Summary: "General Acacius has fallen," exclaims Emperor Geta. "But he left us the most precious thing he had—his daughter! The sun of our Rome!"
If the road leads to the abyss, only a madman would walk it with submission. But does a prisoner have the right to choose?
"In the name of peace, I shall take his daughter as my lawful wife!"
Peace is merely a word behind which violence hides. Oaths sworn in blood do not smell of blessing but of a curse.
"Smile, my little bird, you are to bear the emperor's child," a warm, sticky whisper. "And remember, your whore of a mother is still alive."
She is his. She will be his. Just as the sun belongs to the sky, just as fire devours wood, so too was Helena made to burn for him alone…
DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18+!
Warnings: Forced Marriage, Rape, Rough Sex, Possessive Behavior, Obsession, Sex Dubious, Consent Mildly Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Vaginal Sex, Loss of Virginity, Masturbation, public sex, Sexual Overstimulation, Depression, Angst, Drama, Blood and Violence, Unrequited, Love, Sexual Content, Complicated Relationships, Sexism, Sexual Inexperience, Cruelty, Feelings, Possessive Sex, Pregnancy, Forced Pregnancy, Pregnancy Kink, Breeding.
Dawn
With the first rays of the sun enveloping Rome in golden radiance, the Colosseum awakens to life. The rays flow down the marble walls, spreading over the stones like molten gold. The air is heavy with the scent of blood, dust, and oil from the torches still smoldering after the night's riot.
The crowd hums, its shouts and murmur blending into a single rhythm, like the sea crashing against rocks. Waves of voices break again and again against the walls of the Colosseum, rolling in echoes through the ancient stones, filling every crack, every curve of the stands. The air trembles with tension. The scent of fear, sweat, and sun-heated blood intertwines with the aroma of resinous torches, spilled cheap wine, and the stench of drains. This is the pulse of the city, its thirst, its beastly grin.
Its eternal hunger.
But now comes a moment of silence—fleeting, deceptive. Like a beast, pausing for a moment before the leap. Thousands of heads lean forward at once, catching the breath of power. Some lips are parted in anticipation, others clenched like those of cornered dogs.
Rome smells of decay. Not just of rotten meat and sewage but of human flesh—the sickly-sweet, warm scent of blood seeping into stone, sand, and palace walls. It clings to the skin, penetrates the pores, saturates the hair. Even the haughty patricians, wrapping themselves in fresh togas, cannot escape it. They pour perfumes over it in vain, but Rome always betrays itself.
The life of the Colosseum is the smell of charred flesh, screams, sweat, and the perspiration of fear. It is the fat flies swarming over fresh corpses, settling on dried crimson stains embedded in the stone. It is the crowd roaring, rushing like jackals sensing prey. And the Colosseum feeds them. Feeds them meat, feeds them spectacle, throws the dead under their feet so the people may chew on this pain until nothing remains but bone dust.
It is also taste. The salty tang clinging to the lips. The bitterness of ash covering the stands. The weight of hundreds of breaths, mixed in a single frenzy. The spectacle is the food they consume, flesh and death their bread and wine. They chew these moments, grind destinies, stuff their mouths with another’s agony, not realizing they themselves become part of it.
Beside two elevated thrones, adorned with carvings, golden plates, and lions, stands a girl. Her long honey-golden hair falls over her shoulders, cascading down her back. The wind plays with it like silk ribbons. Her porcelain skin pales, and her green eyes, fixed on the arena—on the very place where her father’s lifeless body had recently lain—fill with tears once more.
She does not move. Only breathes. Raggedly, intermittently, like a fish thrown ashore. Her temples throb, her chest tightens. Dead air. This air is not for breathing; it is for drowning. It fills the lungs with heaviness, makes every movement sluggish, every thought viscous. It seeps inside, settles in the chest, grips the throat like an invisible hand. And no one will be saved. Because there is no fresh air in the Colosseum. Even the wind here smells of death.
General Acacius was a valiant warrior, a defender of Rome, a man whom the people loved and begged to be spared. The Romans pleaded for mercy. But the emperors pronounced their verdict, and the voice of the Gods, as Geta himself said, was inexorable.
"Only the Gods are given the right to decide fates," he whispered before his clenched fist rose into the air, and he lowered his thumb downward. Execute.
Now the people are furious. They shout, they murmur, their voices rumbling like thunder before a storm. But no one will leave. No one will abandon this theater of death. They will watch, even if their hearts tighten with horror. Even if someone clamps their mouth shut, suppressing vomit. They will not look away, because Rome craves spectacle, and blood is its greatest entertainment.
Emperor Geta only smiles. Narrowly, predatorily. Like a beast locked in a cage, who suddenly realized: the cage is not real. This whole crowd belongs to him. Their anger is laughable, their cries pathetic. They will growl, howl, screech, but in the end—they will bow. They always bow, as if he and his brother were Gods.
Lucilla is dead too.
Lucius, Lucilla’s son, perished in the darkness of night. He did not even have time to understand what was happening when the guards found him among the gladiator cages, dead with his throat slit, unarmed. The news reached Helena through her servant, Jnessa, and her heart collapsed at that moment, as if Death itself had whispered her name—within a few hours, the emperors summoned her to service.
Now Helena is alone. The last of those who once lived under the sky of old Rome. And now her life, like her father’s once, hangs by a thin thread, torn by the cruel hands of power.
And his voice, when he begins to speak, sounds as if Jupiter himself is speaking:
"People of Rome!" the emperor exclaims, raising his hands to the rising sun, and the crowd suddenly falls silent. "We hear your anger, your pain. We hear your cry for justice!"
And the crowd regains its noise—Geta only needs to pause for a moment. But he immediately raises his head again with confidence, his eyes gleaming—madness swirls in them, and something else—ancient, primal, as if he is either the conduit of a will or merely a madman allowed to rule by equally insane people.
"But is it not the Gods who are meant to decide the fate of mortals? Are we, mere mortals, able to argue with their will?!" he sweeps his gaze over the ranks of his people, and silence spreads through the Colosseum like dark wine in a silver cup. "General Acacius has fallen, and his blood has washed this land." Others do not hear the fleeting, barely perceptible click—a smirk. But Helena stands too close to ignore the sound. "But the general left us the most precious thing he had—his daughter! The Sun of our Rome!"
Geta pronounces this with relish. He savors the words like a sweet fig, crushing them with his tongue, filling the air with them. "The Sun"—he nearly purrs, like a cat that has caught a bird.
"You wanted blood? You shall have it," his voice rolls across the square. "You seek justice? You shall have it!"
Helena grows cold. Her fingers clench into fists, nails digging into her skin. She knows him. She knows his gaze, knows that crooked, cruel smile. Once, in childhood, he had taken her hand, leading her through the marble corridors of the palace. Back then, his touch was different.
Does he want to kill her? Worse.
"In the name of peace, so that the sacrifice is not in vain," Emperor Geta’s voice cuts through the air like the tip of a dagger, "I shall take the daughter of General Acacius as my lawful wife! In three weeks, at the sunset of the next month, she shall become—Augusta of Rome!"
The crowd gasps. Some begin to shout in fury, others murmur in confusion. The people sway like a great wave that is about to either crash upon the shore or retreat. The anger does not disappear—it transforms. It compresses into bewilderment, into heated debates, into a search for logic in this madness.
Geta slowly raises his hands. Let them see him. Let the sun cast its glow upon his reddish hair, let the purple of his toga, heavy and solemn, be remembered by all. Let this moment remain in their memory—the moment he bent the people of Rome to his will.
He smiles. Calmly. Slightly mockingly. But his eyes are wild, insane.
"I hear your anger," he says, and his voice is full of cold majesty. "Your hearts boil, for blood has been spilled!"
He steps forward, spreads his hands as if revealing the cosmos before them.
"Blood is pain. Blood is sacrifice. Blood is the price we pay for order! I do not deny my deed. But I will not allow the death of the great traitor-general to divide us! I will not allow his name to become mere ashes in the wind!"
Geta pauses, letting the crowd absorb his words. Then he speaks, each syllable echoing:
"For such is the law of fate: what is destroyed must be reunited. The blood of General Acacius’ daughter and mine shall merge into one. His spirit will live in my heirs. I do not reject him—I will make him a part of me, a part of Rome! And let the Sun of the Empire rise above us!"
And then the sound. One voice, foreign, elevated, yet commanding, like a hammer blow. The words flow, penetrate ears, sink into hearts. And then—the first movement. Someone’s fingers nervously clutch the edge of a toga, someone gasps for air, and then... an explosion. A wave of voices crashes over the Colosseum, a roar shatters the air like stones tumbling down a cliff.
A new empress. The daughter of the man whom Geta himself condemned to death.
Helena freezes, feeling her world crumble. And the guards suddenly push her forward, forcing her to step toward the emperor. The fabric of her long blue dress catches on her sandal, and she nearly falls.
Geta yanks her to him. He moves slowly, like a predator playing with its prey. There is something lazy, unhurried in his gait, but beneath it lies sharpness, cunning. He stretches this moment, prolongs it, like a spider savoring the agony of its victim. Geta drinks in the moment, absorbs her fear like wine that gives him strength.
He has already tasted her despair, and now he merely savors it.
Golden fire dances in his eyes. His lips are wet from wine, his breath warm, with a spicy bitterness. He smirks, allowing himself to examine her up close. He watches how tears glisten on her lashes, how her lips tremble. In this, there is power. His power.
The scent of his body is thick, rich. Frankincense, wine, honey, salt, skin—he smells like a feast, like a sacrifice to the gods. His fingers wrap around Helena’s waist, and she feels his strength—rough, insatiable. He holds her as if sinking his teeth into her, as if carving his name into her flesh.
His face is frighteningly close. His lips slide along her temple, hot breath scorching her skin. He grabs Helena tightly under the ribs, like an iron hoop, his fingers digging into her body, forcing her to freeze from the pain. She feels her bones almost crack under his grip.
"You're trembling, meus sol," (my sun) - his voice is low, hissing, like a snake slithering across the sand.
His eyes are burning. The black ring of his dilated pupils blurs the crimson color of his iris, eclipsing it, like night extinguishes day. He looks at Helena too intently, too hungrily — like someone who already considers something his own. Geta inhales the air near her face, as if testing it. And he gets drunk.
She is his. She will be his. Just like the sun belongs to the sky, like fire consumes wood, so Helena was created to burn only for him. For now — unreachable, like the morning light that slides over stones, not allowing itself to be caught. But soon… Soon he will tear her from the heavens and make her burn only for him.
His hand slides across her shoulder, feeling the fabric of the tunic, the crumpled cloth from the struggle that sticks to her body. The thin linen soaked with sweat, clinging to her skin, accentuating the shape of her breasts, the curve of her hips. Geta slowly traces his fingers across the folds.
"Are you afraid? Or angry?"
Helena’s breath catches, but he catches the sound. He catches her fear. He drinks it, savoring it, like sweet Falernian honey. He is used to fear. He has been fed by it since childhood. People fear him. Women fear him. But no one dares to run. Not even her.
"Why are you doing this to me?" she breathes out barely audible.
Helena jerks, but he tightens his grip, pulling her closer, so that there is no space left between their bodies. Beneath him — flesh, alive, alert. She breathes deeper, sensing his essence — meat, vanity, power, which has soaked him through like oil — wool. Geta feels her breath, not moving.
Her wrist is in his palm, and he raises her arm, like proclaiming victory. Her body no longer belongs to her. It belongs to his hands, his strength, his whim. Even the air she breathes seems heated by his breath. Geta holds her tightly, as if afraid she will fall apart under his fingers. Or maybe he wants to hear her crack.
"Glory to the Empire! Glory to Rome!" he exclaims. His hand, gripping Helena’s shoulder, slowly slides down to her thin wrist. The touch is hot, as if he just dipped his fingers in blood.
Cries explode through the air. Helena gasps, tears burning her eyes. Geta bends close to her ear, his breath brushing her skin.
The crowd roars her name, their filthy mouths desecrating his property. They reach out to her, longing to touch, to steal even a drop of her light. Their rotting teeth, sweaty fingers, their hoarse voices… Pitiful, insignificant worms daring to desire his sun! He will burn them from her memory, erase every one who dares to think she does not belong only to him.
Fingers sink into her skin. Her heart beats, but not in flight — in the painful realization that between disgust and something darker runs a thin, shiny, predatory thread.
His eyes glide over her face, tearing it apart with his gaze.
"Fool," he exhales. "You think you can just turn away?"
He touches her cheek with his lips, like a snake testing the air. Slowly, barely perceptibly. But enough for her to feel how repulsive his kiss is. Crimson petals swirl in the air, like drops of spilled blood. Thousands of them, tens of thousands — they fall from the upper tiers, settling on the stones, on the heads, on the shoulders of the gathered. Beneath their feet, they mix with the sand, and it feels like the entire arena is drowning in a crimson sea.
"Smile, my little bird, you are to bear the emperor's child," a warm, sticky whisper. "And remember, your whore of a mother is still alive."
Geta pulls back, but does not leave. He enjoys the moment. He wants to see how fear is born in Helena’s eyes, how it twists inside her, how she fights, resists, only to give in afterward. He wants that taste — the taste of victory, the taste of power, the taste of revenge on her.
Helena lifts her gaze, forces a smile, but her eyes speak otherwise. But from this distance, no one can tell what she's thinking.
Geta tightens his grip on her fingers. He presses the back of her hand to his lips, intertwining their fingers. His eyes — two dark abysses that want to consume her entirely. His fingers slide, feeling the protruding bones. Too fragile. Too brittle. But something about this pleases him. Isn't it beautiful, what can break?
The crowd roars. The Colosseum thirsts for blood once again.
Helena feels his nails digging into her wrist, leaving crescent-shaped marks of pain. He doesn't let go. Even when she tries to break free — he enjoys it. She feels it in how his breath trembles, how his fingers tighten, how he savors this fleeting resistance.
Geta lowers his gaze to her neck. The skin is pale, tender, taut with tension. Already, the marks of his touch are visible. He slowly traces his finger along the line of her shoulder blades, wrapping his hand around her neck from behind. He feels how quickly her heart beats, how it pounds beneath his hand. His lips slowly curl into a grin.
And over this chaos, over the screams and roars, dawn continues to scatter its brilliance. The sun rises higher, its honeyed rays glide over the ancient stones, penetrating every crack, spreading gold over the blue folds. The wind stirs the thin fabric, as if trying to rip it off and carry it away, away from this prison. But is there a glimmer of hope in this light? Or is it just an illusion — a lie before another fall into darkness?
I don't know English. Maybe there are a lot of mistakes. ♡♡♡
"who radicalized you" ever since i was a child i wanted other people to be treated nicely and fairly because i didnt understand why theyd deserve otherwise and it fills me with disgust seeing how people treat their fellow human beings sometimes
I keep thinking about how almost all of Gale's scenes involve him holding the players hand in some way; pulling him out of the portal, holding the players hand to his chest when he reveals the truth about his orb, imagining holding his hand for his act1 romance scene, him caressing the players hand during the astral scene in act 2, and him holding the players hand in his act 3 astral boat scene.
If anything it shows just how much he values the players touch, something that maybe never happened much with Mystra (simple acts of intimacy, even as innocent as holding hands).
Scenario || You are a druid adept that has been imprisoned by Kagha for trying to stop the Rite of Thorns in Halsin's absence. He returns to find you and is none to happy to see it, especially after all you have been through.
POV || 2nd Person, ungendered tav/reader.
CW || mentions of entrapment, trafficking, self-deprecation, trauma. (Please let me know if I forgot anything.)
A/n || I have been a little stressed out and have been using this as a distraction/escape. I would appreciate so much if you all let me know what you think! Requested by the lovely @drabblesandimagines, thank you for the idea and I hope you enjoy it!! Thank you for your patience in waiting for this one!
You’re almost certain Archdruid Halsin doesn’t know you exist, but it doesn’t stop you from being devastated when he doesn’t return to the Emerald Grove from his travels to the nearby goblin camp. Even if he doesn’t remember you, you certainly have never forgotten him. Nor have you been able to wrench your heart from the grip of the merciless pining that has plagued you ever since you woke up on a pile of soft hides on the floor of his vault beneath the temple..
The truth is, Archdruid Halsin had saved you.
You’d been captured, at the time, by a troupe of traveling drow with the intention of taking you deep into the underdark to be used for whatever nefarious purposes they deigned. You were one of many captured, but the only druid in the lot.
They’d entrapped you in a cage, preventing you from even taking your wildshape to flee. They’d gone between distressing you in both forms, though. They’d seemed to have a particular talent for making you miserable, and in time you’d lost a bit of your humanity to the shape of the russet and auburn fox you often favored.
When he’d reached in to coax you out with a gentle hand, you pounced on the appendage–far too entrapped in the fear-addled mind of an animal that would sooner gnaw its own foot off than let a hunter find it caught in his leghold trap.
But he hadn’t flinched; hadn’t even grimaced as you sank your sharpened teeth into the thick flesh of his muscled forearm and tore at it. He’d simply watched calmly as you got it out of your system. When you’d realized he was an unyielding mass of man, you’d backed into the farthest corner of your kennel and cowered.
“Fear not, little one,” he’d cooed with that gentle, gravelly tone. “You are among friends now. I only wish to ensure you’re uninjured, and you can be on your way to find your mate or your burrow.”
You’d only blinked and he swapped his bleeding arm for his other one. You’d sniffed cautiously before dropping your head and your ears. He’d not needed any other sign, he’d known the way animals communicate; with gestures and body language rather than sounds.
He’d smoothed a hand over your ratty coat; it was the first kind touch you’d felt in months. You’d leaned yourself into it and he’d used the opportunity to scoop you up into his arms.
Perhaps it was at that moment that you’d fallen for him. Because as soon as you’d registered the strong and tender support of his warm, cradling arms, you’d suddenly realized how exhausted you’d been. You lost hold on your wildshape and changed back to your humanoid form, unclothed and skinny.
He’d started, adjusted his grip a little clumsily as you’d spilled out of the space he’d allotted in his arms for you; but he didn’t drop you.
“You surprised me, child,” he’d said as you’d started to drift into unconsciousness. “I’d certainly thought it was strange to go through such stringent measures for a single fox, but I see now why they’d made such efforts to keep you entrapped.”
He’d reached up to brush your tangled hair away from your face. “I can see you’re exhausted. Rest now; when you wake, you’ll be safe and warm with a meal and a warm bath awaiting you.”
He hadn’t lied, and the Emerald Grove had quickly become your home in the months and years that had passed since then. You’d seen Halsin around, of course. And he always seemed to have a smile to spare for you as you passed like swans floating in a pond. But you’d never quite been able to find a way to speak to him in private.
Perhaps it was your fault, you think, as you find yourself in a new cage, heart broken and aching as it seems less and less likely that he will ever be coming back.
You know Halsin to be strong. He’s a seven foot elf and built like the cave bear he so often likes to take the shape of. But there is only so much a single druid can do on his own, even one as competent as Halsin.
It hurts to be facing the possibility of rotting in the cells below the grove–below the place that had so much begun to feel like home for you, finally. It hurts to realize you may die here having never told Halsin how you feel about him.
But perhaps it’s better this way. Perhaps it is better to die having never faced the awkward acknowledgement of feeling that could never be returned.
Halsin has always been effusive, warm, welcoming…brave.
But there is a reason you chose the fox for your wildshape.
You have always been furtive, timid, too reliant on a single person. It has always been your nature, but you can’t deny the fundamental absurdity of the fox falling for the bear. At best, you could only be an inconvenient pest to him. You’re sure of that much.
Still…you miss the sun…you wish you could see it one more time. You’d always wanted to die bathed in the sunlight, not cold and damp in a stone chamber flooded with three inches of water. You curl into yourself, hugging your knees close, trying to remember the feeling of those warm arms around you as the Rite of Thorns continues somewhere above ground, heedless of your pleas for stalling, uncaring of the courage you’d had to summon to stand up to Kagha at all.
Kagha had never cared much for you; found you weak and miserable.
Pathetic. That was the word you’d heard bandied around when she didn’t know you were within earshot or when you were cozily cloaked by your shadows.
“You should have just kept your mouth shut,” you tell yourself.
But even you don’t really believe that. Not truly. You found kindred spirits in the Teiflings who had come to find refuge in the grove. You’d even played with the children in their little hiding spot beneath the old stone structures.
When the goblins came screaming the name of the Absolute, when Halsin left to learn more about the parasites, you’d been shocked and frightened by the sudden turn of sentiments against them and gotten swept away in your own outrage over it. As far as you’d been concerned, everyone in the grove should have been well aware of what Halsin would have tolerated. They should have known that he’d want any living being to be safe and fed–especially the children.
But it’d seemed that even the Emerald Grove druids were merely people; they were just as vulnerable to intimidation, coercion and power hunger as anyone else in Faerun.
You shiver in the cold and the dank, wishing you could get some rest so that you could take your wildshape and find warmth in the silken texture of your auburn coat.
You think of the nights curled up by the fire in Halsin’s secret cache while he allowed you a smaller space to acclimate to when you’d first arrive. You remember the feeling of large, gentle hands cradling your small, vulpine body in comfort as you slept.
It’s at that moment that you hear the scuff of loud, fast foot fall on the decrepit stairs that lead down to this sodden prison. It’s followed by heavy, hurried sloshing before, as if out of thin air, Halsin stands before you. His hands are wrapped around the thick, stone bars of your enclosure so tightly that they are white at the knuckles. His broad chest rises and falls with exertion; or is that emotion? It is hard to know.
He looks…utterly stricken. So much so that you wonder what happened to devastate him. Did he get back to The Grove to find all of the tieflings slaughtered? Did the tieflings rise up and destroy the grove before the Rite of Thorns could be finished?
He opens his mouth and you expect terrible news–expect the worst.
“A-are you alright?” is what he chokes out instead.
You’re quiet for a moment; the question not making sense to you. Why in the world would he care if you were alright? You were…nobody. A druidic adept that found much more comfort tucked into a nest of blankets than anything else. You’d failed to stop the Rite. You’d failed at almost everything in your life so far.
Has he…is it too dark down here? Does he think he’s talking to someone else?
He grits his teeth and starts to wrestle with the door to your cell.
Its mechanism is like the others in the temple; controlled by a stone tablet which should be placed in the proper slot and then activated with druidic magic. But he’s trying to use his own raw strength to open it.
“Forgive me,” he grunts as the stone actually begins to give way, heeding his command. “I should have never left you here while The Grove was tangled in so much unrest. Had I thought the Kagha…had I known–”
“Archdruid,” you stammer. “You’re going to hurt yourself–”
“I care not,” he says, his tone taking on an almost ferocious quality that has you lifting your shoulders and shrinking into yourself. “It is you I am most concerned for. You had only just begun to smile and I– because of my negligence I find you entrapped all over again.”
Your mouth drops open as you realize that he actually came down here looking for you. Specifically to find you. To save you again.
You are small; practically half the size of the archdruid. Yet, you suddenly recognize that he is trying to free you and you are just sitting there like some kind of dead fish. You stand to your feet and hurry over to the bars, grasping two of the other juts of stone and pulling it as he pushes.
You’re not sure, but for a moment you think you see the barest ghost of a smile before his teeth clench again with effort.
When the door is finally forced open a few inches, you release the stone. You roll your shoulders, shake out the tension in your hands. You will yourself to become smaller, to become lithe. You will your mouth to grow sharp, unforgiving teeth. You become vulpine.
You slosh through the water on four padded feet and dash through the opening.
For a moment, you almost flee up the stairs, ready to retreat to the fresh salty air outside. Ready to resign yourself to life as a fox.
But Halsin drops to his knees and you look at him as he looks at you.
He reaches a hand out to you, and you see the faint, silvery scars on his forearm from where you tore into him on the day you met. You sniff at him for a moment, then you shift back to your human form, carefully cradling his arm in your hands.
“Did it get infected?” you ask. “After I gnawed at you?”
His brow is low and lips turn down at the corners.
“No,” he says.
“I don’t understand,” you say. “You shouldn’t have scarred…you should have been able to simply heal yourself.”
“I was able,” he says. “But I was unwilling. I…I didn’t want to forget.”
You look up at him. “Why?” you ask.
There is the sound of chaos from up the stairs. You turn your head, letting your ears tune into the finer details of it as the quiet ambience of the water dripping and sloshing around you obscures it. As your focus narrows, you hear her.
“She’s back,” Halsin sneers. “Kagha has finally returned.”
You look at him, your eyes wide as if you’re seeing him for the first time. The expression on his face is nothing short of raw, wild fury. He is the snarl of a wolf, he is the crackle of wildfire, he is the dark promise of death in a row of pointed teeth.
He draws his arm back, stopping to take both of your small hands in his. His expression softens. “I will tell all,” he says. “But not before I punish the one who did this to you. Not before I see justice properly served for all of the disarray and cruelty enacted in my absence.”
You try to find a way to answer, but you can’t, settling instead for a dumbfounded nod.
He stands and, once at his full height, shifts the position of his hand to cradle yours; offering you help, but also offering you the chance to help yourself. You grasp that hand and he tightens the muscles of his arms as you use his strength and stability to get yourself back up to your feet.
“I am loathe to leave you down in this terrible place…but if you’re too frightened to face her…” he offers.
“I’m not…” you say. “O-or at least I won’t be…not with you there.”
He graces you with the first real smile he’s given you since he suddenly appeared before you and you think you may no longer need the sun if he can continue looking at you just like that.
“Come,” he says. “I want you to be part of this discussion.”
You follow Halsin, dwarfed in his shadow as you ascend the craggy steps, your soft leather shoes uncomfortably soggy and embarrassingly loud as you go. It feels almost surreal to be acknowledged by Halsin. Even more strange that he remembers you–that he seemed to have come to seek you out before anything else.
There are more questions than answers immediately available, and you’re not sure you’ll have the nerve to ask those questions when all is said and done.
When Halsin reaches the top of the stairs, he stops and looks back at you, giving you a calm smile as you quicken the pace of your last few steps to catch up with you.
Now that you’re in better light, his brow faintly tenses and he reaches out for you. You go utterly still as he places two of his fingertips under the very tip of your chin, using the most minute bit of pressure to turn your face.
“You’re hurt,” he says. “I didn’t see it in the darkness of the cells.”
You’d forgotten about the injury on your face–it’s not one you’d actually gotten to see before you were imprisoned, but you’d felt it throbbing for the entire day you were there.
“It’s just a bruise,” you say.
He removes his hand from beneath your chin and draws those same finger tips carefully over the curve of your brow. You wince slightly as he touches the most tender part and shakes his head.
“There’s a split in your brow,” he says. “It will scar…”
You heave a little breathy chuckle. “Perhaps it will make me look more distinguished,” you say as you meet his hazel eyes. “You certainly wear them well.”
His heartbroken expression eases up and he shakes his head, hesitant amusement on his face. “If I wear them well, then you’ll be exquisite as ever with your own,” he says. “Still–that you were hurt because of my absence–”
“The fox was caught sticking it’s nose where it didn’t belong and was appropriately punished for it,” A familiar, haughty voice interrupts. “Don’t let the little bandit fill your head with untruths.”
Halsin takes your hand in his and pulls you slightly behind him as he also moves to block you from Kagha’s sight. It’s a protective measure, but he doesn’t force you to hide. Instead, it feels like he’s asserting his position as your protector–as the protector of any who are weaker than him–while allowing your agency to remain intact should you wish to take the lead.
“I don’t want to hear about your paranoia Kagha–I’ve heard enough of it to turn my stomach,” he says, that gravelly voice gaining an almost abrasive quality. “Tell me why I shouldn’t turn you out–or hand you over the shadow druids you’ve been cavorting with?”
You watch as Kagha goes pale and your stomach churns with a dizzying mixture of nausea and fear.
The shadow druids. The order of druidic magic that lay closest to the dark. The drow, the deep gnomes, Shar. Everything that represents the terror you’d once experienced crammed into a too-small cage.
How could she? How could she want to work with them?! And then to have a nerve to call you a fox in the hen house.
“I didn’t do anything,” you say, your voice quiet but steady. “I was only looking for a way to convince you that we needn’t go through with the ritee…”
“By snooping in places you DON'T belong,” Kagha says.
“Perhaps it is you who does not belong here,” you snap.
“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Halsin growls. “You do not deserve to remain here, yet it is Nature who will determine what becomes of you. One thing is certain: my teachings have clearly not made the difference here. You are to start anew—be made a novice once again.”
“You can’t do that—“ Kagha starts.
“I am the First Druid in this Grove and I will do whatever I see fit to protect the people who call this place their home!” Halsin booms. “Kagha, you failed me. You failed everyone who relied on you!”
“That fox is an outsider. Ever since you pulled it in by its scruff it has done nothing but consume priceless resources and shrink into the corner like a frightened rodent. If you so crave balance—“
“Enough!” Halsin barks. “I will hear no more of this.”
“But—“ Kagha says.
“I said enough. Get out of my sight before I lose hold of my humanity and tear you to shreds,” Halsin snarled.
He says it loudly and deeply enough that it echoes in the stone chamber. Even you flinch a bit at the sudden fury coming off of him. You can almost smell it coming off of him–the adrenaline, the willingness to fight and gnash at Kagha.
Kagha has the good sense to dip her head in deference.
“Understood, First Druid Halsin,” she says.
“Good,” he says, his voice a low rumble in his chest. “Now. Apologize.”
Her head snaps up again and her gaze slides over to you, sharp as an arrowhead. The silence between you carries the same anticipatory nausea of waiting for a cobra to strike. You can sense quite well that Kagha may be properly chastened for her actions in the grove, but her opinion of you seems to remain the same.
Pathetic, you remember. That’s what you are to her.
“It’s fine,” you say. “I’m just happy to be free again.”
“No,” he commands. “It is not fine. You did what was right and were punished for it. Kagha. Will. Apologize.”
Your heart stutters and pounds in your ears. You know Halsin means well. You know he is angry on your behalf, and that he wants to see you treated kindly, but you don’t like confrontation.You think that ferocity is meant to be directed to Kagha, but you’re not entirely sure. Flashes of terror and confusion climb out of the burial ground of your mind. Memories of a cramped cage, the smell of blood, the sound of pained mewling, angry shouting in a language you don’t understand and the pain of punishment when a command you didn’t understand was not followed.
You don’t want this display; you do not want to be the vehicle of this lesson. You don’t want to rock the boat unless the situation is absolutely dire; especially now that you’ve proven just how little efficacy you have when you insert yourself into the matters of people who do not like you or simply have more investment in their own interests than in the interests of the collective. It feels like a leg snare waiting to lock down on you and you’re not sure you can escape it this time.
The tension between Halsin and Kagha sings at a tenor that pierces your ears. Or is that your adrenaline? You’re not sure. Whatever it is, your muscles are sore and aching; wound tightly and ready to spring at the first sight of danger; the first sign of movement toward you.
Halsin spares a glance your way, perhaps sensing that growing tension. Your eyes dart up to his as your body starts to tremble, not with fear, but with the urge to act. You are a small, scrappy creature locked in a stand-off with a larger predator.
His expression softens, looking almost apologetic.
“Easy, little one,” he says as he reaches his hand out to touch you.
Your mind is more feral than human by then. Just before he can actually touch you, you drop into a crouch and dart away from him, your heart hammering painfully against your sternum like an animal backed in a cage. You feel that wild urge to scratch, to gnaw, to snarl.
His expression drops into one of worry, his guilt clear in his expression and in the way he bends at the knees, lowering himself and making himself small like one might when trying to calm an injured animal.
“You are safe, dear one,” he says. “You are safe.”
You don’t believe him. It doesn’t feel safe here, not anymore. Perhaps never again.
A sound comes from behind you and you lurch forward, losing your footing on your slick, damp boots, falling hard onto the palms of your hands before you get back up to your feet and fly through the old temple and scrambling out of the door.
You simply run, your mind a blur of colors and raw, terrible fear. You can’t even register and savor the feeling of the sun on your skin or the sweet, salty breeze coming off of the lower cove. You run, and run, and run until familiar sights bleed into unfamiliar ones; until the wound up tension in your muscles gives way to trembling exhaustion.
You don’t immediately recognize where you are, but you find a little alcove tucked into a glen of oak trees, their trunks fat with age and their canopies heavy with acorns and boughs full of leaves.
The sun shines through the eaves, coloring the long grasses in deep emeralds and dappled yellow light. You sit against one of the trees, feeling the steady presence of Sylvanus as you gulp in desperate, exhausted breaths, your heart still hammering loudly in your ears. You rest your head back against the tree and close your eyes for just a moment. You breathe, and then you breathe again. Distance from the grove gives you a moment to realize just what being in that place was doing to you.
The politics, the prejudice, the precarious balance between the available resources and the people who needed them most. You always do better on your own. There’s a reason the form of a fox comes to you most naturally; they aren’t pack animals. As it so happens, apparently, neither are you.
So why had you stayed so long?
The fear of being captured again, perhaps.
Or maybe it was the Teiflings–you’d found a little group of friends among them; enjoyed sharing a drink with Dammon once in a while.
But neither of those seem to ring true for you, in reality.
No, what really seems to be the reason is the other part of foxes that makes the most sense to you.
That they tend to find a mate, have a family, and remain with them for life.
A reality you’d spent the last several years trying to avoid. Because there was only really one person keeping you at the grove. And that person was Halsin.
He’s just…
He’s everything you wish you could be.
He’s everything you wish you could have.
But you can’t. Because at the end of the day you’re just some animal, fleeing the first offer of help and biting down on the hand that feeds you. There’s regret in this moment. Regret that you will never get to inquire about the expressions on Halsin’s face; about the reasons he came to free you so quickly.
But the regret gives way to exhaustion and as you soak in the speckled rays of sunlight, feeling truly warmed for the first time in days–perhaps even weeks–you drift into a dreamless sleep.
It’s the quiet sound of metal against wood that wakes you.
The manner in which you wake is not a lurch; not an abrupt burst of movement that feels like you’re gasping for air. It’s the slow, soft blinking of an afternoon nap becoming an evening laze. In breathe in through your nose, slow and deep, faintly aware of the feeling of soft fur against your bare feet.
You feel swaddled by warmth. Wrapped in the familiar scents of clove, moss and tobacco.
You finally open your eyes and find a fire crackling before you, hemmed in by stones half-darkened by clay, as if someone collected them recently to guard the oaks from the danger of an unkempt flame.
You don’t put it together at first that you’ve been moved; specifically that you’ve been laid down within a comfortable bedroll. That the smell infused into the furs is comforting because of the man sitting not even a few feet away; the source of the sound of metal against wood.
You crane your head up to find him. Halsin Silverbough quietly focused on a block of soft wood, whittling away at it. You just watch him for a few seconds, almost dazed that he’s here with you.
“Is this a dream?” You ask.
His knife slips a little clumsily, he hadn’t noticed you were awake. He drops his hands into his lap and turns his head to smile down at you.
“Do I often visit you in your dreams, dear heart?” he asks.
Hearing that gravelly timbre and that tender pet name sets your blood on fire. You feel a flush rising to your face and you can’t keep from bringing the covers up to hide the evidence. His eyes crinkle with mirth and he lets out a pleasant, easy laugh. The easiest you’ve heard him laugh in…well, ever.
“Forgive me for laughing,” he says, setting his little project aside. “You gave me quite a scare when you ran off like that. But I suppose I can’t blame you for reacting that way…I know how hard it is for you when tension is high. Forgive me for being inconsiderate of those feelings by making you the instrument of Kagha’s repentance.”
You’re quiet for a long time, unsure what to say. You finally settle for, “How far did I run?”
His brows rise a bit and he heaves out a bit of a grumbling breath as he thinks about it. “Hard for me to ever tell how long a distance is, but we’re somewhere near the goblin camp at that old temple of Selune,” he says. “Lucky for us that I cleared it with a group of adventurers today. Otherwise, I fear I would have made things much worse for you by tackling you down before you could get too close to their camp.”
You bite the inside of your lip, trying not to imagine your body tangling with his. Your face is red enough.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” you say, still beneath the covers. “I was so devastated when you didn’t come back from the goblin camp.”
“I’ve been worrying about you since I left,” he says. “I was…I wasn’t behaving calmly when I found you. I wasn’t acting in a way befitting a First Druid.”
“No one is above their own natural drives,” you say. “Anger is a natural reaction to disobedience.”
He looks at you, his brow creasing. “You think I was angry because Kagha disobeyed me?” he says.
“It’s as good a reason as any,” you say.
He inhales. Hesitates. Then inhales again before saying, “You asked me about the scars on my arm. Why I didn’t want to forget them.”
“Yes,” you say. “But then Kagha came back…”
“I know,” he says. “But I’d like to answer that question now. Now that I’m calm.”
There’s something in his gaze that feels heavy and significant. You slowly rise from your position tucked away in the bedroll, letting the furs fall away from you. You notice, now, that your damp boots have been placed on the other side of the fire to dry, along with your socks. A small act of care a lesser man may have never thought to do for you.
You turn to face Halsin and he turns to face you.
“When we found you…that day with the drow,” he says. “You…reminded me of something I went through as a young adept. A time in which I was kept as an unwilling guest in a drow lord’s estate. As time goes on, it’s easy to forget those things that have happened to me, or to minimize what I went through.
“In truth, I admired you. I admired how you snarled and gnashed at my hand when you were barely the size of my forearm. I admired the way you reached out for care when I housed you while you got back on your feet…for a while I feared that you were never going to heal. But then I realized that you were strong in a different way…in a way that I was not.”
“I’m not strong,” you say, shaking your head.
“You are,” he insists. “Strength is not only measured in brute force. It’s not measured in violence and demands and power. It’s in how you wake up every day, how you rise out of your bed and try to be better than the day before. What I experienced…I shoved it deep down inside of me until the pain was forgotten, but I watched you facing yours every day.”
You’re shocked to hear this, because in your recollection you struggled each day. In the beginning, you were frightened of everyone and everything, and the only thing that allowed you to function at all was the desire to be worth the effort Halsin made in saving you.
“Then…then I learned of you trying to stop the Rite of Thorns, and of you winding up imprisoned again in the very place you should have been safest,” he says, his anger a quiet undercurrent as he remembers newly. “I was so terrified that you would fully retreat back inside yourself, but then you stood and put your small hands on the stone door, snarling at your entrapments just as you were that day I met you.”
You remember his smile, a brief flash when you came to help.
“Am I still strong if I run away from the grove?” you ask.
“You wish to leave?” he asks.
“...I’ve realized, Halsin,” you say, your voice quivering. “I’m not well suited for the social hurdles involved with remaining with the druids…and that the only reason I’ve stayed is because…”
You swallow tightly, words lodging in your throat. Halsin is silent, ever patient as he waits for you to speak.
“Halsin, I have loved you for some time now, I think,” you say. “I know that I am young and that I can’t hope to compete with your past lovers or even the braver druids back at the grove. I know that you hardly have the time for romance, and that even if you did, you likely wouldn’t spend that precious time with me–”
“Hah…you sound so certain,” he says, his voice quiet and contemplative.
It’s your turn to be silent, now. You bring your gaze up to meet his again and he is smiling so gently at you. “The only reason,” he says finally, “the only reason that I have not invited you to my bed is that I didn’t want to cause you inadvertent harm by placing pressure on you that you wouldn’t have the resolve to deflect. I didn’t want to risk my position as the first druid making you feel as if you couldn’t say no to me.”
You blink, the world coming to a screeching halt around you.
Halsin…wants you? You?
You shake your head, feeling your face begin to blaze like you’ve come down with a fever.
“Well, I suppose it’s moot,” you say. “I can’t expect you to leave the Emerald Grove with me.”
“You don’t have to,” he says. “I’ve already left.”
“What?” you say.
“Did you think I packed a bedroll and a pack just to come retrieve you?” he says through a chuckle before he heaves out a rough sigh. “No, truth be told, my heart, I have long become disillusioned with my place among the druids in the grove and with you and the ache of old pains, I can no longer say that my heart is fully in it. The adventurers who released me…they are making their way to the shadowlands and I hope that if I join them, I can undo an old failure from a century ago. Finally heal the ache instead of simply avoiding it. I’m hoping that I can be more like you.”
You feel breathless for a moment, even more so when his eyes lock on yours.
“It will be frightening, my love,” he says. “The shadow curse makes the underdark look like a stroll after midnight. But if you still feel the way you’ve told me you do and if you can trust me to continue protecting you, I would have you in my tent with me greeting each day together.”
You don’t speak, not because you’re uncertain, but because you want to savor this moment.
Halsin loves you.
The bear has fallen for the fox.
And he wants you by his side.
It is the purest bliss you have ever felt. You think you could die happily in the shadow cursed lands if it is a sacrifice you make for him.
You will protect him.
And he will protect you.
“Dear heart,” Halsin says, his nerves coming through his voice. “You torture me by keeping me in suspense. Please know if you don’t wish for this you needn’t agree. I know what I ask of you is–”
“I’m going with you,” you say freeing him from the discomfort you’ve resided in for years. “Of course I’m going with you, Halsin.”
The smile he gives you is nothing short of miraculous.
“Nature blesses me with you,” he says. “Now come here, I need to enjoy you before I take you to meet the others. I have waited so very long for the opportunity, and I have until nightfall to make good on it, if you will have me.”
The image of your body tangled with his appears in your mind’s eye again. You rise to your feet and stride over to him, slipping your fingers into his wild hair. He cups the back of your thigh with a large hand before coaxing you to sit on his lap.
Where he kisses you for the very first time.
May the oak father bless you with countless others.
So there's one Astarion debate I haven't put my two cents in yet, and that's changing today guys. Buckle up.
Astarion's eyes are either green with golden flecks or blue with golden flecks. I'll tell you why.
Astarion is a high elf. High elves have 4 subraces. Of the 4 subraces, 2 have the possibility to have silver hair like his. Those two races are moon elf and star elf. From there we can narrow by personality.
Moon elf personality description: Impulsive, with a strong distaste for complacency.
Star elf personality description: Aloof and cautious.
Now, I love Astarion, but he's not aloof. That man cares too much. So personality wise that narrows to moon elf.
Moon elves have one of two eye colors: green with golden flecks or blue with golden flecks. So Astarion's eyes looked like one of these two:
yousharknotpass
vaporwave
annaxmalina
kaledo-art
germansingergirl
origamiaround
gummygunk
