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Nov 13, 2025

Shadow in the Snow

Because I needed to write my Tav, Azavan Duskshadow, bleeding out and reflecting on his life because reasons.

(Full fic below cut)

Legs are trembling, aching, and striving to stagger forward despite burning hot wounds that sting against the brisk winter's winds. Azavan winces at every step, his breath escaping in small clouds, as he distances himself from the gore he left behind, splayed across the icy terrain.

Crimson decorates shades of white and grey landscape, blood dying the snow deeply as fallen bodies sink toward the earth. The attack was swift and brutal. Some worgs, a handful of goblins, and a bugbear. Not big baddies, but in large numbers they have proven to be competent foes-- that is, until Azavan's blades said otherwise. He snuck up on the party, landing a devastating immediate head shot on a goblin startling the group. He had enough time to mangle and slice the other few goblins as well before the bugbear impaled his back with its mace. He had to quickly finish off the goblins just before his arm and leg opposite from the other were latched onto by the jaws of two vicious worgs. A point blank head shot from one hand-crossbow and a swift kick strong enough to knock the second back just long enough to ready a blade to pierce through the jugular won him two more kills. Adrenaline kept the half-elf running long enough to finish off the bugbear after a violent dance of two short swords against its mace-- the rogue’s speed unmatched.

With a devastated back, an arm and leg shredded by rows of razor teeth, and plenty of stabs and slices across his flesh all over, Azavan trudges through the now knee deep snow of this passage, a trail of droplets of blood following his every steps, but eventually hidden by the falling powder.

Snow was never common where he grew up in the woods. It was often cozy and warm, fresh and bright. The worst of it was a brisk cold and maybe some ice in the winter, but never snowfall. And as he grew older in his nomadic life, he frequently tracked the changing of seasons to ensure avoiding it like the plague once winter rolled around.

It's not like he never experienced snow. He certainly had-- and each time he had to, it was never pleasant.

Eyes like smoky rose quartz struggle, unfocused, as he stumbles on. Features in his surroundings blur and he's swaying further with each battered step. He wonders how much longer this feeling will go on.

“A-ah,” he strains with a hiss, barely able to take any more of the icy weather against open wounds, and he falls to his knees, panting, bleeding.

He falls forward, catching himself on his hands, his dusty grey ponytail of curls draping over his head, gasping to catch his breath. The shivers hurt hard-- torn muscles clenched against harsh wind quiver as he eventually fails to hold up his own weight. He collapses against the freezing snow below.

He summons just enough strength to roll onto his back, with another grimace as every inch of his body is tormented by the elements.

Surely this can't be it.

Not a stupid solo brawl against such a pathetic mass.

He replays the fight in his mind, again and again. Where he could have been less carefree. Where he could have turned the tide based on an inch of foot placement being off. It was foolish. He is a fool.

Snowflakes gently float from above, and he watches them against a dreary grey sky. It's dizzying, watching them descend upon him all around.

His breaths linger heavily in the air as he gasps every so often at the piercing pains surging through his body. He feels the viscous blood on his skin drying in an unpleasant stickiness, the stretch of it sickening him. The blood of the dead reeks most foul on his person, and he must sit with it.

Feeling his consciousness fade in and out, he allows his mind to wander further. He wonders if the rest of the party is cozy at camp with a warm fire. He imagines everyone chatting, bundled up, partaking in an invigorating soup that hangs in a caldron over the bonfire. Laughing, sharing stories, cozy and safe.

Simply safe.

He recalls a warm fire and his mother, curled up against her side as she told enticing tales about heroes of legends. Simpler times, alone together in their small hut-esque house, a small window overlooking the woods that kept them sheltered from the outer world.

Simpler times.

Before scars and knives. Before contracts and peril. Before the facades and shadows hiding who he truly is.

Who is he?

A half breed? A mercenary? Adventurer? Failed student of a bard?

He is Azavan Duskshadow. A rogue. A damn good one, at that, despite the given circumstances. He is a man who wants to survive. He is his mother’s son.

He wonders if she still lives, enslaved by her own people as a punishment for laying with a human and birthing a pitiful mutt. He hopes, maybe, just maybe, he will see her once more.

He softly says a prayer for her safety. He scoffs at himself.

As if the gods will honor the words of the faithless.

Azavan closes his eyes, imagining a tender embrace. He wonders if Shadowheart is thinking of him now in his absence.

While the party enjoys the campfire, is she smiling and laughing along, hiding her concern? She would tease Wyll and Sol, share a drink with Astarion and Nyxthera, but deep down she would be counting the minutes wondering where he could be. Why he hadn’t made it back yet for dinner.

He lays still, trying his best to prevent the rise and fall of his chest from disturbing his injuries further. He turns his head to the side, envisioning the dark haired cleric at his side, lying with him, tenderly holding his hand. She’d smile.

It’s comfortably warm, basking in her light. Her essence. Her being. He may have freed her from the nauteloid, but it is she who frees his soul.

With her, Azavan is safe. He trusts that.

He closes his eyes and hums with relief. The frigid air is gone. The pins and needles of brisk winds on open wounds are no longer bothersome.

”Azavan,” her voice is silk as he feels his body loosen from reality. She is his safety.

”I’m right here.” Azavan murmurs, consciousness hanging on by a frayed thread. The apparition of his lover keeps him at peace.

***

“Oh gods, Azavan, please!” Shadowheart pleads as she squints through the flurries of snowflakes rushing all around as she, Moonwhisperer, and Karlach trudge through the wilderness in search of their missing companion. “I don't see him anywhere at all!”

“Keep sharp, soldier. He's bound to be somewhere!” Karlach marches through the knee deep white, unbothered by temperature, but annoyed by the terrain. “What the fuck was he trying to accomplish alone in weather like this, anyhow?!”

Moonwhisperer shudders as a breeze slips straight through him to the bone; the beauty of nature across any and all realms is truly a sight to behold, but nevertheless their imperfections do stain one's taste even just a bit when struggling to survive. He's not one to dwell on the feeling--or so he would like to think he does not in secret--and steadies his breaths, combating chills, “I believe he was merely out in search of supplies. He mentioned recalling seeing an abandoned camp near the area just beyond this hill of woods and wanted to check it out. He made it sound like it wasn't that far out into rough wilderness…”

With a pouting huff, Shadowheart rolls her eyes, “Typical. You would think for a man who lived a life without a permanent residence and always on the go he would have a better sense of spatial awareness and perception of distance.”

“Or perhaps it is the nomadic life our dear friend has lived that causes his perception of distance to differ from your own? We know Azavan has never spent long staying in cities with convenience. Perhaps the distance of a few miles is nearby in his eyes?” Moonwhisperer shakes flurries from his matching pale silver ponytail, teal follicles clinging to white as his hair dampens from the icy precipitation.

“I suppose that makes sense,” Karlach ponders his words.

Moonwhisperer stops, and immediately picks up on an alarming disturbance from his peripheral. He is still as a statue, like a hound dog pointing, and fixates his attention to the visual that caught his eye.

Shadowheart turns to him noticing his abrupt halt, and before she or Karlach could ask what he sees he is already mid-polymorphing into a graceful panther mid leap, bolting for a spread of land with disturbed snow, blood, and corpses.

Karlach sees it next, and gasps. She rushes after Moonwhisperer in pursuit of the scene of gore.

Shadowheart attempts to keep up, eyes wide as she takes in the post-violence spread before them.

They silently investigate at a glance. “Is he here??” Karlach desperately glances from body to body to see if their friend is part of the display.

“I don't see him-”

Moonwhisperer sniffs around before returning to his humanoid form . “Silvanus help us…we must make haste-” he bursts into a sprint following a half-covered trail decorated in fallen snow and traces of crimson stains.

As soon as the others take notice of the beaten path, they quickly follow behind, retracing each staggered step of their missing companion. Snow melts away with every step Karlach takes as her nerves pump heat throughout her body, steam rising from her glowing flesh.

Their anxiety steadily grows as they follow depressed snow, blood still visible, some sections of the path more reddened than others. It's apparent the struggle was brutal, and his injuries vital.

Moonwhisperer halts with precision once more, the moment he spots a solitary form lying in the snow.

It must be him.

Karlach pauses behind him, a soldier awaiting orders ingrained in her behavior as the one leading the group comes to a stop.

Shadowheart breaks the trend, the moment his limp figure enters her field of vision she books it ahead of the two, in a sprint, before practically tumbling over to him as she slides down to her knees in the cold.

“Azavan!” She cries out, trembling from the fear of his status rather than the freezing air.

Azavan barely breathes, mouth trying to form words with inaudible efforts.

I'm right here.

“Oh gods,” she takes in the visual of every gash and wound, the practical puddle of blood under him, fully understanding the gravity of how close to the brink he's truly become.

“Te curo,” she places her hands against his chest in precise positions, a soft teal glow emitting from her palms as she speaks her incantations. “Vis medicatrix.”

The magic trickles from her hands through his chest, streaming steadily throughout his veins as if it were being carried through his blood. The healing magic brings back a warmth, a calming sensation, though it's not long before his sense of feeling brings back the prickly sting of the frigid air on open wounds. His strength pours back into his muscles, and he strains at the intensity of the restoration, letting out an agonized scream through the tears. He was a breath away from death. He claws back to life as his reflexes return, his sense of feeling--physically, and sense of awareness--overflow as the shock of simply existing becomes overbearing all at once.

“Shhh, I've got you. You're okay, please, Azavan, I'm here.” Shadowheart does her best to soothe him, but she's truly self-soothing. “I know, I know, the pain will settle, I promise.”

It's not like the rogue assassin hasn't endured life threatening injuries before that have been aided, but it had been so long since he had been attacked alone. Left for dead alone. Failed alone. He was not ready to accept defeat. Not without his companions. Not without her.

Something about his hero sweeping in at the very last moment to respool his thread of life is so. Reassuring? Comforting? However, still incredibly overwhelming.

His delirious hallucinations of her by his side at the end of the line came to fruition; her refusal to let him go is far too great a trait, plucking him from death's grasp, and nursing him back into a coherent state of body and mind.

“Sh…Shad…” he murmurs, a firm hand wrapped in worn leather clings to her arm-- he had to truly feel if she were real and truly here holding him.

She sheepishly smiles at him, chuckles, “You complete and utter idiot.” The glow of magic fades as he regains just enough strength to speak and move on his own again.

The other two make their way over. They knew to give Shadowheart her space-- the team's healer could certainly handle restoration for any of them-- but they especially knew not to intervene when it comes to their cleric and her beloved.

“Hey! Is he all right?” Karlach finally calls out as they approach, the uncertainty driving her crazy. Not to mention the pain stricken scream he unleashed moments earlier scaring the absolute shit out of her as well as Moonwhisperer.

“Azavan my friend, are you well?? What in the hells happened here?” Moonwhisperer kneels next to him and Shadowheart.

Azavan struggles to sit up with a grunt. Shadowheart shifts on her knees to let him recline against her thighs as he rests up. “A bit of a tussle. It would seem…” He attempts to wipe blood from his nose and mouth, although it had already been dry for some time now, “...I must not have been the only one with eyes on that abandoned camp.”

Karlach places a hand tenderly on his shoulder, the warmth radiating from her skin comfortably easing his chills. “We saw the remnants of that scourge. You truly toughed it out, soldier! We're just glad you were able to pull through without fully dying on us. Now c’mon, we've got a non-abandoned camp full of ale and a warm fire cookin’ up lots of hot food that I think you could use right about now!” She stands, clapping his hand and pulling him up to his feet, Azavan whimpering at some torn muscle.

Shadowheart also rises, “he's still got a lot of healing to do back at camp. He'll need some help getting back since it's quite the trek. Karlach, you wouldn't mind helping our damsel in distress, would you?”

She grins, “Aye aye, and thank the gods Dammon fixed me up already.” Karlach hoists up Azavan into a piggyback as she lifts him with ease despite his tall and muscular build. He wonders for a moment just how strong their barbarian friend is! “OOF, you're a tad bit heavier than your sister, though.”

Azavan's face drops, absolutely unamused by her teasing. “On second thought Karlach, there is a cliffside just to the east-- feel free to toss me right off the moment you get the chance to.”

She laughs loudly, rattling his injured form causing him to grimace.

Moonwhisperer smiles, relaxing now knowing their friend is found and in safe hands again.

He and Shadowheart follow Karlach in lead back towards camp as Azavan peacefully drifts to sleep against his walking furnace. As they journey along, he glances at Shadowheart, her gaze fixated on the rogue. Her expression is soft, she's much more relaxed now that Azavan is back in their hands. He understands just how worried she must have been--hells, he would've torn through anything and anyone to protect Gale if he knew his beloved wizard were in danger. It's charming, seeing the once-Sharran-gone-Selûnite cleric once so cold and withdrawn now so tender and protective of someone she's opened her heart to. To love freely and deeply is one of life's beauties, truly.

***

Eventually the campsite is reached yet again, the promise of warmth, food, and protection granted.

Soleil gives Azavan not only a bowl of hot soup but a stern lecture regarding safety in numbers.

Wyll reminds his dear friend that he no longer is required to risk missions in solitude as he genuinely has a party who cares about him and his wellbeing.

Just out of earshot nearby, others chat and enjoy their evening.

“Well, I think it was a bold move,” Nyxthera shrugs, chomping into some cheese and bread. “Stupid, sure, but it is Azavan after all. He's reckless and stubborn. Not as calculated as normal, however. Why do you suppose that is?”

Astarion scoffs, “Is it not obvious? The man's a lovesick puppy! He's clearly distracted and not as sharp as usual. He simply needs to get better at keeping his cool while in danger and getting hot and heavy when the mood strikes with a lover.”

After the meal and an earful from the party, Azavan begins to make his way back to his tent for the night.

“I don't think so,” Shadowheart catches his arm and gently pulls him from the direction he was wandering in. “Your wounds need further treatment. And you were so close to death, I believe you may need to be monitored for the night.”

He raises an eyebrow, “monitored, you say? You know, you can just ask me to spend the night in your tent if ever you want me to, Shadowheart.”

She rolls her eyes, “I'm being serious. Azavan, you were about to die. Who knows how much time you would've had left if we didn't find you when we did.”

The earnest tone in her voice makes him wilt. He understands just how frightened she was to potentially lose him. He can't blame her, though-- if their roles were reversed he would kill to ensure her survival and safety. The look in her glossy green eyes speaks the length of a thousand novels of just how dearly she holds him to her heart. “I see. You are right. I would be honored to be under your watch and healing hand for the night.”

***

Shadowheart makes sure he's comfortable and set with a quality bed roll and plenty of cushions. She closes up her tent, sealing any openings. “Remove your clothing. Your wounds need to heal cleanly. Don't worry, the heat should stay within the tent so long as it remains closed.”

He's sore and still aching from the pains, but removes everything down to his underwear before laying back from exhaustion.

She finds a rag that is mostly clean as can be, and gently dabs at his wounds to help clean them up. “You're an idiot, you know?”

“I know.”

She frowns as she works.

There's a beat of silence.

“I'm a lucky man.” He mumbles, staring up toward the tent's ceiling.

“Yes, I would say so judging by how far you got from that campsite sustaining this many injuries.”

He smirks, too exhausted to laugh. “Not that.” He studies her hands as she gently wipes away dry blood from his tough skin. “Because I have you. Because you care enough to find me when I am lost. Because you will pull me out of the darkness. I'm lucky.”

She halts from her duty, and ponders his words in stillness. Then she meets his gaze.

“I suppose I could just as easily say the same sentiment is how I feel about you.” She continues.

He sits up, and grabs a hold of her wrist. She looks to meet his cold rose quartz eyes yet again.

“I don't believe I would have lived if you hadn't come.”

“Yes…I believe that is true.”

Silence.

“I--” they simultaneously begin, then stutter, retracting their urge to speak, almost timid by the intimacy of the setting they find themselves in.

They wait to allow the other to speak for a moment.

As he draws in a breath to speak again, she cuts him off, “I love you.”

He's taken aback. And listens.

“I do. I was so genuinely worried about you. You've helped me overcome so, so much, the thought of losing you… I can't bear to contemplate such a horrid thing. I want you to be safe. And I want to remain at your side. I love you, Azavan Duskshadow. I truly do.”

He feels his heart leap and face warm up with flush. “Shadowheart…” he holds her hand, rag still in her grasp. “You've proven to be my light in the darkness that has haunted me my whole life. Over and over again. It is apparent I cannot live without you by my side. If I am to believe that destiny is such a thing, I believe you are mine, and it is something to cherish and protect. You have my heart and my soul.” He bites his lip, actually blushing now. “And I love you, as well as you.” He kisses her tenderly, lingering, hovering over her lips and peeking to her with half lidded eyes.

She blushes, ears ringing as her heart pounds. “Easy, now,” she gently guides him to lie back down. “If you coax me into a night of lovemaking, your wounds will simply worsen yet again.”

He laughs and winces at the pain, and offers a nod. “Very well, but I look forward to a rigorous night of passion the moment I've earned a clean bill of health.”

“I'll see to it, then.” She purrs, planting a final kiss to his lips for the night.

#baldurs gate 3 #azavan Duskshadow #Karlach #Moonwhisperer #shadowheart #gale dekarios #Lae’zel #astarion #wyll Ravengard #bg3 #ocs #fanfic

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