Gone Again - Rolan x Tav Angst (Part 3)
Last one! The conclusion of the mini series; find the other two parts in my pinned masterlist!
In which Rolan resolves not to let another chance slip through his fingers.
This one is the love confession bit y’all.
Rating: Teen
Trigger warnings: Past physical/mental abuse (Lorroakan), corpse description, injury description, blood. Mention of passive suicidality?? (Tav is Tired of this shit)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For the second time in three months, Rolan was stood before the broken body of someone he admired.
Or -in this case- had once admired.
When he had finally entered the city of Baldur’s Gate, it had felt as if an iron vice had been pried off of his chest. Like he could breathe at last. Yes, the Steel Watch were unnerving, but nothing compared to the Shadow Curse. He could live with the prickle of unease if it meant that they were all finally safe.
And yes, the people of the city had given him suspicious stares and muttered scornfully towards his siblings. It wasn’t something that they were unused to.
Again, he’d swallowed the churning in his stomach and plastered on a smile for Cal and Lia. Because everything was fine - it had to be. After coming so far from home, after each awful turn, it had to be.
It hadn’t been until the first time that Lorroakan’s fist had slammed into his cheek and sent him sprawling that he’d realised the truth; the nightmare had never ended. Not for him.
And it was that, not the pain, that had him fighting back tears as he’d picked himself up and kept his eyes down.
A rabbit. He’d thought of that after one night when Lorroakan, drunk, had landed a blow that cracked something wetly and left a dull pain in his side that grew sharp when he breathed too deeply. He’d laid in bed with his arm curled around himself, and he’d thought of a rabbit.
A rabbit, gnawing at its own leg to escape a hunter’s trap. The snare would tighten, the fur matting with blood, but at last it would be free. Then, limping desperately to shelter, it delivers itself straight into a fox‘s den.
The image had made him laugh wanly, then hiss through his teeth as the movement stabbed his insides. He had managed to rest enough to cast a healing spell on himself the next day, but he had never forgotten.
‘Keep your head down, rabbit,’ had echoed through his mind every time he saw that searching gleam in Lorroakan’s eye, ‘let the fox nip at your heels, so that it stays away from your neck.’
Yet now that he saw Lorroakan sprawled out on the floor -back twisted at an odd angle, jaw hanging open and dishevelled red hair splayed about his head- Rolan allowed himself a small, twisted smile.
“Not so much a fox as a pup,” he muttered under his breath.
“What was that?”
The voice at his side gave him a start. He looked up from the body and into the eyes of his hero - when had he started thinking those words with fondness rather than bitterness?
Their eyes still had a trace of the fury he’d seen before - when they had come to Sorcerous Sundries, when the light had caught his face and revealed the purpling bruises on his cheek.
To say it had taken his breath away would be a disservice. Seeing the thrumming, boiling rage darkening their face and realising; it’s you. Of course it’s you.
Perhaps he should have felt ashamed - here they were once again, swooping in to save his sorry hide. But he hadn’t the energy to even pretend at pride.
And, it dawned on him as he looked at the shadows on their face, neither did they. Yes, the rage still smouldered in embers, but the fire was starving.
The truth struck him as true as any spear or arrow; *you can’t keep going much longer, can you?*
Rolan’s eyes found a trickle of wet crimson, barely concealed by the cuff of their armour.
“You’re hurt,” he said softly.
They barely gave a glance, shaking their head and stretching their lips into a poor imitation of a reassuring smile.
“It’s nothing.”
Nothing - it probably was nothing. They’d been through worse, and he knew that from first hand experience.
The image of them lying lifeless on the floor of Last Light Inn seized him, and before he could stop himself his hand shot out and grasped their uninjured arm.
“You’re bleeding,” he replied, his voice sounding stronger than he felt, “it isn’t nothing.”
Their eyes focused, widened in surprise, on his fingers - but they made no move to pull away.
“I have no more potions,” they murmured.
“And I have no more energy for magic,” Rolan countered, his tail swishing slightly with impatience, “but we can make do. I’m sure that there’s something of use in this tower.”
When they hesitated still, Rolan cast a desperate look to Karlach, who had stopped wiping her axe blade to listen to the conversation.
“We’ll be fine,” she said quickly, “we can survive without you for an evening.”
“Speak for yourself,” the white-haired elf drawled, only to receive a swift kick in the shin; “Ow.”
Rolan watched a smile - a real one, tired as it was - break out over his hero’s face, their shoulders dropping.
“Fine,” they conceded at last, eyes softening when they met his own. Rolan’s heart jumped, heat climbed up the back of his neck and into his ears.
“Right. Good,” he coughed, “come on.”
As he led them away from their companions, they still made no move to pull their wrist from his grasp. In fact, they turned their arm over so that they could hold him in return. Their hand was strong and gentle, and even through the singed sleeves of his robe his skin rose in goosebumps to meet it.
It was unspoken - a silent moment that had his stomach warmly dancing; at least, it was silent until he caught Karlach out of the corner of his eye, sending both of them a horrifically unsubtle wink.
“Haularake,” he cursed through gritted teeth. Soft laughter bubbled behind him.
“Don’t mind Karlach. She’s…well, Karlach.”
Rolan couldn’t think of anything to say that wasn’t either irritable or idiotic, so he squeezed their forearm and held his tongue. His mind was spilling over, but the loudest peal of all was ‘finally alone’ - despite knowing full well that there were things he should care far more about.
Oh well. Prioritising had never been his greatest strength.
————
The room that he led them to was a small, enclosed bathroom on the west side of the tower. It was not as spacious as the main wash room, but it was more than comfortable enough for two -or even three- people. There was a single circular window that the setting sun shone through, and the places where the light didn’t touch were illuminated warmly by the golden chandelier above.
“There should be something in here,” he said as he closed the door behind himself and sealed them away from the rest of the world, “I come in here to lick my wounds. Or…I used to, I suppose.”
They gave him a pinched look as they perched on the edge of the cream coloured claw foot bathtub.
“Oh, please don’t look at me like that. You know I can’t bear to be pitied,” he gently chastised.
“I’m not pitying you. I just…if I’d known how he was treating you, I wouldn’t have wasted so much time.”
Rolan scoffed, tail flicking in displeasure. They were being sincere, and he knew it - he hated it.
“I admit I do not know you as well as your companions do, but I’m sure that they would agree that no one could accuse you of wasting time.”
They looked down at their hands. Whatever wound was hidden under their sleeve was steadily dripping blood onto cerulean blue tile.
“I don’t think that’s always true,” they whispered, so quietly that he had to strain to hear. Quiet settled heavily over the room, like a world encased in snow, as their eyes emptied before him.
It was too much. It reminded him too starkly of-…
A cold shiver passed down Rolan’s spine. He abandoned his search and turned on his heel, marching over to them and falling to his knees. The hard floor sent a jolt up his thighs, but he bore the pain no mind.
“Stop,” Rolan whispered, taking both of their hands in his own. One of them was slick and warm, the other rough and trembling.
“You’ve already done more than enough. More than anyone had any right to ask of you. I know - I know,” he said to their pointedly arched eyebrow, “I’ve given you shit about ‘playing the hero’ before. But I’m big enough to admit when I’m wrong.”
He squeezed their hands tighter, dared to draw a little closer.
“I am sorry. I never got the chance to say it. I was frightened and drunk, and not thinking clearly. I said that you were putting heroic ideas into their heads - I know them better than that. I never imagined that you would…”
Rolan hesitated. He struggled to speak of it even now, but he knew that he must.
“If I’d known you would run off and get yourself killed, I wouldn’t have said those things.”
Their face gave nothing away - meeting his eyes for a moment and then glancing away. Their expression shifted constantly; one moment stalwart, the next faltering. As much as he longed for them to say something, he knew that for once he had to stay silent.
Finally - finally - they simply whispered;
“I’m so tired.”
The shadows under their eyes seemed to have deepened tenfold, and they looked far older than their years. No tears shone unshed - they were beyond tears now.
Rolan did not know what else to do, so he leaned up on his knees and pulled them into his arms.
They smelled different than they had before. The city smoke had settled over them and muddied their scent. He felt a tug of longing for Last Light Inn - something he thought he would never feel in a thousand lifetimes, but for how the scent of the cold had lingered in their hair. It had been the only thing he’d smelled for weeks that felt truly alive.
They made a soft sound in their throat that tugged at his heart, their arms curling around his back as their face pushed against his chest.
“I know what I have to do to end this,” they said, muffled by his robe but with an edge of finality that prickled at his skin, “the Absolute - everything.”
Rolan could feel the weight of their words. It should be a relief. So why did his chest feel as if it were filled with ice?
“And you?” He asked quietly. “What happens to you?”
“I won’t fail. I can’t.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
They went very still for a moment. Then he felt their head shake an ‘I don’t know’ against his shoulder. Rolan closed his eyes tightly and took a slow breath, his arms tightening around them as if it would make a difference. As if his body alone could stand between them and the wretched designs of evil gods.
“And if…” his voice trembled, “…if you were to-?”
He couldn’t speak it out loud. He had a terrible feeling that if he did, it would make itself into reality.
“I don’t suppose there would be a chance of another miracle?” Rolan forced out. In his mind it was an attempt at humour, but it came out too bitterly.
They pulled back from him to look into his eyes. The space between them yawned with thick silence, punctuated by the soft drip, drip, drip of blood splashing onto the floor.
“It’s so many people, Rolan,” they said, “it’s a handful of lives against the entire sword coast. Maybe even all of Faerûn. There’s no contest.”
Every part of Rolan began screaming. It wasn’t the soft, hopeful pull he’d felt at the party. It wasn’t the surge of relief pushing him forwards at Last Light.
It was desperation; clawing, rising up his throat like burning bile. How could they? How could they just accept their death, as if it were an inevitability? As if it wouldn’t matter?
The words that he wanted to say raced through his mind in a whirlwind, but when at last he spoke, there was only one that felt right;
“Bullshit.”
Their eyes widened, and satisfaction curled amongst the ire to see the shocked look on their face. It was brief - too easily snuffed out.
Rolan’s hands moved to their shoulders, gripping them tightly.
“I told you back at Last Light - if you die again, I will bring you back just to kill you myself. And now that this tower is mine, I will make good on that threat. After everything you and I have been through, I will do it as many times as it takes you to understand - you stupid bloody self-sacrificing arsehole - that I cannot lose you again!”
Rolan realised that his voice had raised to a shout and forced himself to take a breath, though it did nothing to slow his racing heart.
“Hang Faerûn,” he continued in a voice that trembled with the effort to stay gentle, “hang the world. I can’t lose you again.”
When he was done, he felt raw. Exposed. A skinned rabbit hanging in a butcher’s window.
They were searching his face for something - he didn’t know what for. He had knelt before them and laid his heart out, still bloody and beating, right before their eyes. What more could they want?
Rolan’s tail thrashed. It was more than he could bear. He opened his mouth to try and salvage this, to apologise.
Instead, he was silenced by a pair of lips crashing into his own.
Rolan froze. He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe, because he had to be dreaming. He had to be.
Then he felt their hands tighten in his robe, heard the soft sound in their throat, and he knew instinctively what it meant; ‘please’.
It was real. He’d been too afraid to move, scared that if he did, he would wake. But it was real.
The realisation shot through him like a bolt, and he surged upwards to meet them. He kissed with every ounce of his starving, frantic adoration. Their hands cupped his jaw and cradled him closer, his found their shirt and held them closer still. It wasn’t enough - never would be enough.
Rolan had thought that falling in love would feel like when he had reached out to the Weave for the very first time. Serene, yet vibrating with anticipation. But this hungry, clawing animal inside of him bore no resemblance to the cusp of Mystra’s realm. It keened and begged and panted, it was wretched, and now he truly understood why the poets both despised and revered it.
He kissed, and kissed, until they were both breathless. At last the need for air parted them for a moment, clutching each other as if one of them might be ripped away at any moment.
“Stay,” he gasped against their lips, “please, stay.”
Rolan only meant ‘stay’. He wanted them near, to hear their footsteps and their breathing, to feel the weight of their presence. But by the soft intake of breath he heard, they’d read something else into it entirely.
“I’m-…”
“Yes,” they whispered.
He didn’t know which god he had appeased enough to make him the luckiest bastard in Faerûn, but he would make sure to give them one hell of an offering.
Before he could go too far down that train of thought, though, they abruptly pulled away from the embrace with a quiet ‘shit!’
“What?” He asked, alarmed.
“I’ve got blood all over you,” they replied sheepishly, “I’m sorry.”
In all honesty, he had completely forgotten about their wound. Rolan turned his head to inspect his shoulder. Their blood had soaked the fabric of his robe, a trail of red speckles leading up to his shoulder. In that moment, he recalled the Grove; how he had been so concerned with being presentable, how making a good impression on Lorroakan had seemed so vital.
Now, it all seemed so absurd that he couldn’t help but laugh.
“This robe is ruined anyway,” he said with a dismissive wave, “and I’m sure that the new master of Ramazith’s Tower can afford one that isn’t half burnt and covered in road dust.”
That earned him a bright smile. And if referring to his shiny new title made him puff up with pride a little, that was his own business.
“I’m sure that he can,” they said with that teasing glint in their eye. Charitably, Rolan elected to ignore it.
“But first, I should bind your wounds so you don’t bleed all over that new robe.”
As Rolan went - albeit reluctantly - to leave them and get his medical supplies, a tug at his lower back halted him. He looked down and realised with horror that his tail had wound itself tightly around their thigh.
For fuck’s sake.
Rolan groaned loudly and brought his hands up to shield his burning cheeks from view. The pealing laughter it drew from them only made matters worse.
“That’s sweet,” they said, and he could hear the smile in their voice.
“It’s not,” he mumbled. They clearly knew nothing about tiefling body language, or they would understand exactly why he was so mortified.
“I think it is.”
Well - perhaps he shouldn’t argue the point. If they thought it was a sweet gesture, then he could allow them to believe it for now. He could always tell them the real meaning of it later. This was his thought as he unwound his tail from around their thigh - still to the sound of their giggling - and half heartedly sulked as he searched for his medical supplies.
Later. The idea that there was a later with them in it sent a thrill through him. Not a far-off, distant daydream but a reality. Between now and the battle that they would have to face, there was a time for the two of them. For languid, unhurried kisses tangled up in the finest bedsheets either of them had ever touched, the pink light of dawn spilling out over the city and through the windows to caress their skin.
But for now, he had to patch up his beloved hero.
