The Oath
I'm not always 100% happy with fics that I post on AO3, but this one... oh. This one brings me so much joy.
I stare at the man before me, the scent of Avernus filling my nostrils, rage filling my heart.
My Oath pulses in my chest in time with my heartbeat. Vengeance, it seems to whisper. Vengeance for the lost. For the dead. For the tormented and miserable. For those who died by their own hand rather than submit any longer. For the pain of my people. Kill. This. Traitor. His stench convicts him. Kill.
My hand goes to my sword, all unawares. I wrench back my control, keep my hand still, my eyes on his. One grey, one brown. They’re both fixed on me, his welcoming smile sliding off his face as he takes me in.
“Explain,” I force out, voice gravelly in the sunlight, as the curious eyes of the children – my kin – turn to us. “Why do you smell of the hells, and what the fuck do you want with my people?”
The rest of them are probably used to the smell. They're all recently come from Avernus, after all. But this man smells like he bathes in the hells.
He takes a long, deep breath, sheaths his rapier, holds his hands out to his sides, palms up. “I can explain,” he says, his voice pitched low. “I'm in pursuit of a devil. A most vicious one, in fact. My path took me through Avernus, as I chased her through the very hells. She threatens the whole of the Sword Coast. Your people included. She won't stop at harming just humans. She'll make it all burn, just for the fun of it.”
I scowl at the convenient lie, then the world lurches and twists. Suddenly I'm there, back in Avernus. I want to scream in anger and fear, but my senses, my feelings, are subsumed in someone else’s. Before me races a red-skinned, one-horned creature, greataxe swinging from her hand. She leaps aboard a nautiloid that appears in midair, as though called by her. I have to follow. I have to kill her.
The world lurches again, and I'm in my own head again, staring into the man's mismatched eyes.
“Advocatus diaboli,” he says softly. “I swear it, by my name and reputation as the Blade of Frontiers.”
“Wait,” I say, stumbling back a pace, staring at him. His skin, warm and brown in the sun. His braids, neatly aligned over his head. The three scars slicing through his eyebrow and down his cheek… and a false eye. “By all that's holy. You're serious? You're…”
“The Blade of Frontiers himself,” Ikaron agrees behind me. “I know him of old.” There's a remembered pain in his words.
I almost skewered the most famous folk hero this side of Rashemen.
My Oath quiets to a grumble. False alarm, it would seem.
“Are we to be at odds, then?” the man asks, his eye flicking to my hand still on my sword, gripping it like a lifeline.
He's ready to cut you down, but it would bring him no joy. Not like chasing down his quarry and killing her, I realise, pulling my hand from my sword hilt with a conscious effort. “I'd have peace between us,” I say, thrusting the hand out toward him instead. “If you truly hunt a devil, my Oath demands I assist you.”
His eye brightens with interest and bonhomie. “I saw you fight at the gate,” he says, grasping my forearm in the old greeting between warriors, his shoulders relaxing a tiny bit now that a tussle is no longer imminent. “I’d be a fool to turn you away. More so, if a paladin of vengeance is willing to assist my cause.”
I nod brusquely. “Then let the thought be parent to the deed. Where do we find this fell creature?”
“You're not a devil,” I say, staring at her. “That's no tiefling guise with an infernal underneath. You're a tiefling.”
“Doesn't matter,” Wyll says, pushing me aside, face twisted in hate. “You served Zariel. You signed your own death warrant.”
She might not be what he thought, but he doesn't care anymore. Lust for her blood fills his mind as he connects to me, with a slight tinge of fear and… shame? He is fixated, now. The tiefling woman must die.
She is pulled into the connection, and I see her face, desperate, eyes darting as she finally sees a chance for escape and takes it, her axe cleaving a devil in twain. She flees from the court of Avernus, her heart thumping in rhythm with her feet.
“Wyll, no,” I get out, before my Oath cracks in my chest, the pain making me gasp and fall to my knees. Death to the traitor. Death death death bloody vengeance now. “She was enslaved!” I howl to the sky, as she looks on wide-eyed.
Wyll stares down at me, confusion following fear and doubt and shame across his face. “You don't understand,” he falters, but his eye is drawn back to her. His face fills with determination instead. “But you're correct. I must not… play the part of the villain, no matter… never mind.”
The Oath retreats slowly, reluctantly, as though pulled away by a friendly hand. No devils here. No traitors. A misunderstanding. Born of… what, exactly?
“Oh, thank the gods,” Karlach says, laughing. “I thought… don't worry what I thought. We're all dandy, yeah?”
“Peace,” Wyll pledges with a smile.
I walk over to Wyll’s tent. He’s standing, his weight mostly on his right leg, swirling a glass of wine, staring at it in contemplation, a slight smile on his face. When he hears my footfall, he looks up, and his face brightens.
“Well met!” he says, his voice soft. Am I imagining a caressing tone creeping into the simple welcome?
“Hi,” I say, flopping onto a cushion and sprawling on the ground. “How are things going for the famed Blade of Frontiers?”
“Apart from being branded as a faithless warlock for all to see, you mean?”
“Mmm. Apart from that tiny detail,” I agree, twitching an eyebrow as I look at him sidelong.
He chuckles, sitting on the ground next to me, heedless of his clothing. “Well enough, I suppose,” he says. “I have everything I need. That village held a few bottles of wine the goblins didn’t manage to plunder. How about you?”
“The same, without the wine. But we all know that a bottle of wine and a goblin to slay is all the Blade needs to stay happy,” I say, elbowing his knee gently, curious to see if I can get a rise from him.
He chuckles, but takes the hint and reaches into his tent, snags another glass, pours me a generous measure of wine.
“My thanks,” I say, sipping slowly. “I can always rely on you to share your stash.”
He turns to me and his mouth opens a little as if to question me, his eyes wide with curiosity, but then a curtain draws closed over his face, his mouth shuts, and he turns his head away.
“What is it?” I ask, keen to dig under the calm facade that Wyll presents to the world.
“It’s nothing.”
“Then ask,” I say, smiling. “For the sake of making conversation, if naught else.”
“Am I so bland a conversationalist, then?”
I shake my head. “A little quiet, yes. But you’re soothing. What’s your question?”
“Do I annoy you? Why do you like me least?”
I sit up and swivel to stare at him, aghast.
“You’re right, I should shut up,” he says, drawing his legs in to stand up. “Blame the wine.”
I lean forward and put out a hand to touch his, hoping to keep him in place. “Will you stop for a moment? Why in all the hells would you think such a ridiculous thing?”
He frowns, but settles back into place. “I’m not offended. I’ve clearly done something to bother you that caused you to always visit me last on your rounds. Been too annoying, I’d assume. I thought you might give me an opportunity to mend my ways. It has been a while since I’ve travelled with companions, you know. Too much time on one’s own can send a person peculiar. I know it. I’d like a chance to fix it.”
“Wyll.”
“What?”
“You’re a very silly man.”
“I’m not sure how to rectify that character flaw.”
I laugh so hard I fall off the hard cushion, while he stares at me with bemused eyes. Eventually, I calm and wipe my face of the tears of hilarity that have rolled down my cheeks while I was lost in the sheer ridiculousness of the situation.
“I suppose I’m glad to have amused you, though I’m not sure I grasp the joke.”
“Ask me why I always visit you last, when I make my nightly check-ins with everyone.”
“I don’t think I appreciate being the butt of your joke.”
“Ask me.”
He heaves a sigh, and I can see him decide that humouring me is the fastest way to get this over with. “Why do you visit me last?”
“Because I like to finish my evening with something sweet. Someone undemanding, who will sit with me, offer me a glass of wine, and ask how I am feeling. Wyll, you’re not a chore. You’re my dessert.”
He stares at me. “I’m your what?”
“The sweetness that lingers after the work and stress of the day is done. That rewards me for the harshness of effort. That follows me down into my dreams, to lighten my sleep.”
He blinks, slowly and carefully, and puts down his wine glass. “You’re not just saying that to make me feel better?”
“Why the hells would I do that if I dislike you?”
He frowns, and I can almost see his mind working as his understanding of our entire relationship is upended. “You don’t dislike me, then.”
I press my lips tight together to keep another burst of laughter inside and shake my head.
“Why do you keep laughing?”
“Because I’m a fool. I thought – when I sat down with you at the end of the day, in preference to all others – I thought I was making something clear.”
He tilts his head, watching me.
“Shit,” I say, frustration roiling inside my chest. “You’re actually going to make me say it, aren’t you.”
“Considering I find myself at a loss to follow this conversation, I think I must insist.”
I sigh. “I’m developing quite a fondness for you, you oblivious twit.”
A smirk twitches at the corner of his mouth. “And you thought calling me an oblivious twit was a good way to start courting me?”
Laughter bursts from me, and this time Wyll joins in.
“Clearly I’m not the only twit here,” he says, picking up his glass again and sipping, letting the smirk play over his face.
“Hmm. At least we have something other than an illithid parasite in common.”
“Oh? You’ve been looking for things we have in common?”
I nod, taking a gulp of the wine. It’s harsh, but the sear in my throat distracts me from the embarrassment threatening to close me down. “It’s a little difficult, getting to know you. You’re a little…” I shrug, unwilling to be critical.
“Impressive?” he asks.
“I was going to say –”
“Heroic?”
“I mean…”
“Larger than life?”
I look up from the wine glass to see a grin on his face. He’s teasing me. “The Blade of Frontiers is taunting me?” I ask, carefully placing the wine glass on the ground next to me. “I am devastated! Agonised! Bereft!” I clutch my chest melodramatically and fall backwards into a sprawl on the ground. I crack open an eye to see Wyll bent over, laughing so hard he’s actually spilt his wine.
“You’re sillier than I realised,” he says, still chuckling, holding out a hand to help me back up to a sitting position.
“Ditto,” I say, smiling at him. “You know…” I trail off, wondering if he headed me off earlier because he doesn’t want me getting closer.
“Go on,” he says, sobering.
“I would like to get to know you better,” I say, slowly. “But if you’d rather just be part of the team, not complicate this by making friends, maybe more… I understand.”
The smile that spreads over his face is pure sweetness, like the first new honey after a hard winter. “All you had to do was ask.”
“I thought…” I start, looking at him sideways. “When I heard the tales of you. I thought you'd be more… you know, the brooding, moody hero, always glowering at people and destroying evil.”
It's Wyll's turn to fall over laughing. “What the hells,” he splutters, “gave you the impression I'd be a stuck-up wanker? I'm not a paladin.”
“HEY!”
He just laughs harder. Something about the night's revelations has loosened something inside him, I realise, watching him. That careful, stoic self-control has eased just a little. Was that truly all I needed to do to peek under the mask of the Blade?
“What are you thinking so heavily, watching me?” he asks, sitting back up, sober, his eye serious as it meets mine.
“I just realised something, I think,” I tell him. “I've spent weeks trying to pry you out of your shell. And it just occurred to me that perhaps all I needed to do was show you I cared about you. I feel a little silly.”
His mouth quirks, as though he's trying to smile and stop a quivering lip all at once.
“I'm sorry,” I say, softly, reaching out to take his hand in mine. “I'm sorry I ever made you feel less than the loveliest person I've ever met. I'm not good with words. I prefer… well, I thought I could show you with my acts. I suppose not.”
He lifts my hand to press his lips against my knuckles, sending a shiver down my spine, watching my face. “I'll keep that in mind,” he says, the smile winning.
I watch his face, that gorgeous warm and dark skin, the cheekbones, the scars that bear silent testament to his courage and valour, the utterly mismatched eyes that soften under my gaze. The full lips that part just a little as I watch, and I want nothing more than to reach out with my other hand and run my thumb over them, feel their softness, part them a little, wet my thumb with his saliva, feel his breath on my wet skin, pull him into my arms to kiss them, over and over.
“You're thinking deep thoughts,” he says, his voice a little husky. Does he have a cold coming on, or does he read my desire on my face?
“Jeven!” Gale says. “Finally. I've been looking everywhere for you.”
I glance at Gale's tent, a mere couple of metres from Wyll's.
“It's important,” Gale insists, as though no business I could have with Wyll could possibly equal the affairs of a wizard such as he.
“Fine,” I say, giving Wyll's hand one last squeeze as I stand. “What's up?”
He's staring out at the water, his arms crossed as though cold, but the air around us is balmy.
“Hey,” I say, venturing onto the dark sliver of beach. “You're missing your party, oh beauteous Blade.”
He looks around at the sound of my voice, starting a little, then smiles in welcome. The smile, even in the obscuring dark, feels false, a lie.
“What's wrong?” I ask, moving to his side. If someone was cruel to him, I'll rip them to pieces and set the pieces alight.
“Oh,” he says, turning to me a little. “I'm not quite as in the mood for a party as I expected. I didn't want to spoil the mood, so… I came out here.”
“Wyll, not in the mood for a party?” I asked, my tone light. “Has the tadpole taken over entirely, then? Must we slay an illithid in our midst?”
His answering bark of laughter has a heavy dose of bitterness in it. “Might as well be, from the looks out there.”
“They think you're amazing, Wyll. You should hear the kids talk about you. They're so awed, they're in the heavens at the mere thought of having been trained by the Blade of Frontiers.”
“Tell that to everyone else. I'm a devil, Jeven. Hardly a figure of joy and celebration. You don't want these ugly sharp horns and claws at a happy event.” His voice aches with bitterness and loss.
Hurt stabs into my heart, twists the knife. Is that really how he feels when he looks at me? But I realise in the next moment that tonight, the focus needs to be on him. I can talk about my feelings another night.
I push down the hurt feelings, rearrange my features, but not before Wyll glances at me and realises what he's said.
“Oh. Hells. I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that,” he says, repentance scored deep in the premature lines of his face.
I shake my head, sit down on the ground, pull him down next to me. “Don't be silly,” I tell him, keeping my voice carefully light. “Who's been saying things to you? I need to know. For… reasons.” My Oath flares bright in my chest, so hot I glance down, expecting to see its light. An Oath of Vengeance can be a tricky thing to control at times. And right now, it's united with me in wanting to direct it at anyone who says a wrong word to Wyll.
“No one,” he says, sighing. At my sceptical glance, he shakes his head. “No, really. Everyone's been very… kind.” His upper lip lifts a little. He doesn't like being an object of pity. “But every tiefling out there was subjected to horrors and torments at the hands of devils. Can you blame them for wincing away from meeting my gaze, for stinking of fear as soon as they scent the hells on my skin?”
My Oath burns bright. It can. It wants their blood as tribute to lay before him.
“I can't,” I admit, unwilling to understand, but… hells, the horrors of Avernus will never leave me, either. “I want to, though. I want… gods, this is all so unfair.”
His mouth twists as he nods his agreement.
I want to reach out to touch his mouth, and this time I do it, let the ball of my thumb skim his bottom lip, and his eyes close as he takes a breath, his mouth falling a little open as he turns to me.
“May I kiss you?” I ask, hearing my voice hoarse with desire to just… kiss this man. To leave the horrors behind for one night, the hurt, the pain, the terror.
He nods, and I tilt my head to the side, careful to avoid clashing horns together or getting tangled, lean in for what is almost a chaste peck, except the length of time for which we hold it, as though time itself slows like honey pouring from a jug, languid and golden.
Eventually I pull back, to see a slight smile on his face. “You're beautiful,” I tell him, a catch in my voice. “Face and soul. Don't you ever forget it.”
His cheeks darken, I think, as he ducks his head. I have to dodge fast to avoid a horn to the face. “Crap,” he says. “Sorry. Well, you uhh… have a party to get back to. Go have some fun. Lighten your heart.”
“Not a chance,” I tell him. “Come here. Head on my shoulder.”
“I –”
“Your virtue is safe with me,” I retort. “Come on. I've never seen anyone in more need of a long hug, and I've met Astarion and Karlach.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “I'll gore you accidentally.”
“Don't be ridiculous. I'm a tiefling. I know how to handle horny beasts.”
He chuckles at that, actually sounding lighter now. “If you're sure,” he says, slowly moving to rest his cheek against my shoulder, one horn rubbing lightly against the side of my neck. “I don't remember the last time…”
My head turns a little to press my lips to his forehead before I realise what I'm doing.
He sighs at the gesture, and I feel him suddenly relax against me. “I haven't had someone offer comfort for… well over seven years,” he says, his voice slow and calm, the tightness gone. “Oh, by the hells…”
I look down at him, concerned for a moment, then feel the wetness soak through my shirt to the skin of my shoulder. “Hey,” I say, my voice soft and quiet. “What happens on the beach, stays on the beach. Let it out.”
Shaking answers me, as years of repressed sorrow and regret pour out of the man in my arms. This hero, this beautiful soul who refused to grieve the betrayal, the loss, the sheer grinding misery, until he reached breaking point and could no longer hold it all in.
His silent sobs wrack him head to toe, his body shuddering, as he takes me at my word and lets it all go, as though he’s finally feeling safe to be vulnerable for a while. He blows his nose several times, deliberately quiet, presumably to avoid anyone coming to investigate.
“I'm sorry,” he says, his voice thick. “You kiss me, and I start to cry. Hardly an enthusiastic endorsement.”
I press my lips to his forehead again. “It means more to me than you could ever know,” I say, my heart and eyes full. “That you'd trust me, I mean. That you'd be honest about how you feel. I know… it's not easy, is it?”
He sighs and settles back against me. “You make it easier,” he says. “I keep expecting… I don't know. For you to tire of my utter lack of heroic qualities. To wander off to find a more lighthearted… connection. I know Astarion and Lae'zel propositioned you tonight.”
“How…” I start to ask, then realise. “The tadpole. Of course.”
“I might have been thinking of you,” he confesses.
“And how do you think I came to let you in?” I ask, my arms tightening around him. “I was looking for you.”
“I don't think I'm ready for… I don't know. Romance,” he says, his voice dropping back into uncertainty. “Everything… the change… I can't…”
“May I kiss you occasionally, and hold you in my arms?” I ask, craning my head to see a bit of his face. So I don't miss the sudden smile that spreads over his face, repressed the next moment.
“Mmm. You may,” he murmurs, his cheek rubbing against my shoulder, almost like a cat marking its territory.
“Then I'm content,” I tell him, and my Oath blazes high in my chest again. I see the slightest flare answer in his chest, and frown suddenly. What in the hells?
“What was that?” Wyll asks, his voice sleepy.
“I've no idea,” I answer, and relax as best I can against the rock at my back, my senses filled with the man in my arms, and a need to keep him safe.
The next night, a dark, forbidding figure appears in the camp, striding in from the river as though he’s just walked across it. Perhaps he has.
I face him, wonder and panic filling me. The Oathbreaker. The first. The only. It must be him. But why? Surely I’d have known if I’d broken my oath. It’s never been shy of letting me know when I was drifting off-course.
“You… are an odd case,” the knight says, his head cocked. He seems to be gazing at me curiously, though his helmet casts his face into darkness. “Your vow not broken, just… transmuted.”
“Wait,” I reply, confusion replacing the panic. “What… transmuted?”
“Aye. Oath of Vengeance no more,” he rumbles. “Oath of Devotion, now. And with… hmm.” He sounds as though he's deciphering an ancient text, faded and difficult to read.
“With what?” I prompt.
“With a target for your devotion,” he says. “Ahh. Suddenly, I understand.”
I shake my head, still hopelessly confused. “I don't understand.”
“You will,” he says, his voice both gentle and ever-so-slightly amused. “There is naught for me here. Farewell, paladin.”
He vanishes as I open my mouth to object, to demand that he explain himself. I'm left agape, staring at empty space.