I saw a post the other day about Astarion watching Tav get railed by Halsin and this is what happened, I am so sorry :D
Warnings: Blood drinking, big Halsin, threesome, virgin tav is really into pain, service dom Halsin, sub Astarion, sub Tav, Astarion's poor relationship with sex, aftercare, oral, very large Halsin, set near end of act III
“Are you sure about this?” Tav sat on the edge of a private bed in Sharess’ Caress with Astarion sitting in a rather comfortable looking armchair facing her. He was lounging with a glass of wine in his hand. Just as she was clad only in a periwinkle satin robe that clung to her body.
“I wouldn’t have suggested it if I wasn’t, darling. Are you sure about this?” He could tell she was nervous. They had rented this room for one reason only. Privacy. While they had the rooms at the Elfsong, Astarion didn’t want the rest of their party listening in.
“I want to, I’m just nervous. I’ve never done anything like this before.” She chuckled, he knew. Of course he knew, why did she have to say it? Her nerves were starting to get the better of her. She tried breathing through it but her heart would not stop racing.
He smiled at her before rising to his feet. He walked over to her and cupped her face in his hands, “Nothing is going to happen if you don’t want it to. And you do have me here, I won’t let anything go further than what you want.”
“I trust you,” she placed a soft kiss against his lips before smiling. “But I can’t promise this will go smoothly.”
“My love, nothing goes smoothly when you’re involved.” He kissed her again, “maybe I could help you relax just a little before he gets here.”
“What do you mean?” His hands started to wander down her arms, slowly reaching the tie that kept her robe together.
Normally, someone of her station would have something longer, a little more regal. But this was not a regal situation. “Perhaps I can make you just a tad more comfortable.” With deft hands, he untied her robe. Gods, her freckled skin always made him catch his breath. But backlit by the sun setting outside, she looked like a goddess reborn. A perfect halo around her newly scarred body.
She only nodded, still embarrassed by the intimacy of it all. Her words may have been caught in her throat but her body obeyed. She spread her legs for him to fit between them. She leaned back on her elbows as he ever so gently pushed her back. “Astarion?”
“Shh, darling, let me.” He dropped to his knees. Holding her thighs open, he licked a long stripe against her cunt. She gasped but tangled her fingers in his hair. He only wanted to bring her to that edge and maybe prep her just a little. He made lazy circles around her clit while she writhed on the bed. It was his favorite dance with her.
But before he would get too wrapped up in the taste of her, the doors swung open. To say Halsin was a presence was an understatement. And as soon as Astarion went to pull away to make room, the druid held him there. “Do not stop on my account.”
Tav immediately went to cover herself and they let her, but Astarion’s tongue continued. This time encouraged by an audience, he buried his face in her cunt. Leaving no inch undiscovered, he couldn’t help but fuck her with his tongue. Tav tried to stay quiet, tried to keep her moans to herself. What she did with Astarion was filthy enough and adding the archdruid seemed so strange to her. She turned her face towards him and watched him slowly start to undress. He was so…large. She would be lying if she said she hadn’t thought about being held by him. It was almost enough to distract her from the Rogue between her legs. Almost.
She felt her orgasm wash over her as he gave her clit a slight nip. "Astarion!" She cried, giving his hair a harsh tug.
He let her ride out her high for a moment before standing before her, her legs still spread and her chest heaving. The golden rays of the sun surrounded her now. Her golden hair fanned out behind her and the flush of her skin was all Astarion wanted to look at. Dazed by her taste and how angelic Tav looked at that moment, he didn't notice Halsin turning him around to face him.
Halsin wasn't one to waste time, not when it came to this. He held Astarion's face and smashed his lips against the smaller elf's. Tav could do nothing but watch the druid ravage him. It took her breath away to watch him pick Astarion up and drop him in the chair yet again. The two made eye contact for a moment. He looked positively wrecked. His face was far more flushed than usual and she could see how hard he was through his trousers. It made her cunt clench.
Then he turned to her. "Astarion was right. You taste as sweet as any wine." If it had been possible, the bard would have even blushed even more. Halsin towered over her. She watched as he slowly unbuckled his breeches, her breath catching in her throat. The initial trepidation had been washed away with Astarion. Or so she had thought.
Halsin was big. Astarion was nothing to scoff at but Halsin was another creature entirely. She swallowed hard, "Is that even going to fit?"
He slowly started stroking himself, "It has before in much smaller."
"Gods," she practically whimpered, tossing her head against the pillows.
"Did you prep her?" His voice was so low and hungry.
"I didn't have enough time, you barged in before I could really commit." Astarion sounded like a different person. He was far more whiny than before. He was feeling just as needy as she was.
"Sit behind her." Astarion moved before she realized it, sitting against the pillows and resting her head resting on his chest. It dawned on her that he liked following his commands. She could feel how hard he was pressed against her back. "Good boy."
A shiver ran down the rogue's back as a light whimper escaped him.
"Now hold her just like that," he stood between her legs with Astarion propping her up. It took her by surprise when Halsin's thick fingers spread her cunt open. "Such a pretty girl," he murmured to himself before slowly slipping just one finger inside her. Tav writhed against the vampire spawn, silently begging for more. She tried to gain a little friction by grinding her hips against his hand. "Hold her, Astarion."
It was a quick command but one he followed without thinking. He wrapped his arms around her middle. She looked up at him with pleading eyes, "Are you alright, love?"
She whimpered but nodded. She simply needed more. "Touch her."
His hands were quick to find her breasts. She arched her back into his touch as Halsin added a second finger and started practically pistoning his fingers in and out of her. "Gods!"
"Good, just let go for me. You will have to cum around my fingers before I give either of you anything else." Halsin watched the two in front of him. Astarion might have needed this more than he had thought. And so did Tav. It was impossible not to find either of them attractive. It had been even more impossible to ignore that attraction. And now that she was laid bare in front of him with him behind her, it was almost too much. He silently prayed to the Oak Father for control.
Tav's moans got louder. Her hands gripped Astarion's shirt as he played with her breasts. She thought the attention Astarion gave her was overwhelming but it was nothing compared to the attention of the two elfs. “Shit,” she gasped as her cunt clenched around Halsin’s fingers.
He removed his fingers from her, not hesitating to suck them clean. “If I did not want to take you now, I would spend hours just tasting you.”
She only whined in response, still coming down from another high. She never imagined herself as a plaything before. But she could scarcely think of little else than the two men using her body. The thought alone was nearly enough to push her over the edge again. She didn’t have much time to dwell on the thought. Halsin used his other hand to direct her face towards him. “Is this what you want?”
She nodded.
“I need more than that.”
“Yes! Just-”she whined, “please!”
Halsin smiled to himself. They had jumped into this with little preparation or conversation and a part of him was worried it might be too much. He was already worried that giving Astarion commands would be too much yet he followed them so sweetly. The two of them were so eager to obey him. He held her thighs apart, taking a moment to watch her cunt twitch in anticipation before dragging himself through her folds. He groaned as he slowly pushed his way inside her.
She cried out at the stretch. Gods, it hurt. Her face twisted from pleasure to pain. Astartion hushed her, gently stroking her cheek. “I know, darling, you have to relax.” She nodded, focusing on her breathing.
Halsin stopped, gently stroking her thighs. “Are you alright?”
“Gods, don’t you dare stop now,” she nearly cried. Between a shady priest and Astarion, she had learned that pain was merely a motivator.
It took patience and care, but eventually he found himself completely buried inside of her. She looked so small like this but so tight and hot. He leaned down to press a kiss against her lips. A kiss she eagerly returned, a hand threading itself through his hair. He broke away panting, leaning towards Astarion next. He could feel his fangs nip at his lips. Not intentionally, just silently begging for more. He braced himself standing at the edge of the bed, holding her thighs apart. “Are you ready?”
Another nod. This time, he didn’t make her talk, just gave a couple shallow thrusts. Those shallow thrusts slowly turned harder and harder until he was practically punching the air from her lungs. Without thinking, he grabbed Astarion’s hand and pulled it towards her clit. Normally, he was slow and teasing with his ministrations. But something about watching someone else fuck her into her own oblivion made him wild. Quick and purposeful circles around her clit combined with Halsin’s rough treatment had her back arching in almost no time at all.
In a daze, Tav grabbed the back of Astarion’s head and brought him down towards her. She wanted to kiss him, to feel him too. Most of all? She wanted him to bite her. Once she broke the kiss, she bared her neck to him in a silent plea. Astarion looked at Halsin through his eyelashes. She wasn’t the only one who looked absolutely wrecked.
The druid’s eyes were transfixed on her cunt swallowing him whole. His chest was heaving as he held her trembling thighs open. “Hells,” he whispered underneath his breath. He glanced up at the rogue, who was equally transfixed on his cock bullying her. “Say what you need, Astarion.” He growled, closer to his own end than he would like.
Astarion stroked her neck with the hand that wasn’t still circling her clit. "She's asking for a bite," he all but whined and pouted.
"By all means," he had never seen something like that. He couldn't pretend that he wasn't curious and if she was asking in the throes of another orgasm? Who was he to deny her?
Astarion adjusted so he could be closer to her neck, she didn't seem to notice. She could only moan and cry out nonsense. And then he bit her neck, right where her scars were forming at the juncture of her neck.
Halsin watched her eyes roll back in her head as she scratched at the vampire’s thighs and created a vice grip on his cock. It was too much even for him, he tried to hold back, to let her ride out this high one more time. But he couldn’t. He pulled out right before he finished, coating her body in his seed as Astarion drank from her. He stood there for a moment, trying to collect his own thoughts. Astarion was running his hands up and down her body, making a mess on her stomach, her neck seemingly forgotten.
He dragged his fingers through Halsin’s seed, using the other hand to pry her mouth open. She sucked in his fingers without question. It was salty and earthy, she gagged at first but tried to lick Astarion’s fingers clean. And she swallowed every drop on his hands. If he wasn’t careful, Halsin would need another chance to bury himself inside her. Now that he’s had her, could he ever truly think of anything else?
Without warning, Astarion left her side, positioning himself at the edge of the bed once more. Only a fool would be able to miss the tent in his trousers. Halsin watched him lick every drop of his seed off her stomach while his hand found her clit once more while Tav looked at Halsin with pleading eyes.
“Good boy,” Halsin’s hands wrapped around his own cock, watching the vampire clean the bard with his tongue. “Do you wish to fuck her too? I would hate for you to be left wanting.”
For once, Astarion had nothing to say. With clumsy hands, he stripped out of his clothes. Tav was far too gone to notice him shaking. But Halsin watched him bury his cock in her cunt and watched her nearly scream. He watched him fuck her with reckless abandon. It didn’t feel like the Astarion he knew. He walked behind him, running his hands down his arms. “She is not going anywhere, sweetling. You are safe,” he whispered into the vampire’s ears.
His grip on Tav tightened while Halsin kissed his neck and rubbed gentle circles on his thighs as she reached He let him work out whatever he was feeling on her already abused cunt. Astarion came with a strangled cry. He collapsed on Tav, tangling his limbs with hers. The two laid there, completely spent and out of breath with tears pricking his eyes. Halsin felt his heart swell looking at the two. He smiled to himself before walking towards the washroom. Casting a spell to warm the water already sitting in the room’s tub.
First, he scooped up Tav in his arms. She nuzzled against his chest and welcomed the warmth of the water. Next he swept Astarion in his arms and sat him next to the bard. It was a quick thing getting the two of them scrubbed down. Eventually, Astarion came back into his right mind and started scrubbing Tav’s hair. Tav, who was still in a dazed state, simply leaned against the much larger elf as the vampire helped scrub her body. For a while after, Halsin simply held the two smaller elfs as they curled against him and simply slept. He hadn’t expected to stay but he was more than happy to.
Summary: In which at long, long last, there is smut.
Part 9 of 10
Warnings: M Rated Smut
Word Count: 10.5k~
View story masterpost | Read on Ao3
The Elfsong is never truly silent, even at night. The closest it can claim are those small hours before dawn when the staff have nearly finished setting the public rooms to rights and the kitchen help have not yet arrived to check the chef’s rising loaves. On a ten-day’s end at midnight, it’s a veritable riot—packed to the rafters with sailors ready to spend their freshly earned coin and the disproportionate number of locals who find themselves livelier by dark than by day.
So the fulsome hush that envelops its patrons as the last chime of the Lower City clock-bell dies away is highly unusual, and has nothing to do with reverence for the hour, but the high female voice which glides suddenly through the tavern in spectral, sourceless song.
A rare occurrence, but not unheard of. Several of those working the bar, and one or two regulars, have heard it before: this otherworldly phenomenon which gave the Elfsong its name. The melody is eerie, plaintive; the lyrics all old Elven. A lament for lost love, the eldest patrons say, though others believe the nameless, bodiless singer has recently added a second song to her repertoire. Whichever this one is, it ends too soon to be certain. In minutes, the elf's voice melts away with as little ceremony as it arrived, leaving the tavern to shake off the ill-fitting silence and, as if making up for lost time, rouse itself to twice its usual, raucous life.
All except one private booth in a corner, whose disparate company, tense and contemplative even before the song began, seems to have taken its appearance as some divine portent. Those in the scrum of chairs around the booth scoot them hastily back. They drop tankards and coins to the tabletop, gather up greatcoats and hats, mutter minimal farewells to the booth behind, then scurry out into the ghost-less, godless dark.
One of the occupants of the booth’s bench also peels away as the party leaves. Sweeping their coins into a pocket and their tankards into her arms, she heads for the bar, tail held stiff behind her boots and expression turbulent enough to repel even the boldest of drunks.
Leaving the two remaining tieflings to stare awkwardly past each other for a moment…
…before Zevlor exhales through his nose and says, “I suppose that’s as good a place as any to call an end.”
Alfira blinks.
“Hang on — what?”
Her outburst halts Zevlor mid-motion, one hand already braced against the table, ready to rise. The ghostly Elven song has cleared some of the fog across his reason—enough, at least, to register the too-many pints he’s allowed himself to drink; and the time.
“I mean,” he tries again, “I’d say we’ve covered all the major events you would not have been able to track down otherwise. All that’s left is the final battle for the Gate, and surely others—”
“Like the hells it is!” Alfira explodes, and the force of it shocks Zevlor back into his seat. “I still don’t know what happened with you and Tav! Which was the whole damned point of buying you all these drinks in the first place!"
She scowls. It looks, to Zevlor, like hard work for such a naturally cheery face. He swallows a reflexive laugh. Two pints to the bad, her nerves worn thin by his protracted recitation of violence—not to mention the bout of moralising which followed—and, apparently, spurred to more brazen confidence by the spectral song, Alfira's mood is not to be tested. Not with her partner, to whom he's so tentatively reconciled, waiting in the wings, anyway.
With a wistful glance through the fluttering privacy curtain at the open double doors, Zevlor adjusts his tail more comfortably behind him and speaks as quickly as he can without incurring more bardic ire.
“Well, the journey back from Bhaal’s temple was uneventful. Tav had reinforcements waiting in the Undercity, so I only had to carry her a little way before I was relieved. And once we were above ground, we only had to go as far as here—the Elfsong. I had healed Tav’s wound,” he explains, cutting off Alfira’s burgeoning question, “but she’d still lost a great deal of blood. She needed rest. And so did I. Healing’s harder work than a fight.”
“But you still had your … your power?”
“Oh, yes.”
He had half-expected it to vanish on transferring the limp-limbed, faintly protesting Tav into Halsin’s steadier arms, but, though physically depleted, a weak, warm current still pulsed through Zevlor’s veins. It buoyed his aching legs through Baldur’s Gate’s labyrinth of greasy tunnels; up a ladder, out a sewer grate, and onto its marginally cleaner streets; then into the Elfsong, past the wrinkled noses of its few early morning patrons, and up a flight of stairs before, finally, bringing him to a halt. Some stubborn sense of propriety, or the realisation he was still dripping several varieties of noxious substance, held him back as the archdruid bustled Tav into a room so lavish it might have belonged to a minor noble, barring a few suspicious carpet stains.
And almost as pleasantly surprising to Zevlor as the sense of weary power that lingered even as Tav was lost to his sight was the fact that none of her other companions then chucked him out.
Instead, he’d been ushered through a different door into another well-appointed suite, where he was not only allowed, but encouraged—by Wyll, anyway—to help himself to food and drink; and, after a few minutes awkward dripping onto the polished floor, use of the room’s private bath. The folding screen shielding the deep tub from view was carved rosewood, the bathwater heated, the soap in the dish a haughty, fragrant cousin to his accustomed military-issue lye. To Zevlor, it felt more surreal to be here—fetched fluffy towels and fresh clothes, fitted for tieflings no less; then guided into a padded armchair beside a crackling fire and provided a tray of fresh fruit and a carafe of wine—than it had to wake chained to Bhaal’s altar.
Yet the luxury he relished most lay within himself.
Closing his eyes, he concentrated on it: that deep inner lake of purposeful, holy magic lapping gently at his insides. It was a second nature feeling, like coming home after a long and trying day, and yet… now he had the time and quiet to map its edges, plumb its depths, he thought it was not quite how he remembered. Power Zevlor had always inwardly pictured as unadulterated white-gold contained new tints of palest purple and vibrant blue. And beneath the mental image of coloured light rippled a suggestion of sound: a voice, barely audible, but effortlessly familiar… bracing as trumpets and soothing as strings…
A smile plucked the corners of Zevlor’s lips.
“Zevlor? Are you alright?”
He opened his eyes. The Blade of Frontiers was half-crouched on the hearthrug in front of him. He, too, had cleaned himself; his battle robes were free of refuse. Firelight flickered off the infernal crimson of one eye — and the ornate hilt of the rapier strapped to his side. Zevlor struggled to stand.
“What’s happened?” he asked, his words, like his legs, unsteady with approaching sleep. “Is Tav—”
But Wyll was shaking his head—a slow, calculated motion; he’d learned to compensate for the extra weight—and motioning Zevlor to resume his seat.
“Nothing’s happened. Tav’s alright. She’s still asleep, but Halsin says that’s to be expected.”
“He’s … he’s sure?” asked Zevlor, waiting for Wyll’s slow shake to become a nod of assurance before lowering himself cautiously back into the comfortable chair.
“Completely. It might not even have to do with her wound—he says you did a fine job,” he added in the same encouraging tone Zevlor remembers the young man using on the children back in the Emerald Grove. “She’s probably just exhausted. She’s been running herself ragged ever since you were... since we found you were gone.”
A wholly inappropriate swell of affection flooded Zevlor at this. He grimaced against it and reached for the carafe at his elbow, but the sight of his steady hands lifting and pouring a flawless measure of wine did nothing to quell his unseemly self-satisfaction.
More to distract himself than because he cared particularly, he asked Wyll, "And how long has that been?"
“It’s been three days since we received Orin's … uh … message that she had you. The gist of it was if Tav wanted to see you alive again, she was to kill Enver Gortash and bring his hand to the temple of Bhaal.”
Zevlor choked on a mouthful of crisp white wine.
“The new Archduke?” he asked when he could speak, and the alarm in his voice had nothing to do with loyalty to the office—he remembered Tav’s stories of the man. “Surely he would be highly defended? How was Tav supposed to reach him, let alone kill him, without being hunted down by the Watch? Or the Flaming Fist?”
“He is, and she didn't. Karlach had a plan to get at him but Tav said it would take too long and she didn’t trust Orin to keep her word, anyway. She was packed and headed for the Undercity to track down Bhaal’s temple before an hour had passed. As far as I know, this is the first time she’s slept since, and I really don’t want to wake her, but…” Wyll shifted uncomfortably on his heels. “I can’t keep Karlach off Gortash any longer. She’s going to march on Wyrm Rock by herself if no one else comes. I’ve got a group of us together. We’re as prepared as we’ll ever be. I’m sure Tav will understand if we leave her behind, just this once.”
But the crease in his brow and the fingers drumming the hilt of his rapier were far from certain. Zevlor, long-time commander that he had been, also suspected Tav would be less than pleased to learn her companions had taken on such a risky mission without consulting her first. However, on the point of prioritising Tav’s well-being, he was entirely of Wyll’s mind.
So he agreed, “Of course. I’m sure you’re right,” and hid any visible doubts behind another pull on his glass.
“Right. Well. I suppose that's settled, then.” Despite his words, the younger man’s posture remained distinctly discomfited as he straightened, avoiding Zevlor's eyes. “And since Halsin’s headed back to Rivington to watch the camp and Jaheira’s taking time off to check in with her family, that … that just leaves you here with — I mean, here to watch over Tav. I hope... that's alright with you?”
His scarred face worked furiously, as if to keep expression from it.
Bemused, Zevlor repeated, "Of course."
Only later, when the door had clicked closed behind Wyll and the others, and he was left with Tav in an unchaperoned suite full of firelight, and wine, and an exorbitant number of plush cushions and beds did it occur to Zevlor the situation might have been purposefully arranged.
With a flush no one could see, he set down his unfinished glass, the taste of wine suddenly sour on his tongue. Surely, they didn’t expect him to… not with Tav only recently revived… and everything between them still so fragile, so undefined… yet, what did he mean to do when she awoke? What would he say? That deserved real thought.
Glancing around the opulent space, Zevlor spotted a sideboard crowded with bottles and pushed himself off the chair in search of something less dangerous to drink. A pitcher of water, magically chilled, would do. He threw it back like Fireswill as he paced, the tread of his soft borrowed shoes on the floorboards and rugs the only sound in the room as he cast his mind back to the plans he had tentatively proffered Tav that last night outside the Emerald Grove. But everything from before the Shadow-Cursed Lands seemed to belong to a different time. As did the conflicted resolve he had set himself at Ilmater’s Temple, before finding Tav on the street and escorting her back to her camp…
Zevlor stopped, his tail bumping against one of the carved wooden columns near the door as it twitched to life behind him, reliving that brief, blissful moment. There had been no time to savour it then. And all the horror that had followed had almost erased the delirious pleasure of Tav’s lips on his. And her confession.
She had told him she loved him. She loved him.
If her word could ever be doubted, she had proved it any number of ways before and since. And he loved her of course, had loved her nearly all the time he'd known her, Zevlor admitted to himself without shame. But now he could let himself love her; with all the steadfast, unstoppable devotion he’d only ever bestowed his City of Light. True, he still had no property or prospects, but he was a paladin again—surely, that should count for something. He could stay with Tav, fight for her, help her rid the city of the Absolute, free her of the tadpole he often forgot lurked in her head; then, when the dust of the whole affair had settled, make a clean start of things, court her properly. That pleasant mix of peace and anticipation which always accompanied a viable plan seeped through Zevlor, warming him from toes to horns like a second scented bath.
Setting his empty cup aside, he leaned his full weight against the column. Powerlessness behind him, purpose in front of him, and no immediate threat demanding his attention, he wondered when was the last time he had felt so utterly relaxed. He let his eyes drift shut. Almost at once, his mind slipped into that realm just before true sleep, where it wandered idle fantasies of himself and Tav: not fighting side by side, but strolling arm in arm down sunlit streets, swords and armour gathering dust on a wall in a house, a home, they shared, battlefields and bloodshed far behind them, replaced by the building of something, a new life for them both, a community of their kind, perhaps, even a family of their own...
The click and creak of a door brought Zevlor back to consciousness. Although, on opening his eyes, he couldn’t immediately be sure the Tav standing in the doorway wasn’t merely a remnant of dream. Her dark hair fell loose about her shoulders in the rare, tamed waves that indicated a thorough wash and brush, and the generous stretches of cleaned wisteria skin revealed by the unfamiliar sleeveless dress seemed to glow in the flickering firelight. Shutting the door behind her, she caught his eye and smiled.
Dream, then.
Zevlor did not move or speak, unwilling to wake and watch her dissolve. He simply admired this vision of Tav padding towards him, slowly… but not a sensual slowness; more, a precise placing of weight as if compensating for soreness. And, on closer scrutiny, her smile, too, looked more tremulous than flirtatious; her skin a shade too pale, a painful contrast to the dark circles under her eyes.
With a start, Zevlor pushed off the column, mind racing for a way to explain his open gaping to this obviously real Tav. She, per her usual, saved him the trouble.
“You’re here,” she said, and he was glad to hear her voice, at any rate, had recovered its usual resonance. “I was worried it was all a dream, finding you and — but you’re alright, and you—” Her eyes, too, were bright and alert as she looked him up and down, heat pooling in Zevlor’s core at the familiar intent inspection. “You look so much better. I mean—not that you ever look bad, you always look good—I mean—”
With a noise that might have been pain or mortification, Tav pressed a hand to her temple, swaying slightly on the spot. And Zevlor, concerned as he was for her welfare, had to suppress a reflexive laugh. It was simply so good to see her like this again: smelling of clean, floral soap, and looking as well as could be expected after having nearly died only hours ago, and devolving into that nervous babble it occurred to him, at last, only ever really surfaced around him. In two steps, he’d placed a steadying hand on her elbow; the skin underneath his fingers was cool, but not sickly so.
The contact appeared to ground Tav. She lifted her face again, defiantly composed though still distinctly plum, as she concluded, “What I meant to say is, you look well.”
“I am,” Zevlor replied, and his own face felt stretched—the result, he realised, of a smile so uncommonly broad he wasn’t even sure what it looked like on him. “Thanks to you.”
He released her elbow, intending to take her hand, but Tav, struck by a sudden sourceless shiver, wrapped her arms tight around herself before he could reach it.
“Thanks to me…” Her echo sharpened the words to a sardonic edge. “I admit, I’m still a bit fuzzy on the details, but I’m fairly certain credit should go to Astarion and—”
She broke off abruptly, head darting around the empty suite.
“They’re alright,” Zevlor soothed before she could form the question. “A few cuts and bruises. You were the only one seriously injured.”
“Then … where is everyone?”
“They’re—” Zevlor hesitated, but he could think of no lie or evasion that was not as troubling as the truth. So he admitted, “A few had other affairs to attend to, but most of them are off paying a visit to the Archduke.”
It wasn’t as bad as he expected. Unhappiness of a few flavours paraded across Tav’s face before she finally sighed: “I suppose it was unfair to expect Karlach to wait. Anyway, it's probably for the best.”
Her hands rubbed briskly along her arms—Zevlor glanced at the nearest benches and chairs for something warm he might drape around her exposed skin, but before he'd found anything, Tav was limping around him towards the fire, adding tonelessly:
“I’m afraid I'm more a liability now than any real help.”
She tugged Zevlor’s abandoned chair closer to the open grate, perched on the edge, and angled herself almost into the crackling flames. In spite of which dangerous proximity, the bit of her profile Zevlor could see around the chair’s high back remained hunched and stiff. But he had an idea what really ailed her was no physical chill.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, making his own slower way to the fireplace, giving her time. “You were able to hold that monster off long enough for us to deal with the cultists. Without that, we would have been overrun. Your magic’s come a long way from parlour tricks.”
Tav deflected the reassurance with a jerky shrug.
“Gale’s handiwork. He’s been teaching me. And it didn’t help much in the end. If it weren’t for you, I—” She paused; then lifted her head enough for Zevlor to make out her eyes, her voice a shade livelier as she reminisced: “Your sword was … glowing … wasn’t it? I remember light. Did you … did you get your powers back?”
“I did.”
“Then… you’re a paladin again?”
“I am.”
“That’s…” Tav shook her head, letting the thought trail away, apparently unable to find a word to describe such a miracle, and said instead, “I mean, I thought you might one day. It just seemed… I don’t know… right. For your story, I mean. You never struck me as a man the gods were done with. Or who was really done with them. I’m so glad for you, Zevlor.”
She glowed at him for a few seconds. Then her face wilted again, and she returned to the fire before asking with a nonchalance as brittle as the burning logs: “So, what will you do now?”
Zevlor said nothing for a moment, only studied this unhappy Tav. He was well-acquainted with the emotional crash that followed prolonged peril and dire, deadly battle. It made sense for her to be tired, self-conscious of her injuries, even ashamed of what she perceived as failure to contribute meaningfully in the final outcome of the fight. Yet he’d never known any state of weakness or self-reproach to leave her so insular, so withdrawn. From him, at least.
The best path forward, Zevlor’s intuition decided, was an honest and unadorned one.
“Whatever you would like me to,” he answered simply. “I’m your paladin, now.”
Tav’s head whipped round so fast a tendril of blue-black hair swung briefly through a wayward tongue of flame.
“I — what do you mean?”
“Tav.” Zevlor took a step closer to the chair, half expecting her to bolt up or shrink back into it, but Tav seemed stunned to stillness by his unwavering gaze. “I don’t know what god has trusted me with this power again,” he explained, slow and steady, waiting for her to absorb each honest fact, “but I do know why. It is for you. To help you. Perhaps, once you’ve completed your own missions, saved Baldur’s Gate, it will fade, but… as long as I have any power left, it is to be used in your service.”
And on bold whim, or divine inspiration, Zevlor knelt, knees barely creaking at all, and reached for Tav’s hand. She let him. He brought the back of her knuckles to his lips for a single, reverent second, resisting the urge to linger; then lifted his head, briefly admiring the string-hardened pads of her fingers, the sword-calloused palm, before returning to her face, where a storm-cloud-coloured war was being waged. The intensity of it took him slightly aback.
Tav’s mouth opened and closed twice before any sound emerged.
“Zevlor, you — you can’t. That’s not… this is… oh, gods.”
She slid her hand out of his and hid her face behind it. Nerves crept from under Zevlor’s refurbished confidence and crawled with distressing familiarity through his gut. Certainly, Tav had every reason not to need him—not to want him—but what could have happened between his capture and now to change her mind? He was abruptly aware of a cramp in his thigh, an ache where the infernal ridge of his knee grated against the wooden floor.
“Tav?”
He posed her name as a quiet question. This time, Tav did stand. She hovered over Zevlor unsteadily for a moment before sliding between him and the fire and taking a few stumbling steps away from both before speaking again.
“I appreciate your offer of help, truly. But, I’m sure you’re mistaken.” She was trying for calm and compelling, Zevlor could tell, and, for the first time since he had known her, utterly failing. “If the gods have given you back your powers, it’s because you deserve it, not me. I’ve been nothing but the most royally bad luck to you since the day we met. And every time we meet again, I think I can…I mean, I try to…but I just—just make it all worse!”
This was so incomprehensible even Zevlor’s nerves were nonplussed.
“What do you—” he began, using the empty chair to push himself to his feet, but Tav interrupted before he finished either; and it was as though a dam had cracked within her, drenching her words in turbulent anger and boiling grief.
“Everywhere I go, monsters spring up! Goblins, mind flayers, shapeshifters, cults — cults, plural! I mean, how many cults can one person realistically run afoul of? It’s ridiculous, it’s madness, it’s-” She clawed the air with frantic nails for some more heinous description, before deflating, arms dropping to her sides. “It’s hopeless,” she decided. “No matter what I do or where I go, I can’t escape it. It’s always something. Famine, illness, the end of the bloody world. But this… you.”
She chanced a glance at Zevlor where he stood, knees frozen mid-bend, one hand on the chair’s upholstery, then squeezed her eyes shut as if the fire behind him cast too bright a light.
“Whatever curse I’ve got on me, I… I can’t let it cause you any more trouble. If I'd just left you alone here, you'd never have got mixed up with Orin. Hells, if I'd just seen the signs at the grove and left first, your people would probably all be safe in Baldur’s Gate.”
“No. We wouldn't,” Zevlor, straightening, contradicted at last. While he empathised, painfully, with Tav's despairing spiral, this particular madness he could not let stand. “Without your intervention, we would all be picked over by carrion birds in the forest. Perhaps, without you to keep us together, a few might have defected and made it as far as the Shadow-Cursed Lands to fall there instead. Lands which would still be lost to a true curse, if not for you.” Approaching Tav with all the same slow deliberation he would have used around a shying mare, he continued, “You did not bring those enemies upon us. You saved us from them. Saved me. From more than you know.”
Zevlor was no bard. He had little experience with the power of sound to soothe and strengthen the soul. But he’d watched Tav level heads, comfort hearts, bolster resolve with no more than natural charisma and inarguable persuasion; and weren't there notes of her power in his own, now? He drew from it as he spoke. Softly. There was little distance left between them to fill.
“I lost faith, after Elturel. In the gods, in the goodness of this world. In myself. It was you who helped me find it again. Tav—” Zevlor stopped, then corrected himself, using her full name and watching her eyes widen up at him. “My oath is to you. I believe in you. I love you.”
And what a release, an almost physical shedding of weight, to say it out loud at long last. Something half gasp, half tearless sob escaped Tav. One hand flew to her face—to muffle the sound? To hide from him? Zevlor caught hold of it regardless and held it tight in his own.
“And I am devoted to your protection,” he went on, determined to have it all out. “To the success of your mission: saving the Gate, the world, your companions—whatever it is or may be. I have precious little to offer, but what I do have, what I am, is yours. I am yours.”
Zevlor stops. The words which had seemed so poignant declared to Tav in the fire-lit room just above where he sits, sound far more contrived repeated here; with rowdy cackles and whoops for ambience and his tongue coated in a residue of cheap ale. Nor has he meant to say them at all.
Reddening indistinguishably, he avoids Alfira's eyes, automatically scanning the table for anything left to drink. One tankard remains, half empty. He pulls it towards himself, dubiously considering its contents. He really ought to cut himself off, he knows. And, anyway, he isn’t sure who’s drunk the first half.
“And…?” comes the inevitable prompt.
“And…” Gaze still safely oblique, Zevlor searches for an appropriately reserved summary of all that came next. “She… agreed.”
“Agreed?!”
The outraged yelp creates a vacuum in the nearest tavern noises. But if Alfira notices the curious hush, or her companion’s placatory shushing, she does not care.
“What does that mean? You shook hands on it or something? Please— please!—tell me you kissed her, at least!”
And Zevlor, keenly aware of how little privacy the booth’s curtain really affords—and how long the volatile and loud bard has waited—supposes it can’t hurt to tell her that.
Zevlor wasn’t sure which of them started it. Whether Tav tilted her head up before he had angled his down; if his fingers had already framed her face when hers wound themselves through his hair, coaxing him closer. Once her lips were pressed to his, he could no longer think at all. Nor did he need to. Everything else in the world outside this, their first real, uninterrupted kiss, was entirely inconsequential.
Nor was he sure how long it lasted. He couldn’t remember moving his hands but could suddenly feel the ridged outline of Tav's hipbone beneath one, the satiny skin of her back where the dress cut away under the other. And hers had left his hair to trace the outline of his shoulders and upper arms through his shirt's starched linen. Which flood of sensations set Zevlor's mind adrift, the gentle pressure of Tav’s tail curled round his calf his only anchor to any sort of solid ground. His own tangled with hers before he could stop it.
Tav gasped. The sound sparked some small return to reason. Zevlor pulled away the minimum required to check her face, ensuring he had not hurt her. But she was smiling, glassy-eyed as if drunk.
“Did you know I’ve wanted to do that since the day I met you?” she said, voice slightly slurred; and Zevlor’s own was far from steady as he admitted, “So have I.”
More words were unnecessary. Tav’s mouth found his again, and, in seconds that bloomed like whole seasons, this next kiss left innocent exploration behind and became a thing of heat and weighty intention. Suddenly, Zevlor could not get Tav’s body close enough to his. Again, thought deserted him, and, again, it did not matter. His hands did not need instruction. They knew exactly where they were needed, what they were needed for: enjoying, delighting, praising every pliant curve and perfect plane of the woman who had fought for him, saved him, who responded to his greedy, graceless clinch with all the ardent affection of a benevolent god. Every new grip on her flesh was awarded a muffled moan or a radiant shiver, and a sweet responsive stroke of her own nails wherever they could find his skin.
Until, stretching on her toes, Tav managed to line their bodies up exactly where they should be for everything else Zevlor desperately wanted to give her. And from the very back of his brain, a warning sounded: this wasn’t right; this was too much too soon; he was going to ruin everything before it even began.
Zevlor grimaced, nails digging briefly into Tav's willing waist, his insides a roiling sea of vital contradictions. He wanted to take her arm, guide her back to the chair by the fire and resume his place at her feet, pour out his admiration for her, confess all his half-formed hopes and dreams for their future; but he never wanted to tear his mouth from hers. He wanted to hold her at arms length and simply look at her, memorise her swollen lips and iris-flushed skin, and revel in the fact that he had caused it, that she wanted him to; but at the same time, he wanted her pressed so close to him their bodies were indistinguishable. He wanted her here, now, under him, on top of him, wrapped around him; and he wanted to whisk her away somewhere safe and civilised where he could grace her with all the proper ceremony she deserved.
With an effort greater than he’d ever exerted in any physical fight, Zevlor untangled his lips from Tav’s, heart aching at her groan, and rolled his forehead against hers until the base of their horns bumped. The sensation was grating enough to give his brain the jolt it needed to form coherent words.
“We should … wait … until all this is over. Until we can … do things properly.”
“I have a proper bed just next door,” was Tav’s throaty reply—kindling on Zevlor’s already conflagrant core.
“That’s not what I—”
He broke off in a moan that would have made him cringe to hear were his ears not full of his own racing pulse as Tav dipped her face into the hollow of his throat, teeth and tongue blithely exploring the infernal ridges just above his shirt’s open collar — and when had that happened?
Zevlor grappled for thought.
“Nevertheless, there are … this isn’t … Tav,” he half laughed, giddy with bliss and consternation. Tangling his hands in her waterfall of hair, he pulled her lips from his throat and met her eyes as he murmured, voice still hoarse with lust, “These things deserve time. You deserve time.”
“But… who knows how much time we have left,” Tav pointed out breathlessly, face contorted with desire and desperation. “The world might literally end soon. And every day I’m not a mindflayer is a miracle. We could both of us die tomorrow and never have more time and never had this time either!”
That gave Zevlor’s already shaky sense of propriety a destabilising shudder. It was a difficult argument to counter, particularly when his body was wont to agree vehemently with whatever Tav said on principle. Yet, that infuriating voice at the back of his head reminded him of all the ways he could still disappoint her if he did not do this right. He could not afford to fail; not now. He did not know which to trust: his instinct or his reason.
But, above both, he trusted Tav.
“Tav,” he said; then, again, called her by her full name, which made her blink, a ray of cobalt breaking through lust-dark fog. “What do you want?”
“I …”
His use of her name, or the question itself, or the earnestness with which he asked it, appeared to sober Tav. Inhaling sharply through her nose, she brushed the hair back from her face before tucking her hands safely into the folds of her dress. Part of Zevlor felt impressed and achingly fond of how quickly she could pull herself together; while another part of him swelled with ignoble misery at the realisation Tav was about to change her mind. Which was hardly fair — it was he who had stopped her, after all. He simply hadn’t realised how much he hoped she would persuade him to stay until it looked as if she would not.
He shut his eyes briefly, wrestling any visible tells of disappointment from his face. Until Tav said quietly—
“I want you to have what you want, Zevlor. Everything—anything you want. Whatever it is. Whatever I can give you.”
—and his eyes opened to find hers, to be sure the words were truly coming from her and not a fantasy of her playing out in his head.
“So… if you have a vision of how you want this—how you want us to happen, and you want to wait for that, then we will. And if you want—”
Whatever else she might have offered him, Zevlor never found out. In one thudding heartbeat, he had reached for Tav again, cutting her off with another kiss, a fierce working of his lips against hers, as much hunger as praise.
“I want you,” he said when he stopped to grant her breath. “Now. And every day we have after.”
“So…” Alfira, quill-pen poised above parchment, ventures into the lingering pause with all the delicate tact of a hungry owlbear, “you definitely… you know… consummated your relationship then?”
Zevlor inspects the tankard still clutched in his hands, wondering if the nail-shaped dents in the pewter had been there before.
“I thought,” he replies with what he considers the mildest possible reproach, “you didn’t need any graphic details.”
“Well, no not graphic ones, but some would be nice. I mean—” at Zevlor’s swift, severe look, Alfira’s face blooms rutabaga. But she retains enough vim to hold his gaze. “Look, I don’t need a play-by-play—don’t want one, trust me—just… just the right words to describe it. Because… you know… it’s you and Tav! The two of you, finally together, after you’d both wanted each other for so long! It has to be a big deal, right?”
To hells with it. Zevlor picks up the tankard and downs the rest of the half-drunk ale, letting it sweep him momentarily away from the crowded tavern and the nosy bard and her voluminous notes of all the things he already ought not to have said.
“It was—”
“Gorgeous.”
—was the first thing Tav whispered into the candle-lit confines of her lavish private room once the door had been fastened behind them, and Zevlor’s shirt tossed thoughtlessly aside.
“I mean… I knew you would be. I just… never pictured… I don’t know what I pictured.”
Her fingertips wandered as she babbled, charting the path of infernal ridges that jutted from his chest. A tiefling feature less prominent in Tav, Zevlor confirmed, as he slipped the straps of her silken dress from her shoulders.
“You are… miraculous,” he croaked when he could find his voice. “Every part of you.”
Tav gave a little wince, as if the compliment pinched. But her tail sashayed behind her in clear appreciation, and Zevlor did not wait for her to demure or devise a clever reply. His mouth found the column of her throat and blazed a reverent path down her sweet-smelling skin, mapping each subtly infernal angle and soft human curve, unwrapping her dress as he descended, until he was kneeling in a pool of silk at Tav’s feet. With a noise of satisfaction somewhere between purr and growl, he ran his nails up the bare legs that had taunted him at the Emerald Grove, at Ilmater’s temple. The memory, and the little stifled whimpers from above him, spurred a devilish impulse. One hand bracing her hip, Zevlor slid the other around her to tease the base of her tail.
Only his arms around her saved Tav from collapse. She shuddered: a full body motion that arched her back, buckled her knees, sent her up on her toes. He traced the underside of her twitching tail with his thumb and—“Zevlor!”—his name on her tongue like that was a heady, god-like thrill. As was the sudden desperate grip on his horns as Tav fought to keep her balance.
But an open-mouthed kiss just above the lacy lip of her small clothes and—“Zevlor…”—her tone had changed. She sounded uncharacteristically nervous as she stuttered, “You don’t—you don’t have to—”
“You’ll let me take my time, won’t you?” he interrupted, pressing the request into her skin. “Let me worship you?”
Tav’s reply was a protracted moan—at his words, or another deliberate stroke of her writhing tail, Zevlor wasn’t certain. But the grip on his horns that relaxed into mindless caress over and over the jagged serrations communicated consent. And though some rebelliously reasonable part of Zevlor’s brain reminded him just how long it had been since he’d done this, he was sure as he had been in yesterday’s battle the ability would not fail him. He slid her small clothes down her legs, fingers greeting a new wondrous array of skin, tongue parting—
“—tasteful,” he decides after a moment’s reminiscence; blinks, clears his throat roughly, then corrects, “that is, respectful. Considerate.”
Alfira snorts.
“You know, when women say that, it’s usually code for bad.”
Which criticism Zevlor—only a man and a soused one at that—cannot help but take as personal attack.
“That was my summation now, not what Tav said then.”
“What did Tav say then?”
But speech had long abandoned Tav. All her bardic eloquence had devolved into wordless cries, climbing and collapsing along a musical scale, when at last Zevlor lifted his head. And the sight of her sprawled along the edge of the bed, nails clenched in the counterpane, chest heaving and head thrown back, inspired a fleeting ambition in him to take up painting, or sculpting, or learn some spell that would forever etch her image in its every gratifying, gorgeous detail on his memory…
…until an especially violent twitch threw Tav off-balance, and she slid from the bed with a thud and a far less sensual cry. Zevlor's arms were around her in an instant, when an equally vivid image assaulted him: of Tav's body on the floor of Bhaal's temple, limp and lifeless and soaked in her own blood.
Guilt stung in Zevlor's chest. Inwardly, he cursed himself for three kinds of infernal fool as he took Tav's weight and helped her stand. How could he have let himself run her so ragged so soon? He cleared his throat, withdrawing with difficulty—his body did not approve this plan—as Tav regained her footing.
“Tav,” said Zevlor, each word sticky with reluctance, “perhaps…you ought to…rest. Or—”
“What?”
The sheer horror in the exclamation stopped him short; the dismay marring her pretty plum flush a physical enemy he longed to swipe away. His hand reached for her face before he could stop it.
“Zevlor, please…” And Tav’s own hands were tugging him to her. By the band of the trousers he still wore. “I’m fine. I’ve never been so fine in my life.”
And before Zevlor could argue, or remember why he’d ever wanted to argue, Tav was fumbling his fastenings open, brushing against him in a spike of arousal that obliterated all but need. She pushed trousers and pants alike down his hips before he had caught his breath, and her own airless noise of appreciation as she took in the sight of him was a hymn that went straight to Zevlor’s head.
“I don't recall that she had any complaints. Requests, perhaps...”
“Please, can I?”
The low plea reverberated pleasantly through him; though Zevlor, rendered mindless by her delicate exploration of him, had no idea what Tav was asking until her careful fingers were replaced by the wet warmth of her mouth.
Sparks, white-hot as holy fire, popped behind his eyes. Heat like fever subsumed him. Each languid swirl of Tav’s tongue licked flames higher and higher up his spine. Until, in a flash of surprising clarity, a rogue thought struck him—that he had gravely overestimated himself. Whatever stamina he might once have boasted was nowhere near valiant enough to withstand this. It had been too long, and it had never been Tav.
With a strength of will attributable only to whatever divinity watched over Tav, Zevlor wound a hand gently round her mane of tamed curls and guided her head back. The wet noise her mouth made as it left him curled his tail.
“Did I hurt you?” she panted up at him.
But, “Tav… Tav,” was all Zevlor could say. After a minute's studiously measured breaths, he chanced a downward glance. Tav's blown-black gaze was noticeably concerned. He caressed her cheek, both hands mindlessly petting, soothing, apologising for him as he did his best to explain, “Tav… if you do that, I… I won’t last. And I want all of you.”
“Oh…” Nervous apprehension gave way to a stormy blush, then a teasing smile.
“Next time?” she asked, getting to her feet; and, “Next time,” Zevlor deliriously agreed.
He would give her anything for there to be a next time; for Tav to want him for good.
“Not, of course,” that infuriatingly deathless part of Zevlor grafted to honesty and fairness, and freed by inebriation, is compelled to add, “that any lovers’ first time is seamless…”
“Oh, gods!”
He processed the pain before the oath itself, registered the recoil in Tav’s arch—no longer up against his body but back into the bed—and reacted instinctively. And there was no internal struggle this time. Greater than any other base urge Zevlor possessed was the need to keep Tav from pain. He had drawn himself from his tentative sheath within her and rolled to his to side before his brain could fully process what had happened—the very thing he'd been worried about it, though it was hardly the gods who were to blame.
“I'm sorry, it's... I should have… it—can be different with tieflings. Infernal anatomy is... more demanding—”
Zevlor bit down on his tongue till he tasted bitter blood. What the hells was he saying? What could he say? Arousal still throbbed through him; the cold of the room prickled mournfully at his flesh where it had parted from Tav's. He grappled about for sheets, tugging them up even as, beside him, Tav fought to extricate herself from them. Zevlor found he could not look at her directly. Would he forever be disappointing her? Making every wrong call there was to make?
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, the only thing worthwhile he had to say. “This… should wait. I don’t want to cause you any more pain.”
From the corner of his eye, Zevlor watched Tav sit up. He braced himself for more pleading, tantalising entreaties; or, every bit as likely, her embarrassed agreement and tactful retreat. He was not prepared for her fond, if exasperated little laugh.
“Oh, for heavens’ sake, I’m not that delicate. Roll over,” she commanded, pushing at his shoulder until Zevlor was flat on his back in a sea of tangled damask, feeling, if possible, more in love with Tav than ever and helpless to disobey. In one lithe and apparently pain-free movement, she straddled his legs. The visual struck him dumb. “Don’t forget,” she added amid a series of quick, disarming kisses as she angled herself over him, “I’m a tiefling, too.”
And in this position, the fit was easier, smoother, if tighter than Zevlor had ever dreamed. The whole joining felt effortless, intended: their bodies; Tav’s sharp cry, and his own low moan. A perfect harmony.
“See,” she babbled, voice pitched several notes higher than it had been seconds before, “that’s — that’s perfect. You're perfect. Watching gods Zevlor you feel so, so good!”
Zevlor wasn’t sure if Tav knew she was speaking aloud, but he drank in each thoughtless praise like the finest wine. Her knees dug into his sides, her hands pressed to his chest as she leveraged herself off him, then sank again by painstaking degrees; each ridged inch of him heralded by a new litany of half-coherent compliments in Tav’s increasingly wrecked voice.
Until she collapsed across him. Her lips found his, moving aimlessly, too drowned in sensation to remember how to kiss.
“Zevlor… Zevlor…”
His name became a request Tav couldn’t articulate, but Zevlor understood.
“Yes, my sweet heart. My precious Tav.”
He had little more control of his own tongue as he drew her against him and settled his weight to one side to flip their positions without separating their bodies, but Zevlor couldn’t bring himself to feel self-conscious about it. Doubt and worry had no place here. This was desire wedded to devotion, base instinct to reverence. He settled Tav more comfortably underneath him and shifted experimentally, eyes never leaving her face. Fragments of consternation appeared under the plum-flushed bliss. But—
“Your knees?” was all she gasped.
“Aren’t so delicate either,” Zevlor assured her.
Tav laughed again—the sound devolving into a lilting cry as he drew himself briefly from her only to slide securely back. And no one physical sensation had ever felt so fulfilling; so like completion, belonging. Perfection, as Tav generously reminded him again and again.
Zevlor dearly wanted to pace himself, to draw the moment out to as close to forever as he possibly could, to display the discipline and restraint a man of his age ought to have as reflex. But he’d wanted this—wanted her—for so long; and whatever experiences he had under his belt, he had never had this: a love he had fought for, and who had fought just as fervently for him, wrapped around him, singing his praises in his ear. He felt impossibly light, decades younger, stronger, confident he could do anything in the world except hold himself back one second more.
All he could say was, “Tav, I—”
And the only reply of which she was capable was, “Please, yes Zevlor, please.”
Which begging would have spent him even if were not already perched on the brink. But the words that echoed in Zevlor’s head as he surrendered control of his hips and buried his face in Tav’s shoulder were, “Next time.” Because there would be a next time. Minutes from now, of course, if he had any say in things, but also for days and years to come, he believed wholeheartedly at last.
Tav was his. They would have time for everything.
“But her only disappointment,” Zevlor, wincing slightly, admits into his empty tankard, “is how little time we had.”
“Why was that?”
Iron rattled against wood. Zevlor, roused from his sated doze, recognised the sound of the heavy bedstead knocking against the panelled wall. Only, the vibration of the bed was more violent and ominous than when he and Tav were the cause. He tried to push himself up and found his chest weighed down by a tangle of limp limbs and wild raven hair.
“That'll be the brain,” came Tav’s drowsy mutter. “Causing the quakes.”
Another of which shook the room before she'd finished speaking. Bottles crashed off a nearby sideboard; on the other of the bed, the lid of a overlarge trunk clattered open and closed like gnashing teeth. And Zevlor's head was suddenly full of screams and that earsplitting cracking of stone as the earth under Elturel was ripped away. His grip on Tav tightened on instinct, and—ignoring her squeak of protest—he rolled her underneath him where his own body might bear the brunt of any falling masonry should the ceiling collapse.
But the tremor subsided without further damage—beyond Tav's short, blunted horns scraping skin from Zevlor’s chest as she adjusted herself within his protective embrace. In spite of which, it was another minute of deep breathing before his reflexive panic subsided enough to uncurl himself from her body. If any of this abrupt awakening confused or offended Tav, she gave no indication: merely groaned a little, massaging the corners of her eyes.
“I guess this means the others managed to take Gortash’s netherstone. They’ll be back soon.”
She sighed, as though this were a setback rather than the accomplishment of a long-sought objective, and twisted into Zevlor's body again, fingers absently stroking the light abrasions left by her horns. And perhaps it was the rush of adrenaline on which he’d woke, or the heat that bloomed under his skin at Tav’s soothing touch, but Zevlor was surprised how little disappointment he himself felt at the night’s imminent end. Yes, he could happily have stayed forever naked in a bed with Tav. But if he could not, then rejoining the world with purpose and power, an established place at her side, was the next best thing.
He smiled—it, too, easily managed—and reached out to brush dark curls from Tav’s face.
“What can do I for you?” he asked; and when Tav’s eyes wandered meaningfully down his body, chucked her chin gently back up to his face and clarified wryly, “Or, rather, what can I do to aid you in the coming fight?”
With another long-suffering sigh, Tav squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed her temple. Zevlor wondered if her head ached; then, when was the last time she'd eaten or drunk. Then a dozen belated concerns over Tav's well-being paraded through his brain. Before he could settle on which to promote first, however, Tav had exhaled through her nose and opened her eyes again, and Zevlor did not think the newly hardened sheen to the swirling cobalt was a trick of the pre-dawn light.
“Could you find me an army?”
At Zevlor’s furrowed brow, she elaborated, “Or just round up everyone you can? Anyone we know, anyone we can trust in a fight. These quakes are going to get worse fast now. And I’m afraid once the brain senses we’re on the way, it'll start turning people.” She propped herself up on an arm and glanced through the bedposts to the room’s long windows, squinting through the thin gaps in the rich brocade curtains onto the street below. “The city could be overrun by mindflayers before we even get a chance to bring it down. We’ll need as many people as possible armed and prepared.”
“Of course,” agreed Zevlor automatically, though in truth he understood very little of what she'd said. But the details did not matter. Tav was in command here. All he need worry about was his assigned task. “Actually…” He sat up, letting the bedclothes slide off him as he considered. “There are a number of Hellriders in the Gate—those who were outside the city limits when Elturel fell. I met a few while serving at the temple. They came here looking for help. Met only scorn, of course, but I’m sure I can rally them to our cause. Being a Hellrider is for life, after all.”
“Good,” said Tav absently. “Not just them, though. We’ll need everyone.”
She uncoiled herself from the warm expanse of damask, and Zevlor’s thoughts paused to watch her cross the room naked, kneel by the unclasped trunk, rummage around, then begin pulling items out of it, talking all the while.
“Find Rolan at Sorcerous Sundries, he owes us. And the deep gnomes—they’ve a workshop on the outskirts of Rivington. And Counsellor Florrick and the City Watch. Nine Fingers and her Guild. I’ve got a list of them all somewhere on the desk—everyone who’s promised us support and where to find them. We’ll need all our chips cashed in.”
Zevlor wasn’t sure if his sudden dip in mood was the prospect of interacting with people who detested him, or the loss of Tav’s skin as she pulled small clothes up her legs and fitted a loose tunic over her tail. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, knees complaining feebly, and began the search for his own discarded clothes.
“Why can’t you ask them yourself?”
There was more open suspicion in the query then he’d meant to cop to, but Tav did not challenge it. Or look at him.
“I,” she answered, gaze fixed on the leather she laced up her chest, “will be on my way to the brain. I’m pretty sure I know where it’s hidden, but I might be wrong. And even if I’m not, I only have a rough location—I don’t know exactly how long it will take to get there. So, I’ll need to leave as soon as the others are back with the last stone.”
Of all this cryptic explanation, it was the solitary personal pronoun that made Zevlor most uneasy. He tugged up his trousers one-handed, the other hurrying his shirt over his head.
“Let me go with you,” he said. But, “No,” Tav replied, so fast and firm Zevlor knew she’d been expecting it. Hands abruptly unsteady, he abandoned his attempt to do up his trousers and did not bother about his collar or cuffs. Shoes not appearing on the rug directly in front of him, he gave those up for lost, too, and strode bare-footed to Tav’s side of the bed.
“Tav, my oath is your protection—”
“—your oath can't protect me from a netherbrain,” Tav rebutted evenly. “And even a paladin’s power can’t bring it down. No one’s can.”
Whatever argument Zevlor intended to wield when he reached her Tav disarmed by pulling him to her by his trousers’ dangling laces and fastening them for him—an intimacy almost as erotic to Zevlor as her undoing of them hours before.
“Those stones are the only thing that can control it, and only one person can wield them at one time,” she explained, fixing fabric more securely across his hips and tail, then moving on to his dishevelled shirt. “I’ll take a couple of the others for protection on the way, but we need our best people here. Because if I—” Tav’s voice caught, her fingers faltering briefly at his collar; then resumed their brisk adjustments, “—if it doesn’t work, we’ll need as many capable people as possible defending the city from whatever hell comes next. People who know how to do that. Who’ve done it before.” She flicked a smile on and off at Zevlor. “The only reason I feel safe leaving is because I know you’re here, taking care of things. I trust you. Please. Trust me.”
“I do.” And he did. It was in Zevlor’s very bones to trust her; his spirit vibrated with it—a pulse of sure, steady power. “But that doesn’t mean I like this plan.”
“I don't like it much either, but…” Tav’s lips curled joylessly again. “Leaders have to make tough decisions. We do what we must.”
The words recalled heat, the coppery scent of sweaty armour, the unrelenting gravity of despair—and Zevlor remembered his plea to Tav the first day he met her at the Emerald Grove. Now, it was her shoulders sagging under the weight of impossible decisions, her pretty, still-too-pale face creased into lines as she contemplated the 24 hours ahead. Tav’s hands stilled against his chest, checking her handiwork, searching for anything else she might fasten or fix—any innocent excuse to touch him, Zevlor understood, and need boiled in his core: to sweep her back to the tousled bed, to drown her every stress and worry in endless waves of pleasure, to keep her pinned beneath him where nothing could ever harm her again. He endured it with restraint he knew could only be divine.
"You're right," he conceded with equal effort. "This is your fight. And your plan is a good one. Probably the best such circumstances allow. I'd say it's a long shot, but... those are your specialty, aren't they?"
At her wince, Zevlor placed his hands on Tav's leather-clad shoulders—not as a lover, but as one commander to another. And there was a different sort of long-sought satisfaction in taking his turn to imbue her with his own renewed hope and strength, and to reassure them both:
“You're ready for this. We both are.”
Alfira heaves a sigh.
"It is a little disappointing." At Zevlor’s stiff silence, she rolls her eyes and clarifies, “I know it's not your fault, it’s just… we're already back to plans and battles and catastrophe. The good part was just… over so fast.”
She rests her quill-pen on her parchment and regards her sparse notes sadly. Zevlor, head tilted slightly to read her cramped writing upside down, is surprised at how little she’s written; how little he’s given her to write. He wets his lips.
“Well…”
“Well?”
Alfira’s tail perks up in anticipation.
“There was Tav’s parting gift…”
It was the leather under his hands—a far more light-weight armour for the fight ahead of her than Zevlor would have preferred, but he held his tongue—that urged his mind to more practical problems.
“Do you keep extra weapons and armour here? Or is your cache at your main camp?”
The question had an unexpected effect on Tav. Her expression, tremulously wooden as an ill-held shield during all his encouragement, now lit up in an echo of the previous night’s bright joy. Sliding from under his hands, she turned back to the open trunk.
“No! I mean, yes, most of it's in Rivington, but… I can't believe I nearly forgot!” Her voice hummed like a lute’s plucked strings with suppressed excitement as she rifled through rattling contents. “I do have some things you can use.”
Zevlor, nonplussed at this change of aspect, watched Tav’s bent back. Until a grunt of effort finally prompted him to rush forward and relieve her of the bulky, fleece-wrapped burden—wider and heavier than she, and clearly the trunk’s dominant contents—she’d attempted to single-handedly heft. He carried the bundle to the unmade bed, laid it out with a series of muffled rattles, then stood back to let Tav do the honours. Face working furiously to restrain her enthusiasm, she unwound the layers of cloth to reveal what Zevlor, by its feel, had already guessed— a full set of armour: expertly crafted, complete with crimson mantling, gold fluting flashing even in the weak light; and far too large for Tav even if she did frequent plate.
“Where did you get this?” he asked, unable to disguise his professional admiration.
“Dammon made it,” was Tav's answer. “It's mostly infernal iron. We gathered all we could get our hands on for Karlach’s heart, but it ended up being more than she needed. So Dammon made this with the rest. Only Karlach doesn't wear armour, and it didn’t fit Lae’zel. But it seemed too rare a gift to sell, so I saved it. Just in case.” She glanced sideways at Zevlor, and he could tell from the way she pursed her lips to keep her smile from spreading, there must be more. “As well as these.”
Beside the pristine chestplate, Tav placed a second smaller but equally sparkling bundle of white-gold and steel. And, with a frisson as fierce as though she’d once more run her fingers down his spine, Zevlor recognised his own gauntlets: blessed in Elturel's High Hall, and presented to Tav on besotted impulse what felt like a lifetime ago.
He opened his mouth—to thank her, he supposed; though if there were words that encompassed the upswell of love, gratitude, and thrilled astonishment that Tav, through all her trials and misfortunes, had seen fit to keep his impractical gift, Zevlor did not know them.
“Tav—” he began. But Tav had returned to the trunk. And when had she finished fumbling a longer, thinner package from the bottom, and peeled off its wrappings, Zevlor lost the thread of his inadequate gratitude completely, and, “Where did you get that?” he said instead.
Because it was unbelievable what he was looking at. Yet there could be no mistaking the battle-worn greatsword Tav pressed into his automatically outstretched hands for any but his own.
“But, I left it—”
“In the grove, yes,” Tav finished for him. “After your people left, a few of us went back to look for any leftover supplies.”
Zevlor’s thumb traced the surface of the hilt where, in a fit of piqued despair, he’d filed away the details of his paladin’s oath. Someone had since sanded it smooth, along with the spots of rust he’d savagely allowed to gather on the pummel. It was his sword, but restored to nearly new.
“I thought I’d check your old room,” Tav was still explaining, “for any leftover wine. Or… really, I just missed you already. Anyway, I saw you’d left it behind and I... well, it was too precious to be left to rust. And I thought, maybe, if we did meet again in Baldur's Gate you might..."
She broke off, wrongfooted, as Zevlor dropped the sword unceremoniously to a spare patch of mussed bed, tugged her to him and wrapped her in his arms, leather and all. He knew he shouldn't. He knew it was a breach of the physical impasse on which they'd unspokenly agreed. But the tide of emotion breaking over him demanded some sort of expression. With his last modicum of self-control, Zevlor settled for pressing his lips to the top of Tav’s head. He would have forever to thank her—to love her—properly, after all.
Still, he could not bear to release her. Until the floorboards rumbled again underneath his bare feet, and another tremour broke them apart.
“And I thought, you said—” The hitch in Alfira's voice makes Zevlor look up in alarm. Her ochre eyes are overbright, her lip quivering visibly. "—thought you said... there was no romance.”
“Well..." he concedes with a wan smile. "That was it. All we had the whole bloody adventure. One night and the following morning. After that, all hells broke loose.”
Summary: Halsin visits Combury to mend Tav's fence.
Ship/Pairing: Halsin x Fem!Tav
Trope: Modern AU, Meet-cute, Little countryside town, Cosy
Word count: 11,049
Read it on Ao3 here
Listen to the dedicated playlist on Spotify here
Halsin presses the doorbell warmed by the midday sun and waits. A short but upbeat marimba tune resounds and repeats beyond the door, and in no time, footsteps come to accompany it. A blurred silhouette approaches, its edges warped by the textured glass panels sealed into their wooden frame, and cramps seize the man’s stomach. When the shadow holds a hand out towards the door handle, the colours and patterns on its sleeve now discernible, the moment seems to last an eternity. His breath hitches. He knows that he is expected, yet he fears the moment he must announce his presence. What if he stumbles upon his words? He does not want to make a fool of himself. What greeting should he use? Has he wiped his toothpaste properly from his mouth? The corner feels sticky. Is that a loose thread at the hem of his shirt? What if—
‘Doctor Silverbough! Hi!’ Tav exclaims as she opens the door, snugly wrapped up in a thick, fuzzy cardigan that instantly catches his eye.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Ashguard,’ he responds with a brief nod and a smile he restrains as much as he can, preventing it from spreading too much. ‘I hope I am not too early?’
‘Not at all, I’ve just brought Trith to his playdate, so we’re good to go.’
‘Great! I brought the planks I mentioned and my tools. Could you please show me to the fence? I am not sure what the best way to enter the field is, and I would not want to make your house dirty. Or trespass.’
With a fond grin, Tav slips her bare feet into sandals discarded onto the side when she must have returned, and steps outside, nearly colliding with his chest. He promptly steps aside and follows as she beckons him towards the corner of the quaint brick house. Between it and the neighbour’s, there is a narrow path lined with hedges leading towards the forest behind them. A few metres further, they reach a field enclosed by a white wooden fence. A large band of communal land separates it from Tav’s house and her small garden. Amidst the burgeoning hedge surrounding her garden, a low gate opens onto that patch of grass, enabling movement between the house and the field.
She unlocks the side gate to the field and they enter. On the other side, one deeper garden flanks the pasture up until the middle of its length, and he understands it to be Mr. Bongle’s home. It is indeed on that side that the fence bears broken planks, smashed and kicked from the outside. The broken wood rests vertically against the little that remains of the boards, likely to prevent Beaky from sneaking out or investigating farther than he should. Tav shows Halsin to the damage and waves a hand at it.
‘There it is, but you can see that,’ she chuckles, slipping her hands into her back pockets.
‘He really did a number on that fence,’ he comments, analysing the extent of the breakage, ‘but it is far from unsalvageable. What do you need from me?’
She tilts her head and loses herself in her thoughts, probably envisioning several manners in which she would like the end result to look like.
‘I’ve been hesitating to have the whole fence redone, but I’ll wait a year or two for that. For now, you can try and replicate what’s intact. Don’t feel bad if it’s not entirely straight, or if what you’ve got won’t look exactly the same. It’s just a fence.’
Halsin offers her a smile and already walks over to the two poles to inspect the nails used to fix the boards to them, and whether they are easily removable. He then examines the extent to which the barrier must be renewed, and whether some parts must still be taken down to avert further damage and instability.
‘I will need to replace these three parts altogether,’ he states, pointing at the spaces between four vertical poles. ‘Of course, there is the breakage here, but I see that the surrounding planks have been weakened or cracked, though they may have suffered from other factors entirely. But it is better to ensure that you do not encounter other issues in the future because the material is faulty.’
‘Whatever you’re able to do, I’m eternally grateful for it,’ she responds. ‘Do you need me to hold up the planks while you work? Or at least carry the material from your car to here?’
‘That is very kind of you, Miss Ashguard, but I have got everything under control. Why do you not head inside and have some rest? With Trith away for the time being, you can have a moment to yourself. You should enjoy it.’
Tav chuckles and tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear.
‘Hard bargain, I see. But I might take you up on the offer if it’s so generously suggested. Besides, I do have some chores I need to get done. Call me if you need anything? I left the garden gate open, you can knock on the back window. Actually, I’ll leave it cracked open so you can enter if you need.’
‘Thank you. I promise I will let you know if anything happens.’
She waves at him and heads back home through the garden, which he can tell has a thin bed of tulips on the right side, tracing the line of the hedge. On the other side, there is a red plastic house with blue shutters propped up on top of a yellow plastic slide. Trith must enjoy it on sunnier days, and it warms Halsin’s heart to know that spring has finally begun. The child might be able to enjoy himself there again.
Halsin leaves the field, careful to slide the gate’s lock behind him on his way back to the car to fetch everything he needs. It takes him a few trips to carry all the planks, the toolbox and other protective gear to his new working station. Before starting, he shrugs off the green and dark blue flannel shirt on his back, exposing his bare arms, and ties it around his waist. Keeping his sleeveless white undershirt on his back, he stretches his limbs and turns towards the house while he opens the heavy toolbox that never quite closes properly. When he holds his measuring tape and a thick pencil and straightens up, his eyes meet Tav’s as she stands at the window upstairs, nursing a mug between her palms.
She is staring at him.
Caught in the act, the woman gives him an awkward wave and he responds in kind, chuckling to himself. She must have passed by the window to ensure his well-being from afar, but oh, to be looked at by her would be a sweet prize, he dares to think. But he is getting ahead of himself and he needs to clear his head from such preposterous ideas.
He approaches one of the poles to measure the length of the upper plank to ensure that what he has brought along is suitable enough for the job. He makes mental notes of the measurements and compares them with his leftover material. Thankfully, he has got more than enough to repair the fence and reinforce the structure around it. Grabbing his hammer and a flathead screwdriver, he begins to force the rusty nails out of the poles, using the screwdriver on particularly stubborn ones.
All the while, his thoughts drift back to his host. He wants to fight it, but over the past days, it has been impossible for him to prevent it. So, helpless in the face of his fancy, he surrenders to it.
Seeing Tav in her own environment is much more invigorating than meeting her in his practice, he deems. There is something particularly sweet about witnessing somebody in a place they know so intimately that it has become a second nature to them and they feel in control. It is an extension of themselves, a limb that they operate without actively thinking about it. Something as innate as breathing. Anything that excites them tends to be on display, either in the background, or because they draw attention to it, introducing a keepsake or collectible with much pride. Eyes sparkle and burn with the fire of passion, no matter to what degree, and, to Halsin, it is one of the most exquisite things in the world.
And, in this regard, Tav has never looked more beautiful to him. No matter how much he dislikes the notion of considering this aspect, he just does. It would be quite the offensive attention, should she come to discover how much she has occupied his thoughts and how he has memorised the beauty of her traits. So far, whenever she has visited the practice, her hair has either been tied up or hidden underneath a woollen beanie. But today, her copper locks are down, untouched, genuine. No artifice, whether the traces of plaits slept on or decorated pins, disturbs them. The way they fall around her rounded jaw and elegantly curve along her brow make her turquoise eyes stand out all the more. Besides, the ease with which she put on her sandals to show him to the field and now seems to enjoy a cup of a pleasant drink makes her behaviour all the more delightful. More than this, the comfort of her home has rubbed off on her—she radiates it and indirectly conveys it to him, wrapping him up in its blanket. He feels welcome, accepted, and she appeared genuinely pleased to see him again.
But he will never say any of that to her. How could he? Through the simple act of caring for her wounded animal and supporting her in her lawsuit against Mr. Bongle, he has earned some of her trust. It is a precious gift which he never wants to see shattered or taken back. Neither does he wish to scare her away, and he knows that he is awkward enough in the domain of seduction to be too blunt for his own good. While the majority of Heawick’s residents are amicable towards one another anyway, friends are a luxury who should not be neglected.
Friends. He is getting ahead of himself again, he mentally scolds himself. As much as he desires to count Tav as one of his friends indeed, he is nothing more than her pet’s doctor. No more, no less. Technically, he could merely want to be favourable to her as a means to keep her owlbear as a patient, it is better for business. But while financial stability is, of course, of great importance to anyone, he cannot bring himself to truly care about it. Not when it comes to Tav. Not to anyone, in fact—lives are not transactional.
So, as he rips out one of the nails from the wood rendered damp by the night rain, he decides that he will never mention it to her. Jeopardising her trust in him and the security she might feel while around him is not worth it. He already pushed his luck by spontaneously offering to repair the fence. Surely she accepted as a means to spare him the embarrassment. He already feels that he is imposing his presence on her at this very moment.
Something bumps into his ribs and nearly topples him off as he squats to remove one of the lower boards. Halsin peers under his arm and catches a glimpse of a mass of feathers. With a tender laugh, he reaches back to scratch the presence behind its ear.
‘Hi there, Beaky,’ he greets the owlbear cub as it hoots at him. ‘How have you been, little one?’
Halsin casts a glance over his shoulder at the windows of the house, but finds nothing there, not a single silhouette. With the creature’s permission, he reaches down to the paw, murmuring encouraging words to it, and peeks underneath the sock of Astarion’s making. Under it, the scar is much less red than it was last time, and even though it has merely been a few days, the flesh where the stitches were tied has become smoother. With a hum of satisfaction, he readjusts the surgical sock and gently scratches the animal’s head.
‘Well done, Beaky, you are healing well. Better than expected, may I add.’
The owlbear hoots and rubs against his side again, almost pushing him into the dirt again. Unable to hold in his laughter, Halsin presses the large animal against his side to playfully ruffle the fur and feathers on its flank. At once, Beaky stomps its strong paws into the mud as a sign of enjoyment, but instead of seeking a game to engage in, he sits heavily with a sigh, looking up at his doctor.
‘Are you going to watch me fix the fence?’ the veterinarian asks, as though awaiting an answer. ‘Very well. Perhaps you may learn a trick or two from me. Next time, you can repair Miss Ashguard’s fence yourself and impress her greatly!’
Beaky tilts his head quizzically and Halsin chuckles again. Remembering the measurements he previously took of the damaged wood, he makes a few marking with his pencil on the material he has brought. For the two planks he needs to fully bar the way in or out of the enclosure, he traces lines across the width. He positions the first plank upwards onto the longest side, tucking it between his knees since he lacks a proper sawhorse. He reaches out to his toolbox and retrieves his hand saw, instantly removing the protection along the blade. Then, he severs the excess length from the panel, focusing on keeping it stable underneath his body as to not make a curved cut. He repeats the operation on the other.
Approaching the broken fence again, holding one of the two planks, he holds it where needed. He begins to hammer nails into it to attach it to the bottom part of the pole, avoiding the previous holes to ensure a proper grip into the wood. Once that is done, he steps back to oversee his own work and when he finds that it is straight enough, he bends over to pick up the second plank.
A sharp pain instantly ripples through his palm. With a hiss, he withdraws his hand at once, shaking it as though that might relieve the ache at all. Right as he turns it around to inspect it, he hears Tav darting out of the house and her garden, a look of concern etched onto her face.
‘Doctor Silverbough!’ she calls. ‘Did you injure yourself? Are you okay?’
Melting at the sound of his name on her lips, Halsin smiles and nods, his wrist still caught in his own grasp.
‘Yes, I am quite alright,’ he responds before examining the source of the pain. Under his skin, a thick splinter has lodged itself deeper than he would have expected into his flesh. No wonder that the sting is that vivid. ‘It is merely a splinter. It must have been caused by my sawing the wood. I did not think to sand it down first.’
‘Yikes, that’s a big one,’ she says, wincing at the sight. ‘Do go inside. I’ll have a closer look and I’ll remove it.’
‘Miss Ashguard, I assure you it is not necessa—’
‘I insist, Doctor. You volunteered to replace my fence for free, I’m not letting you walk out with an infection that could cost you your hand if untreated. Chop chop, inside!’
With a tender laugh, Halsin reapplies the safeguard on the saw to protect Beaky from its bite, then follows Tav towards the house. Inside, she leads him up a short flight of stairs and directly to the left. They enter a bathroom, and she urges him to sit on the edge of the bathtub at once. Turning her back to him, she yanks the doors of her cabinets open in search of a first-aid kit.
While she is busy with her quest, Halsin allows curiosity to win over him and guide his gaze around the small room. Raising his eyebrows, he cannot help but admire the work she must have put into decorating the place. A bathroom, even when shared with guests, is hardly a space people bother to embellish at length. Most rather think of it in practical terms—how large is the basin? Is there enough space to add another so a couple can brush their teeth or get ready to go out side by side? How bright is the lighting? Is there at least one power outlet to plug in a hairdryer or a trimmer? How deep is the basin, and can one place a cabinet there? Can the washing machine and/or the dryer be added to the room, or should they be banished into the darkness of a cold garage? Is there a walk-in shower or a bathtub? What is the best way to keep the used water from spilling out? Does one need a squeegee to prevent limescale from coating the tiles and seeping into the seals? Few consider attributing a full theme or colour palette to this room that is rather difficult to tame, especially in a rental. But it seems that both Tav and her landlord have.
On the floor, the white tiles are all adorned with forest green eight-branch stars at their centre. Their corners are coloured in the same hue so that the meeting point of four tiles forms a small green square. Only the lower half of each wall is tiled in plain white, but the upper half has been ornamented with a vintage style cream wallpaper with light green flowery patterns peppered over it. Above the sink on the left side, a large mirror framed with gold-painted wood and likely thrifted overlooks the room. The reflection of the opposite side makes the space appear larger than it is and much less claustrophobic. Two electric lanterns are fixed to the wall on either side of that same mirror. The basin itself and the bathtub are simply white, but the standard faucets and showerhead were replaced with brass ones. The railing above the clawed bathtub is gold in colour, and the curtain hanging from it white, although identical patterns to the wallpaper were hand-painted onto the vinyl. Then, on the wide windowsill facing the door, an antique vase rests onto the ledge with a fresh bouquet of flowers inside. In the way that the plants are arranged and at the presence of certain colours and combinations, Halsin recognises it as one of Jaheira’s compositions.
‘Your bathroom is quite charming,’ he cannot help but say, gently sliding the shower curtain away from him so he will not inadvertently sit on it. ‘I like what you have done with it.’
‘Thank you,’ she responds with a smile partly concealed by her hair as she turns with her first-aid kit in hand. ‘I hate white walls, they make me claustrophobic and miserable.’
‘Hah, that is strange, considering how most landlords and realtors demand that a place remains a speckless white. Many praise the blankness of it all and prefer a minimalist environment, I have heard. But I agree with you. I do love a splash of colour or patterns, they make my heart jollier.’
‘Any colours in particular?’ she asks with a grin while pouring some alcohol onto a cotton ball she uses to rub the ends of a pair of tweezers.
Halsin watches her intently, his hands dangling between his legs as he ponders about what ideal interior he would want to see inside his house, would he have time and money to dedicate to that.
‘I love earth tones,’ he says nonchalantly. ‘Greens, browns, rust. But I like a touch of turquoise or red.’
‘That sounds lovely. I usually like flashier colours or even pastels, but when the mood strikes, I’m a sucker for autumn palettes.’
‘I do love that as well.’
Without touching anything with the tweezers yet, Tav opens one of the cabinet doors under the sink and discards the used cotton ball into the bin attached to the inside of the panel. Giving it a mere push to let it close on its own, she turns back towards him and comes to stand right in front of him, nearly cornering him. She reaches down to grab his wrist with a gentle touch, lifting his injured hand within reasonable eyeshot. Without giving him instructions, she turns his palm towards the ceiling and observes the large splinter under the skin.
Halsin’s breath catches. His head spins at their sudden proximity. She is so close to him, almost standing between his parted knees, and cradling his hand as if it was the most fragile thing in the whole world. As she calculates how much of the wooden shard she can grab without breaking it further, he feels her minty breath caressing his exposed skin.
‘Alright. I think I can pull it out nicely. Ready?’
Her voice snaps him back to reality. Clearing his throat and scratching his brow with the thumb on his free hand, he nods. All he hopes is that she has not noticed his staring or his flushing. Some heat remains in his cheeks, not aided by her hand still sprawled on his skin. As though she can read his mind, she shifts it slightly, no longer clasping his wrist but instead cloaking the back of his hand with her warm palm. The mere contact sends shivers coursing through his body and down his spine.
She guides his arm further towards her as she squints, hovering the tweezers over the base of the splinter.
‘Here goes.’
The slanted edges of the tweezers attempt to entrap the shard but slip off several times. Tav remains careful not to use too much force; that could have the opposite effect of what she is trying to achieve. She tries to pinch it, and after some eight efforts, she feels some resistance as she gives a tentative tug. With a slow hand, she begins to withdraw the tool towards herself, but it eventually slides off to the side and a metallic click emanates from it as the teeth snap shut.
‘Hells.’
She tuts and brings his hand ever closer to her. While she firmly guides the wood towards the exit wound with a nail, Halsin gulps and tilts his head back. Not because of a possible sting in his open and stabbed palm, no. But she has moved his limb such that his curved knuckles are brushing against her clothed chest.
Calm your thoughts, he urges himself as his heart thunders into his ears. Not that his mind is wandering down particularly perverted paths. Rather, the images flashing within it send twitches to his fingers. Their intimate contact ignite a need within his guts to hold and admire her, and, if she would allow it, to kiss her at long last. But he forces himself to reject this notion. She is married. He could never wreck a home so carelessly, that would be against the values he has entertained and maintained over the years of his existence. He would not harm the children of this union either, neither Trith nor the unborn bairn. No. They deserve all the love this cruel world can offer, and she provides them exactly that. He can tell.
So get a grip, Silverbough, he reminds himself yet again. She is not yours to hold and never will be. Do not become a creep. Let the matter rest.
‘AHA!’
Her sudden exclamation of victory interrupts his mental self-scolding. Grinning from pointed ear to pointed ear, she holds up the tweezers above her head. Between the jaws, he sees the long splinter.
‘Well. There it is,’ his choked voice croaks.
‘Hells yes it is! And… I don’t see any leftovers under the skin, so I officially assume you’ve been saved.’
Halsin lets out a hearty chuckle and cannot help his affectionate gaze from seeking hers.
‘It seems that you are the doctor, this time.’
What an odd thing to say, his conscience curses him.
‘A skilled one at that,’ she concurs with pride, tossing the splinter into the bin. ‘You’ve healed my owlbear’s paw, and I’m healing your hand in return. Perhaps I should consider a reconversion.’
‘I am sure you would succeed.’
‘Of course I would. Maybe I should even update my website. Tav Ashguard, musician, composer, and splinter slayer. Quite catchy, innit?’
The veterinarian laughs at her quip.
‘I can think of nothing better.’
Tav laughs along and proceeds to disinfect his palm. She reaches into the first-aid kit and smirks when she pulls out a plaster she peels out of its sterile packaging. With two firm caresses, she applies it over the wound and pats his hand.
‘All set.’
His eyes land on the eye-catching plaster and his heart warms up yet again. It is bright blue with cartoony yellow ducks scattered over the surface. Reddening again, he looks up and finds that she is already gauging his reaction.
‘I remember the whittled duck. Thought that would be fitting.’
‘That… That is perfect. Thank you.’
‘Is it your favourite animal?’
‘Oh, as a veterinarian, I do not play favourites. All souls are worth saving and—’
‘But if you were to be honest?’
He chortles.
‘Then ducks and bears are my favourites.’
‘Knew it.’
She tidies up the first-aid kit and disposes of the paper peels of the plaster before tucking the kit back inside the cabinet.
‘I usually use those on Trith,’ she explains while doing so. ‘You know, children and colourful things. I guess that comforts them when they get a boo-boo.’
‘It does reassure me now.’
‘Perhaps you’re a child at heart, then.’
‘I might just be.’
They smile at each other and Tav cradles his hand again, ensuring that the plaster is stable against his skin. As her thumb passes several times against the wings of the dressing, her fingertips brush against his knuckles. At the same time, he notices that she is staring at the spaces between his fingers, through which they both can observe her own. And, if his brain were not tricking him, he would believe that she is requesting passage from the faint pressure of her fingertips against the hollows at the base of his phalanges.
Against his conscience’s resistance and fiery protests, he admires her fine traits and the light crease between her brows. Rose tints her cheeks and darkens the freckles adorning them. As one strand of her hair slips forward to frame her face, it bares her ear and he sees the tip changing hues as well. What could possibly be the cause of that? Is his staring making her uncomfortable?
He should stop. He should know better. He longs to ask, but he cannot. She would recoil from him like a startled squirrel. Surely, he would never see her again. She would avoid him like the plague. Frankly, he is giving her every reason to do so. And he loathes himself for it. He is thinking like a lovesick teenager.
Right as he intends to withdraw his hand from her grasp, she lifts her head. Her turquoise irises scintillate despite the dim light, and he loses himself into them, gladly drowning into their pools. Despite the distance between their faces, their breaths graze one another. Halsin imagines hot swirls with misty arms desperately reaching out, seeking purchase as the cold air bites through them and carries them further apart until they vanish. All the while, Tav is still holding his gaze, and his mouth runs dry.
Gods, she is beautiful. And he wants to make a move. He is sure that she can see right through him at this second. She is no idiot.
‘I-I should finish repairing the enclosure,’ he stutters, the walls of his throat as grating as sandpaper as he speaks.
‘Right.’
She frees his hand and steps back to give him enough space to stand up and stretch his back. A frown is clouding her hypnotising eyes and he longs to reach out and smooth it. Did he not know better, he knows he would be inclined to interpret her expression as reluctance. But he cannot afford to think of her this way. Besides, it would only cause him pain.
‘Would you like me to help you this time?’ she inquires, wrapping her fuzzy cardigan around herself although the room is all but cold.
‘No, no, do not worry about it. I promise not to injure myself anymore.’
A faint smile plays on her lips, but he can tell that something is on her mind.
‘The only thing that concerns me,’ he starts, trying to defuse the situation without prying further, ‘is that my planks are much yellower than your white fence. They will stand out like a sore thumb.’
This time, she chuckles.
‘They will. But don’t worry, I’m going to paint them tomorrow. I’ll sand some of them down and repaint them. I messed up some of the poles. Plus, I think I still have leftover paint.’
‘Will the fumes not be toxic for the baby?’
The words escape him before he can shove them back inside his throat. The question hangs heavy in the air, cloaked in silence. Her eyes widen at once and the pallor that seeps under her skin instantly makes him regret that he spoke. He messed up. Somehow, he did. Perhaps she did not intend to reveal it to anybody yet? But her gesture that day on her belly was so gentle. Surely, it must have meant that…
Oh no.
‘Oh, gods,’ he whispers in utter shame, his own face drained of all colours, ‘you are not pregnant, are you?’
In response, Tav erupts into laughter. Halsin stands there, confused and uncertain on what to say or do. He has made an arse of himself. An utter arse.
‘Where on earth did you get this idea?’ she manages to say between fits.
Halsin hides his face behind both of his hands with a groan, which only fuels her mirth. He wants to shrink and disappear. Dissolve into mist. Perhaps even a weak spark. Anything to get out of here and recover some semblance of dignity. Sylvanus help him and hopefully forgive him.
‘I am so incredibly sorry,’ he groans again, not even daring to peek through his fingers. No. He is much more comfortable when nestled into the hollow of his palms. Oh. The ducks on the plaster glow in the dark.
With another laugh jerking with hiccups, she affectionately pries his hands away from his face. She does not seem hostile in the least bit, not as far as his blurred vision can tell. Even when it sharpens, she appears in high spirits, still. There is no hint of resentment nor anger in her expression, and that alone helps the knot in his stomach loosen.
‘Hey, I’m not offended, relax,’ she giggles, her voice switching to a higher pitch than she might have liked. ‘But really, why did you think that? Have I gained that much weight since I moved here?’
‘What? No! I mean, not that there would be anything wrong with that. Not that you do not look great already. I mean, not that I would notice. Ah, I do not mean that you are not worth looking at. But I would never look at you. Well, no. I mean… Ugh, I need to stop talking.’
She chortles and strokes his bare arm.
‘Alright, alright. Take a deep breath. You’ll be fine.’
Torn between his insecurity and the absurdity of the conversation, he complies and fills his lungs with much needed air and releases it into a heavy sigh that releases some of the tension in his shoulders.
‘Better?’
‘Yes,’ he answers, collecting himself and his thoughts. ‘What I meant to say was that I thought you were pregnant because when I encountered you in the forest with Trith, you cupped your abdomen. I have only witnessed pregnant women touching it this way, so I thought… wrong. I obviously thought wrong.’
‘Oh, I see. No, no, no baby in there, but I see what you’re referring to. I was trying to shush my belly so it wouldn’t growl for the hundredth time. I hadn’t eaten for hours.’
‘Oh. That would make sense. Still, I apologise for this misplaced assumption.’
‘Don’t worry about it. It’s hilarious more than anything.’
They exit the bathroom together and Tav leaves the door open. While in the stairs, she gasps and points her index at him.
‘Was that why we didn’t drink bubbly wine the other day?’
‘Now I am ashamed to admit that it was,’ he laughs in turn. ‘And I also congratulated you for the pregnancy before you left.’
‘Oh, I thought you meant for the lawsuit!’
Another laughter passes through them.
‘I suppose that makes us the champions of miscommunication,’ she says as they cross the living room.
‘That it does. Anyway. I shall finish repairing the fence. I will come find you when I am done.’
‘Of course. I saw that Beaky was happy to see you again, by the way.’
‘It would seem so. Strange, when you consider that I have only met him to inspect a deep injury and likely caused him more pain by operating.’
‘Nonsense. He’s never complained since I brought him back. The pills did more than enough.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
With a smile, he slides the back door open and steps out of the house and towards the field, leaving her inside. Once he has waved at her and turns away, his face falls and he buries himself under a mountain of insults for his blunders. Within a second, he runs out of vocabulary to taunt himself for his idiocy. While he is very much aware that she took no offence to his assumption or his blurted words, he cannot help but chastise his behaviour. Never has he been more embarrassed of something he did. Not even his occasional teenage recklessness or his reintegration into the outside world once he left the close community he lived in prompted such humiliation in his own eyes.
Well. At least his fancy to be closer to her is now dead and buried, even though it had no chance of ever being fulfilled. Once the mortification passes, he will be able to fully concentrate on his work and the Gortash situation again. Come to think of it, he should remember to ask Melly about it.
Some time later, once he has finished his handiwork, Halsin steps back to examine the result and see whether he needs to make further adjustments. He tests the solidity of the structure and is delighted when it hardly budges. After spending a minute to pet an inquisitive Beaky, he tidies up his tools and brings them back to his car. Then, he collects the loose pieces of woods and the broken planks to toss them into the back. Patting his hands together to rid them of the dust, he walks around the house, crosses the garden and knocks on the back door.
Tav shuffles towards it, wiping her hands using a tea towel and opens it.
‘Hi, everything okay?’
‘Yes, absolutely. I just meant to tell you that I am finished.’
‘Great!’
She stands on the tips of her toes and squints to see what it looks like now. But even Halsin can tell that she is not seeing much from this distance.
‘Looks amazing! Thank you so very much, Doctor. It would’ve cost me an arm without your help. Are you sure I can’t pay you in any way?’
‘I am simply happy that I could help you, Miss Ashguard. Do not worry about it.’
‘Then please stay for tea. That’s the least I can offer to reward your work.’
Halsin’s heart quickens again but he pays it no mind. He is used to it by now.
‘I would not want to impose.’
‘But I insist. I still have some time until Trith’s playdate’s over, so that’s no bother. Besides, I couldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t give you anything to eat or drink at the very least. Please?’
He cannot resist her puppy eyes. He kicks off his dirty boots and tucks them out of the way under her amused watch before following her inside. Despite having already been in her living room, he only just notices the decoration in the room. It is rather cosy and appealing to the eye, providing him with childlike wonder merely from the presence of colours all over. An old-fashioned television rests atop a cream-coloured stand with drawers and doors adorned with golden knobs. On either side of the device are two uneven but flowering cacti, one in a textured pink vase, the other in a purple pot with honeycomb patterns. Behind each of them is a tall and chiselled black candlestick made of metal. At the corner between it and the large window is an acoustic guitar on a stand, beside a tall golden lamp with a white shade. Above the furniture hangs a large brown frame containing a print of four art nouveau paintings from the same series placed side by side. From the little knowledge that Halsin has of art and art movements, he recognises the female embodiments of the four seasons by Mucha. It is itself surrounded by a mandolin and a lyre, standing out against the pastel yellow wall.
Directly on the right, four teal bookshelves covered with books organised by colour face the rest of the room. The volumes form several rainbows and are accompanied by various knick-knacks, framed postcards and figurines. On the lower shelves, below the heavier books, a few woven baskets take up the whole length of the shelves, and he imagines that they contain unsightly things that one may prefer to keep hidden. Chargers, cables one does not remember their origin but keeps them just in case, extension cords, and other handy objects.
In front of the television, right by the windowsill covered with other cacti and a spider plant, all in mismatched pots as well, is an L-shaped mustard couch with a pastel pink throw bearing the embroidered face of a cartoonish rabbit with an x-shaped mouth draped over the cushions. Multicoloured pillows were thrown onto its soft seats and have quite obviously been dented by naps and lounging sessions. Between it and the television stand is a vintage coffee table supporting an ornate tissue box and a set of shiny golden coasters, ready to be used. A book on mountain climbing rests atop the dark brown wood, with a blue lace bookmark tucked about halfway through. Underneath it all is a round and fluffy rust orange rug. Against the shorter side of the couch, which creates a separation from the rest of the house, is a three-tiered sage green trolley with a lid on the upper shelf to serve as an additional surface to place one’s cup on.
Further to the side, closer to the white stairs, is a round table of lighter wood surrounded by deep blue velvet chairs. At the centre is a golden tray with an antique sugar bowl decorated with pink and blue flowers, and a silver rotating tealight holder with dangling little houses.
Against the stairs, a horizontal black shelf with eight compartments bears an ample collection of vinyl records, which she must play from the vintage turntable on top of it. The empty spaces beside the machine have been filled by two old typewriters from different eras. One is quite old, black with silver keys and a black space bar, attached to a wooden base he suspects to have once been part of a suitcase. The other, much more sober in design despite its baby blue colour, is lower with black keys and a single burgundy one.
The wall behind the couch was turned into a gallery. Golden frames of varying sizes and designs bear reproductions of famous paintings. All represent women, either historical or mythological figures, in lavish clothing.
Halsin wants to admire the space further and lean onto the couch, but he is snapped back to reality when he remembers the state of his dry and stained hands.
‘May I freshen up first?’
‘Of course. There’s a toilet next to the front door if you just want to wash your hands. Otherwise, you are welcome to use the bathroom.’
‘Just the toilet is enough. Thank you.’
‘If you want to wash your face, feel free to grab another hand towel under the sink.’
Halsin nods and cranes his neck towards the corridor. He excuses himself and takes large strides towards the unassuming door on the left side of the front door. He sneaks inside and locks the door, before sighing right as he turns the light on and catches his reflection in the mirror. Ignoring it at first, he proceeds to wash his hand, wincing at the sight of the brownish water flowing into the drain. Once they are clean, he splashes some water over his face and neck, rubbing at his forehead in particular. He reaches under the sink for a towel and dabs at his dripping skin.
While drying his fingers, he inspects his reflection in greater detail. For the first time, he feels repulsive. He has never thought of himself as particularly handsome—in fact, his appearance has never really mattered to him in any way. He has neither liked nor disliked his face. Lately, since he realised the extent of his attraction to Tav, he has experienced waves of feeling old, obsolete, and perhaps scruffy at times. Now, standing in front of a mirror in her house, the sensation is overwhelming and twists his guts without restraint.
Scars marked his face so long ago now but remain deep and distinct. Claw wounds above his left eye render his face interesting, sure, but he must have instilled fear or disgust into onlookers at some point. Worse, into Tav. What if she is only pleasant with him out of pity? That would crush him. Just the thought of it is enough to make his guts churn and his breath grow short.
He breathes in deeply and releases the trapped air at once. Forcing the prospect to dissipate, he reaches behind his head and lets his hair down for a moment. His fingertips comb through the locks, catching onto knots and undoing them. He shakes his mane and slicks half of it back into his fist to redo the small but messy bun at the back. He leans in as something catches his eye.
More grey hairs.
Great.
Usually, he rejoices at the sight of grey or white hairs. In his unusual upbringing, it was taught to him that ageing is the most precious privilege bestowed upon living beings, and discoloured hair and skin should be perceived as sources of pride. He still deeply agrees with this principle. Yet now that he has been falling for a younger woman who bears neither signs, he wishes they could disappear. Gone would be the wrinkles around his dimming eyes. Gone would be the folds crossing his cheek and framing his awfully thin mouth. Things he only notices now, at his advanced age and because of a folly that will not dissipate.
Halsin lets out a deep sigh, stretches his shoulders and back, and exits the cramped toilet. In the living room, he finds Tav placing antique teacups on matching saucers beside a similar teapot resting on a thick doily. His presence catches her attention and she flashes him a warm smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes.
‘Better?’
‘Mh?’
‘You wanted to freshen up, you said.’
‘Oh, yes. Thank you.’
She shows him the couch and he lays his flannel shirt on the mustard cloth first before sitting on it, in fear that there might be mud on his backside. Tav shuffles towards the kitchen, the sound of her bare feet against the wooden floor alerting him of her whereabouts at all times. He might as well draw a map of the house not by visiting it, but rather by listening to her walking around.
She emerges from the kitchen carrying an ornate glass stand with a steaming cake resting on top of it. Halsin’s mouth opens and it is difficult not to drool at the enticing perfume of… lemon?
‘I made a sponge cake while you were busy, I hope you like lemon,’ she chimes as though she could read his mind. She sets the stand on the table and he can see it in better detail. The outer layer is golden, brownish towards the peak but enticing all the same, and the top is covered with powdered sugar, some of which has crystallised with the heat.
‘You did?’ he reacts, baffled and bashful that she thought to do such a thing after he advised her to catch a break before fetching her son from his playdate. ‘Are you sure that you wish to share this with me?’
‘Of course, it was no bother at all. That’s one way I found to thank you again for offering to mend the fence. That was lovely of you, and you have no idea how much of a relief it actually is, so… thank you, Doctor.’
Halsin mirrors her shy grin and nods in response. If she got out of her way to bake him something, it would be unthinkable of him to refuse.
‘Would you like me to prepare you some mint and honey tea, by the way?’ she suddenly inquires. ‘I fetched some mint branches at the shop.’
‘Did you pick that up from me?’
‘… Maybe?’
They laugh and Halsin gives her another nod. Within a heartbeat, Tav is back in her kitchen, rummaging through cabinets and drawers, from the sound of it. Still dumbfounded about the baking, he stares at the delicacy with much fondness.
Then, he hears swearing.
‘Is everything alright, Miss Ashguard?’
‘Yes, yes,’ she blurts out. ‘I just… miscalculated something.’
Without being prompted, Halsin hoists himself up and follows the sound of her voice until he reaches the modest but very much functional kitchen around the corner. He finds her tapping her foot while staring at the counter, a fist against her hip.
‘How can I help?’ he offers.
She glances over her shoulder and it relaxes at once.
‘I thought I’d get the nice service out, but I’m realising only now that I only know how to serve that kind of tea in bigger mugs.’
‘Fear not, that can still be done,’ he responds, approaching her and finding the mint halfway out of its packaging. ‘I could show you?’
‘Yes, please.’
He stands beside her and, with her permission, uses a small cutting board to rest the mint on. With the tip of a knife she hands him, he carefully cuts a first twig, explaining his reasoning for the dosing as he goes. When she provides him with the second twig, their fingers brush and they both blush.
‘How do you know how to measure the leaves for smaller cups then? Every leaf is different, right?’
‘I go by touch. That is not entirely foolproof, but it works wonders.’
Their eyes meet over the cutting board and Halsin sees her rosy lips parting, but merely a small gasp of air passes through them. She gulps and her ears grow redder at the tips again.
‘Would you guide my hands to show me what I should feel?’ she murmurs.
Never have his heart been louder. He could swear that she can hear it as well as he does when it roars into his ears. His whole body is aflame at once, but each added sensation—her perfume, her touch—leaves an icy trail on his skin and down his airways. Without thinking, he positions himself behind her and encloses her little hands into his much larger ones. They are so cold. His are burning. Ensuring that there remains a respectable gap between her back and his torso, he stutters during his explanation as he teaches her to weigh the branch in her hands, to feel the texture of the leaves themselves. When she seems to nestle against him, he panics and lets go of her hands with an embarrassed cough, widening the distance between them again.
‘And if you are uncertain, you may still cut the stems,’ his strangled voice forces its way out of his throat.
Tav remains silent. Her brow knits and a strange glow inhabits her irises. Gods, he must have offended her by encircling her the way he did. She is married, how dare he? Does he not have a brain?!
‘I-I apologise for my gesture. I did not mean to offend or belittle you.’
He crafts an excuse in his mind to leave the house and drive back to Heawick—or into a ditch—right away. He imagines a forgotten appointment, or perhaps some more handiwork at the practice. She would not believe a random delivery on a Sunday, so that choice is erased. Maybe he wished to call his mother. That might work… were she still alive.
Cold fingers brush his bare shoulder. Tav is close to him again and he shivers at their delightful but oh so ambiguous proximity.
‘What makes you think I’m offended?’ she hushes, feigning to wipe a piece of dust off of his collarbone. ‘I was the one who asked.’
He opens and closes his mouth like a goldfish, completely flustered. With a barely concealed giggle, she points her chin towards the corner.
‘Let’s have that tea, mh?’
On the couch, Tav fills both teacups with hot water, then dips the mint leaves she covers with honey. While Halsin stirs the mixture with a little spoon, she cuts the sponge cake with a knife and serves two slices on matching plates she brought on their way back from the disastrous interaction. He thanks her once again for the gesture and brings the first spoonful of lemon cake to his mouth.
‘That is delicious,’ he says, ‘it is really sweet but the slightly sour aftertaste is delightful. The sugar dims it a little bit, I like it. You are a wonderful baker.’
‘Oh, I deserve no compliment whatsoever. I bought the cake mix and added whipped cream. That’s it.’
‘Well, see it this way: you could have burnt it, yet you did not. That makes you a baker of sound judgement at the minimum.’
She chortles and enjoys another bite of her cake, undulating her upper body back and forth as though dancing to some music unheard. She tucks a strand of her long hair behind her ear and picks up her cup to dip tentative lips into the tea. The dosage must please her, judging from the slow blinking of appreciation. It reminds him of a fluffy cat.
‘How are things at the practice?’ she asks after washing down another piece with tea. ‘Getting used to the region yet?’
‘I must admit that I have never felt more at home than here. The community is truly amazing. As for the practice… I have grown insecure about it, if I am honest. I do remain the only practicing veterinarian, and I can no longer handle everything on my own. Just two days ago, I lost a poor little cat on my operating table. I could have saved him from his injuries with an extra set of hands and I know it. I have failed to consider drastic scenarios, and I fear that it has caught up to me. I betrayed my patient.’
Tav frowns and sits up, eyeing him with palpable concern.
‘Hey, that’s nonsense,’ she protests. ‘I hardly know you, I know, but the little I know is enough to assure me that you did your damned best during that surgery. Sometimes our best is just not enough, and there’s nothing to be done about it.’
‘I appreciate the sentiment, I do, but… I really do need another veterinarian at Emerald Grove. That is not a pace I can sustain any longer, especially not after this failure. If it happens again, my heart could not bear it.’
‘You could post a job offer online.’
‘But I am not sure I am in a position to pay out a full salary just yet. It is too soon.’
‘Why don’t you consider an intern? Perhaps there are student vets in the villages nearby who are dying to get an internship closer to home. That would save trips to and from Baldur’s Gate. Plus, that could save some parents a lot of rent money. Get in touch with the vet school there. I’m sure they can get the word out. And hey, an intern doesn’t need to work as much as a full-timer, so they cost less.’
‘I suppose you are right. Once the first month is over and done with, I will go over my accounts and see if there is anything I can work with. Hopefully I earn enough to pay someone and stay afloat.’
The dessert spoon clatters on her plate as she sets it down, licking crumbs off of her finger.
‘Talking about staying afloat,’ she starts, licking off another crumb from between her teeth, ‘I heard that someone’s been looking to buy commercial spaces in Heawick? What’s that about?’
Oh. Even all of Combury knows about the issue, it would seem.
‘From what I understand, he wants to buy—maybe forcefully—one of the shops to open a café from his chain. He said it would boost tourism in the area.’
‘That’s ridiculous! I might just be a refugee from another region, but hells, I love the area precisely because it’s quaint and quiet. It’s so authentic and old-fashioned, but with such an open-minded community. I’ve never been to towns that have both!’
‘Agreed,’ he sighs, though comforted that she shares his opinion on the matter. Her outrage further reassures him that his anxiety about Gortash’s apparitions is not unfounded.
‘Do you reckon the practice might be in danger?’
Halsin runs a hand through his hair and eats the last of his slice, struggling to swallow it down because of the tightness in his throat from the emotion. Emerald Grove closing, so soon after its grand opening he awaited for two whole decades… The notion seems rather absurd. And yet.
‘I fear it might be,’ he responds, burying his face in his hands for a few seconds. ‘I am only renting the space, as I once told you, and the owners told me that they aspired to sell it in the future. I was entertaining the hope that I might earn enough to make them an offer by next year, but that man, Gortash, is a real stick in the mud.’
‘Maybe there’s something neighbours and locals can do to help if it happens. Surely they can’t just kick out the only vet this region’s known in years.’
‘I might ask Melly, the baker’s mother. I feel that she knows everything about life in Heawick,’ he says pensively, remembering that he wished to go yesterday but preferred to wallow over Aslan’s death. ‘But if I am threatened, I might start a petition in Heawick and the neighbouring towns.’
‘I would sign it in a heartbeat. You can count on me.’
Tav serves him another slice of cake without asking him. But she does not need to. His hollow eyes, horrified at the prospect of losing his livelihood and long-term project, betray his emotions. He tends to eat his feeling when they become unbearable. He likes to think that she functions the same way and that she recognised the signs. And, of course, he devours it immediately.
‘You are sweet,’ he says with a genuine smile, wiping away the white sugar from his mouth. ‘Thank you.’
‘Of course. Besides, we could send that petition to Mayor Ravengard if things go south. He’ll have your back, I’m sure of it. He makes questionable decisions sometimes, but I’ve heard he does have the people’s best interest at heart. As I said, I love Heawick and Combury because of how quaint they are. I don’t want the crumbs of people who are bored with Baldur’s Gate to crowd our little streets, no matter how much I’d wish for everyone to experience what it’s like to live here.’
Halsin finishes his tea.
‘Well, if it happens, I suppose we will need all hands on deck. Even though you live in Combury, your help and your voice will matter more than you may envision, especially as my first patient.’
‘I’d be glad to help. Reach out if you need to. I’ll do everything in my power to save Emerald Grove.’
They share a tender stare above their teacups. But before he can question his interpretation of her gaze, she lifts up a finger with a hum, as though a jolt of electricity has unexpectedly coursed through her limbs.
‘Before I forget, would you like to give me some ideas for your on-hold music? You said you needed a new one.’
‘Oh. Well. What instruments are available?’
‘Piano, keyboard, guitar, bass, harp, lyre, drums, violin, percussions, marimba, and some smaller instruments,’ she lists on her fingertips the same way a waitress would when asked about ice cream flavours. ‘If you prefer something more synthetic, I do have digital options. But the main question is: what mental image do you want to convey with it? You said the current tune started too loud and then felt infuriatingly zen?’
‘Something like that.’
Leaning back against the soft cushions, he rubs his calloused palm against his neck and makes the effort to take the criticism her received into account while picturing what his ideal music would sound like. In itself, the whole endeavour is ridiculous. What happened to good old standard beeps? Or a simple ringtone? But no. When harm comes to furry, scaly, or feathered companions, it is better to be welcomed with something putting one’s mind at ease. No matter how trivial it may sound to Halsin.
‘I suppose I would like something which radiates positivity,’ he starts, his gaze lost somewhere before him, ‘but also comforts the mind when dealing with scary situations.’
Tav pulls out her mobile phone and frantically types on her keyboard once she has opened the notes app.
‘Anything more specific in mind?’ she probes.
‘The feeling of watching funny animal videos online?’ he snorts, but her careful note-taking proves that it is somehow making sense to her, or that she takes him seriously enough to ponder over it.
‘What are your favourite animal videos?’
‘Hard to decide. I certainly do love puppies playing in fields. Oh, and owners who play the guitar and their pet is either falling asleep against them, or they are napping on the instrument.’
She laughs and shifts a little closer to him, showing him her notes so he can veto whatever he deems uninteresting or false. But she has him figured out so far and that somehow does not surprise him in the slightest.
‘So, something wholesome. I see. But you do not want it too upbeat. I think I can mix both styles.’
Before he can acquiesce, she leans over the coffee table to grab the neck of her guitar. She sets it up on her lap and give the strings a few tentative plucks to gauge how out of tune it is. Once she has rectified two of them by ear, she stares blankly at the pillow next to Halsin while playing random chords. He watches her fingers dance upon the frets and glide along the wooden neck, each movement and pressure producing a completely new note. Her lower lids tense up in concentration, and he remains silent, choosing to witness her creative process without interrupting it.
What was first a slow succession of chords has now grown steadier and more fluid. She improvises new rhythms as she plays, her jaw slacked but pushed forward. It is nothing but endearing to him.
She ceases to play and pulls out her telephone to record a chord progression which may have made her tick. She balances the device on her knee and plays it four times without a word but then continues while enunciating each chord as she transitions between them. Then, she stills the strings by flattening her hand over them.
‘Sorry,’ she says while stopping the recording. ‘I liked that progression. Might use it for your project, or another if you dislike it.’
‘No, no. It was beautiful. It reminded me of songs I like to listen to when I am cheerful.’
‘Oh, which ones?’
Tav tucks her mobile away and absent-mindedly runs her thumb along the strings again, hardly grazing them, yet playing a soft harmony.
‘Blackbird. Or The 59th Street Bridge Song,’ he says.
‘Love them too! Simon & Garfunkel are the reason I picked up a guitar in the first place.’
‘Really? I do not find many people anymore who appreciate their music.’
‘I could talk about them for hours.’
With a smirk, she begins to pick the riff of The 59th Street Bridge Song, and he rests his cheek into the palm of his hand, listening with a contented sigh. Their eyes meet yet again, and her head bobs to the rhythm of the music, playing the rest of it inside her head. Butterflies release in the pit of his stomach at the passion and skill she displays without shame or restraint.
Somebody in their own home being one of the most marvellous things in life? Scratch that. Tav serenading him, however jokingly, with such passion burning in her pupils and her copper hair cascading around her. That beats it all.
And it hurts. So damn much.
Because in this instant, he realises that his heart belongs to her.
But he never will.
As she speeds up her playing, he forces himself to ignore the raging agony tearing through his chest.
‘Slow down,’ he hushes with a forced laugh, ‘you move too fast.’
‘But I got to make the morning last,’ she responds enthusiastically with a wink. ‘Anyway. Something like this for the music, then?’
‘That would be lovely. No electric instruments, please, I like it acoustic, if you do not mind.’
‘Got it. I will keep this folksy.’
Halsin grins and stands up, gathering his flannel to cover himself with again. She props up the guitar against the cushions and smooths down her clothes.
‘Do you need to go?’ she asks.
‘I fear so.’
‘I will record a demo for your on-hold music and I will invite you to the studio so we can discuss it and all the formalities. Is that a plan?’
‘Sure. Text me anytime.’
Tav furrows her brow for a split second before forcing a smile as well.
‘Would you like to take some cake with you?’
‘No, thank you. Melly has already been stuffing me with baked goods every other day. I need to watch out at my age.’
‘You’re hardly old.’
He lets out a chuckle and heads towards the back door to find his boots. He puts them back on and she leans against the doorframe, staring at him.
‘For the music, I can make you a royalty-free tune that’s thirty seconds long with a clean loop so callers don’t get false hopes when it restarts.’
‘That is thoughtful of you. I would very much love that.’
‘Normally, composers like to offer a renewable license, but this one will be yours. It’ll be less costly for you and the practice.’
‘How much would that be?’
‘I’ve only done licenses so far, so I need to think about it. I could email a quote to the practice.’
‘Perfect. I trust you with the composition, since you seem to have me and my tastes figured out,’ he says, amusing her.
She crosses the garden with him, the gravel crunching under his boots while she hops barefoot onto it. Something tells him that she does not like wearing shoes or slippers much around the house or her garden. The pain and the sharpness of some pebbles do not seem to trigger any reaction from her.
‘If you accept the quote I send you, and I’m willing to negotiate some of it, I’ll keep you updated about the versions I come up with. It’s important to me that my clients are as involved in the creative process as I am. Your input is valuable, so if you come up with ideas or remarks, please tell me. Also, if all goes well, I will invite you to the studio upstairs for the final recording so you can modify anything you want.’
‘That suits me. Anyway, thank you very much for your hospitality and for agreeing to compose the tune.’
‘Nobody should thank anybody more than me with you. Thanks for helping Beaky and mending the fence. Really.’
As he lifts his foot to take a first step away from her garden, she stands on tiptoe and plants a kiss on his cheek, lacing her arms around his. Flabbergasted, unable to have a single coherent thought, he blinks at her. He must be as red as the tulips that sprouted from her soil. Tremors rattle his legs and he buries his hands into his pockets to conceal their shaking. He offers her a warm smile and an awkward bow.
‘See you next time, Miss Ashguard.’
With pinched lips, she releases his arms and steps back, waving him off as he leaves without witnessing her reaction. When he walks along the house, his brain is nothing but a ruckus of conflicting words, sounds, screams and music. Whereas there is nobody to be seen on the street or around him, he feels as though he is standing in the middle of a crowded pub on a game day. He stomps his feet towards his car, still parked in front of Tav’s house, and hops inside.
As soon as he drives away and her house is out of sight, Halsin bursts into tears.
Ascended Astarion || Astarion x f!Tav || ao3 || Masterlist
Rating: M , +18 Word Count: +1.4k Warnings: Ascended Astarion, abuse, mentions of sex (dub-con?, no description of sex act), mentions of death, adult themes.
And so it’s just you and him going through the same old motions, following a routine of his design—you always do, these days. Or decades. Centuries? Who knows? Not that it matters, no. You’ve been doing this for a very long time. Agreeing. Smiling. Fighting. Fucking. Dancing. Crying. Blood. So much blood. Even when this ballroom is long dead, the Gate is still bleeding red—for you, he says. Always for you.
a/n: said I wouldn't do AA content but I talk a lot, apparently. Written in a frenzy. Another not so edited work, because I'm playing around with my writing lately and also try to chill a little. And it's 3am, make of that information what you will.
The Vampire Lord’s hand is clasping yours tightly as you dance around his empty ballroom. There’s no music accompanying you tonight—there was once, but not anymore. You can’t say when it crept in exactly, the heavy silence in this grand room. You only know that the music faded gradually, once upon a time, so slowly that you only noticed its absence when it had long fallen silent. Not that it matters, now.
The Lord of the house and you—his consort, his bride, his little love—are the only guests this room has seen in years, but you still know the steps of this dance by your cold, undead heart. You’ve gone through these same motions thousands of times before, and still, the Vampire Lord insists on guiding you through them. It’s not that he fears you’ll forget your place in time—you can’t, because he seldom wastes an opportunity reminding you.
Follow my lead, little love, he purrs into your ear. It’s not like you could do otherwise.
And so it’s just you and him dancing through a withering ballroom, old grandeur slowly crumbling under years of silence and moonlit dust. One step forward, two steps back. Left. Right. Left. Left. Spin. Back. Back. Forward, please? Back. Left. No, pet, start again. There’s no end to this dance, unless the Vampire Lord wishes so, and he never does.
And so it’s just you and him going through the same old motions, following a routine of his design—you always do, these days. Or decades. Centuries? Who knows? Not that it matters, no. You’ve been doing this for a very long time. Agreeing. Smiling. Fighting. Fucking. Dancing. Crying. Blood. So much blood. Even when this ballroom is long dead, the Gate is still bleeding red—for you, he says. Always for you.
You’re hungry, little love.
Are you? You must be, because he is. The Vampire Lord is insatiable. And so you must be, too. It’s just another step of this dance. Drinking. Sucking. Waiting. Killing. Damning. Fucking. Blood. So much blood. Love…? Once, maybe. You can’t be sure. Not anymore. Not since your fangs have grown dull. Not since you’re dancing in empty rooms.
There is no need for you to hunt, let alone starve—not when the Vampire Lord is providing for your every need. Has he ever not done that? No, you haven’t known a night of hunger in his house. How very kind. What would you do without him?
You should be grateful, little love.
He’s right. There’s no need for you to prowl dark alleys. No drunks, no whores, no rats to taint your pretty mouth with. Only the very best for you, pet. So the Vampire Lord brings you a handsome virgin when you’ve been good, and you always are for him. Gifts you an elf that has seen so many centuries, they’re carved into their beautiful leathery skin. Lies down a girl before you whose belly is so swollen with child that you can’t tell one heartbeat from the other. Their blood is calling to your instincts. You urge to pierce their skin with your fangs, but—
We ask before we bite, little love.
Yes. May you have some blood, please? Of course, pet, of course! A feast just for you! Who else would it be for? Who else would matter as much as you do?
Come, eat right up, little love!
The moment your food arrives in your chambers it’s pale-faced and stupid with mortal agony. You don’t particularly like that. Their blood has an odd taste to it when the servants had to wash piss and shit off their fear-paralysed bodies right before serving them to you. They’re still alive but stink of death; it’s distasteful. Pitiful. You hate the way they look at you. But you don’t tell the Vampire Lord that. It would be ungrateful, wouldn’t it?
I said eat, little love.
And doesn’t he feed you so lovingly, even when you reject his generosity at first? You don’t even need to use your own fangs to rip out their throats, he’s angry enough to do it for you. All you need to do is drink. Consume. Live. Please, even if you don’t want to. Listen to skin ripping and bone breaking. Screams fading into music fading into silence in the once-grand ballroom. Life fading to dust.
The Vampire Lord knows you prefer the ones that are already half-drained of life when they’re brought to you—he knows everything about you. You like them better because they don’t move. They don’t scream. They don’t go through the same motions over and over and over again. All they need to do is die. They’re as good as gone when the Vampire Lord takes the last of their blood in his mouth, pulls you into a heady kiss. They don’t know that their essence drains from his mouth into yours, down your throat, and all you need to see are glassy eyes when the hunger you haven’t even felt has finally been sated.
Good girl, little love, you’re so very good for me.
You wish you had been more like them, once upon a time, already gone instead of being consumed by fear. Stupid with love. Giving what wasn’t yours to give. Back then—when was it; does it even matter?—when your hands hadn’t yet been drenched in the blood of countless souls. Back then, when all you wanted was to protect the man you…No, it doesn’t matter. Not anymore. Even thinking like that is very bad of you. And yet, the Vampire Lord already knows of your wish. He knows it so well that you’ll never find the words to tell him of it yourself. He doesn’t want to hear of your wish, so silence remains. And it doesn’t matter. Not anymore.
I need you, little love.
The Vampire Lord fucks you the same way he dances with you—slow, but firmly. Holding you as close as your bodies allow, lest you vanish into one of the many empty rooms in this grand eroding house. That’s when you love him most. This body inside you is the only thing that still feels like him—the man you loved, once upon a time. Always. What was his name again? He had a silly laugh, you remember, and he was so very sad. Scared. He loved you so much.
Nothing feels as good as you do, little love.
The Vampire Lord plunging into you isn’t scared, nor is he very sad. He’s long over such mortal whims. He’s frantic, though, most of the time. He thinks he’s hiding it, but you went through the steps of this dance so many times that you can glimpse past the mask. He loves you still—his consort, his little love, his prisoner.
Not that it matters, because it’s just him and a shadow of yourself dancing in a crowded ballroom at all times. Seven thousand damned souls are tugging at your skirts, you can feel their grasp as much as you can feel the Vampire Lord clasping your wrist, his nails digging into your skin. They’re one and the same, death and him.
Follow my lead, little love. Follow my lead.
The Vampire Lord drags you over ash and bones and blood, so much blood that it makes your head spin. He’s a puppet master pulling the strings of all that’s dead and he won’t ever let go of you—you can tell by the smile on his face that doesn’t reach his all-seeing eyes. It never does.
You want to hurt him. He knows.
What is it, little love?
You hate him. That man who stole your lover, once upon a time. No, you have to admit that’s not quite right. You were there, too, after all. You’d given him the dagger and then held down your lover as the Vampire Lord stripped himself of the man he was before. You two killed him so very thoroughly, except for his body there is nothing left, now.
“I love you,” is all you can say. They’re not your words, not anymore.
I know, little love, you always will.
Sunlight is breaking through dusty old curtains. The Vampire Lord spins you dangerously close to the soaring heat reaching for you. Why doesn’t he just let this house go up in flames? It would be no trouble. You always burned so bright, once upon a time. It would take but a moment.
But burning isn’t part of this dance. Left. Death. Back. Hatred. Back. Eternity. Spin. Tears. Right. His name started with an A. Right. Aeterna amantes. Forward, please? Lovers forever. No, pet, start again. There is little love left, but, as you’re slow dancing in circles through this tomb, you know that eternity has only just begun.
🩵 Many thanks to @kinktober-2025 for the prompts list! 🩵
Ship: Astarion x Tavilina
Word Count: 208
Applicable Tags: Post-Canon, Newlyweds, Living Together, Squirting, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Penis-In-Vagina Sex, Creampies, Dirty Talk, Pet Names, Established Relationship, Humor, Soft Astarion, Top Astarion, Bottom Tav, Named, Female, & Half-Elf Tav, POV Third Person Omniscient
Astarion pistoned in and out of Tavilina’s cunt, growling as he kissed where her pulse lay on her neck. “We’re both close, love. Come for me, clench around my cock.”
Astarion’s lustful command pushed the half-elf over the edge, her release washing over her like the waves of the sea. “Astariooooon!” She cried out his name as her back arched, but he didn’t relent. His orgasm was still further away than hers, and his pleasure made Tavilina’s even stronger. “Oh, gods, ‘Star! If you don’t stop, I’m gonna—!” His relentless thrusting pushed Tavilina over the edge once more, squirt pouring out from her glands and onto Astarion and herself. The tightness finally gave Astarion his release, pouring his seed into his new wife.
The vampire stopped, gently pulling his softening cock out of Tavilina. She’d never had an orgasm this intense in all the time they’ve been together. “Are you alright, darling?” He gently tilted her head up and kissed her forehead, caressing her cheek.
“Yeah, I’m good.” She shifts, noticing the large wet spot in the sheets, which causes her to blush. “Guess this is one way to break in the new bed!” she laughs. Astarion laughs with her, resting his hand on her abdomen in affection.
Liked this and want more? Check the full Kinktober fic on my AO3 here!
Hi! Could I ask for hcs of Zevlor being a father figure for fem!Tav?
Absolutely! I do primarily write these lists in the second person, but if any pronouns are mentioned, I'll go ahead and use ‘she/her.’
The timing for this request is a bit funny to me, because the headcanon request following this is for Zevlor in a much different context. 🤣
I have a really bad habit of using the plot of BG3 as a framework for my headcanon lists, so kind of like what I did before, I have general headcanons, and then I have a scenario driven list.
NOTE: she/her pronouns are used for Tav in this list.
Zevlor as a Father Figure for Fem!Tav
General headcanons
Zevlor was a commander who watched over plenty of young recruits. He mourned those who died and celebrated those who climbed the ranks. He acted as a mentor for many of them, but he never would have thought of himself as a father figure.
You are a bit different.
He easily falls into the habit of asking if you have eaten or if you need something to drink.
He ultimately wants to make sure that you can survive on your own, because then he feels like he has helped you in a meaningful way.
He has a hundred hidden skills, like sewing, and plenty of patience to impart that knowledge to you.
But he also thinks he is doing you a disservice if he doesn't teach you those skills.
So, yes, he's going to mend the tear in your cloak, but he's also going to make you follow along and mend a smaller tear.
Will grin ear to ear when you perfect a whip stitch.
Zevlor feels the most accomplished when he can teach you something, but he also has to fight the impulse to offer up useful information at every given opportunity.
Watch him struggle to not point out forageable mushrooms.
He will try in a very roundabout way to teach you what is forageable because he will be damned if his chil—no, this young adventurer—can't feed herself.
So the day you visit him with a perfectly dressed rabbit has him tearing up.
He doesn't expect you to be a warrior like him. He would never impose the difficulties of that life on anyone. But he does want to make sure that you can defend yourself.
If you choose to pursue the life of a warrior, he'll listen to you talk about your victories and your hardships. Should you ask for advice, he will offer it.
He isn't going to be the sort of person to give you unsolicited advice (though he will feel like he is dying if he thinks he can help you work towards a solution and you don't ask).
And, perhaps because you have sought his counsel when it comes to training as a warrior, and because he has taken an interest in not only your growth as a warrior but also the social aspects, you do find it easy to confide in him.
You might initially feel bad for venting about something, but Zevlor assures you he doesn't mind.
He soon becomes your closest confidant.
He will ask if you want advice or if you just want to talk things out. But regardless, he safeguards your secrets with the devotion one can expect of a paladin.
Zevlor isn't the sort of person to outright say “I dislike this idea” or “I dislike so-and-so,” but he does that patented mouth twist/pucker when you mention said idea/person.
“I get the sense that you don't like ___”
“Hmm. I suppose I'm not too fond of how reckless they can be. You'll have to forgive an old man for worrying.”
Also, he is absolutely, 100% the father who will say “I'm not angry, I'm just disappointed.” And if he doesn't say it, he still conveys it with the parent-patented ‘face.’
He won't lie and pretend he isn't protective of you.
If he feels that you have been wronged deeply and irreparably, it's going to take everything in him to not strike out on your behalf.
Everything.
But he also knows that he has taught you to act with a level head, and if he were to respond in a way that runs counter to what he has tried to instill in you, then what was the point?
Maybe it's because he is a Paladin of Helm, or maybe it's because he found his daughter in the last place he'd thought to look, but he wants to shield you from all harm.
He has to come to terms with the fact that he can't always protect you. And the realization nearly destroys him.
But it's in that realization that you mean so much to him that gives him pause.
And he realizes how proud he is of you, and how he wants to remain a part of your life.
Assuming that you want Zevlor to remain in your life, then he will be there for you at every single important juncture (and all of the points in between).
He's there for every heartbreak.
And he's there for every victory.
In everything but blood, he is a father to you.
He is there when you need to make home repairs, ready to offer a helping hand.
He is there at the first sign of trouble
He's there when you need to cry or be angry
And he wouldn't choose to be anywhere else
And when all is said and done, when the storms have passed and the world is quiet, he looks at you and says, “For what it's worth I'm proud of you.”
Scenario-driven Headcanons: Following Game Events - Zevlor as a Mentor and then a Father-figure
Zevlor never expected to serve as a parental figure in any capacity—least of all for an adventurer who stumbled into his path during one of the most stressful times of his life.
But something about you makes him feel paternal.
Maybe there were aspects of yourself that reminded him of when he was a newly recruited Hellrider—unsure of the world but desperate to prove himself all the same—that made him feel that he could, perhaps, act as a mentor to you.
At first, he acts as more of an advisor and a teacher. If you mention in passing that your traveling party is heading to one location or another, he’ll offer to review maps of the area with you. He has done some scouting around the Grove, so he’ll make suggestions about what to avoid and what routes were safest.
If you run any training drills, Zevlor will watch from a distance. He won’t offer feedback immediately—not unless he notices that you’re getting frustrated or that something in your technique creates a lethal opening for your foes. Otherwise, he will wait for you to ask him his thoughts.
He’s also more than content to train with you. He’s strict, but he is a patient teacher. Though he is usually reserved and level-handed with his counsel, the one thing he will never hold back on is your form while training. If he lies to you about that, then he fears that he is sentencing you to death or a serious injury.
But as time goes on, he becomes more aware of your tells—he knows when you aren’t eating or sleeping well. And though he usually wouldn’t pester someone whose health didn’t directly impact the overall safety and well being of the other tieflings, he can’t help but worry about you. He knows that you’re stressed about something (you did come to the Grove in search of a healer, after all), but he doesn’t know what that might be.
So, initially, he might broach the topic by asking if there is enough to eat on the road. He might offer to patch up your blankets or your tent if there are any notable tears.
But if those gentle questions/offers don’t get much in the way of results, he will ask you if you are taking care of yourself.
After training with you, he’ll make a point of fetching you a bowl of stew and seeing to it that you eat a few bites.
Though making sure you get rest is trickier, he will start to ask if you are sleeping enough. He feels like he is dangerously close to crossing a line, but he is worried.
He might not fall apart if you return to the Grove injured, but he won’t tolerate you not getting immediate medical attention.
After you defeat the goblins, Zevlor is practically beaming. He realizes that this is more than just relief over you being alive and the path being cleared for the refugees—he is proud of you.
He won’t claim to have played a role in your growth as a person. More than likely he’ll joke and say that he just made sure that you were holding the right end of a sword.
If you thank him for his guidance, he’ll refocus the discussion to your achievements.
He asks that you be careful on the road to Baldur’s Gate, and he’ll wish you safe travels.
So imagine how he feels when you find him trapped in the Mind Flayer colony.
Not only is he now dealing with the guilt over the Absolute invading his mind and having him urge the other tieflings to surrender, but now he sees you, the young adventurer who put their trust in him.
And that is enough to wreck him.
He wants to beg your forgiveness for not upholding this image of justice and valor, for perhaps going back on the morals that he conveyed to you whilst he mentored you.
If you respond with kindness, he will think he is undeserving. He will try to reject your forgiveness. But he won't deny the sense of pride that burns in his chest. He may have not played a role in your upbringing, but to know that he helped guide a warrior who possessed a moral compass that allowed for forgiveness? Especially for him? It makes him want to try again.
If you respond from a place of hurt/betrayal, he will accept how you feel. He won't flinch away if you berate him or yell at him. After what happened in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, how can he? He is now an Oath Breaker. He has lost everything. Perhaps he should have seen that he would fail as a mentor too.
But he wants to try again. He wants to redeem himself. It might not be possible, but he wants to strive to fill the image that you created of him in your mind. He might never attain it, but he's going to do his damnedest.
Regardless of how you respond, Zevlor implores you to take care. He doesn't care what happens to him, but the thought of you dying rattles him.
After Ketheric is defeated and everyone gathers in the throne room, Zevlor will observe from the shadows.
He doesn't make himself known to anyone. He just wanted to make sure that you were alive before he moved on.
And with the knowledge that you and your companions survived, he departs for Baldur's Gate.
He is proud of you. And he is so, so scared.
So, within Act 3, as far as I have observed/read, Zevlor doesn't reappear until the final battle (assuming you saved him in the Mind Flayer colony).
But I'm taking some liberties here.
After what happened in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, Zevlor is too ashamed to be around you.
But he is also so, so worried.
He knows you're a capable warrior. He spent weeks training you.
But suddenly that training doesn't seem like enough. Why couldn't he have urged you to stay for a few more hours that one day? He might have noticed that your swing was a bit too wide or that you left your right side vulnerable when you feinted that one time. Why the hells didn't he take the time to help you perfect your technique?
Perfection might not save you from all threats, but it gave you a better chance of survival.
Needless to say, he lays awake most nights gripped with anxiety.
Are you actually alright? Have you been injured?
He doesn't have a lot of money to his name, but he spends what he does have reading the newspaper, coveting whatever tidbits of information about you is printed that day.
He quietly celebrates your victories, and he mourns your losses from afar.
He decides one evening to toast one of your wins at the Elfsong.
And he sees you. You're laughing and joking with your friends. Despite everything that has happened. You're bruised and exhausted, but you're smiling in that moment.
He didn't intend on running into you, and he immediately makes himself scarce.
He ducks into an alleyway and lets himself cry.
That adventurer, so bright and full of potential, is now a hero.
He's scared, he's proud, and seeing you stealing a moment of joy for yourself before diving back into the fray has him simultaneously laughing and sobbing.
While he had been hesitant to make himself known to you before, he commits to standing with you at the end.
So he focuses on healing his body and honing his strength. He might renew his vows as a paladin.
But regardless, he is there when you enter the High Hall, and regardless of how you two parted in the Mind Flayer colony, he pledges his strength to you.
He might not be at your side in the final battle, but he keeps the enemy off of your back.
He fights like the Hellrider Commander he has always been.
And he watches you defeat the Netherbrain.
He isn't the first to congratulate you. No, he doesn't want to interfere in the moment that you share with your companions.
But he is there at the end, brimming with pride.
Before you leave to join your companions at the Elfsong, the two of you sit down on the edge of the jetty, looking out on the Chionthar.
The battle is over. You've won.
Zevlor might not hug you. He might not tell you that you are the child he never thought he'd have.
But he tells you how proud he is of you. And, should you be open to it, he'd like to stay in your life. Be that in the smallest of capacities, where you and he occasionally get a drink and you catch him up on your life, or in a larger capacity, where you seek him out for counsel and training, he wants to see where life will take you.
Should you be in agreement, Zevlor is a very consistent presence in your life.
At first, he is there when you call on him.
But at a certain point, he just gets a sense for when you need him there.
He never wants to barge in, but he'll make excuses to swing by and check on you.
Initially, he thought he would always be a mentor to you. And to a certain degree, he still is.
He never expected to be the shoulder you leaned on while you cried.
He never expected that you would make a point to celebrate his birthday with him.
He most certainly didn't expect you to consider his input on life-changing decisions.
But there he is, rubbing circles into your back as you weep over the loss of a companion.
There he is, confused and dewy-eyed as you push a gift into his hands and wish him a happy birthday.
There he is, watching you accomplish the impossible.
He might not have thought he'd ever be a father, let alone a father figure.
But he is more than content to fill that role for you.
