Chapter Text
Blessed by the oak trees that flourished after the fall of the Shadow Curse, Halsin’s shoulders remain protected from the glaring sun. The bark against his back and the spongy grass between his toes is a welcome comfort compared to the uneven cobblestone and bustling marketplaces of Reithwin rebuilt. Though not lost in nature’s underbelly, the outskirts of the forest are enough for now.
He works calmly under the shade of the trees in shaping a wooden creation. His knife slides effortlessly along the wooden block, showing little to no resistance on account of his strength. By the time the sky has turned pink and the blazing sun has tucked itself away, a cool breeze wisps by with a familiar scent in the wind. Lemongrass, lavender… leather…
With a soft exhale, Halsin recognizes the footfalls of an old commander. Lowering his knife, he rests his agitated hand on his leg for reprieve and turns his head.
“Zevlor,” he says with a nod.
“Halsin,” replies Zevlor. He pauses a few feet away, his hand resting upon the handle of his sword. After a brief silence, the pair break into an amused chuckle.
“There is no need for such formalities now is there, my heart?” asks Halsin as Zevlor takes a seat beside him. He pretends not to hear Zevlor’s pained grunt as he plops down in the grass, but he fails to hide the flicker of concern in his eyes. The natural warmth that emanates from the Tiefling brings a silent smile to Halsin’s lips, especially when Zevlor rests his palm on top of Halsin’s swollen hand.
The old commander sighs and shakes his head.
“You should be resting that hand of yours you know,” he says. “I don’t understand why you don’t just heal it and be done with it.”
Halsin chuckles in response. “If only it were that simple. I cannot cure arthritic pain when it is so heavily embedded in my nature. I do not know the source of which it comes.”
“You know it's in your hand,” counters Zevlor. He takes Halsin’s much larger hand in his and gently massages his knuckles earning a bearish-grunt of approval from the druid. “Your knuckles are swollen,” he murmurs.
“Aye… whittling will do that.”
Zevlor eyes him. He has known many a man to pick up craftsmanship and still treat their hands with the care of a nobleman. Halsin was foolhardy when it came to his own health, especially now that he was somewhat retired in Reithwinn. Retired in that his zest for adventure had since been quenched from the events of the Netherbrain. But he still liked to aid others in the rebuilding of Reithwin. In rearing the young orphans of every race and class imaginable. And Halsin’s overzealous selflessness drove Zevlor up the wall. “A formidable ally and warrior in battle, yes,” he mumbles to himself. Out of the blue. He continues to apply a bit of pressure on Halsin’s knuckles and fingers as he worked, but drew no complaint from the druid. “But foolish for a leader. Your compassion knows no bounds, Halsin. It is amazing that you’ve lived this long.”
His words, though harsh, hold no ire. Simply a genuine concern and love for the compassionate man who took him as a partner, even in Zevlor’s old and grizzled age. It draws a contemplative hum from Halsin. “I often feel the same,” he replies. There is an air of melancholy and Zevlor frowns. “Forgive me,” says Zevlor. “I am irritable tonight.”
“The harpers giving you trouble?”
“They listen to no one but Jaheira, even when I am left in charge!”
“They are spirited.”
“Spirited as they are, they give me grey hairs.”
“Is that why you’re not at your post in the Gate?”
Zevlor pauses his ministrations. His shoulders sag and he finally allows himself to look at Halsin. To admire his hazel eyes and the intricate red tattoo. His scar, remaining angry, unhealed yet pale all the same. The curve of his lips, his adam's apple in which he wishes to kiss.
“No,’” comes Zevlor’s tired reply. “I wished to see you.”
“So you did receive my letter then?” Halsin shifts against the tree so that he can face Zevlor. Traces the contours of his face, the wrinkle of his brow and the constant anxiety behind round, yellow eyes. He cups his cheek, his large hand taking up the half of the Tiefling’s face, and rubs his thumb along his cheekbone. His eyes flicker to his lips and he notes that Zevlor mirrors his gaze. He too raises his hand and cradles Halsin’s face in his weathered hand.
“How could I not respond to a letter from the druid Halsin?” he says with a hint of humour in his voice. “It is not everyday that one is graced by the letter of such a handsome creature.”
They share a chaste kiss. It isn’t one of butterflies and fairydust, but rather one tired and gentle. When they pull away they rest their foreheads against one another, eyes closed. “We are alive, and for that I am grateful,” whispers Zevlor, much to Halsin’s surprise. Before he can question where such a macabre statement came from, Zevlor continues. “There have been many a night in which I suffered survivor's guilt similar to yours. Wondered how I could ever win back the trust of the surviving Tieflings. But it was with your compassion and written words that brought me back to reality. You are right and true in speaking of nature’s creations, the gifts bestowed upon us. The Gate is lively and crowded yet flowers still bloom through the cracks in the cobblestone. If they can persist well… so can I.”
A profound silence falls over the pair. And when Halsin pulls away it is only so that he can lean his back against the tree and guide Zevlor into his embrace. Leaning sideways, with his ear against Halsin’s chest and resting on his uninjured hip, Zevlor listens to the breaths of his lover. He feels Halsin’s thick and once nimble fingers card themselves through his hair.
“I am proud of you my heart,” whispers Halsin. “To overcome such bouts of melancholy… it takes tremendous effort.”
Another pause. The sun has now nestled itself elsewhere and the sky has lost its pink hue. The stars look down upon them and as the occasional breeze starts to grow colder in passing, the pair slowly get up. Halsin aids Zevlor.
“Your hip…”
“Do not worry about my hip. I have not come here to be doted on.”
“You’ve grown quite grumpy over the past year.”
“And I have every right to be,” says Zevlor as he watches Halsin bend to pick up his supplies. He delivers a crisp slap to his ample backside, biting back a mischievous smirk as Halsin yelps-- more so in surprise than anything.
“You fiery little minx!” Halsin exclaims as Zevlor side steps out of the way, mere seconds before Halsin’s palm can connect with his thigh. Instead, his tail connects with Halsin’s wrist and the poor druid drops his wooden block. With an exaggerated sigh and click of the tongue, Halsin picks up his block and follows Zevlor down the well trodden path leading to Halsin’s humble abode. Side by side.