Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

After nearly a month in the shadows, Daylight burns the backs of Shadowheart’s eyes. Spirits swarm around her in a dazzling cloud of lights where she holds the line between the darkness and her allies. Distantly, she hears the crackling force of a pair of Eldritch Blasts cleaving through the air, followed by an ursine growl: Halsin and Wyll are still holding their own. Good.

The looming shadow of Oliver’s summoned wraith falls across Lae’zel’s crumpled body. She slumbers, unaware of the danger rearing back its claws for a deadly strike. Shadowheart dives forward, only barely managing to catch the blow with her shield. An unholy shriek pierces the battlefield as Shadowheart’s Spirit Guardians tear into the creature’s form—the coalesced darkness beginning to unravel beneath the shine of radiant light.

“Wake up, Lae’zel!” Shadowheart hisses. “Now isn’t the time for a nap!” She punctuates her desperation with an inelegant kick to Lae’zel’s ribs.

Through Lae’zel’s armor, it’s not nearly enough to do damage. But the blow forces the air out of Lae’zel’s lungs, and her gentle breaths give way to a sputtering cough. It’s enough to break the enchantment, and Lae’zel’s eyes fly open in a sudden panic. Her eyes dart around the battlefield wildly, her sharpened mind immediately lurching to full awareness. Even still, she struggles to parse the chaotic burst of light and shadow with her memory interrupted. A vital link in the current chain of events is missing. She doesn’t know where her allies are or what they need of her, but she needs to act now.

Still holding her shield high, Shadowheart grabs Lae’zel’s arm and hauls the other woman to her feet. “Draw some of the attention off Wyll!” Shadowheart points across the battlefield to where Wyll struggles to cut through three of Oliver’s shadows.

That is an order Lae’zel can follow. With a single, curt nod, Lae’zel disappears from beneath Shadowheart’s hand in a cloud of mist, appearing behind one of the shadows engaged with Wyll. Teeth bared, her greatsword cleaves through two of the appartions. A mournful wail echoes through the night as the creature dissolves. Wyll takes a moment to quickly wipe the sweat from his brow and nods to Lae’zel in gratitude. In the next breath, he continues his assault.

Beneath the statue of Ketheric Thorm, Oliver huddles under the veil of his protective dome, shouting taunts through the arcane ward. But with each shadow slayed, the dome’s gentle light flickers. Now, cracks begin to splinter across the surface—the clear, unoccluded sound of breaking glass cutting through the air.

“No, no, no!” the fey child rages, stomping his feet against the stone.

An angry growl builds within Shadowheart’s chest. Why is she here? This isn’t her war to wage. She has no love for the land nor its creatures. The Shadow Curse was a plague set upon Shar’s enemies for their arrogance. It was never the Harper’s nor the Blackstaff’s place to interfere with the conflict in Reithwin. If they had never joined the side of the Selûnites, there would be no need for this curse. But of course, they could never allow a Sharran enclave to emerge in the Heartlands.

Why is divine punishment for mankind’s hubris only righteous when it’s meted out by a god their institutions approve of? The hypocrisy is sickening. Shadowheart thought you were above such things—that you of all people saw the smokescreen for what it was. She’s seen the suspicion and unease people regard you with before you’ve ever dared to open your mouth. You’ve stood by Lae’zel and Astarion despite the prejudice held by many. So why have you given Halsin your tacit approval? Why are you standing by and watching this flagrant disrespect of Shadowheart’s faith? Why are you asking her to fight this battle?

Claws of shadow tear into Shadowheart’s back. Ice-cold necrosis seeps between the plates of her armor, and the metal warps. Shadowheart stumbles forward beneath the blow, nearly falling to her knees. She braces herself at the last second, but the blow severs her connection to Shar. The shimmering cloud of spirits encircling Shadowheart flickers then fades, as the threads of divine magic slip from her grasp.

All of a sudden, the pitch–black night collapses inward, the air so thick that it coats Shadowheart’s skin in a sheen of crude oil. Her Spirit Guardians had been her only buffer against the darkness—without her radiant shield the shadows cage her in. In an instant, she’s gone from a divine warrior wielding Lady Shar’s sword to a rabbit caught in a snare.

The metal of Shadowheart’s half-plate armor turns brittle in the wake of the attack. Frigid metal bows inward, digging into her leather underarmor. A deathly chill creeps up the back of her shoulder, skeletal fingers of ice curl around the base of her neck. Shadowheart gasps, her lungs suddenly starved for air. The shadows loom closer, stretching taller to consume the whole of Shadowheart’s field of vision. Through the darkness, she no longer sees her allies across the plaza, nor Oliver in his dome. Distantly, dampened by the lightless fog, Shadowheart just barely hears that familiar sound of battle. She recognizes the clear call of Wyll’s voice and Lae’zel’s rasp. But she can’t see them, and they can’t see her.

She can’t support them without line of sight. Shadowheart glances at the smothering shadows, flickering ever higher around her in a dark inferno. She needs to break through the enemy’s guard. Directly behind her, one of Oliver’s shadows blurs at the edges, its torso spotted with empty holes were Spirit Guardians tore through its form. It’s the weakest link, by far.

With a loud cry, Shadowheart strikes her mace at the enemy in an upward arc, turning with the momentum of her swing. She feels the resistance when the blow connects, then grits her teeth and pushes through. The boy’s Shadow wails as its form parts cleanly around the radiant spines of Shadowheart’s weapon. Across the battlefield, Wyll grits his teeth at the lurch in his chest. A thousand times he’s responded to children’s pained screams, desperate to save those that cannot save themselves. This child may be an illusion, but his body only knows that someone needs a hero. He strikes down another child, blocking out the sound as best he can.

Shadowheart has no such reservations. She may not remember it, but her bleeding heart was cauterized long ago. She’s been trained to show no mercy no matter how pitifully a person cries. The shadow child’s screams are pitiful, indeed, as it splits apart. Its dispersed form falls to the ground, swirling around Shadowheart’s feet. She only takes a moment to breathe a sigh of relief before rushing through the opening in the Shadows’ defenses.

She only takes one step before the ground opens its maw.

A green miasma spreads out from between her feet, and gravity suddenly crashes into the center of her back. “What—?” Shadowheart’s knees crack against the cobblestones.

Her whole body pitches forward. Shadowheart just barely catches herself, hands scrabbling against the ground. She crouches there, shallow, panicked breaths escaping her lips in wisps of white. A shiver runs down her spine, the air suddenly colder than the Dalelands themselves.

In the distance, Shadowheart hears the unmistakable clarion cry of wolf’s howl. Shadowheart’s head snaps up, eyes darting wildly about in search of the beast. Through a veil of dancing green shadow, she spies… a forest. Shadowheart reels back at the strange sight, but then again, why is that strange? Where else would she be? She’s wandered these woods for so long—searching, searching.

Searching for what?

Pale moonlight shimmers through the canopy casting a pale glow over the underbrush. Shadows flicker at the edge of her vision. But the forest falls still when she whips her head around to look. The night is dark and she is so, so afraid.

Years of training tell her not to fear what lies in shadow. Darkness has been her respite the whole of her life—a veil of protection over her many sins, sweet succor from the world’s pain, the warm, still embrace of the womb. But the child inside her—that lingering memory she failed to kill—still fears the dark. The world is vast and wide and she is the last cough of an empty lantern, sputtering out beneath the oppressive dark.

She is scared and alone and all she wants is—

The gentle spray of river water on sweltering summer days. Mud tracks on old wood floors. A familiar face backed by yellow light. Gentle hands threaded through raven-dark hair. A tight embrace, uncaring of the dirt staining her palms. Warmth and silver light and…

The dry underbrush crackles at Shadowheart’s back, drawing her out of the memory. She freezes. A twig snaps—another step. She was wrong. She isn’t alone. She tunes her ears to the sounds of the forest, every muscle in her body rigid and brittle. If she turns, she fears what she’ll see. The child inside her, gasping for breath, prays that if she just closes her eyes and remains perfectly still, the night will pass.

Leaves rustle in the canopy overhead, joining the distant babble of the creek. An owl croons from its perch, its song accompanied by fluttering wings. Despite the dark, the night is alive. Shadowheart would almost find comfort in it. But something looms over her. Claws scrape against the soft earth. Unnaturally sharp eyes pierce the center of her back. Sticky, wet breaths caress the tip of her ear.

Panic drives her body into action. She needs out. She needs to run.

She springs off the forest floor in a dead sprint. Razor-sharp fangs snap at her heel. Teeth tear through her Achilles tendon but she doesn’t stop. The muscle snaps and she runs, charging through the underbrush. The foliage parts around her, and the ground smooths beneath her feet. The forest floor should be softer, the path rougher. But no branches tear at her skin, nor do any tree roots rise up to catch her toes. In her panic, none of that matters, only a single thought filling her mind—run.

A voice hisses in her ear. “Pa’vrylk, what are you doing?”

Strong arms catch her around the waist and crush her against someone’s chest. Blindly, Shadowheart struggles, pushing against her captor’s chest. But they only plant their feet and remain firm, a wall of stone against Shadowheart’s railing.

“Let go of me!” she growls. “It’ll catch me!”

She tugs against her assailant’s hold, but an iron grasp fastens around her wrists. “Chk. You would abandon the battlefield?” Sharp nails and sharper words dig into the gap between gautlets and chestplate. “I thought your loyalty stronger than that.”

“Battle—what?”

Shadowheart blinks and the forest levels into the familiar plain of the Shadowlands. No tree canopy blocks the sky, only a thick miasma of darkness hides the stars from her sight. Lae’zel chains Shadowheart’s forearms to her chest with an unyielding grasp, the bulk of their armor the only separation between their bodies. Lae’zel’s sharp eyes pierce the iron plates shielding Shadowheart’s chest, her teeth bared in frustration.

It’s the closest they’ve been since… “I’m here,” Shadowheart snaps. “Let go.”

Shadowheart takes a half-step back, bracing herself to pull out of Lae’zel’s hold. Only, the edge of the promenade crumbles beneath her weight. Loose stones slip out from under her heel and skitter against the cliff face as it tumbles into the abyss below. A frigid gasp fills Shadowheart’s lungs as the ground falls away. Necrotic energy fills the empty space between the cracked, desolate landscape and Shadowheart feels its caress against her bloody heel. It curls tenderly around her ankle and holds tight—a predator surging up from below to claim its prey.

Lae’zel growls and nearly wrenches Shadowheart’s arms from their sockets as Lae’zel hauls her onto solid ground. “Watch yourself, Shadowheart,” she snaps viciously. “You are not meant for a shameful death.”

Shadowheart pants heavily, half her weight braced on Lae’zel’s shoulder. Her ankle burns where it hangs uselessly at the end of her leg—the flesh turned necrotic by the kiss of the void. She tries to push herself back from Lae’zel’s embrace, but the moment her ankle bears any weight, pain whites out her vision.

“Hells!” she curses, caught only by Lae’zel’s arm around her waist.

“You’re hurt,” Lae’zel says flatly.

Shadowheart gestures down at her injured leg and the trail of dark blood seeping into the ground. “I’ll be fine.” Shadowheart casts her gaze across the battlefield and sees Oliver, refracted a hundred times through shards of glass as his dome of protection begins to shatter.

Someone just needs to tip it over the edge.

Shadowheart grabs Lae’zel’s wrist. “Just put an end to this.” She draws on Lady Shar’s power—spread thin across the valley—and prays for her goddess to open a bridge.

Mistress of the Night, hear my prayer. Please grant my ally and I safe passage across your hallowed ground.

“Quod dico face!”

The world fractures before their eyes. The looking glass shatters to reveal a world painted in shades of silver. Lae’zel shakes the mirror shards out of her eyes and sees Oliver an arms’ length away. The boy cowers beneath his shield, his magic flickering in the dark. It balances on the razor’s edge, a single thread of the Weave holding its form. Lae’zel broke her own chains—the Weave is nothing.

With a hoarse cry she brings her greatsword down against the dome. The magic shatters into a thousand pinpricks of blue light, scattering on the winter wind. The gale blows through the promenade, and all of Oliver’s remaining shadows break apart, dissolving into the memory of childhood fears. All that’s left are your four allies and the precocious fey boy that tried to cut them down.

Oliver cries out like he was the one cleaved in twain, his wail joining the everpresent drone of the Shadow Curse. An irritated growl builds in the back of Lae’zel’s throat. She casts her sword aside, the metal protesting loudly as it clatters against the stone. She takes a step forward, prepared to haul the boy up by his hair.

“Stop,” Wyll calls out, palm held up in protest.

Lae’zel’s feet stayed rooted to the ground, her furious glare turned on Wyll as she awaits further instruction. Wyll simply watches the boy with a distant gaze, his eye dark and somber. In the end, neither of them have to move. In a flash of golden light, Halsin scrambles out of wildshape on hands and knees, rushing up to meet the fallen boy. At first, his hands reach out to grasp the boy’s shoulders, but then thinks better of it. Instead, he plants his palms flat against the ground, knelt beside the child.

“I’m not leaving!” Oliver cries on hands and knees, face pressed into cold, unyielding stone. “You can’t make me!”

Halsin beseeches Wyll with his clear, river water eyes, shimmering beneath the glow of Shadowheart’s Daylight. Wyll’s answering nod cuts the tension in Halsin’s shoulders and the druid nearly falls forward in his relief. Stolen sunlight turns his eyes a pure, ethereal white, and they shine as his gaze falls over the slope of Oliver’s back.

The boy may wear a different face, but his oldest friend still lives behind those eyes. Even in the deepest shadows, flowers still bloom beneath Oliver’s feet. He cannot divorce himself from the will of the land, life surging up to greet the absent sun even still. Harsh environs expose nature’s wrath. In times of famine, rats will turn on their young. Vultures will circle animals for days and peck out the eyes of their dying prey. Wildfires are not known for being kind. Is it any wonder that this desolate, cursed land would mold Thaniel into a bitter, capricious boy?

A hundred years of emptiness, with only shadows and loss for friends. Halsin can’t imagine a crueler fate for a child. He, too, was a lonely once. Thaniel had given him a childhood worth remembering.

“Oliver,” Halsin calls, Daylight haloing him in gold. “Nobody is making you leave—this is your home.”

Shadowheart pants, watching on as Halsin reasons with an impish fey spirit in the form of a child. The adrenaline that fueled her desperate cast of Dimension Door clips the strings holding her aloft as it leaves. With a heavy breath, she falls to her knee, finally taking the weight off her injured leg. The battle over, her body finally takes stock of its injuries. A dull roar thunders in her ankle, lightning bursts of agony crackling through her bones with every wrong movement.

A glance down at the injury shows it bloodied and unnaturally twisted. The tendon is certainly severed if the bone itself isn’t broken. She shifts onto her opposite hip with a soft hiss and whispers a prayer beneath her breath. Divine magic glows a bright teal between the webs of her fingers—cool to the touch. She leans forward to lay a hand on her injured ankle, and beneath the Nightsinger’s gaze, her inflamed flesh grows numb. All her pain empties itself from Shadowheart’s veins and she feels nothing at all.

“Then go away!” Oliver cries petulantly, voice falling flat against the stones.

Pity draws Halsin’s brows together. “Aren’t you lonely in this dark, empty place?”

Oliver finally raises his head from the cradle of his arms, glaring at Halsin with the force of a summer gale. “I’m not alone. I have lots of friends,” he spits. “Nobody dies here. They come back, over and over, a little different every time.”

There’s a weariness to his words, his true age piercing through the veneer of youth for the first time.

Halsin he searches the shadow of his oldest friend, needles piercing the backs of his eyes. “But are you happy, Oliver? Losing all your friends a bit more every day?”

“What does it matter? I’ve had to do everything myself!” Oliver spits, his shadow lengthened by the glow of Daylight. “Even when it was scary. Even when I was alone.” The boy sniffles. Distantly, Shadowheart wonders if a spirit can shed tears. “I didn’t give up.”

A gentle smile curls on Halsin’s face. “Yes. You’ve been very brave. But I don’t want you to be alone, here in this darkness.” Halsin curls his hands into fists, fighting the urge to stroke Oliver’s back. “I want you to be with Thaniel.”

The ground shudders, fury rattling the earth to its bones. Stone grinds against stone as the dry, barren earth tears itself asunder. Shadowheart sits rests on solid ground, but its hollow shell begins to crack, the darkness below opening wide.

Oliver beats his fists against the earth. “Why should I go back to him?” he wails. “He abandoned me!”

Even as the world begins to crumble away beneath his feet, Halsin’s conviction steadies the earth. “No—you were stolen from each other when you were meant to be together.”

Coarse gray fur matted with jam. Silver ribbons tied into neat little bows. Wickedly sharp claws painted blue, red, yellow, green. Pawprints in the mud. A mouth full of daggers and a happily lolling tongue. Bristles poking baby-soft cheeks. Warm, sunny afternoons and naps on the forest floor.

Shadowheart’s eyes burn.

“Neither of you are to blame,” Halsin breathes as the ground stills. “And I know your pain. I truly do. Thaniel was my friend also.”

Halsin can’t help the smile the curls on his face at the yellowed memory of his bygone youth. They were simpler times, when his only concerns were the endless sprawl of summer days. The memories of his childhood shine like sunlight on the water. It was during those years that he fell in love with the earth. The forest was Thaniel’s home—how could Halsin resist loving it? He learned the beauty of the earth—hollowed out trees to hide in, nests of newborn sparrows in their favorite climbing tree, bears waking from their long slumber after winter’s end. There was beauty in nature’s cycle, wonder hidden within the underbrush, life bursting forth from fertile ground.

He’s forever grateful to Thaniel for that joy—that purpose. Who would he be, had he been alone?

Halsin’s words crest on a wave of nostalgia. “I played with him, grew up while he stayed the same.”

There’s loneliness in that, too, one that Halsin knows well. There is tragedy in always being the one left behind, in knowing someone for the length of a lightning flash, only for grief to echo like thunder long after. For the longest time, Halsin wondered why a fey spirit would entertain a lonely, elven boy. He didn’t understand until midway through his second century, after burying a human whose birth he witnessed. It struck him, then, that he hadn’t aged a day in those years. For the first time, it struck him just how many of those he loved he would have to live without.

Halsin smiles at Oliver—this broken piece of the boy he once knew. “He made me who I am today, and then he was ripped away from me, same as for you.”

Pain stabs through Shadowheart’s hand.

A young girl sprawls on the forest floor. Copper and dirt stain her tongue as salty tears drip from her chin. Her dash through the underbrush sliced through the delicate skin on her cheeks and tore her hair from its braids. She sniffles, her ankle twisted and palms skinned.

Slow footfalls echo through the darkness. The girl clamps both hands over her mouth and goes rigid, curling into a ball.

“There’s no need to fear the dark, little one,” a soft voice calls—soothing but swelling with authority to still the air itself.

The girl shivers with fear. “P-please don’t hurt me,” she whimpers.

The footsteps stop, fabric rustles, and a gentle hand lays itself over the girl’s spine. “I’m not going to hurt you,” they say, almost scoffing at the notion.

Out of the corner of her eye, the girl sees fine leather boots and dark, silken cloth.

“Tell me,” the person orders, “what are you doing here all alone?”

The girl’s voice quakes as it escapes her chattering teeth. “I-I’m supp-supposed to find m-my way home.”

The girl feels a heavy stare piercing through the middle of her back. “Are you certain of that?” A hand smooths over the girl’s forehead with a tingling warmth. “Would a child that’s truly loved be sent away? All on their own?”

The girl’s teeth stop chattering. Her body stops shaking. She feels suddenly at peace. “I-I don’t know.”

“That’s alright.” Leather creaks as the person stands up, looming tall over the girl’s body. “Let me take you someplace quiet.”

“But you need not be alone any longer.” Halsin presses a hand to the weathered stone and his mind burrows beneath the surface.

Within the cradle of the earth, his mind branches out, again and again and again, like the roots of a great oak. There is energy here, for the first time in a century, he feels the earth come alive. It winds its way through his tangle roots, curling around him with the cloying scent of lavender.

He knows it well, even after all this time. “You need not invent friends.”

It’s the part of his oldest friend that Oliver has kept safe all this time—the part of him that’s truly wild, the frigid wind over the valley, the river rapids, the earth rending itself apart to mirror the sky above. There is fury and beauty and familiatiry. The earth greets him like an old friend after years apart.

Even Shar’s darkness couldn’t strip nature of its will. “Thaniel is waiting for you.”

So many people have left their footprints on his shores only for the sea to wash them away. It’s a difficult thing to be the rock that weathers the storm—to watch the flow of the tide and remain fixed in place, forever unchanging.

What a gift it would be, to keep someone forever.

Finally, Oliver peeks out from the cradle of his arms, looking to Halsin with his mismatched eyes. “Would he even want me back?” he asks quietly, his voice a breath of icy air. “I’ve changed. A lot.”

The relief in Halsin’s smile shines like the break of dawn. “Of course,” he breathes with the conviction of a man who has seen a hundred winters break into resplendent springs. “It’s nature’s will—you’re meant to be together.”

Shadowheart’s arm bursts into flame

Pained screams pierce the darkness of the hidden sanctum. The air tastes of burnt copper and betrayal. Beneath the cloak of shadow, she cannot see the blood that drip, drip, drips on the chamber floor. But it echoes in the afterimage of agony.

“I will never give up on you,” a deep voice hisses. A wet cough escapes the man’s mouth, blood spilling down his chin. “Torture me if you must, but you cannot force me to abandon you.”

A young woman stills, rusted pliers heavy in her grasp. Something aches inside her. Where she’s only ever known emptiness, something rattles the bars of her ribcage.

“Why do you hesitate?” a stern voice croons beside her ear.

The woman feels a pair of dark, piercing eyes cut her to the bone—peeling back her skin to expose the newly formed weakness behind her breast.

A disapproving click of the tongue. “I thought you prepared for the Dark Lady’s trial. Perhaps I was wrong.”

Shame crowds out that unknown ache. She was raised for this. She knows better than to entertain the Moon Witch’s lies. She will make her Lady proud. She seizes the prisoner by the chin and wrenches open his mouth. He doesn’t fight, only stares up at her with radiant yellow eyes and tear tracks cutting through the dirt on his face.

“Let’s see how much bite you have left without your fangs,” she spits.

A steady hand touches her shoulder. “Shadowheart.”

Cold hard stone presses against her cheek, a dark bruise forming in the hollow beneath her eye. The half of her face that isn’t bruised tightens with lingering pain. It fades, slowly bleeding out the tips of her fingers, as she comes back to awareness. It leaves a dull ache in its trail, her muscles protesting as she stretches them loose. She hears the scrape of her armor against stone as she slowly rolls onto her back, trying to shift out of the heap she’d fallen in. The plates of her armor dig into her ribs and shoulders—not designed for comfort laying down.

“Are you back with us, Shadowheart?” a warm voice calls from above.

She groans wordlessly in what she hopes is affirmation. A relieved sigh meets her ears, so she must have managed it. She pushes partway onto her back, the falls limp and lets gravity do the rest of the work. She slumps bonelessly onto the stone with a soft huff, panting shallowly as she collects herself to begin the slow process of standing. The ache behind her eyes and the lingering burn in her healed ankle makes even that seem like a monumental task.

A nauseating dread heats the back of Shadowheart’s throat. She not only has to stand, but somehow she has to make it back to camp. Lying here, on the cold ground, her entire body aching and sore, that seems an impossible task.

After a long minute of catching her breath, Shadowheart dares to open her eyes. Thankfully, her Daylight has long faded, leaving only a dark, empty sky stretching overhead. Wyll’s face hovers directly above her head, and when her aimless eyes meet his, he offers her a pleasant smile. She doesn’t have the strength to roll her eyes, so instead turns her head to get out from under his gaze.

When she does, she sees Lae’zel, knelt beside her, one hand curled around the back of Shadowheart’s shoulder, the other hovering in the air above her hand. Lae’zel’s face is set in firm disapproval, her bitter scowl unwavering. But her touch is… tender, hesitant in the way she refuses to bridge the gap between her and Shadowheart’s palms.

Shadowheart stares at the empty air between them, unable to meet Lae’zel’s eyes. At the periphery of her vision, she sees the statue of Ketheric Thorm, looming large overhead, and knows that beneath it, down a spiral staircase, is an altar painted with her blood. Lae’zel had knelt over her, then, too, panic-stricken as she buried her face in the crook of Shadowheart’s neck. Her breath and her touch was so warm.

It would be nice, Shadowheart thinks, to feel that warmth again, to have someone protect her for a change. Shadowheart stares at her curled fingers and wills them to move. There’s barely a few inches between her and Lae’zel’s hands, all she needs to do is reach up and maybe…

Shadowheart’s gaze burns into her palm, her arm refusing to respond properly. The battle and then the flare-up of her curse drained her energy to the dregs. It takes all her strength just to stay awake. Even still, she tries through sheer force of will. Her fingers twitch, and she thinks she very nearly has it when Halsin kneels at her side.

Suddenly, Lae’zel draws back, allowing Halsin to take her place. Shadowheart’s eyes trail mournfully after Lae’zel. No, don’t leave, she thinks. But she can’t say it aloud—can’t admit to herself that something has filled the space in her heart that’s supposed to remain empty. The ache in her hand sharpens. It’s a futile endeavor. If she reached out, she wouldn’t be able to hold on, anyway.

“Do you need healing, Shadowheart?” Halsin asks.

A long breath escapes Shadowheart’s bruised lungs. “It wouldn’t help.”

Halsin searches her face and sees a familiar resignation in her eyes. “What would?”

Shadowheart shrugs. “Time. Penance.” Halsin’s frown deepens, stormclouds darkening his eyes. “Help me up.”

Halsin and Wyll both curl hands around the back of her shoulders and grasp each of her arms. They give her something to brace against as she tightens her core. She hasn’t built enough strength to pull herself up from the ground, but Halsin and Wyll only need to raise her shoulders a few inches before the muscles in her back engage. She manages to drag herself into a sitting position—clumsy and winded, but still upright.

Shadowheart braces herself with a hand against the ground, taking another moment to catch her breath. For the first time since waking from her vision, she casts her glance around the landscape. The Shadowlands are just as cold and dark as they’ve always been, the hollowed shell of Reithwin stretching out on either side of the stone path. Shadowheart blinks, craning her head to check over her shoulder. Aside from her and her allies, the promenade is completely empty.

She turns to Halsin with furrowed brow. “Where’s Oliver?” she asks with barely concealed dread. “Don’t tell me we need to find him, again.”

Halsin’s answering laughter is bright and carefree. “No, no.” He smiles, and for the first time Shadowheart notices that lightness in his voice. “He returned to Thaniel’s side. All should be well, now.”

Shadowheart waits for her anger to follow in the wake of that confession. All this time, she’s wanted nothing to do with Halsin’s self-appointed mission to cleanse the Shadowlands. Her Lady had set a curse upon this land for a reason, and Shadowheart wanted no part of curing it. She waits for resentment to poison the respect she holds for you.

But it never comes.

She’s cursed you a hundred times under her breath for forcing her to fight at Halsin’s side. But all that bitterness is suddenly gone. She feels… strangely light. And relieved. The sudden shift in her perspective sends her reeling. Between the beginning and end of this battle, what changed? Why is there joy where there’s supposed to be nothing?

“Oh,” Shadowheart says blankly, caught off guard both by Oliver’s disappearance and her own emotions. “I’m… glad.”

Her words ring across the plaza, flat and emotionless. But strangely, Shadowheart finds them to be true.

Chapter Text

Long, fine-boned fingers comb through the tangled mess of your hair. The dregs of the tea Halsin brewed for you have long cooled, the empty cup discarded just outside the flap of Astarion’s tent. The herbs leave a pleasant tingle on your tongue as the tea warms your belly. It stokes the ever burning ember in your heart, and every beat warms your rose-tinted blood. Your veins chart a winding, lazy river and for once, the stream is smooth. Buoyed by the current, at once weightless and bloated, like a days’ old corpse warmed by the sun. Your body melts into the water, formless and boundless. Every second that passes, you lose another piece of yourself to the current. Perhaps in time, there will be nothing left.

Perfectly trimmed nails scratch against your scalp, a featherlight touch follows the top ridge of your ear, down to the join between your jaw and neck. The tight band of muscle there twitches. A thumb presses into that tension, rubbing gentle little circles down the line of your neck. It aches pleasantly, until the pain finally gives way. A pleased hum leaves your nose and you sink further into your bedding.

The surface beneath your cheek shakes gently as deep laughter rumbles overhead. “Is that good?” Astarion laughs, gently pinching the point of your ear between his thumb and first knuckle.

He touches you so tenderly now, without reservation. Before his affection was utilitarian—his arms clasped around your waist to hold you against his chest, his lips pressed in a close-mouthed kiss to the top of your head. But now he seemingly can’t stop his hands from mapping every inch of you. He guides you to rest your head on his thigh, curls a palm around the underside of your jaw, etches the peaks and valleys of your face into his undying memory.

The air rushes from your lungs as guilt crashes over you. Your eyes burn as they blink open, staring vacantly at the tent’s opposite wall. What are you doing? Here you are with Astarion, warm, content, and treasured, yet the only thing on your mind is the allure of death. Even after bearing witness to the damage you wrought, you still long for it. There’s part of you that’s still begging for a hand around your throat.

He hears the hitch in your breath. “What?” His hand curls around your cheek on his thigh, slowly turning your face to meet his eyes. “What is it?”

You offer no resistance, rolling onto your back. He cradles your face between his hands, like the brush of his fingers might be enough to chase away your dark thoughts. You wish it could be that easy. For him and for you. His eyes search your face, memorizing every line and furrow, desperately trying to match them against the signs he missed before. There’s fear in those crimson eyes—one that you planted in his heart and carefully nurtured every time you stood at the edge of a cliff. It aches to know how your presence hurts him even now.

“Do you want to know?” Your brow furrows in trepidation, your voice a warning.

His fingertips pause on your temple, the slow map of your skin halted as Astarion meets your gaze. The flat of his palm molds itself to your jawline, his thumb splayed outward, your face a snowflake caught in his outstretched hand. A heavy look passes between your eyes. Fear sharpens the twist of his mouth for a moment before he smooths it away. It aches to know you put it there.

A heavy sigh escapes Astarion’s nose. “Do you want to tell me?”

No. You don’t see the point. You both know that part of you longs for a silent grave. Nothing good will come of voicing your every morbid thought. But stoic silence is the very path that led you astray before. You promised to change, but you don’t know where to start.

“I don’t know.” You swallow thickly. “I don’t know what the right answer is.”

Astarion’s scowl softens into a bittersweet smile. “I’m afraid I don’t either.” Neither of you would have admitted that before. At least you aren’t trying to pretend, with all your masks stripped away. “Rest, dear.” Astarion gently brushes the hair from your face. “Everything else can wait.”

You close your eyes and after a moment, his hands continue to chart the course of your skin. It’s just like before, when he invited you to his bed. No one has ever touched you like this, no one has ever found so much joy in your rotten skin. One palm carefully pillows the back of your head on his lap, your hair spilling through the gaps in his fingers. The other hand slowly curls around your cheek, fingertips skimming the underside of your jaw to the point of your chin, then down the long line of your neck, over the familiar divots left by Astarion’s fangs. His hand slips beneath your collar, seeking the warm skin beneath your shirt, his fingertips rise over the ridge of your clavicle and then…

Astarion freezes. His fingertips brush the knotted, still-tender scar spanning the full-width of your torso. The skin warps unnaturally beneath his touch, puckered and twisted along the peaks and valleys of scar tissue. In the center, over your sternum, is an ugly whorl of new skin, where your chest cavity once bloomed like a rose; flaps of skin peeled back in petals of blood–red flesh to expose your budding heart.

Astarion’s hand stays there for a long moment, not daring to travel farther but unwilling to pull away.

“Did you forget that was there?” you finally murmur, eyes still closed.

A slow breath leaves Astarion’s lungs. “I suppose. I never touched you here before.”

Most people didn’t like having their scars touched. Astarion certainly didn’t. He made a point to avoid it on his lovers unless otherwise indicated, and you never suggested he do anything else.

He begins to pull away.

Sightlessly, your hand darts up to catch his, your fingers curled around the breadth of his hand. “I don’t mind.” You gently press down, guiding his hand to lay flat against your scarred skin. “It doesn’t hurt.”

You don’t see the tightness at the corners of his eyes or the curl of his upper lip as he maps out the damage done to you. “Well, I’d certainly hate to see the other person,” he jokes flatly.

A huff of laughter escapes your nose. Your other hand reaches up and slowly unbuttons your tunic down to the center of your chest. “Is this okay?” You pull your shirt slightly open, exposing the scar to Astarion’s eyes.

Astarion ducks his head, a bit flustered at this sudden urge to touch you, but also charmed by how easy it is. He’s never touched someone just for the sake of it—just to feel someone warm and real beneath his hands. He never could have imagined that he’d want to after all the times he’s been forced to lay his hands on another. But that’s exactly what makes this so novel. He can touch you because he wants to, for no other purpose than to feel the warm glow of your skin and the steady beat of your heart beneath his hand. He can stop whenever he wants.

And true to your word, you lean into his caress like a flower seeking the sun. You peel back your armor and expose the tender, broken skin above your heart and trust him not to stake you through. After all the lovers he’s killed—you included—you still trust him to hold you gently. He wants to touch you, and you want to be touched—just for the sake of it. It can’t truly be that simple, can it?

“Yes, yes, it’s good,” he finally murmurs, smoothing his palm to the center of your chest.

He lays his palm flat over the knot above your heart. Your hand curls over his, holding his skin to yours. The new tissue pulls taut over the center of your breast, stretched tight over the ridge of your scarred sternum. The new skin is leathery and smooth—you feel the span of his fingers on either side, but not in the center where your skin messily joined together. Astarion stares at his hand, at the rough, lavender skin peeking out from between his unblemished fingers. Strange that your skin, thrumming with life, bears its years more clearly than his.

The steady beat of your heart ripples through patchwork skin to meet his palm. He can’t help the breath of relief that leaves his lips. Despite everything, it’s steady and strong. You’ve survived so much and nearly all of it is lost. How close did you come to death when some bastard cut you open? What did they take from you besides your memory?

What would he have done if you had never entered his life?

Trying to reach into the past and retrieve the memories of the man he used to be is a fruitless endeavor. He doesn’t want to be that person again. He doesn’t want to remember what it was like to look at you and see someone to be exploited and not… whatever you are now.

“You’ve survived this long despite your best efforts,” Astarion murmurs, watching you through lowered lashes. “Clearly someone wants you alive.” He leans in, lips hovering a scant few inches above your ear. “Don’t tell anyone, but I do, too.”

The only response is your steady, even breaths as Astarion realizes you’ve finally fallen asleep. “Rest well, darling.”

He settles back against a carefully arranged stack of linens—lumpy pillows and rolled up bedrolls stacked together to support his back. He grabs a blood-stained journal from the stack of books in the corner and thumbs through the final entries. He found it hidden in that blasted necromancer’s room. It’s not exactly an uplifting bedtime story, but the man was sent to the Mausoleum, your next destination. Gale didn’t think the journal held anything of note, but there’s always a chance Astarion will find something he missed.

The journal primarily details the work Balthazar and his cohorts. “Research Notes,” the journal proclaims on the cover. Astarion holds the book in one hand, the other still rests firmly over your heart. Its steady beat could almost lull him to rest himself.

But Astarion’s let down his guard around you before, and you both paid the price. He doesn’t trust you not to duck out of sight the moment he takes his eyes off you, not just yet. So he watches over you while you sleep, the selfsame blood that runs through his veins pulsing gently beneath his hand.

You’re alive. Despite everything you’re alive.

The journal’s contents read like a log of cadaver studies, the kind that might be published in a medical journal. It’s a bit dense for Astarion’s taste and the clinical descriptions of what Astarion would consider “torture” harkens back to his memories of Cazador.

Scholarly pursuits never held much interest for Astarion, but he’s somewhat familiar through Dalyria. She was always studying, holding tight to her vain hope of finding a cure for vampirism. She would know what to make of this, surely. Vampirism is little more than a special brand of necromancy. Astarion doubts there’s anything as useful as a cure within these pages, but there could be something else worthwhile. Balthazar seemed the type of bastard that might stumble on something groundbreaking and hoard it to himself.

Astarion briefly entertains the thought of holding onto it for her. Her eyes would alight with suspicion at first, knowing Astarion never did anything for free. But the allure of knowledge, secret, forbidden knowledge would be too great, and she’d eventually take the notes despite her better judgment. Astarion would pocket a future favor, and for a brief moment, Dal’s eyes would soften with an echo of gratitude.

But reality shatters his daydream when he remembers the ritual. If he ever sees Dal—or any of his siblings—again, it’ll be the last thing he sees before an archdevil consumes his soul. Bile climbs the walls of his throat. A horrid knot of emotions twists his guts together. Panic, rage, envy, despair… those are easy, unpleasant as they are. But he sees Dal’s face so easily, the shine of ambition in those round eyes. She was far too smart for her own good, drawn in by the allure of secrets both medical and arcane. She knew the threat that Cazador posed and thought herself smart enough to face it.

Gods, she was just like Gale, wasn’t she?

Astarion is no protective older brother, but the thought of never seeing her again opens up a hollow pit behind his breast.

Ridiculous. The journal snaps closed as Astarion makes a vague noise of disgust. Dal was an arrogant fool and she earned her fate

Astarion tosses the book aside, no better for the grotesque descriptions he’d read and the reminder of his future. All he knew was that this Balthazar was a sick, sick bastard. The similarities between Balthazar’s “experiments” and Cazador’s punishments unnerved Astarion.

The thought of facing Balthazar sends a cold shiver down Astarion’s spine. Astarion despises necromancers. They eye him like a piece of meat even when he’s not trying to seduce them. Hopefully he can stay far back enough that the bastard never gets a whiff of the rot clinging to Astarion’s corpse.

Then again, he doesn’t particularly like the idea of you facing him either.

Astarion looks down at you, slumbering peacefully in his lap. Your lashes flutter gently against your cheeks, eyes moving rapidly behind your eyelids. While awake, your face only ever shifts a little, your most dramatic expression a lopsided smirk curling over one of your canines. But even so, it’s never peaceful—your mouth is always set in a severe line, your eyes pinpoint sharp. Now though, you’re finally at ease, your lips slightly parted, the lines around your eyes smoothed away.

Astarion can’t help the smile that curls on his lips. “What are you dreaming of?” He lightly trails his fingertips down the ridge of your scar, then back up scratching lightly with the point of his nails. “I hope it’s something good. It’s hard to tell with you.” Down, up, down.

When you wake, this moment of peace will be over. You’ll have to carry on, violent thoughts and all. Even if rest helps, there’s no easy cure for an unwell mind. Certainly none that they can find while on the trail of the Absolute. He’s glad to be here, now, holding you while you sleep—helping in whatever way he can. But now that he has you in his arms, he knows that he can never let you go.

For as long as he can remember, he’s stolen whatever bits of goodwill and pleasure he can find. He’s held thousands of people’s lives in his hands and handed them over to his Master without a thought. It didn’t matter how decent or undeserving his targets were. For a small bit of peace, he would hand them over gladly.

In freedom, it was the same. He happily stole from the tiefling refugees the moment they turned their backs, he voted to leave Gale in the nautiloid’s wreckage with his cursed orb, and he pushed to sell the Ironhand gnomes into a life of slavery to win the Cult’s favor. Compassion and mercy were weaknesses that he had long cut out. Cazador never showed him any, and that was why he was the Master and Astarion the slave.

It wasn’t fair. Gale didn’t deserve to die any more than Astarion’s targets did, but that was the way the world worked. The weight of all the lives Astarion cast aside to survive never mattered before. But with you it’s different.

The weight of your devotion is so heavy in his hands. Despite all the reasons he’s given you not to, you think the world of him. It should feel good, shouldn’t it, to know the depths of your respect?

And it does, the admiration in your eyes when you look at him shines with radiant light. Beneath the weight of your gaze, he has no need of the sun. But it’s a heavy burden to bear. Astarion fought tooth and nail to be trusted with it—to earn it. He wants to believe that he can follow in your footsteps and support you the way you’ve supported him. He wants to be the person that you see in him—the man whose affection lit a fire in your cold, empty heart.

You’ve offered him so much without ever asking anything in return. Your blood has brought him closer to life than he’s been in two hundred years, your body has warmed his bed through the chill of winter, and now your scarred, healing heart beats softly beneath his hand. He has no blood to offer you, and his heart is long dead. He gave you his body and you told him that it was his alone.

He’s grateful for that, that you’ve given him back what Cazador stole. But what more does he have to give? He doesn’t have your arcane prowess or silver tongue. He doesn’t have your intelligence or strength of will. He doesn’t have your compassion or endless devotion. All he has to offer are the demons nipping at his heels. How can he possibly give back everything that you’ve given him? How can he possibly keep you by his side?

Leather pads on the soft earth outside Astarion’s tent. “Astarion?” Gale whispers, the tent flap rustling as he shakes it. “Karlach sent me to check in.”

Astarion’s ear flicks in Gale’s direction. “I assure you, if there was a problem, you both would have heard about it.”

Gale ducks his head into the tent, kneeling in the entryway. “Recent events suggest otherwise.” He raises his eyebrows, daring Astarion to deny it.

Astarion sighs, turning his attention back to you. He busies himself buttoning the front of your tunic, taking care to hide the worst of your scar from Gale’s sight. Gale is far too polite to ogle without permission, but Astarion is glad to have something to do with his hands. It isn’t anything that the rest of camp hasn’t seen, but Astarion knows that you prefer to keep your injuries away from prying eyes. True to form, Gale watches Astarion’s face and not your exposed skin as it disappears beneath gray linen.

Buttons fastened, Astarion brushes the imaginary dirt from your shoulders with a sigh. “In truth, I don’t know what I should say,” he finally admits. “Everything is… very complicated right now.” Astarion refuses to meet Gale’s eyes, his face downturned as he holds you in his lap.

A long moment passes where Gale simply observes. Astarion’s hand clasps your shoulder, a protective arm over your chest. His body ever so slightly angles away from the tent’s opening—not enough to shield you from sight, but enough to send a clear message. Gale wonders if Astarion even realizes he’s doing it, or if he naturally settled into a protective stance with you in his lap.

“I believe I know most of what happened,” Gale admits quietly. “I understand you had to use a Scroll of Revivify?” he says as tactfully as possible.

Astarion’s shoudlers stiffen, his grasp tightening over your shoulders. “How?” he meets Gale’s eyes with a sternly furrowed brow. “Did Karlach tell you?”

Gale shakes his head. “No, she told Scratch in private and Scratch told me over breakfast.”

Astarion can’t help but roll his eyes. “I’m going to put a muzzle on that mutt.”

Gale offers a sympathetic smile. “I gave my best effort to impress upon Scratch the importance of secrecy but I don’t believe he took it to heart.” His gaze falls to your face, unnaturally calm in slumber. “After what we both saw yesterday, I feared that something deeper might lurk beneath that recklessness.”

Your complete lack of concern for your own safety struck a chord deep within Gale’s chest, that dark orb of pure Weave pulsing in recognition. It was all too familiar. Gale has always felt an unspoken connection to you. Eerily, speaking with you, channeling the Weave through your veins, it felt like looking at his own warped reflection. He thought it was because of your shared proclivity for the arcane. But after yesterday, it struck him that there might be something else beneath the surface—that all the harsh words you’ve lashed at Gale regarding his sacrifice might be born from a shared darkness within your heart.

Gale shakes his head with a heavy sigh. “I had hoped I was wrong.”

Astarion only offers a stiff grimace, his eyes never leaving your face. This, too, echoes deep within Gale’s heart—the concern of a partner powerless to help the one they love.

“Well.” Gale’s hand slips into the tent long enough to place a steaming mug on the ground. “Halsin said to drink more of his tea after a few hours.” A burst of magic briefly sparks between Gale’s fingers as he places a simple warming enchantment on the mug.

Astarion nods sharply. “I’ll be sure to pass it along.”

Gale draws his hand back through the flap, his business done. He hesitates as he prepares to stand, his eyes lingering on Astarion. Last he’d seen the other man had been in Last Light Inn, when he handed over the tome Tara found. For all of Gale’s education, he doesn’t have the words to properly describe what he’d felt in that moment. Gratitude, hope, love.

“Did you have a chance to read The Necromancy of Thay?” Gale asks, hoping to distract Astarion from his thoughts.

Gale’s question has the opposite effect, as Astarion suddenly freezes completely still, not even daring to breathe. “I… did…” he says haltingly.

The air hangs heavy between them. Gale struggles to read Astarion’s expression in the dim light. The only sound in the shadowed tent is your deep, steady breathing that marks the seconds as they pass. Astarion offers nothing more.

Gale is far from an expert when it comes to Astarion. Gale is a talented orator, but he’s less than delicate. He’s terrible at reading people and worse at knowing when he should stay silent. Something that comes so naturally to you without any prior knowledge is completely lost on Gale despite all his years alive. Too often he prods at Astarion’s scars, and the man bites the offending hand. Gale fears doing so now. But he can’t just leave Astarion to his thoughts. Even if Astarion isn’t ready to talk, he needs to know that Gale will listen.

“Did you find anything helpful?” Gale asks as delicately as he knows how to.

Astarion swallows. “I’m not sure.”

It’s better to know what he’s walking into. But now the knowledge of the profane ritual shackles Astarion to his former master and he can only watch as the guillotine’s blade gleams silver in the moonlight. It’s better to know, but part of him wishes he could have stayed blissfully ignorant a little longer.

“I suppose it won’t come as a surprise that it’s part of a ritual,” Astarion huffs. “Quite a nasty one, too.”

Gale laughs humorlessly. “No, no it doesn’t.”

Astarion doesn’t expect to tell Gale everything. He’s barely had time to process what he’s learned after you died and everything that transpired afterwards. But the words come to him easily. With each one, a weight sloughs off his shoulders, and Astarion realizes just how much of a burden it’s been to carry this knowledge alone.

“My former master will gain more power. All he has to do is sacrifice me to an archdevil.” His shoulders slump as the words cut through the strings holding him up. “And my six siblings.”

Silence hangs in the air, impossibly fragile before Gale dares to shatter it. “Astarion, I…” Gale flounders, for once in his life as a loss for words. “I’m so sorry.”

Astarion shrugs flippantly. “Oh, don’t be, I never liked them anyway,” he nearly cackles. “I think the others make much better sacrifices than they do siblings.”

Astarion casts aside his thoughts of Dal. He knows the torment his siblings suffered these past decades. He can only imagine how much worse it’s been in his absence. How many days had he prayed for death in that palace? He knows each and every one of his siblings’ sins. Death is a mercy that they don’t deserve.

Gale ignores Astarion’s attempt at deflection. “We won’t let him finish it,” Gale vows. “We won’t allow him to lay a hand on you.”

People with two feet in the grave should stop promising Astarion the world.

Astarion finally dares to meet Gale’s eyes, bitterness warping his frown. “Last I recall, you were dead set on throwing your life away.” Astarion only manages to hold Gale’s attention for a scant few seconds before his head turns back down towards his lap. “You shouldn’t make promises you have no intention of keeping.” You shouldn’t either.

It stings, just like it does every time Astarion mentions his looming demise. But Gale has watched you tear down Astarion’s walls brick by brick, and he’s seen how Astarion hides himself within the rubble. Gale thinks he hears the admission wrapped in Astarion's barbed words—he’s afraid to trust something that he’s going to lose. Gale’s throat tightens with premature grief. Whether for the life he stands to lose or the people he’ll leave behind, he isn't certain.

Gale swallows. “Would you believe me if I said I didn’t want that anymore?”

Astarion peers at Gale out of the corner of his eye, not daring to turn his head. “I’m not sure.” Gale holds steady beneath Astarion’s gaze, the wizard’s resolve unwavering. “What happened to change your mind?”

Gale’s eyes trail down the long line of Astarion’s neck to the arms that hold you secure in his lap. “What indeed,” he murmurs.

By all appearances, being captured and infected with a mindflayer tadpole was the last in a long line of Gale’s failures. He’d stepped out of his tower, intent on finding a secluded place to perish, only for the nautiloid to darken the sky. All he’d wanted was peace, and instead he’d been forced into a position where he could no longer die quietly. There were too many innocent souls nearby, and if he died before finding an empty corner of the Underdark, they would all die with him.

He’d been secretive, morose, and more than a little arrogant at first. It was humiliating for a wizard of his caliber to be traipsing through the woods with mud on his boots. He used to receive missions of dire importance from Elminster, debate arcane theory with the Blackstaff, publish spells of his own creation. Setting a handful of gnolls alight was so far beneath his abilities it was laughable.

He didn’t feel that way anymore. He hadn’t in quite some time. For all its dangers, this journey and the people he’s met have been a precious gift. He understands for the first time the unspoken kinship between the adventuring bands that pass through Waterdeep, how spilled blood binds people together closer than the blood in their veins. He knows now why so many of his peers left after their studies to risk their lives on behalf of strangers. Part of him wishes that he’d learned that lesson years ago, before half his years slipped away and every minute was borrowed from a future he’d never reach.

But he’d been with Mystra, even then. Besides, if he’d chosen differently in his youth, he wouldn’t be here today. For all his regrets, he’s glad to have met you all, even if he won’t have as much time as he wishes.

“I don’t know that I have changed my mind,” Gale sighs, regret rolling like storm clouds across his gaze. “If Mystra believes this to be the only way, then I must defer to her judgment.”

Astarion bites his tongue, holding back words that will only serve to start a fight. Everyone’s opinion of Mystra is well-known within camp. Telling Gale how much everyone hates his goddess has only served to make the man plant his heels firmly in the ground.

Gale turns his gaze skyward, knowing that beyond the tent’s ceiling, and the shadowed sky, Mystra’s Star Circle looms high overhead. “You know I spent the last year in my tower, waiting to die?”

Astarion finally raises his chin, watching the storm clouds roll through Gale’s eyes. “I suppose I had guessed as much,” Astarion admits. “But you’ve never said so to me directly.”

Gale nods. So much spreads through camp by word of mouth. It’s hard to remember sometimes that not everyone knows all his secrets. “I haven’t spared a thought for the future in… quite some time.”

Each word slowly pries apart Astarion’s ribs, exposing the tender parts of his heart. It’s uncomfortable to be seen so readily. He never considered his future because it was never his. Even now, his only goal is to claw back his freedom—to take down the Cult and escape Cazador’s grasp. Beyond that… everything falls away.

A somber smile hides in the shadows of Gale’s beard. “Yet I find myself doing that often these days.” Astarion’s skin hums with the weight of Gale’s stare as the wizard’s eyes pass over the both of you. “I suppose I found something worth staying for.”

Worthiness. That’s what it comes down to in the end, isn’t it? Astarion hasn’t spared much thought for what comes after this journey is over. The promise of freedom shines too brightly for him to imagine; his eyes burn when he tries. The hope sprouting in his chest is too easily sundered. But it’s no longer just about him; he’s promised himself to you as an ally and a partner. He isn’t sure whether you’ll still want him at the end of this road, but for a moment he allows himself to stare into the sun, at the future where you stay by his side.

His newly blossoming heart withers in an instant.

What could he possibly offer you that would be worth staying for? He has nothing to his name and no past to speak of. He can’t promise you any more commitment than he already has, nor what intimacy between you will even look like. The only constant will be the threat of danger. Whether by his former master or monster hunters, he will always be targeted. Astarion will always fear every precipice you skirt because he isn’t enough to make you stay. How is he supposed to protect you when he can’t even protect himself? He can’t even offer you a life in the sun.

But he could.

The raised skin on his back itches with the latent buzz of ancient magic.

He could offer you so much more than a future filled with darkness.

When Astarion finally lifts his head to face Gale, his eyes a yawning hunger swallows the shine in his eyes. “I was born nearly two and a half centuries ago and do you know which deity has gotten themselves killed more than any other?”

Gale purses his lips tightly. “Believe me when I say every follower of Mystra has heard a poorly made joke along that thread.”

“Well, it’s true,” Astarion says dismissively. “I think The Lady of Mysteries has a lot of nerve asking others to kill themselves when she’s cheated death, what, three times now?”

Gale’s mouth tightens. “It isn’t that simple—”

“Isn’t it?” Astarion asks, eyes sharp as he holds his chin high. “You’ve served her for, what, fifteen years?”

Gale’s lips hardly move as he mutters a sullen, “Thirteen.” And over two decades before that under Elminster.

Astarion clicks his tongue with affected pity. “You humans already have so little to give. Are you really going to let her take the rest of it from you, too?”

Gale ducks his head, unable to withstand the full force of Astarion’s piercing gaze. “I don’t want to.” It’s taken him so long to be able to even admit that much, after a life of following Mystra’s will.

“Then don’t,” Astarion snaps viciously, his sharp teeth tearing into each word. “If you want to see that future of yours, then take it.” All at once the passion empties his veins, leaving Astarion hollowed out in its wake.

With a deep sigh, he looks once more to you in his lap. With featherlight touch, he brushes his fingers over the dip of your clavicle, up to trace the long line of your neck. The skin is lavender and smooth, your airway beneath clear and unclouded. But in the flickering candlelight, his fingers cast long shadows across your skin that darken like bruises. All his pleasant memories too easily drift away, but his mistakes and regrets haunt him forever. He remembers what he did.

He draws his fingers away from the tender flesh of your neck. “Haven’t you earned that much, Gale?” Your warmth fades, and Astarion feels nothing but winter’s chill.

You slipped away from him so easily. This time, you returned when he called, but will you always? There’s so little he can do if you truly decide to go where he can’t follow. But he knows now why he was created, and he knows the power that Cazador carved into his skin. You and the others gave him a precious gift when you gave him that tome. A future stretches out in front of him—filled with sunlight, and warmth, and power. You’ve given him a chance at a life worth living, for both of you.

He isn’t going to waste it.

Chapter Text

“Archdruid, you gave me five extra gold,” Quartermaster Talli clucks, setting aside the extra as the rest disappears into her pouch.

Halsin smiles bashfully. “Keep it. You are the last trader we will see for some time and it will be put to better use in your hands than my coinpurse.”

Talli scoops up the gold without another word and joins it with the rest. “Thank you kindly, then.”

She glances past Halsin’s shoulder to the forge; the clarion crack of Dammon’s hammer warps the burnished mask in his hand while Wyll and Lae’zel watch with quiet intrigue. Shadowheart stands apart from the rest, empty air the mortar holding together the hastily constructed wall between her and her allies.

Talli shakes her heard and returns the full weight of her attention back to Halsin. “I won’t ask where you’re going, but take care. The people here are counting on you.”

Halsin’s answering smile creases the corners of his eyes. “I may have lived many years but my memory is still sharp.” Halsin carefully wraps the newly acquired potions in a bundle of cloth. “Our causes are one and the same. The trust granted to my allies and I by the Harpers will not go to waste, I swear it.”

“It is only fair, after your leader drained all the best wine only to return with a half dozen extra mouths to feed.”

The earth swells with a power, warm and familiar from all the days that Halsin waited at Art Cullaugh’s side. Halsin cinches his pack with slow, measured hands, then turns to find the familiar form of Jaheira, coming to a stop a couple strides away.

Without hesitation, Halsin offers her the same friendly smile he showed Talli. “High Harper,” he greets, bowing his head in respect.

While Halsin has had little chance to speak to Jaheira directly, he’s overheard her enough times to recognize her patterns. That’s how he catches the extra moment of silence between his greeting and her casual response.

“Spare me the titles,” she scoffs with a wave of her hand. “Unless you would like me to call you ‘Archdruid?’”

The laughter in her voice rings clear over the courtyard, not even a breath out of place from her usual cadence. Even so, the hair prickles on the back of Halsin’s neck. The latent predator beneath his skin recognizes a mountain lion in disguise. Halsin holds his own smile steady as he meets her piercing gaze. He’s clueless to the cause of Jaheira’s suspicion, but she has more than earned his respect. She has reason to jump at shadows, and he trusts her judgment to be fair.

“I am Archdruid no longer, so I hold no title to speak of,” Halsin affects his own insincere chuckle. “But if you wish for me to call you by name alone, then I will oblige.”

“Good.” A hint of sincerity seeps into the edges of her smile. “Now, can I persuade you to come inside with me for a drink?”

She beckons him closer with a broad sweeping gesture, the stiff set of her shoulders betraying her caution. Halsin briefly casts his gaze towards the forge. Wyll turns a gold-plated mask over in his hands, its edges curled inward like a flower yet to blossom. Across the courtyard, Shadowheart’s skin prickles in the wake of Halsin’s weighted gaze. She raises her weary head to meet Halsin’s piercing eyes. Silently, Halsin tips his head in the direction of the inn, to which Shadowheart only rolls her eyes and dismissively waves him off.

Halsin turns back to Jaheira with a stiff smile. “I swore off spirits long ago, but I will gladly join you by the fire.”

Jaheira nods curtly and turns on her heel; Halsin follows dutifully in the shadow of her footsteps, gaze fixed securely between her shoulderblades. Her heel strikes sharply against the weathered hardwood floors, leading the march to a secluded table by the window. Jaheira briefly calls to a young Harper standing guard nearby.

“Make yourself useful.” The wiry young man all but jolts out of his boots despite the playfulness dancing on Jaheira’s tongue. “Get a flask of ale for me and…?” She glances at Halsin with a raised brow.

Halsin flashes an easygoing smile at the anxious Harper, hoping to settle the stranger’s nerves. “Rosehip tea, if you have it.”

The Harper nods curtly and steps past the two druids, making his way to the bar where the tiefling children bicker amongst each other. After a moment, Halsin turns back to see Jaheira seated stiffly at the shadowed table. She gestures with an upturned palm at the lone chair on the opposite side.

“Please, have a seat.” Her voice rings through the air like hardened steel, immutable.

Slowly, Halsin lowers himself into the offered seat, eyes never leaving the High Harper. She meets his gaze, unyielding, as stalwart as the mountain’s peak beneath Halsin’s keen eye. It’s only fitting that a fellow druid would root themselves firmly in the earth. Halsin and Jaheira both are part of the land—they are both molded from earthen clay.

Halsin can’t help the curl of a smile at the corner of his mouth. You are no druid, but Jaheira reminds him of you. It’s only fitting. She, too, leads her pack. She, too, stands as a bulwark against the encroaching dark. For Jaheira to eye him with carefully guarded suspicion, it can only mean that she suspects him to be a threat. But why, he wonders? What could he have done to earn her mistrust?

Jaheira has proven herself time and time again—a wise guardian of nature in a city beyond its reach. If she doubts him, then she must have a reason. There is little use in speaking through of a veil of secrecy.

“If I may ask, why have you sought my counsel?” Halsin dares even as he draws his shoulders inward—a wolf rolling onto its belly in a show of submission.

The Harper returns then and sets a sweating tankard of ale before Jaheira and a steaming mug of tea in front of Halsin. Jaheira nods her thanks to the young man, and Halsin takes the opportunity to breathe in the wisps of steam rising out of his drink. Instantly, his nose burns with the bite of Klauthgrass. He draws back slowly, peering at Jaheira from beneath his furrowed brow.

Jaheira watches him with a knowing glint in her eye. “Is it so strange that I would seek out a former comrade-in-arms?” she asks, knowing that her smokescreen failed to hide her sleight of hand.

“No.” Halsin dutifully takes a sip of his tea, wrinkling his nose at the flood of acrid water over his tongue. “But the use of a truth serum would suggest your intentions are more complex than that.” Halsin makes a poor attempt to bite back his scowl as he pushes the mug away.

Jaheira’s fingers brush against his, thin and rough from tending her garden of budding Harpers. “What’s that face for?” she laughs evenly. “The taste is not so bad, is it?” She raises the drink to her mouth and takes a long sip of her own.

Halsin shakes his head. “The Klauthgrass is no bother. Your rosehips, however, were harvested before their prime.”

“It tastes fine to me.” Jaheira shrugs, setting the drink aside. “But tea is hardly my drink of choice.”

Despite the hum of building static in the air, speaking with Jaheira is far too easy. Jaheira’s favored form is a panther; like any predator, she’s a master at hunting her prey. She’s spent a lifetime learning how to disarm with a smile, to hide her claws within a healer’s hands. It’s far too easy to follow her into her den without ever recognizing the danger. She earned her place as High Harper through wit, cunning, and an unshakeable sense of duty—no matter how much she insists otherwise.

Once again, Halsin thinks of you and your oil–slick veins, ready to ignite at the first strike of flint against steel. A raging wildfire hides behind those cloudless eyes: by the time someone sets you ablaze it’s already too late. You’ve learned how to wield your fire—if only they could quench the flames.

“Speak plainly,” Halsin demands, “what have I done to earn your doubt?”

A flash of firelight across her eyes chisels her pupils into feline slits, but in a blink it’s gone. She takes her precious time tearing at Halsin’s skin; he is little more than carrion beneath her gaze. She sets her elbows on the table, forming a careful bridge between her fingers to hold the point of her chin. Her ravenous eyes never stray even as her attention tears away his tender flesh and swallows it down. Halsin sits. He waits. Unmoving as shadows darken the white bone of his jaw.

After a long, long pause, Jaheira finally speaks. “What do you know of that leader of yours?”

Halsin sits back, rising slightly in his seat as he regards Jaheira from beneath the hard ridge of his brow. He expected her to ask about his whereabouts the past tenday, after he committed himself fully to your group. She might even have questions about his experience in their past battle against Ketheric Thorm. Though they never met, they were allies back then, the thread of fate between them soaked in the blood of thousands.

If Jaheira thought his memory might hold the key to their victory, it was simple enough to unearth the past. Only a handful of souls escaped the torrential darkness after Ketheric Thorm’s death. Perhaps she suspected Halsin of burying some ancient shame deep within his breast—a mistake of his that led to their army’s collapse. Halsin would gladly harvest his thoughts from a hundred years ago to prove that he had nothing to hide.

You were the last thing he expected Jaheira to ask about. “My leader?” he repeats, doubting his own ears for a moment.

Jaheira’s eyes never stray from his, drinking down every minute shift of muscle beneath his skin, translating them through her feline instinct. “That drow True Soul,” she hums with careful intrigue. “It’s not often you see a child of Lolth working alongside surface elves without the use of chains. Yet your group seems to be getting on quite well.”

Old memories skitter up the length of his spine; iron shackles chafing his wrists, hands grown numb in their restraints. “I would be lying if I said I did not hold the same suspicions, at first.” Grimacing, Halsin rubs away the phantom wounds torn across the backs of his hands. “But if you mean to ask whether our cooperation is coerced, the answer is no.”

One thin eyebrow arches curiously. “I am glad to hear it. But I must admit, that only begs more questions about what crack in the earth your friend crawled out of..”

Halsin beckons her with an open palm. “You are free to ask, but I will tell you now that your efforts may be in vain.”

Umber stone hardens in Jaheira’s eye. “Why do you think that?” she asks, still holding onto the veneer of propriety even as her attention sharpens into a blade.

“I have trained as a healer for many decades, and I have been successful in healing many ailments.” Halsin holds firm beneath the barrage of Jaheira’s stone gaze—steady as the earth. “Amnesia is not one of them.” A dismayed sigh escapes Halsin’s lips. “That is something only time and rest can heal. But even with adequate rest, memories may yet remain lost.”

Jaheira raises up slightly, he chin leaving the cradle of her fingers as she peers up at Halsin. “Amnesia?”

“Aye.”

“Do you truly believe that?” she asks with a single note of suspicion.

Halsin gestures at the still-steaming tea set between them. “Would I be able to tell you if I believed otherwise?” Jaheira’s brow tightens almost imperceptibly, her lips thinning. “But if you need to hear me say it, then yes, I do.”

Jaheira straightens, her palms curled around the edge of the table as she pushes herself back into her seat. She still keeps Halsin pinned beneath her heavy gaze. But thoughts spin wildly behind her eyes. She ties loose ends together only to cut them free moments later. Maps of the Sword Coast layer over Baldur’s Gate, over the Shadowlands. She traces the supply lines, the movements of soldiers, battle plans for the siege of Moonrise.

Jaheira has always kept her ear to the ground, listened to the whispers of the city. A Harper’s ability to collect rumors without any regard for self-preservation is their biggest asset. Every suspicious whisper that passes through the empty heads of her Harpers ends up at Jaheira’s feet. It’s her job to decide which are worth following and who should do be charged with the task.

A group departed the House of Grief, the Ironhands left the city, children from Rivington disappeared in the night, Elturel is gone, the Cult of Bhaal is stirring again, people are gathering at Moonrise. The last is the thread that brought her here, on the trail of the Absolute after Minsc stumbled headlong into their trap. She led her Harpers through the cloying darkness to the one bright spot of shelter: Last Light Inn. There, Isobel and a smattering of refugees welcomed them out of the dark. Isobel offered food and refuge without asking for anything in return. She was a welcome sight after days of darkness.

It didn’t take long for Jaheira to learn that Isobel shouldn’t be there at all. The earth recoiled beneath Isobel’s gentle footsteps and the air curdling as it brushed her skin. Bloodstained threads of dark magic wove through the woman’s veins, stitching her soul to her flesh. Jaheira had heard of Ketheric Thorm’s daughter a hundred years ago, distantly. Her death was well-known and widely mourned among the people of Reithwin. When Ketheric Thorm laid down the Moonmaiden’s mantle and rose as a General of Shar, it wasn’t hard to put the pieces together.

But Isobel had died long before Jaheira or the Harpers had ever heard her father’s name. The woman within their midst carried the lingering scent of the grave, one Jaheira was all too familiar with. But whatever the truth of her origins was, she offered the Harpers aid and shelter, both a rarity within the Shadow Cursed Lands. Jaheira could hardly afford to risk earning Isobel’s ire. Whatever the reason for her survival, Jaheira could turn a blind eye to it as long as Isobel kept that lantern burning.

Isobel has earned her trust. You on the other hand…

“Does your friend hail from Menzoberranzan?” Jaheira suddenly asks.

Halsin startles slightly at the abrupt question, blinking as he gathers his wits. “I believe so. But I have seen nothing to suggest devotion to the Mistress of Lies.”

“And do you know how old they are?” Jaheira continues sharply.

Halsin’s brows raise. “No. I could venture a guess but I hardly think—”

“Certainly younger than one hundred,” Jaheira mutters to herself. “Younger than fifty…?”

The furrow between Jaheira’s brows deepens, her lips thinning. Decades of whispers replay in her mind, the words drawing closer and closer together as Jaheira steps back and sees the picture for what it is. Something has been building for a long, long time. Jaheira heard word of strange events around the Gate for the past two decades.

She knows that Ketheric has chosen a new god these days: Isobel is proof of that. The Cult of Bhaal has grown more overt and frenetic in recent months. Is it just in response to the Cult of the Absolute? Or is there something more happening beneath the surface? Jaheira is old enough to know that still waters run deep.

Everyone else that’s found refuge within Last Light’s walls left footprints in the shadows—easy enough to track for a woman who spent her childhood hunting Wealdeth stirges for sport. All the tieflings left a clear path to the east, stretching all the way to Elturel. Even the most secretive of your allies left traces of their presence. All Jaheira’s men needed to do was trace the path of the nautiloid up the Sword Coast. In the Gate they found Wyll, Karlach, Astarion, and Shadowheart, then in Waterdeep they found Gale and Lae’zel. From there her Harpers sent word to their contacts in the recently restored Neverwinter and even further north to Luskan. They found traces of Seldarine drow disappearing in the nautiloid’s wake, but tracking down Lolth-Sworn was harder. Most Lolth-Sworn on the surface still had ties to the Spider Queen and dared not show their true faces.

Before the rise of the Absolute, Jaheira had only met four Lolth-Sworn drow on the surface who’d disavowed their goddess.

All their searching turned up nothing in the end. Even their contacts within the Church of Eilistraee found no trace of a drow matching your description. They turned over a dozen names and aliases of drow that the nautiloid had captured, but all of them had been accounted for among Ketheric’s forces. You’re the only one without a past to speak of.

For all intents and purposes, you stepped out of the shadows and into the moon’s silver light newly formed—the answer that Jaheira has sought for a decade and a half. But so far, you’ve only raised more questions.

“Jaheira, speak plainly, please,” Halsin asks firmly, tired of Jaheira’s attempt to catch him in a trap he had no intention of evading. “What is the meaning of all this?”

Jaheira has asked herself that again and again. What is the meaning of all this? Why have you seemingly appeared out of thin air? Where were you before the nautiloid darkened the sky?

Why are you here? Where did you come from? What does that mean for the future that awaits beyond the horizon?

Jaheira lifts her chin as she meets Halsin’s gaze, every word hitting its mark with pinpoint precision. “Your leader made a threat against Isobel’s life last night.”

Halsin eyebrows lift in dull surprise, scanning Jaheira’s face for any sign of deception. His gaze darts briefly to the mug of tea at Jaheira’s elbow, long turned cold. Barring some other trick, Jaheira’s words are the truth.

Halsin shakes his head in stunned disbelief. “Why?”

Jaheira tilts her head slightly, stiff gray braids spilling over one shoulder. “In all honesty, I was hoping you could answer that for me.”

Halsin takes a moment to trace the roots of his memory, but finds nothing of any use. He knows exactly the shift in the air as you draw arcane fire into your veins. But he can’t think of a single reason that you would set your sights on Isobel, of all people.

“If I had an answer for you, I would offer it gladly.” Halsin’s smile turns somber with genuine remorse. “It gives me no pleasure to imagine the consequences should any harm befall Isobel.

Halsin cannot lie. Not with Klauthgrass curdling his tongue. But even still, Jaheira carefully scans his face, searching for any evidence of subterfuge. She finds none, only honesty and concern—for Isobel and for you.

“You should be more surprised.” Jaheira crosses her arms over her chest, regarding the other druid coolly.

Halsin watches her with a keen eye, still drawn inwards to shrink the breadth of his shoulders. “I should?”

Jaheira raises one hand to rest her chin on the back of her curled knuckles. “I would think most people would be, if I told them the person they considered a leader nearly destroyed the only safe haven in a dozen miles.” Jaheira narrows her eyes ever so slightly. “Is this behavior typical?”

Halsin opens his mouth to assure her of your reliability, that you’ve long earned his trust and have proved yourself worthy of hers. But to his own surprise, his tongue catches on his soft palette, trapping his voice inside a bone-white cage. His face pales at the same time that Jaheira arches an eyebrow.

Halsin thinks of the things he’s seen: the inconsolable grief when Astarion fell beneath the monastery, the incandescent fury turned on Rolan, the lies that spill off your lips with such ease. From what he’s overheard around camp, those incidents are far from isolated. It had been just this morning that you had said your judgment couldn’t be trusted, had it not?

You are passionate, determined, loyal to a fault, and extremely, extremely volatile.

“They are…” Halsin hedges his words carefully, trying to find the right way to describe the faults of someone he’s come to consider a dear friend. “…struggling.”

The wrinkles at the corners of Jaheira’s eyes deepen as her brows pinch together. “What does that mean?”

Halsin shakes his head. “If you wish to know, you must go to the source.” He levels Jaheira with a stern gaze. She should know better than to ask him to divulge secrets told to him in confidence. “That story is not mine to tell.”

Jaheira purses her lips, eyes dulling. “Would that truly be wise, do you think?” she wonders aloud.

“What makes you hesitate?”

Jaheira gazes up at Halsin through her lashes, the corners of her mouth tight. “I wish that I could give you a noble reason.” Her gaze drifts over Halsin’s shoulder, out through a window looking over the Chionthar. “But in truth my motivations are selfish.

“You stand with me against the Shadow Curse and Ketheric Thorm. But the others in your group have made their allegiance clear. They follow each other and no one else.”

Perhaps some of them have yet to reach that discovery. But from Jaheira’s perspective, it’s plain to see. She knows what it means to share a bond of blood, forged in fire. She was young once, too, and she had followed her comrades beyond the edge of the horizon. She knows not to make you her enemy—she would hate to have to strike down the poor Ravengard boy.

“I cannot risk making an enemy of them all,” Jaheira explains severely, determination burning in her eyes. “They are our only hope of defeating Ketheric Thorm. Without them, all of this has been for nothing.”

Halsin nods slowly. “I understand.”

Jaheira mirrors him with a dip of her head. “I had hoped you would. I believe you may be the only one left that understands exactly what is at stake.”

Halsin’s eyes shimmer like spring water as he regards Jaheira warmly. “There is no selfishness in looking after the greater good. That is part of the burden that comes with your position.” The corner of Halsin’s mouth lifts in a lopsided smile. “And a large part of why I am no longer Archdruid.”

Jaheira’s eyes shine with amusement as she dips her head forward almost conspiratorially. “You cannot fool me. In my seventies I had a midlife crisis of my own. Got on the first ship to Moonshae, if you can believe it, wandered the isles for a bit before stumbling onto another boat back home.”

That earns a hearty, earth-shaking laugh. “I would be a liar if I said there was no grain of truth to your suspicions.” Halsin coughs into his fist, bottling his laughter once more. “But primarily, I wanted the freedom to pursue my own goals.” He turns his face from Jaheira towards the window, gazing out at the shadowed landscape obscuring the skyline. “I wanted the freedom to return here. To set right our past failures after all this time.”

The amusement fades from Jaheira’s face all at once, the blush on her cheeks dimming, her smile lines flattening. The state of these lands, Ketheric Thorm risen from his grave, all the Harpers that have perished under her command; they are all just some of her many, many failures.

It is a difficult thing, to be the only one burdened with the weight of her years. She can trace the land’s history back through the seasons. The rubble lining the streets of Reithwin were once stones and the bones left to rot in the graveyard were once warriors she knew, healthy and whole. So many others have walked this path before her and every one of them has failed.

Once there was a man, noble and wise, who defied the blood of his father and chose a life of mortal freedom over an eternity chained to a god. That man was her friend, and he had earned a quiet life. In the end it was stolen from him. Jaheira had been away during his final moments, when another cut him down in the street. She returned to a city in chaos and the Lord of Murder returned, everything they fought for wiped away in an instant.

For all her wisdom, Jaheira has had no shortage of failures. Even now, her children wait for her back in the Gate, unsure if their mother will ever return. Her heart aches with bitter longing. Every day that slips through her fingers is another day she can never reclaim. Her children grow without her to guide them and she returns to familiar strangers wearing their skin. But as much as she wishes she could spend her life by their side, there will be no life to return to if Ketheric Thorm isn’t stopped.

Rion’s voice echoes caustically in her head: “There’s always more work to do.”

It is the nature of her duty. Whatever it takes, a Harper will do—even parting from their family.

The hardest part of being a leader is having to choose her failures. She fails as a mother so that she can save the land beneath their feet. She fails as a guardian and a friend so that she can be a commander.

Jaheira rests her elbows on the table, arms stretched outward in parallel, palms facing skyward. “As much as I wish to, I cannot follow you into Thorm’s grave.”

Earthen stone hardens in her eyes as she meets Halsin’s gaze. “Can I trust you to set the past to right?” she asks, words steady as the mountain. “Will you do whatever it takes?”

Halsin grips her hands without hesitation, his large, calloused palms encircling her fingers. “Of course,” he breathes. “You never needed to ask. I have already sworn to cure this land of the Shadow Curse.” He bows his head in prayer. “For the Oakfather and for Thaniel.”

“Thaniel?”

“The land’s spirit,” Halsin explains, Jaheira’s hands slipping through his as she pulls away, “an old friend of mine.”

“Hm.” Jaheira’s eyes trail up the length of Halsin’s thick torso. “To grow up as healthy and strong as you, I suppose I should have guessed you were favored by the land itself.”

Halsin’s cheeks warm with gentle laughter. “I believe my mother is responsible for that, but Thaniel’s friendship certainly helped.”

Jaheira smiles to herself. It’s just like a druid to consider the land itself a friend. “Am I to understand your group will be leaving our care soon?”

Halsin nods, standing in preparation to leave. “What preparations we can make are finished. We need only find the Nightsong and Thorm will be as mortal as any other man.”

Jaheira stands as well, holding out an arm towards the inn’s open door. “Look after each other down there. I expect you all to come back in one piece.”

Halsin bows his head. “Of course.”

“Good luck.” Jaheira raises her flask in farewell. “May these dark clouds part to reveal brighter days.”

Halsin nods his head with a gentle laugh. “And may the land beneath your feet flourish with life,” he echoes.

Jaheira feels the ebb of the earth as Halsin leaves, the power thrumming beneath his every footstep. Jaheira follows him with her eyes, just as every flower in Halsin’s path turns to face him like the sun. She watches him until he disappears into the shadows. Jaheira closes her eyes and prays for their path to be kind.

Chapter Text

Silken sunlight spills across your bare skin. Whisper soft linens swaddle your hips and thighs, holding you in an impossibly tender embrace. You’re so warm. The void within your chest has been frigid for so long, you can’t remember the last time you felt anything but the bite of winter’s chill. Perhaps you never have.

But here, every inward breath tastes of almond-sweet oil and charcoal—fuel for your smoldering heart. The earthen air lingers within your lungs, your body holding onto its fire. When you finally exhale, soots stains the backs of your teeth. You burn, gentle and warm—not a wildfire but a hearth; not a blaze but a spark. For once, you’re not afraid of immolation. If someone held your heart like this, they wouldn’t turn to ash.

Slowly, your awareness expands. The distant cry of gulls arc overhead, and far, far below rusted hinges creak to signal opening doors. Faint, wordless shouts carry up the high stone walls to signal the slow wake of a bustling city. You’ve never heard a cityscape, much less a waking one, but the sounds brush over you with a gentle sigh and your body sinks further into its silken cocoon.

Something much, much closer catches your ear. A fine feathered quill scratches softly against stiff parchment. Barely more than an arms’ length away, silk slips over stained wood, leather taps a steady beat against the smooth stone floor. It washes over you in a gentle wave. There’s someone else here.

It slots into place easily—a piece of your shattered skull you’d been missing all this time without knowing. Of course there was someone here. There was always someone here. You open your eyes, knowing they’ll be there.

The sunlight streaming in through the glass blinds your eyes that were never meant for the light. The whole world is a wash of white, everything composed of blurry, ill-defined shapes marked by edges of shadow. You can make out a bright square of white against a flat, stone wall—the window—and the faint, yellowed edges of an ornate desk in the center of the room. Closer still is an end table, and in front of it is a person, quill in hand where they sit.

Through the mist of tears, you can just make out the fading edges of a broad figure. You blink, but it does nothing to clear your eyes. Awash in sunlight, their features smear into the white expanse before your eyes. Darker shadows fall across their hands, though, and you know them well despite never seeing them before. You know every warp and furl of the acid burns in the junction of their thumb, you feel the caress of those callouses against your flank. Black powder stains the ends of their fingers and already you taste bitter saltpeter on your tongue.

“Shh, shh,” the wrong voice whispers in your ear, “there’s no need to wake just yet. You can rest a little longer, darling.”

You know that voice—it’s blood and grave dirt and starlight. But in this moment it’s wrong, wrong, wrong. Something important lies just out of reach—something forged in ash and hellfire. You stretch your hand towards it, a wordless keen leaving your throat.

Another hand catches yours, and those roughened, blacksmith’s hands feel just the way you knew they would. A thumb smooths across your knuckles, painting black powder into your skin. Quiet laughter rumbles through your bones, and a formless voice reaches your ears, lilting and fond. But you can’t make out a damned word.

“I can’t hear you,” you breathe, voice muffled by silk. “Why can’t I hear you?”

If the vision understands you, they don’t respond. Instead, they lift your hand, pressing a familiar kiss into your fingers with dry, chapped lips. A breathless gasp catches in your throat, eyes burning the longer you stare into the sun. But even as tear tracks carve through your skin, you refuse to look away, trying to catch a glimpse of something—anything—you can keep.

You feel it as the world starts to fade—the gentle hearth between your lungs dims and falls cold. You lose the embrace of those warm, silken sheets, the rumble of the waking city, the taste of oil and saltpeter. Even the white, formless shapes before your eyes. It all burns away, swallowed by that hollow, empty void—your one constant companion since the moment you woke.

The last thing that lingers is the sunlight spilling across your skin and the curl of that familiar calloused hand around yours.

You’re not too proud to beg.

“Don’t go.” You plead for the one thing you know you never did. “Please don’t leave me.”

Cool hands brush across your cheeks. “Darling, darling, I’m right here,” a familiar voice soothes.

You blink and find yourself staring up at the rich red canvas of Astarion’s tent. Stiff linens chafe against your thighs: the cold, hard ground saps away what little warmth they offer. Every bit of your body still aches like a raw wound that you can’t stop scratching.

“There you are, darling,” Astarion sighs in relief.

He sits, bent low over you, your face cradled gently in his unblemished hands. The palms caressing your cheek cools your fevered skin, his touch as stiff and cold as it’s always been. You don’t know why that’s surprising. Tenderly, he begins to card his fingers through your hair, gently combing out its knots and tangles.

“What were you dreaming about that has you so worked up, dear?” he asks, smoothing a thumb beneath your eye.

It’s then you realize that salt tracks sting on your weathered cheeks, and where Astarion touches your face, his fingers come away wet. What were you dreaming about? You reach for the memory as it fades and come away holding only ash.

You blink up at Astarion. “I—” Your voice breaks. “I don’t remember.”

All that remains is the lingering feeling of belonging and the knowledge that you’ll never have that again.

Before Astarion can ask any further questions, the tent’s fabric shakes with the familiar facsimile of a knock that’s become commonplace within camp. You move to sit up, only stopped by Astarion’s hand splayed across your chest. His glare burns a hole through the tent flap at whomever dares to disturb your peace.

“Do you need something?” he asks sharply.

“Yes, I only wished to check in and inform you both of our safe return,” Halsin’s warm voice answers back, unwavering beneath the onslaught of Astarion’s anger.

Astarion relaxes slightly, even as the tightness at the corners of his eyes remains. “Your concern is appreciated,” he says tersely. “Everything is fine.”

Is it? The hollow ache of a forgotten loss still lingers behind your breast, tender and aching. You don’t feel fine. But then again, you aren’t sure you’ve ever felt truly fine at any point in your memory.

“I am glad to hear it,” Halsin says sincerely. “But I would still like to see for myself.”

Astarion’s upper lip curls back over one of his fangs in a defensive sneer. “What, I’m not trustworthy in your eyes?”

With a resigned sigh, Halsin risks drawing up the tent flap slowly, giving Astarion plenty of space to object. Astarion makes no move to stop him, only glaring harshly as Halsin ducks his head into the tent. He bears Astarion’s ire with the unmoving grace of a mountain, meeting Astarion’s gaze with clear, knowing eyes.

“You have given me no reason to doubt your sincerity.” Halsin’s eyes briefly fall to you. “Particularly where your heart is concerned.”

The implication is clear: Astarion has proven himself trustworthy in Halsin’s eyes, you however, have not.

If Halsin sought to disarm Astarion with his sincerity, his words have the opposite effect, Astarion’s hackles raising alongside his stiff shoulders. “My heart has nothing to do with it. The useless thing stopped beating two hundred years ago.”

Halsin only hums idly, not dignifying Astarion’s claim with a response. Astarion isn’t fooling anyone, not with his body curled protectively over yours, his eyes burning through Halsin’s flesh for daring to disturb your peace.

Halsin turns his gaze to you. “I promised that we would talk more tonight upon my return.”

Astarion’s smile lines draw tight at the suggestion, his fingers instinctively fisting the fabric of your blouse in his grasp. He’s loathe to let you out of his sight again. He hasn’t done so since this morning, since you both agreed to give… this a try. Now that he has you the way he’s wanted for so long, he never wants to let you out of his sight. If the thought of losing you before was unbearable, now it’s agonizing.

You, however, nod and slowly push yourself up. Astarion’s hand stays fisted tightly in your clothes even as you shift out of his lap. A wave of dizziness strikes you as soon as you sit upright, gravity dragging all of your blood into your palms. Both Halsin and Astarion’s hands dart out almost immediately as your balance wavers, two broad hands bracing against your back.

Astarion regards Halsin warily for a moment, following the thick cord of muscle stretching from the join of his wrist all the way to his shoulder. It had been Halsin that came after you yesterday, jumping recklessly into the unknown. He’d offered the aid Astarion couldn’t, and without him, it’s uncertain whether either of you would have made it out of Moonrise alive. As loath as Astarion is to admit, Halsin is better suited to healing—of mind and body—than he. Astarion would love to be your rock, but his edges are far too sharp and you’re far too willing to rest your tender flesh on them anyway. Astarion has long accepted that you need more than he can give. If Halsin should be the one to offer it, well, Astarion can hardly think of someone he’d rather trust you with.

“What are you going to talk about?” Astarion asks, defensive even still.

Halsin offers a naturally disarming smile. “Typically, I will ask my patients of their struggles and the things they’d most like to change.” He nods his head towards you. “From there we will try to find a path forward—an easier one than the road that led here.”

You nod wearily. He had warned you as much this morning. As hard as today’s conversations have been, you knew there was more still yet to come. The bone-deep rot of your soul would not be so easily stripped away.

“Alright,” you sigh. “Let’s get started.”

Halsin offers a broad hand and carefully guides you out of the tent. You follow on unsteady legs, Astarion nipping at your heels. He stands with you in concert, a hand bracing your lower back. You glance at Astarion with a raised brow.

Halsin’s eyes dart between you both. “You are welcome to bring Astarion, if you think he will be a comfort.” Halsin’s eyes darken as his brows shadow them from the light. “I will warn you, this may not be a pleasant conversation. If you think honesty will be easier without the presence of someone dear to you, then it will better serve us to speak in private.”

You stare blankly at Halsin’s hand around yours. “You’re dear to me.”

Halsin offers a warm smile. “And I am glad of it. You are a dear friend to me, as well.” Amusement sparkles within his eyes as he glances at the other man. “But it is no secret that your relationship with Astarion is different, is it not?”

Astarion feels your blood rush to his cheeks, pointedly looking away. You regard him carefully, paying no mind to his obvious embarrassment. “I suppose it is.”

Melancholy taints the edges of Halsin’s smile, his eyes darkening like a moonless sky. “Sometimes honesty is most difficult in the presence of the people we care for the most,” he says gently. “It is no easy thing to trust another to gaze upon our darkest selves without revulsion.”

Both you and Astarion wince painfully as Halsin’s words poke at that deep-seated fear. Astarion schools his face back into a placid mask, while you take the moment to consider your options. It took you three and a half months to tell Astarion the truth regarding your Urges. Can you truly do it again? So soon?

Your eyes shine with apology as you turn to meet Astarion’s eyes. “This morning was… nearly impossible,” you admit quietly. “Telling you the truth about”—your eyes lower—“me was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do.”

Astarion quirks a brow with a low scoff. “We’ve faced down a Spectator and you think talking to me was harder than that?”

You level him with a flat stare. “I don’t care if a Spectator thinks I’m a monster.”

Your voice steals the breath from Astarion’s lungs and he finds himself bereft of air. In the end, he shakes his head ruefully. “Go on, then.”

He spares a glance to Halsin across your shoulder before ducking his head to kiss your temple, the press of his lips there and gone in an instant. The fleeting touch leaves you blinking in the moonlight as he steps back, coughing brusquely into his fist to avoid your eyes. He folds himself elegantly onto the stool outside his tent, one leg crossed primly over the other.

“I will be here,” he says stiffly, “waiting.”

His sudden shyness is rather amusing, considering the months he’s spent draping himself over your shoulders like a fine mink scarf. You pull your hand from Halsin’s grasp, holding up a finger to buy yourself a moment of time. You step boldly into his space, face turned down towards his.

“Starlight,” you tease, placing both hands gently on his shoulders.

He nearly rolls his entire head along with his eyes as he deigns to look at you, a ghost of a flush at the tip of his nose. “What—”

You swallow the rest of his words with your lips. He startles briefly, and you nearly pull away, an apology on your tongue. But then he melts into you, both arms wrapping tightly around your waist. Tenderly, you frame the underside of his jaw with both your palms.

You can count on one hand the number of times you’ve kissed Astarion rather than the other way around. That’s how it’s always been—him wanting and you giving. It’s strange to play this role instead, to ask something of him. But all this time, you’ve been giving him what he asked, not realizing that much like you, he would never ask for what he truly wanted.

Everything you know about desire, you learned by matching Astarion’s example. You never spared a thought for sex or skinship before he asked it of you. You can count on both hands the number of kisses you’ve shared outside of sex. It’s only in the past tenday that Astarion has burned tender smiles into your skin. His restraint crumbled away and he allowed himself to risk those fleeting moments of affection.

You, too, have been unshackled, no longer restrained by uncertainty. Astarion squeezes you against his chest, sighing tenderly into the seam of your mouth. Expressing your affection for him this way is unfamiliar. But you’re allowed to seize these moments now, to curl your tongue around this strange new language as you paint tender affection into the curve of his brow.

It’s a language Astarion understands far better than words. So much of your fleeting time together was wasted on misunderstanding. You held an open flame in your palms to keep him warm, even as the heat blistered your flesh. Until now, it’s the only way you knew how to care for him.

But in hurting yourself, you hurt him, too. You promised to find a new way to care for him—a way that doesn’t strike a match against your skin. So you kiss him the way he’s kissed you, and hope he tastes the undiluted want on your breath.

You think he might, if the tremble in his shoulders is any indication. After a long moment, you finally pull away to draw air into your lungs properly. When you open your eyes, Astarion ducks away, hiding his face in your breastbone to avoid your burning gaze. A breath of laughter leaves your mouth. You shift your arms to curl around his shoulders instead, squeezing him tightly against your chest the way he has for you a dozen times before.

“Well, now I don’t want you to leave.” His petulant voice buzzes through the plate of your sternum.

“I won’t be far.” You duck your head into his white curls, nuzzling into his crown—another gesture you’ve shamelessly stolen from him. “I’ll be back before you settle down to rest tonight.”

Reluctantly, you begin to pull away, hands falling from his shoulders. Astarion makes a quiet noise of protest, his arms tightening around your waist in a gentle vise. He clutches you tight, hands fisting in your tunic, before the tide breaks and his arms fall away with a sigh.

He catches one of your palms in his hand. “Promise?” He kisses the ridge of your knuckles.

You nod. “I’ll always come back to you.”

His arm extends as you step away, keeping hold of your hand for as long as possible. Eventually though, you step beyond his reach, and the grain of your fingers slip through his, leaving only the dull burn of firelight on his palm. He curls that palm into his chest, trapping the memory beneath his skin for as long as possible. The sunset burn of his eyes never falls.

It aches to leave him. The scar you left on his heart may not be physical, but it’s just as severe as yours. He wants to move forward, so that’s what you’ll do. But you know the wound will ache for a while longer still.

You break Astarion’s gaze and turn to face Halsin instead. The druid offers you a gentle smile. “Come with me,” he murmurs. “We have much to discuss.”

This is the first step. You have to take it. You can’t hurt Astarion like that again. You walk stiffly at Halsin’s side, hugging your own torso to ward against the chill.

“It has been a difficult day for you,” Halsin begins, apropos of nothing, “but I am glad you have managed to find some comfort nonetheless.”

“Hm?” your head jerks up, startled out of your own thoughts.

“You and Astarion,” Halsin clarifies. “He has been far more open with his affection today than before.”

“Yeah…”

It’s impossible for you to know, but your face softens more than Halsin’s ever seen. Centuries of erosion polish away the furrow between your brow, the sharp point of your cheekbones rounded into a dull echo of a smile that never quite reaches your mouth. But Halsin has seen tenderness and affection enough to recognize it on a friend’s face. He much prefers it to the hellish fury that sparks at your fingertips.

Halsin wordlessly grasps your forearm, helping you over the gap between the rocks that leads out to his tent. “I am glad for it.” Your skin spills through his fingers easily as you land on solid ground. “We all could use the reminder that even flowers bloom in shadow.” Captured sunlight shines through his lashes when he smiles. “You are good for each other.”

“Hm.” Your eyes stay fix themselves on his tent straight ahead, unwavering. “He is good for me.”

Halsin tilts his head and matches your stride. “You don’t believe the same is true in reverse?”

You stop just outside his tent, gaze cast downward. A long moment of silence passes, broken only by the gentle babble of the Chionthar. You stand perfectly still for so long that Halsin assumes you’ve simply chosen not to answer. But then, you raise a hand to the the darkened sky, gazing through the web of your fingers at the silver beacon of Selûne hanging high overhead.

“How could it be?” Bright orange flame slithers out of your palm’s heart line and weaves between the spread of your fingers. “Karlach may be the one on fire, but everything I touch burns just the same.”

The silken fire wreathing your palms paints embers into your eye. Your blood red iris thickens into volcanic rock, a flicker of a Titans’ power beginning to wake from eons of slumber. Fire spills out of your veins and floods across your skin, entrapping the join of your wrist. The edges of Halsin’s vision begin to darken before he realizes that his breath is held.

A warm exhale escapes his lungs, the force of his sigh tousling your tangled hair. “And why is it such a bad thing to burn?” Halsin wonders aloud.

You turn your hand over, staring at the soot staining the scarred meat of your palms. “You of all people should know the ruin left in the wake of a wildfire.”

Halsin steps forward, placing a gentle hand on your elbow. “And after all these months on the road, you, too, should know that fire gives life just as easily as it takes.” His other arm stretches back towards the rest of camp.

Gale bends low over a wrought iron cauldron, the air above it shimmering in the heat. The breeze curls the ends of your hair with the faint smell of rosemary and thyme. Orange light ripples across the gentle joy on his face. He calls out over his shoulder to Karlach, who immediately bounds to his side with a spring in her step. She slings an arm over Gale’s shoulder, and he falls into her side easily, the bright orange of her heart casting a gentle glow onto the apples of Gale’s cheeks.

Their exact words are lost on the wind, but the faint impression of their laughter echoes across the distance. Against the background of the Shadowlands they make an inviting picture—warm, content, peaceful. Much like Last Light itself, you’ve carved out a sanctuary within the shadows.

Your still–blazing hand curls into a fist that you draw tightly to your chest “If only I could burn so gently,” you murmur.

The shadows in your eyes grow long with yearning. You don’t remember a home, if you ever had one. But if you could return to moments like this, every day… that could be enough, you think. If you could always find your dearest friends by that smoldering campfire—if you could always hold laughter and joy in the palm of your hand.

Gale throws his head back in a hearty laugh that echoes through the Weave. You remember the warmth of Karlach’s arms, and you want nothing more than to burrow into her heart. If you were with them, you would turn to Karlach and ask ‘Haven’t you ever wondered how Gale’s roasted flesh would taste?’ A flick of your eyes toward the campfire and a seed of Suggestion planted in Karlach’s mind. ‘You should find out.’

Guilt and revulsion split you apart the same way lightning splits apart the sky.

Impotent flames curl up the sides of your neck, teasing the volatile blood beneath your skin. The held Firebolt in your palm lacks the substance it would take to truly burn. But the heat alone is nearly unbearable, your pulse boiling beneath your jaw. Your blood always thrashes within its cage. What difference does it make if this time the pain has a source? A choker, a chain, a noose wreathed in fire tightens around your neck.

A pair of weathered hands encloses yours, all at once smothering the flames. “There’s no need for that,” Halsin croons gently.

You startle, thoughts crashing out of the sky and into your body. All the fire burns out in an instant, leaving behind only ash and emptiness. The looming chill of Winter is cold against your skin, but the shock of fear is colder. Your blood chills in an instant, the dark depths of your heart suddenly more frigid than the sharp Spine of the World where it pierces the sky.

Nothing has changed. Of course a simple nap and some warm herbs couldn’t purge the filth from your veins. Not even death could do that. Not even an hour on your own feet again and already you’re back to your old tricks.

Your bones tremble, teeth chattering within your skull. For a brief while, you had allowed yourself to imagine that the road ahead might be easier with others to light the way. But as soon as the light goes out, everything is so unbearably, wretchedly cold once again.

A broad, warm arm curls across the span of your shoulders. “Come, now.” Halsin draws back the opening of his tent and beckons you inside. “I have questions for you.”

You lean into him, your frigid skin unable to resist the burning hearth of Halsin’s arms. “I doubt I have the answers you seek.”

A balm of warmth stills your trembling bones. Halsin gently guides you to sit on the coarse, gray wolfskin blanket that insulates his bedroll. Your fingers instinctively bury themselves in the thick fur. The prickle of each stiff hair breaks through the dull fog around your senses. With one hand still clasped over yours, Halsin drapes another blanket over your shoulders, this one made of fine wool. You nearly melt into the attention, breathing deep the familiar smell of peat moss and clear springwater.

Halsin lowers himself to sit in front of you. He kneels with his back hunched to match your height. He does his best to appear smaller, even though there’s no hiding the thick muscle lining his arms. The Weave cares little about a beast’s strength—a strong man unravels just as easily as a weak one.

You refuse to meet his gaze, eyes roaming the tent aimlessly. It’s then that you notice its emptiness.

“Thaniel is gone,” you say with a flat note of surprise.

The bedroll that had previously formed the fey child’s resting place is notably empty and unmade. Halsin turns to follow your gaze, unable to quell the relieved smile that spreads across his face. The elation of the day’s events still hums beneath his skin, the land beneath his feet already beginning to waken after a century of slumber.

He feels it in his bones—life, already beginning to bloom from the shadows. Part of him still struggles to believe that it’s truly done after all this time.

“Yes he is… communing with himself,” Halsin says vaguely.

You raise an eyebrow curiously. In truth, last Halsin saw, Thaniel was playing with Oliver, trying to bond with his other half. But that required a longer explanation to explain, and Halsin has done this enough to recognize an attempt to put off a difficult conversation

“I will explain everything another time,” Halsin says warmly. “But at presentyou are my concern.” Halsin squeezes your hand; your knuckles burn at the sudden rush of heat.

You stare down at your joined hands, mouth pressed into a thin line. “You should be with him,” you murmur tensely. “You waited a hundred years for this.”

“And I can wait a couple hours more.” Halsin’s words are as firm as the hand holding yours, unwavering in his devotion. “Thaniel will be fine,” he assures you, softer. “He existed for centuries before me and he will remain centuries after.”

“You however, I am not so sure about.” Halsin doesn’t say those words, but they pierce through the heavy silence that fills the tent.

Halsin’s discerning eye splits you apart at the seams, reading the forced emptiness of your expression the way precious few can. You pick and choose your words carefully, more often than not letting your silence speak for itself. It’s how you’ve tricked your friends into thinking you unbreakable despite balancing on the knife’s edge of madness. Say little—say it with vigor, and everyone assumes that you know what you’re doing.

But Halsin hears the words you don’t say, the uncertainty within the silence. He sees you for what you are: a broken, mangled liar.

Despite it all, the smile he offers you is one of compassion. “I would understand if you resented me,” he says. “I know well that you would not accept my help if you believed there was another option.”

“I’m here.” You shrug, expression as still and frigid as unbroken ice. “All I’ve managed to do on my own is dig myself a grave no one will let me use.” Your lip curls back in a shadow of a sneer. “I can’t die yet. I don’t have many other options.”

“Yet,” Halsin echoes, voice carefully flat.

You shrug.

A weighty silence swells to fill the space for a long moment as Halsin considers his words carefully, much the same as you. “Do you think it impossible to change?”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Of course not. No one in this camp is the same person I met three months ago. I would be a fool to not believe what I’ve seen with my own eyes.”

Halsin’s thumb traces slow circles over the back of your hand, far more gently than you deserve. “Have you not changed as well?”

Your throat tightens, lungs rasping as they struggle to draw breath. “I thought I had.” Your head hangs forward in shame, hair forming a curtain so that you no longer have to face the pity in Halsin’s eyes. “I thought I was in control—I thought I could choose a different path.” A long exhale hisses through bared teeth. “But I was wrong. Those choices aren’t mine to make.”

“If you hold no sway over your own life, then who does?” Halsin asks gently.

It’s meant to be a rhetorical question, of course. But Halsin doesn’t know about Sceleritas Fel or the Urge. You’ve only told two people and one of them thought you were joking.

“I’ve been empty for as long as I can remember,” you gasp, fisting your hand in the linen over your withered heart. “My blood devours everything it touches, but I never feel whole.” Your teeth grind together, bone whittling bone down to the quick. “There’s a hunger inside me that can never be sated.”

“All of the Oakfather’s creations hunger—for food, for safety, for blood, for sex,” Halsin says evenly. “There is nothing wrong with hunger.”

“You haven’t been here from the beginning,” you breathe miserably. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew what I was capable of.”

Halsin remains silent for a long time, the only proof of his continued presence his gentle hand over yours. You can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes. You know what question comes next. Every sin revealed is another crack in the trust you’ve forged with Halsin. Even a master blacksmith could not make it unbreakable. This might just be the final strike that shatters Halsin’s faith.

A deep furrow marks the skin between Halsin’s brow. “Jaheira pulled me aside on our way back to camp tonight.”

Your breath catches behind your heart. “What?”

Halsin’s overcast eyes never stray as he speaks. “She wished to speak with me privately.” The sun breaks sharply through the clouds in his eyes. “She told me you threatened Isobel.”

Everything falls away. “Oh.”

You’re not cold this time, but neither are you set ablaze. Instead you are simply… empty. Your ribs pry themselves apart, unfurling like the petals of a spider lily. The void spills out from your punctured lungs and through your pierced skin. It consumes and consumes and devours until the whole world is just as empty as you are.

Halsin’s voice rumbles from miles away, only a whisper of vibration reaching your ear. “Is it true?”

What was the point of all this, you wonder? If he knew what you’d done from the very beginning, why offer you help? Why show you a kindness you don’t deserve? Why return to the arms of a monster?

Blood spills within your hungry mouth as you gnaw at the inside of your cheek. “It is.”

“Because of the hunger?” Halsin guesses.

You nod weakly, eyes pressed tightly together. You can’t bear to watch the trust fade from his eyes—for the sun to disappear back behind the clouds, never to shine on you again. Have you not stolen enough sunlight? But even still, your mouth moves unbidden, pleading not to be left in the dark.

“I tried to avoid her. I didn’t want to lose control again.” You fruitlessly rub at the dark circles under your eyes. “Everyone only stayed with me last time because they thought I got better.” Perhaps on some level, you’d even managed to trick yourself.

“We were all at each other’s throats. Gale had a bomb in his chest, Shadowheart tried to murder Lae’zel, Wyll invited a devil into camp, Astarion killed me, and suddenly what I’d done didn’t seem so awful anymore.”

Halsin watches you carefully as your frantic plea spills down your chin. You still refuse to meet his eyes, your vision cast so low that Halsin would need to crawl on the ground to catch your line of sight. Every word echoes with quiet desperation, more than Halsin has ever heard from you.

All this time you’ve presented an unmovable mask to the world, only falling away to reveal the rage smoldering beneath your skin. But nearly breaking apart before Halsin’s eyes, clutching a tattered wool blanket like a lifeline, Halsin sees nothing but fear.

“What did you do before?” Halsin asks, voice calm and steady.

Your mouth twists into a bitter scowl. “Alfira. The tiefling bard with the refugees,” you hiss, the words spilling out of your mouth like bile—acrid and sour. “Did you ever meet her?”

It was months ago, now, the memories hazy after Halsin’s capture and the extended time he spent as a bear. But Halsin vaguely remembers a young woman with skin the color of the horizon at dusk and a sweet voice. The squirrels had complained so Halsin had offered them some walnuts and told them to be kind. She was gone when he returned and he hadn’t spared her much thought.

Dread forms a heavy stone in the cradle of Halsin’s gut. “I did, briefly before I joined up with Aradin’s group.” He suspects he knows where this line of questioning ends.

Your mouth is so dry that your tongue sticks to your hard palate when you speak. “She came to our camp. She wanted to travel with us. I didn’t—” Your jaw aches, locked in place as you speak through your teeth. “I didn’t care. When I woke up—”

The words won’t come, trapped against the sharp bones of your ribcage. You suck a shallow, frigid breath into burning lungs. “I don’t remember anything except the blood on my hands.” When you reach down your throat to capture the truth, saltwater spills over your tongue. You’re going to vomit. “I didn’t care.”

A hand slaps over your mouth as your body rejects the memory. What is this? You gag into your palm, but the only thing that comes up is spittle. Back then you stared at Alfira’s ripped open corpse with a cold numbness. There was an art to your brutality, a macabre beauty to her ribcage, unfurled like a pair of wings in flight. You looked at her and felt nothing, then later, confusion, when your companions sought answers you couldn’t provide. There was no hesitation when you claimed responsibility for her death. It was so easy to admit what you’d done.

So why can’t you do the same now? When you try to speak, all that comes up is bile. You can’t bring yourself to meet Halsin’s eye. If you see his gentle smile warped in disgust or rage it will surely break you. You’ve tried so hard to build something here—with your friends, with Halsin. But you carved the foundation out of trickery and deception. When the truth finally unravels, the home you’ve made collapses inward.

He’s going to hate you, and you’ll deserve it.

A long, slow breath leaves Halsin’s lungs, and his dread disperses with it. But a hollow guilt remains, his veins heavy with regret. If he hadn’t so foolishly followed Aradin… if he had tried to escape on his own…

It’s a pointless task to contemplate what might have been. The past is gone. What matters now is the present. Halsin’s own shadow of guilt is reflected in you a dozen times over. Looking back over the interactions he’s had with you, the things your friends have said, a missing piece of the puzzle slots into place. He understands, now, what it is you’re afraid of, and why you refuse to let it go.

The deepset frown on his face tightens as he regards you with that steady, knowing gaze. “Your behavior in this moment suggests to me that you care a great deal.”

“I know.” Your voice escapes as a bitter laugh. “But I didn’t. I didn’t feel anything, back then.” You shake your head with incredulous wonder. “What have you all done to me?”

Halsin places his free hand at the junction of your neck and shoulder, bracing you as you fight the bile flooding your mouth. “Nothing you didn’t earn.”

Whether he means the trust you’ve forged or the dagger of regret twisting in your gut, you’ve earned both in equal measure.

You shake your head miserably. “There are echoes of my past all throughout Moonrise, and it stirs something wretched in me.” A siren sings out to you from far beneath the tower, calling you home. “I don’t know who I’m supposed to be. I don’t know if I get to choose.”

All it takes is one slip-up, one burst of Wild Magic through your veins to ruin everything you’ve built. You came so close to taking Isobel’s life, and in the wake of your failed attack you hungered for Astarion instead. You don’t know how much longer you can hold back the tide. It feels an impossible task.

A long, heavy sigh escapes Halsin’s lungs. “You should have told me.” He gently smooths his thumb across the underside of your jaw.

You nod sharply, unable to disagree with that. “I… I know. If this is where we part ways then…” You choke on your own sick. “It was an honor to have you by my side for even this short while.” You don’t want him to leave. The thought is unbearable.

Halsin shakes his head. “You misunderstand.” Carefully, he uses the hand on your neck to raise your head and meet his eyes. “You should have told me, because there was no need for you to suffer alone.”

He levels you with that armor-piercing gaze, sunlight still shining through the clouds. You search the depths of his eyes and see only worry, sorrow, affection. You close your eyes and melt into his touch, finally, finally unburdened of this secret.

His palms are calloused and rough from years of tending the earth, churning hard, barren soil so that plants can take root. To you, every hole in the ground is a cold, empty grave. But Halsin has spent his life hollowing out the earth to sow it with seeds. Bears carve their dens into hillsides, beneath fallen logs, within the roots of trees.

A hole in the earth can be a grave, but it can also be a home. The earth is warm and it nurtures the living just as it reclaims the dead.

Halsin’s touch is the cradle of the earth, hard and gentle all at once. “Don’t I deserve to be alone?” you ask, brushing your fingertips over the back of Halsin’s hand, featherlight in your caress. “Haven’t I made you all suffer enough?”

Halsin knows the struggle it must have taken to bring you here. The fact that you sought Halsin out, that you’ve offered up these thoughts for him to see at all is immense. You’ve asked for the help you don’t think you deserve. There was a time, centuries ago, where Halsin refused to accept the help he desperately needed. For so long he couldn’t speak a word of what had happened to him in the Underdark—the things he’d suffered, enjoyed, and endured. He was so certain that no one could accept the man he’d had to become to survive.

It wasn’t true. Of course, it wasn’t true. How could anyone hate him for something beyond his control? How can Halsin hate you for these desires you never asked for?

But he knows you’ll never truly believe that—not until you stop hating yourself.

Halsin gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze. “What is it that you want?” he asks.

You peer at him through your lashes, face drawn in confusion. “What?”

“Why have you kept going all this time?” Halsin asks. “Why did you answer Astarion’s summon when he called to you from across the veil?”

“Because it was Astarion,” you say without hesitation, “I’ll always answer when he calls.”

“Why?” Halsin presses. “Why does it matter to you what Astarion wants?”

That familiar spark alights in your eyes as they narrow. “Because he deserves a kinder world,” you say firmly. “He’s suffered enough.” Your gaze lowers, wounded by the thought of all Astarion’s suffered and everything you’ve made him endure even still.

Halsin’s eyes flicker with a knowing gaze, tender like a bruise. “You want to shield him from pain?”

You nod, slowly. “I want him to know happiness. I want that for all of you.” You wipe at your eyes with the heel of your palm. “When you needed help, the whole world failed.”

When a young Wyll begged the sky to save his city, Mystra was shaping a boy into a lover while Shar stole away all of Shadowheart’s memory. His father sent his son into exile even as he rubbed shoulders with the men that bound Karlach and Astarion in chains.

“I can’t trust anyone else to put you first.”

You aren’t sure happiness is possible for you. You’d like to escape from beneath the Urge’s yoke. But the Urge lives in your very marrow—your bones were carved from it, encased in flesh fattened by it, and your every vein runs thick with poisoned blood. You would have to break yourself down piece by piece, until every bone was hollowed out, then rebuild yourself from the ground up. No one but a god could do that without killing you. You already killed yourself, and the person who came back remained unchanged—the Urge still festers deep within.

Halsin nods sagely; he’d known your answer long before you voiced it. “Does your suffering make us happy? Does it free any of us from our burdens?”

You think of Karlach’s wounded eyes when you pushed her away. You think of the emotion straining Wyll’s voice as he held you tight in front of the campfire. You think of Astarion, dirt beneath his fingernails, blood and tears mixing together on his face, curled protectively over your slowly warming body. It’s a sight you won’t soon forget.

But even now, your blood simmers, plucking the tendons of your hands to curl your fingers into claws. “Halsin, as soon as you put your hand here”—you gently drag your nails over the back of Halsin’s hand on your shoulder—“all I could think about is that I’d like to bathe in your blood to see if it’s as warm as your skin.”

Finally, Halsin startles, his eyebrows raise and his hand squeezes tighter over your shoulder. But even still, he doesn’t let go.

You shake your head. “I can’t die without hurting all of you.” Your lips pull into a grim line. “But how am I supposed to live like that?” You gaze at Halsin through bloodshot, weary eyes. “No matter what I do, I can’t stop hurting the people I want to protect.” Just as a wildfire does, you burn everything you touch.

Gears turn behind Halsin’s eyes as he watches you, considering. After a moment he sits back, pulling away both his hands. You hardly blame him, but even still a sudden surge of panic tightens your jaw.

“You have nothing to fear,” Halsin assures. “I simply want to show you something.” He holds out both of his hands, palms up. “Please, give me your hands.”

You do so without hesitation, matching your palms to his. As soon as you do, he curls his large hands around your fingers, keeping them locked in a vice grip. On instinct you jerk backward, tugging against his hold, but he only leans forward, allowing you to move without pulling free of his hold.

“What are you doing?” you hiss, eyes darting between him and your clasped hands.

Halsin smiles at you, the low candlelight glinting off bone white teeth. “Can you cast Hold Person like this?”

You can’t. Not with your hands and fingers bound. You pull against Halsin’s grip, harder this time, but he holds firm.

“See?” he croons triumphantly. “You’re not so dangerous without your weapons.” He nods towards his pack in the corner. “And we have more methods of restraint if necessary.”

“I could Misty Step,” you warn. “I don’t need my hands for that.”

Halsin nods carefully. “And if your hands were truly bound together, they would remain so.” He offers you a lopsided grin. “You can teleport until you run out of spells, but you pose no danger to your allies.”

You gaze at your hands, trapped within Halsin’s hold. “So your suggestion is what, exactly? Come to you any time I think a nasty thought?” you scoff.

“Or anyone else,” Halsin says. “If you cannot trust your own mind, then trust us to keep you grounded.”

You shake your head violently. “You’re asking me to put you in the path of a wildfire!” you snap, tongue lashing against the back of your teeth. “I don’t want to hurt you—any of you!”

Halsin’s eyes fall briefly to your clasped hands. Suddenly, the air grows sharp and the breath in your lungs hardens. Halsin draws upon the latent magic in the air—wind may be unseen, but the power it harbors is as real as sunlight.

A hundred years ago, he and his allies breathed this very same air. The world holds the memory of all those he lost. If he closes his eyes he tastes the brine of their sweat and the ferrous grit of their blood. Those final breaths hang suspended in the air, until another living soul shares it—sustained by the memory of a person they never knew.

There is power in memories carried on the wind and there is power in the air that sustains the forest fire. Halsin reaches out and captures the autumn wind in his throat. He collects that buzzing energy and pushes it down the length of his arms, into his fingers where they hold yours tight.

Arcane energy pricks your skin as it crystallizes in the heartline on your palm. Sharp fractals of ice form in the gaps between your fingers, locking them together. Even if you wanted to, your meager strength couldn’t pry them apart.

Halsin smiles proudly at his work. “A wildfire you may be”—he paints ice across your knuckles with a swipe of his thumb—“but you are hardly the only one with control over the elements.”

You try to break the ice between your fingers. You try to push fire into your hands. You try to pull out of Halsin’s grasp. But he holds you too tightly, and without the ability to move your hands the Weave won’t answer your call. You’re trapped in Halsin’s hold. You should find it frightening to be made so utterly helpless.

But all you feel is warm relief crashing over you.

The nascent hope in your eyes is a sight to behold; Halsin can’t restrain his smile. “Your friends are powerful people.” He catches your sight when you dare to lift your head and pins you with his gaze. “I am certain that with all of us looking after you, we can keep ourselves and you safe.”

Can you afford to entertain this fantasy of Halsin’s? If he’s wrong then it will be his blood on your hands. Is your life worth that risk?

“Do you truly think it could be that easy?” you whisper.

Halsin answers with a pained smile. “I never said it would be easy.” He dismisses the ice coating your palms with a wave of his hand. “You will need to ask for help before you break. You will need to be honest about your thoughts. You will need to treat yourself with the same care you grant everyone else.”

You lip curls upward in a bitter snarl. Halsin meets your gaze with a tender smile. “This work is rarely pleasant,” he acknowledges. “But it is the only way to heal. I know you think yourself undeserving.” He cuts off your train of thought before it has a chance to start. “I don’t need to tell you that I disagree.”

You stare down at Halsin’s hands, born from years of tending to animals and the earth alike. Hundreds of people have been healed by his touch. Now, they hold you with the tenderness of spring’s first blossoms. All your secrets unveiled for him to see; he chooses to hold you anyway. After all of your mistakes and sins and lies, what could you have possibly done to earn this?

“I’ll try,” you agree, voice barely any louder than a whisper. “I don’t know if the future is mine to choose.” Every day without bloodshed, the Urge only consumes more of your broken psyche. In time, will there even be any of you left? “But I want to be with all of you for as much time as I can.”

Halsin shifts his grip to hold your hands so that you have the freedom to pull away. You don’t, of course. Why would you when his hands are so comfortably warm?

“For now, worry about today,” Halsin says. “The future will come when it does.”