Work Text:
So move me, baby
Like you've nothin' left to lose
And nothin' to prove
Move me, baby
- Hozier
Lae’zel rarely objected whenever they made camp near the Last Light Inn. The istiki, those who called themselves Harpers, had done decent work in making the position defensible; though it was nothing in comparison to what her kin might have been able to accomplish under similar circumstances.
By this point, Lae’zel held a begrudging sort of respect for the Harper leader, Jaheira— of whom Karlach often spoke with near-reverent enthusiasm whenever they exchanged stories over the campfire after eating, detailing various deeds she’d heard tell of as a child. Whatever inscrutable, unregimented code the Harpers kept to, their methods seemed to be effective— at least for now. And it was good to see that they were all ready to defend themselves and their tenuous safe haven at a moment’s notice.
The recently-rescued tiefling refugees were another matter. Several were a liability in a fight. However, even Lae’zel had to admit that all those who’d managed to survive this far demonstrated a resiliency she’d not thought them capable of, the first time she’d seen them cowering in the Grove. Perhaps there was some hope for them yet.
All the same, it was a definite boon to have so many others around to keep watch here. Lae’zel felt like she could breathe a little freer than when their group traversed the craggy terrain of the Shadow Curse on their own— not that she would ever admit so aloud. Plus, she could catch a fleeting glimpse of starlight in the sky above, whenever the moon cleric renewed the barrier that kept the prowling shadows at bay.
While the knowledge that there were many fighting bodies about was something of a comfort to her, the restless energy of the main courtyard and large common area of the Inn itself were not. Even their party’s campsite was beginning to feel overcrowded, as they kept accumulating powerful allies and pitiful strays alike. Whether the latter was due to their own leader’s softened brain or guilt-stricken heart, Lae’zel couldn’t entirely say. (Both, more than likely.)
This, in addition to Shadowheart’s continual brooding over her goddess that set everyone on edge, is what drove Lae’zel to seek instead the very edges of the moonshield. Where it was quieter. Where she could think.
…How and when had she become so unexpectedly reliant on quiet, that she actively craved it? Such moments were always a luxury in K’liir. And given the circumstances, it did not seem possible to have picked up such a habit recently. Shouldn’t she prefer the bustling of the courtyard, the rhythmic ringing of the blacksmith’s hammer that made her blood sing of battle to come?
The small revelation gave her pause— yet another loose bolt in the already-rent hull of her mind.
But it was not enough to distract from the peculiar sight she encountered tonight, while in search of a sufficient spot to practice her sword drills in peace: Wyll. Prancing in place one moment, then leaping aimlessly about in the next.
Lae’zel watched, perplexed, but couldn’t determine the reason.
Wyll hadn’t yet noticed her approach, his eyes closed, in a world of his own making. He held one arm raised above his horned head, the other off to one side, and the quick rhythm of his footsteps faltered when Lae’zel asked, “What are you doing?”
“Oh, Lae’zel!” Wyll whirled around to look at her, his good and stone eye both wide. “Sorry, I didn’t see you standing there. Lost in the steps, truth be told.”
“Chk. That much is obvious.” As she spoke, Lae’zel crossed both arms in front of her chest.
Wyll chuckled, somewhat sheepish as he walked towards her. Not for the first time, Lae’zel noted that she enjoyed the sound of his laughter.
“Leave it to you, to cut straight to the heart of it,” he said. “Are we needed for something? I didn’t hear an alarm.”
She shook her head, and Wyll’s posture relaxed.
“I was in search of a place where I could continue to strengthen my battle stances,” she explained.
“Ah, good.” He eyed the hilt of her sword, secure at her side. “I should have known you’d find this spot eventually. I’ll move off to one side, if need be. Though I hope you don’t mind me kicking up dust with my own practice, I’ve grown a little rusty.”
The area was relatively flat, with hard-packed, fine silt. Ideal for sparring. Though Wyll was apparently using it for a different purpose.
“I still do not understand,” she said. “What are you practicing?”
“Dancing, of course.” Wyll peered at her, surprised, as if seeing her for the first time, and Lae’zel found herself inwardly flinching away from his scrutiny like some gutless, mewling is’tark, while at the same time craving more of it.
She considered his explanation. Wyll’s movements from before did not match any concept of dance that Lae’zel had ever encountered: the heat and immediacy of combat, of taking, claiming, conquering; the wild celebration of a successful raiding party; nor the intricate courtship rituals of various birds, as detailed in one of the slates Lae’zel had read as a youth. But she’d observed some of his fighting in them all the same. The fluid extension of his sword arm. The dexterous footwork that enabled him to evade an enemy’s blow.
Lae’zel believed that Wyll’s time and energy would be better spent on other things besides leaping and spinning about erratically like a planetoid knocked from orbit. And yet, she found the complaint wither on her tongue, the memory of his dance holding her imagination captive, almost spellbound— as if he had charmed Lae’zel using the infernal magic of his devilish patron, though she knew he never would.
The words that tumbled out of her mouth instead, unguarded, and full of genuine curiosity, surprised her as well as Wyll: “Teach me.”
He smiled, and looked away from her for a moment, obviously flustered by her request; though she did not understand why. Wyll did many things Lae’zel didn’t understand. But she found herself increasingly— often frustratingly— drawn to him anyway, the longer they traveled together.
“Ah, what the hells,” he murmured, possibly more to himself than anything else. He rubbed a hand at the back of his neck as he thought it over. “Why not. It would be my honor to show you, Lae’zel.”
She watched as Wyll drew in a deep breath, then bowed forward slightly, extending a hand to her as he caught her gaze again.
“May I have this dance?” he said.
Lae’zel frowned. “Tas’ki— I have already said that I desire to learn. Why do you ask again?” Was he mocking her?
“Sorry— it’s a formality. How I was taught. Inviting a potential partner is an important part of the process. Perhaps the most important part of all.” Wyll kept his hand extended to her, his expression open, friendly. Hopeful.
“Then I accept,” she said, decisively reaching out to grab the offered hand with one of hers.
Wyll smiled brightly as he led her a few paces further into the open clearing, where they would have more room to maneuver. His smile caused warmth to bloom in her chest before it pooled low, the red glow of an ember smoldering in her core, threatening to distract her far more than even the peek of his toned, warm-brown midriff beneath the frayed hem of his too-small shirt.
She ignored that flare of want to deal with later, as she’d grown accustomed to doing in the tendays since Wyll had refused Lae’zel’s proposal of shared sexual pleasure. He was a fool for turning her down then, as she’d said.
But how foolish was she, now that Wyll seemed to haunt her thoughts more than ever before? Now that she could not simply banish this frustration, this longing from within her?
Perhaps it was not wise to learn this dance from him, after all? But— no. Lae’zel would not be defeated so easily.
She paid close attention to Wyll’s instructions on where to place her feet and center her weight, before he stood off to her right, side by side, facing the same direction. He then began to demonstrate the steps, counting aloud and clapping along in an evenly-spaced rhythm as he did so. Lae’zel immediately noticed that there was a repeated pattern to the sequence, and after a couple of turns, she set about to imitating him.
She moved at first in halting starts and stops, a few times accidentally brushing her shoulder against Wyll’s arm when she began to step with the wrong foot, or paused briefly to reassess where in the sequence she was supposed to be. But she was determined to quickly commit the pattern to memory, so she might instead focus on refining the fluidity of her movements.
It was not exactly the most strenuous of activities, but it felt good, to learn something new, to demonstrate her mastery over her body. And though she pointedly did not look up at him, Lae’zel could sense Wyll’s encouraging gaze on her as she danced, and— annoyingly— that felt good as well.
“Exactly that!” Wyll said, obviously delighted as something clicked for Lae’zel, the last of her stuttery movements flowing into the beginnings of far more graceful muscle memory. “Another challenge met and exceeded by the great gith warrior of Crèche K’liir. Well done, Lae’zel.”
“Chk. It is hardly a challenge.” She glanced up at him, playful, defiant, though she knew without a doubt that Wyll’s praise had been aggravatingly earnest, and genuine. “Though, one could instead say that I am doing well despite the soft-hearted nature of my current sa’varsh.”
Wyll laughed, which was a reward all its own. “Charming as ever,” he said. There was a quiet fire burning in his red eye as he looked at Lae’zel, one that echoed and amplified the smoldering heat within her that she’d been valiantly attempting to ignore. “And now, since you’re familiar with the steps,” he continued, holding his dominant hand with a palm outwards, facing her. Another invitation. “Perhaps we might try putting practice into motion.”
Lae’zel was keenly aware of the persistent thudding of her heartbeat, of the ridiculous tingling in her hand as she pressed her palm to Wyll’s. Luckily, she had other things to focus on: a swaying step forward, then back, withdraw the hand, then circle each other before contact again, like a slow, formal spar.
“Did your father teach you to dance, Wyll?” she asked.
In answer, he laughed again, shoulders shaking with his amusement, though he continued to move through the steps with an unerring grace that Lae’zel admired.
“Balduran’s bones, no,” he said. “Would you believe, it was Florrick, at first, the summer I was ten. Then a handful of instructors afterwards. And I picked up more than a few flourishes, from attending my share of fancy balls and masquerades. A few elegant moves can turn all the right heads.”
“A lesson that informs your swordsmanship.”
“Mm. Perhaps you’re right.”
Of course she was. “And, tell me: how long have you been the Blade of Frontiers?”
“Seven years,” said Wyll. He straightened up his posture and puffed out his chest as he said it, proud. But his eye— his expression— didn’t match. “I was seventeen, when I— left.” The last word seemed to trip over itself after a brief pause, like he’d intended to say something else and changed his mind halfway through speaking. “I harbor no regrets. But I can’t pretend like I don’t feel homesick over it, at times.”
No, he couldn’t. Even without the brief meeting touch of their palms against one another as they moved in tandem, Lae’zel could feel the stinging ache of his pain, as if it were a tangible thing.
Homesick. Was this the feeling that hung heavy within her heart, that longing for some semblance of normalcy? The one that increasingly drove her to seek quiet and solitude— rather than face the pang that accompanied every rhythmic ring of the blacksmith’s forge, every sharp wooden clack or metallic scrape of the weapons used in the Harper’s practice drills? The knowledge that no matter how much or how often she looked back, that time, that place, that sense of herself and who she used to be, would always lie beyond her grasp, something to which she could never return?
“Is it…” Lae’zel hesitated, thinking it over, then continued on a moment later, her voice barely audible even to her own ears. “The sting. Does it— lessen?”
Wyll shook his head, and, mercifully, if he pitied her, he didn’t show it. “No cure but to hold your head high, and look onward, not behind.”
Their dance neared its end then, as he spoke. Wyll slowly dropped to one knee and Lae’zel followed, their hands still clasped together.
Look onward. It was Wyll’s face she gazed upon now, much closer to hers than he’d ever been before.
A few nights ago, Gale had asked Lae’zel if she cared for anyone— if she considered anyone more than an ally, or kin. Wyll had entered her thoughts then, unbidden. Without her permission. She’d pushed the notion aside, in favor of more pressing matters. But now, it came roaring to the forefront of her mind like dragon’s fire.
This close, Lae’zel could grab hold of one of those magnificent curved horns and bring Wyll's face to meet hers, to finally taste him. She imagined the warm huff of his surprised laughter against her tongue and teeth, both of his hands settling, welcoming, on her hips. Imagined the feel of solid, lean muscle beneath her, his skin hot against her searching fingertips.
He’d turned her down, before.
Would Wyll do it again, now, if she asked a second time?
If she could even bring herself to ask a second time; her pride stubbornly chafed against the urge to do so.
Maybe she wouldn’t have to. Lae’zel found herself holding her breath as Wyll leaned in a fraction towards her, his eye locked onto hers.
“Lae’zel,” he began, “I’ve—”
Suddenly— the sharp snap of a twig in the underbrush, a rustle, a soft giggle of laughter.
Lae’zel and Wyll both sprang to their feet at the sound, and she quickly whipped her head around in search of the potential threat, hands already reaching for her sword. She could see Wyll do the same at her peripheral.
A loud whisper came from the rustling undergrowth: “Bex, my love, wait— wait, there’s someone else over there—”
“I told you underneath the bridge was a better spot,” another, higher-pitched voice hissed back, and then, much louder, “Sorry!” A peach-colored, clawed hand popped out of the offending bush and waved at them before withdrawing again. “Please go back to whatever you were doing before we interrupted!”
Wyll laughed once more, shaking his head as he stowed his rapier. “Perhaps that’s our cue to take our leave of the dance floor for the evening,” he said, and he bowed to Lae’zel again. “Thank you for being an excellent partner. Your company is a beacon of light, amidst these shadows around us.”
She felt the same way, she realized. Wyll’s presence, his movement, his laughter— all were preferable to the quiet and the stillness she’d originally sought, when she’d left her tent earlier tonight. Someone who understood.
Lae’zel didn’t know how to say that, though, how to put that into words as eloquently as he’d done. Instead, she blurted out, “Wait.” And Wyll froze mid-step, offering her his full attention. “I would spar with you, next time. Hrath ajak. I could teach you the way I fight. If you are up to the challenge.”
Wyll grinned, his devilish eye gleaming at her invitation and her taunt, as she knew he would. The look rekindled the fire in her gut, and he ducked his head, somewhere between a nod and another bow. “I would enjoy that. I look forward to it, Lae’zel.”
Look onward.
“Yes,” she said. “I do, too.”