Chapter Text
As he spiraled slowly back to consciousness, He Who Was didn’t so much think as feel. Long millennia in the Shadowfell had hollowed him of emotion. During brief jaunts to the material plane in his Queen’s service, he’d felt countless memories cycle through him, like water flowing through a tap, only for the Shadowfell’s gray nothingness to desiccate him back to a shriveled husk of a man. A century spent in the Shadow Curse had filled his husk to bursting with emotions that burned hot; fury, disgust, a twisted sense of sadistic justice. After the curse’s fall, when that heat had cooled and hardened like his blood on the cave’s stones, he’d searched for replacements, for a new heat. He’d kindled a spark of hatred for the raven, a tiny bit of heat colored by jealousy. The raven still felt. The raven wasn’t hollow, it was filled with a gleeful cruelty, a vicious hunger that led it to Wyll, led it to feed him nightmares until he nearly succumbed to its madness.
He Who Was had lain there in the dark and concentrated on that spark of hatred, tried to fan it into flames that might keep him free. Then Wyll had come and deigned to liberate him, from the cave where he was trapped, from the raven’s madness, and from that flame. Wyll had shared his own memories with him, and He Who Was had listened, let the emotions pour through him as before, with one great difference: he’d stolen the ones he liked.
It was no great crime, this hoarding, though he’d thought his Queen might punish him anyway for daring to clutch at these feelings. She was fickle and difficult to predict. He’d started by stealing, but the longer he stayed at Wyll’s side, the more he learned to coax his own desires to sprout from the fallow ground of his soul. He still let emotions flow through him without much conscious thought, but he found he could filter them, like panning for gold in a stream, and hold fast to the ones he found pleasing.
Until the Tourmaline Depths. Until the dark shades swarmed him and stuffed him full of their screams, sweeping away the tiny treasures he’d collected, drowning out his own cries and replacing everything that he was with their own sorrow.
Now, as his eyes blinked open to see a strange ceiling above him, he wondered if there was anything left of the soul he’d been painstakingly constructing piece by piece. He felt a single overriding emotion twisted around his heart like a clenched fist, and he worried at it until it dissipated like smoke. He had no interest in clinging to it, even if the result made him hollow once again. It was fear, sharp and metallic in his mouth with the taste of his own blood, and he forced it out before it could become all of him. He felt the smallest surge of panic and clung to that, knowing that if he could only see Wyll, he would know what else remained. Or perhaps if he had a drink, the heady haze would prize his close-held memories from their hiding places.
His physical senses returned to him first, the scent of incense heavy in the air almost masking the stench of the sewers. That must be him, he thought, and his nostrils twitched in disgust. A thin felt coverlet was pulled up to his chin, its underside scratchy against the exposed skin of his arms. His right hand was as cold as the rest of him, while his left was warm, a smaller, softer hand clasping his. He slowly turned his head to the side, the muscles of his neck protesting with stabs of pain that almost forced a sound from him.
The cleric sat in a chair at his bedside, her hand in his, her head pillowed on her outstretched arm. At this angle, he could watch her sleeping without her knowing, an act he felt no shame in doing, since she’d likely done the same to him before falling asleep. Her features were a strange mixture of delicate and strong, her nose a gentle slope sprinkled with freckles, her eyelashes long and dark and curled at the ends over smudges of exhaustion, her ear a subtle curve, its pointed tip brushed by the black and silver of her long braided hair.
He Who Was let all these impressions brush through him and tried to sift out some feeling, but the information left no conscious trace, so he continued to look and breathe and pull the warmth from their clasped hands through the rest of his body in an attempt to ease the aching tension in his muscles. The incense had long since burned away to leave only his own stink behind when she finally opened her eyes.
Sleep fogged the soft green of her irises. As she slowly blinked to focus on his face, he felt the stirring of a memory like a string he quickly traced back to its source. Flashes of other memories strobed like sunbeams through his mind, and he locked his gaze on her eyes and tightened the grip of his hand in hers and remembered the river flowing cool and silken over his bare legs, the sun warming his shoulders, the adrenaline of the fight in the Underdark, the pride in his own prowess as he cut down his share of their foes, the concern that led him to foolishly shield the cleric with his body, and the embarrassment that flushed his cheeks when he’d realized his error. He let that last one slip away, but held tight to the rest.
Shadowheart raised her head, brow furrowing at the inscrutably black eyes staring shamelessly at her. He Who Was noted the red impression on her cheek where it had rested on her sleeve, finding the furrow strangely fascinating.
“You’re awake,” she said perfunctorily, as if there were nothing strange about his actions. She looked down at their hands and tugged at hers, but he gripped it more tightly, determined not to release her hand until she grew angry at him, or annoyed, or some other reaction he could only guess at but desperately wanted to see. She stared right back at him, more curious than any of those other things, and he waited for a question so he could refuse to answer. “Are we having a staring contest?” she whispered, and he recognized the same glint of mischief in her eyes that Wyll often got when he was teasing.
He refused to answer, only continued to stare at her stoically, the dark swirls of tattoos on his face making his expression all the more unreadable. She propped her chin in her free hand, her elbow sinking slightly into the thin mattress, and stared right back at him. He felt a hum of tension building in his chest, an uncertainty, a risk like he was tossing dice with no idea how they’d land and no idea of the stakes.
“Wyll left you in my care,” she finally said at a normal volume. “He was very worried about your mental state, and I must say, your actions are not reassuring in that regard.”
He Who Was blinked at this, his first movement in what may have been hours. He wondered at the building tension suddenly snapping at the thought of Wyll’s concern. His friend, who for no discernible reason, cared enough to worry about him. He considered keeping hold of her hand in the hopes of squeezing more concerns from her, but his newly remembered pride looked down on the idea of her thinking him addled. He did tighten his grip just a bit before forcing his stiff fingers to unclench, locking his jaw against the sharp pain in his joints.
Shadowheart must have sensed his discomfort despite his efforts. She turned down the blanket to his waist and lightly kneaded at the taught muscles of his bicep. “Hmm,” she murmured. “I’ve seen this with those tortured by lightning. You must be in a great deal of pain.”
He opened his mouth to respond with a sarcastic ‘yes’ and could only manage a grunt as his throat erupted with a fiery rawness that tasted of blood. He began to cough, his body curling against his will as clots of blood drooled from his mouth. Shadowheart took a soft rag from the bedside table and pressed it to his lips, her other hand cradling the back of his head until at last the fit ended, leaving him trembling, his throat rough with agony.
“I know it hurts,” she said, and he managed to frown at her understatement. “I’ll fetch you something for the pain. Try and close your eyes, and don’t try to speak.” She lowered his head to the pillow and stood to walk toward the door. He felt that flare of panic again until she turned back toward him. “I’ll only be a moment,” she said, then she was gone. He closed his eyes and tried to will his body to relax but the pain had hold of him and refused to relent. He stared at the ceiling instead, surmising they must be at the inn Wyll had mentioned. How they’d arrived here from the mansion’s depths eluded him, unless Wyll had turned away from his quest to ferry him here. A flush of shame suffused his cheeks at the thought that his weakness had cost his friend the reunion he’d so desperately sought.
So great was that sense of shame that He Who Was refused to open his eyes when he heard Shadowheart return to sit again at his side. He smelled the sharp heat of alcohol and the tang of citrus, and felt her calloused fingers behind his neck, so he opened his eyes just enough to see the mug she held to his lips. He bit back a groan as she helped him raise his head and sip at the warm drink, almost groaning again in relief as it burned its way down his throat, strangely soothing.
“It’s hot whiskey with lemon and clove,” she said softly. “I sent a lad to fetch some healing potions, and unless he absconds with my coin, he should be back in a bit.” She tilted the cup again and he took another eager sip. She held his head up, his own strength too spent to help, and he found himself impressed by her steadiness. In four sips he’d managed to drain the cup, a welcome lassitude spreading through his limbs, and he lay back down.
“Now,” she said with a nod of emphasis, “you stink. There are two ways we could rectify that: we can wait for those potions, or I could bathe the worst of the sewer off. I’m inclined toward the former, but I’ll give you the option.”
He Who Was thought for a moment, staring into her calm green eyes, then tore his gaze away and lifted his head, looking meaningfully at the sponge tray on the bedside table. He even managed to jerk his head once in that direction against the protestations of his neck, then sagged back against the pillow with a sigh and awaited his bath, that thrumming tension in his chest returning at the thought of her touch on his skin.
“Good, we’ll wait then,” she said, either not noticing or purposefully ignoring his gesture. He frowned at her as she pulled the blanket back up to his throat, the frown easing only a fraction as she took his hand in hers. “Should I tell you a bedtime story?” she teased. He only narrowed his eyes to slits, the last thing he saw as he closed them fully was her full lips curving in a smile.
Shadowheart waited until the Shadar-kai’s breathing grew even with sleep, her eyes soft with curiosity. His appearance remained fierce even as he lay vulnerable. She sighed at her own bone-deep exhaustion, her recovery interrupted by Wyll’s arrival and Astarion’s plea to find him. She vowed to be less indulgent of the vampire’s requests in future. Let his lover coddle him now, she had her own tasks to accomplish. Then she chuckled at herself and leaned forward to rest her cheek on her arm, knowing that she was bluffing and could deny her friend nothing.
She drifted off to sleep, a prayer of gratitude on her lips, thankful that her Lady didn’t begrudge her the softness of her heart, even if her taste in friends was suspect.