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The Underdark is the wrong kind of quiet. There is no wind, and the light comes from glowing mushrooms and carried lanterns rather than the sun blazing above. The skittering and stomping of various creatures echoes through the caverns, making it almost impossible to tell where any sounds are coming from.
Karlach and Shadowheart walk behind Briar and Gale, all of them keeping their heads on a swivel. They had already made the mistake of not paying attention to the ceiling of the cavern, and Briar can hear Karlach cracking her neck to peer between the stalactites.
The Myconid colony lays behind them, a massive tree stretching down to their left, farther than Briar's eyes can see. Is gloom the right word when it's bright? Either way, the drop is far longer than Briar would like to fall.
“This must be the Sussur tree,” Shadowheart muses. Her voice rings against the stones around them.
Her and Karlach begin talking about some mushroom sprouting on the side of the path, but Briar doesn't pay much attention as they keep pushing forward.
A chill crawls its way down their spine. The familiar warmth at the centre of their being flickers and wanes in a moment. Briar moves their fingers in the familiar motions of a cantrip, anything really, waiting for the sparks to gather at their fingertips, but… nothing.
Their stomach churns, bile and a familiar bitter taste gathering in the back of their throat. Hands holding them down as liquid is forced down their throat, bringing the same cold emptiness. Days and days melding together in a freezing stupor.
Briar can't stop themself from still trying, desperately, to cast anything. Tears threaten to spill from their eyes and they cup a hand over their mouth. Praying for even that uncontrollable surge of wild magic. No matter how destructive it is, it can't be worse than the cold.
“That flower isn't agreeing with you, is it?” Gale asks, “Doesn't sit well with me either.” He shudders.
Briar's eyes scan around them and settle on a deep indigo bloom. It radiates with icy energy that saps the spark of magic inside them into the centre of the bud.
“It-it's the flower,” Briar stammers, “my magic is gone.”
“It's the same for me. We're sitting ducks among Sussur flowers, you and I.”
“Then I guess we should watch each other's backs.” Briar forces a half smile onto their face and threads fingers they swear aren't shaking into Gale's hand.
Gale's brows furrow for a moment before he replies with an equally forced smile, “Our backs are very much prone to stabbing in this environment. So by all means — let's.”
“Oi, over here!” Karlach calls, “Shads and I found something!”
Briar releases a shaky breath and thanks whatever gods are watching for an excuse to leave the flower behind. Gale squeezes their hand, just enough for Briar to know he's there. He's got them.
— — — — — —
When Briar finds the Sussur flower in the camp chest, they don't even bother to figure out who brought it back before they toss it to Scratch and tell him to bury it as far off in the woods as he can find. Briar doesn't care who sees them run to the other side of camp in a desperate attempt to not hurl their guts up.
The chill of the bloom clings to their body far longer than it has any right to in the cold of the shadow cursed lands. On their hands and knees behind their tent Briar screws their eyes shut as their breath comes in shallow gulps.
Briar can't help but try to hold it. Try to do anything to keep their mouth shut, keep the bitter taste of sussur bloom off their tongue. Fingers in their teeth, prying their mouth open and forcing Briar to swallow.
Briar heaves and bile spills up their throat, through their clenched teeth, and forces its way out of their nose. They cough and spit and cry and wring their hands through the soft moss and packed dirt now soaked with wet and warm vomit.
The burn of stomach acid is almost enough to get the taste out of their mouth. Briar almost hopes they vomit again to flush the rest of it out while whatever part of their mind that clings to rationality tries to settle their stomach. The rational part does a poor job of it.
A hand settles on Briar's back and they jerk away, tumbling into a worse position than they were already in. Bile spills out of their mouth, their nose, their throat, again and Briar turns their head just in time for it to land on the ground rather than down their front. Colder hands are around their wrists, pressing down against their shoulders, restraining their legs.
But Briar's eyes settle on a familiar face. Brown eyes and furrowed brows and a mouth turned into a concerned frown. His lips moves in words that Briar can't hear over the sound of a stern voice telling them to swallow, to stop struggling, to give in and this will fix everything. Make them normal.
Briar lets out a choked sob, maybe saying Gale's name, because that is who has come for them, maybe just pleading for help, maybe not even a word at all. His hands are warm as they brush back Briar's hair. As he wipes the bile from Briar's chin.
“Are you ill?” Briar thinks they hear Gale ask and all they can do is shake their head. Their throat is a stone wall that no words can get through.
“Do you want to go inside?” Gale asks, and now Briar is sure of what he's saying. His mouth and their ears working in tandem to bring some amount of sense and meaning to their mind. Briar shakes their head again and crawls forward into Gale's chest. They know they should care about getting drool and tears and filth down Gale's good nightshirt, but his arms are warm and so much gentler than the hands that aren't holding Briar down anymore.
They cry and sob and cry some more, and Gale just wraps Briar in his embrace through all of it. When Briar's sobs finally soften and die off all together Gale pulls them apart enough for his eyes to meet theirs.
“Are you able to stand?” He asks.
Briar nods.
“Then let's get you up to bed, shall we?” Gale stands and hauls Briar up with him, their legs willing to hold their weight but not much else. He leads them both into the dim warmth of Briar's tent.
“Now, your clothes are filthy,” Gale muses, “I can help you change, or you can do it yourself. Which do you prefer?”
Briar pats Gale's arm, words still pinch in their throat, refusing to emerge.
“Alright. I promise to be gentle in my ministrations. Arms up.”
Gale slips Briar's shirt over their head, and quickly replaces it with a fresh shirt that Gale had left in their tent a few nights ago. His scent envelops them in soft fabric, as Gale lowers himself to his knees before them. His fingers deftly find the ties of Briar's skirt and the whole garment pools around their feet.
Gale's hands wrap around their waist as they step out of their skirt. He pulls a clean one from Briar's pack and guides them to step into it. He pulls it up Briar's legs, over their hips, and carefully ties it on.
“Feeling any better?” Gale murmurs as he takes Briar's hands in his and presses his lips to their knuckles.
Briar nods at him, a tentative smile peeking across their lips. The long-ago grip of phantom hands is nearly forgotten as Gale helps them to sit on their bedroll.
“I will return shortly,” Gale says as he stands, “and with tea.”
Briar's eyes widen and they shake their head quickly. They know it's different, it's not Sussur brew, but the thought of anything similar sliding down their throat makes it catch again.
“No tea?” Gale questions, and continues at Briar's nod, “Alright then, dear, how about those apple rolls from the Last Light?”
He leaves with another nod from Briar and a kiss placed upon their forehead. Briar curls themself into the fetal position, burying their nose deep into Gale’s nightshirt. Briar weaves their fingers in a scintillating pattern about their head, a figment of illusion working into being above them. The glow of magic warms Briar to the core, and the illusion reflects it. Warm oranges and reds dance in the space of the tent, swirling and eddying with each of Briar’s breaths.
“I've returned,” Gale says as he steps back into the tent. He hands Briar a sweet apple roll and settles on the bedroll next to them. They both eat together in easy, though uncharacteristic, silence.
When their food is finished Gale lays back on the bedroll and opens his arms to allow Briar to crawl into his embrace. He runs his fingers through Briar's hair slowly, methodically, and they can feel their eyes shutting in contented calmness. Red and orange light dance with purple wisps behind their eyes as sleep takes Briar deep.
— — — — —
Briar wakes the next morning — or whatever passes for morning in the shadow cursed lands — to warm companionship. Gale sits with a book in his lap and blankets strewn across the both of them.
“Good morning.” Gale smiles, tucking a scrap of paper between the pages of his book gently shutting it. “Feeling better?” He asks as he brushes a strand of hair out of Briar’s face.
“Much,” Briar croaks.
“Would you care to discuss last night at all?”
“No,” Briar groans, “but I suppose you deserve some kind of explanation.”
“Don't torture yourself on my account-”
“I'm going to tell you,” Briar interrupts. Because if they don't do it now it'll probably just eat them up inside until they do. So they sit up and hold Gale’s hands in their lap, fiddling with his knuckles, bending them in and out and time their breath to their fingers and try to dredge up whatever words might serve their purpose.
“I don't like Sussur flowers.” Briar settles on.
“Ah.” Gale nods. “That's why Scratch came to my tent last night, holding one as thought it were a pit fiend in floral guise.”
Briar grimaces. “What did you do with it?”
“Scratch wouldn't stop snarling at it until I burned it. He's very persistent.”
“Good. That's good.”
Briar takes a deep breath, letting the air flow into the bottom of their lungs and take some amount of tension out with it.
“You can actually make a tincture out of the flowers that can suppress innate magic. The patient will be unable to cast or conjure any spells until it wears off. Given regularly it can render any mage powerless.” Briar presses Gale’s fingers between their palms. “My parents used to give it to me to, ah, help me control my magic.”
Gale's eyes widen and Briar can see his throat bob as he swallows hard. He takes his free hand to wipe the tear Briar hadn't noticed spill from their eye.
“It was so cold, Gale. At first I took it myself but I started faking it and they noticed I was pretending to take it so they started forcing me to take it. My father would hold me down with our servants’ help and force it down my throat. It made everything feel so cold and empty.” Briar swallowed a lump in their throat. “I hated it so much. But they stopped eventually. The flowers were too expensive and my brothers kept stealing them and breaking things. They found it easier to just lock me in the house. To keep me from embarrassing them with my 'outbursts.'"
“By the gods,” Gale breathed.
“It's okay, it's okay,” Briar rushed, “it's over, I'm fine.”
“It is absolutely not ‘fine,’ and I will be having stern words with your parents.”
“I would rather you never meet them.”
Gale simply sighs and pulls Briar into his arms. “I'm sorry,” he says into the top of Briar's head, “that you had to go through that. That you've had to carry it by your lonesome all this time. And I give you my thanks for trusting me enough to bare this piece of your soul to me.”
“It's easy, Gale,” Briar sighs into his shoulder, “I know you'll take care of it.”