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Sap hissed as the heat licked around fresh axe wounds, the fresh log twisted and cracked. Wyll stepped back, blade stowed at his side, the silhouette of a hero steadfast in dancing sparks.
Dusk had fallen secretly, crept up on the grove as the druids called out their song to Silvanus and the refugees begged Torm for another dawn. Habits fall in place like the evening sun on the road; each traveling party clustering with those they trust around what light they could sustain. Those unwelcome in a group hadn’t lasted more than a few nights out of Elturel.
Seated on a wooden crate, pain pinched Cal's face as he stretched. Between the endless worry, the constant horizon of violence, the physical demands of deadly combat, and the restless nights on rugged dirt, he wasn’t sure he could even remember what comfort felt like. Even the sensation of the creaking give as you crawl onto a mattress seemed to be fading, his mind shedding the memories that it no longer needed.
His siblings had retired not long ago. Rolan, of course, needed his sleep. Cal wasn’t quite sure how it all worked, magic, but you certainly couldn’t do it if you were exhausted. Lia had also found her bedroll; Cal could see her back curled up against the world. She was using a half-empty pack as a pillow. What little remained of her belongings held close. There’d be a knife within her reach. She wouldn’t be asleep yet though, he knew that. She never slept well. Usually gave up after a time and kept watch over them. Cal pretended not to know.
One by one his fellow tieflings had withdrawn from the fire, but he wasn’t ready for rest. The fire was warm in a way his scratchy bedroll wouldn’t be, and the cool night was finally at peace; the druids had stopped their chant, and the wailing of grief no longer punctured the air amongst the shivering huddles of his kin. Closing his eyes against the breeze, the chirping of dusk insects and sing-song call of a jay flitting between branches overheard replaced the howling and screaming of the day. Even on days without bloodshed, the echoes of violence replayed in his mind.
He picked up a dry stick from the stack of kindling and leaned forward to dip the end in flame. When it started to smoke, he drew a whimsical trail in the air then jabbed it absently around in the ashes at the edge of the fire.
“You fought well.”
Cal startled, though the voice was kind and earnest. Looking up, he returned a self-conscious smile across the camp as a battle-worn tunic came back into view. “Not nearly as well as you.”
Wyll set a pail down and settled himself by the fire. “Nothing more than a lifetime’s worth of practice.”
Scratching the glowing edge of the twig onto a rock, Cal ground soot into a lazy pattern. Ostensibly concentrating on how the smouldering stick scraped a pattern like a rudimentary paintbrush, Cal’s gaze rose carefully under his lashes.
The human had one foot up, supported across his knee as he loosened the lace from his shoe. Wyll inhaled sharply as he slowly circled his ankle with gentle hands, thumbs working the tenderness under tough knots. Picking a cloth from the bucket, he wrung out excess water and drew it across his skin like a salve. The relief loosened his expression as though it gave him permission for reprieve, an involuntary sigh as the cool rag soothed the burning in his sole. Wyll washed the work of the day from his feet, though strength and fear kept the curvature of muscle in his arms tight.
The stick had stopped smoking. Cal absently scuffed the frayed end into the ground. “Need any help?”
Water spilling onto the dry earth, Wyll scrubbed at stubborn dirt caught under a healing scab. “I could not possibly subject you to that wretched endeavour."
“I wouldn’t mind.” Cal watched Wyll fight another another unseen pain. “Least I could do.”
Wyll looked over the campfire as he cleansed with a splash of cool water. “You have a kind heart.” His smile pulled genuinely at his eyes, and pleasant warmth rose from behind Cal's navel. “You must make your family proud.”
Glancing over his shoulder to where his siblings lay, the tiefling’s lips pulled tight. “I can hope. And you yours?” Pulling his attention back to the Blade of Frontiers, the flames in his eyes bright. “Imagine being related to the Blade of Frontiers.”
A thoughtful hum lingered on Wyll’s lips. “Family is indeed a complex and fickle beast.”
Cal grunted in recognition. “You can say that again.” Twisting the stick into embers, he drew shapes with the curling smoke, though his eyes were elsewhere. "You remind me of my brother. In a way."
"I... can't say I see the resemblance".
"It's the whole 'I'd sacrifice myself for others' thing."
"How did you..." As his words trailed away, Wyll searched the tiefling, his skin dappled in firelight as though it were made to illuminate his features. When Cal looked up, there was nothing more than a curious enquiry on his face. A mere lucky guess, Wyll supposed. "I've yet to see that side of your brother, but if you say it to be true, then I believe it to be the case."
Cal shrugged. "It's why I look up to him. One of the reasons. Why people look up to you."
"I don't know about that." Wyll deflected the compliment with grace. "Though I'd rather not be placed on such a pedestal."
“You’ll have to stop being so heroic then.”
“Heroism is no easy feat.” Softened skin glistening, Wyll presented the soles of his feet to the warmth of the campfire. “And not one you can strive for. Just be led by your heart, and you will surely find the next step to take.”
Cal threw over a playful smirk. “Sounds like something a hero would say.”
A self-aware chuckle painted a modest squeeze to Wyll’s cheeks. Leaning back on his palms, lit by the crackling flames, he bathed in the evening, breathed in the undisturbed peace. Clash of practice blades had been stowed, and the moon was bright beyond the lattice of branches overhead. The road had been arduous, and it was far from over. Soon they would be presenting to Baldur’s Gate, and the next chapter of this sordid tale would begin. Attempting to banish the final devastating note from the previous one from his mind, Wyll tried to discern the tree above by its leaf shape. Broadleaf. Nonvariegated. It was as far as his knowledge could go before a face of unmatched beauty pushed through the canopy of his thoughts. A heavy sigh emptied his chest. Still haunted by heartbreak, it seemed.
The handsome curves and neatly groomed ridges of Wyll’s profile deepened in the flickering shadows. Taut skin of his abdomen rippled between flame and the rising of breath. It was visible, a swarth of nakedness at his waist. Cal moistened his lips. Respectfully drawing his eyeline elsewhere, to a particularly uninspiring rock seemed appropriate. The twig under his palm had become clammy.
“Hope you don’t mind me saying,” Cal ventured. Wyll’s eyes flickered open. “The one leading the group against the, well, everything. Goblins, bandits, cultists.” The tiefling gave a thin-lipped smile, which he feared contained more pity than the compassion intended. “Sorry. For what it’s worth.”
"Ah. Yes." Regret flattened Wyll’s expression. The musculature visible between his belt and the ragged edge of his shirt tensed as he sat. It had not been a particularly public affair, but nonetheless, with nothing more to satisfy their need for entertainment, word of his ill-chosen proposition had quickly become the newest story amongst their caravan. "A situation sorely misjudged on my part."
“I was thinking it wasn't you with the poor judgement."
Wyll did not the fight the bittersweet ache in his chest. “I cannot fault them for following their heart. It is not a moral failing that their affection does not lead in my direction, bitter as that may be to swallow.” He nodded to himself. “A chance worth taking. The most valuable rewards always carry an element of risk.”
“If you say so.” Cal watched as Wyll gently placed his cleansed feet back into his footwear. “Still. Their loss.”
His toes fit snug in the worn shoes. “A pity,” Wyll continued, speaking quietly, his finger sliding around the leather. “I had been hoping to share a dance.”
To dance alone was a precious thing. To trust in oneself and the space one might allow one's body to take up. Moving through the world with one’s heart as a guide. Still, Wyll could not deny the tumbling void that had collapsed somewhere inside on that fateful night. Better to have loved and lost, they say, though Wyll questioned their experience in such matters.
He became aware that his companion for the evening was watching him expectantly, and had a blurry recollection of background sound that sounded a lot like a voice, though one filtered through water and melancholy. “Forgive me,” Wyll allowed a short chuckle. “I was away with the faeries.”
“I said, did it have to be with them?” Cal nodded in the direction that the leader of the eclectic band of heroes had set up tents. “The dance?”
The was a collection of canopies gathered further out from the site, each adorned with the personal style and needs of the individuals who had thus far escorted the refugees from the druid grove, through the shadow-cursed lands, and now onto the thoroughfare to the city proper.
“Well,” Wyll considered, lingering on the tent that belonged to the one who seemed to hold the group together, through thick and thin, truths and falsehoods. Hard, he supposed, not to develop attraction with so weighty a bond. Without them, he would have made the grave mistake of taking Karlach for a devil, and he hastened himself not to think of the consequences. “That was certainly the intent.”
“Might not be a hero." Bashful courage raised Cal's shoulders. “Maybe you could teach me instead.”
Refreshed, the urge for expression poised within his shoes, Wyll considered the proposition. Were he not so despondent, he would have found the nerve to take to the floor once more days ago. To Hell with the fact the stage was a dusty cavern or a squelching bog. It was surely a tragedy of another kind to let the opportunity skip past. “A dance,” he clarified. “Nothing more.”
“Not sure I can even manage that, to be honest,” Cal replied. “But I’ll give it a go.”
Rising from his seat, Wyll stretched the tightness in his calves and shoulder blades. He felt the balance roll from his heel to the ball of his foot. A familiar pressure that felt like stepping into a comforting bath, floating on soft soles. He smiled warmly over at the tiefling. “What harm could there be in a few steps?”
“Fair warning.” Cal wobbled as he grappled up from where he sat. “I have two left feet.”
Bowing at the waist, Wyll swept his arm out and offered his palm. “Then I shall lead with two right.”
Placing their palms together, Cal beamed. As far as he was concerned, that success might as well have made him a pro. Find him in the nearest ballroom as soon as they arrived in the city. The next few seconds assuaged him of that notion, as he managed to both crunch a toenail beneath his heavy boot as he stepped in when he apparently should have stepped back, almost resulting in locked horns.
He grimaced as the collision trembled through their skulls. “Sorry.”
“Cal,” Wyll’s reassuring tone matched the sincerity in his expression. “Relax.”
There were no musicians, but it would be incorrect to say they were without music. The stream rolled a pattering, soft percussion. Crickets sang a rising chorus, and a solo bluejay shrieked a passionate, if off-key, melody.
With a capable mentor, the tiefling’s footing grew more confident with each stride. The encouragement of a gentle hand at his side, the nudge of of a moving body, Cal released the nerves that stiffened his step, allowing the suggestions to flow from one man into the next. Daring his partner to follow him further, Wyll added a Calimshan twist, firmly directing his dance partner through the turn, then walked the two of them in a Waterdavian hike. When they skipped into a classic Baldurian step, the dust kicked around their feet.
A palm pressed securely into Cal’s waist, a pivot on the ball of his foot, and the two of them slid down to a careful, bended knee. Though Cal was no dancer, something about it felt familiar. As Wyll bowed his head and clasped Cal’s hand firmly to support him to stand, a rush of something emotional stoppered in Cal's throat. Thumped in his chest, danced in the corner of his eyes. It was an Elturian rise.
For the rest of the dance, Cal was sure his feet were on solid ground, and, true to his word, Wyll guided him through the movements until the tempo of the chirping in the long grass slowed, and they glided through a final turn, hips together in intimate alignment.
With a final flourish, steps flowing naturally from Wyll's waist down through his feet, he swirled their hands overhead, whirling his partner around on a heel. He curled arms around the tiefling's chest, fingers gently twined, embracing the young man from behind.
As he tilted his chin to face the man who held him, the points of Cal’s elongated ears burned pleasantly. He hoped their maroon tips couldn’t be seen, and further hoped the pulse in his neck wasn’t apparent as he swallowed. An almost imperceptible lean and they were close enough that he could count the shaven hairs roughening the frame of Wyll’s lips. Quiet breath was warm on Cal’s cheek. "I think your brother would kill me."
"Or my sister." Cal’s shoulder shifted against Wyll’s arm. A cheeky grin curled up to his brow. “Bet it would be worth it."
With a graceful step back, Wyll slid from the embrace, cool air rushing to fill the void between them. "Please do not mistake my caution for distaste at the suggestion. The wounded heart is like any other injury."
The sting of rejection flickered between Cal’s horns, and he followed it with a valiant wince of sympathy. The great and noble Blade was asking for exactly what he was going to need after tonight. Time.
"While we wait for it to heal, you could teach me another dance." He spoke hastily. "If you wanted to."
“I think we have taken this as far as we comfortably are able.” Wyll held out with his palms. “Please understand, I say this only out of the utmost respect for your desires.”
“Well,” Cal blew air out of his cheeks. He blinked as he scratched at the back of his neck. “It’s definitely the nicest way I’ve ever been turned down.”
Wyll's head was lowered in a respectful bow. “I have had the most charming evening. Your company has been more than I could have hoped for on this lonely night.”
“Just not quite enough?”
Wyll’s voice briefly caught. “Cal…”
The tiefling twinged with embarrassment. Wearing your heart on your sleeve was all well and good until it jumped out of your mouth. “No, sorry. Like you said. Takes a bit of time for the sting to go away.” Cal forced an honest wound of a smile. “Provoke the blade and all that.”
“You will make some lucky fool very happy indeed.”
“I can only imagine the person who will catch the eye of The Blade.” Cal nodded sincerely in return. “You’ll find your person. I know it.”
“Thank you. Whether or not you believe it, that means a great deal.”
“Me and the Blade of Frontiers.” Cal murmured, good humour twitching at his lips. “No one would believe me anyway. Night, Wyll. I mean, er… the… ”
A kind laugh danced in the shimmering flame within Wyll's deep brown eye. “To you, Wyll. May you sleep soundly.” He picked up the pail of water to depart. “I bid you a pleasant night.”
Cal waited, standing alone next to the fading campfire, for the man to disappear into the hive of tents where their heroes were bedding down for the night. He awkwardly clambered back to his seat on the crate and took up the burned stick abandoned beside it. Tending to the embers, he pushed blackened crust and soft ash aside to find the glowing heat still radiating beneath.
In the chittering, babbling nightfall, Cal smiled. There were some things his siblings did not need to know.