Chapter Text
Wyll feels the warm tether of Suggestion drop a moment before he hears your voice.
“Wyll, Halsin, with me.” You brush past Wyll, voice and footfalls clipped short, waving for your companions to follow you without sparing a glance in their direction.
It’s certainly not the reception Wyll expected upon your return to camp. Wyll casts a glance over his shoulder and eyes Astarion, leaning casually against the training dummy in front of Lae’zel’s tent. Nervousness still lingers in the tight fold of Astarion’s arms across his chest, his eyes brimming with a gentle worry. Red stands out clearly around the rim of his eyes and the tip of his nose, but his lips curl in an echo of a smile. He still holds himself stiffly, but he isn’t retreating to the safety of his tent.
It’s a good sign. Wyll raises a questioning eyebrow when Astarion finally notices him staring. Does Astarion know why you want to talk to him and Halsin? Does he approve of it? As much as Wyll respects and values your leadership, Wyll doesn’t trust your judgment as of late. You’ve proven yourself to be volatile, impulsive, and self-destructive. Wyll approaches every conversation with you like a minefield—stepping lightly for fear of the danger beneath the surface.
If Wyll needs to tread carefully now, some forewarning would be nice.
But Astarion just meets his gaze with a quick eyeroll and dismissively waves him off. If Astarion isn’t overly worried, that’s another good sign. Wyll nods and climbs to his feet. You’ve pulled Halsin aside between his and Wyll’s tents, far out of earshot of the campfire. Wyll follows dutifully, trying to read you as he approaches.
But you’re as stiff as ever, any outward emotion forcefully pulled back behind a familiar mask. You stand beside Halsin with shoulders squared, arms crossed, your mouth and eyes wiped clean of any emotion that you displayed just the night before. Wyll isn’t sure whether that’s an improvement or another cause for worry. Astarion’s concern was mild, so Wyll chooses to hope for the best.
As he draws closer, Wyll notes one thing you failed to hide. Much like Astarion, a red flush taints the sclera of your good eye—the unchanging glass of the false one Volo gave you stark white in comparison. Dark shadows have long taken residence beneath your eyes, but for once, Wyll considers they may not solely be from stress, as a deep plum shade colors the tip of your nose.
Halsin, much like Wyll, watches you carefully. Halsin may not know the full extent of what transpired the previous night, but even before your ill-fated meeting with Astarion, you were a sorry sight. He saw you broken and bloodied deep within the bowels of Moonrise. You may have cleaned the viscera from your hair and healed your broken bones, but exhaustion still drapes itself across your shoulders. Weariness etches a deep furrow between your brow, and your eyes—normally sharper than your blade—periodically lose focus as your lashes flutter against your cheeks.
Your condition has improved from the day prior, but still a far cry from healthy.
Wyll catches the tail end of yours and Halsin’s conversation as he arrives. “How fares your shoulder?” Halsin asks, eyes smoothing over the cloth of your casual wear.
The long sleeves and high collar of your usual camp shirt hide all your past and present injuries. If your shoulder healed improperly or one of the many wounds you’ve suffered began to fester, Halsin would have no way of knowing. Even still, he eyes the line of your shoulder, as if his gaze might pierce through your linen armor if he stares long enough. Perhaps it’s true, in a way, Halsin knows all of the Oakfather’s creations and for all your pride, you’re little more than another wounded animal.
A huff of annoyance escapes your mouth, but you choose to humor Halsin regardless. You hate being looked after, but you’ve lost any ground you’ve had to stand on. Astarion, Wyll, and Karlach have made it clear they have no intention of leaving you to your own devices. As frustrating as it is, you’ve more than earned a short leash. Your other friends aren’t going to be any less concerned once word of your weakness spreads through camp. The best you can do is accept their care with as much grace as you can muster. You’ve been humiliated enough as it is.
“Good as new.” You make a show of rolling your previously injured shoulder, testing its range of movement and the stretch of your healing muscle.
Satisfied, Halsin’s face breaks into a relieved smile, some of the tension eased from his brow. “I am glad to see it.”
Wyll clears his throat to signal his presence. “You called for me?”
Your eyes find Wyll’s with a brisk nod. Your posture straightens, head held high as you wait for Wyll to take his place next to Halsin. As far as Wyll knows, neither of you have any formal training, but your gaze echoes the stern countenance of the Flaming Fist’s commanding officers. And while Wyll was never officially trained to join their ranks, he falls into line like a soldier, standing at attention beneath your watch.
“I did,” you confirm, eyes sliding from Wyll to Halsin, who still stands relaxed beneath your stare. “We still need to find Thaniel.” That gets Halsin’s attention and he instinctively straightens. “You said you saw signs of him?”
Halsin nods. “It’s little more than an educated guess at the moment.” Or wishful thinking. “I saw nature growing deep within the shadows, where there should be nothing but decay.” The corners of Halsin’s mouth tighten with a barely restrained frown, the furrow between his brows darkening. “If Thaniel is anywhere, it would be there.”
You nod succinctly. “Then it’s time to rescue his missing half. We’ve stalled long enough.” You turn your focus back to Wyll, catching his gaze. “I want you to lead Halsin, Shadowheart, and Lae’zel to the location Halsin has marked.”
Wyll’s eyebrows raise in surprise. You hold onto the command you have over your allies with an iron fist, unwilling to loosen your grasp in the slightest. Even as your fingers began to rust and corrode, you only tightened your hold. He had hoped you would relinquish some of your burdens in the wake of everything that happened the day before. But it’s still surreal to watch the hand you’ve welded shut finally open, blooming within the shadows.
You’ve willingly passed leadership into Wyll’s hand. The significance isn’t lost on him.
“You’re to let Halsin take the lead where Thaniel is concerned, but Wyll is in charge of combat tactics.” You level Halsin with a gaze that brokers no argument. “Wyll’s word is final. Follow his command as you would mine.”
Despite the centuries of experience Halsin holds over you, a deep-rooted animal instinct tells him to bow his head in supplication. If this group is a pack, you’re its leader—a position you’ve long proven yourself worthy of. It’s a relief to defer to your command. The dynamics within this group of yours are wholly different from those Halsin is familiar with—your allies far stranger than anyone Halsin has encountered as Archdruid. In your position, Halsin isn’t sure he would have managed half as well. There’s an understanding born of shared experience that Halsin can never match. He doesn’t know what it felt like, waking on the nautiloid, mind warped by a strange parasite, your deepest secrets unfolding for a group of strangers to peruse.
Halsin is the newcomer in this group, and he trusts the rhythm you and your allies have found. If you choose to trust Wyll’s leadership, then Halsin trusts that, too.
Wyll bows his head respectfully. “I’m more than honored to accept this mission.” When he raises his head, he meets your eyes with a curious gaze. “But I must admit, I’m surprised you’re trusting me with this.”
You avert your gaze, looking back towards camp. “I’m… resting… today.” You chew every word with a bitter scowl, the feel of them in your mouth acrid and sour.
Halsin lets out a heavy sigh, a heavy pressure easing from his ribs as he does. “Good. It’s a relief to see you taking care of yourself.”
He’d thought to recommend rest if you tried to set off this morning. The day’s late start saved him from trying to convince a mountain to move.
“Yes, well”—your arms tighten across your chest in a poor imitation of an embrace—“I wasn’t exactly given a choice,” you grumble.
Curious, Wyll turns his head to follow your line of sight. Leaning against one of Shadowheart’s tent poles stands Astarion, openly watching the three of you. He meets Wyll’s eye but makes no attempt to hide his blatant staring. He only holds Wyll’s gaze for a moment before turning his attention to you once more.
A breath of laughter escapes Wyll’s nose. Whatever Astarion said to you seems to have broken down the steel cage around your heart. Good. You’ve long needed to let it breathe so that your wounds might heal. Wyll had his reservations about Astarion in the past—in some ways he still does. Astarion has been hurt in a way Wyll can never comprehend; he’s sympathetic to that. But he’ll never understand or condone the way Astarion delights in the pain of others. How can Astarion find joy in hurting other people the way he’s been hurt? It’s the one thing Wyll can’t wrap his brain around, even after all this time.
But despite that, Astarion has been good to you—good for you—and you’ve been good for him. It’s a lovely sight to see. Even if Wyll can’t understand Astarion’s cruel streak, he’s grateful that you have someone to care for you. You deserve to be taken care of and Astarion deserves to have something to care for.
Wyll has to hide his smile as he turns back. There’s no need to be smug. He doubts you’d take kindly to it. “I’m glad to hear it. You can rest easy while Halsin and I take care of the Shadow Curse.”
You nod idly for a moment, then take a deep breath and brace yourself. The air suddenly hums with electricity, currents travelling down the length of your arms to dance between your fingertips. The gaze you levell at Halsin and Wyll pierces them more cleanly than any blade—your red eye glinting like blood dripping from the end of your rapier. A singularity swirls in your eye and it draws both Halsin and Wyll in with a force they can’t resist. The water lapping at the riverbank ripples, the wind tousles your hair—Halsin feels your heartbeat in the earth itself.
“You both understand why I’m sending Shadowheart, don’t you?” You speak lowly, your words a whispered secret between the three of you.
But even still, Wyll feels your voice in his bones. “I believe I do, yes.” Halsin nods in agreement.
Your gaze drifts back and forth between Wyll and Halsin, never letting one break eye contact for very long. The sheepish embarrassment from before is wholly gone, your stone walls rebuilt in an instant. It’s uncanny how quickly your demeanor shifts when you will it. Wyll knows the depths of your emotions intimately—the night before when he held you together as you shattered is proof enough of that. But you’re eerily good at holding your heart to the grindstone and polishing off all its unsavory feeling until all that’s left is a smooth, polished stone.
You said before that it was easier when you didn’t care. Wyll wonders if it’s truly your allies you’re trying to fool, or if your facade is meant to trick yourself just as much.
“This is our last mission in the Shadowlands,” you say evenly, “once this is done, we’re heading to the Thorm Mausoleum to track down the Nightsong.”
Halsin stiffens at the familiar name and everything it represents. You’ve learned since your arrival in the Shadowlands that the Nightsong is the source of Ketheric Thorm’s power. Finding it means putting an end to the specter that has haunted Halsin all this time. Thorm can be put to rest and the Shadow Curse finally lifted. The goal that’s lain so far beyond Halsin’s reach these long decades is finally within sight, so close he can smell the shift of the earth on the breeze.
“I don’t know what lies at the end of this path,” you continue evenly, “but everything I’ve seen to date has told me not to leave Shadowheart’s future in the hands of her goddess.”
Halsin nods sagely. “Shar is a cruel mistress, to be certain. As the Oakfather’s servant it’s my duty to cleanse these lands of her corruption.” Halsin holds a closed fist over his heart and bows his head. “That includes guiding Shadowheart away from Shar’s embrace so that she might step into the light.”
The wind falls eerily still. When Halsin raises his head, you immediately catch his eyes with an inscrutable gaze. You watch him, unmoving and silent. Were it not for the steady rhythm of Wyll’s breath, Halsin might believe that time has stopped entirely. He’s but a moth, drawn to the primordial flame in your eyes, unable to look away as the earth crumbles beneath his feet. One of Halsin’s best skills is his intuition—it’s served him time and time again when it came to assessing strangers’ intentions or dealing with difficult patients. He knows that Wyll laughs when he’s uneasy, that Lae’zel’s voice often sounds harsher than she intends, and that Gale uses his spellbook as a shield against unwanted attention.
He knows that you encase yourself in layers of stone to hide the vast depths of your heart. Your face is uncannily calm and unmoving as you watch him. Halsin knows it’s a mask. But he can’t begin to guess what lurks behind those sharp, needlepoint eyes.
He truly doesn’t get it, you think. “My desire to steer Shadowheart away from Shar has nothing to do with the Shadow Curse.” Every word is slow and measured as it leaves your lips, treading the thin line between pedantic and utterly furious. “She’s my friend. I don’t want to lose her to a goddess that can only give her pain in return.”
What has the Oakfather ever given you, save for more burdens, you don’t ask. Now isn’t the time to address the unbearable weight on Halsin’s shoulders, nor point out the yoke Silvanus holds around his neck. You’ll admit to being biased—so far every self-proclaimed god you’ve heard of has hurt one of your own. When you look at Halsin, you see only the shackle of his duty to Silvanus. Why should a single, mortal man be responsible for the fate of the Heartlands?
Halsin may be in the middle of his fourth century, but for an elf he is only barely cresting middle age. You don’t remember life in the Underdark or growing up, but an immutable ache behind your breast tells you that there should be others. Elves live long, long lives, but even the wisest elf can’t bear the weight of a community for hundreds and hundreds of years. Why is Halsin, in the prime of his life, the oldest in the Grove? Where are his elders? The people meant to share his burdens?
You know the answer. It’s buried in the ground beneath your heels.
What merciful god would let a young man bear that burden alone? Why did the Oakfather not send him allies? You know that if you asked Halsin, he would say the Oakfather did send him allies—you. But that answer is trite and insulting. You’re here because you chose to lead, not because some god laid the path for you.
“Of course, I want that, too,” Halsin mollifies, defusing the tension in your jaw. “Shadowheart deserves her freedom as much as any other. It’s only that the Shadow Curse is at the forefront of my mind these days.” Halsin offers a weary smile, crows’ feet sharp at the corners of his eyes. “I can think of little else.”
You tear your gaze away, looking instead to the rocky embankment, rising away from the river and fading into darkness beyond Last Light’s boundary. “I know.” Your eye softens, an echo of a smile warming your vision. “With any luck, by the end of the day it will be over.”
A breath of giddy laughter escapes Halsin’s chest and a broad smile lightens his face. Despite the dire circumstances he can’t help it. He’s carried the burden of the Shadow Curse and Thaniel’s loss for a hundred years. It’s weighed on his shoulder for so long that he can hardly remember how it felt to live without it. It’s dizzying to imagine—a world that’s been set right once again, a world where he can truly be free.
“It doesn’t feel real,” Halsin admits. “It’s hard to believe that after all this time, victory could be so close.”
When his purpose is gone, what will he do? He immediately cowers away from that thought, tail between his legs. That is a thought for the future. For now, he need only focus on the next task ahead—finding Thaniel.
Wyll laughs brightly and pats Halsin firmly between his shoulderblades, the corded muscle of Halsin’s back thick beneath his palm. “Save that for tonight, when we’ve returned your friend to his rightful self.”
As a leader, one of the most important skills is being able to shutter your emotions. You’ve taken that idea to an unhealthy extreme, but even Halsin is practiced in holding back his reactions. He has to be. When a community looks to you for guidance, you need to be calm in the face of danger, compassionate but not to the point of breaking, firm without losing your temper. For a century, Halsin has learned to hold back his tears and frustration until the privacy of his quarters, where no one can hear him break.
Yet still, he can’t help the tears that escape his eyes. It’s been so long. He’s missed his friend more than words can say. “You’re right, of course you are.” Halsin quickly wipes at his eyes with a shaky laugh. “I’ll have all the time in the world to marvel at reality once this mission is done.”
Wyll only smiles gently and rubs slow circles into Halsin’s back. A long silence passes between the three of you, broken only by Halsin’s muffled sniffs as he fights to get his tears under control. You don’t look at either of your allies, instead staring deep into the wall of darkness that forms the Shadowlands. Wyll assumes that’s your tacit dismissal and prepares to gather Shadowheart and Lae’zel for the mission.
You cut him off with a shaky breath. “Halsin,” you say uneasily.
Wyll roots himself to the ground. Your voice trembles like an earthquake, almost unrecognizable when Wyll has only ever heard it steady as stone. Halsin, too, freezes at the sudden shift in tone, his eyes trained on you carefully. You uneasily wring your hands, a nervous habit that Wyll’s never seen before. Hells, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen you nervous before. Permafrost freezes the relief on Halsin’s face, and the bear of a man braces himself for what’s to come. When plates of bedrock shift, Halsin knows to prepare himself for the incoming tidal wave.
You take another breath. “Halsin, I need…” Your throat seizes around your voice, snatching it back behind the bone-white bars of your teeth. You begin again. “I’m not… well.”
Oh.
A sudden rush of pride floods Wyll’s veins, warm and sweet. He nearly collapses as the tension leaves his body, but he forces himself to hold strong—to be the rock that you’ve been for everyone else. In the face of the vast, empty unknown, you’ll need something solid to stand on. He holds himself tall, just as he watched his father hold the line hundreds of times—whether in battle or the war room. Unlike his father, Wyll takes care to offer you an encouraging smile, when your uncertain eyes look to him for guidance.
Wyll had hoped you would ask for the help you so desperately needed. The last thing Wyll wanted to do was force your hand when it came to keeping the others abreast of your condition. The last thing he wanted to do was take that choice away from you. But while your mind may be clear now, by all accounts, your judgment the day prior was severely impaired. You had proven to be a danger to yourself and others. It’s a danger Wyll faces gladly—no more than the danger that follows any other member of your group. But he feared that he, Karlach, and Astarion wouldn’t be enough to keep you safe. Wyll knows you would never turn your magic on your friends, but to escape their grasp? To hurt yourself? You’ve already done that.
His only wish is for your safety. Above all else, he wants you to be safe.
Halsin’s eyes soften, the tension on his face fading into a familiar gentleness. “Few people in your position would be.” His voice is a soft summer breeze, carrying with it warmth and sunlight. “You’ve been dealt a difficult hand.”
He can’t help but worry about what new wounds you might carry on your flesh—bruises wreathed around the underside of your ribcage? Fresh scars along the length of your arms? Infection festering beneath your skin?
You swallow, and your saliva grates your throat like jagged glass. “I… I don’t want to do this,” you admit quietly.
The taste of failure isn’t any less bitter on your tongue.
Halsin’s gaze briefly flicks towards Wyll. “Would you feel more at ease with some privacy?”
At their core, every person is an animal trying to survive. Every predator knows how to spot signs of illness in their prey. Illnesses of the mind are no different. The deer that fails to tell friend from foe is caught by the wolf just as easily as the deer with a wounded leg. For intelligent creatures, inner fears are just as tender as the soft underbelly—ripe for the slaughter. Just like animals, people hide their injuries from sight, afraid of being hunted down. Exposing one’s heart to another means trusting that it won’t be torn apart. Often, people with the deepest scars look at a smile and only see sharpened teeth.
Halsin has proven himself in his years tending the Grove. He has patched many wounds and soothed many souls. In his years, he’s seen all manner of afflictions. He knows how to hold another’s heart so that it won’t be scratched by his claws. Most people find it difficult to trust someone who hasn’t similarly proven their merit.
Wyll prepares himself to depart before you shake your head. “No, no.” Wild-eyed, you search for the infernal flame in Wyll’s gaze, burning even through the shadows. “Wyll already knows.” Wyll stops himself and stays.
“Alright.” Halsin nods evenly, his eyes clear of judgment. “You can tell me of anything that ails you.” Countless saplings of flesh and foliage alike have grown strong under his care. As long as a plant has sustenance, light, and a place to grow it will reach towards the sun. People are much the same.
“I don’t think my judgment can be trusted anymore.” You refuse to meet Halsin’s eyes, staring down at your fingers as they knot together. “I don’t know what to do.”
Halsin’s eyes trail over you, the ever-present healer in him checking for injuries.Your chosen clothes hide most of your skin from his sight. His gaze pauses briefly on your hands, your fingers knotted together like tree roots. The broken blood vessel in your eye is an obvious and worrisome sight. It may simply be an injury Halsin missed previously, or one that hadn’t yet revealed itself. Or it could be new—which is a frightening possibility to consider.
“Whatever it is that troubles you so deeply won’t heal properly on its own.” Without proper care, infection spreads its necrotic roots through the body and rots it from the inside out. “I know how to treat such things. I can aid you, but only if you speak the truth.”
Beneath Halsin’s watchful eye, you forcefully stop fidgeting, locking one hand tight around the opposite wrist. Every muscle in your body tightens, prepared to release you into the night like an arrow. Unbidden, your hands draw water from the river, and a thick white mist collects in your palm. All you need is to cloak yourself in it, disappear, and apparate far away. You would be gone before anyone could catch you.
You need out from under Halsin’s gaze by any means necessary. But where would you go? You’ve purposefully placed Halsin, Wyll, and Astarion between you and the only path out of camp. It would be all too easy to catch you if you ran. And then what? The only other safe haven nearby is Last Light Inn and you can’t return there, not after threatening Isobel’s life. Running into the shadows would spell certain death. You already tried that, and yet here you stand.
You look over Wyll’s shoulder, to where he knows Astarion stands. Astarion raises one dark eyebrow expectantly. He’s smiling even now—he hasn’t stopped since your earlier kiss. He’s the most genuinely happy you’ve ever seen him. You can’t ruin that for him—not after everything else you’ve done. The shake of his gut-wrenching sobs through your revived corpse is something you won’t soon forget. You can’t hurt him again.
You need to talk. You promised him you’d try.
“I… I did something very foolish,” you breathe.
“Everyone has been a fool at times,” Halsin soothes. How else would we learn, if not first given the freedom to fail? “I promise you, whatever mistake you’ve made, I’ve almost certainly heard it before.”
You move your lips, but only air comes out. Shame and fear tighten the noose around your throat. You choke on your words—your silver tongue brittle and tarnished as it rusts in your mouth. Your voice has brought mortal men to their knees and summoned fire from the gates of hell. Reality shapes itself around you—you need only command it change. But in this moment, for the first time, your words fail you.
Wyll watches you choke on empty air and takes a slow step forward. Wordlessly, he holds out a hand, palm turned toward the sky. The movement catches your eye and almost instinctively, you grasp his hand. With a warm smile, Wyll folds his other hand over top of yours, holding it close. You never once spare him a glance, eyes firmly fixated on Halsin. But Wyll’s palms are warm like the campfire on warm summer nights filled with laughter. You feel just a little more at ease—enough for the noose to loosen and slip from your shoulders.
You whisper your secret through clenched teeth. “I tried to get myself killed last night.” You feel Wyll’s reproachful gaze on your cheek and immediately, your mouth twists into a bitter scowl. A lie of omission is still a lie… “No, that’s… not quite right.” You let out a long breath and squeeze your eyes shut, unable to meet Halsin’s gaze. “I wanted to die last night. And I…” A final, desperate gasp. “... I did.”
Halsin’s lungs are full, but he suddenly feels starved of air. His stomach turns with a sickening lurch, and bile climbs in his throat, blocked only by the knot of his heart behind his tongue. Hearing of a loved ones’ suffering never gets any easier. He’d noticed the signs of someone losing a battle with their own darkness—the mounting stress, the recklessness, the self-harm. But he’d only taken note in the past tenday, he’d thought he had more time before the situation became dire. He’d left you to rest and planned to offer his help in the next few days. He hadn’t imagined you’d spiral in the space of a few hours.
Outwardly, he remains infuriatingly calm. “Thank you for telling me.” His gaze never wavers and his breath remains even despite the ache in his heart. “I am glad you’re still here.”
If there’s one thing Halsin has learned about you, it’s that there’s no situation dire enough that you won’t laugh about it.
“Thank Astarion,” you snort inelegantly. “I was too busy being dead to be of any use.”
A long-suffering sigh escapes Wyll’s nose.
You turn to him with a shrug. “What? It’s true.”
Wyll’s good eye lights up with a spark of frustration. “This isn’t a laughing matter,” he says severely.
You roll your eyes. “As the person who died, I think I get to decide that,” you laugh easily, all your nerves suddenly gone now that you can slip into the comfort of a familiar mask.
As macabre as it may be, your reaction isn’t an altogether uncommon one. Perhaps a couple centuries ago, Halsin may have found it strange. But laughing at one’s pain is far easier than acknowledging just how much it aches.
“I won’t begrudge you your laughter,” Halsin begins, “but Wyll is right; this is very serious.” Your smile fades, replaced with a tight-lipped frown. “Wyll’s frustration is born out of his care for you, just as mine is.” Halsin casts a quick glance over his shoulder and isn’t surprised to see Astarion watching your group with piercing eyes. “If I had to hazard a guess, I would imagine that Astarion reacted negatively, as well.”
When your gaze quickly darts away, Halsin knows he’s hit a nerve. “He’s not very happy with me at the moment.”
“Only because he cares for you deeply.” Your gaze falls, lashes casting dark shadows against your cheeks. “All your friends care for you—you must know that.”
Halsin need only look around to see the proof of their care. Astarion may be blatantly watching, but the rest of camp is also watching intently. Halsin feels the weight of five pairs of eyes between his shoulder-blades. The ambiance in camp that morning was unsettled as everyone sensed something amiss with you.
“I do,” you say, voice flat in a way that tells Halsin you know you’re cared for, but you don’t understand why.
That isn’t a problem he can solve in an instant. As Halsin begins to consider the next steps in the healing process, he slowly realizes how truly dire your situation is. Under normal circumstances, he would recommend rest until you feel prepared to move forward. When you were ready, he or another healer would talk through the circumstances that led you to consider taking your own life. The problem was rarely a simple fix, but once, centuries ago, Halsin had found himself weighing the cost of death against the pain of enslavement. He ultimately chose not to kill himself. Partially because he feared retaliation if he failed, but also because he refused to die before seeing the sun again. When he remembers those dark days, hidden far beneath the earth, he remembers that it wasn’t death that he sought, but an escape from a nightmare that wouldn’t end.
It’s rare that Halsin can fully solve his patients’ problems. But often, a period of rest will do a world of good. When a person’s only duty is to themselves, they can finally tend to their own wounds. Once those injuries have mended, the weight of responsibility no longer threatens to break them. It can be a long process, taken day-by-day and step-by-step, but Halsin has offered his shoulder to dozens of people that didn’t have another to lean on.
Halsin has seen the wounds you wear on the outside; he can only imagine the ones you bear silently. You desperately need a chance to catch your breath, to rest your mind as well as your body so that it can finally begin to heal. But rest is the one thing Halsin can’t give you. You’re racing against a clock set by Ketheric Thorm and the Cult of the Absolute. The weight of not only your own life, but the lives of your friends and every soul on the Sword Coast rests heavily on your shoulders. You can’t hide away in a remote cabin for a month while Halsin teaches you the art of self-care. That would almost certainly mean your demise, and perhaps the deaths of thousands.
You catch the flicker of uncertainty in Halsin’s eyes—the first sign of emotion since your confession. “Perhaps I should stay behind today—”
“No.” You cut off Halsin’s thought before it can fully form. “As soon as Balthazar secures the Nightsong, Ketheric Thorm plans to march on Baldur’s Gate,” you remind him firmly. “We cannot afford to let that happen. We need to move soon.”
Halsin knows the stakes well—better than most. He’s tasted failure once, watched the land wither before his eyes. Everyone he once called a friend or mentor fell around him, breath smothered by the Shadow Curse. Of all the Oakfather’s servants who fought against Ketheric Thorm, he is the last—the only one who remembers the verdant sprawl of the river valley before blood and shadow stained its ground. He will not allow the past to repeat itself, not after all he has lost.
That doesn’t make it any easier to leave someone who needs his help.
Halsin closes his eyes with a sigh of resignation. “Who else knows what happened?” he asks, voice strained. “Wyll and Astarion. Is that all?”
Wyll answers in your stead. “Karlach knows.”
Halsin nods once stiffly. “Good.” By your orders, Astarion, Karlach, Gale, and Arabella will be left with you in camp. “I suppose I couldn’t convince you to send Gale with me and leave Wyll behind?”
You scoff. “You want me to send the man who offered to fill a lantern with forbidden Shadow Weave off to cure the curse with Shadowheart?” You wave your hand dismissively. “I adore Gale but he loses all sense where powerful magic is concerned.”
Halsin’s lips thin as the furrow between his brows deepens. “You’re not wrong.” When his eyes open, his gaze drifts slowly between you and Wyll, eyeing your still joined hands. “I only ask for my own peace of mind. Karlach and Astarion are perfectly suited to keeping you company.”
You abruptly rip your hand out of Wyll’s grasp, folding it against your chest. “Babysitting me, you mean.”
If your outburst is meant to stir Halsin to anger, he doesn’t take the bait. “No,” he says firmly. “If Wyll had a fever that needed tending, would you leave him to fight it on his own?” You offer no response, not that Halsin expected one.
“You’ve suffered a grave injury—physically and mentally.” Your knuckles turn a pale lavender as your hands curl into fists. “I would be a poor healer if I left you to bleed out before my eyes.”
A bitter laugh dies on your tongue. “I happen to like bleeding out.” Every night, Astarion laps gently at your blooming throat. “My blood was gentler in Astarion’s veins than it has been in mine.”
Deep shadows mark the furrow of Wyll’s brow, a lightning burst of alarm flashing in his eye. “What do you mean by that?”
You shake your head. How would you even explain this curse to someone who doesn’t have to bear it? Your soul is the disease infecting this body, and its flesh rots around you. Blood sours within your veins, stained by your ugly heart. How else is it that the same blood boiling you from the inside out becomes still in Astarion’s veins? You corrupt anything that wanders too close to your heart.
“When he drains me, everything is quiet for just a little while,” you murmur weakly.
Realization streaks across Wyll’s face, horror dawning in its wake. “You died before,” he says slowly. “Astarion drank too much from you that first night.”
Distantly, it occurs to you that Wyll isn’t supposed to know that. You stare blankly at the center of Halsin’s chest, face and voice as hollow as your empty ribcage. “He misjudged how much he could take.”
“Did you?” Wyll accuses, barely holding back his frustration.
Did you? The warmth of that night feels like an echo from another lifetime—the memories hazy and tinted rosy by nostalgia. You treasure the bond you have now with Astarion—with all of your friends—but part of you wishes you could return to those early days. Everything was easier then. Surviving didn’t hurt quite so badly.
“Wyll,” Halsin scolds gently, his hands drifting onto your earthen shoulders. “We should focus on the present before unearthing the past.” There’s no good to be found in digging up old wounds, laying blame for yesterday’s sins: there is still work to be done here.
In the moments before you lost consciousness, you were too weak to push Astarion back. But you hadn’t tried. Astarion’s hand were gentle on your skin, the night pleasantly warm, and your head, for the first time, blissfully empty. You hadn’t wanted to let go of that feeling. You simply sank deeper into oblivion until it swallowed you whole. Had you known you were dying? Had you cared?
“I don’t know,” you admit quietly. “But I wish I hadn’t answered Shadowheart’s call when she asked me to come back.”
It would have been better, you think, if you had died back then. That was just after Alfira’s death, before you had earned anyone’s trust. If Astarion had simply dragged your body out of camp and left you for the scavengers, no one would have looked for you. In time, you would fade into memory, until your companions barely remembered the unstable, violent drow they’d encountered at the beginning of their journey. No one would have mourned you.
Wyll curses under his breath, rubbing a hand across his mouth. “Please, don’t say that,” he hisses, eye glistening as he looks away.
That was before he realized how much you relied on everyone in your group—before he knew how much you were hurting. You were needlessly cruel, every word out of your mouth harsh and bitter. He’d thought it a reflection of the harsh environment of the Underdark, and hoped that he could nourish the kind soul he spied within. He hadn’t known about the emptiness of your past or the hollow ache in your chest. He had no way of knowing that you were seeing the world through new eyes.
All the times you’ve thrown yourself into danger flash before his eyes. You stood toe-to-toe with an adamantine giant forged in fire, you never wavered beneath the Lich Queen’s gaze, you drank Thisobald Thorm under the table through gritted teeth. Wyll always admired the responsibility you carried on your shoulders. You held yourself with the resolve of a military commander, taking up the mantle of your teams successes as well as their failures. It took a noble soul, he thought, to use your most valuable possession as a shield. For the first time, Wyll considers that you gamble with your life not because you value it, but because you don’t.
The thought makes him vaguely ill.
“I’m sorry.” you murmur, words empty as they hang in the air. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
It seems that even now, you can’t stop hurting the people you’ve sworn to protect. Even when you manage to stay your hands, you still cut your friends to the core. You bite the inside of your cheek, the familiar taste of iron staining your tongue.
“Don’t apologize,” Wyll begs.
He smooths a hand down his face and draws in a shuddering breath, taking a moment to collect himself. It does hurt to see you so despondent and realize just how much you’ve suffered in silence. Ashen guilt spills from the chambers of his heart, grating uncomfortably against the underside of his skin. For so long, he’d assumed your silence meant that you were alright. You opened your heart and your mind with such ease, as you took up your friends’ burdens. Your openness was a show of vulnerability, he thought. You empathized with him, admitted to understanding his struggles with failure and duty. Wyll had drawn his own conclusions about your past and your pain and assumed that your silence meant he was right.
He hadn’t realized that silence was your shield until it was nearly too late. You died. Your heart stopped beating and your soul waited for the veil to part so that it could find eternal rest. If the boundary had been thinner, or Astarion slower, you’d be gone—for good. In another timeline, Astarion returned to camp alone, and the rest of them had to continue on without you.
The realization cleaves through Wyll’s sternum, parting his ribcage in two. The ache as his ribs slough off one by one is nearly unbearable. You have so few memories, all of them rife with danger. What little you’ve said of your hazy past paints a grim picture. Whatever life you led before, you’ve been given a second chance, and it’s only just begun. The peaceful childhood Wyll took for granted is something you’ve never known. You deserve peace, and comfort, and love—things that no one can grant you out here in the shadows. You deserve a life of your own, free from the tadpole, free from whatever shackles bound you before.
It’s the very thing Wyll fights for as the Blade of Frontiers—a life where people can live free of fear. You deserve it just as much as all the other people Wyll has saved. He can’t let you die here without ever knowing a day of peace.
“You haven’t done anything wrong—” You interrupt him with a bitter scoff. “Not by telling the truth.” Wyll lowers his hand to finally meet your gaze, hellfire burning in his eye. “Fighting at your side is a gift, and I am lucky to know you.” He speaks from deep within his chest, with all the gravitas his father taught him to use when addressing the court. “I am glad to share in your pain because you don’t deserve to suffer alone.”
Wyll doubts that you’ll be swayed by his words no matter how pretty they are. But he needs you to know that his resolve will stand against the tide, and the care he has for you is set in stone. No matter how much silver gilds your tongue, it won’t blind him to the depths of his affection.
The pity in your gaze still hurts to see, and his heart lurches painfully when you tear your eyes away.
“I don’t know what to do.” You look to Halsin, begging for a light to shine through the dark. “Please, just tell me what to do.”
You can’t trust yourself anymore. You need someone to tell you what’s real.
Halsin’s hands are strong and sturdy on your shoulders. When he pulls you into his chest, you nearly collapse in his arms. “Right now, I believe the best way to take care of the people you love is to take care of yourself first.” There’s that word again—love. A tender ache blooms within your withered heart. “What we all want is to see you well.”
Your gaze lowers, lashes dark against your cheeks. “I don’t know if that’s something I can provide.” you admit bitterly. “I don’t think I’ve ever been well.”
“Then as well as you can be,” Halsin concedes. He makes everything sound so simple. He lays the path at your feet and asks only that you walk it. “Right now, what I think you need is rest.”
You nod idly, for once in your life agreeing with someone else’s assessment. The defiant spark in your veins has finally gone out, and without fuel to feed your indignation, you no longer have the strength to argue. Your lead-lined veins are so unbearably heavy. If Halsin would let you, you’d collapse right here.
You murmur into Halsin’s chest, voice muffled. “I was going to ask if you had something to facilitate trancing, I…” You swallow, your throat tight. “I have trouble.”
Halsin’s broad thumbs stroke gently over the tops of your shoulders. “Have you ever tried sleeping instead?” he asks. “You might find it easier.”
“I…” You pause.
You know that you, Astarion, and Halsin trance, while your other companions sleep, but you aren’t sure you understand the difference. Save for when you’ve fallen unconscious, you’ve only ever slipped into reverie. Where would you even begin if you wanted to fall asleep instead?
“I’m not sure I know how,” you admit quietly
Halsin smiles gently. “I have some herbal remedies that should help you.”
It isn’t uncommon for adult elves to resist sleep, consciously or otherwise. Sleep is a vulnerable thing, intended for children and the ill. Once elves age past their first century, true sleep is regarded as a juvenile indulgence. But for those plagued by past sins, sleep is a welcome reprieve. In reverie, the past comes alive again, all your failures laid out before your eyes. Halsin has relived his biggest regrets time and time again, watched the Shadow Curse spill over Reithwin a thousand times, never able to stop its course. In true sleep, you aren’t shackled to bitter memories. Even a nightmare can be better than the past.
“If Astarion can’t help you fall asleep, then I can walk you through it,” Halsin says.
You nod slowly, too drained to ask anything more. You’ve only been properly awake for less than an hour, but the emotional turmoil of the morning crashes over you all at once. Your limbs are impossibly heavy, every emotion possible wrung out of your veins. You don’t have anything else left to feel, and in the torrent’s wake is a gentle numbness. Distantly, you can feel the sting of the blisters on your feet. But it reaches you through a thick fog, your mind hazy. All you want in this moment is to lay down and rest.
Halsin senses that your energy has finally depleted, and he slowly lets go of one shoulder, keeping hold of the other as he turns to usher you back to camp. “I will speak with you more about this tonight,” he promises. “But for now, just rest.”
You nod without fully feeling the motion. Halsin’s hand is warm where it presses against the small of your back. It’s a welcome reprieve from the burgeoning winter chill. Halsin guides you back to camp proper, Wyll keeping pace on your other side, watching your unsteady steps carefully. When Astarion sees your approach, he pushes himself off Shadowheart’s tent, his feigned ease falling away. Quickly, his needlepoint gaze passes over Wyll and Halsin. Halsin’s eyes are infuriatingly gentle, just as they’d been the previous day, where Wyll’s eye burns with steady resolve. It’s a look Astarion has seen in you any number of times. Regardless, he sees no trace of discontent, and so turns his attention to you.
What little energy you’d mustered to face Astarion and Halsin has long fled. What’s left is an empty vessel, shambling back into Astarion’s arms. Halsin’s hand doesn’t leave your back until Astarion steps forward, grasping your hands as you fall into his embrace. Just as Astarion’s hands fit themselves against the curve of your waist, Halsin draws back.
“There you are,” Astarion croons. One hand smooths over your arm, your cheek, your hair. His eyes haven’t left you since he exited his tent this morning, but he still needs to make sure nothing has hurt you. “All done?” he asks cheerily, sharp eyes snapping to watch Halsin and Wyll.
Astarion is hard to read, but Halsin recognizes the concern in his sharpened glare. His piercing gaze holds Halsin and Wyll at knifepoint, demanding answers. It’s something Halsin has seen time and time again among concerned partners. Anger is easier than fear—it offers the illusion of control, where fear is a lack of it. By now, Halsin knows well that Astarion’s ire masks his ever-present fear. Halsin bears it, knowing that his patients are in safe hands.
“We’ll talk more tonight,” Halsin says with a nod in your direction. “But for now, rest. I’ll prepare some tea that will help you sleep.”
Halsin and Wyll depart for their respective tents, then, as Astarion nods sharply. It’s an easy enough instruction to follow, one Astarion supports gladly. He only hopes that your stubbornness has disappeared along with your energy. That will make it easier. For now, you slump bonelessly against Astarion’s chest, cheek pressed against his collarbone. It’s so much easier, now that you have orders to follow. There’s no need to worry about the trials ahead or the vile blood simmering in your veins. All you have to focus on in this moment is resting, allowing yourself to drift off into a painless sleep.
Astarion tucks his nose into your crown, arms tight around your shoulders—holding you so close that you might never be able to leave. He hopes that Halsin’s advice will be enough. Surely an archdruid should be able to purge your blood of whatever madness has seized you. You believe so ardently that there’s something in Astarion worth saving—what can he do but return the favor? If there’s hope for him, then there must be for you, too. Whatever violence lingers inside you, Astarion has undoubtedly done worse.
It’s a terrifying thing, this hope you’ve planted within his heart. He’s never wanted anyone as terribly as he wants you. For the first time in two hundred years, he has something to lose—he already lost it and only divine intervention brought it back. Astarion tangles his fingers in your hair, curling his body around yours, trying to mold your souls into one so that he might keep you safe.
Halsin has to know what to do. He has to.
Halfway to his tent, Wyll pauses to look back. He sees Astarion squeezing you tight to his chest, hand fisted in the stiff linen of your shirt.
Astarion leans back, just enough to curl both hands around your cheeks, your violet skin blooming between his palms. “How do you feel? How was it?” he frets, eyes searching your face.
You lean into his touch with a contented hum, eyes softening as you meet Astarion’s gaze. “Exhausted,” you murmur.
A sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh escapes Astarion’s nose. “Then we’d best get you settled.”
You close your eyes as Astarion kisses the center of your forehead with a touch as light and ephemeral as the caress of a butterfly’s wing. The only thing holding you upright is the long line of Astarion’s body pressed against yours. This, too, is a relief to relinquish. Losing control might not be so bad, as long as you trust the person guiding your hand. You trust Astarion more than any other. You would be his puppet, gladly. After all, he was the first to fill the void inside you, was he not? It’s only fitting that he should hold dominion over the person he shaped. He’s owned nothing for as long as he can remember, and you belong to him in every way that matters.
But those are thoughts for another time. For now, your only concern is rest.