A few days before the untimely death of Sir Gustav Brightheart, Paladin of Selune... (aka Tav)
Excerpt from Vesper, Chaper 54:
The bell above the apothecary door jingles like a mocking laugh as you step inside. Wolfsbane. You only came for wolfsbane.
Two drops of Essence of Wolfsbane in wine before bed keeps the nightmares at bay—or at least muffles the screams enough to let you sleep somewhat.
It’s getting so hard to stay in control...
The other knives know. They keep pushing.
And the Urge keeps salivating.
One day, it’s going to take over...
And I’ll be here, watching, unable to fight.
Grandfather hopes I’ll come around like Orin.
She’s so naive... I worry about her.
The shop smells of dried herbs and parchment, the air thick with the cloying sweetness of valerian root undercut by the acrid tang of crushed adderstone. You already paid and have what you needed, but some of the freshly crushed petals catch your eye.
Nightshade. Would that help better? Would I sleep without the nightmares?
You’ve used it to kill, never dosed yourself with it.
Maybe something stronger.
Drow poison? Maybe that? Maybe death would be better?
But Orin will be alone. And Sceleritas Fel will find me...
Father will never allow it.
No... It can’t be me. Has to be someone else’s hand...
You’re tracing a finger along the rim of the mortar when another scent hits you—cedar and steel, sunlight on leather.
Your body knows before your mind does.
Muscle memory sends you turning—just enough to see the silhouette in the doorway. Broad-shouldered, backlit by noon sun, the familiar slightest of hitches in his step from that old knee injury.
No... I... I saw the roof burn and collapse, I didn’t see you outside when the Sharrans came.
All those years... I... m-mourned...you...
The wolfsbane vial slips from your fingers.
It shatters on the floorboards, purple petals scattering like spilled blood. The shopkeeper shouts concerned for you, probably because you’ve never reacted in front of her like this in all your years of your patronage, but the sound is distant, muffled as if underwater. All you hear is the thunder of your own pulse as Tav’s gaze locks onto yours.
His lips shape your name.
No... no he... he can’t...
I... I’m a monster, a killer...
You’re moving before you decide to—shouldering past a startled elf, past the shopkeeper, crashing through the back door into the alley. The sudden sunlight blinds you, but you know these streets like the back of your hand.
His voice cracks like a whip. You don’t look back.
Your boots skid on fish guts as you round the corner into Tanner’s Lane. The stench of curing hides mixes with the metallic tang of your fear. Behind you, Tav’s heavier footfalls never falter—he’s gaining ground.
Left at the chandler’s. Through the weaver’s courtyard. Over the low wall—
You vault over a stack of crates, landing hard enough to send a jolt up your spine. The Urge purrs in your ear:
Turn and fight. Bury your blade in his gut.
Watch the light leave those pretty brown eyes.
You bite your tongue until you taste blood.
An arm wraps around your waist from behind, yanking you into a shadowed alcove. Brick scrapes your cheek as Tav spins you, his forearm pressing into your throat—not enough to choke, just enough to pin, his free hand is over your rapier.
"Nine hells," he pants, breath hot on your face. "You still run like a startled fawn."
Up close, he’s older. He’s grown nicely into his features, no longer just handsome but ruggedly handsome... There’s a scar through his left eyebrow from years ago that hasn't quite healed but suits him. His beard is full and thicker, threaded with a few strands of silver. A pendant of Selûne hangs at his throat.
The Urge hisses: Choke him with it.
You knee him in the groin instead.
Tav grunts but doesn’t let go. "Talk to me, damn you!"
You don’t know which of you moves first.
One second you’re struggling wildly for several minutes like a feral fox, the next your mouth is on his—a mess of teeth and desperation. Tav freezes for a heartbeat, then makes a sound low in his throat and answers, his grip shifting from restraint to fiery embrace.
His lips are chapped. He tastes of the mint leaves he’s always chewed and brandy. When your tongue brushes his, he shudders like you’ve struck him.
It’s everything you dreamed of at twelve, hiding under scratchy orphanage blankets with this older boy who made everything so much more bearable with his embrace and smile. Everything you feared at seventeen, hands dripping with blood not your own, fearing what he’d think of you if he still lived, your old friend, if the day could ever arrive where he’d find you again.
You break apart gasping. Tav’s pupils are blown wide, his breathing ragged. A tear tracks through the dirt on your cheek—when did you start crying?
"Moonlight," he murmurs, thumb catching the moisture.
The old nickname undoes you.
