel wants what she always wants, which is to find a creche, but you still don’t have any leads on that. No one else seems to care much either way. Shadowheart just gives you a shrug.

Gods help you, you’re joining forces with The Blade of Frontiers.

“Alright,” you tell him, “let’s work together. If you need to break off and track your devil at any point you can, and if we come across her on our way to this healer we’ll help out.”

That smile again. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in days. Thank you, Tav.” You feel your cheeks flush once more under his intense gaze, and can only hope it’s hard to see in the low light of the cavern.

The rest of the group takes a moment to ask their own questions, getting to know him a bit, and you take the chance to look him over. For all the years you knew him, he wore his hair braided close to the scalp, but the longer hair suits him. It hangs in locs that fall just past his shoulders, entwined with golden ornaments. He made it through his teenage years with nary a pimple (overachiever), but his skin is no longer smooth, instead decorated with scars that, you have to admit, lend some of the ballads about him a fair bit of credence. There’s a chain around his neck with a silver feather-shaped pendant hanging from it that you can’t quite place, though it looks vaguely familiar, as if maybe it’s something he wore when he was younger and some part of your brain still remembers. As he glances around your group, you give his false eye a closer look. There’s some kind of magical resonance to it, but you can’t put a finger on it. It’s no normal stone, though, and you wonder if perhaps it’s enchanted to allow some semblance of vision. The skin by his eye crinkles, though he’s no older than you. You imagine long days and nights spent outdoors, traveling from town to town. A song you’ve drunkenly sung at every bar in the lower city comes into your mind—

Rest now your worries,
Allay all your fears,
Between you and peril,
Stands The Blade of Frontiers!

Perhaps this is all some divine joke being played on you for thinking your life was boring.

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It isn’t long before you’re heading back to camp. Wyll joins. You suppose it makes sense that he’d be ready to travel, seeing as he’s a folk hero who wanders the countryside, though that’s still unbelievably strange to think about. Regardless, it takes him no time at all to gather his scant belongings and join you all on the walk.

“So,” Gale starts as you leave the grove, “the two of you went to school together?”

“Indeed,” Wyll answers before you can, “Balduran Academy.”

“Oh! In the Upper City? I’m familiar with that school, it’s produced some very fine spellcasters over the years.”

You turn to shoot him a look. “Obviously,” you reply, eyebrows raised.

“Present company included, of course.”

You give him a smile so he knows you’re not actually mad as Wyll elaborates.

“It’s a very lucky few who get to attend. Our year was only made up of–what, 20 students?”

“Give or take,” you answer.

Shadowheart chimes in next. “Sounds very…exclusive.”

“Lots of patriars’ kids,” you answer with a sidelong glance and a smile, catching her sly tone. “And then, of course, there were the scholarship students. That’s how I got in.”

Wyll shoots you a glance, but doesn’t say anything.

“Impressive. You must have shown a great deal of promise,” Gale responds.

You sigh. “I guess so. I don’t know how you sniff out promise in a six-year-old, but supposedly that’s what it was.”

“She’s being modest,” Wyll interjects. “She was top of our class from the start.”

“It helps to have no friends,” you laugh. “I had nothing to do besides study.”

Shadowheart gasps in fake outrage. “Wyll, you didn’t want to be her friend?!”

He laughs now, too. “She was far too cool to be friends with me.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. You both know that wasn’t the issue. “Look, Wyll was always perfectly nice to me. And he certainly didn’t need to be. I was the only tiefling in our year, and some of the other kids were real assholes about it. We were friendly, we just weren’t friends.”

Shadowheart narrows her eyes slightly, but Gale seems to accept your words without question. “So then,” he says to Wyll, “how did you become The Blade?”

Wyll smiles. “That, my friend, is a very long story. Permit me to tell it at a later time. Perhaps sitting down, with some wine in my belly.”

Your companions smile and let the matter drop. As you all lapse into silence, the only sound your varied footsteps on the rough path of the forest, you feel Wyll’s eyes lingering on you, and you studiously ignore him.

Are you dying to know what his problem with you was? Are you desperate for an explanation of his disappearance a decade ago? Is the mystery of how he became the Blade of fucking Frontiers going to keep you up at night? Sure.

But he doesn’t need to know any of that. As far as he knows, you haven’t thought of him at all in the last ten years, and you’re going to keep it that way.

Chapter Text

You stumble back into camp just before sunset. It was an obnoxious day, filled with gnolls and a particularly nasty goblin encounter that has you searching for a stream to clean yourself off. You find one and collapse next to the water, stripping off your robes. Your camp clothes underneath are stuck to your body with sweat, but you’re too tired to actually bathe just yet. Instead you bend forward and roll up your sleeves before submerging your hands.

You’re not sure whose blood you’re washing off your arm. Some of it is likely yours, residual smears from before Shadowheart closed your wound. Some of it is likely Gale’s, too–he got caught by the same goblin’s scimitar before you were able to take her down. At least some of it is hers.

It all blends together in the water, running peach and crimson away from your skin as you kneel by the stream. The water is cold on your wrist, which might be the only reason you’re still sitting upright. A long day, preceded by a series of long days. The second you down some of Gale’s stew, you promise yourself, you’re passing out without another thought.

You’re so tired you barely turn around at the sound of footsteps. Not like it’ll make a difference whether it’s a friend or an enemy, you’re too exhausted to fight regardless, but luck is on your side for the first time in recent memory. Not exactly a friend, maybe, but definitely not someone who’s going to attack you.

“Well met,” Wyll says as he walks over, coming to sit on a nearby boulder. “Can I have a word?”

“Sure,” you answer, sitting back and drying your arm on the leg of your pants. You can’t remember the last time you talked to him one-on-one like this, and you can’t imagine what’s prompted it now.

He hesitates. His eyes don’t quite meet yours. “How…how well do you know Astarion?”

…Ah. Kind of impressive you managed not to see this coming, really. Of course the monster hunter would be able to sniff out a vampire. “Um, pretty well considering we haven’t known each other long. Why do you ask?”

More hesitation. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this. I’m almost certain he’s…a vampire.”

“Spawn,” you correct automatically.

His eyes lock onto yours immediately. “I–you’re aware?”

“Yeah. I can vouch for him, he’s fine.”

“He’s–?” Wyll’s brow is furrowed like he’s being faced with an especially difficult mathematical equation (you can say that with some authority, having sat next to him in more than one math class). “And you’re alright with that? You’re all just…sleeping next to him every night?”

You shrug. “Yeah. He’s a little shit sometimes, but he’s fought next to us. He’s taken hits for us. And if he was going to kill us, he could have easily done it by now.”

“That’s not–” he blinks a few times. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen him thrown off like this. “A vampire wouldn’t kill a potential source of food. He’d be more likely to drain you slowly when you’re not aware.”

Fuck. He’s not going to like this. “Um,” you start, shifting to face Wyll more fully, “he doesn’t really need to, I’ve…offered.”

To your surprise, after a moment where his face seems to be battling itself to find one cohesive expression, Wyll just barks out a laugh, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Of course. Sure. You’re already infected with a mindflayer parasite, why wouldn’t you be feeding yourself to a vamp every night?”

“Not every night, just last night.” His head snaps back up, eyes darting to your neck (covered, as usual, with your hair) before locking on yours again. “I knew we’d need him scouting ahead the next couple days and he’d need to be at the top of his game, so I gave him some blood. It’s the only time, other than when I first found out.” Which is not an encounter you need to relay to the monster hunter, you remind yourself. The whole sneaking up and biting you in the middle of the night thing likely wouldn’t come across as innocent as you might hope.

“Hells,” he laughs humorlessly, “is that why you were lagging all day? It is, isn’t it? You’d never have taken that hit to the arm otherwise.”

“That’s…kind of a compliment,” you mutter, rubbing your own face.

“I assure you, the last thing I want to do is make your life harder. I’m a monster hunter, though. I’m not prepared to have a monster as an ally.”

Heat prickles in the back of your skull. “Let’s be a little more delicate about the ‘m’ word, yeah? Because if you recall, I’ve been on the receiving end of it more than once. I don’t love it being applied to my friends.” It’s a bit of a cheap shot, considering he always stuck up for you when the other kids called you names, but you’re too tired to be sensible.

His wince is subtle, but you catch it. “Tav, this is different. It’s not a judgement,” he argues, “it’s nature. There are fiends and monsters, and then there are the people they prey on. I think it’s pretty clear which side your little friend over there falls on.”

“Is it? Because last I saw, that monster was enjoying a glass of wine and embroidering a flower on the cuff of his shirt.”

He doesn’t have an answer for that.

“Look,” you say when he remains silent, “we’re all half-monsters already with these worms in our heads. We can’t afford to see things so black and white.” He looks down, and you wonder what’s running through his mind. Having to take orders from someone he already dislikes can’t be easy. “I know I’m not a natural leader, alright? But for whatever reason, I’m in charge here. Honestly, I think I was just the least controversial choice. But as long as I’m in charge, Astarion stays. And as long as he stays, you need to treat him with respect.”

Again, he doesn’t respond the way you expect. There’s no rebuttal or disapproving look. In fact, other than the lines of frustration between his eyebrows, he’s almost smiling. He looks you up and down, assessing. “You’re better at it than you think.”

You frown. “Better at what?”

“Being in charge.”

“Oh.” You’re thrown off. That’s it? No more arguing? “Thanks, Wyll.”

“And thank you for hearing me out. It’s your decision to make, and I’ll do my best to honor it.”

“Can you teach some of the others those words?” you joke, still slightly flabbergasted.

“They all say it in their own way,” he replies with a small smile. “If I may make one more request of you–be careful with offering your blood. Again, it’s your decision to make, but it was unsettling to see you struggling today. For the team, I mean. We need our leader strong.”

“I will be,” you reassure him. “It’s not a great feeling, I’m not exactly anxious to experience it again.”

“Unfortunately,” he answers with a grim smile, “I know exactly what you mean.”

You imagine him facing down vampires on his own, and feel a pang of sympathy. “Thanks for keeping an open mind. I promise, he’s not so bad. Compliment his hair and keep physical contact to a minimum and he’ll take an arrow for you.”

“Good to know.” He smiles again and stands, brushing off the back of his pants before heading back to camp.

You watch him go, still a bit off-center. He seems to have that effect on you these days.

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An hour later, you catch Wyll taking your advice.

“It’s genuinely impressive,” he’s saying as you make your way over to the fire, dressed in fresh clothing and desperately hungry. “No product at all, you said?”

Astarion is looking at him sideways. “You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to butter me up.”

Wyll just smiles and shrugs. “Is it working?”

“Absolutely, darling. Flattery will get you everywhere.” He breezes past Wyll to drape himself over a log near the fire while the rest of you swarm Gale, who’s begun ladling out portions of stew and handing them out.

Wyll catches your eye, and you can’t help but raise your eyebrows.

“You were right,” he says as you step closer, still smiling faintly. “Is that what you want to hear?”

“I didn’t say a word,” you reply, fighting back a smile yourself.

“You’ll notice I never disagreed with you, there’s no call for smugness.”

“You’ll notice I still haven’t said a word,” you point out as he steps aside to let you get the next bowl. You take it, giving him and Gale both a nod of thanks as you head to find your own seat on the other side of the fire.

One by one, your companions all settle in, letting the sounds of eating take the place of conversation for a moment. It’s Astarion, who is not partaking in Gale’s cooking for obvious reasons, who breaks the peace, eyeing Wyll.

“So, Wyll,” Astarion drawls from where he’s draped over a log across the fire pit, “surely there’s some sweet little morsel in the city anxiously awaiting your return?”

He looks up from his food, mildly startled. “Me? Oh, I…haven’t spent as much time in the city as I’d like.” You note his hesitation, something calculated in his response, and wonder for the first time if his disappearance all those years ago wasn’t entirely voluntary. “Hard to maintain any kind of relationship when you’re always somewhere else.”

“So what you’re saying is, you’re available?”

He smiles, eyes fixed on the fire. “I’m flattered, truly, but…no, I’m afraid this heart is spoken for.” There’s a glint of firelight on the chain around his neck as he toys with the strange pendant that hangs from it. It’s a vague enough statement that you think he might just be trying to let Astarion down gently, though of course the vampire doesn’t give up so easily.

“One doesn’t need to share one’s heart to share their bed,” he replies with a smirk, eyeing Wyll up like a cat looking at a particularly juicy bird. You think perhaps your advice worked a little too well.

Wyll chuckles. “I suppose that’s true enough for some, but it’s never really been my style. I’ve never been able to separate my heart from…well, anything, really. I have a hard time doing things halfway.”

“So,” Shadowheart says from where she’s seated next to you, “there is someone, but you're not actually with them?”

He sighs heavily. “There was someone, but…it’s never worked out with them. Life always got in the way, I suppose. However, I promised myself that even if I could never be with them, I’d never settle for anything less than how they made me feel.” He shrugs. “No one else has come close.”

You remember him dating a few people in school, but no one who seemed like an epic love. Maybe there was someone, though. Maybe it’s related to him disappearing before graduation. “How long ago was this, exactly?” you ask, trying not to sound quite as desperately curious as you are.

He opens his mouth to answer, but Shadowheart interrupts. “Wait, so until you encounter this person again you’re just going to…yearn? Chastely?”

He chuckles again, leaning back to rest on his hands. “Perhaps it’s not as thrilling as chasing carnal pleasures, but there’s a certain beauty to it. So many people settle for something they don’t truly want, just to feel better in the moment. But a bit of loneliness isn’t too high a price for me. Not when I know what’s on the other side of it.”

“It all sounds alright in theory,” Shadowheart replies, shaking her head, “but surely it gets a bit…frustrating.”

Wyll glances toward your side of the fire, throwing Shadowheart a rare smirk. The light from the fire caresses his collarbone as he shifts, and you take a second to appreciate the way his skin seems to glow warmly in the low light. “That’s what books are for.”

The unexpected answer makes you smile, and his eyes dart to you. Shadowheart snorts by your shoulder. “I’ll drink to that. We’ll have to swap recommendations later.”

There’s a lull in conversation for a moment and Astarion stands, refilling his glass of wine and heading back to his tent. Lae’zel follows, muttering about needing to sharpen her sword again. Shadowheart turns to you.

“What about you?” she asks. “Anyone waiting for you back home?”

You sigh. “I’m not opposed to sharing my bed, but the heart stuff doesn’t usually work out that well. I think the only person waiting for me is my mother. I shot her a Sending after the crash, but it’ll be nice to see her in person if we make it to the city. She worries.”

“Just your mother?” The quiet question comes from Wyll, who’s watching you closely. From anyone else, it might seem presumptuous, or like he’s fishing for information, but he crossed paths with your parents more than once over the course of your school years. He would know that mentioning only one of them indicates a change.

“Yeah,” you say, bracing yourself. “My father died a few years ago.”

You wait for the usual discomfort and regret, the panicked backpedaling, but he doesn’t respond immediately. His face is stricken, but not in a pitying way or a way that makes you feel the need to comfort him. Just disarmingly earnest, like everything else about him.

“I’m very sorry to hear it. He was a good man, from what I remember.”

“You met her father?” Gale asks. You watch Wyll, curious to hear his answer. You remember his father, but you hadn’t really thought about whether he’d remember your parents at all. Most of your classmates’ families blend together these days.

“Just when I was young. He volunteered for school events on occasion. He had a memorable presence, if only because he was so different from…well, different from any parent I ever knew.” He smiles, a bit sadly. “Very gentle. Very kind. He brought in homemade cookies for our class once that I still think about sometimes.”

Warmth blooms in your chest and your throat tightens. It occurs to you that it’s been quite some time since you’ve spoken to anyone outside your family who knew your father. It feels a bit miraculous. Like a reassurance that he was real, and he was the person you remember him to be. “The little shortbread ones? Those were his specialty. That's what he always said, anyway, but I think they were the only thing he knew how to bake.”

Wyll smiles, brown and stone eyes both glinting in the firelight, and you feel a surge of gratitude towards him as he nods. “Precisely the ones. There’s not a chance you still have the recipe, is there?”

“My mom has it somewhere, but no one’s ever been able to make it quite like him.”

“I should imagine not. Those were some magical hands.”

His words conjure an image of your father’s hands–long, slim fingers, knuckles slightly swollen in his later years. Pale, freckled green that mixed with your mother’s sapphire to give you the rich teal-blue coloring you’ve carried your whole life. Suddenly you’re fighting back a prickling sensation behind your eyes.

“Yeah,” you answer after a moment, “that was him. Kind of ruined me for the rest of the world, to be honest. I thought everyone would be as kind as he was. Or if not everyone, at least someone. But—“ you sigh, “—he remains unmatched.”

“That’s not entirely true. He seems to have passed on a great deal of that kindness to his daughter.”

The words hit you like a blunt object. It’s easily the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to you, and he said it so casually.

Why is he being so nice to you?

“I’ll drink to that, too,” Shadowheart interjects, taking the edge off your sadness. You take a deep breath, willing the ache in your chest to subside. All you can do is offer Wyll a smile of thanks, not quite meeting his eyes. He seems to get the hint at least, looking back at the fire.

Shadowheart moves the conversation along, glancing between you and Wyll curiously. “Did you meet her mother, as well?”

“Just once or twice,” Wyll responds with a small smile. “She’s…a force to be reckoned with.”

You snort. “That’s certainly a way to put it. That’s true of your father as well, if I remember correctly.” You’re grateful to him for offering his memories, and you want to repay him in kind. “He came to some school play once when we were young. I think seeing you with him was the only time you ever really seemed like a kid to me.” You remember your brief foray into Wyll’s mind, the way his father had blotted out the sun. Anyone would feel small next to that.

He laughs, shaking his head. “Surely that’s not true.”

“It’s completely true, and you know it. Even our teachers would shut up and listen when you started talking.”

“I have no problem imagining that,” Shadowheart says. “Little Wyll, the most commanding seven-year-old to ever exist. I bet you always shook hands with adults you were meeting for the first time.”

“I can just picture a tiny Wyll counseling his middle aged teacher through a divorce,” Gale adds with a chuckle.

You’re laughing, because you remember exactly how true it all is, and he’s scoffing, pretending to be offended.

“Just the one teacher, alright? And it’s not as if—“

But Shadowheart is laughing now, too, and even Gale is chuckling.

“Oh, hells. You people are ridiculous.” Wyll shakes his head and rolls his eyes, but the firelight catches a dimple and a hint of a smile.

Shadowheart turns to you when the laughter dies down. “Was he just as dreamy in his younger days? Surely our Blade was the school heartthrob.”

Wyll groans, running a hand over his face, and you roll your eyes at the performative modesty of it. “Of course. A bit ganglier then, but yeah, everyone was in love with him.”

Shadowheart elbows you. “Everyone, everyone?” She wiggles her eyebrows.

“He wasn’t my type,” you respond, rolling your eyes again. “No offense, Wyll. Just a bit tight-laced for my taste.” You turn back to Shadowheart conspiratorially. “Also, he hated me.”

“I what?” His head whips around, his eyes landing on yours in confusion.

He can’t possibly deny it. You’re about to respond when Lae’zel’s cursing rings out across the camp.

“Steal from me again, leech, and it’ll be you I’m cleaning off my blade.”

“Ooh, that’s lovely. Downright terrifying, my dear. I’m all aquiver.”

“Come over here and say that like a true warrior.”

“Kind of you to offer, but I’m fine here.”

You’re already standing, setting down your cup. “Lae’zel,” you yell as you head towards her tent, “don’t kill him, he’s the only one of us who knows how to sew.”

Never a moment of peace with these idiots, honestly.

Chapter Text

There’s a rushing sound in your ears as you fight to keep your eyes open. The second you close them, the desperate watering of your eyes will turn to tears, and you can’t afford to look like you’re crying right now. Especially not if you just heard what you think you heard. Smoke is everywhere, burning through your lungs, behind your eyes. It’s hot and dry and horrible, and you’re barely keeping it together, but you need to make sure.

“Sorry, did you say the Duke? Duke Ravengard?” You can practically feel the tension rolling off of Wyll where he’s standing next to you. The Flaming Fists who are here might recognize him as the Blade of Frontiers, but none seem to have put together the fact that he’s also the son of their Duke.

“Yes,” Counsellor Florrick says, voice rough with smoke. “He was taken, we think to Moonrise Towers. We’re not sure why, but–”

“We’ll find him,” you say, and you feel several sets of eyes turn to you.

It’s not lost on you that only you know Wyll’s last name, and therefore only you know why it’s worth tracking down the Duke. You don’t usually make unilateral decisions like this without checking with the team first, and you don’t blame them for their confusion. If they knew it was for Wyll, they’d likely all be on board, but it’s not your secret to tell. You send up a silent prayer to any god listening that their trust in you can stretch just a little farther.

“Can you?” asks the Counsellor, relief in every soot-darkened line of her face. “We’re already split in too many directions. If we could we would, but–”

“We’ll figure it out.”

You hear a soft step behind you, and Shadowheart’s voice–gentle, but with an edge of exasperation. “Really, don’t you think we have enough on our plate without—?“

“We’ll find him. That’s the direction we’re heading anyway.” You ignore her, glancing instead toward Wyll’s face. He’s staring into the middle distance, brow furrowed. You remember him as a kid, looking up at his father with big eyes, so eager to please, and your heart aches.

You’re a team now. You have to stick up for each other. Shadowheart understands, or maybe she doesn’t, but either way she steps back again, dropping the issue for now.

One thing all your companions can agree on is that Waukeen’s Rest is fucking depressing. Even Astarion isn’t eager to loot bodies that still have friends praying over them, so as soon as you’re done talking to Florrick you all get back on the road. The goal today is the same as yesterday: make your way West, toward the goblin encampment.

Wyll lags at the back of the group, Astarion and Lae’zel taking point as usual (to dismantle traps and to dismantle monsters, as Shadowheart said yesterday). As you leave the fire-ravaged town, you studiously ignore the curious looks from your team, concentrating on getting clean air into your lungs.

After a few minutes, Gale pulls up next to you and speaks quietly. “Who exactly is this Ravengard fellow, then?”

You look at him, unsure. There’s a reason Wyll didn’t step up and say “Duke Ravengard? That’s my father!” and whatever that reason is, you’re not about to divulge the information on his behalf. Still, you don’t want secrets tearing your team apart.

“It’s…Wyll knows him.”

The wizard nods thoughtfully. “Family?”

You nod, looking down at the ground. “The relationship is complicated, though. I don’t think he wants people to know—“

“Far be it from me to admonish someone for keeping a secret. It’s just helpful to know there’s a reason we’re going after him.”

“There’s definitely a reason. Wyll…he doesn’t have a lot of family.” You never met his mother, and you remember learning at some point that she’d died when he was a baby. No siblings, either, same as you.

Gale nods again. “Forgive me if I’m overstepping, but the two of you seem to know each other very well.”

You shrug, a bit thrown by the change of subject. “We spent a good 12 years seeing each other almost every day.”

“So you knew everyone in your year this well?”

You hesitate. It’s a leading question. He’s implying there was something more between you and Wyll, which is absurd. But…well… “No,” you answer truthfully, trying to breeze past your second of hesitation. “I got made fun of sometimes, being the only tiefling. Kids pulling my tail, that sort of thing. He always stuck up for me, even as a young kid.”

“I thought you said he didn't like you?”

“Yeah, I mean, I don’t think I was his cup of tea personally, but…he’s Wyll, you know? He’s an overachiever in every category, including empathy. I guess because of that, I paid more attention to him. Tried to get to know him a bit better.”

“Hmm,” Gale hums thoughtfully, and you give him a chance to continue. He doesn’t.

“What?”

He startles, like he was lost in thought. “Ah. Apologies, I was just thinking…I don’t imagine there are many people who have tried to get to know that man.”

You snort. “Come on, all he has to do is smile and everyone falls in love with him. I’m sure he gets more attention than he needs.”

“Of course, but how many people know about his, as you put it, ‘complicated’ family? Or know that he doesn’t have much family at all? Or know how to talk the famous monster hunter into becoming allies with a vampire spawn? I’d wager there are very, very few.”

You chew on your lip. You remember watching Wyll’s friends talk to him in school. They always treated him like he was an idea of a person rather than a person. They somehow never seemed to notice how tightly he was wound, the way he went through quill pens like tissues because he was always snapping them from pressing too hard while writing. Or the way he always had one leg tensed, raised slightly up on the ball of his foot even when he was sitting still. Or the way he’d go quiet if he did less than perfect on an assignment, furrowing his brow slightly like he was scolding himself.

“You might be right,” you respond breezily, and try to ignore the way Gale’s lips quirk up at the corners. He has no reason to be smug. It doesn’t actually mean anything. None of this does.

You keep walking, and Gale eventually moves up to walk with Shadowheart. Once he does, Wyll slowly catches up to you.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. There’s no trace of his usual Blade charm, no cheeky grin or confident swagger. It’s unnerving. Not unpleasant, though. If anything, it's a bit refreshing.

“Of course,” you answer, keeping your voice light. “I told Gale that the Duke is part of your family, but I left it vague exactly who he is. I hope that’s okay. I thought that was the best way to keep people from asking questions.”

He looks over at you, studying your face, then looks back down at his walking feet. “I appreciate that.”

You’re sure this isn’t the best time, but there’s a piece of his story you’re missing, and you feel like it might be relevant. “Wyll,” you start hesitantly, “when you disappeared ten years ago–”

“We had a falling out,” he responds before you can finish asking the question. “My father and I.” He’s looking straight ahead, but you can see the crease between his brows. “I’m afraid I can’t really get into it beyond that.” He glances over at you. “I assure you, I have no desire to keep you in the dark, but it’s not something I have control over.”

Bizarre, but his tone is final, so you move on. “Have you spoken to him at all since then?”

It takes him a second to answer. “We’ve exchanged a couple letters over the years,” he says at length, “but I haven’t seen him in person. He’s still my father, though.”

“Of course.” Having lost one parent, you know how frightening it is to contemplate losing the one you have left. “We’ll find him, Wyll.”

He nods, and you keep walking beside each other in silence. It’s a surprisingly comfortable silence, and you feel no compulsion to break it. Little scraps of memory keep coming back when you’re this close to him. The way he moves, the warmth of his voice. His scent, which you remember noticing for the first time in 10th year, and which hasn’t changed since. That sweet, spicy, jasmine-touched scent.

You wish there was more you could do. For now you just keep walking next to him, hoping it helps him feel a little less alone.

*
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Three hours later, you’re in hell.

Heat everywhere. Armies, a burning landscape.

You’re a soldier in the Blood War. Your blade tears through flesh and scale, a scream ripping its way out of your throat. It’s myopic, this existence, nothing but the next enemy, the next swing, the next wound. Never, never, never stopping. Endless, bone-deep exhaustion.

Then the lurching sensation again, and the smoke evaporates. You’re on the bank of a river, and the woman whose brain you just briefly occupied is standing in front of you, eyes wide.

“What was that?!” she asks, breathing hard.

“Evidence,” Wyll is saying, drawing his sword before you or any of your other companions have a chance to answer. “Proof you’re a devil, a gladiator in the archdevil Zariel’s army.”

You hadn’t expected to stumble on Wyll’s quarry like this. It had come out of nowhere, the smell of brimstone and burnt leaves, a bloody handprint on a rock. Now she stands in front of you, tall, red-skinned, beautiful, and far more willing to talk than you would have assumed based on Wyll’s description.

“I can explain,” she’s saying, desperation in her eyes now, “but it’s a whole situation. If you’d just hear me out–”

Another lurch. Cutting down enemies one by one, nothing but the next second in your mind…except, the enemies are different now. They’re Zariel’s. The ones you’re supposed to be fighting alongside. You’re cutting them down, but they keep coming, an endless stream. All the while, you’re looking for an escape.

Rage. Desperation. A heartbreak so immense you can hardly hold it. Your own body, your own fate, ripped from your hands.

You stumble when you fall back into reality, stomach heaving.

You hear Wyll’s hard breathing beside you and know he’s having a similar experience, though his arm doesn’t drop an inch.

“She’s trying to trick us,” he argues, glancing over at you with teeth clenched. “Don’t believe her lies.” He’s unraveling, you can tell. It takes a lot to rattle Wyll Ravengard, but news of his father’s abduction seems to have done the job. There are alarm bells ringing in your head, and you’re realizing just how delicate your current situation is, because you’re starting to suspect this woman isn’t a devil at all. At a glance behind you, your companions seem to be feeling the same, all of them eyeing Wyll’s back warily.

When you speak, you do so softly, keeping your voice as even as you can. “Wyll, she didn’t want to be there. Didn’t you feel it?”

He shakes his head, eyes locked once again on the red woman. His sword is shaking slightly where it’s pointed at her heart.

“I never wanted to fight for her,” she pleads, eyes darting between you and Wyll. “The second I had a chance, I escaped. I just wanted to go home.” The last words are soft, almost childlike, at odds with her brash demeanor, and you feel a surge of pity towards her.

Wyll is not moved. “You fought for her, that’s enough to damn you.”

He’s further gone than you realized. If you don’t talk sense into him, he’s going to murder this woman. You turn to him, your anxiety turning to exasperation. “Nine hells, you’re stubborn. Is it so impossible she’s telling the truth?!”

His grip tightens on his sword, but as he looks at her, his face falls. Just briefly, but long enough that you can see the pull of dread on his handsome features. “You don’t understand what you’re asking me to do,” he says softly, talking directly to you now, though his eyes don’t move from her.

That trips you up for a second. Maybe he’s not so far gone after all. Maybe there’s an unknown quantity here that you’re not factoring in.

“Come on, Wyll,” you say softly, like you’re talking him off a ledge. “She’s not a devil. I think…I think she’s just a tiefling.” That earns you a quick glance from him, but immediately his eyes are back on his quarry.

It’s a long, tense moment before he sighs and drops his sword arm. “Shit. You really are no devil, are you?” He passes a hand over his exhausted face. “I’ve been deceived.” He sounds completely shocked, confused in a way you don’t understand. Deceived by who? You’d assumed he took on this mission by himself. Has he been getting his orders from someone else?

“Thank the gods,” the woman sighs, her posture relaxing. “Thought I was gonna have to take your head.”

“You would have died in the attempt,” he responds automatically. He’s not over it just yet. There’s still a part of him tallying up every innocent life she took and weighing them against the not-so-innocent. But there’s a truce for now, and it’s the best you can hope for.

Once the tension dissipates, the woman introduces herself as Karlach. She’s fiery, both literally and figuratively, with an infernal engine for a heart, and very much an ally. She soon has the group chatting cheerfully on the way back to camp.

All of you, that is, save for Wyll, who once more is lagging at the back of the group. He touches you on the arm softly during a lull in conversation, and you fall back to walk beside him again.

He looks far older than his 27 years, his face drawn. His entire body seems tense. He’s been on edge since you heard about his father, but this seems like something else entirely.

“Would you do me a favor?” he asks quietly, voice tight with something that might be anxiety, you’re not sure.

“Sure, what do you need?”

“If something happens to me–”

You stop dead in your tracks. “Wyll, what–”

“Just listen,” he says, reassuring you as you stumble into walking again. “I’m not saying something will, but if it does, tell me you’ll still try to find my father.”

“I promise,” you say quickly, more focused on the rest of what he’s saying. “Why are you asking me this now?”

His eyes dart around nervously. Have you ever seen him like this before? Anxious, sure. Tightly wound, definitely. But nothing like the fear that’s in his eyes right now. “I’m sorry to be mysterious. I would explain if I could.”

You frown. “Why can’t you explain?”

He shakes his head. “All I can say is that I’ve made decisions that will likely have consequences, and I’m not sure what those consequences will be just yet.”

“Are the rest of us safe?” you ask, and feel a bit guilty for it. You need to know, though.

“You’re safe. This has nothing to do with you,” he answers, which seems like suspiciously careful wording, but you know that’s all you’re going to get from him.

“I’ll look for your dad, Wyll. But we’re a team, we’ve all got your back. We’ll fight to keep you safe.”

He smiles, unconvinced. “Thank you.”

The rest of your walk is quiet, though not so comfortable as the one from Waukeen’s Rest. You’re too busy catastrophizing, thinking of all the horrible things Wyll could be tangled up in. From an occasional glance over at him, he seems to be doing the same.

Chapter Text

Your catastrophizing, for once, proves correct.

It’s not long after you arrive in camp that someone else arrives: a devil with grey-blue skin and an obnoxiously imperious air. Karlach seems to know her from her time in the Hells. Wyll knows her better, seeing as she’s his patron.

A warlock. How did you not see this coming? He was a decent spellcaster in school, but he never had the power that he has now. Why did you never think to ask where it came from?!

As you watch, trying to think of anything you could do that wouldn’t make the situation worse, she seems to wrap an invisible hand around his throat and squeeze. He falls to his knees. “You told me–devils only–she’s a tiefling, not a monster!” he chokes out, and you feel Karlach next to you, anger quite literally radiating off of her.

The devil studies the nails of one hand, answering him in a bored voice. You’re not sure you’ve ever disliked someone this much after knowing them this little. “Clause G, Section Nine: ‘Targets shall be limited to the infernal, the demonic, the heartless, and the soulless.’ Karlach meets the criteria, pet. Trust me on this.”

“You won’t lay a finger on her,” you say as if you have any authority to back you up, but Wyll chokes out a chuckle and Karlach inhales sharply next to you.

“That ship has sailed,” the devil replies carelessly. “But,” she says, turning to Wyll with a glint in her eye that makes your blood run cold, “a defiant pup needs to be punished.”

You blink, and Wyll is engulfed in flame.

“You don’t understand what you’re asking me to do.”

“If something happens to me–”

His earlier words return to you as he screams, the roaring of the hellfire swirling around him, and you realize, with an impact like a punch to your gut, that he knew this was coming.

You told him not to kill Karlach, and he listened. Knowing he was disobeying Mizora by doing so. Knowing this was waiting on the other side.

She’s dragging him through the hells right in front of you, and all you can do is watch.

It lasts for seconds, or hours, or days, and then silence falls heavy over camp as he stumbles to his feet. His silhouette is strange. There’s something different–but then he raises his head, and it all makes sense. She’s turned him into a half-devil. She’s turned him into the thing he hunts. Your campfire, dim compared to the swirling vortex a moment ago, highlights new ridges that have risen under the skin of his shoulders, his arms, his cheekbones. There are tears of pain on his cheeks, but he’s clear–eyed. He raises a hand to the rather impressive horns that have sprouted from his forehead, and he doesn’t seem surprised. Just angry.

Something twists in your gut. You understand, you know she turned him into a devil and not a tiefling, you know it’s different. It chafes nonetheless. The traits of your own body, the features you were born with, bestowed like a curse.

“Don’t forget,” Mizora says as she begins to fade, “our pact still stands.” Then she leaves as quickly as she came, quiet devastation in her wake.

Wyll shakes his head bitterly, watching the spot where she stood. Before anyone can say anything, he’s turning and walking back to his tent.

There’s a moment of stunned silence before everyone withdraws to their usual corners; Lae’zel goes back to her training, Gale settles next to the cookpot, and Astarion and Shadowheart head back to their own tents. You stand awkwardly in the middle of camp, unsure of what to do.

Then you feel heat next to your shoulder.

“You gonna follow him, or should I?”

You turn to look up at Karlach. “You don’t think he needs some time?”

“Fuck if I know, but I don’t think I’d want to be alone with my thoughts right now if I were him.”

You mull it over for a second, trying to pinpoint what’s holding you back. “She made him look like us. That was her punishment.” You’re not sure how you’re feeling, whether it’s shock or sadness or anger making your voice shake.

“Jokes on her,” Karlach responds quietly. “He looks fucking great. As do we.”

You shake your head. “I know, I just…I think it took me a while to get to a place where I didn’t see my own horns as a punishment, you know? I’m not sure I can get out of my own feelings right now and be, like…comforting. Maybe you should be the one to go talk to him.”

“Or maybe that’s the exact reason it should be you?” She looks at you, eyebrows raised. “Also,” she adds as an afterthought, “I met him six hours ago and you met him like 20 years ago.”

“Fuck,” you sigh. She’s right and you know it. “Yeah. Um…” you rack your brain for an entry point, some excuse to go talk to him so he won’t think it’s just a pity visit. “You have any extra horn balm?”

“Ooh, yes! Brilliant, I’ll grab it now.”

You wait as she jogs back to her tent, trying to breathe past the anxiety squeezing your chest. She returns quickly, pressing a small, slightly greasy jar into your hand, and you brace yourself before heading to the tent across camp that you saw Wyll carefully ducking into a couple minutes ago and pausing in front of the flaps.

“Hey,” you call softly before you can think better of it, “I have something for you, can I come in?”

You think you hear a sigh, then a tired “Sure.” Before you can think better of it, you step inside.

When you see him, he’s sitting on a stool, elbows on his knees, heels of his palms over his eyes. He lifts his head as you enter and looks your direction, and you realize his real eye has changed as well, from warm honey-brown to black and red.

You think about asking why he spared Karlach, despite knowing what Mizora could do to him. You think about it, but you don’t. You know the answer. The second he wasn’t sure she was guilty, there was never any other way it was going to go. No matter what the punishment.

Instead, you remain silent for an awkward amount of time. When you realize this, you speak more out of panic than actual intent, and it shows. “So Mizora seems…nice.”

You bite your lip instantly, sure he’s going to be angry, but his laugh is loud and surprised. “Yes, she’s a treat.”

“You okay?”

He gives you a knowing smile. Of course he isn’t. “I could’ve gotten much worse from her, honestly. Warlock pacts aren’t known to be forgiving. And–” he gestures to his horns– “these aren’t so bad. Though, admittedly, I can’t pull them off like you can.”

He’s trying to be nice, to babysit your feelings, after being dragged through the hells. Annoying. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

“Do what?” he asks with a frown.

“Be all…Blade of Frontiers about it. It isn’t going to hurt my feelings if you’re unhappy about the horns, Wyll. Gods know I haven’t always liked mine. I certainly had days where they felt like some kind of infernal punishment.” You bite your lip again, hoping he doesn’t think you’re trying to make light of his situation, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

Instead, he frowns, tilting his head to the side. “You don’t like your horns?”

“I do now, or at least I feel neutral about them now,” you answer honestly. “There were some tough years as a kid, though. I just felt like I never had the option to blend in, you know? Like the skin and the horns and the tail, it was a lot. I wanted so badly to just turn it all off for a day, snap my fingers and be human for a bit.”

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, his eyes disarmingly earnest as they watch your face. “I always liked them, for whatever that’s worth. They suit you.”

You can’t help but smile a bit. “Thanks.” He just nods, so content to dole out kindness without expecting anything in return. Perhaps that’s why you feel the need to compliment him back. “For whatever it’s worth, I like yours, too. You wear them well.”

His eyebrows raise, and your cheeks warm. For a moment he just half-smiles at you. “It’s worth quite a lot, actually. Thank you.”

You avert your gaze, pretending to look around his tent. It smells like him in here, potent and warm and close. It’s not unpleasant. “Yeah, of course.”

He shifts, sitting up a bit as he watches you. “You said you had something for me?”

“Yeah, here you go. Sorry if it’s…I don’t know, too soon.” You offer him the jar you got from Karlach, and he takes it, frowning at the label.

“Horn balm?”

“Yeah. It’s not strictly necessary, but any tiefling worth knowing will judge you if you don’t keep them moisturized.”

He nods. “Thank you. I can borrow this?”

“Karlach had extra, that jar’s yours if you want it.” You realize you didn’t actually confirm that with Karlach, but she’s so generous you can’t imagine it will be an issue.

He unscrews the lid gingerly and gives it a sniff.

“The ones like that in the blue jars are usually unscented, but sometimes people buy those because they’re cheaper and then add in a couple drops of an oil they like. That’s what my mom always does. And then just apply as often as you need to keep them looking nice. It’s a couple times a week for me. Karlach does it daily because the heat dehydrates her so much.”

He nods again, screwing the lid back on. “Thanks again.”

“Yeah, of course. Karlach and I are around if you have any questions.”

You both lapse into silence. He doesn’t seem unwilling to talk about what just happened, about what this means for him, but he doesn’t seem eager to start the conversation either. “Wyll,” you start hesitantly, unsure if this will help or hurt, “are you…I mean, what will your dad—?”

He sighs heavily. “If we manage to find him, he’ll have some opinions, I’m sure. Hard for our relationship to get worse at this point, but if anything would do it…” There’s another pause while he stares at the canvas wall of his tent. When he breaks the silence again, it’s with his own hesitant question. “Why do you ask?” You don’t answer right away, trying to figure out a tactful answer. “Did he ever say anything to you—“

“No,” you interrupt, and you’re not lying. “He was always very polite, but…I don’t know, there’s a vibe you start to pick up on after a while. It’s not always accurate, but it usually is. I just got the sense he maybe…had some biases, regarding…horns and people who have them.”

“Shit,” he says softly, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, I always tried to talk to him about that stuff, push back, but he thought I was just…he didn't take me seriously. The infernal has always scared him. Anything he sees as even distantly related is impossible for him to see objectively. I’ve never been able to change his mind on that.”

You think for a moment. “So I imagine the whole pact-with-a-devil thing didn’t go over too well. Did he find out? Was that the last time you saw him?”

He opens his mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. He sighs frustratedly before trying again. “I’m sorry, it seems there are still some things I can’t talk about.”

Something clicks. “It’s Mizora, isn’t it? She tied your tongue about the pact and everything?”

He just smiles humorlessly in assent.

“That’s fine,” you say, “it’s not like I need to know every detail. But–hells, Wyll. If your dad hates anything infernal, the fact that you–”

“That I’m half devil now?” he finishes, his smile turning bitter. “Yes, I’m truly my father’s nightmare come to life.”

You wanted to help, you thought maybe he’d want to talk a little, but you didn’t think he’d open up like this. It’s easily the most you’ve ever talked to him in one sitting. It’s not too much, though. If anything, it’s helping you put together the pieces of an old puzzle, filling in some gaps of curiosity that you’d long since given up on filling. You genuinely want to know more. “He’s always been hard on you, hasn’t he?” you ask, leaning forward a bit.

“He values earning things. You know most of our classmates came from old noble families, but my father was the first in my family to even come close to nobility. The way he told it, he did it through good old-fashioned hard work. He just rose through the Fist ranks until he achieved status. He never let me forget how delicate our position was. I can’t remember a time I didn’t feel that pressure.”

“Gods, Wyll. That’s a lot for a kid. And an adult.” You hadn’t ever thought of the differences between Wyll and your other classmates, but they’re glaringly obvious in retrospect. “I always felt like I had to earn my spot at that fucking school, but I didn’t realize you felt the same.”

“There’s a reason you and I were the ones battling it out for top marks in every class.”

“Is that why you always stuck up for me? You knew I had a chip on my shoulder like you did?” You say it jokingly, but it’s an earnest question.

He smiles to himself. “That was part of it, certainly.”

“It’s ridiculous,” you say, shaking your head. “We were kids, we deserved an education. That’s not entitlement, that’s just…what’s right.”

“Believe me, I’ve had this conversation with my father. He just keeps insisting I’m being naive.”

He lets his head fall back slightly, and a horn tip catches in the fabric of the tent. He winces, jerking away, but the whole tent threatens to come down around you both when he does.

“Whoa, hold on,” you say, holding out a hand before moving towards him. It’s horrible seeing him like this, powerless and at another’s mercy. You avoid looking at him too directly, but you see his cheeks shining with embarrassed heat.

“Shit,” he mutters again. He sounds genuinely frustrated. Discomfort writhes in your belly like you’re seeing something you shouldn’t be. In all your years of knowing him, you can count on one hand the number of times you’ve witnessed a pure negative emotion from him. He usually mixes them like cocktails, cutting frustration with self-deprecating laughter, cutting sadness with a cheeky smile. This feels altogether too real.

Nonetheless, you come to stand beside him, reaching out to gently grasp the tip of his horn. Horns don’t have nerve endings of their own, but in your experience, you know when they’re being touched. It must be the shock of that sensation that has Wyll inhaling softly as you take hold and guide the horn to freedom.

“You’re good now,” you say, but you don’t sit back again just yet, examining where he got caught.

It wasn’t actually the fabric of the tent that got a hold of him, but rather one of the ties securing the fabric to a tent pole. You get to work looping the tie around itself, securing it out of the way. When you finish and look down, you realize you’re standing absurdly close, looming over him. He looks up at you, and the pupil of his stone eye catches a shadow, forcing you to notice it for the first time. It’s shaped like a heart. It distracts you so much you have to blink to bring yourself back to the awkwardness of the moment.

“Sorry,” you say with a slightly nervous laugh, backing away a bit. “That should be nice and out of the way now.”

He stares intently back at you, so earnest you feel your cheeks turning red. “Thank you, Tav. Seriously.”

Gods, what is it about him that tugs at your heartstrings like that? “Of course, it’s no big deal. You’ll get used to them. Until then I can help you keep an eye out for low branches.” It’s a lame attempt at a joke, but he breathes out a soft laugh.

“I appreciate it.”

You just nod, looking around the tent again to try and take some of the pressure off.

There’s not much else to say, and you’re not sure you haven’t made him feel worse by being here, but it feels wrong to leave him alone while his eyes are all wide and vulnerable like that. Your gaze lands on the little blue jar he’s still holding, and you nod at it. “Need any help with that?”

He blinks at you, a tiny crease appearing between his eyebrows. “You sure?”

You’re honestly not sure at all, you have no idea why you offered. It’s just weird seeing him so sad. You felt compelled to fix it somehow. “Yeah, of course.”

“Alright,” he says.

“You sit on the floor and I’ll steal your stool,” you tell him as he hands you the jar. He does so, shifting until he’s sitting with his back to the stool. You straddle it, your knees bracketing his shoulders. You open the jar and hand him the lid, then the jar itself, grabbing his wrist and directing him to hold it up by his shoulder where you can reach it. It’s not until you’re dipping a finger in that you realize you’ve positioned him exactly the way your father used to when he’d oil your horns as a kid. You can’t help but smile at the thought.

You warm the balm between your hands before using your still-clean wrists to tilt his head back slightly. Then you start, wrapping your fingers around the base of his right horn. The hard material absorbs the balm quickly, and you scoop out more, rubbing it warm before working it in. His horns are a different color from yours, grey like his stone eye, though the balm brings them a warm translucence.

“Alright,” you say once you’ve found a rhythm. “So we can’t talk about the pact. What should we talk about?”

His answer comes quickly. “Why do you keep saying I hated you when we were younger?”

It’s not what you expect at all, and your hands stall for a moment. “I mean, ‘hated’ is me being dramatic, but…come on. I could tell you didn’t like me. You were always polite when you talked to me, but you never talked to me any more than you had to.”

“Hold on,” he says, sitting up and half-turning so you have to dodge a horn, “that’s all you’re going off of?”

You use your wrists to turn him forward again. “Wyll, you talk to everyone. You’re constantly trying to get to know people, asking questions, getting invited to strangers’ houses for dinner. So when there’s someone you actively avoid talking to…”

“Still,” he argues, “I always shut other kids down when they teased you, surely you didn’t think I was doing that because I hated you?”

“No, I assumed you were doing that because you’re…you know, you. But Wyll….” You hesitate, not wanting to give him a hard time, and frankly not enthusiastic to delve into your high school psyche. But then, he did ask. “If you were talking to people and I joined the conversation you’d either shut down or leave. Whenever I made a point in class you’d jump in to argue against it, even if it contradicted a previous argument you’d already made.” You give him a moment to respond, but he’s silent, so you continue. “You’re the friendliest person in the world, so it’s really obvious when you’re not friendly to someone. You obviously didn’t want me to be bullied, and I will be forever grateful for that, and I give you all the credit in the world for that, but you also very clearly did not want to have anything to do with me otherwise.”

He sits with that a few seconds before answering. “I’m so sorry, Tav.” The sadness in his voice breaks your heart all over again. You need him to stop doing that.

“It’s fine, Wyll, I’m not trying to kick you while you’re down. It was a long time ago.”

“That’s horrible, though. I never meant to make you feel…hells, I’m an idiot. I’m sorry.”

You squirm a bit, unsure you’ve ever received such an earnest apology. “Stop beating yourself up, I was just answering your question.”

“No, I’m glad you told me. I honestly had no idea. Of course you’d think...” There’s a long moment of silence before he finally continues, a bit quieter. “I never disliked you. Quite the opposite, actually.”

“It’s fine if you did, Wyll. Sometimes people just don’t like other people, that’s not–”

“I liked you very much,” he interrupts, and there’s an almost panicked edge to his voice, like he needs you to understand. “I just never knew what to say to you.”

You frown. “What do you mean?”

“You were so much cooler than I was,” he answers with a self-conscious laugh.

Your fingers stop moving again as you process his words. This conversation has been a journey. “I…sorry?! I was an anxious mess. I could barely speak. I had no friends.”

“You rarely spoke, but when you did it was either brilliantly clever or wickedly funny. You were the best spellcaster in the Academy by the time you were an eighth year. It was intimidating as all hells, Tav.”

“I–alright…” you reply, head spinning. You rub balm on the same spot for the third time in your distraction. “Why’d you always argue with me in class, then?”

He laughs. “I’m not sure, I think at the time it felt like the easiest way to talk to you. No small talk, a built-in topic of conversation. If I disagreed with you, it was guaranteed that you’d respond.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It makes sense when you’re 13.”

You shake your head disbelievingly. “I guess.”

“I promise you, I never hated you. I’m not sure I could if I tried.”

“That’s…thanks, Wyll.” You grather another scoop of balm and work it into the last section of horn. He doesn’t respond, but you can see a sliver of his cheek pulling into a smile. “How exactly did this turn into you making me feel better? I came here to cheer you up.”

“You did, truly. Or at least you’ve made things a bit brighter. I suppose I’m just…trying to reflect some of that light back at you.”

You smile. So corny. So Wyll. “Just keep some for yourself, alright? I’m good, light-wise. You need a little extra right now.” You scrape excess balm off your fingers on the lip of the jar, then wipe the residue on the tip of your tail, which has been looking a bit dry. “Alright, all done.”

He leans forward to grab the hand mirror from the foot of his bedroll and examines his reflection. You can’t see enough of him to make out an expression, but you feel his shoulders rise and fall as he takes a deep breath. “This will take some getting used to, I imagine.”

You lean so you can see more of him. “Look, some of us are born sexy. Some of us have sexiness thrust upon us. I’m sure it’s overwhelming.”

“Glad you understand,” he responds with a quiet laugh.

“I’ll leave you to it,” you say as you stand, shaking out your hands after all the rubbing. “I’ve taken up plenty of your time already.”

“I appreciate it.” He grabs your wrist as you turn toward the door, and you look back at him. His eyes are wide and serious. “Truly.”

He drops your wrist and you give him a last sympathetic smile before lifting the flap and ducking outside. You head back to your own tent, lost in thought.

There’s a soreness in your chest, a little bit of hurt healing over. Hurt you didn’t even realize was there. A bruise left over from when you were a kid, something about how the one person in school who was willing to stick up for you didn’t even like you.

Except, he did. He thought you were cool.

It’s got you feeling off-center again. Just…slightly wonky, like you’ve gotten a new haircut that you haven’t adjusted to yet. Like you know it looks good, but you keep trying to brush away hair that isn’t there anymore, and you haven’t adjusted to the lighter weight.

Chapter Text

Tav

You’ve never been much of a partier, but then you’ve never had the opportunity. Being largely friendless in your youth, the only parties you attended were pity invites that you felt obligated to honor. It’s an altogether new experience, walking through your camp and hearing people call your name, seeing people smile and wave at the sight of you. It’s a slightly disorienting end to a nightmarish few days spent sneaking around a goblin encampment, taking out their leaders one by one. It was worth the muscle cramps and the constant anxiety to see the tieflings safe, though, and you’re glad they insisted on a night of celebration before continuing their journey towards the city. Bards are playing songs you know from dance classes in school and from nights around the city, and you find yourself humming along as you wander. When you pass Gale, he snags your arm and pulls you into a sloppy waltz before you both dissolve into laughter.

It feels good. It feels warm. You have friends. You’ve had some of the worst days of your life in front of these people, and they like you in spite of it.

Still, there’s something missing. You move through the crowd, a sea of faces and emotions you observe a bit distantly. None of it really feels like it’s touching you. For all that the tieflings look like you, and as wonderful as it feels to be normal for once, you don’t come from Elturel. You’re no refugee. You have more in common with the people who bullied you for your appearance than you do with these people who look like they could be your family.

And as for your companions…they like you, but they don’t really know you yet. Not all of you.

You find a glass and a bottle and drink quickly, filling up again before heading off to make another round of the party. Warmth settles into your limbs, and your thoughts and insecurities slowly drift to the back of your mind. The music and laughter swell to fill the spaces they leave behind, and soon you’re floating, finally able to let yourself just…feel. Even Lae’zel gives you an approximation of a smile, and you immediately head to Astarion’s tent to tell him about it. He purses his lips around a smile as he refills your glass from the bottle he’s commandeered for himself.

There’s something in the air tonight. Astarion makes a halfhearted pass at you, almost out of obligation, and you just laugh until he stops being offended and joins you. Halsin is playing hard to get, but Shadowheart is trying anyway. Karlach is going to set someone’s clothes on fire before the end of the night, the way she’s working. It all feels right, safe and happy and warm.

Then again, perhaps that’s just the wine.

You can’t find Wyll, not that you’re looking. But you’re relaxed right now, and confident, and you want him to see you like that. You need him to know you’re not just the awkward girl he grew up with (even though apparently he thought you were cool anyway??).

It doesn’t matter, of course. His opinion is low on your list of priorities. But it would feel nice. And you’d really like to feel nice tonight, before you plunge back into the darkness of reality tomorrow morning. Surely you deserve one night.

You float towards the water, the one area you haven’t explored, and Withers gives you an unnerving nod as you pass him. You barely catch movement out of the corner of your eye, but then you see him–Wyll is hidden away from the party, standing behind a large boulder, nursing his own glass of wine and looking out at the water. Your feet carry you towards him, your mind following some distance behind.

“There you are,” you say once you’re close enough for him to hear you.

He looks around, startled. “Ah, hells. I was hoping no one would notice I was gone.”

There’s something different about him. Besides the horns, obviously, which you barely even notice anymore. You look at his posture and notice it’s a little looser than usual. His words are less precise.

“Wyll Ravengard, are you drunk?” you ask with poorly concealed glee.

He snorts, which is as good a confirmation as any. “Hardly. A bit tipsy, maybe. Surely you can’t begrudge a man for drowning his sorrows?” His gaze is a bit unsteady as it moves over your face.

“Of course not,” you reply, grinning. “It’s just–you’re usually so buttoned up, this is refreshing.”

“I’m not ‘buttoned up.’ Nine hells, you always make me sound insufferable.” The words don’t have any heat to them, just good-natured resignation. Still, you feel a little bad.

You bite your lip around any sassy retort your own tipsy mouth might conjure. Unfortunately, when you do, his eyes flit down to your mouth, and you notice, and it…does something to you.

Shit, this wine is strong.

“You need a new drink,” you say before you can say anything stupider, eyeing his empty mug.

He smiles, but his expression falls again when he glances toward the party. “Unless that new drink walks itself over to me, I think I’ll opt to go without.”

It takes a second for his words to sink in, for you to read the sadness in his eyes. You realize, far too late, the implications of this man–this man in particular, the one who’s been named the godfather of children across Faerun because he’s so godsdamned friendly–hiding away during a party, drinking alone. A party full of people he saved, no less. The perfect opportunity for the Blade of Frontiers to tell rousing tales of heroism and ask a bunch of strangers personal questions, and instead he’s hiding.

Hells, you’re an idiot. You couldn’t have been more obnoxious, stumbling over here, laughing and teasing and being completely oblivious.

“Wait, Wyll, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–I mean, I didn’t even think about whether you wanted to be alone or–”

“Truly, I don’t mind,” he interrupts. You study his face, but he seems genuine. “I’m not alone because I don’t want to talk to anyone, just…these people all expect me to look the way I used to. I don’t know if I’m up for seeing them all try to hide their surprise and calculate how to ask what happened without being rude.”

He falls silent, looking into his glass, and you realize you’re nodding. “Yeah. It can’t be fun, seeing everyone…react. I can understand why you’d want to hide from people.”

“You’re already used to it, though. I don’t have to worry about your reaction.” He gives you a small smile. Too small. It doesn’t feel right on him. It makes you want to fix everything so he can flash those ridiculous dimples again.

“True,” you reply, reaching out to take his empty mug from him, “you’ll need more than horns to frighten me, Ravengard.”

He relinquishes the mug, but looks confused. “Why are you stealing my things?”

“I’m getting you a refill, stay put.”

“But–” he begins to protest, but you’re walking away already.

The world on the other side of the outcropping you’ve been sheltering behind nearly knocks you over. The warm harmony of earlier is gone, leaving behind a cacophony of music and drunk singing and laughter and shouting to be heard over all the other people shouting. The air is thick and smoky and sour with wine, and you wade through the crowd as quickly as you can, thinking nostalgically of the spot behind the boulder. You really took it for granted a few minutes ago.

You spot a stash of unopened wine bottles tucked behind Karlach’s tent and are able to snag one without getting sucked into a conversation, though you almost fall over trying to be stealthy. Catching yourself, you hurry back to the beach.

When you return, you see Wyll has found a seat leaning against the boulder and kicked off his shoes. One foot is propped up and toying with the sand, burrowing absentmindedly as he looks out at the water. You plop down next to him, kicking off your own shoes as you settle in.

“Here we go,” you say proudly, ripping the cork out of the bottle.

He groans dramatically, but reaches for the wine regardless. “Wait, what did you do to my mug?”

You genuinely have no idea. “It was only going to get in the way! Now drink up.”

He hesitates with the bottle halfway to his lips. “You don’t have to stay here, you know. I’m not exactly in a festive mood.”

“I’m not passing up a once-in-a-lifetime chance to get hammered with Wyll Ravengard.” He doesn’t need to know the perverse pleasure you get out of seeing him messy like this.

He shrugs and takes a swig, wiping a hand across his lips when he lowers the bottle. “Well, this is your chance. Ask me anything, I’m at your mercy.”

“Hmm,” you say, grabbing the bottle from him, “I like the sound of that.”

It’s not really intentional, you’re not actually trying to flirt with Wyll, but gods, what else are you supposed to do with an opening like that? Still, you don’t want to make it weird.

Luckily, he seems to have missed the innuendo entirely.

“You know,” he’s saying, looking out at the water, “I feel as if we know too much and not enough about each other.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve met each other’s parents. I know what your magic smells like. But I don’t know what you do for work.”

“I work at a bookstore in the lower city–sorry, did you say you know what my magic smells like?”

He screws up his face, and there’s something very endearing about seeing his perfect nose all crinkled like that. “Smell isn’t quite right, it’s more like…a sensation. I don’t know, there’s a signature energy to it that’s just very…Tav.”

You smile. “What does that mean exactly, ‘very me’?”

“I suppose–” he breaks off, turning to narrow his eyes at you “--no, that’s cheating. You haven’t earned that information yet.”

“Ugh,” you groan, “fine. Keep drinking then.” He sips obediently. “When people ask what your job is, what do you call yourself? Do you refer to yourself as a hero? That would be weird, right?”

“Gods, I don’t know. Hero, adventurer, take your pick. They all make me sound like a dick.”

You laugh, surprised. “That’s sort of your whole thing, though, sounding very annoying on paper and being annoyingly not-annoying in person.”

“Annoyingly not-annoying is what I aim for.” He smiles again, and for the first time tonight, you see a dimple. Something like relief washes over you, mixed with pride. Making him smile like that might be its own type of heroism.

“Okay, then,” you continue, “learning about each other….Well, I’ve already learned the one thing. You were scared of me when we were in school.”

His lips purse around another smile. “Hmm. Interesting takeaway, but I don’t believe that was the language I used.”

You frown. “What do you mean? You said I was intimidating, didn’t you?”

He laughs, shaking his head. “I had a crush on you, Tav.”

You blink, your mind grinding to a halt. “I…oh. So…oh.”

“You didn’t scare me, and I didn’t hate you. I would just get so nervous around you I couldn’t get a single word out.”

You sympathize. Your brain is so busy rewriting your entire history with this man for the second time that you couldn’t string a sentence together if your life depended on it.

He continues, still smiling faintly out at the water like he’s discussing the weather. “I was dining with diplomats and warlords and kings since before I can remember, and none of them ever gave me half the trouble you did. You’d walk into class all cool and mysterious and pretty, and I would forget how to function.”

“Nine hells, Wyll,” you reply as your head buzzes with more than just wine. “I guess…I’m glad you can talk to me now. Even if that means I’ve gotten less intimidating.”

“You’ve gotten even more intimidating, if I’m honest. But I’m an adult now. Also a minor celebrity, so things are a bit more even.”

You laugh. “Alright, well. I’m not sure what to do with this information. I’ve never had someone confess their crush to me before. It’s a very powerful feeling.”

“It was a long time ago,” he replies, finally glancing over at you with a smile. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

“I won’t promise anything. The Blade of Frontiers pined for me for years, haven’t you heard?”

He laughs, shoving you playfully. You grab the wine bottle from his hand in response and take a sip. “I have a question,” he says as you swallow.

“Shoot.”

“If you thought I hated you when we were in school…did you hate me back?”

You shake your head before you can think about it. “No, that was sort of the worst part.”

“What do you mean?”

“You stuck up for me. And arguably it’s even more heroic to stick up for someone you don’t like. It was like I couldn’t even be annoyed at you for being rich and handsome and charming and popular, because you seemed like a genuinely great person. As I said, annoyingly not-annoying.”

His smile grows, and his cheeks go a bit shiny in the low light. “See, this is very interesting. The other night you claimed I wasn’t your type when we were in school. Come to find out, you thought I was handsome and charming.”

“Oh, gods help me,” you reply with a roll of your eyes, “you know what I mean. That was the general consensus.”

“The way you phrased it implied you didn’t disagree.”

“Well, you thought I was cool and mysterious, so.”

“You’ll recall I also said you were pretty.”

Your own cheeks are flushing a deep maroon, if the heat in them is any indication. You pick at a bug bite on your leg just to give your hands something to do. “That’s…okay. I mean, sure. Teenagers don’t really have the most discerning taste, that’s not necessarily–”

“I was very picky, actually.”

You groan, dropping your face into your arms where they’re bridged across your knees. “Okay.” You genuinely can’t think of anything else to say.

He just laughs. “If I knew it was this easy to fluster you, I’d have done it years ago.”

“It’s usually not, I swear,” you protest with a laugh, raising your head. “I’m just…drunk and sleep deprived. My defenses are down.”

“Ah, I see. It’s not a fair fight, then. Though I’m not sure why someone complimenting you requires you to have defenses up in the first place.”

“Not someone. Just you.” The wine is narrowing the gap between your mind and your mouth, honest words falling out too quickly.

“Because you don’t trust me?” He says it like he knows the answer is yes, though you’re not sure yourself.

“I…I think I just don’t understand you. Like, I don’t see what you’re getting out of it.”

“Are you supposed to get something out of complimenting someone? I just do it for free, I suppose.”

“In this economy?” You take another swig as he snorts, then hand the bottle back to him.

“I think you understand me a little too well, if I’m perfectly honest.” He takes his own swig.

“Well, at least that feeling’s mutual.”

He smiles. “Indeed.”

You finally make eye contact with him again, resting your head back down on your arms but keeping your face towards him this time. It’s silent for a moment as you look at each other.

Finally, feeling a bit too safe in the darkness, you speak softly. “I’m cool?”

He rests his chin on his hand. “Very. I’m charming?”

“Yeah,” you nod, “but only when you’re not trying to be.”

“Duly noted.”

The next silence stretches between you as you turn to look out at the water, digging your own toes into the sand. You feel his eyes on you still, and you’re too tired to try and deflect his gaze, say something silly, distract him. You just sort of…sit there.

It’s sort of exhilarating, feeling seen like this. Intimate in a whole new way.

Gods, you’re drunk.

Maybe it’s the wine that has your head turning back to look at him, your eyes darting around his face. They always seem to land on his mouth, don’t they? That’s interesting. It’s a nice mouth. You bet it’s warm. You bet it tastes good.

Hells, he’s beautiful. This isn’t news, of course. You’ve known this for years. But the feeling has always had a bit of a distance to it. He’s beautiful, but untouchable. Beautiful in a far, abstract way. He doesn’t really feel untouchable right now, though. If anything, he feels distinctly…touchable. Something flutters in your chest. You take him in and you feel warmth pooling in the pit of your stomach. Wanting. Desire. That’s new.

He interrupts before your thoughts can wander any further, his voice low and quiet. “Really, you shouldn’t feel obligated to stay here. You should have a dance, enjoy the music.”

“You know good and well you’re the only person here besides me who can dance worth a damn.”

“If that’s true, you owe it to everyone to return to the party. Show them what a true expert looks like.”

You’re about to argue when you realize you might be missing some signals here. “I can leave you alone if you’d rather,” you say, straightening slightly, trying to ignore the sting of rejection.

“No,” he says quickly, a hand shooting out to rest on your elbow. It’s warm and calloused, and it calms you instantly. He’s so soft with it, like you’re something delicate that he doesn’t want to break. It makes you feel a bit melty, which you try not to think about. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel unwelcome. I only–“ he pauses like he’s not sure whether he should keep talking. “I don’t have it in me to be the Blade tonight. I feel as if people expect that of me, and if I can’t turn it on they’ll be disappointed. This can’t be what you had in mind when you came over here.”

You blink, startled by his honesty. “But Wyll…you’re a person, you deserve to exist.”

He laughs bitterly. “Am I? The Blade isn’t a person, he’s a symbol. A beacon of hope. That’s important.”

“Sure,” you reply, “but I don’t want to get drunk with a beacon. I want to get drunk with Wyll.”

He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t argue.

“And listen,” you continue, because you can’t fucking help yourself with this man, “don’t tell him I said this, but I actually like hanging out with him.” Pathetic, honestly, the way you’re feeding his ego, but then it doesn’t really feel like that’s what you’re doing. The Blade doesn’t need any encouragement, but you’re starting to suspect Wyll very much does. Desperately, actually. The Blade has all the love and adoration he could ever need, but Wyll’s pretty much on his own. It makes your heart hurt. “You don’t have to be on, and we don’t need to go back to the party. I can think of a couple fun things we could do all by ourselves.”

It’s only when he raises his eyebrows that you realize the possible implication of your words and stifle a groan.

“That wasn’t supposed to sound quite so flirtatious,” you say, smiling despite yourself.

He laughs. “Not so flirtatious, which is to say it was intended to be somewhat flirtatious?”

You can’t help but laugh in return. Gods, flirting with him feels like running down a hill. Far too easy, and you’ve picked up far too much speed to stop. “I think I was going for sort of…take it or leave it, you know? Choose your own adventure. Interpret it innocent or dirty, up to you.”

“That didn’t really translate, I’m afraid.”

“Apparently after a thousand glasses of wine, subtlety isn’t my strong suit.”

“Perhaps that’s for the best,” he replies, eyes crinkling as he looks out at the water again. “I can spot a troll’s silhouette on a distant horizon but I can’t recognize a flirtation if someone smacks me alongside the head with it.”

“Yeah, you totally missed that thing earlier.”

He turns back to you, frowning. “What thing earlier?”

“You said something about being at my mercy and I said I liked the sound of that.”

“That was flirting? Damn,” he sighs, eyes widening. “I really did miss that. Do you–” he breaks off, looking embarrassed.

“Do I…?”

He sighs again. “Do you do that a lot? Are there more of those that I’ve missed?”

“No!” you answer too quickly, then backpedal, not wanting him to think he's not worth flirting with. “But I might have to start now that I know how oblivious you are. See how far I can take it before you notice.”

He brings a hand up to cover his face and gives you another muffled groan.

“Anyway,” you continue, taking pity on him, “all I was trying to say was that you and I could have a dance right here.”

He drops his hand to rest atop his knee again, nodding. “It’s deeply tempting.”

You nod, but don’t respond, sensing there’s more. He sighs, confirming your suspicion.

“Dancing is something I associate with my old life, I suppose. I’m not sure I’m ready to bring it into the present just yet.”

“That makes sense,” you reply.

You look him over while he stares out at the water. The moonlight is painting silver on his lips, his nose, the newly formed ridges on his shoulders, glinting on the ornaments in his hair as he breathes.

You remember him the way he was when you met, the way you watched him grow up. Your teenage years weren’t beautiful the way they’re supposed to be. You were awkward in your own body, thick and clumsy and unsure. Wyll, however, was always graceful. His limbs lengthened, his voice deepened, and all of it seemed to happen so smoothly, at just the right time. He was pretty and he was perfect. Neat and tidy next to your messy tangle of string.

But you’ve knitted yourself together over the years, and he’s frayed a bit. Now you’re sitting on a beach together, making each other laugh. Feeling comfortable, impossibly so, even as your heart sits high in your throat. Feeling seen and understood. Feeling…a lot of things. Too many, more than you can identify.

You find yourself wondering how it feels to be kissed kindly, by someone who laughs at your jokes and knows things about your father and thinks you’re smart. By someone who’s thought about it before, for all that it may have been years ago.

…

Really, what’s the worst that could happen?

After all, he’s the Blade of Frontiers. He’s probably had more drunk makeouts at parties than anyone.

…

At this point it will be more embarrassing if you DON’T go for it. He’s definitely expecting you to.

You speak before you can think yourself out of it. “You don’t have to dance with me. You could just kiss me instead.”

You hear his breath stop. His eyes are wide as they meet yours.

“To be clear,” you continue with a smile that feels shy and smug at the same time, “this is me flirting with you.”

He slowly reaches behind him to set down the bottle of wine, eyes locked on your face as he does like he’s waiting for you to stop him. Your stomach flips, your mind going into overdrive.

He’s going to kiss you, and he wants his hands free when he does.

When you don’t stop him, his eyes dart down to your mouth, his now-empty hand coming up to cup your cheek. He’s shifting a bit, turning towards you. And then, as wanting throbs between your legs, in the depth of your belly, he’s leaning in. You bring a hand to the back of his neck and pull him to you.

His lips are hot against yours, strange, unfamiliar and familiar at the same time. His scent fills you, sweet and spicy, making your mind fuzzier than the alcohol ever could. He’s a good kisser, because of course he is. Overachiever. His tongue sweeps across your bottom lip, and you’re startled by his forwardness, but certainly not opposed to it. You open your mouth and lick into his, and then he’s pulling you closer, and the chill rolling off the water can’t touch you anymore, because there’s some unnatural heat rolling off of him that you’re cocooning yourself in. It’s just nice, pleasant and lovely and sweet and all the words you’ve never associated with a drunk kiss before, but you could wrap yourself up in this moment and stay here forever. He’s solid against you, and burning, and you can feel a little infernal ridge on the back of his neck where your hand is resting, but he’s being so exquisitely gentle.

You didn’t think you liked gentle. You never thought to ask for gentle. Now you’re falling into it like a featherbed, melting under his lips and sighing, wondering how you went so long without it.

He pulls back after a long moment to check in, his eyes studying your face. You don’t speak, either of you, instead just blinking at each other, glances darting between eyes and lips for no more than a couple seconds before you’re moving back in, more confidently this time (he liked it! He wants more!), the hand not around his neck pressing against his back to pull him closer. He still has a hand on your cheek, but the other is moving from your waist to your lower back, fingers spreading wide over the thin fabric of your shirt to get more leverage as he pulls you in as well, and then finally, blissfully, your lips meet again.

It’s deeper this time, and you’re having trouble catching your breath as he makes a soft sound, sighing against your cheek, letting go of something.

You don’t really know what this is, but you don’t stop long enough to think. It feels good, and it’s more than just the warm buzzing of wine. You haven’t felt anything but pain and fear and sadness for days, and it’s all so blissfully far from your mind right now. His scent, the taste of his lips, the warm roughness of his calloused fingers, feather-light on your waist and on your neck, it’s all new and strange and addicting. You’re chasing sensation like a gambler in search of a win, hurtling too fast into the impulse of it all—

And then his hand isn’t on your neck anymore. Then it’s on your shoulder, pressing you gently away even as his lips seem to drag you in closer. But you pull back, confused, and realize you’ve nearly climbed into his lap. When you look at his face he is…a bit wrecked, honestly, and the sight shoots right between your legs. But as you look at him, things start to come back to you.

It’s Wyll you’re kissing. Wyll. And you know too much about him and not enough. And you can’t quite remember whose idea this was, which is turning your desire sour, twisting it into shame.

Why did you throw yourself at him like this?! You look like you’re about to fucking mount him, and he’s trying to give you a gentle hint because he’s too fucking nice to tell you you’re being a messy drunk perv.

“Fuck,” you breathe, scrambling to give him some space. “Sorry, I didn’t—I just—“

Before you can move away, he has a hand on your upper arm to keep you close. He’s smiling and breathing hard as he brings his other hand up to cup your cheek again. You’re having trouble making eye contact, but from what you can tell he doesn’t look angry.

“Please don’t misunderstand me,” he says with a distracting rasp to his voice you’ve never heard before. You come to rest on your hip, leaning against the boulder that separates you from the party. “I could happily kiss you all night. But I want to be clear, that’s as far as I can go, tonight.”

You nod. Self-control is a novel concept, but he’s always been smart. Even when he’s drunk, apparently, which is impressive because you’re down to about five brain cells right now and all of them are horny. “Sure, that’s fine. We also just—I mean, we don’t have to—if you’re not—“

He breathes out an almost frustrated laugh before leaning in, interrupting you with another kiss. You can’t help but smile against his lips as you melt again.

Good, a voice in your mind is whispering. This is good, good, good. He is good.

Nice, kind, sweet, as his hand gently fists in your shirt.

Your tail wraps around his ankle subconsciously, and you feel him smile against your lips. Your tongues tangle together, and you think of soft pillows and warm quilts. His hand laces in your hair, and you imagine him in your bed back home, and you feel a tugging in your chest, a want that’s sharper than want.

Yes, the voice whispers, and his lips slide against yours.

*

A sweet, moonlit hour later, memories of soft touches lull you to sleep. You think you feel a nudge at your tadpole right as you drift off, a familiar presence, though you could just as easily be dreaming already. “Sweet dreams, Tav,” a warm voice murmurs in your mind, and you smile. Unable to string together enough words to respond, you instead gather up the pleasant fuzziness in your head, the soft butterflies in your stomach, the tingle in your lips, and send them back to him (the ache between your legs you keep to yourself, for now). There’s a ghost, an imagining of a kiss to your temple, and then you’re lost to the dizzy oblivion of a wine-soaked sleep.

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Wyll

It had seemed so clear to him. Marriage was what he wanted, or some semblance of it anyway. A lifelong commitment. Someone to call his, to whom he could belong in return. Imagining it felt like reading fairy tales used to feel when he was younger, like his lungs were expanding and his heart was pounding and he was alive for the first time. He’d fooled around with a few people over the years, school friends and, on a couple memorable occasions, fans, and he’d been able to form a general idea of the give-and-take between sexual partners, the bits he enjoyed and the ones others seemed to enjoy. It had been fun, certainly, but it never consumed him the way it seemed to do others. It hadn’t been difficult to cut himself off and decide to wait for his happy ending.

And then she happened.

It’s always been her, of course. She’s always been the one that disproves his theories, breaks his rules. Every time she meets his eyes across camp and his stomach flips, he’s reminded that it isn’t the first time or the fifth time or even the hundredth time that’s happened. It’s the same feeling that stopped him in his tracks as a kid, tied his tongue in knots. He never got nervous around anyone, but she…she did something to him. Still does.

She’s the other future, the one he never dreamed of because he never thought it was possible. Things aren’t neat and tidy in that future. It’s not pretty and romantic. It’s messy and honest and uncomfortable, and she knows him far too well. And he wants it more than he’s ever wanted anything.

But he buried it deep, thinking maybe he’d find someone who reminded him of her and that would be enough. Even when they were reunited in the grove, it didn’t occur to him to imagine anything but cordiality between them. In retrospect, this was his mind’s desperate attempt at self-preservation.

Because now he's kissed her, and now he’s ruined.

Before, he could ignore it. He could at least talk to her and pretend everything was normal, all the years between him and the past dulling the intensity of it.

But now he knows her taste. He knows how she feels in his arms, pressed against his body. He knows deep turquoise skin glowing in the moonlight, her face so close that her eyes might as well be his entire universe. The little sounds she makes when she feels good. Hells, no fairy tale has ever felt like that. Blinking at him with pupils wide, letting him touch her, letting him taste her, and then coming back for more.

He can’t help himself, reaching out once he’s alone in his tent once more, sick with wanting. She lets him in so easily. Her mind is warm and hazy. She sends him her fluttering heart and her tingling lips, so similar to his own feelings, and for a moment he lets himself believe it’s more than wine and exhaustion and curiosity.

It’s not, of course. Not for her. It doesn’t matter, though. He knows now that he’ll take anything she wants to give. Commitment or no, future or no. If he’d waited five more seconds, he wouldn’t have been able to pull away from her tonight the way he did. He still isn’t sure how those words came out of his mouth. Even then, if she hadn’t said goodnight he’d still be there in the sand with his hands on her.

He imagines kissing her goodnight, his lips on her soft skin, tasting her sweat and her sweetness, and any thoughts of self-preservation are out the window.

Gods, he’s fucking ruined.

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Chapter Text

Wyll

He’s not generally in the habit of sleeping in. The morning after his evening with Tav, though, Wyll stays in his bedroll long after he wakes, letting his mind drift. It still feels real as long as he stays in that sweet spot between dreams and reality. Some part of him is sure that the second he sits up, the second the warmth of sleep gives way to the cool morning air, it will all evaporate. The taste of her that still lingers, the memory of her breath on his cheek, the way he can still hear her soft sighs when he closes his eyes–it all feels delicate, like a dream he’s trying to remember the details of. If he doesn’t move, maybe he can make it all last a bit longer. His heart feels swollen and deliciously sore beneath his ribs, and he inhales into the sensation.

Gods above, he still smells like her. It’s enough to make his head spin. His lips curl into a smile and he runs a hand across his chest, bare under his blanket. Wishing it were her touch on him instead. Wishing it wasn’t just his warmth he was cocooned in.

Then, suddenly, he’s not alone anymore.

Hello, pup.

He sits up immediately. Last night’s wine has his head protesting, but it’s instinctive. He needs to shake off everything sweet and lovely before Mizora can get a hold of it.

It takes a second for him to realize she isn’t actually here in his tent. Her voice is in his mind, relayed through the sending stone she replaced his eye with a decade ago.

What do you want? He sifts through possibilities in his mind–a new assignment? Surely she won’t divert him from trying to cure his tadpole. A dead asset is no good to her. She’s had second thoughts about his punishment? She’s realizing she could have made it much worse? His stomach twists in knots, every limb tensing. He hates the way his body reacts to her, that she has the power to do that to him. The least he can do is not let her see it, so he walls off the part of him that’s communicating with her, ensuring emotion doesn’t leak in. Habit, all of it. 10 long years of this, he knows how it works by now.

Just checking in. How’s the new look settling in?

A social call, then. It’s not out of concern; she checks on him the way Lae’zel sharpens her weapons. It’s just maintenance. It’s fine, he responds as neutrally as possible.

Any tentacles yet?

No.

Good. Although if it happens…well, I imagine I’ll figure out how to make the best of it. I have a couple ideas already.

Her voice in his mind is dark, predatory. She’s always toeing the line with him, emphasizing his insignificance by not bothering to lay a finger on him, but throwing in the occasional suggestive remark to remind him that she could and he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. Most of the time he thinks it doesn’t even affect him anymore, but there are days he wonders if perhaps he’s just forgotten how it feels to not be constantly threatened and intimidated. Good, he responds. I’d hate for my death to inconvenience you.

She ignores his sarcasm. And how’s that little friend of yours?

Even the walls he’s put up aren’t enough to contain the sudden panic at her words. Who’s that? he asks, feigning nonchalance.

The cute little witch with the horns. The one who’s always watching you. Don’t think I haven’t noticed, pet.

His heart picks up again, double time. Later. He’ll think about it after this conversation is over. He can’t feel this now. You may have noticed, he replies, but I haven’t. We’re allies, that’s all. He’s good at lying to her, partly because she tends to assume he’s not smart enough to be able to.

A luscious little thing like that? Please. I know you better than that, pup. She’s your type.

He almost laughs. She’s the blueprint for his type, but he’ll keep that to himself. Mizora doesn’t even know his history with Tav, let alone his feelings for her, and he intends to keep it that way. Why are you so invested? What does this have to do with you?

She’s too clever for her own good, that’s what this has to do with me. Be careful with that one. You know I don’t like people meddling with my pets.

I know, he replies.

I’ve got my eye on you. And her.

Duly noted. He bites back a longer retort. Short responses give her less to work with.

Ta-ta for now, my little devil. Mummy’s got work to do.

As quickly as she came, she disappears, and his mind is his own again.

He falls back onto his bedroll as the emotions come flooding in all at once, palms pressing into his eyes. He nearly chokes on anger. Anger at Mizora, of course, but more so at himself.

How did he let anything happen last night? How could he have been so stupid? It’s bad enough he’s bonding with the rest of the team. If Mizora had any idea, if she ever caught so much as a whiff of his true feelings for Tav…

He’s just so fucking tired of being alone. A decade of no one seeing him as anything but the answer to their problems, the folk hero to project their dreams and desires and fantasies onto. A decade of not letting anyone get too close. And then she reappeared in his life, and everything that had seemed so massive and terrifying suddenly felt so small. A night with her was worth anything. All of it. Whatever Mizora could do to him.

It's no excuse. It was selfish of him to kiss her. Beyond selfish. He’d taken what he wanted…and put Tav in danger by doing so.

He can lie to Mizora as long as she doesn’t think he has a reason to, but the second she gets suspicious, nothing will keep her from discovering the truth. She’ll figure it out, and then she’ll–well, it depends on her mood. Perhaps she’ll find a way to turn Tav against him like she did his father. Perhaps trick her, force her into her own contract somehow. Perhaps she’ll just chip away at them. Appear during private moments, keep him busy so he can’t be with her, use her access to him to drive them apart. Or perhaps, if the conditions are right, she’ll simply kill her.

Any big changes will catch her eye, and he can only lie to her so much. If he wants to keep Tav safe, he can’t overcompensate and leave the party. He can’t start ignoring her altogether. He has to keep her exactly at arm’s length. Keep her from getting any closer or any farther away than she already is. Stop things now, before they go any farther.

He can chalk last night up to drunk impulsiveness, a silly mistake. He’s a goner, obviously, but she’s not attached yet. It was just one night. They just kissed. She doesn’t know how he feels, and he can keep it that way.

So…that’s it, then. One night is all they get. It’s more than he ever thought he’d get, to be honest. He just wishes he’d known ahead of time, savored it a bit more. His heart twists in his chest, panicked and broken, and he lets it. Breathes into the pain, feels every exquisite drop of it.

He’d really hoped his father was wrong about him. He’d hoped he was just being too hard on himself. But no, he’s just as stupid, just as self-absorbed, just as monstrous as he’s always known himself to be.

The truth is, the one thing he wants most in the world is within his grasp, and for a foolish, reckless night he let himself believe he could have it. He let himself think his life was his own, his heart was his own, his body was his own.

It’s morning now. Time to wake up.

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Tav

You wake up in hell. Your head feels somehow empty and heavy at the same time. Your hangover is a constant throb of pain echoing through your whole skull.

It’s going to be a very long day.

You linger in your bedroll before resigning yourself to the fact that another five minutes of sleep won’t cure what ails you, then slowly sit up, rubbing at your eyes. They feel a bit puffy, but nothing compared to your lips, which are strangely swollen–

That’s when last night comes flooding back. Your tongue darts out, and sure enough, there’s a ghost of Wyll’s sweet taste still lingering there. You inhale sharply, your cheeks flushing. The rush of blood heightens the next throb of pain in your skull, and you force yourself to take a slow, deep breath.

Fuck. You kissed Wyll. A lot. And it was good. That’s an understatement, really, considering the fact that it’s all you can think about.

But…you just kissed. You didn’t talk. He didn’t say “I’ve wanted this for so long” or “now we can be together forever” or “I’m madly in love with you.” For all you know, he doesn’t even remember last night.

Gods, that would be embarrassing. You hope you were at least memorable.

It doesn’t occur to you to ask yourself what you want from him, your thoughts too focused on what he wants from you. Whatever it is, you’ll follow his lead. He doesn’t want to talk about it? You won’t bring it up. He thinks it was romantic and mind-blowing? So do you. He wants to write it off as a silly drunk mistake? Done.

Some of these options will likely involve some level of emotional fallout, but none of them involve being rejected, not technically. So there’s really no way to lose.

Your head throbs again, and this time you have to squeeze your eyes shut against the pain. You force yourself to focus and stop thinking so hard. No matter what’s happening with Wyll, you need to be able to function. Food first, then more thinking.

When you peek your head out of your tent, slowly adjusting to the brightness of the morning, it’s clear you’re not the only one who’s suffering. Even Astarion’s looking a bit ruffled, nursing a cup of tea by the fire. Wyll is nowhere to be seen, so you make your way towards where Gale is frying some eggs and potato slices and snag a plate to bring back to your tent, plopping down in front of the entrance.

You’re going to be moving on today, heading into the Underdark, so you’ll all need to pack up your campsite, but no one seems to be in a hurry. You let yourself eat slowly, letting your volatile stomach adjust to each bite before taking another. You’re so wrapped up in the process that you don’t notice Wyll until he’s coming to sit on the ground in front of you, two steaming mugs of tea in his hands. You accept the one he offers, trying not to blush too hard even as your stomach somersaults (not a pleasant feeling, given your condition).

“How are you feeling?” he asks, and you’re relieved you don’t have to come up with an opener.

You blink at him, squinting slightly. “Been better. Thank you for the tea.” He’s a bit disheveled, but still gorgeous. Obnoxious.

“It’s some of Gale’s black tea. I know that’s not your usual, but I thought you might be in a similar condition to myself this morning and could use the extra boost.”

Have you two ever talked about tea? You don’t remember telling him what you like, but then you talked a lot last night. “Thank you, that was very wise,” you respond, raising the cup in a toast.

You’re watching him warily as you drink, heart pounding. Is he going to bring it up? You thought it would be easy to just sit here and not talk about it, but it’s starting to feel a bit like torture. He doesn’t say a word, though, just smiles as you sip. As you swallow, you swear you can feel the warmth moving through your veins, bringing you back to life. “You found your mug?” you ask, nodding at the cup in his hand.

“Karlach did. Apparently it was behind her tent.”

You wince. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense. That’s where I found the wine. Sorry, I swear I’m not usually such a mess.” You watch him carefully. You’re giving him an out here, letting him write last night off as an impulsive, drunk decision if he wants to.

“There’s no need to apologize.” He smiles, but the look is more polite than friendly. When he speaks again, he’s strangely formal. “I had a lovely evening. Truly. That said, we were both…impaired. I don’t expect anything from you moving forward. Perhaps it’s best if we just leave it be. A lovely evening, nothing more.”

You’re nodding before he’s even done talking. “Same,” you reply, even as your brain catches up to what you’re agreeing to. A wave of disappointment crashes over you, tinged with relief. You try to focus on the latter. “I…yes, it was…” You try to thread the needle, wanting to seem cool and unattached without being rude. Your husk of a mind offers nothing. “...Yeah,” you trail off awkwardly. “Obviously it’s been an intense few days for both of us. I feel like we both probably needed to blow off some steam.”

He smiles, a bit sadly (though that may be wishful thinking on your part), and nods.

When he doesn’t respond, you can’t help yourself. You have very little tolerance for awkward silences when you’re this hungover. “I can think of worse ways to do it,” you add, looking down at your tea.

He breathes out a surprised laugh. “Yes, in terms of relaxation methods, that’s one of the better ones I’ve tried.” It's almost flirtatious. It plants a tiny seed of hope in your chest that you try very hard to ignore.

“I intend to keep my word, though,” you respond, raising your head to meet his gaze again. Just that is enough to have your heart skipping a beat, despite the voice in your head reminding you it was casual. You were drunk. You can’t afford to get attached. This is not a cute thing.

“What word is that?” he asks, taking a sip of his tea, not breaking eye contact.

“I said I’d teach you how to flirt, didn’t I?”

He shakes his head, but he’s still wearing a small, almost cautious smile. “I never said I couldn’t flirt,” he answers, “only that I can’t tell when I’m on the receiving end.”

“Right, I forgot,” you reply, unable to stop the smile pulling at the corner of your own lips. “I was planning to put that to the test, I think.”

His laugh is rougher this morning, but just as rich as it was last night. “I warn you, I’ll be too easily defeated to consider it much of a game.”

“That’s okay, I like winning.”

He lets out a half laugh, half groan as he rubs his good eye with the heel of a palm. “You’re impossible, you know that?” He says it almost affectionately. There’s a flash of a dimple, and you feel a surge of pride. His first real smile since he came over here, and you’re responsible for it. He can call you whatever he wants, as long as he’s smiling.

Gods help you, you’re being pathetic. It was casual. You were drunk. You can’t afford to get attached. This is not a cute thing. “Am I, though? Or does everyone else just take it easy on you because you’re a big fancy hero? I think you like being humbled every once in a while.”

He shakes his head again before draining the remainder of his tea. “No comment,” he says when he’s done, then shifts to stand. “I’m going to help Gale get the cooking supplies packed up. I can take your plate if you’re done.”

You breathe past your anxiety at the abrupt end to the conversation. It’s not that he can’t wait to get away from you, it’s just that he has things to do. It was casual. You were drunk. “Sure, thank you.” You hand him the plate and he turns to leave, throwing you one last friendly, dimple-free smile.

You take your time packing up the remainder of your belongings, since Shadowheart isn’t even awake yet. You disassemble your tent, gather the books you’ve scavenged to read (including one very promising romance you snagged from a goblin camp, of all places), and tie up your bedroll before turning to your sad pile of clothing.

In the center of the camp, Wyll and Gale are chatting genially, and you glance up to see Astarion has joined them. He’s lounging like a cat on a log nearby while they work. As you fold a shirt, you overhear a scrap of conversation.

“Wyll,” Astarion is saying, “I didn’t see you at all last night. Did the honest and true Blade sneak off for a little fun?”

You hear the clatter of metal as Wyll drops what sounds like several pots and pans. “Shit—no, of course not! Nothing like that.”

“Oh come now, darling. You protest too much, now I know you were practicing your swordplay.”

You can’t help but laugh to yourself as you hear Wyll scrambling to pick up everything he dropped. Good to know you’ve got him a little shaken up at least. It’s a consolation prize of sorts. You smile as you tie up your bag, feeling somewhat prepared for the journey ahead.

Chapter Text

The evening after your first full day in the Underdark, you and your compatriots are sitting in exhausted silence around a fire Karlach built (it’s no trouble seeing as she’s basically a walking tinderbox), eating stale bread and drinking sour wine as Shadowheart attends to wounds collected throughout the day.

As you chew and stare vacantly at the ground, you hear a soft hiss from the other side of the fire, where she’s using her healing magic to close up a cut on Wyll’s shoulder. “So dramatic, you’re fine,” she reprimands him, and he wrestles his grimace into something more stoic, pursed lips and a clenched jaw.

It’s really not your fault that you look at his mouth as he does. What might be your fault is the way you let your mind wander then, ignoring the sound of Gale drawing a breath to speak. Whatever he has to say doesn’t feel important right now. Instead, you think about Wyll kissing you by the water two nights ago. You think about him growning suddenly bold, about his hand leaving your waist and coming to the side of your throat, pushing your chin up with his thumb and breaking your kiss. Before you can react he’s on you again, kissing your jaw, kissing under your ear. Warm, soft presses and smiles against your skin, fire and wine and pleasure coursing through your veins as you blink up at the stars. Your entire body catches fire as your fingers curl in the soft, uneven weave of his shirt.

Then the memory shifts, and you’re looking at his smile now, rather than feeling it. And it’s fading, his eyes darting away. The warmth in your belly twists, and suddenly you’re hot with embarrassment rather than pleasure, though you know you haven’t done anything wrong.

“...are you listening?”

You start, blinking around as your cheeks redden. Gale is looking at you expectantly, as are a couple of your other party members, and you can’t for the life of you remember why.

“Sorry, Gale. I’m a little out of it, did you ask me something?”

“It was a general question for the group, but one you should be present for.” His tone is that of a professor scolding an absentminded student, even though for all he knows you were strategizing or something. For all he knows it could have just been a coincidence that you were staring at Wyll’s mouth the whole time. You glance across the fire again to make sure you weren’t too obvious, but Wyll is busy admiring Shadowheart’s work as she pulls Halsin’s enormous forearm into her lap and mutters another incantation over a hastily bandaged cut on his wrist.

“Anyway,” Gale continues, and you turn your attention fully to him, “this Omeluum fellow. What do we think of…him? It?” He’s putting words to the question you’ve all been asking each other in glances the past few hours. A mindflayer–an illithid–who appears to be harmless, and is offering to help you all with your tadpole situation, if you’re willing to try.

“The boyfriend used ‘it’,” Shadowheart replies wearily, not lifting her gaze from Halsin’s arm.

“Wait,” Karlach contributes from where she’s laying on the ground, trying to realign her spine after a nasty hit from the spectator this morning, “do we think they’re an item? I couldn’t get a read on it. They definitely had life partner vibes, in like a…scientific kind of way. Not much for cuddling, either of them, I imagine.”

Gale forges ahead before he loses the group to speculation, ignoring Karlach and turning to Shadowheart instead. “Thank you, Shadowheart. I must confess, I find it fascinating. The idea that there could be a member of the illithid race disconnected from the hive mind in general, let alone that it would then develop its own moral code separate from theirs–”

“This all may be fascinating, but let’s not get carried away,” Wyll adds, and you suck in a silent breath. You’ve barely heard his voice since yesterday morning, which has been messing with you more than you’d like to admit.

Your hungover conversation ended a bit suddenly yesterday, but it was amicable enough. Maybe he wasn’t that receptive to your joking around, but a hangover excuses a lot of antisocial behavior. But then his slightly chilly demeanor toward you had lingered, bleeding into today as well. Never walking next to you, refusing to make eye contact. Not socializing during breakfast, not meeting your bewildered gaze when a sentient mushroom started speaking in your head for the first time. Not even joining in when everyone started making lewd jokes about minotaurs as you set up camp.

The more you think about it, the more irritated you get. “Leave it be,” he said yesterday. You’ve done that, aside from your quick daydream. Sure, you feel awkward. You both probably overshared a bit that night, and making out with him certainly wasn't your plan. But hells, you’re not kids anymore. He doesn’t get to give you the cold shoulder just because he got drunk and made a mistake.

“It may not be a mindless killer like all the others,” Wyll is saying, “but that doesn’t mean it’s got a moral code. Seems to me all it cares about is that Society of theirs.”

“I know a bit about the Society of Brilliance,” you chime in. “Some of their folks come into the bookstore now and then. Not the friendliest, but far from the worst customers we get. Just a bit academic about everything, sort of detached. Certainly well-intentioned, though.”

“I learned long ago the danger of assuming intentions,” Wyll counters without quite looking at you, and you feel another surge of irritation. Of course when he finally talks to you it’s to argue.

A childish instinct nudges at you, the compulsion to poke someone who’s ignoring you, and you decide you’re too tired to fight it. You roll your eyes, holding your hands up. “Far be it from me to disagree with the Blade of Frontiers. Just saying, not everything you don’t understand is evil.” A bit uncharitable, but it does the trick. His eyes lock on yours for the first time in more than a day, and you resist the urge to smirk.

Most of your party, it seems, chalk your words up to exhausted irritability and ignore you. The only people who react are Wyll, who is now frowning as he continues looking at you, and Astarion, who raises his eyebrows without looking up from the padded armor he’s mending. His lips purse like he’s holding back an amused smile, and you can’t help but feel a dark little surge of triumph. If he thinks you’re being petty, you must be doing a good job.

Wyll is still frowning when you glance back at him, tilting his head. “I didn’t–”

“Let’s leave the lover’s spats for later, yes? Some of us still have hunting to do after this,” Astarion drawls. You snort, leaning back against the stalk of a giant mushroom, as Wyll straightens. His eyes linger on you for another moment, but he remains silent.

“So,” Gale continues, his patience clearly wearing thin, “the choice is before us–seek assistance from this creature or no?”

At first, no one answers. Karlach lifts her head up, but before she can say anything you speak up.

“I’ll try the cure,” you say, and everyone turns to look at you, brows raised. You’re not really sure why you volunteered, but it’s too late to take it back, so you shrug. “I have a pretty strong constitution, I eat all sorts of questionable lower city street food. And it’s worth a try, right? Nothing else has worked. I forget what ingredients it asked for, though.”

“Tongue of madness and timmask spores,” Gale answers cheerfully, “but I have some spores already. I spotted some tongue of madness down by the water. I must say, I’m curious to see how this goes. If I wasn’t already dealing with my own magical ailment, I’d be the first to volunteer.”

His enthusiasm is slightly encouraging. “Great,” you respond with a smile. “When we’re done here I’ll go foraging, and then I can talk to Omeluum in the morning.”

“You needn’t feel obligated to do this,” Halsin assures you in his deep rumble of a voice. “It may very well be dangerous, and you are our leader, insomuch as we have one.”

Shadowheart, who you notice has finished her healing but hasn’t let go of Halsin’s arm, responds, “She’ll be fine. And if she’s not, I’ll heal her.”

You can see Wyll’s jaw clenching as he shakes his head at the healer. “Your skills are impressive, but my concern is that this may be less a matter of healing and more a matter of cheating death.”

“We have more resurrection scrolls than we know what to do with,” you respond. He looks down at the ground for a moment before glancing up at you, tension in every line of his face.

Gale nods, looking at you. “Indeed. All to say, you are in very good hands should anything go wrong.” His excitement has mellowed somewhat, but is still evident. “When you’re finished eating, come by my tent and I’ll tell you what to look for down by the water.”

You smile, not looking at Wyll and not thinking about how it would likely feel to die by poisoning. Everything will probably be fine.

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When you leave, after Gale conjures an image of the plant you’re looking for from every possible angle, the silence outside the bubble of sleepy chatter that is your camp swallows you entirely. You don’t suit up, knowing this is a short walk on a quiet path, but you grab your bag to store plants you find, as well as your staff. You’re not trying to tempt fate, after all.

The eerie glow of the Underdark distorts distances as well as time, you notice. Everything’s on a different scale down here, and it has you feeling small and dizzy. You’re not sure how long you’ve been walking when you hear quick footsteps coming up behind you. Before you have time to panic, your follower speaks.

“Tell me,” you hear in a familiar voice, “you’re not doing something as reckless as taking an unknown potion given to you by an illithid just to prove you’re right and I’m wrong.” You smile victoriously to yourself before turning to meet his gaze as he comes up alongside you. He looks frustrated. Fair enough, you think. Taste of his own medicine.

“Wow, Ravengard,” you reply, keeping your gaze forward. “Not everything’s about you.” You’re toeing the line between provocative and mean at this point, but poking at him makes you feel more alive than you have all day.

There’s a brief pause, a huff of a sigh, and then out of nowhere: “Who am I to you?”

You blink. “I don’t–”

“Do you really think of me as some ignorant fool wandering the realm, afraid of everything he doesn’t understand, unable to see past the end of his own nose?”

You glance over at him, unsure how close to the edge he is. Unsure if he can take another push.

No, fuck that. He’s got more fight left in him.

You shrug. “Prove to me you’re not.”

He stops walking and stands there, breathing, staring at you. You stop as well, turning to face him. You’ve missed a turn somewhere, and you note distantly that you don’t totally recognize your surroundings. It’s like you’re suddenly in the canopy of an enormous tree, surrounded by branches covered in flowers that emanate a soft glow.

It’s a long while before he responds, and when he does it’s another non-sequitur. “Why did Astarion say what he said at the fire? Did you tell him about the other night?”

It knocks you off-balance. You don’t know if it’s coming from him or if your own mind is filling in the blanks, but his words sting. You force out a laugh anyway. “Are you that desperate to keep me a secret?”

For the first time, the harsh lines in his face dissipate entirely, his eyes going wide with a shock that seems genuine. “What?! Tav, no, of course–” he steps toward you, a hand extended, but you pull away instinctively. In the tense moment that follows, his eyes shift to look over your shoulder and go even wider. “Shit,” he hisses, reaching for his sword. There’s a warm hand closing around your wrist, and before you can process what’s happening you’re being pulled behind him.

It doesn’t even occur to you to resist, though perhaps it should. It’s not like you’re some delicate damsel in need of protection. Still, the second you turn around you can’t help but feel grateful he’s in front of you. About 100 feet away, there’s a massive creature stalking its way through a jungle of tall rocks and enormous roots, and it’s looking right at you. It looks almost like an enormous wingless vulture until your eyes roam down to its hands. Instead of talons, each arm ends in a giant, curved blade.

Wyll drops your wrist, but keeps his arm outstretched in front of you. You somehow have the presence of mind to keep your voice down. “Is that–”

“Hook horror,” Wyll mutters, confirming your fear. You’ve shelved books about these things. You were really hoping that would be as close as you ever got to one. “Nasty creatures, and they rarely hunt alone.”

You pull at the Weave as you both move backwards as one, angling to get the nearby cliff face at your back. Magic comes, but not without some effort.

“There’s something weird going on with the Weave here,” you murmur as the creature continues to stalk slowly towards you. “It’s like there are holes in it…that’s not something these things can do, is it?”

“Not normally, but gods know rules are out the window down here. Are you still able to cast?”

“Yeah, I can work around it. Just…might slow me down a bit.”

“Do what you can, I’ll cover you.”

“Thanks,” you breathe. In an instant, all tension between the two of you has evaporated, both now fully focused on the task ahead of you.

The creature stops, twenty feet away, and raises its enormous beak to the sky. You curse softly. If you had enough magic, you’d be able to silence it, but as it is…the call that comes out is something between a shriek and a bellow, and the sound of it alone is enough to have your blood running cold. What follows is a thick silence, all three of you seemingly holding your breath. Then the creature moves, and finally–finally–you have enough magic to do something with. You mutter the first spell that comes to mind and release all the energy you’ve gathered in your palm so far, blinding it.

The creature stumbles, and Wyll darts forward, ducking and sliding under a wild swing of a hook. As he rolls to standing behind the first creature, you catch movement out of the corner of your eye and turn to the second creature that’s begun making its way across the grove.

Magic is coming, but it’s flimsy, and it’s not building the way it should. You reach inside, knowing even if something’s wrong with the weave, you’ve got innate magic to draw upon–but there’s nothing there. Panic floods your mind as you grasp for something, anything. You catch a scrap or two, but that’s it. You force yourself to breathe.

The second creature is moving fast, long strides that mean it’ll be on you far too quickly.

You glance at Wyll, who’s making short work of the first creature. It’s breathing harder than he is, still blinded and flailing.

He’ll finish it in a few seconds, but not soon enough for him to catch the second creature. You bear down and scrape every reserve in your body for magic, as the creature gets closer, closer…20 feet away, then 10…

At the last possible second, you divide the magic in your hands. Everything seems to happen in slow motion then; you hear a heavy thud as the first creature falls, then a soft curse from Wyll, clear enough that you can tell he’s turned toward you. He won’t make it in time, but that’s alright. You lock eyes with the creature moving toward you, so close now you can smell the carrion stench wafting from its beak, and duck, throwing a hand towards it as the other moves toward Wyll. You hear his sharp intake of breath as the spell hits him, propelling him suddenly with an otherworldly speed. Your magic feels like it’s being drawn from your very veins, taking pieces of you with it, but you shake it off. You’re not done yet. You have just enough time to cast a weak shield over your head as the creature swipes down at you, and it’s shabby work, but it’s enough. No sooner has the impact of the blow shattered your shield than Wyll is stepping in front of you, blocking you from the creature’s sight and catching the hook horror off guard with the speed of his strikes.

You roll, keeping low, until you’re out of range of the hooks, immediately whipping your head around, looking for any other incoming creatures. For a moment, you think you’re in the clear. Then there’s a tremor under your feet–not the low rumble of the bulette from earlier, but the shaking that follows the jump of a large creature. It’s coming from your left–you whip your head around to see a third creature not 30 feet away, lowering its head at you and screaming like it’s going to charge.

You’re pulling at the weave still, gathering scraps of magic and knitting them together, but it’s a process. You reach into your bag blindly and find a bottle that you recognize as one you nicked from a merchant on the road a few days ago. With a relieved sigh, you pull it free, and lob it toward the creature. It explodes into fire at the thing’s feet, catching at its feathers and causing it to stumble. It’s still on its feet, it’s not anywhere close to down, but it gives you some time. While it screams and flails, you can scrape together your last reserves of magic and pool it in your hands. By the time it’s charging toward you again, you’re ready, though you know you only have one shot to finish thing thing off if Wyll’s still working on the other one. You force yourself to hold, be patient, let it get within reach…and then it jumps the last 10 feet toward you, landing so hard you’re knocked off your feet. It’s all you can do to reach out from your prone position and grab one of its ankles, sending a flood of necrotic energy into the creature’s body so powerful that it crumples instantly.

You roll to avoid the large falling body, coming to your feet just in time to see Wyll skewering his hook horror and then pushing it off his blade, letting it fall like its cohorts.

Both of you look at each other, then around the grove, eyes darting from rock to tree to mushroom stalk, searching for any signs of movement. After a quiet 30 seconds, you both start to relax. That’s when the headache hits.

You sag against the cliff face, sliding down it as you let your staff fall to the side with a thunk.

“Are you alright?” Wyll asks, brow wrinkled with worry as he jogs the few steps to get to you. He comes to kneel in front of you, a bit above your eye level. One of his hands hovers awkwardly over your knee for a moment before he rests it on his own thigh.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Just…give me a minute. I had to really wring myself dry, that wasn’t fun.” Your head throbs as you press your palms against your eyes, seeking darkness. It helps a little.

“Here,” you hear him say, “hold out your hand.” You shift so your left hand is covering both your eyes and stick out your right hand, palm up. From the sound of it, he reaches into his bag and rummages around a bit before pulling something out. One of his hands comes up to cradle yours gently (and you recognize the calluses on his fingers, definitely shouldn’t think about why right now), as the other gently presses something soft and slightly sticky into your palm.

You snort, closing your fingers around the object as both his hands drop. You’re almost certain it’s a sweet roll of some kind. “Do you just carry pastries around in your bag? Where did you get this?”

He sighs heavily. You hear skin on skin and picture him rubbing his face wearily. “Are you going to make fun of me for being practical enough to keep food with me, or are you going to eat it?”

There’s a kind of exhausted patience in his tone that stops you in your tracks. You pause, biting your lip as all the guilt that’s been building with each needling remark you’ve made to him seems to wash over you at once. “Sorry, I–thank you.”

He’s silent as you bring the roll up to your lips and take a bite. Just the feel of food in your mouth seems to settle your stomach. Wyll lets you take two more bites before speaking again, voice carefully soft as if he knows what noise will do to your head right now. “Did you really think I’d try to keep you a secret?”

You swallow and slowly lower your hand, blinking your eyes open. He’s sitting back on his heels now, looking you over like a doctor evaluating an unstable patient. “You’ve been avoiding me,” you start with a shrug, “so it didn’t seem like a huge leap to assume you were embarrassed about the other night. And listen, if you want to just forget about the whole thing that’s fine, but–”

“Is that what you want?” He’s serious as he looks at you, waiting patiently for an answer.

An answer you don’t have, because it’s a question you’ve avoided asking yourself for two days. Now that you’re forced to think about it, you realize what you want is to feel the way you felt on that beach again, and you’re very scared you won’t ever get the chance.

Of course, the thought of saying this to Wyll right now makes you feel like you’re on a cliffs edge, contemplating jumping.

“I just,” you start before you know where you’re going, “want my friends to talk to me and not avoid me. And—“ you shrug—“I don’t know, every once in a while I want to get drunk and make out with someone attractive.”

It’s a flirtatious answer, sure, but it doesn’t reveal any new information. It feels safe, or at least minimally risky. Still, you hold your breath as he processes your words.

After what feels like an eternity, he smiles, looking at the ground. “Does this mean you consider me a friend?”

“Partially,” you answer. “Wyll is my friend, not that asshole the Blade of Frontiers.”

He makes a sound that’s not quite a sigh and not quite a laugh. “He’s not that bad.”

“Sure, I want him at my back in a fight, but…every moment he exists is a moment I don’t get to spend with my friend, so. You can see where I’m coming from here.”

He smiles at you almost shyly, but you see a dimple. Then he’s shaking his head, looking at the ground again. “I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you. I didn’t do it consciously. Perhaps I’m still the same kid you knew all those years ago, hiding from problems he didn’t know how to solve.”

You nod, though he’s not looking at you. “I really don’t think you’re ignorant or foolish, Wyll, for whatever that's worth. I just wanted you to talk to me again. I guess provoking you felt like the quickest way to achieve that.”

He laughs, looking up again. “At least when I did that to you I was a teenager.”

You smile, remembering his admission that he used to disagree with you in class just to start a conversation. “It did work, I guess. Maybe it’s not such a horrible plan.”

“Sweet vindication.” Another silence before he continues. “I’m not embarrassed about the other night. I only asked about Astarion because I had assumed you’d want to keep it quiet.”

“Why would I want to keep it quiet?” you ask, rubbing your temples.

He shrugs. “Why would I? All I stand to gain from people knowing is the jealousy and admiration of my peers. Please tell anyone you like.”

You snort. “I don’t know about all that.”

“I do,” he says with an almost flirtatious smile. Your heart flutters. “Being kissed by you is easily the highest honor the Blade has ever received.”

“Gods, you really are dramatic,” you reply, rolling your eyes to distract from your reddening cheeks. “Tell the Blade it wasn’t him I was kissing. He gets enough attention.”

Wyll laughs then, dimples on full display. “I’ll pass that on.”

The strange low light of the grove you’ve found yourselves in catches on a splash of hook horror blood on his forehead, threatening to drip into his eye. You reach up without thinking, brushing it away with your thumb before wiping it on the grass beneath you.

For a moment, as you look at each other, it feels like the night by the water. The same swelling fullness in your lungs, the same flutter in your heart. The same tingle on your lips, on your fingertips.

But you don’t know what he wants, so…this is light. It’s fun. It’s flirty. It’s nothing more than that.

You let the moment pass, sighing and closing your eyes as you fall back against the cliff face. Callused fingers tap the back of your hand. You’ve nearly forgotten about the roll. You open your eyes again and refocus on eating, ripping off pieces and chewing on them slowly.

“Thank you for this, Wyll. Seriously.”

He smiles. “Any time.”

You sit in silence together until you’re done, then slowly rise and start making your way back to camp. Your head hurts too much to find the water and forage the way you’d planned, so you head right to your tent and resolve to go out again early in the morning. You don’t hear the soft conversation Wyll has with Gale, or the soft footsteps when Wyll heads back out again, or the soft brush of leaves on the ground once he returns. All you know is that when you wake up the next morning, there are several Tongue of Madness plants waiting for you outside your tent flap, along with a scrap of folded parchment, pinned down by a small bottle of liquid you don’t recognize. You free the parchment and open it to see a short note, written in obnoxiously neat and tidy handwriting.

In exchange for me providing the rest of your ingredients, I humbly request that you consider taking this potion of poison resistance before ingesting any unknown concoctions.

You are right and I am wrong, and now it’s in writing, so there’s no need to die trying to prove it.

W

You smile and pocket the bottle before you head to the fire for breakfast.

It’s good to have a friend.

Chapter Text

Wyll

“Non fit injura!"

Tav’s voice echoes, though the back balcony she’s standing on looks out onto the water and little else. The abandoned mage’s tower they stumbled on is nestled into a cliffside, with a front entrance several stories from the ground floor. That entrance was a dead end, but from the balcony Karlach spotted a garden down below, and logic dictates that a garden must have a door. With any luck, they’ll make their way inside several levels down and find some supplies, or at least a place to shelter for the next couple nights.

The spell settles over him, buoying him slightly. The smell of Tav’s magic is comforting in its familiarity, though “smell” still isn’t quite the word. It’s more like the feeling after he takes a hard knock to the head in a fight and his sinuses clear. Not a smell, more like a sensation with topnotes. After a knock to the head, his sinuses sting, the topnotes bitter and metallic. When Tav wraps him in magic, there’s a kind of softening somewhere behind his nose, and a tingle deep in his brain. The topnotes are tangy, somehow, and warm, and just a bit floral. The tingly brain, that’s magic in general, though it always feels more pleasant coming from her. Everything else, though–that’s just her. It’s a feeling he’d know anywhere.

He watches his companions move toward a gap in the railing. They’re a motley crew today, having split from Lae’zel, Shadowheart and Halsin in order to map out as much of the area as possible. Gale jumps first, awkwardly, and Astarion hesitates until Tav pushes him over the edge of the balcony. He glides down with a curse, and she leaps after him, laughing. It’s a sound that was rare in all the years he knew her before this, and it’s still one he treasures. She has a bright laugh, completely un-self-conscious. It’s probably one of his favorite sounds in the world.

As he watches, he berates himself mentally. He hadn’t meant to flirt with her after their hook horror encounter. Not that she cares either way, he’s sure it’s all just a bit of fun for her, but he’d hate himself if he led her on somehow. She’s only safe when he keeps her at arm’s length. So he hadn’t meant to flirt, but then, he hadn’t meant to ignore her before that. He’s always had trouble doing things halfway, especially when it comes to her. Apparently he’s either distancing himself completely or drooling like a puppy at her feet, and there’s no in-between.

“Being kissed by you is easily the highest honor the Blade has ever received.” Gods above. Even for him that’s heavy-handed.

It made her blush, though.

Karlach nudges him, and he shakes himself mentally. He can’t think about that right now. Instead he backs away from the edge of the balcony, giving himself room for a short running start before he leaps. It’s not a new sensation, this slowed version of a fall, but it’s always strange, and he stumbles a bit on the landing, nearly trampling a small flower bed.

“Comin’ in hot!” Karlach yells as she lands nearly on top of him, knocking both of them to the ground. He rolls away before his clothes catch fire, and the two of them stumble to their feet, laughing. As they straighten, he sees Astarion making his way over to a door in the tower wall and crouching, examining the lock.

When he looks back, Karlach is fidgeting awkwardly, trying not to get too close to any plants. Gale is bent frowning, looking around like he’s trying to get his bearings, and Tav…

It takes him a moment to find her. When he does, she’s staring straight ahead, face carefully blank, but he knows her too well to miss the shifting of her jaw, the tension lines between her eyebrows. Something’s wrong.

He moves to her side without thinking. Arm’s length be damned.

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Tav

Something’s very wrong. The emptiness in your chest is overwhelming. You feel unmoored, like the slightest breeze could whisk you into space and you’d never come back down again. Instinctively, you reach for a scrap of weave, some tiny spark deep in your center, and you find where it’s supposed to be, but…nothing. Unlike the other day, when you were able to scrape together some amount of magic, now you can’t feel any magic at all.

You note, distantly, a familiar hand on your upper arm, and you blink, trying to push aside the overwhelming panic of your mind (which, despite Omeluum’s best efforts, is still playing host to a tadpole in addition to your current anxiety) long enough to speak.

“Are you alright?”

Wyll would know something’s wrong, of course. For a moment you’re almost angry. Even his kind gaze chafes right now.

“I’m fine, it’s not anything urgent, I’m just—“

Gale’s made his way over, and he’s nodding, looking more than a little shaken. “I feel it too. Lucky you cast that feather fall spell before we got down here.”

You nod, trying to look like a normal person engaging in a conversation. By the looks on your friends’ faces, you fail miserably.

“The holes in my magic the other night,” you force out, turning slightly to Wyll, “it’s happening here, too.”

He whips his head around wildly like he’s expecting to see another of the monsters nearby, but there’s nothing. “We know those creatures weren’t responsible, then.” He studies you, concern knitting his brows together. “It’s worse this time, though.” He doesn’t even have to ask. You must look awful.

You just nod, closing your eyes briefly.

Gale runs a hand through his hair, more out-of-sorts than you can ever remember seeing him. “It’s more than a few holes now, that’s for sure. Is there anything here you recognize from your encounter with the hook horrors? A sound, perhaps? A smell?”

You look around. The light is strange here, though of course it’s strange everywhere in the underdark. There‘s something sort of alive about it here, though. Like it’s breathing. And it’s emanating from…

“Wyll,” you say quietly, “do you recognize those flowers?”

He follows your gaze, nodding before you’re even done speaking. Gale moves experimentally toward the small patch of earth where several glowing blue flowers are growing, and immediately reels back.

“Gods above,” he says, eyes wide. “What are these things?!”

“Did someone request an unlocked door?” Astarion yells from across the garden, where he’s leaning on the back door to the tower, forcing it to open for the first time in gods only know how long.

Gale moves to join him, shaking his hands like he’s trying to shake off the strange feeling of the flower. “I suggest we figure out what this place is as soon as possible, so we can be rid of it for good.”

You take a deep breath. When you finally meet his gaze, Wyll’s still looking at you, worried. “I’m fine,” you say with an exasperated laugh. “Or at least…I don’t know, but worrying about me isn’t going to help. I just don’t like feeling so useless.”

He scoffs. “Your talents extend far beyond magic, trust me.” Then, gentler: “You’ll be fine. We know the source now, so we know it’s temporary.”

His hand is still warm on your upper arm, which is more reassuring than it has any right to be. “Yeah,” you reply, “you’re right. My magic will return.” You’re not sure if you’re trying to reassure him or yourself, and in order to not think about it any more you keep rambling. “I just wish I had any control over when it happened. It’s like this cat I feed back in the city. He’s always coming and going on his own timeline, and I know that’s best, but…I hate not having any control.” You force yourself to stop talking, feeling silly, but he’s smiling now, his thumb moving against your arm comfortingly.

“In that case,” he says, “I’ve got just one thing to say.”

“Try exercising some patience for once in my life?” you joke.

“I was going to say ‘meow,’ actually.”

You bark out a surprised laugh, which echoes slightly in the small garden. “Why?!”

“A desperate attempt to make you laugh. Which worked, might I add.” He’s showing off his dimples now, eyes twinkling in the low light. Obnoxiously attractive.

“It did, but just because I was so surprised.” The laugh does seem to have shaken loose some of your panic, leaving you just a bit more grounded.

“A laugh’s a laugh, I’m not picky.” You shake your head, but you can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “Now,” he continues, businesslike, “let’s get you away from these things and figure out why a mage would cultivate magic-suppressing flowers outside their own tower.”

With one last squeeze, he drops his hand and turns to follow Gale into the building.

You’re about to follow when something hooks your elbow, holding you back. You look down to see the hilt of Karlach’s dagger, the sheathed blade held in her hand. Bit ominous, but you suppose it’s better than her hand burning a hole through your robe. “Hang back a sec, yeah?” she asks, and you wait a moment. Wyll glances back as he reaches the door and realizes you aren’t following, and Karlach waves. “Sorry mate, just gotta steal her for a minute!” You give him a small, reassuring smile to let him know you’ll be along in a moment, and he continues into the tower.

“Karlach,” you say when you turn back to her, “I’m kind of eager to get away from—“

“I know,” she reassures you, “just give me like 10 seconds. Hard to get a moment alone these days.”

You smile, confused. “I guess that’s true, but what—“

She leans down close to your face, whispering conspiratorially. “What the fuck is up with you and Wyll?”

You blink, your heart tripping. You manage not to physically recoil, but just barely. “I—what do you mean?”

“I mean,” she continues with a theatrical roll of her eyes, “what’s with all the little touches? And the smiles? Are you two—?“ she makes a confusing gesture that you’re pretty sure would be offensive, if you could tell what it was.

“Gods, Karlach, no!”

The taller woman narrows her eyes disbelievingly. “So you expect me to believe that the other night you went out ‘foraging’ together?!”

“We did! Or—well, I did and he followed me, but it wasn’t anything scandalous, he just wanted to talk.”

When you don’t back down, she sighs, looking at her nails in mock boredom. “Well, you’ve been walking awfully straight, it can’t have been too good.”

“Oh for fucks sake, we didn’t have sex!”

For a split second, her eyes glow as bright as the rest of her. “Ah, but something happened!!”

You curse yourself mentally, angry you gave her an opening like that. “Barely, alright? We just got way too drunk at the party with the tieflings and…made out. It’s really not a big deal.”

“You made out? We still doing that at our big ages?”

“Thats all he wanted to do, and fair enough, we were very drunk.”

“Thats all he wanted to do? Whereas you wanted…more?” You can’t quite read her energy. She’s fishing for gossip, but there’s something deeper going on, something you can’t suss out.

“Gods, no, it was just—I was drunk, I would’ve made out with any one of you!”

“I heard Astarion gave you a pretty fucking enticing offer that night, and you didn’t even—“

“Yeah, okay, but it’s—I don’t know, it’s different. That would’ve been weird.”

“But with Wyll it wasn’t?”

You sigh, exasperated. “I don’t know why we’re even talking about this! Wyll and I talked, it’s fine. It’s no big deal, we’ve forgotten about it already!”

She narrows her eyes, but doesn’t say anything.

“What?” you demand, narrowing your eyes to match.

“It’s Wyll, soldier. I don’t think he does ‘no big deal.’”

“Well, these are strange circumstances. Maybe he wanted to try something new.”

“Nah,” she replies, shaking her head. “I don’t buy it. His eyes turn into hearts whenever you so much as look at him. The man is gone for you, babe.”

You imagine a shell over your skin that hardens as she speaks until her words bounce off you without absorbing. It’s ridiculous, all of it. “Then why did he brush off the other night? Why didn’t he come up to me the next morning and kiss my hand and pledge to court me or something?”

She laughs. “Why does that man do anything he does? Why does he have a catchphrase? Why is he so bloody selfless all the time? The man’s a mystery, mate. You can’t take a little thing like that at face value. Maybe he was just trying to give you space, see how you felt so he wouldn’t come off pushy.”

You sigh, looking around, rubbing your temple. It feels like torture, her cornering you out here without your magic, asking a million questions. “Sure, maybe,” you say with a shrug, but you don’t bother to hide the fact that you’re just placating her.

“Now I mention it,” she continues, undeterred, “how do you feel, exactly? You into him or what?”

“I don’t know, Karlach.” You want to just turn and walk away, but you don’t think she’s going to let you off the hook, and you’d rather have this conversation here than within Wyll’s earshot. “He’s objectively attractive, we get along, that’s all the thought I put into it. I’m not really a relationship girl, you know?”

She crosses her arms, lifting her chin just slightly. “So you thought you’d just mess around a bit, have some noncommittal fun, and you chose the guy who’s been planning his own wedding since before he could talk?”

You blink, falling back half a step like she’s slapped you. It suddenly makes sense, her pushiness, the way she’s kept you out here with these fucking flowers where you’re essentially powerless. She’s worried that you’re going to hurt her friend. You haven’t known her long, but you know that’s not a line you want to cross with her. You hold up your hands in surrender, trying to push past your hurt at being cast as the villain here. “Karlach, come on. I wouldn’t do that to Wyll, you know that. I wouldn’t use him like that. We’re friends, and we flirt a bit, but that’s it. We agreed to leave that whole thing behind.”

She looks down at you, studying you for a long moment. You hold your breath until her face cracks into a smile and she shoves your shoulder playfully. “Right. Good. You know I have to look out for my boy.”

You breathe out a relieved laugh. “Gods help anyone who breaks that man’s heart.”

“I’d do this for you too, you know. I love you like mad, it's just…between you and Wyll…”

“No, no,” you reassure her, and you both relax, moving toward the door to the tower. “I completely understand. The man risked his life to save yours, all I’ve done is make you tea a couple times,” you joke, trying to lighten the tone of conversation. “And really only when it’s convenient for me.”

She laughs, a real one this time. “Lucky for you, after 10 years in the Hells, my bar for friendship is dangerously low.”

You head inside, ignoring Wyll’s questioning look and moving toward the desk you spot in the corner. Some minutes later, several pages deep in someone’s long-abandoned scientific notes, you’re the one who pieces things together.

Karlach volunteers to go outside and grab a flower to test the theory. When she slips it inside the machine, lights blink on all around you and from the direction of the elevator, loud machinery shudders to life after a long rest. Wyll’s there, right behind you, bringing a hand to your shoulder. “See?” he says. “Saving the day, and no magic needed.”

You’re not sure if it’s his words or the receding effect of the flower that warms you from the inside out, but you shove the feeling aside, laughing lightly and throwing him an appreciative, friendly (but not too friendly) smile as his hand slips off your shoulder.

You’re not sure why it hurts when it does, why suddenly it feels like that point of contact was the thing that made this whole bizarre experience feel okay, and now you’re more alone than you’ve ever been. You’re not sure, but…it’s probably nothing.

Chapter Text

How can I trust? How will I ever know?
How can I show myself, my darkest me?

You lean against the wall with the book splayed open in your lap. The stone is cool against your back, even through your robe.

By your right hip is the stack of books you’ve yet to look through, and it’s dwindling quicker than you would’ve expected. Half the books in this tower are unreadable, they’re so old, and the other half seem to be obscure, tragic literature. Relatable, if you’re honest.

The one in your lap (a beat-up tome Gale found a few levels down) is some combination of the two. There are barely any legible lines at this point, save for the couplet that’s rattling around in your mind. There’s a circle around both lines, drawn with a pen. The cleric who lived here was a fan of annotating, apparently, which is another thing the two of you have in common.

From somewhere above you, you hear a shout. You frown up at the ceiling. More shouts, and the clashing of metal. You deliberate for a split second, then send a mental message to Gale via tadpole.

You good?

His response is almost immediate. All well and good up here, just ran into a bit of a hiccup!

You hear a crash, and your frown deepens. You sure? We can join if you need–

Very generous of you, but for now all is handled. Somehow even in your head he sounds winded, and you decide to stop distracting him.

Shadowheart is making her way over to you. Her group caught up with you an hour ago, once you sent word that the entrance to the tower was secured. “Did you just hear–?”

“Yes,” you answer, “but Gale says they’ve got it.”

She looks doubtfully up at the ceiling, but a moment later she shakes her head and turns back to the desk she was rifling through.

It’s just you and Shadowheart on this floor. Halsin, Lae’zel and Astarion are combing through the lower floors, looking for anything you could sell or use. Karlach, Wyll, and Gale went ahead to the top floor to make sure it was secure before you all went to sleep, and by the sound of things, it was not.

The noise from above slowly fades until it’s gone entirely. A minute later, you hear the lift beginning to whir, and Gale and Wyll slowly come into view, feet first. By the time you can see their faces, it’s clear how exhausted they are.

“Is Karlach okay?” you ask as the doors slide open, and they both nod wearily.

“She’s making sure we didn’t leave anything useful behind,” Gale answers.

“What exactly happened?” Shadowheart demands.

Wyll sighs as he leaves the lift, stretching his shoulder. “Automatons,” he says simply.

“They didn’t like my answer to their question,” Gale adds as they both make their way over to your crates of supplies.

“I did warn you,” Wyll reminds him good-naturedly, and Gale winces.

“It’s not in my nature to leave a stone unturned,” the wizard explains haughtily, but he looks a bit chagrined. He shifts his weight, and you notice he’s favoring his left side. There’s a dark stain at the waist of his robes and the fabric is cut open, just a bit.

Shadowheart notices too.

“You just can't bear to leave a fight intact, can you?” she scolds, summoning him to the other side of the room where she’s keeping the party’s stash of healing equipment.

Wyll hovers awkwardly for a moment, and you almost think he’s not coming to join you, but of course that’s wishful thinking. You don’t want him to join you almost as much as you do.

It’s not like you’re actually trying to avoid him. It’s just that over the last few hours, every interaction you’ve had with him has made Karlach’s words echo in your mind: The man is gone for you, babe. You’ve been analyzing his every word, stealing glances when he’s not looking, but you can’t see whatever your friend thinks she sees. As far as you can tell, he’s just Wyll, same as ever. It doesn’t matter, though; just the memory of your conversation with Karlach is enough to add new weight to every interaction with him that feels strange and unwieldy.

Maybe she’s wrong. Maybe she’s right and you’re unobservant. Either possibility gives you a stomachache, so you’ve been keeping your distance a bit. Until now, at least.

“Have a seat,” you say as he nears, and he slowly lowers himself to the floor. “Sounds like you kids had some fun up there?”

He laughs. “Something like that. A bit sad, actually. This Lenore had programmed one of them to hug her when she quoted a certain book. It was one of the ones Gale found downstairs, or we’d never have discovered that.”

Your first thought is that it sounds kind of nice. This big tower in the Underdark, no neighbors, and by the sound of it, a partner living far away. It makes sense she’d want to give herself a bit of love. That, and it must be much easier asking an automaton for a hug as opposed to another person. You’re embarrassed just thinking about it.

Your next thought is that perhaps you shouldn’t find this woman quite so relatable. She did, after all, die alone. That’s what you’ve pieced together, at least. Went a bit crazy, tried to tame a bulette. You haven’t found her body anywhere, but there was a note from her partner downstairs saying she never reunited with him. Not exactly a trajectory you’d like to emulate.

Wyll’s voice breaks you out of your thoughts. “I have a present for you.”

You look over at him, raising your eyebrows. “If it’s a book of sad poems I’m afraid I’m full up at the moment,” you reply, gesturing to the pile of books next to you. He laughs.

“No, luckily.” He reaches into a pocket and pulls out a small ring. It’s got a round, red stone in the center, dull with dust and age but deep in color.

You look up at him, mildly panicked, Karlach’s words once more reverberating in your skull. The man is gone for you, babe. “I–thank you?”

“I found it upstairs and had Gale take a look at it. It’s supposed to help with…magical intuition, I think he said?”

You take a breath, still not entirely sure what to make of this, and slip it onto your middle finger. You feel the slightest tingling radiating out from it, and then…nothing.

“How do I know if it worked?” you ask, looking up at Wyll again, but the second you meet his gaze something nudges at your intuition. You focus on his stone eye, the little heart-shaped pupil, and the thing that you couldn’t put a finger on when you first saw him suddenly clicks into place. “Your eye is a sending stone,” you say. You intend to phrase it as a question, but by the time you finish speaking you’ve never been more certain of anything.

He blinks, pulling back slightly. His eyebrows raise and he opens his mouth to speak–

“Having fun?” Shadowheart is coming to stand over the two of you. You panic again, thinking she means you and Wyll–hells, does the entire party think he’s in love with you? You nearly work up a righteous anger when she nods at your pile of books and you deflate once more. On the other side of the lift, you see Gale lowering himself gingerly onto the ancient bed in the corner. You suppose it is getting late. If this conversation does get awkward, you can always excuse yourself to go to sleep.

“Fun isn’t exactly the word I’d use,” you answer after a pause that’s just a fraction too long. “This woman had a taste for the tragic.”

Shadowheart lowers herself to the ground. “Not your thing?”

You shrug. “I don’t mind the occasional tragedy, it’s just…it’s every book. No wonder she went a bit mad.” Your heart is finally returning to a natural rhythm, thankfully. He found something that he thought would be useful, you assure yourself. He gave it to his friend. All of this is very normal.

“Same. It’s not my go-to genre,” Shadowheart smirks, and you roll your eyes.

“Yes, well, I’ve heard the two of you talking. I know what your preferred genre is.”

“Now who’s being close-minded?” Wyll asks, eyebrows high.

“I’m not! I think you should read whatever makes you happy. Personally, I guess I just don’t understand the appeal of mermaid smut.”

Shadowheart just shrugs. “It’s hot. That’s not enough for you?”

You laugh. “That’s plenty for me, but I don’t understand why there has to be a mermaid or a Minotaur or a centaur involved.”

“Or a dragon,” Shadowheart smirks. “The main character needed a bit of magic to pull that one off. Totally worth it.”

“Okay, see? That’s crazy. What’s the appeal of fucking a dragon? Isn’t that scary?”

“Love is scary,” Shadowheart answers. “Or so I’m told.”

“I’m not sure I ever want to be that in love,” you reply with a laugh.

“Isn’t there something compelling about it, though?” Wyll replies, staring into the middle distance thoughtfully. “A love, a desire, so intense that you’d bend the laws of the natural world to make it work?” As you watch him speak, your cheeks flush for no reason.

Shadowheart leans back, looking thoughtful. “I think it’s also something about how your partner could easily hurt you, but you know they won’t. Which is sort of the whole thing with romance, isn’t it? You go into it knowing your heart might be put through a meat grinder at the end of it, but you just have to trust the other person won’t do that.” She snorts. “It’s all much more fun in fiction, from what I understand.”

You nod, mulling it over. “I can’t really take a firm stance on something I haven’t tried, I guess. Any recommendations to start with?” In the corner of your eye, the lift is moving again, this time depositing a slightly sweaty Karlach, who yawns and collapses onto a bed roll near Gale, wholly uninterested in socializing. You breathe a mental sigh of relief that she won’t be able to analyze your every interaction with Wyll. Then again, you’re doing that just fine on your own.

Shadowheart turns to him. “Maybe Minotaur All Mine?”

“Exactly the title I had in mind,” he nods, smiling. He turns to you. “I have a copy with me, I’ll lend it to you.”

There’s a smile pulling at Shadowheart’s lips as well. “I wish I could read it again for the first time. That one…taught me some things.”

“I know what you mean,” Wyll is nodding, lost in pleasant memories. “The dungeon scene alone–”

“And it’s so early in the book, too! I remember reading it and wondering how they were possibly going to top that, and yet…” she and Wyll sigh in unison, and you have a moment of feeling distinctly left out before Shadowheart straightens a bit. “I’m surprised at you, Wyll.”

He frowns. “Why’s that?”

“I’ve heard all the ballads about the Blade of Frontiers. It's hard to believe you had anything left to learn.”

You snort, immediately back in the conversation.

“I’m sorry,” Wyll says, sitting forward slightly, “did you say ballads? Plural?”

You bite your lip and exchange a look with the cleric, whose eyes are sparkling mischieviously. It’s your turn to sit up as you look over at Wyll. “Um…do you only know about one of them?”

Wyll’s frowning now, concerned. “Of course. The one about Trollbark Forest? Saving the wagon of orphans? Are there others?”

“That’s not even the same genre as the ones I know,” Shadowheart laughs.

Wyll looks back to you, and you give him a pitying look. “Same, I’m afraid.”

“What are the ones you know?!”

“Um,” you start hesitantly, “they’re a fair bit…raunchier. Lots of puns.”

“Puns?” He looks genuinely confused.

You look to Shadowheart for help, and she sighs as if she’s not enjoying this conversation the way you know she is. “According to the bards, you’ve been slipping your sword in and out of sheaths up and down the Sword Coast…if you catch my meaning.”

Wyll’s eyebrows reach his hairline. “You’re joking.”

“Lucky Longsword is my favorite, though the chorus is a bit convoluted,” Shadowheart continues helpfully.

You clear your throat, nearly choking from the effort not to laugh. “I’m partial to His Noble Blade myself.”

“Ooh, excellent choice,” the cleric replies. “I’m changing my answer, I agree with you.”

You turn to meet Wyll’s horrified gaze and give him an apologetic look. “It’s just…when a bar is crowded, the last couple lines go really hard.”

His eyes go wide. “You sang along with these?”

You can’t quite keep the smile off your face. “Well, I didn’t know it was your noble sword I was singing about, did I?!”

He looks up like he’s praying for some kind of divine intervention, falling back to lean on his hands. After a moment he shakes his head, smiling despite himself. “Gods have mercy,” he laughs helplessly. You take it as permission, finally releasing the torrent of laughter you’ve been holding in too long. Shadowheart joins as you struggle to breathe.

“How did you not know?!” you gasp.

He’s shaking his head, rubbing his good eye with the heel of one palm. “I don’t know,” he laughs. “I damn well should have. I’m suddenly understanding several interactions I’ve had with strangers that I found very confusing at the time.”

This sets you and Shadowheart off again, and for a moment the three of you are falling together and giggling like teenagers at a sleepover, feeding off each others’ energy.

Across the room, Karlach makes an unmistakable sound of annoyance into her pillow, which has the three of you desperately muffling your laughs with sleeves and hands.

“Fuck,” you gasp, “this might actually kill me.”

“Well, you know what they say,” Shadowheart intones unevenly. “Death is the Blade’s companion.”

You and Wyll reach over simultaneously and smack her on the arms as you try desperately to stay quiet, wiping tears from your eyes. It’s another good minute before you all settle.

Eventually, Shadowheart clears her throat. “So,” she sighs, “you haven’t been sleeping your way across Faerun?”

“Hardly,” Wyll chuckles. “No time. No energy. Hells, no privacy. I have a devil in my head half the time. It’s not exactly conducive to romance.”

Shadowheart frowns. ”Wait–she can just lurk in your mind?” she asks, alarmed.

“There's no special magic that gives her full access, but she….” He seems to struggle for a moment before he shakes his head, frustrated. “Damn. Apparently I can’t get into specifics. Suffice it to say she can speak to me whenever she pleases, with no warning. I’ve found it’s safest to limit my…more vulnerable moments.” His eyes lock onto yours, and you put together what he can’t say with a sinking stomach.

The sending stone. She can truly speak to him whenever she pleases. There’s never a moment that he isn’t available to her. Unless he removes it, but you’re willing to bet she’s made that impossible.

Shadowheart frowns. “So you don’t get to be a slut because she could drop in at any moment? Surely at some point you just say ‘fuck it’ and do what needs to be done, Mizora be damned?”

He smiles, but shakes his head. “I don’t want her to own that part of my life the way she does everything else. She drops in fairly frequently. If she were to appear at the wrong time…I’m not sure what that would feel like, but I don’t want to find out.”

You imagine it: being lost in the throes of passion, relinquishing all control, and then a voice in your mind. And not just any voice, but the voice of the entity that controls you. It would be horrible. Complete powerlessness. The one moment you’d thought was yours, ripped away. You feel a bit sick.

“I’m looking for a way out of this contract for a million reasons,” he continues, “that’s just another one to add to the list. And in the meantime, it’s really not so bad. Sex doesn’t preoccupy me the way it seems to do some.” He sighs, rubbing his eye again. “Not usually, anyway.”

You watch his face, but he’s matter-of-fact through it all. For all that what he’s telling you is intense, you get the sense he doesn’t want pity or even commiseration. He just wants his friends to understand him a bit better.

You smile at the ground, shaking off your own feelings for the sake of his. “Not unless you’re reading mermaid smut.”

He laughs. “Precisely. Then I’m absolutely feral.”

You’re blushing again for some fucking reason, but you don’t think either of them are looking at you.

You’re all lost in thought for a moment until Shadowheart yawns. “What a fucking day,” she says. “I’m sorry, you two, I think I need to go set up my bedroll before I fall unconscious.” She rises from the ground.

“I’m right behind you,” you say, closing the book in your lap and adding it to the pile of books to keep.

She doesn’t say anything else, simply heading to the pile of camping supplies in the back, picking her way carefully around the several holes in the ground As she does, Lae’zel, Astarion and Halsin arrive in the lift, and all immediately head to grab their own bedrolls.

You and Wyll slowly stand, but before he can go anywhere you catch his arm.

“Thank you again for…” you hold up the hand with the ring.

“Of course,” he answers immediately. “Before I forget, let me grab that book for you.”

You follow him to his bag, which is resting in the center of the room. Your friends are quiet on the other side of the lift, apart from the rustle of blankets and bedrolls. It almost feels like you’re alone.

He offers you the book, and you can’t help but smile at the intricate foil lettering on the front cover as you take it. “I can’t believe you two talked me into this.”

“You’re certainly under no obligation,” he replies, also smiling.

“I’m under an obligation to myself,” you retort, “to see what all the fuss is about.”

“Well, I hope it satisfies your curiosity.”

There’s a split second where you think the word choice is intentional, and then you remember who you’re talking to. “From what I hear, I’ll be plenty satisfied,” you reply, biting back a laugh.

He freezes for a second before breathing out a soft laugh and nodding. “I caught that one,” he says.

“Well look at you, Ravengard. You’re learning.”

“I owe it all to my teacher,” he replies quietly.

You swallow hard. Because no one can see you, and you’re standing very close together, and it would be the easiest thing in the world just to lean a bit closer. And he’s looking at you like he wants you to, and you actually really want to as well.

But then, panic. Because of course you want to kiss him. You’ve spent all day inside the head of a lonely woman who died alone years ago and projecting onto her like crazy. You’re looking for a distraction from your own loneliness. Karlach may or may not have been right about Wyll, but she was right about you. You’re not a relationship girl, you don’t want a charming prince to marry and have babies with. You’ve grown close to this man, you’re genuinely friends now, and he deserves better than to be a balm for your fucked up feelings.

You clear your throat, laughing softly as you lean away. “I try,” you say, not quite meeting his eyes. “Anyway. Thank you again.”

“Of course,” he says again. You don’t look at his face, but his voice seems perfectly even.

“Goodnight, Wyll,” you say, turning to find an empty spot on the stone floor to place your bedroll. He lingers by his bag, letting you get a head start.

There’s barely any room left, but at one end of the room there’s just enough space for two more people. Which is fine, you’re friends and colleagues after all. You can sleep next to each other.

But as you set yourself up, Wyll stays on the other side of the lift. He sets up his own bedroll over there, leaving the spot next to you empty.

It’s your fault, you shouldn’t have let it get weird.

You’ll do better tomorrow.

You straighten the ring on your finger and close your eyes.

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His Noble Blade

One morning, not a tenday back
I met an orc with eyes of black

I said “dont hurt me sir, I pray”
Quoth he, “It is your lucky day.

The Blade of Frontiers did me in.
He stabbed my gut and sliced my skin.

I’ve not the strength to hurt a fly,
At any moment I will die.”

I replied, “I understand,
For I have also met this man.

A different blade he used on me,
The marks it left harder to see.

I only met him evening last,
And many a restless hour we passed.

With a wink I was disarmed,
Helpless and completely charmed.

He showed to me his noble sword,
But I reaped a sweet reward

1000 times he ran me through.
His blade is long; his thrust is true!

He left me lovesick, tired and sore.
I’ll walk askew forevermore.“

Said the orc: “I must be frank,
Your suffering has the lower rank.”

I replied “it seemeth so,
But he is gone, and now I know

His memory is a curse I bear–
No other Blade will e’er compare!”

- Faerunian folk song, origin unknown

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