Tenakth painting your partner headcannon as im back in the F*cking building again of my beloved Kotaloy.
Patterns that use the fingertips of another person being considered a declaration, with the placement on the body changing the implications.
With the fact that our fingerprints are one of the most unique things a person has, having that design displayed whether as a thumbprint on a cheek or forehead, a whole hands worth around the throat or scattered like petals across the body under armor would hold significant meaning.
The more visible and obvious that its another person's 'Glyphs' the more serious a courting would be considered. Partners who are intending to be mated/bound ect would exchange very visible possesive glyphs in their respective colors.
This of course would open up a myriad of situations for everyone's favorite dumb trees.
Cultural misunderstanding where Aloy accidentally marks Kotallo with her glyphs? Check.
Not so accidental claiming where Kotallo doesnt remove them because hes a pining mess who assumes she doesn't know but wants to be hers in whatever way he can? Check.
Aloy trying to be as obvious as possible about her feelings for Kotallo but whos allergy to talking about said feelings drives her to actions instead; paired with said assumption from Kotallo that she doesn't know what it means and couldn't possibly want him as anything more than stress relief? Check.
Aloy leaving her Glyphs on Kotallo's maimed arm above the wrapping he uses as well as around his throat and having him give her his Glyphs in public to finally drive the point home? Check.
Kotallo leaving his Glyphs around Aloy's eyes and hand to remind her that she is not alone and she has a destination to return too when shes out in the wilds by herself? Check.
If anyone else has ideas for scenarios that would fit in with this "Painted Glyphs" concept id love to see them in the comments, im a sucker for the hurt comfort of these two.
Drops links to playlists cuse I like to listen to personally curated for the character ones while I write.
I recently began replaying the Horizon franchise and hoo boi the hyperfixation on my absolute favorite Marshal hit me hard.
So have a playlist for the man who has my Whole Heart in the series.
Completed Ch1 of my indulgence drow tavxhalsin story. Also on A03 here- https://archiveofourown.org/works/53408218
Finally playing through act3 and decided to finish up the first part of this. Not fully game canon compliant, after all there's so many ways that playthroughs can go so who's to say this isn't just one of them. I am not immune to the desire to make a 'tav' companion npc with a backstory that directly impacted my favorite companion.
Wordcount: 4k
Rating: M for canon violence and suggestive content in a flashback. Rating will change later. Much spice in the future.
Spoilers for Acts 1 and 2, character spoilers for Halsin and Shadowheart.
Summary:
“Halsin! Get down here we need you!”
She would never forget that name. Her rite of passage. Her first act of goodness. But what were the odds? It couldn’t be a mere coincidence. The druid was broader than she remembered. But that didn’t surprise her. After all, she had barely been a hundred and he was perhaps fifty years her senior when they had met.
Hazel eyes met her own shadowed purple, and time ceased to move. He looked…stricken. Ah but she shouldn’t have expected anything but. The spark of hurt was ruthlessly smothered. Of course he would be horrified to see her.
After all, she had once held his leash.
Ch1: What is
Damp, crumbling stone dust thick with the scent of rot splattering across her cheek stirred the drow from her trance.
The second tremor that ran through the rough stone floor knocked more clumps of debris from the ceiling onto her skin. As each pinprick of cold slimy grime stuck to her feverish flesh, the sensation was dismissed as quickly as it came. Relegated along with the other unpleasant aches and pains as a surge of adrenaline chased exhaustion from her limbs. Ignored.
Micarbryn focused her attention on the faint sounds that filtered through the floors above the holding cells, gathering her throbbing knee’s and battered hands under her center of gravity so she could push to her feet. The heavy rusted chains that kept her wrists hobbled clanked loudly in the near stillness and the drow froze, waiting for breathless seconds for one of the guards to come sauntering over to see if she had woken.
No one came.
Another tremor shook the structure, and a muffled thudding boom came right on the heels of the vibrations. Whispers erupted from the other holding cells as the walls creaked and groaned, and someone began crying. Cracked lips stretching into a grin, Mica slowly began to flex each limb, testing the hurts she had accumulated to see how well her body would carry her through the coming battle.
Someone had come. An attack on Moonrise had begun. It was only a matter of time before some of the cowards who called themselves Absolutists came down into the captive pens looking for leverage. They would not find it easy to snatch a meat shield.
Boots on the stairs. She had perhaps thirty seconds. Snatching up the wooden handle from a broken pick she had hidden three days earlier under her bed of rags, Mica jammed her improvised wedge into the rusted hinge on her cell door and levered her whole weight into it.
The hinge snapped with a sharp sound that was swallowed up by the rising cries and clashing of metal above them. Biting back her own sound of triumph, the drow wrenched the handle free and aimed for the second hinge. The scrape of metal along the stone floor mingled with the sound of running feet. She had no time to find the guard that kept the keys.
Squirming through the gap that she had made, Mica pushed to her feet with only the slightest of stumbles as her muscles burned. All around her, terrified eyes peered out from the darkness of cells, some reflecting the light others unseeing through the gloom.
She could run. The back passage wasn’t far. Escape was so close she could practically taste it. Her feet moved. Her hands gathered the heavy metal links that had been used to bind her into scraped palms. Voices called to her, pleading to let them out as she strode to the chokepoint just beyond the base of the stairs, and stopped.
The footwork was as easy as breathing. Falling into the ready position of defense, braced for the blow’s to come. She would not go down easily. It was almost a thing of beauty, that first swing of her chains as the unhelmeted head of an Absolutist came around the corner.
A sickening crack, the wet spray of blood. The man fell out of the stairwell like a puppet with its strings cut, crumpling at Mica’s feet. The element of surprise was hers for only a moment longer. Pivoting on her heel to redirect the momentum she had gained, the drow swung a second time at the shocked, red spattered face of the second guard. Impact, a cry of agony, the shock of the transferred force through her bones.
The second guard wasn’t going to go down in one hit. Ducking the frantic stab of the woman’s short sword, Mica threw her chain around the crossguard of the blade and yanked, disarming the half elf. She let the weapon clatter to the stone floor without trying to take it for herself. There was no time. The Absolutist had thrown her arms up to protect her face, so Mica aimed a kick to her gut instead.
The guard went down in a thrashing of limbs. Stamping her heel into a delicate knee joint, the drow bared her teeth at the sensation of breaking bone under her foot and lunged. Blood dripped from her chains, flecking her face. Grabbing the body, the drow hauled her second kill out of the way and planted herself again as the sounds of battle grew more intense above them.
Twelve seconds. That’s all it had taken. The voices behind her had gone silent when she had attacked, the crying prisoner hadn’t been quieted. Footsteps on the stairs. A voice she had grown to know well reached out, caught her attention as the gleam of weapons and armor entered her periphery.
“What are you doing?? You need to run, leave us! You can’t fight by yourself!”
“No.”
Shock silenced the clamor. Protestations and affirmations.
“They will not hesitate to kill each and every one of you. They will not pass.”
Three of them this time. Mica knew the moment they saw fresh blood. There would be no edge for her now. They saw a lone drow, bloodied and chained blocking their path and thought her easily killed. When the leading guard died under her chain, the remaining two worked together. Dodge, strike. The scrape of a blade along her forearm, through nerves already long dead. Her shoulder impacted the wall as she barely escaped having her skull crushed by a mace.
More footsteps on the stairs.
The fourth guard went down with a scream of rage. A pinch of cold in between her ribs. Ignored. Not now, she would handle it when she had time. Panicked voices behind her. Ignored. They could do nothing locked in their cells.
Pressure on her wrists, the hot slide of her own blood from the ragged edge of the cuffs. Ignored. She had an enemy to kill. Red skin, horns? New Target. No, there was no mark. Not an Absolutist. The spell that sunk into the fifth guard's back and sent them tumbling into death fizzled and sparked against the tieflings fingertips.
“ROLAN!!”
They knew him. That was enough for her. Mica sidestepped to open the way, to where Lia and Cal were sticking their chained arms through the bars of the door in a desperate attempt to reach out to their sibling. There was an odd look on the wizard's face; a pinched sort of paleness to his skin as he stared at her side as he rushed past her. He wasn’t a threat, so she could ignore him for now.
More footsteps. More death. Spells slung from behind her, backup she accepted as the bodies piled. She lost count at eight. An arrow in her thigh she snapped off. Ignored. Whispered words, the creed of her house every time she stumbled, every time her vision blurred.
“You do what you can, then you do more.”
Copper on her tongue, heaviness in her lungs. A roar from above, deep and primal and animalistic. A roar of rage and determination, a roar of fury and vicious satisfaction. A song that called to her frantically beating heart. They were winning. A brief moment of self indulgence in the lull between those now seeking escape instead of the defenseless prisoners. Perhaps it was the group that had returned Lichen to her. Come to trade at her Den.
The strange motley assortment of adventurers with the enhanced but strangely stagnant tadpoles had wriggled their way into her heart within two visits. She hoped that her little phase spider had survived the assault that had led to her capture.
“You do what you can, then you do more.”
Burn of poison in the wound at her shoulder. Ignored. She didn’t have time for it. Nor an antidote. Numbness in her fingertips where they slackened around the bloodied chain. Ignored.
Her impact with the floor as one of the Absolutists managed to shove past her drove the cold pinch between her ribs deeper. Wetness in her throat, rattling slick with a bubbling sensation. Ignored.
From the ground Mica lifted a hand, yanking on the tiefling who had been fighting from behind her with her telekinetic grip to pull him from the range of what would have been a deadly blow.
This one was important. This enemy could not leave. The mark of leadership was on them. Heavy footsteps on the stairs, a curse as someone admonished an ally.
“You're too big in this form, you're blocking the stairs!”
Cool relief trickled through her limbs as her second wind took some of the ache. Forcing herself to her feet, Mica ignored the sound of footsteps on the stairs this time. She knew them. They had come just as they said they would. The other captives would be safe. There was one more enemy to kill.
“You do what you can, then you do more.”
The wizard was capable, but his opponent was desperate. Rolan was bleeding, the terrified voices of his siblings begging, threatening the Absolutist as they struck again and again. She didn’t have much time.
Focusing on the soaked chains in her grip, Mica spat the mouthful of blood that had collected behind her teeth and bellowed a challenge. It was a raw sound, releasing the pent up agony and frustration and bloodlust she had been festering under for decades. The goad worked, the marked one turning to stare as she charged.
She only had one point of energy left. Despite the filth accumulated on the rusty links, the metal still glowed with psi force as she swung, the improvised weapon rebounding off the helmeted head with a ringing tone oddly similar to a gong.
The impact of the heavy weapon was a dull pressure, here one moment and gone the next. She was staring up at the ceiling, breath stuttering in her chest. The cold pinch between her ribs had slipped away, ripped out in the tumble across the blood soaked stones perhaps. How much time had passed? Surely nothing more than a moment.
Tremors of footsteps on the stone floor. Sobbing coming from somewhere close by. Lia. One of the others? She knew the face leaning over her. It was one of the adventurers, the Githyanki.
“Don’t dont dont! She isn’t one of them, she helped us!”
“Silence Teefling, I am not so foolish as to not recognize an ally.”
A hand under her head. Blood bubbled from her lips as she tried to speak. The expression on the fierce warrior's face tightened, and she reached into her pack. Paused.
“Chk! Who has a healing potion to spare?”
Rustling cloth, the faintest tinge of panic in another voice. Tavraith. It made sense that they would have been leading the charge.
“I’m all out.”
“I don’t have any either.”
“Shadowheart do you have a spell left?”
“...No.”
Pounding footsteps. The warlock shouting up the stairs.
“Halsin! Get down here we need you!”
She would never forget that name. Her rite of passage. Her first act of goodness. But what were the odds? It couldn’t be a mere coincidence. The druid was broader than she remembered. But that didn’t surprise her. After all, she had barely been a hundred and he was perhaps fifty years her senior when they had met.
Hazel eyes met her own shadowed purple, and time ceased to move. He looked…stricken. Ah but she shouldn’t have expected anything but. The spark of hurt was ruthlessly smothered. Of course he would be horrified to see her.
After all, she had once held his leash. Exhaustion pulled at her eyelids. At her limbs. She was so tired, and cold. Something sticky was pooling under her back. But she had done it. They had come. It wouldn’t hurt to rest a little now. She was sure they could forgive her a nap.
- * -
Lavish. Opulent. Gaudy. If one was unaware of the internal machinations and dirty little financial secrets of the Siltweave house, then the soiree would have seemed an unending showcase of wealth. The illusion had been well crafted. Sipping at her glass of diluted wine, Micabryn let her gaze roam the packed dance floor and pockets of nobles milling about the room.
There was lady Sicxa, her arm wound around her latest male consort and already more than a little drunk. There was her husband, a hand on the other male's ass as he turned attentive eyes to his wife. His gaze was a little glazed, he must have been indulging in his drug of choice before the night started.
They had received an invitation to pad the number of guests. So had she, but that suited her needs. She had no desire to get closer to her hosts or curry their favor. She was here for the entertainment they had been boasting about.
At the head of the ball room, the lady and her husband sat in overly stuffed chairs. They too had been drinking heavily that night, and the slim silver chain that was looped about the arm of her chair had been splashed with wine more than once. It was almost laughably tiny in comparison to the form it kept in check.
Decorative. A good yank would have snapped the metal, but it was symbolic in its own right. They had been plying their toy with alcohol just as liberally as themselves. Drying rivulets of the dark red liquid had dripped down a strong chin, down a furred chest. It was an impressive, curious physique for a surface elf. A rarity. A curiosity.
He played his part well. Leaning up against the side of his mistress's chair with attentive eyes kept at the level of her chest. The wince when sticky, wine soaked fingers carded through his loose hair was hardly more than a twitch. Mica was unsure of exactly how long ago the Lord and Lady had come into the possession of their wild shapeshifting elf, but it was a small miracle he was still in one piece.
Music swelled, the song playing for the guests to dance too flowing into another piece without pause. The rim of a wine glass clumsily pushed against plush lips. The briefest moment of hesitation, eyes flickering down and fingers tightening on broad thighs when the lady of the house idly trailed sharpened nails over his naked shoulder. He drank, preventing more alcohol from spilling over his skin.
They would loose him soon to the guests. To those who had paid for the privilege of a timeslot with their rare and precious pet. Who knew how long they would keep him around after all? Better get your taste while they felt generous.
Fingers tightening over the stem of her wine glass, Mica took a steadying breath as the lady unhooked the silver, delicate chain from her chair. She stood, wobbling the barest amount in her inebriated state. As she stepped down from the slightly raised platform her slave followed. Crawling after her, not daring to rise.
Mica's knees ached in sympathy as the druid followed his mistress across the cold stone floor. Corellon save her but it was hard to not stare at the way the male's body moved. He was alluring, and shame at her own flash of want filled the drow as she flicked her gaze away. Appealing to her own tastes or not there was no need for her to add to the number of people who looked at him only as something to be used.
That wasn't why she was here.
The pair vanished behind a heavy velvet panel into a slightly removed alcove. It had been curtained off to allow the illusion of privacy, but Mica knew that if one stood close enough the sounds from within would be on complete display. A deliberate choice, one that created more of a separation between those who had paid and those who had not. No free shows with such an unusual toy.
She was in the third slot. It was surprisingly difficult to continue to mingle with the few people she could stand who had also been invited to the party, sipping her wine and waiting. Her mother had warned her, but perhaps she should have put more stock into her cautionary words. No one was paying her much attention at least, that was a small mercy.
The other slaves that were paraded out to tend to the crowds were equally as gut wrenching to look at. Too thin, dull eyes, automated movements. How her mother could stand interacting with the worst of their kind Mica did not know. She could not allow her own personal feelings to interfere. That would only end up with a blade in her gut and her family line extinguished.
She could not fail at this.
- * -
It had been a long time since she had truly slept. Through habit, Mica’s eyes only slitted open when consciousness returned to her. Her breathing did not change, her body did not shift.
Everything ached, which meant she hadn’t died.
Which meant Halsin had agreed to heal her. The sharp scent of herbs, alcohol and that particular bitter tang of painkillers filled her nose, turned her stomach. The last time she had been so injured…her gear. She needed her gear. Peering through her lashes, Mica took in the sounds and sights of the tent she had been left in. Wounded on other cots, mostly harpers. Near all of them were asleep, some drugged so far up to their eyeballs they could do nothing but stare into space.
The fighting was over then. She didn’t see any tieflings, gnomes or any of the others who had been in the cells with her, small mercy. They must have gotten out mostly unscathed.
A chair next to her cot with a discarded cup. Had someone been sitting next to her while she slept? An odd concept. Surely the party of adventurers had better things to do. Ketheric Thorm to deal with. She was getting ahead of herself. She didn’t know how much time had passed, if they had even managed to kill the bastard yet or not.
Her mouth was dry. Thirst was no new companion, nor hunger. The pinch in her gut told her that it would be unwise to try for much of anything, but something to drink would be nice. The cup on the arm of the wooden chair was the closest. Maybe there would be enough for a mouthful left.
Slowly, silently Mica levered herself up. Her arms shook. Her muscles screamed. But she could move. The cup was cool against her overheated fingers. The same fever from before then, if it felt so nice. Unsurprising considering the likely state of her after that battle. The scent of mint and honey overpowered the medicinal aroma’s all around her as the rim brushed her lips.
The tea had gone cold, but the sweetness was gentle and the liquid welcomed on her scratchy throat. She sipped when she wanted to gulp. There was only so long she had before someone came in to check on the patients. She only had so long to figure out if she was still in danger.
Harpers were difficult at the best of times, let alone when they had a questionably releasable former prisoner in their medical tents. Mica was under no delusion that she would simply be accepted into the midst of the group that had raided Moonrise. They had come to kill Ketheric, not to rescue her or even the others who had been held in the cells. Well, the adventuring party with the tadpoles had likely come for both.
Tavraith was the sort to prioritize that detail.
There was a commotion going on outside the tent. Angry voices, rising in volume steadily. Taking another drink of the honeyed tea, Mica set the cup down and swung her legs over the edge of her cot. She had pushed through worse. It took a moment before she could support her weight, but when she didn’t immediately crumple to the ground it was a win in her book. She would be moving around fine in no time.
The voice shouting sounded…familiar. Pulled forward by her own curiosity, the drow reached the flap of the tent and paused, peering through the slit to see what was going on outside. A small crowd had gathered near what looked like-ah. The prisoner pens.
Head and near shoulders above the rest, the druid stood. He was still blood spattered, so perhaps it hadn’t actually been that long since the battle. It was hard to hear what was being said over the din of the camp, but the angry tone and sharp movements told Mica enough. He was pissed about something.
A flash of white hair, pointed ears, bluish purple skin. A drow. Red eyes. A Lolth drow. Stripped of her armor, standing behind a harper who was arguing with the larger elf she stood tall. Haughty even in capture. Her expression twisted into disinterested scorn. An Absolutist then. One who stood without restraints, being taken away from the holding area for prisoners.
A shiver ran over Mica as the huge druid slashed his hand through the air, his deep timbre cutting through the noise.
“She cannot be allowed to wander freely amongst the camp.”
It was time to go. She might not be a Lolth drow herself, but she wasn’t going to push her luck. She had overstayed her welcome. She was alive, she had been tended to, she had been rescued. That was more than enough.
Carefully moving back through the medical tent, Mica checked the trunk at the foot of the cot she had been resting on and breathed a sigh of relief at its contents. Someone had been kind enough to bring her things. Likely one of her favored little ragtag group. She would find a way to thank them later.
It hurt to get her armor on. It hurt to get her aids in place. But she had dealt with worse. Dressed, her belt bags a familiar weight at her hips; the drow crept back to the flap of the tent to get one more look at Halsin before she left. She couldn’t help it. It was good to see him alive and well. Good to see him amongst friends. One of the group, the little Sharran had appeared and stood next to the elf so he wasn’t alone in the press of harpers. Her hair was white now, her garb a little different. Curious, but she had no time.
The others would be coming soon and she needed to leave. She would not put defending her on the shoulders of those who had already done her a great service. It would be ungrateful of her to drive a wedge within the group by making them choose a side.
It was nearly dark. If she moved carefully, she could be away and to an entrance to the underdark before sunrise. The back of the tent was easy enough to slip through. Standing fully straight and walking like she had every right to be there was second nature despite her aches. Three sets of eyes found her as she moved through the camp, none sought to stop her. None looked at her with anything less than suspicion.
She only needed to make one stop before she could leave. The extra supplies were likely to be guarded, but if she flashed some gold then it wouldn’t matter. She was paying for them after all, and getting out of the harpers camp. She didn’t need much, couldn’t even carry much more than dried rations and an extra water skin.
The commotion behind her erupted. Heart in her throat, its frantic beating filling her ears, Mica began moving the moment coin changed from her hand to the harper. Her purchase vanished into her bag, and she vanished into the night.
Droplets of blood were left in her wake.
TBC- Ch2: What was
Confession: I feel like Halsin is always expected to be a dom top because of his size and muscles but deep down he'd love to just be a sub for once. I wanna climb on top of him and fuck him to hell and back and have him suck honey out of my fingers and let him just lay down and enjoy it like a pillow prince for once and tell him what a good bear he is.
I'd like more of Halsin excelling at traditional wood elven hunting methods - he wouldn't really need them, necessarily, as he likely hunts more often using his wildshape, but I feel like it's a skillset he possesses and would make for interesting fic exploration.
#even if you want to make it cute like pc giving halsin a bow and asking if he has any use for it#and his eyes light up and he's like i haven't used one of these in years! thank you!#and he tries it out with pc lightly saying they can help him back into it but halsin has already lodged an arrow directly#in the little knot of a tree a dozen yards+ away#kinda wrinkles his nose and goes 'ah not as accurate as that could have been - i'm a little rusty i'm afraid#but i'll keep at it'
@ride-a-dromedary I also like the idea of Halsin making himself a bow from scratch. We know he likes woodwork. I feel he'd have a lot of thoughts on what's the best kind of wood/string/shape to go for depending on a person's build and what they'd need to use the bow for
I can absolutely see Halsin sitting down and making a bow for himself; something he hasn't done since his adventuring days in his youth. It seemed the right thing to do as he was left to his own devices in camp - an instinct that bubbled up - and considering how he likely grew abnormally quickly and stronger than his fellows, he would absolutely need to be more familiar in how different bows were made and how no two bows are ever alike because archers are all different. Something that worked for his friends and siblings would not work for him, and vice versa. I'd love for him to go into an impromptu lesson about what he was using and how it worked.
I feel like he'd take pride in it, too - to the extent that Halsin would take pride in anything - commenting that it's not too bad considering how long it's been since he's made one, but rest assured that bow is *strong* and every arrow is *deadly accurate*.
Summary: You have felt a little insecure in your situationship with Halsin as of late. Fortunately, the druid seems to have taken notice—and takes some steps in consoling your fears and self-consciousness.
A/N: I just want to say this was something of a self-comfort fic. I don’t often see plus size/fat bodies in these fics (I’m responsible for doing the same in all of my work too) and I felt like making active efforts in remedying that. Especially when it comes to Halsin. With that said, obviously don’t take this as anything other than an exercise in writing something different. All bodies are beautiful, I just want fat ones to be more represented in fiction sometimes.
This is also my first time writing in second person and I must say, it’s very unnatural for me to do so. But I hope it at least tickled someone’s pickle.
Also available on AO3!
The tent was haphazardly made. Having lived in Baldur’s Gate for most of your life, nature was not where you felt most comfortable. Although, this entire adventure has been an exercise in understanding yourself ever since the Nautiloid crash a couple of weeks ago. Sometimes you felt utterly useless, having to trek through some of the rougher parts of this strange land. Other times, you felt strong—a leader, even, among your companions. It was an odd feeling, stepping in to mediate a confrontation, consoling others or simply having others come to you for advice.
The anonymity brought upon by the abduction slowly turned into a journey of self-discovery. Baldur’s Gate was too big a city to truly achieve the passions you wanted to. But out here, in the middle of nowhere, with strangers who are equally as confused as you, it’s different.
You’re different.
The shadow looming over you brings you back to the sound of crackling fires and whetstone against metal. In tattered leathers, Halsin stands, a hand outstretched towards you.
“Yes?” you ask, following the bulging veins on his arm until you note some of the scarring on his shoulder from today’s goblin encounter. Your eyes quickly divert to meet his—warm brown, with a speckle of ember that almost glows at night.
“Where have your thoughts leapt?” He cocks his head to one side, observing you with care. The druid had an uncanny ability to sense your discomfort from a mile away. You sometimes wondered if he had an infinite supply of Potions of Mind Reading, topping up each hour just to ensure he was inside your head at all times.
“Oh?” you quip, hugging your own body in response. “It’s been a long day, I suppose.”
He kneels down, blocking most of the light from the campfire. With elbows resting on his thighs, he continues to stare. Instinctively, you raise your knees until most of your body is covered. You wrap your arms around them, placing your chin in between. His eyes simply follow your movements.
“Is that all?” He turns his hand until his palm faces you, offering it in case you felt the need to hold it. You always did, but embarrassment or pride often had the last word in the conundrum of comfort.
Halsin never pushed you to share more than you were willing to, and so very quickly, he retracts his hand. The air is particularly chilly tonight, and even though you handle the cold better than most, the goosebumps spreading on your skin prompt you to involuntarily shake when a gust of wind passes by.
“I do not mean this to offend you, but your tent is…” he trails off, looking at the deflated fabric that could serve as a second blanket if need be. “... Not very—”
“—It’s shit, I’m aware,” you chuckle, letting out a yawn when you feel the shakes come again.
Halsin smiles. Almost immediately, you grin back at him. There is something so captivating about the wrinkles on the sides of his face showing each time he is chuffed with your comments. He would call them ‘direct’ even though you knew he probably meant rude. Not that he would allow himself to say so.
“I was going to say not very safe,” he corrects. “I can feel a storm brewing below my feet. If it encourages the bunnies to burrow, then I imagine it will not be pleasant.”
“After all this, dying from drowning by rainfall sounds rather embarrassing.” Your hands begin to rub your shoulders in an effort to raise your body temperature.
“I know we have both been rather busy as of late, but I do miss you, little one.”
Little one. Your teeth grit at the sound of it. It takes the willpower of a thousand suns to not bite off a chunk inside your cheek when he says it. The first time he did, it was following a particularly generous indulging of your cunt—when he refused to be serviced in return—and wrapped you in his arms instead. A thank you, he called it, for aiding him in the fight against his captors. The second time was after your face was painted in his seed, scorching hot like the anger he had for Kagha’s activities in the Grove. A kiss on the forehead followed. The third time was during a cuddle atop one of the particularly beautiful outlooks near the settlement—where he Wildshaped into a bear to keep you cushioned against the uncomfortable floor.
It was frustrating. Never have you felt so secure yet vulnerable with a person. At times, he made you feel like the most unique flower in a gardenia of preciousness, and yet he almost seemed frightened to touch you. You couldn’t remember the last time his touch was wanting, and it had been a month since your last indulgement.
“You certainly don’t act like it,” you murmur, scooting away until you felt your back hit the tent—or whatever was left of it.
Halsin’s eyes narrow. You have studied his expressions well enough to know this was his way of practicing his thoughts before he felt comfortable enough to speak out loud. He opens his mouth to utter a protest, but the loud cheers from Karlach interrupt him. You both turn to see the tiefling using a stick to gently pet over Scratch’s head, squealing in excitement when he drops a ball with a bark.
You take the time to disengage.
“Nevermind.” Standing, you pat away some of the dirt on your thighs and pull down your top, careful to pull at the bottom until it covers the bits you want it to. The druid is quick to follow, and you find yourself blocked by his giant frame as he looks down at you with concern.
“Come,” he instructs, limply pointing towards a direction away from the camp. “Follow me.”
“Halsin, it’s late and if this storm is—”
“Please.”
You relent. With a groan, you lean down to pick up the giant blanket one of the tieflings knitted as a farewell present and wrap it around your front. Halsin is the first to move, occasionally looking back to check if you’re nearby. Once you’re far enough that the noise from camp turns distant is when his hand intertwines with yours, squeezing a few times to offer reassurance.
Rolling your eyes would have been the appropriate response, were it not for the exhaustion you feel in fighting the inside voices and the man responsible for them.
The journey is spent in complete silence, though the tension in the air could be cut with a knife. It takes some time until you reach a nearby creek. Halsin lets go of your hand once you reach a spot he finds appropriate, but not before giving it a gentle kiss. He tells you he will take precaution in scoping the area for any threats. You take the time to sit on a nearby rock, curling the blanket until it covers every inch of your body save for your head.
It doesn't take long. The approaching footsteps catch your attention and you see the large druid return with a couple of branches. He kneels next to you, using some of the nearby rocks to create a campfire.
“I know you are upset with me,” he murmurs, striking two sharp stones against one another until sparks fly in the air. “But I wish to understand why.”
You sigh. “Halsin, is this the time?”
“I miss you,” he retorts, continuing to smash the pebbles more aggressively this time. “And I cannot bear this tension.”
“Tension?” you scoff. “I’m perfectly fine.”
“No, you are not.”
Another spark.
“And how would you know?”
“Because I know you.”
More sparks.
“Do you?”
“It would help if you allowed me to discern what troubles you.”
A flame. A small one, followed by smoke that quickly blows in the wind. Halsin finally turns to you, one knee on the ground as he rests his body weight on one hand.
“Do I trouble you?” you challenge, gently rocking your knee in frustration.
His expression softens. “What?”
“It does seem practiced for you to whisk me away somewhere where no one else can see us any time you want to show me affection,” you snap. “I wonder if I’m the trouble here.”
Halsin shakes his head. The fire next to him begins growing until you feel a wave of heat in your direction.
“You are… anything but. What would make you say that?”
You shrug, pressing your lips together. Either he was rather oblivious at his actions, or just well-rehearsed in the responses he typically gave. You see him searching your eyes, darting left and right as though they would give him the sense he sought for.
“When was the last time you touched me in front of everyone?” you ask, voice lowering barely above a whisper. “When was the last time you touched me with purpose?”
“My heart, you misunderstand,” he responds, inching closer until you can smell the salt and earth his body carries. “My lack of affections have nothing to do with you, but with—with… well, me.”
Another excuse. One that you’ve heard many times before.
“Of course,” you scoff, turning your gaze to the creak nearby.
He reaches through the blanket until you can feel his hand tightening around yours. “Look at me.”
You do so, reluctantly.
“I have lived for many years. I have taken many lovers. You are not some conquest I keep on a tab of many. I have—the shadow curse, it has been preoccupying my daydreams and nightmares. It has nothing to do with you.”
Your eyes narrow. “Then why come to me in the first place?”
He takes a few minutes before answering. “Passion. Attraction. Long lonely nights that needed—”
“—So that’s the reason. You needed a quick release.”
“No,” he quickly interrupts. “You are much more than a passionate night. But that’s precisely why I don’t wish to rush this. I don’t want you to have the wrong idea.”
“And what idea is that?” you arch an eyebrow.
“That somehow you are a quick solution for my frustrations. Yes, I am lonely and I have been, ever since I’ve had the Grove responsibilities thrust upon me. And yes, you have ignited a spark within me that threatens to explode into a wildfire.” Halsin’s thumb begins circling your hand. “But you are also wonderful. I can hear you speak about your love of painting until I grow old. I can watch you playing with those tiefling children until my eyes wet with tears. I can’t bear to see you fight, because my heart tears each time I see another scar on your body.”
You search his eyes for deceit, the corners of which begin to sparkle in the dim moonlight. He curls his hand until it’s holding yours tightly, while his other reaches to touch the side of your face. You’ve always compared the rough skin on his palm to tree bark, and you would have melted into his touch were it not for the many questions you felt necessary to ask.
“It has nothing to do with the others or with you. I would happily cradle you in my arms each day, professing my adoration for you the moment the sun’s rays illuminate the skies until it dims down to the blackness of night. And I apologize that I have not done that.” His thumb rubs small circles on your cheek as he speaks, making sure to stare at you as though speaking to your soul.
“Do you mean that?”
“I do.” He tugs on your hand until you allow him to pull it towards his lips. He gives a gentle kiss on your knuckles, leaning his cheek against them. “I was not aware you wished it of me.”
You shake your head. “Much more than that, Halsin. I want you to crave me,” you profess. “I sometimes feel like you’re not willing to take the extra step. It’s as though you pull back from me when I need you most.”
He nods. “I do, but that’s mostly to contain myself. I may be an old bear, but there are some parts of me that I cannot fully control. I don’t wish to cause you any harm should it come to it. I am especially prone to outbursts at this time, given the circumstances.”
You pause. Halsin has sometimes spoken of his drawbacks—the side he’s not proud of as he would say—of being a druid. His Wildshape afforded him many conveniences, though even you have seen the yellow glow of his eyes at the height of his emotions. You didn’t mind it. In fact, you often had to squeeze your legs together to suppress the gushing need that rose from there at the very thought of it.
“Alright…” you trail off, forming a fist with your free hand, letting the anxiety rest there. “I suppose I’m not used to this. I more so felt you had changed your mind—didn’t find what you were expecting.”
“What do you mean?”
You nod towards your body in gesture. It takes him a short while before he understands the meaning, and quickly reaches to rest both hands against your cheeks. He shakes his head. “No. Never. You are important to me, attractive to me, as you are. What a privilege I have been bestowed upon, having mattered to you this much.”
With some apprehension, Halsin begins tugging at the large fur that covers most of your body. It easily slips down, allowing him full view of your frame, curled against yourself. He reaches forward, touching your neck first, dragging a finger from your chin until he reaches the shirt that covers the valley between your breasts.
“All of you—your softness, your plumpness, your swell,” he mutters, leaning until you feel the surprisingly soft lips against your skin. He inhales deeply, lips hovering over your left breast. “It does not matter. I love every bit of it.” Taking a hand, he reaches in the spot between your waist and hips, squeezing delicately. Instinctively, you jump at the discomfort, but he quickly stills you.
“Halsin, you don’t have to say any of this.” The nervous chuckle betrays you when your hand grabs his in an effort to move it aside. To this, he only hums. Before you have time to react, both hands tear the front of your shirt until your upper body is exposed to the elements. The same slow instincts fail to cover it, because his hands have tightened around your wrists before you can do so.
“Besides,” he continues, easily holding you down when you try to move your hands away. “Your voluptuousness makes for a greater resting place for all the seed I’m going to spill on account of this night.”
Immediately, you stop fidgeting. Blinking a few times, it takes a moment for your brain to understand what your ears have perceived. The druid takes the opportunity to lean forward and take one of your breasts in his mouth. The contact makes you hiss, and still, you are unable to move from his grip. Instead, you moan, not caring for the loudness. His tongue has always been exceptionally good at weakening you. You can feel him twirl it around your nipple, followed by a light teething that prompts you to buck your hips forward.
“Halsin,” you moan, attempting to release from his hold for a second time. Fluttering your eyes closed, you lean back until you feel the tree trunk against your shoulder blades. He follows, not allowing you a moment of peace as he swirls his tongue over your hard nipple. Biting down, he begins suckling at the soft skin when you attempt to close your legs together to satisfy the ache between them.
With a pop, he releases your nipple, cheek resting against the skin as he looks up at you.
“Would you like that?” he wonders, a gentle bucking of his hips making it evident he too was seeking friction. “For me to show you how much I truly crave you?”
You bite your lip in response, hard enough that the metallic taste starts swirling somewhere inside your mouth. Nodding slowly, you attempt to tug away once again, and this time the druid allows it. With newfound freedom of movement, your hands find themselves fisting his messy hair when you propel yourself forward, landing on your knees and capturing his lips in yours. He is solid as stone, unmoving when you do so, and only grunts when your tongues find each other.
Hands begin roaming—his, yours—over soft and hardened bits, frantically looking for somewhere to rest, to hold. Halsin’s are particularly active, first finding your hair, then your cheeks, then your shoulders, then your hips, before finally resting at the front of your belly. You cringe and suck in air on impulse—habit. It only makes him squeeze harder.
“This is the body I have adored since the first time you granted me permission to touch it,” he growls, pulling away from your heated kisses. “I have hungered for every inch of you. Through sleepless nights and anxiety-ridden trips, I have grown to know this is what I want.”
Responding in full sentences is not an option. Not when he dips his head, trailing kisses along your belly, on the folds that he so carefully grabs hold of with one hand—while the other pushes itself through the confines of your trousers to find your soaking nub. Delightful cries escape your lips when he begins circling his fingers, putting enough pressure until your eyes roll in the back of your head from the feeling.
“The stream of pleasures you produce, I will lap like an animal starved,” he coos, free hand pushing you to sink lower, until he has enough space to lodge himself between your legs. “Then I will fuck you until you are mute from screaming. Are you content with that, my heart?”
Gods above and below, you think. You can only nod, and you do so, rather vigorously. The chuckle that escapes his lips seems to contend him for now, and so he momentarily leaves your aching clit to help free you from the confines of fabric. Resting slanted, partway exhausted and panting could not have been a sight to behold, but Halsin’s bulge spoke differently.
“Please…” you beg.
“No need to beg,” he comments before standing up, hands finding the belt on his pants until they release the cock that bounces lightly against his stomach. “There is nowhere I would rather be than inside you.”
The very thought of having him rut into you was an occupying thought during most evenings. And despite the bruises your throat suffered for days the last time you attempted to take him fully, the gush of wetness sounds the night at the thought of your cunt choking it.
“Spread your legs,” he instructs. “I need to see you.”
You sit up, carefully aligning your backside until you are able to find a somewhat pleasant spot to rest against. Halsin’s hand reaches for his throbbing member, where you spot a bead of pre-cum forming at the tip. He uses his thumb to spread it across his head, letting out a low groan as he does so. Needing no further encouragement, you spread your legs per his command, carefully analyzing his features and how they soften when you present yourself to him.
“Praise Silvanus,” he says, almost to himself. “How beautiful you are.”
Following his line of sight, you look down to see the mess that you have become. Glistening in the fire and moonlight, there is a trail of wetness that begins at your drooling hole, leading in both directions of your thighs. The druid clears his throat, and when you gaze up, you see the faintest glimmer of yellow light leave his eyes as he shakes his head. Letting go of his member, he drops down on his knees in front of you, staring at your pulsating cunt.
The heart that threatens to escape your chest follows the same rhythm between your legs. It’s craving to be touched—to be adored—and as though listening to your thoughts, Halsin leans in to give a soft kiss to your right thigh. Then your left. You look down to meet his eyes, as he meticulously drags his tongue where his lips first kiss, with enough hunger in his eyes to make you audibly moan at the sight.
“I thought,” you gasp when he bites at your inner thigh. “I thought you said I wouldn’t have to beg.”
“No, but I will indulge in this for as long as I can,” he responds, scattering kisses in painstakingly slow fashion at the soft flesh of your thighs. He uses both hands to hold them, and with no effort on his part, sinks you lower on the stone until you are halfway lying down on your back. With legs in the air, he takes his time to study you.
You can see his hips moving rhythmically despite the control he attempts to assert, as though urging him forward. Still, he takes one hand to glide over your stomach, moving lower until it finally meets your center. You immediately hiss, pushing your head against the rock at the gentleness he offers. With two fingertips, he begins circling your clit again, while his other hand holds your leg in the air for support.
“How warm you are,” he says, picking up the pace once he finds you are able to squirm too much for his liking. You push your pelvis forward, needing more friction. “How much warmer you will be when I spill all of myself into you until morning comes.”
Intelligent thought leaves your senses the more he speaks, you writhe and moan like a wanton sinner. This seems to please him, and so with no real warning, he slides not one but two fingers inside you. Your head raises to look between your legs, but you are met with the druid’s intense stare as he leans in to kiss your neck.
Closing your eyes, you allow yourself to indulge in the explosions that are firing inside your head. His teeth find their mark at your throat and he begins sucking away while his fingers pump in and out continuously, the heel of his palm slapping against your slickness with each thrust. You don’t notice when, but his other hand has found your nipple, carefully pulling at it to elicit a scream loud enough to be heard in Baldur’s Gate.
“Halsin!” you moan, incapable of saying anything else at the intensity of his ministrations. He smiles against the nape of your neck, biting before moving to kiss your lips instead. Your tongues battle—indulge—in one another’s mouths as he continues this delicious assault on your senses.
He breaks the kiss suddenly, resting his forehead against yours. You whine when he pulls his fingers out of you, noting the considerable lack of fullness he has provided.
“I need to prepare you for me,” he sighs, hands reaching out to his throbbing member once again. He lets out a moan when his soaked hand begins pumping the tip, where you now see a considerable dollop of pre-cum mixing with your juices. “Do you think you can handle three of my fingers, little one?”
His fingers were particularly attractive to you. The way he would whittle with enough dexterity to preplex you. The grip he held his staff with each time he would cast a spell. The roughness contrasting your soft skin any time he would touch any part of you. Though, he had a particular love of stuffing you with them, as you have come to find.
The beads of sweat forming at your temples coupled with the messy hair and half-opened eyelids was enough to define you as fuckdrunk, that you were sure of. Even still, you steel your will enough to nod in his direction.
“Is that a yes?” he muses, fingertips finding your clit once again.
Proud bastard, you think. Smacking your lips, you utter a simple, ‘yes’. It’s barely a whisper and you think he doesn’t register it, but quickly find out his movements are much faster than your reflexes. Three fingers push themselves inside you, and a thumb finds your clit as he continues to stretch you to what seems like impossibility.
“Sing for me,” he sighs. “I want the spirits in these forests to awaken to the sounds of your pleasure.”
“I need you inside of me,” you mutter, mustering up enough strength to look at him again. “I want you inside of me.”
“Soon,” he assures, quickening his pace until you feel the familiar pressure pooling at your entrance. “I need you to let go first.” As though compelled to, your body releases, all manner of reason escaping you as your screams are carried by the wind of the woods. Legs trembling, you lose control of every limb as you pant, completely encased by a coating of fulfillment you thought long gone.
Halsin only watches you, whispering something your ears do not pick up. A faint buzzing interrupts all manner of sound as you relax your body until he’s able to catch you in his arms before you land on the ground. The firmness of his chest greets your cheek, where you are able to pick up his racing heartbeat.
“Are you spent for tonight?” he asks, hand sliding up your back until it reaches the back of your head.
Quickly, you shake your head. “No. I’m just… I didn’t expect this, is all,” you confess. He hums in approval, and positions you atop his thigh while still kneeling. Your leg bumps against his hardness and he hisses, praising the Oak Father’s blessings before turning to look at you.
“You’re pooling for me,” he smirks. “Had I known you were this eager, I would have done this long ago.”
In response, you begin grinding against the flexed muscle, grabbing hold of his bicep to steady your rhythm. It didn’t take long for the need to take hold, and you soon find yourself moaning as you continue moving against his thigh. You glance down to his cock, licking your lips at the sight of the dribble going down the shaft.
As though challenging him, he swiftly grabs hold of your waist, pushing you onto the cold ground with a soft thud. You lay there, blinking up at him. His hand caresses the curve of your body until it reaches your core. There, he spreads your lips apart, sighing approvingly when he hears the squelching sound of your desire for him. Using a finger to trace your cunt, he lifts it to his lips and begins licking away without breaking eye contact.
“So tender, so delicious…” he comments, sucking his own fingers until only his spit coats them.
You attempt to shimmy, feeling the stickiness of his cock meet your folds once you move closer to him. His head drops at the contact, a growl escaping his lips when he looks down.
“Can you take me, my heart?” he questions, grabbing his member and lining himself at your entrance.
You bite your lip, taking the moment to admire the beast of a man whose cock was prodding at your entrance—tapping with feather-light touches, enough to drive you to moan.
“Yes, please,” you beg again, searching for grace in his expression—the grace that would compel him to fuck you.
He pushes slowly, enough to give you the accommodation you know you will need. Once you feel him coating himself in you is when he finally moans—deeply—slamming a hand against the dirt to restrain himself. Halsin was thickest at the top, and his mushroom-like head felt as though it split through every fiber of your being even with caution. To say you were not expecting him to split you apart so early was an understatement, but when his hand finds your clit, your wincing turns into mewing as you attempt to swallow his every inch.
Taking the time to push and pull against his cock to the same rhythm of your breaths, you find that the druid has some trouble keeping calm.
“You are a tight little thing,” he chuckles. “Let me in. Open up for me.”
His instructions help you relax enough so he can guide his tip inside you. Once there, you let out a long exhale, suddenly aware of the sweat coating your body. The chills going up your spine are soon replaced by hot flashes once he hits a particularly delicious spot on your clit and you grab a hold of his wrist with both arms, keeping him where you most desire.
“I can feel you squeezing me,” he moans. “While I rather appreciate the snugness of this predicament, I would like to bury my seed deep inside you.”
To this, you only groan. Halsin uses his free hand to wrap around your throat, keeping himself steadied as he positions himself fully on top of you. With one more look, he slides himself deeper, and you wince at the size that is piercing through your core. He growls, tightening his grip on your throat as he attempts to exert some control through sheer willpower alone.
Your eyes roll in the back of your head when a second wave of pleasure coats your body, and you open your mouth to scream. No sound comes, but you feel yourself loosen up completely, giving Halsin the chance to push past until he is buried to the hilt.
The pain that you momentarily feel turns into bliss. You ride the orgasm, clutching onto his wrist as you pulsate on his cock, which only encourages him to push deeper—as though he could. Any further and he would surely be inside your guts. Every ridge, every vein, every curve on his member jabs at your insides, teasing every spot deep inside you—stretching and filling you until you may just burst.
He doesn’t dare move, not yet. He heaves, chest rising and falling as he waits for you to settle. You reach up, touching the fuzziness on his muscles, tracing your hand until it reaches the side of his face. He’s warmer than you know him to be, and you smile at him reassuringly when he gives you a questioning look.
He doesn’t continue.
Instead, you feel yourself being lifted from the ground, yelping as Halsin grabs a hold of you with one arm, positioning you so that you straddle his waist while the other rests against the curve of your ass, keeping you impaled on his cock. You find the prickliness of the tree hit your back and he settles you there before pulling out completely.
The loss of contact causes you to whimper. You look down, finding him slap his member against your folds, slowly pushing between the sensitive nerves, but not enough to enter.
The sound that escapes your lips is part frustration, part eagerness. The arm holding you up is firm, keeping you steadied with no effort whatsoever.
“You have no idea,” he sighs once he traps his tip between your folds. “How much I wish you rut into you. To fill you.”
“So do it,” you provoke, rolling your hips until you feel your entrance beginning to consume him. “I need you to cum inside of me.”
Halsin snarls and straightens you both, hitching you higher until he finds a comfortable spot. With one push, he settles inside you, slowly bouncing you—breasts jerking in tandem with his thrusts. You note his stare and fist his hair, pulling him forward until he captures a nipple into his mouth. Sucking away, you moan at the intensity building inside you for a third time.
Your clit feels sensitive, as though a bruise being rubbed continuously. The only reason your legs are managing to hold is because of his grip, otherwise you are certain they have gone numb. But Halsin shows no mercy, reddening the flesh with his love bites, creating a line until they reach your throat. You feel his fingertips digging into your skin, but whatever pain you will feel tomorrow is nothing in comparison to the euphoria that’s electrifying you. His thrusts become sloppy, hips hitting against yours as he mutters something incomprehensible.
“Take me,” he commands.
Two strokes.
“All of me.”
Three more strokes.
“By the Oak—”
He doesn’t finish his words. A gushing of hotness overwhelms your cunt, as thick, spurts of cum cover your insides. You feel it hitting your most sensitive parts, coating you until you feel the urge to also release. He slams a hand next to you when he stills, bursting with enough seed that you feel certain would plug you entirely. Glancing where his cock meets your core, you see some of it spill out, dropping on the mud between the druid’s legs.
Halsin leans forward until your foreheads touch once again, heaving from the exhaustion that surely has taken hold by now. You push against him, encouraging him to move and allow you room to land on your feet—or at least try to. With a wobble, you balance, spreading your legs until you’re certain you won’t topple over.
The looming figure in front of you suddenly lowers, and you watch him kneel between your legs, focusing intently on your stomach. He presses a kiss there, before saying, “This is good, but not exactly what I had in mind,” he taps against the softness. “I need to fill your belly until it swells completely, full of my cum.”
A shiver runs up your spine. With a finger, he reaches for your entrance, as though examining you. He tuts. “It seems I have my work cut out for me, little one,” he laughs. “Keeping you stuffed is what I intend to do for the rest of our nights together.”
Halsin x F!Reader
Wordcount: 2.4k
When Orin takes Halsin, you are determined to get him back - no matter the cost.
Warnings: blood, injuries
The temple of Bhaal smells of damp stone and blood.
It’s oppressive—the weigh of stone all around, the scent of old and new blood, the whispers, and the sense of being watched. After the nautiloid, the shadow curse, and the assault on Moonrise, you thought no place could truly rattle you.
You were wrong. Because this temple is wrong. And you want nothing more than to leave it.
But can’t. Because Orin took the one thing she knows you can’t lose.
“Come on,” you whisper to the others. Shadowheart has a hand on her weapon; Gale looks thoroughly unsettled; even Lae’zel appears uneasy.
When you enter the temple, you see the altar. Orin is standing over it, her hand caressing the side of his broad face. Your heart lurches in your chest at the sight of him bound and unconscious.
“Halsin,” you breathe.
Orin lifts her gaze to yours and offers the kind of smile normally seen on skulls.
You have little memory of what follows after that. You snarl a challenge, bring up your weapon, and then all the hells seem to break loose. Gale is snarling spells, Shadowheart whirling as she parries blow after blow, and Lae’zel charges through the ranks of Bhaal’s faithful like a battering ram.
But your eyes are the on the altar.
You fight alongside your companions until you can reach him. Then you’re at his side, a knife in hand.
“Halsin,” you say urgently. You touch his cheek, trying to rouse him.
He must have been drugged. You can think of no other way that Orin could have taken and held him. At the urgent sound of your voice, his eyes flicker open. He seems to be making a great effort to drag himself to consciousness. His eyes are glazed, his lips soundlessly forming your name. You set your blade against the ropes and saw through the bindings around his wrists. “I’m here,” you say. “You’re all right.”
It takes a moment for him to find his voice. “You came.”
“Of course I did.” The ropes are infuriatingly thick and you drag your knife back and forth, fraying them. “You had any doubt?”
There is a moment’s hesitation, and it has little to do with his drugged state. He did doubt, you realize. He must have thought he would die down here, sacrificed like so many others. A fierce protectiveness wells up within you. When you’re both free of this place, you are going to tell him precisely how loved he truly is.
The ropes give way and you free his wrists, trying to rub blood and sensation back into his hands. He begins to sit up, but you press him down. “Rest a moment. Then we’ll—”
You feel the impact first. It’s like being hit with a rock—but then comes the chill and the utter wrongness of it.
Halsin’s eyes widen. All of the drugged lassitude falls away from him and he rolls over, his ankles catching on the bindings. His hands reach for you. No, not for you—you realize—but for the dagger protruding from your chest.
One of the cultists was invisible and he came up behind you. You turn, raising your weapon to try and defend you both, but the world tilts sideways.
You can’t collapse. You have to keep him safe. You have to free him.
You fall. There is the distant sound of an animal roar, the clashing of steel, and the smell of coppery blood.
Then, nothing.
*
Halsin has seen many beautiful things in his long life—the golden hue of dawn creeping across the old forest, the rarest of flowers blooming in moonlight, the sharp cut of lightning across a stormy sky.
But none of those sights compare to this. To her.
She kneels down beside him, as though the chaos all around them is nothing. A knife flickers between her fingers and she begins to free him.
She came for him.
Part of him had hoped—no, he had yearned—to see her again. But Halsin has long been a protector, not the protected. He learned to fend for himself at a young age. Her rescue of him from the goblins was a welcome surprise. After Aradin fled, Halsin thought no aid would be coming. But she did come for him—not just once, but twice.
He should have known better than to underestimate her, he thinks, as her hair falls around them both. She frees his arms, and then she is massaging circulation into his sore hands.
Gentle, always so gentle. So caring. He has never met anyone with such a gentle heart. It’s why he fell in love with her. And he does love her, even if he has not found the moment to tell her yet. There were always other priorities—the shadow curse, the tadpoles, the missions. There would always be time later, he told himself. But then he was kidnapped, and he realized belatedly how precious their little time together has been. He should have told her everything: how he treasures their conversations, how beautiful she is, how her kind heart is a rarity.
And now she is beside him, hope blossoming between them. Once they are free of this place, he will tell her everything.
But then a cultist appears and drives a knife through her back. She makes a small sound, as though the breath has been taken from her. She looks more confused than pained, and when she glances down, it is with a line between her delicate brows.
“No!” The word is yanked from his lips. It is a raw and agonized denial. A plea.
When she falls, it seems to take an eternity—as though time itself cannot bear to see her injured.
A fury such as he has never known howls through him.
The animal takes him and he welcomes the change. The ropes binding his legs snap, and Halsin lunges for the cultist. Bone and muscle give way between his jaws, and he tastes fresh blood. Another cultist lunges and Halsin kills him, too. Everything is a blur of adrenaline and fear and violence. He has rarely allowed the change to take him so thoroughly, but right now animal fury is the best weapon he possesses.
Once the cultists have been driven back, Halsin looks back at her.
She lays on her side, hair fallen across her face. She needs the man, not the beast. With a great effort, he changes back. It feels wrong; his instincts are screaming that he needs to be the bear to protect her.
“Stay with me, love,” he whispers, kneeling beside her. He turns her over, taking her gently in his arms.
His magic is sluggish; his body is still fighting to rid itself of the damn potions that kept him docile.
“Oak Father,” he murmurs, pressing his hand to her wound. “If you only ever answer one of my prayers, let it be this one. Please, give me the strength to save her.” His throat tightens painfully. “And if I cannot, keep her safe until we can meet again.”
He spell takes hold. Her flesh slowly knits back together, but he doesn’t release the spell. He needs to ensure that the internal injuries will heal, that she will not bleed from within.
He pours all of his magic into her, every last bit of strength he has. And when that runs out, he simply holds her.
All around him, the room has gone silent. Orin lays dead, a sword wound in her chest. Lae’zel flicks her blade free of blood with a contemptuous snarl. She snarls a curse in her tongue, and even if he cannot understand it, Halsin agrees completely.
“How is she?” Gale rushes over, kneeling by Halsin.
“I don’t know,” Halsin replies. “But we should get her someplace safe.”
*
They retreat to a place called the Elfsong Tavern. Gale explains that they took rooms here, and while it is no forest, it’s more comfortable and safe that sleeping on the city streets. Halsin eases her onto a bed, sitting back so that Shadowheart can work. Her spells reinforce his, and her brows draw tight as she murmurs a silent prayer. Halsin tries not to hover, but he will not leave. He cannot leave.
When Shadowheart finishes, she sits back. She is breathing a little unsteadily, having spent much of her own power.
“Well?” asks Astarion. He lingers in the doorway, looking a bit like a stray cat that cannot decide if he wants in or out. “Will she survive? Or do we need to resurrect Orin so Lae’zel can kill her again?”
“She needs time,” says Shadowheart. “For the spells to take, for her own body to take up some of the healing.” Her gaze meets Halsin’s. “She’s past the worst of it, I think. You managed to keep her from bleeding out back in the temple."
Halsin bits down on his lip. He should have been able to do more. If he had not been drugged, that wound would have been healed in a matter of moments.
She came to rescue him, and she nearly paid for his life with her own. The thought makes him feel sick to his stomach. “I’ll stay with her,” says Halsin, settling at her bedside.
The night passes slowly.
The others come and go. Astarion stops by with more blankets while Wyll ducks out to buy more healing potions. Shadowheart urges Halsin to bathe, promising to watch over her in the meantime. He goes, if only to scrub away the blood and the smell of captivity. He changes into clean clothes and returns to his beloved’s bedside.
She sleeps fitfully. Sweat beads at her brow and her eyes roam beneath her lids. “My heart,” he murmurs, taking her hand in his. “Rest easy. You’re safe.”
Finally, near dawn, she wakes.
She tries to speak, but it comes out dry and raspy. “Just a moment,” says Halsin, reaching for a pitcher of water. He pours a small cup, holding it to her lips. She looks as though she wants to protest that she can sit up and drink on her own, but her arm shakes. Her fingers still curl around his, as though to maintain an illusion of control. But when she’s finished drinking, she looks exhausted.
Halsin lowers her back into the pillows, rearranging the blankets around her.
“What happened?” she asks. “Did everyone make it out all right? Are you hurt?”
Of course she is more concerned with the others than herself. “Everyone made it out,” he says.
She reaches for one of his wrists. There are still red marks where the ropes rubbed his skin raw. “You haven’t healed yourself.”
He turns his wrist so that he can take her hand. Hers are so much smaller. “You needed the magic more.” She frowns at him, as though she wants to protest. Halsin smooths her hair back with his free hand. “Sleep. You should rest.”
She closes her eyes and leans into his touch. “What about you?”
“I’ll meditate in a little while,” he says.
Her frown deepens. Then she shifts in her bed, making as though to sit up. He places a hand on her shoulder. “What are you doing?”
“Moving over,” she says. “Or, trying to.” She pats the place beside her. “Please. The bed is more than big enough for both of us. That chair looks terribly uncomfortable.”
It’s true. This is one of those large, goose feather and linen affairs.
He bites back his protests—that he doesn’t wish to harm her by accident, that he doesn’t need sleep. Instead, he carefully lays down beside her. She lets out a small sigh, and curls into him.
She feels so small beside him. So fragile.
“I thought I’d lost you,” she whispers. “When Orin came to me and said you’d been taken.”
Halsin wraps an arm around her. He had wished to save this for a time when she is well, but he has wasted far too much time already. “I feared the same.” He takes a breath. His heart pounds with uncertainty, but he needs to say it. “When you were injured... I realized how much time I have wasted. There are things I want to tell you."
She lifts her gaze to his. “You can tell me anything.”
His hand cups her cheek, thumb stroking back and forth. "I love you.” He feels her go still but he forces himself to continue. “I should have said so before, when the nights were calmer. When we might have stolen away for a few hours to ourselves. When we weren’t in a city on the brink of war. But even if the words have come too late, I have to tell you that I love you. You are a wonder and even if you don’t feel the same, I want you to know.”
He half expects her to pull away. But instead, she snuggles closer. “You should have said something earlier, it’s true,” she murmurs. “Or I should have been brave enough to say it first. One of us should have spoken up sooner.” She kisses his hand, and the touch burns through him. “I love you, too.”
Joy fills him. It has been years since he felt such unbridled happiness—there are no demands on him, no responsibilities other than this. He will keep her safe, ensure that she comes through the coming battles alive. “We will live through this,” he murmurs, pulling her close. “I promise you that. And once you are well…”
He hears the smile in her voice. “What are we going to do?”
He kisses her hair. “Many things, my heart. Many, many things.”
*
When you wake, you’re still in Halsin’s arms.
It is like sleeping near a fire, but not unpleasantly so. You’re cozy beneath the blankets, his arms around you and your face turned into the pillow. You feel a little dizzy, a little giddy. You can’t quite believe that Halsin is beside you, that he loves you as much as you love him. You can’t help yourself; you snuggle closer.
The moment you stir, he rouses. “You’re awake.”
“I am,” you say. Your voice sounds a little rusty from sleep. “How long have I been out?”
“That does not matter. You need the rest,” he says so firmly that you cannot protest. He smooths a hand over your forehead. “No fever, that’s a good sign. How’s the pain?”
You gingerly touch the bandages around your chest. There’s a deep ache, but you know it’ll fade with time. “Not so bad.”
“You’re staying in bed for a few more hours,” he says. “The others are out shopping and collecting information on something to do with rescuing Wyll’s father.”
Your heart lurches. You try to sit up. “I need to help—”
“You will,” he says, gently pressing you back down into the mattress. “But you must recover first. I’ll speak with the others, and don’t fear, my heart, when we go out to rescue Duke Ravengard, you’ll be there.”
That mollifies you a little. You know he wouldn’t lie to you, even for the sake of keeping you safe. “All right.” Your stomach gurgles loudly and you flush.
“And I’ll see about breakfast,” Halsin says, smiling.
He begins to rise from the bed, but you catch his hand. “Hey.”
Halsin looks back at you, a question in his eyes.
“Thank you,” you say. “For taking care of me.”
His face softens. He kneels beside the bed. “Thank you. For always rescuing me.”
You kiss him—and it doesn’t feel like the first time. It feels natural, like slipping into a comfortable shirt. You both fit together perfectly. “We rescue each other,” you whisper.
