bheartwrites

[bheartwrites]

Sate Me

Pre-Relationship Gale x Male Tav (Lucius Skorn) Takes place in Act 1. Magical artifacts stopped working for Gale a while ago, but to treat the pains of his arcane hunger, Gale has turned to the Ilmatari cleric Lucius for an alternative, holy power source. Only this ritual to sate that orb brings the two men closer in ways neither of them are ready for. Rated T Read on AO3 See: Arcane Hunger for Part 1! See: Skornweave Series for more Gale x Lucius!

“I told you not to wait until it got so bad!” Lucius scolds, dragging his bedroll and blankets towards the stone wall his tent attaches to. Carefully, he arranges the blankets for Gale’s comfort, folding them neatly before moving to retrieve the wizard by his arm. “It takes more power to sate it if you let too much time pass.”

Night had already fallen over the camp, and a couple of others had already retired to their tents. Gale intended to do the same, to simply shut his eyes and ignore the pain in his back from lack of a proper bed, and pray that sleep is enough to face whatever horror the next day has to offer.

But of course, there isn’t any peace for him.

“I know, I know, and I do apologize, Lucius!” Gale says, allowing the cleric to lead and push him to his seat on the blankets. “But! Know that this was not… intentional. It — It happened all at once. One moment, I was laying down, the next…”

Pain, all at once. He’d lurched out from his bedroll, slamming his hands on his chest in an effort to keep the magic from spilling out. It wracked him so suddenly, paralyzed him, his body tensed and coiled in on itself like a dying serpent. It took all of his strength to drag himself out of his tent and to Lucius, who, thank the gods, had not yet gone to sleep.

Lucius’ annoyed gaze softens, now shifting to concern. “Is… this not working anymore?”

“I don’t know,” Gale says, still pressing a palm to the Orb. “It’s taking less time for it to realize it’s not being fed properly, it would seem.”

He tries to laugh, ease the tension, but it only shifts to a groan. Lucius is on him immediately, shifting him by the shoulders and pressing him back fully until he’s resting against the stone wall.

“I can’t believe I’m saying it, but I’m really wishing I knew how to use the Weave right about now…” Lucius murmurs, and Gale can’t help but snicker. The cleric snaps his gaze back to him. “What?”

“You say it like learning the Weave is a curse.”

“It is! You’re an academic, wouldn’t you argue academia is a curse?” Gale opens his mouth, and Lucius waves him away. “Never mind. Don’t answer that. You’re a nerd and I’m gonna get the wrong answer out of you.”

Gale hums. “Well, it’s not for everyone, that’s for certain. But now, I can’t help but try to imagine you in such a setting.”

Lucius retrieves a long pillow from the side, propping it behind Gale. “Don’t do that. That’s horrible. Imagine me somewhere hotter, please.”

“How about as a professor?”

“Stop talking.”

Gale laughs, and the Orb gnaws at his bones and flesh in turn, forcing his body into another curl. Lucius catches him, gently easing him back up.

“Alright, shh, it’s okay,” Lucius murmurs, his voice soft. “I’ve got you. See what happens when you say stupid shit?”

“Correlation is not causation, my friend.”

“Causation is you saying stupid shit,” Lucius adjusts the pillows around him. “Are you comfortable like this? Orb aside.”

“I think you’re spoiling me just a touch, Lucius,” Gale says with a tease, as if the effort Lucius is putting forth isn’t making something inside his chest twist. “Really going all out this time around.”

“Well, I was thinking laying you down wasn’t the most efficient way of doing this. Bad for your back without a proper bed, and it doesn’t give me a lot of leverage.” He leans back on his haunches, giving another once over Gale. “Propped up though, I’m less likely to fall on top of you, and it’ll give me a better angle at letting go of the spell. Plus, I didn’t steal all of these pillows for nothing.”

“And I was just about to ask where you got all of these from.”

“Believe it or not, these are the most amount of pillows I’ve had in years.”

“Simple priest life, I take it?”

“Oh yes. Humble little life. Wasn’t any need to have anything more than a cot – ‘til now, of course.”

Lucius scoots closer, resting on his knees to get into position. Gale’s chest unexpectedly tightens in anticipation, watching him loom over him with a faint glow already blooming in his hand.

“Are you ready?” Lucius asks, his hand hovering over Gale’s collarbone. 

Gale nods, ignoring the dryness in his throat. He could probably chalk up the sudden anxiety he feels to the nature of this spell, how it’s still under-researched and could have any unruly consequences, but with the intensity Lucius levels at him, he knows that that’s far from the real reason. “Ready and willing.”

Lucius nods, placing his large, warm hand against his chest, aligning his palm with the Orb etched into his skin. It’s a comfortable feeling, Gale realizes. In another life, perhaps he could indulge in such contact comfortably, perhaps even allow such to wander in other places — But that’s a thought that has to be purged in a time like this. Far too inappropriate.

Lucius slips his eyes closed, uttering a prayer under his breath. His voice resonates with power as his words call out to his god for aid, and just like last time, there is a long moment of silence before anything happens. Gale hadn’t thought much of it before, having been far too distracted with the overwhelming pain the Orb wrought upon him, gnawing on his insides, but now, with a slightly more focused mind, he can see the worry etched into the cleric’s face, dark brows furrowed and lips pulled tight, as if he himself isn’t sure the spell would work. Come to think of it, he may have had the same face the first time they’d done this as well. 

There’s the urge, suddenly, to quietly reach out and cup his cheek to assuage his worry, to smooth out those brows and show him his faith in him, but Gale does well to leave that thought untouched, and to let the urge remain just that: an unwelcome urge.

Soon enough, Gale feels the telltale sign of magic in the cleric’s palm, and the power surges through him. In an instant, Gale is met with overwhelming pressure, holy magic channeling into his body, filling every nerve and vein with that stark, electric, golden warmth. He’s grateful for the pillow Lucius thought to tuck behind him because the second the magic floods, his head slams back against it, cushioned just enough to stay the pain from his skull as the rest of his body tenses and braces against the stone. It didn’t matter how much time passed living with this condition; he could endure this a hundred times more, and still, he would never be able to withstand the intensity of the Orb’s power, how it grips him from every bone, every inch of flesh and soul and drags him inwards, clawing and gnawing at his insides, hungry and desperate for something more to sate it.

And bridged to the Orb with his own magic, Lucius is no exception to its hunger. Like a magnet, the Orb violently yanks Lucius inward, his hand crushing Gale’s collarbone as he scrapes his knees to find balance again. The pressure all but hikes Gale up against the wall, and he digs his heels into the ground for any amount of leverage or relief, grinding his teeth in the exertion.

“Fuck!” Lucius hisses, catching his free hand on the ledge of the stone to keep himself steady. “Gods, I'm never ready for it.”

Gale wants to respond to him, offer an assurance or word of comfort or apology, but all he can manage is a strangled groan. It always takes a moment before the Orb starts to accept the magic as something it can consume. The golden power pours through him and cascades across his body, the tell tale tingle of divinity that vibrates through his nerves and brings its gentle touch through his muscles. It would be pleasant, perhaps, were it not for the turbulent waves of raw Netherese magic tearing at those same nerves and twists of flesh, like a stormy ocean whose violent waves crash and wipe away all in its wake.

There's that fear that sinks its cold fingers into the pit of his stomach. The fear that maybe this time, it won't work anymore. That this time, it will reject the magic, and they'll be back to square one, searching for any alternative to relieve the hunger. He knows Lucius worries all the same. Gale cannot possibly blink away the sight of his concern, the furrow in his brow and the hesitance upon summoning the power. It's a dangerous game to play, a gamble, an experiment —

Lucius rights himself, bracing one leg up for a better angle and utters a final incantation. Their eyes lock, and Gale witnesses the raw determination in those gentle brown eyes, and then watches them flare and fill with a fiery golden glow. The radiance coalesces, more controlled this time, pulling itself together and channeling steadily towards the Orb with purpose. The arcane twists and opens, tendrils of vitriolic magic unfurling its maw to siphon that golden glow. 

The reaction is instant. Divinity floods into the cavity of his soul with both an ice cold burn and a fiery heat, punching a gasp out of Gale. His body moves of its own accord, his back arching and his feet digging in to push himself further into the cleric’s touch. The strain puts a pressure in his head, making coherent thoughts all the more difficult and sending him spiraling into a dizzy spell. The relief is difficult to describe. Hunger sated is an understatement. A thirst quenched is far from the intensity this feeling grants him. He hurtles towards the dark, drowning in the waves of magic before that radiant hand grips and wrenches him out, gasping for air, eyes blinded by the light of a kinder god, the gentle and fastidious touch of an unlikely cleric —

It feels like the magic might spill. Like this bottomless cup cannot catch the endless waterfall crashing upon him. He has to keep it inside, he has to keep it in, he has to seal this horrible maw lest it lash out and try to drink everything in between, he has to keep the threads together. He's going to unravel, it's going to pull him apart trying to consume it all, feel it all, he's going to fall apart, he's going to die.

Gale grips at Lucius’ hand with both of his, clinging to it for dear life. This lone tether as he dangles over the abyss, hurtling towards an endless chasm. One wrong move and he's lost forever — he presses the cleric's hand closer to his chest, as if to seal the edges where anything may leak, radiance or Netherese or otherwise. The blankets, though a kind touch, only keep his feet from finding proper purchase as he writhes and squirms. 

He'd stop if he could. He'd hold still if he could. In the back of his mind, he can't help but find it all rather amusing, if a touch fascinating just what a primal response such a magic elicits. No mortal is meant to withstand such power, let alone carry it in their chests. How fascinating, the way he can't rein himself together. How just a fraction of this magic can bring him to ruin. How all he can do is cling to Lucius. How he feels like somehow, this broad hand on his chest will be enough.

Gale tries to steady his breathing, or rather, tries to remember how to breathe. He inhales sharply, a stutter to his breath as the Orb and divine power rock him against the stone. The distinct scent of the Netherese Orb is one he's all too intimately familiar with. Like the metallic tang of brass, like the scent of the first rain upon the stony streets after a dry spell, like ozone just before lightning strikes, like the smell of a freshly extinguished wick of a candle — it burns in his nose, and it never leaves him, always an echo of it everywhere he carries it. But up so close, with Lucius all but pressed against him, something else intertwines with it. Coffee, smoke, balsam, cedar and sweat — somehow, it makes him dizzy with it. It's pleasant, a welcome change amongst the hell he finds himself in, and as the Orb feeds on the radiant magic, ushering in waves of relief, all he can do is attach his scent, his presence, his warmth and his magic to one thing: safety.

“You're okay, Gale,” Lucius whispers, struggling to sound comforting with the evident strain in his voice. “I've got you. You're okay.”

Hot tears spill from his eyes suddenly before he can stop it, or even process that it was happening. This new twist in his chest is far beyond that of the Orb, but instead one more human. One more grounding. And yet, one he doesn't have the strength to give definition, only that it's unique to Lucius, and that such a feeling needs to be suffocated before it has the chance to hurt him. He squeezes Lucius’ hand in response. I know. I trust you. I trust you.

The Orb finally begins to settle, its twisting maw slowing as it has its fill for now. Gale holds still, tensed against the stone as the waves of power begin to calm. Lucius lets out a weak sound as his own magic wanes, and with Gale’s help, he detaches his hand from his chest, finally severing the connection. The glow dissipates from both the Orb and Lucius, drowning the tent in darkness, his ears buzzing with the sudden silence of the magical hums. Gale sags against the stone, tension melting out of his body and leaving him boneless, and Lucius follows suit, collapsing forward breathlessly, held up only by that hand on the stone. Heavy breaths fill the tent as both men endeavor to catch their breaths and collect themselves, weary to the bone with the exertion of the spell.

“Shit,” Lucius huffs, trying to drag himself to a more upright position. “That really… It never gets less intense, does it?”

Gale slowly slumps further down the stone, dragging the pillow behind him with him. He catches Lucius’ gaze, nearly losing his breath at the distinct sharpness in the other man's eyes. “Not quite, I'm afraid…” Then, he tries to offer an easy smile. “Though, I do feel like this one was a little smoother than last.”

Lucius huffs with amusement, dipping his head low. He settles back on his knees, his breath still on its way back before leveling a studious gaze at him. Gently, he raises a hand to Gale’s cheek, swiping a thumb at the tears that had spilled earlier with such a tenderness Gale didn't know he was capable of. “Are you alright?”

For a moment, Gale’s entire world stops. His heart pounds in his chest, every ounce of cognitive thought scrambled as his mind fixates on the warm hand on his cheek, his soul pinned to the stone by the softness in the elf's eyes. His breath catches. He should say something. He needs to say something. Far be it for Gale to be a man at a loss for words, scattered the way he is without a swift recovery in sight. 

But instead of words, instead of telling him he's fine, instead of assuring him he's never been better and that he's not in any pain and that Lucius is a lovely, lovely healer who has done more than he could ever ask of him, Gale only reaches a hand out to clasp over the one on his cheek, holding it reverently. It's not the gesture he wanted to give. He understands that the moment here is a little too intimate, a little too delicate, and that he'd do better to dissipate it here and now before testing waters neither of them are ready to swim in.

But something changes in the cleric’s expression when he holds him. Every ragged breath fills him with Lucius’ warm scent, and at this angle, with Lucius looming over him, Gale catches a glimpse of his bare, tattooed chest from where the collar of his shirt dips with gravity. He can't trace the artwork that trails down in the dark, but curiosity gnaws in his chest along with a surge of fondness and affection. He knows so little about this man. He knows there's so, so much more to this Ilmatari cleric, he knows there's a plethora of stories buried deep within the centuries this man lauds. For a moment, Gale thinks, it would be nice to entertain something a little deeper with Lucius.

He knows they shouldn't. The Orb is far too delicate to risk anything too exciting, and truthfully, Gale still hasn't been able to tell just how genuine Lucius is with his own affection towards Gale.

But with how close Lucius is now, how gentle he is, with the kindness in eyes Gale only ever witnessed a dead, distant look in, he could believe.

Their breaths are still heavy. The air is warm between them. Gale still resonates with the divinity Lucius poured into him, and the darkness of the night within the tent caresses them both, holding them gently. Lucius’ eyes dart from his, down to his lips, and all Gale can think of is that image he conjured in his mind during their moment in the Weave together, how Lucius sought to kiss him and leave him breathless.

Perhaps he could believe the cleric is genuine. 

He finds himself lifting his chin, inching just a fraction closer. Lucius follows the movement with half lidded eyes, lips parted as he cautiously moves closer. Their noses brush. Warm breaths tangle together, filling Gale with an unbelievably insatiable feeling of need. A desperation to get closer, to put his hands on him and crash together and tangle their legs and get lost, to just feel him in a way that truly matters.

They both hesitate. Gale wonders what brings Lucius so much pause. Is he not already a man of open physical intimacy? Does he not already boast a portfolio of mindless, physical conquests? Gale knows what stalls him, but Lucius? Why does he pause?

Gale’s lips part, and the thought is quelled. They move in unison, a moment of bravery closing the distance between them and sealing together with a featherlight, warm kiss. Lucius is soft against him, his lips slotting perfectly against Gale’s. Still hesitant, still experimental, still filled with so much unbridled, barely tethered desire. Their lips move together only once before Lucius pulls back, opening his eyes to look over Gale, who is far too stunned to move, too stupefied by the kiss to string together a clever collection of words. 

He wants to kiss him again. He wants to pull him in and bring him back closer. And he almost does, but Lucius pulls away all too suddenly before he can be brought to action.

“Sorry,” He says quickly, scrambling back on his haunches a considerable distance away from him, leaving Gale cold. “I um. I got… I-I didn't mean…”

“Lucius —”

“You should go.”

Gale couldn't have possibly anticipated just how crushing a sentence like that would be. He sits up from the bedroll, and this time, it’s his own heart he worries that will spill from his chest. 

“... Right. Right, of course.”

...

Sleep doesn’t come easy for Gale that night. Not that it’s easy to sleep any night out here, but this time it’s restless beyond having to camp in the middle of the wilderness. Tossing and turning, a coldness across his body that could not be alleviated by any amount of blankets, and the echo of the warmth upon his lips that Lucius left him with that would not leave. It’s a hurt in his chest beyond the Orb, and it’s a wonder he sleeps even a wink at all.

He lays on his bedroll for a moment longer in the off chance that he’ll manage to fall back asleep before he finally admits to himself that any effort is futile. There’s a weariness that seeps into his bones, making him feel heavy and every movement a great, overwhelming task. He just has to start the day. He just has to get through and start the day, and the rest will come easy.

After giving his hair a quick brush and slipping into his shoes, he steps out, blinded by the early morning sun, and immediately greeted by Wyll at his own tent beside him.

“Good morning, Gale!” He says brightly, closing his backpack after retrieving a couple of pears from it. “Nice to see you up so early.”

Gale rubs his face. “Ah. It is quite early, isn’t it?”

Wyll nods, and holds out a fruit. “Pear?”

Why not? Gale accepts it graciously, dipping his head in thanks before making his way to the center of the camp. It actually is quite nice being up early. There’s time to kill before they have to start the day’s adventures, and he has a chance to see everyone up and about without having to scramble to get his equipment together to get onto the road near moments after waking. The dog runs around happily, and briefly meets Gale with a courteous sniff and lick at his hands in greeting, and he passes by Lae’zel and Shadowheart as they hiss their somewhat hostile remarks at each other like a dance. 

Gale tries not to act like he’s moving with purpose, but he can’t help it. His lips still remember that of Lucius, an imprint he can't shake from his mind. Worse yet, the look on his face when he scrambled back, how he seemed not to regret it, but to fear the action he'd just done. Gale didn't have a chance to tell him that it was fine, that it was oh so welcome, that he wanted nothing more than to indulge him and hold him and —

Gale closes his eyes. Dangerous thoughts. He knows he can’t indulge. Maybe that’s why Lucius backed away as he did. He already had to turn him away once during the party, so perhaps…

He takes a breath, and approaches that patchwork blue tent. “Lucius? Are you awake?”

His heart pounds. Is he nervous? And what for? A wizard of his caliber never trembles at the unknown, and yet, trepidation colors his every experience here in the now. A terrible feeling. He should stand tall. Whatever happened between them is fine. Nothing they can’t patch up like adults.

But there isn’t any response, and it makes Gale fear more. “Lucius?”

“Not there, soldier,” a different voice calls out behind him. Gale nearly jumps, and tries not to look like a sheepish, guilty dog as he turns around.

“Ah! You startled me,” he says, laughing lightly. “Morning, Karlach.”

“Mornin’!” Karlach waves at him cheerfully. “You’re up early!”

“That I am,” Gale says tiredly. “Peaceful sleep was, ironically, a distant dream away for me, it would seem. But I do like seeing everyone bustling about.”

“Nice, isn’t it?” She grins. “Anyway, whatcha doin’ lookin’ for Lucius? He’s been out all morning. Damn bastard owes me a good run.”

Gale feels something inside him twist. “All morning?”

Karlach’s eyes flick towards him, as if seeing something so obvious on his face. There’s that nervousness again — he hates it. A foreign feeling that crawls up his skin, but surely, Karlach can’t ascertain what’s just transpired between him and Lucius. 

Karlach cocks her head to the side, a wicked grin splitting across her face as her eyes rake over Gale. “Oh man, did you two…?”

Well, she can’t ascertain it accurately at least.

“... What?”

“Yanno,” Karlach makes a rather obscene gesture with her hands, and Gale immediately scrambles to wave it away.

“Oh no! No no! Nothing like that!” He quickly corrects, laughing in a way he hopes sounds more casual than flustered.

“Really?” She almost sounds disappointed. “Was that light show you two always have not you and Lucy —”

“Certainly not, my dear friend,” Gale says, waving a hand in dismissal as he finds his bearings. “I’m a wizard of many talents and skills, and naturally, them being of the Weave, it means most of them will glow. Merely exchanging magical knowledge and demonstrations where there’s time, nothing more.”

Karlach purses her lips in amusement, leaning her weight on one leg and propping a hand on her hip. “Yanno, you don’t have to use innuendos, Gale! I’m not faint of heart, you can always tell Mama K anything,” she leans in, dropping her voice to a whisper. “I can keep a secret.”

The sheer amount of sincerity Karlach exudes is enough to bring laughter to Gale, who shakes his head. “I was just looking to ask him about breakfast plans, that is all. But thank you for your solidarity. I hardly believe any of those activities would come to fruition with the friendship we have, but it’s nice to know we’d have an ally were it to ever.”

Karlach barks a laugh. “Gale! You make it sound so… so boring? No no, like, you make it sound all mechanical. Hells, with the way Lucy talks about you, I really thought you guys were already like…”

Gale’s heart skips a beat. “With the way he what? What does he say?”

Before Karlach can answer, Scratch and the owlbear cub are hooting and hollering at someone’s arrival, gathering their attention elsewhere. Gale turns to see Halsin and Lucius arriving back to camp, hauling freshly hunted game on their shoulders and baskets of fruit. They return with bright smiles on their faces, loudly exchanging something in Elvish that he can’t make out, and radiating an aura of victory.

“Oh, speak of the devil,” Karlach says, flashing a grin at him. “Bastard owes me our morning run. Hold up, I gotta yell at him.”

She takes off running, meeting Lucius as he and Halsin begin to put things away. Food for the week by the looks of it. It’s not unusual for Lucius to go out and do something else in the morning, especially with how little sleep he needs, and it shouldn’t be too startling that he’d leave with Halsin, another fellow elf, but… he’s usually back at camp by the time everyone is awake. Karlach rushes him, shouting about the workout he skipped, and they proceed to air-box each other, careful not to let either of their fists actually make any contact with each other.

Gale doesn’t realize he’s been staring until Lucius looks up and catches his gaze, and Gale watches in real time as his smile falters.

Ah. Perhaps Gale could have convinced himself this was all just a whim Lucius decided on, but his suspicions that this behavior is linked directly to the night before only garners more and more evidence in support. Damn near confirmation. Lucius says something to Karlach and slaps a pat onto Halsin’s back, dismissing himself to jog his way over to Gale, messy black hair swaying in the wind.

“Morning Gale!” Lucius greets, an easy smile on his face, as if it hadn’t cracked a second ago. “You’re —”

“Up early, yes,” Gale finishes, nodding sagely. “And you’re back late! Not often I see you leave camp for a while.”

“That’s because you normally sleep in.”

“Ah! A fair counterpoint. Perhaps I’ll allow you that victory.”

Lucius gives a small huff of a laugh through his nose. “Good to see you up and running like normal. Hate to see my wizard lagging behind in pain like that.”

My wizard?

Lucius must realize the phrase just as Gale heard it. “Our wizard. Resident wizard. Gale.”

“That is me, yes.”

“Look,” Lucius starts, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands. “I um, I wanted to uh… apologize for what I did last night.”

“Oh, Lucius —”

“What I did was completely out of line and wildly inappropriate, and I shouldn’t have done that. Not in a moment like that. Not to a good friend I really respect. That wasn’t the time nor place, and I should’ve caught myself better before I made an impulse decision like that.”

Gale swallows hard. Something delicate inside of him cracks, and he’s not sure what. Something extravagant and fragile, something wonderful and made of glass that brought him warmth fractures, and he feels the shards scatter somewhere inside him, lost forever, embedding themselves into soft, vulnerable flesh.

“I can’t say I blame you. It’s fine, though, Lucius, I didn’t —”

“It’s not fine,” Lucius interrupts. “Look, Gale, you’re… you’re a very handsome man, sometimes even distracting, but that’s no excuse. I got caught up in the moment, I let the physical intimacy get to my head and I stopped thinking. That’s not good. That’s some terrible impulse control and I don’t want you to condone it. I don’t want to lose your respect, and I most certainly don’t want to disrespect you.”

“Oh, my dear friend, Lucius, you didn’t — Lucius, it’s alright, I do mean that! Well, this is — This is a very kind apology, and I do respect the tact of which you’re handling it, but…”

But… what? What’s Gale to do? Admit that his heart skips a beat every time Lucius comes near? Admit that he wanted to tangle himself in the cleric and lose himself in those lips? Admit that were it not for this blasted orb, he may have indulged him far, far sooner? Admit that something inside him hurts at being called a friend?

No… no, he can’t do any of that. It would be cruel, after all. Self indulgent, to take in Lucius when he can’t give himself wholly, body and soul. Not with the Orb gnawing at his insides like a teething displacer at all times, a constant, looming threat and a reminder of how his previous affections for someone else ended. Cruelty, it’d be, to even dare entertain the idea of being close to Lucius. He cannot give himself. He cannot allow himself to try.

Lucius looks at him with soft, vulnerable brown eyes. He’s slouched, shied away somewhat, sheepish; had Gale never seen him drenched in blood after taking out an entire gaggle of adversaries, Gale would almost believe the delicate priestly aura he manages to exude now. It almost makes him laugh, just how apologetic Lucius looks now, and it twists something in his chest. Affection, perhaps.

He has to resist the urge to cup Lucius’ cheek.

“I forgive you, Lucius,” Gale settles on saying, because it’s what Lucius needs to hear the most. “I’ll admit, you had me lost in the impulse as well, but we can be mature adults about this. Physicality does not rule us, and I do appreciate your words. I think I’d be worse off if you just… stopped speaking to me altogether, so I’m glad to hear this instead.”

Lucius brightens now, looking a little more himself. He nods along with his words, relief flooding his features. “Oh good. Oh good oh good. Yes. Certainly. I um. Didn’t want to do that.”

Gale brings together a smile with the pieces he still has left, and holds out a hand. “No harm done.”

Lucius looks down, and takes his hand firmly. His hand is broad and calloused, encompassing Gale’s in full. “No harm done.”

They shake once, and like a spell, the warmth that had lingered still on Gale’s lips turns cold, leaving him for good. He tries not to let it show as they part, trying to listen to Lucius as the man claps his hands together and moves onto the next subject. Something about food, something about a big great breakfast. A roast, he suggests. One that may just take too long, or cut it close enough before their adventure.

By that point, Gale isn’t listening anymore. The lack of sleep has caught up with him, tugging at his eyes. He’s not sure he’ll make it to the roast at this rate. There’s a chill to the wind that his sleep clothes do little to ward against — perhaps it’s simply better for him to get back to bed, or at the very least cozy up with a book for some semblance of company.

As Gale drags himself back to his tent, he catches Astarion’s gaze, staring at him with a knowing smirk from his own tent. Gale can’t get a word in — Astarion claps his book closed and disappears into his tent, undoubtedly carrying with him the exchange he just witnessed.

Just what Gale needs right now.

He marches into his tent and tucks himself in, staring up at the ceiling of blue fabric, but now that he’s settled, his eyes remain wide open. The sleep that tugged him still floats high enough in consciousness that it won’t have the weight it needs to drag him down to slumber. 

He sighs, turning onto his side and wraps a hand around the one that held Lucius a moment ago in a handshake. The warmth still lingers, but nothing like the kiss did. It’s far too… too… Chaste. Platonic. Mechanical. Distant.

Formal.

He understands the notion of it. What the handshake meant at that moment. He knows it was necessary. Their friendship is mended, the status quo restored.

Slowly, he brings that hand to where the Orb marks him, eyes fluttering shut. Stasis is better than the chaos of the unknown and unventured, but now, his chest thrums with not just the hunger of the Orb, but with the unfulfilled desire of want.

[bheartwrites]

Chapters: 3/3 Fandom: World of Warcraft Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Wrathion/Anduin Wrynn, Flynn Fairwind/Mathias Shaw Characters: Wrathion (Warcraft), Mathias Shaw, Anduin Wrynn, Flynn Fairwind Additional Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Reunions, Reunion, Getting Back Together, Grinding, Making Out, Past VanShaw - Freeform Summary:

If anyone has even the sliver of a chance of knowing where Anduin is, it’s Spymaster Mathias Shaw.

Wrathion intends on taking that chance.

[bheartwrites]

One of these days, I'll post all of the fanfics I've written for my tav cleric Lucius Skorn and Gale and co., but I'll just have a little excerpt for this gods forsaken slow burn.

This is set in Act 1. Lucius found an alternative to feeding Gale's hunger when artifacts stopped working: divine power from Ilmater, funneled directly to them. It's an intimate process, one that brings them too close. This is the aftermath after one of them...

—

Lucius huffs with amusement, dipping his head low. He settles back on his knees, his breath still on its way back before leveling a studious gaze at him. Gently, he raises a hand to Gale’s cheek, swiping a thumb at the tears that had spilled earlier with such tenderness Gale didn't know he was capable of. “Are you alright?”

For a moment, Gale’s entire world stops. His heart pounds in his chest, every ounce of cognitive thought scrambled as his mind fixates on the warm hand on his cheek, his soul pinned to the stone by the softness in the elf's eyes. His breath catches. He should say something. He needs to say something. Far be it for Gale to be a man at a loss for words, scattered the way he is without a swift recovery in sight. 

But instead of words, instead of telling him he's fine, instead of assuring him he's never been better and that he's not in any pain and that Lucius is a lovely, lovely healer who has done more than he could ever ask of him, Gale only reaches a hand out to clasp over the one on his cheek, holding it reverently. It's not the gesture he wanted to give. He understands that the moment here is a little too intimate, a little too delicate, and that he'd do better to dissipate it here and now before testing waters neither of them are ready to swim in.

But something changes in the cleric’s expression when he holds him. Every ragged breath fills him with Lucius’ warm scent, and at this angle, with Lucius looming over him, Gale catches a glimpse of his bare, tattooed chest from where the collar of his shirt dips with gravity. He can't trace the artwork that trails down in the dark, but curiosity gnaws in his chest along with a surge of fondness and affection. He knows so little about this man. He knows there's so, so much more to this Ilmatari cleric, he knows there's a plethora of stories buried deep within the centuries this man lauds. For a moment, Gale thinks, it would be nice to entertain something a little deeper with Lucius.

He knows they shouldn't. The Orb is far too delicate to risk anything too exciting, and truthfully, Gale still hasn't been able to tell just how genuine Lucius is with his own affection towards Gale.

But with how close Lucius is now, how gentle he is, with the kindness in eyes Gale only ever witnessed a dead, distant look in, he could believe.

Their breaths are still heavy. The air is warm between them. Gale still resonates with the divinity Lucius poured into him, and the darkness of the night within the tent caresses them both, holding them gently. Lucius’ eyes dart from his, down to his lips, and all Gale can think of is that image he conjured in his mind during their moment in the Weave together, how Lucius sought to kiss him and leave him breathless.

Perhaps he could believe the cleric is genuine. 

He finds himself lifting his chin, inching just a fraction closer. Lucius follows the movement with half lidded eyes, lips parted as he cautiously moves closer. Their noses brush. Warm breaths tangle together, filling Gale with an unbelievably insatiable feeling of need. A desperation to get closer, to put his hands on him and crash together and tangle their legs and get lost, to just feel him in a way that truly matters.

They both hesitate. Gale wonders what brings Lucius so much pause. Is he not already a man of open physical intimacy? Does he not already boast a portfolio of mindless, physical conquests? Gale knows what stalls him, but Lucius? Why does he pause?

Gale’s lips part, and the thought is quelled. They move in unison, a moment of bravery closing the distance between them and sealing together with a featherlight, warm kiss. Lucius is soft against him, his lips slotting perfectly against Gale’s. Still hesitant, still experimental, still filled with so much unbridled, barely tethered desire. Their lips move together only once before Lucius pulls back, opening his eyes to look over Gale, who is far too stunned to move, too stupefied by the kiss to string together a clever collection of words. 

He wants to kiss him again. He wants to pull him in and bring him back closer. And he almost does, but Lucius pulls away all too suddenly before he can be brought to action.

“Sorry,” He says quickly, scrambling back on his haunches a considerable distance away from him, leaving Gale cold. “I um. I got… I-I didn't mean…”

“Lucius —”

“You should go.”

Gale couldn't have possibly anticipated just how crushing a sentence like that would be. He sits up from the bedroll, and this time, it’s his own heart he worries that will spill from his chest. “... Right. Right, of course.”

[bheartwrites]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Baldur’s Gate (Video Games) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Gale (Baldur’s Gate)/Original Male Character(s), Gale/Tav (Baldur’s Gate) Characters: Gale (Baldur’s Gate), Tav (Baldur’s Gate), Original Male Character(s), Lucius Skorn Additional Tags: Act 1 (Baldur’s Gate 3), Cooking, Trust Issues, Slow Burn, alternative summary: lucius doesn’t want gale in the kitchen. gale tears him a new one Series: Part 1 of Skornweave Summary:

“Out of my kitchen, wizard.”

Gale of Waterdeep, however, does not listen to his order, and still saunters in by the wheelbarrow, rolling up his sleeves. “Ah, don’t worry, my friend. I may be a bumbling wizard out on the road and in the wilderness, but cooking is one of my more proficient elements!”

Lucius abandons the tri tip to point his knife at Gale — not necessarily threateningly, and certainly far enough that he can’t reasonably stab him without chasing him — and stops him in his tracks.

“I certainly don’t doubt it, Gale of Waterdeep,” Lucius says with a smile, watching a sheepish look take over the wizard’s face and his hands raise in surrender. “But I’ve already claimed dinner for tonight. I’ve got it, thank you.”

“Oh, come on, what good is cooking without fair company?”

——

Lucius Skorn trusts no one around him. Not in his camp, not in his kitchen, and certainly not the charming wizard of Waterdeep. Gale intends to amend this and do whatever he can to weasel his way into dinner.

[bheartwrites]

Kitchen Territory

Pre-Relationship Gale x Male Tav (Lucius Skorn) Takes place in early Act 1. Lucius Skorn is a middle-aged high elf Ilmatari cleric with a heavy background: an ex-criminal who led a gang known as the Lockjaws before he was betrayed. He spent the past 120+ years as a slave in the Underdark and in prison afterwards, and emerged two years ago as a reformed man with new faith in Ilmater, the Crying God. As a result, he's effectively a cornered animal at all times, unable to trust anyone, because he knows he himself cannot be trusted. Lucius slowly crushes on Gale, and over time, their relationship builds. This is the beginning of Gale getting a little closer to this problematic cleric. Rated T Read on AO3

“Out of my kitchen, wizard.”

The “kitchen” in question is a broken wheelbarrow filled with the various somewhat fresh vegetables the group managed to find around the forest, a couple of pots Lucius found along the way and delicately cleaned and cured, slabs of stone flat enough to be used as counters dragged out around the bonfire, and a frayed scavenged chopping board with the beef tri tip Lucius had a knife to.

It’s the most food the party’s had in a few days, and enough ingredients that Lucius could make a half decent meal for everyone to have. He’s been excited the entire day to get to prepping. There aren’t enough seasonings to make everything the way it should taste, but it’s better than nothing. It’s better than fish heads and apples.

Gale of Waterdeep, however, does not listen to his order, and still saunters in by the wheelbarrow, rolling up his sleeves. “Ah, don’t worry, my friend. I may be a bumbling wizard out on the road and in the wilderness, but cooking is one of my more proficient elements!” He lifts a finger with an amendment and a wink. “Not counting my wizardly studies and prowess, that is.”

Lucius stares at him. His expression seems earnest and confident, and he already waltzes around him as if he knows exactly what he’s going to do. Lucius abandons the tri tip to point his knife at Gale — not necessarily threateningly, and certainly far enough that he can’t reasonably stab him without chasing him — and stops him in his tracks. 

“I certainly don’t doubt it, Gale of Waterdeep,” Lucius says with a smile, watching a sheepish look take over the wizard’s face and his hands raise in surrender. “But I’ve already claimed dinner for tonight. I’ve got it, thank you.”

“Oh, come on, what good is cooking without fair company?”

“Mm, peace and quiet. And knowing exactly where all of my ingredients are going.”

Gale dips his head with quiet acceptance. “Then I will follow all your instructions and keep my lips sealed unless absolutely necessary.”

Lucius levels him with a dead look, and when that expression of his does nothing to move Gale, he takes a step forward with the blade in hand. Gale thankfully gets the message then, and begins backing up with his hands raised again.

“Very well! I’ll be over here then!” He scrambles, waving at him with a cheerful tone. “Back at my tent. I will disturb you no more!”

Lucius can’t help but smirk to himself, shaking his head and returning to the food. Genuine or not, he’s not about to let any of these strangers bother him here.

--

But by the next night, Gale is back again, sleeves rolled up, and an easy smile on his face.

“Lucius!” Gale calls as the cleric chops several carrots and moves them into a bowl. “Why, I couldn’t help but notice the pork shoulder we acquired this afternoon. You know, I know a couple of good —”

“Out, wizard.”

Gale���s expression falters for a moment, and Lucius does his best not to look at him more than he has to. He doesn’t stop chopping, but still tenses as he feels Gale walk around him.

“Ah, come on now,” Gale says with a teasing tone to his voice. “I can already see what you’re planning. A pork stew can take a bit to prepare, but believe it or not, I am quite handy with a knife.”

“What a coincidence! So am I!”

“You jest, Lucius, but I am nothing but wholly serious. Stews are actually my specialty — Here, allow me, please. Me and a simple spectral hand spell can help chop all the potatoes and carrots in double time while you start preparing the meat itself. We can cut this process time in half when you’ve got more than one set of hands in the kitchen.” He leans in, hoping to catch Lucius’ gaze. “What do you say?”

Lucius halts the knife, letting the chopped piece of carrot spin and roll into its pile on the chopping board. As he lifts his blank gaze up to Gale, he can see the wizard’s smile wilt by just a fraction. Somewhere inside, Lucius feels a pinch of guilt. He’s not wrong, it would certainly speed up the process, and Gale doesn’t fit the profile of a man who would do harm to their food, but…

“I bet you got away with all sorts of trouble with that smile of yours growing up,” Lucius says, resuming his prep. 

Gale’s eyes crinkle with warmth. “Hmm, maybe just a little. Though, only so much a pleading smile can excuse the misbehavior of a small child with a fireball spell.”

“And only so much it can do with a cleric who already knows what he’s doing,” Lucius replies, cocking his head to the side with a scrunched, condescending smile. “Out, wizard.”

“So be it!” Gale bows deeply, backing away. “I will not disturb you further. But if you do change your mind, I’ll be in my tent with one of the books we’ve recovered, ready to help at a moment’s notice.”

He watches him walk away, his gaze lingering on him as he returns to his tent and chats with Wyll beside him. For a moment, Lucius does hesitate, looking back at everything he has to do. Help would be nice.

But he remembers the danger everyone in the camp presents to each other. A githyanki warrior ready to slit their throats at any sign of transformation, a Sharran worshipper, a vampire spawn, a warlock and two walking bombs — and he sobers up. He doesn’t know anyone well enough. It’s not worth the risk.

He doesn’t call on Gale, and the stew finishes two hours later.

--

The next night, Lucius finds the kitchen already taken.

He had to leave Gale at camp for the time being — Shadowheart, Astarion and Lae’zel accompanied him for the day to deal with stray goblins along the road. He should have anticipated that returning that evening would result in Gale pulling the rug out from under him.

Lucius circles around the bonfire kitchen with his inventory slung over his shoulder, watching the man. He’s cozy in his purple little outfit, sleeves rolled up and humming an old bard song. His hands are busy, delicately cutting strips of beef while two sets of spectral hands work on chopping the peppers they’d found recently. He has a smaller campfire on the side where a lidded pot sits in it, undoubtedly cooking something.

Gale turns to put something away and catches sight of Lucius, beaming brightly at him, and Lucius swears he can see the mischief in his eyes. “Ah, Lucius! You’re finally back! Adventure went well, I hope?”

His voice ends up sounding more tired than he expects when he responds. “What are you doing, Gale.”

“Ah, I noticed we had enough to make a stir fry,” Gale says, pointing an index finger in the air as he speaks. The spectral hands wave at Lucius before returning to their work. “Beef, peppers, some of the broccoli Wyll found — needed to cook it soon, else it goes bad under our noses — oh! And I’m making some bread over here on the side! Freshly baked bread. Though I’d definitely prefer to bake some goods in an oven, it’s not impossible to do over a fire so long as the temperature stays — where are you going?”

Lucius stalks over to his tent, tossing his satchel onto the ground outside of it. Deep inside, he knows it’s not a big deal. This is normal and this is fine. There is nothing wrong with Gale taking over to feed the camp. Lucius has gotten good at finding more food to cook meals, so the loss of ingredients he had planned out can be amended. It’s fine, he knows it’s fine.

The anger broiling in his chest and burning hot in his throat and quaking his hands, does not.

“I’m going to bed,” Lucius snaps, taking off his gloves and tossing them. “Have fun, Gale.”

“Oh, come now, Lucius!” Gale calls out, sounding more hurt than teasing this time. “If you wash up, you’re welcome to join me!”

Lucius steps inside his tent and clips the flaps shut, dropping himself onto his bedroll. He’s hungry. There’s nothing he wants more than to eat something warm right now, but he doesn’t know what Gale’s doing. He doesn’t know the process he started. He’s been at it for who knows how long, completely out of Lucius’ sight. He could do anything. 

Fine. Let him have his fun. Lucius will slip into reverie and find himself something else to eat later once he wakes. He turns onto his side, back facing the entrance of his tent, and slips his eyes shut, ignoring the aches in his fingers as he keeps his hands clenched into fists.

Later, he wakes to Gale’s gentle voice outside his tent, calling for him. He had a plate of the stir fry and a slice of bread served for him, and a look in his eyes that made something twist in the cleric’s chest.

“There’s leftovers if you’re still hungry,” Gale offers, holding the plate out to him.

Lucius stares at it. Finely cooked, still hot, the scent filling his tent quickly of beef and peppers. His mouth waters.

But his principles still stand firm.

“I’m not hungry.”

Gale blinks. “You’re always hungry! I know how much protein means to you, Lucius, and you were out all day. Come on now —”

“Thank you, Gale,” Lucius interrupts, finality in his voice. “Maybe I’ll have some later. I’m going back to sleep.”

Gale doesn’t say anything, for once at a complete loss of words. There’s that look in his face, those brows raised high and clear hurt in his features as if Lucius had just kicked a puppy. He doesn’t wait for Gale to walk away before closing the flaps shut and rolling back to his bedroll. He sees Gale’s shadow still linger before his tent for a moment longer before finally taking his leave.

Lucius’ stomach growls. He ignores the stinging in his eyes and wills himself to go back to sleep.

--

The next day, Gale insists on going on the road with Lucius. So much so that he practically has no choice but to let him, what with how Wyll and Karlach were starting to look at him. Cursed to be guilt tripped into letting the wizard tag along, but so be it.

The day was dedicated more to exploration. A few magical items, materials salvaged, trading with others — and an unfortunate run-in with some gnolls. Though they did come out worse for wear after that encounter, at least they managed to find an abandoned merchant’s wagon filled with produce. It’s then that Lucius realizes the entirety of Gale’s ulterior motives.

That night, Lucius washes up and takes to the kitchen quickly, unloading their haul and logging each new item into his dedicated inventory journal as swiftly as possible. He shouldn’t have to feel like he has to race for claim over the kitchen, but he needs to make it clear that this is his domain. The inventory logs, the food, the supplies, gold, magical items, potions and herbs, etcetera etcetera — so long as Lucius is at the helm of this camp, he is in charge of what goes where.

He’s thinking of beef stew tonight. Stews are perfect for leftovers, they’re hearty and warm, and they smell nice. It’s also most of what they can make with the ingredients they manage to find beyond rations and breads and miscellaneous fruit.

He anticipates Gale’s arrival to the kitchen, his sleeves rolled up and an air of sheer audacity surrounding him.

Gale doesn’t even manage to say anything before Lucius speaks. “Out, wizard.”

“Another slow cooked meal for tonight?”

“Out.”

“You know, I actually have a bit of an idea for a stew. Last night my bread seemed to be quite the hit around the camp. Even Lae’zel looked to enjoy it. She had seconds.”

“That’s nice. Get out.”

“It’s best fresh, you know.”

“I know how to make bread.”

“I’m not questioning any of your capabilities, my friend. I enjoy your cooking,” Gale says, slowly making his way to Lucius’ side cautiously, as if trying to gain the trust of a feral animal. “Quite a lot, actually. Having a home cooked meal in the middle of a hellish, unfortunate situation has made a lot of troubles feel easier. Even a little homesick.”

Lucius peels a handful of carrots, letting the shavings fall into a battered woven basket for trash. “Mm. Well… I am happy to hear that. Cooking is probably one of the better skills my father had half a mind to teach me, and I do enjoy it.”

“Ah, I feel the same. My mother taught me to cook. She’s all sorts of recipes that I now carry up my sleeves, though sometimes, I still struggle to get some to taste the way she makes them. A fine hobby I enjoy, outside of reading of course.”

“You’re cozying up to me,” Lucius points out, elbowing Gale away. “Don’t try your charms. I said out.”

But Gale doesn’t move this time. Instead, he folds his arms and stands up straight, lifting his chin in overconfident defiance. “No.”

Lucius pauses, turning his head now to look at him. “No?”

“Nope.”

“Gale, get out.”

“I will not.”

Lucius sets the carrot down with an exhausted sigh, facing him completely. “Har har. You know, not the smartest idea to annoy someone holding a knife.”

“I’ve many reasons to believe that you are not so inclined to use that knife on me, Ilmatari.” Gale says easily, unwavering.

“You don’t know me. You barely know me.”

“Then it’s a gamble I’m more than willing to wager on.”

Lucius scoffs, unable to help the amused smile on his face. “Confident now, are we? What makes you so certain I wouldn’t?”

“Well for one, you’d contaminate your kitchen.”

Lucius tilts his head, conceding on that. “True.”

“Secondly, you benefit from having a wizard in your party.”

“I have scrolls. I don’t need a wizard, I’ve got a bunch of them in my pocket.”

“Ah, but I didn’t say need, I did say benefit, of which, you cannot argue against,” Gale says, pointing a finger at him as he speaks. “You may not need a wizard, per se, but my skills do undoubtedly serve you well in a pinch.”

“Alright, fine. You do make yourself useful when you feel like it.”

“Thirdly, ten years bad luck for killing a wizard.”

“You just made that up.”

“Is that a chance you want to take?”

“Don’t tempt me, ten years is nothing for an elf.”

“Ooh, but the time passes all the same. Blink of the eye in the grand scheme of things, but in the moment, a year is still a year.” Gale smiles politely at Lucius, inclining his head. “Need I go on?”

“Sure,” Lucius takes to leaning his weight on his hand against the stone counter. “Can’t say I’m thoroughly convinced.”

Gale huffs with amusement, and holds up four fingers and pinches his pinky. “Fourthly, you are a cleric of Ilmater. To stab me over coming into the kitchen would go against your religious cores.”

“Hmmm…” Lucius rubs his chin in faux thought. “Maybe… But one could argue that I am alleviating suffering in doing so. My suffering, that is. As I said, you’re bothering me.”

“Oof, you’d twist your principles to justify stabbing one of your campmates?”

“I didn’t twist anything. Ilmatari bear burdens and alleviate suffering. I’m following the dogma.”

“But aren’t you supposed to be the one on the rack? Stabbing me to alleviate yourself, why, I would argue that actually goes against your dogma.”

“Are you arguing with me over my own practice? Who’s the cleric here?”

Gale grins widely at him, cheeky and playful. “And fifth, you would have stabbed me by now.”

Lucius suddenly finds himself laughing at that, shaking his head. “Right, sure, fine. You must think you’re adorable.”

“I’ve said no such thing, but if you find such an adjective fitting, I am not against receiving it as an apt descriptor.”

“Man, shut up,” Lucius laughs, turning back to his chopping board. “I prefer to cook alone, thank you. Please be so kind as to dismiss yourself.”

“Evidently, you also prefer not to eat anyone else’s cooking.”

Well, there it is. “I wasn’t hungry.”

“Say what you will, but I am led to believe your hesitance there is an extension of the same bump in the road we have here.” He holds his hands up, turning them back and forth. “Allow me to ease your conscience. I pride myself in my cleanliness, and I am very delicate in the matters of making food. I wash up frequently, I let nothing cross contaminate, and I always make sure that the ingredients I use aren’t spoiled. I promise you, I’m not a burden within the kitchen to have to watch out for.”

Lucius pauses, staring down at the chopping board. There’s something gnawing in his chest, something akin to guilt, something close to shame. The wizard is not an unkind man; he has been nothing but patient and delightful company, and Lucius would almost daresay that Gale simply wouldn’t do anything to hurt anyone.

But that’s the trap. He was close to someone once. Three hundred years of a bond forged in fire and gallons of blood, and never once did he suspect that he’d turn against him, that he would wake up one day to the promise of fortune, only to be betrayed and dragged into the Underdark in chains —

Lucius braces his hands against the board, shuts his eyes. He has to say something. Gale at least deserves to be acknowledged.

“I appreciate that, sincerely,” Lucius says, exhaling a long breath before returning his full attention to the wizard, now softer than he was before. “But that’s not my problem. I don’t know how exactly to explain my problem to you. I just wish you’d listen to me and leave me alone. I have my roles to fulfill in this camp. Allow me to do them in peace.”

Gale purses his lips, his eyes searching Lucius. It makes him tense suddenly. The wizard is intelligent and sharp, and whatever it is he’s looking for in Lucius, he’s suddenly terrified that he could find it easily.

“You take on a lot of roles, Lucius,” Gale lands on saying, and Lucius feels a touch of relief. “Perhaps it’s because of your Ilmatari teachings, or perhaps for another reason. You put in a lot of work, and the whole camp certainly appreciates it, but… you can’t just keep doing it all by yourself. You have people here! Half a dozen of us are quite the company — sure, you’ve a lot of roles, but I reckon you should delegate some tasks to the rest of us. A waste of a many pair of hands that can get to work.”

Lucius’ face scrunches and his lips flatten in a strained smile. “Okay. Go like, I don’t know, build me a new wheelbarrow or something.”

“Cooking is typically a communal activity, you know,” Gale insists, reaching out to pick up a potato. “Many many cultures center around families gathering to create something delicious. Generations of parents holding onto dear recipes and passing them to their children, holidays of gatherings to all partake in a collaborative feast — and on smaller scales, even the most trite of city workplaces participate in gallant dinner parties or simple potlucks. Breaking bread together is a sure way to strengthen a bond, but cooking?” Gale points the potato at Lucius. “That is where the magic happens.”

When Lucius was young, dinners were silent. In all his short childhood, he could scarcely recall the face of his mother, or if there ever was the whisper of a memory of her to begin with. Always his father before a stovetop, always just him and occasionally, Lucius atop a stool to watch him prepare. There was never speak of aunts or uncles or cousins or anyone else who’d gather and feast — at best, Lucius was dragged off to his father’s meets with a small thieves’ guild and their mead-filled revelry. Chicken and bread, but never much speak of a kitchen; only the tinged smell of liquor and sweat in the bustling crowd where a child should never be.

And sometimes, when Lucius was older, he’d watch the Lockjaws chatter and eat in their mess hall. Safely. A balcony where he’d lean on the railings and simply observe his assassins from above. The leader of a cutthroat gang of criminals who ruled through violence and fear simply asks for trouble to share food among his own men — little did he know that his dearest advisor he did share drinks with would be who he should have feared most.

Now, Lucius can only stare at that stupid potato in Gale’s hand. In the Temple, he keeps to himself with his own meal. In prison, he was lucky to have any space to himself to eat. As a slave, he was lucky to eat at all. Here, with the tadpoles and this group of strangers, he’s lucky to have any control at all.

His gaze flicks to Gale, and when he does, Gale’s eyes crinkle with warmth in a small, reassuring smile. The firelight catches onto the umber color of his eyes with a sparkle, his long lashes framing them delicately, and the crow’s feet deepen with his squint. A powerful, dangerous wizard, this man is. Lucius has witnessed enough of his spells and the expertise and practice from which they lurch from those fingertips. He hunches and carries himself loosely at rest and speaks like an eccentric librarian, but on the field, he sees him straighten up, his expression harden, sees him utter the incantations of destruction and leave nothing in his wake. He’s capable of untold chaos, hiding behind this mask of gentle kindness, and yet…

And yet… Lucius wants to believe him.

“I don’t know you,” Lucius says, upset that his voice doesn’t carry the venom he wants it to. “How am I supposed to know you’re not gonna fuck around with this stuff here? What reason do I have to believe that you won’t try to leverage this?”

Gale’s brows raise at that. “Are you — Are you asking me if I would poison our food?”

“Look, it’s not that I don’t trust you, but I just…” he taps the pommel of his knife on the chopping board in quick succession, as if doing so would help summon the words to him. “It’s a risk you’re asking me to take, and one I don’t feel very willing to.”

“So in short, you don’t trust me.”

“Well —”

Gale raises a hand. “A protest, if I may.”

Lucius sets his knife down and folds his arms, carefully keeping his expression calm. “Protest.”

“As a disclaimer, I will say, I most absolutely understand why you feel such a way, and in no way do I mean to undermine your worries and fears,” Gale says with a dip of his head. “That said, I don’t believe you’re being very fair with this conception.”

“I’m not being fair?”

“No. You aren’t the only one here who has to worry about what the other is doing, or what danger the other campmates may pose. Already we’ve woken several times to someone trying to hurt or kill each other for one reason or another, and some people here bear the resume of folks very capable of wanton murder.” He tosses the potato into his other hand, rolling it around in his palm idly. “None of us know you, either. So, forgive me if I find it hypocritical that you would deny kitchen access to anyone else, but expect us to trust the food you are giving us when you can’t do the same.”

A flare of anger fires up in Lucius, and he feels the flames lick at his throat. “Okay, you know what, that’s diff—”

“I don’t have any more reason to trust you either, Lucius,” Gale continues. “Nothing more than the fact we all share the same burden of a little wormy tenant cozied up in our skulls, and honestly, isn’t that enough? We’re all already a group of unlikely allies bonded by a shared infection. Why try to make things more tense?”

Lucius tries to find a way to argue. Anything at all to tear down these points that isn’t just him putting his foot down and repeating himself. He wants to argue that he is trustworthy, because what he’s done so far has proven himself already, but it’s a flimsy argument, and deep down he knows he’s capable of bringing ruin to these people as well. He knows what herbs and solutions to make. He knows how to make tasteless poisons strong enough to bring down a peryton in seconds. Over the course of his long life, he’s found all sorts of ways a man can die. He’s not innocent. The party may have his suspicions of him, but in no way could they possibly guess the extent of which his atrocities go.

This conversation makes him itchy. The urge to toss everything onto the floor and shove the wheelbarrow to spill all of the produce everywhere rises. He wants to shove his stupid pots and pans into Gale’s arms and tell him to do whatever he wants and to snap the cutting board in half and forget about the whole thing. He wants to never cook again and let everyone do whatever the fuck it is they want to do if he’s being so unreasonable. Fuck this, fuck it all, fuck this guy and these tadpoles and these stupid, unfulfilling, half-seasoned, battered meals he keeps trying to make. Go have your community, then. Fuck you, fuck you —

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, counting to ten, and exhales slowly. He can feel himself shaking, and he knows if he loses his cool here, he only confirms that no one can trust him, truly. He’ll only further dig himself into an unnecessary pit and burn. Another deep breath. Be cool, Lucius. Be reasonable. Be cool.

“Why do you even want to do this so badly?” Lucius finds himself asking, finally opening his eyes to meet him again.

“Because I like it,” Gale replies easily. “I like cooking. And… Well, it’s not often I get to cook for many people. I’ll admit, I am selfishly motivated. I’ve been alone for the better part of a year in my tower for… various reasons, so I only ever got to cook for myself. Now, in the midst of all of this bloodshed and muck, there’s the chance to do something rather nice and enjoy a hot meal with people of all sorts of walks of life, all sorts of stories and interesting experiences, and… well, how could I possibly pass up an opportunity like that?”

Lucius thinks of the night before. The warm smile on his face, his spectral hands and a bard’s tune in his hums, the smell of the food and the kindness of which he offered it to Lucius despite how he stormed off into his tent… Ah, yes, this gnawing feeling in his chest, it is guilt. A splash of cold water that extinguishes the flames of anger and leaves him freezing.

Gale hands him the potato as though it were an offering. The extension of an olive branch, sans the olive branch, and perhaps the fervent eagerness and reverence Gale exudes would be a little less comical were it not for it being a simple potato.

Lucius accepts it nevertheless, turning it around in his hand. “... I’m not very good company in the kitchen.”

“Then allow me to be so for the both of us.” Gale gestures to the chopping board and gives a small bow, bidding his permission to join. Lucius steps aside, and Gale takes to the neglected carrots. “I wanted to say, you’ll actually go faster if you peel in the direction away from your body than towards it. Less risk of cutting yourself as well.”

Something warm blooms within Lucius. Something that twists, something that dares feel akin to that of fondness. He scoffs at Gale, taking to his new task of peeling the potatoes. “Is that your true ulterior motive? You just want to correct me on how I’ve been doing things wrong?”

“Maybe just a touch,” Gale teases. “But what’s a collaborative experience without sharing tips, tricks and mistakes?”

The night carries on smoothly, and between the two of them and a spectral hand, dinner is expedited. Gale’s ramblings of all sorts of recipes and stories, talks of his mother and the antics he unwittingly put her through, disastrous accidents in his time at the Blackstaff Academy, and the time he’d summoned a tressym that all but adopted him after the fact fills the air, and Lucius finds comfort in hearing him speak. Enough so that Lucius carefully regaled tales of his own travels, of the Dalelands and of Evereska, and by the time all was finished, Lucius felt like he was glowing, riddled with happy energy and a jitter in his fingertips and nerves. Gale had the idea to bake everyone a round piece of bread, hollow it out, and serve the stew in there, which happened to be a delightful hit. 

He’s had this meal before. He’s made this stew before. Yet, on this night, it tastes twice as good, and he can’t help but return the smile Gale gives him as they share their meal.

From then on, they shared the kitchen where they could and brainstormed meal ideas as they collected ingredients on the road. From then on, Lucius found comfort in the company.

[bheartwrites]

Arcane Hunger

Pre-Relationship Gale x Male Tav (Lucius Skorn) Takes place in early Act 1. Magical items stopped working for Gale a while ago, and the symptoms have kept coming. The Ilmatari cleric Lucius wakes in the middle of the night to find Gale in the woods, pained and tormented by the Orb in his chest. With nothing else left to treat it, Lucius comes up with an idea to sate it. Rated T Read on AO3 See: Kitchen Territory for another Gale/Lucius slow burn one shot

This was a life lived on the precipice of peril.

Four centuries as the hunter and the hunted. From the delicate youth of a fawn to the wolf whose maw it was made for, to a broken dog leashed by its masters and starved — Lucius learned well not to sleep through anything. In rest is vulnerability, and every small sound in the night is the potential for a great threat.

This was the first lesson his father taught him the second he’d heard that tell-tale jingle of a belt buckle. A lesson he carried as a thief, then a leader, and then a slave.

If the foliage rustles, there’s an enemy nearby. A threat to the coalition, an incoming attack — many times in the night during the Lockjaws’ camp, Lucius had caught all sorts of aspiring predators intent on ending their reign.

Floorboards creaking, rusty doors squeaking, the faint pitter patter of feet upon the ground — Lucius never took any risks. Most of the time, it had been nothing. Others, there was the impending dagger incoming, followed by a corpse that was not his own on the floor.

The alert are victorious. The survivors are the winners. 

Lucius will not be flayed.

His head snaps up, hands instinctively reaching for their daggers as he whirls to his knees with vigilance. Try him, someone fucking try him, is all he can think, but as he blinks the sleep out of his eyes, he finds there’s no one there.

Once again, he has woken to nothing.

Lucius doesn’t rest his daggers just yet, still staying frozen in position in case anyone did dare enter his tent. One moment, two moments and three, his heart beats and echoes in his ears in time with the wind, but nothing comes.

Of course nothing comes.

He sheathes his daggers and rubs his face. How long has it been since he had a full night’s rest? Years? Decades? Centuries? Had he ever had a full, undisturbed rest? He can’t help but recall the one night Father Lorgan woke him in the middle of the night, and Lucius had very nearly assailed him before recognition flooded. Even in the two years of peace at the Open Hand Temple, he hadn’t been able to find rest.

Being in the forest with tadpoles in their heads isn’t making it any easier.

He’s about to convince himself to lay back down and sleep when he hears a noise again. His ears flick back, and he holds perfectly still. An animal? A voice? Has someone gotten up in the middle of the night?

He peeks his head out of his tent. Nothing looks out of the ordinary. The half-moon illuminates the tents with a gentle caress of blue, and the wind rustles the leaves with a soft layer of noise to fill the silence. There’s the chitter of distant nighttime animals and the occasional buzz of little bugs that have their own homes nearby. By all means, it’s a lovely night, and as far as he can tell, no one has gotten up. Gentle snores emit from the tents, and even the camp animals sleep soundly. 

Great. No source. Lucius sighs, retrieving his cloak and daggers, and decides to slip out and search around for himself. There’s no rest until he knows what it is.

And whatever it is, it feels… off.

He slips into the woods quietly, the muscle memory of a rogue taking over and carrying him with swift stealthy steps. Like a wraith, he slips through the foliage silently, unencumbered by the weight of any armor, free to stalk and to listen. Hundreds upon hundreds of times he and his gang had found themselves in forests, climbing the trees, hiding within the plants, staging the perfect ambush against those who pass by. Merchants, rival guilds, the Zhent, nobles – anyone they decided to make their victim that day. Not even daylight could stop these beasts of blood — but that was a lifetime ago. Yet still, that shadow does not leave the cleric.

Step by step, halt, listen. The wind whistles. The leaves rustle. Nothing new. Step, step, ascend, investigate, stop — and there, he hears it: labored breathing, like something, or someone is injured.

Something cold shoots through his veins. Adrenaline or fear? The sound is too humanoid to be an animal, which is far, far worse than what Lucius wanted to hear.

If they need help, they need it fast.

But if they need help, whatever put them here could still be lurking.

One quiet step after another. He has a dagger out, ready for any wrong move to try him. Step by step, he follows that hollow sound, feeling something in the pit of his gut turn when it starts to sound familiar. He’s close now — it’s most certainly humanoid, and they’re in pain, no doubt. But how? And who? And why —

He rounds a tree, and feels his blood turn to ice at the sight of a wizard’s signature purple sleepwear.

“Gale!”

Caution be damned! All thoughts of it melt away in alarm at finding Gale drenched in sweat, propped up against a tree trunk with a hand pressed tightly against his glowing chest. His head is thrown back, expression twisted and eyes screwed tight in agony, and he doesn’t seem to respond to Lucius in the slightest.

Is this fear?

“Gale, hey, Gale!” Lucius shakes his shoulder, only for Gale’s brows to scrunch further. “Gale, look at me. Hey, are you alright? Please look at me.”

Gale lets out a pained breath, peeking an eye open. They look unfocused, as if they can barely see Lucius in the slightest. It takes a few breaths before his lips quirk to a strained smirk and he gets his voice to work. “Hi.”

“The fuck you mean hi — Gale —” Lucius searches him for any injuries, his hands held out with a spell at the ready. There didn’t seem to be any visible wounds, and nothing quite off with Gale aside from the dirt and grass stains that now adorned the rich purple of his clothes. Well, aside from… 

His eyes trail up, and beneath Gale’s hand at his sternum, he can see the markings of the Netherese Orb glow up his neck and to the corner of his eye. The purple hue intensifies rhythmically, as if beating in tune with Gale's quickening heart. Lucius’ hairs stand on end.

“What’s happening to you? Why are you out here?”

Gale tries to laugh. It dies in his throat. “I was just… trying to get some air…”

“You look like you’re dying, Gale.”

“Well I certainly hope that’s not the case,” He says, struggling to get the words out. He digs the palm of his heel harder into his chest. “I’m… too close to camp.”

“Don’t tell me you were trying to go find some place to die.”

“No, no,” He takes a deep breath. “I-I just needed air.”

How long had he been out here? How long has the Orb been tearing him apart like this beyond what Lucius could tell? Had he been hiding the severity since the artefacts stopped working? Lucius raises his hands, a curing spell upon his fingertips, but there’s no place to put them. What would he do? What can he do?

Gale’s eyes are squeezed shut again, riding another wave of pain while Lucius sits on his haunches uselessly. He didn’t hear him get up. He should’ve checked on him. He should’ve thought of something. Lucius bites down the terror and buries it in its grave in his chest to speak.

“Tell me how I can help you.”

“Lucius…”

“There’s – There’s got to be something I can do,” Lucius says, leaning in closer. “Anything!”

Gale cranes his head, opening his eyes to look at Lucius as best as he can. He can barely focus. “I just need to ride this out. The Orb won’t feed anymore. I can’t… It’s fine, Lucius.”

“This is very much not fine! You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Gale.”

“I’ve had these episodes before, this is… nothing I can’t handle.”

“Sure, sure…”

Maybe he can’t help him. But he can at the very least keep him from suffering alone in the woods.

Resolute, Lucius makes up his mind. The prepared spell drops, and he slides one hand behind Gale’s back to prop him up. He slides his cloak off and wraps it around the wizard.

“What are you —”

“You see, here’s your first mistake, Gale,” Lucius says, hugging Gale close to him. With ease, he secures his other hand under Gale’s knees and hoists him up. “You’re telling a cleric of Ilmater to let you suffer alone. I think you should know by now that I’m not letting that happen.”

Gale tenses as he’s suddenly lifted, curling in closer to Lucius and shutting his eyes. “Please put me down.”

“And just let you rot in the woods? Come on, Gale.”

“There isn’t anything —”

“To the Hells with that. Maybe I can’t stop the Orb…” Lucius makes certain he has a good hold on Gale before heading back towards the camp. “But the very least I can do is keep you company.”

Gale is both lighter and heavier than he expects. Lighter, in that it was significantly easier to lift him than he imagined it would be. Heavier, in that the man is real, warm, solid, and in his arms. The darling wizard that’s had Lucius spinning dizzy for some time now was now cradled close to him. Gale likely isn’t able to fight back against him, for which Lucius feels a crumb of guilt over. He hates to whisk someone away when they don’t want it — but with how Gale collapses into himself, not taking his hand off his chest for a second and screws his eyes tight, he can’t help but feel he has no choice but to watch over him, or at the very least keep him where he can see him. Where he’s not exposed to the elements and gods forbid whatever else might be out there.

He treads the outskirts of the camp, circling away from where the others are sleeping in order to get to his own tent a little ways off. He’s long since learned that not many of the others are quite… fond of Lucius, which means his tent has the least amount of traffic in the camp. An advantage in this case, seeing that Gale needs to be away from the others in such a vulnerable state like this.

He hunches into the entrance, crouching low until he’s able to safely lay Gale down on his bedroll without tussling him, resting his head gently on his pillow. Gale peers up at him through squinted eyes, trying to follow him as Lucius closes up his tent and begins to rummage through the baskets and satchels he had around.

“Lucius…”

“Not a word, Gale,” Lucius says, pulling out a small crate from under his makeshift desk. “I’m sure you’ve got plenty of protests and excuses and other words to try and discourage me from helping you, but they will be on deaf ears, my friend.”

Gale stays silent for a moment. When Lucius looks back at him, he has his head turned away.

“I just have to ride it out in waves,” Gale says weakly. At the very least he seems to have caught his breath a little. “Whatever it is you’re going to do, I’d rather save you the time. I’ve tried to feed it already. It doesn’t work.”

“Mm, I’m sure you have. I don’t doubt it. But if you’re just going with rings and trinkets, I just don’t think it’s strong enough.”

“Lucius —”

“Here, but first,” Lucius pulls out a rag, giving it a quick sniff to make sure it’s clean and dusts it off. With the quick incantation of a water spell, the rag soaks, dripping onto the floor. “Whoops, shit —”

He folds it neatly, wringing out the excess, and gently wipes down Gale’s face. Gale closes his eyes, but allows Lucius to move him when he brings his other hand to turn his head, bringing the cool, soft rag across his cheek, his nose, his chin and his temple. The process is automatic, for which Lucius is grateful for. In the Open Hand Temple, they’d sometimes take in the sick who needed help, and as one of the adorned who worked with the medicines, Lucius was often tasked with caring for them. The feverish, the elderly, all those who needed someone to care for them but were utterly alone. That’s what the Ilmatari are for. To help bear those burdens for those who couldn’t carry it. They take their places on the rack and bear it for them, for no one should suffer if they don’t have to.

He refreshes the rag and refolds it, laying it horizontally across Gale’s forehead. He’s done it a hundred times before, sometimes for faces that he often forgot, and for the faces who only had the Temple to go to. And though muscle memory shields Lucius from any strong feelings, he finds himself resting his hand over the rag, lost in observing Gale’s features up close. There’s no denying he’s a beautiful man, no matter how many times Lucius tries to convince himself otherwise. Soft brows, hooded eyelids, long lashes, laugh lines, a well kept beard, and those dark veins at Gale’s left eye that connected to his Netherese scar — he has to catch himself lest he linger for too long watching over him tenderly. It’s not appropriate.

“There we are,” He says, clearing his throat and patting the rag on his forehead before moving to the other side of the tent. “That should help you cool down. Let me see if there was any tea I salvaged. A good cup of tea ought to do you some good. Tea usually helps. Tea’s good.”

He can hear Gale huff with amusement. That’s good. He’s coming back to himself somewhat. He rummages through his inventory, trying not to bang all the pots and pans he’s found around in their travels, and finally manages to find some flowers he knows in his heart to have medicinal properties.

“I don’t have sugar on me. And I ate the last of my honey yesterday, so you’re going to have a bitter brew,” Lucius says out loud while he tries to arrange the shittiest set up of a teapot to boil without a stove or proper bonfire to boil at. He sets a wide copper pan missing its handle upside down on his table, a miniature brazier frame atop of it, and the dinked up teapot he’d salvaged on top. Water incantation fills it, and he flicks his fingers to try and light the brazier.

“Are… Are you starting a fire inside your tent?”

“Hm? Oh, no, not at all.”

“It very much looks like a homemade stove there.”

“Yes, but it’s not fire,” He pokes a finger onto the piece of charcoal laid in the metal frame. “Incende. Sacred flame cantrip — I was never good at the fire one.”

“Still technically fire.”

The made up stove lights up. “It’s sacred flame. Radiant. It’s different.”

“You’re using it to ignite something. It’s fire now.”

“But it’s holy fire.”

“Fire regardless.”

“I’m not going to burn this down, I’ve done this before,” Lucius says with a laugh, settling back onto his haunches to open the box he’d pulled out. “And even if I do, I have a water spell on hand. I’m glad I took the time to learn it. Never needed to use it so often than when I got stuck out here.”

“Oh, I hear that,” Gale huffs, wincing again as the Orb seems to coil him with pain. When he speaks again, it’s with significant strain. “I’ve gone through a handful of spells in my day I took for granted. Up until the moment I needed them.”

“That’s always how it goes, isn’t it.”

He crab-walks towards Gale, dragging the box with him. Gale cranes his head up, the rag covering his brows to create the illusion of an angry look on his face. “What are you doing?”

“You know, when you first told me about your whole uh, condition thing,” Lucius says, sticking his hand into the box and clattering all the various objects inside. “I actually went through the effort of hoarding all sorts of magical items that I could find.”

Gale’s expression softens. “Oh! That’s… very appreciated.”

“I mean I got a lot, Gale.” Lucius holds Gale’s gaze as he knocks the box over, spilling all of the items on the floor. A shortbow, daggers with various runic inscriptions, a dozen rings, a handful of necklaces that have tangled into each other, several maces, an axe, some crumpled scrolls, two pairs of gloves, a helmet that belonged to a halfling once upon a time, and other trinkets covered by the mess of items. Gale watches as all of the objects pour out and onto the floor, staring at it wordlessly, then back up at Lucius, then back to the pile.

“When did you… H-How did you… Where did…”

“This might sound hard to believe,” Lucius says, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I used to be a… pickpocket, back in the day. There were just too many useful magical stuff we were finding and not very much I was able to spare, and it was scaring me. So, whenever we got to some higher crowds, I… went ahead and relieved some of them of their excess weight.”

Gale stares at the pile. “That is a lot of stuff.”

“I wasn’t about to let you starve.”

There’s a moment of silence while the two of them watched each other. Lucius can feel the distance between them — they were still strangers to each other for the most part, even if Lucius had suddenly found himself with an inexplicable infatuation for the wizard. He has no doubt he’s put Gale in an awkward position, having whisked him away bridal style into his tent while his ailment ate away at him, leaving him at his most vulnerable. He won’t pretend to understand Gale’s life story, or how this condition has treated him, or what he’s normally used to under those circumstances. He just knows that he can do what he can to ensure he can lift that burden in any way, and he wants Gale to know that he’s willing to do so.

And from that look on his face, perhaps Gale wasn’t expecting that Lucius would at all.

He tries not to feel anything about that. He hasn’t given many reasons for the camp to like him much, and that’s fine. But he’s willing to go through the effort for them. He’s not sure anyone has fully realized it just yet.

Gale’s expression drops to one more solemn, and Lucius feels his heart sink with it. “I don’t even know if this will work.”

“Will you at least try? I know you said it’s not sating the hunger anymore, but… maybe the doses were too small. Maybe you need a big go all at once. It’s… like a neverending maw, isn’t it? One ring a week can’t keep you going forever.”

Gale presses his lips together. “Are you sure you don’t want to keep some of it? It just… it all looks so valuable, Lucius, I —”

“Quit looking for excuses and let me help you damn it!” Lucius snaps, louder than he expects. It shuts Gale right up, sure, but the last thing he wanted to do was raise his voice at this man. He rubs his face, dropping into a proper seat on the floor. “Look… I told you. I set this stuff aside for you specifically. I hid this from everyone else for a reason. You think Astarion and Shadowheart wouldn’t go crazy for some of this stuff? I left it out of the inventory logs. What I gave you to help before came from this pile. Except the first one, of course, as you kind of caught me off guard — but still.”

Lucius doesn’t want to make assumptions about this man. He would think it’d be a little easier for a man of his caliber to understand and accept gifts. He pressed the urgency for having something to sate him, but now he wants to back off? Why can’t he just let him? And why can’t Lucius just let it go?

Why is it filling him with such a deep, profound sadness that Gale is hesitating?

Gale sits up, slow in his movements and carefully pulling his hand off his chest, as if doing it too fast would cause something to spill violently, the other taking the rag off his head. Up into a criss cross, he slouches dejectedly, staring at the vaguely glowing pile of goods.

“I appreciate it, Lucius, please don’t mistaken me,” Gale says softly, rubbing a hand down his face. “It’s just… I don’t know. It hurts sometimes. Not just… physically. I’m a wizard, Lucius, I command control over the Weave. I dedicate my life to studying it. It was more than just my everything. My very being, intertwined with me, at my fingertips. Even Mystra herself, the mother of magic, had caressed me once with such divine power — and now I’m…”

The Orb glows under his shirt, and he grinds his teeth as it gnaws on him from the inside out. Lucius can almost feel it. That dark, radiating magnetic power — subtle enough that Lucius could ignore it if he didn’t know what he was looking for, but strong enough that if he does, he can feel the pull of it towards Gale’s chest. It seethes and it burns and claws and chews. He can see how it’s left bruises over his skin.

“I know I brought this on myself. It’s the consequences of my own actions, my own hubris, but it doesn’t make the burden any lighter. The Orb… all it does is consume. It takes, and it takes from me. Magic is my lifeblood, and now I’m doomed to spend the rest of my life destroying it, lest it kill me and bring catastrophe to everything and everyone else unfortunate enough to be nearby.”

He takes a deep breath, exhaling it slowly. Trying to keep control. Lucius lets the silence balance, lest he knock something over with words.

“These are all very nice things, Lucius. I just… I hate that this is what it’s made of me. To consume and destroy the Weave. Magic that is my world. So many powerful and valuable items intertwined with it in this world that I’ve destroyed because I took something too far. I can’t help but feel that I am robbing you of so much utility for something I can no longer sate…”

Lucius casts his gaze back to the pile. Sure, there were some things in there he could find use for. He had already plucked some things out of the box a couple times when he realized he could make use of some of the rings and such in there, but… for the most part, Lucius felt no attachment to them. He knew when he lifted these items that they were going to be destroyed, and it was a sacrifice he was willing to make. 

He decides to be a little brave and moves to sit beside Gale, close enough that their arms touch, catching his gaze. Gale makes considerable effort to focus on him, and though he’s more conscious now, it’s clear it’s taking every ounce of energy he’s got into this conversation.

“Gale, I literally let a highly suspicious vampire feed on my literal blood on the regular to sate him.”

Gale can’t help but honk a laugh at that, shaking his head.

“Look at me, Gale, I’m serious! It sounds funny, mostly because it is, but this is where I’m coming from. You think someone who’s letting in a spawn walk around the camp — and let us not forget, I am a cleric here — that I’m going to just call you, a chronically ill wizard, a burden?”

“Now, to be fair, I am quite literally a walking bomb —”

“Everyone here has some weird shit going on!” Lucius says. “Sure, not everyone’s about to blow up, but you think you’re the only one with baggage? The only one here who isn’t worth saving? A vampire spawn. A Sharran cleric. Noah being Noah. Infernal engine lady. A githyanki warrior — well, her deal is more a culture shock than anything but I won’t digress, ‘cause listen, I thought at least Wyll was the normal one here, and then it turns out he’s a fucking warlock!”

On the tip of his tongue, the precipice of his mind, Lucius imagines for one wild moment that he spills his own story to Gale. That he admits the kind of person that he was — still is, even. That he’s only been a cleric for two years, that he spent decades in prison prior to that, several more decades as a slave before that, and centuries being the absolute worst, rotten filth in Faerûn with the Lockjaw Gang. The blood of hundreds, mostly innocent, stains his hands always and forever. He still remembers the feeling of his hand around a dagger, blades plunged into flesh just for the thrill of it. How he’d first begun robbing for money and stability to live, and then became so good at it he just did it because it was fun. A horrific, terrifying menace, Lord Skorn, so awful that there had once been rumors that he was a Bhaalist —

But he doesn’t say any of it. And he knows Gale won’t ask. As far as anyone knew, he used to be a rogue, served time for being one, and found Ilmater when he came out. It’s good enough. No one needs to know. His scars and his tattoos speak for themselves.

“Besides,” Lucius continues, bumping his shoulder. “You’ll hurt my feelings if you don’t accept this. I got all of this for you, Gale. If you let it go to waste, I will be mad. Is that good enough for you?”

Gale looks at him, taking a moment longer than normal to process his words before scoffing, shaking his head. “Fine. So be it. I suppose you’re right. All this effort just to go to waste…”

“Exactly. Now, come on. I can’t stand to see you like this. You have to at least try.”

Gale takes a deep breath, staring down at the pile of magical items. Lucius plucks the rag out of his hands and scoots to give him some space. It takes the wizard a moment to find his bearings, and he watches his expression change as he drops his hands on top of the pile. Hunger. A ravenous, desperate, wild look, one Lucius had only seen on the most spurned of men who’d never been spared a moment of kindness or earned enough gold to live. The look of a starved wolf, manic over the bones of a long since picked at carcass, desperate to find even a modicum of flesh still left on the kill. The look Lucius had seen in his own eyes, his own reflection as a child when winter came, and neither he or his father were able to secure enough food before getting stuck in the snow. The look in his eyes the day he decided to cut his father’s own throat out —

Here comes the glow. Each of the items light up in a vivid violet, illuminating the tent with its brightness as they begin to pull like magnets towards Gale’s hands. Lucius had watched him consume these kinds of items before, but never this many. Never more than one at most. It was always fascinating to watch the ring or pair of gloves or mace disintegrate into Gale’s hands and feed into his chest, but this, oh, this was different. This, Lucius feels, shows him a better glimpse on the extent of the hunger, the raw, visceral, chaotic magic that plagues the wizard. It has never glowed this bright before, rattled and tangled and crumpled in on itself on its way to Gale’s hands, leaving fettering trails of flaky purple dust and an electric sting to the air. The magic funnels through and around Gale, siphoning into the center of his chest with a vacuum of sound. Sitting this close, he can almost feel the pull of the Orb, and finds himself leaning back out of sheer instinct as the items disintegrate.

He doesn’t want to call it beautiful, because it feels like a cruel thing to say to such a sight. It’s a horrible thing, this Orb and its hunger. What it does to Gale. But it’s an awe inspiring sight. The magic paints the tent in a violet hue, and he can almost taste it in the air, potent and raw as it breaks and breaks and breaks towards Gale. One by one, each item loses its form and becomes nothing. The tangled necklaces become one, and then become none. The rings lose their shape and become dust. Weapons that have likely slain many forgotten faces in the past are rendered useless. Fodder. Consumed.

Perhaps Lucius had simply always found beauty in destruction. 

Perhaps that’s what made Lucius an unforgivable man.

Eventually, the pile is rendered to nothing. Just a light trail of pink smoke to ever hint that anything existed at all. Gale still swells with magic, his hands pressed tightly over his sternum as if to cram all of it into the Orb and keep it there. His expression is screwed tight with pain, and Lucius wishes he could alleviate it, wishes he could reach out and smooth out those creases with his thumb and hold him close.

(How much longer can he pretend that these kinds of thoughts are platonic? How many times can he tell himself that it’s simply because he is Ilmatari that he feels things like this? It is his duty to bear these burdens, yes, but such feelings of care never did come naturally to Lucius. It has always been an active effort to bring himself to care about anything or anyone. Why it comes so easily when with Gale… well, how can he keep pretending there isn’t merit to these thoughts?)

The Orb releases him, and Gale slumps, the tension loose from his body after the effort it took. It startles Lucius so much that he immediately has his hands to catch him before he can fully understand what was going on. Did it hurt? Did he faint? Did it work?

“Gale, hey hey, are you okay?”

Gale trembles in his hold, and after a moment, he turns, suddenly burying himself into Lucius’ chest. Lucius freezes, unsure what to do or where to move. Gale is warm. He’s a comfortable weight, and he fits so nicely in his arms. He fell into his arms — he is seeking him out.

But he’s shaking.

Lucius rests his hands on Gale’s back tentatively, feeling Gale cling onto Lucius’ shirt. Lucius prays that it’s relief that Gale feels, that he’s simply overwhelmed with it and overjoyed with it, but he knows in the pit of his gut that it’s probably not true.

He asks anyways, in case the gods decided to grant them mercy.

“Did it work?”

His voice is a whisper. 

Gale takes a sharp breath. He’s crying.

“No.”

Lucius closes his eyes, feeling his chest twist at the confirmation. He was sure. He was so, so sure this would work… 

He wraps his arms around Gale tight, pulling him in close, and Gale throws his arms around Lucius just as tight in turn, clinging onto him. His cries are quiet, composed mostly of sharp breaths. A despair Lucius can only imagine. The pit of his gut churns with frustration at how helpless he is to the situation. Lucius rocks gently in the embrace, resting his chin atop Gale’s head and staying silent, letting him take all the time he needs to gather himself. Or to fall apart. If Gale needed to shatter, Lucius would be here to piece him together if he had to. 

Either way, Gale won’t be alone. He’ll be here. He’ll hold onto him.

He doesn’t know how long they stay here like this, but eventually, Gale does manage to settle his breaths and find the strength to pull away. He doesn’t look up at Lucius, though he can see how disheveled his hair has become and the puffiness in his eyes from the emotion. Lucius wordlessly hands him the wet rag, and Gale accepts it, wiping his face.

Silence hangs between him. Lucius wonders if that distance between them has grown any shorter than when he last felt it earlier, or if it’s become a chasm now with the raw wound on his pride.

Gale unfolds the rag, draping the entirety of it against his face, covering him completely as he keeps it pressed against his eyes. After a moment longer, Gale clears his throat, intending on gathering his bearings as quickly as possible.

“... You should check on your fire hazard.”

“My wh—”

Ah. The shitty teapot on his shitty made up stove.

“Martyred Father…”

Lucius springs up in a hurry, nearly tripping over the box he discarded and extinguishes the heat with a cantrip. The water has since boiled, some of it evaporated with the time that’s passed. He retrieves one of his chipped mugs, placing the flowers and herbs into it before pouring the hot water in. In a perfect world, he’d have some cinnamon, perhaps some cream. Some sugars and some honey. A nice, new mug with different painted decals, one that wasn’t chipped. And he’d have a real stove, a real bed, running water and a fire in a fireplace. He’d make all of this look nicer, taste nicer, feel nicer, and they’d be comfortable.

But instead, it’s their salvaged resources out in the wilds, a sewed up tent, parasites in their skulls and a ticking time bomb in a man that’s slowly convincing Lucius that there may just be some merit in the stories people tell about falling in love.

He hopes that making the tea is giving Gale enough time to recover, enough distance to patch himself up from the vulnerability he’s just exposed to Lucius. He knows keenly what this moment was, and he knows that it’ll be raw for a while. He won’t poke it. He won’t push him further than he has to. This is sacred, and this is important. He will hold it in the cup of his hands gently and take care of the trust Gale has given him in this moment, and he will simply do what he can to help him without wounding him.

Sure enough, by the time Lucius returns with the mug, Gale has laid back down, the rag folded now over his eyes and brow, and his hands clasped together over his belly. His breathing was more even, and he was more collected than he left him.

“It’ll take a few minutes for all the flowers and stuff to seep in the water,” Lucius says, mostly to announce his presence as he sits back down beside Gale. “Water’s still clear. Needs a sec before it gets that nice amber color. Wish I had sugar.”

“You’ve been sweet enough to me already,” Gale says quietly, though not moving from his position. “That’ll be enough to get me through the tea.”

Lucius huffs with amusement. His gaze can’t help but travel to the markings on Gale’s chest. The Orb doesn’t feel nearly as unstable as it did earlier, but it was still glowing, still etching into the wizard’s skin. 

He decides to ask the delicate question. “How are you feeling?”

Gale takes one long, slow deep breath. “Admittedly, better. The pain is… somewhat duller, but still…” He shrugs. “... still pain. That amount of magic should’ve held me off for at least a month. Now it just…”

He scowls. Lucius can already imagine the types of things he’s readying up to say. Apologetic and avoiding the subject of how he actually feels.

So Lucius answers. “It’s still hungry.”

Gale sighs. “Yes. Very much so.”

Lucius sets the mug aside, rubbing his hands together in thought. The fact that there was relief gained was good. It meant he could treat it somewhat, but getting a hold of that many magical items again just for a temporary amount of relief was going to be difficult to maintain. Gale says it comes in waves, so it won’t always be this bad, but it also means that he’s in constant pain. 

The thought twists something in his gut. There were a few moments recently during various combative encounters that Gale wasn’t able to focus on his spells completely. His missteps cost Lucius and Wyll a great deal of trouble with the goblins, and were it not for Shadowheart, they’d have seen a greater deal of blood on their end. He feels guilty for not noticing it before. Every moment he’s had with Gale where he seemed off was recontextualized now, and by the Rack it ached to think about. 

There had to be something he could do. Anything. A steady stream of magic to at least take the edge off, and at least provide him some relief so he’s not panting in the woods at the dead of night.

Lucius looks down at his hands. An idea brews in his mind.

“The magic helped a little though, didn’t it?” Lucius asks. “You’re at least not falling apart at the seams anymore.”

“It’s definitely helped me feel… present,” Gale says. “I… still feel like it’s going to start eating me alive at any second if I move the wrong way.”

“Do you mind if I try something else?”

Gale turns his head a little, carefully raising a hand to peek out from the rag. “Don’t tell me you have another box full of stolen items.”

“Haha, not magical ones,” Lucius says, scooting over to sit closer to Gale. He holds up a hand, feeling divinity flow through his fingertips. “I… have a theory I’d like to try. I think at this point anything is worth a shot, right?”

Gale squints at him, his gaze flickering between him and his glowing hand. There’s a quirk of his lips. “Are you putting me down?”

“Yes, actually, that was exactly what I was about to do, you caught me,” He waves his hand around. “No, Gale. You need to consume magic, don’t you?”

“The Weave, yes…”

“Well… I don’t really control the Weave like you do. Actually, I’m not sure if what I control counts as the Weave — but what I do know is this,” Lucius brings his hand closer to Gale, still tentative, and holding it so Gale can push it away no problem if he doesn't want any part. “The magic I wield is given to me by my god. Ilmater, the One Who Endures — He preaches that we must take on the burdens of others so they do not have to suffer. What’s a more noble cause for Ilmater to intervene in than to call for His power to alleviate this ailment of yours?”

Gale scrunches his brows in thought, his eyes flickering away as he tries to run the theory over in his mind. “... I can’t say I’ve tried feeding off of the magic of holy items or the equivalent thereof - though, that is mostly because I’ve not come across any of them in my tower, nor a cleric to boot. In theory, I don’t think the Orb will respond to it — you and I wield very different magics. I, of the Art, and you, of the Power — but again, I haven’t tested it. It’s… Hmm, it could be an alternative source…” His gaze flicks back to Lucius. “But… won’t it exhaust you? I don’t know how much it will need to take. It’s one thing for me to take your material things, but an entirely different thing to take from you directly.”

“Oh holy Martyred Father — Gale what did I just say? Cleric. Of. Ilmater. I let a fucking vampire take from me. Stop stopping me, damn you.”

“I’m just —”

“Stop it. Seriously!” Lucius huffs. “If you don’t want to try it because the magics don’t mix or for some other hypothetical reason that puts you on edge, that’s perfectly fine. But if you’re refusing it because you think I’m going to lose something from it or whatever, please don’t. I’m telling you right now I want to help you, and through the power vested in me by the God of Endurance, I assure you I could absolutely fucking handle it.”

Gale lets out a puff of air, looking up in thought. The Orb still glows, painfully so, and Lucius can see him running through all sorts of ideas in his head.

Finally, the wizard seems to settle, leveling his gaze back to Lucius. “... Fine. I have to admit, I am rather curious what sorts of effects divine magic will have on me.”

“There we go, there’s the nerd in you.”

“You caught me. I am always a sucker for testing theories.”

“If it doesn’t work or has a worse effect, we can stop and save the trouble, if that makes you feel better.”

“That sounds good to me.” Gale sits up, pointing a daunting finger at Lucius. “But you have to promise me that if at any point during this you experience a significant amount of pain, you must stop.”

“If it stings a little, I can bear through it man —”

“You must promise me that, Lucius Skorn. If it feels like this Orb is a threat to your life and safety, you will stop.”

Lucius tilts his head a few times in thought. “Alright. Fine.”

“Promise?”

“I swear it on my Lord.”

“Thank you.” Gale settles back down, staring straight at the tent’s ceiling ahead. “Your God is watching you, so I do hope you keep to your word.”

“Har har.”

A buzz of excitement flows through him. If this works, then they’ve found a solution to hold them off enough until they can find another alternative. Just kneeling before Gale, preparing to use the powers given to him feels holy in and of itself. Though Lucius’ connection with Ilmater has been somewhat hazy these days, his magic still flows strong, and he swears it feels even stronger as he summons divinity through his veins here. 

Lucius rests his hand over the Orb in Gale’s chest, light to the touch before fully committing. In his mind, he calls out to Ilmater, seeking a pathway to that holy power, hoping to tap into the very vein of it and channel it in one go. “Ilmater, the Tortured God, the God of Endurance, holy Martyred Father on the Rack — grant me your power to bear this burden. Give me the strength to carry it on my shoulders, offer me your divinity to alleviate my friend. Allow me, Ilmater, to take his place on the rack.”

Gale closes his eyes, and Lucius follows. There’s a moment of fear that flickers through him. What if Ilmater doesn’t respond? What if he calls out for his power and nothing happens? What if he just made a fool of himself here, and has nothing to show for?

Cruel, cruel thoughts. Purge them, cleric, and open yourself. Self doubt will get you nowhere. Bear this burden, Lucius.

The power runs through him like a shock of cold water dumped on him all at once. It crashes through his heart and travels through his veins, overflowing through his fingertips in a flurry. The Orb glows viciously, and he feels the magnetism of it pull his hand closer against Gale’s chest, pressing against him with far too much pressure. He can barely move the hand — he plants his free one on the bedroll beside Gale to keep balanced, and feels Gale immediately snap to clutch it tightly. Gale writhes with the power that flows, the glow reaching to the veins of his eye as divinity spills from Lucius’ hand into him.

Lucius has to grit his teeth to stay rooted and keep control over the sudden power coursing through him. “Is it working?!”

Gale can barely respond. His other hand has gripped Lucius’ wrist as it funnels the power, and he’s kicked his knees up to dig his heels into the bedroll, his breath caught in his throat. It makes Lucius run cold with fear, but when he begins to pull the magic away from him, Gale only pulls his arm in.

“I’m okay,” He hisses through grit teeth. “It’s… It’s doing something. Don’t stop.”

Lucius nods, and lets the magic continue to flow. The Orb has begun to shift in hue, the violets and blues changing to that of the golden oranges and yellows that Lucius funnels into him. Gale’s grip is tight against him, clawing through his sleeves and digging into his skin hard enough to leave bruises. Lucius grinds his teeth as he tries to keep his balance. He’d witnessed the hunger itself only once before when Gale had him place his hand over his heart and project the memory of the Orb through their tadpoles. But being on the other end of it, feeling an incorporeal force latch onto him and try to tear him away, all teeth and jaws and a bottomless pit of a stomach, oh, it does scare him. Every time the Orb pulls and licks at skin that his holy magic didn’t cover, it fills him with an overwhelming visceral fear, a force so strong that Lucius wonders if it’s even his at all.

The Orb pulses. Waves of magnetism shake both of the men, throttling them and pulling them into its center, knocking Lucius off balance and nearly collapsing on Gale. He remembers being told that the Orb will erupt. That just a fraction of this power is enough to level a city the size of Waterdeep. He aggravates it now with his magic, feeding it something other than the Weave, this hungry thing. It pulls and pulls, and Lucius can’t move his arm. He might be damning them. He might just kill them both, kill everyone in this camp. He might just ruin everything, ruin everyone, ruin it all.

But the divine magic is a fount he can’t stop, a waterfall that pours and pours into a maw that takes and takes. Could he possibly hope to feed it all? To satisfy it enough? How does one feed that which never stops hungering?

(How do you feed yourself, when you yearn and ache and writhe with hunger that you can’t seem to kick? When you travel the world after seeing bars and chains for years, and look for something, anything that can feed you? Can a soul ever be nourished? Can a curse ever be cured? Could the starving ever be full?)

Gale pants, throwing his head back. His breaths are uneven, and the magic seems to render him speechless. How far do they go? Is Gale present enough to figure out when they should stop? Is Lucius sane enough to let go even if it becomes too much? The force of it takes the strength out of Lucius, and he finds himself hunched over Gale, bracing his weight on his forearm on the ground and his head dropped onto Gale’s shoulder while the magic pours. Gale’s back arches, pressing further into the magic, hand still tightly wrapped around Lucius’ wrist. Like magnets they cling to each other, every ounce of their beings and the powers that claim them tangle them together, choking the breaths out of them.

It’s almost addicting, the way it feels. Like two pieces that fit together perfectly, however destructive. But Lucius always did find beauty in destruction, didn’t he?

Just when he thinks it’s becoming too much, he starts to feel the force weaken, as if the Orb was starting to release its jaws off of Lucius. Gale no longer writhes as violently, resting back onto the bedroll flat, his grip on loosening. Even the fountain of power gifted to Lucius begins to pull back, as if it too had begun to sense that it was ending. The golden glow of the Orb against Gale’s skin starts to shimmer and dim, no longer violent and uncontrolled. A burden slowly relieved, slowly lifted. 

Though the power begins to dissipate from them, Lucius still feels his hand stuck to his chest. The last bit of holy power drains from him, and he starts to feel the world spin around him. His mouth is dry, and he’s starting to wonder when the last time he breathed was. His knees slide out, leaving him practically laying on his side with his hand still stuck, his elbow bent high in the air as the last ribbons of gold flutter through. It seems like Gale’s not in pain anymore. That’s good. That’s very good. He’s not sure what he would do if after all of this, there was still nothing to be gained.

Everything flickers. Lucius blinks hard. It becomes difficult to tell whether he’s stopped channeling the magic or not.

A bit of humor washes over him. It feels funnily similar to nights that Astarion drinks a little too much from him.

Gale's hands wrap around his wrist, gentler now, and in one swift motion, he plucks Lucius’ hand off of his chest, severing the connection completely. Golden flakes of dust flutter away from his fingertips as the magic stops, and the Orb finally quiets. The relief wipes Lucius out instantly, all the tension in his body uncoiling and dropping next to Gale, not a thought spared to how he’s buried in the crook of his neck and laying atop his arm, hand flopping back onto his chest. The silence almost hurts his ears, making the sounds of both of their heavy breaths all the louder than it has any right being.

Neither of them make any effort to move, no doubt fully drained by everything the impromptu ritual put them through. It’s only when both of their breaths start to even out that Lucius cracks his voice to speak.

“Did it… work?”

Gale lets out a long, shaky breath. “It’s… To give you a short answer and save us both the time, yes. I think it did.”

Lucius closes his eyes, a swell of relief and pride washing over him. With it, he feels a warmth — whether that is from the absolute incurable affection he bears for the wizard, or the fulfillment of his holy duty to bear the wizard’s burden, he cannot tell. “God, I’m so fucking glad to hear that.”

“I… have never felt anything like that…” Gale says, his voice tired. “I didn’t think it was going to work, but… it was enough to satisfy it, I think. Between the… magical stuff you gave me and this… Gods, my eyes are heavy.”

“Same…” Lucius makes a move to shift away from him, but can’t seem to make it far. “We should… get you back to your tent so you can sleep this off.”

“A sound plan.”

Neither of them move. The last cognitive thought in Lucius’ mind is remembering the mug of tea he’d made, and he forgets the rest of everything else.

--

This was a life lived on the precipice of peril.

Four centuries as the hunter and the hunted. From the delicate youth of a fawn to the wolf whose maw it was made for, to a broken dog leashed by its masters and starved — Lucius learned well not to sleep through anything. 

In rest is vulnerability.

In rest, there is the potential to lose everything.

This was one of the first lessons Lucius learned and carried with him for centuries. 

Don’t sleep in the unfamiliar. Keep one eye open. Leap to action at any and every sound, never be caught off guard, always have a blade in hand, never sleep in, always be ready, always be sharp —

And yet…

Lucius sleeps in.

It’s a rest he hasn’t gotten in years. Perhaps never. Between his childhood, the life in the Lockjaws, running for his life in the Underdark or in prison, he’s never slept in. Never found himself comfortable. Never found himself so lost like he is now atop this warm pillow, floating soundly, dozing delightfully.

Peace. 

Is this what it’s like?

He should be awake. Instincts scream at him to wake up and get up and assess the environment and see what he’s got, get ready for the day, check on the others, get breakfast started — but they float away, carried by the river of exhaustion, ferried away to be someone else’s problems. Down, down, down…

He shifts, and sunlight dares impede his darkened vision with dapples of light. He buries himself further into the pillow, hoping to chase away the dance of consciousness. Not yet, he thinks. Not yet, not yet. Not when he’s so cozy. Not when for the first time in his life, he’s been able to just cuddle up and rest. Not when this purple pillow is doing everything to —

Lucius’ eyes snap wide open. He doesn’t own any purple pillows.

Reality dawns on him as he slowly, slowly raises his head. One moment, two moments and three, his heart pounds and echoes in his ears faster than a pulse beneath him, and horror begins to take root in the pit of his chest. His hair sticks out from every which way, clinging to his mouth as he peels away from what is very much not a pillow, and is very much a highly specific wizard from Waterdeep sleeping peacefully on his bedroll.

Gale never did make it out of his tent.

The horror continues to pile on. Their legs had tangled themselves together, Lucius’ hand stayed on his chest, and Gale had an arm thrown around his side, a comfortable position their sleeping forms must have found themselves in during the night.

They slept together.

Innocently, yes, sure, but they slept together.

This is too close. Too intimate. It wasn’t like that, surely — it was an accident. He didn’t mean to. He shouldn’t be here. Shit, shit, this shouldn’t have happened.

His face runs hot, and he’s frozen, fear rooting him in place with a quickened breath. He can’t tear his eyes away from the sight just beneath him. Gale’s hair had become a mess, splayed out over the bedroll in such a way that tugs at Lucius’ gut with affection. His face, which had been so contorted in pain not so long ago now rests peacefully, absent of that horrible despair and twisted curse, almost appearing younger with his features at rest. His brows don’t furrow and fold, his eyes closed gently and resting the skin — Lucius follows the trail of those darkened veins down his neck and to his chest. The skin was bruised all around where the Orb marks him, and Lucius gets the horrible, horrible thought that he wishes he could kiss it better. 

That ache pulls at his gut, at his heart and even his throat, this longing to kiss Gale, to follow the trail up his neck and to his cheek and kiss him awake. The ache that they could wake up like this without a problem, without it being weird, without it being some kind of situationship that Lucius would often find himself in. He aches, he aches, he aches —

Gale starts to stir. All of the alarms in Lucius’ head ring and blare, his pulse pounding in his ears. Move, move Lucius! Move, damn you! Do something, quick! How many seconds are passing? Think, damn you! Get up!

Those beautiful brown eyes — knock that off! — flutter open, blinking the sleep away and come into focus. The hand still around Lucius moves and then halts suddenly, his eyes locking with Lucius. He can practically see the cogs in his head turning with thought, booting up and bringing him to full cognition.

It’s over.

With all the grace of a startled cat, Lucius scrambles off of Gale, pushing himself up and away with haste. Gale backs away just as fast, though seemingly more in response to Lucius than anything else. Lucius’ back crashes into something, a quick burst of pain blooming and hisses, pulling his knees into his chest to rub at the spot. Damn it all.

“Are you quite alright?”

“No — Yes! Yep, I’m… fine…” Lucius fumbles, cursing his cheeks for still feeling hot with embarrassment. He feels as though he’s been caught in the act of something terrible, and all he wants to do is shrink away. “Um. Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Gale replies easily, a look of amusement to his features. Lucius tries not to focus on the color that paints the wizard’s cheeks, or the intense curiosity in his eyes that Gale rakes him with. “It appears I did not… make it back to my tent…”

“Mm…”

They stare at each other for another awkward moment longer, and then suddenly, everything about the situation just felt ridiculous. Gale’s hair is a wreck, Lucius has drool dried on his cheek, their clothes were wrinkled and pulled to the wrong corners, and they’d all but cuddled with each other in the night. All at once, the tension snaps, and the both of them burst out laughing, Lucius loud like a barking dog, and Gale with a squawk like a bird.

Lucius runs a hand down his face, pinching his nose and wiping his cheek. “I think I drooled on you.”

“That can’t be the worst thing that’s happened to me out here.”

“Gods. I hate it here.”

Gale chuckles, stretching his arms out with a yawn. “For what it’s worth, Lucius, that was the most rested sleep I’ve had in a while.”

“Man...”

It’s a shame to miss the warmth he had just moments ago. He tries not to linger on it. He tries not to think about it too hard.

There are several choice words that dance at the tip of the cleric’s tongue, but he does well to swallow them all down before he chokes.

“Well, that’s good at least,” Lucius finally lands on saying. “I uh. I hope all of that stuff helped?”

“That it did, my friend. I feel… revitalized today,” Gale says, a grin spreading across his face and a sigh of relief. “I think this is something I may have to write down. It raises so many questions about the nature of this Netherese magic inside of me. It has only ever fed on the Weave before, and theoretically, it should only feed on the Weave. That’s what it’s made of. Divine magic, the Power, is very much not Weave magic, and yet…”

Lucius can’t help but spare a look to his hand that casted the spell, startling somewhat when some of his veins seem to have retained a dim, golden glow. “The power of Ilmater, my friend. I told you so.”

“Well, it looks like I’ve got a mighty amount of thanks to give to the Broken God. Remind me to pass an offering to His shrine if we ever do make it to one of His temples.”

Lucius gives him a two-fingered salute. “I’ll hold you to it.”

Gale gives an amused huff, his attention shifting back down to his chest. He presses a hand to it tentatively, and the Orb glows dimly in return. “It’s… very strange, honestly. How all of that felt. The Orb rejected it at the beginning, as if it didn’t quite know what to do with it. By the time I felt it begin to consume… Ack, it’s so strange. I lack the vocabulary to define what it all felt like.”

Lucius rubs his chin in thought, crab-walking closer to Gale to seat himself criss cross. “Just say it badly. Don’t need to dress it all up. You can give it pretty words later.”

“Hah. Suppose I can.” Gale hums, idly chewing at his fingertips as he tries to find a phrasing he’s happy with. “Ah, I got it. I would imagine it as a proper diet. One should have enough balance in what you eat. Meats, vegetables, a healthy amount of grain and just a little bit of sweets — all the proteins and nutrients to sustain yourself, yes?”

Lucius nods along. “My greatest lament is our sad little diet out here.”

“Ha, as is mine. Now, the Orb requires proper sustenance. The Weave, in this case. You’ve given me a fraction of what it needs — but with the food analogy, you’ve given a starving man the quarter cut of a steak, but nothing more. It satisfies the hunger enough not to pang the stomach, yet still isn’t quite enough.” He gestures meticulously throughout his explanation, miming as if he’s cut the steak and served it, pointing to his own belly as he speaks. A very visualized man, Lucius thinks. “Now, nutritional sustenance will get you far. But not everyone eats well. In this case, I’ve been given an alternative. It’s like… hmm, I don’t want to say being on a vegetarian diet when one needs meat — it’s more like one has filled up on bread and butter as much as they could until they couldn’t eat another bite. You’re full, yes, but you’ve missed out on all the nutrients.”

“Are you calling my god’s power a serving of bread?”

“No no no, don’t take it too literal!”

Lucius barks a laugh. “Go on.”

Gale huffs. “What I mean to say is that the hunger is satisfied. I have filled up on enough to keep me going. I think after a while, if we were to, in theory, keep this up, it will eventually take a toll on me, but not eating is always worse than eating filler foods. It’s better to eat something than to starve.”

Lucius smiles, finding himself more than happy to hear the dissertation. “That’s good! That’s really good, actually.”

“Oh, most certainly! I must admit, I was starting to get… well, I was… starting to feel a little hopeless about the whole situation, but now…” Gale looks up at him, a glint in his eyes of awe and appreciation, a gaze that makes Lucius almost shrink back at the fondness within them. “I cannot possibly thank you for this gift you’ve given me, Lucius.”

Lucius waves a hand, rising to his feet. “It’s my duty, Gale. This is a fight we’re all in together. All I want to do is find a way to take care of all of you while we figure this hell out.”

Gale nods, rising as well. “Your efforts are noted and appreciated, good leader,” He says with a bow. “But now, I do have to ask you. Are you alright? You started to look weak after the whole thing, and considering how we’ve woken up this morning, you cannot deny that it took a lot out of you as well.”

“Well… I can’t say it’s every day that I call upon my god to grant me an intense amount of magic to feed my magically hungry friend…”

“True.” Gale raises that accusatory finger once more. “But you promised me that you would stop if it became too much.”

“I promised I’d stop if I was in pain.”

“And if it was going to compromise your safety.”

“My safety wasn’t that compromised.”

“See, there’s the trick of your words. It was compromised. Maybe at a miniscule level, but the promise was broken there.”

“In my defense! I was doing fine up until the very end. Which is when I… kind of lost it.”

“That’s what I didn’t want to happen Lucius —”

“Ah ah!” Lucius raises a finger at him now. “It was fine. I’m willing to do this again, but this time, I know what to expect. The hardest part was just handling how much raw magic Ilmater granted us. Once it ran out, it all… Well, I know when to let go now. Alright?”

Gale frowns at him, crossing his arms. Lucius purses his lips, and crosses his arms as well, staring at him.

“You promise?”

“Swear on my Lord.”

“Your Lord is watching.”

“I sure fucking hope He is. I’m His greatest little boy.”

Gale chuckles at that, shaking his head. “Very well. Thank you again, Lucius. It means more than you know. I don’t even know where I’d begin to repay you.”

You could kiss me, Lucius wishes he could say as a tease and feel nothing about it at all.

He claps a hand on his shoulder instead. “Just keep chucking spells, and we’re good. I don’t need that much but your company, your prowess, and a helping hand in our sorry little kitchen.”

Gale lifts his head with a little pride at that. “Then you will have me there to the best of my abilities.”

Lucius smiles fondly at him. Wherever did this crush start, he wonders? How did this infection spread and fester within his chest without him noticing? It’ll bring him down to ruin and rot if he’s not careful. He’ll collapse and wither and die if he can’t get a stop to this disease.

This churning in his chest… his heart does not normally stir, and when it did, it ended in blood. What about Mauve? What about Virena? Lessons they were to keep his heart anchored to this cage of bone.

But Gale smiles at him with a glint in his eye, and Lucius still feels the echo of his warmth upon his body. Where did it start? Could it be that shared moment of magic? When Gale confessed the horrors of the Orb? Or could it have been the very second Lucius pulled him from that stone?

The tremor in his hands makes itself known, and he has to bite down to keep from trembling. Curses to the body for reacting so dramatically, as if a human man could do anything to bring Lucius to true ruin. As if… As if…

Gale’s about to turn to leave. “I think I should get going. Wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome, after everything you’ve already done for me here.”

“No no!” The words tumble out of Lucius’ mouth before he can stop them. He swallows hard when Gale regards him with curious eyes, and Lucius has to follow up with something pertinent. He turns Gale, taking a look at the poor abused skin surrounding the Orb marred to his flesh. “I’m not letting you go like this.”

Gale drops his gaze down to his collarbone. “Ah. Yes, this was…”

“Very bad.” Lucius finishes. He calls upon his holy power once more, and the magic flows easily through him. Moreso, even, as if channeling raw power previously had made it easier for the spell to take root. He places his hand on Gale’s chest, letting the soothing magic flow through him in his incantation. Slowly, the violets and blues of bruised skin soften to reds and yellows, and soon, to none, golden magic caressing the sites of injury and tracing the Orb’s pattern on his skin. The Orb shimmers as Gale takes a breath, for a moment taking on a golden hue before settling back to its darkened, slumbered state.

“Oh!” Gale says, touching his chest as Lucius drops his hand. “Oh, that final piece of relief — I’d been so used to this I nearly forgot what it’s like to be without that pain…”

A pang of sadness hits Lucius. “My friend, please do not hesitate to come to me for healing.”

“You’ve given me more than I could possibly ask for.”

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do if you asked for it, Gale.”

Those words tumble out again, unfiltered, and Lucius schools his expression into something casual. The severity and weight of his words can’t reach Gale like this. Not like this. Gale’s cheeks color, and Lucius pointedly ignores it.

“You are far too kind to me, Lucius. I will treasure this.”

There’s a moment where both of them linger. Goodbyes are in place. They’re to meet again anyways when they convene at the fire pit and set out for adventure. They’re to get back to the road and back to business within the hour or two. They’ll see each other again, but still, they pause. Hesitant. As if something else should be filling this moment.

Lingering looks. Awkward hands. Perhaps Lucius should reach out. Perhaps Lucius should say something more. Perhaps Gale wants to say something else. It’s on the tip of his tongue, and the air is heavy, it’s thick and hazy and Lucius is drawn to it.

But the moment ends. No spark ignites the thick air, and Gale bows his head to the cleric.

“I’ll get started on breakfast,” he says.

“I’ll meet you there,” Lucius replies.

And Gale leaves.

Lucius waits until he’s certain Gale has gone long out after before dropping to the ground and letting out a long groan. He’ll never get over this, he’s certain. Not with the way his heart pounds against his chest. Why does it stir so much? Why does it make him fumble? Where did he go wrong? Where did he possibly go wrong?

He has to get ready. He has to clean up, fix his makeup, and behave like a proper, genuine, functioning person. He has to pretend this never happened, and remember who he is. He is Lucius Skorn, and he does not get crushes. He is Ilmatari. This is his solemn duty. This is his charge.

As he moves to get to his sponges and rags, his foot kicks something, splashing liquid all over the place. He stares at the ground, watching that chipped mug from the night before roll around on the ground uselessly, spilling its soggy flowers.

He forgot about the tea.

[bheartwrites]

“So you don’t… hate me?" 

The question comes from an exhausted, aged Arlin, weary and injured and resting on Chip’s hammock. Chip himself is worse for wear, hair disheveled, bandages around his torso — the rescue was not smooth, but it was successful. 

"Of course not, Arlin!”

Chip’s tone is incredulous. Why would he! My gods, why would Arlin ask? It’s clear in his bright eyes just how dedicated he was. “I’ve spent this whole time looking for you, ever since the Midnight Rose sank. I never stopped.”

These words are not comforting to Arlin.

He turns his head away from Chip. The ship is nice, for a young man like him. Damaged though; the young Tidestrider patched up the holes with ice as a temporary fix before they could find land again. And his crew… they’re a good lot. Ferin and Tidestrider. Who would’ve thought.

But all of them suffered injuries and damage. This wasn’t easy. And all for him?

Arlin couldn’t stop replaying that vision he had a decade ago. Of Chip, fully grown, running a dagger through him, hatred and resentment in his eyes.

He sees Chip now. There should be resentment.

“You shouldn’t have.”

Chip is dressed like him. He’s got his tattoos. He’s got the suspenders and the striped pants. He’s a walking copy of Arlin, he’s a pirate, and he never let go.

Chip looks hurt at the remark. “What? You guys are my family, of course I never stopped—”

“I ruined your life, kid!” Arlin says. “Look at you! I shouldn’t have done this to you. That was wrong of me. I’ve had time to think about it now, and…”

Before him is a child. He may be a man now, captaining a crew, but before him is a scrawny 19 year old, and it’s his fault.

“You should’ve been doing normal things, Chip.”

He doesn’t want to see the hurt in Chip’s eyes as he says this, as the emotion leaks through his own voice.

“You could’ve been safe, living a normal life, but I took that from you. It was selfish of me to take you.”

Chip shakes his head furiously. “No, no Arlin, you gave me a life! I wouldn’t be anywhere without you —”

“Chip! Chip isn’t even your name! I’m sorry kid. I’m sorry for what I’ve done to you. I should’ve never picked you up.”

He doesn’t understand how much that shatters him.

[bheartwrites]

Helloooo JRWI enjoyers, do you like fanfiction? Take a look, I’ve written some!!

your name is wavelength - PD, 2.9k words, Complete

poetry exploring Wavelength’s backstory and life experiences and becoming a villain

Destiny’s Default Settings - Riptide, 48k words, In Progress

The Riptide Pirates attempted to kill Niklaus and failed, and as a result, Niklaus placed a powerful spell on them, causing Jay and Gillion to lose their memories and ‘reset’, leaving Chip to scramble for a solution. Hurt no comfort. Angst. Happy ending confirmed though.

Before the Tides - Riptide, 14k words, Complete

The origin of how the three Riptide Captains came to meet each other. Each chapter is written in each of their POVs. Written before the official prequel.

—

Please check ‘em out! Reblogs appreciated, let me know what you guys think of these works! And follow me for more, I have three new PD fics in the works that I’ve been pouring a LOT of energy in that should be slowly releasing within a few months !!

[bheartwrites]

by BoilingHeart

‘How To Fall In Love’ — an easy guide complete with nine steps by Spymaster Shaw in the art of romance, specifically, pertaining to one Captain Flynn Fairwind.

Step 1: Don’t.

Words: 959, Chapters: 1/9, Language: English

Fandoms: World of Warcraft

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Mathias Shaw, Flynn Fairwind

Relationships: Flynn Fairwind/Mathias Shaw

Additional Tags: mathias slowly falling in love with flynn and hating every second of it, mathias coming to terms with it tho!, not actually a real guide but more just a walkthrough in how mathias figures out he has Feelings

[bheartwrites]

i’m so angry because i’m sitting here, trying to finish writing some stuff for the fairshaw holiday week since i’m finally off work and got the time to do so, and what does my brain decide to do? 

come up with a COMPLETELY unrelated fairshaw fic idea. which i……. wrote instead………

[bheartwrites]

High Priest Neo’la Sunblade’s Day of the Dead Speech

( For those who missed Neo’la’s speech at the event, here’s the transcript. I want to thank everyone for coming, I hope you all had fun! )

     “It’s safe to assume none of us are a stranger to the hardships of war, of loss and suffering. This world, as we all know, is capable of cruelty. War knocks on our door every year, and it takes, and takes.

     My people are no stranger to the loss. It still feels so recent, when Prince Arthas went on his mad quest, ravaging our lands and desecrating our Sunwell. We lost generations. Hundreds, thousands, all perished beneath the heel of his boot. Quel’thalas blighted, the streets emptied.

     We were devastated. Silvermoon had never been the same. Our city, once lively and filled with the bustling noise of the city and the people, was now silent. Even after our ventures since, after joining the Horde and others, it’s still painfully quiet. Every day is a reminder of those we’ve lost.

     We changed. We renamed ourselves the ‘Blood Elves’, in honor of those we lost. Red now symbolized the blood of the fallen, we rebuilt ourselves, we held our head high — it became our duty to stay strong.

     An estimated ninety-percent of us were wiped. My son among them. Some were even raised in servitude of the Lich King — my sister, among them. Our lives have not been easy.

     But it would not be healthy for us to wallow and stew in that loss. Like I said, we have to be strong. We continue fighting, continue our plight, our songs, for those who could no longer. We celebrate their lives, we continue their memory, we offer them love, we cherish them.

     It’s easy to forget, sometimes, just how delicate life is. 

     Some of us live longer, some of us live forever in relative immortality, some of us, not so much. 

     But with the snap of one’s fingers, all of that can be gone. Stolen away, regardless of who you are, what you’ve done.

     Take the time to be grateful for your life, for everything you have. Take a moment to remember those who once stood by you. Lament not on death, on the hurt and grief — focus instead on the gift we had of knowing them.

     Smile for them. Party for them. Explore, fight, venture for them! Grieve, yes, but celebrate. That is what this is about. So long as we live, even the dead, live with us. 

     Don’t take your life for granted. Know the beauty of life, hold it close. Hold your loved ones close. And never forget the fallen.

     Losing someone never gets easier, but…

     I drink, I dance, I sing, for my fallen people. For the fallen soldiers. For my son — they live with me. I encourage you all to do the same.

     Invoke their names, those you lost, those you miss. Say them out loud, or in your heart. Take a deep breath, and know, their memory lives with you.”

She cups her hands together, a small butterfly of Light conjuring in her hands. She whispers a name into it: “Erenor Suntreader, rest in peace, my son.” She lifts her hands, and lets it fly away.

In loving memory of Joseph Cui

[bheartwrites]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: World of Warcraft Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Major Character Death Characters: Mathias Shaw, Varian Wrynn Additional Tags: shaw visits lion’s rest to pay his respects, and mourn varian, Mourning, anniversary of death Summary:

It’s been exactly two years since King Varian Wrynn’s death, and Shaw brings himself to visit his memorial with a few words.

Couldn’t get this idea out of my head, so I’m throwing this out here

[bheartwrites]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: World of Warcraft Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Flynn Fairwind/Mathias Shaw Characters: Flynn Fairwind, Mathias Shaw Additional Tags: Dueling, Sparring, One Shot, Combat, Friendly competition, mathias MAY have underestimated him, just a LITTLE bit of sexual tension Summary:

“I’ll tell you what, mate,” Flynn begins, retrieving a set of practice wooden daggers and swords from a crate. “How about we make a deal, mm? How about we duel, spar a bit — if I win, I get to take you out to dinner and you leave this practice range. If you win, I leave you alone for the rest of the day.”

“Duel me?” Mathias says, and Flynn swears there’s the faintest hint of a smirk there. “I’m afraid I’m sending you home early, then.”

—

In which Flynn demands attention from Mathias, and they settle it through a friendly duel.

[bheartwrites]

Is he your angel too?

AO3 | 1.5k

At first, Dean – this alternate Dean, HunterCorps, Trust Fund D. – didn’t really digest what had happened to him. Neither he or his brother really felt the weight of what they had escaped. Too caught up in the excitement that they had actually managed to escape into a different universe, too numb to feel the shock of something so horrible.

Some weeks after living in this new universe, it really, finally hit them. Everyone they knew, everything they knew was gone.

Sure, being told that their universe was destroyed by God was one thing, but understanding such a concept was another hurdle.

It started small. They had no money. No cards and such worked here. HunterCorps’ resources couldn’t bail them out this time, and John was long gone. Bobby of this universe had died some time ago, and the Bobby that was still here was a whole other can of worms. Traveling in this forsaken world where so many different decisions shaped their environment only served to highlight how out of place they were.

It wasn’t too long before the Winchesters of this world heard back from their alternative selves, asking for help, for they had nothing else and no place to go. It was Sam and Cas that ended up convincing Dean to let them in for a time until they could get the two back on their feet and adjusted.

D. – our trust fund alternative Dean – sits at the dining table across from our normal Dean, contemplating. He had many questions to ask, but understood that Dean wasn’t the patient kind. But he has to ask, he has to ask because every time he sees the angel pass by in the Bunker, making it apparent that they all lived together, something in him churns and broils, and he can’t stand the feeling.

Eventually, Dean notices, looking up from his laptop when D. wouldn’t stop flipping a bottle cap against the table. His skin crawls at seeing this distorted reflection of himself stare.

“What’s wrong?” Dean asks bluntly, eyes darting over the man’s face and the cap in his hands.

D. fumbles with the cap. “… A lot,” He admits, suddenly not wanting to look at him. He can’t tell if it’s because the pain of loss was still prevalent, or if because he was embarrassed.

“Apparently,” Dean replies, rubbing his face. He pauses for a moment, deciding, then closes his laptop to give the man his attention. “Alright, let’s just do this. Talk to me.”

Keep reading

[bheartwrites]

Somewhere, deep inside, Dean knew he was going to die first.

Not himself, no. Sammy.

He knew, somehow, he wouldn’t be fast enough to save him. Even with his new strength, his set of teeth and heightened senses, Sam would still crumble, Sam would meet the same fate that they had delivered to hundreds of vampires before in the past.

But an unbeating heart made it easier to cope with the idea.

Until it happened.

He doesn’t remember much after the blade dropped on his baby brother. There’s a haze, like his mind repressed everything to save him. But when he came to, he was soaked in warm blood, stomach full, not a hint of any other color but crimson on his person.

And he was alone.

Everyone he knew now, was gone.

And there was nothing he could do about it.

Quietly, he scooped up Sam’s body, the physical weight not a problem anymore, but the emotional one dragging him down and bringing him to his knees if he thought about it too much.

Somewhere, in the empty woods, he builds a quiet funeral. They weren’t hunters anymore, they were monsters, and didn’t deserve this ritual, but it was the only way Dean knew how to honor him.

Besides, he was alone now. Who would stop and judge him?

There are monsters in the woods, watching him. They don’t say a word to him. They know this is Dean Winchester, legendary hunter, now turned monster. They know better than to test him. He’s not alone, no, there are monsters everywhere, and they crave chaos and disorder as he does now.

And who’s to stop him now from destroying the world that took his baby brother away?

No one.

No one can.

So he when he turns tail and heads west on foot, running through the country and tearing anything in his way down as he goes, he has a pack. They follow his lead. He didn’t ask for them, but they follow, for who are they to stand against a Winchester?

He is effectively immortal. Unstoppable. No need for air, water, food, sleep, mortal delights – nothing could stop him.

He makes it to the West Coast, and without a second of hesitation, he dives into the ocean.

No air. No gear. He doesn’t need it. Monsters don’t need it.

He dives, and he doesn’t stop until he finds what he’s looking for. The second half of himself that would have no problem with raining destruction upon God’s sorry little reality.

He reaches out and pries open the Ma’lak box.

Castiel.

Be free with me.

[bheartwrites]

A Loud Canvas

Rating: G Pairing: Markus and Connor (vague pining) Summary: Markus invites Connor over to come try out painting. Things are going well, until Connor begins to lose himself in the art, and not in a good way.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18742600

Notes: hi i had this idea a few weeks ago and wouldn’t stop thinking about it and if i wanna indulge in content like this i have to do it mySELF. RA9 is a bitch

Keep reading

[bheartwrites]

Finding Hope || To Draenor Pt. IV

Original post date: 08/13/2016 (not revised, may be edited some time in the future). Posted for archival purposes.

Prologue | I | II | III | IV | V |

Three months trapped in some frozen hell, miles away from the world you grew up in was a nightmare Neo'la never knew she’d have to experience, and yet that’s where she found herself in this moment. She trodged through the snow, layers of furs and hexweave cloth piled on underneath her player armor. It’s not so bad, she tried to remind herself. After all, she had survived her entry onto Draenor, and reunited with her Lighttreader.

In the freezing, howling winds of Frostfire, it was the thought of him and their children that kept her warm.

Anandor’s scarred face was bright pink in the cold, fiery orange hair tied back into a messy bun. The fierce winds did him no favor in keeping his long hair out of his face. He kept silent during the trek through the snow, keeping a thick scarf wrapped around his mouth and neck, muffling the sounds of his heavy breaths. Frost coated his plate armor, and he suppressed his shivers as they continued. Trailing behind the elves were a few Frostwolf orcs native to the land, serving as a guide. The troll shaman and young orc warrior they had met upon their arrival on Draenor accompanied them, teeth chattering in the cold while the natives walked calmly as though it were a warm spring afternoon.

“Bladespire Citadel should be half a mile further,” One of the natives called out in a coarse voice, her thick Orcish accent lacing her words. “Stay alert. We may come across the ogres in the area.”

The young warrior, Naz'kal, grunted at the remark, keeping one hand on the hilt of his weapon and the other at the large sack of supplies he had slung over his shoulder. The troll beside him, Ryuk, lacked the sly grin he usually sported, instead gritting his teeth together in the cold. His staff held onto four sacks of supplies, hung on either end of the stick, balancing the weapon on the nape of his neck with both hands. They’d been out in the cold for much longer than comfort would allow, and longed to return back to the citadel to thaw out their toes beside a fire.

The four had lost their commanders upon arriving on Draenor, and as a result, had no direct orders from Azeroth to work off of. Ryuk and Naz'kal had been a part of another squad that came to Neo'la and Anandor’s rescue, boarding upon a ship with a collection of various other Horde survivors and sailing to Frostfire Ridge. With no commander or garrison to turn to, the group wandered independently, following the soldiers who did have a stable command center and partaking in freelance missions around the land. Unfortunately, they knew no mages powerful enough to send them home, nor send a letter back home, at least not a cheap one. They had all lost contact with their families, trapped on a savage planet with nowhere to go.

Despite not having a fully-equipped force, they made a good team together. Naz'kal, a nineteen year old orc, had been drafted into the war at the same time as Neo'la. His parents had died recently on Draenor, leaving him behind to tend to their small farm in Durotar. When the draft reached him, he accepted it without hesitation, hoping that somehow he would uphold his parents’ honor by finishing what they started. Ryuk never let on what his age was, though his eyes tell that he’s seen enough horror for a lifetime. He’s more silly, and often quite cynical at times, but his power in the elements and touch with nature has allowed them to endure many hardships. Anandor, despite having spent eight years as a slave, still had fire in him, and has vowed to protect their group from any harm that befalls them. And so far, they’re still alive.

Their main objective is to get to the heart of the Hellfire Citadel, and dismantle their power before it was too late. Anandor and his group of slaves were to be sent as fodder, an expendable group of lives solely for clearing a path for the Alliance to pass through. Out of the four of them, only Anandor and Ryuk knew what the ultimate goal at hand was. How to go about lending their aid without putting their lives in any more danger was still in question.

Fortunately, they had become close allies with the Frostwolf Clan. In the Bladespire Citadel, they were given food and shelter in exchange for working closely with them. They’ve spent the past few months here simply gathering resources for the clan and importing their goods to the forces in Tanaan.

For now, hauling sacks of cloth, meat, leathers and iron in the coming of a blizzard was their greatest enemy.

Neo'la pulled her satchel closer, glancing over at her allies. “At least we got everything we needed this time,” She says, hoping to lighten the mood. Naz'kal nodded, shivering wildly. She felt sympathy for him, as the orc was used to the Durotar desert and was no where near prepared for this harsh weather.

Ryuk rolled his eyes. “I know we doin’ good by haulin’ all dis stuff, but we need ta actually do somethin’ useful sooner or later.”

“This is good enough,” Anandor replied, an edge in his voice that gave the only sign of irritation. “I’d rather be out doing this than getting killed – or worse.”

“We be spendin’ all our time in Bladespire while others are out dyin’ for somethin’,” The shaman replied, adjusting the supplies he held. “It’s like our commanders died for nothin’.”

“No one dies without a cause, Ryuk,” One of the Frostwolves called out. A tall, aged orc woman trudged through the snow quickly, moving so that she walked beside the troll. Long black and grey hair was tied back into thick braids, and purple eyes that had seen enough for a lifetime looked past the others silently, judging them. The natives called her Deka the “Pack Leader”, and her very presence showed why. “You outlanders complain a lot more than I thought.”

Naz'kal shook his head. “He’s usually quiet. He’s just mad he has to carry so much.” The young orc said with a snicker.

Ryuk grumbled. “In my defense, anyone’d be upset about dat.”

Naz'kal snickered, and Ryuk continued sulking. There was still more land to cover, and the rest of the trek would certainly be filled with irritation. Anandor had had his face buried into his scarf before peeking up suddenly, a hand coming up instinctively to shield Neo'la. She stopped, bright eyes looking up at him as he squinted through the fog.

“What is it?” She asked, trying to follow his eyes. Immediately, the rest of the group was alert, slinging their luggage over their backs and unsheathing their weapons if available. Anandor’s teeth chartered against his will, but still, the hardened look of a warrior remained engrained into his freckled face.

“I think I hear… Listen…”

Everyone held still, listening intently. All that could be heard was the jingling of their supplies and the piercing winds that picked up with speed, and to the others, no danger seemed to be near. Neo'la and Anandor, however, knew this was not the case. Elves naturally have a keener sight and sharper hearing compared to the other races, and Neo'la realized what had been heard.

“Dere isn’t even anything–” Ryuk began, but was interrupted with a sharp ‘shush’ from Anandor. Deka stepped forward, spear in hand as she made her way to the paladin.

“We need to move, quickly,” Anandor said, turning around to the others with a sense of urgency. “Now.”

There wasn’t any hesitation made, and quickly the group set off in double time, most of whom struggled against the deep snow. Soon, the sound that Anandor heard began to intensify in its volume, and the group heard it at last. Distant, sharp howling, echoing in the frosty evening air, and coming closer.

They jogged through the snow, the fog thickening as a storm began to build, and they only barely saw the faint outline of the Citadel behind the swirling wall of pure white frost whirling around them. Heavy breaths could be heard from them, adding onto the sense of urgency. Anandor held his shield out, one he had forged himself, and moved quickly, staying close to Neo'la as he watched their backs. Anandor had only ever caught a glimpse of the wild wolves in Frostfire, and he certainly wasn’t in the mood to fend them off. The good thing, he figured, was that they aren’t too big, and though their bites could probably sever a limb in one try, it wouldn’t be too difficult to shake them off their tails, just simply tedious. And with the backing of a clan of orcs dedicated to the Frostwolves of the land, they didn’t have too much to worry about if they were caught in a pack of wild ones.

Oh, but Light, these are not Frostwolves.

They reached the edge of the ramp to the fortress, fatigue beginning to set in in some of their younger members. Snarling could be heard coming closer, and adrenaline rushed through their veins. Deka kept calm, however, and she gripped her spear tight as the pack of wolves began to make themselves clear. Anandor had only expected to see the familiar grey and white fur of the typical Frostwolf, but instead saw a massive figure of pitch black fur peak through the mist of snow. He held his shield up, channeling the Light through him, awaiting the next move as they made way up the ramp.

Suddenly, a massive wolf lunged out from the snow, as dark as the night, teeth bared and paws out, tackling down Naz'kal. The wolf slammed into the smaller orc, the both of them sliding across the snow and knocking over Ryuk. The black wolf seemed to be three times larger than the normal ones in the land, and for a brief moment, Anandor stood frozen in fear at the sight of such a beast.

Naz'kal gave out a shout, scrambling for his axe and smashing its flat side in the wolf’s snout to keep it from biting him. The natives that guided them quickly took action, their weapons in hand as they charged forth. The wolf backed off from the young warrior, rolling off with blood trickling down from its wounds. The wounded wolf leaped up, attempting to pounce at Deka. She stood without fear, her teeth bared as she leaped back, holding her spear upright as the massive worg landed on the weapon, the spear piercing through its thick hide and lodging in its throat. She rolled out from beneath the beast before it collapsed, twitching and staining the snow with its dark blood.

“Run! We won’t stand a chance against the nighthowlers’ alpha at this rate!” She shouted. Ryuk moved quick to the young warrior’s side, leaving behind some of the supplies he had been carrying. Naz'kal only suffered from dents in his armor and possibly some major bruising on his chest, but overall remained strong and alert, regaining balance with the help of the troll by his side.

More wolves began to appear from the dense snow, a much larger one leaping out to seize Anandor. He turned around only in time to see its mouth wide open and its cage of teeth coming near before a swirl of holy and shadow magic impaled it. The wolf’s warm blood splattered them, and he turned to see that Neo'la had the group surrounded with her magic, hands held up with grace as she kept a barrier around them.

“Please stay focused, Anan!” She cried out, turning to make sure the others were covered. Anandor shook his head to snap back to reality and held his shield ready, struggling for a moment to stay alert. Spears, arrows and blades whizzed through the air, and the snow stained a deep crimson in their wake. The other Frostwolf orcs fought fiercely, and their battlecries challenged that if the garn’s howling. In the midst of the battle, Ryuk pushed past the orcs, making his way to the back of the group and towards the wolves.

“Ryuk what are you doing?!” Naz'kal shouted.

“Got an idea!” He replied. “Don’t wait up, keep ya runnin’! I’ll be up wit ya real soon!”

Deka turned, seeing Ryuk run towards the wolves. He glanced back, and their eyes locked for a moment, and she made a move to follow him. He raised a hand and shook his head, pointing to the fortress. “I’ll hold dem off, ya keep dem safe. I’ll be fine.”

They kept running, and Deka barked commands at the others, shoving Naz'kal a few times so that he’d keep his eyes focused on the ramp ahead of them. The wolves turned their attention to the troll left behind, a whole dozen of the massive beasts closing in on him quickly.

Ryuk’s heavy breaths tormented his lungs with the freezing air, and his limbs felt heavy from the exhaustion. He raised his hands, closing his eyes to focus on his energy. The elements of this world were much different than Azeroth, and it had proven to be more difficult to connect with as a shaman. This wouldn’t stop him, he wouldn’t let it. The ground rumbled and cracked, snow seeping into the new crevices he bore into the earth. He lowered his body, sliding his foot forward across the snow, and he opened his eyes, just in time to see one wolf’s glaring yellow eyes inches away from his face. He shot up, his body straightening towards the sky, and the earth did the same, the land heaving up and launching the wolves back. He stretched his arms wide, and the earth followed, bending and shaping into a wall that closed off the entrance. The wolves snarled and scratched at the wall he had formed, and Ryuk stood there, arms raised and frozen in place. Slowly, a grin split across his features, and he jumped up, pounding his fists in the air as he gave a sharp cheer.

“Ho ho holy shit it worked!” He shouted, turning on his heel and slipping in the snow as he scrambled to meet up with the others. “It worked, oh ho it worked! Ohh someone shoulda seen dat!”

Back at the top of the fortress, the group had barely made it, and were met by some of the Frostwolf shaman. A rather tall orc, adorned in various furs and traditional beads emerged from the citadel, long, heavy braids flowing behind him as he met the bloodied group.

“What’s happened here?” The orc, Kadran asked, offering a hand to some of the injured warriors.

“Nighthowlers came out of their den a little sooner than we expected,” Deka replied. “We lost some of the supplies in the attack.”

“That’s fine, so long as everyone is alright and intact,” He says, looking over the lot of them. “Where’s the troll?”

She looked back, her lips pressed together in a thin line. “He stayed behind to fend off the wolves.”

Kadran nodded solemnly. “We’ll send a few down to find him. He’ll be honored, and–”

His voice was cut off short by the sound of sharp whistles and cheering echoing from the ramp. The orcs turned to the sounds, and saw the troll, covered in snow and splotches of blood leaping up from the ramp, tripping several times and using his hands to practically crawl on the ground. “Alive, alive! I’m here!” He shouted, a wide grin on his face as he ran towards them.

Deka grinned, and shouted something in Orcish before rushing out to meet him. She grabbed him and lifted him off the ground, carrying him back as he laughed. Neo'la couldn’t help but smile at the sight, and she was glad that no one was seriously injured.

Kadran waved his hands at Deka, urging her to put the shaman down. “Alright, let’s behave now,” He says, chuckling. “He might be injured, try not to add onto that. You might snap him in half.”

Ryuk jumped down, adjusting the leather he wore. “I’m fine mon,” He said casually. “I ah, I left behind some supplies. And ah, left a mess down at the ramp. I’ll clean it up later though!”

“It will be fine, I’m sure. Everyone, please come into the citadel, we’ll be shutting our doors very soon. A blizzard is on its way, and we’ll need all the rest we can get.”

The orcs around gathered the supplies that were delivered and took them to their respective places, ready for shipment in the morning. Inside, fires were already set, and the shaman within took the injured with them for healing sessions. Neo'la and Anandor simply made their way to their designated rooms, weary and exhausted from the day’s work.

Neo'la squeezed Anandor’s hand, looking up at him. “Are you alright, love?”

He pressed his lips together for a moment. “Yes, I’m fine. Just… tired.”

“Anan, don’t lie to me, please. Something’s been bothering you, I can tell.”

He gave a heavy sigh, using his free hand to untangle the scarf around him. “It’s probably not something you can help.”

She frowned, and they turned a corner, fingers locked together as they entered a small shack where they slept. Inside was a bed made of various furs and leathers pressed to the left side of the wall, and another door at the right was left ajar, showing their water supply used for bathing. At the back of the room was a fireplace, and already the coals and wood there had been lit by the courtesy of an anonymous orc, giving the room a lovely heat to return to. They released each other, and Neo'la shut the door gently behind them.

“Anan,” She said, turning around slowly. His ears folded back as her gaze met his, and he gave a playful whine.

“Don’t give me that look…” He said, glinting with humor. But she knew him well enough to know that it was a facade. And of course, he knew the same. The paladin sighed again, and he dropped his attention to his breastplate, unbuckling the armor. “Neo, I can’t… I don’t know what to say.”

She came to his side, gentle as always, her touch so soft it was as if she were afraid he’d shatter if too much force was used. It was the presence he had always loved and adored, her aura always made him feel safe, and yet, after years of being without it, he couldn’t fully enjoy it.

“I don’t like seeing you like this,” She says, pain and concern easily heard in her low voice. “I’ve never seen you freeze up in battle like that before. It keeps happening, I can’t continue to pretend you’re fine.”

“But what if I need you to?” He responds, turning his head to look at her. “I don’t want it to distract you, Neo'la, I need you to please, just turn a blind eye to it for now.”

She frowned, and cupped his cheeks in her hands, her thumbs carefully tracing his scars as she gazed into his eyes. “Love, you know I can’t do that. I want to help you. And if you really think I can just turn a 'blind eye’ to this, then you must’ve forgotten who I am.”

He knows she meant well, but still, those last words stung. She could be right, and the thought frightened him. She must’ve noticed too, because she quickly searched for a way to backtrack. “Wait, no, I didn’t mean–”

“I know, it’s fine.”

He removed his armor, changing out of the leather he wore beneath it. She did the same, disposing her messy plate armor into a basket by the door. She’d wake up early to clean them off later. At the moment, her limbs were sore, and it was exhausting to simply lift her legs to get out of her leggings.

“You know,” Neo'la began, sliding into a thick shirt. “You don’t have to be afraid of me. You can talk to me, always, remember that.”

He didn’t respond. He stayed quiet, pretending to be immensely focused on changing into something more comfortable. She frowned, but continued anyways.

“We used to talk for hours on end. I’d tell you about my family, my doubts, and you would always have something so bright and cheery to say to help me. I would listen to you talk passionately about the stars, the lights in the sky I never even dared to look up at. You’d tell me of your youth, your loss, and in turn, I’d always try to help somehow. Always, Anandor, we have always been open. I’m just… I can’t help but worry about you. You don’t talk anymore, it… it scares me.”

She plopped down on the bed, hands in her lap. She turned to look at him, and saw him simply standing there, eerily silent. She turned away, her chest aching.

“I’m sorry, Anan. Maybe I shouldn’t keep prodding, it’s okay, if you don’t want to talk. I just want the best for you.”

He finally moved, turning to see her back facing him. Her ears drooped down, and her posture was slumped over. He didn’t want to hurt her, but it seemed either way, damage would be done. What she said was true, and that was an undeniable fact. They always talked, never had secrets. Their bond and trust had always been so strong, and their deep understanding for one another allowed much liberty in their relationship in comparison to others. So much so that they even agreed it would be fine to have other lovers on the side, and partake in promiscuity so long as they always returned to each other, and focused on their family above all else.

Ever since he reunited with her, however, things seemed to be different. He told her the night they reunited what had happened to him, showed her his scars and allowed himself to be vulnerable. Since then, however, he didn’t want to talk. Slowly, he’d been closing up, guarded and quiet towards everyone, and lately, it was beginning to take a toll on him. Now, he was beginning to question whether or not he’s in the right for guarding himself this way.

He looked down at the shirt he held and tossed it aside, quietly slinking over to the bed. He sat behind Neo'la, wrapping his arms around her and pulled her in close to his bare chest. She nuzzled into him, and he rested his head on her shoulder gently. “I’m sorry Neo. For everything. All I’ve ever wanted was to protect you. All my life, I’ve devoted myself to helping out as much as a could, I became a guard, a Paladin of Protection, and still I can’t seem to hold anything together.”

“That is not your fault, Anandor,” She said softly, tilting her head to look at him. “You cannot carry that burden, love. It is not yours to bear.”

“You can’t say that. You can’t. If I hadn’t fallen those years ago, I would’ve still been with you and the girls. You wouldn’t be here in Draenor, I wouldn’t have let them take you. We wouldn’t be trapped up here, freezing every night and standing at Death’s front doorstep.” His grip around her tightened, and she could feel him tremble. “And Andria… where would she be if not… i-if not–”

“Stop.”

Neo'la pulled away, turning herself so that she faced him better. She placed her hands on his cheeks, the warmth of her palms shocking him for a brief moment. Light, he’d been so cold without her, and his chest hurt from the feeling. He almost couldn’t tell if it was his heart that ached or his scars. He looked at her, gazing into that friendly minty glow of her eyes, seeing the years of pain that had weighed down on her soul within those orbs. Something flashed, and his sight became blurred, and in an instant the warmth left him. He scrambled backwards suddenly, falling off the bed and frantically crawling to the back of the room. Neo'la reached out for him, but his eyes seemed far, and she wasn’t even sure if he was seeing her.

“Anan…?” She says cautiously, pain in her voice. She moved to him, slowly, but he backed away as she came near. “Anandor, please, I’m not going to hurt you.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, his body trembling intensely. “D-Don’t…” He whispered, barely audible. “Please, I can’t, I-I don’t know, I don’t know anymore, I don’t know…”

Neo'la’s eyes welled up with tears as she retreated from him, kneeling by him, helpless. “Don’t know what?”

“I don’t know!” He shouted out, his voice strained. “I don’t know what’s real anymore, I can’t tell, it doesn’t feel real!”

It wasn’t often that he cried, not that she could recall. Often times, he was hardened, and rarely ever let tears fall, even when they were mourning. But here, he sat huddled near the fire, his voice breaking and tears beginning to stream from his eyes. The effort he put in to try to suppress them was painfully clear, and it hurt her to see him like this.

Not a damn thing she could do about it.

“Let me help you,” She said, her voice sounding more like a plea. “Please. This isn’t… this isn’t right.”

He dared to open his eyes, and he struggled to see her, despite being only a few feet away. “It all feels like a dream, it doesn’t feel real. The snow, the wolves, your eyes, your warmth, the boat, it doesn’t feel like it’s really there.” He held out his hands, reaching out for her before freezing, and retreating, wrapping his arms around himself instead. “I can’t touch you, I just feel you slipping away. How do I even know you’re here? How can I know for sure I didn’t just make it up? H-How do I know I’m still not in my cell, huddled in the corner, praying to the Light to go home?”

His body shook with bitter laughter, a smile spread across his face that didn’t belong there. “Oh, Light, how do I know if I’m even alive? N-Neo, Neo'la my love, please, I… Are… Are you even… real…?”

Neo'la whimpered, and didn’t hesitate in moving to him, throwing her arms around him tightly. He cringed, almost fearful of the warmth that dared to reach him. She held him close to her, shaking with sobs that threatened to arise.

“You’re alive, Anandor, it’s real, baby, please don’t say such things,” She murmured, gently running her hands through his hair. “You’re safe here, I’m not gonna let anyone hurt you like this again, dalah'surfal.”

He held onto her tightly, as if clinging on for dear life. “I’m so scared, Neo, I can’t lose you again. It’s so hard… I don’t… I can’t…”

She held him close, her chest heavy with sorrow. She wanted him to know– No, she needed him to know that it was real. His wounds were deep, and he lay in her arms now, bleeding out all the anguish that had buried itself deep within him.

She hummed quietly, recalling one of the old hymns of the Light she knew by heart. She rocked with him, moving to the slow tune of the melody, her hands beginning to glow with the Light. She brought his chin up, making him look up at her, and she placed her hands at his temples, allowing the golden swirls of Light flow through him. In the next moment, both of their eyes changed to the same gold glow, the Light creating a link through them.

Neo'la had opened up a part of her mind to him using the Light. She showed him her memories, the day they met, their long walks and talks, how she gazed at him from afar, how she held him, and how she loved him. In the Light, there is no lying – only the truth may be seen with its power. And for the first time, Anandor caught a glimpse of how she truly felt about him, how she cared, how she loved. His chest felt warm, and he was no longer afraid. At last, he learned how she saw the world in her eyes, and Light, did it make him love her even more.

The Light faded, and they returned to each other, both messy and hardly presentable. His eyes were red and puffy, her hair was a wild mess, and both lay on the floor near the fire. He wasn��t even wearing a shirt. And yet, they both smiled, embracing each other once more. They’d never be the same. Too much had happened to the both of them to be the same. But that didn’t mean they would stop loving, didn’t mean that they wouldn’t find a way to keep each other safe and intact.

They’re not the same couple they used to be, but love is hard to kill.

Neo'la planted a soft kiss on his lips, running a hand through his hair. “You’ve spent so much time thinking about others, Anan, I don’t think you ever stopped to think about yourself.”

He pressed his forehead against hers, keeping her close to him. “You are my world, Neo'la. I… I just want the best for you.”

“You’ve done enough, love. I think you’ve earned a break by now.” Their free hands intertwined, thumbs caressing their calloused skin. “Let me return the favor, my Lighttreader. I will protect you, and I won’t let you lose anymore. We will find our way off this planet, and we will be home, back to our children once more.

"Together.”

He smiled, wrapping his arms around her thin frame tightly. “Together.”

That night, they slept closer than ever, warm with each other’s heat. And for the first time in many long years, Anandor’s dreams were without nightmares.

–

A loud knock at the door startled Anandor awake. He groaned, carefully unwrapping his wife’s arms from around his torso before standing up. He rubbed his eyes and yawned, opening the door sluggishly.

“Hmm–?”

Naz'kal stood at the door, clad in light armor that bore the Frostwolf symbol. His black hair spilled over his shoulders messily, and his false tusk wasn’t even on. It seemed as though he had woken up not so long ago.

“Ah, sorry!” The young orc said, raising his hands slightly. “Hope I didn’t star– uh Kadran wants everyone out in the main room quick. It’s important, you might want to see this.”

Anandor nodded. “No worries, thank you. We’ll be out as soon as possible.”

Naz'kal gave a short bow and scurried off, and Anandor quickly moved to Neo'la.

“Wake up, love. Something’s come up.”

–

The main center of the citadel was filled with the inhabitants of the keep. The native orcs and their snow white wolves stood at the outside of the circle of people that formed near the stone throne. Azerothians, still weary from yesterday’s work, waited anxiously for the head shaman to arrive. Neo'la huddled in her thick cloak, glancing over at the others. The natives wore scowls, faces scrunched in worry while her comrades seemed rather clueless. At last, Kadran trudged out and made his way to the front of the group, a heavy silence falling over the small crowd as he took his stand. The elderly shaman’s murky chestnut eyes glossed over every face before he began to speak.

“Thank you for gathering here. Apologies for such an early meeting, but we’ve just received word back from our chieftain in Gorgrond.”

“Durotan?” Anandor whispered, leaning in to listen. Neither Anandor nor Neo'la had encountered, or even seen the chieftain and his wife, only having heard stories of their strength and prowess. They’d been out, scouring other areas of Draenor to lend their efforts in the war.

“Our forces in Gorgrond are suffering losses at the hands of both the Iron Horde and the botani. We need to send small scout groups to help lend them our aid with the conflict.” He straightened his back, the beads in his hair jingled softly as they dangled from his shoulders. “Most of you probably haven’t been anywhere outside of Frostfire, and I understand. It will be a dangerous mission, but we need volunteers to venture out.”

Almost immediately, several Frostwolves shot their hands up, proud and ready to give their weapons for their chieftain. Neo'la put a hand on Anandor’s shoulder excitedly, grabbing his attention quickly. Wide eyes filled with wonder and met his weary gaze, and she leaned close.

“Let’s do it.” She said in a hushed tone, though her enthusiasm was still clear. He pressed his lips in a thin line.

“I don’t know, it’s dangerous, Neo,” He said, running his hand through his messy hair. “It just… we don’t know what’s even there.”

“We don’t know what’s here either!” She retorted. “Just being here is dangerous in itself. If we’re going to be stuck up here, we’d might as well see what this world has to offer us.”

Anandor gave a small laugh. “You’re starting to sound a a lot like Ryuk now.” He jested.

She shrugged. “Well, maybe he was right about something.”

Kadran began to pick various volunteers, and Neo'la gave another nudge to Anandor.

“Come on, let’s go. We’re strong, we’ll survive.” She said. She’d always been adventurous, always curious for what’s out there. Often times it was that trait that made them both a good pair, as they both were daring enough to venture out where no one should, just to test to see if they could. Now, fear had moved in and replaced his carefree attitude, and it could either save him, or destroy him.

But perhaps… perhaps Gorgrond could be their key out of this place. He was tired of the snow anyways.

“Okay,” He said at last, raising his hand with a nod. “Let’s do it.”

She grinned and raised her hand as well, and Kadran beckoned them forward. The two elves made their way up to the front of the crowd, standing tall with the other volunteers. Neo'la peered over, and could see Ryuk with a cheeky grin on the other side of the elderly shaman, giving the elves an approving look.

Naz'kal had remained silent throughout the meeting, but after seeing his comrades join the volunteers, he raised his hand too. Kadran raised a brow, looking to the young orc.

“Naz'kal, there is much honor in your blood to offer yourself,” Kadran said, making his way down to the younger one. “But I do not think I can bring myself to send you there.”

“But Farseer!” Naz'kal protested, rising to his feet. “I’m perfectly capable of wielding an axe, and I can fend for myself! Surely others have seen I’m not useless on the field!”

Some of the natives scowled at how his tone towards the shaman, but Kadran simply waved his hand. “You’ve proven yourself, this I know, but Gorgrond may be too dangerous for you. I would prefer to send more experienced warriors out.”

Naz'kal’s azure eyes darted to the others before he focused back on the shaman. “Well, I’ve been… learning the blade since I was eight.”

Kadran chuckled. “How old are you now?”

“Nineteen summers. Twenty by this year.”

The shaman nodded. “You are very young, and it would pain me to send regards to your family should you fall.”

Naz'kal shook his head. “My parents came through the portal a few months ago. They fell in battle, died with honor here against the Iron Horde. I want to honor them, and finish what they started. I’ve nothing but a small farm to return to, perhaps the boar would miss me, but there would be no tragedy in my loss.” He stood tall, puffing his chest out like a proud warrior. “I wish to join the others in Gorgrond.”

Kadran gave a heavy sigh and placed his hand on Naz'kal’s shoulder. “There is a tragedy in every loss, young one. Do not lose sight of your worth. I will let you go, but do not be reckless with your life.” He turned away before Naz'kal could thank him, approaching the other volunteers. “There will be two groups that will meet in Beast Watch. From there, you will be greeted by one of our Laughing Skull allies, and the groups will split.”

Kadran began to point to several warriors, appointing them to their squads. “Deka, Terrum, Mau'lu, Liko and Ryuk, you five will be tasked with taking care of the Blackrock in the north. Rashila, Neo'la, Anandor, Katu, and Naz'kal, you will be tasked with holding the defenses against the botani in the region. We’ll prepare the rylaks to take you there this afternoon. I expect the rest of the clan to be prepared should our chieftain require more reinforcements.” The shaman turned towards the designated fighters with a grin. “Now, get armored, feast, and be prepared for this afternoon’s ride. And dress lightly. It’s much warmer and dryer in Grogrond than it is here.”

–

Neo'la and her group sat around a fire, quietly eating the roasted clefthoof and boar meat the clan provided them. They’d leave within the hour, and Neo'la couldn’t help but feel excited. There was something about the journey ahead that made her feel jittery, like a child going to a new park for the first time. She scolded herself for daring to smile at such a grim time like this, but she couldn’t help but feel that this was merely a ticket out of this world, an opportunity to finally escape and be free. The bright side served itself up on a silver platter, and there was no way in fel she would want to miss out on any opportunity.

If there was even the barest chance of getting out of here alive, she would have to take it despite the odds.

Naz'kal quietly stalked towards Neo'la, his own food in hand as he tried to very subtly sit next to her. Of course, his own awkwardness and shy smile made it all the more obvious.

“Its okay, now,” Neo'la said, offering a warm smile to the orc. “Just have a seat, I won’t bite.”

Naz'kal gave a small smile and sat down on the log beside her. “Ah, thanks. Hope I’m not bothering.”

“No, not at all,” She reassured. The young orc fiddled with the metallic tusk he wore in place of one he lost, looking up at the elf curiously.

“How come you volunteered?” He asked. “I remember you telling me a while ago you have children at home, why… why volunteer?”

Neo'la wiped her hands on a small cloth as she pondered the question. “Well… Aren’t you tired of the snow? It’s about time we go out and explore, yes?”

Naz'kal shrugged. “I mean, yeah, but why…” He shook his head. “I don’t want to sound rude, but why risk your life?”

Neo'la looked up, seeing Anandor and their orcish ally Katu sharpen their weapons. She was silent for a moment, then leaned close to Naz'kal and spoke in a hushed tone.

“I can’t stay on this dreaded planet any longer,” She said. “I don’t belong here. I did everything in my power to stay home. I’m needed there, and by the Light, I’ve learned that I have so much more to protect. Grogrond may very well be our chance to escape.”

The orc’s eyes widened. “Escape?”

She tugged his arm. “Hush, not so loud.” She ushered, glancing up to see if they caught any attention. “Gorgrond is another step closer to Tanaan. I don’t know how I’m going to do it, but I’ll find a way out and back to the portal. I’ll find something. Or not. All I know is that we won’t get anywhere if we stay here.”

He nodded, looking up at Anandor. “While I do think it’s… a noble goal, I don’t think the clan would appreciate outrunners.”

“True. And it pains me to deceive those who had given us a chance to live, but a sacrifice needs to be made. Perhaps not today, but eventually.” She pulled away and sat normally, changing her tone. “Only the future may judge me. Would you like to come with us?”

He sputtered, scrambling for words. “Me, wait, come, like– go with you?”

She nodded, taking a sip from her drink quietly. “You’re young, you’ve too much to live for to waste away here.”

He shook his head. “No no, there’s… not anything for me. Here my actions take meaning, a-and hold honor. I signed up for this, it’s… what I want to do.”

“I see.” She stood up and dusted herself off, attempting to keep herself clean and presentable as always. “Anything planned for when the war is over?”

Naz'kal paused, opening his mouth to speak, but shutting it shortly after. He scratched his cheek, pondering the question. “Uh… N-No, nothing. I… don’t know what I want to do. Maybe become a grunt. Or just… stay at the farmstead. Or move to Mulgore. I don’t know.”

“Well, if ever you’d like, you have a home with us. We’ll take you in if ever you need a place to call home.”

Naz'kal’s eyes brightened, and he sat up straighter. “Do you really mean that?”

She gave a warm smile and gently rested her hand on his shoulder. “Of course. Now, we’ll just have to focus on surviving this first.”

–

“First time rylak rider I assume?” The tall orc Rashila called out to Anandor. Deep umber skin glistened by the light of the fires nearby. Her equipment and leather armor strapped around her comfortably, strong muscles shown clearly from beneath. She held the reigns of the massive rylak beside her tightly, smirking at the elf with amusement.

Anandor, having been struggling with keeping the two-headed beast from lashing out at him, stumbled back and turned to give Rashila an exasperated look. “Yeah. Never dealt with these before, kinda– Gah!” The rylak rammed its wing into the elf, knocking him a few feet away from the beast. He slid across the snow on his rear before the momentum finally gave him peace, and he flopped on his back, defeated. Rashila clutched her gut, laughing in a loud, wheezy manner as she watched the comical display, and Anandor couldn’t help but chuckle as well.

“You’re being too cautious with her!” The orc said, stooping over to yank Anandor off the ground and onto his feet by his shoulder. He flinched at her touch, stumbling a bit as he regained his footing. This prompted another laugh from her, and she simply pat his back in response. “You’re too soft, it doesn’t trust a weak rider. You have to hold it by the reigns tightly, show it who’s the alpha. It’s a beast, don’t forget that. If it believes it can overpower you, it will.”

Rashila, clearly knowing no real boundaries, proceeded to grab the elf by his arm and drag him back to the rylak. He tried to brush her off, but her iron grip would not falter unless he stood exactly where she wanted. She let go, and approached the beast, turning back to Anandor with a smirk.

“Watch closely.”

Turning back to the unruly beast, she stood tall, baring her teeth as the rylak snarled and attempted to bite her. She grabbed the reigns, holding them short and yanked them close to her, forcing the rylak’s heads to face her just inches away. They growled and roared, sharp cages of teeth dangerously close to the orc, but Rashila did not falter. Her face was stone, her dark eyes tearing deep into the rylak’s ego. Even Anandor felt her energy, but watched, fully enticed in the display he saw. The rylaks bowed their heads down in defeat, the beast’s entire posture retreating into a submissive stance. She continued staring at them, looming over them before finally nodding in satisfaction. She beckoned Anandor to her side.

“Come come, this is where you’ll reestablish yourself.”

He stepped forward, and immediately the rylak’s heads shot up to glare at him. He didn’t cower back, and Rashila gave a loud grunt that startled the beast enough to behave. She gave a tug at the reigns to catch their attention, then handed them to Anandor.

“Hold them tightly. Here, I’m showing them the pass of power, of dominance to you. You’re not weak, so don’t let them see weakness.”

He nodded, and gripped the reigns tightly as she had demonstrated, and the beast glared at him, nostrils flaring with puffs of hot air. He held their gaze, and Rashila watched in amusement as the rylak finally backed down.

“There, that’s good!” She huffed proudly. “You act so cautious around all the beasts around here. I can only imagine how soft and sensitive the creatures on your world must be.”

He gave a short laugh. “Well, normally if you take a step wrong, you’ll startle them.”

“Pah. You all just seem so soft, it’s quite funny.”

“We are not soft.” Anandor said, turning to her slowly. “Just different.”

A high pitched squeal was heard, followed by a guttural roar, and both the orc and the elf turned to the commotion. Just behind them, it seemed that even Neo'la was struggling with the rylak, and had called into the snow while the beast beat its wings in a proud manner. Rashila barked a laugh, smacking Anandor’s shoulder with the back of her hand.

“See?” She giggled. “Soft.”

Anandor rolled his eyes and moved to Neo'la’s side, helping her up while the rest of the group prepared their supplies.

“Are you alright? Did you get hurt?” He asked, ready to scoop her up in his arms if need be. She brushed him off, giddy with laughter.

“Oh no no, I’m fine!” She assured, grabbing onto his arm as she stood. “Light, you know how I am with this kind of stuff.”

“You’re shaking, are you sure you’re alright?”

“You worry too much. I’ve never been good with anything that’s not a hawkstrider or feline.” She joked. “Light where did Aliya get her gift from if I’m so useless.”

It was true, after all. No matter what anyone did to help her, she could never fly anything. The only beasts that ever let her near were hawkstriders and very specific horses, but everything else? Not a chance they’ll let her near. That, plus the fact that she had little skill in flying made her the worst candidate for someone to take the reigns in the sky.

Rashila made her way to them, glancing over at Neo'la. “I’ll safely assume that this one needs training too.”

Neo'la shook her head. “The rylak is fine, I think it was just me.”

Rashila chuckled. “Oh I know. I wasn’t talking about the beast.”

Neo'la frowned, but faked a laugh. “Oh well, I think it’ll be best that I ride with Anan. Save space and time. I’m sure we’ll fit, elves are quite small anyways.”

Rashila looked unimpressed, but nodded anyways. “If that works then go ahead, but if you fall off that’s not on us.”

Anandor looked back and forth between the two women, scrunching his brows together. “I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

“You better be.” Rashila’s voice dropped low, and she closed the distance between them, making sure only the elves would hear her and not any bystanders. “You two volunteered for this, but I have little faith that you’re even capable of coming out of this alive. Do not drag us down on this mission. I despise the idea of losing someone out of your recklessness, so don’t let it happen.”

Anandor grimaced, but Neo'la simply smiled. “Oh you’ve not to worry about,” Neo'la said, placing a tender hand on the orc’s shoulder. “We’ll be out of your hair soon enough.”

Rashila snorted, partly because she didn’t believe them, and partly because she was bald. “We’re leaving in a few minutes. Be ready. Gorgrond will eat you alive if you slip.”

They split ways, and the elves made their way to the rylak. The moment Rashila was out of earshot, Anandor turned to Neo'la.

“You’re acting really strange, Neo, it’s worrying me.”

“I already told you, I’m–”

“Please don’t lie to me.”

Neo'la puffed her cheeks, evading his gaze before turning to the rylak that eyed them curiously. “We need to get mounted up and be ready to take off. Once we’re in the skies, we’ll have time to talk.”

Anandor nodded. “Whatever works.”

–

“You want to do what?!”

One of the rylak’s heads gave out a screech in response to Anandor’s outburst. Neo'la wrapped her arms and legs around the paladin’s torso tightly, quickly glancing at the rest of their group who had taken to the skies with them.

“Light, not so loud, Anan!” Neo'la ushered, giving him a squeeze. Luckily, the others were too occupied with flying in the correct direction than to pay any attention to the elves.

“Neo, love, these people have done so much for us, and you want to just leave them in their time of need?” Anandor snapped. “Is this what you volunteered for?”

“Anan, I know this probably isn’t my best idea, but one way or another, we need to get home.”

“And at what cost? You couldn’t have just asked them for help?”

She paused, and he huffed angrily.

“I don’t believe this.”

“Anan, we were wronged!” Neo'la said through grit teeth. “You and I, we should have never been on Draenor. We’d be at home, safe with the kids. You know this. This wasn’t meant to happen.”

“Well… it happened. And that’s a fact.”

“Which is why we need to find a way– any way out of here. Do you not want to go home?”

“That’s not what this is about, Neo'la. My problem is they are counting on us to lend our aid, and we’re letting them down. It’s not right.”

“When is anything ever? In war, you have to do whatever it takes–”

“There is honor, and there are morals!” He interrupted, his brows scrunched together in anger. “Even in war one must find any way they can to do what’s right. I can’t believe you would suggest this.”

Neo'la pressed her lips together. He was right, that she would admit, but to stay on Draenor for so long was taking its toll. After last night, she had come to the conclusion that she had to get them home. She didn’t want them to suffer longer than needed.

Anandor sighed. “We will get off this planet, that I can promise. But we’ll have to find a better way of doing so.”

“Let’s just hope that better way doesn’t lie years in our future.”

–

The next few hours of the ride were fairly silent after that. Anandor focused on guiding the beast while Neo'la was left to her own thoughts. She watched as the Bladespire Citadel became a dot on the horizon, masked by the same icy blue snow that coated the lands. The air around them changed in temperature, significantly growing warmer as they left Frostfire. Neo'la was left in awe at the sight of Gorgrond, catching glimpses of the lush forests that dotted various areas of the foreign land. Other wild rylak flew over their heads, soaring high above the mountains with deadly grace, and for a brief, fleeting moment, she almost wished she could stay in this world, just for the beauty of it.

“Down there!” One of their party members, Katu shouted, pointing down at a small camp in the thicket of trees. “Prepare to land there. Careful of the trees.”

Neo'la watched as the other three’s rylaks swooped down to their objective. On her left, she could hear the second group Kadran designated making their descent as well. Her heartbeat sped up, excitement kicking in as they neared the ground, so much so that she was able to ignore the gut-wrenching feeling of the flight. Various orcs, most wearing intimidating skull masks met them as they landed. Anandor helped Neo'la off the rylak, and soon their designated group met up with the others beneath the shade of the massive trees.

“Durotan and Draka will be here to meet you shortly,” One of the masked female orcs stated. “We’ll tell the others of your arrival.”

Rashila stalked over to the elves, wrapping her strong arms suddenly around both of them, resulting in the couple jumping up in surprise.

“Welcome to Gorgrond!” She shouted happily, running her hand through Anandor’s hair, much to his dismay.

Neo'la attempted to slink out of her iron grip subtly, but Rashila wouldn’t budge. “Right, yes, let’s uh, have some space to stretch please, yes?”

“Bah, you two are such mood crushers,” Rashila snorted, giving a pat on Neo'la’s back before stalking away. Anandor rubbed his neck, brows furrowed together in irritation.

“She’s never going to let us be, is she?” He mumbled in Thalassian.

“She’ll get tired eventually.” Neo'la assured, reaching over to fix her husband’s messy hair.

“Let’s just hope this goes over smoothly. I’d rather not cause trouble with Rashila, since she knows these lands well.” He turned to face his wife, tenderly placing a hand on her cheek. “We’re here to fend off the botani, nothing more, okay?”

Neo'la didn’t respond, puffing her cheeks. “Don’t move, you made me mess up your ponytail.”

“Light, Neo, don’t avoid–”

“They’re here!”

Neo'la and Anandor snapped to attention, taken aback in awe as the powerful chieftains rode in. Neo'la had only ever seen paintings and heard stories of Durotan, but never did she ever expect to see him in his prime. The moment he and Draka arrived, their domineering presence was immediately felt, raw power emanating from their stance alone. The sunlight filtered through the leaves of the treetops shone on them in a warm light, highlighting the beads of sweat around powerful muscles. They came to a halt before the two groups, dismounting their wolves quickly as they scanned the crowd. They were tall, towering over the other orcs with pride. Anandor, having been used to being up to par with other orcs due to his unusual height, felt rather dwarfed by the chieftains. Fel, even Draka stood taller than him.

Durotan scanned the crowd, seeming hopeful as he made his observations. “Assuming this is our back up?”

Deka stepped forward, admiration and respect clear in her eyes. “That we are,” She said, glancing over at Rashila as she stepped forth. “My group’s to take care of the Blackrock in the area, and Rashila’s for the botani. This is all we can send for now, since it was short notice.”

Draka nodded. “This will do. We’ll be sure to thank Kadran for the quick response. Deka, your group will follow Durotan up north. We’ve managed to dismantle enough of their troops, so it’ll just be cleaning up the mess.” She turned towards Rashila’s group, quickly scanning over the elves with a small smile. “You’ll be following me. I won’t be fighting along your side the whole time, but I’ll leave you with a few of our Laughing Skull allies before we depart.”

Rashila grinned widely, saluting Draka. “It will be an honor regardless.”

“Good. Let’s get going.”

–

The groups had split up soon after, with Neo'la’s designated group following Draka on foot. Various creatures flew past them, and the sun beat down relentlessly on them. It was clear that the Frostwolves were struggling with the heat, understandably, since they were accustomed to freezing temperatures, but for the elves and Naz'kal (Naz having grown up in Durotar), it was just pleasant weather for them. The ground was soft with the lush green leaves that covered the entire surface, and large, twisted branches hung wildly, wrapped around other plants and trees with their own buds and flowers sprouting. It was beautiful in its own way, though it clashed with the entire aesthetic Neo'la had known. She wondered if Draenor had the same seasons as Azeroth, if it knew spring or summer, or how long they were. Light, how long were the years here? She’d been so focused on the missions at hand that she never even stopped to think about the details of this world.

The bushes beside them rustled, and Katu, a rather short, red-haired orc held a spear in hand tightly, his stance steady as he listened for the threat. To the average orc, Katu would appear quite weak, given his physique and lack of tusks. He was born the runt of a family of six, standing simply five feet five inches. Since he keeps quiet about his personal matters, he’s said only that his tusks were stolen from him by another clan, but never went into detail about it. Fel, every time he was confronted about it, the story would actually change a little each time, leaving most to wonder what really had happened. Still, Katu had proven himself to be a fierce hunter, quiet and observant, and often a tactical advantage when it came to times like these.

The rest of the group stopped and stayed on guard, and a small lizard-like creature crawled out of the bushes. Anandor chuckled and lowered his weapon.

“Ah, it’s nothing,” He said, gesturing to the creature. “Just  a little–”

A branch snapped and a massive humanoid seeming to be made purely of tree bark stepped in view, targeting Anandor first. It raised its massive arm, glowing with some strange energy, and attempted to strike at the paladin. Anandor sidestepped the move quickly, his shield raised enough to fend off the beast. Or plant. Whatever the fel this thing is. He raised his sword, and the walking tree whirred around to strike at the others. Shadowy tendrils wrapped around the creatures feet, crawling up its skin, picking and prying away at its carapace and shell. Katu swooped in, lodging his spear through the creature’s abdomen. It shouted out in pain, but soon, the light in its eyes faded, and it collapsed to the ground.

“What the fel was that?!” Neo'la shouted, backing away as the thing fell.

Rashila laughed heartily, much to Draka’s disapproval. ��These…” Draka said, gesturing to the fallen creature with her axe. “These are the botani.”

“Dear Light, I didn’t know what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t that.” Anandor laughed.

“Welcome to Gorgrond.” Rashila repeated.

“Most botani aren’t easy to take down,” Draka stated, beckoning the group. “Best get moving before more of them come. Stay close and don’t get arrogant. Up ahead are our other forces. You’ll hold the lines with them until the work we have is finished. Hopefully by tomorrow you’ll be able to return home.”

Neo'la frowned slightly. How I wish that were true…

They followed Draka through the greenery until they finally came across a makeshift fence near a swirl of thorned branches. Several other orcs, both Frostwolf and Laughing Skull were already situated, keeping a close eye on their surroundings.

“This is your post for now,” Draka said, gesturing ahead. “One of the outland generals are expecting my presence to locate some sort of artifact, so I’ll be departing now. Stay strong, and fight like a pack.”

Rashila nodded, giving a short bow. “Stay safe.”

She made haste through the thicket, and soon disappeared in all of the leaves and trees. Anandor turned his attention to the others, regarding them curiously.

“There a problem, Nan?” Rashila asked, sharpening her axe with a rock she found on the floor.

“Yeah, no, uh,” He cleared his throat. “What do we know about those botani? Anything we should be wary of, or… what? We weren’t told much…”

Katu perked up, waving his hand to catch their attention. “Don’t let them touch you,” He said. “They’re known to take and corrupt our kind, even draenei. They mutate their bodies and turn them more like them. Like plants.”

“Yeah,” Rashila nodded. “Transform your entire body like another botani. It’s what they do when they need numbers. They take ours.”

Naz'kal’s eyes widened at this, and the young orc stepped forward. “They just change you into a tree? That can’t be right.”

“Oh it is,” Katu said, nodding. “I’ve seen it. Vines sprout out from your body and your skin starts growing bark.”

“Eventually you even forget who you are.” Rashila added.

Anandor pressed his lips into a thin line. “Well, surely they can be cured… right?”

Katu shook his head. “Not that we know. Once they snatch you, that’s it.”

“That’s why it’s important we stay here and keep them at bay,” Rashila stated. “Can’t let that happen to our chieftains.”

Silence fell over the group soon after, and Katu and Rashila mingled amongst the others that they were familiar with. Naz'kal, awkward as always, slinked over to Neo'la’s side.

“Are you still going to do the thing?” He asked in a hushed tone. Of course, the comment certainly did not escape Anandor’s hearing, and he turned around immediately.

“What thing?” He asked.

Naz'kal jumped back, scrambling for words. “No thing! Nothing!”

Anandor squinted. “Neo…”

“We already talked about it Anan,” Neo'la said, waving a hand. “I already told you I won’t.”

“Why did you tell Naz about it?”

The orc backed away a little, hiding behind Neo'la. Anandor sighed. “I’m not mad at you Naz. I just don’t want people thinking we’re traitors or something.”

“Well uh, I was…” Naz'kal dropped his hands to his side, swinging them a bit. “Ah, never mind, sorry for bothering.”

“No no it’s fine,” Neo'la assured, gently dragging the orc back. Light she could see the agitation building up on her husband’s face, and confrontation was not something she needed to deal with right now. Not now. She needed more time to think, assess the land, find an advantage somewhere somehow. “What were you going to say?”

Naz'kal shuffled awkwardly, glancing up to give Anandor an apologetic look. “About the mutated orcs they were talking about… I don’t know, it’s kind of stupid now that I think about it more.”

Anandor quirked a brow. “What of them?”

“Well… I just feel… uncomfortable by the idea. I don’t know if it’s right to just know that somewhere in this growth someone is suffering against their will. It feels wrong to just sit here when someone probably needs help.”

Neo'la and Anandor exchanged looks. He’s right, but what could they do? They don’t know these lands.

“That’s very noble of you to think that way, kid, but…” Anandor sighed. “You’re talking to the wrong people about this. Rashila knows Gorgrond better than us, you’d want to talk to her.”

“Ha, I don’t think she likes me very much.”

“I don’t think she likes anyone.” Neo'la remarked.

The leaves of the trees ahead rustled, and they were on guard immediately. Anandor held up his shield and stepped forward, his entire body locked and ready for combat. Three large botani strode in quickly, and Anandor wasted no time in charging at the middle one.

“Lighttreader!” Rashila called out, picking up a spear as she ran to the usurpers. “Stay back, don’t be so reckless!”

He ignored her, bashing his shield against one of their attacks. He swung his longsword, cutting off the botani’s hand on the right as he thrusted the blade through the middle creature’s chest. Rashila leaped up, wrapping her powerful legs around the third botani’s neck, lodging her weapon through its torso. With one swift move, she twisted her body, clenching her thighs tightly as she brought the botani down, snapping its neck with the movement. The last one standing used its free arm to swipe at Anandor, striking the back of his head. The paladin fell, using his shield to fall on as his vision failed him. Naz'kal stomped through, bringing his heavy axe down on the creature’s head.

“You okay?” The young warrior asked, giving a hand to the fallen elf. Anandor rubbed his eyes, dizzy from the blow, but took the orc’s hand willingly.

“Fine. That was exhilarating.” He said with the shake of his head, grinning stupidly.

Neo'la retrieved his sword from the corpse, glancing up at the area. “There’s more here, I can hear them.”

Anandor took his side by Neo'la, and she handed him his sword. She looked up at him, gently plucking the thorns and pieces of wood stuck in his hair, her hand glowing with the Light to help ease his disorientation.

A scream in the distance behind them echoed through the forest, and panic set into Rashila’s eyes quickly. One of the Laughing Skull orcs stationed there muttered something and nudged Rashila urgently.

“Draka is over there!” He said, already on the move in that direction.

Rashila made a move to follow, but was stopped by another one of her comrades. She snarled at the masked orc.

“Let me go!” She demanded. “My chieftain is probably in danger, I have to go!”

“That scream didn’t belong to one of our own,” The other argued. “Stay here and hold the line, Rageskull and I will go investigate the area. Stay on guard.”

The orcs left, and Rashila grumbled under her breath as she turned back to her former position. “Hold the line no matter the cost!”

Neo'la nodded, and listened carefully, unsheathing her dual scimitars from her hips. Strange gurgling and screeching increased in volume, and Neo'la grit her teeth in anticipation. From the bushes, a small spear poked out, followed by a few others. A short creature, probably only five apples tall, hopped out of the bushes, large yellow eyes poking out from a face adorned in vividly colored leaves and petals. It held its spear fiercely, and skipped in its steps as it ran forward. Neo'la couldn’t help but chuckle at the walking flower, and she lowered her guard.

“What are those? They’re kind of cu–”

“Do not!” Katu shouted. “Those are podlings, they’re known to take down prey ten times their size.”

The other orcs knocked their arrows, firing at the podlings. A few of them fell, and the remaining ones snarled and charged at their assailants. Neo'la sheathed her weapons, instead using her free hands to summon the Light and Shadows to her will. The swirl of gold and indigo swarmed the small tribe of sentient flowers, forming a thin, bubble-like dome around them. The podlings smacked their spears against the barrier, growling and slashing at the magic. With the swipe of the priest’s hands, the magic closed around them, the Light and Shadow burning their colorful petals to a crisp. Naz'kal shuddered at the display of magic while the priestess simply dusted her hands off.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Neo'la said, turning to the others. “Should we go check on the others?”

Rashila grit her teeth, trying to suppress her surprise at the display of power. “As much as I want to, we should probably stay here.”

Anandor kept his gaze fixated on the swirl of thorns and vines ahead, searching for more intruders. “Where do those things come from?”

“They’re plants,” One of the masked orcs laughed. “They just grow out the ground, ready to kill.”

Katu shook his head. “I think there’s more to it than that.”

“Well,” Naz'kal spoke up. “They’re coming from somewhere. Why don’t we search for their base and take down their order of operations? I’m sure if we dismantle their origin, they won’t have enough to come back with. It’d at least be enough to hold them off.”

The orcs whispered amongst themselves, thinking over the plan. Rashila gave a wide grin and a smack on his back. “This one’s smart, I like how you think.”

“We were told to stay and defend, to hold the line,” Anandor said, giving a cold stare at the others. “We can’t just walk away.”

“Oh please don’t give me that crap,” Rashila laughed. “I’m the leader of this group, I can decide what goes and what doesn’t.”

“If we did make an effort to at least incapacitate their base, it would still count as defense in the long run.” Naz'kal added.

Anandor sighed, glancing to his wife. Neo'la was quiet, but he knew she agreed with them. “Just tell me what I need to do then, and we’ll get this over with.”

–

The best part about being raised in Eversong, was the advantages the elves often had in environments filled with trees. As a young boy, Anandor had often spent his days climbing the trees of Eversong, often times mimicking the way the trolls south of the land did so. He used to gaze at the Farstriders in awe, seeing how they practically glided across the treetops with their weapons in hand, scouring the land to protect their people. Now, those days served as mere training for his situation now.

The other orcs stayed on the ground, carefully treading through the overgrowth. Neo'la stayed with them on the ground, partly because the party needed a healer should the situation turn sour, and partly because she was too imbalanced to climb the trees at the same speed he could. He preferred she stayed down there anyways. He’d have a better view of her whereabouts, and could get to her easily if overwhelmed. With the Light and one of the orc’s bows, Anandor was prepared to protect his group without being seen.

Anandor perked his head up through the leaves, ears twitching as he scanned the greenery. On the right, there seemed to be an opening leading to a large space. A pond adorned the center of it, wrapped around intricately with the roots of various trees. The petals of flowers that grew in the area littered the ground and water, and the rays of the sun poured through the cracks of the treetops.

It would’ve been a lovely view if it hadn’t been for the inhabitants wandering there. More of the massive botani, ones much larger than they faced earlier, strode like nobles in the gardens, mutated orcs and draenei tagging behind them. His stomach churned at the sight of the mutilated orcs, his eyes trailing over the vines and thorns that twisted and ripped through their flesh in unnatural ways. It was wrong, so wrong. No one should have to suffer in such a way.

He glanced back to his party, seeing them advance. Carefully, he gripped at the branches, crouching on his toes as he calculated his move. He jumped forward, swiftly landing on another branch, and with the same momentum, he grasped onto the branches above him and swung himself forward, moving quickly through the trees until he was slightly ahead of the group.

“I think I found them,” He said, loud enough for them to hear, but hopefully not loud enough to attract unwanted attention. Rashila stepped forward, looking up at him.

“Good good. Where?”

He pointed behind him. “There’s an opening in the bushes in that direction. The botani have more of the infected with them. There’s at least a dozen of them there, be careful.”

The orc gave a nod, and Anandor made his way to the overgrowth, keeping an eye on his allies. If they could dispatch enough of the botani, perhaps it’ll be enough to slow their assaults.

The party moved in, and immediately were faced off with two of the guards. Anandor quickly casted the Light to him, smiting the ground with a holy fire. The orcs took care of the botani, swinging their hefty axes at the creatures. Anandor moved quickly through the trees, catching sight of more botani from within the center advancing to the party. He quickly switched to his bow, finding a dangerous balance point on the branches. He knocked two arrows onto the string, aiming down his sights at the tallest creature. It had been years since he used a bow, and he let out a shaky breath as he let the arrows fly. The wind carried the arrows to its target, and the botani was struck down, one arrowhead lodged between his neck and the other piercing his temple.

Agonizing, guttural cries for help were heard from within the thicket, and a few of the infected twitched in sync with it. More of the infected began to emerge from the trees, and soon the party was outnumbered.

We can do this, Anandor reassured himself. The flurry of battle ensued, and he kept focused on silently knocking out various targets without being seen.

That is until he noticed Neo'la was no where near the group.

He swore under his breath and hopped out of the trees. The Light swarmed around him as he hit the ground, breaking his fall. Immediately, he was met with one of the botani swinging down at him. He raised his arm out of instinct, and the bark of the creature slammed into his forearm. He hissed in pain, reaching for the dagger at his hip. He used his right hand to seize the other’s wrist, and with his knife in the other, he slashed the blade across the botani’s arm, popping its carapace off. The Light swarmed him again, and he blasted the botani into charcoal, quickly moving towards his group.

“Where’s Neo'la?” He shouted out, creating a holy barrier around the group.

Rashila snarled in response, wiping the blood from her lips. “A little busy!”

“Light dammit answer me, someone!” Anandor demanded. He picked up his bow again, firing at the botani that came in. They were dying quickly, thankfully, but Anandor would not see victory alone. Dear Light, where has she run off to?

Naz'kal cleaved through one of the infected with a heavy swing of his axe before motioning to Anandor. “I saw her, she went this way!”

“Stay with the group!” Rashila barked. “If she left, she left. We need our numbers!”

Naz'kal was already advancing away, turning back to see if Anandor would follow. The elf grit his teeth, smiting the creatures as he moved to follow the orc.

“Anandor!” Rashila shouted. “You of all people?”

“I’ll be back, but I need to find her.” Anandor said firmly, and sprinted with the warrior.

“Traitor! You and her, traitors! We should have never trusted you!”

–

Naz'kal and Anandor dashed through the overgrowth, dodging vines and other obstacles. The paladin felt guilty for leaving his allies behind, but his priorities meant family came first.

“She said something about the infected,” Naz'kal said, eyes darting about to make sure he was following the correct trail. “Kept saying something about 'eleven’. I think she recognized someone this way?”

“Probably. Light I wish she wouldn’t run off like this.”

“Is she always like this?”

Anandor shot him a glance, and the warrior shrunk a little. “Not always. She can be unpredictable at times, but she’s usually not like this. You wouldn’t know.”

Before Naz'kal could reply, Anandor had come to a halt, his heels digging into the dirt as he stopped. The orc stumbled a bit when he noticed, and he quickly came back to the elf’s side. “W-What ha–”

“Hold on, I think…” Anandor paused, holding up a finger to signify silence. His ears perked up as he listened closely, and he heard Neo'la’s voice. She sounded frantic, afraid of something, and it filled Anandor with fire. “This way!”

They ran, their legs burning as they moved. They turned a corner and into another opening similar to the garden they just left. On the ground lay two dead botani, darkness incarnate leaking through its corpse and swallowing all light around it. At the center, Neo'la sat in the grass, the Light teeming from her fingertips. An infected orc lay in her lap, seemingly unconscious.

“Neo'la!” Anandor shouted, and her head snapped up at the two.

“A-Anan, I–”

“What the fel are you doing?!” The paladin demanded as he stopped in front of her. He glanced down at the orc taking note of the branches that poked out of his skin and the vines that grew in his beard. More importantly, why was she holding him so tenderly?

“Please, help me,” She pleaded. “I know him, I need him to wake up.”

“Neo'la it’s not safe here, we need to go now.”

“Please!” The priest shouted. “I just need a few minutes, anything, I can save him–”

The orc stirred, and Naz'kal jumped back at the movement, holding up his weapon defensively. Glowing blue eyes met Neo'la’s, and the infested orc wheezed as he came to.

“Ghh… Tw-Twelve?”

“Oh thank the Light.” Neo'la said. Anandor raised a brow, crouching down to meet them. He knocked an arrow onto his bow, watching the orc carefully. “Vruden, Eleven, you’re alive!”

“Heh, you… actually remembered my name…” Vruden groaned, his breaths uneven and wheezy. “Can’t say the same.”

“Its fine, I’ll – I’m here, I’m going to help you as best as I can. I-I’m sure there’s a way to heal this–”

“N-No,” Vruden coughed. “I can already feel it… I can feel the wilds, this infection, I feel them taking over. I-I’m already losing some of my memories, i-it’s devouring me.”

“Anandor,” Neo'la called out, tears in her eyes. “Please, I beg of you, help me heal him.”

Anandor lowered his bow, suspicious, but his face softer than before. “Who is this? What’s going on here, Neo?”

“Back when I arrived here, I was assigned a squad to fight with,” The priestess explained. “We were separated since then. I don’t know what’s happened, but Vruden…”

Vruden craned his head to look at the paladin. The effort was strained, and clearly caused him pain, yet he still had a charismatic smile to offer. “Mok'ra.”

Anandor set his weapon down, giving a small wave of his hand. “Then no time should be wasted.”

“Twelve… Neo, right?” Vruden wheezed, his hand gripping at the leaves that sprouted from his chest. “I… We thought you were dead.”

“Takes a lot more to kill me. Where is Krauul?”

“Krauul…” The orc let out a hacking cough, his voice distorted briefly. Anandor raised his bow, wary that Vruden may turn hostile. Neo'la simply rested her hands on his cheeks, the Light swarming around him to ease his pain. “Krauul had disobeyed the orders given. Instead of boarding the ships to Frostfire, we cut through Tanaan. He took matters into his own hands, h-had his own agenda. We did fine aside from a few casualties. But Gorgrond… We stopped here a few days ago on our way back to the garrison. Were going to take down the Blackrock and use their supplies for our own uses.”

Naz'kal, who had been too disturbed to watch and turned away, now perked up and faced the three. “That’s where Ryuk’s group is!”

Vruden groaned, his skin pulsing and twisting, bark hardening in various patches. Anandor threw his bow down, this time completely abandoning it as he moved to the orc’s side. His Light combined with Neo'la’s instantly, and together they managed to stop the growth from progressing.

“We were ambushed!” Vruden exclaimed. “Krauul was taken away by the Blackrock. Me, a-and a few others went to rescue him, but these damn walking trees… they transformed our men into them.” He whimpered, ripping off the vines from his skin. “This… is the end for me…”

“I won’t let it be so,” Neo'la reassured. “I won’t let it take you. W-We can save you!”

“Please, I can feel it sprouting inside my head!” The orc snarled, his hand wrapping around her wrist. “It’s eating away at my thoughts, m-my memories! I-I can’t even remember my mother’s face anymore! I’d rather die than lose myself to these trees!”

Anandor frowned, placing his hand on the orc’s shoulder. “Is there anything we can do to help you? Anything.”

Vruden shut his eyes, suppressing a growl. “My son… My wife… I want… I don’t want them to be alone. I-I… have to at least say goodbye…”

“Vruden, please–” Neo'la pleaded.

“Your Light isn’t helping, priest!” He shouted. “It’s not, it’s not helping it, it defies it, i-it grows around it, I-I’m sorry, it can’t, i-it won’t…”

“It’s fine,” Anandor said, his voice surprisingly gentle. “I’m so sorry it has to be this way, but you won’t be alone.”

“My family will be!”

“I’ll find them. I promise you, I will find your wife and your son, I won’t let them go hungry.”

A single tear fell from Vruden’s eye, and he yanked off the thin metal necklace he wore. “If you really mean it, elf, i-if you’re honest, please… give this to my son. Koda, he’s nine, lives with Dhatri Bloodrend in a farm north of the Crossroads. A warm cottage tucked away in the Barrens… please, tell them I love them.”

Anandor took the necklace, a large, old fang from some sort of beast hung from it. It was adorned in leather strips and a small ruby engrained into it, and it held its own definition of beauty. “I will.”

Neo'la had been pouring her entire energy into healing, focused on trying to save him, but no matter how much the Light filled them, the infection defied it. Anandor took her hands off the orc and shook his head for her to stop.

“I… I have accepted my death, Neo…” Vruden said quietly. “There isn’t anything you could’ve done. I would’ve died here eventually anyways. But… thank you. For caring.” A sad smile spread across his face. “For… remembering my name.”

Neo'la clenched her fists, angry, mournful, guilty at what was happening. “I didn’t want this to happen.”

“I’d rather die now than let the madness consume me. Let me die free.”

Anandor was eerily silent, and he closed his eyes, casting the Light to him once more. He channeled it into the orc’s skull, and Vruden closed his eyes as he felt the magic enter. Through the Light, Anandor sifted through Vruden’s mind, carefully treading through the untouched memories. He found what he assumed to be Vruden’s wife and child, and through the psychic bond, Anandor projected those memories to the orc. The sight of Vruden’s son as an infant cradled into his arms came first, followed with the boy as a five year old feeding a litter of puppies. Faded memories were revived into vivid images of the past, and Vruden smiled as he relived those moments. Through the Light, however, Anandor did not only reach his mind to handpick those memories, but into his heart. The magic swirled within the orc’s chest, and the warm, golden glow carefully and gently wrapped around the infested heart, and slowly, the life faded from the orc. No pain came to him as he took his last breath, and the sight of Dhatri and Koda left him with a small smile when he fell limp.

Anandor released him carefully, opening his eyes with a distant, grim look adorned on his face. Vruden lay unmoving, and Anandor retrieved his bow, rising slowly. Neo'la stared, wishing and wishing that she had found a better way. Naz'kal could hardly even bring himself to words, and he had wished for a brief moment that he stayed behind at the citadel.

“Why?” Neo'la asked, her voice finally breaking the silence.

“Why what?” Anandor replied, emotion completely wiped from him.

“We could’ve saved him. We could have found a way go cure him!” The priestess shouted. “You didn’t even want to heal him! You hesitated so much, and you gave up on him!”

“I didn’t give up on him!” Anandor snapped. “I gave him a merciful death, it was the least we could do!”

Neo'la huffed, rising from the ground. “I… I just thought there was a chance. And there was, and–”

“Neo'la…” Anandor put his hands on her shoulders, looking into her eyes. “You shouldn’t have run off like that. I don’t know why he was so important to you, but Light, at least say something before risking everything!”

“I knew what the risk was!” She retorted. “I knew what I was doing, and I wasn’t going to be long–”

“What were we just talking about though, Neo?” Anandor shouts, exasperated and weary. “Last night, what were we just saying? Hm? I-I’m struggling a lot on my own already, and you said it, Neo, you said we had to be open with each other. What happened to that? Why won’t you talk to me?”

“It’s different–”

“Is it? You talked to Naz before you talked to me! You’re going against your own word!”

“I cannot stand another second on this dreaded planet!” She shouts out. Hot tears streamed from her eyes, and she squeezed them shut. “Last night, I realized we can’t stay here, not for any longer. We’ll lose our minds here, and I won’t let that happen! Not to you, especially not to you! I-I didn’t say anything because I knew you wouldn’t agree, but if you think I’ll stay passive, then you’re wrong!”

“The last thing I want is for you to risk yourself! Not for my sake. You need to think about these things, Neo, please!”

“I was thinking! I still am. I’m not a fool, I’ve been trying to think of something. And finding Vruden here, it helps a little more, Anan. Coming here, it’s just our gateway, it’s our ticket out!”

Naz'kal shifted uncomfortably, having tried to stray out of their personal conversation. His eye caught movement not so far off, however, and he cleared his throat, hoping to catch their attention. “G-Guys…”

“What did this orc have to do with that?” Anandor pressed, ignoring the young warrior. “Why was he so important that you’d jump in with your life on the line like that?”

“I told you already, I knew him–”

“Was he a lover? A friend?”

“No, none of that–”

“Then why?”

“I thought that if I could find my old squad, then I could find a way to use them to get back home. That’s why!”

Naz'kal scooted closer to the elves. “Um, guys, you gotta–”

“He hardly even knew your name, Neo! What makes you think the rest of his squad will trust you?”

“Light, I can’t believe how stubborn you are, Anan! Why can’t you just see what I’m trying to do?”

“I can see it just fine, but it’s reckless and dangerous!”

“What other choice do we have?!”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe something that doesn’t involve risking everything we have left?”

“We won’t get anywhere without at least trying something!”

“So you’ll just abandon everything and risk dying without another word said like that?”

“Yes!”

“No!”

Heavy footsteps rushed to where they were, and the elves whirled around to see their group catch up with them, Rashila standing with anger only barely chained in.

“You two…” The orc snarled, hauling her spear up. “You were going to abandon the clan this whole time?”

Anandor bristled. “No, it’s not what you think–”

“After everything we’ve done!” Rashila cut in. “Where is your honor?”

Neo'la huffed, wiping her eyes before stepping forward. “It wasn’t him. It… It was me. Just me, h-he had nothing to do with it.”

The orc snickered, jutting her chin up. “I expected no less. Never would’ve thought you’d try drag your mate to shame with you, though.”

“Judge what you will. I’ve no shame.”

“You have no honor either.”

“What will you do then?” Neo'la asks, taking a step forward. She still shook slightly from crying earlier, but she didn’t keep it from facing off with the orc. “Kill me?”

“Neo'la!” Anandor scolds, grabbing her arm. Rashila merely shook her head.

“There’s no use in that,” The orc said, her voice low with anger and disappointment. “That… is not the Frostwolf way. But I will not stand to have traitors in my clan, not for a second longer. Not when your actions risk the lives of those who are loyal and proud.”

Naz'kal glanced between the two, fidgeting nervously. He really wished he stayed behind now.

The other orcs behind Rashila watched the situation unfold, and Katu simply frowned, a trace of sympathy etched into his features. Rashila flipped her spear and stabbed it into the dirt with a scowl.

“Sunblade, from here on, you are not welcome into our group. The clan will hear of your betrayal, and should you come crawling back to us, your name will be remembered with the display you’ve given today.” She exhaled through her nostrils, eyes flickering to Anandor. “I do not know what fate lies for you, Lighttreader, but expect the same should you stay with your mate. Find another clan to abuse.”

Rashila flicked her wrist to her group, urging them to turn back before glancing to Naz'kal, who had been hiding slightly behind the elves. “You’re still welcome in our clan, pup. Are you coming?”

The young warrior looked up at the orcs, then to the elves, and back to the orcs. He let out a shaky breath, trying to make his decision.

“I… I don’t…” He gave a puff, sparing one last glance to Neo'la. “I’m… I’m going to stay. O-Out here. I-I mean–”

Rashila held up a hand. “I see. Rot out here then, turn against your own kind.”

She turned swiftly, and the group departed from them in silence. Naz'kal huffed beside the couple silently, shuffling awkwardly before Anandor turned to him.

“Why did you stay?” He asks.

Naz'kal shrugged. “Well… Us Azerothians have to stick together, right?”

“You shouldn’t have stayed,” Neo'la murmured. “The Frostwolves would give you a proper home, and they’d protect you.”

“I’ve been sheltered all my life,” The warrior shrugged. “I think it’s time to break out of that pattern.”

Anandor tugged on his cloak, giving a long sigh. “Well then. Let’s… Let’s find a way off this damn planet.”